Flight Patterns (34 page)

Mouton.
I said the name out loud, hoping it would help me recall where I'd seen it.

“The name written in the book found in your grandfather's truck,” James said.

“Oh.” It was the only coherent word I could pull out of a brain that was whirring in circles, trying to settle on a moving target.

“There's more.” He hesitated. “Caroline was right about our grandmother's name being the Americanized version. She was always known to us as Ida, but there's a French version of the name.” He paused, waiting for me.

“And?” I asked impatiently.

“The French version is Adeline.”

I sat back in my chair, staring at a brass carriage clock whose hands had stopped sometime in the last century at two forty-three. If only I could stop time now, or move back the hands to just five minutes before. I wouldn't have made this phone call. And I wouldn't know that my grandfather had been lying to all of us.

“Adeline?” I closed my eyes, hearing Birdie call out the name in her sleep, the anguish and grief in her voice.

“Yes.” He hesitated again, aware of the effect his words might have on me. “Georgia, how old is Birdie?”

I shook my head, forgetting that he couldn't see me. “I told you before, we're not sure—and we've never found her birth certificate. If I had to guess, I'd say she's about seventy-five.”

“Which would make her about seven years old in 1947.”

“But that's . . .” I meant to say the word “impossible.” Improbable, maybe, but certainly possible. I pressed the heel of my free hand against my temple, remembering something my grandmother had told me. “Birdie wasn't born in Apalachicola. Her parents lived with her grandparents in Gainesville when they were first married, and that's where Birdie was born and spent her early years. They didn't move here until after the war.” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to remember the whole story. “The house had belonged to Grandpa's brother, but he died in the war, and then after my great-grandpa died, Birdie and her family moved to Apalach.” All the air seemed to leave my voice. “Nobody here in Apalach knew Birdie when she was a baby, because she didn't come to live there until she was older.”

There was a slight pause. “Like when she was seven or eight years old?”

“Yes,” I whispered into the phone. “Where is Colette now?”

“We don't know yet. Caroline has gone back to Elizabeth with the question, so hopefully we'll be able to find out something.”

There was a long silence. Finally he said, “You know what this means, don't you?”

When I didn't say anything, he answered. “It means that you and I aren't done yet.”

I knew he wasn't talking about the china, or Birdie, or last names. Hearing his voice forced me to remember why I hated good-byes. They always reminded me of what I'd left behind, and what I was fleeing—grief and condemnation all rolled into one innocuous word. A life without connections and commitments meant I never had to say it again. I reminded myself of this before I answered.

“Yes, we are. I'll take the research from here, and include any information I find in the valuation report I send to Caroline.”

I waited for a moment for him to respond, then realized I was listening to dead air. When I pulled the phone away and looked at the screen, I read the words “call ended.” Instead of being relieved, I felt hot and cold, making me wonder whether I'd caught a bug. But this feeling was worse than a fever. I stood abruptly, needing to move so that I didn't have time to dwell on the sudden emptiness that pressed against my chest wall like an inflated balloon.

I walked quickly to Mr. Mandeville's office, stopping outside at his secretary's desk. Jeannie Stokes looked up at me with big blue eyes, and brushed aside a thick lock of blond hair. I held up my iPhone. “Do you know how this thing works?”

Jeannie was probably a decade or so older than me, but managed the perfect eye roll. “Do alligators pee in the swamp?” She held her hand out, with its sensibly short, unpolished nails, and I gave her my phone. “What do you want me to show you?”

“I need to look up a phone number in Apalachicola, Florida. Can it do that?”

She didn't even bother with an eye roll this time. “Just give me the first and last name.”

“Actually, it's for the public library. I need to speak with someone there.”

It took Jeannie less than five minutes to pull up the number. She handed me the phone. “See this hyperlink in blue next to the picture of a telephone? Just click on it and it will dial the library.”

I took the phone and, after a quick thanks, dialed the number. Caty Greene had said she had access to all sorts of databases and research sources. I needed to know about the name Mouton, and the connection to the Beaulieu estate in France. As I waited for someone to answer, I found myself hoping for a dead end.

“The three most difficult things to understand: the mind of a woman, the labor of the bees, and the ebb and flow of the tide.”

Georgian proverb

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Maisy

B
irdie sat in the turret window of her bedroom as Maisy brushed her hair. Birdie had stopped singing, and hadn't spoken another word as far as she knew, the silence not as peaceful as Maisy had thought it might be during the years of constant noise. Instead the silence seemed full of anticipation and dread, like waiting for a jack-in-the-box to pop out.

The silence had started the day after Lyle had found Birdie wandering the streets carrying the Limoges soup cup. Or maybe it was the day after, when Georgia left. Maisy still had the cup. Caroline had handed it to her and asked her to give it to Georgia, and she'd forgotten. She'd moved it to her dressing table so she'd see it every day, but it was still waiting for her to pack it up and ship it to New Orleans. Maisy hadn't decided whether she'd include a note, not that it mattered. No matter how many times she walked past the piece of china, she just kept forgetting to send it.

Maisy pulled the brush through the pale strands, noticing for the first time that it had dulled somewhat, its shine diminished, as if Birdie walked in the shade now instead of the sun. Birdie's eyes, however, were bright and alert, taking in everything Maisy could see, and a lot that she could not. It was as if all the energy she'd once expended on her physical appearance had been consolidated into a single train of thought. Maisy wasn't sure how she felt about this change, unsure whether it was better than the old Birdie, who cared about which shade of lipstick, and who didn't wear her nightgown all day. It scared her a little, not knowing what was going on inside Birdie's head, what plans she was considering, and what they would look like once they emerged.

Maisy had hoped that Georgia's departure would mark a return to what they'd once considered normal. In hindsight their existence had been anything but, yet they'd ceased to realize it when stuck in its routine. Even Grandpa was changed. Ignoring the heat that had greeted the first week of June with a vengeance, he dragged his walker outside and sat in his apiary most of the day, disregarding the sun as it moved across the sky, baking everything in its path.

At his request, Maisy had placed his chair near the back row, which contained the two bee boxes that were never moved. She'd purchased a beach umbrella and set it up over his chair, realizing that somebody had to be concerned with heatstroke and sunburn. She'd made sure she had her EpiPen, especially since Grandpa had been stung twice already, the bees apparently forgetting who was in charge.

Ricky Cook from the police department had come by a few times to question Grandpa, but had left without anything new. Grandpa either didn't remember enough, or made a good enough show of confusion. Maisy found herself wishing that Georgia were still there. Together they would have talked to him, gotten answers, faced the consequences, whatever they might be. Maybe Maisy could do it on her own. Just not now, with everything else in turmoil. The truck had been waiting in the swamp for more than sixty years. It could wait a little longer.

Florence visited often, sitting next to him under her ubiquitous wide-brimmed hat, her dangling bee earrings flashing in the sun. The
backyard and garden, always Grandpa's domain, had begun to grow wild. Maisy had resisted asking Lyle for help, telling herself that when she found the time, she'd take care of it. The problem was solved when Florence, on one of her visits, had brought her two sons, who'd begun raking and cutting back all the overgrowth, piling it all in a small hill next to the apiary. They promised to come back to burn it, and had even brought a large can of gasoline and set it by the mound of yard waste, as if to remind everyone that they would return.

Birdie stayed in her room most of the time, barely nibbling on the meals Maisy brought up to her. But she'd watch her father from her perch in the turret, each aware of the other. They were like satellites in the same orbit, never touching, always circling over and over, reminding Maisy of the bee pattern on the china. They all seemed to be holding their breath, the pressing heat of summer doing nothing to alleviate the tension that permeated the house. Even Becky seemed to notice it, her stuttering more pronounced now so that she barely spoke. Maisy found herself turning around during the course of her day, expecting to see Georgia.
Wanting
to see her. It was an old habit, this sharing of burdens, and one that even now she couldn't shake, no matter how much she wanted to.

A movement from the yard caught Maisy's attention as Lyle walked into the apiary. She'd wondered whether he'd been avoiding her since Georgia's departure. Not that she minded. Seeing Lyle did nothing to help Maisy return to the elusive normal, or at least to a place where she could pretend that she didn't think about him every day. Or regret her choices.

She watched as Lyle squatted by the side of Grandpa's chair, saw as he tilted his face upward to speak with the older man. She couldn't see Lyle's face but imagined it was his cop face, the one with serious eyes and straight lips. The expression that had always made her smile despite its intended effect on offenders.

“M-Mama?”

Maisy turned to see Becky hovering in the doorway. School had been out for a week, but Becky's mood remained dark. She hadn't
gone to the honey festival with her father, saying she didn't want to go if the three of them weren't going together. Maisy wouldn't give in and agree to go, not because she wanted to hurt Becky, but because she wanted to save her from being hurt further with any unspoken promises about their future. It was the hardest part of being a mother, the choices one made that could never be understood in the mind and heart of a child.

“Come in. I was just brushing Birdie's hair. Your daddy's outside, if you wanted to say hi.”

“I know,” she said. “I saw his car.”

Birdie stood, indicating that she was finished, then left the room, pausing briefly to smooth Becky's hair behind an ear. Both Maisy and Becky paused, listening to Birdie's footsteps walking down the stairs, and then heard the back door open. After a moment Maisy spotted her mother walking across the backyard toward the apiary, her white nightgown floating like a ghost over the grass.

Lyle was standing now, but Birdie didn't acknowledge his presence. When she reached Grandpa, she sat down in the grass next to him, looking up at her father as if waiting to ask him a question. Or waiting for him to speak. Lyle said something, his hands animated as if he was trying to make a point, but neither Birdie nor Grandpa showed any reaction.

Maisy reached her hand toward Becky. “Come here and sit and let me brush your hair.”

It was an old ritual they'd shared since Becky's hair had been long enough to brush. Becky had found it soothing and relaxing, enough so that when she was older and she'd been upset and unable to get any words out of her mouth, Maisy's brushing had been able to relax her enough so she could speak again.

Becky frowned, but moved forward and slid into the chair. Maisy carefully unwrapped the ponytail and smoothed the hair across her daughter's shoulders.

“Is there something you'd like to talk about?” Maisy asked, slowly pulling the brush through Becky's hair.

Becky shrugged, which usually meant that the answer was yes, but she didn't know where to start. Maisy had learned in her nine years of being a mother that it was better to wait than to try to force out the words. That was usually a guarantee of silence.

She looked out the window again and saw that Lyle was gone, and Birdie's head was resting on Grandpa's knee as if she were a little girl. It struck Maisy that Birdie's behavior since Georgia had left had been almost childlike, the smooth adult sophistication of the last decades dissipating in the summer heat. She wore her hair in a plain ponytail, just like Becky, and moved with the clumsiness of a toddler unaware of the potential dangers in her environment. Like now, sitting at the back of the apiary where none of them ever dared to go. It was as if Birdie had decided to shed her identity and play another stage character. Maisy frowned at the window, sensing a change in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the weather.

Becky's phone lit up, the lyrics of Echosmith's “Cool Kids” singing out. It surprised Maisy, who wondered when Becky had changed her ringtone from the
Frozen
theme song, “Let It Go.” It seemed a small thing, yet Maisy saw it as a pulling away from her, a leap from child to girl long before Maisy was ready for it to happen.

Becky hit the “end” button and flipped the phone over so Maisy couldn't see who'd called.

“Would you like me to French-braid your hair?”

Becky shrugged.

As Maisy began separating the hair into three sections, she asked nonchalantly, “Who was that on the phone?”

A gnawed thumb tip went into Becky's mouth, and Maisy held back from telling her that fingernail biting was a bad habit, or that there didn't seem to be anything left to chew on anyway. Instead she waited for Becky to talk, slowly weaving the different sections of hair into a tight braid that started at the top of her head.

“Aunt Georgia,” she finally said over her thumb.

Maisy didn't pause. “Oh. I didn't realize she had your cell number.”

“I gave it to her. So she could call me on her new cell phone.”

This time Maisy's hands stilled. “She has a cell phone?”

Becky nodded, pulling her hair out of Maisy's hands. “I wanted to keep in touch with her after she left.” She replaced her thumb with her index finger. “I gave her your number in case she wanted to keep in touch with you, too.”

“That's nice,” Maisy said, although she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Georgia had always been able to reach her on the house phone, but this was more personal, a call more intentional. Maybe that was why Georgia hadn't yet called her. It was easier to leave things unsaid.

“Have you had many conversations?” Maisy asked, crossing the hair in her right hand with the two sections she held in her left.

“Yeah.”

Maisy bit her lip so she wouldn't say anything, pretending to focus on what her hands were doing.

“We talk about Birdie.”

“Birdie?” Maisy closed her mouth, wishing she hadn't spoken, yet not wanting to say what she thought she needed to.
Why don't you talk to me about Birdie?

“Yeah.” Becky's right hand began to scratch at a bright red mosquito bite, although without nails Maisy was unsure how effective that was. “Birdie talks to me.”

She yanked on Becky's hair a little harder than she'd intended. Maisy remembered the stray words of whispered conversation outside her grandfather's door, and realized she'd probably known all along that Birdie was talking again. And how easy it was to have dismissed the thought knowing she wasn't ready to hear what Birdie had to say.

“I mean, like, really talks. It started the night after Daddy brought her home in his patrol car. She came into my room and sat on the edge of the bed and told me stuff. And it scared me, so I called Aunt Georgia.”

Maisy gave up all pretense of being a casual observer and dropped the braid to move around to the front of Becky's chair. She sat on the window seat and faced her daughter. “What was so scary?”

There was no angst emanating from Becky. Just the troubled eyes of a nine-year-old child. “She was t-trying to remember something she s-saw that was important, b-but she couldn't remember what it was. She said that G-Grandpa knew, but wouldn't t-tell her.”

“That doesn't sound very scary. Was there something else?”

Becky bit her lower lip. “She s-said the man in the t-truck knew, too.”

Maisy went very still. “Does she know who the man in the truck is?”

Becky shrugged. “She didn't s-say. She said the s-secret is why she c-can't talk. It's how she k-keeps it a secret. And she w-wants to t-talk again. T-to everybody.” Her voice had become very quiet, and Maisy had to strain to hear her.

“Is that it?”

Becky shook her head. “No.” She stared intently into Maisy's eyes, looking so much like Georgia that Maisy almost looked away. “T-there was s-something in her suitcase that's n-not there anymore b-but she needs to f-find it.” Tears brimmed in Becky's eyes. “I think she's going crazy.”

Maisy had the oddest compulsion to laugh out loud.
That train's already left the station.
It was something Georgia had always said when they'd discussed their mother's mental state.

“And I think s-she wants m-me to help her.”

All levity immediately evaporated. “Why do you say that?”

Becky blinked, the tears spilling over onto her cheeks. “B-because I'm the o-only one she can t-talk to.”