The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,49

a collage, or bake cookies, or do a jigsaw puzzle.”

When Tom dropped her off, she headed straight to the puzzle on the dining room table with barely a hello. I asked how he was, how work was going, specifically, and he simply said he was busy, and so was Tinsley—she was training for a marathon.

“Well, make sure she doesn’t run too far,” I said quietly.

He sighed. “That’s the whole point of a marathon, Mother—running twenty-six miles.”

“I’m well aware of what a marathon is, Tom.”

He seemed tired, so I didn’t push things. After I waved good-bye, I vowed to be less meddling, subtler.

The puzzle was of a lake filled with ducks, and it was difficult—the water and the birds were all the same brackish color; the pieces of waves and feathers all looked vaguely alike. Ellie frowned after she’d laid in all the corners—it was hard to know where to begin. I suggested she look for pieces that contained both duck feathers and water—that way she could build heads and wings onto bottoms. But after half an hour, we’d built only two ducks and had no idea where they belonged on the lake.

“You’d think they could have thrown in a red rowboat or something,” I muttered.

“Grandma, can we play in the attic?” Her face shone brightly, as if the word attic was “ice cream.” I felt a flush, too, as I always did, I’d noticed, whenever she called me Grandma.

“Play dress up? I don’t have much clothing up there, you know.”

“No, just, you know, like, look through the old trunks like we did before, on your mom’s birthday.”

In the last week she seemed to have added “you know” and “like” to her sentences, the same way the college students did.

“Okay, but it will be hot up there.”

“I don’t care.”

“We’re going to need some beverages, I believe.”

“Coke?” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Let’s get the ice cubes and the jelly jars,” I replied, and headed for the kitchen.

There were two chairs in the attic from the last time. I brought up a portable fan, cranked open the windows on each side, and we settled in with our drinks, taking care to stay away from the green trunks. I read her a few letters Theo had written me while we were engaged; she got a huge kick out of his misspelled words. I explained to her that architects were like mad scientists—no time for frivolities like spelling or nuisances like cooking, cleaning, mowing the lawn. It was all about the projects—their babies, their life. Ellie said that sounded like too much work. She said her father always mowed the lawn, and I smiled, then frowned. I hated hearing ways in which Tom didn’t take after Theo; it brought back all the old worries. Over the years, I’d make mental lists of all the ways in which they were alike: their blue eyes, their love of art and music, their quietness and seriousness. At night I’d count them like sheep, willing them, bonding them. When Tom chose to be a lawyer, I tried to talk him into architecture, which he’d always admired. As if I could change all things by changing one thing.

Under Tom’s christening gown and baby book was a box of buttons, which I’d completely forgotten about. Ellie took them out and surveyed them, like marbles. My mother and Aunt Caro had collected buttons as children—many of them were antique, made of glass or bone and other things that are probably legislated against and outlawed now. Ellie held up one that appeared to be alligator, and said, “Wow.”

“We should do something with those, I suppose.” I sighed. “Sew them onto a felted purse or something. Betsy might have some ideas. She thought I should teach you to knit this winter.”

“Or you could just put the buttons in a glass jar on your coffee table,” Ellie said.

“Well, that would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

I took a sip of my Coke while Ellie crouched above the brown trunk. She set the box of buttons on the floor and pulled out a rolled-up calendar from 1962 with photos of office buildings.

“Oh, that’s Theo’s. Are his office things in there, too? I didn’t look in this trunk.”

“Yes,” she said, pulling out a red stapler and a leather pencil cup that had a mechanical pencil and paper clip still in it.

“Are there blueprints in there? We could make wrapping paper from them. I did that now and then with your father. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

When Ellie pulled up the