CHICKEN AND BLACKBERRY KISSES
Gramps barreled through Wyoming like a house afire. We snaked through winding roads where the trees leaned close, rustling rush, rush, rush, rush, rush. The road curved alongside rivers that rolled and gabbled hurry, hurry, hurry.
It was late when we arrived at Yellowstone. All we got to see that evening was a hot spring. We walked on boardwalks placed across the bubbling mud (“Huzza, huzza!” Gram said), and we stayed at the Old Faithful Inn in a Frontier Cabin. I’d never seen Gram so excited. She could not wait for the next morning. “We’re gonna see Old Faithful,” she said, over and over.
“It won’t take too very long, will it?” I said, and I felt like a mule saying it, because Gram was so looking forward to it.
“Don’t you worry, Salamanca,” Gram said. “We’ll just watch that old geyser blow and then we’ll hit the road.”
I prayed all night long to the elm tree outside. I prayed that we would not get in an accident, that we would get to Lewiston, Idaho, in time for my mother’s birthday, and that we would bring her home. Later I would realize that I had prayed for the wrong things.
That night, Gram was so excited that she could not sleep. She rambled on about all sorts of things. She said to Gramps, “Remember that letter from the egg man that you found under the mattress?”
“Of course I remember. We had a wing-ding of an argument over it. You told me you had no dang idea how it got there. You said the egg man must’ve slipped into the bedroom and put it there.”
“Well, I want you to know that I put it there.”
“I know that,” Gramps said. “I’m not a complete noodle.”
“It’s the only love letter anybody ever wrote me,” Gram said. “You never wrote me any love letters.”
“You never told me you wanted one.”
To me, Gram said, “Your grandfather nearly killed the egg man over that letter.”
“Hell’s bells,” Gramps said. “He wasn’t worth killing.”
“Maybe not, but Gloria was.”
“Ah yes,” Gramps said, placing his hand on his heart and pretending to swoon, “Gloria!”
“Cut that out,” Gram said, rolling over on her side. “Tell me about Peeby. Tell me that story, but don’t make it too awfully sad.” She folded her hands on her chest. “Tell me what happened with the lunatic.”
?
When I saw the picture of the lunatic on Sergeant Bickle’s desk, I tore out of that office faster than lightning. I ran past Sergeant Bickle standing in the parking lot. No sign of Phoebe. I ran all the way to her house. As I passed Mrs. Cadaver’s house, Mrs. Partridge called to me from her porch.
“You’re all dressed up,” I said. “Going somewhere?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m redible.” She tottered down the steps, swinging her cobra cane in front of her.
“Are you walking?” I asked.
She reached down and touched her legs. “Isn’t that what you call it when you move your legs like I’m doing?”
“No, I meant are you walking to wherever you’re going?”
“Oh no, it’s much too far for these legs. Jimmy’s coming. He’ll be here any minute.” A car pulled up in front of the house. “There he is,” she said. She called out to the driver, “I’m redible. I said I would be, and here I am.”
The driver leaped out of the car. “Sal?” he said. “I had no idea you two were neighbors.” It was Mr. Birkway.
“We’re not,” I said. “It’s Phoebe who is the neighbor—”
“Is that right?” he said, opening the car door for Mrs. Partridge. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get a move on.”
“Mom?” I said. I looked at Mrs. Partridge. “This is your son?”
“Why, of course,” Mrs. Partridge said. “This is my little Jimmy.”
“But he’s a Birkway—?”
Mrs. Partridge said, “I was a Birkway once. Then I was a Partridge. I’m still a Partridge.”
“Then who is Mrs. Cadaver?” I said.
“My little Margie,” she said. “She was a Birkway too. Now she’s a Cadaver.”
I said to Mr. Birkway, “Mrs. Cadaver is your sister?”
“We’re twins,” Mr. Birkway said.
When they had driven away, I knocked at Phoebe’s door, but there was no answer. At home, I dialed Phoebe’s number over and over. No answer.
The next day at school, I was relieved to see Phoebe. “Where were you?” I said. “I have something to tell you—”
She turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
I couldn’t figure out what was the matter with her. It was a terrible day. We had tests in math and science. At lunch, Phoebe ignored me. Then came English.
Mr. Birkway skipped into the room. People were gnawing on their fingers and tapping their feet and wriggling around and generally getting ulcers, wondering if Mr. Birkway was going to read from the journals. I stared at him. He and Margaret Cadaver were twins? Was that possible? The most disappointing part of that piece of knowledge was that he was not going to fall in love with Mrs. Cadaver and marry her and take her away.
Mr. Birkway opened a cupboard, pulled out the journals, slipped the yellow paper over the cover of one and read:
This is what I like about Jane. She is smart, but doesn’t act like she knows everything. She is cute. She smells good. She is cute. She makes me laugh. She is cute.
I got a prickly feeling up and down my arms. I wondered if Ben had written this about me, but then I realized that Ben didn’t even know me when he wrote his journal. A little buzz was going around the room as people shifted in their seats. Christy was smiling, Megan was smiling, Beth Ann was smiling, Mary Lou was smiling. Every girl in the room was smiling. Each girl thought that this had been written about her.
I looked carefully at each of the boys. Alex was gazing nonchalantly at Mr. Birkway. Then I saw Ben. He was sitting with his hands over his ears, staring down at his desk. The prickly feeling traveled all the way up to my neck and then went skipping down my spine. He did write that, but he did not write it about me.
Mr. Birkway exclaimed, “Ah love, ah life!” Sighing, he pulled out another journal and read:
Jane doesn’t know the first thing about boys. She once asked me what kisses taste like, so you could tell she hadn’t ever kissed anyone. I told her that they taste like chicken, and she believed me. She is so dumb sometimes.
Mary Lou Finney jumped out of her chair. “You cabbage-head,” she said to Beth Ann. “You beef brain.” Beth Ann wound a strand of hair around her finger. Mary Lou said, “I did not believe you, and I do know what they taste like, and it isn’t chicken.”
Ben drew a cartoon of two stick-figures kissing. In the air over their heads was a cartoon bubble with a chicken saying, “Bawk, bawwwk, bawwwk.”
Mr. Birkway turned a few pages in the same journal and read:
I hate doing this. I hate to write. I hate to read. I hate journals. I especially hate English where teachers only talk about idiot symbols. I hate that idiot poem about the snowy woods, and I hate it when people say the woods symbolize death or beauty or sex or any old thing you want. I hate that. Maybe the woods are just woods.
Beth Ann stood up. “Mr. Birkway,” she said, “I do hate school, I do hate books, I do hate English, I do hate symbols, and I most especially hate these idiot journals.”
There was a hush in the room. Mr. Birkway stared at Beth Ann for a minute, and in that minute, I was reminded of Mrs. Cadaver. For that brief time, his eyes looked just like hers. I was afraid he was going to strangle Beth Ann, but then he smiled and his eyes became friendly enormous cow eyes once again. I think he hypnotized her, because Beth Ann sat down slowly. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, I know exactly how you feel. Exactly. I love this passage.”
“You do?” she said.
“It’s so honest.”
I had to admit, you couldn’t get more honest than Beth Ann telling her English teacher that she hated symbols and English and idiot journals.
Mr. Birkway said, “I used to feel exactly like this. I could not understand what all the fuss was about symbols.” He rummaged around in his desk. “I want to show you something.” He was pulling papers out and flinging them around. Finally, he held up a picture. “Ah, here it is. Dynamite! What is this?” he asked Ben.
Ben said, “It’s a vase. Obviously.”
Mr. Birkway held the drawing in front of Beth Ann, who looked as if she might cry. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, what do you see?” A little tear dropped down on her cheek. “It’s okay, Beth Ann, what do you see?”
“I don’t see any idiot vase,” she said. “I see two people. They’re looking at each other.”
“Right,” Mr. Birkway said. “Bravo!”
“I’m right? Bravo?”
Ben said, “Huh? Two people?” I was thinking the same thing myself. What two people?
Mr. Birkway said to Ben, “And you were right too. Bravo!” He asked everyone else, “How many see a vase?” About half the class raised their hands. “And how many see two faces?” The rest of the class raised their hands.
Then Mr. Birkway pointed out how you could see both. If you looked only at the white part in the center, you could clearly see the vase. If you looked only at the dark parts on the side, you could see two profiles. The curvy sides of the vase became the outline of the two heads facing each other.
Mr. Birkway said that the drawing was a bit like symbols. Maybe the artist only intended to draw a vase, and maybe some people look at this picture and see only that vase. That is fine, but if some people look at it and see faces, what is wrong with that? It is faces to that person who is looking at it. And, what is even more magnificent, you might see both.
Beth Ann said, “Two for your money?”
“Isn’t it interesting,” Mr. Birkway said, “to find both? Isn’t it interesting to discover that snowy woods could be death and beauty and even, I suppose, sex? Wow! Literature!”
“Did he say sex?” Ben said, copying the drawing.
I thought Mr. Birkway was finished with the journals for that day, but he made a great show of closing his eyes and pulling something from near the bottom of the stack.
She popped the blackberries into her mouth. Then she looked all around—
It was mine. I could hardly bear it.
She took two steps up to the maple tree and threw her arms around it, and kissed it.
People were giggling.
…I thought I could detect a small dark stain, as from a blackberry kiss.
Ben looked at me from across the room. After Mr. Birkway read about my mother’s blackberry kiss, he read about how I kissed the tree and how I have kissed all different kinds of trees since then and how each tree has a special taste all its own, and mixed in with that taste is the taste of blackberries.
By now, because both Ben and Phoebe were staring at me, everyone else stared too. “She kisses trees?” Megan said. I might have died right then and there, if Mr. Birkway had not immediately picked up another journal. He stabbed his finger into the middle of the page and read:
I am very concerned about Mrs.—
Mr. Birkway stared down at the page. It looked as if he couldn’t read the handwriting. He started again.
I am very concerned about Mrs., uh, Mrs. Corpse. Her suspicious behavior suggests that she has murdered her own husband—
Phoebe’s eyes blinked rapidly.
“Go on,” Ben said. “Finish!”
You could tell that Mr. Birkway was regretting that he had ever started this business with the journals, but all around the room people were shouting, “Yes, finish!” and so he reluctantly continued.
I believe she has buried him in her backyard.
When the bell rang, people went berserk. “Wow! A murder! Who wrote that?” and “Is it real?”
I was out of that room faster than anything, chasing after Phoebe. Megan called out after me, “You kiss trees?” I tore out of the building. No Phoebe.
Idiot journals, I thought. Gol-darn idiot journals.
THE VISITOR
Gram and Gramps were both still awake in our Frontier Cabin on the edge of Yellowstone National Park. “Aren’t you sleepy yet?” I said.
Gram said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I don’t feel like going to sleep at all. I want to know what happened to Peeby.”
“I’ll tell you about Mr. Birkway’s visit. Then I’ll stop for tonight.”
?
I went over to Phoebe’s after dinner on the day Mr. Birkway had read from my journal about the blackberry kisses and from Phoebe’s about Mrs. Cadaver. In Phoebe’s bedroom, I said, “I’ve got two important things to tell you—” The doorbell rang, and we heard a familiar voice.
“That sounds like Mr. Birkway,” Phoebe said.
“That’s one of the things I want to tell you,” I said. “About Mr. Birkway—”
There was a tap on Phoebe’s door. Her father said, “Phoebe? Could you and Sal come downstairs with me?”
I thought Mr. Birkway was going to be mad at Phoebe for what she had written about his sister. The worst thing was that Phoebe didn’t even know yet that Mrs. Cadaver was Mr. Birkway’s sister. I felt like we were lambs being led to the slaughter. Take us, I thought. Take us and do away with us quickly. We followed Phoebe’s father downstairs. There on the sofa was Mr. Birkway, holding Phoebe’s journal and looking embarrassed.
“That is my own private journal,” Phoebe said. “With my own private thoughts.”
“I know,” Mr. Birkway said, “and I want to apologize for reading it aloud.”
Apologize? That was a relief. It was so quiet in the room that I could hear the leaves being blown off the trees outside.
Mr. Birkway coughed. “I want to explain something,” he said. “Mrs. Cadaver is my sister.”
“Your sister?” Phoebe said.
“And her husband is dead.”
“I thought so,” Phoebe said.
“But she didn’t murder him,” Mr. Birkway said. “Her husband died when a drunk driver rammed into his car. My mother—Mrs. Partridge—was also in the car with Mr. Cadaver. She didn’t die, as you know, but she lost her sight.”
“Oh—” I said. Phoebe stared at the floor.
“My sister Margaret was the nurse on duty in the emergency room when they brought in her husband and our mother. Margaret’s husband died that night.”
The whole time Mr. Birkway was talking, Phoebe’s father was sitting beside her with his hand resting on her shoulder. It looked like the only thing that was keeping Phoebe from vaporizing into the air and disappearing was his hand resting there.
“I just wanted you to know,” Mr. Birkway said, “that Mr. Cadaver is not buried in her backyard. I’ve also just learned about your mother, Phoebe, and I’m sorry that she’s gone, but I assure you that Margaret would not have kidnapped or murdered her.”
After Mr. Birkway left, Phoebe and I sat on the front porch. Phoebe said, “If Mrs. Cadaver didn’t kidnap or murder my mother, then where is she? What can I do? Where should I look?”
“Phoebe,” I said. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Look, Sal, if you’re going to tell me she’s not coming back, I don’t want to hear it. You might as well go home now.”
“I know who the lunatic is. It’s Sergeant Bickle’s son.”
And so we devised a plan.
At home that night, all I could think about was Mrs. Cadaver. I could see her in her white uniform, working in the emergency room. I could see an ambulance pulling up with its blue lights flashing, and her walking briskly to the swinging doors, with her wild hair all around her face. I could see the stretchers being wheeled in, and I could see Mrs. Cadaver looking down at them.
I could feel her heart thumping like mad as she realized it was her own husband and her own mother lying there. I imagined Mrs. Cadaver touching her husband’s face. It was as if I was walking in her moccasins, that’s how much my own heart was pumping and my own hands were sweating.
I started wondering if the birds of sadness had built their nest in Mrs. Cadaver’s hair afterward, and if so, how she got rid of them. Her husband dying and her mother being blinded were events that would matter in the course of a lifetime. I saw everyone else going on with their own agendas while Mrs. Cadaver was frantically trying to keep her husband and her mother alive. Did she regret anything? Did she know the worth of water before the well was dry?
All those messages had invaded my brain and affected the way I looked at things.
?
“Are you sleepy yet, Gram?” I asked. My voice was hoarse from talking so much.
“No, chickabiddy, but you go on to sleep. I’m just going to lie here a while and think about things.” She nudged Gramps. “You forgot to say about the marriage bed.”
Gramps yawned. “Sorry, gooseberry.” He patted the bed and said it.