The Secret Hum of a Daisy: Chapters 14–23

Grudgingly, I followed her into the truck and Granny Smith started right up.

A solitary bird, hollow it flew
Through a haze of months marked by the moon
Come to a meadow, shiny with dew
Where hollow bones sang, and deep inside grew
The secret hum of a daisy in June.

There were stone bridges over creeks and a huge expanse of grass, big enough to play softball, and a gazebo off to one side.

The bird sanctuary Sheriff Bergum had talked about was huge, at least an acre of trees with a pond in the middle, nesting boxes all around, and birds singing for all they were worth.

She said she’d never leave me, that not even death could separate us, and I saw her there in the rustle of the leaves overhead, the trickling sound of water, the rainbow-colored birdhouses.

They all let out a collective breath.

Then Mr. Flinch took us to hand-deliver the remaining still-warm brownies to Mrs. Miller at Lafollette’s, where she promptly gave me and Jo an earful about who did we think we were, giving her and everyone else a worry attack.

She gave me a bear hug that squeezed the air out of my lungs, and then she gave one to Jo. Once we’d been sufficiently squeezed, we eyeballed the brownies.

I could spend the night at Jill’s house, where we wouldn't do anything monumental and we wouldn't watch any movies like My Girl or Shiloh or anything that might cause endless amounts of sobbing.

Tiny, hairy
Scant, yet scary.
Where have you come from, O lint?

She talked about the upcoming dance and that she didn’t have a decent dress. How Mrs. Greene was all in a lather because she’d always made Lacey’s fancy dresses and now Lacey wanted one from the mall.

A whole school year.
Start to finish.
Long enough to know
quirks,
facial expressions
and tones of voice,
mine and hers.

Grandma slouched over some boxes in a pool of light from the attic dormer.

I always thought it was her penance, her way of saying she was sorry.

Mrs. Greene didn’t mind her own business, always putting her two cents in, even going as far as to chastise Mama for dragging me around to kingdom come, and for not living up to her God-given potential.

That last pinball thought bounced around my head and couldn’t find an answer. Not even a measly one worth five points.

“Your mother and I didn’t get along, Grace. Just as she told you. Especially after the accident. I did ship her off, to my cousin in Texas, but she never made it there. I could tell you I sent her away because I felt that would be easiest on her, instead of having to live in such a small town, pregnant, after such a tragedy. But really, it was easiest for me.”

After keeping grocery money in a coffee can my whole life and just buying staples—mac and cheese, hot dogs, hamburger, Wonder Bread—Mrs. Greene’s fried chicken, black-eyed peas, and corn bread or her teriyaki flank steak and roasted potatoes were just what we needed.

Lacey looked mystified. “A horse?”

I ran my hand over soft velvets and scratchy denim, picking up a cheerful piece of apple-green gingham.

Mama was like one of her birds, pieces of lovely all cobbled together with a heart full of sorrow that she’d welded closed.

Mrs. Greene sat me on an ottoman and kneeled down in front of me.

She smoothed my most stubborn cowlick as I pulled a scrap of pink felt out of a nearby pile and used it to wipe my nose.

I saw Sheriff Bergum through the window sitting at the counter in Spoons. So that was why she’d been primping. If she’d been Mama, I would have made little smooching noises, but I didn’t think Grandma would take too kindly to that.

“Looks like you have the knack,” Margery said.
“Not like Mama.”
“So what’s your knack?”
I didn’t want to talk about writing.

The elusive Mel came out from the kitchen with his famous ladle and pointed toward the room where the comfy chairs were.

Mama never made her clues easy. I always had to use imagination and craftiness to figure out where to go next.

This time, I had to rely on my gut, this flimsy little thing that didn’t seem to know up from down anymore.

I was mesmerized by how she whisked herself from one end of the desk to the other, dug through drawers and printed things, answered the phone and leaned down to pick up a dropped pencil, all without that hair moving one square inch.

When we stopped at the door, I looked at him, really saw him. The way he didn’t go anywhere without his red suitcase or bandages on his hands. How he was completely obsessed with mummies and entombment and no one was listening.

It seemed like a dig at Jo, them not including her in their T-shirt plans, and Jo was sulky all morning, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her until art.

Archer and Stubbie clapped. Ginger stood up and took a bow, her peanut hair falling in a cascade to the floor. She swept it back in a flourish.

These will be due next week, so over the next couple of days, I want you to consider what you might put on the abstract side. Really consider it. And then start to compile. Phrases that your dad always says. A snatch of fabric. Hopes for the future.

Instead, she took a paper-sized piece of poster board out of the file and set it in front of me, my bumpy ten-year-old’s signature scrawled on the bottom left corner.

She walked over to her desk and scrounged around, coming up with a pinecone.