Nest, on the other hand, had responsibility for chores both inside and out, beginning with the Saturday-morning house-cleaning. She rose with Gran at seven to shower and dress, then hurried downstairs for her breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and juice. The quicker she got started, she knew, the quicker she would get done. Gran was already chain-smoking and drinking vodka and orange juice, her breakfast untouched in front of her, Old Bob frowning at her in disapproval. Nest ate her eggs and toast and drank her juice in silence, trying not to look at either of them, consumed instead by thoughts of last night and of Two Bears.
“How did he know I was there?” Pick had demanded in exasperation as they made their way back across the park, the hot July darkness settled all about them like damp velvet. “I was invisible! He shouldn’t have been able to see me! What kind of Indian is he, anyway?”
Nest had been wondering the same thing. The Indian part notwithstanding, Two Bears wasn’t like anyone she had ever met. He was strangely reassuring, big, direct, and well reasoned, but he was kind of scary, too. Sort of like Wraith-a paradox she couldn’t quite explain.
She pondered him now as she cleaned with Gran, dusting and polishing the furniture, vacuuming the carpet, sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping down the blinds and window-sills, scrubbing out the toilets and sinks, and washing out the tubs and showers. On a light cleaning day, they would stick to dusting and vacuuming, but on the first Saturday of the month they did it all. She helped Gran with the laundry and the dishes as well, and it was nearing noon when they finally finished. When Gran told her she could go, she wolfed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drank a large glass of milk, and went out the back door in a rush, inadvertently letting the screen slam shut behind her once more. She cringed at the sound, but she didn’t turn back.
“He said he was a shaman,” Nest had remarked to Pick the previous night. “So maybe that means he sees things other people can’t. Aren’t Indian medicine men supposed to have special powers?”
“How am I supposed to know what medicine men can or can’t do?” Pick had snapped irritably. “Do I look like an expert on Indians? I live in this park and I don’t take vacations to parts of the country where there might be Indians like some people I could mention! Why don’t you know what Indians do? Haven’t you studied Indians in school? What kind of education are you getting, anyway? If I were you, I’d make certain I knew everything that was important about the history …”
And on and on he had gone, barely pausing for breath to say good night when she reached her house and left him to go in. Sometimes Pick was insufferable. A lot of times, really. But he was still her best friend.
Nest had met Pick at the beginning of the summer of her sixth year. She was sitting on the crossboard at the coiner of her sandbox one evening after supper, staring out at the park, catching glimpses of it through gaps in the hedgerow, which was still filling in with new spring growth. She was humming to herself, picking idly at the sand as she scrutinized the park, when she saw the feeder. It was slipping through the shadows of the Petersons’ backyard, hunkered down against the failing light as it made its way smoothly from concealment to concealment. She stared after it intently, wondering where it was going and what it was about.
“Weird, aren’t they?” a voice said.
She looked around hurriedly, but there was no one to be seen.
“Down here,” said the voice.
She looked down, and there, sitting on the crossboard at the opposite corner of the sandbox, was what looked like a tiny wooden man made out of twigs and leaves with a little old face carved into the wood and a beard made of moss. He was so small and so still that at first she thought he was a doll. Then he shifted his position slightly, causing her to start, and she knew he was alive.