A Sparrow for Job

Chapter 1-3

I stare out at the parking lot, watching the people come and go. Some are happy. They giggle and hold hands. Others are scared. I can see the concern in their tight faces. Regardless, they all have one thing in common. They know where they are going. There is no hesitation in their steps. They have focus, direction. I wish I could say the same for myself.

I have a little bit of money saved up in my bank account but not enough to get an apartment. My Walmart is open twenty-four hours. I’m scheduled to work tonight. Maybe I can take naps in the break room. I wonder if anyone would notice I never leave. “Yeah, Sparrow James, and maybe your fairy godmother will pop out of a bubble and make all your dreams come true.” You know you’ve hit rock bottom when your best option is living in a department store break room.

I guess that’s it then—the women’s shelter. I’m just about to stand and begin my trek downtown—I have no idea how far it is, several miles I’m sure—when a woman sits beside me and asks, “Are you Sparrow James?”

My first instinct is to respond, ‘Who’s asking? and I didn’t do it’. Apparently, I’ve watched way too many crime shows. But I keep quiet. This must be someone from Child Protective Services. She must not realize I’m eighteen. My file probably hasn’t been updated. Do I have a file? I’m not sure. Probably. Everyone has a file, except maybe for Darrel. He never uses his real name when filling out forms … or ordering pizza, for that matter.

“It’s okay, child,” she says. “I can see you’re a little panicked. Let me ease your mind. Suzy asked me to find you. I’m a volunteer here at the hospital. Suzy and I have been friends since we were little sprouts. We were both nurses together a long time ago. She’s got more heart than sense sometimes. But then, that’s probably why the good Lord made us friends. I knock that sense right into her when she starts trying to save every child, dog, cat, or grasshopper that crosses her path. I guess you’re her latest project.”

Still, I say nothing.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to help, mind you,” the woman continues. “But how much help can you be if you wind up homeless and hungry yourself?”

I guess I’ll know the answer to that question soon enough, as that’s exactly the situation in which I find myself.

“Anyway, that’s how I come to be sitting here talking your ear off. Suzy and her big heart.”

I narrow my eyes at her. My mind reels. Am I hallucinating again?

But when she meets my eyes, I relax. Having spent so much time looking into the eyes of the two most soulless people on earth, my parents, I can instantly see she’s different. This woman has soulful eyes, the kind of eyes that see a person, truly sees them, yet doesn’t condemn what she finds. I can tell this is a person who despairs over the pain of others and rejoices with them in their happiness.

Her eyes are an exotic gold, though their sheen is slightly clouded. The woman’s chocolate skin is crinkled and worn, like rich milk chocolate that’s been poured out onto the ground, left to dry and crackle in the sun. Her wiry grey hair is a bit tangled, pulled back into a bun, revealing delicate ears sporting small diamond studs that sparkle as the light catches them. Her clothing is simple, a purple, long-sleeved shirt. She wears a black jacket bearing a tag that reads “Volunteer.” The woman radiates something I can’t put my finger on. I think it’s a … goodness … maybe. Whatever it is, I get the feeling it’s something that can’t be seen from a distance, but almost overwhelms with its subtly when you get up next to her.

“Well?” she says. I’d almost forgotten she’d asked me a question.

Again, I try not to lie. “Yes, I’m Sparrow James.” I’m sure I must be staring at her like a creeper.

“Superlative,” the woman says. “My name is Etta White.”

I gape at her.

“And yes, I get the irony. But what’s even more ironic is that my husband was white. Don’t ever let it be said that God doesn’t have a sense of humor. He brought us together and, no matter how silly taking his last name was going to sound to people, there was no changing our mind that we were meant to be together.” She smiles and her eyes sparkle.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you, Mrs. White.” My mind seems to be stuck in neutral.

“Oh no.” She waves her hand at me. “None of that Mrs. business. We’re going to be roommates, after all. Call me Etta.”

My eyes widen. The word roommates kicks my mind back into gear. “Excuse me?” My eyebrows have probably disappeared into the top of my hairline.

At this point, you might be thinking that dear old Etta is a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal, and, honestly, I’m thinking that too. But, I’m not rude and I’ve got a several-mile hike in front of me, one which I’m going to have to make recovering from recent stab wounds. Forgive me if I indulge the old woman’s delusions for a little longer if it means I can sit and rest for a while.

Etta nods. “Suzy mentioned you were at a bit of a crossroads in life. She said you might be open to gainful employment. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a spring chicken.”

I can feel my eyebrows still haven’t returned to their normal position. “Okay, what does that have to do with me?”

“I just so happen to need a live-in helper. I’ve had a hard time finding someone I feel I can trust. Now, mind you, it’s nothing fancy. Just an old three-bedroom house. The pay won’t be great, but it is room and board.

“You don’t look like you eat more than a mouse so that will be a welcome change from when my son was living at home. That child ate everything that didn’t eat him first. He’d be eatin’, and with his mouth full he’d say, ‘Mama, I’m still hungry. What else we got?’ I kid you not. There were times we’d be sittin’ at the dinner table and I swear he’d be eyeballin’ my food, just a-waitin’ for me to look away. But I kept my fork at the ready. He knew I’d have no qualms about pronging his hand if he made a wrong move toward my supper. It’s a good thing he went into the military. Now he’s the taxpayers’ burden to feed, and I promise you, they might reconsider accepting his service if he eats like he did when he was here.”

Now, not only have my eyebrows disappeared, but I’m sure my mouth is hanging open as well. I’m glad it’s winter. Any other time and flies would probably be zooming in, looking for a warm home. I stare at her, my eyes wide.

I was right before. She’s delusional. And clearly, she needs to get her eyes checked. If she thinks my muffin-top self “doesn’t look like I eat more than a mouse,” then she’s blind. And she talks too fast. One topic sort of bleeds into another. Usually, that wouldn’t be a problem, but with the night I had and the accompanying blood loss, processing more than one sentence at a time is quite the challenge. Not to mention, she uses words that are so ancient they need to be dusted off before being spoken.

“Oh dear,” Etta says as she clucks her tongue at me and slowly shakes her head. “Suzy didn’t mention you were doltish. I don’t mean that in an offensive way at all.” She holds up her palms. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with being a little vacuous. Variety in this world is what makes it exciting. We are all God’s creatures, all different, special in our own way. Thank heavens for that. If we were all the same, this world would be uninspiring. Don’t you worry yourself about it.”

“I’m not doltish,” I say quickly. I don’t think I’m doltish. I don’t have a dictionary on hand, but I can infer what she means. “I’ve just had a rough nigh—well, eighteen years or so. Last night was the icing on the cake. And, no offense, I’m not exactly used to strangers approaching me and offering food and shelter. Forgive me if I seem a little … vacuous. Believe me, plenty of great stuff going on up here.” I tap my temple.

“I’d love to hear all about it. But let’s get moving while you talk. On nice days, I like to walk home. It improves circulation. And it’s invigorating, don’t you think?”

“I guess, but I haven’t accepted your offer. How far away do you live?”

“You will and twenty miles,” Etta says as she stands and puts her purse over her shoulder.

“What the—twenty miles?” And I thought it was going to be a tough walk to the shelter. The s***h on my stomach is throbbing already. Am I really going to do this?

I stand up, quickly weighing my options. I can stay with one elderly lunatic I don’t know or an entire building full of people I don’t know, who might also be lunatics … but probably won’t be elderly, which makes it easier for them to slit my throat in my sleep. I’ve already been stabbed once in the past twenty-four hours. I don’t think I want to repeat the experience. I’m sure I could take this old woman if she attacked me. I glance out of the corner of my eye at her and watch her use her enormous purse to shoo away some overly aggressive pigeons. Okay, so if she came at me with the purse, my victory might not be so certain.

Etta starts to make a weird noise, and I realize she’s laughing. It looks painful, like full-body rapid huff. “You should see your face.” She cackles for a moment then releases a contented sigh. “Lordy me, that was great. I live a half a mile from here. It’ll take us about ten minutes. I just couldn’t help but give you a hard time. I’ve been alone for a few years since my Job went into the military. There’s no one left around to tease.”

“But you volunteer at the hospital,” I say.

“Only once or twice a month now,” Etta replies.

“Glad I could be of amusement.”

She laughs again and begins to walk away. With no conscious thought, I follow. Thankfully, she is content to stroll, but if she decides to pick up the pace, I’m doubtful I can keep up.

I slip my hands into the pockets of the borrowed jacket. Though it might not be freezing, it was a long way from summer. And my hands feel weird, just lolling by my sides, hanging at the end of my arms. It’s strange to walk with nothing to carry. I realize I’ve always had something—a purse or backpack—with me at all times. Never anything of value, of course, but at least something that belongs to me. Something that says, ‘hey, a real-life person exists and they own this thing’. Now, I have nothing. Nothing. No thing. I have no thing. I am no thing.

“You’re not one of those weird people who lives alone and takes in random people under the guise of helping them only to then kill them and cook them in your chili, are you?”

Etta shakes her head. “Of course not. I hate chili. Human flesh tastes best in a jambalaya. The seasoning takes out the wild flavor.” Her voice is chastising, as if what she was saying was common knowledge and I am silly for being so ignorant.

“I’m not sure if I should be concerned you can say something like that with a straight face or thankful you have a sense of humor.”

“I, for one, find it refreshing you are so straightforward. That’s an atypical trait in young people these days. So, I’ll be straight with you too. I’m offering you help because you need it. There was a point in my life, a long time ago, when I needed help. Someone recognized it and was kind of enough to lend me their aide. I have no ulterior motive unless you’re looking for a husband. In that case, I will gladly attempt to force my son upon you. Other than that, I simply want to help you get on your feet. No strings attached.”

I purse my lips and narrow my eyes. I’ve never come across someone willing to do a good deed for their fellow man or women without wanting something in return. “Well, you’re a new breed to me, Etta. The only other adults I know take, use, and throw away anything and anyone after they have no more use for them. And they have much smaller vocabularies. Mrs. Suzy, and now you, well, you’re the first kind people I believe I’ve ever met.”

“Hmm, I do have a love of words and, lamentably, people often suck.”

“Suck?”

She shrugs. “I like all words, not just the obscure ones.”

We walk in companionable silence for a couple of blocks. I’m watching my feet hit the cracks on the sidewalk, and Etta is humming a familiar song, though I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is. The sun is climbing higher in the sky, but the day hasn’t yet warmed.

“Sparrow?” Etta asks. “Forgive me for bringing it up, but I find myself intrigued by your disposition. You have bandages on your arms, a large one on your face, and probably some in other places I can’t see. Yet, you don’t seem self-conscious. For one your age, that’s not typical.”

“Self-conscious? Do you mean I should be concerned about how I look as I walk down the street in broad daylight, appearing as if I’ve just escaped a serial killer in a slasher movie?”

“Most girls would be.”

“I’m not. I’ve never given my appearance much thought. I know I’m twenty pounds overweight. The fact that you mentioned I don’t eat more than a mouse was making me think you must be comparing me to Gus, the mouse in Cinderella. But having a little extra junk in my trunk and jiggle in my wiggle hasn’t ever bothered me.” I shrug. “I mean, I take care of myself, wear clean clothes, comb my hair, basic hygiene stuff. Not easy since I’ve had to work since I was thirteen to buy all those things, as well as keep up with my schoolwork. Whether my appearance is pleasing to other people hasn’t been something I’ve had the luxury to worry about. I’ve had too many more important things in my eighteen years to stress over than whether Bobbie Sue and her twinkies approve of my looks.”

“Blessing and a curse,” Etta says softly. “You will live a happier life if you aren’t vain, but that life lesson has come to you at a high cost.” She lets out a small sigh and then stops. “Here we are.”

I raise my head and turn to the right. We’re standing in front of a one-story house that, though it has been taken care of, was built at least fifty years ago, if not more. Honestly, I would call it a cottage before I’d call it a house.

It’s small and picturesque with ivy-covered brick and a rounded wooden front door. A flowerbed runs the length of the front of the house and curves around the side. The front yard is caged in with an adorable picket fence that reaches only waist high and has a gate that opens to a walkway leading up to the porch.

“It’s wonderful,” I say.

“I’m glad you like it.” Etta unlatches the gate and pushes it open. As she steps inside, she turns, holds her arm out, and smiles at me. “Welcome home, Sparrow James.”