Chap­ter 9: The Robin and the Spar­row opens a del­i­cate win­dow into the qui­et com­plex­i­ties that shape rela­tion­ships with­in tight­ly knit, seg­re­gat­ed com­mu­ni­ties. Ber­nice Davis, the woman next door to Chona’s Heav­en & Earth Gro­cery Store, was deeply woven into Chick­en Hill’s Black lineage—a lin­eage as dense and branch­ing as any fam­i­ly tree, sprawl­ing with cousins, step-rela­tions, and mys­te­ri­ous parent­ages. Her con­nec­tion to every­one and yet close­ness to no one ren­dered her a para­dox: known by all, but ful­ly under­stood by few. Chona hadn’t spo­ken to her in years, though their homes stood just twen­ty feet apart. Years ago, their fam­i­lies had been friend­ly; Bernice’s father, Shad, had helped build both the store and the shul that anchored their Jew­ish com­mu­ni­ty. But time, mis­un­der­stand­ings, and unspo­ken griev­ances had dri­ven a wedge between the women. It was not one event but a slow, emo­tion­al erosion—a hurt left unchecked, a silence left unbro­ken.

From her win­dow, Chona often looked out at Bernice’s clap­board house with com­pli­cat­ed feel­ings. She could see the out­line of their child­hood friend­ship like a shad­ow imprint­ed on the earth—one that still moved even if the source no longer shone. They had walked to school togeth­er as chil­dren, Chona limp­ing along with polio-weak­ened legs, while Ber­nice sang songs in a sopra­no voice so pure it could stir the heav­ens. Yet, school brought divi­sions too. Ber­nice was once silenced by a teacher who refused to let her sing—a moment of qui­et cru­el­ty that Chona tried to stand against but failed to ful­ly under­stand. Their bond, strong as it was, began to frac­ture under the weight of invis­i­ble forces—racism, inse­cu­ri­ty, the judg­ment of oth­ers. Chona blamed her­self for a long-ago stitch­ing error that led to Ber­nice’s embar­rass­ment, though both girls had sewn their dress­es iden­ti­cal­ly. That small moment became sym­bol­ic of the larg­er frac­ture: a mis­un­der­stand­ing that led to silence, which became a canyon.

Now, years lat­er, Ber­nice remained cloaked in mys­tery. Her grow­ing brood of chil­dren passed through Chona’s store like echoes of the girl she had once known—beautiful, qui­et, and unknow­able. And yet, it was Bernice’s com­plex life that pre­sent­ed Chona with a solu­tion she hadn’t expect­ed. With Dodo, the deaf boy now liv­ing with her, Chona had unex­pect­ed­ly stum­bled into moth­er­hood. The boy had brought light into her life like a lantern in a dark hallway—curious, ener­getic, filled with won­der. But dan­ger now loomed. A state offi­cial named Carl Boy­d­kins had begun sniff­ing around, ask­ing ques­tions. He want­ed to remove Dodo. Chona knew that if her hus­band Moshe found out, the boy would be turned in with­out a fight. That’s why she need­ed Ber­nice. Ber­nice, who had always car­ried mys­tery like a sec­ond skin, who already had eight chil­dren of all shades, could shield one more with­out rais­ing sus­pi­cion.

Chona’s mind raced as she hob­bled to the front of the store. She had nev­er expect­ed to feel mater­nal affec­tion so late in life, but Dodo had changed her. He wasn’t bio­log­i­cal­ly hers, yet he felt more hers than any­thing she had ever owned. His silence, his sub­tle intel­li­gence, his play­ful habits—like pay­ing for choco­late with col­ored marbles—had etched him deeply into her heart. It remind­ed her of her child­hood, of how her father used to barter goods with kind­ness instead of coins. Dodo had revived some­thing in her that ill­ness and age had long since dulled: pur­pose. He moved through the house with life, craft­ing con­trap­tions, clean­ing the shop, whis­per­ing joy into every room with­out say­ing a word. Let­ting him go was unthink­able. She had to act, and Bernice—with her mys­te­ri­ous aura and lived experience—seemed the only per­son who might under­stand, or at least not ques­tion.

Chona’s thoughts car­ried both urgency and guilt. It wasn’t just about sav­ing Dodo. It was also about clos­ing the wound between her and Ber­nice, a wound that had nev­er ful­ly healed since that day in home eco­nom­ics class. She didn’t know if Ber­nice would help. She didn’t know if she would even answer the door. But she knew the act of reach­ing out might final­ly mend some­thing that had splin­tered long ago. Per­haps in pro­tect­ing a child, they could recov­er the inno­cent bond they once shared as girls—before the world taught them to see each oth­er as spar­rows instead of robins. Chona stepped out­side with her cane, not just to ask a favor but to seek for­give­ness, to return to some­thing soft and unfin­ished. A qui­et truce, born not out of duty or oblig­a­tion, but of shared under­stand­ing. The robin and the sparrow—two lives once inter­twined, maybe ready to fly again.