The Girl from Summer Hill(16)

He put his finger to his lips. Today, he was going the way of a silent film. The first thing he did was put on some music, and he knew that for chasing a predatory bird, only Bizet’s Carmen would do.

Holding his phone at arm’s length, he began tiptoeing toward the house. When he got to the screen door, he showed her the huge bottom hole and pantomimed a monster clawing its way inside. He bit his nails in fear.

Emmie, in keeping with her uncle’s silence, pantomimed opening a door and shrugged in question.

Tate gave an exaggerated look of embarrassment and pointed to himself.

Why? Emmie asked, palms up.

Acting ashamed, Tate stroked long hair for a girl, then pointed to himself. He wore the scowl that was so famous in his movies, and he mimicked the girl putting her arms up in fear.

Emmie shook her head. That was bad of him to frighten her.

Nodding in agreement, Tate wore an I’m-sorry face.

Inside the house, he moved his phone around to show the kitchen, with spices and herbs hanging up and drying, tall bottles of oils, and fat jars of jam with their pretty cloth covers. He panned down the skillets hanging from hooks in the wall.

Emmie’s eyes widened at the sight. Her mother barely knew how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. She pointed up and Tate took a jar off the shelf. The label said PEAR JAM WITH MANDARIN TEA. Smiling, she nodded vigorously. It looked delicious.

Tate put on a sad face and rubbed his stomach to show how hungry he was. As he filmed, he stopped at the big trash bin and saw two cold fried eggs on top. It took him a moment to come up with a reason for their being there. Was it possible that she’d prepared them for him? If she had tried to deliver them…He didn’t like to think that she’d overheard what he’d said to Jack.

Emmie waved her hands to ask him what the problem was.

Tate showed the eggs, pointed at himself, then made tear marks down his cheeks.

Again, Emmie shook her head at him. He had been very bad.

On a countertop along a sidewall was a low row of something covered by white cloths. When Tate pulled one of the cloths back, he saw a pie with a crust made of long pieces of perfectly browned dough. The top looked like a flower. Underneath, berries oozed atop a golden custard.

Tate didn’t have to fake his longing and hunger. He snatched away the other covers. There were six pies, each with a different top. They were works of art! One had meringue on it high enough to make a pillow. There was a tart with six fruits arranged in a pattern, another had peach slices baked in cream, one was topped with lots of little cut-out leaves, all perfectly browned, and on the end was a rolled-up crust filled with apricots and sliced almonds. The divine smell of the pies made him dizzy.

Tate’s hunger and the beautiful pies were more than he could resist. There was a big spoon nearby and he grabbed it—but Emmie started waving her arms no. He could not steal the lady’s food.

It wasn’t difficult for Tate to silently show his hunger and his pure, deep lust for them.

But Emmie didn’t give in. Her pantomime reminded him of what he’d done to the screen door. He did not deserve any of what the lady had cooked.

Tate sniffed hard and wiped away fake tears, but at last he put his shoulders back. He was going to be brave and strong and resist the food.

When there was a screech from upstairs, Tate’s eyes widened. He looked terrified and as though he was going to run away.

But Emmie vigorously shook her head to let him know that it was just a bird. She silently encouraged him to proceed.

Holding his phone, he slowly went up the stairs, stopping three times to mimic fear. Each time, Emmie had to be firm to make him continue.

The stairs led to a landing outside the bedroom. Scattered around on the floor were objects that looked to have been on top of the dresser. By the window was a huge iridescent peacock, its long tail elegantly dragging behind it.

Tate plastered himself against the open door, his arms outstretched in terror. The music was building in pace. Turning, he threw himself back over the doorway, too frightened to stay in the room.

It was Emmie’s gestures, especially when she slapped her fist into her palm, that made him stay. She told him to go back in the room and close the door. This caused more fear from Tate; he was shivering all over.

The bird, now trapped in the room, leaped onto a chair by the window and tried to tear its way out through the screen.

Tate stood where he was and shrugged in puzzlement. Now what should he do? he silently asked of his niece.

Emmie made motions that he was to take off his shirt.

Tate showed shock and modestly crossed his arms over his chest.

Giggling, Emmie shook her head. He should take off his shirt and throw it over the bird.

There was more feigned fear from Tate, but he took off his big shirt, leaving a T-shirt on underneath. Like a matador in the bullring, he held his plaid shirt out, challenging the bird to charge forward. He had his shoulders back, his head cocked at a bullfighter’s angle, and his swagger was a perfect imitation.