Each Little Bird That Sings: Chapters 15–21

Rain thrummed the tin roof while we talked and ate and shared our afternoon plans, preparing ourselves for Great-great-aunt Florentine’s funeral.

Peach meticulously put away the pickles, the butter, the biscuits. He did one thing at a time, slowly, deliberately, completely. Later he would want to linger over every bottle cap.

Peach meticulously put away the pickles, the butter, the biscuits. He did one thing at a time, slowly, deliberately, completely. Later he would want to linger over every bottle cap.

Peach meticulously put away the pickles, the butter, the biscuits. He did one thing at a time, slowly, deliberately, completely. Later he would want to linger over every bottle cap.

Every evening Aunt Florentine would kiss each one of us “good night and good-bye!” and trundle off to bed saying, “I’m bound for Glory Land!”

Peach cleared his throat in a great gargle. “And after that, can we play marbles?” Peach coveted my cat’s-eye. I wouldn’t let him have it. But...I’d play marbles. I lived to serve.

She hung the apron on a peg by the stove as Peach put his napkin on his plate and pushed in his chair. He kept his eyes on Declaration. She glowered at him.

Declaration flailed her arms at me, her gloves flapping around her fist. “I couldn’t help it that Daddy wanted to stop by here before we went on to the bowling alley! I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but you came running over in your pajamas...What was I supposed to do? Ignore you? Sometimes you are so thick, Comfort! I tried to tell you that you weren’t invited!”

“Who says it’s odd? Kristen? Tiffany?”
Declaration stuck her face so close to mine, I could see the downy hairs on her cheeks—and then she hissed: “No! They don’t say it’s odd! They say it’s stupid!”

Folks streamed into the Serenity Suite like water eddying around rocks, trickling their way up to the casket, swelling around to the family, shaking hands, hugging, laughing, crying, and gurgling out the doors to join other mourners in the parlors and the hallway—everyone talking in low, loving, tidelike tones.

Dismay stood at the doorway to the Serenity Suite, panting and letting himself be patted. Peach paused at the doorway to hug Dismay ferociously.

Peach sat on the other side of Aunt Goldie. He had buried his face in her purple armpit. He began a low moan, so Aunt Goldie began humming to the organ’s “Abide with Me.”

“We are here to celebrate life!” Preacher Powell started. I’d heard him say this 248 times. He never glossed over sadness or tragedy, but he always said, “Life is such a gift!” Now he said, “Let us celebrate the gift that Florentine Snowberger was to her family, her community, and the world.”

Declaration seethed next to me. “What are we supposed to do with him after this?” I shrugged, and she hissed, “I’m not staying in this house and playing marbles with Peach Pit all afternoon!”

A sunbeam streamed through the big glass windows of the Serenity Suite and bathed Aunt Florentine’s alabaster white casket in a golden light.

“The family invites you to get in your cars and take part in the procession to the cemetery now, and then to return to Snowberger’s for a hearty meal, where we will fellowship, one with another.” As people got to their feet, he added, “Take your galoshes! It’s bound to be wet!”

“The family invites you to get in your cars and take part in the procession to the cemetery now, and then to return to Snowberger’s for a hearty meal, where we will fellowship, one with another.” As people got to their feet, he added, “Take your galoshes! It’s bound to be wet!”

Lurleen and Jimmie had brought the hearse to the side of Snowberger’s, just as they always did, and the pallbearers—Daddy, Tidings, Mr. Johnson, and three more of our friends—took Great-great-aunt Florentine and her casket through the pocket doors and the refrigerated workroom and out to the long black hearse for her last car trip on earth.

Peach nodded his head. “Yes’m! I want to go with Comfort."
I didn’t offer to take him, even though I could feel Mama’s gaze on me.
“I wonder if he could just walk over with you, Comfort,” whispered Aunt Goldie, her eyes teeming with fresh tears.

I set my jaw. “Yes, ma’am,” I said in my most rigid voice.
Mama nodded approvingly, and Declaration smirked from the porch swing.
“Declaration?” called Mama. “Would you like to walk with Comfort and Peach?”

“You’ve never climbed a tree in your life,” I scoffed. “Besides, it’s going to rain. Look at that storm coming toward us. It must be raining buckets in Louin.”

“How about this tree?” challenged Declaration. She was standing beside a gnarly oak with knotholes that made it good for climbing—I’d climbed it myself many a day.

Raindrops pattered the orange dirt.

I jerked at him over and over, trying to dislodge him from the tree. “You moron! You idiot! You nincompoop!” Then I let go, which was a mistake. He ran from me, wild-eyed, into the grove, toward Listening Rock.

The downdraft arrived, that eerie second before a big storm hits, just before the wind swoops through and brings in the hard rain.

The rain lessened. The sky lightened. And there we were, two explorers on Listening Rock in the aftermath of a terrible adventure. Peach’s teeth clattered together and his lips were blue.

“I will die one day,” he said.
I looked him in the face, that old face again. He looked so solemn.
“I just will,” he said. “Today I almost died!”

He asked me again, “When I die, will you come to my funeral?”
“You’re exasperating! Yes, yes, if you die before me—and you won’t—I will come. I will be there with bells on.”

We heard the low putt-putt of a motor. I knew that sound. It was the motor Daddy put on the back of our flat-bottom boat when we fished on Lake Jasper. Peach and I both began shouting as Daddy and Mr. Johnson appeared in the boat, dodging trees and debris and calling for us.

“Rescue first,” said Daddy. “This water is receding, and I want the boat out of the grove before the water is gone.” Mr. Johnson retrieved the rope. Daddy reached for the handle on the motor, to steer it away from Listening Rock.