Backwater

by Joan Bauer

  “Tweet,” I said softly.

  A ruffling of feathers, then gently, slowly, the bird flew toward me, making a strange, choppy circle around my head. I braced myself, waiting for it to dump on me, but it didn’t happen.

  It landed gently on my hand!

  I felt it’s little feet curl around my little finger, sensed the beating of it’s teeny heart.

  I did everything to not swallow.

  It pecked through the seed, picked one, and flew off.

  I had to catch my breath.

  “There’s more where that came from,” I said quietly, even though I wanted to shout it. “I mean, we could do this again. Just name the time.”

  * * *

  I was in the cabin, stirring the pot of bean soup over the wood stove. I was standing by the window in the kitchen when I heard the rat-a-tat-tat on the glass. It was my chickadee, standing in the empty bird-feed box, looking depressed.

  I opened the window. “You need more in your life than just begging for food.”

  He chirped with feeling.

  I got some birdseed, held it out in my hand. The bird hopped lightly on my thumb and had lunch.

  “If you want to be useful, you can fly over to G. Preston Roblick’s house, see what’s up with the school history I wrote and report back.”

  He kept eating.

  “Is this all I am to you, a meal ticket?”

  He jumped off my hand, up to my shoulder, and, of course, in my great moment of wild bird mastery, Jo wasn’t here.

  “I want you to remember what you did because when Jo comes back we’re going to show off.”

  Just then the window rattled fiercely. My bird flew back outside. A frigid blast swept through the room. I shut the window as the wind picked up and snow began falling gently at first, then hard.

  Jo came in the door covered in snow. “We’re going to get a good one.”

  I thought of Jack and Mountain Mama. “Would a person be all right in this if they had to be outside?”

  “If they’ve got a tent, they’ll be fine. That guide of yours has seen much worse, believe me. We’ll just hunker down for a bit. It snows like this all the time up here.”

  I looked out the window at the thick flakes tumbling down.

  The soup wasn’t ready yet. I walked to the bookcase and saw the picture of my Grandmother Ivy. It was the same photo Dad kept on his desk. She, Jo and I looked alike. I remembered one of the rules of being a family historian: Always treat a person like they’re going to open up to you.

  So I gave it a shot.

  “How old were you when your mother died?” I asked.

  Jo stirred in her chair. “Ten.”

  “I was six when my mom died.”

  “I remember,” she said quietly.

  “Do you remember your mother’s funeral?”

  “Some parts.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” I said. “I had this dream right after she died that I was on a mountain and birds were flying over me and I was standing in the tall grass that was waving in the breeze.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I dreamt it.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes got far away. “The day after the funeral I came by and we drove to a nature preserve. We climbed a hill that you kept saying was a mountain. The birds were flying overhead; you were so excited to see them circling. You said they were flying for your mother and you wanted to build something on the mountain for her to see from heaven. We gathered some stones, you got some tall grass, and we made a memorial for her. I had some seed in my pocket; you sprinkled it on the ground and the birds swooped down from everywhere in honor of your mom.”

  I felt a valve of memory opening up, saw those birds overhead, felt the beauty and freedom of their flight. I was close to crying. “That was you?”

  “That was me.”

  “That was the best thing you could have done for me, Aunt Jo.”

  She got up stiffly and walked to the kitchen, stood there looking out the window. The snow was whirling strong.

  I walked toward her, remembering it fresh. “And we saw that eagle flying. And you told me how the mother eagle pulls apart its nest to teach the babies to fly and the babies are squawking and telling her they’re not ready.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and I felt something powerful move between us.

  “I want to thank you for what you did, Aunt Jo. I bet those birds came because you were there.”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes they did.” I was crying now. “When my mom died I decorated a box with white feathers and drew a flying white bird on it. I wrote notes to her about how much I missed her. I’d put them in the box and leave it by my window at night so she could come down from heaven and read the letters. It was a little kid thing, but I always pictured her soaring free like a bird.”

  Jo turned to look at me; her eyes were soft. “I’m glad the birds helped you.”

  “You helped me.”

  A bird flew from the mantel to Jo’s hand. She watched it perching there. “I haven’t felt part of the family for so long, Ivy. I’ve lost track of the ways I was part of people’s lives.”

  “But you remember how people were a part of yours with the carvings. You decorated the graves.”

  Jo sat down heavily in the rocker. “I hiked down before Christmas. My friend at the gallery let me stay at her house. She drove me to the family cemetery at night. I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

  “Why not?”

  “It had been so long, I was afraid to face people. But I needed to make contact with that part of me for some reason, so I put the holly on my parents’ graves.”

  I walked toward her. “If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have known how to find you.”

  She rocked slowly in the chair. It creaked on the wood plank floor; the rhythm of it seemed to soothe her.

  “Did you know my mom well?” I asked quietly.

  Her face brightened. “Your mother was the most direct person I’ve ever met, Ivy. She told you what she thought, had no masks, didn’t play games. She was the best woman in the world for your father because when he’d get high and mighty she’d say, ‘Daniel Webster, it’s time to step down from that pedestal of greatness to spend some time with the common folk.’”

  I laughed. “I can’t imagine Dad taking that.”

  “Your Dad would get all blustery, but he’d do it. Your mom was very aware of her strengths and weaknesses. She didn’t try to hide from the parts in her that were difficult.”

  “I heard she got angry a lot.”

  “The last time I saw her she’d just had a fight with her boss at social services who had told her not to get so involved with the clients—she was losing perspective. Your mom was fighting mad about it. She said, ‘Josephine, I think I was born angry. And I’m not going to lose it.’ Your mom’s anger made her push past injustice and fight for what she believed in. I’ll tell you what I learned from her: sometimes our weaknesses can become our greatest strengths.”

  I felt like she’d just spun gold and handed it to me.

  I thought of how the pain of wanting to connect to my mother got me interested in history. How needing to understand my family and be understood by them pushed me to writing and researching the family history.

  She rocked some more. I touched her shoulder. “Mountain Mama’s coming for me tomorrow, Aunt Jo. Will you trust me to get you on tape?”

  * * *

  We talked for four hours straight as the snow tumbled down—how Jo used to bury the birds that died in little graves in the backyard, how she helped Dad study for the law school questions he was sure to get at the dinner table.

  “When I was young, I had a sign in front of my room that said ‘Mayor of Backwater—Population 1.’ I used to sign my name The Honorable Josephine P. Breedlove. I think that all my life I was getting ready to live alone. I guess I just transferred that up here and became th
e mayor …”

  She talked about how she’d learned to think about the difficult people in her life—tried to see life from their point of view. “I think, Ivy, that difficult relationships come into our lives for a reason. No one would choose them, certainly. But if we let them, they can teach us how to be flexible with others and more forgiving.” She laughed. “It’s like making friends with a wolf.”

  I looked at Malachi staring at me from across the room. I still wasn’t ready.

  Jo kept talking …

  “My father knew he wasn’t an easy person. The first time I saw him in a courtroom, I was terrified by his sheer personal force. He was so sure of everything; I was sure of nothing. I didn’t understand then that being a lawyer meant rigidly sorting through details, refusing to take anything at face value, looking for anything to discredit or reevaluate. My dad told me a thousand times that for every argument, there was a counter argument. He told me that in this world you have to be the toughest and the best. He was driven to beat out everyone around him. He taught Dan and Archie well, but he couldn’t teach me. I didn’t have it inside …”

  I kept changing tapes. I had a pile of them on the table. Half way through, I remembered it was New Year’s Eve. I’d never forget this one.

  “I remember as a little girl always feeling safe around your dad, Ivy, because I knew he would protect me. I was teased a lot at school because I was different. My head tormentor was Ella Radcliffe. That girl knew how to find the thing I loved most and make it seem stupid. I never talked about it, though, until one day walking home your dad could tell I’d been hurt. He said he wouldn’t go another step until I told him what was wrong. So I told him how Ella had made fun of me and my birds. He took me by the hand and we walked to Ella’s house; he dragged me up on her big front porch, rang the doorbell. When Ella answered he said, ‘Ella, I want to be very clear about this.’”

  I laughed, “He still says that.”

  “I can hear him say it. Then he said, ‘I can’t let you keep hurting my sister. It’s not right. Has she done something to deserve this?’ Now, Ella was about my size, which meant that Dan towered over her, but he didn’t do it meanly, he did it with a lot of grace, letting her know he was going to protect me. Ella looked down and twitched like she had mosquitoes in her underwear. She said, ‘No, she hasn’t done anything.’ And your dad said, ‘Then I think you’d better stop going after her or else I’m going to tell your parents and the principal and I’m going to take you to court and sue you for defamation of character.’ Neither Ella nor I knew what that was, but it sounded bad. Then he quoted from one of our father’s law dictionaries and said that defamation is when someone publicly makes remarks, in print or by word of mouth, which are untrue and damaging to another’s reputation. Ella was crying, saying she didn’t mean it, she was sorry, she didn’t want to go to jail. Dan said he was glad to know that, he would take all that into consideration. Then he said, ‘It’s one thing to want to lash out at someone who’s hurt us,’” Jo’s eyes were sad and far away, “‘but it’s another thing to attack an innocent person. I’m going to make sure you never do that again, Ella. Is that clear?’ And Ella was nodding wildly.”

  I leaned forward. “He really said that?”

  “He sure did. On the way home he talked non-stop about how he wanted to be a lawyer and defend people who needed help. I saw your Dad’s mission that day. He’d been put on this earth to study and practice law—he loved the thought of that with everything in his mind and soul. He saw the law as a way to help make life fairer for people. As long as I’ve known him, your dad fought for people who had been wronged. He was always a person who respected the rules, who thought that things should be done with order.”

  I sat quietly, trying to take that in.

  “Your father’s a good man,” Jo said quietly.

  I hugged my knees not knowing what to say.

  16

  It was midnight—officially the new year.

  A chickadee flew across the room and let loose a poop on the floor—the wilderness equivalent of the ball dropping in Times Square.

  I put the tapes and tape recorder in my frame pack.

  The air felt thick with snow.

  The wind picked up outside, furiously lashing at the trees as Jo and I turned in for the night.

  Jo’s stories swirled in my head like the snow storm outside. I tried to process them, but I was too tired. I would turn them over and over in my mind tomorrow and for days after that.

  I was afraid to sleep.

  Jo said there was nothing we could do, except wait the storm out.

  No one to call, I thought. That’s how it is up here.

  I thought about Mountain Mama in that little tent, Jack alone, trying to find courage.

  I got up, took my flashlight and shone it through the window. The heavy snow was still falling. The Franklin stove pushed heat into the cabin, but my heart was cold and frightened. Jo slept soundly with Malachi by her bed. Malachi watched my movements with his yellow eyes that shone through the darkness of the room like embers. The eyes of the dog that bit me years ago turned mean and crazy right before he pounced.

  You’re father’s a good man.

  The wind crashed through the trees surrounding the cabin, causing them to creak and bend with the wind. It rattled the windows, seemed to throb through the log walls. I went back to bed, curled in the covers deeply, listening to the huge, moving trees as snow pounded the mountain.

  Difficult relationships come into our lives for a reason.

  At least I was safe in a cabin.

  Jack and Mountain Mama were not.

  Unrelenting wind pelted the trees.

  I felt so small.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  * * *

  Sometime in the early morning I was jolted up by the sound of a huge crash.

  Howling wind.

  Howling wolf.

  I was sure I was dreaming. I shook the sound from my head, but the creaking was louder now and as I looked up, something huge and monstrous cut through the cabin roof and part of the roof had crashed into the room, just missing my bed, but landing with fierceness on or near Jo, I couldn’t tell which.

  “Jo!”

  A groan.

  “Jo!”

  I leaped up, screaming Jo’s name, not understanding the impossible thing that was happening. Snow crashed into the cabin.

  “My God!” I grabbed a flashlight, rushed to Jo across the frigid wood floor, stepping in mounds of snow in my wool socks. I lunged through the dark to the heap that was Jo, lying on her side helplessly on her bed, half covered with roof debris. Through the hole in the roof I could see a huge tree hanging precariously overhead.

  “Oh God. Jo?”

  Still the snow poured in and Jo looked up at the hole in her roof.

  “My leg,” she groaned.

  Her eyes began to close.

  My brain went numb. I tossed pieces of roof and wood off her.

  “I’m going to get you off there!” I said it, but I didn’t know why or how. I dragged my blankets from my bed, put them around Jo.

  “Hurts bad,” she said.

  “I’m going to get the sled and put you on it.”

  “There’s …” Jo tried to say, but couldn’t finish the thought.

  Jo’s eyes began to close. I fought through panic. Something in me knew that I needed to be doing things, moving mechanically, not just standing here. I remembered seeing a show on television about first aid and how you’ve got to keep an accident victim awake if you can.

  “Don’t sleep!” I shouted. “Stay awake!”

  I found my pack, got dry socks, pulled them on, yanked on my boots, ran to the door, didn’t know if I could open it. I could; the porch outside kept the snow from the front door. I ran on the porch, into the snow, looked madly for the sled. Found it by the woodpile, ropes and all, snowshoes tied to it. No time to take them off. I lugged it inside; Malachi was barking.

  “Shut up!”
I hissed at him, brought it to Jo. Malachi got up on his back legs. I took my two hands, grabbed him by the neck like I’d seen Jo do and snapped, “No!”

  Malachi put his tail between his legs, crept to Jo’s side.

  I had to get her from the bed so she wouldn’t be buried alive in the snow.

  “I’ve got to get you to the other side of the room where it’s dry, Aunt Jo.”

  “Can’t … move.”

  “I’m going to move you.”

  Her face was gray. “Talk to me!” I cried. “No sleeping, Jo! Tell me about …”

  What?

  What could she talk about?

  “Tell me more about my father!”

  I threw wood pieces off Jo as she tried to talk. “He was … something.”

  “How was he something, Aunt Jo. Tell me!” I took the last log off of Jo’s leg. Too panicked to cry. She seemed to revive.

  “He had to work harder …”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jo half smiled. “Stupid male pride.”

  “Don’t I know it. Come on, Aunt Jo, let me try to lift you.”

  “Can’t …”

  “I can! Put your arms around my neck and I’m going to put you in the sled and get you by the stove where it’s warm!”

  Jo coughed; I dragged the sled as close as I could.

  “Come on, I’ll just lower you as much as I can. I’m strong.”

  “Better be, kid,” Jo said softly, putting her hands around my neck. I lifted her somehow. She cried out in pain. The snow cascaded in from the hole in the roof covering everything. I got Jo in the sled. She was groaning. I dragged her over to the warmest corner, covered her with dry blankets.

  “Okay,” I said. “You need to eat something and you need to drink water.”

  I climbed over the debris to the kitchen nook, got her cheese, crackers and water, put them to her mouth. She ate and drank as the snow swept into the room. At first it melted when it hit the floor, but the cold blew through the cabin with a fierceness, and soon the snow began to pile up.

  I shone the flashlight against the wall, looked at Jo’s gray face, half-closed lids. She looked back at me bravely as Malachi stood by her side.

  “Aunt Jo, I need information. Would the rangers come to see if you’re okay?”