didn’t like HoJo’s break room, the clutter of coats, the bang of lockers, the closeness of so many chairs and people. That room had no windows and a cloud of cigarette smoke. By contrast, the lavatory was clean and full of light. Aunt Amanda had invited her to bring her own stool and join her.
Now, Ada hesitated a moment before calling out. Then the round glasses and high forehead turned. “Oh, hello, Ada. Come join me.”
Ada sat on the other stool, and for a while, the two women were quiet.
“I was reading about Moses and the burning bush just now. That man did not want to do what God told him. He hemmed and hawed. Imagine! Yet he eventually did. And God gave him the tools he needed.”
Aunt Amanda paused and looked at her hands. “And the idea of a bush burning without burning has always fascinated me. When I was a kid, I kept searching for other burning bushes. I’d walk through the woods looking at every bush, and each one would be like the last—green and empty. Then one day, I glanced at one out of the corner of my eye, and it looked odd—no flames, really, but more than just leaves. When I looked straight at it, the bush was a bush, nothing unusual. I looked sideways again, and nothing changed—the bush was just a bush. But in a tree far beyond it, I saw the same thing—some movement, flame-like, that disappeared. I don’t know what it was. But it made me understand that maybe all bushes and trees and birds are burning, all of them full of God’s voice.” She paused before adding, “If only we had eyes to see and ears to hear.”
“Didn’t Moses have to turn his eyes?” Ada asked.
“Yes, yes he did. When he first saw the bush, he couldn’t look directly at it.” Aunt Amanda found the passage and read, “‘Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.’ It’s as if he had to look out of the corner of his eye, too, the bush burned so bright. Like we can’t look directly at the sun or we’ll be blinded.”
Aunt Amanda closed the Bible and set it aside. “Oh, but I’m rambling. How are you, Ada? And how’s your family?”
“I think we’re all going to make it.” Ada shifted on her stool. She was grateful Aunt Amanda didn’t ask more. It was as if Aunt Amanda already knew—about the fire and her mother’s hands and now, this black space she was afraid to look at.
Aunt Amanda placed her hand on Ada’s, just for a moment, and that was enough.
“There’s Will.” Aunt Amanda pointed out the window. “I had hoped he might come out while you were here.” She looked at the gas pumps, fifty yards away. “He’s the tall, black-haired young man out there. He just started yesterday.”
Ada saw his back as he leaned against a pump, talking with two other men. A car pulled up, and Will took long, loping strides toward it.
“I helped raise that boy. He’s my nephew, you know. His mother died giving birth to him. And when that happened, something disappeared in Sam, his father, and never returned. So, little Will would wander over to my house just about every day. Sam died of cancer four years ago. We had to sell the farm to cover the bills . . .” Aunt Amanda looked at Ada. “To be honest, he feels more like a son than a nephew.”
“I bet he loves you.” Ada was not sure what to say.
“Most of the time, especially now that he’s on his own and I don’t have to discipline him.”
Another car pulled up, and Will began washing its windows. Even from this distance, Ada saw his huge grin.
Will noticed his aunt and waved. Aunt Amanda waved back. Then he pointed to the sky, cupped his hands, and gave a loud cronk cronk sound.
“What’s he doing?”
“Oh, that’s Will talking with the ravens. They must be up above us somewhere. On the drive in this morning, he told me he’d been watching a pair all day yesterday acting like they were feeding young. He wants to find the nest, and knowing him, he probably will.”
Will looked back at the window, and Ada could tell he just now saw her. He waved again, but this time the gesture was awkward and hesitant. He turned to help the other men.
For some reason, Ada suddenly recalled the sparrow from so long ago, the injured one she’d held until its eyes opened again and stared right into her. For a moment, Ada felt the quickness of its tiny heart in her palms, and looking out at Will, she felt her own heart flutter.
Cicero
Babies are the ugliest things, even if they’re your own. That skin all scrunched up nasty and wrinkly, the color off. When the pinfeathers come in, I swear they look like starlings, those fowl so foul they can’t be called birds. I loved our threesome, but my god of rat guts, some days I thought they were worse than ugly.
They shit worse than ugly, too. Loot and me would come back to find one of them hadn’t made it to the edge, so we’d have to shove it over the side. That whole rock face below turned white streaked, like some piece of your modern art. I studied it one day and wondered if maybe instead of words, I should’ve taken up painting shit—forget Keats and Dickinson, make a go of it as the avian equivalent to your Pollock or Picasso.
Anyway. I didn’t have time for art; those sweet little gutbags were always squawking for more food—more, more, more! Loot didn’t like going to the trash dump, but I didn’t mind. You just had to be careful. And the rewards! Sticky buns and hot dogs, eggs and cheese and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal.
One morning way back when I was one of those ugly nestlings, my mom returned with something brown and red, with a little yellow, too. My two sisters and me, we opened our beaks wide as we could and set to begging for whatever she had. And Mom chose me, little ol’ ugly Cicero. She thrust that food into my beak, and right then, I knew what heaven tasted like. It’s a piece of a burger meat with ketchup and mustard. I immediately wanted more.
8
Same Day
On his second day at work, Will parked his Plymouth at the back of the lot, up against the mountain.
Aunt Amanda checked her hair in the mirror. “Did you remember your lunch?”
“Of course.”
“Right on time for my shift.” She looked at her watch. “So, Mr. William, what are you going to do for two hours?”
“Oh, I might take a hike.” Will didn’t doubt that she knew. And she was probably the only one in the whole world who would’ve approved.
“Watch for snakes” was all she said as she walked toward the HoJo’s back door.
Will carried his lunch into the back room of the Esso garage.
“Surprised to see you here so early,” Dickson said, which made him jump. “Just in time to help me do inventory. How about it?” He had a clipboard in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.
Will had wanted to sneak in without seeing anyone. Just shove his lunch in his locker and head up the mountain. He should’ve known better. “I was hoping to hike up the mountain before my shift starts.” He opened his locker and found one of those little Bibles.
“Thought you might need that,” Dickson said from behind
