little peep, Loot and me started feeding and feeding. And feeding. And feeding some more. Those three hellions were nothing but gutbags with a beak and a place to poop. At least they learned quick to let it fly over the edge. They got pretty good at the point and shoot. They got pretty good at always begging, too. Always hungry, that’s a raven.
7
Ada stumbled to the bathroom to dress for work. The bare-bulb light hurt her eyes as she tried to pull on her hose without ripping them. She scowled at the long mirror. Her uniform’s short sleeves made her long arms stick out like chicken legs. “Cluck, cluck,” she whispered. She checked her teeth. “Yep, still crooked.” She turned to look at her back. “And what a strange bird you are.” The whole uniform blared the ugly turquoise of the HoJo’s cupola, a blue of no stone she’d ever seen, not even the real turquoise a cousin had brought from out west. Next to this, the cuffs, pockets, and collar were all the bright orange of a HoJo’s roof. Never get lost in a crowd with this on, she thought as she zipped up the dress. Unless that crowd all works beside you for Mr. Johnson. She tied on the too-little apron, also turquoise, and pinned on the too-little cap, with its “Howard Johnson” logo. She wished for her bonnet.
She fumbled in the pockets for her name tag. And where does Mr. Johnson expect us to put our tips? The shallow pockets were somehow the worst part. She pinned the blocky “A-D-A” onto her dress, right below “Howard Johnson.” One last look revealed that the orange collar did nothing to hide her long neck. It just framed it like a picture. She grabbed her amulet and purse and then scurried down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Ada hurried to cook breakfast. She had to move all the casseroles out of the refrigerator to get the eggs and ham. The previous day, every neighbor and friend from here to Shippensburg had come with a dish and to look. They’d aggravated Ada with all of their staring, but their food had been a real blessing. At least a month’s worth of eating sat in the freezer, plus what filled the fridge. Yesterday, when she’d seen so much, she decided to return to work. They needed the money, and like it or not, she couldn’t really help her mother. Uncle Mark would come for that.
At 6:45, Ada heard Ellie pull in the lane. She grabbed her coat and purse, kissed her father and mother, and ran out the door.
Ada slid into Ellie’s car and greeted her best friend. The glow of the dashboard cast odd shadows over Ellie’s face, but her eyes, as always, had that lost fawn look—round and dark and innocent. Good camouflage for a sharp wit that had checked the advances of truckers and made Ada cry from laughing so hard.
“How are the little ones?” Ada asked.
“Back asleep by now, probably.” Ellie turned onto the main road. “How’s your mom?”
“OK, I think. Uncle Mark’s taking good care of her.”
Ellie looked at her. “Uncle Mark?”
Ada fidgeted with her apron.
“Why not you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ada said, looking out the window. “Seems like I can’t powwow anymore.”
“Oh, Ada.” Ellie stopped the car on the shoulder of the road. “What happened?”
Ada didn’t want to cry at the start of the day, yet here she was, hugging Ellie and telling her about the coldness of her hands in the fire, the death of Seven, and what had happened in the kitchen. “I tried to chant over Mama’s burns, and nothing happened.”
Ellie held her quietly.
Ada’s breathing slowed, and she wiped her tears. “We’ll be late for work if we don’t get going.”
Ellie slid the car into gear, and Ada remembered the last time they’d been late, three weeks earlier. It was the last time she had healed. That morning, when she had gotten into Ellie’s car, she’d sensed something was wrong in her friend’s mumbled hello.
“You all right?”
Ellie had shaken her head. “Beatrice has an earache. Kept us up all night. The child’s whole ear is bright red, and those drops from the doctor only make her scream. Nothing seems to work.” She glanced over. “Think you could powwow over her?”
“Of course, Ellie. Why didn’t you ask sooner? Now turn the car around and let’s have a look at her. We’ll just deal with Mabel later.”
Soon they were walking up the stairs to Beatrice’s bedroom. They found the young girl in her grandmother’s lap.
“She can only get a little bit asleep, and then the pain will wake her,” Mrs. Sawyers said.
Ada cuddled the child for a moment before laying her down on her bed. The girl held onto her neck.
“Rest here for just a moment, little Bea, and then I’ll hold you some more.”
Ada closed her eyes, asked the Lord to help, and bent close to Beatrice. She whispered a chant and gently blew into her ear. Ada did this three times, and when she finished, the child had fallen asleep.
“That should ease the pain,” she whispered to Ellie and her mother. “In a day or so, I expect all the swelling to be gone.”
On a sheet from her order pad, Ada wrote this chant:
Holy womb,
Holy night.
Holy, Holy was the night
when Christ was born.
I take Beatrice Amber O’Keefe’s
aches and pain all away in
Jesus’ name all away.
Amen.
“Keep this in your purse,” she instructed and handed Ellie the slip. By the next morning, the swelling had disappeared.
Now, as they hurried down the turnpike, that memory seemed like a different life from long ago. What was it that had given her that gift, that confidence?
They drove past the service plaza on the other side of the highway. A mile beyond, Ellie pulled off to wait for all four lanes to clear. They both held their breath when she gunned it through the gap in the median’s guardrail. Heading west, they soon entered the still lit-up plaza, where Ellie parked in the rear of the lot.
“Red in the morning,” Ellie mumbled as they faced the brightly colored eastern sky.
“Sailors’ warning,” Ada finished.
They hurried across the lot to work.
At the restaurant’s back door, Ada braced herself, and yet the noise and heat and brightness of the kitchen pummeled her. She followed Ellie to the punch-in clock, which read 7:05. “Not too bad,” Ellie whispered and turned to find Mabel, her hands full of dirty dishes. She was a large woman with a sprig of hair growing from a mole on her cheek.
“Sorry we’re late,” Ada and Ellie said. Mabel just walked on. She had babysat Ada years ago, and she still liked to scold her or tell her mother everything. But now she didn’t say a word, and Ada was grateful.
