Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Her picture had been plastered across the screens almost as often as mine. I don't know which one they used for either of us. My fourth-grade portrait was a likely candidate for me . . . but for my mother? I couldn't even swear I would recognize a photo if I saw one. The only one I knew of was grainy and distant, of the three sisters linked by a tangle of arms thrown over shoulders. Lu couldn't have seriously thought she could keep me from hearing something the entire valley considered old news. She must have known that someone, somewhere would bring it up.

Within a few hours of my return to the classroom, someone did.

There was a new girl in my class. Her name was April, and she was from up North. Not up North like over the river, or up North like Nashville or Louisville, but farther away—Chicago, she said, and you knew it was true. You could hear it in her vowels, and in her almost audible sneer. She believed that the more snow you got for winter the smarter you were; and consequently, the hotter your summers the more likely it was you'd marry a cousin. By the time I met her, she was the most hated member of my class. This is not to say she had no friends; on the contrary, she was quite popular with the richer kids, for they envied her cosmopolitan air and her bizarre clothes, which she insisted were the veritable height of fashion. But make no mistake, they hated her too. They hated her for the reason we all did: she thought she was better than us, and we were afraid she was right.

On my second day back we took a field trip to the train station, the Chattanooga Choo Choo. My apathy knew no bounds. Everyone knew it hadn't been a real station for years, and it had since been converted to a Holiday Inn. After all the excitement of my last month, a mere hotel was not going to engage me. I might have complained aloud, but at least I wasn't stuck in a classroom pretending to pay attention to the goings-on at a chalkboard. Any field trip—even a field trip down the mountain and into the ghetto—was better than a day of diagramming sentences.

I sat sourly in the bus on the ride down the mountain, taking an entire seat to myself so I could spread out, lean my back against the window, and let my head knock against it during rough patches of road. We parked, unloaded, and then all us fourth and fifth graders milled about together while our teachers made arrangements with guides. I stood in the parking lot with my peers and stared up. And up. And up. At what was really quite a grand building.

Yes, it was grand—even despite the nasty urban rot surrounding it. Across the street was a series of restaurants and lesser hotels that hadn't seen a customer in fifty years, boarded and blackened with pollution and mildew. Down the road both ways I saw only more of the same, and except for the large parking garage next to the station, it seemed that everything for blocks around was decrepit and deserted.

But the station. I was grudgingly impressed.

Our teachers ushered us into the lobby. By then my neck was aching, but I couldn't stop myself. An enormous domed ceiling in gold-and-red glass loomed above us, and even the most cynical of students gaped at the glittering glass-and-iron chandeliers. I finally dropped my head and saw my own reflection in the polished marble floor.

The guide started talking in a squeaky old-man voice that matched his appearance in every way. "In 1840," he began, and my mind was already wandering. God, to have stood so long, to have seen and survived so much, only to be turned into a cheesy hotel. It was positively criminal.

With increasing irritation, I sensed someone pressing close to me in the crowd. For once I was actually listening to the lesson and enjoying it, and I didn't want anyone interrupting. I shuffled forward a foot or two towards the front, but April followed me. I knew it was her. I could smell her expensive cherry lip balm even before I saw her, and everyone else knew enough to leave me alone.

I tried to ignore her, but when she whispered into my ear there was little I could do to pretend she wasn't there.

"So it's you, huh? You're the one everyone was talking about."

I nodded, acknowledging that I'd heard her without admitting guilt. I kept my eyes forward, still dutifully watching our guide. "Maybe."

"It is you. I knew it was."

"Then why'd you ask?" I muttered over my shoulder, still refusing to face her.

"Why didn't you just say yes?"

I didn't answer, hoping without real hope that she might go away.

"Why did your cousin try to kill you?" she asked bluntly.

The question startled me so much I evaded an answer without even meaning to. "How did you know he was my cousin?" I hadn't even known it until the trial was over, and I'd found out in the privacy of my kitchen. What did this girl know, anyway?

"Everybody knows. They said it on the news. And they said your mother was in a crazy hospital when she had you. They said she was only a teenager and she died and you don't even know who your father is. They said your cousin thought you were a wicked witch and that's why he did it."

Warm color crept up my neck, but thankfully my shirt collar hid it for the most part. "You can't believe everything you hear on TV," I admonished, but I couldn't help but wonder. Suddenly I wished I watched more television, and it began to dawn on me that there might be a reason Lu had gotten our cable turned off. "Why do you keep asking questions if you already think you know the answers?"

"Because I keep hearing these really stupid things about what happened to you and I can't believe they're true—even down here."

I gritted my teeth. "Which things?" I almost growled.

She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed like a small, greedy animal. "All of them."

"What do you know, anyway? You weren't there." My voice was rising, but I couldn't really stop it. I wanted to smack her, and it was only out of respect for my surroundings that I did not do so.

"I didn't have to be there. Everyone heard about it. Everyone knows." She folded her arms, challenging me as surely as if she'd offered me pistols at sunrise. I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't even know if the allegations were false—and if they were true, whether or not I should be upset or ashamed. I stood there confused, wanting to either retreat in disdain or defend myself, but not knowing which course of action was appropriate.

From pure desperation, I opted to misdirect. "Shut up, I'm trying to listen. You're going to get us in trouble. We're not supposed to be talking."

She went on anyway, her voice just low enough to keep our teacher's head from turning. "I mean, it's not like it matters. You don't have to say anything. I know it's true, and I'm going to go home and tell my dad and stepmom that I got to meet you. I'll tell them it'sall true, just like they heard on the TV, and that I'm stuck having class with that witch. They'll love that. Maybe they'll love it so much they'll take me out of this stupid redneck school."

I closed my eyes, concentrating on the old man, who went on speaking in his dreary drone about things I would have found fascinating under different circumstances. He gestured at the ceiling and said something pithy and rehearsed about the glass, and then he pointed back out at the restaurant and revealed another historical nugget.

It all sailed past me.

My rage was positively palpable. I wasn't too offended by the Rword; heaven knows I threw it around plenty myself. Even so, I wanted to slug April more surely than I wanted to wake up the next morning. My fingers wrung themselves into a white-knuckled frenzy, but I clutched them at my sides, paralyzed by indecision.

"What's the matter, witch? Can't think of a good spell? Are you going to turn me into a frog?"

One after another I measured my breaths, deep and slow. "I wish I could. We eat frogs around here." Well, I'd never eaten any personally and I didn't know anyone who had, but I'd heard that it was something that rednecks did.

She laughed out loud. "Jesus," she blasphemed happily. "Nothing you people do would surprise me. Shit, I want out of here so bad."

"Then go home. Or one of these days I'm gonna send you home airmail," I threatened, fists beginning to shake.

"I believe it, too. My dad says you guys are the worst kind of southerners."

I couldn't stop myself. I had to ask, even though it meant asking a question when I already knew the answer. I just wanted to hear her say it. I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but that's the story of my life.

"What do you mean, you guys?"

"I mean," and she drew her mouth up to my ear once more. I hadn't yet faced her and she wanted to make sure she still commanded my attention. I believe she would've crawled inside my head if she could have, to make sure I heard her. "You guys who aren't all white and aren't all black. You're not anything except the worst mix of a bad lot, and it don't surprise my dad at all that a family like yours would have something crazy like this going on."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"For what?"

"For making this really easy."

Later she called it a sucker punch, but she knew it was coming. She practically begged me for it. Right beneath the ribs. My knotty little knuckles slammed into her stomach and then, as she fell, my other hand came up and caught her square in the face. Blood spurted from her nose, surprising me but not stopping me. She reached out and tried to grab my hair but I knocked her hand away and shoved her backwards. Back she went, onto a couch in the lobby and then over it.

Her head must have hit something somewhere along the way, for she did not get up again. Instead she lay there moaning, wiping at her face until scarlet streaked her cheeks and the sleeve of her shirt, even smearing the lovely marble floor.

It was only then, when I stood there panting, fists balled and feet parted, that I realized the old man had quit talking. Silence filled the lobby, despite the crowd gathering in a cautious circle around the scene. Our teacher ran to April's side and lifted her to a sitting position, where she cried and snuffled.

Our other chaperon, Mr. Wicks, found his way to me. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me harder than he needed to. "What did you do?" he asked, his runny gray eyes mere inches from my face. "What did you do to her?" ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">