by Jana Zinser
But Ivy didn’t stop. She dodged his car by riding along the edge of the ditch on the side of the road and pedaled as fast as she could.
Conrad’s car could not follow so he got out and ran after her. “You’re not who you think you are, Miss Uppity.” Conrad lunged and grabbed her.
Ivy screamed. Her bike wobbled on the loose gravel. She pulled away from him and stood up, pumping the pedals. She saw Ellen, Nick’s mother, the perpetual hiker, emerge out of the ditch ahead of her and onto the road, carrying a walking stick. Ivy rode as fast as she could. She could hear Conrad’s heavy breathing right behind her. She could smell his sweat and his cigarette breath.
Ellen stepped into the path and Conrad stopped his chase. Ellen waved her stick and yelled, “Snake!”
Ivy looked back and waved to Ellen as her knees quivered and her foot slipped off the pedal. For a moment the bike lurched out of control on the loose gravel.
Conrad flailed his arms at Ellen. “Have you lost what little of your mind you have left?” He moved around her.
Suddenly a flock of sparrows fluttered out of the cornfield near the road and flew low over them in unison, a brown cloud of birds. This distracted Conrad long enough for Ivy to make her move. She swerved off the path and rode into the middle of a cornfield. As Ivy disappeared among the stalks, Ellen turned and continued her walkabout as if nothing had happened.
The rows of corn swallowed Ivy and she merged into the rippling field. She barely noticed the pedals digging into her bare feet as the corn stalks whipped by. She breathed heavily and gripped the handlebars. Sweat dripped down her face. She didn’t stop pedaling until she came out of the cornfield near the old hermit lady’s house.
Rosie Buckley, seventy-one, a solitary woman of meager means, took care of numerous dogs and cats. She kept to herself and seldom came to town, but when she did, she went after dark, so she wouldn’t have to run into anyone. She sequestered herself with her ill-mannered animals in a run-down shack with no running water or electricity. Her cracked and sooty fireplace heated the tiny house that looked as if it were built by disgruntled and unskilled gnomes.
Every fall around the end of October, Luther Matthews, Rosie’s neighbor, brought enough wood for Rosie and her animals to keep warm through the winter. Luther neatly stacked the wood against the side of Rosie’s little house. He brought it after dark, to spare her the embarrassment of having to say thank you. Rosie didn’t believe in accepting charity.
Ivy rode out of the tall cornfield and into Rosie’s yard. She didn’t notice that the sparrows had followed her out of the cornfield, an umbrella of brown high in the air. She avoided the unruly weeds and took a shortcut to the road across Rosie’s bare front yard.
The door to Rosie’s shack opened and there she stood, looking like the witch from “Hansel and Gretel.” A pack of barking wild dogs tumbled out her door and gave chase, nipping at Ivy’s ankles as she rode past.
Rosie’s wrinkled face was like an old dried-apple doll. “Get off my property,” she scolded in a raspy voice.
Ivy gripped the bike’s handlebars and turned to Rosie. “I’m trying.”
The relentless dogs ran down the path and onto the road after her, barking and biting at her legs as she pedaled away. One enthusiastically vicious dog lunged at her bare foot, but his teeth clamped down on the bike pedal instead. Ivy screamed and held her leg out as the pedal whipped around. The dog tumbled into a ditch.
As she rounded the corner near Luther’s house, she saw him walking out of the woods onto the road. He looked like a disheveled woodsman escaped from a nut house, his clothes drooping, his hair sticking up at all angles, and an ax in his hand. He set the ax against a tree. As Ivy approached, he clapped and raised his hands toward the dogs.
“Wild dogs, cease.”
The frantic dogs stopped their ferocious pursuit and trotted over to Luther, sniffing his feet. Ivy looked back gratefully at Luther and gave a quick wave. Her hair whipped across her sunburned face, but she pedaled on. The sparrows trailed above her, making circles in the air.
Ivy rode through town without stopping, going as fast as she could to 4120. Eventually her bike wobbled past the big maple tree in her front yard. The sparrows landed in an unorganized flutter in its big, comforting branches.
Grandma was waiting for her on the front porch with her hands on her wide hips. The birds must have already told her. “Little Missy, I hear you’ve been down at Conrad Thrasher’s pond again and by the looks of it, probably in it. What’s my rule about the Thrasher place?”
Ivy set the bike down on the ground, panting from the fright and her wild ride. Muddy pond water dripped from her clothes and down her legs and arms. “Not to go there. But I’m fine.”
Grandma shook her head. “That’s not the point. You disobeyed me. Go to your room for a while.” Grandma tapped her tennis shoe on the porch.
Ivy narrowed her eyes. She threw down her pink flip flops and balled up her fists in frustration. “Those birds talk too much,” she huffed. “They’re like spies in the sky. You never let me do anything fun.”
Her bare feet hurt as she stomped across the wooden porch. She slammed the screen door but Grandma marched in after her.
“You certainly can’t do things that are dangerous, even if they are fun.”
“I don’t care what you say.” As she walked away, Ivy flipped her hair like Raven did, but her hair fell tangled and wet against her sunburned neck.
Grandma grabbed Ivy’s arm and turned her around. “Well, you should care. I’m your grandmother.”
Ivy threw her shoulders back. “I don’t want you. I want my mother. I need my mother.”
Grandma’s angry face flushed red and she let go of Ivy’s arm. She pointed up the grand staircase, her flabby arm swinging. “Go to your room now, little missy.”
Ivy pulled her mouth into a tight little circle. “You’re not my mother. My mother would never be mean to me like you. She would’ve never gotten mad at me for having fun. Besides, grandmas are supposed to let you do whatever you want. You’re not a good grandma.”
Ivy dashed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door. She collapsed on the bed, crying and shaking.
A few minutes later, the polished wooden stairs creaked with Grandma’s heavy bulk as she climbed the steps to Ivy’s room. She knocked on the bedroom door before opening it and sitting down next to Ivy on the bed. Ivy turned away from her to face the wall. Grandma patted Ivy’s back. Her wet shirt stuck to her skin.
“Ivy, sit up. I need to tell you something important.”
The tears had left trails in the dust and sweat of Ivy’s freckled, sunburned cheeks. She sat up.
“Ivy, you and I are taking this journey of life together. We’re traveling side by side, sure enough. But you’re at the beginning of your journey and I’m nearing the end of mine. Since I know the road, I’m your guide, your protector.”
Grandma wiped Ivy’s tears away with her thumb. “I wish I was the kind of grandma who could give you everything you want. But I don’t have that freedom. There are some things in life we can change and some things we just have to accept. Having me in charge of you is just one of the things you have to accept. Please don’t ever say those things to me again. I may be old, but my feelings still get hurt.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have gone to Thrasher’s pond,” Ivy said in a quiet voice.
Grandma stroked Ivy’s wet, stringy hair. “Don’t do it again. It’s too dangerous. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“Like what happened to Mildred Thrasher?”
“Well . . .” Grandma shifted on the bed. “That man’s soul is poison.”
“Grandma, did Mildred Thrasher know my mother?”
“Mildred?” Grandma said, but the familiar warmth returned to her eyes. “Honey, in a town this size, everybody knows everybody. Why don’t you come on down and get your supper? Warm up the television and set up the TV trays while I dish up the food. We’ll eat in front
of the TV tonight. Don’t grandmas always let their grandkids do that?”
When they finished eating their dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and green beans, they watched the night settle in from the covered back porch. Ivy ran around the yard catching fireflies in an old Mason jam jar with holes punched in the lid for air. When she was tired, she sat down next to Grandma on the porch swing to watch the moon rise high in the sky. The bright orb of light glowed through the gathering dark clouds of an approaching storm blowing in from the south—the direction of the worst storms and the strongest winds.
When Ivy got in bed that night, Grandma sat down beside her. “Tommy’s going to empty the trash barrels tomorrow. You can go to the dump with him, but only if you don’t hang around that mangled car. It’s a death trap. I wish Walter had never told you about it.”
The twisted remains of her parents’ Pontiac still sat at the town dump, a cold reminder of their last minutes. A tow truck had dumped it there after the accident.
“Okay.” She picked up the photo of her parents and placed it on the pillow beside her. The Mason jar of fireflies was the only thing left on her nightstand. “Can Nick go with me?”
“I don’t see why not. Nick’s a sweet boy. Tommy shouldn’t mind one more.”
Ivy glanced out the open window. Rain bounced off the roof of the house, announcing the beginning of a summer storm. She pulled at the edge of the daisy quilt. “Grandma, why is Uncle Tommy always mad at me?”
“Oh, dear child, he’s not mad at you.”
Ivy inhaled the faint fragrance of lilacs from Grandma’s skin. “Then why doesn’t he like me?”
“He does like you. But not everyone you love will love you back the way you want. Some people hide their fears behind their meanness.”
Ivy yawned. “What do you think Conrad Thrasher is afraid of?”
“Hush now. It’s time to sleep.” Grandma sang “Red River Valley,” her voice competing with the sound of the summer rain, sprinkling the earth and soaking into the rich, black Iowa soil. A loud clap of thunder boomed in the distance.
Ivy gripped Grandma’s hand. “It’s not supposed to rain all night, is it, Grandma?”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s just a little rain. I know sometimes storms can sound scary, but they’re really one of God’s greatest gifts to the earth. Rain helps the farmers’ crops grow and makes everything clean and fresh. The earth needs a good scrubbing every now and then. Believe you me.”
Grandma patted Ivy’s face and then stood up. “I love you more than the great blue sky.”
“I love you, too.”
The floorboards creaked as she left the room.
Ivy reached over to the Mason jar sitting on her bedside table. She opened the lid and released the fireflies. They flickered in her dark room—nature’s own night-lights. The fireflies searched for their freedom until they found their way to the open window. She watched as they flickered, lining up on the windowsill, waiting for the rain to stop to clear their takeoff. She fitfully drifted away to sleep.
The storm picked up, the howling wind and pounding rain providing the backdrop to Ivy’s nightmare of fear and fire and her parents’ deaths. This time she dreamed that her mother, dressed like in the picture beside her bed, beckoned to her from a distance. Ivy tried to ride her bike to her mother, but Conrad Thrasher grabbed Ivy and wouldn’t let go. Then her mother melted away into screams and exploding sparks until only darkness and silence remained.
Ivy woke up screaming. Her urine-soaked nightgown and sheets twisted around her. At the next booming crack of thunder she jumped up, pushed her daisy quilt to the floor, and cowered underneath her bed.
The heavy footsteps of her grandmother echoed down the long hall. Ivy’s bedroom door opened and Grandma padded over, slowly bending to look under the bed. “What are you doing down there?”
“I had a nightmare. It seems like morning will never come.”
Grandma held out her hand. “Come on. We’ll ride this night out together. I’ll stay with you until the morning comes. That’s what grandmas are for.”
Ivy crawled out from under the bed. “I’m sorry I wet the bed.”
Grandma waved her hand and pulled a clean nightgown from the dresser drawer. “Pshaw. It’s only a little wetness. No need to worry. It’s easily fixed, my dear.”
After Grandma made the bed and sat down beside her, Ivy thought about her terrifying dream. It all seemed so real and left her with a sense of deep, terrifying foreboding. She reached out for Grandma’s hand and played with her wedding ring.
Chapter 7
THE DUMP
The next day Uncle Tommy and his ghost-seeing buddy, Reuben, took Ivy and Nick to the town dump to get rid of the ashes, tin cans, and remnants of unburned trash in the rusty metal barrels from their backyards. The kids bumped along in the back of Uncle Tommy’s pickup with Reuben’s dog, Buckshot. The sun burned down on Ivy’s freckled face as her hair flapped behind her in the humid, dusty air.
The dog howled his “oh, no” sound at the trail of gravel dust from the truck’s wheels. Buckshot circled the trash barrels strapped to the bed of the truck with a Frisbee in his mouth as they drove past the rolling hills and woods interspersed with stretches of golden rows of corn. The tall stalks waved in the wind, like an accordion playing lively music.
About two miles east of Reuben’s farm, they turned off on a gravel road that led to the town dump. The dump was home to discarded appliances and worn-out furniture, charred garbage, other people’s junk, boards, broken glass, and old newspapers. Although it smelled of rotting and burned debris, the dump offered all sorts of treasures. It was also the place where Ivy felt closest to her parents.
The twisted heap of the red Bonneville remained half-buried among the other broken memories of bygone things that came to rest at the town dump. Uncle Tommy avoided his brother’s mangled car, driving around to the farthest end of the dumping area. The pickup’s wheels kicked up dust and ash as it eased down the slope to a spot where he could dump the burned contents of his trash barrels.
They got out of the pickup and Reuben and Uncle Tommy unloaded the barrels. Buckshot dropped the Frisbee and bounded over the piles of garbage into the trees to chase squirrels. Nick followed Ivy as she headed for the wreckage of her parents’ red 1959 Pontiac Bonneville, out of sight of Reuben and Uncle Tommy.
Ivy leaned inside the car through the smashed window. The seats were burned and the steering wheel was strangely melted and twisted. She ran her fingers across the warped dash above the outline of the glove box. The brittle hinges of the handle snapped in her hand when she tried to open it.
Nick pointed. “Let’s just pry it open.”
She glanced behind her, but Uncle Tommy wasn’t looking. Nick dug through the trash heaps until he found a metal rod from a broken baby buggy. He wedged it in the crack at the top of the glove box and pulled down as hard as he could. It didn’t budge. He moved it more toward the center. He put all of his weight on it and yanked down. The misshapen glove box cracked open.
Ivy pulled out the contents—an old flashlight, a twisted and singed glove, and half of a charred envelope. As she picked it up, a flash of gold in the air distracted her. She tucked the burned envelope in the front pocket of her shorts and pulled her head out from the car. A goldfinch fluttered down from an old evergreen, like a shiny bit of tinsel shaken loose from the top of a Christmas tree. It perched on an old washing machine that peeked out from the mounds of rubbish. The flight of gold contrasted a mark of stunning beauty among the chaos of litter.
As Ivy and Nick watched the bird, a tall black man and an eight-year-old girl with braids appeared over the piles of debris. The goldfinch circled them before settling on the man’s shoulder.
Ivy stared at the untamed bird. She knew of only one other person that the wild birds trusted—Grandma Violet. She elbowed Nick and then called out to her uncle. “Look, Uncle Tommy, can you believe that?”
Uncle
Tommy finished dumping the trash barrel and turned around. He squinted at the black man and girl. “No, I can’t. Trash going through trash. The dump is like their shopping center.”
Uncle Tommy spat out the sunflower seed shells that he’d been chewing since he left home.
Ivy shook her head. “No, I meant the goldfinch on Maggie’s father’s shoulder.”
Uncle Tommy squinted into the summer sun as he gazed around the trash heap. “What goldfinch? I don’t see any goldfinch. And who the heck is Maggie?”
Ivy pointed to the little girl. “Right there. That girl is Maggie Norton. She’s a friend of ours from school.”
The black girl’s braids almost touched her shoulders. A few shorter curls escaped by her forehead. Ivy knew Uncle Tommy didn’t like black people, but Grandma forbid his use of derogatory racial language around her. Like everyone else, Uncle Tommy obeyed Grandma. But he felt unrestrained in showing his contempt when Grandma couldn’t hear.
The pointed tip of his black cowboy boot sent a tin can flying over the trash pile toward the man. Tommy nodded his chin at him. “Oh, you mean Otis. He’s as worthless as all those other losers on Mulberry Street.”
Ivy ignored Uncle Tommy’s tirades against the small community of black people who lived in Coffey. She turned and grabbed Nick’s hand and they scampered up the piles of trash to their friend.
“Hi, Maggie,” Ivy said.
“What’re you doing?” Nick asked.
Maggie smiled and flipped her braids back. “My dad’s looking for some wood to repair our back porch. Miss Shirley fell through our floor.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled.
Ivy and Nick looked at each other and smiled. They liked Miss Shirley. She was funny.
Maggie’s father, Otis, a dashing forty-five-year-old black man with a pencil-thin mustache, tipped his brown plaid cap. “Hello, youngins.”
Ivy waved at the tall man the wild birds trusted. “Hi, Mr. Norton.” She looked at Maggie. “So, how’d Miss Shirley fall through the floor?”