When Sparrows Fall (31 page)

“Your leave of absence is over?”

“I won’t teach again until the May session, but my other responsibilities keep piling up. Some of them require being on campus.”

“Of course. You’ve already spent days and days looking after us. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. Thank you, Jack.”

He smiled and waved away her words. “That’s what family is for.” He looked out the window again. “Visitors. A big white van. Does everyone you know have a noisy vehicle?”

A big, noisy, white van. Wendy Perini’s?

Miranda hurried to the front door with Jack close behind. It was indeed Wendy’s van. Leah sat in the passenger seat, and several of the younger girls sat in the back, waving. Martha and Jonah hopped up and down on the grass, waving back, while Rebekah pumped her bike furiously up the drive after the van, her skirt hiked up to her knees.

Jack’s arm brushed Miranda’s back as he leaned against the door jamb. “Friends of yours?”

“That’s Wendy—one of the elders’ wives—and some of her children.” Miranda edged forward, away from the disconcerting warmth of his arm.

Wendy parked her van beside Miranda’s, making the Audi look tiny and outnumbered.

Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen those two vans side by side. She and Wendy often joked that their vans were twins, so similar that sometimes the younger children climbed into the wrong van after church gatherings.

Leah climbed out, carrying a large covered dish, and shoved the door shut with her hip. Her cape flapped in the wind. Very pretty, that one. Mason had often complimented Robert and Wendy on raising such a beautiful and godly
young lady. According to Mason, Leah would make a perfect wife for some lucky man who needed a supportive helpmeet.

Another innocent lamb who didn’t know her pastor was a wolf.

The wind picked up. Leah’s skirt billowed around her long legs, then clung to them as if it were made of flimsy gauze instead of sturdy denim. Sometimes, those baggy dresses were no more modest than jeans.

“They’re bringing a meal,” Miranda said, stating the obvious to help her focus.

“Too bad you’re fasting,” Jack said, oozing mock sympathy.

“Hush.”

Wendy came around the van, and three more of her daughters spilled out of the back. She handed dishes and bags to each one, even little Mary, and the girls followed their mother toward the house. Five capes streamed in the wind like gray sails on a curiously disjointed ship. Wendy was the pregnant masthead, her delicate features drawn with fatigue emphasized by the gray streaks in her ash brown hair.

“Even the vans are clones,” Jack said in Miranda’s ear.
“Send in the clones,”
he sang softly, then went on humming.

She knew the original. Her mother had stolen the soundtrack.

Miranda stepped onto the porch with Jack right behind her. “Thank you, Wendy, but you should be home with your feet up.”

“It’s no trouble.” Wendy gave Jack a wary peek as she climbed the steps. “We brought a couple of meals, and Leah baked her famous sourdough muffins and a loaf of bread.” Wendy scrutinized Miranda’s bruises and scrapes. “Abigail was right. You had quite a fall.”

“Yes, I did. Wendy, this is my brother-in-law, Jack Hanford. Jack, this is Wendy Perini. These are her daughters. Leah, Esther, Rachel, and Mary.”

“Glad to meet y’all.” A dangerous undercurrent sharpened Jack’s genial tone.

Mary, five years old, smiled at him. Rachel, a chubby nine-year-old, barely glanced at him before she started scanning the yard for Rebekah. Esther, a
beauty at fourteen, greeted him politely, while Leah whispered a hello but kept her eyes downcast.

Rebekah ditched her bike and raced across the yard and up the steps to hug Rachel. Wendy gave her younger girls permission to stay outside and play. Jack relieved Rachel and Mary of the bread and muffins just as Gabriel and Michael ran around the corner and shouted their greetings. Timothy followed, more reserved, and agreed to stay outside to watch over the little ones.

Martha slung an arm around Mary’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s blow bubbles. Uncle Jack bought ’em for us. He gave us a kitten, except she’s really from Miss Yvonne, but I
love
having an uncle. Do you have an uncle?”

“Come on in, ladies.” Jack held the door open. Wendy, Leah, and Esther swept in, their capes settling in the still air of the house. Then Jack motioned Miranda inside with a nod of his head and brought up the rear.

“Sit down, darlin’,” he said as the others filed into the kitchen. “You’re pale.”

“I’m fine.” She lowered her voice. “And don’t call me darl—”

“You’re about to pass out.” He took her elbow and propelled her toward the couch. “Sit. If you faint, I’ll force-feed you whatever they brought.”

He would too. She obeyed, her knees nearly buckling as she sank into the cushion.

“I’ll be fine, as long as you behave yourself.” She tried to make him meet her eye, but he kept looking somewhere past her right ear. “Jack. Look at me.”

Still, he didn’t quite manage it. “What?” He sounded too vague, too casual.

“Don’t stir up trouble. Behave yourself.”

“Yes, Mama. I’ll try.” He took the bread and muffins into the kitchen.

He wouldn’t make any off-color remarks, would he? Wendy had already looked at him askance, as if his presence created a scandal.

“Oh, no. Don’t think
that.
” Miranda got her legs under her and stood, but they went weak in an instant. She collapsed on the couch again and put her head between her knees. After a few moments, she straightened
cautiously and listened, but she couldn’t make out much from the muddle of voices.

They were only putting food away, after all. It wouldn’t take long. Surely Jack could behave himself for a few minutes.

If he felt like it.

Miranda had questions—did the Perinis have any prospects for selling their house, had Robert given notice to his employer, was anyone speaking out against the move?—but hurrying Wendy out the door was more important. The Perini children must have heard about the move, and Miranda wasn’t ready for that information to hit her own children’s ears. Or Jack’s.

When Wendy and the girls returned to the living room, Jack trailed behind, humming softly.
Send in the clones
. Miranda knew the soundtrack in her head would never return to the correct version of the lyrics.

Wendy took in the clutter of textbooks and library books everywhere. On the couch, the coffee table, the floor. She lingered longest on one that Timothy had brought home from the library. Its cover was a montage of famous faces, including Marilyn Monroe’s.

“Thank you for the meals,” Miranda said.

Wendy met her eyes. “You’re welcome. Is there anything we can do for you before we go?”

Miranda shook her head, wishing she didn’t have to hurry them away. “No, thanks. We’re doing fine.”

“We’d better run, then. I left Matthew in charge of Susanna and the boys, so we can’t stay. No, don’t get up, Miranda. Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Wendy and her daughters swept toward the door, their capes touching. Jack waved them out with slightly overdone gallantry and followed them onto the porch. There was no telling what he might say or do.

Miranda stood, swaying. By the time she made it onto the porch to stand beside Jack, Wendy and her girls were halfway to the van. Jack kept humming
as he watched them climb into the van. Wendy backed it up and turned around, and the van rattled away.

Jack turned toward Miranda. “I have some questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“In the kitchen, I asked that pale young thing—Leah—if she’s in school. She said no, she’s waiting on the Lord for a husband, and while she waits, she’s living with her parents. Serving them. How old is she?”

Trying to remember the number and ages of the Perini children who came between Leah and Esther, Miranda resorted to counting on her fingers. “Leah must be about twenty-six. Twenty-seven, maybe.”

“Still living with Mom and Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Not working? Not going to college? Just waiting for a husband?”

Miranda made a face. “She has some kind of home business or … something.”

“That’s all she’s allowed, isn’t it? Because higher education and careers are for men only. Women have to stay home and bake muffins and birth a baby every year or two. Leah’s mother must be in her midforties, and she’s expecting another baby. If I kept track of all the kids she mentioned, she has at least eight already. It’s insane.”

Ten, actually. “Which one of her children would you ask her to give up?”

“Not a one. Don’t twist my meaning, Mrs. H. I’m just.” He shook his head. “Flabbergasted is the word, I guess. No wonder their van is falling apart. How can they stay afloat, financially, when the man’s the sole breadwinner and the wife pops out babies as fast as she can?” He gave Miranda a cynical smile. “Some churches are known for their evangelistic efforts, but yours must be known for its reproductive excellence.”

“Watch it, Jack. I don’t want to hear your crude remarks.”

“Mother?” Rebekah, her arms folded across her chest, slowly climbed the porch steps. Tear tracks marked her cheeks.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Rachel says we’re moving—to North Carolina. All—all of us.” Rebekah’s choppy words came between sharp, miniature sobs. “The whole—church. What—was she—talking about?”

Miranda found it hard to breathe. Hard to think. A faraway siren split the silence, followed by a deeper sob from Rebekah.

“The whole church is doing
what
?” Steel edged Jack’s soft question.

Rebekah came closer. “M-moving,” she choked out. “Rachel said God told Pastor Mason to move the whole church.”

Miranda pulled her into a hug and whispered in her ear. “We’re not moving. Stay outside, sweetheart. I need to speak with your uncle in private, and then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

Her eyes huge pools of worry, Rebekah nodded. She pulled away and sank into the nearest rocking chair.

Miranda limped inside with Jack following so closely that his breath warmed her neck. When she faced him in the living room, his eyes glittered like cold black stones.

“So,” he said. “An entire church has to pack up and move because one man claims he heard from God?” He started pacing the room. “The other day, Yvonne and I were talking about such things. Jonestown. Or maybe it would be Waco instead of Jonestown. Fire, not poison.”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

“If Mason hears from God, then I hear from Elvis every Tuesday.” Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it wild. “I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I don’t care if I look like a fool. I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t let you do this crazy thing.”

“Would you please listen to me?”

“You listen to me, Miranda. You can follow Mason to the ends of the earth, but the children aren’t going. I’ll take them away from you first. So help me God, I’ll find a way.”

She snatched a copy of his signed pledge from the shelf where she’d stashed it. “You promised you wouldn’t take my children, and boy, am I glad I’ve got it in writing.”

Jack sputtered something incomprehensible, ran both hands through his hair, and walked out. He slammed the door, making the windows rattle.

“I’m not moving anywhere!” she screamed after him, but he didn’t come back.

Jack pressed his temples with his fingertips, feeling the darkness descend upon him like a bad headache. He had no right to tell Miranda how or where to raise her children. He was only the uncle. A half uncle, at that.

He was halfway across the yard when a transparent sphere drifted past his nose. Martha laughed and blew a new stream of bubbles in his direction.

She was a sight—her braids with their end-of-day messiness, her dress smudged with red marker, her mouth topped with the vestiges of a milk mustache. She looked beautifully normal except for the old-fashioned cape.

He tried to smile. “You must like bubbles.” His voice cracked oddly.

“I
love
bubbles!”

Hearing a thud inside the house, he braced himself for his briefcase and duffel bags to come flying out the door. They didn’t.

He kept walking, not sure where he was going. Away. Just away, before he said worse things and found himself banned from Miranda’s property forever. Banned from the kids’ lives.

She intended to take them to the boonies with Mason? It was the perfect setup for a small-scale Jonestown. Ninety instead of nine hundred.

And he’d thought he could breeze in, change their lives, and breeze out again. The visiting uncle, the man of the world, he was supposed to have all the answers.

He didn’t have any answers at all, but he had to do something.

When a mother said, “You’d be better off without me,” a wise son made sure she was all right. And when a woman said she was moving her family to some isolated spot with a cultlike church, a wise brother-in-law stopped her. By foul means or fair.

He didn’t see Rebekah anywhere. The poor kid was probably holed up somewhere, crying. She couldn’t become a clone of that pale girl who was pushing thirty and didn’t know how to talk to a man.