Bron the Nightingale

Into the Desert

“We all become lost children at one time or another. When no one else can find us, we must find our-selves.” – Monique

Bron Jones wasn’t afraid when Jenny called him in to speak with his foster mother. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, sometimes people will knock you down even if you don’t deserve it.

“Bron,” Jenny said loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the lawnmower, in a tone of both care and warning, “mom wants you.”

At eleven years old, Jenny Stillman was savvier than other kids. With a mom like hers, she had to be. Jenny could smell trouble coming a week in advance.

Bron cut the gas to the mower, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and tried to steel himself for whatever might come.

With his foster mother, Melvina Stillman, you could never tell what it might be. He imagined that she would gripe about his mowing. Bron had begun at eight in order to beat the heat of the day. Here in Alpine, Utah, it might get into the hundreds in late August, and the huge lawn needed to be done by ten.

But Melvina suffered from aches and pains, and she didn’t sleep well at night. Bron figured that she’d want him to put off the mowing for a couple more hours while she slept, but he could never tell what the crazy woman might want.

He gave Jenny a questioning look, and she whis-pered, “You’re in serious trouble!” while holding her hand up to her mouth to signal that Melvina was on the phone.

Great, Bron thought, she’s talking to social ser-vices. He’d been living in the system from the time he was an infant, getting bounced from home to home. He was used to being talked about, prodded, and torn apart.

What’s the worst that could happen? he wondered. He knew the answer. They could send me to another home, somewhere terrible.

Bron had almost hit rock bottom. Melvina hated him. To her, he was just a paycheck worth $518 a month in “maintenance fees.” If she controlled her costs, she could feed him for $150 per month and dress him in hand-me-downs from the neighbors. That left $368 in profit that she could use to feed her own seven kids, with the bonus that she could work Bron like a house servant, cooking dinners, mowing lawns, and changing diapers.

Melvina got paid to keep Bron as her slave.

Bron wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and turned toward the house, a grand old yellow Victorian with a pair of turrets on each end and green gingerbread trim around the windows. It looked like a place that should be throwing parties, not a home so filled with poverty and despair.

He stopped for a moment, peering up. Crouched on the chimney was a crow, just watching him, its black feathers ruffled against an invisible wind. The crow cawed once, and then leapt into the sky, beating its midnight wings, feathers extended like fingers to rake the heavens.

Bron slipped off his shoes on the porch, brushed the grass clippings from his pant cuffs, then went through the door and down the bright hall to Melvina’s bedroom. He opened her door softly. After being in the bright sunlight, the place was as oily dark as an octopus’s den.

Melvina was a hoarder. She had boxes full of food stacked all around the bed, blocking the windows, forbidding all light. With a box of peaches ripening in the shadows, the place had an earthy odor, like an animal’s cage.

Something flew out of the darkness, slapping Bron lightly. A red sandal dropped at his feet. He saw Melvina there now, a shapeless mass on the bed, a box of shoes at her side. She grabbed a second shoe and tossed it. Bron leaned away.

“You stop that!” Melvina screamed. “You stay right where you are.” She growled and tossed a slipper, missing wildly. “You got into my peaches! I can’t even get up to use the bathroom without you stealing something!”