Backwater by Joan Bauer Page A

slanted roof, a covered porch had firewood in three huge piles, a big sled leaned against a wood pile. Behind the cabin was an A-frame structure made from notched logs; the door was locked with a rusty padlock. Next to that was a smaller A-frame; the door was open and birds were flying in and out of it. A weathered old bell hung from the roof on a rope. There was a clearing in the middle with a park bench. A tire swing hung from a huge tree. A split wood fence surrounded the property. The snow lay pure and white.
    I felt like we’d entered another world.
    The sound and flutter of birds filled the air with an energy I’d never felt before. They swooped from tree to tree. They chattered, they tweeted.
    “When she’s ready, she’ll be out,” Mama said.
    Slowly, the door of the Town Hall cabin opened. I could see a face looking at us hidden in the shadows. The door opened further and a woman stepped cautiously onto the porch. She was wearing an old green mountain jacket, had long, impossible sandy hair blown from the wind; a red bandana was wrapped around her forehead, Native American style. She walked toward us tentatively; dust rose from her jacket. She was wearing high mountain boots that laced half way to her knees. Her jeans were patched. She had crackling navy blue eyes and the square Breedlove chin. She adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses that rested low on her nose and studied me without blinking. It was like looking at myself in twenty-five years, except I would have definitely rethought the outfit.
    She peered at me like a child views an animal at the zoo.
    I stood straighter and tried to quiet the thumping of my heart.
    The woman sniffed twice and took a step back; more dust rose off her coat. Her eyes were penetrating.
    “Ivy Breedlove,” said Mountain Mama, “I’d like you to meet your Aunt Josephine, the Mayor of Backwater.”
    Josephine nodded slightly.
    I nodded back.
    I couldn’t speak.
    Finally, Josephine did.
    “We’ve got a hospital, a town hall, a chapel, and a recreation center,” she stated matter-of-factly. Her voice sounded like she didn’t use it much.
    I stood there.
    What do you say to that?
    I looked to Mountain Mama who was silent.
    “Cool,” I said finally, and groaned internally.
    What if Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon and simply said
cool?
    But you can’t take stupid words back; they just hang there in the air.
    “I suppose it
is
cool,” Josephine said finally.
    Contact
.
    I half smiled, took a slow step toward her.
    “Aunt Josephine, this is a really big moment for me. I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time.”
    My words seemed to echo through the woods.
    “I hope it’s all right that I’ve come,” I added.
    Josephine considered this.
    “We met once,” she said after a long silence.
    “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
    “You were very young. It was a … complicated day.”
    I grinned. “I’ve never seen so many birds.”
    “Seems I’ve cornered the market.” She whistled to the air, and a dozen birds flew to her, circling her head, perching on her arms and shoulders.
    I tried to picture her growing up with Dad and Archie, but I couldn’t do it.
    She peered at me some more. I wasn’t used to such scrutiny. “I suppose at this moment you think I’m the craziest woman you’ve ever met,” she said quietly.
    I looked at her standing there with birds on her arms and head.
    “Fiona’s crazier,” I assured her.
    At that Josephine laughed so hard that the birds flew off her head and headed for the nearest tree, tweeting like mad.
    “I’ll show you around town,” she said, chuckling. “I built it myself.” She pulled the hood of her old coat up around her head, and waved us to follow.
    *    *    *
    “This is the bird hospital, such as it is. We’ve got plans to expand it, but these things take time. We’ve had a few foxes and bears that have tried to hurt the patients. That’s why I keep it locked.”
    Bears again.
    Eleven birds,