Every Last Cuckoo Read Free Page A

expected the seasons to change. But Hannah drew Sarah’s eye and ear; she was strong-willed, talkative, and filled with color and light.
A butterfly next to an old bat like me,
thought Sarah, chagrined and wry.
    A T DINNER D AVID SAID he had met Tess at a Quaker meeting, the last place Charles or Sarah would have guessed. Tess had been raised among the Friends but hadn’t practiced as an adult until Hannah was a year old. She explained that she wanted Hannah to grow up among people who lived simply and worked for peace and social justice. She seemed reluctant to discuss the matter further, though she did add that Quakers believe each person carries a particle of the divine inside. That was the basis for everything they stood for.
    Sarah had trouble picturing David as a believer or even a seeker. He’d always seemed too coolly ironic for faith, too tightly bound by flesh and bone and logic—though in recent years hehad begun expanding, following artistic impulses that no one had known he had. His chosen medium was clay, his forms were large-scale architectural pieces and sculptures. Still, Sarah thought his nature was more accurately reflected in the finished, cooled shapes than in the fire that cured them.
    She asked him what had drawn him to a Quaker meeting, but all he said was, “I went with some friends a couple of times. I liked the silence. It was peaceful.”
    Tess told Charles and Sarah that she worked as a freelance writer for several museums in the Boston area. She wrote exhibition brochures, captions for works on display, occasional fund-raising letters or grant proposals. “It’s only part-time. I can work from home, so I’m there for Hannah.”
    There was nothing unfriendly about Tess, but nothing easy or forthcoming, either. Neither she nor David offered much that was personal. Little by little, though, their story would emerge. In the usual way of families, people would talk to each other, one at a time or in small clusters, and pieces of their conversations would conjoin. David might tell Sarah more in private than at dinner. Tess might talk to Charlotte and Charlotte to Charles. Lottie, in a sociable mood, could charmingly pry and question, worming more from everyone than they meant to divulge. And Lottie would tell Sarah everything.
    Tess offered to help clean up after their meal, but Sarah said, “Thanks, anyway. I’m going to mix up some pastry first, so I can make the pies first thing tomorrow.” She meant to be up before six. Dinner would be at two. Charlotte would bring side dishes, and Peter and Vivianna Marks, old family friends, would bring wine and hors d’oeuvres.
    David and Tess took Hannah upstairs for a bath and a book.They were using the clawfoot tub in Charles and Sarah’s bathroom, directly above the kitchen, and Sarah could hear snatches of conversation through a grate in the ceiling. She was aware, from the variously abashed, accusing, and delighted reports of her grown children, that many private parental talks had made their way into eager ears through that grate. But tonight Sarah, the eavesdropper, heard nothing she wasn’t supposed to hear.
    T HE NEXT MORNING while the pies were baking, Charles and Sarah drove to the village to deliver a turkey for the annual community dinner. The event, held at the town hall, was open to anyone at loose ends for the holiday. People with no family showed up, along with transients, those who were out of work, and others who barely made it on two jobs. A few of the better-off came bearing food; they stayed to help in the kitchen and share the meal. It would all happen again on Christmas.
    Charles was handing their twenty-pound offering to Amos Brand, the dinner’s organizer—also their friend and attorney—when sirens split the early morning air and shouts followed. Amos, Charles, and Sarah rushed out in time to see state police cars screech to a halt in the small parking lot, while