It Wasn't Always Like This - Joy Preble Page 0,6

began with “I,” every story large and dramatic. On the other hand, he’d worked at the Central Park Zoo and the Bronx Zoo and even the menagerie in Prospect Park near the O’Neill’s house, and he knew more about birds and gators than her own father did, which was mostly limited to books. Emma’s father read everything—so did Emma—but he hadn’t been much of a doer until now.

Still, she had to hand it to him; this move to Florida was a real adventure. Not just something he read about or talked about. Emma hoped her father was right, that the move would make them rich. Who could complain then? Money made her parents argue, that much she knew. They fought about it late at night when they thought their children weren’t listening, but sometimes Emma heard, and it made her stomach clench. Having more of it would help, wouldn’t it?

But how long would that take?

Her father didn’t have an answer. Once they arrived in St. Augustine, he went back to reading. And now that they were stuck here, stuck in this sticky and swampy place, she wished her father would look up from his books more often.

Then maybe he’d see how her mother laughed a little too loudly and smiled a little too brightly when Mr. Ryan told one of his jokes or stories.

The man was always talking.

Didn’t he know people could also be quiet? He could stand to read a little more. In this way, she supposed, she was like her father. She liked to learn, liked knowing how the world worked, really worked. People like Frank Ryan didn’t care. They were happy to make it all up as they went along. Then again, people and things weren’t always predictable in ways you could learn from books.

Money would help, Emma reminded herself, and if they got rich, life would improve.

So she held out hope. Her mother would admire how her father had been right. The business would do well. Florida would be the best thing that had ever happened to any of them. Her mother would stop looking at Mr. Ryan, and Emma could stop worrying. The Ryans didn’t seem to have much money either, at least not that Emma could tell.

So maybe once they all got rich, everything would work itself out.

“It’s going to be wonderful,” Emma’s mother kept saying.

When? Emma kept wanting to ask.

It was hot and humid, and there was no big city just across the bridge like in New York. Oh, Emma loved the ocean, but she could see the Atlantic back in New York. Sometimes they traveled up to Jacksonville, but that wasn’t much better. Everything smelled salty here—parts of Brooklyn smelled like the ocean sometimes but never this bad—and the streets were too skinny, and it was all too . . . small. It was not an adventure, after all. The grown-ups were too busy getting the Alligator Farm and Museum up and running, too busy rounding up huge scaly gators with enormous jaws and frightening teeth.

“But the sunrises!” her mother would exclaim when Emma grumbled.

Secretly Emma found the sunrises beautiful, the way the sun rose as if from underwater, lighting everything golden. But she would reply with a sour face.

“It’s just the sun. And everything tastes like salt.”

Mostly Emma thought, You spend too much time goggling at Mr. Ryan, Mama. Thinking about it made her chest feel tight.

And so it went. Until the day of the hawk. Until Charlie.

•

“I’m going out for a while once we f inish,” Emma’s mother said that morning. She was unwrapping a plate from brown paper, the last of their items that had been left in storage crates from the move. “Do you know that Frank Ryan says there are thousands of ibises? He says they’re exquisite. He knows everything about birds, you know.”

Her mother loved pretty things. Anything new and different always caught her eye. She was a pretty thing herself, her f igure shapely and slim in her new shirtwaist, even after three children.

“I hate birds,” said Emma, even though she didn’t. But her mother was removing the wrapper from another dish, the stiff brown paper crackling as she folded it, and so she didn’t hear. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“I need to get some air. I’ll be back soon.” Her mother fanned at her f lushed face.

In addition to unpacking, they’d been cooking and baking all morning, making baked ham and yeast rolls and mashed potatoes and green beans and a chocolate cake that