Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “Have you ever seen ’em being born?” I asked.

  “Lots of times.”

  “Think maybe I can see that, too?”

  “If you’re around when it happens. It’ll be five months from now if the breeding takes . . . if she gets pregnant. That’s usually not a problem with Olaf,” she said with a snigger.

  “Oh. Uh . . . how exactly does Olaf get his seeds in there?”

  “Well . . .” she began. Just then the pickup truck rumbled down the dirt driveway and came to a stop. Olaf was tethered in crossties in the back. Grandpa Wind hopped out of the cab, opened the tailgate, and climbed up to turn him loose. I could hear the sound of hooves clambering on metal as Olaf pawed and struggled to get free, wrenching his head from side to side and bawling like a demon from hell.

  “Sparrow! Get behind that gate and open it soon as he comes,” Grandpa Wind ordered gruffly. “Then get yourself outta there and shut it quick. If that doe gets spooked and takes off, he’ll go after her. We’d have one helluva time rounding them up,” he warned. “You,” he shouted at me. “You’d best stand clear.”

  “Just go over by the shed, out of his path,” Sparrow explained. “He’s not gonna bother with you—got other things on his mind.”

  As soon as the chain came loose, Olaf shook his great horned head and leapt straight over the side of the truck bed like a gazelle, surprisingly graceful for such a stocky animal. I stood well out of the way with my back up against the shed as he galloped the few yards to the pen. Sparrow was inside to keep Nana from rushing out and she swung the gate inward as Olaf charged past, then she scooted around, pulling it shut behind her.

  Nana couldn’t seem to make up her mind about Olaf. First, she ran away to the far side of the pen with her long ears stuck out in alarm. Her bleating was high pitched, sounding eerily like a human baby. When Olaf went after her, she stood still a moment, happily wagging her tail as he snuffled her hind end. He was getting pretty interested when she scuttled off again like a shy deer. Olaf decided to let her play hard to get while he spruced himself up for the big date, thoroughly squirting his forelegs and beard with urine. Then he changed tactics and sauntered over to woo her slowly, snorting and curling his tongue to taste her scent in the air. She must’ve found him irresistible, because she let him get close to her rump while she peed. I felt my eyes bug out as he lapped her stream. That’s when I noticed a thin, pinkish-white organ about twelve inches long protruding from beneath Olaf’s massive body. Without further ado, he mounted Nana’s back and sunk it deep inside her.

  It was over in a moment. Nana stood looking modestly away while Olaf held his head high and bellowed with pride. He pranced about the pen a bit and paused to take notice of his surroundings, casting a wary yellow eye at me. Then he got back to business, repeating his performance no less than three times, before Grandpa Wind coaxed him out of the pen with a coffee can full of sweet feed. Olaf hopped into the truck and hungrily chomped down the molasses-covered grain; apparently, his sexual appetite was satisfied for the moment.

  I was both fascinated and disgusted. I’d seen mounting behavior in neighborhood dogs, although never with such a clear view of the details. When I’d asked my mother what they were doing, she told me they were playing piggyback.

  “YOU OKAY?” SPARROW asked.

  After Nana and her goat friends were settled down with their hay, we walked to the riverbank. The afternoon sun was tolerably warm. I sat in deep thought while she cast a fishing line, but the fish weren’t biting.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re pretty quiet,” she said. “All that didn’t scare ya, did it?” she asked, not unkindly.

  “Oh, that. No . . . that was something else, all right, but I wasn’t thinking about it.” She looked at me expectantly. “I was thinking about the baby. I guess it has something to do with . . . all that back there.” I pointed in the direction of her house. “Now I know where babies come from.” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Maybe you should just talk with your folks about him.”

  “Can’t do it.” I shook my head adamantly. She fell silent. I changed the subject. “So that’s how people do it,” I declared. “Yuck! I don’t know how the moms can stand it. No wonder my mother only had two babies . . . twice was enough.”

  “Uh . . . Cassy, it ain’t like that with people,” she said gently.

  “Whada ya mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, the men don’t pee on themselves. I asked my ma about that a long time ago,” she explained. “And with people, it’s called intercourse, not breeding. But people don’t do it only to get pregnant. Matter of fact, most of the time they’re trying not to get pregnant,” she elaborated. “They do it because they love each other. Because it feels good.”

  “I don’t see how something like that could feel good,” I said incredulously, “not for the ladies, anyway.”

  “Oh, the ladies like it too, you betcha, at least if they’re hot for the man. Ma says that men ain’t so picky. They’re ready just about all the time, like old Olaf.” She chuckled.

  I recalled the strange moans and groans coming from the Schimschack’s; the satisfied smile on Mr. Wind’s face when he strolled outside. Sparrow’s parents weren’t married to each other and Grandpa Gorski obviously wasn’t happy about the situation. As for my parents, they must be real bashful about it; they were quiet as church mice. I’d have never guessed what was going on behind their bedroom door.

  “I suppose it’s just one of those things that you can’t understand until you grow up,” I said, deciding that I needn’t concern myself with it for a long time yet.

  “Yeah, probably,” she agreed, casting her line once more. “I’m hungry!” she exclaimed. “’Bout ready to quit and go eat.”

  “Me, too. It’s way past lunch time.”

  Suddenly the line went taut. “Holy smokes, it’s a big one. Get the net,” she cried. I helped her haul in a decent-sized bass, a fish she never could’ve held on the flimsy line. “I think it’s enough to make a meal for two,” she said, holding up the struggling fish. “Hey, Owl Woman, whada ya say we get a fire going and cook ’im up?” She smiled. “I’ll go home and see if I can get an onion to roast . . . maybe some bread to go with it. I could bring a couple of split logs too.”

  “Sure thing, Wild Cat. I’ll clean it and start gathering the kindling.”

  Sparrow reached into the pocket of her overalls and handed me her jackknife and a pack of matches, then headed home at a trot. I opened the fillet blade and began to clean the fish, carefully, respectfully, grateful for the meal that was soon to come.

  25

  “MOM, CAN I please have a sleepover with Sparrow at her grandpa’s house on therez? It’s not a school night. Her dad and grandpa are going away for the day, so she’ll be all alone tomorrow morning. She needs my help with the morning chores.”

  “Six does in milk,” Sparrow affirmed.

  “So can I stay overnight, please, Mom?” I begged. Sparrow stood beside me making big brown-cow eyes.

  “With no adults at home? Oh no, I don’t think so,” she said resolutely.

  “But, Mom,her dad and grandpa will be there all night, until four in the morning. Then they’ve gotta go off to some big Indian powwow—”

  “It’s the annual meeting at the regional Bureau of Indian Affairs,” Sparrow corrected. “It starts with a special breakfast so they have to leave early. Grandpa won’t have time to tend the goats before they hit the road. There’s a lot of work to do, but we don’t have to go outside ’til sunup ’bout six o’clock.”

  “Please, please, please, Mom?”

  “What if that dangerous bear comes back?” She continued to make her case.

  “Auntie Tina, that old bear ain’t ever comin’ back. Besides, it’s late September—this far north, the bears are already hibernating.”

  “Well . . . if your father’s leaving at four in the morning, who’s going to fix your breakfast?” My mother was really scraping the bo
ttom of the excuses barrel to nix it.

  “Kristina, don’t be such a mother hen,” Dad interrupted as he walked into the kitchen. “These girls have been catching fish and cooking over a campfire all summer. If they don’t have enough sense to open a box of cereal or make some toast, then they oughta go without breakfast.” He winked at me conspiratorially.

  “But you’ve got that big party coming up . . . we’ve still got lots to do around here.”

  “Auntie Tina, I’ll come over Sunday and help out. I’m a real good worker,” Sparrow piped up.

  “Ya sure, she’s a good worker,” I echoed.

  “Oh, alright . . . it looks like I’m outnumbered,” Mom said with a sigh.

  “Thank you thank you I love you!” I gave her a quick hug and grabbed Sparrow’s hand to dash out the kitchen door before she changed her mind.

  “Hold on a minute,” Mom said. “You’re not going anywhere without a change of clothes and a set of pajamas . . . and don’t forget to pack your toothbrush and hairbrush.”

  “PA’S COOKED UP a whole big pot of venison stew,” Sparrow said excitedly as we hiked through the woods. The afternoon weather was dry and sunny, so we’d declined my dad’s offer of a ride in order to stretch out our adventure.

  “I’ve never had venison stew, but I’m sure I’ll love it,” I declared agreeably. “I’m already getting hungry for supper.”

  “There’s nothing like the smell of the pine forest to work up an appetite,” she affirmed. “Makes everything taste better. Ooh, I almost forgot—Pa brought me some marshmallows! We’ll get to toast marshmallows in the fireplace. And tomorrow morning after we milk-out and cleanup, I’ll fix us some hotcakes on a cast iron skillet. Oohwee. You never tasted anything so good.” Her eyes sparkled in anticipation.

  “Now I can’t wait for breakfast . . . and we haven’t even had supper. But how come you didn’t tell my mom you know how to cook hotcakes?”

  “I was afraid of making things worse. Auntie Tina seemed so nervous, I expect she would’ve worried I’d burn the house down or something.” We busted out laughing at the thought.

  “Ya, I don’t know what’s got into her. One day she tells me I’m growing up . . . I ought to do this and that for myself because I’m a big girl now. The next day she’s treating me like a baby who needs to be spoon fed breakfast.”

  “Grownups are funny that way,” she remarked.

  We marched on to the river, which was still low enough to cross by rock hopping, as Sparrow called it. Some years the water was so high and fast that it roared over the boulders, and you could only cross over at the main bridge, several miles off.

  “I’ll never forget the first time I followed you through these woods . . . I could barely keep up.” I scrambled over the rocks behind her, surefooted as a deer.

  “I thought you was gonna fall in and crack your head for sure,” Sparrow said. She made a silly face, stuck her arms out like a tightrope walker and pretended to lose her balance.

  “Ha! Did I really look that pathetic?”

  “Worse.”

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  “You shoulda seen the look on your face when your sneaker with the clean little white sock started floating downriver.”

  “Funny how long ago that seems,” I mused. We reached the other side, and I turned to look back.

  “But it was only a couple months ago,” she corrected, picking up her pace again. Sparrow tended to be very literal minded. It was a trait I noticed among the country kids. I guess that hard work and harsh weather brings out the practical side of a person early in life.

  It wasn’t long before I heard the goats calling through the trees. At four o’clock near the close of September, the sun was already low. The animals’ rhythm adjusted naturally with the seasons, and they expected to be fed and milked a little earlier with each passing week.

  “Com’ on, let’s race!” Sparrow challenged.

  “No fair . . . you’ll leave me in the dust.”

  “Okay, but I feel like runnin’. Anyway, Pa said we can have a couple of marshmallows, before Grandpa puts us to work. Com’ on—I’ll hold back so you can keep up.”

  I was looking forward to resting a while before sitting down to venison stew; now I realized that we’d be stuck doing afternoon chores before we even got near the supper table. “You go on, and I’ll be right along.” I waved her away. “I’ve got to conserve energy. Stick a couple of marshmallows in your pocket for me, and I’ll meet you at the goat shed.”

  Sparrow stopped short with her hands on her hips and feigned a scowl. “You can’t be pooped out already?” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. Oh-oh, I thought, but she had already gripped my hand like a vise and turned in one smooth move. I had no choice but to run as Sparrow bolted like a racehorse at the gate with me in tow. God, she was strong. It took all I had just to keep my legs going while she provided the impetus for two, running like the wind. The adrenaline kicked in—I was giddy as a colt, heart pounding, nostrils flared as I gulped the cool pine-scented air, her firm, warm hand seemed the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me from lifting off into the trees and flying away. I wished I could run and run and never stop, run like a child forever.

  WHENEVER MY MOTHER let me have an overnight guest, she catered to her every comfort. She usually baked something, albeit from a mix, then shooed us off to play right after dessert. My mom wouldn’t dream of letting the girl even dry a dish but apparently, Sparrow and I were expected to earn our supper. Grandpa Wind had already milked most of the does, but there was still plenty of work to do. He left off when we arrived to go tend Olaf, warning us as he did: “Sparrow, make sure your friend keeps away from that buck. I’ll leave him plenty of hay tonight, so you don’t have to bother with him tomorrow. Whatever you do, don’t open that gate,” he said sternly, looking straight at me. “Olaf is mighty protective of his does around strangers; he could about kill ya if he took a mind to butt.” I nodded solemnly. Old Mr. Wind must’ve thought I was an idiot—who in their right mind would open the gate and set loose that beast?

  By the time we were done hauling in buckets of milk and carrying heavy buckets of feed, dumping dirty water and pitching hay, I was beat all to hell. I supposed that was why my belly felt kind of crampy, like maybe I was hungry . . . or maybe I needed to go sit on the toilet. I was also filthy. I’d already worked up a sweat running, and now there were bits of dusty hay down my shirt and in my hair, from when I tried to pitch it up into the hayrack and didn’t stand back far enough. All the little seeds and bits fell through and rained down upon my dumb head. Sparrow laughed out loud, and Grandpa Wind snorted derisively.

  Please, dear Lord, let them have a bathtub, I prayed silently as we shuffled in to supper. “Sparrow, I need to use the bathroom first,” I whispered. “I’ve got to wash my hands,” I added self-consciously when I noticed John Wind looking at me.

  “Com’ on, I’ll show ya.” Sparrow tugged my sleeve to indicate I should follow. “It’s in the house,” she added reassuringly.

  “Cassy must be tired and hungry . . . she looks kinda pale,” Mr. Wind remarked as I left, like a concerned parent.

  “That’s how they s’pposed to look, don’cha know?” his father grunted. I turned to stare at him in spite of myself, but the old man was smirking mirthfully. I smiled back.

  When I returned, the table was laden with a loaf of bread and the ever-present plate of goat cheese, a lumpy, curdy white substance that smelled suspiciously of goat. I took a dollop to be polite, but it didn’t sit well. The venison stew was thick and heavy, chock-full of meat and potatoes and God knows what else. To put it delicately, I’d made more room for supper just before I sat down, but somehow still felt full and uncomfortable. I couldn’t finish what was in my bowl.

  “What’s the matter–don’cha like it?” Sparrow asked bluntly.

  “Oh, it’s real tasty,” I said truthfully. “I’m just going slow ’cause . . . uh, I’m not used to eating venison. It sure fills yo
u up.”

  “She looks dog-tired to me,” her father said. “You shouldn’t’ve worked your friend so hard.”

  “I love to help,” I assured them. “But I guess I don’t have the strength to keep up with Sparrow.” Just then a hard cramp hit me low in the belly; the pain and surprise must’ve showed in my face.

  “What’s wrong? You ain’t getting sick, are ya?” Sparrow asked, half concerned and half disappointed that I might need to go home. I didn’t want to go home either.

  “No, not sick . . . I just . . .”

  “Can we be excused?” Sparrow rescued me.

  “Sure, go on. I’ll do the dishes,” her father said. “You two done enough.”

  We went to her little back bedroom, hardly more than a walk-in closet. It had a double-sized cot piled with blankets, where we would sleep together. Everything smelled like wood smoke, a smell that I usually enjoyed but now made me feel queasy.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I just have this bad cramp down here.” I laid my hand over my lower abdomen. “Kinda like maybe I need to poop some more, but kinda different.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “Oh-oh what?”

  “Uh, Cassy . . . you ain’t got the curse yet, have you?”

  “The what?”

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t get it yet either, but my ma gets cramps when she’s gonna bleed. She takes aspirin for it.”

  “Bleed? Sparrow, what in the world are you talking about?”

  “For Pete’s sake! You mean your ma ain’t told you about that either? Gosh, I thought you only didn’t know about intercourse. Well, something tells me you’re gonna find out soon, so I’d best tell you about the bleeding. It’s called ministration.” She took a stab at the terminology and missed. “It’s normal for a lady . . . or big girls like us. Some ladies call it a monthly period, because you bleed out down there every month.” She pointed back between her legs. “That is, once you get started.”