There was a hint of a smile and a roll of her eyes at Fred's pun. "I'll call him 'SB,' for 'Song Bird' instead of 'BS' for 'Bird Song.' That doesn't sound very nice." Then she added, her slight smile fading, "Maybe we can teach him to sing-if he has a reason to."
When the dreaded exit occurred, it happened so quickly and unexpectedly that there was no time for proper good-byes-if such biddings exist. A man, not the usual wimpy social lady, was the culprit who organized the hasty departure. Some textbook must have dictated speed as the panacea for grief, and Martha was hustled out the door like a bride late for her wedding. A kiss and an eyes-closed hug was all they were allowed, followed by a smiling promise from the state-appointed villain, "We'll be in touch." Then, a wave to the dust of the retreating vehicle. Even ever-smiling Maria, the newly hired helper, put her smile on hold and looked ready to cry.
Cynthia hibernated to some serious tears while Dean sleepwalked through the daily chores, helped by Maria. The young girl was perfect at the job, not only thorough but perpetually happy to be doing even the most boring chore. Fred O'Connor was off in Mrs. Armstrong's exhaust-belching Buick, a prior commitment to a garage sale, although his heart wasn't in it. The weather, as if to accommodate the mood at Bird Song, was gray, slipping to a steady drizzle by midday, with a rerun of March in the temperature department. Bird Song's parlor began filling with guests whose canceled activities put them in a what-do-you-do-next? mood of bewilderment.
After lunch, photographer Brandon Westlake took the opportunity to show a montage of his recent shots, first on the parlor coffee table, and then, as the crowd increased, he presented a full-fledged slide show. All four Dawkinses joined the showing, which grew to include a widow from Texas, an Illinois couple with a sixyear-old and a handholding pair of seventy-something's with different last names. Dean sat in the corner, trying to read up on Colorado law as it pertained to the duties of sheriff, but was drawn by politeness and the darkened room to view the exhibit.
Dean was no expert, but he could tell his guest was a first-class photographer. His work held the rapt attention of his audience. Dean was sorry Cynthia was missing the presentation. His images were magnificent. Even the usually bored Dawkinses ooh-ed and aah-ed appropriately but the brothers seemed more interested in the locale of the various shots than the scenery and flora so beautifully presented. When Westlake obligingly opened a map and pointed out various high country locations, he had the Dawkins' rapt attention.