Sparrow Road by Sheila O'Connor Page A

adopted,” Nettie said. “But there was a farm family in Spring Valley, they took me in to help with their nine kids.”
    “What about Lillian Hobbs?” I said.
    “Lillian Hobbs?” Nettie looked confused.
    “She might have been an orphan or a teacher,” I said.
    Nettie poured another pack of sugar in her coffee. “Hobbs? You mean Miss Hobbs the teacher? Is that the person that you mean?” Nettie Johnson looked surprised. “Very small? Little more than bones? Don’t tell me she’s alive?”
    “She is,” Josie said. “Alive and well. At Sparrow Road this summer. So you have to come to see her. In fact we’re hosting the Arts Extravaganza on August eighteenth. You and the reverend, we want you both to come. Other orphans too if we can find them. Are you in touch with any?” I couldn’t believe Viktor had said yes, but Josie swore to me he did.
    “No.” Nettie frowned. “Not really. I’ve left that past behind.”
    “Did you know Lyman Chase?” Josie asked. “He has a drawing in the attic. Sparrow Road in winter.” My heart sank. I hoped Nettie would say no. I wanted Lyman to live in my imagination, just the way I pictured. What if Nettie said that he was mean? Or ugly? Or a boy she always hated? Lyman was safer in my heart.
    Nettie shook her head. “Oh no, there were hundreds of us, honey. The orphanage was open for many, many years.”
    I was relieved she didn’t know Lyman. “But what about Viktor Berglund?” I asked.
    “Do you mean the Berglunds who gave Sparrow Road to charity? The ones who made it possible for us to have a home?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Did you ever know a boy named Viktor? He might have been an orphan.”
    “Viktor?” Josie stared at me wide-eyed. “You really think that, Raine?”
    “Could be,” I said. “I’m just going on a hunch.”
    “Berglund? No Berglund was an orphan!” Nettie pressed her hand against her neck. “They were extremely wealthy people who lived off in New York.”
    “Well, did they ever come at Christmas?” I asked. “The Berglunds? For gingerbread?”
    Nettie stared out the café window. Main Street was empty now. “Rich people dropped off presents. Lemon drops. A pomegranate.” The pomegranate seemed to make her gloomy. “Sometimes people came to sing. I should go,” she said. “The reverend must be waiting.”
    “You’ll come to the party,” Josie said. I could tell she didn’t want our conversation to end sadly. “August eighteenth. Great food, great art.” Josie picked the charge slip off our table. “We want all the orphans to come home.”

30
    You are a question I will carry
Through Februaries far into my future
Young I can’t imagine
how long those winters last
    Lillian’s eyes were closed, her small hands folded in her lap. We were on the front porch reading Souvenirs , a book of Lillian’s poetry Viktor dropped off at our cottage. Of all the poems I’d read to Lillian, I liked hers best of all.
    “You are a question I will carry,” I read again. I didn’t always understand them, but I could tell her poems were wistful, like Lyman’s drawing or Gray’s forlorn songs. Lots of getting left or leaving. A kind of constant homesick in the heart.
    “Did your father come yet, dear?” Lillian opened one pink eye. Today Gray was coming for a visit straight from church. He’d asked me in a letter and I sent him back my yes.
    “What did this mean?” I asked. “ You are a question I will carry ? Who was the question?”
    Lillian closed her eye again like she was drifting back toward sleep.
    “In your poem?” I asked. “The question you’ll carry into Februaries? The long winter question?”
    “Hmm,” Lillian murmured, half asleep. “Viktor.”
    I looked down at the page. For V . was written underneath the title. “Viktor? Viktor was a question that you carried?” I gave her arm a little shake. Lillian struggled to bat her eyes awake.
    “Did your father come yet, dear?”
    “Viktor was a question that you