A Robin Redbreast in a Cage

A ROBIN REDBREAST IN A CAGE:

Review by Mayra Calvani, 2010

This latest literary novel by R.P. Burnham explores the darkness and hypocrisy of fundamentalist religion.

The story begins in Maine, when our young brilliant protagonist, Charlie, is but a girl of thirteen. She lives a turbulent life with her alcoholic mother, who seems to bring a new boyfriend to their rundown apartment every month. Her mother, blinded by alcohol, isn’t able to express the love she feels for Charlie. She isn’t able to adequately provide for her daughter either. In spite of it all, Charlie would rather stay with her mother than having to live with relatives or worse, foster parents, a real scenario if child services find out what’s really going on in their home.

However, the day arrives when both mother and daughter aren’t able to hold up appearances anymore. When Charlie is attacked by one of her mother’s boyfriends, a neighbor calls the authorities and the girl’s life radically changes. She goes to live with her uncle — her mother’s brother — to a beautiful house on the other side of town. Her uncle, an egotistical, self-righteous minister, runs his household like a tight ship. He always has the last word; no one is allowed to express their real opinions; for him, women are mere instruments of reproduction and belong in the kitchen. Charlie, a smart girl, adjusts accordingly in order to please her uncle and avoid problems and in doing so becomes an excellent student of the church’s teachings. Her uncle soon sees Charlie’s potential and uses her as a weapon for his own purposes. If he can get Charlie to intelligently debate the absolute truth of the church, more followers will join his congregation.

Later, in high school, Charlie is faced with prejudice because of her beliefs and those of her uncle. She meets a boy there, Jeremy, who seems to be the only one who understands her. They become friends, but, because of Charlie’s uncle, they don’t have the opportunity to see each other as normal friends would. A big part of the novel revolves around Jeremy, as some of the chapters are written solely from his perspective. In these chapters, Jeremy discusses religion as well as several political issues, such as the war in Iraq and the extreme views of the conservative party.

Eventually, Charlie goes on to college, where she serendipitously reunites with Jeremy. Around this time, Charlie’s mother stops drinking and wants to reach out to her daughter once again. Will Charlie forgive her mother? Will they ever live together again? Most importantly, will she stand up to her uncle and leave his house and the church? Fate often has a way of helping out, and in this case a terrible event is the catalyst Charlie needs to find the courage to be her own person.

As he does with his earlier novels, Burnham takes his time in skillfully creating his characters so that by the end, the readers know them inside out, down to their raw hearts. Some characters suffer a transformation; others don’t; but each word and action count and stay true to them, making them distinctive. Most fascinating about this story is the mind-splitting moral debate that goes on inside Charlie’s mind at every second as she tries to fight her uncle from totally controlling and brainwashing her like he’s already done to his family. Burnham’s style is heavy on narration, and he likes to explore concepts and ideas, so, at times, the pace drags a little, even when the ideas are part of the dialogue. Charlie’s story, however, pulls the reader in, and this reviewer was anxious to see what was going to happen to her — and whether or not she’d end up having a happy ending like she deserved. Jeremy’s character, while also sympathetic, is somehow less interesting than Charlie, who is obviously the star of the show.

The hypocrisy and evil of religion and conservative governments is a recurrent theme in Burnham’s novels, such as On a Darkling Plain and The Many Change and Pass. Other questions explored in the novel include what it means to be a good Christian and the role of women in Christianity. If you’re interested in fiction dealing with social issues, this is an author whose works you’ll definitely want to read.

Mayra Calvani, blogcritics.org review, 2010

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage

by

R.P. Burnham

SMASHWORDS EDITION

******

PUBLISHED BY:

The Wessex Collective on Smashwords

A Robin Redbreast in a Cage

copyright 2009 by R. P. Burnham

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

–Blake, Auguries of Innocence

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*****

Table of Contents

PART I: CHARLIE

Her Last Day at Home

She Becomes a Christian

The Buried Life

PART II: JEREMY

Lost and Found

He Goes His Own Way

The Answer to His Question

PART III: CONVERGENCE

The Duty of Christian Women

The Best Christmas Ever

Planting a Seed

Finding Home

The Kitten

The Opened Door

PART IV: FINALE

Love Is Best

a note about the writer

PART I CHARLIE

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen;

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And Thou shalt not, writ over the door;

So I turn’d to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys & desires.

–William Blake

The Garden of Love

Her Last Day at Home

Her last day at home was a hot and humid Saturday afternoon in August. The birds were quiet and nothing moved. Heat waves shimmered. Skin felt like something fresh from the oven. Charlie Harris, with her friends Jan Parker and Caroline LaRocque, was sitting in the shade on the front steps of Jan’s building, which was not much different from the one Charlie lived in down the street or the one Caroline lived in across the street: three stories with a worn front porch, old asbestos shingles from the sixties, pale green above on the third story, gray below, six mailboxes for the six families, two to a floor, all of them working class and tottering on the edge of poverty. The peeling and worn paint on the deck, trim and railings previewed the shabbiness of the apartments within. Even the single-family homes interspersed among the tenement buildings like flowers in a weed patch were shabby and run down. Landlord or owner, all did the minimum amount of maintenance and spent what money was available for things a lot more fun than a new faucet or repaired ceiling. In Charlie’s apartment it was a running toilet and old windows that either didn’t open or had to be held up with a piece of wood. Caroline’s apartment had worn and chipped woodwork from where furniture being moved had damaged it and peeling calcimine in the kitchen after her father had actually tried to improve the place by painting the ceiling, and now the gunk kept falling all the time. Jan’s apartment, where they hung out much of the time they were inside, was nicest of the three, but it had a very worn linoleum on the floor and a sagging living room ceiling that could come crashing down the minute someone sneezed too hard.

Charlie didn’t used to notice such things, taking them when younger as a natural part of her world in the same way a groundhog would regard a rock or a bramble patch. But the three girls were older now. They were all fourteen and about to enter Courtney Academy as freshmen in two weeks. They were awakening to a new world. For Charlie, becoming aware of the dinginess and despair of her neighborhood was only part of it; what went on inside where she talked to herself and gathered strength to face the world was beginning to reflect that dinginess. She was vaguely aware of this new development and confused. She was beginning to see more clearly a feeling that had been growing for the past few years that she was different, something she had always known to a certain extent because she was the daughter of a single woman and without a father. Today had been another lesson.

They had spent the day doing girlie things. They went to the drugstore where Jan shoplifted some lipstick. They played video games. They hung around and talked. This was the time all the kids were getting new clothes for school, and at one point Jan suggested they get their clothes and try them on for each other. Caroline’s mother had bought her two new outfits consisting of a skirt and matching yellow blouse and a pair of fake designer jeans with two v-necked sweaters as well as a new pair of shoes. Jan’s mother had sacrificed from the household budget for months in order to buy her several new sweaters, tank tops in red, blue and lavender, short skirts in tan and black, slacks and real designer jeans. But Charlie’s mother spent all her extra money on booze and had bought her no new clothes. Not only did she feel left out; she got the distinct impression while the other two were excitedly modeling their clothes that instead of feeling bad for her they felt superior.

Especially Jan. She was so beautiful her mother had entered her in a beauty contest for junior misses last winter where she had been the runner-up. That was the event that spoiled her. Ever since then she had been putting on airs. She had dark eyes and shiny black hair, milky white skin without any blemishes, a perfect nose and full lips that Charlie heard her mother call sexy. She was also fully developed already. When she was trying on her clothes and in her underwear, it was obvious she was very proud of her big breasts and drew attention to them every chance she could. When Caroline was modeling she would stay in bra and panties and even adjust the bra a few times to further draw attention to its contents. Of course there was much squealing with delight and excited giggling between the two, and instead of expressing sympathy for Charlie, they treated her like a servant. Charlie, hand me the black skirt, would you. Charlie, draw the shade. I want to see how this lavender tank top looks in indoors light.

Poor Charlie, without new clothes and as flat as a pancake, was also made to feel weird when the two started talking about menstruation. They pretended that it was very unpleasant and a terrible burden, but what they were really saying was that they were women now and she wasn’t.

So as they sat on the front steps, with Caroline and Jan still talking and giggling about clothes and boys, Charlie was leaning forward with her chin in her hands and feeling glum. Until quite recently she was the leader of the threesome. If she wanted to play soccer or go to the store or watch TV, that’s what they did. But now with her friends only interested in boys, she was beginning to understand that she was being left behind. And for what? Clothes were stupid. Boys were stupid. Putting on airs was stupid.

It was even more stupid that if she said these things to them, they would only laugh at her. She sighed in frustration and clucked her tongue.

Caroline looked at her and was about to say something, but just then Billy Swift turned down their street on his bike. He was a big boy with a mop of sandy hair and bright blue eyes, as handsome as Jan was beautiful. He had a baseball glove hooked over the handlebar and was carrying a big thermos. At first he was pedaling furiously and looking straight ahead, but when he caught a glimpse of Jan, who had stood as soon as she saw him, he braked. Still sitting on his bike, he said, What are you guys doing?

Jan shrugged casually, playing hard-to-get. Just hanging. What about you?

We’re playing baseball in the park. I went home to get some lemonade.

Isn’t it too hot to be playing baseball?

Not if you want to make the team for C.A.

Charlie noticed that he hardly looked at her or Caroline.

You play football too, don’t you? Jan asked as she put her hands on the arch of her back and stretched so that her breasts stuck out. Billy ogled them with a strange look in his eyes.

Yeah, but baseball’s my best sport. I hope so, at least. He spoke with the false modesty that was really boasting, but it went right over Jan’s head. Charlie could see that he thought he was hot stuff, but boy-crazy Jan just saw how cute he was. She remembered a few years ago playing ball with him and some other boys. He couldn’t handle a hot smash off her bat. Some baseball player.

You’ll make the team, I bet, Jan said breathlessly. To play on such a hot day takes dedication.

Yeah, I hope so. But I gotta go. The guys are waiting. If you’re just hanging, come on over and watch.

Okay. Maybe we will. See ya.

He’s so cute, Jan said as she watched him pedaling away. Let’s go watch ’em play.

No, let’s not, Charlie said sharply. We were talking about playing the new video game at Caroline’s.

Jan smiled at her, putting on airs again and treating her like a little girl. Boys are better than video games, she said with the air of uttering a great truth.

Boys, especially Billy, are fools.

Well, you’re entitled to your opinion. I’m going to watch the baseball game. You coming, Caroline?

It was only then that Charlie saw that Jan didn’t want her to come. She was stunned, and a feeling of dread and loneliness swept over her. Caroline, come on, she pleaded, let’s play video games. Let Jan do what she wants.

Caroline looked at Charlie, then back at Jan. She shook her head. No, I’m going to the park. She wasn’t as pretty as Jan and her breasts were small, but she obviously thought she was pretty enough to catch some other boy’s eye.

So Charlie was left alone, standing on the sidewalk and watching them until at the end of the street they turned the corner. Then she slowly made her way home feeling the sting of tears rimming her eyes at this betrayal. Since they were four, Caroline and she had been best friends.

But she quickly hid any signs of her wounded feelings when she realized she was being watched. Mrs. Fecteau, her neighbor who lived in the flat directly under her mother’s and her apartment on the second story, was standing in her window. When Charlie looked up, she waved and pointed before quickly leaving the window.

Inside in the hall she was waiting at her door. I tried to catch you this morning, Charlie, but you slipped out before I could. And then I was at the Senior Center all morning and went shopping after that. She stopped and looked sharply at Charlie. Your mother didn’t come home last night, did she?

Oh, but she… She stopped when Mrs. Fecteau cocked her head.

Now Charlene Harris, you know you can’t sneak a lie past me. Tris didn’t come home last night, did she?

Charlie shook her head while keeping her eyes directed to the floor.

Well, you know my opinion. It’s shameful, her irresponsibility. She’s out of control with her drinking. She’s a disgraceful excuse for a mother. Child, what have you had to eat today?

She looked up at Mrs. Fecteau, remembering what she said about not being able to sneak a lie by her, and then stared back at the floor. A peanut butter sandwich, she said almost in a whisper.

Oh, Charlie, you come in here right now. I’ve got some tuna casserole and some sliced tomatoes and cucumbers from the farmer’s market.

When she hesitated, Mrs. Fecteau said, Now listen. I could use some company. And remember, we’ve been friends for a long time.

That was true. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’d eaten with Mrs. Fecteau either—even though it always embarrassed her and made her feel she was betraying her mother. But she was dreadfully hungry, and by now Mrs. Fecteau had her bony arm around Charlie’s shoulder and was leading her into the apartment so that she didn’t even have to say yes.

Once inside, Charlie as always liked to be there. The place was so cheerful, especially compared to her apartment. There were a lot of plants, and two cats, Tubby and Sly, were more often than not sleeping on the couch or one of the chairs. There were pictures of her grandchildren at different ages in framed pictures on the walls, on some of the shelves and even in a photo album that was always on the coffee table. The walls were painted a pale yellow and the trim a shiny white, a job her two sons did for her a few years ago. They both lived out-of-town, but visited her at least once a month. The new television and the nice rusty-red rug on the floor were two of their most recent gifts for their mom. She was poor, living only on the social security check from her dead husband, but her life was rich. She was very thin and very energetic. She walked faster than most kids Charlie knew even though she was close to eighty. She wore her white hair in a permanent she got once a month, and though her face was very wrinkled Charlie thought that her kindness gave her a kind of shining presence that made her beautiful. Her own grandchildren were young adults now, and Charlie knew that Mrs. Fecteau regarded her as a kind of honorary granddaughter. Like a grandmother she sometimes helped Charlie with her homework when she had a problem she couldn’t figure out herself—though that was not too often since Charlie was a very intelligent student even if her grades didn’t always reflect it. Her teachers told her that she always scored extremely high on all the achievement and intelligence tests.

It was Mrs. Fecteau whom she proudly informed of her teacher’s assessment.

Her mother didn’t care.

It was Mrs. Fecteau who gave her a hug and a dollar to buy a treat and told her she was very proud of the smartest little girl in Waska.

Her mother didn’t care for book learning.

That was what made her accomplishments so interesting, it turned out. Her teachers assumed she got a lot of intellectual stimulation at home, but she didn’t. She wondered a lot, that’s all. She wondered why she was different, why she had a mother who was drunk all the time and could fake being a real mother so well when social workers came snooping around. She wondered why she didn’t have a father like other kids. She wondered why some kids spent more money on one dress than she had in an entire year. So she had curiosity, which Mrs. Simpson, the teacher she had last year in eighth grade, said was the most important thing in the world. She said Charlie was lucky.

Funny, she didn’t feel lucky.

She sat on the couch and patted Sly, the gray tiger cat, while Mrs. Fecteau scooped out a portion of tuna casserole and put it in the microwave. Slicing the cucumbers and tomatoes, she talked about her son’s upcoming visit next week and told Charlie some interesting news. Donny’s daughter has some clothes hardly worn that I’m quite sure will fit you. I told him to bring them along.

Mrs. Fecteau knew all about Charlie’s lack of new school clothes and had told her she was going to do something about it. Charlie was pretty sure that she had asked her son about those clothes. She even wondered if Mrs. Fecteau was telling a little white lie, because all of Don’s kids were in their twenties.

My mother might not like that, she said timidly.

If she objects, then she would have to put her money where her mouth is and buy you some new clothes. So let her object. I hope she does, in fact.

Not knowing how to answer this new tone of anger and resolution, Charlie patted Sly’s belly and listened to the cat purr contentedly.

Mrs. Fecteau, seeing Charlie’s mind at work, wisely changed the subject. "Mayonnaise or vinegar? she asked.

Vinegar, if you please.

Vinegar it is. While she was sprinkling some on the cucumbers and tomatoes, the microwave buzzed. Mrs. Fecteau brought the vegetables to the table, got the hot plate from the microwave, and poured a glass of milk, then sat and watched with evident satisfaction as Charlie hungrily attacked the meal.

Where are your friends? she asked as Charlie was scraping the plate.

They went to the park to watch some boys play baseball. They’re boy-crazy now.

Mrs. Fecteau smiled at Charlie’s disdainful tone at the same time she seemed to understand what was bothering her. You’re going to be a beautiful girl soon. Some girls develop more slowly, that’s all. There’ll be a day when you’re boy-crazy too.

In answer Charlie crinkled her nose, which cause Mrs. Fecteau to laugh.

You’re already a sweet and pretty girl, you know.

She smiled at the compliment but didn’t really believe it. But it did make her think. It kept hovering in her mind while she helped Mrs. Fecteau first wash the dishes and then vacuum the rug, and when she went upstairs to her own apartment the first thing she did was go into the bathroom and stare at herself in the mirror looking for any sign that her face was or would be pretty. The first thing she examined was her nose. Once a kid at school had called it a nigger nose. The nostrils flared and the bridge was flat. She had freckles, and her reddish-brown hair was naturally curly and didn’t obey any brush she’d ever used. Her brown eyes were small, so small, she thought, that they didn’t seem to fit her face, which was way too wide. Her lips were thin, her chin weak, and her neck too long and skinny. There was nothing by itself that was ugly that she could see, but nothing pretty either. She thought of Jan’s full lips and how they looked when she pouted. The thought made her frown. No boy had ever looked at her the way Billy Swift was looking at the beauty queen earlier.

She went into the living room, still thinking of Billy Swift’s eyes and Mrs. Fecteau’s prediction that she would soon be boy-crazy. Before any boy would ever look at her in a special way, she knew she would also have to understand clearly what she now understood only vaguely as a feeling coloring the edge of her mind—that somehow everything before her eyes right now was part of the reason she did not feel pretty inside. She lived in a dump, that much was clear. Jan’s and Caroline’s shabby apartments were closer to hers than the few really nice houses of classmates she had been in, but they were palaces in comparison. Her mother did no housework so that any cleaning and tidying up that was done fell to Charlie. The furniture was all old and crappy. The newest thing, a grayish brown couch with sagging cushions and worn armrests, was a gift her mother got from someone she worked with last winter. The woman was going to throw it out when her mother said she would take it. Her boyfriend at the time—there had been three or four others since then— hauled it in his truck to their building and then with Charlie’s help had carried it upstairs. Its appeal for her mother was that it was a sleeper. Because their apartment was the cheapest one in the building, it was also the smallest one—the landlord had boarded up the door that led to two more bedrooms, which he used for storage for his furnished apartments. A one bedroom apartment, however, meant that before they got the sleeper-couch Charlie slept on a mattress in her mother’s room, and whenever she had a man over to spend the night Charlie would have to move the mattress-bed to the living room. Now every night she pulled it opened and slept on it; every morning she folded it back up. The other furniture in the room had a similar history—all used stuff, all hauled in with the help of some man. The cheap recliner with fake leather had numerous slits where the worn plastic had failed. The other chair was a massive things covered with a blanket to hide the torn stuffing. The dinner table had wobbly legs and under the plastic tablecloth was covered with scratches and gouges. The television screen periodically turned red until a bang on its top shamed it out of its embarrassment. There was nothing nice in the house unless a decorative flower pot that her mother said had belonged to her grandmother was excepted. It had a deep black glaze with red roses and sat on the mantelpiece above the closed-in fireplace. Sometimes Charlie had an overwhelming urge to smash it. She didn’t know why and the thought always scared her. As a result she didn’t dare touch it, and it was covered with thick dust.

Perhaps she associated the vase with her mother, who was equally untouchable. And maybe her face, the worn furniture and the general dinginess were all signs and shadows of her mother. It was she who made Charlie feel different. She rarely talked about her past, but Charlie had learned the salient facts. Her mother dropped out of high school when she was pregnant with Charlie at seventeen. Her father, who was a strict man, threw her out of the house and disowned her. Her grandparents now lived in Florida, though it didn’t matter where they lived, for Charlie had never even seen them. She had an uncle who lived in town, her mother’s brother, whom she had likewise never spoken to (though she had seen him at a distance on a few occasions) and who had likewise disowned his sister. He was a fundamentalist Christian and thought Tris was under Satan’s sway.

With these people her only blood relatives, the only family Charlie had had was the string of boyfriends her mother collected. Relying on her good looks, she could hook any man she set out to get. Because she had always been a drinker, and an irascible one at that when she was drunk, none of these relationships ever lasted much more than a few months. Most of the men who took up temporary residence in their apartment were indifferent to Charlie, but a few had, like substitute teachers, fulfilled the role of a father for the little girl who had no permanent teacher-father. One taught her to play chess. Another was interested in American history when sober and had got her library books on early New England, the Revolutionary War and the conquest of the west to read. Others were simply nice and would play games with her or take her outside to kick a soccer ball or throw a football around.

But good, bad, or indifferent, they all left or were driven away, and she remained a pupil without a teacher. And things were getting worse, not better. It had been over a year since a good boyfriend had come. Her mother, now thirty-two, had been living such a hard life and drinking so heavily that she was on the verge of losing her good looks. As a result the more recent boyfriends had begun to look more and more seedy. And that reminded Charlie of another fear. She was afraid that if her mother got any worse she might lose her job. Despite working many a day with a hangover, she had managed to hang on to her job in the dispatcher’s office of a local trucking company, where she had worked since she was twenty. Their apartment might be a dump, but it was better than living on the streets.

Thinking of her mother and her boyfriends and the booze they drank made Charlie feel even more glum. New school clothes seemed trivial when she followed in her mind the path her mother was leading to its end.

An unpleasant smell diverted her attention. She turned towards the kitchen, following her nose. It was sour milk from the dregs of the container thrown away yesterday. She gathered up some pizza boxes and other debris and brought them with the wastebasket down the backstairs to the rubbish bins. It was still very hot and the metal top of one of the rubbish bins felt like an oven door as she lifted it. Across two backyards she saw movement on the back porch of Jan’s building, and for a moment she stared after letting the cover of the bin drop with a loud crash. But it was only Mrs. Donahue, Jan’s neighbor across the hall, similarly emptying her trash.

Back upstairs she sat in the recliner and in the declining light of the evening read the latest novel in a series about a boy wizard. Everyone else had already read it, but she had had to wait to get the book from the library. After about an hour the light grew too dim, and she put the novel aside and turned on the television, watching some situation comedies where there were a lot of jokes about sex. They weren’t funny to her, for she had heard her mother making love many times and had come to see sex as a gross agony of ecstasy that was totally self-absorbed and left her out and made her feel strange. She never said anything when the kids talked about it. In her mind it was all mixed up with booze and her mother’s neglect. It wasn’t beautiful. It had nothing to do with love. It was only a need so strong that everything else was forgotten. It just made her feel lonely and unwanted. So after a couple of these uncomic comedies, she switched to public television and watched a nature show about the life of orangutans. Then at ten o’clock, with her mother still not home, she gave up hope and unfolded the sleeper-couch into her bed. She got a blanket from the closet, knowing that later in the night it would be cool, and removing her shorts but keeping her T-shirt on, she curled up on the bed.

But she didn’t go to sleep. She was used to being alone and was not scared; even so she felt uncomfortable and started every time she heard a noise. To keep fearful thoughts at a distance, she busied her mind thinking about Jan and Caroline, wondering if they would cut her completely. She knew some other kids, including a girl she’d talked to a few times about the boy wizard novels. She too was plain and like Charlie was still flat. Maybe they could become best friends. Then she spent a long time thinking about the novel trying to guess how it would come out. The clothes Mrs. Fecteau promised her didn’t excite much curiosity, but she did think of them just to keep her mind busy.

About an hour later she heard her mother’s voice downstairs and