Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  I saw my parents through the large plate-glass windows of the chalet, standing close together and gazing at the stone hearth. I barged in just as Dad put his arm around Mom’s waist; he looked as though he was about to kiss her.

  “Mommy!” My voice echoed in the vast empty room with the high-beamed ceiling. My father let his arm slip behind his back as she turned to face me looking a little flustered. I was more than a little flustered myself. “Just look!” I whirled around so she could see my backside, trying unsuccessfully to make the skirt lie flat, then turned to display the three inch gap in the bodice, unbuttoned to my breastbone.

  “Cassandra, whatever is the matter? What on earth are you wearing?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, Dad turned to look. His jaw dropped. “Wowee. Getta loada Gina Lollobrigida!” He finished his exclamation with a wolf-whistle.

  “George.” Mom’s voice was hushed but her tone was reprimanding. I ignored him and ran to my mother.

  “Mom, I got fat! Nothing fits except a few stretchy sweaters that were big last winter. Look how my heinie sticks out!” I turned around and lifted the back of my skirt to demonstrate. She quickly intervened and brushed it down. I heard Dad snigger.

  “Ya, I can see how you’ve grown, but you’re not fat, Cassandra,” she said reassuringly. “Some girls are just more . . . uh . . . As they grow up, some girls have a tendency to fill out in various . . . I mean, it all depends upon . . .” She paused and tried to close at least one more button on my chest, to no avail. I peered intently at her face, anxiously awaiting the explanation. Mom laid a calming hand on my shoulder.

  “Cassandra, you’ve had a growth spurt.”

  “I’ll say,” Dad slipped in. She cast him an annoyed look.

  “It’s perfectly natural,” she continued in a soothing tone. “You’re getting to be a big girl, that’s all. Look: you’re not much shorter than me,” she placed her hand atop my head, “and you’re going to be a good deal taller someday. I’m so sorry I didn’t get your clothes in order.” She turned to my father. “George, we’ve just got to drop what we’re doing and . . .”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” he declared with a grin. “This young lady needs a new wardrobe.”

  “Cassandra, go put on some pants—the ones we bought last week that fit. We’ll dash downtown and pick out something nice for the first day of school and make sure you have at least a few outfits to get through to Friday,” Mom began.

  “No we won’t,” Dad interrupted.

  “Why not?” Mom asked, “Didn’t you just say—?”

  “For one thing, Baker’s won’t be open.”

  “I forgot it was a holiday! It’ll have to be tomorrow.”

  “Nope,” Dad said.

  “But school starts Wednesday—what am I gonna wear?”

  Dad looked at his watch. “I know where the stores’ll be open. But it’s a two hour drive, and the holiday traffic around the city will be awful. I say we go tomorrow morning and make a day of it—have lunch at a nice restaurant.”

  “What city? Where’re we going, Dad?”

  “To Duluth—we’re going on a shopping spree.” His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “Oh, I don’t know, dear, everything’s so much more expensive,” Mom began to protest.

  “Because it’s so much better. I don’t want Cassandra going to school dressed like some frumpy farmer’s daughter. Clothes from Baker’s all look the same—about the same as they did forty years ago,” he said sarcastically.

  “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but they are behind the times compared to what we were used to,” Mom admitted.

  Dad smiled warmly, then crossed the few steps to put an arm around each of us and pull us close. “A beauty like this deserves a wardrobe equal to her stature and standing.”

  Mom told me to run along and change before I burst at the seams. “Yeah, she looks as if she might blow a gasket any minute,” Dad said with a chuckle. I laughed along with him, then skipped across the expansive floor toward the door.

  “I didn’t start to develop like that until I was nearly fourteen,” Mom’s hushed whisper carried through the empty room.

  “I hate to break it to ya, sweetheart,” I heard Dad’s masculine undertone, “but you never developed a caboose like that!”

  “Shh.”

  I PACKED THE too-small clothes back in the boxes, and Dad loaded them into the enormous trunk of the Bel Air. In order to make room for new things, we planned to drop them off at Second Hand Rose on our way to Duluth. Fortunately, my mother was able to move the buttons over on the wrap-around kilt skirt and make it fit. I also managed to get my feet into the black pumps I got last Easter—barely.

  “That skirt is much too short, but with a pair of tights, you look passable,” Mom remarked as she checked me over. “At least you won’t have to walk into a nice store decked out in khakis. But can you actually walk in those shoes without getting blisters?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Now, be sure to wash and comb out your hair tonight, and do up the braid nice and neat tomorrow morning. Uh, it hasn’t been trimmed in a while, has it?”

  “Um, no . . . Tante used to trim off a little every six weeks; she said that makes it grow longer and thicker,” I ventured cautiously, not wanting to rock the cozy little boat we were sailing in. “Couldn’t you trim it, Mommy?”

  “Oh, gosh no. I wouldn’t dare touch it. I don’t know how to do it properly, what with all those curls. Cassandra, you’re not going to see your aunt until the end of November. Perhaps you’d like to visit a beauty parlor and get a professional haircut?” she asked hopefully.

  “So long as they only cut a little,” I said anxiously, afraid of disappointing Tante.

  “Whatever you want—it’s your head. We don’t have time to go for a haircut until Saturday anyway, so just make sure it’s clean and not tangled. And take a good long bath—be sure to scrub your feet. I’ll show you how to use the pumice stone to get those ugly calluses off your heels. We don’t want to be embarrassed at the shoe store tomorrow.” I nodded. “It’s time you keep your sneakers and socks on when you’re outside playing . . . the ground is too cold to go barefoot.” She gave a mother’s classic, you-didn’t-fool-me look, then added, “The calendar may still say summer, but a new season is definitely upon us.”

  I REMEMBER THAT shopping trip as one of the best times I ever had with my father. He was in such high spirits that he had us laughing all the way to Duluth. I’ll never forget the look of pure joy on his face as he took the Chevy for its maiden voyage on the interstate; the speedometer climbed to seventy with ease.

  “The transmission shifts smooth as butter.” His voice was jubilant. He got it up to eighty and rolled down the window to let in the crisp morning air. “Wahoo! She flies like a jet plane,” he shouted. His enthusiasm was contagious. Mom smiled, seemingly won over to the car or at least accepting of it. I sat up front between them on the wide bench seat, enjoying the view of the endless Minnesota sky through the Bel Air’s distinctively curved bubble of a windshield.

  We reached downtown Duluth, then drove around two city blocks to find just the right parking spot—Dad didn’t want the new car to get dinged. The noise of city traffic was electrifying, sparking feelings of nostalgia for the streets of Racine.

  The three of us walked briskly along the wide sidewalks of the shopping district, admiring the displays in the store windows and trying to decide where to go first. There was quite a crowd out hunting for post Labor Day sales—summer things marked down to make way for fall fashions. Everyone looked as if they had somewhere important to go and were impatient to get there. After the quiet of Blackstone, the buzz and bustle of shoppers was invigorating.

  It wasn’t long before my toes began to smart from being pinched. We decided to shop for shoes first, so I could wear them out the door and walk without getting blisters. I’d always got two pairs of new shoes every year, but this time Dad insisted on thre
e. Two pairs of school shoes: classic brick-red oxfords and supple, camel-brown Mary Janes, as well as a pair of patent leather pumps with a half-inch heel for parties and Sunday best. Mom said the Mary Janes would’ve sufficed, but he wouldn’t leave without the pumps. I needed boots too, but she put her foot down and said we could buy perfectly good ones at Baker’s.

  After we walked out of Stride Rite with three pairs of shoes, there was no stopping him. Nothing but the best would do. We must have gone into three clothing stores before Dad found one that met with his approval: Fancy Nancy’s Boutique for Young Ladies.

  Back in Racine, Mom had bought most of my school and playwear at Sears and Roebuck, although I was accustomed to getting holiday outfits and a few special items at a nice children’s clothing shop. But this . . .

  Everything about the boutique bespoke refined luxury, from the maple parquet floors to the pressed copper tiles of the high ceiling. Toward the back, I could see the door to the fitting rooms and a brass-trimmed triple mirror stood proudly out front. The modeling area was carpeted in plush royal blue with a settee and a matching armchair for the parents’ viewing comfort, upholstered in a rich brocade of blue and gold.

  “Holy smokes,” Mom declared as she looked wide-eyed at the merchandise on display. There was no mistaking it: the apparel simply oozed with stature and standing. “The First Lady could shop here.”

  “Well, and why shouldn’t Cassandra look as fine as Caroline Kennedy?” Dad challenged.

  “Who said anything about Caroline?” Mom retorted, while gently fondling the hem of a soft wool dress with a little cape-style collar. It was smoky gray. The drape of the fabric was so supple, the details so exquisite, and the tailoring just perfect. “I mean, Mrs. Kennedy could buy her own clothes here. Just look at this coat,” she marveled, having moved over to a rack of winter dress coats.

  “Ooh,” was all I could say. The coat was deep maroon, pure wool, naturally. The collar and pockets were trimmed in luscious black velvet. “Ahh,” I sighed, noting the matching hat with the big black velvet bow.

  “Ssss,” was all Mom could say when she looked at the price tag.

  “We’ll take this one,” Dad announced triumphantly, lifting the garment carefully by its hanger and holding it up for admiration.

  My mother still hadn’t let go of the price tag dangling from the sleeve when we were descended upon by a matronly woman impeccably dressed and coiffed. “Welcome to Fancy Nancy’s Boutique, and may I say you have excellent taste, sir. I’m Nancy Feinberg, and I am delightedto assist you today.”

  “George Parsons.” My father extended his hand. “This is my wife, Tina.” Mom nodded and forced a smile.

  “And who is our young lady?” She studied me intently as if I were the most interesting girl who’d ever graced her store.

  “This is our daughter, Cassandra.” Mom finally released the price tag as she introduced me.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Feinberg,” I said with a nod of deference, remembering the manners my mother had instilled, and I’d hardly used all summer.

  “Ah, Cassandra. What a gorgeous name,” she gushed. “How old are you, dear?”

  “I’ll be eleven on September twenty-ninth.”

  “Oh, isn’t that marvelous.” Fancy Nancy tried her imposing charm on my mother. “Don’t you think eleven is just a marvelous age?”

  “Ah, ya sure,” Mom said, sounding a little overwhelmed.

  “What a pretty girl you are, and so tall already,” she continued, quickly turning her attention back to me. “I see you favor your daddy.” She smiled in his direction, then inquired of me personally, “What do you think of that coat, dear?”

  “It’s lovely. I like it very much.” I smiled and nodded for emphasis.

  “Why . . . the governor’s wife just purchased that very same coat for her daughter.” She aimed her effervescence at my father. “But I think Miss Cassandra needs the next size up . . . thank goodness I have it. Is this a birthday gift, then?”

  “We’re shopping for school clothes . . . a bit late, I’m afraid.” Mom sounded embarrassed.

  “I had a growth spurt,” I announced. “Nothing from last season fits anymore.”

  “Oh my goodness, a growth spurt? You don’t say. And nothing fits anymore? Then you’ve come to the right place.” She beamed like a lighthouse. “You’re going to need everything. Dresses for school, skirts, and sweaters.” She eyed my attire and barely concealed her distaste. “And party dresses. Are you going to have a birthday party?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Of course she is,” Dad chimed in.

  “I am?”

  “We’ll hold it in our new chalet,” he announced.

  “We will?” Mom asked.

  “A new chalet? Oh, how wonderful! Then you’re a business owner.” Fancy Nancy’s eyes flashed neon dollar signs.

  “But how can I have a party when I don’t know anybody?” I interrupted.

  “No problem,” Dad countered. “We’ll just invite every girl in the sixth grade. This is her first year at a new school,” he explained to Miss Feinberg.

  “Oh, I see . . . then you’ll certainly want to look your best. First impressions are everything. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parsons? As a business owner, I’m sure you know all about first impressions.” Fancy Nancy laid it on thick until Dad was buttered up like a slab of French toast.

  “Right you are, Miss Feinberg.”

  “Well, my dear,” she placed a motherly hand on each of my shoulders, “you’re in good hands. Here at Fancy Nancy’s Boutique, we’ve been dressing young ladies for over fifty years.” She turned toward the rear of the store and beckoned to a young woman who’d been hovering in the background. “Mary,” she called. “Please open our best room for Miss Parsons.”

  FOR SOMEONE WHO’D bragged about his ability to sell ice cubes to Eskimos, my father sure didn’t seem to notice when he was on the inside of the igloo. Fancy Nancy had him by an invisible hook lodged deep in his vanity. For the next twenty minutes, she ushered me around the floor with a firm but gentle hand, lifting dresses, skirts, and blouses deftly from the rack, momentarily holding each item under my chin to appraise for style and color. She spoke over my mother’s diminutive head and asked my father for his opinion, frequently complimenting his discerning taste. He followed her eagerly about the store like a puppy, assenting to her every suggestion while my mother trailed helplessly behind. Mary had to make three trips to the fitting room to lay out the armloads of clothes.

  I was surprised and somewhat embarrassed when Miss Feinberg walked right into the dressing room with Mom and me, although it was plenty big enough. It had a wide bench seat, and one whole wall was a seamless mirror. “Now, I just need to take a peek at the young lady’s foundation garments,” she explained. “Naturally, even the finest dress won’t hang right without the proper slip.”

  I wasn’t even wearing a slip. I obligingly peeled off my sweater and undid the kilt, and stood in my thick white cotton panties and undershirt. Miss Feinberg looked me up and down, then took my mother’s elbow and whispered in her ear. I’m not sure what she said, but Mom nodded, and Miss Feinberg excused herself for a moment.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked after she’d gone.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Miss Feinberg just pointed out that you might benefit from a camisole.”

  “What’s a camisole?”

  “It’s kind of like an undershirt, but . . .”

  “Here we are.” Miss Feinberg bustled back in carrying the most beautiful girls’ underwear I’d ever seen. The one piece slip was so elegant it seemed a shame to hide it under a dress. The camisole was a stretchy fabric all trimmed in lace. It covered my chest about halfway down my ribcage, and the fit was snug but comfortable. I noticed with relief that the pointy little Hershey’s Kisses were smoothed out.

  “Ya, I see . . . of course, you were right,” Mom acquiesced with a nod.

  “These will stretch and should fit all year,” Miss Feinb
erg elaborated. “And each one is a set with two pairs of matching panties. The panties are of the same lovely fabric, you see?” She displayed the garment and gave it a little stretch. “They give just the right amount of support where it’s needed,” she added in a more reserved tone, and momentarily cast her eyes toward my heinie. “Shall I put aside four sets, or five?” The crafty businesswoman offered my mother a restricted choice, but Mom was already defeated. She had neglected to attend to my wardrobe until the last minute, and now was informed that I wasn’t even wearing appropriate underwear.

  “Oh, whatever you think,” she answered dejectedly.

  “Very good, Mrs. Parsons.” She poked her head out of the curtain. “Mary, five sets of these, please.”

  “Yes, Miss Feinberg.”

  I donned the gray wool with the cape collar and promenaded onto the royal blue carpet to stand before the grand mirror. Dad sat in the armchair like a king on his throne, beaming with pride as he admired his princess. Naturally, this made me stand taller, walk more gracefully, and smile with a sparkling radiance, all magnified by the triple looking glass. I made my appearance again and again. In cyclical fashion, the clothes worked their magic charm: the more beautiful I felt, the more beautiful I became until I was transformed, and my father was utterly enchanted. The fervent zeal he’d expended upon his new business was suddenly focused on me like a laser. It was at once intoxicating and a little terrifying.

  We left the store ninety minutes later and walked onto the city sidewalk one-hundred-seventy-nine dollars and forty-two cents poorer. I was already wearing a new outfit; by the time Fancy Nancy was done with us, we were convinced that I shouldn’t be caught dead wearing a sweater with pills and an ill-fitting kilt. My new skirt was made of estate herringbone tweed, with a bright red sweater that matched the Bel Air and picked up the color of the check. It was layered over a white blouse with a turned-out Peter Pan collar; naturally, a new slip and camisole were hidden underneath.