When Sparrows Fall (18 page)

This time, he was sure of it. Those were tears. The queen was in mourning.

“I’ll tell her,” he said. “Please, before I go, may I ask—”

“Thanks for stopping.” She shut the door.

After regarding the closed door for a moment, he started down the walk.

Before he came to the curve in the driveway, he looked behind him. The lace on the left side of the door flickered. Almost simultaneously, the lace on the right moved.

Two people were spying on his departure. Mason, who’d neglected to tell his wife that one of their flock had fallen off a cliff, and the wife, who’d tried in vain to keep him from hearing a hushed conversation about that fall.

Jack flipped his phone open. The Gilberts might provide a few more pieces of the puzzle.

Miranda wanted nothing more than to lean back in the rocker and let the spring peepers sing her into numbness. The frogs’ shrill voices were almost soothing after the rowdiness inside. The children were finally in bed though, and if they knew what was good for them, they would stay out of her hair. So would Jack.

Last night and again today, he had apologized profusely—for meddling, for criticizing, for breaking the angel’s wing—but once she’d convinced him that she’d accepted his apologies, he’d climbed right back on his high horse.

The door opened. Martha popped her head out. “Mama?”

“What now? This makes three times you’ve gotten out of bed.”

“Yes ma’am, but I fell out of bed and scraped my knee.”

Jack loomed behind her, silhouetted against the light. “Come on, Martha. I’ll take a look.”

“It’s all her imagination, Jack.”

A dry chuckle. “Vivid imaginations must run in the family.”

“Honestly, she doesn’t need a thing.”

“How do you know, madam?” The door closed sharply behind him and Martha.

That child could talk him into anything: another bedtime hug, another glass of water, first aid for a made-up injury.

Five or ten minutes passed before Jack came out again. From the dim light coming through the living room windows, Miranda could tell he was carrying two small bowls. Keeping the bowl, he placed the other one on the table near her good arm. They held portions of the rice pudding Rebekah had made for dessert.

“Peace offering.” Jack settled into his chair. “Courtesy of Rebekah.”

“You don’t need to bring me a peace offering. I’ve accepted your apologies. All forty-three of them.”

“I thought it was forty-four, but who’s counting?” He took a bite and waved his emptied spoon in the air. “Rebekah’s an amazing cook.”

Leaving her bowl on the table, Miranda maneuvered her first bite to her mouth. “She is.”

The pudding recipe wasn’t a keeper though. The off flavor made her think of almond extract that had turned rancid, if that were possible. Maybe the milk had gone bad. Or her taste buds still weren’t back to normal.

She glanced at Jack. He was frowning into the distance.

“It tastes funny, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Tastes fine to me.” He resumed eating.

Bite by dutiful bite, she ate hers too. He leaned toward her occasionally as if he wanted to be sure she was eating her dessert like a good girl. She imagined flicking the last spoonful at his nose. His reward for sticking it in her business.

“Guess I’ll have to run to the store tomorrow,” Jack said. “Rebekah used the last of the milk for the pudding. How do you manage to feed so many mouths, anyway?”

“I do a lot of canning and freezing from my garden in the summer, and I buy in bulk.”

“But how can you afford to live here at all?” He let out a grim laugh. “There I go again, butting into your business. I’m s—”

“Don’t apologize, please. There’s no mortgage, and Carl had excellent life
insurance that gives me some monthly income. The property taxes are low too, because of the goats.”

Jack stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Goats?”

“It’s zoned agricultural because I own goats. You might have seen them, down the road. They’re on my land, but my neighbor does the work and has the milking rights. I don’t like goats’ milk anyway.”

“I had no idea your property went so far.”

“I’m land rich but cash poor.”

“With the price of milk these days, I think I’d learn to like goats’ milk. Especially with six mouths to—”

Martha put her head out again. “Hi.”

Miranda clattered her spoon into the empty bowl. “Martha Elizabeth Hanford, this makes
four
times. Didn’t I tell you I’m done talking to you? Go to bed!”

“I don’t need to talk to you, Mama,” she said with offended dignity. “I need to talk to Uncle Jack.”

His grin was a triumphant flash of white teeth in the darkness. “Yes, Miss Martha?”

She scampered to him in her long nightgown and stood with her hands clasped behind her. “What did you sneak into Mama’s bowl?”

“What?”
Miranda straightened. Pain scorched her rib cage.

Jack didn’t look at her. “Obey your mother, young lady. Head straight back to bed.”

“But I saw you stirring something into Mama’s bowl. What was it?”

Miranda slapped the arm of her chair, making him jump, making her hand hurt beyond belief. “Answer the question, Jack.”

He wouldn’t look at her. “Martha, you’re messin’ with my heretofore impeccable reputation.”

“Jack Hanford, my daughter asked you a question. Answer it.”

“You won’t let a man get away with anything, will you? It was only a pain pill, ground up.”

“Martha, go to bed and stay there.” She turned on him with a horrible new suspicion. “How many times have you drugged me?”

Finally, he met her eyes. “It wasn’t drugging in the criminal sense. Your doctor prescribed a medication for you. You needed it. I simply neglected to mention that I was administering it.”

“How many times?”

“Three times. Applesauce, yogurt, pudding. It’s a problem, this belief that medicines are somehow—”

“No, the problem is that you sneaked drugs into my food!”

“When you hurt all over, you’re hard to live with. Oh, pardon me, I didn’t mean to say anything so scandalous. I wouldn’t want Martha to think we’re living together.”

“Mama, what’s he talking about?”

“Nothing.”

Martha scooted closer to him. “Uncle Jack, why’s Mama always mad at you?”

“Because I’m always doing something stupid. Don’t worry, sweetie, it’ll all blow over.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Miranda said. “Martha, go to bed. Now. And if you come downstairs again, I’ll … I’ll take away your scissors and paper for two days.”

Martha’s face fell. She slipped inside, closing the door with a thump.

Jack drummed his fingers on the arm of his rocker. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I hate to see you in such misery. And so exhausted. That was my fault, keeping you up half the night with my questions.”

“Don’t pretend to be compassionate. It’s about control. It’s about tricking me into doing things your way. This cancels out all those apologies.”

He let out a sharp sigh and rose. “I’d better vamoose. Can I bring you anything first? A cup of the hot hay water you call tea?”

“Do you really think I trust you to bring me anything to eat or drink?”

“I guess not. Good night, then, Randi.”

“You—what—where did you come up with that?”

“It’s written on the flyleaf of your Bible.”

“You stay out of my Bible!”

“Yes. Certainly.”

He lifted his fingers to his brow in a crisp salute, then ran down the steps and into the darkness. The Audi’s engine growled and the driveway came alive with lights. The car backed up, swung around in a tight turn, and sped away.

“Don’t hurry back,” Miranda said.

She’d have to get rid of the prescriptions. The older children might know where he’d put them.

Fighting the dizziness that never quite disappeared, Miranda went inside, leaving the bowls and spoons. Jack had brought them onto the porch; he could take them in again, with his two good hands.

Unless she locked him out.

It was past midnight. A faraway owl hooted as Jack climbed out of the car. The house was dark. Nobody had left the porch light on for him.

He retrieved half a dozen bags from the trunk and climbed up the five broad steps. He set two gallons of milk on the porch and tried the door.

Locked. And Miranda had never given him a key. Now she never would.

She wouldn’t hear a knock. Thanks to the narcotic in the pudding, she would be dead to the world for a few more hours, but one of the kids might hear his knock and take pity on him.

He knocked, lightly at first and then harder when no one came. He began contemplating his limited breaking-in skills.

Once more, he made a sharp
rat-a-tat-tat
, the bags growing heavy in his hands.

The stairway light came on. Moments later, footsteps approached.

“Who is it?” It was Rebekah, sounding scared.

“Your long-lost uncle.”

She opened the door. Wrapped in a bulky blue bathrobe, she rubbed her eyes. “Where were you?”

“The Walmart in Clayton. Sorry to wake you. I don’t have a key.”

“It’s okay.” She yawned. “I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

“Yeah? Shoot.”

She followed him into the kitchen and helped put groceries away. “When I came down for a drink of water, Mother asked me to take the pills from the hospital and flush them down the toilet, but is that all right?”

“Of course. That’s her decision. She’s your mother, and you should obey her.”

“But is it all right with you?”

“That shouldn’t matter. Unless she asks you to do something that’s illegal or immoral or dangerous, you should do as she asks.”

“Okay, but I can’t find the pills.”

He opened the cupboard over the stove, careful of the pathetic, one-winged angel that stood guard over his Scotch and the pills. Miranda had ordered him to put the figurine away without mending it.

He reached behind the bottle for the prescriptions, one heavy-duty narcotic and its weaker cousin. Miranda hadn’t taken a single pill of her own volition. He removed the lids, wondering if this ten-year-old raised on home remedies had ever dealt with childproof caps, and placed the containers in Rebekah’s hands.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Flush ’em.”

He watched from the hallway while Rebekah made the pills disappear. Just as they swirled away in the water, he wished he’d grabbed one of the strong ones for himself, so he could sleep straight through the rest of the night. It was best to get rid of them though. Pills could be as dangerous as a loaded gun on a nightstand.

Rebekah dropped the empty containers into the bathroom wastebasket and shut off the light. “There. That will make her happy.” She started toward the stairs.

“Wait, Rebekah. May I ask you a couple of questions?”

She studied him with that direct and trusting expression. “Yes.”

He fingered the plastic lids like worry beads. “Can you tell me about your family’s history with the church? How long you’ve been in it, for instance.”

“As long as I can remember.”

“And has your mom been one of the pillars of the church? Or more of an outsider?”

“I think she’s a pariah. Is that the right word?”

“If you mean an outcast, it’s the right word. And I must say you have an excellent vocabulary.”

“Outcasts, yes. That’s what it feels like. Everybody’s nice to us at church, but nobody ever calls or comes over.”

“Because of something your mom did? Or your dad?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did it start happening?”

“I don’t know. A couple of years ago?”

Two years ago, Rebekah was only eight.

Two years ago, Carl died. Six weeks later, Jonah was born. If there was a clue in the timing, Jack couldn’t see it. Except.…

“That must have been a rough time for your mom. Losing her husband, then having a baby.”

“Yes sir. It was hard.” The poignant understatement made Rebekah seem older than ten.

He played with the lids, matching up their ridged edges perfectly. If only it were that easy to match answers to the random questions that bounced around in his head.

“Do you know anything about your mom’s camera?” he asked.

“Sort of. She already had a camera that wasn’t so fancy, but then she bought Jezebel. The lady she bought her from taught her how to use her.”