Aves Maria

Maria was a curious child. She was always asking questions, always opening doors to see if there might be something mysterious or beautiful or spooky on the other side, always following a few steps behind the matrons at the orphanage to see what they were up to because around every corner an adventure might be found.

“Girl, you need to mind yer’ beeswax,” her mama had told her in another life, when she got too inquisitive, as they sat shelling peas in the sun or watching the Grand Ole’ Opry on their threadbare loveseat. But it was hard for Maria to keep quiet, especially when a new “uncle” came to spend the night and didn’t leave for weeks or when her mama brought a new suitcase home and hid it way up high in her closet.

Maria kept right on minding everybody’s “beeswax” until the morning she woke up to an empty house, her mama’s beat up Chevy long gone and nothing to greet her but a silvery packet of Pop-Tarts and a can of flat Mountain Dew on the kitchen table.

Someone called the County because little girls can’t live alone. She was playing alone on the porch when a lady with a hard smile but kind eyes came and helped her pack her few clothes and shoes in a grocery sack and drove her to her new “home.”

Maria missed her mama…sometimes…but the orphanage had been fun at first, with new doors to explore and new stories to discover. Soon she grew bored of the daily routine, the scratchy tights and early lights out and oatmeal for breakfast everyday. They NEVER got Pop-Tarts at the orphanage, not even the weird chocolate ones.

So, when the Hoovers pulled up looking smart in shiny shoes and sunglasses, looking for a “wise girl,” and a “curious girl” and maybe “a little girl with brown curls like Mrs. Hoover…” the matron knew just who to bring from the dormitory. Maria did not disappoint, asking these wide-eyed strangers a hundred questions and soon she was riding to her new home in the backseat of a car with gleaming chrome and air conditioning!

Maria liked the Hoovers a lot. They liked to listen to music, Skynyrd and The Eagles were their favorites. They let her have Pop-Tarts every Saturday morning and they always answered her questions, smiling to each other over her head indulgently. Mrs. Hoover had a melodic voice and would coo to her gently when she brushed her hair. Mr. Hoover built a treehouse with her so she could play amongst the leaves and when he got home from working in the shed he’d “steal her beak” and they’d both laugh and then he’d give it back.

The Hoovers were great but the first night at their house, as she sat at the sparkly laminate table, the vinyl of the red kitchen chairs cool against her legs, she had been given one very odd, very important rule.

“Maria, Mrs. Hoover and I are very glad you are going to live with us now,” said Mr. Hoover. She could tell this was an important conversation by the way his wide brown eyes grew wider and wider in the dusk. “We hope that you’ll like living here too. We want you to know this is your house now. You can explore all you want, but once you go to bed, please do not leave your room until the sunrises.”

It seemed an odd request, but with so many doors to open and an attic to explore, Maria felt lucky to be living at the Hoover’s house. She wanted badly to ask one question, just one little word, “Why?,” but then she thought about mama, and the beeswax, and decide to just sit on this one for a bit.

Each night at bedtime, one of the Hoovers came in and read to her from a book, Chicken Little, Are You My Mother, Stellaluna. As her eyes got droopy, they’d get her a glass of water from her attached bathroom and peck her lightly on the head and tuck her under her covers and leave until morning. Some nights Maria could hear them rustling around until late into the night, and when the moon was new sometimes she’d hear the screened door swing open and in the pitch dark, she could barely make out the Hoovers slipping out into the black night together.

Although they slept the day away while she was at school, they woke before the dawn each morning to see her off. Their alarm would ring and she could hear them shuffle out of their bedroom, one behind the other. They would pass by her door slowly, occasionally bumping the wall of the hallway outside her room before descending the stairs, an odd ruffling sound following them as they walked to the kitchen, a strange scratching as they crossed the linoleum.

She tried to ignore it, to go back to sleep each time the alarm startled her awake but she just had too many questions. After weeks of lying in bed and wondering why she couldn’t leave her room, Maria decided it was time to find out.

The alarm went off and the Hoovers rustled slowly by her door. She slipped from the bed and padded on kitten feet across the carpet. Grasping the door handle, she gently, gently turned it until the latch snicked open and then held her breath when she pushed the door into the hallway, desperately relieved there was no creak as it swung into the darkness.

There were no lights on in the house — how did the Hoovers see to walk around? She crept to the stairs on her knees and slipped down on her bottom, bump, bump, bump, one step at a time until she could dimly see through the posts of the banister into the kitchen below.

Both the Hoovers had their backs to her. Wearing robes, they went about their morning routine in the near dark of the house. Mr. Hoover had the seeded bread out and was waiting on his toast to pop. Mrs. Hoover was brewing tea.

The toaster pinged. Mr. Hoover pulled the crispy bread onto a plate and buttered the toast. Then, reaching into the pocket of his flannel robe, he pulled out two plump white mice. They wiggled in panic. Placing them on the bread before him, he quickly lifted the delicacy to his mouth and crunched heartily into his breakfast.

Maria gasped. The sound of her tiny breath reached the hypersensitive ear cavities of the Hoovers and their heads turned toward the stairs in unison. Just their heads, swiveling full circle to seek her out in the darkness. She found herself staring into two sets of wide golden eyes framed by feathered faces.

Mr. Hoover pocketed the mice. They hurried toward Maria, scuffling across the speckled floor on ticking, taloned feet, wings now visible beneath their housecoats.

“Oh Maria,” Mrs. Hoover began, “We did not want you to see us like this. Please don’t be afraid! We always wanted a baby and when we discovered we couldn’t have owlets of our own, we thought taking in a human child would be our best option. I hope you won’t fly away, we have so loved having you here in our little nest.” Mr. Hoover bobbed his head in affirmation.

Maria was surprised, but not scared. This was truly the most interesting thing to have ever happened to her! The Hoovers had been so kind to her and they never told her to mind her beeswax. Plus, there were Pop-Tarts every weekend. She reached out and delicately touched Mrs. Hoover’s beautiful brown-feathered cheek before asking her next question.

“Could I have wings too…mother?”

The Hoovers looked at each other over her head and hooted softly in happiness.

“Why don’t we talk about that at the table, little bird?” Mr. Hoover asked and, tucking Maria under his wing, walked her down to breakfast.

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