Sparrow in the Wind

by S. Rose

  The odor of stale cigar smoke wafted across the kitchen. Grandpa Parsons was standing in the hallway, scowling in our direction. “Shouldn’t you be fixing dinner?” he grunted.

  “Why don’t you fix it yourself?” Mom retorted, and got up to leave. I headed her off and ran interference with Reuben.

  “Excuse us, please,” I said, while rejoicing inside that the stinky old man wasn’t my real grandfather after all. At that moment it suddenly occurred to me: I wasn’t related by blood to the Schimschacks. Thank God.

  He stepped aside, and we filed into the narrow hallway to my parents’ bedroom. My mother went inside but didn’t close the door behind her.

  “Mom, may I talk to you?”

  “Come in, shut the door, please.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself . . . you’ve had a tough time,” I began.

  “My sister said I was spoiled . . . that I had it easy.”

  “Well, maybe you never had to work so hard, but Mom . . I know.”

  “What do you mean? Know what?”

  “Everything—about Dad’s illness, about how you lost your baby boy,” I whispered. “I’m so, so sorry about baby Eddie.” My mother’s face twisted in fresh pain.

  “Your aunt told you all that? Over Thanksgiving?”

  “Only because I asked questions. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it for a while, but it never seemed like the right time.” I took a deep breath. “Last September before my birthday, I . . . uh . . . I have to go get something from my room.” Mom sat looking bewildered as I jumped up to retrieve her private box.

  “Where did you find that?” she asked in alarm as I set it on the bed.

  “It got stacked in my room last July and shoved under the bed with my games.”

  “It wasn’t even supposed to be here. I meant to leave it stored back in the attic. Your father must have grabbed it without checking and loaded it onto the truck.”

  “Sparrow opened it by mistake, and I looked through it. I knew I shouldn’t . . . I felt terrible afterwards.”

  “So you saw your adoption certificate,” she stated blandly.

  “Adoption certificate? No, I didn’t dig that far. After I read about little Eddie, I closed it up again. I didn’t know how to tell you what I’d done . . . I didn’t want to make you sad. Anyway, when I confessed to Tante Gudy, she got even more upset than I expected. She thought I knew more than I did and ended up telling me more than I knew.”

  My mother hid her face in her hands. “What else did she tell you?” she asked without looking up.

  “I know how Grandmother Sigurdsson died and why you couldn’t have more children . . . and how Tanta almost got kicked out of the house, but you and Dad ended up adopting me.”

  “Ooh,” she moaned softly. “I always knew we’d need to talk about it someday. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. And I certainly wouldn’t have picked now. But what about you? Are you alright with it?”

  “Ya . . . now I am. It was hard at first.” I told Mom how I came to have a new hairstyle.

  “Oh my God. Gudrun must’ve shit a brick. I mean, were her feelings hurt?”

  “No, not really. She was actually pretty calm, considering.”

  “Well, as I said before, I just love your haircut. It’s adorable on you. I wish I could’ve taken you to the beauty shop years ago, but I just couldn’t.”

  “I know—and that wasn’t fair to you.”

  “Oh, Cassandra . . . all those years, it’s like you were caught in the middle of a tug o’ war. I guess I let go. Gudrun’s a helluva lot stronger than me.” Mom smiled though her tears.

  “Ya, and sometimes she’s a little scary,” I admitted. “I’ve always been afraid of disappointing her. But overall, her strength is a good thing, I think.”

  “Oh, I agree. I wouldn’t have felt that way before all this happened, but she was absolutely right about the house. Thank God Morfar had the good sense to leave her the house. And some day, it’ll all be yours; it was a smart decision and I’m glad for it.”

  “Mom, you can always live there with me when I’m grown up. You never have to worry.”

  “Thank you, Cassandra. That makes me feel good and at the same time just awful. Good because you’re such a wonderful girl. You’re so much like her, like your real mother. So strong and capable. But I feel like a complete failure. My daughter is offering to take care of me because I’ve made a mess of my life.”

  “The mess isn’t all your fault, and it may still work out. But I want you to know, I still think of you as my real mother, and she’s still Tante Gudy. Want to know something funny? When I was very little I didn’t understand that tante meant just any old aunt, since I only had one. I thought it was a kind of special title. Like this big, wonderful, all powerful lady was the one, the only, Tante.”

  “I can see why. I used to refer to her as Queen Gudrun behind her back.” I chuckled in appreciation of the sentiment. “She was a very strict mother to me, so Old World. Gudrun really did work hard to raise me and care for Papa. She was always perfect in every way; you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when she told me about Mr. Salvatore. Ah, Gudrun did tell you about Silvio, didn’t she?” she added hurriedly.

  “Ya, and she showed me the picture. I look a lot like him.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how do you feel about your father? I mean, myhusband.”

  “He’s always been Dad. Still is. Things were going great between us.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re lucky he stuck around after I couldn’t have more children,” Mom said. “A lot of men would’ve bailed, and that’s a fact.”

  “And you feel lucky to have a husband at all; that’s why you put up with so much crap.”

  “My God, Cassandra—what a thing for an eleven-year-old girl to come out with. Is it so obvious?”

  “You’re not the only woman who puts up with crap from a man. Look at poor Anna.”

  “So you know about that too? But I wish you wouldn’t say crap . . . it’s not ladylike. Oh, Cassandra, when did you get to be so grown up?”

  “I watched the goats breed. Sparrow explained the rest.”

  “I see. But if I were Anna, I sure wouldn’t put up with John Wind coming and going as he pleased all these years,” Mom declared hotly. “That nasty thing Mr. Gorski said in front of you—well, there’s truth in it. I can’t understand why Anna lets herself be so degraded.”

  “I’m not sure she even knows, but it probably has something to do with being left by that bum, Lester. And she carries the hemophilia. Sparrow said her mother never meant to have her, ’cause she was afraid of having another boy like Timmy. They were relieved she was a girl. After that, Anna had an operation so she couldn’t have more kids.”

  “So in a way, she and I are in the same boat. I was wrong to cast stones; maybe if I’d been left high and dry in a shack, I’d have ended up just like Anna.”

  “That’s why I plan on going to law school. Nobody is going to leave me high and dry. I’ll have a home, thanks to my wonderful aunt; and thanks to you, I’ll have a good job.”

  “You’ve got nothing to thank me for,” she said sadly.

  “If you hadn’t had the guts to break away from your sister and try something new, I never would’ve known how tough life could be. I was spoiled, too.”

  “I’m so sorry that all this has turned you sour toward men. We really can’t have a normal life without them. I mean, how can you have a family without a husband? We can’t all be old maids, like my sister.”

  “No, I guess not. And I’m not against getting married someday. I want children, too. I just don’t want to be helpless.”

  “Well, if any girl can figure out how to pull that off, it will be you. Cassandra, you are the smartest girl I’ve ever known. And I’ve always loved you, even if I wasn’t always able to show it.”

  I got up and put my arms around her. “I love you, too.” She grasped my arm and laid her head on
my shoulder.

  “Do you want to talk about your adoption with your father?” she asked after a bit.

  “Eventually, yes. Tante was going to tell you both over the phone after it all came up, but she changed her mind when Dad . . .” I was thinking of how to put it delicately.

  “Got himself thrown in the slammer?”

  “Ya, that. But he’s got enough on his mind right now. I think it would be better if we held off.”

  40

  IN OUR NECK of the woods, all roads led to Highway 2. Since it was the only way in or out of Blackstone, it wasn’t long before half the town had driven by our garish neon sign. Folks who heard about it second hand began to drive by just to gander, and the gossip mill churned, until news of Parsons’ Lounge had spread throughout Iron County.

  My mother reluctantly conceded that Dad had been right: after our disastrous debut as a venue for catered affairs, no one in town would have taken a chance on us any time soon. But there was no harm in stopping by for a drink, and curiosity being what it is, people began to trickle in.

  On a cold winter’s night with a fire roaring in the great stone hearth, the chalet really was the most elegant setting for miles around. We had live music on weekends as well as the best dance floor. Through the large glass windows, you could see the starry night and colored spotlights illuminated the snowy woods.

  My father managed to find a competent grill cook in short order. Harvey Jackson had learned to cook while serving time for armed robbery in the state penitentiary and was eager to work, even though he’d make less than minimum wage plus a meal for starters. The man was clean, punctual, and pleasant. He turned out great burgers and fries, grilled Reuben sandwiches, and even chicken wings in spicy sauce. On a busy night, Harvey worked over the hot stove like a demon; after closing, he wouldn’t leave until the stainless steel kitchen was gleaming. Naturally, Dad kept Harvey’s background under his hat, and it never occurred to Mom to ask if he’d just so happened to have hired a convicted felon.

  As a bartender, George Parsons turned out to be as adept at selling alcohol as he’d once been at selling insurance. His jovial manner lifted the spirits, and his engaging smile rivaled the warm glow of the fire. Although it took some convincing, my mother finally agreed to play the part of hostess on weekends and ladies’ night. After months of relative isolation, she was suddenly surrounded by merry tippling couples and soon found that she actually looked forward to her evenings out of the house. Dad noted that her presence added a feminine touch and served to discourage the wrong sort. The trickle of patrons turned into a stream and the stream into a river, until they came like wildebeests to a watering hole in the Serengeti.

  By the end of January, we’d raked in enough cash to make the monthly bills and then some. Dad assured us that February would be just as strong, since Northern Wisconsin was still locked down in frigid darkness by late afternoon, and people were in a pitched battle with cabin fever. He had a plan to pay off the car and put aside money to finish the cabins in the spring. The six cement slabs were covered in snow, and the half-erected frames looked like some primitive monument, a kind of wooden Stonehenge, but the delay no longer mattered. When the ice melted and the river swelled, the sportsman would come from out of town and we’d be sure to rent the cabins—which would bring more people to the lounge.

  I was relieved and happy and miserable all at the same time. My parents had made their dream come true, but it looked like I’d be spending the rest of my school years alone and nearly friendless in a little patch in the pines. I got along well enough with the girls at Blackwood Community, but it would never be the same at school without Sparrow. I’d seen her twice since she’d gone to live on the rez, and then, she only stopped by on the way home from visiting her mother. Her father waited in the truck with the engine running.

  The last time, Sparrow came to tell me that he’d promised to get her a horse the following spring—so long as she never touched another cigarette. As soon as the ground thawed enough, they’d build a paddock and stall. It brought tears to my eyes to see her smile, almost like her old self. Her life had certainly taken a turn for the better, but I felt as if our friendship had been torn up by the roots, just as it had begun to bloom. My glorious Indian summer seemed like nothing more than a pleasant dream from which I had awoken.

  As February came to a close and daylight lingered until five o’clock, my father felt confident that we’d break ground by late summer and spend next Christmas in our very own house. I marveled at how he’d managed in eight short months to build a small empire from the ground up, take us to the brink of ruin and back again. It appeared that our fortunes had again turned around one-hundred-eighty degrees—all because of a neon sign on wheels, with the flashing red arrow that beckoned motorists to the door of Parsons’ Lounge.

  41

  IT WAS LATE Saturday morning, and we were enjoying a long, lazy pancake breakfast; my parents were taking a much need rest, comfortably attired in robes and slippers. Grandpa Parsons had bolted from the table after swallowing the first stack as if the house was on fire, so it was just the cozy three of us. The pancakes were good, with lots of butter and real maple syrup. I washed it down with a big mug of cocoa and ate way too much.

  I finally pried myself from the table to go dress for outdoors. I was in high spirits. It was a glorious day, and the sun made the new fallen snow sparkle like diamonds. Best of all, Sparrow and I had made plans to go on a snowshoe trek. I was going to meet up with her at the Schimschack’s where she’d spent the night visiting. But just as I was about to shed my flannel pajamas, there was a loud banging on my private outside door.

  “Cassandra!” Sparrow shouted, “Cassy, are ya in there?” I pulled my robe back on and opened the door.

  “Come on in quick. It’s freezing. I was getting ready to go to your place . . . Hey—what’s the matter?” I asked in alarm, noting the glassy-eyed panic on her face.

  “It’s Timmy,” she gushed breathlessly, as if she’d run most of the way.

  “I’ll get Mom and Dad,” I said, about to dash off. I vividly imagined her hemophiliac brother, home alone and bleeding to death.

  “No.” She grabbed my arm. “My pa already drove him and Ma to the hospital. It’s just that I . . . ah . . .” She was still trying to catch her breath. “Something bad happened . . . something real bad. I needed to talk to you.”

  “Kick off your boots and sit on the bed.” I took her ice cold jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. “Here . . .” I wrapped an afghan around her shoulders.

  “Thanks,” she said, breathing a bit easier.

  “Did Timmy get a bleed?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  “In his body, maybe, but his heart’s broke.”

  “What happened?”

  “He bled ’cause he beat himself in the face.”

  I shook my head sadly and let her continue.

  “I got up and went out to milk this morning. Pa spent the night visiting, and Ma wasn’t getting out of bed anytime soon.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyhow, first thing I saw when I stepped outside was one of Timmy’s rabbits, just plopped in the deep snow with only her head poking out, lookin’ at me. It was the white rabbit.”

  “Snowy?”

  “Ya, so I go to pick her up, and I’m talking to her like Timmy does. ‘What are you doin’ out here, you dumb old bunny?’ I put my hand down to reach for her ears and haul her out of the snowdrift . . .” Sparrow seemed reluctant to go on.

  “Oh no! Did she freeze to death?”

  “I grabbed her ears and pulled . . . but all I had in my hand was a rabbit head.”

  “What?”

  “It’d been sliced clean off.”

  “That’s horrible. Was it a coyote, or a raccoon? What kind of animal could . . .?”

  “Ain’t no animal—not the kind you mean, anyway. Cassy, someone cut the head off Timmy’s favorite rabbit and put it there for us to fin
d.”

  “I feel sick.” I sat on my bed holding my stomach. “Who in the name of God would do a thing like that?”

  “Can’t you guess? But it gets worse. I don’t know if you want to hear it, Cassy. I can barely take it myself, and I seen plenty of dead animals . . . deer, squirrels, wild rabbits, killed and gutted for eatin’. This was just so wrong.”

  “Oh God . . . oh God no . . . poor Timmy . . . go on, tell me.” I braced myself.

  “I ran over to the hutches . . . all the latches were open, and I lifted the first door. Then the second. Then I ran around and looked inside of the shed. That’s when I lost it, started screaming my fool head off, swearing to beat all. It must’ve been Horace. Cassy, that sick bastard skinned three rabbits—Snowy and two black ones. And from the looks of it,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “they were alive when he done it.”

  “Oh God . . . uh . . . I’m so sorry but I’m gonna . . .” I wasn’t going to make it to the toilet. I dashed out my backdoor in my robe and slippers and spilled breakfast. Sparrow ran out after me and watched helplessly as I hurled chocolaty liquid pancakes onto the snow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that last part.”

  “No, it’s okay . . . I’d want to know,” I said, trying to get the image of skinned rabbits out of my head. I wasn’t entirely successful. “Bleaahhh.” I was glad to have short hair.

  “Just breathe the cold air through your nose,” she suggested.