by S. Rose
“I’m glad we’ll be in the same grade,” I said, walking fast enough to stand beside her. “Maybe we’ll even get the same teacher.”
“Fifty-fifty chance,” she said, “only two sixth-grade classes this year. Sure hope they put us in Miss Summer’s class—they say she’s nice. Miss Hatchet is the other sixth-grade teacher.” Without slowing down, Sparrow turned her head and made a face similar to the one I made at Mom’s tuna hotdish.
“Hatchet? What a name!”
“It suits her; she’s meaner than a rattlesnake and twice as ugly. The kids call her The Hatchet, or Ol’ Hatchet Face behind her back, but she better not catch you at it. Everybody’s scared of ’er, even some of the teachers. I can tell our principal don’t like her either.”
“If the principal doesn’t like her, why doesn’t she just fire The Hatchet?” I asked, recalling what happened when my father displeased his employer.
“On account of her brother, Horace Hatchet—he’s the city commissioner and sits on the school board, and he has lots of money. That’s all I know. Anyway, Mr. Hatchet has a boy my brother’s age. His name’s Horace Junior, but they call him Horace the Horrible.” I giggled at what I thought was supposed to be funny, but Sparrow didn’t join me. “Spite just seems to run in their blood,” she said bitterly. “Horace torments Timmy at school and on the bus—out at recess and at lunchtime—anywhere he can get in a jab when no teacher is looking. I’d about like to kill that kid. Poor Timmy got . . . uh . . . really hurt one time, but that sack o’ shit Horace gets away with it. He never gets in trouble at school on account of his Auntie Hatchet.”
“That stinks!” I commiserated.
“Like a shithouse,” she affirmed.
Our camaraderie was deepening. I lengthened my stride until we walked in unison. We were about the same height, but my legs were shorter, so I had to skip every few steps to keep up.
“I’ve never met anyone named Sparrow,” I said. “It’s a beautiful name.”
“Thanks. I like your name, too. I never met a Cassandra before,” she remarked. “You’ll likely be the only one in school.”
“My father chose it. I was going to be Clara with a C, after my mom’s mother . . . she died . . . and she spelled her name with a K. But Dad said I just didn’t look Norwegian enough to pull it off.”
“My father named me, too. Hey—does anyone ever call you Cassy?”
“No, only Cassandra . . . but I kinda like the sound of it.”
“Okay, Cassy.”
We walked on in amiable silence. I discovered that it was it was easier to maintain a brisk pace if you didn’t waste your breath gabbing.
“We’re ’bout there,” she said, pausing at last. “Listen.”
“Aaahh . . . maaahh.” The bizarre noise carried through the forest. It sounded like a lost soul, something between human and animal. I imagined Indians doing a war dance and calling out battle cries.
“You’re sure it’s okay for me to come with you? I mean . . . is it alright with the other Indians? Your dad won’t scalp me, will he?” Sparrow looked at me like I had a booger hanging out of my nose.
“Maah . . . aah-h-h.” It didn’t sound any better the second time.
“What is that?”
“That’s just my grandpa’s old goats! Ha. Ain’t you never heard a goat before?”
“Oh, ya sure, I have. It’s just been a while since I visited a petting zoo,” I said, feeling pretty silly.
She motioned me to follow as she elaborated. “Grandpa’s got a herd of pure-blood Toggenburg does for milk and cheese. He keeps a buck too, Olaf’s his name. He’s a registered Toggenburg with big curly horns. Nasty old thing—he sure smells bad. Ya got to be careful around ’im too . . . he can be dangerous with them horns. Olaf freshens all the does for miles around. Folks pay Grandpa ten dollars a pop to bring ’im to their does, twelve if she’s a Toggenburg and they want a certificate to prove the kids are pure blood. Olaf throws good stock; we’ve got a good milker come out of him. Grandpa’ll be bringing ’im round when our does go into season. Don’t even have to put a lead on ’im. He just smells the does and jumps out the back of the truck, charges straight to ’em! No holdin’ back old Olaf.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. I didn’t know what “freshens” meant or which season of the year Olaf came to visit the does, let alone why anyone would pay her grandfather ten whole dollars for one bottle of pop. But I’d displayed more than enough ignorance for the day, and the day was far from over. “Uh-huh,” I said.
“Come on.” She motioned me to follow as we approached a clearing. There were a few trailer-homes in the distance and some plywood shacks with smoke coming out of a pipe in the roof. We passed a junked car with a bunch of scruffy little brown boys packed inside, but they took no notice of us. Two of them stuck sticks out the glassless windows shouting, “bang bang,” pretending to shoot at some invisible pursuer while the driver bore down on the wheel. It looked like the getaway car at a bank heist.
There were more auto parts lying about—heaps of tires and piles of trash to rival the mess at Parsons’ Lodge before my father cleaned it up. I was wondering where the heck we were and when we’d get to the reservation; good thing I didn’t have time to ask.
“Here we are,” Sparrow announced.
I stood with my mouth gaping and gawked, wondering what happened to the teepees. Where were the proud warriors bedecked in colorful feathers?
“Over there’s the office.” Sparrow pointed to a squat cinderblock building. “My pa’s usually there.” She noted my hesitation, and a wry smile spread across her face. She must’ve thought I was afraid to meet her father. “Aw, it’s alright, my pa won’t scalp ya.” She started to trot toward the office. I shook off my stunned incredulity and ran after her. “It’s my Grandpa Wind you have to watch out for,” she added over her shoulder.
She pushed through the office door and bounded inside without knocking. I shuffled along behind and peered about anxiously.
A wrinkled old Indian man with leathery skin sat behind a desk, gripping a telephone receiver like he was trying to strangle it. Somehow I knew this was Grandpa Wind. His face made him look about ninety, but he had a headful of gray hair and his voice was clear and strong. “What are the charges?” he demanded of someone. I gathered that he was not in the habit of talking on the phone; he held it awkwardly away from his ear and barked into the mouthpiece as if it were a walkie-talkie. That’s all I caught before Sparrow interrupted.
“Boozhoo, Grandpa. Where’s Pa?”
Grandpa Wind looked up sharply at the intrusion, raised the flat of his palm, and cut her query dead with a deep scowl on his face. The gesture made him look just like the Indians in the movies when they said, “How.” Then he pointed a gnarled finger at the exit, silently ordering us to vamoose. I backed out, and Sparrow followed me quickly, shutting the door behind us without a sound. She looked a bit deflated. I could see how much she’d wanted to show off her Indian Chief father.
“Guess your grandpa is busy,” I said with a shrug.
“Yeah, I guess. Maybe Pa’s at the house,” she added hopefully and ran around the other side of the building, down a path into the woods. I plodded after like a tired puppy. The bleating of the goats grew louder, so I knew we were getting closer. Then I saw a small, wood-frame house in a clearing. Barely ten feet to one side was a long, low shed with a sloping roof to shelter the goats. The back wall of the shed, along with its roof, extended to the house, forming a covered walkway. I knew that a snowstorm could dump a couple of feet overnight, so the shelter must’ve been a real blessing throughout the long winters. The goat shed was surrounded by wire fencing, but that didn’t seem to contain them. There were goats everywhere, along with the little dark round pellets they frequently dropped out of their tail ends. It didn’t smell as bad as horse manure, but it didn’t smell good either. Baaah . . . ma, ma, maaah. The bleating came from all directions. There were scruffy hens, too, clucking and s
cratching the dirt and scurrying out of the goat’s paths. A big black rooster suddenly flapped to the top of a fence post directly behind my head and crowed. It was deafening. “I thought they only did that at sunup,” I declared, hands over my ears.
“Wait here a minute,” Sparrow said, and let herself through a broken gate that was hanging by one hinge—guess that’s why there were loose goats. She had to pick it up with both hands and lift it aside because it dragged on the ground. “Pa?” she called, and disappeared into the house. It was a very small house so she was back in a jiffy, shrugging to indicate that no one was home.
Baaahh.
I turned to see what made the low, deep bellow, coming from a lone shed about fifteen yards away. “That’s Olaf,” Sparrow explained. At the sound of his name, a shaggy gray goat the size of a Shetland pony trotted out of his shed, which was enclosed by a sturdy wooden fence with heavy-gage wire. In several places the wire was bent as if someone had lobbed a bowling ball at it. I was curious and went over for a closer look. The pen was upwind, and the rank odor of billy goat stopped me in my tracks six feet away.
“Yuck.” I put my hand over my nose. “He sure does stink,” I said, looking back at her.
“Careful!” Sparrow warned. Olaf had suddenly reared on his hind legs like a wild Mustang—he was as tall as a man. The goat drew back his head and cocked it as if loading a weapon, then dropped down on four hooves and charged the confines of his pen. His great horns struck the wood with a mighty crack. I jumped back instinctively, even though I was well out of range. I knew the force was enough to shatter bones.
“Holy smokes!” I exclaimed. Olaf shook his massive horned head and snorted like a bull, then fixed me with a pair of demonic yellow eyes, the pupils of which were mere slits, and horizontal at that. I felt as if I were face to face with Satan himself. Then he slipped his long tongue out and waggled it as if tasting the air like a snake. “What’s he doing now?” I asked.
“Smelling for does in season.”
“Ahh,” I said, nodding like a sage. Maybe I’d figure it out from context if I paid attention.
“It’s pretty much all he cares about, besides eating,” she added.
Just when I thought the creature couldn’t be any more repugnant, he craned his neck around, nosed his boy parts and appeared to slurp down his own pee. I didn’t know much about animals, but there were plenty of pet dogs around my old neighborhood. Boy dogs lifted their hind leg and went wee-wee from a winky, more often than not on a tree. Girl dogs squatted in the grass. I’d certainly never seen a dog do anything like what Olaf did. I looked at Sparrow and wrinkled my nose in disgust.
“Yeah, he’s pretty nasty . . . told ya it was all he cares about.”
I decided I’d seen enough of Olaf and walked back toward the house with the attached goat shed. “So these are all girl goats?” I asked.
“All except for the babies. The young wethers will go to slaughter soon. Most of the does will get sold as milk goats. Grandpa only keeps the best.”
“What’s a wether?” I asked.
“A buck that’s been cut. Otherwise the meat will be tough.”
“Ya sure,” I replied knowingly. I had a lot to learn about life in the country.
Some of the adult does were shy and ducked inside for cover at the sight of a stranger. Two cute young goats galloped over to greet me. Standing on their hind legs and planting their hoofs on my chest, they sniffed and snuffled unabashedly. One started nibbling at my blouse.
“Git!” Sparrow grabbed each of them by a stubby horn and hauled them off. “Go on.” She kneed one in the ribs when it tried again to mount me. That seemed to do the trick.
A pickup truck tore into view behind the house and squealed to a stop, kicking up a cloud of red dirt. Grandpa Wind hopped out of the cab and loped toward the yard on skinny, bowed legs, a lot more spritely than I would have expected. He was wearing a blue work shirt with the left sleeve rolled up and the other flapping loose around his wrist. I thought he favored his right arm; he held it out stiffly as he walked and tried to open the back gate with only his left hand. “Sparrow?” he bellowed.
She rushed over to help him. “What’s wrong, Grandpa? How’d the gate get broke? Where’s Pa?” I heard her ask.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said gruffly. “Your Pa’s got business in town. I got to go meet ’im to, uh, help out with some business . . .” He paused. “Who’s that?” He eyed me suspiciously.
I thought quick. “My name is Cassandra Lynne, sir. I’ve just come up from Racine with my parents.”
“Umph,” he grunted and turned his attention back to Sparrow. He apparently had more important things on his mind than some strange white kid. “You go on home to your ma. Tell her I’ll be around later.”
“Yes, sir.” She sounded disappointed.
“On second thought, I might be a while. I need you to stay and milk-out.”
“Oh . . . but Grandpa, I have to take Cassandra home soon. She’ll be late getting back by the time I’m done. It’s her first visit out here, and she don’t know her way . . . can’t let her go through the woods by herself.”
“Where’d you say you stay at?” He scowled in my direction.
“Not far from me . . . right off Highway 2,” Sparrow interjected before I could elaborate. My stomach fluttered like birds; clearly she didn’t want Grandpa Wind to know who I was. I was beginning to think the old Indian really might scalp me if he found out. What in God’s name had possessed me to traipse through the woods to an Indian reservation, with a girl I’d only just met—a girl who claimed a blood feud between our male ancestors, no less?
“Okay. You milk them goats,” he commanded, “and I’ll drive the both of you home when I get back.”
Sparrow jumped aside as her grandfather charged past into the house. He returned in a hurry, wearing a shabby tweed suit jacket over his shirt and carrying a worn leather satchel by pressing it awkwardly under the upper part of his right arm. He fumbled with the gate again—not sure why they’d bothered to close it since half the goats were on the outside of the pen. Sparrow hurriedly lifted it aside for him. She looked at his right arm with concern. “Did ya get hurt, Grandpa?”
“Nothin’ to worry about. You’d better get goin’ with Olga before she plugs up,” he ordered as he headed to the truck. “There’s six does in milk. Strain it and chill it right away.” He climbed behind the wheel. “And don’t forget to wash your hands first before ya touch them teats! If ’n ya don’t, them goats’ll get the mastitis!” he hollered out the window, then revved the engine and roared off.
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked after he’d gone.
“Goin’ on five o’clock. I checked when I went inside. There’s still plenty of daylight,” she added.
“Daylight or no, I’d better be home by six. My mother usually has dinner ready. I should really go now . . . how long a walk is it from here?”
“Takes me over an hour to get home, and I know my way . . . besides, it’s nearly another mile to,” she paused and glanced about, “Parsons’ place.”
“You’re a fast walker, too,” I said despondently.
Ma-maaah. A huge doe with a swollen bag of milk ambled out of the shed with her head held high. Her hind legs were long and set wide apart to accommodate her great udder, which appeared to be suspended from the loose skin of her bony pelvis like a sling. The black markings on her face were perfectly symmetrical, and she studied me with shining, golden eyes and a far more intelligent expression than I would have thought possible. Without knowing a thing about goats, I knew this must be a fine specimen, a queen amongst goats.
“That’s Olga,” Sparrow informed me. “I get to show her at the county fairs. She places every time, even though we’re Ojibwe. Just took the best-in-show ribbon this past June.”
“She’s uh, lovely,” I said, never having complimented a goat before.
“Grandpa’ll ’bout skin me alive if I don’t tend her proper,” she sai
d with an apologetic shrug and strode briskly into the shed on bare feet, never mind the manure. Olga’s massive udder wobbled as she trotted happily along behind, confident that she would soon be relieved of her burden. The other does followed the leader.
I stood alone with only baby goats for company who curiously chewed at my shoelaces. I knew then why I’d eagerly followed a girl I didn’t know on a hike through the woods to a place I’d never been. You can only take independence so far—I’d been independent long enough to appreciate how much I craved friendship. A girl just needs to be with other girls. I had a sneaking suspicion that Sparrow shared the same longing but sensed she’d be too proud to admit it. For all her nonchalance, she’d very much wanted to bring me out to the reservation and introduce me to her father, even though we’d only just met—even though I was a Parsons and our families were like the Capulets and the Montagues.
Already I could see that Sparrow wasn’t like any girl I’d ever known. She was as different from Kitty Gunderson as white bread from pumpernickel: robust in the center with a hard crust and gritty little seeds on top. When I first landed in Blackstone, I probably would have shied away from her coarse manners and earth-stained feet, but I’d been instantly drawn to her openness, her vigorous, self-assured nature and the easy way she spoke. Sparrow had extended a rough hand of friendship, and we’d crossed the river together. I hoped it would be the first of many adventures, but right now my priority was to get home before my mother got worried. I also wanted to escape before Grandpa Wind returned.
Given an explanation and fair warning, the old Indian might come to terms with our friendship. Having him discover my lineage by way of driving me home seemed like a bad idea. From her evasive reply that I “lived off Highway 2,” Sparrow didn’t seem to think it’d be a smart move either. I was pretty sure I could find my way to the river; from there it shouldn’t be too hard to find my way home. If I waited until Sparrow finished her chores, she might try to talk me out of it. The thought of Grandpa Wind and his angry scowl filled me with dread. I hated to be rude, but I’d just have to apologize and explain myself later. I turned and ran back the way I came.