“This is for you,” Sean Fallon said, waiting for her at his desk. “Open it.”
Sliding her index finger under the fold, she broke the seal, removed the card, and flipped it to see the face. A collage of dozens of birds, photographs clipped from magazines, illustrations stolen from old books. Bird by bird, she scanned the surface, covered so densely that space barely existed between any two wings. Eagles in flight, two swans at swim, nesting plovers, a redwing blackbird screaming from a cattail, songbirds in their singing, vireo, cardinal, mockingbird, a hummer humming in the corner. A cartoon roadrunner sped across the bottom edge. Inside in his early cursive: Birds fill the air, when you are here. Happy Valentine's Day. She felt like throwing her arms around his bony shoulders, smothering him until he cried. Looking up from the words, she saw his unabashed hope, his bright smile. A smile that said the world will one day crush such a boy, but not today, and she kissed him lightly on the lips. It lasted less than a moment and all of his life, one quick kiss. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, Norah handed him her card in the same motion, but he was too stunned to open it, so she took it back and pushed the valentine into his makeshift mailbox. He was the last to finish the circuit and take his seat, wondering if his collage was recompense for the china cup she had given him.
After the card exchange was over and the children counted out their love notes, Mrs. Patterson passed around a box of sugar hearts with red messages embossed on pastel surfaces: Be Mine, 4ever, Hi Cutie, How's Tricks? The candy tasted like sweet chalk. Thus content, the students could be drawn back into their lessons. She tapped them into submission with a wooden pointer. “Who's ready with their report?”
A groan, the shuffling to order, papers out upon the desk. In honor of the holiday, they had been assigned to write an essay, to be read aloud in class, on any aspect of Valentine's Day. Four or five eager hands rose in the hot, dry air, and Mrs. Patterson chose Norah Quinn. Wrapped in Erica's old Peruvian poncho, she clutched her pages and advanced to the front of the room, pivoting at the teacher's desk to face her classmates and read:
“Who was Valentine? How have we come to make this day a celebration of love? Why all these hearts and cupids?
“The past is no more certain than the future. Little is known about the real Valentine, only this. There may have been two. Both were martyrs who died for what they believed. Both lived and died long ago. The first Valentine was a priest in the Roman times when the emperor outlawed marriage for young soldiers. This was done so that they would be more devoted to fighting than to their sweethearts. But Valentine felt sorry for those men and married them in secret. When the emperor found out, he had Valentine killed! Off with his head, chop. Sometimes love means sacrifice.
“The second Valentine was just a man who had been falsely imprisoned. He fell in love with the jailer's daughter and had to smuggle love letters in secret. He signed them from ‘Your Valentine.’ These two stories are legends, and not much is known about Saint Valentine.
“The day of February fourteenth is related to love and fertility rites of the pagans. The pagans were people who believed in more than one god or sometimes none at all. This love and fertility rite is the time of the marriage of Zeus and Hera. The Romans thought they were gods, but they were wrong. It is also the the feast of Lupercalia, when the boys of Rome ran naked—am I allowed to say that?—naked in the streets, striking women with a leather strap. This custom was continued by the Christians. In the Middle Ages, during the coldest part of long winters, it became a day when men and women sent each other notes of their true love. These were the very first valentines. Though boys no longer ran naked in the streets hitting ladies with straps.
“It is a day to look forward to the end of winter and death and to celebrate a new beginning. The Middle Ages poet Chaucer said, ‘For this was on Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird comes to choose his mate.’”
From his seat, Sean Fallon blushed as the class politely clapped at the end of her presentation. Stunned again by the girl, Mrs. Patterson applauded too, then said, “That was just lovely, Norah, but what about the cupids? You mentioned in the beginning you were going to talk about the cupids.”
Norah pulled at the fringe of her poncho with nervous fingers.
“You know,” said Mrs. Patterson, “the little angels with the bow and arrows? Shot through the heart with love.”
Sean watched Norah closely, fearing she might stop time or turn her eyes a fiery red.
“There are no cupids, Mrs. Patterson,” she said. “They're just made up.”