The Hummingbird's Cage by Tamara Dietrich Page B

me to catch up.
    I set the book back on the nightstand.
    â€œLaurel, honey,” I said. “Do you remember the day we got here?”
    She squinted at me, puzzled.
    â€œI woke up,” she said. “And I was here.”
    â€œHere?”
    She jiggled her feet under the covers and smiled.
    â€œHere. In bed. Miz Jessie brought me strawberries.”
    I brushed stray hair from her temple.
    â€œAnd what about before that?” I tried to keep my voice light. “Do you remember Mr. Simon bringing us here?”
    She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
    â€œAnd before that?” I asked even more lightly than before. “Do you remember Daddy? Out on the road?”
    This time her eyes were fixed on me intently.
    â€œDo
you
?” she asked finally.
    I couldn’t tell if she was being curious or trying to prod my memory. Either way, it was disconcerting.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Maybe you can help me remember.”
    She shook her head once more.
    â€œI can’t.”
    Can’t?
I thought.
Or won’t?
    How old does your child have to be before she starts keeping big secrets? I felt a pang of guilt. Maybe that was something she’d learned from me.
    Laurel yawned and stretched, settling deeper under the covers. “Mommy?” she asked.
    â€œYes, sweetie?”
    â€œI heard Tinkerbell today.”
    My breath caught in my throat. “Wh-what?”
    â€œShe was barking. Up on the Mountain. I think she’s trying to find us.”
    In a flash I was back in our yard in Wheeler, Tinkerbell scratching at the shed door, Jim heading inside with the shovel . . .
    â€œThat . . . that’s just not possible, Laurel. If you heard a dog, it could have been any dog. They sound alike from far off.”
    â€œNo, Mommy. It was Tinkerbell. And we gotta go get her.”
    I stood up from the bed, rattled to the core. I wasn’t going up on that mountain. And certainly not to hunt for a dog I knew full well I’d never find.
    â€œTime to go to sleep now,” I said.
    â€œBut, Mommy . . .”
    I stooped for a quick kiss to her cheek, then switched off the table lamp.
    â€œGood night.”

Bee in a Thunderstorm
    Not long after Laurel told me about Tinkerbell, Jessie said a few ladies from town would arrive the next morning—they were holding a bee to finish up a wedding quilt for the local schoolteacher. She invited me to join them, and pressed till I felt no choice but to accept. She looked pleased when I did.
    â€œIt’ll be fine weather for it,” she said. “These old bones know.”
    Olin was behind her at the dining room table playing dominoes with Laurel. He looked up at me and winked.
    *   *   *
    Early the next morning came a menacing rumble. I glanced out my bedroom window to see heavy clouds crowding in from theeast. A gust of wind lashed the bedroom curtains. You could smell the storm brewing.
    Wooden deck chairs already sat under the oak tree, arranged in a tight circle that Olin had set up the night before at Jessie’s instruction. But it seemed the ladies were about to get rained out.
    Then I noticed Jessie in the vegetable garden below, standing between rows of tomato plants. Her hands were on her hips and she was glaring. She raised the skirt of her apron and waved it, the way she does to chase off a stray hen.
    â€œShoo, now! Shoo!”
    But there was no hen in sight, and Jessie wasn’t looking down, but up—up at the storm clouds.
    Another rumble, a louder volley than before. She shook her head and retreated back inside.
    We didn’t eat breakfast at the outside trestle table, but at the little oak one in the kitchen—all but Olin, who said he had business in the fields.
    He’d been outside all morning, but had been vague about where or why. Earlier, I’d spotted him off in the distance—as still and straight as a soldier at inspection, far