The Rain Sparrow

With a flourish, Valery placed a glass of orange juice in front of the boy. “In fact, girls can be kind of handy. Do you like bacon?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“French toast?”

This time the boy floundered. He stared at his juice.

“Ever had French toast, Brody?” Hayden asked gently.

The boy shook his head.

“Might as well try it,” Valery said. “Julia makes the best.”

“It’s sort of like pancakes, only better,” Hayden said.

This brought Brody’s head up. “I love pancakes.”

“There you go, then. French toast with plenty of powdered sugar and syrup coming right up.” Valery flounced out of the room like a flamenco dancer. The innkeeper was flashy, a head turner, with dark hair curling around her shoulders and bright red lipstick.

Food was served, and Brody ate like a starved pup, speaking only once to say, his mouth stuffed with French toast, “This is good.”

The exceptional meal made Hayden sleepy and lethargic. If he ate like this every day for the next few months, he would have to do some serious walking or find a gym.

During the meal, he made polite conversation with Eli and listened to sweet exchanges between the father and son that stirred thoughts of his own father. Donald Briggs had been his light in a dark childhood and when that light went out, Hayden had been lost. If not for an English teacher who had seen his talent, he’d still be lost, likely in the same drug-dulled world that had sucked Dora Lee under.

Eli’s son, Alex, finished his meal, hopped down from his chair and hugged his father. “I missed you, Daddy.”

Hayden experienced a pinch beneath his breastbone. He missed his daddy, too.

Hayden tossed his napkin on the table. He must need sleep worse than he’d thought.

* * *

Brody was stuffed. He couldn’t remember when he’d tasted anything as good Miss Julia’s French toast.

With both hands on his full belly, he leaned back in the seat of Carrie Riley’s Volkswagen Bug. The inside smelled good, like something strawberry coming from a little tree dangling from the rearview mirror. Miss Riley smelled good, too. He always noticed that about her when she helped him with something at the library. She smelled like cinnamon, he thought. Or maybe gingerbread. The smell was nice, like her. She was always nice to him, and sometimes he imagined his mother had been like her or like Mrs. Timmons, the art teacher, who told him he had talent.

He liked drawing animals, especially wildlife like Max, but the Sweat twins let him draw their parrot, too. Mrs. Timmons said Binky was his best work, and she’d entered the picture in the county art show.

“What grade are you in this year, Brody?” Miss Carrie asked as they pulled out of the driveway onto the pavement leading into Honey Ridge.

“Fifth.”

“Who’s your teacher?”

“Mrs. Krouper.”

“You like her?”

He hiked one shoulder. “She’s okay.”

“I’ve heard she’s pretty strict.”

“Yeah. She sent me to detention for a whole week.” He didn’t know why he’d told her that. Maybe because his belly was full and he’d slept in that soft bed last night, where he’d dreamed of riding a horse. He’d always wanted to ride a horse.

Miss Riley grinned at him. “Uh-oh. What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

When she hiked an eyebrow, he felt compelled to explain. He didn’t know why. He just did.

“There’s this boy. He’s a bully, but no one does anything about it. He was picking on this little kid named Jacob, so I told him to stop and he kicked me. We kind of got in a fight.” He hated fighting, but when Jacob cried and looked all helpless, he had to do something. Like the time he’d found a cat with its head stuck in a soup can.

“Did you tell your dad? Maybe he could have talked to the teacher?”

“He wouldn’t.” Why’d she have to bring up his dad? Now he was thinking about him again. Would the old man be sober yet? Or would he still be drunk enough to be mad that Brody had been out all night?

Miss Riley cut him a curious look, so he hurriedly said, “My dad works a lot. He’s real busy.”

“Where does your dad work?”

“Big Wave, on the second shift. I don’t know what he does.”

“Something to do with boats, I’m sure.” And she laughed. She had a pretty laugh with a little hiccup on the end that made his chest tickle.

“Which way?” She pulled the VW Bug to a stop at the red light in the center of Honey Ridge.

“My house is not far. I can walk from here.” Brody reached for the door handle.

“Brody,” she said gently. “Which way?”

She was so nice, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings or look like some kind of ungrateful kid without a lick of manners, so he guided her down the side streets, across the railroad track.

His heart beat hard enough to hurt in his belly. If he was lucky, the old man would still be asleep. He wasn’t lucky very often.

“Right there.” He pointed. “Where the white car is.”

“Looks like your dad is home now.”

“Yeah.”

Brody hoped Max was okay, still safely tucked in a shoe box under the bed. He should have brought him camping like usual, but the old man had already been drunk when school let out, and he’d been afraid to chance a return to the house.

“Was he really gone somewhere last night, Brody?”

She was hard to lie to. “He might have been.”

“I see.”