electric mixer, which ended up in the attic because the sound of it made the chickens (and Milly) anxious.
Milly put The Curious Book of Birds back in its place on the shelf. She finished dusting the bookshelves and the hutch, twirling the duster around corners and spines until she saw a slight reflection of herself in the varnished wood. She didn’t quite know when what had happened to her body had happened to her body. The sagging skin beneath her knees told one story. The liver spots on her hands told another. Though she’d never been the type of woman to fawn over her reflection, she wished she’d have taken a moment to appreciate her youth while she was still youthful. The one hip had already gone out, and the other was beginning to creak. One day, it would snap altogether and she’d have a body full of titanium, but nothing to propel her forward. And her chin! The pull of gravity had turned what was once one into two. The chins worked against each other like cresting waves.
Crash , they went.
You’re old , they said.
So be it , Milly thought.
She pulled the drapes shut to keep out the heat and then drew a line through the task on her chore list. She looked over the way she spelled out each step like her mother used to because Twiss would feign ignorance that what was washed also needed to be dried.
MILLY’S CHORE LISTDust bookshelves and hutch
Dust and close drapes
Change bed linens
Wash bed linens
Dry bed linens
More dusting?
Supper?
The list struck her as both amusing and a little sad, and Milly wasn’t eager to obey it this morning. She was drawn once again to the bird book as if it were a live thing, a wing beat of breath on an otherwise breathless day, which deserved her care—pleaded for it—more than some dusty old linens, worn-out threads. This time, Milly read about the different kinds of nests birds built, how some were well wrought and some carelessly fastened to branches. The smartest birds built their nests high up in the trees. Some birds, namely the wood pigeon, the clumsiest architect of all, began building their nests but never finished them.
6
hat was the way the tree house went in the weeks leading up to Cousin Bettie’s visit. By the end of May and the beginning of the trumpet vines and wisteria, the honeysuckle and hummingbirds, Milly and Twiss had collected enough scrap lumber to build the foundation. They’d checked out a book from the library that taught them about basic woodworking, but Twiss didn’t want to wait until they could afford to buy the materials they needed. She said they’d be dead before that happened. What was one more floor that leaned?
Together, they dragged the planks to the backyard. Twiss found two hammers in the attic. She didn’t bother to wipe away the toadstool on the handles or the rust on the heads. She named her hammer Rust-O-Lonia and went to work. Milly called hers Hammer. After she washed the toadstool off him (It’s poisonous , she told Twiss, but Twiss said, Not if you don’t eat it) , she tapped at the nails as if she were asking them for permission.
“Pretend the nail’s something you don’t like,” Twiss instructed.
“You don’t like snakes,” she added when Milly didn’t say anything.
“But I don’t want to hammer them,” Milly said.
“Cousin Bettie better be less of a humanitarian,” Twiss said.
“Do you even know what that means?”
“It means we need a third person to finish the tree house.”
Since they’d found out she was coming, Milly and Twiss had been making predictions about their cousin. They’d met her only once, and “met” wasn’t the quite right word since Milly was two and Twiss was still a baby. Cousin Bettie was four then. According to their mother, they got along beautifully. Twiss was hoping for another her. Milly didn’t know what to hope for, but figured their cousin would probably be wearing a bracelet with little charms in the shapes
Milly put The Curious Book of Birds back in its place on the shelf. She finished dusting the bookshelves and the hutch, twirling the duster around corners and spines until she saw a slight reflection of herself in the varnished wood. She didn’t quite know when what had happened to her body had happened to her body. The sagging skin beneath her knees told one story. The liver spots on her hands told another. Though she’d never been the type of woman to fawn over her reflection, she wished she’d have taken a moment to appreciate her youth while she was still youthful. The one hip had already gone out, and the other was beginning to creak. One day, it would snap altogether and she’d have a body full of titanium, but nothing to propel her forward. And her chin! The pull of gravity had turned what was once one into two. The chins worked against each other like cresting waves.
Crash , they went.
You’re old , they said.
So be it , Milly thought.
She pulled the drapes shut to keep out the heat and then drew a line through the task on her chore list. She looked over the way she spelled out each step like her mother used to because Twiss would feign ignorance that what was washed also needed to be dried.
MILLY’S CHORE LISTDust bookshelves and hutch
Dust and close drapes
Change bed linens
Wash bed linens
Dry bed linens
More dusting?
Supper?
The list struck her as both amusing and a little sad, and Milly wasn’t eager to obey it this morning. She was drawn once again to the bird book as if it were a live thing, a wing beat of breath on an otherwise breathless day, which deserved her care—pleaded for it—more than some dusty old linens, worn-out threads. This time, Milly read about the different kinds of nests birds built, how some were well wrought and some carelessly fastened to branches. The smartest birds built their nests high up in the trees. Some birds, namely the wood pigeon, the clumsiest architect of all, began building their nests but never finished them.
6
hat was the way the tree house went in the weeks leading up to Cousin Bettie’s visit. By the end of May and the beginning of the trumpet vines and wisteria, the honeysuckle and hummingbirds, Milly and Twiss had collected enough scrap lumber to build the foundation. They’d checked out a book from the library that taught them about basic woodworking, but Twiss didn’t want to wait until they could afford to buy the materials they needed. She said they’d be dead before that happened. What was one more floor that leaned?
Together, they dragged the planks to the backyard. Twiss found two hammers in the attic. She didn’t bother to wipe away the toadstool on the handles or the rust on the heads. She named her hammer Rust-O-Lonia and went to work. Milly called hers Hammer. After she washed the toadstool off him (It’s poisonous , she told Twiss, but Twiss said, Not if you don’t eat it) , she tapped at the nails as if she were asking them for permission.
“Pretend the nail’s something you don’t like,” Twiss instructed.
“You don’t like snakes,” she added when Milly didn’t say anything.
“But I don’t want to hammer them,” Milly said.
“Cousin Bettie better be less of a humanitarian,” Twiss said.
“Do you even know what that means?”
“It means we need a third person to finish the tree house.”
Since they’d found out she was coming, Milly and Twiss had been making predictions about their cousin. They’d met her only once, and “met” wasn’t the quite right word since Milly was two and Twiss was still a baby. Cousin Bettie was four then. According to their mother, they got along beautifully. Twiss was hoping for another her. Milly didn’t know what to hope for, but figured their cousin would probably be wearing a bracelet with little charms in the shapes
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