Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “What’s that got to do with anything? Is she even still living?”

  “As far as I know. They send word every year, and I expect they’ll notify next of kin when she passes. Anyhow, Hester spread it around the whole school that she was in the state funny farm . . . same place I was going. She was always pointing out that scar on my head, telling everybody it proved I was ‘cracked.’ As if that weren’t bad enough, later on she convinced half the town that my mother wasn’t really dead—she was locked up in the nuthouse too.”

  “That’s reprehensible. It’s not true, is it?”

  “No. Mother was dead and gone. I declare, I hated those Hatchets. I don’t know what makes ’em so cruel. I think they’re the ones who’re cracked.”

  “So, what happened to Henry Hatchet? Did he go to jail?”

  “No. His father managed to fix it so it looked like the doc made a mistake with his tests. Henry signed up and went to war, but he never came home. MIA.”

  “That certainly explains why they have it in for us. George Parsons, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me this before? I feel like I’ve been married to a stranger all these years.” My father didn’t answer. “We have to get a lawyer . . . we have to fight it.”

  “We can’t afford a lawyer. We’re down to the wire. There’s enough to get by for a month and make the first payment on the mortgage. I was counting on some income before the end of November.”

  “What about the cabins?” Mom asked. “They aren’t up yet. Can you get some of the money back?”

  “There’s nothing to get back. They weren’t paid in full because they weren’t finished. In fact, I may owe the cement company some money.”

  “That’s it then. We’re ruined. We’ll have to go back home. I guess there’re other insurance companies in town—you’ll find a new job. We’ll start over. Maybe we can rent our old place next year, when the tenant’s lease is up.”

  “No matter what happens, I’m not crawling back to Gudrun with my tail between my legs . . . and I’m not giving up yet. Maybe we can work something out with the Chippewa Nation, or the Lake Superior Tribe, or whoever has the say-so. If it really is their land, maybe they’ll let us buy back the few lousy acres.”

  “We haven’t got much time. If this thing goes to court, it’ll hardly matter who wins. The bank will foreclose before the year is out.”

  29

  I DIDN’T HAVE to resort to the elaborate lie about lost scissors. My parents were so engrossed that they forgot all about me, and I managed to slip across the yard unnoticed. I got a sharp fork from the kitchen and made short work of all the balloons I could reach. Some of them hadn’t come down from the rafters. The loud pops were cathartic as they echoed through the vast empty room.

  Sparrow. I paused my balloon busting and looked out the windows at the flowing river, suddenly reliving the moment when she was practically thrown off the premises. I’d been too busy wallowing in self-pity to think about how terrible she must’ve felt. How could I have been so selfish? My mother and I must’ve had synchronized thoughts, because I saw her trotting across the gravel driveway with anguish on her brow. I opened the door for her.

  “Mom . . .”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I snapped at that poor child. We’ve got to drive over to the Schimschacks’ . . . I hope I can make it right again.”

  “I know what would help: let’s bring them some cake.”

  “Oh, you poor kid . . . you didn’t even get a birthday cake. This was the worst birthday ever.”

  “Never mind that now. Let’s bring the whole top layer. I’ll take the candles off.”

  “I’ll get my covered cake plate.”

  MRS. MOORE WAS right. It’s in the darkest of times that we find our true friends, the ones worth having. Anna Schimschack received us with understanding and grace. Sparrow had been so hurt that she hid in the goat shed when she saw us drive up but came out after a while and accepted the apology. She even allowed my mother to hug her. We served up the cake and washed it down with goat milk. Timmy ate three pieces.

  There’s nothing like a belly full of cake to put things into perspective. “Mom, there’s no getting around it,” I announced. “I can’t waltz into school Monday and act like nothing happened.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For starters, could you bring the rest of the cake to the cafeteria at our lunch period? The other two sections should be enough for the whole sixth grade.”

  “I’ll have to ask your principal, but otherwise, I don’t see why not.”

  “While they’re eating cake, I’ll just come out and tell the truth—part of it, anyway. I’ll explain that a mistake was made a long time ago, and a few acres of the land might belong to the Indians . . . and my dad is trying to work it out with them, so we’ll be back in business soon. Then I’ll go on as if I’m not even bothered.”

  “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mom declared. “The last thing we want to do is give those Hatchets the satisfaction of knowing they’ve got us chasing our tails.”

  “Horace Junior ain’t gonna make that easy,” Sparrow interjected. “And I expect Ol’ Hatchet Face to be at her ugliest. Thank God, I’m not in her class.”

  “I’m just not gonna let them get to me . . . but I’ll need your help to pull it off.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “If anyone asks what’s going on, say you don’t know any more about it than what I already told them. Even more important, if Horace or anyone else taunts me or says something nasty, just ignore them.”

  The strategy worked, for the most part. Predictably, Amanda Jane was so puffed up with contempt that it’s a wonder she didn’t blow up like the Hindenburg. Caroline Rose walked beside her in lockstep, but the rest weren’t so sure. I think they’d grown to like me, party or no.

  Lucy and Billy turned out to be true pals. When my mother came to school with the cake, she apologized to the guests and offered to bring back the unopened gifts. Lucy and Billy were the first to speak up and insist that I keep them. The other girls followed their example.

  Sparrow was right about the Hatchets; Ol’ Hatchet Face took every chance she got to smirk at me with an expression of smug satisfaction on her ugly mug. Horace the Horrible took it a step further.

  “Hey Parsons,” he said, edging up behind me in the hall after dismissal on Monday. “How long before they put your raggedy ass out on the street?” I ignored him.

  FORTUNATELY, CHILDREN HAVE short memories. Only a week into October, they appeared to have tired of talking about the birthday party fire-drill at the Parsons’. There were more exciting things going on in town. Halloween was only three weeks away, and the Iron County Fair would be held over Columbus Day weekend.

  I’d gone with my aunt and parents to the big Wisconsin State Fairs, but this would be my first small county fair. Now I could better appreciate all the work that went into raising and keeping livestock—and for the first time, I’d get to be more than a spectator. Sparrow would show her Nubian doe, as well as some of her grandfather’s Toggenburgs. I’d help feed and groom the goats; best of all, I’d get to try my hand in the show-ring with one of the yearling does.

  As usual, Timmy would display his Angora bunnies. Anna asked me privately if I could sit with him at his booth for a while, so she’d get a chance to walk around with Sparrow and enjoy the fair. In previous years, she couldn’t leave his side. Outside of his home environment, Timmy was as frightened and helpless as a three year old.

  Columbus Day weekend we had crisp, autumn weather with a crystal blue sky, the bluest I’d ever seen. Dad said it was because that far north there was almost no pollution and the air was very dry. The sun shone brightly, but was already getting stingy with the heat. In the morning, I was layered in sweaters under my wool jacket, until it finally warmed up enough to peel off one sweater.

  There was a good crowd. Practically everyone in Blackstone turned out, a
long with most of Iron County. City folks came from Duluth—you could tell by their clothes and by the way the children tried to pet the farm animals as if they were doggies. I heard people down from Canada, speaking French Canadian.

  Miss Summers came with two teachers I recognized from the lower grades, all young unmarried women. Mr. and Mrs. Moore arrived with their daughter and son-in-law, and two grandchildren. They greeted us warmly and made a point of admiring Sparrow’s goats. My parents planned to watch Sparrow and me in the ring and then visit Timmy, but didn’t intend to stay all day. I didn’t mind; I could stay until closing and ride home with Sparrow’s dad.

  White canvas tents for the various exhibits were spread over the fairgrounds. There was a section where you could buy treats, like fried dough and candy apples, and play carnival games like ring-toss. Some of the tents were set up for baked goods and produce, as well as home crafts like knitting and sewing. There were separate livestock tents to show horses and cattle, sheep, pigs, and goats, and poultry of all kinds. The air was filled with a cacophony of excited animals. Cattle were lowing in distress and nervous goats bawled like babies. I never heard so many roosters crowing at once. In contrast, Timmy’s booth in the tent for the rabbits and guinea pigs was quiet, and he looked relatively calm and happy sitting with his mother.

  Sparrow and I got to go look around for an hour while her dad stayed with their goats. We zipped through the fairgrounds to check out each tent and settled on watching a horse show. “That’s what I want, more than anything in the world,” Sparrow said quietly, as the young riders trotted in a circle. I had no idea that she was interested in horses. Then it occurred to me that I’d never heard her wish for anything.

  “Really? Then we should figure out a way for you to get one,” I said determinedly. “Maybe you could keep a horse at your father’s house . . . they have the room.”

  “Even if I could somehow earn enough money to get a horse, I’d have to live there to take care of it morning and evening.”

  I was dying to ask if she ever thought of living with her dad. He certainly had a much nicer house—it had plumbing. Perhaps her Grandpa Wind was against it? But that wasn’t the moment to bring it up, so I didn’t.

  When we got back to the dairy goat tent, the man in charge had set up an impromptu milking demonstration. He waved at Sparrow and called her to the stanchion, where a big white Saanen doe with a full udder waited patiently. “I got stuff to do—you go on,” she said, giving me a playful shove.

  I felt like a big shot as I strode front and center to display my recently acquired expertise. A group of townie kids in clean clothes gathered round as I explained the procedure, curling my fingers around the teat, pushing up gently on the udder to fill it, and working my fingers from index to pinky to milk out. The doe placidly chewed her cud and let down her milk like a good goat should, producing a steady, rhythmic stream that hit the pail with a one-two beat. It’s a sound I’d come to appreciate—a small miracle, music to a farmer’s ear. Then a few of the children lined up to give it a try. It’s trickier than it looks until you get the hang of it—usually nothing comes out the first time. One little boy managed to squirt milk down his pants leg. I fielded questions, everything from how many gallons she produced per day, to why goats only had two teats when cows had four. I had no idea. “I guess that’s just the way God made them,”I said, as good an answer as any. I even managed to keep a straight face when a well-dressed lady with a New York accent asked, “How do you get her to make cheese?”

  They began the dairy goat show with yearling does that had never been bred. I led the way with Jane—the twin of the young doe who was killed by the bear. It was bittersweet when she took second place, because her sister had been just as fine, and it seemed a terrible waste. When they called for mature does in milk, Sparrow was first in line with Olga. The spectators murmured in admiration as she paraded the goat around the ring, with Olga’s full, heavy udder swaying and her proud head held high on a strong, slender neck. Sparrow had practiced this maneuver for hours and handled the goat with ease, guiding her gently with a lead. Olga followed her signals eagerly, having been trained to nibbles of sweet-feed. Sparrow’s long graceful strides were just right for the goat, and they moved as one. She took first place in showmanship, and Olga, once again, walked away with the best-in-show rosette.

  When it came time for me to babysit Timmy, I was glad for the chance to sit and relax. The Angora rabbits were a big hit. They didn’t show them in a ring like goats; rather, the judges came around and examined each in turn on a table. Timmy had already won a fistful of ribbons for various categories and had a lot to tell me. But when strangers came to express admiration, he became so shy that he couldn’t look them in the face. If anyone questioned him, Timmy grew flustered to the point where he could hardly speak. The most frequent inquiry was whether any of the rabbits were available for purchase. I tried to convince him to sell a young bunny to an adorable little girl. Her father offered to pay five whole dollars for baby Joe-Joe, a sweet-tempered, golden blond ball of fluff that matched the child’s hair. Timmy steadfastly refused; beads of sweat broke out on his chubby face, despite the cool temperature. He looked so pained I was afraid he was going to be sick. I got the bright idea to make a sign for his booth with a black magic marker and a scrap of cardboard: Sorry, these rabbits are not for sale.

  That simple gesture afforded him much relief. When a lady came over and asked how he kept the rabbits brushed out so nicely, he was able to answer and even demonstrate the process. I took the opportunity to walk to the end of the tent and look out at the crowd, hoping to see Anna returning. I was rested and ready to go off with Sparrow again. Besides, I still had three dollars left for carnival games and fried dough, burning a hole in my pocket.

  “Noooo! Read the sign,” Timmy’s unmistakable whiny voice cried out behind me. I whirled around in time to see Horace Hatchet, holding up Snowy by the scruff of her neck and examining her like a piece of meat.

  “This oughta make a nice stew and a fur hat, too,” he said wickedly. “I’ll give you three bucks.”

  I charged back down the aisle like an angry momma bear. “Put ’er down, Horace!”

  “Ooh, whose gonna make me, girly?”

  “Cousin Cassandra, make ’im stop!” Timmy wailed piteously.

  “That’s enough, Junior,” a man’s voice said with a chuckle. It was Horace Senior.

  Horace plopped the rabbit back on the table, but continued to torment Timmy. “How about you sell me them two black ones, so I can make a set of slippers—ha.”

  “How about you shove off, Horace,” Sparrow’s voice came from behind me, “before I bust your nose.”

  “How dare you threaten to assault my son,” Mr. Hatchet said. “Is this the Indian girl you told me about?” he asked his namesake.

  “Yes sir, Daddy,” he said with a sickening smile.

  Horace Senior was about to say something to Sparrow, but suddenly stopped with his finger raised in the air and his mouth half-open.

  “Is there a problem here, Hatchet?” John Wind’s hard black eyes seemed to pin the Hatchets to an invisible wall. Anna and my parents stood staunchly behind him. Horace Senior collected himself and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder as if to steer him from the tent, but none of us budged. They had to backtrack and go around a row of tables in order to leave. Once they were clear of our posse, Junior turned and flashed a sinister smile, as if he were about to snipe. The family resemblance to his aunt was nauseating. John Wind fixed his steely eye upon him and subtly shifted his weight, and the kid thought the better of it.

  “What is wrong with those people?” Anna asked in disgust.

  “I don’t know . . . but that’s a bad one,” Mr. Wind said.

  “Which one?” Mom asked.

  “Both of them . . . but I meant the boy. He’s even more full of hate than the father. Rotten to the core. He’ll come to no good before long.”

  30

  I REMEMBER
HALLOWEEN as the best time of the year, almost better than Christmas. We’d get a break from the humdrum of daily lessons to make paper cutout decorations for the school party and sing Halloween songs to the accompaniment of a phonograph record. The PTA sent home notes to coordinate the homemade treats; on the big day, all but the poorest kids came to school laden with trays of pumpkin-shaped cookies and devil’s food cupcakes with orange frosting and candy-corn faces. For some children, our school parties might be the only time they sampled such delicacies. When we lined up at the buffet table, they would eye our offerings with a mixture of longing and envy, edged with bitter resentment. They had long arms and sharp elbows and a way of reaching around to snatch the last cookie with the swift precision of a cobra strike. When it came time to line up for the goodies, you didn’t want to be next to a backwoods kid if you could help it.

  As October thirty-first drew near, I was glad to be caught up in the Halloween spirit. I didn’t question my parents anymore about things I couldn’t control. I’d even given up eavesdropping, at least for the foreseeable future. All I knew was that my father was away most of the time, either at the town hall or the library, preparing for his court appearance.

  He poured over archived records of the big logging companies. He studied the history of the Lake Superior Tribe and the Stony River Band, and puzzled over the meaning of various treaties that granted specific hunting and fishing rights outside the reservation. The town hall closed at five o’clock sharp and the library at six, but he often didn’t come home until eight or nine. Then he’d sink deep into a smelly old armchair with a tall glass, silent as a log, because he didn’t bother with the ice cubes. He didn’t even turn on the TV.