Special Providence in the Fall of a Sparrow
By Jeremiah Kniola
A bird flew into the kitchen’s sliding glass door. At the point of impact, the glass rippled outward in a circle. A loud bang echoed the snap of breaking bones.
Hattie jumped and dropped her mug of morning coffee, shattering the porcelain into bits on the floor. “Shit!”
Denise trampled downstairs still dressed in pajamas, her cropped hair standing at attention on one side, a red stripe marking her forehead where she’d lain on her wrist. Sleep had deposited crust in the corners of her eyes. Without makeup, the natural light in the room traced the hollow cheeks and sunken sockets of her gaunt face.
Though only two years older than Hattie, Denise had aged horribly, gray splayed along the roots of her part, skin sagged where it shouldn’t. Somehow Hattie’s features had evaded wear over the last forty-three years. She attributed her youthful appearance to escaping the bleak surroundings of West Pine and the cycle of tribulation that came with it. Not like Hattie hadn’t suffered hardships in Chicago—she’d suffered plenty—but in the city there were distractions to keep her from fixating on her problems. Out here among the cornfields and small town monotony a person only had their troubles.
“What happened?” asked Denise.
Hattie began picking up the pieces of porcelain scattered like leaves across the steaming brown streams flowing along the tile. “A bird crashed into the window. Scared the shit out of me.”
Removing a broom from the closet, Denise began sweeping the shards into a pile.
“Please leave it. I’ll get it,” Hattie pleaded, but Denise wouldn’t hear it. She had a tendency to go out of her way to make Hattie feel inadequate.
Hattie grabbed a roll of paper towel from the counter and soaked the little coffee streams, creating a trail as she carried the sopping wads to the trash bin beneath the sink. She could hear the irritation in the quick strokes of Denise’s sweeping. Hattie cursed her clumsiness. Here they’d been getting along so well—as well as could be expected for two grown siblings once again living together. Why did she have to ruin everything? Picking a big chunk of porcelain off the floor, Denise studied a stenciled broken heart with the letters MO etched beneath it. Hattie’s breath caught in her throat. “Don’t tell me that was the one you made in art class?” Hattie knew how much that mug meant to Denise. It was the first birthday gift Denise gave Mom, a gift created with her own hands when she was kid.
Denise dumped the piece along with the rest of the remnants in the trash. “No worries.”
“I’ll replace it.” Hattie bit her tongue the second the words left her mouth. Stupid. Stupid. How could she be so stupid? She couldn’t replace sentimental value with store bought fluff.
Denise put back the broom. “It’s fine, really. No biggie. It’s not like Mom’s here to enjoy it.”
Hattie couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered the importance of the mug when she’d poured her coffee this morning. There were two others to choose from in the cupboard, yet she’d grabbed this one. Now it lay at the bottom of the waste basket, a pile of shattered pieces.
The house was practically empty compared to when Hattie last stayed. The clutter inhabiting every inch had been cleared since the funeral, leaving clean but utterly vacant rooms. A spare amount of furniture remained, enough for two people to rest. They had to wash the kitchenware after each meal and all the family photos and rustic art were stripped from the walls. Hattie had filled the attic with Mom’s theater clippings and jewelry and outfits, stuff she couldn’t bring herself to throw away. Denise donated the rest to Goodwill.
But she’d kept the mug and Hattie had robbed her of it.
“Maybe it’s not such a good idea I stay.”
Denise poured herself a cup of coffee. “Where else would you go?”
A fair question. One Hattie hadn’t the faintest answer to. She’d moved from West Pine to Chicago over two decades ago, losing touch with most of her friends. She’d promised herself she’d never come back here permanently. Only to visit. But too many misadventures on the drink wouldn’t allow her to keep that promise. Until she found work, she couldn’t afford a motel room, nevertheless an apartment.
“I just hate to be a burden,” Hattie said.
“I told you it’s not a bother. Really. Gets awful lonesome here since Leon and the boys moved out. All this space can drive a person nutty.”
Denise and Leon had moved their family into the house when Mom fell ill, acting as caretakers the entire term of her illness. Seven months after the funeral they separated. Leon took the boys to live with him in a trailer he rented in Rolling Prairie. From what Hattie had learned from relatives, Denise didn’t put up much of an argument, which was unusual, considering how protective she was of the boys. But as Denise explained, after Mom died the struggle to adjust to normal life took a toll on their marriage. She and Leon had sacrificed so much there was hardly anything left to salvage. Eventually resentments surfaced. They couldn’t stay in the same room for more than a few minutes without arguing. They agreed it was best they spent some time apart, but since then, Denise had drifted through her days, unmoored.
“Have you spoken to him lately?” asked Hattie.
“Only when he drops the boys off. He talks about wanting to patch things up, but I don’t think that’s possible. At least not now.”
“You doing okay?”
“Better than the bird,” Denise said.
They glanced out the sliding glass door. The dead sparrow was sprawled on a pillow of snow, neck bent crooked, a spot of blood near its head marked its fall. Hattie stared deep into the blackness of the bird’s open eyes, searched for a glimmer of light. There was nothing.
“House sparrow,” Denise said. “Ooo...Tough luck. Mom used to say a sparrow at your window predicts impending death.”
Hattie tensed. “Don’t say that.”
“You superstitious?”
“Not really, but that doesn’t mean I need to start now.”
“It’s a Norwegian wives’ tale. People from the old country used to tell each other that kind of shit to keep themselves from going cuckoo from being cooped all the time. That’s what happens when you deal with below freezing temperatures half the year,” Denise said. “I’m going to get rid of the bird before it draws racoons.”
From the hallway closet, Denise slipped on a wool flannel, duckie boots, and thick work gloves. Hattie covered her mouth to muffle her laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Spiffy outfit you got there, Denise Boone.”
“Maybe you want to dispose of our beaked friend.”
Hattie shook her head.
Denise grabbed a garden trowel off a shelf and garbage bag beneath the sink. She opened the door, letting in a chilly breeze that sent shivers through Hattie’s body. Hattie watched as Denise stepped out onto the snow-covered deck. Wind blew flurries around her, the flakes collecting on Denise’s coat and hat. For a few minutes, she poked at the sparrow with the tip of the trowel as if she expected it to miraculously come to life. After several awkward attempts, she managed to flip the dead bird into the garbage bag. She walked down the steps and carried the bird across the barren backyard, passed the frozen above-ground pool, and unceremoniously dumped it into a trashcan.
Hattie felt sorry for the poor bird. Every living creature deserved a proper burial.
Hattie fixed herself a fresh cup of coffee and waited at the dining room table. She ruminated about mom lying beneath the cold ground, remembering seeing her body in the coffin at the wake. The funeral home had fitted her with a wig that matched her naturally curly brown hair and applied foundation to disguise the gold tint of her skin. Mom chose to be buried in the floral ruffle gown she donned for special occasions and her favorite pearl necklace. It reminded Hattie of when she used to play dress up as a little girl, rifling through her mom’s closet and modeling her wardrobe in the mirror, imagining what she’d look like when she grew older. The funeral home had resurrected her youth. Hattie was struck by her beauty. She’d forgotten how attractive her mom had once been. Of course, Denise disapproved. She thought their mom looked like a mannequin.
When Denise entered, stomping her boots on the mat and tossing her coat on the table, Hattie could hardly look at her.
“What’s up?” asked Denise.
“What?” Hattie pretended not to know what she was talking about.
“You’re sulking.”
Hattie pressed her hands against the mug to steal the warmth. “We should’ve buried the sparrow.”
Denise blew out her cheeks. “Shovels in the garage. You’re welcome to it. But the ground’s frozen solid. Take you an hour, maybe more, to dig a hole.”
“Don’t you feel a tiny bit guilty?”
“You’re being far too sentimental, sis. You’re in the country. Occasionally a bird goes kamikaze, in case you forgot.”
Hattie understood there were many things she was going to have to get used to now that she was living back in West Pine. Diner food. Bad phone reception. No public transit. A bird accidentally flying into the window should seem like a trivial matter, but it bothered her, nonetheless.
“That’s a terrible thing to say. That bird could have a family. She may have little ones waiting at the nest.” Denise snorted back a laugh, which really got under Hattie’s skin. “I’m serious.”
Denise plopped down on a seat. “I’m finished with my share of burials for the year.”
“I buried her too, you know.”
“You didn’t have to help her pick out a casket. Now did you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, she never told you. That’s surprising. She forced me to go with her to pick out a casket over at Hodge Funeral Home. I asked her to let Leon take her, or you for that matter the next time you were in town, but she wouldn’t hear it. She said it wasn’t Leon’s duty and you couldn’t handle it.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“This coming from a person who cries over a dead bird,” Denise said, under her breath.
Hattie opened her mouth to argue, but Denise cut in before she could speak.
“I guess it’s best I went. She would’ve spent the rest of her savings if I hadn’t stepped in. Said she wanted to leave this world comfortable and in style. You would’ve thought she was buying a new car. Luckily, I was able to talk some sense into her.”
Hattie gripped the handle of the mug tighter. “You should’ve let her have something nice.”
“It would’ve been a waste of money. Money she didn’t have,” Denise replied.
“All I’m saying is you could’ve considered Mom’s wants.”
Denise leaned forward. “Oh, I considered her wants. I considered her wants every fucking day. I considered her wants finalizing her finances. I considered her wants preparing her funeral arrangements. I considered wants driving her to the doctors and giving her medicine and washing the sick from her bedsheets. I lost my marriage and my kids and nearly my goddamn mind considering her wants. So don’t tell me about considering her wants.”
“Goddamn it, Denise, quit being defensive. It wasn’t a slight against your character—”
“Really, what was it then? Surely not a fucking compliment.”
Hattie couldn’t understand why her sister had to be so defensive all the time. She couldn’t criticize her in any way without Denise throwing her own faults back in her face. It was the reason Denise and Mom always fought. Whenever Mom offered the slightest suggestion, Denise took it as an insult.
“I’m not saying you didn’t do more for her than anyone. God knows you did more for her than I ever could. I couldn’t even—”
Hattie stifled the tears she could feel coming.
“You couldn’t what?” Denise asked.
Walking over to the sink, Hattie leaned against the counter and watched out the window at the snow piling on the black top of the trash can.
“One of the last times I saw her alive we were lying in her bed watching a stupid TV show about this rich couple’s wedding. I don’t know why we were watching it. Nothing else on, I guess. Anyway, we were watching this couple deliver their vows on this fancy ass yacht when all of a sudden Mom burst out sobbing. I thought she was just getting emotional like she did over stuff like that, but then she started going on and on about how she wished she’d live long enough to see me married. I tried telling her I didn’t think I’d ever get married, hoping it’d maybe comfort her, but she got even more upset and asked, how’s a pretty, smart girl like you not found a man.”
“You should’ve told her because no one wants to date your crazy ass.”
Hattie couldn’t tell if her sister was joking. “Ha, ha, real funny.” Shaking her head, she continued, “Fucked up thing is ever since that day I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I may have disappointed her.”
Denise took a sip of coffee. “Like you could ever disappoint her.”
Looking back at her sister, Hattie replied, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Never once in the two years I nursed her did Mom ever ask me to lie next to her and chat about some stupid shit on TV. Sure, she did that with the boys, and I appreciated it, but not once did she with me. Hell, we hardly spoke beyond me asking what she needed.”
“You could’ve tried talking to her,” Hattie said.
“You don’t think I didn’t? But she never really wanted to talk. Not to me. Sometimes I’d hear her chatting on the phone with you and I’d wonder why she never showed me the same attention. Here I was cleaning her vomit and wiping her ass, but she cared more about you portraying a drunk in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolff—never realizing how close to the truth it really was.”
Hattie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She almost plugged her ears and hummed like she did as a little girl when her sister and Mom fought. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry, Denise. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help carry the load. But I’m not apologizing for getting along with Mom better than you. I won’t do it.”
“I don’t how many times I thought about telling her about the shit you were into in Chicago. God forbid she’d have to admit her perfect little Hattie actually wasn’t perfect after all.”
“Enough, Denise.”
“How much money did she lend you over the years? Five, ten thousand? Every time you needed it she didn’t hesitate to fork it over. Anything for baby Hattie. I told her it was good money after bad, but Mom would throw it in my face that I was being unfair. Me, the daughter who never once asked mom for a fucking dime. The daughter who stayed close to care for her.”
“Enough!” Hattie slapped the counter. Turning back around, she rolled her forehead against the cabinets, feeling the notches in the wood press into her forehead. “I don’t need you throwing this shit in my face. You have no idea what I’ve gone through. What I’m still going through.”
Denise laughed, mockingly. “Yeah, because I had it easy.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying? Because obviously I don’t have a clue.”
“Did you know those last few days I could barely bring myself to look at her? When the rattle started and the drool was pooling out of her mouth and the entire room smelled like Vick’s Vapor Rub. It was so fucking horrible.”
“You don’t think I don’t know.”
“No, I know you know. I’d watch you kneeling by her bedside, wiping her mouth with a soiled rag or changing her dirty linen and wondered how the hell you did it. How in the hell did you do it?”
Denise learned back in the chair and folded her hands in her lap. “The night she died I was collecting dirty laundry in her room. The rattle had been going on for so long it soothed me in a weird way, like when the whirl of a fan puts you to sleep. But then all of a sudden, I didn’t hear it anymore. There was like this deep silence, as if God had hit the mute button. I knew right then she’d passed. I didn’t even have to look at her, I just knew it. I dropped the laundry I was holding, sat down next to her, and held her hand. I wanted to feel sad, but that’s not what I felt at all. Do you know what I felt? Relief. And not relief that her pain was over. Relief that I no longer had this burden to bear. But once I was relieved of the burden, and I mean truly relieved, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt completely...useless.”
“Is that why you offered for me to come live with you?”
“Maybe...I don’t know.”
Tired of this conversation, Hattie slid on her boots and coat by the sliding glass door.
“Where are you going?” asked Denise.
“To bury the bird.”
Hattie walked out into the cold. The wind stung her face and snow blew into her eyes, but she didn’t mind, it was a relief to escape the stuffiness of the house. Boots crunching across the backyard, she passed the above ground pool, and went into the garage to retrieve a shovel. Once she found one, she flipped open the garbage can lid and dug through the trash and located the plastic bag containing the sparrow.
She decided the best place to bury the bird was in the corner near the fence where as children her mom had grown a small vegetable garden. Hattie had fond memories of her and Denise working beside her, digging their tillers into the soil, planting seeds, pulling weeds, and watering the ground until the vegetables sprouted. They never said much while working, but occasionally they’d glance at each other and smile. Three women who during that moment put aside their differences to enjoy the comfortable quiet of an afternoon.
Laying the sparrow next to her feet, Hattie pushed the tip of the shovel into the snow. Denise hadn’t been kidding. The ground was frozen solid. Using all her strength, she shoved as hard as she could, but hardly made a dent. Pain shot through her fingers despite their numbness. Losing her patience, she raised the shovel above her head and slammed the edge into the same area over and over until her arms no longer had the strength to lift it. She tossed the shovel at her feet and wept. She had no idea what had come over her.
The crunch of Denise’s footfalls approached from behind her. “You’re going to get sick,” Denise said, handing her a hat and a pair of gloves, which she accepted gladly.
Picking up the shovel, Denise started digging.
Over the next thirty minutes, they took turns digging a tiny grave, each of them breaking sweat against the frigid weather, until they were satisfied by the hole’s depth. Hattie gently placed the sparrow inside the grave then Denise covered her with dirt and snow. Together they marked the spot with a stick.
THE END
Author Bio: Jeremiah Blane Kniola lives in Chicago with his wife and pets, but is originally from a small town in Indiana, similar to the setting where is fiction takes place. In 2020. he graduated from the University of Illinois at Chicago with a BA in English at the age of 43. His fiction has appeared in Hobart, Rock and a Hard Place, Lovers Eye Press, Flyover Country Magazine, among others. He enjoys baseball, jazz, and gin martinis.