Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “Cassy,” Sparrow said in my ear as she pulled me to my feet and held me steady. Someone flipped the switch to the overhead lamps, filling the room with cold white light that drowned out the party lanterns. But the red-and-blue lights were still flashing.

  Then I saw that it wasn’t coming from the stage. There were two police cars and a fire truck parked outside; their emergency lights flashed a warning through the large plate-glass windows.

  “What’s going on?” I asked in alarm. “Dad?” I teetered as I walked toward the doorway where my father stood, surrounded by four uniformed officers and a fire marshal. Mom stood by his side, ashen pale. I rushed over and clasped her hand.

  The adult guests were grabbing for their coats and gathering up their children as they headed for the door like a herd of frightened sheep. There was a rumble of anxious murmuring: What’s going on? Is it a fire? Is there another way out, a backdoor?

  “May I have your attention, please. Do not panic. You are not in danger,” the fire marshal announced through his bullhorn. Bullhorns are not generally known for their ability to instill calm. The murmuring swelled to a dull roar.

  “I demand to know the meaning of this!” a man shouted. It was Dr. Richards.

  “This is a commercial building, and has not been issued an occupancy permit as such,” an officer spoke out; he didn’t even need the bullhorn. “As a matter of public safety, it is unlawful to conduct business without an occupancy permit.” The Never Too Pooped started packing up their instruments.

  “Now see here,” my father interrupted, then turned and addressed the crowd. “My contractor filled out all the proper building permits, and the place is up to code. I filed the application for the occupancy permit and paid all the fees. The building was constructed to hold two hundred patrons. You know it, because you inspected it yourself last week.” He turned to the fire marshal. “That permit should’ve have come in the mail long before now. Besides, there are less than a hundred people here . . . and they’re all invited guests, not paying patrons. I’m not conducting business . . . I’m throwing a goddamned birthday party!” he shouted at the officer, loud enough to be heard over the chattering children and grumbling adults.

  “Mr. Parsons, I suggest you calm down and step aside so these people can egress. One more outburst like that and I could arrest you for violating codes and disorderly conduct.”

  I would’ve run away in mortification, but there was nowhere to go. Half the guests were filing out the back door, while the rest shuffled past us, most of them without saying goodbye. The band had located and slipped out the service exit behind the kitchen.

  Then I felt a small hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Lucy looking up at me with her tea-saucer eyes. Billy was beside her, hugging the polka-race trophy and beaming with pride. “We won!” she said, smiling. “Me and Billy are going to share it, one week at his house and the next at mine.” He nodded vigorously. “Happy birthday, Cassandra,” she said, then skipped to the door where her mother beckoned. They were the last ones out. Just before Lucy left she turned her head and spouted, “And thank you for a lovely time.” I buried my face in my mother’s shoulder and sobbed wretchedly.

  “You didn’t receive the permit because there’s a problem with the land use,” the fire marshal said, handing my father an envelope.

  “Land use?” he queried.

  “It’s not entirely yours to use.”

  “Says who?” my father demanded. I’d been only half-listening, but now they had my full attention.

  “According to the city commissioner.”

  “Horace Hatchet?That’s a crock ’o . . .” My father checked himself. “Listen. I don’t know what he’s trying to pull, but this land has belonged to the Parsons for three generations. The original deed is on record at town hall.”

  “The original deed is what’s being contested,” the officer elaborated. “That’s why Commissioner Hatchet had to hold the permit. You’ve been summoned to court.” He handed him a manila envelope.

  “By whom?” My mother spoke up at last.

  My father read from the document he had opened. “By a representative of the Chippewa Nation, on behalf of the Stony River Band of the Lake Superior Tribe . . .” He paused and looked hard at my mother. “The lawsuit was initiated by John Wind.”

  For a moment the words hung meaningless in the air, then dropped like tiny missiles to penetrate my skull.

  “They can’t get away with this . . . I’ll sue them for damages,” my father shouted, his face dark with rage.

  “How could you?” my mother hissed, whirling around sharply to face Sparrow. “After all we’ve done for you . . . for your family.”

  Sparrow shook her head slowly in denial. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said evenly. “No one told me a thing.” She looked at me with sincerity. “I’m sorry,” she said, then walked past us with quiet dignity and left the chalet. Everyone else was gone. I heard her lone footsteps outside on the gravel but didn’t look out the window.

  “Just go on back to the house and change your clothes,” my father ordered. “We’ve got a lot to clean up.”

  “What about the cake?” Mom asked dejectedly. “What are we going to do with all that cake?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Dad turned on her. “Stick it in the freezer . . . chuck it in the trash, for all I care. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

  Mom herded me out the door with an arm around my shoulder. My legs were leaden as we walked the short distance to Grandpa’s house; I felt like I was wading through quicksand. It was hard to believe that only moments ago, I’d been dancing on air, but the music had definitely stopped.

  28

  “I’M GOING OVER there,” my father announced angrily the next morning. He stood by the kitchen counter with his coffee and cigarette, too rattled to sit and eat breakfast. I stared into my bowl of cornflakes gone soggy, wishing we had a dog so I could slip it under the table and get rid of it. I’d slept fitfully, waking again and again in confused disbelief to relive the horrible events of the day. I wished I could close my eyes and die in my sleep.

  “Going where?” Mom asked. “It’s Saturday. The town hall is closed. We won’t be able to find out any more about it until Monday.”

  Monday? I sickened at the thought. “I’m never going back to that school again! My life here is ruined. I can’t face those girls. And I lost my best friend.” I put my head down on the table and began to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Cassandra, but like it or not, you’re going to school,” Mom said.

  Dad ignored my outburst and countered, “I’m not talking about the town hall—I’m going over to the goddamned Indian reservation. I’ll have it out with Wind, man to man.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mom argued. “Best leave it to the law. Those people can get pretty riled up . . . they’re not like us . . . they have guns.”

  “Let ’im just try and shoot me!” he shouted as he stormed out the door.

  “IT’S TRUE.” JOHN Wind spoke calmly in the face of my father’s fury. “When we heard talk that you were coming back to rebuild the lodge, it opened old wounds. My father always claimed that our tribe was swindled, and his father was shot dead trying to prove it. The idea that the Parsons might turn a profit after all these years really stuck in his craw. He urged me to look into the original land transaction between the Stony River Band and Hatchet, incorporated.”

  “Hatchet owned it?”

  “Horace Hatchet’s great-grandfather Henry owned the logging company that purchased the land—more like stole it, at fifty cent an acre, but that’s beside the point. Isaiah Wind maintained that the boundaries were drawn up wrong—the deed threw in a couple extra acres that weren’t Hatchet’s to sell. My father was behind the challenge to your claim. He goaded me into it, but I take responsibility.”

  “This is nothing but harassment! That old dispute was settled a long time ago.”

  “Settled? M
aybe that’s what you call it. But I suppose you don’t know what really happened. It was long before our time.”

  “I knowwhat happened—everyone knows what happened. My father was there. The Indians burned down the Parsons’ cabin—flushed ’em out like rats!”

  “The Indians were unarmed. Randal shot down my grandfather in cold blood.”

  “It was self-defense. Isaiah and his men came in the night carrying torches and called him outside.”

  “Torches are for light.”

  “Are you trying to tell me the Indians dropped by for a friendly chat?They torched Randal’s home.”

  “Isaiah didn’t set no fire. Randal stuck his Smith Wesson out the window and blew his head off first.”

  “He had a right to protect his family.”

  “Maybe. But Randal wasn’t the only one got burned.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why don’t you ask your father to tell the story?”

  “I grew up hearing his side of the story,” he said with a sigh. “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Your father was only a boy, as was mine,” he began. “The logging companies had swindled my people out of much land. They used whatever means necessary: falsified documents, threats . . . the white man pretty much got away with whatever he wanted. My Grandfather Isaiah claimed that the Parsons were on a piece of land that rightfully belonged to his tribe. The matter was investigated and sure enough, due to a mistake made by the logging company’s surveyor, Randal’s plot was just over fifteen acres, but not twenty. Randal Parsons built his house on tribal land. What’s more, a treaty granted us continued hunting rights, even on private land, and we can fish anywhere we like on the river. Isaiah couldn’t get a lawyer in town to take his case, so he decided to squat. He and a band of men, woman, and children set up camp by the river, within a stone’s throw of your grandfather’s log cabin. They put up wigwams and began to hunt and spear fish. After the first wigwams went up, Randal went to the sheriff and asked him to remove the Indians.”

  “That much I know,” my father interjected. “The sheriff tried to reason with those people, but they wouldn’t listen to reason . . . they refused to budge. I heard Randal had to get a court order and have them removed by force.”

  “That’s not how it happened. The sheriff had no authority to make them leave, so Randal brought the matter before the county judge. The judge was a wise man; he knew that if the dispute became a federal matter, it would be investigated by the Office of Indian Affairs, a lengthy process that might turn out in favor of the Indians. ‘Better be patient and ignore them,’ he advised. It was late autumn; he figured as soon as the snows came, they’d give up and go home. It might’ve turned out that way . . . but Randal Parsons was not a patient man. Not long afterwards, a fire tore through Isaiah’s camp. It killed a woman and two children. One of them was my father’s only brother. The incident happened in 1909 and was recorded in our tribal history—and if you don’t believe that, the investigation that followed is a matter of public record.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say. My father never mentioned that part of the story.”

  “Like I said—ask him about it.”

  “But just because there was a fire doesn’t mean Randal was behind it.”

  “Not only Randal—the sheriff and a posse of local men were in on it. Everyone was asleep, but my father heard them coming and went out to look.”

  “Your father was only a child. He must’ve been terrified—he might’ve imagined it.”

  “It was dark, but he saw them. He went back inside a burning wigwam to rescue his brother, but it was too late. A piece of flaming bark fell on his back and burned away most of the skin. But the worst scars are on his insides.”

  “So you’re convinced that Randal Parsons stole your land and got away with murder. Now you want revenge.”

  “Our claim wasn’t about vengeance. It was about justice. I saw the original deeds and survey map . . . I think it’s a legitimate claim. But the Indians weren’t the only ones who were cheated. Don’t get me wrong—I think Randal Parsons shoulda hanged for what he done. But he purchased the acreage from the logging company in good faith. In any case, four people lost their lives over a few acres. After I saw the friendship between our daughters, I persuaded my father to let the dead stay buried. For their sake, the Stony River Band withdrew the claim; but somehow, it came to the attention of the Lake Superior Tribe. The young people in the tribe want justice. They brought it to the Chippewa Nation, and it’s gone to the Federal Office of Indian Affairs. It’s out of our hands.”

  “If your band withdrew that lawsuit, how did anyone find out about it? How did it go all the way up to the feds?” my father asked.

  “You’ll have to ask your own people.”

  “My people?”

  “Someone in town must hold a grudge against you. Someone with the access to the paperwork made it known to our greater tribal government, but he was no Indian.”

  “Hatchet,” my father spat out. “He sold me down the river. Those people have got to be the most evil, vindictive scoundrels in all of Wisconsin.”

  “HE BURNED DOWN their wigwams?”I was aghast as my father reiterated the story. A few hours ago he’d left the house full of spitfire, but he didn’t seem so sure anymore.

  “I didn’t know anything about the fire. I just confronted my father—he claims it was an accident. There was an investigation, but no charges were filed, and the case was closed. Randall denied setting the fire,” he said emphatically. “Until the day he died, he swore he had nothing to do with the blaze that tore through that Indian camp. But what if he wasn’t telling the truth? What if everything we have is built on a lie . . . and paid for in blood?”

  “It makes me sick,” Mom cried. “Whether or not Randal set that fire, the Indians sure believe he did. This whole mess is your father’s fault. He knew this old feud might come back to haunt him someday, yet he let you spend all that money . . . all my money . . . my father’s life savings!” She asserted her rights for the first time.

  “It ain’t Daddy’s fault,” he told her. “Horace Hatchet is behind it all. John told me that he withdrew the claim on behalf of the Stony River Band, and I believe him. Hatchet passed the information on up the chain until it got in front of the Chippewa Nation. The Indians are filing claims all over the country. Some of ’em are getting restitution for things that happened seventy-five years ago or more—which isn’t to say they shouldn’t.”

  “I still say your father’s to blame. He should’ve told you the truth. Would you have built on the land if you knew?”

  “Not without hiring an attorney to ensure clear title,” he admitted.

  “What I want to know is—how could it possibly benefit Horace if we can’t do business? What does he have against you?” she demanded to know.

  “It’s an old rift.” Dad responded to her anger with surprising calm. “I never thought it’d come up again. Maybe it wouldn’t have if I hadn’t managed to piss off the Hatchets, stepped in between his son and Timmy . . . not to mention standing up for my sister-in-law’s girl against Hester. They’re touchy people. I guess it opened old wounds.” Dad looked thoughtful. “But I was just as right then as I am now,” he added stubbornly.

  “I can understand your protecting Timmy, but what happened in the first place? Horace Hatchet didn’t set out to ruin us financially for that,” my mother insisted. “George Parsons, whatever it is you haven’t told me, you’d best do it now.”

  “Cassandra,” my father suddenly addressed me, “why don’t you go over to the chalet and, uh . . . pick up balloons.”

  “Balloons? My life is going down the toilet, and you want me to collect balloons?”

  “You’re darned tootin’. Go start cleaning up.” He slammed his coffee mug down so hard my heart skipped, then glowered at me from his full height. “You’re getting awfully big for your britches, young lady, back talking like that. I think you’re
getting pretty spoiled.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Mom jumped to her feet and confronted him, ignoring me.

  “I’m sorry,” I interjected. “I’ll go clean up.” I started for the door.

  “Cassandra, get your jacket—the heavy one,” Mom instructed.

  “But I’m only going across . . .”

  “It’s thirty-five degrees out there this morning—not even October and it’s already damned winter,” she groused. “You’ll catch cold.”

  “Quit arguing with your mother,” Dad snapped.

  I scurried off to my room and grabbed the jacket we’d just got at Baker’s. It was a thick woolen plaid with a quilted lining, for weekends and play. Today was the first day chilly enough to wear it, and I still had to remove the tags. I went to the bathroom for a pair of scissors. Then I got an idea. I took the scissors from the little drawer by the sink and stashed them in my room, then crept down the hall to listen in on my parents like days of old. I hid around the doorway, fully prepared with a story about searching for the lost scissors to cut the tags from my jacket if I got caught. Otherwise, I’d go outside through my bedroom door and never let on that I was there.

  “Horace Senior was only sixteen at the time, so he missed the draft—but Henry Hatchet did not have a pancreatic condition.” I came in on the middle of my father’s story. “He was nothin’ but a lousy draft dodger, a coward. His father bribed the doctor; it was that old witch doctor who stitched up my head. The sadist. I would’ve been happy to take him down, too.”

  “But how did you find out about Henry?” Mom wanted to know.

  “Just before a bunch of us shipped out, we were having a kegger in the woods. Stupid kid got drunk as a skunk and blabbed, bragging about it.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to blow the whistle? It was rotten, for sure, but why did you stick your nose in their business?”

  “You don’t know what they were like. Henry Hatchet the First made his money in lumber—Horace inherited most of it. Even growing up in the depression, those kids had everything. I was ragged and dirty . . . hungry most of the time. Horace and Henry taunted me mercilessly all through school—Hester was even worse. Uh, you know about what happened to my Aunt Greta?”