The Bird Sisters Read Online Free

who’s been to Europe!”
    “I thought you went to France,” Twiss said.
    “That’s part of Europe,” Milly said.
    “Why is it called the Sewing Society if you never sew?” Twiss said.
    “Shhh,” their mother said.
    On this particular spring morning, just as he did every Sunday after the Apostles’ Creed and before the Sanctus, Father Rice walked up and down the row of pews accepting contributions: a box of medicinal soap flakes, a jar of preserves that had sat too long in someone’s cellar, an egg from a nearby coop. By the time he got to the last pew, the basket brimmed with tarnished silverware, stained tablecloths, and secondhand clothing that had turned into third- and fourth-hand rags. Father Rice always gave thanks, but he gave special thanks when people donated something useful. That’s why, when their own father had spent the last of the week’s money again, and all that sat in the pantry was a lonely tin of molasses, Milly and Twiss decided to fish for their donation. Despite the shame it caused their mother, when it was their turn, Twiss placed a string of small-mouth bass into the basket.
    “I prayed for their souls,” Milly said.
    “Fish don’t have souls,” Twiss said.
    “Sure they do,” Father Rice said, licking his lips. “When you cook them with cornstarch, they melt in your mouth.”
    Their mother wagged her index finger at Twiss. She stared at her the way she stared at their front door whenever they came home. Though she’d had fourteen years to become accustomed to Twiss’s wide brown eyes and cropped black hair, the line of freckles that fanned out across her nose, she always seemed slightly surprised by Twiss, like she didn’t believe Twiss truly belonged to her, or should.
    Twiss tugged at the hem of her dress. “Why can’t I be playing golf?”
    “Because this family can only afford one person who doesn’t care about his soul,” their mother said.
    “He prays for holes in one,” Twiss said.
    “That’s the only thing your father prays for.”
    If in marriages disagreements were like roots, their mother and father’s were like the roots of the oak tree in the backyard that had grown into the house instead of away from it, cracking the foundation and setting the floors aslant. When Milly and Twiss placed a marble on one side of the front parlor, it would roll to the other.
    “Maybe he’s buying you a birthday present right now,” Milly said.
    “I refuse to have another birthday,” their mother said.
    “Because you’re old?” Twiss said.
    “Because I’m tired,” their mother said.
    Father Rice set the collection basket next to the pulpit and signaled Mrs. Bettle, who wasn’t technically a Mrs. since she lived with a parrot instead of a man, to play the organ. Bang went her fingers on the keys. Thunk went her feet on the pedals. Then came the singing, which was even less lovely than her playing.
    Holy, holy, holy Lord
     
    God of power and might
     
    Heaven and earth are full of your glory
     
    Hosanna in the highest .
     
    Hosanna in the highest .
    “You can be sure the Society’s still congratulating themselves about getting rid of the Beetle,” their mother said, adjusting her hat so it sat on the side of her head. She tried her very best to be fashionable. In the general store, she’d study the ladies’ magazines to see what the latest styles were. Always, she lacked the proper materials to achieve accomplished mimicry; she’d have to make a dress out of cotton when the pattern called for silk. Gray thread when it called for red. But however patched together she looked, their mother possessed a certain kind of power, a way of posturing that didn’t allow people to feel sorry for her.
    “Who donates a person?” she said. “Now they’ve got a music student from the divinity school up in Wausau. They say the boy sings like an angel.”
    When the Sanctus was over, Father Rice raised his hand to quiet everyone. This was the part of mass where he