The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(37)

And yet . . .

And yet I did know—knew marrow-deep—this was no delusion. No mirage. I knew because, with all my heart and soul, I wanted it to be. But no such luck. Not for me.

Finally I raised my head. “I don’t— Olin, I have so many questions . . .”

“You hold on to them,” he said. “Now ain’t the time for questions, and I sure ain’t the one for answers. What’s important—well, it’s best we all figure out the important things on our own. In our own way.”

Suddenly I felt wrung out, weak as an infant. “What should I do?” I asked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“First off, you go on inside and get yourself some supper. You get yourself a good night’s sleep. You wake up tomorrow and praise the day. You be mindful. And the next day, and the day after that, you get up and do it all over again. You live.”

Was that all? Eat, sleep, wake, work—in the afterlife, the same rules applied? I had no idea of the proprieties here. The physics. Were there other short-timers? Was everyone who crossed paths here a departed spirit? If not, would I know the difference? Would they? Olin and Jessie spoke of Wheeler as if they’d been there many times. As if they went there still . . .

“Olin,” I whispered, as if Jim could be within earshot. “Can my husband find us here?”

Olin looked past me for so long I thought he didn’t intend to answer. Then he did.

“That ain’t for me to say, neither.”





Little Yellow Boots





I woke on the porch, curled up like a fetus on the wicker settee. It was early morning and a dank chill hung in the air. I pushed myself up and a blanket slid off—someone must have laid it over me while I slept. I felt sluggish, as if my brain had been working overtime through the night. I rubbed at eyes that were dry and sore, trying to recall how I ended up sleeping outside.

And in a flash it came back . . . The sisters and the bee. The thunderstorm. Olin. The Place of Truth.

I swung my legs to the floor and nearly toppled an empty wine bottle sitting at my feet. It was one of Simon’s—the apple wine he supplied at Saturday suppers. I’d sneaked it from Jessie’s cupboard after they’d all gone off to bed. Then I’d slipped outside to get as snockered as circumstances would allow. I considered it a necessity. A palliative. Even an experiment. And what I discovered was that circumstances allowed snockered, sure enough. But apparently not sloppy. Or maybe for sloppy you needed two bottles.

The noises of a waking household were coming from inside. Jessie would be back in the kitchen, setting her cast-iron skillet on the stove, grinding coffee beans, sending Olin to the henhouse for eggs. I pulled the blanket back over my shoulders and stood. The planks of the porch felt cool and sure against my bare feet. I padded to the front railing, keen for any signs of the supernatural. I wasn’t sure what that might be—a melting landscape like something out of Dalí, maybe. A second sun flaring overhead. A herd of bush elephants trumpeting across the valley floor, white tusks flashing . . .

How had Olin called it? Getting a handle on the moment. But how do you get a handle on a moment like this? Take it one day at a time, like a recovery program?

Then again, maybe this was meant to be an easy, familiar passage. Like leaving one room to enter another. Otherwise, how could you bear it?

The rattle of an engine came from the hills to the north where the road reared up and disappeared. An old Ford pickup appeared, its black paint faded to dull, piebald grays, coughing blue smoke from its tailpipe. It puttered past the diner on its way south, a ladder poking from its bed, a red rag knotted around the last rung, whipping in the wind like the wings of a scarlet bird.

For some reason, the sheer banality of it heartened me. This, I could handle.

I picked up the empty wine bottle and slipped it under the blanket, out of sight. When no one was looking, I’d drop it in a waste can. Apart from sparing myself some embarrassment, I intended to use it as another experiment—to see if I was entitled to secrets here.

Breakfast proceeded the same as every other morning. Olin gave no hint that anything was amiss. As if he hadn’t lobbed a virtual grenade in my lap hours before.

Hours. Were there still hours? I wasn’t sure anymore.

But there was continuity. Familiarity. You sugar your coffee. Spoon the jam. Sop gravy off your plate with hunks of biscuit. You talk about the day ahead, ticking off what needs doing. By the end of breakfast, I was reacquainted with the rhythm, nearly myself again. If I wasn’t ready to praise the day, at least I was ready to participate.