by S. Rose
I sat bolt upright, jolted from sleep as if by a cattle prod. Before I could grasp what had woken me, I was assaulted by a cacophony of screeching tires and the sickening sound of smashing glass. Another thunderous boom. I jumped out of bed and opened my little back door. Even though my room was situated downhill from the highway, I could see the flames whipping tall as the treetops. Women were screaming and men were shouting as they made their way up the long driveway toward the road. Over the commotion I heard my father holler, “Tina, stay back!”
Mom, I whispered hoarsely in the dark. For a moment, I stood frozen like an ice sculpture, then burst into disorganized action, groping in the dark for some pants to throw on over my pajamas and putting on my parka. Resisting the urge to dash barefoot into the snow, I stuffed my feet into my wool-lined Sorels. The snowfall had stopped. It was thirty below.
There was a footpath worn through the snow from my backdoor to the driveway, and I cut across quickly, falling unnoticed into the throng of drunken revelers, fresh from the dance floor. None of them were wearing boots; I dodged and even shoved a few aside as they staggered and slipped, struggling to reach the road.
“Mom!” I cried over the mayhem, glimpsing her from behind as she rounded the last bend of the driveway and disappeared from view. That’s when I heard it. Over the crazing flames and hysterical people, I heard her yelp of pain. One more sonic boom. The wail of still too distant sirens. More screaming. I poured on the speed and pushed through the crowd. “Move it. Git!” I pounded on someone’s fat backside. I crashed into a guy who was bent over puking and kneed him aside. “Get outta my way you drunken idiots!”
In the brilliant firelight, I saw my father kneeling at the roadside, holding his head with both hands, his mouth wrenched wide in silent agony. My mother lay gently in a bed of deep snow. She wasn’t crushed or bloody or twisted at all, just looked as though she’d lain down and gone to sleep. But I knew she was hurt from the impact of the car that hit her. The injuries were on the inside.
By the entrance to the long driveway, winking and blinking, the neon sign still promised an evening of drinking and dancing, fun and frivolity at Parsons’ Lounge. It was ignorant of the role it had played in the six-car pileup that took the lives of four people and wounded dozens, some burned and scarred for the rest of their days. Undaunted, the happy sign’s glowing red arrow pointed the way, leading motorists coming from either direction—straight into the dense clump of trees at the opposite side of our driveway.
43
“I WANT TO die. I just want to die!” Anna shouted at her paramour. “I can’t live this way anymore, stuck in this shithole with my crazy father. I miss my daughter. All these years I never complained . . . I was afraid to lose you. But I can’t take it anymore.”
Sparrow stood by helplessly as her mother carried on, beating her father’s chest with her fists as he stood silent—stolid as a cigar-store Indian. Timmy rocked in agitation on the rancid couch, patched with more duct tape than upholstery and reeking of stale urine from the nights when Grandpa Gorski passed out and swilled his pants. The old Polack himself balanced on his stool, staring like one blind into the cast-iron stove at the red hot embers. He poked in a piece of wood, mumbling in Polish as he did and holding his hand far too close to the searing heat. Anna really couldn’t understand him anymore; alcohol and malnutrition had taken most of his front teeth.
None of them knew of the impending calamity two miles down the road, nor could they know that the ones who laid the deathtrap for innocent neighbors were not yet satisfied.
At that very moment, Horace Hatchet Junior was sneaking through the snowy woods, sly as a cat, while his father waited at a safe distance. They likely expected Timmy and his mother to be asleep at that hour, along with the decrepit patriarch. Horace was apparently undaunted by the sight of Mr. Wind’s truck, parked close by the Schimschacks’. Maybe he thought the raucous coming through the thin walls would make it easier to slip in and do what he’d come to do—who knows? The kid must’ve been cocksure of himself; he moved so calmly that the goats were not alarmed as he neared the rabbit hutches like a stealth assassin, gripping the long sharp blade in his cold, gloveless hand.
“Aaaahhh. Help! Jesus! Daddy, help me please. Daddy! Jesus help me.”
Horace thrashed wildly and swayed like a pendulum as he hung high in the air, upside-down by one ankle, fittingly enough like a snared rabbit. The cruel knife had disappeared into the deep snow. Neither his daddy nor Jesus came to the rescue. Horace Senior was parked by Highway 2, listening to the radio. I can’t say what Jesus was doing at the time, but I expect he decided to leave Horace to the devil.
Sparrow was the first one outside with the lantern. John Wind was right behind with his shotgun. Anna stood peering out the door with Timmy leaning over her shoulder, screeching in a high pitch, “My bunnies! My bunnies!”
“It’s alright, Timmy,” Sparrow shouted. “Horace Hatchet didn’t get your rabbits . . . but we sure got him.” She let out a peal of wild Indian war whoops.
John Wind hoisted his rifle over his head and began to dance, chanting in Ojibwe.
“Get me down! Get me down you filthy Injuns. My daddy’ll have you all in jail.”
“Horace, you and your rotten daddy can go straight to hell,” Sparrow shouted. “We know it was you snuck in here and kilt Timmy’s rabbits . . . skinned ’em alive. You come back for more, but you’ll get more than you bargained for. You’re gonna pay.”
“That’s enough,” Anna cried sharply. “Cut the rope and bring that boy down.”
“Ya sure, you’re gonna pay,” Timmy called out boldly, surprising them all. He pushed past his mother and shuffled through the snow to get a closer look at Horace.
“Spoken like a man!” John Wind declared, followed by a couple of whoops.
Sparrow set the big kerosene lantern down a few feet from Horace’s dangling head and turned up the flame to illuminate his terrified face. “Hey . . . heyah, hey . . . heyha, hey . . .” she chanted loud and strong as she danced in a circle, tossing her head to swish her scalp lock like a pony’s mane. Horace screeched like a banshee, twisting and clutching the rope bound round his ankle.
Carried along by her bravado, Timmy ambled closer and began to bob and sway “Hey-hey,” he cried in imitation.
Horace sobbed hysterically as he rotated in midair. Sparrow noted with satisfaction the dark liquid stain on the seat of his britches. She broke off the war dance and pointed. “Pa, Horace crapped hisself.” She pinched her nose. “You sure do stink!” Suddenly they heard what sounded like an explosion carrying through the woods.
“What the hell was that?” John Wind asked.
“Are you crazy?” Anna cried angrily, unconcerned with the distant thunder. “This must stop now. It will end in no good.”
Sparrow saw the mirth leave her father’s eyes, as if he’d suddenly sobered up from a beer-buzz. Truth was, he’d had a couple of toots, and this thing had gone a bit too far. “Okay . . . that’s enough. I expect Horace learnt his lesson. Let’s cut ’im down.” He took out a knife and approached the boy. The tree had hoisted Horace so high that his ankle was above the tall man’s head. Mr. Wind grabbed hold of his leg to pull the rope into reach.”
“Get your fucking hands off me you filthy Injun!”
“Ooh . . . big talk for a boy who attacks pet rabbits and shits his pants,” John Wind countered, removing his hands and backing away obligingly.
“Daddy, help!” Horace cried.
“If I can’t touch ’im, I guess there’s only one way to bring ’im down.” Sparrow watched as her father went to the chopping block to retrieve Piotr Gorski’s axe, then began to hack at the base of the sapling. Horace was still blubbering.
“Don’t let him fall!” Anna called. “The boy will break his neck.”
“Naw, he’s hangin’ right over a snowdrift,” Sparrow countered. Her father stopped whacking and considered Anna’s words. “I’ll cut ’im down,” Sparrow said reso
lutely. “You stand by ready to break the fall.” She went and took the axe from her father’s hands. A siren wailed in the distance, growing until it sped past on Highway 2. It was quickly followed by another. “That’s heading towards the Parsons,” she said, pausing.
“Never mind that now. Cut the kid down, then we’ll go see about it,” her father urged.
“I wanna do it!” Timmy shouted boldly for the second time that night. Sparrow stopped and looked to her pa.
“Let ’im do it,” he said.
“Nooo,” Horace howled in fear. “Don’t let that retard near me!”
“Timmy can’t swing an axe, he’ll get hurt,” Anna cried.
“Let ’im do it, Anna.”
“This will stop right now!” she insisted. “Give me the damned axe.”
Before anyone could stop him, Timmy rushed over and snatched it from Sparrow’s hands with surprising strength.
“Horace?” The sound of a man’s frightened voice rang through the trees. His son had been gone far too long just to kill a couple of rabbits, but he was even more worried about the fire trucks racing toward the Parsons.
Sparrow and her dad locked eyes. “Oh-oh,” she said.
Timmy had seen his Grandpa wield the axe many times but had never been allowed to touch it. He gripped the wooden handle with both hands and swung, but only managed to turn himself in a circle. Delighted, he spun all the way round again and kept on going, slowly at first but picking up momentum.
“Horace?” the voice was closer.
John Wind moved in on Timmy “Okay . . . good job. I’ll take it from here,” he coaxed, holding out his hands, but Timmy would not yield his treasure. He whirled faster and faster, wildly out of control and laughing, laughing because he’d never handled an axe, laughing because Horace was crying, laughing because he felt strong and free from fear at last. The weight of the axe-head carried him with centrifugal force until the spinning blade was a blur, like the rings of Saturn around the gas giant.
“Stop. Gimme that,” Sparrow shouted at her brother.
“Timmy,” Anna screamed and tried to rush him, but was grazed in the arm by the blade and fell down with her legs splayed. Timmy spun faster, teetering dizzily like a bowling pin about to topple, head throw back and howling with laughter like a monkey at the moon.
“Horace?” Hatchet Senior broke into the clearing, just in time to see his son swinging by the leg from a tree and a mad man-child swinging an axe.
Sparrow and her father had the same idea, but she was faster. She ducked beneath the blade’s deadly orbit to tackle Timmy at the knees and take him down. Even though the fall could hurt him bad, she just couldn’t let—
John Wind slipped and fell on his face as he tried to rush Timmy.
Thwack. The blow from the flying axe struck Horace in the back of the head and split it like a smashed pumpkin.
Anna screamed. Sparrow hit the ground as Timmy fell backwards on top of her, knocking her chin into the hard-packed snow and the wind from her lungs. She heard a hissing sound as blood gushed from Horace’s fractured skull like a fountain and spilled steaming onto the snow. “Timmy, get off me,” she grunted, panting for breath.
“You goddamn savages!” Hatchet cried in a shaking voice. “I’ll murder you—”
“Ugh . . . Timmy, I can’t breathe . . . git off.”
“No.” she heard her father shout behind her, but it was not in rage. He sounded terrified. More sirens roared past out on the highway.
“Timmy! Git . . .”
A gunshot rang out. With a mighty shove, Sparrow clambered from under her obese brother. He had blacked out. Her mother was lying flat on her back, bleeding from a large hole in her chest.
Anna had stepped into the bullet’s path, took it point blank through the heart to shield the man she loved more than life. Mr. Hatchet then leveled the pistol at Sparrow, his hand shaking like a leaf in a storm.
John Wind got slowly to his feet. “Easy now, Hatchet. No matter what wrong we done, you’ll hang for shooting down a child. This ain’t her doin’. Kill me, if ya want.”
The sheriff’s truck came roaring down the snowy road to the Schimschack’s, all sirens blaring. Horace Hatchet turned to look as it skidded toward them; he could see the whites of the lawman’s horrified eyes, even before the officer could leap from the driver’s seat with his gun drawn.
Horace’s face lost all trace of fear. Calmly, almost mechanically, he put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
44
“I KILLED HER! Oh, God . . . help me help me . . . I killed her.” My father clutched the officer’s sleeve as he confessed his crime.
“No, George, Tina was hit by a car,” a man said, his voice breaking with emotion. “We all saw the accident.”
“Please, let me go,” I cried to the policeman gripping my arm.
“Young lady, you can’t cross that line.” He indicated the yellow plastic tape that had already been erected around my parents.
“I’m Cassandra Parsons and that’s my mother!” I pointed to the still form in the snow where my father knelt, hollering inconsolably.
“The sign—Look, the flashing sign is turned the wrong way around!” a woman cried. The policeman let go and went to investigate. I ducked the tape and ran to my parents.
“It’s pointing into the woods.”
“It was the sign that ran ’em all off the road!”
“How did that happen?”
“Looks like someone dragged it around on purpose,” a man said, pointing to the scars in the snow. “Who’d do such a thing?”
“Sir, don’t touch that. It’s evidence,” the policeman warned.
“Lemme through . . . That’s Jimmy’s truck burning,” a man’s shrill cry carried over the commotion. “That’s my brother—Jimmy.” He thrashed wildly as three strong men kept him from rushing into the flames.
“I want all you folks to clear the road. Ironwood is sending in fire and rescue. If you are unhurt, return to the building and wait to be identified. No one is to leave the area without permission.”
“Jimmy!”
“Come on, you heard the man . . . we’re in the way here . . . it’s dangerous.”
“She’s alive!” the paramedic shouted. “Get a backboard over here.”
“I killed her,” my father sobbed. “Oh God . . . I’m so sorry.”
I knelt in the snow by the paramedic. “She’s my mother . . . Is she hurt bad?” I choked out.
“We won’t know until we take her in,” he said. “I need a collar over here,” he called over my head. I had enough sense to know that they suspected spinal injury.
“Daddy . . . it wasn’t your fault.” I turned to the parent who could still hear me.
“I killed her . . . they said it was an accident, but I did it.”
“Look at me, Dad! Mom’s alive! She’s going to be okay,” I shouted in his face, but my words did not console him. He didn’t even seem to hear me.
My father shot to his feet and declared in wild-eyed mania, “I killed my own mother. Drowned her dead in the freezing lake—it was no fish! She tried to climb out, but I pushed her head under—” He bolted down the road, gaining about fifteen yards before being tackled and subdued. Poor Dad was so skinny that the burley officer hoisted him to his feet like a ragdoll by one handcuffed arm.
“The ambulances are full of wounded people,” he said. “We don’t have room for a lunatic. Put him in the back of the squad car.”
“I need backup at the Schimschack place now—over.”
My ears pricked up as the call came in over the police radio; Timmy must be having a bleed.
“Charlie, we’ve got all hell broke loose at the Parsons’ . . . big wreck . . . cars burning . . . lots of wounded . . . least three dead—over.”
“Sweet Jesus! There’re three dead here . . . onewoman shot down . . . the man who done it ate his gun as I drove up. There’s a boy hanging by the foot from a rope . . . brutally murdered .
. . head bashed in with an axe, from the looks of it—”
“Holy shit,” the officer muttered.
I thought I was too numb to feel anymore, but I was wrong.
“I’ve got Chief Wind in custody. The Schimschack boy is unconscious, but alive. Some crazy Indian kid with a Mohawk ran off into the woods—over.”
Sparrow. But whatever had happened, my friend would have to wait. My mother was secure on the stretcher. I rose and walked beside them as they carried her to the ambulance. “I’m riding with my mom,” I declared, like I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Come on, then.” The policemen helped me into the back.
I SPENT THE night in the waiting room of St. Madeline Memorial Hospital, while the doctors battled to save my mother. Internal bleeding caused by a broken rib required a transfusion, after which they performed surgery on the shattered femur.
With my father in custody, I was all alone. They let me call Aunt Gudrun, but she had no way of reaching us until the next bus north. I was wondering where I would go in the meantime, when Grandpa Reuben turned up at the hospital.
“Your ma . . . she gonna make it?” His voice was gruff as always, but I detected sincere concern.
“She’s hurt pretty bad, but the doctor says she’s got a fighting chance. My mom is a lot tougher than she looks. I think she’ll be fine.”
“Well, I come to offer you a lift home.”
“Home?”
“To my place. The sheriff called over to tell me that if’n I don’t collect you, someone from social services will put you somewhere until your aunt comes along. I expect she’ll bring you back to Racine?”
“Ya, but not until Mom can be moved. My aunt will be on the first bus this morning and should arrive by nine tonight; we haven’t figured out where we’re gonna stay or how we’ll get to the hospital. Aunt Gudrun doesn’t drive. I was gonna ask my friend Sparrow to ask her dad . . .”
“The Chief won’t be driving nowhere anytime soon,” he said ominously.
