Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  I’d been enjoying my private talk for ten glorious minutes when Mom came in and pointed to her wristwatch. I understood that the meter was running and I should wrap it up, but pretended otherwise.

  “Mom is here,” I spoke quickly into the phone, “and she wants to talk to you.” I smiled innocently as my mother looked aghast. “Thanks again for the gift . . . I’ll see you at Thanksgiving . . . I love you, too . . . here’s Mom.” I thrust the phone into my mother’s hand and left. It would be a while before I knew the outcome of my scheme; tempted as I was, I did not linger and listen.

  On the way to my room, I nearly ran into Grandpa Reuben. The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, and I wasn’t paying attention, but smelled him coming just in time to step out of his path. It was Thursday night, after all, a full five days since his last bath.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stopping short with my back up against the wall to let him pass.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he groused.

  How rude, I thought. Grandpa Reuben hadn’t like me from the get-go. I was sure he’d never forgive me for the mice-in-the-closet calamity—swore up and down that I almost made him “break his goddamned neck.” But I was sick and tired of walking on eggshells, trying to please the old man or at least stay out of his way. I got a wonderfully mischievous idea.

  “Grandpa,” I said sweetly, “don’t forget the big party tomorrow.”

  “Eh?”

  “My eleventh birthday. It’ll be so nice to have you with us this year.”

  “Uh . . . I’ve got business to attend to.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” I laid it on thick, “but didn’t you get me a birthday gift?” My voice lilted innocently.

  “A gift? Ha! I let you live in my house rent free. That’s more than enough gift for the likes of you.”

  I thought I was ready to laugh off anything he said, but this took the cake. I felt the blood rush to my face as angry words bypassed my brain and erupted from my lips like a volcano.

  “You think living in your house is a gift? Believe me, livin’ with you is no gift. You’re a mean, stingy old man. And we’re not freeloaders. Parsons’ Lodge was no better than a dump, but my dad’s worked hard to make it worth something. And my mother worked her tail off to make your house fit for human beings. She cooks your dinner and does your laundry . . . too bad she can’t toss you into the washing machine along with your clothes, because you sure stink!”

  “Humph,” he grunted. I half expected him to take a swing at me, so when he reached behind himself I cringed. Instead, he pulled out the filthiest billfold I’d ever seen, withdrew two dollars and thrust them in my face. I was so stunned, I actually took them between my fingers. “Here,” he grumbled, then walked past me into his bedroom and banged the door shut.

  For a moment, I stood dumbfounded, holding the crumpled bills that reeked of tobacco. As I was about to walk away, I heard a strange sound coming from behind Grandpa Reuben’s door. It was almost like a laugh, an old man’s cackling laugh. Naw. I shook my head. Can’t be.

  All that evening, I waited with dread for the old geezer to tattle on me. Birthday or no, I’d likely get quite a talking-to for such a disrespectful outburst. Next morning at the breakfast table, I had knots in my stomach, but I needn’t have worried. Grandpa didn’t say a word; he sat silent and taciturn as always, his grizzly gray head ringed by a halo of cigar smoke.

  27

  “IT LOOKS LIKE a palace.” I gazed starry-eyed about the beautifully decorated chalet, awed and humbled by all that my parents had done for me.

  “I still say we should pack up and move over here,” Mom said wryly.

  “All in good time, sweetheart,” Dad said. “Wait until folks see what a wham bam of a party you can throw here. Before long, we’ll be booking for weddings, anniversaries . . . graduation parties . . . you name it.”

  “It certainly would do justice to a wedding reception,” she agreed. “The view of the river is lovely from all those windows . . . I still can’t believe how much we paid for that custom glass,” she added. “The floor turned out absolutely gorgeous,” she affirmed. The oak floor was so shiny that the little party lights were reflected in the shellac. “I guess it was worth all the hard work . . . and expense,” she added grudgingly.

  “’Course it was worth it,” he said.

  With less than an hour to go, we laid out the platters of cold cuts and cheese, pickles and condiments, along with fresh bread from the bakery: white and pumpernickel. There were two big bowls of punch with pink and purple ice cubes made from Kool-Aid, as well as cookies, brownies, and chips to go with it. The Never too Pooped to Polka Band would be along any minute to set up.

  I’d asked Sparrow to come straight home from school with me, so she’d be there to help us greet people as they came in. She was my best friend in Blackstone, and I wanted her to feel like part of the family, not just another invited guest. Naturally, we’d invited Anna and Timmy, Mr. Wind, and even Grandpa Gorski. As predicted, Sparrow’s father made some excuse. Anna said that Timmy wanted to come, but she didn’t know if he could handle all the excitement. He was such a shy, nervous boy. Mom said they were welcome to slip in after the party started if that’d be more comfortable for him. I secretly hoped they wouldn’t show up. I had serious misgivings about mixing Schimschacks with some of those guests, and wondered if Anna was oblivious to the gossip. I pictured poor Timmy, awkwardly hiding behind his mother. And what about Anna? Was she capable of cleaning herself up and turning out looking halfway decent? They sure would make it hard for Sparrow to blend in.

  “I’ve never seen so many balloons in my life.” Sparrow broke through my anxious thoughts. “Your folks sure went all out.” She flashed me a chiding, knowing look. She must be right, I thought. Whatever disappointment my father may have felt about my gender was long over.

  “I almost forgot. Look what came in the mail just now,” I said, displaying the little R.S.V.P. card I’d picked up on my way from the school bus. I handed it to my mother.

  “Amanda Jane Richards will be honored to attend with her parents,” she read aloud, “Dr. and Mrs. Richards.”

  “She finally caved in!” I gloated.

  “Now all twenty-two girls are coming, and some are bringing a guest,” Mom said. “If all the parents decide to stay, I hope we’ll have enough food.”

  “Nonsense! We’ve got enough in the kitchen to feed a small army. The more the merrier! It’ll be a family affair.” Dad was bubbling like a root beer float. “Say, did you bring in all the mail?” he asked me.

  “Ya, Dad . . . this is all there was. Why?” I saw his effervescence fizzle out.

  “Hmm . . . oh, nothing,” he insisted. “Just checking.” I was a little suspicious but let it go and changed the subject.

  “Can me and Sparrow see the cake?”

  “Ya, it’s in the kitchen—look, but don’t touch it,” Mom warned. “We plan to start with a light buffet supper before the dancing and then carry the cake out later, all lit up.”

  Sparrow and I trotted off excitedly to the big stainless steel kitchen. I stopped short at the sight of an enormous three-tiered cake, each section ringed with pink frosting roses and little green leaves. Eleven white candles were arranged on top. It looked like a wedding cake. All it needed was a plastic bride and groom.

  “What’s wrong?” Sparrow whispered. “Don’cha like it?”

  “Huh?”

  “You just went all dark and quiet.”

  Truth was, the cake struck me as ridiculously extravagant, and as I stood there feeling guilty, the thought of a baby brother who didn’t even get a cake with two candles snuck up and bit me in the behind. “It’s just that I’m worried about all the money they’ve spent,” I said, which was no lie.

  “Well, you’d better quit your worrying and paste a smile on your face, ’cause your folks are throwing you one helluva party.”

  I smiled at her backwoods wisdom. “You always know just what to say. Come on.”
I took her hand. “Let’s go wash up and get dressed.”

  “DO I LOOK okay?” she asked, smoothing her dress in my mother’s full-length mirror. It was simple but elegant, a deep blue velvet with a drop waist and a square white linen collar. She’d left it with us earlier in the week so she could change at my house just before the party. It was obviously secondhand because when she left it off, the velvet had what looked like white cat hair stuck to it. My mother secretly had it dry-cleaned, so it was good as new.

  “It’s beautiful—that color is great on you,” I said.

  I was still in my puffy white lace slip, almost afraid to don the party gown that Dad had insisted upon. It wasn’t even a child’s dress, but rather part of the Junior Miss collection from Fancy Nancy’s. Most girls my age would’ve been too small for that size, but I was tall and more filled out than the others. It was made of satin, the color of a dusty rose that brought out the pink in my cheeks. The style was very grown up with a low, sweetheart neckline and short puffy sleeves in sheer chiffon. It had a narrow waistline that tied in the back with a gorgeous bow, and the luscious full skirt swooshed gracefully a little below the knees. The day we bought it, I was swept off my feet, as much by my father’s effusive attention as by the dress. If Mom had any reservations, she’d held her peace; she threw in the towel and surrendered to Fancy Nancy.

  Sparrow zipped me up. I turned to look at myself in the mirror and suddenly felt absurd. Girls my age were still in short skirts. This dress seemed more suited to a debutant of sweet sixteen than a girl just turning eleven.

  Oh no . . . I look like a child playing dress-up.Memories of Kitty and our magical journeys in the attic fluttered through my mind like gentle snowflakes. Today was my first birthday in seven years without her. And the first birthday of my life without Tante Gudy. At that moment I would have gladly given up the dress, the entire silly wardrobe—anything to turn back the hands of time and go home. I wished I could close my eyes and click my new patent leather heels like Dorothy.

  “Holy smokes,” Sparrow said, looking me over.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked in alarm.

  “You look beautiful, is all . . . like a bridesmaid.”

  “But I’m too young to be a bridesmaid—it’s too much,” I said, beginning to panic. “My father . . .”

  “Naw, it’s not too much. Told ya he was crazy about you,” she added.

  “I guess so,” I answered, rolling my eyes, although I was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t just plain crazy.

  I WAS NEVER an anxious child, but when I saw the first half-dozen cars roll up from the windows of the chalet, I started getting jittery. Children with gift-wrapped boxes were advancing toward the door, and it dawned on me that I was about to receive more than twenty-two presents. I’d counted on Sparrow to stand beside me and greet the guests, but as soon as she saw them, she went uncharacteristically weak at the knees.

  “Sorry, Cassy,” she whispered, “I just can’t do it. I can’t stand up here on display. I’ll go serve punch or something.”

  “Please don’t bail out on me,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Look at them all—I’m scared to death.”

  “Can’t say as I blame you. I’d rather face that old bear than those girls . . . and their mothers,” she added pointedly, then skedaddled off and hid behind the buffet table.

  I didn’t have time to go after her. The doors were thrown open and I was rushed by a crush of girls, brimming with smiles and squeals of excitement as they offered their happy birthdays. Mom was in her element; as I introduced each guest and greeted the parents, she knew just what to say to make everyone feel welcome.

  My dress was getting rave reviews. Naturally, all the girls were decked out in their finest, but as Amanda Jane moved closer up the line, I could see it in her eyes: I was wearing the most beautiful party dress any girl in Blackstone had ever seen.

  Amanda’s mother was stunning, tall and slender with the same auburn hair in a daringly short fashionable cut with curls piled high on top. She really pulled it off in a form-fitting Kelly green dress and a double strand of pearls, undoubtedly real. Dr. Richards wore a dark suit, and the pair made quite an entrance with their pretty daughter. Now I could see where Amanda got her sense of superiority. My stomach tightened as she drew near looking lovely in an age-appropriate dress of ruffles and lace, in Kelly green to coordinate with her mother. It brought out the flecks of green in her eyes; as she surreptitiously studied every detail of my gown, I thought her eyes turned a shade greener.

  “Happy birthday,” she effused, when we were face to face. “You look just gorgeous.” She delivered her verdict. Before I could respond in kind she added with a blithe smile, “I almost didn’t recognize you,” then followed the other girls to the buffet table.

  The Never too Pooped were set up under their spotlights. I’d seen plenty of polka bands, and this was no amateur group. The six middle-aged men wore outfits of matching lederhosen with white shirts, red bowties, and knee socks. They had two accordion players, a clarinet, a trumpet, and a tuba player. The tuba player was a stout man with a round belly and white pork-chop whiskers. The percussionist had a snare drum, and a whole host of doodads for sound effects—all the bells and whistles. There was even a little flashing red-and-blue light, like the ones on a fire truck. Polka bands often used the lights during party games and fast dances—schnell polka—to really liven up the atmosphere.

  My father was the quintessential host with the most as he greeted each man, woman, and child. The beautifully appointed chalet stole the show, drawing forth gushes of oohs and ahhs from ladies and their daughters, while the men made their feelings known with handshakes and hearty congratulations on the business venture. I’m not saying that Dad didn’t care about me, but by then it was clear: my birthday was a cover story, an excuse to show off, and I was an accessory to the party. I didn’t mind. In fact, I felt relieved not to be the epicenter of all this attention—or responsible for the small fortune he’d spent.

  After all the guests had arrived, Dad stepped over to the microphone and thanked them for coming, then introduced the band to a round of applause. I’m not sure if he’d ever spoken on a sound system before, but he turned out to be quite a showman. My father invited everyone to refreshments before the dancing started, drawing laughs by saying they should all stoke up on plenty of food, so they wouldn’t be too pooped to polka. The band played a mellow waltz while people lined up at the buffet table.

  There’s nothing like polka music to get you on your feet. At the sound of that one-two-three beat, the roomful of Wisconsinites were called to attention like warhorses to the drums. Next thing you know, we were bouncing up and down like a herd of kangaroos—you couldn’t sit still if you wanted to. The two accordion players made a robust sound and played a wide array of music, everything from lovely melodies to raucous dance tunes. There weren’t enough boys to go around, but that didn’t matter. It was the custom for girls and women to dance in couples—we did just fine without the boys. We danced the hopscotch polkaand the hoop-de-doo. When they sang the “Beer Barrel Polka,” everyone joined in the chorus of “roll out the barrel.” The portly gentleman who played the tuba laid aside his instrument and sang out in a rich baritone, “In heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here,” delighting all the guests. Later, when the band started in on the “Too FatPolka,” my father surprised and charmed everyone by singing the opening lines. His voice was rich and smooth, reminiscent of Perry Como. I didn’t even know he could sing on key. Everyone who wasn’t dancing started clapping while Mom and I made surprised eyes at each other.

  Before we brought out the cake, the band-leader announced there would be polka relay races for the children. When he held up the tantalizing trophy with the shiny little dance couple on top, the girls’ high-pitched squeals were deafening. We picked our dance partners, then counted off by twos and divided into teams. Each couple had to dance their way from one end of the hall to the other, whirling round and r
ound in strict polka formation to a chair with a balloon on it. Then one would sit and try to pop it. It had to pop before the next couple on that team could start, and whichever team finished first would be the winner. He also had a stopwatch to time each couple: the fastest would get the trophy.

  The game was exciting to play and hilarious to watch. As the kids danced to the finish, they spun so fast that they staggered like drunks by the time they reached the chair. Popping a balloon with your keister is hard enough—half the time you roll off the top or else the balloon shoots out from between your legs, then you have to chase it and try again, losing precious seconds. As we raced, the siren whooped, and they blew a foghorn each time a balloon popped.

  Lucy and Billy were small, but fleet. Little Billy hopped up and sat with such gusto that he popped the balloon on the first try, but tumbled onto the floor. Everyone howled with laughter as he sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box and took a bow, grinning from ear to ear. The band’s merry light flashed, splattering red and blue on the walls and on the happy faces of the dancers.

  The carnival atmosphere had us giddy with excitement. Our team was in the lead. Sparrow and I were up next, and she was determined to win. We were matched in height but she was far stronger. When the horn blew, it was all I could do to hang on tight as she led with a will toward the prize. My feet hardly touched the floor as she whirled me around and bounced me up and down like a carrousel pony gone wild. The band played faster and the siren blared and the red-and-blue lights dazzled my eyes. I was struggling to get my heinie over the balloon without falling down, when something felt awfully queer. Everything was still spinning around, but the music had stopped. Some couples were dancing, while others stood on the floor looking flustered and confused. The voices were loud, but no longer happy. I searched the crowd for my mother but was too dizzy to find her in the sea of swimming faces.