The Silver Star(11)

Uncle Tinsley was being pretty harsh about Mom, and I felt the urge to defend her, but this didn’t seem like a good time to start arguing with him. Liz seemed to feel the same way, because she didn’t say anything, either.

The barn, which stood at the end of the tree line, was huge, with peeling white paint and a green metal roof, just like the house. Inside, on a floor made of brick laid in a zigzag pattern, was a black carriage with gilt trim. Next to it was a station wagon with real wooden sides.

Uncle Tinsley led us through a room with dusty saddles and bridles and all these faded horse-show ribbons hanging on the walls, then up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, there was this neat little room that I didn’t expect at all, with a bed and table, a kitchenette, and a woodburning stove.

“This used to be the groom’s quarters,” Uncle Tinsley said. “Back in the day.”

“Where is Aunt Martha?” Liz asked again.

“Charlotte didn’t tell you?” Uncle Tinsley went over to the window and gazed at the fading light. “Martha passed away,” he said. “Six years ago this September. Trucker ran a red light.”

“Aunt Martha?” Liz said. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Uncle Tinsley turned around and faced us. “You don’t remember her. You were too small.”

“I remember her really well,” Liz said. She told Uncle Tinsley she remembered baking bread with her. Aunt Martha had worn a red apron, and Liz could still smell the bread. She also remembered Aunt Martha humming while she pruned roses in her white leather gloves. And she remembered Aunt Martha and Uncle Tinsley playing the grand piano together with the French doors open to the sun. “I think about her a lot.”

Uncle Tinsley nodded. “Me, too,” he said. Then he paused, as if he was going to say something else, but he just shook his head and walked out the door, saying as he shut it, “You’ll be fine in here.”

We listened to him clambering down the steps. I noticed a small refrigerator next to the sink, and that was when I realized I was starving. I opened the refrigerator, but it was empty and unplugged. We decided it probably wasn’t a good idea to pester Uncle Tinsley about food. I was resigned to going to bed on an empty stomach, but a few minutes later, we heard footsteps on the stairs again. Uncle Tinsley appeared in the door, carrying a silver tray with a small pot, two bowls, a pitcher of water, and two wineglasses.

“Venison stew,” he said. He unloaded the tray onto the table. “It’s dark in here. You need some light.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and an overhead bulb came on. “You all have a good night’s sleep,” he said, and closed the door again.

Liz filled the bowls, and we sat down at the table. I took a bite of the stew. “What’s venison?” I asked.

“Deer.”

“Oh.”

I took another bite.

“It’s pretty good,” I said.





CHAPTER FIVE


The birds woke me early the next morning. I had never heard such noisy birds. I went to the window, and they were everywhere—in the trees right outside, on the ground, swooping in and out of the barn like they owned the place, all the different chirps and tweets and warbling making this incredible commotion.

Liz and I got dressed and walked down to the house. When we knocked on the front door, there was no answer, so we went around to the back. Through a window, we could see Uncle Tinsley moving around inside the kitchen. Liz rapped on the windowpane, and Uncle Tinsley opened the door but blocked it like he had the night before. He had shaved, his wet hair was combed, the part was straight, and instead of his bathrobe, he was wearing gray trousers and a light blue shirt with TMH monogrammed on the pocket.

“How did you girls sleep?” he asked.

“Just fine,” Liz said.

“The birds sure are noisy,” I said.

“I don’t use pesticides, so the birds love it around here,” Uncle Tinsley said.

“Did Mom call, by any chance?” Liz asked.

“Afraid not.”

“She does have the number, right?” I asked.

“This number hasn’t changed since we got it—two, four, six, eight,” he said. “First phone number handed out in Byler, so we got to choose it. Speaking of choosing, how do you like your poached eggs?”

“Hard!” I said.

“Soft,” Liz said.

“Have a seat over there.” He pointed to some rusty cast-iron lawn furniture.

A few minutes later, he came out carrying that same silver tray, loaded up with a stack of toast and three plates that each had a poached egg in the center. The plates had gold curlicues around the rim, but the edges were chipped. I picked up a corner of my egg and scooted a piece of toast under it, then stabbed the yolk with my fork, chopped up the white part of the egg, and mushed it all together.