Stork by Wendy Delsol Read Free Book Online Page B

know. And what’s done is done. Besides, I haven’t missed a Stork meeting in twenty years. You will have plenty of time to observe.”
    I’m sure my mathematician mother had a formula to calculate the likelihood of an event after a prolonged — say twenty-year — period of inactivity. Kind of like ninety-nine years without a hundred-year flood. At least Hulda looked healthy, for her age, anyway. “What if I have more questions? Can I get ahold of you?”
    Hulda took a deep breath. “For one so young, I must make an exception.” She reached a leathery hand into the pocket of her long gray skirt, producing a large old-fashioned key, which she handed me. “This will open the back door. Wait for me inside, but do not open the door to the office. I will come along soon.” Hulda, again, looked side to side as if under surveillance. “Something else. It’s important.”
    “What?”
    “You must tell no one. Not your family. Not the vessel, not the vessels who still wait. And certainly not the child, ever.”
    “Uh. OK.” I couldn’t imagine getting that conversation going, anyway. Uh, excuse me ma’am, but you smell like dried unicorn dung, so I’m going to beam a hovering soul into you. It’s a girl, by the way. She’s going to like butterflies and be lactose-intolerant. Congratulations!
    “Your thoughts are swirling.”
    Jeez. It was bad enough when she knew my ears were ringing and that clowns had Charles Manson eyes. “So when I figure all this out — if I figure all this out, what then?”
    “You call a meeting of the council.”
    “How do I do that?”
    “You start scratching.”
    “Scratching what?”
    “Your scalp.”
    “What will that do?”
    “Once you start scratching, we will all get the cap, and we meet at nine p.m. And it is very important that you waste no time. It must be as soon as you have sufficient information. You must not hesitate. Do you understand?”
    “Yeah. But I don’t get it. By clawing at my own head, I’m gonna give you all a rash?” It seemed too stupid to believe.
    “Yes.”
    There had to be a better way to communicate. Hadn’t these old gals heard of e-mail? “Will I still get it?”
    “Yes.”
    I rolled my eyes. “That thing hurt like nobody’s business.”
    “The first time is always the worst.”
    “And the second time?”
    “A little better.”
    “Only a little?”
    Hulda shrugged in reply.
    “Do I get to have a normal life in the meantime?” I asked.
    “Of course.”
    “Then can I look at some of your fabrics?”
    Hulda nodded. “For you, twenty percent off.”

At breakfast the next morning, my mom wanted to talk about Stanley. Why did I avoid him?
    She had made it clear to me, months ago, that the divorce was inevitable, that she could never forgive my dad for being unfaithful, and that the return to Minnesota symbolized her new start. Still, I couldn’t help but think that my dad was a big drink of life, whereas Stanley was a sip, as in insipid. Anyway, it was just the wrong time for a heart-to-heart. I hadn’t slept well. Hulda had me so paranoid about the essence coming to me in a dream that I couldn’t relax. Branches had tapped at my window, and a nightjar may have been going for Guinness Book bragging rights on number of calls by a single bird. All night it sang its name:
Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will
. No wonder it was of the species
vociferus
. If it were going for the record, it would have to best 1,088, one of the stranger facts I knew. Another thing I knew about the whippoorwill, that I had lain awake thinking about, was that its song was considered a death omen.
    In this sleep-deprived state, I was no match for my crafty mom, who extracted a promise from me to have dinner with her and Stanley that night. He had offered to cook. What a sucker.
    School that day was a grease fire. Wade, it appeared, was not content with Monique as the only chew toy dangling from his muzzle. He cornered me at the drinking fountain