Bleeding Smile

THREE

"Alright, sweetie, we'll be right in," Mom told me, but I was already heading across the street.

Inside my room, I crouched down on all fours and pulled out the shoebox with makeshift holes on the sides. Checking to ensure that it's content was still alive, I picked up the box and carefully made my way to the lawn through the sliding doors at the back of the house, thankful that I didn't have to painstakingly clamber out of my window this time.

Dad and I knew that Mom and Mrs. Sinclair could chat like there was no tomorrow, especially when it came to Mom recommending Mrs. Sinclair at-home remedies for her ill boys. By now, Dad and Mr. Sinclair probably grabbed a couple beers and struck up their own conversation to pass time.

The walk towards the perimeter of the forest took twice as long on account of my shiny new Mary Jane's that I was still breaking in and my intense, childish focus on maintaining a steady, slow pace as to not disturb the box too much.

Once I got past the wild shrubbery, my small footsteps could be heard crunching the dead leaves and dry branches. Two dozen or so feet into the forest and the large ponderosa pine tree in the middle of a small clearing became visible.

Teller appeared from around it's sizable trunk, sporting a black long-sleeve and his usual jeans, his dirty sneakers and baseball cap with his midnight locks peeking at the sides and circling behind his ears.

He was very pale and thin, and every time I saw him it was as if he'd gotten the slightest bit taller.

The townsfolk often whispered that he was a sickly child and that it was what was expected from a kid birthed by Amelia Teller, the town's token, agoraphobic madwoman.

She was an outcast, and so was her son.

To me, Teller was the shy boy who appeared out of the blue and always showed me new things. I found him to be fascinating, and I sometimes wondered if I'd ever truly know him like he knew me.

"Hey, Leslie." Teller approached me as I came to a halt, looking down at the box that I held between us. "Is this what you need help with?"

"Yes, kind of." I took off the lid of the box to reveal an injured, Dark-eyed Junco on a makeshift bed of cotton balls and small twigs. In the left corner was a handful of seeds I'd stolen from the kitchen, and on the opposite side was a small lid halfway filled with water. The little sparrow chirped and twitched its rounded head, noticeably leaning on only one side of its body. "He needs our help, one of his wings is broken."

"Where did you find him?" Teller asked, gently taking the box from me to get a closer look.

I shifted close to his side, as if I could spot some new discovery if I, too, inspected the bird like he was doing now. "Um, he was just by my window."

Teller glanced down at me, and his intense gaze explored mine the same way he'd done the bird. "How did he get injured?"

It was like he was noticing something, piecing together his own picture.

I blinked and shrugged, kicking a small rock with the tip of my shoe. "I found him like that. He wouldn't fly away so I kept him." I nervously fiddled with the ribbon at the end of my braid. "Do you think we can help him?"

Teller was silent for awhile, thinking about it.

I could hear Dad calling my name from the house, and I turned my head in the direction of the yard. Were they really done so soon?

Eventually, Teller grasped the lid from my hand and placed it over the shoebox. "I'll help him."

"You promise?" I looked back at Teller, holding up my pinky.

After several extended seconds, he wrapped his pinky around mine. "I promise I will help the bird and return him to you."

"Okay, you can't ever, ever break a pinky promise," I reminded him before scurrying back in the direction of my house.

"I won't," I heard him say, his voice barely audible over the growing distance and my hurried footsteps.

One week later, I was at our tree before Teller could arrive. He told me to meet him after Service again, but the dreary weather had turned into an onslaught of rain by the time it was over.

I had donned my parka and rain boots and was waiting under our pine tree with my umbrella, growing more and more doubtful that he would show.

"Rain, rain, go away," I muttered lamely, pressing my back against the trunk of our tree as it's massive canopy of leaves formed it's own lush, green umbrella that stretched outward and upward and sheltered me a bit from the downpour.

I was on my third rendition of the nursery rhyme when Teller appeared out of the misty thicket, covered in a gray, full-body raincoat with the hood pulled over his head. He wasn't wearing his cap and he held the box in a clear plastic bag.

"...come again some other... Arch!" I replaced the end of the lyric with his name the moment I spotted him.

He drew nearer, pushing back the hood of his coat as he reached the shelter of our tree. His black hair was partially damp on his head, sticking to the back of his neck and framing his forehead, the wispy ends practically kissing his equally dark brows.

"Hey, Leslie." He walked underneath my umbrella, so close that I could make out every tiny droplet of rain that glistened off his long lashes.

Teller had a new bruise on the left side of his jaw, but his eyes were alight with warmth and the corners of his mouth were shifted up into a shadow of a smile. Even the tone of his voice as he greeted me indicated that he was in good spirits.

"Are you okay?" I leaned forward curiously, taking in the stark contrast of the swirls of deep purple and red of his bruise against his milky skin. "Is it your Stepdad that keeps hitting you? My Dad is the Sheriff," I reminded him, looking up into his eyes. "He can lock him up for hitting you."

Teller placed a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back a little. "I'm okay." He used those words a lot. "I'm actually happy right now." He angled the box that he held in one hand between us. "I have your bird."

Together, we got on our knees on the damp soil as he placed the box on the floor and I kept the umbrella angled over our heads. I was genuinely curious on how Teller could've managed to heal the poor sparrow. He was really smart and incredibly resourceful, but even I was skeptical that it would be enough to heal an injured animal all on his own.

Teller removed the plastic covering and took the lid off the box. The cotton balls and twigs had been replaced with a soft bed of grass and delicate rosebud leaves, and in the middle, motionless, was the bird. He scooped the sparrow up in his hands, laying it flat on its back in his palms and slowly spreading the bird's tawny wings with his thumbs.

The Dark-eyed Junco remained rigid and lifeless, and when I looked at Teller, he was simply smiling down at his hands.

"Arch...the bird is dead," I whispered.

"I know, I helped him. He was in a lot of pain so I snapped his neck and put him out of his misery."

I was speechless for awhile. "You made me a promise..."

Teller looked up from his palms, his stormy eyes emanating what I identified as delight. "This is me keeping my promise."