Fly Like a Bird

by Jana Zinser

  Ivy looked at Otis’s brown eyes in the rearview mirror. “Oh, it’s okay, I understand. My Uncle Tommy’s got that same rule about black people.”

  Otis turned the corner onto Meadowlark Lane. The muscles in his arms flexed as he turned the big steering wheel. He paused and rubbed his chin. “Maggie, what do you say we make an exception for Ivy?”

  The girls clapped. King jumped up on Ivy. She glanced out the window and although King was in the way, she thought she saw Angela and Ben walking past Beecher Pond.

  Otis drove the car up the driveway of 4120.

  “You know where I live?” Ivy asked.

  “Everyone knows your grandmother,” Otis said.

  Ivy smiled and opened the car door but turned back quickly. “Mr. Norton, do you remember when that goldfinch rested on your shoulder at the dump?”

  Otis took off his brown plaid cap and ran his hand over his hair. He looked at her from the rearview mirror. “Yes, I do. I surely do.”

  “That bird knew, didn’t it?”

  Otis turned around, resting his long arm on the back of the car seat. “Knew what, child?”

  “That you would bring me good luck.”

  Otis smiled. “Well, I’m sure glad it worked out that way, little lady. But next time a boy means you harm, fly like a bird, Ivy. Fly like a bird.”

  “Yes sir, I will. Bye, Maggie. Bye, purple dog. See you on Mulberry Street.”

  Ivy jumped out of the sputtering Buick and the purple dog barked.

  Chapter 10

  THE DOLL BABY ON MULBERRY STREET

  The next weekend, twelve-year-old Maggie pedaled her bike standing up, while Ivy sat on the seat behind her. Ivy held her feet away from the tires as they rode up and down Mulberry Street. Maggie’s braids swayed as she pumped the pedals. The playing cards clothes-pinned to the spokes click-clacked as the wheels turned on the gravel road. The bike wobbled from the unbalanced awkwardness of the additional passenger and almost tumbled over. Ivy screamed. Curtains moved, and faces peered at them from the neighbors’ windows.

  A trim man in his early fifties wearing a sleeveless white undershirt, pressed black pants, and a hat with a stingy brim watched them from his front lawn.

  Maggie waved at him, letting go of the handlebars. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”

  The bike lurched to the right and almost fell over but Maggie’s skinny arms were strong, and she pulled the bike upright again. The girls laughed as their feet dragged along the gravel road. King, the big brown dog covered with mulberry stains, barked.

  Mr. Jackson smiled and waved back. “Hello, Doll Baby.”

  Ivy pointed with her chin as she held on to Maggie’s waist. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Virgil Jackson. He’s our neighbor. He paints houses.”

  “He call you ‘Doll Baby’?”

  King trotted beside the bike with his purple tongue hanging out. Maggie whipped her head around to glance back at Ivy. Ivy leaned back to avoid being hit by a swinging braid. “He calls everybody ‘Doll Baby,’ if he likes you.”

  Ivy looked back and saw Virgil Jackson lift the mail out of the mailbox and stroll back across his lawn to his little white house. It looked like the Nortons’ house except for a homemade red-and-white painted pole near the front door. In fact, she noticed all the houses on Mulberry Street looked fresh from Virgil’s house painting.

  Ivy stuck her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “I wish he’d call me ‘Doll Baby’. I feel left out.”

  Maggie turned the bike around and stopped in front of Mr. Jackson’s house, her long legs keeping it upright. “Mr. Jackson, this is my friend, Ivy Taylor. She wants you to call her Doll Baby, too.”

  She pointed at Ivy, wiggling on the seat behind her. Ivy blushed and peered out from behind Maggie who leaned over the handlebars and laughed into her hands. Ivy reached over and pulled Maggie’s braids.

  Mr. Jackson surveyed Ivy. He shook his head without answering and walked into his house, closing the door behind him.

  Maggie pumped the bike pedals and they wobbled down Mulberry Street again. She shook her head. “Mr. Jackson won’t ever call you Doll Baby.”

  “How come?”

  Ivy’s foot dragged along the gravel road as they made a sharp turn. Maggie stopped the bike in front of her house. They hopped off and Maggie set the bike down on her front lawn. The wheels spun on its side. King lay down beside it, panting.

  “My dad says Virgil Jackson is from the old school. Mr. Jackson says white people have been messing things up since the world began. He says white folks can get away with murder, and he doesn’t want it to be his.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to tell anybody this. Cross your heart and promise you’ll never tell?”

  Ivy drew two intersecting lines across her chest.

  Maggie looked around and cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. “Well, Virgil Jackson was out at Deadman’s Woods when he saw Conrad Thrasher throw his wife’s body in that pond out back behind his house.”

  “How could he see the pond through the woods?”

  “He says there’s a clearing just past the cemetery where he was chopping wood.”

  “Why didn’t he tell the sheriff?”

  “The sheriff wouldn’t have believed him. Mr. Jackson says a black man’s word isn’t enough to charge a white man with murder. He said it was best to keep his mouth shut. But don’t tell anyone I told you.”

  Ivy stared blankly at the Jackson’s house, thinking of the pond and the darkness that must live inside Conrad Thrasher. She shuddered. “Okay.”

  King yawned and rolled over on his back. Maggie looked carefully at the ground before sitting down next to King and scratching his purple belly. “I don’t think Mr. Jackson will ever call you Doll Baby, because, well, you know, you’re white.”

  “Grandma says a bird can’t change the color of its feathers.”

  Maggie nodded and pointed at the ground. “Watch out for mulberries if you’re going to sit down.”

  Ivy examined the ground for the purple berries and sat down. She stuck a blade of grass in her mouth and chewed on it as it dangled from her mouth.

  Maggie laughed. “Well, I’ll call you Doll Baby if you want.” Ivy took the grass out of her mouth. “Okay, Doll Baby.” Ivy looked across the lawn to the Jacksons’ house. “What’s with the barber’s pole on his house?”

  “His wife, Ruth, works at the courthouse during the week, but on Saturdays, she does everybody’s hair.”

  A train blew its whistle and raced by so close that everything, even the ground, seemed to shake. Ivy covered her ears. The train roared like the thundering of a tornado ripping through the neighborhood. When the caboose passed, the noise evaporated into the distance.

  Maggie’s mother, Pinky, opened the window and called them to supper. Maggie stood up and held out her hand, pulling Ivy up.

  “Next time I come, let’s invite Jesse and Nick,” Ivy said.

  “That would be pushing it.”

  Ivy shrugged. “What’re you having for supper?”

  Maggie opened the front door and King rushed inside. “Yard bird, yams, and greens.”

  Ivy followed her into the house. “I don’t think Grandma cooks that stuff.”

  They walked into the kitchen.

  “Yes, she does.” Maggie laughed and pointed to the steaming food on the counter and the stove.

  “Oh. You mean chicken, sweet potatoes, and spinach.”

  Pinky smiled at Ivy. “Those are collard greens, but you’re right about the rest.” Pinky grabbed a dish towel and took a big pan of cornbread out of the oven. “And a meal wouldn’t be complete without cornbread.”

  Maggie and Ivy washed their hands and helped Pinky bring the heaping plates of food to the two tables Otis pushed together. The Nortons had invited their neighbors, Miss Shirley and Ben, who had stood up for Russell at the park, over for supper, too.

  Miss Shirley, almost forty, had raise
d Ben by herself in a small house across the street. Bertha Tuttle spread the rumor that Miss Shirley was not married when Ben was born, but none of the white people had the guts to ask Miss Shirley if it was true. They mostly just talked behind her back.

  She cleaned the homes of several of the more well-to-do families in Coffey. Although the hard work hurt her back, at lunchtime she could watch the soap opera, As the World Turns, her ‘story’ as she called it.

  That night, Miss Shirley had brought over her famous mashed potatoes with skins and wild morel mushroom gravy. She hunted the wild mushrooms in the woods around Coffey during a few weeks in the spring. Then she froze a plentiful supply, so she could use them all year long, just like Grandma Violet.

  Ivy set a big bowl of the brown mushroom gravy on the table. Otis rubbed his stomach as everyone sat down. “Now, this sure is fine dining.”

  Ben smiled at Ivy. “Hey, Ivy. What’s Angela doing today?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t really talk to me much.”

  They all sat down around the table. Ivy noticed the bottom of her shoes were stained purple from the mulberries in the yard. She bowed her head as Otis prayed. When she raised her head, Ben rubbed his hands together.

  “Hey, what are we waiting for? Let’s grease on some yard bird, huh, Ivy?” He smiled his Hollywood smile.

  The fried chicken smelled good. She picked up a leg and put it on her plate. “Yard bird sounds funny.”

  Ben laughed and flapped his arms. “They’re birds that run around the yard, aren’t they?”

  Ivy laughed. She liked Ben. He didn’t seem to notice that she was white. King sat down on the floor between Maggie and Ivy. Maggie slipped him a piece of cornbread under the table.

  Otis took a bite of his chicken leg and waved it in the air. “Hey, that reminds me, did you all hear what Max Black was saying over at the Jacksons’ this morning?”

  Miss Shirley rolled her eyes, but a slow blush spread across her face. “Oh, Good Lord, there’s no telling with that fool.”

  Otis rubbed his pencil-thin mustache and smiled. “Well, he said once there was this chicken at his old man’s farm that got so scared during a tornado, all its feathers fell out.”

  Pinky laughed. “That can’t be true, and you know it.”

  “I’m just telling you what Max said.”

  Ben picked up a chicken wing and stared at it. “Chickens can’t live without feathers. It’s unnatural.”

  “Max said it wasn’t pretty, but he said that darn chicken sure could run when the wind kicked up, and it come up a dark cloud. It was the only chicken to ever live to old age—no one had the heart to kill it after it lived through a tornado and lost all its feathers, too.”

  Miss Shirley laughed and rocked in her chair. She wiped the sweat from her face with a paper napkin. “That Max can come up with some good ones.” She turned to Ivy. “So, Miss Ivy Taylor, do you think that could happen?”

  The room hushed except for the whir of the electric fan, which kept the stifling summer heat away. They all turned to Ivy to hear her answer. Ivy looked around the table and then at the crispy chicken leg on her plate.

  “Well, a tornado’s pretty scary. So, yeah, a naked yard bird could happen.”

  Miss Shirley laughed suddenly. A piece of food flew out of her mouth and onto the floor. King, waiting for just such a moment, jumped up and gobbled it down.

  Otis slapped the table. “Well, there you have it. Thank you, Pinky, for the naked yard bird, yams, and greens.”

  Ivy held up her finger. “And a meal wouldn’t be complete without cornbread.”

  Miss Shirley threw her hands in the air. “Lord-a-mercy. There might be hope for white people, yet.”

  The purple dog barked.

  As the months passed and the cool fall winds blew across the Iowa prairie, the black families grew accustomed to Ivy’s presence on Mulberry Street. By early December, Maggie’s neighbors even waved to Ivy every now and then.

  One chilly winter night, Ivy, Maggie, and King were spread out on the Nortons’ floor in front of the console TV, ready to watch Soul Train. The girls planted their elbows on the carpet, resting their chins in their palms. They crisscrossed their feet in the air behind them. The dog of dubious heritage stretched out beside them. As mulberry season was over, King had lost his purple hue and was back to his original light brown.

  When Soul Train came on, the picture flipped from time to time. Pinky went into the kitchen to clean up and Otis and Miss Shirley settled in on the couch.

  Ivy leaned over to Maggie. “Did you ask your mother if you could join the Chickadee Girls with me?”

  “Yeah. She said I could.”

  “All right! You can help me with our community service project next month. It’s Rosie Buckley, that old hermit lady.”

  “She’s scary,” Maggie said. “But her dogs are scarier.”

  “I know.”

  “Now hush up, you two,” said Miss Shirley.

  Ivy looked up at Miss Shirley. “Hey, where’s Ben?”

  “Hasn’t been home much lately. Must be some girl. It always is.”

  Otis laughed. “Now you talking big trouble.”

  Pinky came out of the kitchen with tall glasses of iced tea, a favorite in the Nortons’ house despite the cold weather. After she passed out the iced tea, she sat down on the couch to work on her latest quilt. Ivy loved Pinky’s quilts. Grandma’s house boasted many colorful quilts made by Pinky. They were spread out on every bed and couch. There was no excuse for being cold in Grandma Violet’s house.

  Ivy pointed to the TV. “Who is that guy that screams when he sings? He dances all crazy.” Ivy knew who it was, but she liked to tease Miss Shirley. He was Miss Shirley’s favorite singer. Otis stared at Ivy and pointed to the TV. “You don’t know who that is?”

  “Otis, she’s white. You know, snowflake white,” Miss Shirley said.

  Pinky smiled at Ivy as she set her piles of quilt squares on the floor. “That’s Leon Wilson, dear.”

  “My Aunt Hattie thinks he’s possessed by the devil.”

  Leon Wilson sang and danced, wearing a top hat. “Dig down deep until you find . . .”

  Miss Shirley swayed on the couch and waved her arms in the air. She snapped her fingers. “The fight in your soul.”

  Her singing startled the dog and King jumped up and barked.

  Ivy pointed at the singer’s thick hair. “He’s wearing a wig, isn’t he? His hair looks like a helmet.”

  Miss Shirley shook her head. “No, that’s his very own processed hair.”

  Ivy stared at the singer as he jumped in the air and threw off his top hat. “It sure looks like a wig to me.”

  Miss Shirley put her iced tea down on the end table. “Listen to her. I’m telling you, girl, that ain’t no wig-hat. Edna Jean Whittaker’s hair—now that’s a wig-hat.”

  Ivy laughed. She loved to get Miss Shirley going. “But where’d Leon Wilson get the Mr. Peanut hat?”

  Miss Shirley swayed back and forth. Her big body shook as she laughed. She slapped her legs. “Oh, you go on, child. You just messed up.”

  Maggie laughed and flipped back her thick braids. She grabbed Ivy’s arm. “Ivy, you’d better stop or Miss Shirley’s going to have a heart attack.”

  Ivy jumped up and imitated Leon Wilson’s dance moves.

  Miss Shirley groaned and covered her eyes. “Stop, girl. You can’t dance. You too white.”

  Ivy laughed and sang, “I’m snowflake white. But I got the fight in my soul.”

  She pretended to throw off a pretend top hat. Miss Shirley pushed her big body off the couch. The dog whined and scurried out the swinging dog door that Otis had cut in the kitchen door.

  “Look. King knows what’s coming. He was nearly squashed years ago when Miss Shirley was dancing to Leon Wilson and broke through the porch floor,” Otis said.

  Miss Shirley shook her head. “I swear to God, can’t a woman fall through a floor one time without people making a b
ig deal of it? Now, watch me, Ivy. Let me show you how it’s properly done.”

  Miss Shirley moved to the center of the room to demonstrate her Leon Wilson moves and the floorboards held.

  Chapter 11

  ANOTHER HOLIDAY TAINTED BY DISCORD

  Snow covered the frozen ground on Christmas Eve and crystal-pointed icicles hung menacingly from the porch roof. The bare trees in the backwoods looked like icy skeletons.

  Despite their long-standing conflicts, the Taylor family always celebrated Christmas together. Uncle Tommy, Aunt Hattie, and their two children joined Uncle Walter, Grandma, and Ivy at 4120 on Christmas Eve, like every year.

  Grandma supervised as Uncle Walter carried the tree base and Ivy held the evergreen’s top. The rest of the family watched as they ceremoniously marched the fully decorated white-flocked tree down the attic stairs. They unwrapped the white bed sheet covering the tree. It was already fully decorated, with bird ornaments dangling from the branches. They plugged in the lights, already strung on the boughs, and the tree was done. Then they all gathered on Grandma’s back porch because it wouldn’t be Christmas without taking care of the winter birds in the backyard, including the chickadees, nuthatches, finches, sparrows, cardinals, and goldfinches.

  Russell’s stocking cap, pulled down low, hid his hair except for a few rebellious curly strands. His tall frame made it easy for him to hang the suet for the birds in the branches of the trees in the backyard. Ivy used the kitchen broom to sweep the snow off the feeders. Then Uncle Tommy added extra birdseed for the birds and inevitably, the uninvited, thieving squirrels.

  Ivy and her family breathed the cold December air, searching the Iowa skies for signs of more snow.

  Angela shivered. “This is ridiculous. I’m cold.” She marched back into the warm house which gave the rest of the family a reason to go inside.

  Ivy leaned the broom against the family room wall. She climbed onto the kitchen stool and handed the punchbowl to Uncle Walter. He wiped the big bowl and set it on the counter. “Bring on the eggnog. Let the festivities begin.”

  Grandma sang Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” as she poured the fresh eggnog from the Coffey Dairy into the large white punch bowl. Uncle Tommy pulled out his flask and splashed whiskey into his mug.