Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “After scarcely a full day of quiet mourning, Oddfrid found himself plunged deep into the labor of farming, work he hadn’t done since he was a boy. Far more was expected of him now. To make matters worse, Gunnlagur had suddenly cast off his mantle of docility and emerged as a demanding taskmaster, even surpassing Sjurd. He worked his young brother hard, much harder than he would’ve driven a hired man. Although Oddfrid’s hands were calloused, his back and arms ached under heavy loads of hay and peat. Once, for the entire day, his feet were soaked through with icy water, because he had to get out and push the hand wagon when it got stuck over a small stream.

  “Nonetheless, Oddfrid had learned his lesson and would never curse again: he held his tongue and carefully guarded his very thoughts. To avoid temptation, he blessed Gunnlagur when bent over double under a load of peat for the winter sheep shed. He didn’t even mutter an oath when he slipped on the muddy hillside, and his knees were sopping with wet manure. As the howling wind blew sleet down his collar and into his ears, Oddfrid recited the Lord’s Prayer, and he blessed Gunnlagur, blessed him with all his heart.

  “Two winters had passed since Sjurd’s untimely death, and Oddfrid was ready to do anything to get out of farming. He was considering whether to ask Gunnlagur if he might travel to Bergen in search of a job. Oddfrid hadn’t become a master craftsman, but he had solid skills in working leather. He imagined it would be possible to find a place as a journeyman, repairing harness and tack. In the city, he expected he could support himself and even send some money home to help hire a man. He supposed he might at least get a position with a shoemaker, or find work as a cobbler; but things didn’t go as he supposed.

  “In the early spring of that same year, a deadly influenza swept the village, taking Gunnlagur with it. Due to this second calamity, the family farm, the once coveted inheritance, fell entirely to Oddfrid.

  “He was miserable. Though his stomach was full and his bed by the fire just as warm as ever, Oddfrid lay awake and wept, wept for Gunnlagur and for his poor mother; but he shed far more bitter tears of regret for cursing Sjurd. He could never forgive himself such a terrible sin.”

  “WELL, WHAT DO you think of it so far?” Tante Gudy asked.

  “It’s amazing. But don’t stop there—I want to know what happens next.”

  “I’m sorry, Cassandra, I’m still working on it,” she said, carefully arranging the handwritten manuscript papers and laying them in a photograph box. “I can’t read it aloud until I get the words just right.”

  “Oh. But Tante, how did you come to know all that when you weren’t born yet?” I asked curiously. “You even wrote down their thoughts and prayers.”

  “I put it together from bits and pieces . . . I may have embellished a little. Actually, Mama told me most of the events in the story, and my uncle wrote to me a great deal as I grew up. Papa never spoke much, not until his old age. He certainly wasn’t one to talk about himself or his feelings, but he finally admitted it: ‘After a time, I got to tinking dat maybe der leather workshop wasn’t so bad.’ ”

  “You sounded just like Morfar.” I giggled. “I’m so glad you put it all down on paper.”

  “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve had a lot more time on my hands. I thought I’d put it to good use. I decided to write about my family, so that you could know them, in a way. Then when I die, they won’t be lost forever. I’ve been thinking . . . we owe a great deal to my dead Uncle Sjurd, perhaps everything. If he hadn’t taken over for his father and worked away his youth, my family might have had nothing. No one appreciated his sense of duty while he was alive. I feel for him.”

  “Morfar always said you took after his eldest brother. I thought it was because you’re so tall. Now I understand—you’ve made sacrifices too. You’ve taken care of us all,” I said.

  “Oh goodness, I’ve never worked so hard as all that. My life was a picnic compared to poor Sjurd.”

  “Ya, but you suffered in a different way. You gave up a lot out of duty.”

  “I suppose I did, but I’ve had a good life, even if there were a couple of bumps in the road. Most of all, I’m grateful for my family, although some were taken much too soon. Cassandra, you are God’s greatest gift to me, and I want you to know how much your Morfar loved you, too.”

  “I loved Morfar; he was always very kind to me, and I never would’ve guessed that he didn’t want me here at first.”

  “Just before he died, Papa told me how glad he was that you’d been kept within the family. He was very sorry he’d nearly lost both of us and told me to tell you someday; and to ask your forgiveness.”

  “Now I know what he was trying to tell me at our last game of dominoes.” I explained the strange words as well as I could remember.

  “Ve learn some tings too late,” she repeated quietly. “Ya, that sounds like something Papa would’ve said; but I think it holds true for all of us.” We sat silently for a moment. “Before you go back to Blackstone, there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you.” She looked pointedly into my eyes and pressed her hand over mine. “This house . . . my father’s house . . . it’ll all be yours when I die. It was Morfar who suggested it. Now it’s been legally arranged.”

  “You’re not going to die for a long time,” I protested.

  “I hope not. But in any event, it’s settled. Even if I should die while you were still a child, the house is left to you in trust. There’s a lawyer in town with power of attorney. Your parents would still be able live here with you, but they could never sell it.”

  “Do my parents know about this?” I asked, imagining my mother’s resentment at being left out a second time.

  “Yes. I informed your mother when last we spoke, before your birthday. I’d only just completed the arrangements. I didn’t want to risk that something might happen, and you would be left to bear the brunt of her displeasure. This way she could be furious with me and get it over with. I think it hurt her feelings even though she didn’t let on; but I certainly didn’t do it to be cruel, Cassandra.”

  “I know; and it’s just sinking in now, what you’ve done for me. Thank you, Tante,” I said, although it seemed wholly inadequate.

  “You are my daughter by blood and the last of the Sigurdssons, at least for now,” she added. “I hope you will keep this house and pass it down to your children. A family home is like an anchor. Every board and pane of glass comes down from the blood and sweat of our ancestors.”

  35

  “WHAT’S WRONG?CAN’T I stay the extra day?”

  It was Sunday morning. Tante Gudy had finally got off the phone with Mom, but the look on her face wasn’t promising.

  “Ya, she said you could stay so we can go fix the haircut. That isn’t the problem.”

  “Is she angry with me . . . for snooping through her stuff?”

  “It’s not that either. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, after all. She was an emotional wreck already.”

  “What happened?”

  “Your father got himself arrested. He went into the town hall on Friday to search for more records . . . from the lumber company.”

  “So? How is that against the law?”

  “The offices were closed for the holiday.”

  “Oh, no.He broke into the town hall?”

  “That’s the charge, although George has a different opinion. I guess one of the side doors was left unlocked, and he just waltzed in and helped himself to the files. His behavior is getting erratic again, I’m afraid. I simply told your mother that you decided to, ah . . . experiment with a short haircut, and it didn’t work out. She’s not upset about it at all; she’s got bigger worries. Oh . . . she sends her love.”

  MONDAY MORNING WE took a city bus and went downtown to Miss Sally’s Beauty Shop. I was very grateful to have my nice wool hat with the velvet bow for the trip.

  “My goodness me! What have we done to our hair?” Miss Sally asked in dismay as she ran her fingers through it.

  “I used to have long hair, but
I wanted a change,” I said casually.

  “Well, I guess you’re not the first girl who tried to cut her own hair. Don’t worry, angel, we’ll put it right. Let’s have a look at the bible.” She lifted a large book from the shelf by her station with glossy headshots of glamorous girls modeling a multitude of hairstyles. It was hard to choose; the girls were so pretty, they would have looked good without any hair. “Now, we’ve got to take into account those curls,” Sally said.

  I flipped through the section of short haircuts and found one I liked. “What about that one?”

  “Hmm, I think that cut is a bit too grown up for you, and it’s even shorter than we have to go. How about a reverse bob, like this?”

  “It looks like something from the flapper era,” Tante Gudy offered. “But I think you could pull it off,” she added.

  “Can you shape it so it doesn’t stick out?” I asked, pulling at the sides.

  “Yes . . . it’ll take some doing, but I can make it pretty for you.”

  About a half hour later, I looked like a cross between Marlene Detrich and Silvio Salvatore. When I flipped my head a certain way, one heavy curl tumbled carelessly to caress my cheekbone.

  “I must say, it came out even better that I thought it would,” Sally remarked.

  “Now, you truly look like a young lady. No more little girl.” Tante Gudy sighed. “I expect your mother will like it too,” she added.

  “Oh, you’re not her mother?” Sally asked.

  “No, I’m only the aunt.”

  I WATCHED FROSTED acres of fallow fields roll by the window as the Greyhound bus rumbled northwards, my dread increasing with each passing mile. Late November is the bleakest time of year. The certainty of deepening cold and deluge of snow that would surely follow weighed heavily, but not nearly as much as the seemingly inevitable end of my parents’ hopes and dreams.

  I’d been burdened with secrets when I’d left Blackstone and would return laden with even more. My aunt suggested I wait until things settled down before I spoke with my parents—thank God I could tell Sparrow.

  “YOU DON’T SEEM very surprised,” I remarked, as we sat at the back of the school bus on Tuesday morning.

  “That’s because I’m not,” she whispered.

  “But how could you have known?”

  “I didn’t know for sure who your mother was . . . and I had no idea about your dad, but I knew your ma couldn’t have given birth to a baby so soon.”

  “So soon after what?”

  “Those pictures . . . on their trip with the baby. Your ma wasn’t anywhere near eight months pregnant,” she explained.

  “Ohmygosh.” I recalled my mother’s slender figure in her pretty summer dress. “How dumb could I be?”

  “It was a lot to take in,” she offered. “I didn’t think I should add to it.”

  “There’s so much more I’ve got to tell you, but it’ll have to wait,” I whispered. I relaxed a bit, comforted by the knowledge that I’d have a friend to mull it over with later that afternoon.

  I thought school would never let out, but at last the bell rang. We were filing by twos outside to the school busses, when Horace the Horrible sidled up. How did he always manage to step out of line without getting caught?

  “Hey, Parsons—what happened to your hair? Did you have to sell it to bail your dad out of jail?” He snorted with laughter. I ignored him. “You still ain’t out on the street?” he snarled. Sparrow bristled beside me, but kept silent like I’d asked. “Cat got your tongue?” he taunted. When I refused to take the bait, he pushed harder. “It’s getting pretty cold, but don’t worry. I suppose you can always move into the Schitschack with your little half-breed friend . . .”

  “Shut up, Horace,” I shouted; my resolve had cracked.

  “. . . and her fat, retard brother . . . and her dirty, Injun-luvin’ whore of a mother,” he finished, baring his teeth and grinning like an evil monkey.

  Sparrow swung her schoolbag like David with his sling against Goliath, clocking Horace full in the face with a history textbook and knocking him flat on his ass. I think it was the book’s spine that caught him; when he took his hand from his face there was blood gushing from both nostrils. Just when I thought things couldn’t be any worse, he spit out a bloody front tooth; it landed on the pavement between his sprawled legs.

  We were quickly surrounded by a sea of gawking, squawking children. The only one more shocked than Horace was Sparrow. I knew she never meant to hurt him that bad—kids were always bopping each other with schoolbags when the teachers weren’t looking, mostly the boys. I guess she got so mad she didn’t know her own strength and it was just dumb luck the book hit at the precise angle to inflict maximum damage.

  “You’redead, Schimschack!” Horace hollered, climbing to his feet with his tooth in his hand. “Dead. You hear me, slut?”

  “Here, here!” Mrs. Moore was working her way through the crowd. “What kind of language is—oh my God.” She got a look at Horace. “How did this happen?”

  “They ganged up on me.” Horace pointed at us. “Waaahh,” he began to wail. “Go get my auntie!”

  “Both of you in my office . . . now!” Mrs. Moore ordered, pointing at me and Sparrow.

  “Yes, Mrs. Moore,” she said, “but please . . . Cassandra had nothing to do with it. She was just standing here when I—”

  “I said both of you!”

  I didn’t know it, but I was being sent inside for my own protection. Someone had alerted Hester Hatchet and she was coming at a run, all red in the face with the wattles on her neck in a flap.

  “Junior! Oh, my poor boy. What has that craven girl done to you?” She fawned on Horace while he blubbered like a baby. “Somebody call an ambulance. I told you she was dangerous,” The Hatchet shouted at Mrs. Moore. “This is your fault. Wait until my brother finds out—it’ll cost you your job. You,” she turned and shouted at the bus driver through his open door, “use your radio . . . call an ambulance, summon the police. That deranged Indian girl needs to be taken into custody.”

  The wounded bear returned to strike with a vengeance. Lisa Schimschack was removed from her mother’s home and sent to The Girl’s Industrial School. The sparrow’s wings were clipped.

  36

  “Kill the indian, save the man.”—Capt. Richard H. Pratt, on the Education of Native American Children

  OVER THE YEARS the Hatchets had made many enemies; that turned out to be my father’s salvation.

  Arthur T. Cunningham, Esquire, was called upon to represent George Parsons when he went before the county judge on charges of breaking into the town hall. The first thing Mr. Cunningham asked him was, “Mr. Parsons, with all due respect, why in hell did you go into the town hall when it was closed?”

  “It wasn’t closed. The door was unlocked,” he said, after which he related the backstory.

  “Uh huh,” Mr. Cunningham replied. “Well, you’re not the only ones who’ve got a beef with the Hatchets—my family tangled with them a long time ago. My great-grandfather was swindled out of his landholdings by Henry Hatchet the First. The family was never the same. I’d welcome the chance to settle an old score; if there’s anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Cunningham returned a week later, true to his word. “I’ve looked at the records. The way I see it, Randal Parsons was just as much a victim as the Indians.”

  My father shook his head sadly in contradiction. He was thin as a stalk and seemed to have aged five years in as many months. He’d been sober since Halloween night, but the strain of going cold turkey was apparent in his weary eyes. “Mr. Cunningham . . .”

  “Call me Arty,” he said with a warm smile. The name suited him, I thought. Even in the chill of December, he sat at our kitchen table with the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up over his sinewy forearms, red and hairy like his bearded face. He looked more like a dairy farmer than a lawyer.

  “Arty, I’m not so sure Randal was a victim,” my father countered. “There
was a mighty suspicious fire that burned down an Ojibwe camp and killed a woman and two children, right on this property. I spoke to John Wind myself and to hear him tell it, my grandfather likely had blood on his hands—along with a few other prominent citizens of Blackstone.”

  “I know. I’ve spoken with the tribal elders. It was one of the more despicable acts of racist violence committed against Native Americans in the State of Wisconsin—at least in this century,” Arty said. “And like the lynching of blacks in the south, they got away with it. Look, Randal was no saint, but that has no bearing on whether or not he was sold a bill of goods. If he were alive today, it’s possible that he could be convicted of arson and murder, and be compensated financially by Hatchet and Sons . . . not that it would’ve done him any good where he would’ve gone if you’ll pardon my dark humor. Now the logging company is long gone, but there’s still money to be had, held in a family corporate trust. If we can blow the lid off the underhanded land deals those people made to steal from the Chippewa, maybe we can get restitution for them and you both. And it won’t cost you a dime unless we win.”

  “So while the Indians are suing us, we sue the Hatchets?” Mom asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “What a mess. How is it you’d be willing to do all that work for no money up front? Does that mean you’re pretty sure you’ll win?” she added hopefully.

  “I wish I had that much confidence. If we can win the case, that’d be great, but we can at least dredge it all up and expose it to the light of day. Take Horace Hatchet down a few pegs. My great-grandfather may rest easier,” he added quietly.

  It was a Saturday morning. I should’ve been off playing with friends, but I stood at my mother’s elbow and listened anxiously to the grownup’s powwow. Ever since Sparrow had been sent away, I’d been heartsick and afraid. There wasn’t even a spark of creativity left for oil painting.