Free Singing Hands by Delia Ray Page A

like me to turn in my assignment?"
    Mrs. Fernley rose to her feet. "What about Saturday afternoon at four o'clock? That should give you more than ample time. And you can borrow the Funk and Wag until our lessons are concluded."
    "The Funk and what?" I asked.
    "The Funk and Wagnalls dictionary. That's what Papa used to call it—the Funk and Wag."
    "Oh," I said, frowning down at the enormous book spread across my lap. I flipped toward the back, nearly flinching as I scanned the page numbers.
There were more than 2,500 pages
! "Are you sure, Mrs. Fernley?"
    "Of course. I trust you'll take good care of it."
    "Yes, ma'am," I said faintly. I slowly reached for the word list on the table. Tucking it between the pages, I shut the dictionary with a loud thump, then gripped the sides of the book and staggered to my feet.
    "What's that?" Mrs. Fernley said, squinting down at the carpet beside me.
    I turned to see what she was pointing at, and my breath caught in my throat. Miss Grace's folded blue letter had somehow slipped out of the back pocket of my shorts. I had brought it along to the third floor, hoping for some miraculous chance to return it after I was done with Mrs. Fernley.
    "Oh, that's mine," I said a little too loudly as I awkwardly lowered the dictionary to the love seat and snatched up the letter. I shoved it down deep in my pocket, smiling. "It's a letter ... to my Aunt Glo. I keep forgetting to mail it."
    I hoisted the dictionary again, and Mrs. Fernley held the door open for me. She didn't look the least bit suspicious. "Now, remember," she said. "No more knavery, my dear. Your poor mother has enough to manage already."
    After the door had closed behind me, I stood swaying weakly in the dark hallway for a minute. The close call with the letter had sapped my energy, and now I had Mrs. Fernley's two-ton family heirloom to lug around. I wasn't sure whether I should feel honored or exasperated to be the new caretaker of the so-called Funk and Wag. But I certainly had no desire to go limping downstairs with it just so Margaret could point and laugh at my latest predicament.
    I'd have to stow the dictionary in Daddy's office. He was never around these days, anyway. I paused at Miss Grace's room. The door was shut tight, with a sliver of light shining from underneath. She was home, and it was silly to think she might ever leave her room unlocked when she left for work. Just like Mrs. Fernley, she always locked her door. If only I could slip the letter through the crack and be done with it.
    I turned and plodded into Daddy's office across the hall. By the dusky light from the streetlamp outside, I could see well enough to unload the dictionary onto the side of his desk and plop down in his squeaky swivel chair. I pushed off hard with my toe and spun around a few times until I was satisfyingly dizzy. I was facing the windows in the tower when I stopped spinning. Daddy must have forgotten to close them before he left, and I could hear the far-off yowling of two cats fighting in the back alley.
    I rolled the chair into the tower and gazed out over the flickering lights of the city. From my perch there was a clear view of the steel mills down in the flats, their smokestacks throbbing with an eerie orange light in the darkening sky. I'd have to ask Mrs. Fernley which factory her Albanian father had slaved away in for so many years, dreaming of words instead of the skyscrapers and railroad tracks his steel might make one day.
    I glanced toward Red Mountain and the statue of Vulcan, and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. "Somebody's dead," I whispered. Vulcan's torch, held high in his outstretched arm, glowed with a fiery red light. It was one of those strange traditions in Birmingham. When the neon flame on the torch glowed green, the city was safe. But a red flame meant a recent traffic fatality. Someone had been killed, maybe just a few minutes ago, speeding along on one of the highways that ran like racetracks in