Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “George, why are we stopping here?” Mom sounded alarmed as he jammed on the brakes in the parking lot, sending up a cloud of iron-red dirt.

  “I gotta go see a man about a horse,” he shot back as he swung his long legs out the door.

  “But they had a restroom back at the gas station . . .” she was saying as the car door banged shut.

  Dad ambled across the lot, pausing once to pick a wedgie with a tug to the seat of his pants, then ducked inside Two Toots and a Beer. We sat in silence for about ten minutes.

  “Oh my word,” Mom said. I looked out the window and saw two men coming from the bar. They were walking funny.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Just look at them . . . and it’s not even half-past four,” she declared in disgust.

  “What’s Dad doing in there?”

  “He has to go to the bathroom,” she snapped, suddenly annoyed. It made my stomach go into knots. I kept quiet.

  I’m not sure how long we waited, but it seemed like a half-hour. It was getting stuffy in the car without the air moving. I began to fidget. Mom kept her eyes glued to the front door of the bar.

  “Mommy, what’s Two Toots?” I figured it had something to do with the train whistle but asked anyway because I was bored.

  “What?”

  “On the sign.”

  “Oh . . . uh, how should I know?” she said irritably.

  “Okay. I’ll just ask Dad when he comes back.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!”

  “What’s the matter, Mommy?”

  “Listen . . .” She turned around as she began to roll up her window.

  “Mom, why are you closing the window? It’s hot,” I whined.

  “I said, listen to me: I’m going inside to get . . . to see what’s keeping your father. Roll up your window and push the lock down. Don’t you move from this car . . . Don’t open the door or the window. I’ll be right back.” She stepped outside and closed the door. I was still cranking up my window when she went around to the driver’s side and opened the door to roll up that window too. Then she walked back toward me and repeated her warning through the glass. “Stay right here.”

  I watched as she disappeared inside. My stomach growled with hunger, but by this time I wasn’t feeling very smug. I was so hungry I’d have eaten the soggy tuna sandwich gladly, onions notwithstanding. I would have eaten the hotdog that rolled under the picnic table, ants and all.

  Since I was left alone with nothing to do, I decided to seize the opportunity to pull Chatty Cathy’s string.

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . “Let’s have a party!”

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . “Let’s have a party!”

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . “Let’s have a party!”

  I pulled it faster and faster.

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . “Let’s have a party!”

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . “Let’s have a party!”

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . zzzt . . . shh . . . “party!”

  Buzz . . . crackle . . . zzzt . . .

  “Oh no, I broke you.” I was afraid to pull the string again, afraid to confirm that I’d carelessly worn out Chatty and robbed her of her last words.

  Just as suddenly, I didn’t care. I shook her hard, turned her upside down, and gave her four sharp whacks on her plastic back. “Stupid old doll.” I pulled the string, expecting to find that she was good and broken.

  “Where are we going?” Chatty asked. I pulled again. “I love you.” Again. “Can I have a cookie?”

  “Of course you can, dear,” I told her, plucking an invisible cookie out of thin air.

  “I’m so goddamned shhick of having one woman or ’nother telling me what to do!”

  My protective bubble of make-believe was shattered by a strange man’s voice, so loud it carried across the parking lot and through the closed windows. I looked up to see my father lurching toward the car. My mother trotted after him.

  “George, please . . . don’t shout like that in front of Cassandra. Just let me drive the rest of the way. You must be so tired,” she pleaded.

  “I’m tired alright . . . shhick and tired,” he slurred as he struggled to get the key in the door lock. “Cassandra, climb over here and open the damned door.”

  Mom had ordered me not to open the door. I scrunched down in the backseat and pulled the Indian blanket over my head, but I could still hear them.

  “George, what’s gotten into you? We’re moving up north to your father’s place, just like you wanted. What are you angry about now?”

  Bam! Bam! Bam! He suddenly attacked the car with vicious kicks. I let out a startled screech.

  “George, stop! Please just give me the keys and let me drive . . . ohhh!” I peeked out in time to see Mom duck as he whipped the car keys over the roof and nearly hit her in the face. She scooped them up, jumped into the passenger seat, and locked the door behind her.

  I put my hands over my ears. “Daddy, please stop,” I cried from under the blanket.

  Whap. He’d walked the length of the station wagon and slapped his palms against the window by my head. That old blanket was so worn that I could see right through the weave of the tatty fibers. Pressed close to the glass was the face of a monster with bloodshot eyes and his open mouth twisted in rage.

  “Open the door, Cassandra . . . open the damned door, ya little bastard, or I’ll fix you!”

  “That’s enough!” Mom slid across the front seat and put the key in the ignition. She started the engine. “Get away from the car,” she yelled at him. “Stand back!”

  He rattled the door handle so hard I thought he’d tear it off for sure. She revved the engine. He pounded the window with both fists, and she floored it.

  We veered sharp right, bopped a U-y and nearly hit the building before she got it under control. A quick glance assured us that there was no one on the rural road, so my mother peeled out of the lot, heading back down the way we’d just come up. I looked out the rear window. My father was still standing where we’d left him, but I couldn’t see his face clearly through the small tornado of dust.

  Are we gonna ditch Dad? I wondered but had the sense not to ask. Instead, I prayed silently that my mother would take us home; she said we might pray and ask God for any good thing. “Mom, where are we going?” We’d taken a detour off the highway and turned down a narrow country road.

  “We’re going to get a good hot dinner and rest a bit. I saw a sign that said there was a place to eat down this way.” Mom must’ve been worried about me all along; I was too proud to mention my hunger pangs.

  It wasn’t long before we came to a crossroad with a tiny town; all six streets and avenues were laid out like a checkerboard. There was a Main Street with a bank, a town hall, a drug store, and a few businesses. The restaurant was directly on the corner of First and Main. It was just before five o’clock, but Grandma’s Home Cookin’ was already hopping.

  “Well, this looks promising,” Mom said cheerfully as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. We parked perpendicularly in the wide space right out front. As soon as we stepped onto the sidewalk, the smell of good food wafted over me. I could see diners sitting on display in the big plate-glass window, gabbing away as they shoveled in gobs of mashed potatoes. The foldout sign on the sidewalk read:

  Early-bird Specials

  Includes Beverage and Pie

  Salisbury Steak with Gravy & Mashed Potato-$4.25

  Tuna Hotdish-$2.25

  Oh no. I almost paused to pray that they’d run out of tuna hotdish, but figured I’d better not pester God over something so trivial; that way, He might be more inclined to pay attention to the big things.

  Suddenly, the letters on the sign started to go all swimmy.

  “Ohmygosh,” Mom said, putting her arm firmly around my shoulders. “You look just awful, as if you were about to keel over. Let’s get some food into you.” As she ushered me inside, she noticed her own reflection mirrored in the glass. Her starched hair w
as windblown and her lipstick long gone. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “The two of us look like something the cat dragged in.”

  A young waitress smiled and asked where we’d like to sit. “Over towards the back, please,” Mom said. “Yes, that’s fine . . . but first we need to visit the restroom,” she added quietly.

  After we used the toilets and washed thoroughly, Mom took her travel comb and brush set out of her purse and tidied up her hair. She reapplied her lipstick, then turned to me and started brushing my hair back from my face where it had come loose from its braid. I looked in the mirror and saw that tears had streaked my face with grimy rivulets through the road dust. Mom got a wad of paper toweling, wet it with warm water and gently wiped my eyes and cheeks. “You sit for just a second,” she said, pointing to a heart-shaped chair with a red velvet cushion by a full-length mirror. She put her purse on the counter by the sink and returned the brush, then rummaged around for something.

  Her back was toward me, so I had a view of her front from the mirrors over the sink. I saw Mom open her wallet to peek inside without taking it out. She bit her lip; for a moment, I thought she was going to cry.

  “Well then,” she turned to me, suddenly smiling as she snapped her purse shut with a click, “let’s go have us some Salisbury steak!”

  We slid into the high-backed booths, upholstered in maroon vinyl; I sank so low in the cushion that the table was practically up to my chin. From my lair, I surveyed the crowd of diners. There was a formidable contingent of stout people—that explained the well-worn seats with the big dip where the butt-cheeks had plowed into ’em.

  Our waitress was pretty. Her natural blond hair was done in a perky ponytail that stuck out at the back of her head and swished from side to side as she walked across the room with a light, bouncy step. While she took the order in the next booth, I studied her face, a face that might as well have had Made in Norway stamped across the forehead.

  Marta, as the nametag informed, had big blue eyes, perfect white teeth, and a peaches ’n cream complexion—heavy on the cream. The girl was so fair skinned that she likely avoided direct sunlight. I knew lots of kids like that, mostly Norwegians or other Scandinavians. They had to wear a t-shirt over their swimsuits to keep from getting cooked like a lobster at the beach, even by the shores of Lake Michigan during our skimpy Wisconsin summers. I wondered if my father would’ve loved me if I was pretty like Marta, instead of dark like a little Indian.

  An old man sat alone at a table for two, alongside of us and just off to my left. I couldn’t see his face, but he had big ears with gray, bristly hairs sticking out. He was apparently hard of hearing, too, and struggled to read the menu, but his troubles didn’t end there.

  “Is the Salisbury steak sof’?” his ancient voice crackled. He had a strong lisp and was particularly troubled by the letter s, which came out with a little whistle. The twas left off entirely, but I figured out what he’d asked the waitress from context.

  “Well, sir, I wouldn’t say soft, exactly, but it’s mighty tender.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said it’s been tenderized and marinated, but I wouldn’t call it soft,” she spoke louder. “It comes with a nice gravy and—”

  “I canna’ have i’ den . . . I canna’ chew it ’cause I ain’ guh no theeths.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Ahhh,” He opened his cavernous mouth wide and pointed at the toothless gums.

  “Oh, I see,” she said sweetly. “Then I recommend the tuna hotdish. It’s real soft . . . you won’t even have to chew it.”

  “No, no . . . don’ wan’ tha’,” he retorted like a petulant child. “I don’ like suna ho’dish!”

  “Amen!”I muttered.

  “Shh,” Mom reproached. I think the waitress heard me, because she glanced my way, and one corner of her mouth turned up just a bit.

  “Yes, sir, then perhaps you’d like—”

  “What else ya guh?”

  “There’s the turkey pot pie . . .”

  “How much?”

  “That’s three dollars.”

  “Three dollars? Does i’ come with deserh?”

  “No, sir . . . it’s not on special today . . . but it’s a nice big piece of turkey pot pie . . . it should fill you up.”

  “Is it sof’? ’Cause I ain’ guh no theeths!”

  “Yes, yes sir, it’s real soft . . .”

  “If’n i’ ain’, I’ll jus’ have to throw it away, ’cause . . .”

  “I ain’ guh no theeths!”I was barely audible as I recited along with him. Exhaustion had given me a case of the sillies. Mom nearly spit out a gulp of ice water as she giggled like a girl with her hand over her mouth.

  “I’ll have that out in a jiffy, sir, and if you don’t like it, I’ll take it right back and bring you something else.” Marta stepped quickly over to our table. “Welcome to Grandma’s, I’m Marta. What can I get . . . ?”

  Our mirth at the poor man’s expense was shameful, but we were beyond hope and it was contagious. Marta paused and pressed her lips together, mustering every ounce of professionalism, but her laughing eyes gave her away. We were hidden in the depths of the booth, but Marta was exposed. She put two fingers over her pretty pink mouth and looked away for a moment to compose herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said sheepishly. “The poor man,” she added in a whisper.

  “We’ll have two Salisbury steak dinners, please,” I piped up. Hunger had mastered my sensibilities.

  Marta looked to my mother who nodded her consent. “It comes with mashed potatoes and gravy and your choice of corn on the cob, or peas and carrots. I’d get the corn,” she added softly. “The peas and carrots are from a can.”

  “That sounds great,” Mom said. “And I’d like a cup of coffee with cream.”

  “May I have a root beer?” I interjected.

  “Yes, you may,” Mom obliged.

  I could see she was trying to make up for the incident at Two Toots. I decided to milk it for all it was worth. “And chocolate pie with whipped cream for dessert?”

  “The special comes with either apple or cherry . . . but I’ll just go ahead and substitute the chocolate, if that’s alright with you, ma’am. I’m sorry it took so long,” Marta added, then bobbed off with her ponytail swishing.

  After supper, we left town and in no time came to the existential fork in the road: a stop sign at the intersection of US-53. I wasn’t surprised when we headed north, back toward the place we’d left my father scarcely an hour ago. I didn’t ask why. I knew we had no choice.

  I thought of the wild look in his eyes that fairly burned a hole through the car window, and the way he swore at me. I’d heard plenty of tirades in my short life, but that was the only time my father called me a bastard. Somehow, I’d put it out of my mind and enjoyed my steak; now I felt queasy just thinking about it. I imagined my stomach like a skin bag full of steak and gravy, potatoes, and corn with the chocolate cream pie sitting on top and the whole mess sloshing in a puddle of root beer. As we drew closer to the inevitable confrontation, it took deep, deliberate breaths and the wind in my face, along with a fair share of determination to hold it all down.

  We rolled slowly into the gas station. Dad was sitting on the cement stoop in front of the convenience store, gulping a Coca-Cola from a red can. He lowered the can and looked straight at us through the windshield. His eyes narrowed to slits against the slant of the evening sun; his features seemed chiseled from stone. I got that same feeling I had four years ago in the forest when we stumbled upon the bear.

  My father stood slowly and tipped back his Coke to drain the last drops, then casually tossed the can toward the trash bin. It bounced off the rim and rolled a few feet. I watched as he scratched his head and studied it a moment, as if pondering one of life’s important questions. Then he heaved a sigh, shuffled over to retrieve the can, and dropped it into the bin. I exhaled. The bear was peaceful for the moment.

  I don’t know exactly wh
at happened next or how my parents made up, because I slunk down flat on the backseat with the Indian blanket over my head and pretended to be asleep. I heard the car door creak open. “You rest dear, and I’ll drive,” my mother said softly. The car doors closed. I sighed audibly and turned over with my face against the seatback, as if I’d been only mildly disturbed, but not woken from a deep sleep. Mom knew darned well that I’d been wide awake just a minute ago, but played along.

  I knew then that my mother and I had come to a new accord, an alliance of sorts. It was only in its nascence, still wet behind the ears and uncertain as a fawn on wobbly legs. I couldn’t understand what was going on between my parents, or their complex relationship with Gudrun, but I could see that my mother was in a predicament of sorts. The thought that she needed me and I her gave me comfort.

  When the car stopped again, it was pitch dark. I had fallen asleep for real and awoken in Blackstone.

  10

  GREAT-GRANDPA RANDAL Parsons was the son of a poor sharecropper from Alabama who’d come over from England sometime after the Civil War, but before the turn of the century. I don’t know why he picked Alabama. It must have been pretty bleak down there, because Randal packed up and went forth alone to seek his fortune when he was just seventeen.

  When I was six years old, I heard Grandpa Reuben brag that his pappy had walked across the country with only a muzzle-loading rifle, less than three dollars in his pocket, and the shirt on his back.

  “He only had a shirt? What about pants?” I’d asked in alarm.

  “’Course he had britches! It’s only an expression,” Grandpa Parsons grumbled.

  “Ha.” Dad laughed. “No, Puddin’, ole Grandpappy Randal didn’t traipse across the country bare-assed.”

  From there, Randal wandered on foot, heading west to northwest and surviving on small game—squirrels, opossums, and anything else he could shoot and eat. For reasons unknown, he stopped when he reached Northern Wisconsin.

  The logging industry was in its early demise, but there was still work to be had and not much else to do, which is likely why Randal became a logger. From what I’ve heard of the danger, brutal working conditions, and paltry pay, I don’t imagine any man takes up such a job if he has a range of vocational opportunities.