Fly Like a Bird

by Jana Zinser

  Ivy and Uncle Walter exchanged knowing glances.

  “Now, now. I’ve always been of the notion that we’re all a little touched. But most of us maintain pretty well with our oddities and imperfections,” Grandma said.

  “Are you saying we’re all off our rockers?” said Uncle Tommy.

  Grandma pinched her fingers together. “The difference is only a smidgen here or there.”

  Uncle Tommy pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, that’s just hogwash. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m the only one in this family that hasn’t completely lost his noodle.”

  Uncle Walter picked up his spoon and tapped it against the side of his glass, making a loud pinging noise. “Let’s see, who eats the same thing for breakfast every day?”

  Uncle Tommy held his spoon in the air. He looked at Ivy. “Has the mailman ever heard of a food preference?”

  “Letter carrier,” Ivy said, anticipating Uncle Walter’s response.

  Then Uncle Tommy started tapping his glass with the serving spoon at a faster pace than Uncle Walter’s tapping as the sounds of the uncles’ dueling spoons got louder.

  “Oh, Poppycock,” Uncle Walter shouted to Ivy. “There’s nothing wrong with Russell, except for an overbearing father.”

  Uncle Tommy threw his spoon on the table. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this bull anymore.”

  Uncle Tommy shook his fists in the air as he headed toward the door. “You people are as crazy as he is.” The heavy front door slammed behind him.

  Uncle Walter took his spoon and scooped mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now the rest of us can enjoy our food.”

  Angela awkwardly stood up, her hand across her stomach. “Grandma, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go, too. I think I’m going to be sick.” She covered her mouth with her hands and bent over as she rushed out of the room. The front door slammed again.

  An awkward silence flooded the dining room. Only Aunt Hattie remained from Uncle Tommy’s family. “The Lord sees all the sins of this family.” Aunt Hattie stood up and folded her holly berry napkin. “May Santa and his elves burn in hell for all of eternity.” Her head bobbed a short nod. Her frizzy curls danced as she hurried out of Grandma’s house and followed the rest of her testy family home. Another holiday gathering gone awry.

  The silent night hushed over the evacuated holiday dining room.

  “And Uncle Tommy thinks we’re crazy?” said Ivy.

  Uncle Walter clapped his hands. “You’re right, Ivy. They’re all nuttier than one of Miss Shirley’s fruitcakes.”

  Their laughter echoed through the empty dining room. Ivy realized Grandma’s dream had not come true. The fragile Taylor family harmony had not made it through the Christmas festivities unscathed and Miss Shirley’s pies still sat on the kitchen counter uneaten.

  Chapter 12

  THE BARBERSHOP

  Soon after Christmas, Ivy felt the unspoken tension in her family increase. Her uncertain internal world made her sensitive to the undercurrents of her moody family. Something had changed, but she didn’t know what.

  Suddenly, without Ivy knowing anything about it, Angela came over to say goodbye. Uncle Tommy was sending her to London for her final semester of high school. She didn’t seem excited to go and that made Ivy mad because although she was only twelve, she longed to visit the cities and countries she read about in books. Angela hugged Grandma and even gave Ivy a quick side-hug before she left. When the door closed, Grandma’s eyes were wet with tears. From the window, Ivy watched Angela trudge down the sidewalk toward her house.

  “What’s wrong with Angela?”

  “It’s always sad to leave your family.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s fair. Why does she get to go to London?” Ivy stomped loudly up the stairs, just to make a point. “I should be the world traveler.”

  Ivy sat in her room and sulked. She was so different from Angela. Angela acted withdrawn, like she was too good for Ivy, and the four-year age difference always kept Ivy at a distance. It was almost as if they were not a part of the same family.

  One snowy afternoon in late December, Ivy and Maggie went to visit Miss Shirley, Maggie’s flamboyant neighbor and zealous Leon Wilson fan. The girls sat with Miss Shirley on her worn, brown tweed couch, eating tuna fish sandwiches with sweet pickles on plastic, flowered plates and watching As the World Turns. Ivy looked around.

  “Hey, where’s Ben?”

  “Over at the Jacksons’,” Miss Shirley said.

  “It seems like he’s always over there lately,” Maggie said.

  “Hush up now. I’m watching my story,” Miss Shirley said as she pointed at the old console TV.

  “My Aunt Hattie says soap operas fickle the mind.”

  Miss Shirley looked sideways at Ivy. “Then your Aunt Hattie’s seen her share, hasn’t she?”

  The girls shrieked with laughter. Miss Shirley put her finger to her lips. “Now hush up, I said. One of my Stewarts has amnesia, and Lisa Hughes is going to tell somebody off.”

  “Miss Shirley acts like she knows those people,” Maggie whispered to Ivy.

  The girls giggled as they slumped on the couch. Miss Shirley shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I do know those people. They live right here in Coffey.” Miss Shirley stuck out her bottom lip. “Mm-hmm. If this town could talk, it could tell some crazy mixed-up tales. And I bet your Grandma knows a few of them her own self. Your father’s own tragedy was crazier than my TV story.”

  Ivy sat up and adjusted the white belt in her bell-bottom jeans. “Why?” she asked.

  “Oh, no particular reason, I guess. I’m just rambling.”

  “How come nobody talks about that night? It’s like the whole town has amnesia.”

  “See what I’m saying. My story’s not so crazy, when you think about it.”

  “Miss Shirley, tell me. Nobody else will.”

  “Nothing much to tell. After all the brouhaha of that horrible night was over, everyone wanted to forget it, I guess. Too painful.”

  What sounded like footsteps from the upstairs bedroom interrupted Miss Shirley.

  Ivy gripped the arm of the couch. “What was that?” She looked sideways at Maggie, who sat stiffly as if straining for the next noise.

  “My cat, Mr. Tibbs.” Miss Shirley moved her hand through the air, dismissing the startling sound with a joke. “Or Reuben Smith’s spooks might be visiting.” She got up and adjusted the rabbit ears antenna to get a better signal.

  After Miss Shirley’s story ended, Maggie looked at the clock. “Hey, Ivy, why don’t you come over to the Jacksons’ with me. I’m getting my hair straightened. I’m sick of these heavy braids.”

  Ivy jumped off the couch. “The Jacksons’ barbershop? Sure thing, Doll Baby.”

  Miss Shirley stood up and grabbed her coat from the coat rack. “Wait a minute, girls. I’m going with you.” She shook her head. “This I got to see.”

  For the residents of Mulberry Street, Ruth Jackson served as the unofficial and unlicensed beautician and barber. She worked at the records office of the county courthouse during the week, but she did hair in her living room on Saturdays. Many neighbors went over to the barbershop to just exchange the weekly news and gossip of the neighborhood and give their opinions of politics and the world.

  “I wish I had good hair,” Maggie said to Miss Shirley as they crossed the street, the wind whipping the hems of their coats.

  “Maggie girl, there’s nothing wrong with your hair.” Miss Shirley fluffed up her own curly hair. “Curls drive men crazy. You just wait. You’ll be glad for those curls someday.”

  Ivy hurried behind them, fighting against the strong wind. Ivy’s straight, shoulder-length hair blew across her face. Miss Shirley turned around. “Hurry up, Snowflake, or you might blend in with the snow drifts.”

  When they reached the Jacksons’ house, Maggie opened the door without knocking. The warmth and laughter of the neighborhood barbershop
washed over them as they came in from the cold Iowa wind.

  Maxwell Black sat on a step stool in the center of the room while Ruth shaved his head. Wearing a dark blue uniform shirt with Mobil’s flying red horse on the sleeve, his large body seemed to dwarf the stool. He pointed both index fingers at Maggie as she stepped into the house.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the Supremes.”

  Maggie waved and Miss Shirley followed her into the noisy makeshift shop. Max whistled. “And Miss Diana Ross, her own self.”

  Virgil Jackson put his hands on his waist. “Well, if it ain’t two of my favorite Doll Babies.”

  Miss Shirley held the door open and Ivy stepped into the Jacksons’ living room. Their lively chatter stopped. Ivy blushed, and her eyes darted around the hushed living room, searching for a welcoming face.

  Although they knew her, Ivy knew the black community did not easily welcome white people into their world. The Jacksons’ makeshift barbershop was one of only a few places in Coffey where black people could be themselves outside the white world. A place where they could tell the truth and not worry about what others thought. Ivy’s presence put a strain on that easy comfort.

  Ben saw Ivy from across the living room and a smile spread across his handsome face. “This is going to be good.”

  Miss Shirley put her arm around Ivy’s shoulders and faced the stunned silence of her neighbors. “What? None of you brothers and sisters ever seen a white person before?”

  Vigil shook his head. “Nope. Not here. Ain’t never seen any white folks up in my house. Uninvited visitor.”

  Ruth waved the shaver at her husband. “Now you hush, Virgil. Ivy’s welcome.” She went back to shaving Max Black’s head. “Did you come to watch Maggie get her hair straightened?”

  Ivy felt the discomfort of the people in the barbershop, but she was used to the tension in her own family. She learned to pretend it wasn’t there. Being funny always helped.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know why she wants it straight. Miss Shirley says curls drive men crazy.”

  Max looked at Miss Shirley and smiled. “They do indeed. She ought to know.”

  Max Black, a mechanic at the Mobil Station, was the only man bigger and stronger than Miss Shirley. “Nothing finer than a real natural black woman.”

  Miss Shirley swayed her hips and nodded her head. “You got that right, Mr. Maxwell Black.”

  Ruth rubbed a towel over his smooth dome and removed the short cape.

  Virgil grumped into the kitchen and brought out another pot of coffee and a plate of peanut butter cookies. “Caucasians don’t know their place no more.”

  “Ivy, don’t pay no never mind to that old fool,” Ruth said. She pointed to the kitchen step stool used as their barber chair. “Okay, Maggie, have a seat and let’s see what we can do.”

  Ruth untied Maggie’s braids and smeared Pomade grease in Maggie’s hair. She wiped her hands on a towel. “Virgil, get me that pressing comb, would you?”

  Virgil picked up the wooden handle of the long metal comb heating up on the gas flame of the kitchen stove. He handed it to Ruth, who pulled the straightening comb through Maggie’s hair. It smoked and sizzled from the heat and the grease. “Did you know we went to all this trouble to straighten our hair?”

  Ivy shook her head as she watched the straightening process. It looked like Maggie’s hair would just disintegrate into nothing.

  Ben leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “What do you think of all this, Ivy?”

  Ivy stared at the hot comb smoking in Ruth’s hand. “I think I’d be a natural black woman.”

  The barbershop regulars looked at each other. Max slapped his muscled thigh and his loud, honking laugh joined the others. Even Virgil chuckled. Ivy laughed with them, relieved that the tension was broken. Then she picked up the broom resting in the corner of the living room and began to sweep up the hair on the floor, just like she did at Judy’s Beauty Shop.

  The door to the Jacksons’ house opened and a tiny woman who lived a couple of houses down the street, walked in holding a four-year-old girl’s hand. The woman, standing less than five feet tall, stared in disbelief at Ivy sweeping the floor. Ivy stared back because the woman looked just like the garden gnome riding the mushroom in Uncle Walter’s yard—the evil pixie.

  Ivy nudged Maggie. “Who’s that?”

  Maggie whispered behind her hand. “That’s Thelma Sampson and Remmie, her daughter. Thelma works at the old folks’ home. I feel sorry for the old people there.” The dark hair above Thelma’s lip made her face look angry, almost menacing. The tiny woman made a disapproving guttural noise in her throat and wheeled around.

  The little girl protested, but the door slammed behind them just as a train rumbled down the tracks behind the row of tidy houses. The dishes in the cupboards rattled so loudly Ivy was sure they would tumble from their shelves and shatter. The roar of the locomotive drowned out all conversation until it passed and the relative quiet of Mulberry Street returned. Conversation resumed, and the quick departure of Thelma was never mentioned.

  Chapter 13

  THE ROSIE PROJECT

  The community service project for the Chickadee Girls troop was Rosie Buckley, the old hermit lady. This meant that each week, one of the Chickadee Girls took Rosie some food and a piece of warm clothing. Because Rosie’s dogs barked so ferociously and sometimes chased them, the girls usually left the items on an old tree stump in front of Rosie’s home. The Chickadee Girls often delivered their contributions on the run.

  After the holidays, Ivy took her turn at Rosie-duty. She had avoided going past Rosie’s place since the wild dogs attacked her on her bike. She asked Raven to come but Raven was too scared of Rosie. Raven said Rosie kidnapped children and turned them into dogs and cats.

  Ivy talked Maggie into going, but her eyes grew wide as they approached Rosie’s broken-down shack. Maggie pulled her stocking cap down tighter over her shiny flattened hair. She gritted her teeth. “Weston Thrasher says Rosie’s a witch.”

  Ivy shook her head. “Don’t believe a word Weston tells you.”

  Ivy carried a steaming Tupperware container of Grandma’s beef stew and some biscuits wrapped in tin foil. Maggie held a pair of woolen socks and a bag of dog biscuits. They hurried past the snowy stump to place the items on Rosie’s filthy doorstep, when suddenly the door flew open.

  Rosie stood in her doorway with barking dogs jumping and snarling behind her. She wore an old pair of men’s pants and a well-worn flannel shirt. Her hair looked disheveled with bits of straw twisted among the dirty strands. Rosie cocked her head back and forth like a little Chihuahua dog and her ears twitched. “What do you want?”

  Ivy froze. Her eyes widened, and her hands turned sweaty inside her thick woolen gloves. “We just wanted to bring you some food and stuff.”

  She felt relieved that they had left King at home—the wild dogs would have ripped him to shreds by now just by their sheer numbers and excessive determination.

  Rosie looked at the girls with a sideways glance. “Why didn’t you just leave your filthy charity on the stump like all those other do-gooder girls?”

  Ivy held out the Tupperware bowl and biscuits, her hands shaking. “We wanted to make sure you got them.”

  Maggie extended the rolled-up socks and the bag of dog biscuits. The dogs sniffed the bag and barked excitedly. Rosie reached out her gnarled hands and took the items. Ivy stood stunned at all of the clutter visible through the open doorway.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like two bumps on a log. Come on in,” Rosie said.

  Ivy looked at Maggie. The dogs scared her. She still remembered how they had tried to attack her on the summer day she had escaped from Conrad Thrasher through the cornfield and across Rosie’s yard.

  Rosie waved her hand in the air like a magic wand. “Quiet down, my babies.”

  The dogs stopped barking.

  Despite her fear of the dogs, Ivy’s curiosity won out.
No one knew what the inside of Rosie’s house looked like. She reluctantly stepped in, and Maggie followed, ducking her head to get inside the tiny door.

  As soon as they entered the house, a putrid odor burned their nostrils. Piles of rank trash and animal feces covered the floor. Ivy immediately regretted her Chickadee goodwill. Rosie waved her crooked hand in the air, motioning to the other side of the stagnant room. “Have a seat, girls.”

  Maggie looked like she wanted to throw up, but she followed Ivy to Rosie’s couch, exploding with white stuffing. The girls sat between broken springs and garbage. Ivy wondered if the decaying smell would soak into their clothes, like Uncle Tommy’s aftershave sometimes did.

  Rosie’s wrinkled lips twitched. “So, who in tarnation are you?”

  “I’m Maggie Norton.”

  Ivy lifted her feet off the piles of trash, trying to find a clear spot to set them down.

  “I’m Ivy Taylor.”

  Rosie sniffed and jerked her head back. “You Violet Taylor’s granddaughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “As I remember, your mother never liked this town much. Sad what happened to her. I remember it was the worst rain. My dogs and I were walking home from town when we saw her on the Coffey Shop bench, waiting for the Greyhound bus. Guess she wasn’t meant to leave.”

  The old lady’s mind was definitely gone. Ivy’s mother hadn’t been waiting for the bus. She was with her father in their new Bonneville car that night.

  Rosie scratched her wrinkled chin and sighed. “You know, you and I have a lot in common. We lost our mothers early. Got trapped in a life we didn’t ask for, in a place we couldn’t get out of.” Rosie sighed.

  She poked her fingers into her hair and a small twig fell out. “I used to be a schoolteacher. I bet you didn’t know that. I quit teaching school when my mother took sick. Tuberculosis is a very bad thing. We didn’t have a doctor in Coffey back then. We traveled twenty-three miles to Stilton to see the doctor. But he rotated to other towns further away and was only there on Mondays.”