June’s mother went very early Saturday to get the best buys. She delighted in visiting many stalls before she made up her mind which jewel of a pepper or apple to buy. This day she cut down her pleasure. She shopped quickly, then parked her baskets under Mr. Breneman’s stand and led her daughter across the street to the town department store. Her brown heels clicked hard on the brick walk and her movements were fast and deliberate. June sensed a growing-up crisis. She hung back, trying to avoid another frictiony burst as her mother tried to shape her for adulthood.
They turned into the plain brown store. They passed the stony clerks at the button counter and marched on toward the back of the store and behind the stacks of yard goods. This was the underwear department. The plan was clear even before her mother said with a warm and nice smile, “It’s time to buy you a brassiere and a little light girdle.” June wanted to disappear.
A saleslady smiled and her smile was too sweet.
“Mother,” June murmured in pain, “please, can’t we wait?” She grew angry at the saleslady, as well as her mother. As she turned to flee she saw the grinning, thin, store owner, Mr. Shide. He, too, knew; and June hated him all over, even to the laces in his shoes on which her eyes fastened in humility.
There was nothing to do but stand through the embarrassing ordeal, the measurements, the smiles, the pleasantries, the fitting...and finally, the acceptance of the green paper bag at arm’s length like a leaky bucket. As the saleslady said good-bye June seemed to see millions of shining teeth standing around her words, “You’ll look sweet, dearie.” June wanted to bite...even the counter.
Somehow she got home. She carried the paper bag to her room, three steps at a time, opened the bottom bureau drawer and stuffed it in. She stomped out of the room to the head of the steps. She listened. The car was being unloaded of its bountiful baskets, the boys were carrying in bundles, Rod was trying to play his flute in spite of his broken collarbone. She turned in the confusion, flew back to the drawer, opened it, and peeked in the bag. Carefully she lifted out the garments and stared at them. There they were, very real, representing a whole long, unwritten life that lay ahead, mysterious and exciting. She wondered about marriage and childbearing and nursing and buckets and brooms. Then she put the garments back in the bag. She closed the drawer.
All down the dark back stairs the young lady walked with a swing of her hips, with a toss of her head. At the bottom she opened a door and saw Charles. She didn’t want him to see her flounce, so she jumped down the last step. He gave her a quick, friendly punch; she sparred with him. He touched her shoulder; she socked back, stumbled, missed—and went sprawling into the dining room.
“You’re a puppy!” Charles teased.
June thought of the package in the drawer upstairs and answered with a toss of her head, “That’s what you think!” Charles’s face puzzled, his eyes studied the mystery of his sister.
“Don’t be that kind of a girl,” he said. “Don’t play silly secret games.”
June knew what he meant. She was being flashy and it did not go with the upbringing he and Don had given her. They thought she should be honest and open and natural about all things, from climbing a rope to becoming a woman. June was abashed. She punched him hard and ran out the back door to the maple tree and her falcon.
Zander stepped to her finger the moment it was offered. She dug her nose in his feathers and said to the bird, “At times it’s very hard to know who I really am.” And the tears stood along the rims of her eyes.
For the rest of the day June had no interest in working with her falcon. She just held him on her fist.
Don was working with Ulysses, the tiercel. Ulysses had broken a tail feather and Don was “imping” a new one in for him. It was not a duck hawk tail feather, but a Cooper’s hawk, one Jess had moulted. A broken feather made flying difficult for Ulysses. He lost speed, so Don was carefully cutting and, with some airplane dope and wire, imping the new feather into the broken base of the old. June carried Zander to his side and watched.
“It’s not as pretty as his own feather,” she said.
“No, and it’s a little long. But it’ll work. He’ll hunt better. You’d better watch that ring at the base of Zander’s perch, or he’ll be breaking feathers, too. He was banging yesterday.”
Presently the back door opened and Charles senior and Uncle Paul strode down the yard with hammers, saw, and nails to fix the canoe landing.
They stood chest-deep in the creek, hammering and arguing about where the new supporters should be nailed. Uncle Paul finally changed the subject. “Will Bunker came by the office today. Left a nice book for Rod.” June listened in a half-world. Uncle Paul continued. “He’s about to close a big deal on his textile mills. Double their output and profits. A man has come in from California to invest in his business.”
There was a long pause as the two men worked as a team.
“Will said he and Mary are giving a big party Monday night for the man...All business people from the plant. They hired Ross Mort to play music, bought seven turkeys, five hams...and are getting a woman from Philadelphia to help decorate...It’s going to be a humdinger...”
June was listening completely now. The Bunkers were splendid when they did things. And this party sounded of castle grandeur; it glittered in the top of her mind.
A few nights later at dinner, they were all seated around the table in the old converted parlor. The tablecloth was red, the wallpaper plaid. It was gay to everyone but Charles senior. The room still reminded him of piano lessons and funerals, the only events for which the parlor was used when he was a boy.
On the table was a casserole of chicken pot pie covered with homemade biscuits. There were stewed tomatoes, cold sliced cucumbers, breaded eggplant, cranberry sauce, and blueberry pie. Elizabeth Pritchard was a marvelous cook even on her shaky kerosene stove. In contrast, Aunt Helen was no cook at all. She disliked the entire process; and so, that night, on the other side of the house the Paul Pritchards were having a kind of white stew and potato salad. Suddenly Uncle Paul tiptoed through the door, spying on the food. “Wow!” he said and picked up a plate.
The young people chuckled, for Uncle Paul always checked the tables in the house to see which had the best food, and when he found a special delicacy he snitched some. He was usually gracious and he admired all the food everywhere with ecstatic words; but Elizabeth Pritchard’s he ate.
He was sneaking back with chicken pot pie and cranberries when they heard him roar out a laugh. He reappeared in the doorway.
“Look!” he said. In the center of his plate sat Bobu, the screech owl. “He thought the cranberry sauce was his dinner!” Uncle Paul held the plate high so they could see the little gray owl sitting straight and surprised in the red sauce.
June stared at Bobu on the plate, and suddenly it was no longer Uncle Paul holding him there, but Will Bunker, and he was in a dinner jacket and was embarrassed before his distinguished guest.
“I wish Bobu would sit on Will Bunker’s plate next Monday,” she said.
Uncle Paul looked at her. His eyes twinkled, his face broke into a thousand glad crow’s feet, and he came toward her slowly. “What an idea, what a wonderful, marvelous idea.” He put down his plate and picked up Bobu in his hand. Turning the bird over he wiped the funny feet that go two toes and two toes when sitting and spread out in the four directions of the compass when closing on prey. He released the owl and Bobu flew to the victrola to wait for someone to wind it up and mend his disappointed heart.
Uncle Paul gave the victrola a flip, and sat down. “Listen,” he said with enthusiasm, “we’ll get our whole menagerie over to the Bunkers’ party...and boy! will that be a surprised guest of honor! The orchestra leader will help. Will Bunker pulled a practical joke on him once. He’ll be delighted to get even.”
For the next week everyone at Pritchard’s planned and plotted and invented marvelous things to do at the Bunker party.
Monday night arrived. Uncle Paul drov
e the surprise party in his car and parked in the cornfield behind the Bunker house. Then the Pritchards, both wild and tame, stole quietly along the country road. June carried Zander. Don led the family dogs, Spike and Brownie. Rod had Windy, Jim walked with Bobu and Fingers, and Charles and Uncle Paul carried buckets of minnows and catfish.
They came in the back way behind the high hedge. June peeked through the dense leaves to see on the lawn a white table around which sat the guests, all glittering, all beautiful. Above their heads hung brightly colored Japanese lanterns; crystal shone, china belled at the touch of silverware. She was transfixed.
Don said, “Come on, Junie, they’ll see you,” and she followed the group through the big French doors off the dining room into the open, shining living room where Ross, the orchestra leader, was waiting.
There she spun in joy. The room was decorated in white; white flowers, candles, paper lanterns, white chairs to sit upon. In a spell of wonder she sat Zander, as planned, on the marble boy on the mantel.
But Zander was beautiful and he gave dignity to the little bare boy—not humor. June was surprised and glad. Her falcon could not be changed by silly pranks. He rose above them.
The glamour did not bother the men and boys. Charles and Uncle Paul were laughing as they carried the buckets of fish toward the ladies’ powder room.
Charles put three bewhiskered catfish into the washbowl. Uncle Paul poured minnows into the clear, roiling water of the old bathtub. His grin was enormous.
Rod, by the old victrola, was whispering excitedly to Ross. “Please open it after they all get dancing and wind it up a little bit.” Then, lizard-like, he climbed the bookcase and placed Bobu quietly in a space between the books. Bobu settled in as if it were a hollow tree. Bobu was well fed, and he fluffed his feathers, pulled up a foot, and squinted down upon the band.
Uncle Paul next took a bag of aniseed out of his pocket and tied a string to it. He dragged it across the dance floor, out the back French doors, around the house, into the front doors, and across the floor to complete an enormous circle. Aniseed is used to make trails to train hunting dogs. Brownie and Spike loved to follow the odor over the house at Pritchard’s, howling and barking. Now they would go through their routine in the Bunker house.
The last arrangement was made as Charles quickly taught the clarinetist Windy’s whistle. Then the Pritchards crossed the porch and dropped into the bushes to wait and watch. Fingers, the raccoon, was still in a box. He could be released when the punch and cookies were served.
It wasn’t long before Will Bunker stepped through the patio door into the dining room. He was talking seriously to a heavily built man, with a black moustache, several chins, barrel-chest, and enormous cigar. This must be Mr. Sparter, the guest of honor.
Will walked through the dining room across the hall and stepped into the living room. Mort lifted his baton and started the music.
This frightened Zander. He killied. Will turned, Mr. Sparter turned. They looked. They shrugged, they laughed, and then Mr. Sparter, who was behind Will, facing the mantel, stared over Will’s curly hair. He bit his cigar, rocked on his toes, and stared harder. He cleared his throat.
Will sensed his guest’s confusion, thought he’d said something wrong, tried to smooth his error—then turned to see Zander. Other guests were coming in: young men, old men, and women in beautiful gowns. The music soared. Then Ross walked across the room, opened the victrola, and said to Will, “We have some amusing old records for intermission.” He wound the machine and turned it on. Bobu stepped forward in his niche. He bobbed his head up, down, then around and around as his yellow and black eyes focused on the “Bobu Amusement Park.” He jumped on his wings and flew softly over heads, alighting on the turntable. There were polite gasps from the women. Bobu became alarmed, took off, and winged around the room. Cries mounted, voices sounded in alarm until he finally found a door and wheeled into the darkness. From the bushes, Rod called him down.
The clarinetist arose and, tipping back his head, whistled the Windy call. The old fellow on Jim’s fist bobbed his head and flew. He went in the open French door and circled the room. Finally he settled on the back of Mrs. Sparter’s chair. She screamed and before the other guests reached her, Uncle Paul released Spike and Brownie, gave them the scent of the aniseed, and whispered, “Go git it!”
Through the French doors ran Spike, head low, yiping along the trail, passing beaded skirts, going between black broadcloth legs, straight out the far French doors, around the house and back in the front doors again. He was followed by big lumbering Brownie. Will was stony white. He recognized the dogs. He shouted and swished them out, then closed the door after them. But they circled the house and came in the front door again, noses to the ground, Spike yiping, Brownie woofing in his bullfrog basso. They ran to the rear doors, found them closed, jumped on them, pushed them open, and bellowed out into the night again. They circled the house. Now Will threw himself against the front windows and would not let the barking dogs in.
Charles, standing in the bushes, was laughing so hard he buckled over to hold his aching sides.
The “palace” was bedlam. Then Jim slipped into the dining room and placed Fingers on the table. He petted him and showed him the cookies. Fingers wasn’t discovered until a few minutes later when the laughing Mr. Sparter came into the dining room for a drink of punch. He stopped and threw his hands in the air when he saw the raccoon, all four feet in the beverage, chasing the ice cubes.
Will Bunker, tie undone, smudged with dirt, clutched Mr. Sparter’s arm. “Please, excuse this fiasco. This is an outrage. I know who’s done this. Please excuse me, they must be around. I am so sorry. This is unforgivable.”
Uncle Paul liked that. He laughed from his belly.
“Who are they?” Mr. Sparter roared happily and followed Will to the porch.
“Paul!” Will shouted. “Where are you? Come on! Stop! Please stop! I’m sorry about the cave. I apologize again. But this is too much. Paul!”
Uncle Paul, arms swinging freely, moving as naturally as wind, went up onto the porch. June ran around him and dashed for Zander.
As the other birds and animals were gathered, Mr. Sparter followed the children, laughing and shaking his head.
“This is hysterical,” he said, stroking old Windy. “Do you children train all these birds and beasts?” Charles nodded. “Do the falcons hunt as they did in the days of Chaucer?”
“We hope so.”
The other guests gathered around in delight. Then Uncle Paul with his most charming smile called, “Good-night,” and herded his group off the porch. As they packed themselves into the car Uncle Paul said, “My only regret is that I will not hear the women when they discover the fish.” The twins laughed, Rod laughed. But June thought of the music and the fish and for a moment she was sad that so lovely a ball had been spoiled.
Charles was laughing softly to himself, then louder and louder until he said through his chuckles, “And Spike and Brownie going, noses down, around and around ...”
Uncle Paul roared, and Don and Jim and Rod. June tried to remember the beauty, the flowers, the lights...but soon she too giggled, chuckled, and finally rolled against the side of the car and laughed with the rest.
At dawn the boys on the sleeping porch were awakened by a fire cracker being thrown in their midst. They all leaned over the railing to see Will Bunker in his dinner jacket shouting, “All you Pritchards get up! Time to feed the owls, time to feed the hawks. Get up! Everybody get up!”
Uncle Paul came down in his pajamas and tried to hush him, but he could not. Will continued to shout. “I was mad as Billy-be-darned last night; then I found you made my party a success. A great success. Al Sparter was so amused by the hawks and owls and dogs and children that he offered me enough money to double the plants...wants to take everyone to dinner, especially Windy.
“Al’s a big-thinking man, alive and fun and no nonsense. We’re going to go to Africa together. ...to fish and swim
.”
The twins climbed down the porch posts. Rod blundered sleepily down the back steps. Jim hung over the railing, as the bright word “Africa” sparked everyone’s imagination.
5. The Solo
EACH DAY there was dawn. The orange sun would stand behind the barn—and it was time to fly Zander. June had set this as her hour to work and followed it well for fourteen days, but the schedule was hard to maintain. On the fifteenth day she said to the sun, “In a minute, in a minute.” She felt the cool sheets, the soft pillow...and snuggled deep in the old brass bed.
Hours later her mother called her to breakfast. As she dressed June promised herself she would fly Zander when the dishes were washed and dried.
Don and Charles, coming back from the barn with the day’s supply of falcon food, called to their sleepy sister on the stairs, “Did you exercise Zander?”
“No, I’ll do it after breakfast.”
“I betcha don’t,” Charles said.
“Not right after breakfast!” her mother said. “This is laundry day, and I need you.”
As the last dish was being put away, the front door banged and the dogs barked and Fingers, the raccoon, came running around the porch to climb the maple and hide. The falcons flattened their feathers and watched him in some alarm. Fingers often teased the birds, but never harmed them, for an inner sense and a bad experience with Ulysses told him of the might of the falcon. The birds, however, were never relaxed when Fingers came to the maple. But Spike and Brownie could move between them without flattening a single feather in anxiety.
Then all the birds and the raccoon stared at the porch...they heard Will Bunker before he turned the corner calling, “Anyone at home?” Laughing and happy he strode into the kitchen where he was greeted by the family. He flipped a chair around and sat in it backwards.
After he had inquired about Rod, who still troubled his conscience, he announced with a rock of the rockerless chair, “I’ve stopped by to say good-bye! Tomorrow we’re off for Africa!”
The Summer of the Falcon Page 4
