My Name Is River Page 4
I freeze and whisper back. “There. I’m frozen… stiffer than a granite angel on a tombstone. Are you happy? Now, will you please tell me what you think about this noise?”
Billy puts his finger to his lips and says, “Shhh… ” Then he searches the area with his eyes, which stop dead at the edge of the rock pile, inches from where I am. I follow where his gaze stops. Coiled beside my pile of flat rocks is what’s making the noise. And although I’ve never seen one in real life, I know exactly what a rattlesnake is when I see it. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. My legs are so weak I can hardly stand. I want to scream but I know I can’t.
Billy reaches toward me real slow, and then he takes my hand and whispers, “We’re going to step backward very slowly, River. Like this… ”
I copy Billy and take one slow step backward and then another and another, each one without a sound. Not even a stick cracks beneath our feet. We walk backward until we reach the trail when Billy lets go of my hand. “Wow, River,” he says. “Someone from upstairs was looking out for you.”
I look at him, wondering what he means.
He points to the sky. “You know, upstairs? As in heaven?”
“What does heaven have to do with rattlesnakes?”
“Well,” he says, “I’m pretty sure God was looking out for you.”
“You think so?”
“Sure! How else can you explain it? Do you have any idea how close that was? I can’t believe it didn’t strike you.”
“Well, maybe it’s not the kind that bites.”
“Oh, it is. And it definitely felt threatened. That’s why it was rattling. Anyways, let’s not get any more rocks from piles. This time we’re staying on the trail.”
I shake my head. “There’s no way I’m looking for more rocks.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll find them.”
“I guess that was pretty close, wasn’t it?”
“It definitely was. But whatever you do,” Billy says, “don’t tell my parents, or they might not let us finish our project.”
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t. We could always do something different.”
Billy shakes his head. “Not a chance. We’ll be fine as long as we stay away from that rock pile.”
By twelve o’clock we finished almost everything on our list. Plus we even rolled a log over to the end of the trail, right where it meets the field. Billy says people can sit on it while they’re bird watching (which doesn’t sound that exciting, if you ask me). “Do you really think anyone’s going to come, or even stay long enough to sit down? Besides, do people even want to watch birds?”
Billy sits on the log and then turns to look at me. “You need to be patient, River. Just wait until you see how interesting birds are. I think you’ll be surprised.”
I brush a clump of dirt off the log and sit beside him. “How can you be so sure birds will even come? I bet we don’t see any.”
Billy reaches out his left hand. “Bet you a tall glass of lemonade that by the time we’re done building this birding place, there’ll be more birds than you can imagine. Sparrows, bluebirds, mourning doves, chickadees… ”
I shake with my left hand too. “Well, if I were you,” I say, “I wouldn’t go betting on something like birds because you’re gonna be awful thirsty while I’m sipping a tall, cold glass of lemonade.”
Billy smiles his crooked smile. “We’ll see.”
7
The Meeting of the Whippoorwills
The last thing on our list is to make a birdbath (and with all the water in the Meadowlark River, I’m not sure why we need one). But for some reason, Billy thinks the birds need even more. And then, believe it or not, Billy tells me he’s come up with a new list of things we need to do, but I haven’t seen it because he has it stored in his head (plus, I’m not sure I want to know what’s on it because it’s probably going to mean more work).
Billy checks his watch. “This is a perfect time for a break. Want to come to my house for lunch? I already asked my mom if you could, and she said yes.”
So that’s what I say too.
When we walk into Billy’s house, I can’t believe my eyes. There are kids all over the place, and each one looks like they’re having a blast. They’re jumping on the couch, climbing on the chairs, crawling under the rug, and sliding down the stairs, and one’s standing right in the middle of the kitchen table (with his shoes on).
“Forrest,” his mother says, smiling while she scoops him up, “get off the table. Even though you’re little, you know the rules.”
Now, right away I know she’s not like Gram because Gram would let Paddles climb up on the table every morning and eat breakfast with us. I’d give her a bowl of Frosted Wheat Flakes since that’s what she liked best, but Gram would feed her plain old grits, oatmeal, or a piece of cornbread. She said all those sugared flakes made Paddles flap around the house like a chicken with her head cut off (and I know Paddles didn’t appreciate that comment one bit).
Billy introduces me to his mother and all the kids. But there’s no way I’ll remember their names since there’s six of them. And I’m not sure what to call Billy’s mom because he actually forgot that part, but I figure if his dad is Pastor Henry, she must be Mrs. Henry.
Pastor Henry gathers all the kids, using his hands like a broom to sweep up a bunch of wild dust bunnies. Then he picks up Forest and sets him in a high chair while Mrs. Henry pulls out a chair for me.
“Thanks, Mrs. Henry,” I say, trying to be sure I use every bit of manners I know.
Mrs. Henry’s real pretty, and when she smiles, her blue eyes sparkle. “Most people call me Mrs. Whippoorwill,” she says, “since that’s our last name. Billy’s dad is called Pastor Henry because Henry is his first name, and it’s easier for people to call him Pastor Henry than Pastor Whippoorwill.” She smiles at me again and says, “I know that’s confusing, River.” Mrs. Whippoorwill tries real hard so I don’t feel as dumb as I do.
While Mrs. Whippoorwill passes out the plates and silverware, I start worrying that Billy’s going to say something about the morning and evening dove thing. If he does, I might have to slide under the table and vanish.
In the center of the table, Mrs. Whippoorwill sets a gigantic pot that’s overflowing with macaroni and cheese with little pieces of hot dog. She plops a supersized scoop of it in the middle of everyone’s plate (which must be the easiest way to serve food when there’s a gazillion mouths to feed). I don’t particularly like my food all mixed together like that, but I keep my mouth shut and resist the urge to separate my noodles from the bits of hot dog. Right before I start to dig in, I suddenly realize everyone’s holding everyone else’s hands and putting their heads down (not all the way down on the table, like you do at school when you’re in trouble, but just partway down), like they’re looking for a piece of hot dog they dropped on their lap.
Then Pastor Henry says, “Dear heavenly Father, we give thanks for our food and for all our blessings. Thank you for Billy’s new friend, River. Help us live our lives pleasing to you. Amen.”
Then everybody else, including little Forrest, shouts, “Amen!”
By now, I figure I’m officially known by everyone in Birdsong as Billy’s new friend (and added to that just seconds ago, as the girl who doesn’t know people in Birdsong hold hands and pray before they eat).
After lunch me and Billy go back across the street to the birding place. He carries the garbage can lid we’ll use to make the birdbath. “So,” he says, “what do you think of my last name?”
“It sure is different. I’ve never heard the name Whippoorwill before.”
Billy stops on the trail, and his eyes grow bigger than fifty-cent pieces. “You’ve never heard of a whip-poor-will?”
I shake my head and start feeling dumb all over again.
“That’s okay,” he says and starts walking. “It’s just a name—like the whip-poor-will bird. They blend in with tree bark and dead leaves on the ground, so they can be real ha
rd to see. But even though you can’t always see them, you’ll know they’re there.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-it-all,” I tease, “how do you know they’re there if you can’t see them?”
“Because you hear them… especially on summer evenings. They sound like they’re saying whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will.”
“Wow! That’s kind of neat.” I’m beginning to think Billy may be right—birds are more interesting than I thought.
We reach the birding place, and Billy sets the lid beside the pole with the wooden bird feeder. “I’m glad we had a plastic lid. Metal would get too hot in the sun,” he says. “Now all we have to do is build a base to keep the birdbath just high enough off the ground to keep stray cats or a fox from catching the birds. The base will be easy to make. We can use rocks again. And we should put a couple inside the lid so it doesn’t blow away.”
“You know, Billy, do you think the birds even need a birdbath? There’s a ton of water right here in the river. Besides, I didn’t think this was going to be so much work. And I definitely don’t want to look for rocks again.”
Billy spreads the dirt flat where we’ll put the birdbath. “First of all,” he says, “yes, the birds need a birdbath. Even though some of the bigger birds, like ducks and blue herons, love the river, it’s too big and dangerous for some of the smaller birds that like to drink and bathe in a small, safe place. And second,” he adds, “getting an A is hard work. But don’t worry about the rocks. I’ll find them.”
8
Another List
We’ve been working since seven o’clock this morning (with only a half-hour lunch break), so I’ve been hoping Billy would forget about the new list of things he wants to do. But, of course, he doesn’t (bookworms are like elephants—they never forget).
He tells me what’s on his list like he’s reading from an encyclopedia. “First we need to scatter small pieces of yarn and cloth throughout our ecotone. Birds will use them to make nests. Second, we’ll make suet, which is a type of bird food. And third, we need to build several bluebird houses.”
“Are you serious?” I say. “With all this work, we’d better get an A plus, not just an A.”
As Billy sets the last rock on top of the birdbath, I start wondering how we’re going to fill it. I think about all the water we’re going to need to water our seeds and fill the birdbath. Then I think about how steep and high the riverbank is. The Meadowlark River rushes fast, so it could be dangerous to get water from there. I look at Billy and say, “Are we carrying water all the way from your house?”
“We could,” he says, “but I’m sure there’s a way to get it from the river. It would be a lot less work, that’s for sure.”
Since I like to work as little as possible, my brain starts spinning ideas faster than a gerbil spins an exercise wheel. “What if we tied a long rope to a bucket and dropped it over the edge of the riverbank? We could pull up the bucket, like pulling up a bucket of water from a well.”
Billy smiles (he’s probably thinking I’m pretty smart too). “Great idea!” he says. “Let’s run back to my garage and get everything we’ll need.”
Walking into Billy’s garage is like walking into an inventor’s museum. It’s filled with all sorts of old interesting metal and wooden things. There are piles of wood, cans of paint stacked on shelves, hammers and screwdrivers hanging on the wall, and rows of glass baby-food jars filled with nails. Billy reaches for a hammer and says, “This is my dad’s workshop. We build things together all the time.”
I can’t even imagine how awesome that would be. “You’re so lucky, Billy.” I run my hands across his wooden workbench. “When my parents find me, I’m going to build things with my dad too.”
All of a sudden Billy stops rummaging around. “What do you mean, when your parents find you? I thought you said you were adopted. Don’t you have parents?”
“I have two,” I say. “Two sets, so I actually have four parents. I just don’t live with them. I live with Gram—she’s my grandmother.” Billy looks at me like I’m not making sense, so I explain. “I have my real parents, and then I have my adoptive parents. That makes four.”
“I understand why you don’t live with your real parents, but why don’t you live with your adoptive parents?”
“Well, it’s sort of a mixed-up story,” I say, but I decide to tell him anyway. “For some reason, after my adoptive parents had me for six months, they decided they didn’t want me anymore. That’s when they took off and left me behind. They never came back. Now I live with Gram.”
“So which parents do you want to find you?”
“My real ones, because I figure they never wanted to give me up in the first place… I’m sure they must have had a good reason. But I guess it would be all right if my adoptive parents come back because they’d probably have information about my real ones.”
“Did you ever try finding your real parents?”
“No,” I say and look at him. “I told you I didn’t come with much information. All I know is my first name and the birth-date that was on my necklace, which isn’t much information to go on. And Gram doesn’t know anything either. But I’m not worried about it, because I’m sure my real parents have been looking for me. So by this time they should be getting close. They could show up here any time now.”
“Well, after we finish our project, I’ll help you with some research.”
“Maybe,” I tell him.
Billy looks surprised. “What do you mean, maybe? Don’t you think that would be a good idea? Birdsong’s an extremely small town, so I doubt they’ll look for you here.” Billy searches my eyes. “River, maybe you should start looking for them.”
“I told you I don’t have to worry about that. Gram says the postmaster knows our new address, so when they get to Punxsutawney, they’ll know where to come.”
Billy looks at me the same way Gram does when I talk about my parents finding me—like he doesn’t believe it will happen either. Billy shrugs his shoulder and then pulls a rusted red wagon out from the corner of the garage. He brushes it off. “Anyways,” he says, “let’s use this to haul our supplies.” Then he finds a rope, an old metal bucket, two green sprinkling cans, and a small, square wire thing hanging from a hook. It looks a bit like an animal cage, but it’d be too small, even for a gerbil. Billy smiles and holds it up like it’s a trophy.
“What in the world is that?”
“This is a suet cage,” he says, “a special type of bird feeder. Now, when we make suet cakes, we’ll have a way to hang them. Woodpeckers, chickadees, and nuthatches love suet. And,” he adds, “so does my favorite bird.”
“Which is what kind?” I figure I might as well ask because he’s going to tell me anyway.
“The bluebird,” he says as he smiles. “They’re incredible. And not just because of their brilliant blue feathers and how beautifully they sing, but because their mating rituals are fascinating. Imagine this. When two bluebirds are courting, which is kind of like dating, the male bluebird raises and quivers one wing while he feeds his mate little morsels of food.”
“Hmmm,” I say, “that is fascinating” (but even so, I’m not sure that’s my idea of romance). But one thing’s for sure—if Billy were a bird, he’d probably have only one wing that worked, so he’d do just fine as a bluebird. The only problem is that even though he could court, he wouldn’t be able to fly… and that could be a real turnoff to a girl bird.
As we’re leaving the garage, something else catches Billy’s eye. He reaches up and grabs it off the shelf. “Awesome!” he says. “I knew we had one somewhere!”
“What is it?” After suet cages and suet cakes, I’m not even going to guess.
“It’s a hummingbird feeder! Now we can make hummingbird nectar too!”
I don’t know any other guy who knows how to make suet cakes and hummingbird nectar and gets excited about it. Gram would say, “He’s a rare bird, and like a T-bone steak, sometimes rare is good.”
The Bucket
After the wagon’s loaded with our supplies, we race each other to Billy’s kitchen. Mrs. Whippoorwill’s standing at the sink peeling a tractor load of vegetables. Forrest and two other little Whippoorwills are racing around the kitchen with wooden cars, and the bigger ones are washing vegetables.
“Hey, Mom,” Billy says, “do you have some yarn or cloth we can use for our project?”
Mrs. Whippoorwill tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure I can find some of each, Billy. What do you need it for?”
“We want to scatter pieces of it around our ecotone so the birds can make nests with it.”
“That’s a great idea,” she says. “I have some blue and yellow yarn left from knitting Forrest’s baby blanket and also scraps of green material from the curtains I made. That should make some colorful nests. And how about these vegetable peelings?” she says. “Do you think the birds would eat them?”
Billy shakes his head. “They’d only draw predators, and probably the kind that would eat birds.”
I look at Billy. “You mean predators, like rattlesnakes?”
Billy swings around to face me, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. He mouths the words, “What are you doing?” Then he answers out loud so his mom can hear, “Well, sure, vegetable peelings could attract snakes, so we better not take any. But the yarn and material would be great.”
Billy seems pretty excited about the nest material, but I’m not sure the birds will use it. Then I imagine Billy as a bluebird and think about how he’d build his nest. He’d definitely use the blue yarn. He’d have to make sure his nest perfectly matched his brilliant, blue feathers.
Then Billy moves closer to his mom, leans on the sink, and looks at her with puppy-dog eyes. “And is it okay if we make hummingbird nectar and suet cakes too?”