GENRE FICTION

By Jennie Evenson 

My mama’s singing had power. Real power.

She’d start every song with a low round note, then slide it upward to a high lone­some sound and hold it there, letting it shiver against her ribs, before she sent the note whirling down into the melody.

The last time I saw her sing, she was stand­ing under a swing­ing lamp at the Corbitt’s barn. The saw­dusty floors thumped with stamp­ing feet as dancers whirled to the banjo beat, but Mama stood still in her thread­bare yellow-cotton dress, eyes closed.

At the end of the night, every­one circled up around Mary Corbitt’s wheel­chair and held hands: the Drum­monds, Abe Don­ald­son, Betty Ingra­ham, the Camp­bells, Doctor Tate, and all us kids—the whole Feather Hollow. But it was only Mama’s voice now. No more banjo, no more beat. Just plain singing, quiet and rev­er­ent, like a hushed prayer.:

O death,

Won’t you spare me over ‘til another year?

I’ll close your eyes so you can’t see

Let me stay, please go and leave me

Sweat slicked Mama’s temples and damp­ened her raven-black hair. The air around her vibrat­ed in a halo of sound, as if her voice was a solid golden mass. Just as she reached the last note, Mary Corbitt creaked out of her wheel­chair and teetered to her feet, then spread her arms wide in praise and glory, like a bird taking flight.

After the jam­boree, Mama held me close in the back of Donaldson’s truck. Sound has power, she whis­pered in my ear. Its boom can knock down build­ings, its roar can touch the bottom of the ocean, and its music can heal souls. Some sounds are so strong, they can travel mil­lions of miles through space. The first thing a baby hears is its mama’s heart­beat. That’s the rhythm of the uni­verse calling us home, she said. Remem­ber that.

Mama should’ve told me why our voices were special. Why we kept strangers out of our hollow. By the time I figured out her secret, it was almost too late.

#

A stack of warning letters from the West Vir­ginia Depart­ment of Edu­ca­tion flut­tered on the table next to my window.

Mama refused to open the letters, claim­ing the state didn’t care about people like us, but I’d read every one. They said I was “truant,” meaning I’d missed too much school, and they weren’t wrong. I left fifth grade in Sep­tem­ber and hadn’t been back in sixty-three days. They said it was a crime and Mama could go to jail for it. I hoped that wasn’t true, but some­body took the trouble to mail all those letters, and ded­i­ca­tion like that was worrisome.

I strug­gled forward in my bed and clapped a hand over the letters, then glanced at my bed­sheets. Droplets of blood polka-dotted my pillow. I must’ve had a cough­ing fit last night, or maybe it was the night before. They hap­pened so often these days, it was hard to keep track. I scraped a fin­ger­nail across a stain. Bright red. That meant it was recent. I turned to the side and coughed, hacking up a clot stuck in my throat. A fresh galaxy of crimson spat­tered my pillow.

My breath mush­roomed in the Decem­ber air. Smoke wafted from a chimney some­where west of us, and I breathed it in, enjoy­ing its tang, remem­ber­ing the warmth of a good fire, before I remind­ed myself why Mama kept the house cold.

Lung mat­u­ra­tion. That’s what they said it was, anyway. Doctor Tate told me it was a natural part of the growth process. He didn’t know why it hap­pened to the kids in Feather Hollow, but he had gone ahead and diag­nosed me, because a diag­no­sis was better than a mystery, he said. I wasn’t sure I agreed. Giving it a name didn’t seem to matter since I was sick either way.

I didn’t bother asking if we could find another doctor. People in Feather Hollow didn’t come and go. We stayed put, and we kept out strangers. It didn’t matter what we needed. If we couldn’t find it here, we didn’t want it.

Doctor Tate pre­scribed chilly air, a natural remedy to help with cough­ing, and that’s why Mama kept our chimney cold. She should’ve read the warning letters, though. If she had, she might’ve known what was about to happen.

The roar of a car engine broke the morning quiet. I sat all the way up, hoping to get a look. Mama was leaning over the fence with her hand in a feed bucket. She dug her fingers into the kibble and whis­tled at the barn. Two mangy calico cats scram­bled toward her, eager to get their share. She paused when she heard the car.

Only three people in town owned motor vehi­cles and they were all raw-grind­ing trucks. This engine had a velvety hum. That meant strangers.

Mama put down her bucket and wiped her hands on her apron. The old logging road was over two miles away, and we had the only house on this side of the hill. Whoever was in that car, they were headed for us.

Mama ducked inside the house to grab the six-shooter she hid in the kitchen drawer. “Stay here,” she said.

I glanced at the road. “Who is it?”

“If I knew who they were, I wouldn’t need the six-shooter, now would I?” She winked at me as she fin­ished loading the gun, then tucked it under the draw­string in the back of her apron. “Always good to be ready.”

“For what?”

“Go on inside and put your shoes on.”

“Why?”

“We talked about this, Cora.”

That wasn’t true. She told me strangers were dan­ger­ous for us, but she never explained why. She checked over her shoul­der to see how far away they were. Her face soft­ened as she turned back to me. “Don’t be scared, little song­bird. You’re stronger than you think.”

Her words were com­fort­ing, but the tone of her voice scared me. It was high pitched, like she was worried. I managed to jerk out a nod.

Her eyes dark­ened like there was some­thing else she wanted to say, but then she shook her head. “I don’t know who these people are. They could be nobody. But if I give you the signal, you take off into the woods and head for the Camp­bell house. Call them up and send them over here. Under­stood? You run out that back door, and you fly.”

An emerald-green Super Deluxe Ford rolled to a halt at the end of our road. Mud coated the front of the car, spat­ter­ing the white-walled tires and smear­ing the wind­shield, but dirt couldn’t hide the sleek metal shape of luxury. It was a daz­zling jewel sur­round­ed by leaf­less trees and dry weeds. I’d seen cars like that on the cover of the Sears cat­a­logue, but it had never occurred to me I’d see one around here.

A man in a dark suit got out of the driver’s side. He was a meat-cube of a man, short and bald, with a unibrow that stretched from one ear to the other. The man straight­ened his jacket, then walked all the way around the car to open the door for a woman dressed in an orange foxfur coat and pearls. She stepped out of the car, her kitten heels sinking into the dirt road as she tugged on a pair of white satin gloves and laced her arm through a blue purse. She cocked her head to the side and smiled. Her red lips framed her rec­tan­gu­lar teeth, all straight and perfect, like tiny bone-colored grave­stones. Her pol­ished skin glim­mered and her blonde hair glinted.

She looked pos­i­tive­ly oth­er­world­ly to me. Not just like she didn’t belong in Feather Hollow, like maybe she didn’t belong to Earth.

The woman picked her way up the porch stairs and extend­ed a gloved hand. “You must be Eliza Rolston. And you,” she peered at me, “must be young Cora Rolston.”

Mama said nothing, her face as hard as a stone lion.

The woman pulled her out­stretched hand back. “Is the man of the house at home?”

My father left when I was two years old, so I didn’t remem­ber much about him. Mama said he went off to some fool war in Europe but didn’t say why he never came back. She didn’t like talking about him. Still, I’d wanted to ask. My ears pricked up, won­der­ing what she would say. But she was silent.

“I expect you’ll want me to get right down to it. My name is Pearl Chad­wick and I’m here to offer you an opportunity.”

Pearl paused like she thought Mama might have some­thing to say, but as a rule Mama didn’t speak to strangers unless some­thing absolute­ly needed to get said.

The woman opened a slick brochure. A photo of an elegant mansion graced the cover. “I run a private foun­da­tion for chil­dren who suffer from tuber­cu­lo­sis. We have a number of highly-trained nurses on staff and our doctor is one of the leading researchers on this disease. We’re close to finding a cure, but in the mean­time, we can provide a safe and hygien­ic envi­ron­ment to ensure the best quality of care.”

The car door slammed as a stout woman emerged from the back­seat. She was gray-haired and doughy, wearing sen­si­ble black shoes and a button-up white dress. The dark-suited driver and stout woman fanned out behind Pearl.

Mama tensed, her eyes flick­ing from one to the other. “What do you want?”

“Did you receive the letters from the West Vir­ginia Depart­ment of Education?”

“I saw them.”

“Then you must know why we’re here. We under­stand Cora has missed three months of school­ing due to illness.”

Mama sucked her teeth. “Who told you she’s sick?”

“You shouldn’t be angry at Doctor Tate. He’s required by law to report infec­tious dis­eases to the county board.”

That didn’t sound like some­thing Doctor Tate would do. He was a Feather Hollow man. Around here, we fol­lowed the law only when it made sense. Also, I didn’t have tuber­cu­lo­sis. He wouldn’t have made some­thing up like that.

“I’m sorry to say Cora isn’t the only one who has con­tract­ed the illness, and she’s not the only one with unusual symptoms.”

Mama’s face twitched.

“You didn’t realize we knew about the symp­toms, did you? How inter­est­ing,” said Pearl. “The Ingra­ham boy came down with it, too.”

Without think­ing, I lurched through the door. “Owen?” I wheezed.

I knew him from school, but we weren’t friends. Owen had the unnerv­ing habit of fol­low­ing me around, lurking behind trees, one eye on a book and one on me. It was pitiful. Still, I’d felt sorry for him when the bigger kids picked on him for his stutter.

We hadn’t seen Owen and his family since the Corbitt’s barn jamboree.

“Go back inside.” Mama glared side­ways at me. I did what she said but kept the door cracked so I could listen, then I snuck to the window to watch them.

“The Drum­mond twins came down with it three weeks ago. Their parents have agreed to let us help them. We hope they’ll make progress with the help of our foundation.”

The last time I saw the twins, we were getting ice cream from Trilby’s store. The twins were laugh­ing at Owen because he couldn’t say the word “scoop.” The twins hadn’t seemed sick, to me.

Mama shook her head. I knew the look on her face. It meant she thought someone was lying. “The Drum­monds would never let you take their twins.”

Pearl offered a prim smile but no response. “Our study is working wonders for your community.”

“You want to study Cora?”

“She needs quality care. I can provide that, along with state-man­dat­ed school­ing in a private environment.”

“Cora stays here.”

“I’m sorry to say that’s not one of the options.”

Mama flexed her hands like she was getting ready for something.

“Have you ever been to one of the state’s san­i­tar­i­ums?” Pearl wrin­kled her nose dis­ap­prov­ing­ly. “I know you want the best for your child. She’s not going to get it there.”

Every­thing the woman said sud­den­ly clicked into place. She was here to take me away. Panic rose in the back of my throat like acid. I didn’t care what kind of house it was, fancy or not. I wasn’t leaving—that woman couldn’t make me leave.

“Nobody’s taking my daugh­ter.” Mama slid her arm around her back, reach­ing for her six-shooter.

An angry shadow moved behind Pearl’s eyes, then she peeled back her lips and smiled. “I don’t think you under­stand. Cora has already reached three months of absen­teeism. As an agent of the state, I’m autho­rized to remove her from your home. Now, either I’m taking her to the state san­i­tar­i­um, or I’m taking her to the foundation.”

“No.” Mama gripped the six-shooter.

Pearl scowled. “You think you can hide out here forever, but times are chang­ing. People are start­ing to figure things out. I know what you are, Songbird.”

“Song­bird.” Mama repeat­ed the word slowly.

“Yes,” hissed Pearl.

Mama’s voice chilled as she took her hand off the six-shooter and slid her arm back to her side. “You’re here about the rumors.”

I stepped back. What rumors? Why was she taking her hand off the gun?

“I’m sure you’ve heard of curios­i­ty and the cat,” said Mama.

“I don’t scare easily.” Pearl’s gaze was steady. “Though Feather Hollow does have quite the nasty reputation.”

The lines deep­ened around Mama’s frown. “With good reason.”

“You’d like me to believe that.”

I didn’t under­stand. Nobody was scared of us. Nothing bad ever hap­pened around here, except the time Delci Campbell’s pet pig escaped the barn during a thun­der­storm and drowned in a flash flood. That pig was never very smart.

“How long did you think it would take for someone to put it togeth­er? No birth records, no death cer­tifi­cates.” Pearl made a tsk sound with her tongue. “There’s no grave­yard around here for miles. The least you could’ve done is put up fake head­stones. Changed your names once in a while, so it wouldn’t seem so suspicious.”

“You want to know how the Song­birds live so long. That’s why you want to study the kids.”

“Don’t be ridicu­lous. I’m no sim­ple­ton,” she snorted. “I know you’re using witch­craft. All I want you to do is share it with us.”

“Witch­craft.” Mama quoted the word like an accusation.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

“Nobody is pre­tend­ing. That doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you what you want to hear.”

My gaze swung back and forth between them, trying to read their faces. They were talking about witch­craft like it was a real thing. Every­one knew witches were made up.

Mama should’ve laughed in the woman’s face. The thing was, she didn’t.

“If you would talk to us, we wouldn’t need to take the kids. You have a choice.”

“Nobody’s leaving this hollow. Not me, not Cora, and not you.”

Pearl slitted her eyes. “You’re going to trap me here? How? There’s three of us, and one of you.”

“Sound has power.”

“Tell me about this power. Does it help you live longer?”

“You want the truth?”

“I want to know every­thing.” Pearl ges­tured with her head to the dark-suited man. He moved wide of the house, angling toward the back door. The stout woman pressed closer, study­ing Mama like a fox hunting fowl.

Mama leaned back to the door to make sure I could hear her. “Do you remem­ber what I told you, Cora?”

“Yes,” I rasped.

“Do it now,” she said. “Fly, Cora.”

I shud­dered, too scared to move, as my pulse clicked in my jaw. I knew what I was sup­posed to do, but I couldn’t. Fly, Cora.

Mama took a deep breath and began to hum, the sound she always made right before she sang. But why was she doing it now? She tilted her chin upward, her arms spread wide like wings, as a low note trem­bled in her throat.

Fear bolted across Pearl’s face. “Frances,” she said. “Do it now.”

Mama’s voice began to rise, higher and higher, as it got louder and louder. The air around her vibrat­ed as she held a single high note, bright as forked light­ning. The sound of it thun­dered between my ears. Her voice elec­tri­fied me, the wild joy of it nearly ripping me open.

Then the sound split into two, a per­fect­ly paired harmony, and then it turned into four, then eight, until it seemed like she had a hundred voices in her throat. Under­neath it, a deep vibra­tion pulsed, a slow and ancient rhythm.

The walls rattled and the windows shook. Pearl doubled over, cov­er­ing her ears as if she were in agony. “Stop!”

The back door banged open. The dark-suited man stomped across the floor toward me. His rough hand gripped my neck, yanking me backward.

“No!” My limbs went loose with terror.

I strug­gled against him, but he held fast. With one hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a metal case, then set it down on the table and flipped it open. Inside was a filled syringe. He bit off the pro­tec­tive cap and bran­dished the needle.

Mama sang louder, blowing the front door open. The full force of her voice blasted into the house. The dark-suited man screamed, drop­ping the needle to cover his ears.

This was my chance. I shoved him hard and he crum­pled to the ground, writhing in pain. My lungs burned and blood climbed my throat, but there was no other choice—I had to run. I took a deep breath and told my legs to go.

I darted out the back door and made for the ravine. The trail to the Camp­bells’ house was over­grown but I knew the way. Mama’s voice was still strong as I launched myself down the steep muddy trail and step-stoned across the creek. I scram­bled up the other side of the embank­ment, stum­bling over the gnarled root-ankles of a paw paw tree, when I saw the first pair of eyes. Then, dozens. One shadow after another split from the trees.

The Camp­bells. The Ingra­hams. The Drum­monds. Doctor Tate.

Their mouths gaped open all at once, just like they did when they sang, but their sound was the same as Mama’s, a hundred voices in every throat. The dry branch­es shiv­ered as their voices crested higher and louder.

I watched them rush past. I could hardly catch a breath, but I had to follow. I limped after them, back up the side of the ravine, until I could see the house. I hid behind a tree to watch.

The whole of Feather Hollow was there, every person from the jam­boree. They stood in our yard, circled up and holding hands, with Pearl, the dark-suited man, and the stout woman in the middle. All three of them were motion­less, still as statues, eyes open and mouths twisted in silent screams, as if they’d been caught mid-motion. I couldn’t look away.

The singing grew louder.

A dark cloud gath­ered above the circle. The rest of the sky was blue, as if a private storm had landed on our prop­er­ty. A gust blew dust from the dirt road and I shield­ed my eyes. When I opened them, a funnel cloud, skinny but wild, churned in the center of the circle. I couldn’t see Pearl or her com­pan­ions anymore—they were hidden in the middle of the twister.

Wind whipped my hair. I fought my way closer to the circle and screamed for Mama, but she couldn’t hear me.

They kept singing, higher and louder. Vibra­tions shook the ground under­neath me, pulsing with fero­cious energy, a rhythm faster than the turning squall.

I lunged forward, grab­bing at Mama’s hand. She tried to shake me off, but I wanted into the circle. She dug her eyes into mine, her gaze sharp like a warning, but I was deter­mined. I refused to let go.

She gave a nod, then unlocked her grip and opened the circle for me. With Mama to my right and Mary Corbitt to my left, I faced to the tornado in the center of the circle. The dust was thick and dark, making it impos­si­ble to see what was hap­pen­ing inside it. But it didn’t matter to me, at that moment, because I could feel what I needed to do, as if I’d been born to do it.

I opened my mouth to sing.

The sound of my own voice aston­ished me. It was higher in pitch than Mama’s, but just as loud. I thought singing might hurt, or that my lungs might burn, but the notes felt like honey in my throat, sweet and thick, as each tone slid out. I kept ahold of her as I closed my eyes and sang. Our voices moved togeth­er, swoop­ing up and down like a flock of star­lings, brush­ing against each other soft as feath­ers, until our song began to taper off, and the wind slowed, and the dust cleared, and the singing stopped. All of us, all at once, as if on cue. I could feel the song was done.

The funnel retreat­ed and van­ished. The dark clouds blanched white and wispy, thin enough to see the blue sky re-appear behind them.

The towns­folk were quiet now, but we all still held hands. Our eyes pointed to the center of the circle.

At first, I thought it was empty. There was no Pearl, no dark-suited man, no stout woman, like they had dis­ap­peared. Then, I saw them: three mewling cats, wind-swept and dazed. The biggest cat was bright orange, the color of foxfur. The middle one was black, and the small­est was white. All of them mangy, fit for a barn.

Mama turned to me. Her frown lines were gone. In their place was a sat­is­fied grin. Right before Pearl arrived, she had told me: you’re stronger than you think, little songbird.

Yes, I was.

#

I stood under a swing­ing lamp at the Corbitt’s barn, circled up and holding hands with all the Feather Hollow kids—Owen, Clay, Rodney, the Drum­mond twins. Our lungs were clear now. There was no more cough­ing and no more blood. Doctor Tate said we’d all made it safely through the mat­u­ra­tion process, which meant we could sing.

That night was our first time joining the jam­boree. All the kids had to sing. Mama said it was an ini­ti­a­tion into the Song­birds, and every­body had to do it, even if they were nervous.

But I wasn’t nervous.

It was my turn. I was the last one to go. Mama watched from the corner, her eyes nearly vibrat­ing with pride as she watched and waited. I opened my mouth and drew in a long breath, letting it fill me up until there was no more space inside me for fear. And I sang:

O death,

Won’t you spare me over for another year?

Leave me here for another measure,

Give me more life to treasure?

The first time I sang, I was scared. This time, I let the melody sur­round me, fill me, hold me up, until the last beat.

As soon as my turn was over, the circle broke. Mama wrapped her arm around my shoul­der and beamed a smile at me. “How’d that feel?”

The singing part felt nice, but I wasn’t sure I liked the part where every­one was staring at me. It was better when we all sang togeth­er. “Good, I guess.”

She gave me a warm squeeze. “You’re still think­ing about that woman, aren’t you?”

“No.” I lied before I could think about it. The truth was, I had thought about Pearl every day for two months. She had accused Mama of witch­craft, claim­ing our lack of birth records and death cer­tifi­cates was proof, and maybe she was right. Mary Corbitt hadn’t needed her wheel­chair after the last jam­boree, and I’d never seen a single gray hair on anyone in our Hollow, not even on Doctor Tate, who had eight great-grandchildren.

“That woman’s not coming back. I promise you.” She had told me the same thing a dozen times. I liked hearing it again.

“Why did she come here, anyway?”

Mama’s expres­sion dark­ened and she got quiet, like she was search­ing her thoughts. “Some people can’t let others be. Curios­i­ty gets the better of them.” She turned her eyes to me and offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“But why us?”

“Song­birds aren’t bound by time the same way every­one else is. We know some part of us has existed since the begin­ning of the uni­verse. That part could be as small as a single atom, but we have bil­lions of atoms inside us, and each one is a tiny galaxy with a song of its own, and that song has a vibra­tion and charge that will echo into eter­ni­ty. We don’t need graves, and we don’t need med­i­cine. All we need is the rhythm of a heartbeat.”

“I want to know exactly how it works.”

Mama traced a line along my chin. “Someday, I’ll tell you.”

I didn’t know all of Mama’s secrets. I knew one of them, though, and that was enough for now.

My mama’s singing had power. Real power.

Mine did, too.

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local book­sellers and inde­pen­dent pub­lish­ers by order­ing a print copy of the mag­a­zine.

Photo by Daniel Sandvik.