by S. Rose
“He visits . . . a lot,” I said, recalling the strange moaning and groaning I’d heard that made the rest of the family so uncomfortable. I had a sneaking suspicion that they were getting close in there.
“I know. But John Wind is still married on the books. He won’t divorce the mother of his sons, or maybe she won’t divorce him. Either way, Anna’s sort of stuck in limbo. I guess they worked it out amicably amongst the three of them, but it sure makes the world a tough place for that girl. It’s a rough life for a bastard.”
“I guess that’s what those snooty girls meant by scandalous.” I pronounced it melodramatically.
“Uh huh. Before you came along, I don’t think she had a friend in the world,” Dad affirmed.
“They make fun of her for being poor, too. She really is the poorest kid I’ve ever known,” I said dejectedly.
“Yup—poor as dirt. Mr. Wind is legally obligated to support his wife and sons, but I don’t see that he contributes much financial help to Anna, not that it’s any of my business.”
“Mr. Wind didn’t even give her his name,” I fumed. “And she loves him so much. But I’ll be her friend no matter what the others say—even if I don’t have any other friends.”
“You really are special, Cassandra. You run deep. I want you to know that your mother and I stand behind you, no matter what you choose to do. We love you very much.” My father turned his head to look me full in the face. “And, uh . . . I love you.”
22
“WHAT THE HELL did ya do a damned fool thing like that for?” I wanted to know. “It’s nearly gone dark . . . it’s past six o’clock!”
Sparrow was ordinarily handy with a direct answer to any question, but her shoulders only rose slightly in a noncommittal shrug. After looking for her all afternoon, I’d found her sitting on my bedroom floor with her knees drawn up to her chin and both arms wrapped around tight. Her head was tucked in like a turtle, as if she expected a bomb to drop.
“Me and Dad have been cruising up and down Blackstone . . . doubling back along the highway. You’re ma is pretty worried . . . and your Grandpa Gorski’s out searching the woods.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled into her kneecaps. A loud sniff gave away that she’d been crying hard.
I knew then that Sparrow wasn’t just hiding in my room to escape some perceived punishment—if she’d had a mind to, she could hide out in the woods for days. She was there because she needed me. The knowledge that I was the only one in the universe she trusted and would come to with her trouble quickened something deep within, like the first tiny pulse of an unborn baby’s heart. It was an instinctive desire to nurture, to make everything alright again for someone I cared about—not a plastic doll, but a human with a heart and soul. Somehow I knew it had been there all along, waiting to erupt like the tender breast buds that heralded my impending womanhood.
“You been here long?”
“Couple hours, maybe.”
“Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“I didn’t want to mess anything up,” she said, lifting her head. “You have such a nice bedroom,” she added, gently running her fingertips along the fringed edges of my lavender bedspread. I cringed inwardly; I still thought my room was a dump. “Those all new clothes?” She pointed to a metal pole my father had installed in the corner to supplement my narrow closet. My finery was hanging in plain sight, draped with a plastic sheet to keep off the dust.
“Uh, yeah . . . I outgrew everything this year. Dad kinda went overboard with the wardrobe . . . same as he did with the car. But never mind that; I’ve got to go tell my parents you’re here.”
“No! Please don’t.”
“It’s going to be alright. Mrs. Moore is on your side. My dad will help, too. Promise me you won’t run off while I get Mom?”
“Okay,” she said glumly. I hesitated. “I promise,” she added reluctantly. I returned as quickly as I could with Mom right behind me. We were worried Sparrow might run away again, but she’d kept her promise.
I changed out of my school clothes, and Mom served up the macaroni and cheese that was keeping warm in the oven. Dad ate with us while she drove down the road to tell Sparrow’s mother that she was safe at our place and arrange for her to stay with us that night. My parents planned to pick up Anna early in the morning, so that we could all go to the school together and talk to Mrs. Moore. Dad was on a mission to rescue his second cousin’s half-sister from the clutches of the evil Hatchet.
After dinner I usually took a bath, so Mom drew up a tub of deliciously hot water for the two of us. I hadn’t taken a bath with another girl since I had a sleepover with Kitty sometime last winter, but me and Sparrow had been shucking our clothes and dipping in the river all summer. I dumped in a generous capful of Mr. Bubble while the water was running. Sparrow watched in fascination as it exploded into puffy white mountains of foam, filling the huge claw foot tub to the brim. Mr. Bubble had just been invented and was all the rage with kids, but I realized she probably never had a bubble bath. They didn’t even have a bathtub.
“Mr. Bubble makes getting clean as much fun as getting dirty.” I spouted the slogan while holding up the pink plastic bottle with a silly grin. She smiled weakly. We got undressed and climbed in, each settling down with our backs leaning against the opposite end of the tub and our feet in the middle. We couldn’t see our bodies under the dense bubbles and giggled when our feet bumped together as we tried to stretch our legs.
“Ahhh,” we sighed.
After some quiet relaxation, I remarked, rolling my eyes for emphasis, “I had my first run-in with Amanda Jane Richards.”
“Umph. Did she tell you what happened in fourth grade?”
“No . . . what happened?”
“I knocked her on her ass . . . got in pretty big trouble, but it was worth it.”
“Yeah, I would’ve liked to knock her on her ass, too.”
“So . . . you’re not gonna be friends with her?”
“Not if she’s gonna be a snot-nosed idiot and badmouth you. I hate the way she leads those silly girls—like sheep.”
“Some of ’em are dumber than sheep.”
“That Lucy! She doesn’t have the sense God gave geese . . . but she’s not mean like some of ’em. She’d be a good kid if Amanda didn’t boss her,” I added.
“Well, what’d they all say about me? Not that I care what they think . . . I’m just wondering what happened after I left.”
I began with the standing ovation in the auditorium and by the time I got to the playground encounter with Amanda Jane, the oomph had gone out of Mr. Bubbles. Sparrow laughed herself silly over the abduction and interrogation of Billy in the girls’ bathroom. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” she said with admiration.
“Neither did I . . . poor Billy. That was probably the worst thing I ever did to anyone. Oops, I forgot; it was supposed to be a secret, more for him than me.”
“I won’t tell. But did you really say, ‘stinks like an outhouse on the inside?’ ” She broke out laughing all over again. “Yeah, I probably do stink all winter. If I want to take a bath at home, I have to put our metal washtub by the woodstove and fill it by hand. It takes extra wood just to heat the bathwater. I have to haul it in from outside and stoke the stove. You pour pots of really hot water in and mix it with cold to get about this much bathwater,” she said, holding her hands about eight inches apart. Then I can sit in the tub, but it’s too small to hunker down, so your top half is freezing. When I’m done, I have to bail the water, bucket by bucket, and dump it outside. There’s no privacy, especially since Grandpa Gorski came to stay—it was bad enough with just my brother around. I try to wash regular, but sometimes I’m so cold I just dive under my covers and can’t bear the thought of getting wet.” She ran her hand along the smooth rim of the porcelain tub. “If I had this, I’d take a bath every night.” She was enjoying herself so much that we sat until the water was barely tepid.
“Hey! What the hell ya been doin�
� in there so long?” Grandpa Parsons hollered, pounding on the door for emphasis and rattling the knob; thankfully, the lock held. “Been over an hour. Who do ya think you are—the Queen of England?”
“Sorry, Grandpa, I’ll be right out.” We were already climbing onto the bath mat.
“Humph! See that you are. Someone else might need to take a dump, ya know?”
Mom had laid out two sets of my flannel pajamas . . . good old plain pajamas from Baker’s department store. She told us we could play quietly until eight thirty.
“Aw, how about nine, Mom? Please?”
“A quarter ’til nine, and then lights out. We’re getting up at six in the morning. And no roughhousing. Why don’t you play a nice quiet board game . . . and sit on the bed so you’re not on the cold floor.” The room had a baseboard heater and the temperature was about sixty-six degrees, but the floor felt like ice beneath your feet.
I dragged out the boxes marked games and began to open them. Sparrow sat on the bed beside my old pals, Kissy and Chatty Cathy, eyeing them curiously. The pair usually sat there all day, mostly because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to put them. I moved them onto my rug at night. She picked up Chatty carefully and looked her over.
“I don’t really play with dolls anymore, not since last spring,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed.
“What’s this?” she asked about the little plastic loop protruding from Chatty’s back.
“Go ahead and pull it.”
Pshhh . . . “Can I have a cookie?” . . . crackle click.
“Damn! It talks.” She pulled it again.
Pshhh . . . “Let’s have a party.”
“Ha.”
“I used to like her a lot, but I’m going to give her away to my friend back in Racine.”
“Little Kitty?”
“Ya. Gosh, I miss her.”
“Cassandra?” Mom was at the door. “I need to speak with you.”
“Oh-oh, wha’d I do?”
“Nothing . . . just come here a sec.”
“We won’t have time for a long board game,” I told Sparrow. “Why don’t you set up the checkers, and I’ll be right back.”
MOM SAT ME down in her room. “We’re going to go to bat for that girl tomorrow. It just seems like the right thing to do.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“But I don’t know how it will turn out—for Sparrow, or for you, either. I’d hate to see you become a social outcast on her account.”
“Hmm . . . it’d be hard, but I don’t think it’ll come to that. The other kids were pretty impressed with the Bel Air, and Dad charmed the pants off ’em.”
“I’ll bet he did. Well, those girls would be foolish to pass up a friend like you, but I know how catty girls can be. On a happier note, I wanted to show you these.” She produced a stack of pink envelopes. “I ordered them last week and picked them up while you were at school today. They’re party invitations. See . . .” She handed me one to examine. It was pale pink with little balloons that sparkled with glitter. A banner announced: You are cordially invited to celebrate with us, Cassandra Lynn Parsons’ eleventh Birthday.
“You even had them printed with my name! They’re beautiful.” I looked inside. “ ‘Please join us for cake and refreshments, games and prizes, song and dance,’ ” I read. “Featuring, the Never too Pooped to PolkaBand. We’re having a polka band?”
“That was your father’s idea.”
I continued, “ ‘Girls may bring a dance partner, and parents are welcome to stay and join the festivities.’ ” I looked at Mom quizzically. “Dance partner? You mean, boys?”
“If they want to. Some of the boys in your class might be mature enough to enjoy a mixed party. This way, the girls can choose.”
“Sounds like fun.” By age six, every kid in Wisconsin knew how to polka. “What’s R.S.V.P.?”
“It’s French, for please let us know whether you’re coming or not. They get to mail back these little cards.” She displayed the R.S.V.P. postcards with our address already on them. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Moore if I can read her roster, so I can write the girls’ names on the envelopes before school starts. Then, you’ll hand one out to each girl . . . and we just wait and see what happens.”
“Can I give Sparrow hers tonight?”
“Sure, if you want to.”
“Thanks so much, Mom.” I hugged her. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s zonked, asleep on the couch.”
“I’ll thank him tomorrow.”
HOLY CRAP! I stopped short on the way to my room, struck by the realization that everything was riding on this party: my social life and that of my parents, not to mention the success of the resort. It wasn’t lost on me that my birthday provided an opportunity for Dad to show off the chalet and spread the word about his business. And after my spectacular debut at the new school—what if nobody came?
“Sorry I took so long, but Mom was showing me these. I have one for you, but wait . . . I’ll get a pen.” I carefully inscribed, Sparrow Flies-in-the-Wind, and handed it to her. She smiled when she saw what I’d written and opened it carefully.
“I’ve never been to party,” she said quietly.
“Well, you’re going to one now,” I announced cheerfully, pretending I didn’t notice her embarrassment.
“My father gave me my Ojibwe name,” she said all of a sudden. “I don’t think it’s a lie for me to own it; seems like more of a lie to use the name of some white man my mother used to be married to. Besides, I got my Ojibwe name first. A week later, Ma took me to a Catholic Priest and got me baptized. She picked Lisa after her sister who died. Ma’s name was still Schimschack, so that’s what went on the white man’s certificates. It don’t even count.”
“I don’t think it’s lying at all. I just kinda wish you’d told me before I found out the hard way at school.”
“Sorry . . . guess I was afraid you wouldn’t like me anymore. I was being stupid,” she added.
“Well, never mind. Hey—how exactly do you get an Indian name?”
“The Ojibwe have a special ceremony—I’ve been to one. First the parents bring a gift of tobacco to a medicine man, a tribal elder who knows about dreams and signs, and ask him to name their child. He fasts and prays for a while, then the whole family gets together with their friends for the ceremony. The Ojibwe believe that the Great Spirit chooses the name and sends it through the medicine man . . . but that’s not how I got my name. My father knew his relatives would never come to a naming ceremony for me.”
“Because your mom isn’t Indian?”
“No . . . not really. I’m not the only half-Indian. It was because my pa was still married to his Ojibwe wife,” she said abruptly, then searched my eyes to gauge my response. I nodded sympathetically without revealing that I already knew. Sparrow continued, “Even though they’d split up a while back, the relatives weren’t too happy when I came along—Grandpa Wind wouldn’t even look at me ’til I was five years old. We get along okay now, but nobody talks about it.” She fell silent. I waited patiently.
“My father gave me my Ojibwe name, and he done it just as good as any medicine man. Pa didn’t make up any old name: he was given a sign by the Great Spirit.” Sparrow sat up straighter and began to speak in the reverent tone she reserved for Ojibwe lore.
“On the morning of my birth, there was a mighty wind, gusting through the trees and kicking up the light spring snow on the ground. Pa went outside to get more wood for the stove. On the way back he saw a little bird . . . a tiny brown sparrow trying to fly, but each time the wind blew her back. Pa watched until at last the sparrow took flight, flying with the wind instead of fighting it. The moment he went back inside, I was born. I was tiny with a tuft of brown hair that stuck up like feathers when it dried. My father spoke in Ojibwe, ‘The eagle has powerful wings to master the wind and soar the skies, but it takes more courage and cunning for the little sparrow just to fly in the wind.’ He held me up before the Great Spirit and sa
id, Sparrow Flies-in-the-Wind. This is her name. This is what we will call her.’ ”
I could see the pride in Sparrow’s eyes, shining in the lamplight. “It’s a beautiful story,” I said. “Have you ever told it to any of the kids at school? Maybe if they understood better—”
“No,” she cut me off. “’Cause if I did and anyone laughed at it or badmouthed my ma or pa, I’d just about kill ’em.”
MY PARENTS WERE in Mrs. Moore’s office for over an hour, but finally reached a compromise. I had to wait until lunch before Sparrow could tell me the details, but when she walked into Miss Summer’s class, I knew they’d won.
“First off, Mrs. Moore said I had better watch my manners. No back talk, no fighting, and no running off again. Miss Summers will call me Sparrow, and I can write Sparrow Wind on my everyday schoolwork. But on official district and state tests, I gotta use that legal name. And, I had to apologize to Miss Hatchet for being disrespectful.”
Sparrow had almost protested about that part, but my mother gave her a warning look, so she shut her mouth and bowed to the stipulation. My father agreed but insisted he would accompany her while she made the apology.
“I apologize for being disrespectful, Miss Hatchet,” she’d said flatly.
“If it were up to me, you’d do more than apologize. I’ve got my eye on you, and if you take one more step out of line—”
“Just stop right there,” my father broke in. Then he told Sparrow to run along to class. Naturally, she went outside the door and listened.
My father lit in. “I’ll not have you subject that child to any more of your abuse. You intentionally provoked her, and you know it.”
“Well, well . . . George is back.” She used his name as if it were a dirty word. “I see you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Wish I could say the same for you, Hester, but you’re a far sight uglier and from the looks of things, more mean spirited than ever.”
“And you’re still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Tell me, George, have you got yourself an honest job, or are you up to your old tricks?”
