Shame reddened my face. “I’m a town project.”
Mams snorted. “You’ve proven yourself smart up to this point, girl. Don’t go gettin’ daft on me now. You ain’t no more a project than the rest o’ us. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands over the years. Truth be told, I’ve got a fund for half the younguns in this town. Seemed a right good thing to do. There ain’t a way to save the world all at once, but there’s a way to change lives.”
Heathcliff started to rise again, then sat, his stunned gaze on his grandmother’s face. “I didn’t know.”
She laughed. “Course you didn’t. Your daddy would have put me away for senility. You got your good heart from me, boy. Don’t you forget it. I ain’t selfish, but I admit to wantin’ a little pat on the back from my work before I die.” She winked. “You’ve got a fund, too, Max. Enough to explore that wanderin’ heart of yours. Come back if you want or don’t. It makes no nevermind to me. I always thought it a right shame the men in our family thought it necessary to tie down every capable child to the business. There’s plenty of Vincents here for that.”
Heathcliff stared at his grandmother.
My head spun, my gaze falling to my uncle. He was watching me, his head nodding. I’d been wrong about so many things over the years. All the whispers I’d thought had been about me and my parents … some of them had been, I’m sure, but my uncle hadn’t remained in this town because it was where our home was. He’d remained here because it was full of big hearts—not always open minds, that took some work—but there were a lot of open hearts. He was right. Sometimes it took a village.
“I’m feeling a mite tired,” Mams said abruptly.
Standing, Heathcliff rushed to her side. “Why don’t I drive you back?” he asked. “I can walk here tomorrow and take the truck home then.”
It was a testament to how fatigued Mams actually was that she submitted to him so easily. With a quick glance in my direction, Heathcliff left, his arm supporting his grandmother as they moved to her spotless black Buick.
The car doors slammed, the driver’s side window rolling down.
“I’ll be back,” Heathcliff called.
Tires crunched on gravel.
My gaze swept to my uncle to discover he’d moved to the grass, lying with his back against the ground the same way he’d been laying when I’d returned home from school days back.
I joined him, my head falling next to his, my eyes on the sky. Above us, white fluffy clouds meandered across a bright blue expanse before disappearing behind tree limbs.
“What are we looking for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Uncle Gregor answered. “We’re just watching.”
The world was suddenly upside down. I could feel the grass beneath me, but I was walking on blue earth, my mind wandering with the clouds. “Why does she do that?” I asked.
He knew what I was asking, and he exhaled. “She needed to feel like she was doing something for others. Some people thrive off of that. They see life differently than the rest of us. The euphoria they get from seeing someone happy or better off because of something they did is hard to come down from. They need to keep feeling that high. We all need something, you know. Mams has always been that way. She started her first fund in a mason jar over thirty years ago to help a boy injured in a car accident. Since then, she’s led fundraisers and opened dozens of accounts to help support many local families. Most of it has been done anonymously.” He lifted his hand toward the sky. “See that?”
My gaze followed his fingers to a group of buzzards flying in the distance.
“Nasty creatures, many say,” he murmured. “Those are Turkey Buzzards. Mostly associated with death and disease, they aren’t looked upon kindly. However, there’s an old Native American legend, a Lenape one that tells how the Turkey Buzzard saved the world. How it pushed away the encroaching sun to protect the Earth from burning, and in so doing, went from being a beautiful bird to having its awful, modern appearance. No animal wanted anything to do with it again, but it didn’t matter. The buzzard had saved the world. He didn’t need the attention.” His hands formed a goal post shape to frame the flying buzzards. “Everyone has their place in the world. Sometimes that place is full of people and laughter and noise. Other times, it’s found in silence, in being different.”
I stared at the birds. “I guess that would make Mams the town saint, huh?”
Gregor chuckled. “Saint Mams sounds about right.”
Heathcliff’s words in the truck the night before struck me, and I let my head fall to the side. “Why do you call me Hawthorne?” I asked. “Do I remind you that much of The Scarlett Letter?
Uncle Gregor’s astonished gaze met mine. “Is that what you think?” I nodded, and his gaze softened. “You’re not named after a book. You’re named after the Hawthorn tree.”