When Sparrows Fall by Meg Moseley Read Free Book Online Page B

taste ran toward cheerful yellows and greens. The door of the fridge held twelve pieces of artwork and penmanship practice, lined up in two neat columns that nearly reached the floor. Everything looked clean, orderly, and reasonably prosperous, but something was missing. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
    Maybe it was the very orderliness of the room that bothered him. He preferred the irregular, off kilter, haphazard stuff of life. He liked, as Hopkins put it, all things counter, original, spare, strange.
    Jack examined an ugly pink and purple ceramic plaque that hung above the stove. Clumsily painted pansies nearly eclipsed the florid lettering:
    A wife who’s always neat and sweet
    Makes her husband’s life a treat.
    Jack rolled his eyes and turned his back on the monstrosity.
    Soon he was at the table, drinking black coffee from a brown mug. With his eyes closed, he could almost fool himself into believing he was in his own kitchen—
    “What’s a half person?”
    Startled, he looked down at a sleepy face framed by messy pigtails. Martha wore a flannel nightgown, and she’d draped a small quilt around her shoulders like a faded red and blue shawl.
    “Mornin’, Miss Martha.”
    “Good morning,” she said in her precise way. She placed her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands. “How can there be a half person?”
    He smiled at the glimpse into a four-year-old mind. “Like a half-brother?”
    She nodded.
    “I’m a whole person, but I’m only a half brother to your dad because we had the same father but not the same mother. Do you understand that?”
    She scrutinized him as she mulled the concept. “No.”
    “Don’t worry about it. I’m ten times older than you are, and there are a lot of things I still don’t understand.”
    She pointed to the cereal he’d unloaded on the counter the day before. “What’s in that blue box?”
    “Frosted Flakes. Do you like Frosted Flakes?”
    “What’s that?”
    He nearly choked on his coffee. “It’s a kind of cereal. What do you usually have for breakfast?”
    “Toast or hot oatmeal. Or hot buckwheat when Mama’s fasting because she doesn’t like it so then she isn’t tempted.”
    “Fasting? Why does she fast?”
    “Because she wants to hear God.” Martha’s tone implied that he was a big dummy for needing to ask. “That kind there, is it any good?”
    “What a pessimist. Of course it’s good.” He searched for a bowl, finding the right cupboard on his third try, and fixed her a serving of Frosted Flakes.
    She dropped her quilt to the floor. “We can’t get sticky fingers on the cuddle-quilt,” she explained. Then she sat across from him and devoured the cereal, milk dribbling down her chin. Finished, she let out a sigh of bliss. “That was yummy.”
    “Told you so.”
    “It tastes like sugar.” She grinned. “I like you, Uncle Jack.”
    “I like you too.”
    “Pastor Mason says sugar is bad, but he doesn’t come around much.” She scraped one last spoonful of milk from the bottom of the bowl. “I don’t think he likes us.”
    Before Jack could process that, Rebekah came downstairs and greeted him shyly. The archangels arrived in the midst of a good-natured squabble, followed by Jonah in red pajamas, bumping his way down the stairs on his rump. Timothy came last, avoiding Jack’s eyes.
    Michael inhaled noisily. “What’s that smell?”
    “That isn’t a smell, son. It’s an aroma. The aroma of freshly ground Arabica coffee beans from tropical mountain slopes. At this hour, it’s my reason for living.”
    Michael put his nose nearly in Jack’s coffee and inhaled again. “Can I try some?”
    “Once your mother’s home, you can ask her if it’s all right.”
    But Jack decided to have no scruples about sharing his sugar-coated cereal. Although Timothy only took a banana from the counter and left the room, the other kids enjoyed the unexpected treat. Martha had seconds. What would have been a week’s supply for