chapter 48

HENRY

Henry sat back down on the ground.

He wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened, but he knew that in the flashes of lightning that illuminated the dark, he had seen pieces of himself.

He also knew that he had helped this boy.

Or maybe, in a way, he had saved him.

Peregrine falcon style.

—

A bird landed on the sidewalk in front of Henry. A pigeon. It strutted back and forth a few times, pecking at one piece of garbage and then another, until it stopped in front of a soggy, crushed cardboard box. It stuck its head inside and pulled out a piece of something, maybe a cracker or an orange peel.

—

The boy didn’t look so good. His eyes were too wide and his hands were shaking in his lap.

He didn’t feel safe. He had said so.

And he wanted to climb Mount Mansfield.

Why?

Henry had been amazed that the boy knew he and Jake lived near a mountain until the boy pointed to his football jersey. MOUNT MANSFIELD JUNIOR FOOTBALL, UNDERHILL, VERMONT was written across his chest. Above a picture of the stupid mountain. How had he not realized that he had carried Mansfield all the way to New Orleans?

Jeezum Crow!

Henry didn’t have the heart to tell the boy just how dangerous the mountain was.

Roots sticking up across the trail.

Sharp branches hanging too low.

Rock ledges that dropped onto hard ground.

Henry wasn’t ready to go back home.

—

Tiger hopped off Henry’s arm to join the pigeon. He stuck his head in the box and grabbed a banana peel. He pulled tiny strings of pale yellow fruit off the inside of the peel. The pigeon took one from him and ate it.

Henry watched them for a moment, these two birds who had never seen each other before, sharing a strange sort of meal.

—

Jake, who had been silently holding the boy’s shoulder all this time, cleared his throat.

“We should get you home,” he said to the boy.

“I need to go to Vermont,” said the boy, getting on to his knees. “Please—”

Henry could see that Jake was contemplating the boy’s request. Or beg. It was more like a beg.

Jake stood up. He put his hand over his mouth like he was trying to gather his words into his hand.

“First”—he paused—“we have to get you home. Where is home?”

Henry stood up too. He clicked his tongue and Tiger flew to his arm.

This bird was smart.

“Five six one one Arts Street. It’s in Gentilly. By Pontchartrain Park.” The boy didn’t stand up. Instead, he opened his left hand, which had been closed tight around something.

The two roof shingles.

“This is home,” he said. “This is all that’s left of it.”

—

Henry stared at what was left of Zavion’s house and all he saw was Mount Mansfield. The muscles in his legs twitched. His nostrils flared, ready to pull in extra oxygen. He knew that mountain better than anything else in the whole world.

What if he could hold Mount Mansfield in his hand?

Henry instinctively wrapped both arms around himself, which startled Tiger, who flapped his wings fast and flew to the boy. He settled himself on his lap and pecked at a shingle.

“He likes your house,” Henry said weakly.

The boy smiled.

And as Henry stood under the slowly brightening New Orleans sky, dragging its foul-smelling air into his lungs, he knew he wanted to take this boy to Mount Mansfield.

—

Luna came outside the market to bring them a grocery bag filled with coffee, juice and a bottle of wine. She said good-bye to Henry, Jake, and the boy, who had told them his name was Zavion.

“It’s Basque,” Zavion said. “It means ‘bright, new house.’ ”

Henry had smiled then.

“Mine is German,” he said. “It means ‘ruler of the house.’ ”

“Not that he’s bossy,” Jake said.

—

They walked back to the Salvation Army, which smelled like burnt toast.

“What happened here?” said Henry.

“I burnt toast,” said Cora.

When Jake told her they were taking Zavion back to Baton Rouge, she clapped her hands and told them that her dear friend Pierre ran the Salvation Army there.

“Can you bring a load of clothes to him?” she asked. “It will save him a trip.”

“Yes!” Henry said so enthusiastically that Tiger had dropped a feather, madly flapping his wings. Initially, Henry didn’t like the idea of taking Zavion to Baton Rouge. He wasn’t finished searching New Orleans for his marble. He hadn’t even really started. But if deliveries went to Baton Rouge too, he was open to it.

“Your house…,” began Cora. She put her hand on Zavion’s shoulder. “How bad was the damage? Did you lose a lot of things?” Cora’s hand fluttered from Zavion to her mouth. “Oh my goodness, am I asking too many questions? I am, aren’t I? I’m sticking my foot in it, aren’t I? I’m—”

“It’s gone,” interrupted Zavion. “My house is gone.”

“Oh.” Cora breathed in sharply. “I’m so sorry. Just like my neighbor Enzo.”

“Enzo?” Henry saw Zavion’s face brighten.

“Yes.”

“Does he have a daughter named Osprey?”

“Yes!”

“I’m staying with him! And Osprey. And his brothers—”

“The singers!” Cora clapped her hands. “Well, look at that! Just look at what I stuck my foot into this time!” She tapped her toes on the ground and spun in a circle. “I have something else for you to take to Baton Rouge!”

—

“How did you get to New Orleans?” Henry asked Zavion. They were loading Cora’s cake into the truck.

“I stowed away in a bird rescue van,” said Zavion.

“So cool,” Henry said.

“Wayne would have done that,” said Jake.

Henry agreed.