The Unsung Hero of Birdsong, USA: Chapters 10–21

Sounds of tools clanking were followed by the commotion of him getting out from under the car.

Greetings were spoken, but I could tell Patrick and Abigail were both leery.

"Well, unless y'all have some good reason to stand out here on the sidewalk, c'mon inside," he beckoned, and then stared up at the sky.

“So where’s your new bicycle today?" Mr. Hunter asked as we walked to my daddy's station.
"Can't ride it for two weeks," I replied.
"Oh, a fortnight is all," he said.

Our talk turned to the weather, and then I asked how he'd learned about fixing engines. As if he were searching for just the right answer, he took a while to reply. "Picked it up here and there. Was told I have something called mechanical aptitude."

"Your granddaddy was a slave?" I asked.
"Yes, and my daddy was a sharecropper...someone who rented land from the man who owned it, and grew and harvested crops. Then they shared the crops."

I knew from experience that her clasped arms were strong enough to force almost every iota of air out of a person's lungs.

"Yeah, from what I heard, it woulda been bye-bye time for you, Gabriel. That Roadmaster woulda mowed you down same as a speedin' train." He cracked a snide grin, showing crooked, tobacco-stained brown teeth.

Daddy hesitated, the way he tends to when he's trying to make certain he's making the right decision, then finally replied, "Seems my son is my conscience."

"Should you and Lucas happen to cross paths and he becomes..." He searched for a word and found it. "Hostile...promise me you'll just walk away. Can't know if it's true or not, but there's a rumor he's got friends in a certain organization."

As we coasted along Main Street, I thought about Lucas spitting on Meriwether and whether he really had friends in the KKK, and wondered what other ugly things might be lurking near the pretty town of Birdsong, USA.

Beside her stood her best friend, Emma Kane, who suffers from what Patrick and I call the Triple S disease— snooty, self-worshipping, and selfish.

"Hi, R-Rosie," I stammered, "and Emma."

Finally, we were at the ticket counter. "One adult and two children," Mama told the man in the booth. I heard Emma giggle. "Bye-bye, little boys," she said sarcastically.

Bacon frying in the skillet made my mouth water, and I knew hot grits were in the pot next to it.

"If you're worryin' yourself because I don't have a car...there's no need," he said, smiling. "I can see you suffer from the same affliction as lots of folks, Gabriel."

"Yes, my young friend, you failed. But what's important now is whether you fail again." He took another bite from his apple. I stared at him, and was mulling it over when a car honked, forcing me to make a beeline to the pump.

"Dang it and a half! Y'all 'bouta make us late to see your own brother!" Cousin Polly chastised my daddy, waving a finger, nearly touching his nose.

"That's her, but nossiree Bob, she's definitely not goin'...Claims parades are provincial and she wouldn't dare be seen at one."

Hordes lined both sides of the streets, most waving miniature American flags, and ladies and girls were armed with open parasols and umbrellas.

Auntie Rita plopped right into it and had just opened her umbrella when an orange-and-black butterfly landed on her arm. "What a good omen!" she proclaimed.

The first convertible in the motorcade held two uniformed men, and one of them was my uncle—Lieutenant Earl Haberlin.

"She'll be puttin' on airs for the next ten years," Tink confided.

In what felt like no time at all, the inside of the house was as packed as a can of sardines, causing some folks to pour outside onto the wraparound porch and into the big backyard, where there were two gazebos and blooming flowers galore.

Of course, the cheering commenced again. Except this time, because we were indoors, it seemed fifty times as loud.

Earl Haberlin was just about as entertaining as any radio show as he told us the number of Nazi planes he and his squadron had shot down. He spun riveting tales of the Battle of the Bulge and how cold and snowy it was, and how it was actually called the Ardennes Counteroffensive until the newspapers changed the name.

Earl Haberlin was just about as entertaining as any radio show as he told us the number of Nazi planes he and his squadron had shot down. He spun riveting tales of the Battle of the Bulge and how cold and snowy it was, and how it was actually called the Ardennes Counteroffensive until the newspapers changed the name.

Then he captivated us when he gave us a blow-by-blow description of his near demise, as he called it.

Then he captivated us when he gave us a blow-by-blow description of his near demise, as he called it.

But I stayed nestled in the doorway, watching Helene as she strode confidently toward her house, hoping all the while she'd turn around just once and glance my way, but she didn't.