Sparrow Migrations (10 page)

Sam pulled out of the florist’s parking lot, jammed on this damp, chilly Valentine’s evening. Usually he and Linda didn’t do much—a card, maybe a movie if the stars aligned and they found a babysitter. But this year, ratcheting up the romance seemed in order. Ever since the New York trip, things had been tense. Like Robby, Linda regarded that ornithologist from the museum, that Dr. Felk, as some kind of infallible genie in a bottle who would magically reveal all the answers to their struggles.

Sam wasn’t so sure, at least at first. So Linda had indulged Robby’s every whim solo: chauffeuring him to Audubon meetings, hanging out a bird feeder, ordering field guides. Sam stood by, waiting for Robby to tire of birds. But after a month, he had to consider that Felk might have been right, pegging Robby as a budding ornithologist.
Dammit. Some dad he was.

It had always been an effort to engage Robby, to persist when his face stayed blank, when his brown eyes looked past them, when he retreated into hood and headphones. But the belief that one day they would stumble upon the thing that would lure Robby from the bunker of his brain also bonded him and Linda. Now, apparently, it was Dr. Felk who had uncovered it.
Some dad, all right
, Sam thought again, pulling into the garage.

Like its driver the last few weeks, Linda’s car was dark and quiet. Inside, Sam expected to find her in the kitchen and Robby playing video games. But the TV was off, Robby was nowhere in sight, and Linda was curled up with a book on the couch in the adjacent family room.

“Hi.” Sam stepped into the kitchen, forgetting, in his surprise, to hide the flowers. “Where’s Rob?” He had been dropping the “y” on Robby’s name lately, his subconscious way of prodding him into growing up a bit. Robby was mostly unresponsive to it, but Sam didn’t know if that was because he disliked the name or because he was usually unresponsive.

“At the Audubon club meeting,” Linda looked at him over the top of her book.
The Boy Who Loved Windows
, Sam read. Under the title, the image of the back of a boy’s head dominated the cover. Even from the back, he looked like Robby.

“Another one?”

“They meet every other week.”

“You’re not there, too?”

“Someone offered him a ride. Robby wanted to go, so I let him.”

“Really?” Sam was dumbfounded. “Someone just offered? Do they know about him?”

“Sam, didn’t you hear me? A friend offered a ride
and Robby wanted to go
. It’s the first social engagement he’s shown interest in, well, maybe ever. I coached him on greetings and thank-yous, all the usual stuff, but of course I let him go.” Linda crossed her arms.

“OK, I get that, but we’re still responsible. Does anyone in that club know about him?”

“About his autism?” Linda shrugged. “Everybody there has their own bird they’re crazy about. Woodpeckers, ducks, hummingbirds. Or the list they’re building, counting all the birds in their yard. Or the state. Whatever.” She shrugged again. “With his geese thing, Robby fits right in.” She stood up. “Were you bringing those for me?”

“So now we’ll layer OCD on top of autism. Great.” Sam spoke almost to himself, looking confused at Linda’s question before he remembered the roses he was still holding. “What? Damn. Yes. I mean, happy Valentine’s Day.” Frustration swelled. “Shoot. I feel like we’ve been—off—ever since the trip to New York. I wanted to do something special this year.”

Linda came into the kitchen. “And you did. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” She put her arms around him. Gratefully, Sam hugged her back. They embraced silently until Linda pulled away and studied Sam’s face.

“You know, Sam, Robby isn’t ever going to get over autism.”

Sam stepped away, folding his arms. “I know that.”

“I think you know it intellectually. Until New York, that’s how it was for me, too. But since then, since we came home and started doing this”—Linda waved her hand—“this bird stuff, something’s changed. I really accept it now.”

“You think I haven’t?”
A Valentine’s Day attack. Nice.

“Not completely, no. I’m not blaming you,” Linda added quickly. “I think you’ve resigned yourself. ‘My son has autism.’ That’s how I looked at it, anyway, until New York.”

“And then we met the fantastic Dr. Felk, and suddenly it all got better, right?” Sam couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Linda walked around the kitchen counter, back to the family room. They faced off over the Corian.

“Look, Sam, why are you so mad? We’ve wished for years that Robby would find his thing, his spectrumy thing, that he would obsess about and drive us crazy talking about, but be
his
. His bridge to the rest of the world. Now he has. So it’s birds. So it took someone else, a stranger, to figure it out. So what?”

“You’re right. You’re right. I don’t know.” Sam clasped his hands together on the countertop and bent forward, touching his forehead to them. Guilt nearly gagged him, but he forced out the words. “Maybe it was that dinner at my brother’s. With Tyler. A hangover of wishing.”

“You’re still hung up on that dinner from a month ago?” Linda smacked the counter. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. You’ve got to get past resigning yourself that our son is on the spectrum and start owning it. For yourself and for Robby.”

“But—” Sam opened his mouth. Linda shook her head.

“
These
are our lives,” she said, stabbing a finger on the counter. “Silences. Meltdowns. Headphones. Now birds. All of it. Things have been this way for seven years now. This is the way they’re always going to be. Don’t waste any more time wishing and regretting.”

“Put on a happy face, and it’ll all be better, huh?”

Linda exhaled harshly. “Forget it. I’m tired of arguing.” She flopped onto the couch, her back to Sam, but he saw a tear glisten on her cheek.

How romantic, Sam
. He followed her into the family room. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.” He scrambled for a way to get back on track. “You want to order Chinese?”

“No, thanks.” She paused. “Well, I could use the fresh air. OK. I’ll pick it up.”

Moments after Linda left, her cell phone rang on the kitchen counter. That showed how upset she was. She never left the house without her phone. Robby’s number was illuminated.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“No, Robby,” Sam forced himself to say the whole name. “It’s Dad. Your mom’s out.”

“Oh.” Long pause. “I need a ride.”

Of course. He’d probably irritated whoever he had ridden over with. “OK.” He could call Linda to get him after she picked up the food. No, wait, Sam was holding her phone. He’d have to go. “I’ll come get you, then. Where are you?”

Another long pause.

“Big church. Monroe Street. Paul needs a ride, too.”

“Paul? Who’s Paul?” But Robby had hung up.

Big church on Monroe Street. That would be the Central United Christian Church. Sam scrawled a note for Linda, leaving it next to his forgotten, forlorn flowers, and headed back to the garage.

TEN

I
n the Charlotte-Douglas airport, Brett followed the signs to Ground Transportation, as she and Jackie had arranged. A bucket of flowers at a snack stand sandwiched between a Starbucks and a bookstore caught her eye. Why not. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. Neither she nor Richard had marked the occasion in Scranton.

Ten minutes later, exiting the airport’s automatic doors into the welcome warmth of winter six hundred miles south of Scranton, she spotted Jackie through the windshield of her SUV. An even warmer feeling surged inside Brett. Clutching the cellophane-wrapped pink rose, she rapped on the window.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” The inside of the car was filled with Jackie’s perfume. Reaching for her, Brett felt light-headed, intoxicated. The nagging comic strip bubble of Amanda’s last words drifted away.

But Jackie shrank back, refusing to meet her eyes, pressing herself against the door. Her body language spoke volumes. Brett dropped her hands. Her smile disappeared. “What’s wrong, Jackie?”

“This,” Jackie said in a wobbly voice. “Us. Together. Here. Alone. I can’t do it, Brett. I’m sorry.” She broke down, bending her forehead to the steering wheel, her long hair curtaining her face, her tan fingers white at the knuckle as she gripped the leather-wrapped circle.

In Brett’s core, the liquid warmth cooled, like an ice cube dropped in hot chocolate. Stunned, she sat momentarily mute. There could only be one explanation.

“Did Jim find out?”

“No, no, no,” Jackie gasped, shaking her head vigorously. “It’s me. I decided. It’s too hard. I wish it could be different, Brett, I do, but I can’t turn my life upside down. Jim, he, he told me the pastor of New Hope Covenant—well, that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s the biggest church in Charlotte—invited him to lunch next week. Jim thinks he’s planning to retire and wants to groom Jim to take over. If there was any hint of—of—of a scandal, I’d never see Patsy and little Jimmy again. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry, Brett, but I can’t.”

Jackie’s words—from the mouth Brett had kissed—pummeled her. Grief and disappointment flooded forth, the ice cube’s cold, sharp edges mutilating the joy and hope she had cherished for the last month.

Jackie started talking again.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have led you on at the conference last fall. But I was so lonely. And I thought the distance would make it safe.”

“Safe,” Brett repeated numbly.

“For an affair. You were up north. I could still be Mrs. Pastor here. But then you started talking about coming out, and Jim told me about New Hope Covenant. I just can’t take the risk again.”

“Again?” The ice cube had melted entirely, all the heat inside Brett gone.

“Five years ago was the last time. Jim was still in school then. I had lots of time to myself. She was—” Jackie interrupted herself. “Oh, what does it matter. She moved. I had two kids in four years. I was too tired to be tempted by anyone. Until you.”

“Me.” Her mind grappling with the confession, single words were all Brett could manage aloud. Jackie had only ever wanted an affair. Not love, not commitment. Brett was just a body.

“You were so idealistic. So sweet.
You are.
Even after I’ve told you all this. You’re still going to come with me to the meal tonight, because we’re expected. That’s what I told them. Mrs. Pastor and Mrs. Stevens will be there by five o’clock. Right?” Jackie looked at Brett for the first time.

Brett stared back at the face she had caressed and kissed and fantasized about since September. Jackie looked like a mannequin now, her face frozen into her own mask. She wanted to hide Brett behind the façade of wedding rings and well-bred voices and hope no one would be the wiser. Anger kindled in the embers of her dampened desire. The comic strip bubble with Amanda’s parting words drifted back. Her plea, her face, filled Brett’s mind. For this she was lying to Amanda? A thorn from the rose she still clutched poked through the cellophane, pricking her palm, a physical rebuke. She turned her gaze away from Jackie, into the back seat.

She saw a pair of children’s car seats. The pink fabric on the one facing forward matched the rose. The second, denim-covered for a boy, was still turned backward as very young children rode.

The sight transported Brett back in her own life, more than a decade ago, to when Richard started talking about a brother or sister for Amanda. By then there had been two more Donnas, women who even from a distance stirred her desires the way Richard no longer did, if he ever had. She hadn’t been ready to face the truth then, let alone voice it, but at least she hadn’t complicated life more.

“Right, Brett? Right?” Fear filled Jackie’s voice.

And as quickly as it flared, Brett’s fury flickered out. Jackie was Brett, ten years younger. And like Brett had then, she would only manage to fool herself and waste time. Brett even felt a faint stirring of sympathy.

“OK. It’s over.” As she spoke the words, Brett knew it was the right thing to say, the only thing to say.

“What?” Jackie’s face was buried in a tissue. She turned to look at Brett. “Really? You’re OK with this?”

Brett shifted in her seat. “I’ll
be
OK. I feel kind of idiotic. What am I going to do in Charlotte for two days? But I understand. I’ve been in your shoes.”

Jackie wiped her eyes. “When was that?”

“Oh, about ten years ago, I guess. Richard had a shot at taking over one of the biggest congregations in Pittsburgh. He was so excited, so insistent that Amanda and I look just right, play the adoring wife and daughter in the first pew.”

“What happened?”

“He bombed. The Sunday he was to be the guest preacher, he just bombed. Both Amanda and I had colds, but we came. Amanda, who was about six then, coughed and sneezed through the whole sermon, and he glared at her every time. I don’t know if the congregation picked up that he was furious at his own first-grader, or just thought the sermon was terrible, or both. But he got a thanks-but-no-thanks call two days later.”

“Oh, no.” Jackie’s eyes grew large with sympathy.

Brett shrugged. “It was his dream, not mine. So we just stayed in Scranton, which was fine with me. I liked our house, and the schools are good.”

“That’s what I think about Charlotte, too.” Jackie’s voice sounded stronger now. “And we do have two kids to consider.”

Brett sat back, bemused. Did Jackie think her stakes doubled because she had two children? Maybe they did. Who was she to judge, after all? But after a decade of hiding, Brett knew the life sentence of pretending was slowly snuffing her will to live. The alarm clock mocked her daily, summoning her to don her mask and hit her marks for another day.

Recalling the story of Richard’s Pittsburgh audition made her realize something else.
That
was the turning point for their marriage, when being pastor became more important than pastoring his congregation, when evangelical matters started to trump social justice. Maybe his dogged pursuit of dogma would lead to another shot at a big church, but it would be without her. She couldn’t live a double life anymore, not even for a beautiful daughter who depended on her, trusted her, who had organized her life around the belief that her parents were the people whose roles they played every day.

After all, wasn’t a mother more than someone married to the father? Sitting in Jackie’s SUV, as the jets roared overhead, Brett recalled the pilot’s reported words.
Brace for impact
. She would try to do everything she could to brace Amanda. Coming out without a partner was probably easier than with, eliminating another person from the equation. When she got home, she and Amanda were overdue for a talk.

Jackie cleared her throat. “Now what?”

“Well, I came to learn about the best practices of North Carolina’s award-winning food bank,” Brett said to her ex-lover. “Think that part’s still doable?”

“Dinner’s served in two hours.” Jackie said, blowing her nose and starting the engine.

Jackie’s church’s operation was initially underwhelming. Brett had expected a massive warehouse and a commercial kitchen, but the facilities were nothing more than she had access to back in Scranton.

“It’s all organization,” said Harriet, the energetic, sixty-ish volunteer showing her around. Jackie had told her Harriet “ran things” and excused herself to call her babysitter. Now, the more Harriet talked, the more Brett realized Jackie’s portrayal of her own role in the food pantry was as imaginary as their future together.

“We’re in a rotation to serve meals once a week. Tonight’s our night. In about a half hour, this whole basement will be crawling, I’ll promise you that,” Harriet said.

“But the rest of it is a database and a phone tree.” Harriet sat down at a new laptop that contrasted with the dated kitchen facilities. “That’s how we find out what perishables the local restaurants and grocery stores need picked up. It’s how we dispatch our pickup and delivery fleet. The fleet delivers to the host meal site. That church serves the show-up crowd. The church on the next night is responsible for delivering the to-go meals. That way, they can take any leftovers right to their church to serve the next night.”

“How do you get all the other churches to cooperate?” Brett asked.

Harriet smiled. “I don’t. Elizabeth does.”

“Elizabeth? I haven’t met anyone named Elizabeth yet.”

“Our grant writer. From the Methodist church across town. She’s the money gal, Elizabeth is. She and her husband moved to Charlotte a few years ago, when her husband got a job at UNC. She worked in fundraising for a big university up north, I forget which one. They had a couple little kids, and she stayed home for a while, but she got bored, she said. Coffee?” Harriet paused to fill a cup for herself as well.

“They went to the Methodist church, which had a little food pantry. The pastor there wanted to expand their kitchen so they could serve hot meals. Somebody found out Elizabeth knew how to write grants, and asked her to help. So she wrote something up. Cream?”

Brett shook her head. Harriet resumed.

“Six months later, the check arrives, they’re installing a brand-new kitchen, commercial appliances, enough space for six cooks to work at once. Which meant they could serve three times as many as they’d thought. And the folks showed up.

“Some of the other churches started taking notice. You think Southern church women gossip?” Harriet snorted. “We’re amateurs compared to the men. The other pastors around town found out what was going on over at the Methodists, and they all wanted a piece of Elizabeth.”

“I can imagine,” Brett said, thinking of Richard.

“But she’s a smart cookie. From her job up north she had all these ideas about ‘efficiency’ and ‘return on investment.’ She wasn’t going to get every pastor in town a fancy kitchen just because he flattered her. And she really cared about the results, too. She wanted that kitchen used, and she knew there were plenty of people who needed feeding around Charlotte. Not just Methodists. Not even just churchgoing folks, either.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows meaningfully at Brett, then sipped her coffee.

“So she came up with this idea of rotating the meals between churches, and meal delivery. All they had then was some warming bags from a pizza delivery place and a van that must have had a hundred thousand miles on it. She got the local car dealers to donate delivery vehicles. Now all the cooking’s run out of the Methodist church and delivered ready-to-eat to the other churches each night. So each pastor can crow about serving the needy, but the work’s all centralized.”

“She sounds amazing,” Brett said, dumbfounded that Jackie had effectively plagiarized Elizabeth’s identity. Theirs had to be the first food pantry seduction in history.

“Oh, she is,” Harriet had more to share. “Then she got some of the restaurants and grocery stores interested in donating produce and other perishables. Of course she gave them all good PR in the congregation newsletters for doing it. She got some money somewhere else to hire a nutritionist consultant, who plans all the meals based on what’s donated.

“Once the meals got a better reputation—we’re talking salads, side dishes, vegetarian options, plus the main dish—she started another program, working with the hospitals. She calls it the Stork Express. All new moms who deliver at Charlotte Memorial get an offer for two weeks of meal delivery, regardless of income. While they settle in back home, you know.”

“Regardless of income?” Brett frowned. “What’s the point of that?”

“I asked the same thing.” Harriet smiled in anticipation of the story’s end. “Eighty percent of the mothers who get the delivery wind up becoming donors or volunteers within two years.”

“Eighty percent.” Brett breathed in the figure, recalling the many nights she spent alone in the Fellowship of Hope basement kitchen. This Elizabeth had ingeniously built a pipeline that could nearly sustain the program. “That’s amazing.”

“Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe Elizabeth,” Harriet said proudly.

“I don’t suppose she’s looking to relocate to Pennsylvania, by any chance?”

“Doubt it. She says she doesn’t miss the weather. She was from New York, I think, upstate somewhere where it got pretty cold. Then again, nothing Elizabeth does surprises me much anymore. If you’re looking to start something from scratch, you really should talk to her.”

“I’ll make sure I do,” Brett said thoughtfully.