The Hummingbird House Read online

  Bridget got up and turned down the burners, commenting as she passed, “I don’t see how you can dress like that on a day like this, Ida Mae. Aren’t you sweltering?”

  Ida Mae, whose sense of style favored steel-toed boots and work pants worn under cotton dresses and baggy sweaters, appeared perfectly comfortable in her Sunday-afternoon outfit of black tights and a quilted satin housecoat worn over a print polyester muumuu. She sniffed in reply. “I ain’t foolish enough to put up beans in the middle of the day, am I? That’s a job you do before sunup. And you don’t do it on a Sunday,” she added, rocking faster in disapproval. “I’ll be very much surprised if every one of them jars don’t bust.”

  “I’m with you on that, Ida Mae,” Lindsay said, wiping another trickle of sweat from her cheek with her shoulder. “It’s way too hot for this.”

  “Well, we couldn’t let them go to waste,” Bridget said, scooping up another bowl full of beans as she resumed her seat. “After the boys went to all that trouble to pick them for us.”

  “Because we don’t have enough to do with our own garden,” Cici said, and then added quickly, “Not that it wasn’t sweet of them.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Lindsay said, “ is how two completely incompetent gardeners who know absolutely nothing about anything related to growing things could have produced a crop like theirs. Did you see the size of those tomatoes?”

  “They need to be in some kind of record book,” Bridget said. “Thank heaven we talked them out of giving us some. We would have been up all night canning tomatoes.”

  “It ain’t them,” said Ida Mae, “it’s the place. Some places’ve got nourishment in their bones. Some places you can’t grow rocks.”

  Cici plopped a handful of beans into the porcelain tub. “Makes sense, I suppose. Like that place in Alaska that grows pumpkins the size of trucks. They say it’s the volcanic soil.”

  “It ain’t the soil,” insisted Ida Mae, rocking and fanning, “it’s the place.”

  They all knew better than to argue details with Ida Mae.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Bridget, returning to the topic at hand, “is how two perfectly competent, incredibly successful businessmen could have made such a stupid mistake in the first place. It’s not like they’re a couple of boobs at their first pony ride, you know.”

  “Although they’re certainly acting like it,” Cici put in.

  “Paul is an award-winning writer,” Bridget went on, “and Derrick has run his own business for twenty-six years.”

  “And not one penny went out of that gallery that he didn’t account for, let me promise you that,” Lindsay said. “You don’t hold your own in Washington, DC by being an idiot with money.” She thought about that for a moment and qualified, “Well, not unless you’re in Congress,”

  “It’s not like this is the first time they’ve reinvented themselves, either,” Cici pointed out. “Remember when they first decided it would be a kick to move to the suburbs? We didn’t think they’d last a year. Next thing you know, Paul is hosting progressive dinners and putting out the neighborhood newsletter, Derrick is running the Community Beautification League and heading two charity drives, and they both have more friends than we do.”

  “Of course, the suburbs of Baltimore are a little different from the middle of the Shenandoah Valley,” Bridget said.

  “Do you know what I think?” Lindsay dropped another handful of snapped beans into the tub. “I think they’re scared.”

  Bridget nodded. “Sure. I remember how I felt when we first moved here. It was such a big step. What if I didn’t like it? What if I didn’t fit in? We’d pretty much burned our bridges, just like they have. What if it turned out to be the biggest mistake of our lives?”

  The other two nodded, remembering. Cici added, “It’s even more than that, you know. When you reinvent yourself, sometimes you’re not sure you’re going to like the person you’ve become. I think that’s the scariest part of all. What if you don’t even like yourself, after you’ve changed everything to fit into your new life?”

  Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “I think you’re right. They’re just afraid, that’s all. Afraid it won’t work out.”

  Ida Mae gave a snort of derision. “That ain’t it,” she said, and, planting her feet firmly on the floor, pushed herself up from the rocker. “They’re afraid it will.” She marched over to the stove and lifted the lid on the simmering brine. “You put plenty of vinegar in this, didn’t you? Otherwise you’re all gonna die of the botulism.”

  She dipped a spoon into the hot mixture, tasted it cautiously and wrinkled up her nose, although whether that was a sign of approval or disapproval none of them could tell. “Well, come on then, get them beans over here,” she commanded. “You gonna take all night about it? I swear to Goshen, sometimes it’d just be easier to do it all myself.”

  ~*~

  Josh woke up on the narrow vinyl bench that served as a bed in a pool of his own sweat, gummy-mouthed and groggy. The generator chugged a mighty roar and the air conditioner spit forth a feeble stream of tepid air overhead. The first thing he did, with a lurch of alarm, was grab for the bank pouch he’d hidden under his shirt. His pulse returned to normal when he found it was still there. Next he touched the photograph in his pocket, just to make sure it was still there, too, and when it was his world was right again. He sat up, swinging his feet to the floor, rubbing his face with his hands. He needed a shower. Bad.

  He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but there had been nothing he could do until the weird little man called Artie pulled into his campsite for the day. He had stretched out on the bed to rest his eyes and to avoid conversation with his host, but before he knew it the sound of the road and the sway of the vehicle put him out. Now the vehicle was parked, Artie was nowhere to be seen, and judging by the feeble slant of sun that was visible through the crack between the windowsill and the tattered brown curtain that covered it, the afternoon was mostly gone. With luck, ol’ Artie was sacked out somewhere and Josh could stroll away unnoticed. He would hitch a ride to the nearest town and with the cash he had in hand he could buy a plane ticket and be in Kansas City by this time tomorrow. After that, he didn’t know and it didn’t matter. He was going to make it to Kansas City, and just knowing that put an easiness in his mind that he hadn’t felt in so long he had almost forgotten what it felt like.

  He eased open the cabin door and was greeted by the aroma of charcoal smoke and sizzling meat. His mouth filled with saliva. The air was fresh and green, and easily ten degrees cooler than it had been inside the camper. Above the sound of the chugging generator he could hear the background whine of a country radio station from a nearby campsite, and somewhere a kid squealed, the way kids do. They never laughed or talked or even cried the way regular people did; they always squealed, usually at the precise decibel level known to pierce the human eardrum. For some reason that made him smile, not on the outside, but inside where no one could see. His mother used to call that a heart smile. Joshua, she would say when he was trying not to show how pleased he was with something she had said or done by hiding his smile, is that a heart smile I see? Because it sure looks like one from here. It had been a long time since he’d felt his heart smile. And even longer since he’d heard a little kid squeal.

  He looked around cautiously, the way he had recently learned to do, before coming out. For a campground, it wasn’t half bad. There were trees surrounding the concrete parking pad, and beyond them he thought he saw a glint of water. He heard more childish laughter accompanied by what surely must be a splash, and he figured there was a lake nearby. Some kind of national park? A hammock was strung between two trees, and by the tangle of bed sheets that drooped from it, he guessed that was where Artie had slept away the day. Artie himself was bent over a park grill with a set of barbecue tongs, flipping a huge piece of meat and waving away the smoke that flared up from the juices. There were a couple of foil packets roasting near the meat, and at the back of the gri
ll an aluminum pan filled with what looked to be canned baked beans bubbled away. Artie grinned when he saw Josh, and gave an inviting wave of the barbecue tongs.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” he declared. “I thought I was going to have to eat this steak all by myself.”

  Josh stepped down from the camper and saw that the meat was in fact a T-bone, 20 ounces at least. He tried to remember the last time he had had steak. That one was big enough to feed a family of four with leftovers, and he could’ve eaten the whole thing at one sitting. He approached the grill against his better judgment.

  “Smells good,” he admitted.

  “Hope you like it medium rare. I’ve got some corn on the cob and a couple of baked potatoes going on here, and beans in the pot. My mama used to put a little ketchup and brown sugar in hers along with a dash of Tabasco, freshens them right up.” He glanced at Josh convivially. “What about yours?”

  Josh stared at him, mouth watering. “My what?”

  “Your mama. She ever make barbeque beans?”

  Josh felt something inside him shut down. “Listen,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got to shove off. Thanks for the ride, I guess.”

  Artie lifted the big steak onto a plastic platter that was splashed with faded psychedelic blue and green flowers. “Well now, that’s a shame.” The meat settled into a delicious looking puddle of its own juices, and Josh could not stop looking at it. “Where’re you off to that it can’t wait until you eat a bite?”

  Josh tried to think of an answer but it was hard to think about anything while watching Artie transfer the steaming foil packets to the platter beside the dripping steak. He scowled. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “Arizona. A place called Cold Creek.” He paused and looked around appreciatively. “Gorgeous country, isn’t it? Reminds me of a place Kit Carson liked to stop when he went through this part of the country.”

  “Is there a town close by?”

  “I imagine. There usually is these days.” He turned back to the grill and wrapped a towel around the handle of the bean pot, lifting it off. “Now there was an interesting fellow, that Kit,” he went on. “One of the smartest men you’d ever want to meet, but couldn’t read or write a lick. Said book learning cluttered up the brain. Have you ever heard such a thing? On the other hand, you take a college educated man today and put him up against Kit in the middle of the wilderness and only one of them is coming out alive, so maybe he had a point.”

  Josh watched as Artie carried the platter and the pot over to a camp table. He said, to distract himself from the succulent smells, “Are you talking about Kit Carson, the Indian fighter?”

  “Oh, Kit did a lot more than fight Indians. In fact, if you want to know the truth, I think toward the end of his life he came to regret some of the events he was involved in regarding the Native American population. But, as I tried to explain, everyone has a role to play in history, and regretting yours is pointless.”

  Josh blinked. “You explained that. To Kit Carson.”

  Artie smiled at him as he set the dishes on the center of the table next to a foil packet of buttered bread. “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  It occurred to Josh that the other man was probably a little nuts. But he couldn’t take his eyes off that table. It was covered with a red checked table cloth and set for two with heavy-duty paper plates and big yellow plastic cups. The foil packets were brown on the outside with the escaped sugar from the corn. The steak glistened. The pot of beans was still bubbling.

  Sometimes, as a kid, Josh would go on picnics in Central Park, near the lake. His mother always packed a red checked tablecloth.

  Josh’s stomach growled loudly enough to be heard at the next campsite. He dragged his eyes away from the feast and frowned again, trying for sarcasm. “Are you making s’mores later?”

  Artie’s eyes twinkled as he sank into one of the folding chairs and picked up a knife and fork. “We could.”

  He sliced the big steak in half and plopped one piece on each plate. By that time Josh was already seated and slathering butter on a cob of corn. Artie poured tea from a clear plastic pitcher and they ate in silence for a time, Josh shoveling the steak into his mouth as fast as he could chew it. He wasn’t sure if he had ever tasted anything as good, not in his entire life.

  When the steak was half gone and nothing was left on the cob, Josh dug into the foil-wrapped potato, slowing down a little. Artie settled back in his canvas camp chair, enjoying his meal more slowly, taking in his surroundings with easy appreciation. “Nothing like the taste of a good charcoal grilled steak,” he said. “Unless maybe it’s my campfire coffee. Something about the way the wood smoke gets into the flavor, you can’t beat it. I’ll be brewing up a pot later for the road.” He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll make those s’mores after all, now that you’ve got me thinking about them. You do much camping as a kid, Josh?”

  Josh shook his head, scraping the flesh from the potato skin. Replete and very nearly content, he forgot for a moment to be cautious. “My dad wasn’t exactly the camping type.” And the minute he said it, he was sorry. He added with a frown, “Anyway, he wasn’t my dad. He was my stepdad.”

  But all Artie said was, “Too bad. You missed out on one of life’s great pleasures. Where’re you from, Josh?”

  “Back east.” Josh focused on the potato, spearing another forkful. “New York.”

  “Is that right? How’d you end up out here? ”

  Josh shrugged, digging into the beans. Artie asked far too many questions for his own good. What did it matter to him, anyway? He needed to just mind his own business.

  “Well, that’s okay,” Artie replied to his silence. His tone was relaxed and genial. “Like Kit used to say, a land as big as this is good for swallowing up a man’s secrets. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it looks to me like you’ve got a few.”

  “Yeah, well, who doesn’t?” Josh shoveled another bite of steak into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, and washed it down with a gulp of sweet iced tea.

  “That can be a lonely thing, holding onto secrets,” Artie observed, just as though someone had asked him. “Like Kit used to say, if they don’t get swallowed up, they will for sure swallow you up. I’ll bet your folks sure would love to hear from you long about now.”

  Josh could feel his forehead knotting, and his stomach. “I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-seven years old. Anyway, my mom’s dead.”

  “What about your dad?”

  Josh looked at Artie coldly. “He’s the one who killed her.”

  He waited for a reaction, but all he got was another nod. Interested, polite. Like Josh had said, “It’s going to be a warm night,” or “Good steak.” Just a nod.

  Josh got up from the table abruptly. “Is there a check-in station or a welcome center around here? Somebody’s got to know how to get to the nearest town.”

  Artie said, “Sure. Down the road a half mile or so. They’re open until nine. They’ve got all kinds of pamphlets on local attractions, and a payphone too. I’m sure somebody can help you out. But I’ll be happy to drop you off at the next town, if that’s where you want to go.”

  Josh was acutely aware of the leather money pouch, sweaty against his now-bulging stomach. “That’s okay,” he mumbled. “I need to get going.”

  Artie returned another one of those understanding nods and what looked very much like a wink. “It sounds like you’ve got somebody waiting for you.”

  “Yeah,” said Josh, and was surprised at how good it felt to actually say it out loud. “Yeah I do.”

  “A girl?”

  Josh felt another one of those heart smiles start to melt something deep inside him, and the melting felt oddly like a stream of backed-up tears. He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “A girl.”

  “Well then.” Artie sat back in his chair and spread his hands benevolently. “You’d better not keep her waiting. One thing I know for sure is that pretty girls and fresh fish don’t keep.” He cac
kled at his own witticism and pushed up from the chair, gathering up the paper plates. “You’re going to need some traveling money,” he said. “I’ve got some put by in that cupboard where the cookies are.”

  Josh felt his heart stop beating. “What?”

  “Take what you need to get where you’re going.” Artie scraped the few leftover beans onto a paper plate and balled up the empty tin foil. “You can pay me back when you get a chance.”

  Josh’s heart started again with a lurch. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck. “What, are you kidding me?” His voice sounded tight and odd, although he tried to look amused. “You’d give money to a perfect stranger?”

  “Why not?” Artie tossed the trash into the trashcan at the edge of the campsite. “I do it every day. Grocery clerks, gas station attendants … why, just the other day, I gave a perfect stranger twenty bucks and he gave me this great-looking shirt.” He grinned and plucked the corners of his tee shirt at the chest. “That’s what money is for, right? To give it away. And most of the time you end up giving it to strangers.”

  The guy was clearly crazy. And why was Josh arguing with him? Josh said cautiously, “What if I can’t pay you back? I mean, I won’t even know where to find you.”

  Artie just smiled. “You’ll find me.” He took the aluminum coffee pot and filled it with water from a jug on the table. “Go on, now, get going. It’ll be getting dark soon.”

  Josh’s brows tented sharply. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

  Artie’s eyes twinkled. “If the cause is love, never let it be said that Artie Bullwinkle failed to rise to the occasion.” He tilted his head, gazing at Josh. “It is for love, right?”

  Josh swallowed another sudden lump in his throat. The leather pouch burned against his belly. “Yeah,” he said, softly. “Love.”

  “Then what can go wrong?” Artie’s smile was benevolent, and he began scooping coffee grounds into the pot. “Say, while you’re in the cookie cabinet, see if I’ve got any graham crackers, will you? I know I’ve got chocolate in the cooler, and the marshmallows are right here—sometimes I like to melt one in my coffee—but you can’t make s’mores without graham crackers.”