Free Water Street by Patricia Reilly Giff Page A

much he cared for Mama and the rest of them. And sometimes Mama called him a gallant soul.
    Sister Raymond was at the next aisle.
    How could Bird have a book if he didn't? She slipped Da's book back into her desk, tucking the pink flowered cloth around it. She crossed her arms over the top of the empty desk the way Thomas had, and leaned her head on them.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
{BIRD}
    It was early in the morning, darker than usual because the night had been stormy and crumpled brown leaves were plastered against the window. Next to Bird in bed, Annie was breathing lightly, still asleep. Annie had stayed up late last night, making dozens of tiny gingerbread men to celebrate the beginning of winter, and even this morning Bird breathed in the sweet scent of them coming from the kitchen.
    She reached for Da's book on the little table and lay there trying to read in the half-light as she kneaded her feet against the blankets. She didn't have to get up for another five or ten minutes, and she savored the warmth of the bed and the story she was beginning.
    What had it been like the first time Da tried to read the same page? She could almost see his finger under each word,the whisper of his voice as he sounded out the words to himself. How had he ever done that? It seemed impossible.
    And then she realized Annie's eyes were on her. “Sorry,” she said.
    “You didn't wake me, not really. I was just thinking about how warm it is, cozy.”
    Bird smiled at her and nodded.
    In the apartment upstairs something dropped and rolled on the bare floor.
    “Thomas is up,” Bird said. “Or Mr. Neary.”
    A frown appeared between Annie's eyebrows. “Ah, Thomas, and that miserable father of his.” She squinted up at the ceiling. “If I ever have a child—”
    “You'd be a lovely mother.” Bird poked at Annie's foot with her own. “A little bossy, but …”
    “I'll never even find a husband,” Annie said.
    “You will,” Bird said fiercely. “I know you will.”
    “Ah,” Annie said, “to have a bunch of children, to be home and cook every day.” She shook her head. “It will never happen like that for me. I'm not pretty, not even a little. I'll spend my days in the box factory.”
    Bird reached out and touched her shoulder. “Not true, Annie, don't say that.”
    Surely someone would see how good Annie was. Bird thought of Mama telling her once,
“I owe what I know about healing to my neighbor Anna back in the Old Country. Annie was named for her. A special name, and both special people.”
    Annie turned to her. “I'm glad to have you alone for a moment, Bird. I've wanted to talk to you about Hughie.”
    Bird closed the book. She'd lost the warmth of the morning, the feeling of peace. Thomas upstairs with that father of his, Annie sad, and Hughie—
    “Something inside Hughie is broken,” Annie said.
    Bird thought of Hughie, walking with her so long ago, when she was so small she had to skip to keep up; teaching her to button her shoes; Hughie laughing.
    “Anything that's broken can be fixed,” she said without thinking. She'd heard Mama say that so many times, even though she wasn't sure she believed it.
    Annie slid out of bed and turned to face her. “It's you, Bird. You're the one who can find out what's wrong. He loves you best, you know.” She leaned over to tap Bird's foot under the covers. “You're the one we all love best.”
    Bird lay there, savoring what Annie had said, but then thinking of Hughie skipping work, fighting, his face closed and angry.
    Just last night they'd been alone in the kitchen. He had stood there in front of Mama's plants, his head bent, his dark hair falling over his forehead so she couldn't see his eyes.
    “Hughie, please,” she'd said, not even sure how to put it into words. “Remember what it was like before—” She wanted to say before he'd been sick, when he still worked at the bridge, but something stopped her. He didn't answer.
    She heard the sound of the upstairs door closing.