All the Dancing Birds Read Free

graceful charm and the confusion of such an unlikely juxtaposition filled him with constant sparks and clouds.
    For whatever reason, Bryan has fussed at me from the first. My breasts were never tasty enough; my arms never comfort enough for his lusty lungs and kicking legs. He fumed and gyrated from the beginning and, from all indications, he is still eluded by the simple satisfaction of an ordinary day.
    Still, in spite of his frowning eyebrows and lip biting, he is beautiful and I ache for the days when I could have pulled him to my lap, singing Skidamarink a dinky dink, Skidamarink a doo , which always made him clap and laugh and beg me to sing it again and again.
    Bryan waves me in, barely taking his eyes from the game. I settle myself in a chair across from him. He jiggles his legs up and down, a habit born, I suppose, from always hurrying. Even seated in a comfortable chair, my son seems to run places without ever leaving. A defiant glass of yellow-white chardonnay (in direct opposition to my lovely, rich cabernet) rests cupped in his hand.
    “Hi, sweetheart,” I say. “Wow, it’s good to see you.”
    “Hey, Mom. Good to see you too.” He greets me without looking up from the game. The last light of the day crawls over his shoes.
    I try again. “I’m so excited. Your sister tells me you’re moving back to Sacramento.”
    That does it.
    “Allison!” Bryan yells toward the direction of the kitchen. “She’s such a butt,” he says into his wine when she doesn’t answer. “It’s not a certainty… I’m still negotiating with the law firm.”
    “A law firm? How wonderful. In Sacramento?”
    “Good God, Mom. Of course it’s a law firm. I’m a lawyer .”
    “Don’t be so cheeky with your mother, Bryan. I can only thank God that your father isn’t alive to hear such language.”
    I watch my son’s face fold inward for a brief moment and I know my words have stung like needles. A mother’s words, especially when spoken through a well-puckered mouth, punctuated with narrowed eyes and a slight tilt of the head, carry more weight than any well-articulated swat.
    “Oh, gosh, Mom, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry,” Bryan says, lowering his face. “I only meant‌—‌”
    “I know what you meant, dear. It’s just‌—‌”
    “Well, still… I don’t think it was Allison’s call to spill my good-news beans.” Bryan swirls his wine, then watches it settle back. “If she ever gets a job, I hope she’ll give me the honor of jumping into the middle of her announcement.”
    “Allison would be the first to tell you she married well and divorced even better, so perhaps we’ll need to wish for other good news for you to spill on behalf of your sister.” I smile, but I’m not certain my point was received in the manner I intended.
    “Right… I forgot her job is shopping . Not much to spill when her only source of world news is the Saturday Macy’s ad.”
    I decide it’s that nasty white wine that’s constricted his mouth and soured his mood. I tip my head rightward and bestow a smile on my son, in spite of his fundamental arrogance. I wait until he can no longer stand my silence‌—‌another effective motherly tactic.
    “Sorry again. I didn’t mean to be rude. Not to you.” Bryan leans his head in the direction of Allison, who’s now fussing over the dinner table. “I meant to direct my rudeness to She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Ignored.” Bryan raises his voice toward Allison, who is unsuccessfully trying to stand a narrow bouquet of dyed blue daisies within the neck of a too-large vessel.
    “Whatever, Bryan,” Allison says, giving up on the flowers and allowing them to flop in an ungainly clump down one side of the vase.
    “Okay, kids,” I say. “Let’s not make my day worse than it’s already been.”
    I stop myself before spilling my own secret-news beans about the recent state of my memory.
    “No worries,” Bryan says. “Anyway, I wanted to surprise you at dinner, but the