Arthur for the Very First Time Page 2

  “This is what the bird likes,” she said. And she cut a long hank of her hair. “Here,” she handed it to Arthur. “Put this out at the crook of the tree and watch.”

  “But your hair!” said Arthur, awed. “There’s a big space there.”

  “Never mind,” said Aunt Elda with a wave of her hand. “I never miss it. I always look the same.” She opened the window. “Go on,” she said. “Climb out and watch.”

  Arthur’s mouth felt dry. Dry with fear. He’d never climbed this high before. Never for himself. Never for a silly bird.

  “No,” he said, his voice sounding high and tight. “No,” he repeated softly, looking helplessly at Aunt Elda.

  She regarded him steadily, then smiled. “Then I will,” she said. “You can watch this time.”

  This time, Arthur thought. No. Never anytime.

  Aunt Elda climbed out on the windowsill and then onto the sturdy limb. “Notice the bark, Arthur,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s sycamore. Notice the spots?”

  This made Arthur smile. Smart old lady. She knew he was afraid. But she didn’t seem to care.

  “Nice bark, Aunt Elda,” he called. “Nice bark.”

  Aunt Elda reached out, thrust the handful of hair in the crook of the tree so that it wouldn’t fall. Then she slowly turned around, lifting her arm once to wave at Uncle Wrisby, who was working in the side garden.

  “There now,” she said as she climbed back in the window. She beamed at Arthur as though she had climbed to the edge of the earth. Well, hadn’t she?

  “You watch, now, and before the day is over he’ll come for the hair.” She patted Arthur’s arm lightly. “Breakfast in a few minutes.” She stopped. “Would you like to eat up here in the window?”

  Arthur nodded, looking at the hair at the crook of the tree.

  Aunt Elda went, humming to herself, down to the kitchen, and Arthur stopped watching the hair to write in his journal.

  Aunt Elda did the strangest thing today. She climbed out on the big tree and put some of her hair there for a bird. She says he’ll use it for his nest.

  Arthur leaned out the window and peered down at the grass, then at Uncle Wrisby hoeing in the garden. He picked up his pencil.

  I’ve never really looked at bark before.

  The grass below seems smooth, like an ocean. But if you look closer you can see each blade of grass and every leaf that has fallen.

  Aunt Elda came with a tray of eggs and toast. She brought cocoa for Arthur and tea for herself. Her hair was coiled up on her head again, and what she had said was true: She looked just the same.

  “The bird has been coming for a long time,” she told Arthur. “And every year I give him my hair. He brings his children to the big tree sometimes. I think they’re his children. He teaches them the songs of the other birds.” She waved her hand toward the barn. “We planted multiflora roses there; the berries feed him all winter. And there’s black alder, too.” She smiled. “It shows red berries against the snow in winter.”

  Aunt Elda put down her tea and opened a book.

  “There’s a wonderful poem about the mockingbird,” she said. “Listen.” And Arthur stopped eating as she read Randall Jarrell’s poem.

  Look one way and the sun is going down,

  Look the other and the moon is rising.

  The sparrow’s shadow’s longer than the lawn.

  The bats squeak: “Night is here”; the birds cheep: “Day is gone.”

  On the willow’s highest branch, monopolizing

  Day and night, cheeping, squeaking, soaring,

  The mockingbird is imitating life.

  All day the mockingbird has owned the yard.

  As light first woke the world, the sparrows trooped

  Onto the seedy lawn: the mockingbird

  Chased them off shrieking. Hour by hour, fighting hard

  To make the world his own, he swooped

  On thrushes, thrashers, jays, and chickadees—

  At noon he drove away a big black cat.

  Now, in the moonlight, he sits here and sings.

  A thrush is singing, then a thrasher, then a jay—

  Then, all at once, a cat begins meowing.

  A mockingbird can sound like anything.

  He imitates the world he drove away

  So well that for a minute, in the moonlight,

  Which one’s the mockingbird? which one’s the world?

  There was a long silence in the room. Both Aunt Elda and Arthur stood, watching the hair at the crook of the tree. Finally, Arthur began to say something. But Aunt Elda stopped his talk with a whisper.

  “Hush. Look.”

  The mockingbird fluttered to the big branch. Pauline made a small clucking sound, and Aunt Elda put a comforting hand on her back. The bird sidled his way down the branch toward the crook and looked at the hair. Arthur felt himself smiling. Then, before Arthur’s next breath, the bird grasped the hair and flew. His white wing streaks shone brightly in the early light. He flew up over the barn, wheeling high with the length of hair rippling behind him like the tail of a kite. Then he disappeared.

  “Same old mockingbird,” said Aunt Elda softly. “Praise be.”

  Arthur explored the yard and barns that afternoon. He watched Uncle Wrisby in the garden and saw two rabbits feeding in the field. Uncle Wrisby showed him a huge rock near the back woods with a hole dug beneath.

  “Our fox,” said Uncle Wrisby proudly.

  Pauline followed Arthur everywhere, flying up to perch on the fence as Arthur watched Uncle Wrisby’s pigs rooting in the paddock. More than once, Arthur found himself watching the trees and looking up hoping to see the mockingbird. That night he wrote in his journal.

  Aunt Elda climbs trees. High trees.

  Uncle Wrisby looks through the big end of the binoculars.

  I think they’re scatty.

  Arthur paused, looking through the window at the big tree.

  I don’t understand the poem, either.

  But most of all, Arthur didn’t understand the strong sense of excitement that he was feeling for the very first time in his life.

  Come All Ye Fair

  “Where does Pauline sleep, Uncle Wrisby? And why do you speak French to her?”

  Arthur and his uncle were cutting up apples to make applesauce. But Uncle Wrisby was eating most of the slices.

  “What if you eat a worm, Uncle Wrisby?”

  “Amino acids, Arthur,” said Uncle Wrisby, chewing.

  “Is that a fancy name for worm juice?” asked Arthur.

  “Now you tell me, does amino acids sound as bad as worm juice?”

  “Pauline sleeps there. Behind the old stove,” said Aunt Elda.

  At one end of the old stove were stored the slabs of wood for feeding the fire. At the other end was a small cradle with a soft square of flannel. Pauline’s name was carved at the head.

  “Viens, Pauline! Bedtime. Va dormir,” called Uncle Wrisby.

  There was a flutter at the top of the back stairs, and Arthur ran to see Pauline hop, step by step, down the stairs. She ran to her cradle, jumped in and pulled the small blanket over her with her beak.

  Arthur hooted with delight. “Can I do it?”

  “She’ll do it for anyone,” said Uncle Wrisby.

  And it was true. No matter what time of day, no matter where she was, Pauline would come. Arthur would call, “Viens, Pauline. Va dormir!” and she would hop down the stairs, fly in from the yard or run from the front parlor, jump into her cradle and pull up her blanket.

  “She likes to please,” said Aunt Elda fondly. “She’s a good chicken.”

  Thursday, June 10: Pauline is like a sister. Better than a sister! She’s not babbly, not drooly. I love her.

  “We speak French,” explained Uncle Wrisby loudly, “because Pauline likes it best.”

  “The old coot likes French best,” corrected Aunt Elda, sewing a button on Arthur’s jacket.

  “French is pretty,” protested Uncle Wrisby
. “Sweet to a chicken’s ear!”

  Aunt Elda snorted.

  “Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut dans la rue!” yelled Uncle Wrisby. “Do you know what that means? It weeps in my heart as it rains in the street. Isn’t that sweet to the ear?”

  “It’ll rain in your pigpen if you don’t get out there and throw some bedding down,” said Aunt Elda.

  “All right, all right,” said Uncle Wrisby, shaking his head. “No romance in that soul,” he said, pointing a long finger at Aunt. Elda.

  “And don’t wear your galoshes in the house,” she added. “They draw on your eyes.”

  Draw on your eyes, Aunt Elda says. Nobody ever told me that. My friend Jamie Baird wears rubbers everywhere. That’s because he’s a detective. RUBBER FEET ARE SILENT FEET his card says. Everybody says Jamie’s eyes are deep set. Now I know why.

  “Wait, Uncle Wrisby. Where are you going?”

  “Out to see Bernadette,” called Uncle Wrisby. “My Pig.”

  “His girl friend,” said Aunt Elda, ripping a piece of thread with her teeth.

  “She’ll be birthing in a while,” said Uncle Wrisby. “She’s lonely.”

  “Wait!” cried Arthur. “Wait for me.”

  “Nothing to wait for, boy,” said Uncle Wrisby. “Only babies.”

  “Boy,” said Arthur mostly to himself. “How right you are.” And he ran off into the afternoon after Uncle Wrisby.

  Uncle Wrisby climbed over the fence into the pigpen and Arthur climbed after him. The paddock was muddy with small patches of hay here and there. Uncle Wrisby slogged through the mud, shooing off the smaller pigs, who ran, squealing and grunting. He stopped by a huge black-and-white pig who stood, head lowered, in a murky puddle of water. Uncle Wrisby bent down and murmured to her. And then he sat right in the mud, water licking his boots. Bernadette sighed, leaned and lay down, nestling her head in his lap.

  Arthur picked his way, trying to step on stones and hay.

  Uncle Wrisby scratched Bernadette between the ears, then he lifted his head and sang loudly:

  “Come all ye fair and tender maidens,

  Take warnin’ how you court young men.”

  “Bernadette likes singing,” he called to Arthur. “I’ve sung to her since she was a baby.”

  Uncle Wrisby sang that song about maidens to old fat Bernadette. I don’t think Bernadette is any ye fair and tender maiden. And I know my mother wouldn’t like me sitting in the mud.

  “They’re like a star on a summer’s morning,” Uncle Wrisby sang on. “First they’ll appear and then they’re gone.”

  Uncle Wrisby’s voice was smooth and pleasant, and Arthur sat on a mound of hay, lulled by the song. Bernadette turned her head a bit and stared shrewdly at Arthur. She was just about the ugliest thing Arthur had ever seen, her wet, mottled snout jutting out from under sharp button eyes.

  “I wish I was a little sparrow,

  And I had wings, and could fly so high.”

  Arthur felt something by his elbow—a small flutter—and he turned to see Pauline. He lifted his arm and she sat, nestling warmly against his body. Arthur smiled and closed his eyes, the sun warming his face.

  Here I am, he thought, with my scatty uncle who sits in the mud and sings to pigs.

  Arthur’s hand brushed along Pauline’s body. And another thought intruded that caused him to open his eyes in surprise.

  I wonder where the mockingbird’s nest is, he thought. And for a moment, his binocular eyes turned inward on himself: a small boy, sitting on a hay mound with a russet chicken. Then he closed his eyes again and listened happily to an old man’s song on a summer afternoon.

  Starlings

  The girl appeared like a starling on the fence: rumpled, unkempt and raucous. “Hey,” she called to Uncle Wrisby. “What are you doing with that silly pig, Rasby?” Her legs dangled down, swinging back and forth. They were dotted with bruises and her socks had slumped in her shoes.

  “Scratchin’ and singin’,” called Uncle Wrisby without looking up. “She likes it.”

  “And why does she like it?” prompted the voice.

  “Because she’s silly!” shouted Uncle Wrisby, and they both smiled at a familiar joke.

  She jumped off the fence, and her shoes made sucking noises as she walked through the mud. The noise made Arthur wince. He thought about his mother. He thought about the new baby in a clean, white blanket.

  She sat next to Uncle Wrisby and brushed her black hair out of her eyes.

  “This is Arthur,” said Uncle Wrisby loudly. “He’s come for the summer.” He turned to Arthur. “This is Moira MacAvin. Her grandpa’s the vet.”

  She looked at Arthur. Her eyes, he noticed, were as steady and shrewd as Bernadette’s.

  Uncle Wrisby began singing again. And Moira MacAvin stuck out her tongue at Arthur.

  Arthur was shocked. Mazzy Lewis did this all the time. But he’d known Mazzy for three years. Moira kept it stuck out while Uncle Wrisby sang.

  “I wish I was a little sparrow,”

  (It stuck out.)

  “And I had wings, and I could fly so high.”

  (It never wavered.)

  Aunt Elda came out of the house and waved. The tongue disappeared.

  “Moira,” she called. “Moreover’s coming by for you.”

  Bernadette was sound asleep now, snoring a bit. Moira and Uncle Wrisby got up carefully and walked to the fence, dripping mud and water. Arthur got up too, and began jumping from dry spot to dry spot.

  “Don’t forget, Rasby,” said Moira. “One of the babies is mine.”

  “So you’ve said a million times,” said Uncle Wrisby, grinning.

  Aunt Elda smoothed Moira’s hair.

  “Here comes Moreover,” she said, as a battered black car made its way up the hill. The car wavered back and forth across the road, brushing against bushes and bumping up on rocks.

  “Old fool,” murmured Aunt Elda. “He scars more trees driving.”

  The car came to a scraping stop, and Moreover jumped out to put a big rock in front of a back wheel. He looked just like Moira. Another starling, thought Arthur, that had the same black, wild hair. And Arthur wouldn’t have been surprised to see him stick out his tongue.

  “How’s Bernadette?” he called to Uncle Wrisby.

  “Gettin’ ready slowly,” said Uncle Wrisby.

  “Better get her inside if it rains,” said Moreover, “or she’ll birth in water and you’ll have the only floating litter in town. Moreover, you ought to line her stall with fresh hay. Moreover, you’ll have to keep the other pigs away from her. Moreover, you must be Arthur,” he said in the next breath.

  “Come for the summer,” said Uncle Wrisby, nodding.

  “How do you do?” said Moreover.

  “Fine, thank you,” said Arthur.

  “Fine, thank you,” repeated Moreover, folding his arms. “Listen to that, Moira. Why can’t you talk like that?”

  “Because I’m not fine, thank you, most of the time,” said Moira, tossing her hair. “Most people aren’t, if you ask me. If most people told the truth they’d say, ‘I’m feeling poorly, if you must know. My gout’s bad, I’ve got earaches and leg pains and my stomach burns like poison; my teeth are dropping out by the sevens . . .’”

  Moreover began chasing Moira about the yard. She raced for the paddock.

  “‘. . . and my skin’s breaking out with the fungus,’” she called over her shoulder.

  “You wild rascal!” shouted a grinning Moreover.

  Moira leaped the fence.

  “‘And I’ve got dropping scabs and was bit by a rabid muskrat,’” she yelled as she tripped in the mud.

  One of the young pigs came over to nose about just as Moreover managed to crawl over the fence and began tickling Moira.

  “How are you, Moira?” he shouted.

  “Fine!” she shrieked.

  “Fine what?” he asked.

  “Fine, thank you!”

  Moreover looked up.
r />   “Now did you all hear that?” He sat up. “She’s fine, thank you. Moreover, I believe she means it!”

  He stood up and pulled Moira up after him. He took a chain from his pocket and looked at his watch.

  “Almost five o’clock. Got a call at the Hotwaters’. Come on, Moira.”

  They climbed back over the fence, and Aunt Elda made clucking noises and dabbed at their mud with her apron.

  “What’s wrong at the Hotwaters’?” she asked.

  “Their dog,” announced Moreover. “He smells awful and burps.”

  “We must invite him for dinner,” commented Uncle Wrisby, making Moira and Arthur laugh.

  “Speaking of dinner,” said Moreover, “it’s your turn to cook tonight, Moira. Remember?”

  “Sure. I’m making goosh pie,” said Moira.

  “Goosh pie!” exclaimed Arthur, laughing.

  Moira looked at Arthur.

  “I’ve got a pet snake,” she said. “Do you want to see him?”

  “No,” said Arthur, trying out the truth.

  Moira grinned.

  “Come to our house for dinner.” She looked up at Moreover. “Is that all right?”

  “Come, come,” said Moreover, starting for the car.

  Arthur looked up at his aunt and uncle.

  “Go ahead,” said Aunt Elda, smiling.

  “We’re having asparagus soup for dinner,” whispered Uncle Wrisby. “Go.”

  Moira took Arthur’s arm and pulled him to the car.

  “Pile in back,” called Moreover. “But mind the mouse.”

  “Mouse?”

  The backseat was filled with boxes, tools and a doctor’s black bag. As Arthur watched, a small field mouse appeared from under the front seat to sit on Arthur’s shoe. The mouse sat up on his back legs and pushed his nose up in the air.

  “Where did he come from?” Arthur was delighted.

  Moira turned around to kneel on the front seat facing him.

  “Somebody didn’t want him,” she said. “So Moreover took him home.”