Amnesty

           On the first day after their last child left home, she packed the musty old suitcase. Not with her clothes. His.

         When he peered into the bedroom, she sidestepped her ample frame in front of the suitcase to hide it.

         “Say, what’re you doing in there, Bethy?” he asked.

         “Just cleaning Mickey,” she said. “You go on now and leave me to it.”

         “Aw, the room looks fine to me. You’re always cleaning.” He frowned. “So. I’m going on down to meet the guys now.”

         She swallowed a lump in her throat and blinked rapidly. “You do that, Mickey.”

         He nodded to her and strode away, whistling. Whistling.

         Beth blew out her breath as she slumped down, sitting on the edge of their bed, letting the tears come. Her eyes came to rest upon the crucifix next to the framed picture of the Virgin. She stared into the Virgin’s eyes, as she had so many other times.

“Have you been hanging there all these years watching what goes on in this room?” Beth felt a pang of nostalgia that took her by surprise, but when it passed, she glared into ever placid eyes.  “Well, you know then. You know what I’ve had to put up with for 25 years. The last of them is gone now. Don’t I deserve to have some kind of life of my own?”

         Beth waited. The Virgin did not reply.

         “Well, I don’t care what you think,” she told the Virgin. Beth unkinked her legs and pushed herself up, unsteady for a few moments. Then she shuffled straight from bedroom to back door stopping only at the hall closet to retrieve the bag with a new sketchbook and drawing pencils.

         Once outside, she settled onto an ancient stone bench beneath the Cortland apple tree with its unripe fruit. In shade, she rested for a long while before fingering the bag. With a gentle, reverential movement, she pulled out the sketchbook, running her hand over the cool smoothness of the cover, admiring the thick quality of the paper. She chose a #2 drawing pencil with deliberation.

         Across the tiny yard, favorites of her fence line flower garden were in bloom. With a trembling, tentative stroke, she sketched phlox, black-eyed Susan and budding asters.

         Beth caught sight of a pair of nuthatches flitting around something on the ground. First one would hop down and begin pecking. Then the other, a slightly larger bird, would swoop in to

peck, chasing the smaller one into the air. But it would return, edge out the bigger one which flitted up to a branch of the Cortland, hopped a few times, then went back to the same spot.

         As if directed by some outer force, they lifted to perch upon the fence above a few surprise lilies, their former squabbles forgotten. Beth hoped they would sit still long enough for her to sketch them.

         Quick as lightning, old Tobias, the neighbor’s cat, pounced. Wild chirping began as feathers flew and Tobias jumped smoothly down with the smaller nuthatch in his mouth. But he made a mistake by coming across the yard toward the shade with his prize. Beth lunged toward him with her sketchbook, swatting him on the head. He dropped the bird and ran away.

         The nuthatch lay still, one glassy eye looking up at her. She couldn’t see any wounds and covered its small body with her hand, feeling warmth. Still breathing. 

         From the yard, she heard pounding on her front door and started toward the house, but halfway there, she remembered Tobias.

         Looking back she saw the other nuthatch standing next to the injured one, then a movement out of the corner of her eye. Oh no! Tobias stalking. Rushing back, she saw the miracle. Just when Tobias crouched to pounce, both birds flew up, together again, into a branch of the apple tree, then away. Thwarted, Tobias slunk off. Beth smiled and hurried on.

Opening the front door she saw Mickey on the stoop. His face was bloody and one leg hung awkwardly, his arms draped over his two buddies. They held him up; half dragged him into the house.

         “In here,” she said as she rushed into their bedroom, quickly stuffing the packed suitcase under the bed and pulling down the bedspread. “Here. Put him here. What happened?”

         “He fell,” one of the men said. “Not sure why. Just stumbled, then fell hard onto pavement, face down. Looks like he broke his nose and twisted his ankle too.”

         Beth grabbed a towel to wipe blood while they laid him down, taking off his shoes and socks. “We wanted to call an ambulance,” the other man said, “but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said to bring him home to his Bethy.”

         Her husband moaned with each tentative swab of blood from his face. She could see his nose was indeed broken and a front tooth or two loosened. His ankle was puffing up and bruising quickly.

         One man went to the kitchen for ice. Then they both stood awkwardly to the side, watching Beth wrap an ice pack around Mickey’s ankle and prop it up on pillows. She eased him out of his bloody shirt and got him to hold an icepack to his nose with one hand. When she had him somewhat settled, she turned to thank them.

         “Think nothing of it. Can we do anything else to help you?”

         Glancing back over her shoulder at her husband, Beth shook her head. “I’ll watch over him now.”

         “He said you would do that.”

         As she showed them out, she caught sight of the picture of the Virgin.

         Smiling.

***