Nora's hands didn't stop. "Yes," she said. "Some of them are. There's a pastor in Duluth who has four boys, and they're all terrors. Why?"
"I just wondered." Birdie was quiet. "Are you anybody's mom?"
"No, honey. I'm not."
"Do you want to be?"
This time Nora's hands did stop, just for a second. Then she went on, crossing the strands over, over, under. "I used to think I would be," she said. "And then I went away for a while, to a war, and when I came back I didn't think I had it in me anymore. Being a mom is a lot of staying put. I haven't been very good at staying put, Birdie. I've lived in six places in fifteen years."
"You could stay put here."
"Maybe."
"I've had a mom," Birdie said, in a matter-of-fact voice that made Dale's chest hurt. "She was named Karen. She died when I was five. I don't remember her that much. I remember she sang, and she had a green bathrobe, and she smelled like Jergens lotion. I'm not supposed to want another one, I don't think. Aunt Linda says I shouldn't, because it would be disloyal. I'm not sure what that means. But I don't want a different one, anyway. Exactly." She frowned, working it out. "I just want somebody to do my hair. And somebody to tell things. Dad's good. Dad's really good. But sometimes there's stuff that's not for dads."
Nora finished the second braid. She wrapped the rubber band twice. Then she put both her hands on Birdie's shoulders, lightly, and leaned down and rested her chin on the top of Birdie's head for just a moment, the way Dale had seen her rest her hand on an old woman's arm in the church doorway.
"You can tell me things," she said. "Anytime. That I can promise."
"Even if they're dumb?"
"Especially if they're dumb. Those are the best ones."
"And will you teach me to do my own braids? So I don't have to need anybody?"