House of Wings

by Betsy Byars

  “What are you talking about?” Sammy was small and he had the wariness and quickness of an animal. Now his eyes narrowed and he came forward one threatening step.

  His grandfather was still holding out his hand. It was trembling a little with uncertainty and age. “This morning,” he said, “when your mom and dad got up, they was talking about all the trouble they was going to have getting settled in Detroit. Your dad doesn’t have a job yet, boy. They may even have to sleep in the truck. Well, then, while we was talking, it just came about naturally that you would be better off staying here with me.”

  “They wouldn’t leave me like that.”

  “They didn’t want to wake you. It was—”

  “They wouldn’t.”

  “Listen, I tried to tell them,” the grandfather explained. “I said, ‘You better tell the boy, hadn’t you, before you go driving off?’ But your ma said you’d make a fuss. She said once you saw they was gone you’d be fine. She said that’s the way you always were. She—”

  “Liar!”

  The grandfather stepped back. He began to rub his hands together. He said, “Listen, boy, they’re going to send for you. In August they’re going to write me a post card and I’m going to take you in to Gatsburg and put you on the bus. It’s not—”

  “Where did they go? Don’t you lie to me!” Sammy’s hands had become fists, hard as rocks.

  “They went on to Detroit,” his grandfather said. “That’s all that’s happened. They went on first.” He nodded. “You and me, boy, can—”

  “What really happened?”

  “They went on to Detroit,” the grandfather said in his same patient voice. Then, fumbling a little, he put out his hands and tried to take Sammy by the shoulders. “Boy—”

  Quickly Sammy stepped back. He looked at the outstretched hands with the suspicion he would give a steel trap. Then he looked at his grandfather’s face. His own face drew into a sneer.

  “Liar!” he said. “Dirty, stinking liar. They wouldn’t leave me.” He spun around in the weeds. “Liar, liar, liar!” And then he started running.

  He ran between the tracks of his father’s truck. He ran hard and fast, his arms pumping machinelike at his sides. He was going so fast that when he came to a stop on the pavement of the road he burned his feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Liar!” he cried to the trees.

  He hesitated. He had been sleeping in the back of the truck when they had turned off the road the night before, and he was not sure now which direction to take. He heard his grandfather shuffling through the weeds behind him. Quickly Sammy turned to the right and started running along the white center line of the road.

  “Boy! Wait, boy!” his grandfather was crying behind him. “Boy, you’re going to get to ride on the bus to Detroit. You’re going to Detroit on the—”

  “Shut up,” Sammy shouted. “And I’m not waiting for any bus either.”

  “Boy!” It was like a last gasp. Sammy kept running. He thought with satisfaction that if he turned now, he would see his grandfather standing helplessly in the weeds on the side of the road. His old shoulders would be sagging with defeat. Sammy decided that was something he wanted to see, and he turned around without breaking his stride. Instead he saw that his grandfather had turned onto the road and was running behind him. He was slow and heavy but he was coming.

  His grandfather saw him look back and he cried, “Boy!” He put out one hand.

  “Old man,” Sammy shouted back, sneering. Then he looked ahead and concentrated on his running.

  There was not a car on the road, and the asphalt was hot under Sammy’s bare feet. Ahead of him the heat was causing the road to disappear. Suddenly as he ran he began to feel strange and lightheaded.

  “Boy!”

  Sammy kept running. He had always been a good runner, but today something was wrong. It was the sun or the hunger or maybe it was the hard knot that had come in his chest when his grandfather had said “Gone.” He had not run far at all, only past the first bend in the road, when he began to feel tired. His eyes stung. His legs hurt. He wanted to lie in the shade by the road and rest. He wanted to put wet leaves on his eyes. He forced himself to keep going. When he was a hundred miles up the road, he decided, then he would stop. It was even possible, he told himself, that he could overtake his parents. If the truck overheated again, he might come upon them beside the road, his father asleep on the quilt. He thought of flinging himself down on his father’s chest. He thought of his father lifting his hat from his face and saying in a pleased voice, “Well, where’d you come from?” The hard knot moved up into his throat.

  He could hear his grandfather behind him, gasping out from time to time the word “Boy!” He could hear the heavy shuffling of his grandfather’s feet. “Boy!” He did not look around, but it seemed to him that perhaps his grandfather was slowing down. His voice was getting weaker anyway.

  Sammy was getting weaker too. He stumbled, went down on one knee, and got quickly to his feet. Blood began to trickle down his leg. He did not even notice. He glanced over his shoulder and gasped to his grandfather, who was too far away to hear, “I didn’t hurt myself.” He kept running and after a while he stumbled again.

  As he rounded another turn he saw the superhighway ahead. On the grassy bank leading up to the highway was a culvert. Sammy ran slower, then he hesitated and stopped. Glancing back to make sure his grandfather couldn’t see him, he jumped across the drainage ditch, scrambled up the bank, and crawled into the pipe.

  Halfway through the pipe he decided he was safe. His grandfather would never think to look for him in here. His grandfather would run on down the road, thinking he was getting farther and farther behind. Finally his grandfather would have to turn around and go home.

  Sammy sank down in the culvert and let his face drop into his hands. The knot in his throat was choking him. He could not swallow. He could not even breathe. There was a moment in which this pain in his throat was so great he could not even move.

  Then, abruptly, he began to sob in a wild, tearless way. He did everything but shed tears. He kicked and shook his fists. He punched at the air. He made choking strangling noises in his throat. He cursed. He socked his head. He struck the pipe until his hands were bruised. He wailed, throwing himself around in the culvert like a fish out of water.

  And then he put his head on his arm and didn’t move at all. The tears came then, hot tears that burned his eyes. They rolled off his face and onto his arm and left a strangely cool, wet track behind.

  Sammy was lying there, completely spent, when he heard his grandfather’s voice. He got up in a crouch and listened. Then in a few minutes his grandfather had appeared, and the chase had begun all over again, through the culverts, across the field.

  That was what had happened, and now Sammy sat behind the old shed, wondering about it, going over it in his mind. He felt he could sit here all day thinking about it and never understand. His life had changed and it was never going to be the same again. That was the only thing that was certain, that and the fact that his grandfather was to blame.

  Dully Sammy looked around. There were woods to the right, and up the hill beyond the old cornfield, the brush thickened and there were clumps of rocks and small trees. It seemed to Sammy suddenly that he had chosen the poorest hiding place of all.

  “Boy!”

  Sammy got to his feet. He peered around the side of the shed. His grandfather was coming up the hill toward him. He felt trapped.

  “Boy!”

  A CRY IN THE FOREST

  SAMMY HESITATED AND THEN he stepped out from behind the shed so that his grandfather could see him. He glared down the hill. He hated his grandfather with a fierceness that made him shudder. He wanted to pick up one of the boulders by the shed and throw it down the hill. He wanted his grandfather to hear the sound of the boulder coming toward him, rumbling and threatening, and know that Sammy hated him that much.

  Sammy shouted, “You better let me alone!” His voice seeme
d thin and sad in his ears. It was not at all the thundering demand he had intended. He said it again, screamed it. “Let me alone!” His throat began to hurt.

  His grandfather looked up. He did not answer. He just kept coming up the hill with one slow steady step after another.

  Sammy said, “Don’t you ever get tired?” He threw the words down the hill at his grandfather. He thought his own legs were going to collapse at any moment, and he wondered how this old man could keep going on and on.

  His grandfather stopped for a moment. He looked down at his feet in the open-sided miner’s boots. He bent and pulled a stick out of the side of his shoe, then he straightened. He held on to a small tree like it was a staff. He said, “I get tired like everybody else.”

  “Then let me alone. I don’t want you following me. You ain’t got any right.”

  His grandfather looked back down at his feet, as if he was thinking over the matter. Then he ducked his head and started coming up the hill again. Sammy felt tears in his eyes. As he spun around and started running, they sprayed out onto his face.

  He left the shelter of the shed and ran up the hill. Halfway to the top he stumbled, went down on one knee, and stopped. He rested and then got up and turned around. He said, “You’ll never catch me. Never!”

  He staggered to the top of the hill, turned around, and stood there for a moment. The colors began to blur. The weeds and brush, the old cornfield, the forest all ran together. He blinked his eyes. He meant to stand there just long enough for his grandfather to get one last look at him. Then he planned to run down the other side of the hill and be gone forever.

  Sammy waited. He had lost sight of his grandfather. He thought maybe he was behind the shed, resting in secret, so Sammy remained where he was, legs planted apart. Then he called, “You’ll never see me again. Did you hear that?”

  Still there was no sign of his grandfather. Sammy glanced over his shoulder. The other side of the hill sloped to a stream, and Sammy decided he would stop there long enough to get a cool drink and soak his feet. Then he would go. Quickly he turned back to see if his grandfather was in sight yet. He was not.

  Sammy looked around uneasily. He thought suddenly that there might be some trick involved in the disappearance of his grandfather. He thought perhaps his grandfather was creeping up through the forest, circling behind him, planning to catch him unaware.

  There were some rocks to the right and Sammy went over and crouched behind them. He waited. There was not a sound anywhere. Leaning on one knee, he glanced around the largest rock. His grandfather was still not in sight.

  Suddenly Sammy wanted very much to know where his grandfather was. He began to glance around. Suspiciously, he watched the trees, the shed, the brush for any sign of movement. His grandfather could be crawling up the hill on his belly like a snake for all Sammy knew.

  Two white butterflies were fluttering over Sammy’s head, and he hit at them and hissed, “Get away, you!” They flew in a small circle as if caught in a miniature tornado. “Get away!” He thought that all his grandfather would have to do would be to look up and see the two butterflies. Then he would come running up the hill. “Aha!” And there Sammy would be, squatting under the butterflies, scowling. He hit at the butterflies again. “Get away.”

  Suddenly there was a noise in the trees just down the hill. It was a shrill trumpeting cry. Sammy thought of a wild goose, but he knew it could not have been that. The noise was too loud. He waited, bent over behind the rock. The sun on his back was hot. The weeds scratched his legs. The butterflies moved away unnoticed, still going around in a small circle.

  Sammy waited a moment longer. Then he stood up and looked directly down the hill, not worrying now about his grandfather seeing him. He was puzzled. As he stood there the sound came again from the woods. It rolled through the air, and then Sammy heard the sound of someone running.

  Sammy hesitated. He did not know what to do. He began to walk slowly down the hill and toward the woods. When he was in the shade he stopped and stood behind a tree.

  He waited motionless in the shadows. Then he heard his grandfather’s cry. “Boy!” His grandfather’s voice was so high with excitement that Sammy almost did not recognize it.

  He did not answer because he thought again it was a trick. If he went running down the hill, drawn by curiosity, then at some point his grandfather would pounce out from a hiding place and cry, “Got you!” Sammy used to catch an old cat named Albert that way, so he knew the trick well.

  He heard the strange trumpeting sound again. And then his grandfather called, “Boy, quick! Come here if you want to see something.”

  That was the oldest trick in the world. More suspicious than ever, Sammy glanced over his shoulder at the top of the hill. He thought about the stream, and he was tempted to start the long journey to Detroit right then. Still, there had been something in his grandfather’s voice that stopped him. Slowly he started walking down the hill. Anyway, he thought, if it is a trick I can always get away later.

  Kicking at the weeds, he walked toward his grandfather’s voice. “Boy!” Sammy hesitated. Then he answered with a sigh, “I’m coming.”

  “Over here.”

  Sammy started loping along. He began to run. He called, “Where are you?”

  “Over here. Here.”

  Sammy went into the woods. He began to move with more caution now because a trick would be easier here. He stopped altogether after a moment and said, “I don’t see you.” He glanced around quickly. He could almost feel his grandfather’s grip, hear the triumphant, “Got you!” He tried to look in every direction at once.

  “Over here!” His grandfather had lowered his voice to a hush now, and this gave it a new urgency.

  “I’m coming as fast as I can.” Sammy picked his way through the underbrush. He could see his grandfather’s broad back ahead in the trees. There was something about the set of his body, the way he was standing perfectly still with one hand stretched to the side like a patrol guard, that made Sammy move cautiously. His grandfather’s bull neck was thrust forward. His whole body seemed to be leaning.

  “What is it?” Sammy asked. His grandfather did not answer but continued to stand without moving. “What is it?” Sammy asked. “What’s wrong?” He was uneasy and he hung back. There was something wild about his grandfather. Sammy said, “I’m not coming any farther until you tell me what it is.”

  With one hand his grandfather beckoned him forward. Sammy could see his grandfather’s face now, sharp with intent. The thrust of his brow gave him the look of an old lion made young by the excitement of the hunt.

  Sammy took another step. He hesitated. His eyes tried to look through his grandfather and see what was holding him.

  “Look,” his grandfather said. He jabbed at the air with his outstretched hand.

  Sammy kept taking one slow step after another. He was almost by his grandfather’s side before he saw what his grandfather was seeing. Then he stopped and let his breath out in a long low whistle.

  GIT!

  AGAINST THE BRUSH IN the slight clearing ahead stood the biggest bird Sammy had ever seen. It was over three feet tall with long stiltlike legs, awkward body, curved neck. Its feathers appeared to be gray, the wings and back washed with brown, and there was a bald red crest on top of its head. The bird was ruffled and dirty as if it had been battered about, but it still had the bearing of a warrior.

  “What is it?” Sammy asked. He tried to move closer but his grandfather put out one arm and held him back. Sammy could easily have ducked under his grandfather’s arm; he had done that dozens of times at parades and crowds, but for some reason he remained where he was. Without looking up at his grandfather, he said again, “What is it?”

  “Crane,” his grandfather said.

  Sammy had never seen such a bird. He had never heard of one either, and he did not trust his grandfather’s knowledge. “A what?” he asked. A faintly scornful smile pulled down the corners of his mouth. A crane.
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br />   Sammy was awed by the size of the bird and by the way it stood, its head held high on its long neck. He did not speak for a moment. Then he shook his head and said stubbornly, “It don’t look like any crane I ever saw.”

  The crane took one step to the right, and Sammy saw that its left wing was hanging lower than the other. The S-shaped neck straightened as the crane raised its head.

  His grandfather said, “Yes, it’s a crane all right.”

  “When did you ever see a crane before anyway?” Sammy asked.

  His grandfather lowered his arm as he thought. “Last crane I seen was in Florida, I reckon, when I was a boy. A man down the road from us had four of them—they were like pets. And I remember that one of them cranes used to come around the neighborhood during horsefly season, and that crane would stand at the door and call out—kind of a chirping noise—and people would open up their front doors, and this crane would come right on in the house and eat the horseflies off the screens. I wasn’t any bigger than you when that happened, only I never have forgotten it.”

  Sammy was listening to his grandfather so intently that his mouth was hanging open. “Is that the truth?” he asked. Then, as if he had been caught off guard, he wet his lips and with a touch of scorn said, “That don’t sound like any crane I ever knew.”

  Sammy’s grandfather’s hearing was good, but people thought it wasn’t, because he didn’t pay attention to anything he didn’t want to hear. He continued now as if Sammy had not spoken. “And that crane knew which people would let him in and which people wouldn’t, and he would only go to the houses that wanted him.”

  “Did he come into your house?” Sammy asked.

  “We was always glad to see him, as I remember it. We welcomed him. We kept pigs and cows then and the flies would get fierce.” His grandfather had not looked at Sammy while he was talking, just kept watching the crane, and he was speaking in such a soft easy way that the crane was still standing there. “That crane I’m speaking of lived to be twenty-one years of age.”