Backwater by Joan Bauer Page B

each in a different cage, had little bandages on their legs and bodies. We were in the larger A-frame building behind the cabin. There was a long, scratched wooden table in the middle with a microscope and bottles of medicine, tweezers, bandages, and gauze. Josephine put a log into a small wood stove that sputtered with warmth, then clucked to the birds who tweeted in response.
    She filled an eye dropper from a medicine bottle and squirted it into the water bowls of three cages. She stopped to look at a fat bird who glared back at her.
    “That one’s on a diet,” she said. “He’s mad at me.”
    The bird stuck out his chest, tweeted with irritation, and pecked at the bottom of the cage. He reminded me of Aunt Fiona.
    “When I found him this fall he was swollen up and burning with fever. He’ll be here a few more weeks until he loses more weight.”
    Bird Weight Watchers. She stuck a raisin in the fat bird’s cage. He lunged for it like he hadn’t eaten for days and squawked.
    “They get dramatic sometimes.”
    She moved past the rows of birdcages, looking at her patients like a doctor making hospital calls.
    “Yeah, I know,” she said to a little red bird, “I know.”
    The bird hopped over, it’s wing was bandaged. Jo adjusted the bandage gently; the bird let her.
    “This one’s mother rejected it for some reason. I kept putting her back in and the mother kept pushing her out. Being maternal isn’t always instinctual.”
    “Aunt Jo, how long have you been taking care of the birds?”
    “As long as I can remember.”
    “You must know a lot about them.”
    She didn’t respond to that. “I couldn’t fit another cage in here even if there was a catastrophe. Some of the kids have to double up.”
    “That’s a problem,” I said, inspecting the roof, which was leaking a bit.
    “Can’t have a decent town without a good hospital for the population. What kind of a mayor would I be if I was content with
this
.”
    “I see your point.”
    Sort of.
    Mountain Mama was looking in the cages, making mental notes for her book, probably.
    I smiled sensitively at the birds and tried to remember all the things I knew about gaining a person’s trust as an interviewer.
    Show them you’re a good listener.
    Show them you’re interested in their lives.
    Show them you’re not in a hurry.
    Show them you respect their boundaries.
    Never once have I ever read anything about earning anyone’s trust by smiling at birds. But when in Rome …
    We walked outside. It was frigid. A wind blew and clanged the hanging bell on the smaller A-frame.
    “That’s the chapel,” Jo said. “I keep it open for the kids year-round.”
    “That’s nice,” I said. What I really meant was,
That’s very, very weird
.
    Birds ate at half a dozen feeders that were hanging from trees. I felt like I was on another planet.
    Mountain Mama walked several yards away and leaned against a tree, trying to not be obvious.
    Josephine turned to me. “You’ve come a long way to find me, Ivy.”
    “The family history wouldn’t be complete without you.”
    Her eyes seemed distant. “How did you know where I was?”
    I told her about Mrs. Englebert, the holly, and Town Records.
    She didn’t respond.
    “Could we try and talk, Aunt Jo?”
    She looked at Mountain Mama, who was whistling to birds at a feeder. “I don’t know.”
    I had to ask. “Do you feel uncomfortable that she’s here?”
    Josephine laughed. “I feel uncomfortable that anyone’s here.”
    “I’m … sorry … I don’t want to push myself on you in any way.” The next part was trickier. “I don’t think you would have decorated those graves if being part of the family wasn’t important to you.”
    She sighed.
    “That was a long trip you made.”
    She looked away.
    “Would you consider letting me stay here and having Mountain Mama pick me up later so we could talk?”
    Josephine’s face got cloudy. She said she had to think about that and needed to be alone to do