The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(60)

“A bootstrap theology.”

“Not quite,” he said. “We don’t always have to go it alone, you know.”

Suddenly I was remembering Bernadette.

“There was someone who helped me once,” I said. “And for no good reason I know of. She said it was because I asked her, but even so, I don’t know many people who would’ve done that. Jessie and Olin would have. You would have.”

“Joanna, listen. When you first came, you could’ve knocked on any door and been taken in. That’s just the way it is. I believe that’s how most people are, given a chance.”

“I wish I could believe that,” I said.

“Give it some time.”

I drew a deep breath; the choking knot in my throat was gone.

“Better?” he asked.

“I feel empty,” I said. “But in a good way—lighter, cleaner. You’re a good listener.”

“Happy to lend an ear. Anytime.”

“You must be kidding. Why in the world would you want to hear about the hot mess that is my life?”

He pulled on his door handle. “It’s late. I’ll see you to the house.”





Olin’s Kachinas





I was raking oak leaves in the yard when Laurel bolted outside with a shout. She ran up and latched onto my leg. “Mommy! Mr. Olin plays with dolls!” She chortled.

Olin had followed her onto the porch, looking tickled.

“Honey,” I told her, “I’m sure Mr. Olin doesn’t play with baby dolls . . .”

“No!” she said. “With little wooden Indians.”

I understood then what she meant: kachinas. They were in every souvenir shop in Wheeler—cheap, clunky carvings decked out with gaudy paint and feathers, glued to wooden stands.

“Those aren’t dolls, sweetie. They’re—” I fumbled for something inoffensive. “They’re special figures in Indian culture.”

“That’s near the point, punkin’,” Olin told her. “But there’s more to it than that. Come on—I’ll show you.”

“You, too, Mommy.”

“In a minute. You go on—I want to get this done before Simon comes.”

I was finishing up when Simon and his dog rounded the café, heading for the house. I waved, and he raised his arm in turn. Pal must have thought I was giving him a signal because he put on speed and bulleted right at me. I dropped the rake just as he reared up, his front paws ramming my shoulders. I staggered from the impact.

Simon whistled and Pal jumped down and swung around, waiting for his master to catch up.

“Sorry. Did he get dirt on you?”

I brushed at my sweater. “No harm done.”

Simon gestured. “Missed a spot.”

“Where—here?”

“No.” He hesitated, then picked a crushed leaf from my shoulder. “There—now you’re perfect.”

“And you’re full of it.”

He laughed. We climbed the porch steps together, and I leaned the rake against the house. He glanced around curiously. “Where’s my little lookout?”

“Inside. Playing with Olin’s kachinas.”

“Ah. That could take a while. Have you seen them?”

“Not yet. Thought I’d look in when I was more presentable.”

His eyes swept over me again, this time down to my capris and bare feet. I’d kicked off my sneakers while I raked.

“You look just fine,” he said. “I should . . . go on upstairs.”

I nodded.

He took one final glance before disappearing inside. I followed soon after, checking in with Jessie in the kitchen to see if she needed help with supper.

“Not a thing,” she said. “What on earth are you smiling about?”

“What?”

“Child, you look right pleased with yourself. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’ll get Laurel washed up. Olin’s showing her his kachinas.”

“Those?” Jessie muttered. “I hope he doesn’t frighten the poor thing.”

She pulled off her apron and dropped it on the butcher block, then headed for the living room.

I hadn’t seen Olin’s den yet—I knew it was his personal retreat, but could only imagine what it looked like: deer heads mounted on the wall, a gun safe in the corner, a cracked leather sofa by a fireplace . . .