The Language of Sparrows (5 page)

Sierra slung on her backpack. April wanted to run to her, hug her, give her a smile for her to hold on to for the rest of the day. But she could see a hug would be rebuffed, so she only called, “I love you.”

She might as well have said it to an empty room.

An hour later, as she was getting ready for work, the phone rang.

An authoritative-sounding woman’s voice came over the line. “Ms. Wright, this is the tenth-grade counselor at Armstrong High School. We have a situation at the school with Sierra, and I was wondering if you could come by.”

Chapter Eight

The long hall and the artificial lighting against the gray floors and red lockers made April feel as if she’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. Was this how Sierra felt at school every day? After treading acres of tile, she finally found the glassed-in office. The secretary directed her to a plastic chair before she was called into a conference room.

Inside the room two men sat at a table. A police officer sipping coffee out of a Styrofoam cup and, next to him, a man with close-cropped hair and glasses. At the end of the table, a woman in a suit sat next to a younger woman with an open file before her.

Sierra sat on one side of the table, all alone, staring at a loose thread in the burgundy carpet. Four adults and one child. Were they trying to terrify her?

April took the seat beside her. “I’m here, Sierra,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Wright? I’m Liza Grambling, the principal.” The older woman extended her hand to April and rattled on. “Apparently, one of our students’ parents has noticed your daughter spending a lot of time at an old gentleman’s house.” She looked up to be sure it wasn’t a surprise to April and went on. “There’s no reason we have to get involved, of course. A lot of schools wouldn’t.”

“I understand.” April’s understood all right. The school barely noticed when Sierra left campus, but they were all ears when she walked into a stranger’s house long after school was over.

The woman smiled at her as if they were old friends. The principal waved toward the men at the table. “This is one of our campus policemen, Officer Wilkins. Mr. Foster is a teacher at our school, who is here at Sierra’s request. We’ve also asked a representative from Child Services, Ms. Barnes, to be here.”

Ms. Barnes nodded at April.

The introductions complete, Ms. Barnes closed her file folder. “Sierra, now that your mother is here, we’ll get started.”

April’s stomach had an iron ball in it. Her daughter traced designs into her jeans with a thumbnail.

“Sierra?” Ms. Barnes said in a velveted voice.

Sierra nodded but didn’t look up.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Sierra shook her head, her eyes wide.

“Sierra, I know your conversation with the gentleman seems perfectly innocent,” Ms. Barnes said. “And maybe it is. Maybe the gentleman you’ve visited is entirely above suspicion. But we don’t want you to get hurt.”

Sierra fixed her gaze on Mr. Foster, some kind of challenge in her eyes. The teacher held eye contact, and April had the odd sense that an unspoken conversation was being carried out. She placed her hands in her lap and studied the man. He had a face that meant business. If it weren’t for his starched shirt, he might even pass for the policeman. The only incongruous part of his looks was the pair of rimless glasses that softened his appearance.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Sierra, I know it feels unfair. But when you’ve seen what I’ve seen …”

April waited for Sierra’s response, but her daughter turned to Mr. Foster as if the policeman hadn’t even spoken. “Have you talked to him?”

The teacher opened his mouth to speak, but it was the policeman who answered. “I have. And he understands he is not to spend any more time with you.”

The teacher held up his hand to halt the conversation.

“Sierra.” He bent his head toward her daughter. He waited for a painfully long time. Sierra didn’t look away, not once, but she began to tremble. The man’s unwavering gaze made April think of one word:
power
. It probably gave him quite an edge in the classroom.

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. I just want you to know something.” He reached out an open hand toward the window. “Going into a stranger’s house is life and death sometimes.”

Sierra’s face crumpled. She started to speak, halted, and began again. “A stranger?” she croaked.

Something in the teacher’s face changed. Muscles tensed. But his words were still soft. “He’s a stranger to
you
, Sierra.”

April looked from Sierra to the teacher. A line of electricity flowed between them, but she couldn’t work it out. What was it that smoldered between their words? But then whatever it was fizzled out, and Sierra turned to stare at a bland watercolor on the wall.

“What if I go anyway?” Sierra said. “You don’t understand anything about him.”

Mr. Foster’s chest heaved, but he didn’t answer. The officer spoke up in the silence. “I spoke with Mr. Prodan, Sierra. He agreed to send you home if you come to his house again.”

Finally, Sierra turned toward April, a look of silent pleading written on her face. A small whimper escaped her. April’s eyes burned in sympathy.

April stood. “I thank you for your concern.” She sent a firm nod to the four adults. “I think we can take care of things from here.”

Sierra raced out of the room. April watched her go, tapping her feet, until she heard the outer glass door open and swing shut. When Sierra was gone, April turned to the adults in the room, speaking in a low voice. “If one of you, just one of you, had taken Sierra aside and spoken to her like a friend, she might have heard the sense in what you’d said. All you’ve done here is make her feel she’s under attack.”

Ms. Barnes opened her mouth, but April stepped out of the room and into the hallway. If the woman dealt with children in crisis every day, surely she should see the problem with a conference like this.

Sierra was all the way down the hall and entering a classroom, so April leaned against the wall, willing the tension to leave her.

Mr. Foster walked out but stopped upon seeing her. He looked back at the glass wall.

April straightened. “Something went on in that room between you and my daughter. I’d like to know what it was.” She regretted the accusation in her voice. He had a way about him. He was probably good at his job. But she was at a loss.

The bell rang and a rush of kids flooded into the hall. The noise level was overpowering as kids called out to one another and hooted with laughter. They had to step aside as a couple of boys shoved into each other on purpose, jibing each other with insults.

Mr. Foster moved in closer to be heard. “You have every right to understand what took place in there, Mrs. Wright, but I have to get to class right now. Can I call you?”

April and Mr. Foster spoke by phone the next day. He said he didn’t believe in having conferences by phone if it could be avoided. April wasn’t surprised. That piercing blue look he gave was something else, and he probably knew just what he had and how to use it—with students and with parents.

“I’d be happy to meet you during my conference period or after school, even up to six,” Mr. Foster said over the phone. “What time is good for you?”

“I’m afraid it would have to be next week. I’ll be working afternoons and evenings all week.”

“What about Saturday?”

Saturday? Was he some kind of superteacher? “That’s so generous, but I’m afraid I’m working Saturday, too. Really, a phone conference might be best.”

“What time is your lunch break Saturday?”

“Uh, noon,” she mumbled. “No, look, Mr. Foster, you’re a busy man.”

“Not too busy for this. And it’s fine. I owe a buddy of mine a visit. He just happens to live in West University. That’s just a few minutes away from your gallery, right? We’ll talk, and then I’ll drop by his house.”

When the bamboo chimes clacked in tune and the gallery doors opened, April was busy with a customer. She nodded to Mr. Foster and checked her watch. He was ten minutes early.

He nodded as he entered the store and then moved off to a side alcove. With his hands behind his back, he inspected a piece of melted jewelry and coins. April couldn’t help but think the work of art looked like child’s play in front of him.

She turned to the woman at the register. “I’m slipping in a care guide with your receipt. And of course, you can call us with any questions.” But the whole time she spoke, she studied the teacher.

As her customer left, April came up beside him. “I don’t think that’s exactly your style, Mr. Foster.”

A glimmer of a smile crossed his face. “Not exactly. And it’s Nick. I don’t think we had a good introduction Monday.” He reached out a hand to her. He looked across the street to the café. “When’s your lunch break?”

She looked at her watch as if she didn’t already know the time. “In ten minutes.” Then she looked across the street to the café.

Without looking back at her, he said, “I’ll reserve a table.”

She watched him cross the street from the window. There was something about him, some undercurrent, and April was more anxious than ever about his exchange with Sierra. What was between them? And how was he involved in her visits to this stranger’s house? The fact that Sierra wouldn’t discuss the teacher or the old man only put her that more on edge.

The store remained quiet for ten minutes, except for the chattering in her head. The minute hand moved as slowly as a turtle. When it finally hit twelve, she called to the back. “I’m at lunch, Ellen. Be back in thirty.”

“Righto,” came the reply.

She strolled into the café and sifted through the Saturday lunch crowd. A hum of voices in conversation filled the restaurant, settling the rising disquiet inside her. Passing polished tables and gleaming wood floors, she found the teacher around a corner.

He was tapping his fork against his napkin and looking out a narrow window. He stood when he saw her and pulled out a chair. This wasn’t like any teacher conference she remembered. But then, in the not-so-distant past, teacher conferences had been easy.
“She’s a pleasure to have in class,”
her teachers used to say.
“She excels.”
Never had April thought she’d be having a conversation like this one with Nick Foster.

A waiter came for their order. “Just an iced tea for me,” April said. Lunch could wait.

Nick nodded. “I’ll have a Coke.”

The waiter left, and April took a deep breath. “My daughter won’t talk to me. She’s spitting mad at me because she thinks that man is a friend. I understand why she’s mad. What I don’t get is why she was furious with you.”

“That man is my father.”

April shook her head to clear it. At the conference, they’d spoken of the man as if he were a danger to society, a criminal even. And Nick Foster hadn’t once spoken in his defense. “Your dad?”

She caught the flash in his eyes.

A shiver went up her back. “Your father’s dangerous?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Not the five o’clock news kind of dangerous.”

“But?”

The noise of the lunch customers grew distant as he searched for words. “I know what Sierra sees in him. He’s read enough to fill libraries. On his good days he’s got laser insight. But, man, he’s a tough guy.” Nick shook his head. “He’ll be your friend one day, and the next, he uses words like jackhammers. He wouldn’t think about how he could scar a fragile girl like your daughter.”

April softened. This man wasn’t even Sierra’s teacher, but he recognized her for what she was.

“I’ve watched the way she takes it at school,” he went on. “She lets those boys intimidate her. Honestly, I’m afraid for her. Even if my father didn’t hurt her, what was she thinking? Whose house is she going to let herself be talked into next?”

April raised her chin. “Boys intimidate her at school?”

“If she’d just tell them to get lost, the game would be over. It’s her distress that keeps them circling.”

Her voice shook. “The game?”

“Bad choice of words. It’s a game to them.”

When had Sierra stopped talking to her? Did she think April wouldn’t understand? Or did she simply want to save her mother from any more anxiety?

April looked up. The smells of garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread drifted over from the next table. But something edged in on her attention. His name. She looked up at him. “Wait. You’re Nick Foster, right?”

He looked straight at her. “And my father’s name is Prodan.”

April tipped her head, curious now. “And?”

“We came from Romania.”

April’s mind whirled. Nick Foster had no trace of an accent. The way he spoke wasn’t particularly Texan, but his words held no hint of a European background either. He could be from anywhere in America.