Rear-View Mirrors by Paul Fleischman Read Free Book Online

a brief smile. Out of habit I quickly compared our heights and saw I was taller, though only by an inch or two.
    â€œOlivia’s from California.”
    Owen nodded impassively.
    â€œFrom near San Francisco,” my father added. I’d heard that New Englanders were known for not talking much and had the distinct feeling my father was struggling to get him to speak.
    â€œRicky asked if he can do the yardwork next week as usual, or if you want me again.”
    My father’s face fell. Those weren’t the words he wanted—and suddenly I understood why.
    â€œI’ll—let you know,” he fumbled in reply. He pulled out his wallet and paid Owen, who walked off.
    I pounded in the last of my stakes. “Sounds like he’s not your usual helper.”
    My father dabbed his bald head with his handkerchief. “His younger brother often comes instead.”
    â€œYou don’t say.” I flicked a pie tin and watched it twirl, glinting in the sun. “You put up these tins to repel the birds. But you brought him here to attract—me.”
    I glared across the garden at him, his sober expression telling me I was right. He’d thought he could anchor me here that way—and it struck me that here was a third courtship, joining my father’s wooing of me and his being pursued by his artist friend, Flora, in which one of the parties had no wish to partake.
    â€œYou like playing God, don’t you?” I asked him. “You’ve got your vegetable Garden of Eden. And we were to be your Adam and Eve.”
    He hammered in a stake without answering.
    â€œWell then, I’ve got a prayer for you. Send one of your angels unto Owen—and tell him that next week he can stay home.”

5 / Epitaph
    I brake the moment I see it. I look behind me, circle back, stop beside it, and get off my bike.
    I crouch. There are ants all over its head. It’s some kind of warbler. Or maybe a vireo. I’m no expert on birds, though I have progressed beyond my mother, who stopped at whippoorwills. Last fall I bought myself a bird book. And fell into the habit of taking a feather from those I find dead—which I do right now, carefully pulling one out from the tail. I hold it up. It’s brown, edged with white. I thread it through the front of my cap. And at once I feel as if my hands aren’t my own, as if someone else has willed this deed, and realize I’m taking part in a practice as old as mankind itself: identifying myself with an animal, in this case by wearing one of its feathers, hoping by doing so to acquire its characteristics, in this case swiftness.
    I put on my cap and continue pedaling, unable to detect any gain in speed deriving from the feather. On the contrary, the new black pavement abruptly turns old and horrendously bumpy, slowing me down considerably. Each jolt travels up my arms and spine. I feel like I’m saving a trip to the chiropractor, the only silver lining I can think of. Peering around bends, I expect any moment that the road will regain its frosting-smooth surface. Half an hour later I’m still waiting, afraid I’ll need to see a chiropractor, imagining nuts shaking loose from their bolts and the bike spontaneously disassembling. At last, the pavement improves—just a bit. As a connoisseur whose rock-hard tires convey every wrinkle in the road, I’m grateful.
    I coast down a hill. I pass a beech tree and discover my thoughts turning back toward my father. I then cruise through the tiny village of Barbeau, whose downtown consists of an abandoned gas station. It dawns on me that the name is French, pointing my thoughts toward France, and toward Ben. I’ve been too busy in the week since graduation to miss him—but suddenly I do. I wonder how he’s finding Paris and if there’ll be a letter waiting in Maine. I calculate that we’ll only have five weeks together back in Berkeley before heading off to our