Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  “Okay. I think I can go back in now.” I grabbed a dirty jersey from my laundry basket and wiped my mouth. “I need to sit a minute and make sure I’m done. After I clean up, I’ll tell my parents. They’ll want to help. Is Timmy hurt bad?”

  “I don’t think he did himself too much damage. It’s a good thing Pa was there, else it would’ve been much worse. Timmy heard me hollering and came outside—he usually comes out to tend his rabbits about then—and I told him to go back in the house and get my pa. ’Course, he wants to know why. I tried to turn him around and steer him inside before he saw . . . can’t exactly push ’im . . . but it was too late. I’ll never forget the look on that poor kid’s face when he saw Snowy’s head . . . just stared at it like he couldn’t make out what it was. When it sunk in, he screeched like a wildcat and started whacking his face with both hands. I hollered for Pa, and he ran outside in his undershorts with a shotgun, shouting over the racket, ‘What in blazes is going on?’ Then he put down the gun and tried to hold back Timmy’s hands. I told him, ‘Keep Timmy away. He can’t see it.’ I was pointing to the shed and crying, and I don’t cry easy. Pa knew it must be somethin’ bad, so he grabs Timmy in a bear hug and hustles him back into the house and orders him to stay there. Then I showed Pa the dead rabbits.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Swore he’d find out who done it and kill ’im. But first they had to take Timmy to the hospital; they’re still there.”

  “And you’re sure it was Horace Hatchet?”

  “You heard what he said at the county fair. He was shamed because a girl scared ’im off, and he’ll never get over that busted nose. I heard he got a fake front tooth,” she added with a satisfied scowl.

  “Are they going to report him to the police?”

  “We got no proof it was Horace. He’d deny it. But the worst part of it is—the Hatchets live in town.”

  “How’s that the worst part?”

  “I doubt the kid walked six miles in the middle of the night. No, the sonovabitch wasn’t alone. Somebody drove him down Highway 2.”

  “You think his father was in on it?”

  “Could be; or maybe it was Ol’ Hatchet Face herself that dropped him off and drove the getaway car. We may never know. They’re all liars . . . and the worst kind of cowards. You can’t get much lower than hurting someone like Timmy.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ve learned a thing or two about the law. I heard what Horace said about . . . making slippers. The whole family saw him tormenting Timmy. That might stand up in court as intent, especially since he . . .” I couldn’t say it.

  “Skinned ’em? Shit, there’s no doubt he done it; what’s more, he wanted us to know he done it. But even if Horace did get charged with some misdemeanor, nothing’s gonna undo what happened to Timmy. This ain’t just about rabbits. This attack on my brother was revenge against me.”

  “His family already landed you in reform school, what more do they . . . ?” I stopped without finishing the sentence. Sparrow’s head snapped sharply to the right, as if my words had struck her across the face. I could see the corner of one eye as it filled with a scalding tear, like liquid hatred. My reflexive apology stuck in my throat. I wanted to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but was afraid to move. It would’ve been less scary to reach out and pet a wolverine. I sat and waited for her to recover.

  “It’s got to end here,” she said evenly, still looking toward the wall. She ran her fingers absently through one side of her cropped hair, then let her hand drop to her lap. “This is war.”

  “Oh, I don’t like the sounds of that,” I said nervously.

  She turned to face me. “Think maybe I can borrow your dad’s razor?”

  “YOU’RE SURE YOU want to do this?” I stood behind Sparrow and inquired of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Damned sure,” she said.

  “But it’s grown almost to your shoulders. Look, I can just about pull it into a pony tail.” I gathered her straight, shiny dark hair in one hand. It stuck out at the base of her neck like a thick shaving brush.

  “Just let me get it done before your grandpa is banging at the door, wanting to take a dump.”

  I let go. Sparrow took up the big, black-handled kitchen scissors and grabbed a fistful of hair from in front of her left ear, then yanked it roughly out to the side and began shearing close to the scalp. I winced as the sharp blades made easy work of it. She grew bolder as the first locks dropped into the sink and onto the floor and attacked the other side with even greater zeal, as if the hair itself was somehow the enemy.

  “Careful, don’t slice your ear off,” I warned, then decided to busy myself collecting the fallen hair and depositing it in the wastebasket.

  “There,” she said, laying aside the scissors at last.

  “There what?” I asked in dismay. Except for a shock of hair flowing from the top of her head to her neck, there was nothing left but ragged short patches and bald spots.

  “The Ojibwe men cut their braids and wore the scalp lock in times of war.”

  “I remember.” I sighed. “But it isn’t right yet. I might as well finish it,” I said resolutely. “I hope Dad doesn’t get mad at me for borrowing his razor.”

  “You’re gonna do it for me?”

  “Better than watching you cut yourself. Sit down,” I said, pointing to the toilet seat. She sat sideways on the closed lid, so I could get all the way around her. “I’ll put up the scalp lock in a ponytail.” I fished through a drawer under the medicine cabinet for the cloth covered elastics I used to use on my long braid.

  “Good thinking,” she said.

  I used a comb to part the most perfect section I could manage, then bound it in a tight bunch. It stuck out on top of her head like a big feather duster. I squirted a foamy mountain of Barbasol into my hands like I’d seen Dad do, then smeared it over the rest of her head.

  When we were done, Sparrow stood before the mirror. I held a small hand mirror behind, so she could see the back. A look of deep satisfaction spread over her face, and the lost pride I once knew glowed again in her eyes.

  “Wait a sec,” I said. I slipped out of the bathroom and returned with what was left of my Halloween make-up kit. “War paint.” I proffered the packet. “You might as well keep it.”

  Sparrow stuck her thumb into the blood-red pigment and drew a thick line across each of her high, smooth cheekbones. With that finishing touch, she seemed to grow two inches taller, and her countenance transformed before my eyes—from a vulnerable girl to a fierce Indian warrior.

  “WHEN A VARMINT kills a man’s animals, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” John Wind lectured Timmy in a firm but gentle tone. They had released him from the hospital with his hands bandaged in yards of cotton batting so he couldn’t do anymore damage to his face. It looked like there were two fluffy pillows taped tightly over his wrists. Timmy didn’t answer but sat silently beside his mother on the shabby sofa. His poor piggy eyes were swollen to slits.

  Mom had thrown a small fit over the scalp lock and my role in it but pulled herself together and insisted that we all drive over the Schimschacks’ to support Timmy. I had some trepidation as to how Sparrow’s parents would react when we walked in the door. Anna only gasped once and shot her hand over her mouth, then shook her head in resignation and made a dismissive gesture, as if brushing away a fly. I’d be hard put to say whether John Wind was taken aback at the sight of his daughter. His face remained impassive as he took it all in.

  “Boozhoo,” she greeted him in Ojibwe.

  “Boozhoo,” he said, then continued to instruct Timmy in the ways of manhood. “A man doesn’t go and hit himself. That does no good. You got to go after the varmint. My father is an old man, but he’s brave. When that bear dragged off one of his goats, what do you think he did?” Timmy sat and stared at a spot on the opposite wall. The only sound he made was a little wheeze as he breathed through his open mouth because his nose was swollen. “I’ll tell y
ou what. My pa took up his weapon and went after the bear. All he had was a little hatchet for kindling, but he sunk the blade right into the bear’s snout.”

  Seeing as how the bear came back and took out Olaf, it occurred to me that that mightn’t be the best example, but I kept my opinion to myself.

  “Pa,” Sparrow whispered hoarsely. “Timmy can’t fight Horace.”

  “Who said anything about fighting? All I’m saying is, we got to make sure whatever varmint done this don’t do it again. If he comes back and tries anything, we’re gonna catch ’im in the act.”

  “Aaaahhhh.” Timmy started up again and tried to bop himself with his pillow hands, but my dad intervened, dropping down on one knee to carefully hold back Timmy’s arms.

  “It’ll be okay, son,” he said gently. “We won’t let anything happen to the other rabbits . . . and they’ll have babies soon. In no time, you’ll have plenty of rabbits.”

  “Ohhh noooo Snoweeeee aaaahhhh. Uncle Wooly-Pants . . . whaaaahhh.” Timmy began to bawl. I broke down and sobbed right along with him. John Wind got up and stepped outside, clearly uncomfortable. Sparrow followed him. I sucked it up and went to see what they had in mind.

  “I knew it when I first set eyes on ’im—that Hatchet kid is rotten to the core. If he comes back, we’ll fix ’im.”

  “You can’t really kill Horace,” Sparrow said, “much as I’d like to.”

  Chief Wind strode over to a stand of young pine saplings that grew just beyond the shed. He selected one, and pulled and tugged it by a branch to test for flexibility. “This ought to do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, worried that he might really lynch Horace.

  “We can’t harm the kid, but we can scare ’im so he pisses himself. I’m gonna lay a rope trap—like a squirrel trap, only bigger. First, we bend the tree down.” He used his weight to bend the sapling like a bow. “You make it stay in place by driving two forked sticks into the ground. I’ll bring a long rope to make the noose to catch his foot—we’ll lay it right in front of the hutches. If anyone steps in the center, it’ll trip the trigger stick and spring the trap. When that tree whips up—”

  “Oohwee,” Sparrow cried. “I’d like to see that—almost makes me wish Horace’ll come back.”

  “I’d rather he don’t, but if he does . . .”

  “We gotta watch out Timmy don’t step in it,” Sparrow warned.

  “Naw, we’ll all know where it’s at . . . mark it off with some branches. I’ll bring Timmy in on it, show ’im how it’s done. Sick or no, that boy’s gotta learn how to stand up to a bully. If nothin’ comes of it—okay. But if that Hatchet kid comes around and tries anything . . . well, when we’re done with ’im, he won’t ever bother Timmy again.”

  SPARROW DECIDED TO spend another night to help her mother keep watch over Timmy. Mr. Wind assured Timmy that he’d come back soon with a length of rope to trap the varmint, then headed for home so as not to chase Piotr Gorski out of his house another night. Whenever Anna’s paramour slept over, the old man took off in the Woody and didn’t come back ’til the next day. He wouldn’t say where he stayed.

  My parents had to get back to work and make ready for the Saturday night crowd. The Never too Pooped to Polka Band was coming back for the first time since September, and they expected a big turnout. I hung back a while and sat with Sparrow. She planned to walk me halfway home, so we’d at least get some time to ourselves.

  Timmy finally dozed off, and Anna was getting some much needed rest. We were bundling up to head out when I heard Piotr Gorski’s voice behind me. “Sleep little one, sleep now,” he crooned in perfect English as he leaned in close and gently laid a stick of stove wood into the firebox. It was already hot and burning brightly. The wood was damp from the night’s snowfall, and the flames danced and crackled, shooting sparks onto his trousers. He patted them out and carefully closed the black cast-iron door. “Sleep with God.”

  “Grandpa, who are you talking to?” Sparrow asked gingerly.

  He eyed her curiously, as if surprised to see someone. Then a scowl spread over his ruddy face, flushed by the heat of the stove and the vodka he sipped throughout the afternoon. Outside it was raw and damp, but the little room was toasty warm due to the old man’s diligence.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked angrily. “I struggle to live. Is it a crime for a man to want life?”

  “Uh . . . ’course it ain’t,” she said. “Thanks for keeping it so warm in here. Can I help? Want me to bring in more wood before I go? Later, I could watch the stove a while so you could rest . . . I could help . . .”

  “Help? No. No help. Do not touch. No blood on your hands.”

  WE TRUDGED IN heavy-hearted silence. When we were past the half-way point, I stopped. “This day didn’t turn out like I hoped.”

  “They usually don’t,” Sparrow said. “Thanks for everything.” She ran her hand over the length of her scalp lock.

  “Don’t mention it. Now I know that if I flunk out of law school, I can always have a career as a barber.”

  “Hah.”

  “Be careful,” I said seriously.

  “Giga-waabamin,” she replied. I will see you. She turned and headed back.

  42

  THE LATE FEBRUARY sun had grown a tad less stingy, sometimes teasing us with the promise of spring weather that was still months off. By mid afternoon, puddles of melted snow formed along the sides of the road and filled the potholes. By nightfall, it was frozen in icy sheets, despite the highway department’s efforts with salt and sand, but this was nothing new. Wisconsinites learned from the get-go to drive in such conditions; nobody took their snow tires off until April.

  I can’t speak for all of Wisconsin, but it appeared that the Northwoods folks were as adept at driving drunk as they were at driving in bad weather. People of both genders routinely went out for an evening of spirits, then climbed behind the wheel to weave and wend their way home. Every so often someone had a wreck but that didn’t seem to make a lasting impression. By some miraculous intercession, most of the merrymakers made it home unscathed, or like my father, ran harmlessly into a ditch. But on that night, particularly treacherous roadways and alcohol lent a cruel hand to malice. For the last time, our lives spun wildly out of control and came full stop, one-hundred-eighty degrees ass-backwards.

  AT HALF PAST nine on a Saturday night, Parsons’ Lounge was in full swing. Upwards of fifty people were careening around the dance floor to the oomph pa-pa of the tuba and the reeling melodies of the accordion. Pale-faced Scandinavians were lit up like red traffic lights from beer and exertion. Everyone clapped and cheered when Dad came out from behind the bar and took a turn across the floor, first with Mom, then with me.

  Just as I was about to leave for bedtime, Al Johnson walked in with Tildy. There were a few awkward stares, some nudging, and whispered remarks.

  Dad took charge of the situation, proudly introducing his old high school pal and her friend over the mike. “Al Johnson is a modest gal, so many of you don’t know that she not only served as a medic with the Navy—she was decorated for bravery under fire and meritorious service. Because of Al, four of our boys came home from the Philippines to be reunited with their families.”

  A man stood up and clapped boldly. “Yeah!”

  Dad cheered. “Let’s have a round of applause for Blackstone’s only decorated woman veteran—give it up for Al.” They responded heartily with genuine admiration. Then Dad signaled the band to start up again. The room full of Wisconsinites sprang to their feet and started bouncing around. My father danced a few turns with Tildy, and when Al took over to dance with her lifelong partner, nobody batted an eye. Even my mother smiled.

  The chalet was toasty warm from the roaring fire and the dancers’ bodies. When we stepped outside for the short walk to the house, the frosty air took my breath away. Dry snow fell like sugar crystals from the black sky. A gust of wind blew some light powder from the roof down the back of my neck.

  �
��Brrr.” I flipped up the hood of my parka. “It’s okay, Mom. I can walk back to the house by myself.”

  “No, it’s late, and cars are coming and going in the driveway. It’s slippery and dangerous. We’ll walk around the long way.”

  “Why are so many people still coming and going?” I asked as we made our way down the footpath. It hadn’t been freshly shoveled, since we usually just walked on the plowed driveway.

  “It looks like we’re emptying out the local bars,” Mom explained. “Some of our guests used the phone to call friends from their usual spots. At least two drove off and came back with a carload, already high as a kite and itching to dance.”

  “They sure are having a good time in there,” I remarked as we came in the kitchen door. The music and laughter were so loud, I doubted I could sleep through it. “Goodnight, Mom.” I gave her a hug.

  “Goodnight, honey,” she said, but did not release my embrace. “Cassandra, do you want me to tuck you in?”

  “Aw, Mom, you don’t have to do that anymore. Besides, you’re too busy. Better get back and help Dad.”

  I took my customary hot bath. Grandpa kept the thermostat low, so it was the only way I could get warm enough to climb between the chilly sheets. After I’d shut my bedroom door, I noticed that it wasn’t nearly as loud as over by the kitchen. It must’ve been because my room was on the back end of the house, closer to Highway 2 than to the chalet. I fell asleep to the distant sound of polka music drifting through the trees.

  I THINK ANNA Schimschack was right. Sometimes the gates of hell really do open, but this time they weren’t thrown wide. Satan only loosed them enough to send forth a few dark angels, whispering wickedness into the ears of souls gone rancid with hate.

  It was half past midnight when the first car went off the road opposite our driveway, crashing into the thick stand of pines alongside Highway 2, but I didn’t hear it. It was the impact of the truck that plowed into it from behind that exploded like a bomb.