A Bird on Water Street

by Elizabeth O. Dulemba

  My shoulders were still warm, my middle was round as a barrel, my conscience was clear, and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. I rolled into bed with a grin that wouldn’t wipe off and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter 28

  Bird!

  When Piran and I headed to Old Brawling Town Creek to fish later that week, it was hot as fire—the kind of heat that zapped all the energy right out of you. The fish must have felt it too, because they went deep and we didn’t catch a one.

  We sat staring at our slack fishing lines, our feet hangin’ in the water.

  “Think your grandpa would let us borrow some tubes from the bait shop?” Piran asked. “We could go tubing down the river.”

  “Maybe.” I yawned but didn’t move.

  “Ow!” Piran yelped and slapped his arm. “Somethin’ bit me!”

  “Probably a mosquito,” I said.

  “Chick-a-dees and now mosquitoes,” Piran complained. “We never had bugs before.”

  “I told you things are changing. First come plants, then come bugs, and then come the critters who eat the bugs—like frogs.” I smiled.

  Piran scratched his bite. “Well, I don’t like it,” he huffed. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go see if we can get some movie money out of my dad. At least the theater would be cool.”

  On the way into town, I was thinking about what other sort of critters, along with the frogs, would be moving in to eat the new bugs, when we passed Crazy Coote again.

  “Gonna break the strike, yessirree,” he said, looking at me. “That’s a what they’re gonna do.”

  We walked wide around him, Piran scratchin’ his bug bite the whole time.

  “Stop it,” I complained.

  “Why? It makes it feel better,” Piran said.

  “I don’t know, but my mom never let me scratch when my arm was broken.”

  Downtown, everything glared white in the hot sun. People ran quickly into the few businesses that were still open to get to the air-conditioning. Dilbeck’s Pharmacy was packed. Even grown-ups walked out with ice-cream cones.

  We stared in the window at the long counter with its chrome and red vinyl seats.

  Piran said, “Maybe I should ask my dad for ice cream money instead.”

  Suddenly I saw a fluttering motion reflected in the glass.

  I turned around to see a small brown-and-white-striped bird land on the lamppost across the street.

  I was so surprised, I pointed and yelled, “A bird!”

  “On Water Street?” Mrs. McCay stopped and looked. “Of all places, law’ me.”

  The town came to a standstill as everybody stared. Word spread fast and people even came out of their businesses to see. As we watched, the tiny bird chirped the prettiest little song. It sounded kind of like, “Sweet, sweet, sweet, as ever it may be.”

  Mrs. McCay smiled. “It’s a sparrow.”

  “Really?” I asked. It was like the picture I drew for Mom at Christmas, but without the purple.

  “I’d think somethin’ with such a nice name would be prettier than that,” Piran said.

  “It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. McCay replied.

  I looked closer at the bird’s round lines and delicate fan of feathers as it opened its wings to fly away.

  “Me too,” I decided. It’s the prettiest thing ever—just the way it is.

  Mr. Quinn was deep in conversation when we entered the post office.

  “They’re building a new carpet mill in Dalton,” Mr. Thomas said. “They need electricians, carpenters, machinists, the whole lot.”

  “Just fifty miles south of here?” Mr. Quinn replied. “That’s good news for the miners.”

  “Well, it won’t pay as good,” Mr. Harmon said. “Heck, nothing could replace mining pay back in the good old days.”

  “Even so,” Mr. Quinn said. “The men need jobs.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears—I had to tell Dad! I charged out the door, making the bell clang and clatter behind me.

  I ran as fast as I could through town to the picket line. The closer I got, the more I could hear somethin’ was going on.

  Chapter 29

  Scabs

  The miners were in an uproar when I got to the Company. Everybody was on their feet, shouting and stabbing their signs into the air. I searched for my dad in the crowd.

  Mr. Hill shouted through his bullhorn, “They’ve sold the entire plant to a business in South America.” He read an announcement from the Company lawyers. “And they’ve hired temporary workers to break it down!”

  As a busload of ragged-looking men worked its way through, the crowd went wild. The miners cursed and shouted, “SCABS! SCABS! SCABS!”

  I’d never seen so many people so angry. It made me nervous.

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I noticed Eli Munroe sittin’ toward the back of the bus, trying to crouch down out of view.

  I wasn’t the only one who spotted him.

  “Traitor!” somebody yelled and threw a rock at the bus. It ricocheted off and hit me square on the forehead. I flinched at the sharp pain. I looked down at my hand. Blood covered my fingers. Somebody grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the mob.

  “Jack, you shouldn’t be here!” Mr. Barnes said. “Dammit, who’s throwing rocks?” He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and mopped at my forehead. “It’s bleeding pretty bad. Hold this against it.”

  “I’m lookin’ for my dad,” I gasped.

  “His shift ended over an hour ago,” Mr. Barnes said.

  “He’s at home?” I tried to hand back the bandanna.

  “You keep that pressed to your head until your mama can clean you up,” he said. “And Jack, tell your dad the Company’s closing and they’ve brought in scabs to break it down. They’re doin’ us so wrong.”

  I ran back through town, across the bridge, and up the hill holding the bandanna to my head as best I could. Even so, I was hot and out of breath with blood runnin’ down my face by the time I reached home. A few drops strayed into the corner of my mouth, tasting of metal.

  Knowing better than to look for Dad in the house, I ran straight to his metal shop. I could hear him tinkering inside.

  “Jack! What happened?” he shouted when I yanked the door open.

  “I got hit by a rock down at the picket line,” I said. “The Company’s shuttin’ down and brought in scabs to take it apart. Mr. Barnes told me to tell you.”

  “DAMN!” He slammed down his pliers. “Well, that’s it then.” Dad sighed heavily and put his hands on his hips. It was like something in him had snapped. He rubbed his face, and when his hands came away, his eyes were clearer than I’d seen them in months.

  “C’mon and let’s get you cleaned up,” he said. We rushed to the bathroom in the house. “I’m glad your mother’s out. She’d have a fit if she saw you like this,” he said. “I don’t think you need stitches, though. Looks like it just grazed ya.”

  He washed my cut and swabbed it with iodine. It burned like fire and I cringed at the sting.

  “Stay still. It’s not that bad.”

  Why did grown-ups always say “it’s not that bad” when something was as bad as it could possibly be?

  As he pulled out a bandage from the first aid kit, I asked, “So what’s a scab?”

  “You mean like you’re gonna have on your head?”

  “No, like what they were calling those guys down at the strike,” I said.

  “A scab is somebody who crosses a picket line to work,” he growled. “Somebody who’s got no soul.”

  “If they don’t have a soul,” I replied, “they got nothin’ to fly through the spirit hole at church when they die.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “They were awfully sad looking,” I s
aid.

  “I’m sure they were desperate men, Jack. Even worse off than us,” he replied.

  “Eli Munroe was with them.”

  “Really?” Dad shook his head in disgust. “He finally got the job he always wanted, workin’ at the Company. Course, he just made enemies out of the entire town.”

  I didn’t know what to think about Eli. He must’ve given up on the pot field, or he wouldn’t have been there. But his backup plan was a bad one too.

  “I honestly thought the Company would try to work it out with us.” Dad took a deep breath. “I guess it was just wishful thinkin’.”

  “Dad, Mr. Quinn was talking to Mr. Harmon at the post office,” I said. “There’s jobs at a new carpet mill in Dalton.”

  Dad stuck a large bandage onto my head. “You are just full of news today,” he said as he crinkled the bandage wrapper in his hand. He threw it in the trash can. “Come on.”

  “We goin’ to the picket line?” I asked.

  “No, son,” he said heavily. “We’re going to the post office.”

  On the way there, I told him about the sparrow.

  “Jack, there hasn’t been a bird around these parts in decades,” he said.

  “It’s here because the Company hasn’t been running,” I replied. “There aren’t enough fumes to kill ’em anymore.”

  “You’ve been listenin’ to your grandpa again,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck. “But I guess… I think you might be right.”

  I never saw my dad look at me the way he did right then—it made me stand a little taller.

  At sunrise, Mom and I waved goodbye to Dad and some of the other miners as they drove away.

  Dad had called the others right after he got the details about the carpet mill. “Maybe they’ll have enough work for all of us,” he’d said.

  Mom and I looked down the road long after the dust cloud settled.

  “When they gonna be back?” I asked.

  “I guess when they have jobs.” She sighed.

  “I put a fairy cross in Dad’s pocket.”

  “Yeah? Where’d you learn about those?” Mom smiled and rubbed my head. “Want me to help you weed your garden, Jack? I can’t believe how it’s growing. You must have a green thumb or something. You’re like Johnny Appleseed—even your dogwood is doing okay.”

  It was Friday, music night, so Mom and I grabbed our folding chairs and walked down to the river park. The music was great, as always, but the air was thick with tension. It was like the entire town was holdin’ its breath waiting for the men to come home—good news was almost too scary to wish for. Everybody seemed determined to have a good time and laughed a little too hard, but it just wasn’t working. Mom didn’t join in at all.

  “Grace, come sing,” Grandpa called to her.

  “Another night, Pa,” she said and continued to watch the river rush by.

  The phone was ringing when we got back to the house. Mom ran to pick it up.

  She smiled at me and nodded—Dad. But as he talked, her smile faded. “Where are you gonna stay? Oh, okay,” she said. “It was fine. Same ol’ thing. We miss you.”

  I raised my eyebrows when she hung up the phone.

  “The man who’s hiring wasn’t there today, and your dad and the miners aren’t the only ones who showed up for jobs.” She sighed. “They’re gonna stick around until they can talk to the supervisor. It might not be ’til Monday.”

  “Where are they gonna sleep?” I asked.

  “Hm?” She looked worried. “Oh, in the car.”

  Desperate times deserve desperate measures, Aunt Livvy had said.

  Chapter 30

  Frogs

  With mixed feelings, I watched the Company hum back to life. The railway started runnin’ again and trucks came and went nonstop, but the miners had nothing to do with it. Nobody knew anything about the replacement workers—they didn’t venture into town, not even Eli. He probably would’ve gotten beat up if he did.

  Everybody was complaining at church on Sunday morning. They figured if the Company was willing to hire Eli Munroe, it didn’t say much about the intelligence level of the rest of the scabs. The general opinion was that the replacement workers had no idea what they were doin’.

  “It’s dangerous,” Grandpa said when he stopped by after church. “Just wait and see how long before somebody spills something or goes and gets himself blowed up. It’s bound to happen.”

  Mom just mumbled, “Hmm.”

  “I heard they were dumpin’ leftover sludge straight into the river yesterday,” he said. “Can you believe that? They’re supposed to dump up at the tailings ponds.”

  I bolted upright. “The tailings ponds? You think they’re using Old Number Two?” My frogs!

  “They’re supposed to.” He shook his head. “Too lazy, I imagine. They’ve got no respect at all.”

  “Mom, I gotta go.” I jumped up, ran out the door, and didn’t stop.

  “What? Jack, be home for supper!” she yelled behind me.

  I ran as fast as I could to the tailings pond, not slowin’ down once. I was panting and out of breath when I finally got there.

  New tire tracks were pressed into the dirt road leading to the gate, which now stood wide open. My heart dropped to my feet and I stopped, afraid of what I might find.

  Please, I thought. Please let them be okay.

  I tried to swallow as I walked around to the water that held my frogs, but my throat was dry as a bone.

  As I got close, I knew something was different. The air had that putrid smell again and the weeds and grasses, which had been doing so well, were brown and wilting. I rushed to the pond.

  No!

  Little frogs floated on the surface of the water, their white bellies upturned. A few more developed frogs lay on the bank, their paper-thin skin drawn tightly over their tiny frames. My legs suddenly felt like rubber and I sank to the ground. I wrapped my arms around my knees and let the tears flow down my cheeks. I was too late. Every last one of them was dead.

  I cried hard like I hadn’t done since I was a kid, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t right.

  Stupid Company, I thought. I looked across the tailings pond. It isn’t natural. It’s not supposed to look like this. The Company had scarred so much of my home. Our town, set down in its valley, wasn’t all that different from the little frog pond.

  If they killed my frogs so easily, what are they doing to us?

  I thought about Uncle Amon and Mrs. Ledford and all the other funerals I’d been to in my life. Is it normal for someone my age to have been to so many?

  Through my sobs, I slowly became aware of a faint chirping noise. I looked over my shoulder, following the sound. There, about three feet away from the pond, was one little frog. I dried my eyes and crawled toward him. He just looked at me, blinked, and let me gently scoop him into my hands.

  “Do you have any more friends, little man?” I asked. He chirped as if replying, No.

  I cupped my other hand over the top of him, creating a safe cave, and looked around, but he was the only one still alive.

  I walked home slowly, careful not to close my hands too tightly. I thought about all of the little frog’s lost brothers and felt like smoke was comin’ out of my ears.

  “It’s all their fault,” I said out loud and kicked a soda can with a tinny ka-tink. “I’m glad the Company is closing.”

  Somebody responded, “You can make things better, yessirree. Jack can.”

  I looked up to see Crazy Coote jabbing his finger toward me and nodding to make his point. “Jack Hicks can make things better, yessirree.”

  I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open as he walked away, still talking. I didn’t know Coote even knew my name.

  He was right, though, just like he’d been right about the rain. I could make things better
. I will make things better, I thought. The frogs at the tailings pond may be dead, but one survived. This is the only frog in Coppertown, and it’s up to me to make sure he’s okay.

  When I got home, I placed him carefully in one of Mom’s large mason jars then got to work.

  “Jack, it’s getting close to supper,” she called from the den. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got a project to finish up, Mom. I’ll be out back.”

  Behind Dad’s metal shop, I dug out my old aquarium. I had a tank full of guppies when I was young, but I hadn’t known how to take care of things back then. It was caked with mud and took a while to scrub clean, but I didn’t stop until it was perfect. The sun sank over the hills and cast long blue shadows across our backyard. I collected some dirt and gravel from the garden—the good soil, not the dead stuff—and set it in the bottom before carrying the aquarium inside.

  In my bedroom, I cleared off the spot on the shelf in front of my window where I’d grown my seeds and placed the aquarium on it. I found a shallow screw-top lid in the kitchen, filled it with water, and placed it in the corner. It was bare, but it wasn’t so different from the tailings pond, really. I fetched the mason jar and placed it on its side in the aquarium.

  As if on cue, the little frog hopped out of the jar into his new home and chirped.

  I smiled. “There’s a lot countin’ on you, little man.”

  Little Man, I thought. “I’ll call you Little Man.”

  Just then, Mom poked her head into my room. “Jack, what are you up to?” She walked over. “A frog? Where on earth did you find a frog?”

  I squinted at her apologetically. “The tailings pond,” I said and braced for the teardown.

  “Jack Hicks, it’s dangerous up there!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be goin’ anymore. All the frogs are dead—the dumping killed them. Little Man here is the only one left.” I told her the whole story, about the floodwaters and the frog eggs. How we watched them turn into tadpoles then frogs. By the end of it, tears were runnin’ down my face again.