"There's my gal! Come on in out of this cold. I hope you like chowder!"
I followed her inside the house. It was warm inside. Not just in temperature but in ambiance too. Nothing like the house on Lombard Street. Smiling family pictures hung up on the wall, while the Patty Duke Show played on the little black and white television set that took center stage in her parlor.
I was escorted into a small bedroom just left of the kitchen, where fragrant aromas of corn chowder and freshly baked apple pie waited on the counter. The room was little, but it was cozy. A bed with cotton linens and a knitted blanket awaited me, with a small empty desk on the opposite side of the room. A window overlooked a ravine in the back of the house, which I was told had a beautiful view in the daytime.
Grandma dropped my bags next to the closet in the far corner of the room, and then came over to inspect me. She grabbed me by my shoulders, and looked into my face, then taking one finger to my chin.
"You remind me a lot of myself when I was a girl. I think we'll get along just fine. You clean up after yourself and show respect, and we'll have no trouble."
This would be a good change for me, I thought. A brand new start.
*
Winter led to spring which blossomed into summer and I was fully settled into my new life at Grandma’s house. She continued my home-schooling, but I could tell it was becoming a real struggle for her. She hated the math and science work I had to do. To lessen the burden on her, I would attend Steeplechase Academy in the fall, the same school Father went to as a boy. I’m really looking forward to making new friends in the fall. In the months since I left Philadelphia, I hadn’t heard from my mother at all. Father had visited me a few times, bringing me art supplies and money for Grandma, which she always turns away.
So far I am enjoying my time here at Grandma Westfeld’s. She was really easy to get along with, as long as I finish my chores. Every day, I have to sweep and mop the kitchen after breakfast, wash the breakfast dishes, and make my bed. Once I was done, I had the day to myself until early evening, when I helped make dinner. She didn’t make me. It was something I genuinely enjoyed doing. In my free time, I took my sketch book and sat on the wooden bench by the brook behind Grandma’s house.
My sketch book was nearly full. Yesterday I drew a sparrow who was hopping around the grass, pecking and looking for nourishment. I didn’t know what I would sketch today. I would have to see where the afternoon took me.
*
Catherine rose from her bed and hid her diary under her pillow. Smoothing down her white sun dress, she slid her feet into a pair of sandals, grabbed her sketch book and satchel of art supplies, and meandered into the living room, a song escaping her lips. Grandma Westfeld was in the back reading on her hammock, so Catherine decided to sit on the porch to enjoy the afternoon sun.
Letting her legs dangle from the porch and catch the warm rays of the sun, Catherine watched intently as a raven landed at her feet. Slowly it crept closer, until it was perched right next to her on the porch. It appeared to be looking at a red terracotta flower pot that contained fennel seeds. Catherine grabbed a handful and held her palm out for the bird to eat. Cautiously the bird’s beak snapped up a few of the seeds and swallowed them.
“You have a gentle way about you,” said a boy’s voice.
Catherine, startled by the voice, jumped a little, breaking her eye contact with the bird. A strange boy with blond hair, wire glasses, and an innocent look was standing less than ten feet in front of her, though she hadn’t noticed him arrive.
“You startled me.”
“It wasn’t my intention.”
Catherine looked at him for a moment, taking him in.
“I’m Bernie. I live right over there,” the boy said, pointing at the ramshackle cottage further down the road.
“I’m Catherine.”
“You’re Mrs. Westfeld’s granddaughter,” Bernie observed.
“I am.”
The boy watched as the raven took more fennel seed from Catherine’s hand.
“Mysterious creatures, ravens. Don’t you think?”
“Definitely beautiful,” agreed Catherine.
“And intelligent. Did you know that the Celts believed the ravens were secret keepers?”
“I’ve always heard that they were harbingers of doom, a precursor to death.”
“I like my story better. More pleasant. Go ahead tell it a secret. He’ll keep it safe.”
“Okay.”
Catherine bent down to the bird, whispering softly to it as it perched quietly next to her. Bernie watched as she smiled at the bird, face turning pink with delight. When she was done speaking to the bird, it fluffed its thick ebony wings and flew off into the blue sky above.
Suddenly, a screen door crashed open in the distance. A man dressed in denim overalls and a stained white shirt came on to the porch, a look of hostility clear on his face.
“Boy!” he growled. “Where’d you get off to?!”