Free Kathy Little Bird by Nancy Freedman, Benedict Freedman

church?” And he roared at his own humor.
    “I sing in clubs,” I responded haughtily, recalling a short bio of Patsy Cline I’d found in a magazine in one of the trash bins behind the market.
    The remark intrigued Jack. “What clubs?”
    Here I was on more sure ground. “The Eight Bells.”
    “Well, what do you know.” Jack’s whistle again demonstrated how impressed he was. “Sing something.”
    I had quite a large repertoire. As part of my housekeeping I’d taken our radio into town and had it fixed. I ran through a number of songs in my head, looking for something he’d go for, then launched into a pop number, snapping my fingers to find the rhythm.
    When I finished there was another whistle from Jack, quite different from the others. This one was long and appreciative. “You’re good.”
    “I know.”
    He laughed. “You know, do you?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re a queer one, Kathy. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
    We sped into the night with a sliver of moon hanging over our heads. The horses were tethered as they had been last night. I proffered my sugar cubes with a flat palm so their soft nuzzling mouths wouldn’t accidentally nip. Abram had taught me that.
    Jack was watching, taking this in. “I see you know your way around horses, too.”
    I didn’t really, but I let this stand. I wanted him to think I was accomplished, with many facets to my nature. After I’d fed and patted the ponies and decided the dappled-gray silver was my favorite, we sat at the back of the horse trailer and dangled our feet.
    Jack confided his plans, marvelous plans that on the instant had grown to include me. He would lay New York City at my feet. With my talent, he’d promote me onto the charts. I’d be doing recordings, singing on radio—all my daydreams spilled out of his grinning Irish mouth. “I’ve got to be moving on,” he told me. “And you’re coming with me. That’s right, isn’t it?”
    I laughed at him, pretending I didn’t want it more than anything in the world.
    “You’re the one thing that’s keeping me in this godforsaken place.” He shook his head as he said this, as though arguing with himself.

Chapter Six
    J AS was waiting by the mailbox for me.
    “What are you doing here?” I snapped. Attack worked best with Jas.
    “I knew you were up to something. I saw you get into a car with that redheaded guy….”
    I thought fast and decided to make him a co-conspirator. I spun out a romance and swore him to secrecy. He was old enough now and was caught up in the adventure. I exaggerated a bit, especially as to being in love. I wasn’t sure I was in love. When I was with Jack, I was. When I wasn’t, I hardly thought of him.
    I knew in my bones that the way to find out how I felt was to visit Abram. I hadn’t seen Abram this past week; now I had to see him.
    The next afternoon I went directly to Mr. Renfall’s lumber company, where Abram was at work stacking crates and boxes. I knew, because he told me, that the money he made was divided into three piles: one for his parents, one for the church, and one he held out. That was for us, our running-away money.
    He pulled me into a back corner of the storage shed and kissed me.
    It was Abram kissing, not Jack. Abram kissed in a way that brought me to my toes. I felt his love and his commitment. And for some reason felt sad to be loved like this.
    “Oh, Abram,” and I stroked his face, his good, strong face.

    M Y third date with Jack, things took a different turn. I was fighting not only Sullivan but myself. He had an exciting way of scooping me up in his arms, making me feel not only that I was a woman but that I was his woman. His hands were never still; they petted and stroked, sometimes gently, almost lazily, sometimes brazenly. Until now I had kept him in check, and if I felt we were being swept along, I would say, “Watch it, Jack—that’s a preacher and ring move.” After a while I curtailed it simply to