The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(54)

“No,” I said. “Not an animal.”

I might have left it at that, but I was picking up the faint scent of tobacco again, just as in my room earlier when I was ready to give up and scatter to the four winds, until it latched onto me like gravity . . . like a rescue . . .

Olin’s hair was lifting in white tufts all around his scalp, as if he’d just come from bed without bothering to comb it into place, and for one wild second, backlit by the lamp behind him, it seemed to glow.

“Olin,” I ventured. “That light on the Mountain—what is it?”

“Well, now, that’s been there so long, I don’t think about it no more. It just is.”

“But who put it there?”

He shrugged. “Always been there, far as I know.”

“Nobody ever checked it out?”

“Sure did.”

“And what was it?”

“I never asked. They never said.”

I shook my head in frustration and looked down at my mug. I could feel Olin’s eyes on me for a long moment before he braced his arms on the table and leaned in.

“Laurel’s got a night-light,” he said finally.

“Yes . . .”

“Makes her feel safe.”

“I guess.”

“So if she wakes in the dark, scared maybe, she knows it’s just a light, but she feels better. Watched over.”

“Olin,” I said slowly, “you’re telling me the Mountain has a night-light?”

“It pleases me to think of it on the same principle.”

I frowned down at the Almanac again—at the cracked and curling corners, the yellow cover filled with gourds, twining vines and sheaves of wheat, sketches of spring, summer, autumn and winter frozen in time. It read, 146th year. Price: 15 cents.

I picked up Jessie’s reading glasses and turned them over in my hands. “You two have the same prescription? I guess you really are a perfect match.”

“Me and her was meant for each other.”

The phrase was cliché, but he made it sound like truth.

“Soul mates?” I asked. “What an awful thought.”

“How you figure?”

“I don’t mean you and Jessie—you’re happy. But when you’re not—when you’re with someone who makes your life hell—the idea of being bound for eternity . . . God, I’d go insane.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you—but that ain’t it. The one you’re meant to be with ain’t always the one you end up with.”

“What . . . ?”

“I figure if soul mates find each other right off,” he continued, “that’s best. But if they don’t, they can still make a good life—with somebody else or on their own. But sooner or later, if you’re meant to be, you find each other.”

“Olin, you’re a romantic. And how do they manage that?”

He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. The ol’ woman’ll skin me.”

He stood and headed for the butcher-block table by the stove. When he returned, he handed me a small parcel in brown wrapping.

“Simon heard you was under the weather,” he said. “Left this for you.”

I pulled off the wrapping, and inside was a book of poetry—selected works of Yeats. It was the same volume I’d had in college, only mine had fallen apart over the years. This one was pristine, the spine still stiff.

I opened to the cover pages, and there Simon had written in surprisingly fine penmanship: Joanna, for inspiration.

Inspiration? To do what?

As if in answer, Olin turned to pull open a drawer and fish something out. When he returned, he set a blank notepad and a pen in front of me.





Dinner at Bree’s





The next afternoon I stood at my bedroom mirror and for the first time in ages was pleased with what I saw. I wore a light cotton cardigan of buttercream yellow with short sleeves and shell buttons, and a tan pencil skirt. I pulled on flat pumps for the short hike into town for Bree’s dinner.

I ran my hands down my arms, feeling the firm cords of muscle under the skin. Even after lying in bed for days, they felt strong. I leaned toward the mirror and stared hard. The old scar along my eyebrow—the one Jim sliced open with his pinkie ring with a sharp backhand—was fading. In fact, I could barely make it out now.