All the Dancing Birds Read Free Page A

deal is this… I’m negotiating with Brown and Sauter.” His mouth curls over the name of the law firm like a child screaming delight over a shining red bicycle on Christmas morning. “They’ve opened a spot to bring on a water guy like me, actually they’ve decided to start up an environmental department, and it looks like I’m their dude. It’s a perfect fit and I’m really, really ready to move back here.”
    I clap my hands. “Oh, well, dear, that’s wonderful news. Just wonderful!”
    “Don’t get excited yet. I probably won’t know anything for at least a month.”
    “But still, it’s wonderful. We’ll all hold good thoughts for it.” I point my voice toward the kitchen. “Won’t we, Allison?” Returning to Bryan, I ask, “How does Katie feel? Is she excited?”
    “I really couldn’t say. I don’t talk to her.”
    “You don’t talk to her? Why on earth?”
    “Mom, of course not. Why would I talk to Katie? We’re through with all the haggling over who gets what, no kids to fight over, no designer dog to split down the middle. It’s just a matter of toughing out California’s stupid six month and one day waiting period for the divorce to be final. We’re almost there, though… actually, the middle of next month.”
    “Divorce? Divorc e? My God, Bryan. You never told me.” My hands flutter across my lap like wounded sparrows shot from the sky. “How could you not tell me?”
    “Of course I told you. We talked on the phone about it. You cried all over the place. Told me I was a jerk and I should try to work things out. How could you forget?”
    “Oh, well… of course,” I say, my eyes widening as if I were just caught being naughty. “No, actually… I just meant‌—‌”
YOU SEARCH. You search like a wild woman through every tangled memory you’ve ever had for something‌—‌anything‌—‌that reminds you of a significant conversation. You look into the deep of your wine, like it’s a witch’s gazing pool and think yourself crazy not to remember your son announcing the end of his five-year marriage. You run through the halls of your mind to whatever synapse or structure might hold the memory of a conversation so meaningful that it most likely stole your breath away and made you twist a hanky between your fingers for the sheer agony of it all. Your mind is mean. It has taken a moment from you‌—‌a huge moment‌—‌and in a bully’s game of keep-away, it won’t give it back. You hope your eyes don’t make a clamor that would call attention to the wild foray going on inside your head. In the end, you lamely mutter an apology. Tears well in your eyes and you excuse yourself to the powder room before those too are discovered. You stand over the sink and berate the face you see in the mirror. When you’ve sufficiently recovered, you finish the evening with a half-frozen smile pasted to your face, all the while spreading vows throughout every nook and cranny of your mind to keep future diligence over your conversations. By the time you leave, your only issue is where‌—‌once again‌—‌you’ve placed your car keys.
    On the way home, I make a wrong turn onto the freeway. I’ve headed toward Lake Tahoe, when I should have turned in the direction of San Francisco. Stupid. Silly. I realize I’m well far away from where I should be, but in all honesty, I could say that about myself in most everything these days. “My God, Lillie Claire,” I say into the dark of my car. “What in the world is wrong with you?”
    For the umpteenth time in one day, another sting of tears starts up behind my eyes. I’ve been tilted on my axis, only to be soundly dumped onto my sad and ridiculous chowderhead.
    I correct my direction at the following off-ramp and then spend the next thirty minutes paying close attention to my hands, gripping them tightly to the wheel to keep them from making another wrong turn. I only find familiarity when I finally pull into my driveway. I turn