Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  Mom stared in disbelief at the $2,445 price sticker on the window. I didn’t know the value of money, at least not that much, but from the look on her face, I guessed it was a lot.

  To make matters worse, the dealer offered only sixty dollars trade-in for the old Woody, probably for the scrap metal. Dad hated to see it go to waste, seeing as it still ran—said it might have years left in it. He knew that Anna Schimschack had no transportation; they couldn’t get food and other essentials without walking miles to town, but his biggest worry was Timmy. If he had a medical emergency, they might not be able to get to a phone in time. And so, with a new spirit of generosity and duty toward kin, my father decided then and there that the Ford would remain in the family. The three of us drove home from the Chevrolet dealership, Dad and I in the spectacularly ostentatious Bel Air, and Mom bringing up the rear in the old wagon.

  SHORTLY BEFORE LABOR Day weekend, my father informed us that he’d stopped by to see Anna at the Schitschack, as he snidely referred to the place where his cousin Lester had been born and Uncle Lyle had lived, up until the day he froze solid.

  “George,” Mom said reproachfully, casting her eyes in my direction. I couldn’t help but notice her smirk in spite of herself. (Dad may have been less self-centered, but he’d retained his love of sarcasm. It ranged from witty to scathing, although he reserved the latter for when the target of his poison dart was not within earshot.) “Did you tell Anna about the station wagon?” she asked.

  “Nope. It’s gonna be a surprise,” he said with gleam in his eyes. “She’s invited us for lunch next Sunday. We’ll drive over in two cars and just spring it on her—can’t wait to see the look on her face.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, dear. Anna might be embarrassed. It might be better not to make a big fuss.”

  “Nonsense! It’ll be great fun.”

  “Well, if you say so,” she conceded agreeably. “And since this will be our first formal call as a family, I think it would be nice to bring the children a little gift, something practical like clothes for back to school. They’re so terribly poor. I’ll bring something for Anna and her father, too; I’ve never really thanked Mr. Gorski properly.”

  “We’re giving him a car,” Dad said with a shrug.

  “A somewhat dubious gift, since it’s on its last legs and comes with the job of chauffeur.” Mom rolled her eyes. “I mean, we should bring some little thing he’d enjoy, just to let him know we thought of him. I’ll never forget how he jogged through the woods—at his age—to tell us Cassandra was safe and sound. He seems like such a good-hearted man,” she affirmed with a warm smile.

  I supposed she was right, although we didn’t have much to go on. Sparrow’s maternal grandfather was a tough nut to crack.

  Piotr Gorski was over six feet tall, very lean and sinewy with long gangly arms. His shirt hung on his bony shoulders like a scarecrow and his narrow, wrinkly neck had plenty of wiggle room in the collar. I had no idea how old he was but despite his shriveled pink skin and grizzly white hair, he was still strong, as evidenced by the way he wielded a great axe in large, powerful hands with bulging blue veins and knobby knuckles. He split thick logs with one mighty whack. Nobody mentioned what he did for work back in Poland, but from what I could see, he spent about half of his time here chopping and stacking wood, and the other half sitting on a stump, whittling at sticks with a pipe stuck in his face. Grandpa Gorski spoke Polish with Anna when he spoke at all, and then it was short and gruff. I gathered from context and gesture that his communications generally revolved around when the next meal was coming. Sparrow warned me that although he didn’t appear to speak much English, she had a sneaking suspicion that he understood a great deal of it. She was always careful about what she said in front of the aloof, silent old man.

  THE THREE OF us set off to shop in Blackstone, our first family trip in the flamboyant red car.

  “Heads will surely turn,” Mom remarked sardonically.

  “I’m counting on it,” Dad said, casting me grin over his shoulder.

  It felt different, sitting in a seat just behind my parents instead of two rows back. My proximity made me difficult to ignore, so they naturally included me in the general conversation. The other thing I noticed was how shabby I looked, compared to the pristine white interior of the Bel Air. From working and playing hard outside, my khaki pants had tattered cuffs and dirt stains hopelessly ground into the knees, even though they were freshly laundered; my baggy knit jersey was faded from going through the wash so many times. I would have blended inconspicuously with the grimy upholstery of the old Woody.

  Mom turned her head and took a gander, apparently noticing the same thing. “Gosh, you look like a backwoods bumpkin,” she remarked. “I should have made you dress better for town.”

  “All my good stuff is still in boxes, and I’m not even sure what fits,” I explained. “I haven’t needed it . . . we haven’t gone to church or anywhere special all summer.”

  “I’ve been meaning to start attending church again.” Mom sounded contrite. “It’s no excuse, really, but every Sunday I’ve just felt so tired, I couldn’t get myself up to dress properly and go.”

  “Sounds like a good excuse to me,” Dad chimed in. He was baptized Episcopalian but never attended the church, although he reluctantly accompanied us to the Lutheran services on Christmas and Easter. It was a sore spot with Mom, so she ignored him.

  “Not to mention, I’d have to dig out your Sunday best, iron it up, and dress you properly, too. Which reminds me: we’ve just got to go through your wardrobe together, so you can try it all on. Otherwise, we can’t tell what you need for school.”

  “I forgot all about back to school shopping,” I said.

  “We absolutely have to do it this week . . . but the man who laid down the hardwood floors in the chalet is coming back tomorrow to brush on the first coat of shellac. We stained it ourselves, but Daddy says the shellac has got to be done by a professional.”

  “He has a big buffing machine,” Dad interjected. “The floor gets two coats, then a hard wax. It’s got to hold up under lots of dancing.”

  “You could start by unpacking all your things later this afternoon.” Mom continued to focus on my wardrobe. “The two of us can run back to town on Monday or Tuesday, after I find out what still fits—that is, if I can pilot this boat of a car.”

  “Of course you can, sweetheart,” Dad said. “It’s really no longer than the Woody; the hood just makes it look that way.”

  “I figure we don’t need to drag Daddy out clothes shopping,” she added. “We’re getting so close to the finish line, but he’s still got a lot of work to do.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Speaking of the finish line, when will the little guest cabins go up?” There were six poured cement slabs overlooking the river, the foundations for the cabins, but only two were framed. After the cement was fully dry, Dad let me roller skate on it. The slabs were smooth as ice, and the skates went fast. I could perform spins and turns that you just couldn’t do on a rough sidewalk. Sparrow had never owned a pair of skates, but I loaned her mine, and she took right to it.

  “The general contractor had to put his framers on another site but promised that all six would be completed by mid-October,” Dad explained.

  “Great! That means we’ll have our little skating rinks for about five more weeks.”

  “Hah! Actually, it means we won’t be able to rent out the cabins and make money for about five more weeks—but I can’t complain. They worked full tilt on that chalet and did a bang-up job. We’ll be able to rent it out for functions—parties, even wedding receptions—before the end of the month.”

  “So soon? Wow,” I exclaimed. “That’s exciting.”

  “And terrifying,” Mom added.

  “What are you worried about, Tina? We’ll get loads of business. That chalet is a far cry from the Blackstone VFW hall, and it seats more people that the fancy bed and breakfast downtown.”

 
; “It sure is gorgeous,” I said. “The windows . . . the view . . . and that stone fireplace.”

  “I’ll say,” Mom added. “I wish we could haul our furniture over and move in.”

  “Just wait until next spring, darling,” Dad said. “I’ll build you a house fit for a queen . . . and a princess.” He tossed a smile over his shoulder.

  AS THE THREE of us made our way along Main Street, I noticed a few people do a double take, register a subtle look of recognition and keep right on walking. It dawned on me that my father had returned to his hometown, yet not one person had come to look him up. I was contemplating the fact when we nearly collided with a heavyset man and a woman I took for his wife, just as they exited Baker’s. He looked to be a farmer, dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his thick, sun-scorched arms.

  “George?” the man asked in surprise.

  “Al? Ha-ha, Al Johnson, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes,” Dad said, pumping his hand. I smiled up at Al’s pleasant, chubby face.

  “It’s great to see ya, George. You remember Tildy?”

  “’Course I do. How ya been, Tildy?” Dad shook her hand more gently. “Lemme introduce my family—my wife, Tina, and my daughter, Cassandra.”

  “How’d ya do?” Mom asked cordially.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Johnson,” I said, nodding respectfully.

  Al and my dad looked at each other like a pair of mischievous children with a secret, then Dad busted out a laugh. “It’s Miss, honey,” he informed me, “Miss Alison Johnson.”

  I felt my eyes bug as I looked to Mom in confusion, but she was even more flustered.

  Al let it roll off like water from a duck’s back. “I heard you were back in town,” she said, “fixing up the lodge.”

  “Well, we’ve decided to do a little more than fix up—we’re building a chalet, and all,” Dad said casually. “You be sure to come around and see it sometime soon,” he added, addressing them both. “You two are always welcome.”

  I saw a tender look cross the big woman’s eyes, and the small, shy one blushed. “Thanks, George. I’ll take you up on that. It was nice to meet you,” she added, nodding to Mom and me.

  “Oh my word,” Mom said in a hushed tone, just after we’d entered the store.

  “Well, what?” Dad challenged.

  “The least they could do is act discreet,” she muttered indignantly. “Al might as well ’ve held a sign—Look at me, I’m a big He-she.”

  “What’s a heeshee?” I asked.

  Dad ignored me. “Listen here, Tina. I graduated high school with Al Johnson. There was a time after the war when I was pretty low, and Al was the only one stuck by me. I’ll never forget it. And she’s a decorated veteran—served in the Waves. Al drove an ambulance under fire after the driver was shot dead beside her. Rescued four wounded men. I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. Al and Tildy are always welcome at Parsons’ Lodge.”

  In Baker’s clothing department, I spread my hands to demonstrate the approximate circumference of Timmy’s middle. Mom selected a nice blue plaid flannel shirt, men’s extra-large. She thought Sparrow could use a new sweater—it’s hard to have too many sweaters in Northern Wisconsin—and I chose one of deep forest green. While we were there, she picked two pairs of rugged khaki pants from a rack for me to wear at play, noting that the ones I had on were not only ragged, but kind of snug, too.

  “Didn’t we just get those last month?” she asked, eyeing my backside suspiciously.

  “I guess so,” I said with a shrug.

  “What size are they?”

  “I think the tag said size 12.”

  “Hmm . . . must run small. We’ll get the size 14 so they’ll fit next season,” she mused, placing them in the wire shopping basket. For the adults, Mom decided on a stainless steel percolator and a can of coffee for Anna. Dad bought a pouch of tobacco and a new pipe for her father—the “old Polack,” as he referred to him in private.

  As we left Baker’s, Dad stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air; a big smile spread across his face. “Dandy Donuts,” he exclaimed. “I almost forgot—there was a little mom and pop donut shop tucked around the corner. It’s been there since I was a kid and from the aroma, it’s still there. Com’ on, Tina.” He grabbed my hand and tugged me along, just like an excited child. “They make the best darned crullers you’ve ever tasted.”

  ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the Schimschack/Wind/Gorski family was gathered outside, awaiting our arrival. I’d been instructed not to mention that we got a new car, so Sparrow craned her neck and peered at us curiously when we drove up in two vehicles. It was a delightfully warm day, and they’d carried the table and chairs out under the trees. A luncheon of deviled eggs, bread, and homemade goat cheese, along with a plastic jug of purple Kool-Aid was spread on the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. Autumn peaks early that far north, and the maples and birches were aflame in shades of yellow, tinged with red and golden orange. With each small breeze the leaves fluttered gently to the ground and decorated the table like brightly colored confetti.

  Dad greeted the children, embraced his sister-in-law and shook hands with Piotr Gorski. Mom handed out the little gifts, and I brought the batch of Betty Crocker brownies we’d made to the table. They were all about to sit down and open the gifts when my father interrupted. With a modest shrug and a wave of his hand to indicate that it was no big deal, he proffered the Ford station wagon to the family.

  Anna put her hand over her heart and drew an audible breath as her face flushed a deep shade of rose pink. Grandpa Gorski looked on in confusion. I’m not sure if he didn’t understand the English, or couldn’t believe his ears. When the news sank in, Anna hugged Mom with tears in her eyes. Piotr Gorski firmly grasped Dad’s hand in both of his, repeating, “Tank you . . . tank you . . . you a good man . . . such a good man . . . such a good uncle.”

  The car blanket! I suddenly remembered it was still in the second back seat where I’d left it two months ago, although it seemed much longer. Sparrow and her mother, her grandfather and even Timmy were advancing upon the Ford to stroke it, admire it, and claim it as their own. Nobody noticed as I rushed around to the back door and dove inside. Ah . . . there it was, crumpled and forgotten. I snatched it up and sprinted over to the shiny Bel Air with the new car smell. I could let go of the Woody, but I wouldn’t abandon my old traveling companion. That tatty Indian blanket didn’t look like much, but it was a part of me.

  19

  BY LABOR DAY morning, my parents were hard at work again. I still hadn’t tried on my clothes from last season; we didn’t get home until late Saturday afternoon, and it took until suppertime just to clean out under my bed. I hadn’t looked under there since we moved in; the dirt was atrocious. There were gray, fluffy dust balls the size of Timmy’s rabbits.

  Mom had never let my old bedroom get dirty, but I didn’t blame her. It was high time I learned to keep my own room clean. I decided to haul out all the boxes at once so I could wipe each one down and mop under the bed before I started pulling out clothes. As I worked, I read each label to see what was inside the boxes. There were several holding my collection of board games. I’d been having too much fun outdoors to bother opening them, but Sparrow and I would probably play indoor games when the weather got cold and wet. I dusted them off and shoved them back under for the time being. There was a small box labeled Photos and Records, but I didn’t recall what was inside. Maybe it belonged to Mom, and I’d picked it up by mistake? I opened it to check and see.

  It was an old family photo album, one I didn’t recognize. Inside were pictures of Mom and Dad when they were very young, probably newlyweds. I’d seen old pictures, but I didn’t remember these. There was a little box with more pictures that appeared to have been removed from the album; they still had the little white corners glued to them. At the bottom was a manila envelope containing old yellowed papers. I closed the box and put it aside to return later. Mom was just too busy to bother. B
esides, she hadn’t missed it, so it mustn’t have been very important.

  I began to open the boxes of clothes, beginning with the heavy sweaters. The first one stretched a lot tighter across my chest than I remembered from last year, and my wrists stuck out from under the sleeves. I tried on some knit wool slacks; they kind of tugged going over my thighs, and when I did up the buttons I could hardly breathe. Then I looked down at my ankles and saw that they fit just great—if I was expecting high water. I must’ve grown over two inches in the legs. I peeled off the too tight pants and tried a plaid kilt skirt, but it didn’t even button around my waist.

  The skirt fell to the floor as I scurried over to the mirror in my underpants, nervously turning sideways and patting down my tummy to see if I’d gotten fat through the middle. No . . . not really, but I thought my keister seemed substantially bigger as I craned my neck to look over my shoulder. Upon further inspection, I saw that it wasn’t just broader—my heinie looked like two well-inflated India rubber balls, crammed side by side. If my bottom was wider, my face was somehow narrower, like I’d lost all the baby fat in my cheeks. Or maybe the fat wasn’t lost, just rearranged; I blushed with embarrassment when I realized my chest was no longer built like an ironing board. They weren’t exactly what you’d call breasts, just fatty little lumps that made my nipples stand out like Hershey’s Kisses.

  “Mom?” I walked through the house and then looked around outside. “Mom?” I was alarmed. After my self-scrutiny in the mirror, I’d torn through the rest of my wardrobe and found that almost nothing fit, at least nothing appropriate for school. I was still wearing the last thing I’d tried on, a short-sleeved dress we’d bought only the past spring. It had a crisp white cotton bodice trimmed in eyelet with little pearl buttons going up the front, which stretched skintight across my chest. I couldn’t close the top three buttons. The short skirt was halfway up my fleshy thighs and even shorter in the back where it stuck out over my ample heinie—when did it get like that?