1. Read the story: The Flight of the Snowbird
2. Write four questions based on the story (Think about questions like the ones we used for discussion in our Reading Club meetings.)
3. Establish a relationship between the girl in the story The Flight of the Snowbird and one of the characters from the stories we read. (The Refugee Hotel, Haircut, And the toilet would not flush, The ones who walk away from Omala, Miss Brill, Prue, A beautiful child.)
The Flight of the Snowbird
The
snow was falling quickly now. It was beginning to form little piles
in the corners of the wooden
cross of
the windowpane. The winter sky was pink-white and the bare trees in
the front yard cast their weird shadows in the pale winter light.
Suddenly
something flapped its way into the yard. It landed awkwardly in the
snow and fell forward on its beak. The bird struggled to its feet and
glanced around intently. It was small and white, about the size of
a sparrow.
The bird waddled clumsily, occasionally pecking at the ground.
The
boy at the window watched the bird with his nose against the glass.
He pressed his forehead against the pane and then watched as its
vapor print disappeared. He did this three times and wondered if he
would be able to get away from them tonight. The lawn chairs in the
front yard were heavy with snow, and he longed to be outside to tip
them over.
His
mother called him and the bird flew off. The boy watched it
fly gracefullyacross
the moonlit sky and idly wondered to himself what kind of bird it
was. He watched it until it was out of sight behind the barn and then
resumed his drawings on the window.
His
mother called again sharply, and he began to walk slowly through the
hall into the kitchen. He stepped into the warmly heated sun porch
and waited. Without looking up from the table his mother said, “Go
wash your hands in the kitchen.” The boy frowned but went into the
kitchen and swished his hands through the cold water. Waving them
dry, he walked back to the sun porch.
While
his mother said grace, he drew designs on the worn oilcloth with his
fingernail. He picked up his spoon and dipped it into the steaming
chicken noodle soup.
“Don’t
lean on the table, son.” His mother said softly. The boy frowned,
but took his elbows off the table. Crumbling a cracker into his soup,
he forced his eyes over to where his sister was sitting. Her eyes
were already fastened on his face. Could she read his mind? Sometimes
it seemed to him that she saw right through him.
A
wet noodle was pasted against her chin and he looked away in disgust
as his mother helped the noodle back into her mouth and tried to get
her to start eating again.
He
finished eating his soup, and drank his milk in one gulp.
“Can
I go now?” His mother looked up puzzled, “Where?” The boy
frowned at her impatiently as if she should know.
“I
thought I’d go out to the pond and try my new skates.”
His
mother glanced over to where his sister sat and said softly,
“Wait
a few more minutes, and you can take her with you.”
The
boy pushed the chair violently and said loudly, “I’m going by
myself. I won’t take her.”
“Please,
Benjy, you never give her a chance. You know how she loves to skate.
Just because she can’t tell you, you think you can just ignore
her. Please let her go with you this time.”
The
boy was watching the curious floating noodles in his soup bowl. He
mumbled something. His mother looked up. “What did you say?”
“I
said, I don’t ignore her. She always stares at me. I’m not taking
her.”
A
strand of gray hair fell across his mother’s pale cheek, and she
said tiredly, “Her skates are in the hall closet.”
The
boy stared at both of them with hate and then burst out, “I won’t
take her!”
He
ran to the closet and grabbed his coat, mittens, and cap. Slamming
the door behind him, he ran to the shed and opened the creaky door.
He looked over to where his skates hung. There bluish blades were
glittering in the pale blue light. He pulled them off the peg and
felt their sharp blades against his palm. Touching the soft black
leather and silver eyelets, he slung them across his shoulder and ran
into the yard. The lawn chairs were still waiting, and he went over
to them and tipped each one over. He smiled and ran across the field.
The
skates thumped carelessly against his back, and he looked around the
pasture. The pale winter light gave everything and unnatural glow and
made the tree and bushes stand out darkly against the snow.
The
snow was still falling but more lightly now, and he let it tickle his
nose until his eyes began to water; then he scratched at his nose
furiously. The snow beneath his feet was soft, and his shoes squeaked
crisply.
At
the end of the pasture, the pond gleamed brightly, like an open eye.
He sat down on a snow-covered hayrack and put it on his skates. Tying
the shoelaces of his other shoes, he slung them across his shoulder
and walked at the edge of the pond. He stood there and shivered
deliciously.
Something
tugged at his coat, and his stomach jumped. He looked down to see his
sister. Her coat was buttoned up crookedly, and her muffler was tied
loosely. He saw that her nose was running.
He
reached into his pocket and got out a wadded-up Kleenex and wiped her
nose viciously. Taking her hand, he pulled her roughly over to the
rack. As he sat her down he considered sending her back, but he knew
he would get into trouble if he did. He laced her skates too tight
and looked to see if there was any change in her face, but there was
none… nothing at all. Even when the laces bit into her skin, she
sat looking at him, her eyes boring quietly through him.
“Why
couldn’t she have had a good baby instead of you?” He looked at
her as if she were something loathsome, and hated himself for hating
her. She was nothing to him but a barrier between him and his mother.
At times he found he couldn’t even remember her name. But then,
perhaps, he made himself forget. He finished lacing her skates and
then walked away from her.
There
was a slight breeze now, and it cut through his corduroy pants. He
slid out onto to the pond and began to skate. His ankles ached
pleasantly, and he could feel his sharp blades hiss and scrape on the
ice below the snow. The cold was numbing; it bit into his face and
ears, making them tingle.
Skating
backward, he could see her approaching from behind. He watched her
skate toward him with a gracefulness he
knew he would never have. She was a good skater, he admitted. But did
she really know what she was doing? Was skating just something that
came naturally to her?
She
wasn’t well coordinated with her fingers, but she could skate
better than anyone he knew. Maybe it was her smallness and frailness
that made her so detestable to him. So pale and white.
He
watched her slide across the pond like a piece of chipped ice. Then
he turned around and skated forward. He stopped to sniff his nose and
felt a gentle tug at his coat. He shook her loose and went the other
way.
He
used to have his friends over, but she would stand behind the kitchen
door and stare at them until they stopped coming. She made them feel
uneasy.
She
could tell if he was happy, and if he was, she would pad along behind
him and hang onto his shirttail. But always there were the eyes
following him around-empty eyes boring through his back when he
wasn’t looking.
He
looked around her and couldn’t see her. He skated to the middle of
the pond and looked around. Then he saw her over on the part of the
pond that was off limits to them. There was no sign, but he knew it
was thin ice.
For
a moment he stood motionless. It would be so easy. So easy to tell
his mother he hadn’t even known she was there…so easy to see the
look of age and weariness disappear from her lined face…no more
kind and patient words from his sister’s bedroom, no more look of
defeat on his mother’s face when his sister wouldn’t learn to tie
her own shoes. There would be no more tears from his mother.
He
watched as his sister slid farther and farther away. Suddenly he saw
something out of the corner of his eye. It was the small, awkward
bird that flew so beautifully. It was flying slowly across the pond,
but when the boy looked at it directly, it disappeared; but he knew
it was there. He had seen it.
His
legs began to pump forward, and his skates dug frantically at the
ice. He couldn’t see her now, and his legs were burning with
impatience. He couldn’t seem to move fast enough, and tears were
beginning to stream from his eyes. She was visible to him now. He
watched as she skated onto the thin part. Then he heard the loud
crack, and he felt the ice tremble and shake as the ice broke and she
fell into the frozen lake. He reached in and clung tight as the icy
water numbed his fingers. Pulling as hard as he could, he saw her
head appear. The coat slipped from his fingers, and he lost her.
Desperately he thrust his arms into the water and searched franticly
for her. He felt her coat in his hands again, and this time he heaved
her out onto the ice.
For
what seemed a long time, he watched her blue face as he prayed to
Jesus for her eyes to open. His stomach jerked convulsively when her
eyes opened. She began to shiver, and he quickly took off her frozen
clothes, put her on his warm coat, and wrapped it around her small
body. He was vaguely aware of his freezing arms and hands as he took
off his skating socks and put them on her feet. The biting cold cut
into his feet, and he tried but couldn’t unlace his other shoe. He
slipped them on as best as he could. Picking her up, he started to
walk to the edge of the pond. Her body was very still in his arms,
and he noticed that her lips were bleeding. He took the tissue from
his pocket and wiped the blood away. Looking down at her face, he
searched for something in her eyes, but still there was nothing…no
pain, no accusation, nothing…except tears. Never before had he seen
her cry. Even when his mother would cry her heart out in front of his
sister, she would sit and stare unknowingly. Now that the tears began
to form and roll down her cheeks, the boy finally remembered her
name. It was Sheryl. She struggled closer to the warmth of his body,
and unconsciously he hugged her closer to him. Looking at her, he
softly said her name. At last he saw something more than emptiness.
He saw that she began to recognize him. He began to walk faster.
By
Jean Lively
