All the Dancing Birds Read Online Free PDF

idle chatter of people. I’m nearly frantic with joy because of all the activity; I hold onto the edge of the counter to steady myself. When the last item is accounted for, the smiling, chatting, dizzying checkout girl, who is wearing yellow just like me, gives me my total.
    Three hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents.
YOU HEAR. You hear the amount of your purchase and you’re stunned with the figure. Three hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents! Your face becomes a frozen smile. You don’t know what else to do but pull your checkbook and a pen from your purse and place them on the little check-writing stand, all the while vowing in your head to forever be more watchful over your purchases. All around you, scanners are beeping and people are talking and the wheels of shopping carts are making tiny scraping noises across the floor. You hear it all, but the noises blur together like wind howling across the leaves of a tree. You look at your checkbook and none of the blank lines make sense. You’re confused by the ordinary and the more you force your hand to cooperate, the more addled you become. You take a deep breath and try once more to begin a simple task you’ve done so many hundreds of times. Your hand hovers. The wind howls. Finally, you look up and ask the checkout girl what day it is. She tells you it’s Wednesday and you write Wednesday on the upper right line. You ask her again for the amount and she tells you. You start to write the number and realize halfway through that you need to ask again. A number so long is just not sticking. The cashier tells you one more time and a lull in the wind lets your ears remember the number long enough for your forgetful hand to finish its task. At last, you write your check and hope to goodness it’s in proper order. You leave the store with your packages and your yellow shirt waving behind you like a flag on a breezy day. You leave, knowing for certain you will never tell a living soul what has just occurred.
    I drive home with my bags and bags of groceries. Tucked inside each bag is the gathering knowledge that I’ve not only spent a frightful amount of money, but I’ve also added another secret to my growing list of concealments. My beautiful yellow shirt has failed me and, from this moment forward, it is no longer my lucky shirt. I look at the drape of it over my lap, wondering how long it might take to catch fire if I should hold a match to the corner of its hem.
    By the time I’m home, I forget about burning my disloyal shirt and, rather, concentrate on pulling bag after bag out of the trunk to carry into the kitchen.
    It’s a wearisome task.
    I fill the pantry and refrigerator with cans and bottles and, after I empty each bag, I fold the sack and slide it into the space between the refrigerator and the wall. When I’m done, I have an impressive paper tower reminder of the morning’s adventure.
    The day fritters on. Soon, I find myself in room after room, wondering whatever I should be doing. As early evening comes, I decide to put on my lounging gown to watch the local news. I’m just settled into the depths of my chair when the doorbell rings.
    I open the door to find my lovely Allison on the other side.
    “Mom, you’re not ready!”
    “Ready?” A small tic of something puzzling flirts with my left eye.
    “It’s dinner night for the La La La Girls.” Allison sashays into the living room, plopping her purse on the coffee table. “Better get to it, chop-chop. I thought we’d do Chinese tonight.”
    “Perfect,” I say, knowing my next sentence will be yet one more lie to tie onto the great string of lies I have already told over recent months. “Of course I didn’t forget our Wednesday dinner.” I say this newest untruth easily, without hesitation or even a pinch of regret. I go on with my whopping fib. “I was just about to get dressed,” I say, smiling like a black-hearted weaver of tales.
    Before Allison has a chance to