Read Online The Language of Sparrows by Rachel Phifer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Phifer
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whispered. “My child.”
Nick looked up, startled. Never had his father said his name with such feeling. Sure, there were good reasons why he wasn’t a whole man. But just once, couldn’t he say, “Nicu, my son” with any degree of feeling, anything besides weariness or contempt?
Monday morning, Nick woke in the early quiet. The gray light of dawn tempted him to go back to sleep. The day would be merciless. Every hour in the classroom was a battle, one he’d come to look forward to, if he were honest. But the only way to make it through was to spend these few minutes not in bed, as his body craved, but sitting on the deep windowsill of his study, praying. He stumbled across the hall, leaving the covers behind.
Too tired to pull out words of his own, he leaned back against the window and began with the words he knew by rote. “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”
He rubbed his eyes several minutes later, realizing his mind was drifting. To Sierra and his old man. He glanced at the clock, at the bookshelves, at the bars of sunlight shining between the slats of the blinds onto the carpet.
“Our Father which art in heaven,” he began again.
His mother had taught him that prayer before he could read. He’d learned it by heart in both Romanian and English.
In the most brutal years of his life—when Mom died; during Desert Storm; when Caroline drove off, stone-drunk, to her death; during his first year of teaching—he’d lost the words to pray. His world became an empty void. Words became meaningless, and belief a shaky thing he couldn’t count on anymore.
But that prayer, the one he’d learned so early, stayed with him, and when he prayed it, he had the sense that at least God was present and listening, until at last, he found God filling the empty spaces again.
The fourth sentence always tripped him up though. “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” How could he pray that? He hoped God had more mercy than he did.
“Help me to forgive.” It was the only honest prayer he could say.
But no matter how often he prayed Help me to forgive , it didn’t get any easier to speak with his old man. What need did a forty-year-old man have for his father’s approval anyway? Prison had broken Luca Prodan and left Nick fatherless for all intents. He needed to accept that and move on. He forgave his old man. He always did. But sooner or later, Dad would say something offensive, and the anger washed back in, galling him.
Nick closed his eyes, tuning out his study, and went through the words of the prayer one more time, forcing his mind to focus on the words and to mean them.
After he said amen, he went downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and then stood on the deck in back. He leaned on the wood railing and drank down the hot, bitter stuff. A cool breeze rippled over him. The sun crested over the pine trees, lighting up the hill that sloped down toward the stream below.
Maybe his relationship with his father couldn’t be salvaged. But at least he could save Sierra Wright some heartache. Her mother had enough spirit to set the girl onto another track. Sierra would forget his old man soon enough.
He smiled, thinking of April Wright, with her artsy, short hair, standing up to tell off the school for interfering. She had enough spirit all right. He wondered how a capable, stylish woman like her ended up in his school’s neighborhood. And what had happened to give Sierra eyes that held her whole battered soul within them?
No mention of a father or husband had come up either time he’d spoken with Sierra’s mother. Somehow he suspected their problems were connected to the missing Mr. Wright. Surely there had once been a Mr. Wright.
Chapter Eleven
April stopped in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen sink to watch Sierra sitting in front of the TV. She’d been flipping an international news station on and off all evening as if she were searching for something.
Nick looked up, startled. Never had his father said his name with such feeling. Sure, there were good reasons why he wasn’t a whole man. But just once, couldn’t he say, “Nicu, my son” with any degree of feeling, anything besides weariness or contempt?
Monday morning, Nick woke in the early quiet. The gray light of dawn tempted him to go back to sleep. The day would be merciless. Every hour in the classroom was a battle, one he’d come to look forward to, if he were honest. But the only way to make it through was to spend these few minutes not in bed, as his body craved, but sitting on the deep windowsill of his study, praying. He stumbled across the hall, leaving the covers behind.
Too tired to pull out words of his own, he leaned back against the window and began with the words he knew by rote. “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”
He rubbed his eyes several minutes later, realizing his mind was drifting. To Sierra and his old man. He glanced at the clock, at the bookshelves, at the bars of sunlight shining between the slats of the blinds onto the carpet.
“Our Father which art in heaven,” he began again.
His mother had taught him that prayer before he could read. He’d learned it by heart in both Romanian and English.
In the most brutal years of his life—when Mom died; during Desert Storm; when Caroline drove off, stone-drunk, to her death; during his first year of teaching—he’d lost the words to pray. His world became an empty void. Words became meaningless, and belief a shaky thing he couldn’t count on anymore.
But that prayer, the one he’d learned so early, stayed with him, and when he prayed it, he had the sense that at least God was present and listening, until at last, he found God filling the empty spaces again.
The fourth sentence always tripped him up though. “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” How could he pray that? He hoped God had more mercy than he did.
“Help me to forgive.” It was the only honest prayer he could say.
But no matter how often he prayed Help me to forgive , it didn’t get any easier to speak with his old man. What need did a forty-year-old man have for his father’s approval anyway? Prison had broken Luca Prodan and left Nick fatherless for all intents. He needed to accept that and move on. He forgave his old man. He always did. But sooner or later, Dad would say something offensive, and the anger washed back in, galling him.
Nick closed his eyes, tuning out his study, and went through the words of the prayer one more time, forcing his mind to focus on the words and to mean them.
After he said amen, he went downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and then stood on the deck in back. He leaned on the wood railing and drank down the hot, bitter stuff. A cool breeze rippled over him. The sun crested over the pine trees, lighting up the hill that sloped down toward the stream below.
Maybe his relationship with his father couldn’t be salvaged. But at least he could save Sierra Wright some heartache. Her mother had enough spirit to set the girl onto another track. Sierra would forget his old man soon enough.
He smiled, thinking of April Wright, with her artsy, short hair, standing up to tell off the school for interfering. She had enough spirit all right. He wondered how a capable, stylish woman like her ended up in his school’s neighborhood. And what had happened to give Sierra eyes that held her whole battered soul within them?
No mention of a father or husband had come up either time he’d spoken with Sierra’s mother. Somehow he suspected their problems were connected to the missing Mr. Wright. Surely there had once been a Mr. Wright.
Chapter Eleven
April stopped in the middle of scrubbing the kitchen sink to watch Sierra sitting in front of the TV. She’d been flipping an international news station on and off all evening as if she were searching for something.
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