Free Bird

Rickie Lynn Smalls sat cross-legged on the floor of the hospital lobby, drawing a heart on her arm cast. She drew slowly, purposefully, ignoring the social worker perched on the chair behind her. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” played over the speaker. Rickie hummed along and kept drawing, proud of her steady hand. Good thing Carl broke my left arm and not my right or I’d be screwed, she thought.

Carl killed mom. He almost killed me.

Rickie paused for a second then pushed all thoughts of Carl from her head and continued to draw. She’d borrowed two pens – one red, one black – from the nurse’s station. The heart on her cast was large and red, outlined heavily in black. She had just finished writing “MOM” in black in the center of the heart when two pairs of shoes came into view.

Rickie didn’t look up right away. She gripped the pens and studied the shoes – a large pair of worn, dusty brown boots and a small pair of gray, low-heeled pumps. The boots planted themselves squarely in front of Rickie, toes pointed directly at her, while the pumps shifted around nervously.

The social worker’s heels clicked as she stood to greet the owners of the boots and pumps. “Mr. and Mrs. Smalls! So happy to finally meet you.” Rickie could hear the relief in the worker’s voice, knowing the woman was ready to be rid of her young charge after sitting with her for hours, having one-sided conversations.

“It was not easy to find you! We weren’t sure that there were any, uh, surviving family members,” the social worker jabbered on. “But you’re here now and that’s all that matters. Family belongs together. Right, Rickie?” She reached down and ruffled Rickie’s unkempt hair.

Rickie took that as her cue to get up. She tucked the red and black pens into her pocket (she had no intention of returning them to the nurses), uncoiled her legs and stood, staring at the strangers in front of her.

“Rickie, these are your grandparents. Edwin and Irene.”

Contrary to his name, Edwin Smalls was a giant, at least to Rickie. Tall, lanky, and bald, he wore a long-sleeved brown plaid shirt tucked into faded jeans and a brown belt with a leaping horse on the silver buckle. He had a long, solemn face punctuated by a sharp nose and piercing blue eyes. Irene Smalls was the complete opposite of her imposing husband. Short and full bodied, she wore a light gray dress with lilac flower print and a ruffled collar. She had a full head of carefully styled white hair, and her plump face was made up with a bit of mascara and pink lipstick. Irene smiled at Rickie; Edwin did not.

No one seemed to know what to say to each other. Irene finally broke the awkward silence.

“Hi, Rickie,” she said softly, giving a little wave. “I’m Grandma Irene. You probably don’t remember me or grandpa. It’s been a long time. You were just a baby when we last saw you.” She glanced at her husband. “She was about six months old, right, Edwin?”

Edwin didn’t respond. He just kept staring at Rickie, face unmoving.

“I turned ten last month,” Rickie said matter-of-factly. “Mom was supposed to take me to see Star Wars but Carl wouldn’t let her.” She sighed heavily. “I really wanted to see that movie.”

At the mention of Rickie’s mom, Edwin turned away. “Irene, I’ll be outside. Get the child and let’s go.” Then he walked out the door.

“Rickie,” the social worker said. “Can you wait right here a minute? Your grandma and I are gonna have a quick chat.”

Rickie shrugged and sunk back to the ground, crossing her legs once more. She took out the red pen and decided to add some tiny red hearts around the large heart on her cast.

Irene and the social worker moved to a nearby counter. The latest Linda Ronstadt hit poured out of the lobby speaker. Rickie ignored the music and cocked her ear, catching snatches of conversation between her grandmother and the social worker. Phrases like dissociative behavior and severe abuse and neglect were dropped. The social worker did most of the talking while Rickie’s grandmother mostly made comments like I see and Oh my.

Finally it was time to leave. The social worker bade Rickie goodbye with a pat on the back. Rickie ignored her, grabbing her small, battered suitcase and following Irene out the door. Edwin had already pulled the car around to the front. He sat stiffly in the driver’s seat while Rickie climbed into the backseat and placed her suitcase beside her. Irene slid into the front passenger seat and then the three of them were on their way.

“Damn Los Angeles traffic. Why would anyone choose to live in this God-forsaken place?” They were about an hour into their trip, and those were the first words Rickie heard out of her grandfather’s mouth.

“Mom loved L.A.,” Rickie piped up. She’d been drawing in her sketch book, her most prized possession among the few things she owned. “Did you know she was a dancer? She was going to be famous.”

Edwin snorted and started to say something but Irene touched his arm. “Edwin, don’t. Not now.” She turned around in her seat and faced Rickie. “I think you’ll like our farm. Have you ever been to one?”

“No,” Rickie answered. “Is it a peanut farm? Like the one President Carter has?” She stopped coloring and gave Irene a quizzical look.

Irene laughed. “No, honey, no peanuts.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “We raise mostly corn. We also have cows, chickens, pigs, and goats. Oh, and Mr. Fuzz, the farm cat.”

“Nice.” Rickie opened her suitcase, yawning as she stuffed her crayons and sketch book inside. “I’m kinda tired. I think I’ll take a little nap. Wake me up if we drive by anything interesting, okay?”

But Irene didn’t wake her, not even when they stopped for a gas refill. Rickie slept for the duration of the trip, curled up in the backseat, head on her suitcase. She woke as they approached the farm, car bouncing along the worn gravel driveway.

“We’re here, Rickie.”

Rickie wiped the sleep from her eyes and stared at the two-story white farmhouse with its navy blue shutters, blue front door, and wraparound porch. A host of colorful flowers flanked the wide front steps leading up to the porch. To the left of the house, in the distance, she could see a huge barn and some animal pens; to the right, an endless field of corn. The day’s last rays lit up the front of the house, making it appear like a scene from a storybook.

The three of them entered the house. Irene asked Rickie if she was hungry.

“Got any t.v. dinners? The fried chicken one is my favorite. It comes with a brownie.” Rickie fidgeted, turning circles, banging her suitcase against her leg.

Edwin grunted. “No frozen dinners in this house. Irene is a damn fine cook. You’ll eat whatever she puts in front of you, and you’ll like it.” He scowled at Rickie who stared up at him, frozen in place.

Irene took Edwin by the arm and led him to the stairs. “Edwin, it’s been a long day. You go on ahead and clean up, and I’ll bring something up to you before you go to bed.”

Edwin clomped upstairs without another word. Meanwhile, Irene ushered Rickie into the kitchen where there was a small wooden table surrounded by four wooden chairs.

“Here, dear, have a seat, and I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said, pulling out a chair. She took out leftover ham, a hunk of cheese, and a jar of mayo from the fridge. She uncovered a fresh loaf of bread resting on the counter and sliced two generous pieces, spreading a layer of mayo on each and piling on sliced ham and cheese. She put the sandwich on a plate and presented it to Rickie with a glass of milk.

Irene sat down across from Rickie. “Grandpa’s a bit grumpy. Don’t pay him no mind. He just needs some sleep. But he’s right, no t.v. dinners around here. Heck, we don’t even own a t.v.”

Rickie, who’d been picking at her sandwich, gasped and looked at Irene. “No t.v.? Oh, man! How am I gonna watch Charlie’s Angels? Ugh, that’s my favorite show.” She picked up her sandwich, took a giant bite, and chewed, shaking her head in disbelief.

Irene laughed. “Oh, there’s plenty of things to do around here. But we can talk about that tomorrow.”

Hungrier than she realized, Rickie gobbled the rest of her sandwich and drank most of the milk. Irene then led her upstairs to a room at the end of the hall. The room held a twin bed, a small desk and chair, and a dresser with three drawers. Wallpaper adorned with pink roses covered the walls, and a white lace curtain hung over the window. Mr. Fuzz slept on the light pink rug in the center of the room. The fat tabby woke at the sound of Irene and Rickie entering the room, took one look at Rickie, and bolted.

“Hello, Mr. Fuzz! And goodbye!” Irene sang. “Well, Rickie, I guess you’ll have to meet him later.”

Rickie dropped her suitcase on the bed and turned to Irene. “Five.”

“I beg pardon?”

“I counted five rooms up here. If this one is mine, and you and Grandpa Edwin have a room, who are the other three for?” She sat on the bed.

Irene hesitated a moment then sat next to her. “Well, after grandpa and I got married, we bought this house because we thought we would have a big family. But, after many years of trying, we only had your mom.” She put one hand on Rickie’s cast. “You know, this room belonged to-“

“I think I wanna put on my pajamas now,” Rickie cut her off, scooting off the bed. She opened her suitcase and began pulling out clothes. Irene tried to help her but Rickie waved her away. “I can do it myself. I’m not a baby.”

“Okay. We’re just down the hall, the first door by the stairs, if you need us.” When Rickie didn’t answer her, Irene left the room, gently shutting the door.

Rickie slipped on her Shaun Cassidy t-shirt and a faded pair of cotton shorts and got into bed, yanking the chain on the bedside lamp. She pulled the covers up to her chin and shut her eyes. Though the bed was comfortable, quite possibly the best bed she’d ever slept in, she had a hard time falling to sleep. She needed noise. In L.A. there was always noise, day and night – people talking, cars honking, music playing, dogs barking, mom and Carl fighting.

Carl killed mom. He almost killed me.

Restless, Rickie tossed and turned for an hour. Finally, she got up and opened the window, hoping to hear some noise, any noise. Nothing. Just the song of crickets accompanying a gentle night breeze that blew her curtains open.

Rickie sighed, turned on the light, and got out her sketch book and colored pencils. She began to draw Jill, Kelly, and Sabrina, her beloved Charlie’s Angels. Jill was her favorite with her fabulous blond hair and big white smile. Rickie wished she looked like Jill but she knew she didn’t have a chance with her dark auburn hair, freckles, and crooked front teeth.

“You’d be a better Pippi Longstocking,” Carl had cackled at her once.

Fuck Carl, Rickie thought, drawing furiously. She knew the f-word was a bad word but she had said it in her mind, not out loud, so it didn’t count. She banished Carl from her head and kept drawing and coloring, drawing and coloring. Eventually, her right hand grew tired, and her eyes grew heavy, and she fell asleep, light on, pencil in hand.

An unearthly screech woke her in the dead of night. Rickie’s eyes flew open, and she clutched her blanket with her good hand. The harsh cry came again, somewhere in the dark, and Rickie panicked. Mom was screaming, mom needed help, she’d never heard a scream like that before, it must be bad, help help help.

“Help!” Rickie yelled. “Help me!”

Moments later Rickie’s door banged open. The hall light illuminated Edwin and Irene as they huddled in the doorway, bewildered.

“What in the heavens?” Edwin shouted. His bald head and white flannel long johns on his lean frame made him look skeleton-like, and Rickie opened her mouth to yell again.

“No, no, honey, it’s okay,” Irene soothed, moving quickly to Rickie’s bedside. “It’s just me and grandpa. You’re at the farm, remember?”

“Who screamed?” Rickie demanded, sitting up in bed.

“You did, dear. We heard you cry for help.”

Confused, Rickie opened her mouth to explain what she heard when it happened again. “That!” she exclaimed, pointing at her window.

Irene looked at Edwin who rolled his eyes and turned away, going back to their bedroom. Irene smiled at Rickie. “That’s just Barnabas.”

“Who?”

“He’s an owl.”

Rickie shook her head. “No, owls go hoot-hoot. They don’t sound like . . . like that.”

Irene laughed. “Barnabas is a barn owl. They make a very peculiar noise that can sound like a scream, I suppose. Grandpa and I are so used to it, we hardly notice him.” She pointed to the clear night sky outside Rickie’s window. “He’s nocturnal, meaning he hunts at night. Out there getting field mice and so on. He’s really very handy to have around the farm, especially since Mr. Fuzz is too lazy to hunt anymore.”

No longer afraid, Rickie asked, “What does he look like?”

“We don’t know. We’ve never seen him. He hides during the day and only comes out at night.”

“Like a ghost?”

“Well, yes, I guess you could say he’s a ghost but a friendly one. He doesn’t mean any harm. Except to the mice! Are you okay now?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Rickie felt embarrassed. “Sorry I woke you guys.”

“Not a problem at all. We’re here for you when you need us.” Irene gave Rickie a quick squeeze around her shoulders. “See you in the morning.”

Alone again, Rickie thought about Barnabas. Irene had said he was a barn owl so that must mean he hid in the barn during the day. I’m gonna find his hiding place, Rickie thought, drifting back to sleep. I’m gonna find him and tell him to knock off that awful screaming.

The next morning, Irene and Rickie ate breakfast alone in the kitchen. Irene explained that although Edwin was technically retired, he still rose at five a.m. most days and went out to help the farmhands.

“And when I say help, I mean he goes out there to boss everyone around and tell them what they’re doing wrong,” she laughed.

Rickie didn’t understand why Irene thought that was funny. To her, Edwin seemed like a big old mean man, not just to her but to everyone.

“So would you like a tour of the farm?” Irene asked after she finished cleaning the dishes.

What Rickie really wanted to do was make a beeline for the barn to search for Barnabas, but she reluctantly agreed to go along with Irene, hoping they didn’t run into Edwin along the way.

Their excursion turned out to be more fun than Rickie anticipated. Irene introduced her to all the farm animals. Rickie got to feed the chickens and gather fresh eggs. She pet the baby pigs and waved at the cows in the pasture. In the goat pen, the goats kept trying to chew on her cast so she didn’t stay there long. When they finally reached the barn, Rickie kept looking up, squinting her eyes.

“What are you doing?” Irene asked, hands on her ample hips.

“Looking for Barnabas.”

“Oh, he’s probably way up high in the rafters, hunkered down in his nest. Best to leave him alone so he can sleep.”

Rickie shook her left arm in the air. “When I get this dang cast off, I’m gonna climb up there and find him. I’m gonna-“

“You’ll do no such thing, girl!” Edwin thundered from the barn’s doorway.

Rickie jumped at the sound of his voice. Even Irene looked startled. “Edwin Richard!”

Edwin marched over to Rickie. “You stay outta this barn unless someone is with you, hear me? Plenty of other things you can do around here till you start school in a few months. Your grandma could use some help with her garden and in the house.” He wagged his finger in her face. “Don’t think you’re gonna sit around all day, colorin’ in your little doodle book, grandma waitin’ on you hand and foot.”

Face flushed, Rickie felt the hot sting of tears coming but she held them back. She learned early on not to let anyone see her cry.

“You don’t even know me!” she yelled at Edwin. “You probably don’t even want me. That’s fine. I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine.” She stomped past Edwin and headed out of the barn. “And it’s a sketch book, not a doodle book!”

Rickie ran. She heard Edwin and Irene shouting her name, but she ignored them and ran back to the house. I’ve gotta make myself small, she thought. Go hide and make myself small so he can’t find me. So he can’t get me. So he can’t beat me.

A few minutes later Rickie heard Irene enter the house and call her name. “Rickie! Rickie, honey, are you in here? Please come out if you are.”

Curled up in the closet under the stairs, Rickie struggled to remain silent. Her right calf tensed; she could feel a muscle spasm coming on. She bit her lip, determined to keep still but she couldn’t control the spasm, and her leg shot out straight, knocking over a broom.

The closet door creaked open. “Rickie?” she said gently. “Come on out, honey.”

“No,” Rickie answered, pulling her shirt over her face. “He’s gonna get me.”

“Who? Grandpa? Oh, no, he’s all bark and no bite.” Irene opened the door wider. “He’s not even here right now. I scolded him for his behavior and told him to go walk it off. You ever do that when you’re upset? Go walk it off?”

Rickie looked up at Irene. “I wish. Most times I didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Irene’s heart broke for her granddaughter, remembering what the social worker had told her. She put out her hand; Rickie took it and emerged from the closet. Together they went into the kitchen where Irene gave Rickie a brownie and a glass of lemonade.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret,” Irene said to Rickie. “Grandpa is a tough nut on the outside but inside, he’s a big marshmallow. You just have to give him some time.” She bent down to hug Rickie. “And you’re wrong. He does want you. We both do. We love you, Rickie Lynn.”

At supper that night, after a little prodding from Irene, Edwin and Rickie apologized to each other. He told her that he’d appreciate it if she would help her grandma, doing what she could until the cast was removed. Rickie agreed and promised to stay out of the barn. Under the table, however, she crossed her fingers which meant she didn’t really mean her promise. She still intended on finding Barnabas’ lair, but it would have to wait until she had two good hands to climb properly.

In the following weeks Rickie helped Irene tend to her small garden behind the house and learned how to can various fruits and vegetables. She took great pride in having the responsibility of stacking the finished and labeled products in the pantry. She helped feed and groom some of the animals, though the goats annoyed her because they constantly tried to bite her cast. She even made friends with Mr. Fuzz who decided Rickie was worth getting to know after she smuggled some bacon to him.

Everywhere she went, Rickie took her sketch book and pencils, drawing the animals, the corn field, the barn, the house. The farm and its way of life brought a sense of peace she’d never had and soon she found herself thinking less and less about her old life in Los Angeles.

Every night, before she went to bed, Rickie opened her window and leaned on the sill, hoping to catch a glimpse of Barnabas in action. But she never saw him. She heard him – his supernatural screech still gave her chills. But he remained a ghost.

Not for long, Rickie thought, looking at the calendar on her wall. She’d been marking off the days until her cast was taken off. Five days to go. “See you soon, Barnabas,” she whispered into the night.

The night before Rickie’s cast removal, Irene went upstairs to talk to her granddaughter about the appointment. She thought she’d surprise Rickie with lunch in town after they were done. When she reached her room, she saw that Rickie had fallen asleep, light on, pencil in hand. Her sketch book had fallen to the floor. Quietly, Irene picked up the book and turned off the light. She intended to place the book next to the lamp but curiosity got the better of her, and she took the sketch book back to her room. She sat on her bed and opened the book.

Inside, page after page, the farm came alive in vivid colors – the chickens nesting in their coop, the cows sunning in the pasture, the pigs eating out of their trough. Irene was amazed at the level of detail in each picture. Rickie was only ten but she was clearly a gifted artist.

Irene continued to flip through the book, past a picture of three beautiful ladies (Rickie had drawn a heart above the blond one), past drawings of unknown faces and places, past several blank pages, when suddenly she gasped, nearly dropping the book. The picture before her was her late daughter, Rickie’s mother. The depiction was explicit in its violence, bruises covering Lynnie’s body in disturbing color, a single tear trickling down her battered face.

Irene kept going. Picture after terrible picture revealed the horror of Rickie’s upbringing in L.A. Irene wept, wishing she and Edwin had done something earlier to save her. But they didn’t know. Lynnie had run away at an early age, seeking fame and fortune in Southern California, cutting ties with her parents. She’d allowed one visit, when Rickie was six months old, and then . . . nothing.

Edwin entered the room and saw his wife crying. “What happened?”

Wordlessly, Irene showed him the book. Edwin’s jaw tightened and his hands shook as he reviewed the pages in the back of the book. He threw the book on the bed.

“God forgive me. I’ve been too hard on her.” He cradled his head in his large hands. “She just reminds me so much of-“

“I know, I know,” Irene interjected, coming to her husband’s side. “I’ve tried talking to her about Lynnie a few times but she just changes the subject. That social worker said Rickie became disconnected after Lynnie’s death, like her little mind just couldn’t acknowledge what happened.”

Edwin clenched his fists. “Damn her! Damn Lynnie for not protecting her child. For living that life. Dancer, my ass. She was a stripper and a whore. For God’s sake, she didn’t even know who Rickie’s father was!”

Behind them came a whimper. They turned around and saw Rickie standing in the doorway in her usual bedtime attire of shorts and a t-shirt. Tears glistened in her bright blue eyes.

“My mom was a dancer. And she was not a whore! She was beautiful.” Her voice shook. “We got to live in hotels, all different kinds. She gave me all the t.v. dinners I wanted. She let me stay up late and watch what I wanted. She had to go out a lot but it was okay. Sometimes other people at the hotel stayed with me. And sometimes I stayed by myself. ‘Cause I’m ten, okay, I’m ten! Everything was okay, everything was fine until-“

She stopped, breathless, staring at her grandparents’ bed. At her beloved sketch book on top of the bed cover.

Horrified, she pointed at the book and screamed, “How dare you! That’s mine! Mine! For my eyes only!”

Together, Edwin and Irene approached Rickie but she turned and ran, sprinting down the stairs and out of the house. Long-held tears flowed down her cheeks as she ran barefoot into the warm summer night, disappearing into the corn field. As she ran, images fluttered through her mind like a slideshow.

Her mother with a black eye.

Carl drinking, throwing beer bottles at her.

Her mother blowing kisses at her as she went out the door in her favorite miniskirt.

Carl throwing Rickie against a wall.

Her mother lying in a pool of blood, eyes open.

Carl lighting their apartment on fire.

Make myself small, gotta make myself small, Rickie thought, blindly trudging through the field. She stopped, preparing to crouch down and hide among the tall stalks, when she heard him.

Barnabas.

Rickie looked up just in time to see a haunting white creature soar past her, wings spread wide. He circled around, screeched, and flew past her again.

Rickie understood. He wanted her to follow him.

She turned and retraced her steps, looking up every few seconds, afraid Barnabas would disappear. He’d stopped screeching but continued to fly above her, leading her out of the field.

At the entrance to the field, Rickie paused to catch her breath. Barnabas swooped down and perched on a fence post not five feet from her. Amazed, Rickie studied the feathered phantom, mesmerized by his heart-shaped face and curved, downward-facing beak. His body was snow white, and he turned his head sideways, regarding her with dark eyes.

Heart pounding, Rickie held out her left arm. Barnabas ruffled his feathers. Then he hopped on to her cast.

“Impossible,” Edwin murmured. Unbeknownst to Rickie, he’d arrived at the scene just as Barnabas landed on the post. “Rickie, be careful.”

“Ssshh,” Rickie replied without turning around. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Barnabas. “We’re talking.”

Rickie and Barnabas gazed at each other. “I bet you lost your family,” she whispered. “Something happened, and now you’re alone.”

Barnabas blinked, cocking his head left then right.

“It’s okay,” Rickie continued. “I’ll be your friend now.” Her arm started to tremble from the weight of the bird. “You’re kind of heavy, mister, so I’m gonna put you back now.”

Slowly, carefully, she moved to the fence then gave her arm a little shake. Barnabas acknowledged her prompt by flapping his wings and flying up into the air. He screeched once then disappeared.

Rickie turned to Edwin. “Guess he’s not a ghost anymore.”

Struggling to find words, Edwin simply replied, “Guess not.”

They walked back to the house in silence, Rickie’s heart sinking with every step. She was sure she would be in trouble for her outburst. Her grandparents probably wouldn’t give her back her sketch book. The thought made her want to cry again.

Irene waited anxiously at the doorway. Before she could speak, Edwin said, “Go on to bed, mama. Rickie and I are going to the kitchen for a bit.”

In the kitchen, Edwin instructed Rickie to sit. She sank into her chair, fearing the worst. He poured each of them a glass of milk and put the glasses on the table with a plate of fresh cookies.

Munching on a cookie, he said, “You know, your grandma’s chocolate chippers are good but my favorite is her oatmeal raisin.” He dunked his cookie in his milk.

Rickie was too stunned to move. He wasn’t raising his voice at her. He wasn’t giving her stink eye. He was being . . . nice.

They regarded each other in silence, just as she had with Barnabas. Taking a deep breath, Rickie said, “Carl killed my mom. He almost killed me.”

Edwin nodded. “I know.”

“I miss my mom.”

“I miss her, too.”

“Her eyes were blue, like yours.”

“And yours.”

Silence again. The kitchen clocked ticked quietly. Somewhere in the house, Mr. Fuzz meowed.

“You’re a free bird, like she was. She thought flying away would make her happy.” Edwin looked into Rickie’s eyes. “Do you think you could be happy here?”

Rickie nodded. “I think yes. Barnabas told me this is where I need to be.”

Edwin nodded and cleared his throat. “I didn’t do so good with your mom,” he said, his voice catching. “I’ll try to do better with you.” He held out his glass of milk. “Deal?”

Rickie picked up her glass and clinked it against his. “Deal.”

Edwin grabbed another handful of cookies for them to share.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes?”

“Can we maybe get a t.v?”

“Don’t push it, kid.” Edwin winked at her and smiled, revealing crooked front teeth.

Rickie smiled back.