He jabs his fork toward the window.
“Where outside?”
“ Outside outside.” He points again, then sticks the fork into his mouth and chews with his mouth wide open. His teeth are the tiniest teeth I’ve ever seen, but fierce.
“Can you show me?”
“Katie,” Dad says, “I just got him settled in. And you’ve hardly touched your French toast.”
“Well, after you’re done eating, Sammy. Can you?” I give Dad the I-know-what-I’m-doing look. Now he’s the exasperated one.
“I can show you right now!” Sammy shouts, throwing his fork to his plate, jumping off his phone-book tower, and heading for the door. Dad puts his head into his hands.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “We’ll be right back, I promise.” I push back my chair and hurry to catch up with Sammy, who has already slammed the door behind him. Out in the middle of the driveway he’s stomping, around and around, waiting for me to stand beside him.
“Right there,” he says now, pointing high, not in the direction of his house, but in the direction of mine, in the direction, to be specific, of my parents’ bedroom window. I follow his hand and that’s precisely where he’s pointing, no question about it. He stomps around some more now, mission accomplished. I put both of my hands on his little mighty shoulders until he finally looks up at me.
“Sammy,” I say, “tell me exactly what you mean.”
“Super bullet yellow bird,” Sammy says. “Going brrrrrrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr at the window.”
“That window?” I point to my parents’ room.
“Yup.”
“When?”
“When I came with Dad.”
“You mean this morning, Sammy? Early?”
“Today!” he shouts. “Today! Today!” There’s no way on earth that this kid is lying, and suddenly I understand. The window finch is a messenger. There is something that it wants to say.
“Man, you really are a first-rate assistant,” I tell Sammy, and he smiles ear to ear, showing off all those baby teeth, shaking his shoulders so that my hands come loose.
“I have superhero powers,” he says.
“I guess you do.”
He nods ferociously. “I do.”
“We better go inside and finish breakfast,” I say. “My dad’s going to need you fortified.”
“Fortified?” Sammy asks, his nose wrinkled. He turns and marches backward across the drive, into the house.
“Superhero plus,” I say.
Chapter Twenty
N ow that it’s the sweet time of day and the sun feels good on my skin, I don’t mind just sitting here on these library steps watching the traffic go by, don’t mind the fact that I’ll be late to Miss Martine’s and the dig, that I’ll likely catch Old Olson’s flack. I don’t mind watching the clouds break and drift, and sometimes it looks like there are signals up high, and sometimes the sky is through-and-through blue, and it’s really pretty out here in the morning, bymyself, alone. Beauty and sadness. Rescue and escape. There’s that line, I think, between what is and what has not happened yet.
It’s a little past eight thirty when I see a red Miata slow and take the library parking-lot turn. A few minutes more and I hear the clack-clack ing of Ms. McDermott’s tall, flare-heeled sandals. Every single one of her toenails is painted a different shade of red, all in service to her skirt, which is like a big flamenco costume—sunset colors seamed with black, a magnificent volume that coils and uncoils about her legs. Her black tank top seems to skim her skin. She pulls her sunglasses to the top of her head, changing the angles of her hair, and when she moves her arm, her big bag falls down, into the crook of her elbow.
“Katie D’Amore,” she says, shading her eyes with her hand. “Aren’t we bright and early?” She makes a little music with the dangle of her keys, and for one shining moment she’s framed by the sun.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No need,” she says. She continues up the steps, the bright wings of her skirt flapping
“Where outside?”
“ Outside outside.” He points again, then sticks the fork into his mouth and chews with his mouth wide open. His teeth are the tiniest teeth I’ve ever seen, but fierce.
“Can you show me?”
“Katie,” Dad says, “I just got him settled in. And you’ve hardly touched your French toast.”
“Well, after you’re done eating, Sammy. Can you?” I give Dad the I-know-what-I’m-doing look. Now he’s the exasperated one.
“I can show you right now!” Sammy shouts, throwing his fork to his plate, jumping off his phone-book tower, and heading for the door. Dad puts his head into his hands.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say. “We’ll be right back, I promise.” I push back my chair and hurry to catch up with Sammy, who has already slammed the door behind him. Out in the middle of the driveway he’s stomping, around and around, waiting for me to stand beside him.
“Right there,” he says now, pointing high, not in the direction of his house, but in the direction of mine, in the direction, to be specific, of my parents’ bedroom window. I follow his hand and that’s precisely where he’s pointing, no question about it. He stomps around some more now, mission accomplished. I put both of my hands on his little mighty shoulders until he finally looks up at me.
“Sammy,” I say, “tell me exactly what you mean.”
“Super bullet yellow bird,” Sammy says. “Going brrrrrrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr at the window.”
“That window?” I point to my parents’ room.
“Yup.”
“When?”
“When I came with Dad.”
“You mean this morning, Sammy? Early?”
“Today!” he shouts. “Today! Today!” There’s no way on earth that this kid is lying, and suddenly I understand. The window finch is a messenger. There is something that it wants to say.
“Man, you really are a first-rate assistant,” I tell Sammy, and he smiles ear to ear, showing off all those baby teeth, shaking his shoulders so that my hands come loose.
“I have superhero powers,” he says.
“I guess you do.”
He nods ferociously. “I do.”
“We better go inside and finish breakfast,” I say. “My dad’s going to need you fortified.”
“Fortified?” Sammy asks, his nose wrinkled. He turns and marches backward across the drive, into the house.
“Superhero plus,” I say.
Chapter Twenty
N ow that it’s the sweet time of day and the sun feels good on my skin, I don’t mind just sitting here on these library steps watching the traffic go by, don’t mind the fact that I’ll be late to Miss Martine’s and the dig, that I’ll likely catch Old Olson’s flack. I don’t mind watching the clouds break and drift, and sometimes it looks like there are signals up high, and sometimes the sky is through-and-through blue, and it’s really pretty out here in the morning, bymyself, alone. Beauty and sadness. Rescue and escape. There’s that line, I think, between what is and what has not happened yet.
It’s a little past eight thirty when I see a red Miata slow and take the library parking-lot turn. A few minutes more and I hear the clack-clack ing of Ms. McDermott’s tall, flare-heeled sandals. Every single one of her toenails is painted a different shade of red, all in service to her skirt, which is like a big flamenco costume—sunset colors seamed with black, a magnificent volume that coils and uncoils about her legs. Her black tank top seems to skim her skin. She pulls her sunglasses to the top of her head, changing the angles of her hair, and when she moves her arm, her big bag falls down, into the crook of her elbow.
“Katie D’Amore,” she says, shading her eyes with her hand. “Aren’t we bright and early?” She makes a little music with the dangle of her keys, and for one shining moment she’s framed by the sun.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No need,” she says. She continues up the steps, the bright wings of her skirt flapping
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