by S. Rose
“Oh.” He absentmindedly rubbed the jagged scar at the back of his head.
“Dad, I’m getting to be a big girl. Something like that just can’t be kept a secret forever.”
“No . . . I don’t suppose it can. The evil will live on until every last human being it touched . . . and their children, and maybe even their children’s children . . . until there’re all dead and buried. Then maybe we can forget . . . maybe things can go back the way they used be.”
“I don’t think we can ever forget,” Anna offered. “I don’t think we should try.”
38
ARTY WAS PRACTICALLY blown into the kitchen by a blast of artic air followed by a flurry of snowflakes. “I’ve got great news,” he announced. Dad shut the door quickly behind him and offered to take his coat.
“We sure as hell could use some,” Reuben Parsons groused.
“I second that.” I raised my hand.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” Arty added, pulling off his woolen cap. We were finishing up breakfast, but his entry was a welcome interruption to the tense, silent morning the four of us were having.
School had let out for Christmas break a few days earlier, but it sure didn’t feel merry. The land dispute was in legal limbo, and my father seemed to have given up. He wasn’t drinking, but all the fight had gone out of him. It was heartbreaking to see my parents’ anguish, but I was far more concerned about the fate of my friend. Sparrow was still in reform school hell, and so far, we had no word as to whether or not John Wind would claim her.
“You’re not intruding at all,” Mom said. “Let me get you some hot coffee.”
“I’d love some, thank you. Actually, I have two things to tell you. By the way, John Wind sends his thanks to you, Miss,” Arty addressed me.
“Me?”
“Ya. If you hadn’t brought the case to my attention, he never would’ve known he had options.”
“So he’s going to claim Sparrow?”
“The petition has been filed, and we have an emergency hearing in family court. We’re hoping to spring the poor girl before Christmas.”
“Thank God!”
“Ya sure, God is good. But your friendship had a lot to do with it. You’re one smart cookie.”
The cookie remark detracted a mite from the compliment, but I was feeling charitable. I held my tongue.
“That’s great news, Arty.” Dad forced a tired smile. “But what about our case?”
“That’s the best news of all. The Chippewa Nation is willing to drop the suit against you.”
“I . . . I’m stunned,” Dad stammered, groping for the back of a chair to sit down. “I’m so grateful.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” Mom said with tears in her eyes.
“Hold on, that’s not the end of it,” Arty said. “They’re willing to drop the claim against your land provided you join them in a class action suit against Hatchet, Incorporated.”
“What exactly does that entail?” Dad asked.
“You become one more name on the growing list of plaintiffs; the Stony River people aren’t the only ones who were wronged. There were lumbermen who were injured and never got their compensatory pay or got a lot less than they were promised. Most of them are dead, but some have living descendants. Your part would be a civil complaint alleging that the corporation knowingly sold a portion of tribal land to your ancestor, violating a treaty. They also didn’t inform Randal Parsons of the tribal rights to hunt and fish on the land he did own.”
“Does that mean we can rent out the chalet in the meantime?”
“As soon as I have your written agreement, they’ll formally withdraw the claim, and we can file again for the land use permit. The old deed will stand. The Chippewa nation doesn’t want to take your few acres; they want to expose the perpetrator and seek monetary restitution.”
“Would we get any of the money?” Mom asked. “I mean, we’ve lost out on doing business since September. We were humiliated in front of dozens of people—our reputation is ruined.”
“I’m sorry for all that, but there’s the catch. They’re willing to cede the four-and-three-quarter acres, but they want the payoff. We’re hoping to settle out of court.”
“I suppose it was their land, but we were damaged too.”
“Believe me, this is the best deal I could get for you, and it wasn’t easy. I negotiated over a period of days. Some of the old timers from the Stony River Band wanted no part of joining up with the Parsonses. Which brings me to the other issue . . .”
“Oh-oh,” Mom said. “This doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not terrible,” Arty reassured her, “it’s just that ceding the acreage does not mean they relinquish the tribe’s right to fish and hunt.”
“You mean, right here in our backyard?” Dad asked.
“There was no getting around it,” Arty said. “They’ve had that right all along, but haven’t made an issue of it. The downside of all this is that some of the naysayers from the Stony River Band intend to exercise that right, as a matter of protest.”
“Just like Isaiah and his clan,” Dad mused.
“Let’s hope not,” Arty said. “I mean, there can be no aggressive actions taken against any Native American, by you or anyone. The Office of Indian Affairs will be watching . . . the federal government will be watching, in a manner of speaking. You must treat the Ojibwe with the utmost respect.”
“Humph! I’d like to treat ’em, alright—treat ’em to a round of buckshot up their red assess!” Reuben Parsons stood abruptly, shoving his chair back so hard it fell over with a clatter.
“Grandpa Parsons,” Mom cried.
“Daddy.” My father spoke sharply as the old man clomped from the room like a petulant child. “Don’t worry about him.” He addressed Arty. “He’s just a toothless old dog on a chain.”
“I apologize for my father-in-law. I’m so embarrassed . . . after all you’ve done for us,” Mom blustered.
“Please keep an eye on him,” Arty told my father.
“IT’LL GROW BACK,” I said softly, but Sparrow only stared out over the frozen landscape, silently puffing a cigarette. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up during her brief stay in reform school. We stood behind the Schimschack’s outhouse so she wouldn’t get caught.
Her father had only just brought her home and stopped so she could see her mother and pick up some clothes, before returning to the reservation. From the sounds that carried through the thin plywood walls, Mr. Wind had apparently decided to visit with Anna a while longer.
I’d trekked through the woods on snowshoe to see my friend, but the reunion wasn’t how I’d imagined it would be all these long weeks. “That’s not good for you, but if you’re gonna do it, I will too,” I said defiantly, sticking out my hand. She passed me the butt. I was desperate to connect with her somehow, and since she wouldn’t talk, my impulse was to share a cigarette. I sucked in the smoke gingerly, coughed hard, and quickly handed it back. “Well, I learned one thing today,” I choked out, “smoking is definitely not for me.” I thought I saw a flicker of a half-smile cross her lips as I hacked a few more times.
“I don’t give a shit about the hair,” she said at last. It was stuffed into a wool cap, which made her look like a boy.
“Uh, okay then. I’m just so happy you’re home,” I gushed. “Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Aren’t you glad to be back? And you’re legally Sparrow Wind, too. Are you excited about living with your dad? ”
She shrugged. “I’m glad I’ll go to school on the rez.”
“Me too—for you, that is. I’m sure gonna miss you.”
“Be better off without me. Now you can be friends with those silly girls; you’ll fit in.”
“Hey!” I poked her in the arm hard. “You don’t have to be nasty. I’m not like them, and you know it.”
She blew smoke from her nose, but otherwise didn’t react.
“I’ve been worried sick about you. You’re all I though
t about ever since . . . Look, I don’t know what I did to make you so mad at me.”
“I ain’t mad at you. It’s just that you’re a real nice girl. You should have better friends. I’m just a dirty, no-good . . .”
“Don’t say that.” I got in her face and gripped her upper arms. “Is that what they told you in there? Sparrow, what’s happened to you? Look at me, damn it.” I slapped the cigarette from her hand. I would’ve preferred to get knocked on my ass than have her ignore me. “Tell me what happened . . . please.”
“I can’t, not now, anyway. And you don’t deserve a lie. You’d best go on home.”
“Aren’t you going to see me anymore?” I asked, trying not to cry.
“Sure. ’Course I’ll see you.”
“Sparrow,” Anna called out. “Come say goodbye to me. Your father is ready to leave.”
“I gotta go,” she said. “Wait—why don’t you let my pa drive you home. He won’t mind. You came a long way.”
“If you don’t mind. It’s pretty cold.” At twenty below, that was an understatement. I’d been fueled by enthusiasm on the way over, but I wasn’t looking forward to the lonely trudge back.
“Come on,” she said with a jerk of her head.
No one uttered a word on the two mile drive down Highway 2—awkward, since the three of us were crammed on the bench seat in the truck like ducks in a row. When we pulled into the driveway, I wanted to jump out and run into the house before it even came to a full stop, and at the same time, I didn’t want to leave. I was afraid that I’d never see my friend again, not the way she used to be.
“Thank you for the ride, Mr. Wind.” He nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot.” I turned and clutched Sparrow’s arm. “I’ve got a Christmas present for you; please wait while I run in and get it. I won’t be long,” I begged, as I opened the door and began to climb out.
“You go on in with her,” her father told Sparrow. She looked at him wearily. “Don’t make Cassy come back outside. And wish her folks a Merry Christmas. I’ll wait.”
“I AIN’T GOT nothing to give you,” she said, as I handed her the book, giftwrapped in shiny red foil with a big green bow. “It’s heavy.” She hefted it in one hand.
“I didn’t expect anything,” I said earnestly. “I’m just glad to have you back. Please open it . . . I think you’ll like it.” Her mouth turned up in spite of herself as she tore away the wrapping in one swipe.
“The Chippewa of Lake Superior,” she read the title quietly. It was a large, hardcover illustrated coffee table edition with beautiful photographs. The cover had an old black-and-white photograph of an Indian family by their birch bark wigwam. “No one’s ever given me a book before.”
“Look inside, it’s got great pictures,” I encouraged. Sparrow opened it slowly and carefully turned a few pages. The light came back in her eyes as she studied the full color photographs and drawings.
“I like this picture.” She indicated a fierce-looking warrior in red face paint. His head was shaved, but for a thick shock of hair growing from the top of his skull and down to the nape of his neck. It stuck up like a brush.
“In times of war, Indian men would cut their braids and wear the scalp lock,” she read smoothly and without hesitation. I could see our homework sessions had paid off. “Thank you—this is the best gift I ever got. Pa’s waiting, and I gotta go, but I’ll see if he can bring me by soon . . . if that’s okay.”
“Any time. Merry Christmas, Sparrow.” I dared to give her a hug, and she did not rebuff me. “Things are going to be better from now on, you’ll see.”
“Thanks, Cassy . . . for everything.”
39
“A LOUNGE? YOU mean as in selling liquor? So people can sit and drink?” Mom was thunderstruck.
“That’s generally what one does in a lounge,” Dad said sardonically.
“Dear God. My father will roll over in his grave.”
“He might come back to haunt us if everything goes belly up.”
“I suppose that would be much worse, but I still don’t like the idea.”
“We had to apply for a liquor license to hold functions,” he countered. “You knew there’d be alcohol. Did you think folks would throw parties here if they couldn’t have a drink?”
“I thought we were going to host weddings and anniversaries . . . in a chalet. That’s classy. If we turn the place into Parsons’ Lounge, we’ll be nothing but common barkeeps.”
“Say, I think I’ll buy you one of those lace-up bustier things—like those German gals in the Hofbräuhaus with the big bazooms!” Dad held his cupped hands out in front of his chest. I burst into a peal of giggles.
“George,” she chided, making eyes in my direction, as if my tender sensibilities might be injured. He responded to her reprimand with gleeful chuckles. She scowled indignantly. He laughed uproariously. “Be serious. “We’re trying to raise a young lady. What kind of life is she going to have? Think of the things she’d be exposed to; you know how men get when they drink.”
“Calm down, Tina. What I had in mind is not some dive where men come to get drunk, but a classy lounge were ladies and gentleman come to socialize . . . share a few drinks and a laugh in elegant surroundings. I’ll hire a short order cook, and we’ll be a lounge and grill. We’ve got a great dance floor too, and we can have a live band on Friday and Saturday nights. It won’t be much different from a catered affair, really. The drinks will cost a bit more. Nobody’s going to spend their money to bring their wives and girlfriends to a nice place if all they want to do is get drunk off their . . .” He looked at me and smirked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mom began, but her resistance was waning.
“We can pull it together by New Year’s Eve.”
“How on earth are we going to manage that? It’s Christmas! You can’t hire a cook by then. Where are you going to find a bartender?”
“I can tend bar. I’ve done it before.”
“I see. So you’ve worked as a bartender, too? George Parsons, is there anything else I don’t know about you?”
I smiled, assuming it was a humorous rhetorical question. My father didn’t answer. He got that faraway look in his eyes that I’d seen before, and the mirth began to melt at the corners of his mouth until he resembled a sad clown.
“OHMYGOSH.”MOM PUT her hand over her heart. “I don’t believe it. When did you have that thing made?” She pointed with the other hand to the large electric sign on wheels that had just been delivered to the driveway. Dad plugged in a long extension cord, and the red neon letters lit up on both sides:
Parsons’ Lounge and Grill
Beer, Wine, Cocktails
Wednesday is Ladies’ Night
Live Music Weekends
Over the top was a giant flashing red arrow that would indicate the direction of our driveway: right if you were traveling east and left if you were heading west. The line to entice the ladies inside for half-price drinks ran from right to left, then fell off the edge like a waterfall before magically appearing on the other side. It even had a flashing pink martini glass with what appeared to be a little olive, tilted jauntily to one side.
“Isn’t it great? We can put it out by the road, and folks will see it coming from either direction.
“I like it.” I put in my two cents.
“But George, where did you get the money for that? I thought we were broke.”
“I ordered it specially made weeks ago. I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“You’d planned this for weeks . . . without even consulting me?”
“Look, I didn’t know how this thing was going to play out, so I hatched plan B—”
“Do you know what the worst part of this is?” she interrupted. He shrugged. “You told me about this so-called plan of yours only two days ago . . . as if it were up for discussion. You tacitly lied to me.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be crazy about it.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Tina, th
ink of what’s at stake here—your inheritance, my father’s property. If we don’t generate some income, we won’t be able to make the next mortgage payment. We’ll fall behind—maybe fall so deep that we won’t climb out in time. The bank will take everything. My father will lose the land, house and all.”
“He should’ve thought of that before he let us walk blindly into a disaster waiting to happen—before we sunk everything we had into this cockamamie venture. If it weren’t for Arthur Cunningham, we’d be loading up that ridiculous car,” she gestured toward the Bel Air, “and heading back to Racine to beg on my sister’s doorstep.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
“Well, then I’d leave and take Cassandra with me.”
“Mom,” I pleaded, “don’t say that.”
“Fine, so go then,” he snapped, “but you’d have to go Greyhound.”
“What?”
“I’m making payments on the car, too.”
“We bought that car with cash.”
“And I took out a loan against it when we were running pretty low on that commodity.”
“Jesus Christ,” Mom cried.
“Maybe we could sell some of my clothes?” I offered.
“See?” Mom pointed at me. “See what you’ve gone and done? Do what you want, George . . . run a bar . . . run a strip joint . . . you can run a goddamn brothel for all I care. I’m going home to my sister. We’re going inside,” she told me. I stood frozen to the spot. She placed a firm hand on my shoulder and ushered me toward the house. “I’m taking Cassandra home.”
MY MOTHER’S RESOLVE was as short-lived as her temper. She broke down and cried as soon as the kitchen door shut behind us. “What are we going to do? Oh God, I just don’t know anymore,” she choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry for dragging you into this. I’ve been a terrible mother.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Uprooting you from your friends and school . . . Tearing you from my sister’s arms . . . I was so selfish. Gudrun is right, I’m a selfish, selfishwoman. No, she was right the first time: I’m nothing but a selfish little girl.” My mother plopped onto a chair, folded her arms on the kitchen table and wept with her face buried in the cocoon of her inner elbows. When she looked up, her tousled blond hair and tearstained face made her look like a distraught child. I silently handed her the box of Kleenex and sat down across from her. “You see,” she said with a snuffle, “now, you’re comforting me. I’m supposed to be the adult. I’m supposed to be in control, but I just can’t take it anymore. I’m exhausted. I give up.”