Sparrow in the Wind Page 6

  “God morgen, everyone,” she greeted my parents pleasantly, bobbing her head like a robin and smiling broadly as she waltzed into our kitchen with me trailing behind. “I brought fresh raspberry turnovers—just a little something to start your big day,” she added modestly, setting the tray on the table. “Come, George, sit down and let me fix you a plate.”

  My father didn’t move.

  “I think the raspberries are best this time of year, George, don’t you?” she asked in sweet desperation.

  He said nothing. It felt as if a live hand grenade had been tossed into the kitchen, and we were all staring at it, wondering if it would fizzle out as a dud or suddenly go boom.

  My father sniffed the air and in spite of his acrimony, succumbed to the aroma of warm raspberries and buttery dough. He sat wordlessly, avoiding direct eye contact with his sister-in-law. I couldn’t imagine how hard it was for her to grin and serve him as if they were bosom buddies. As for Mom, she took one look at her sister’s steaming silver pot, dumped the instant coffee into the sink, and sat at the table with her head in her hands.

  Aunt Gudrun proceeded to pour out the coffee and cream, which had been gently warmed so as not to chill the coffee. Then she motioned to my chair and directed, “Come sit, Cassandra. I’m going to show you a new way to do your hair, so it’s easier for you.” I froze like a deer in the headlights and cast a wary eye at my father, but he appeared safely occupied, chomping down pastry and guzzling his coffee.

  “Quick-quick like a bunny,” Tante urged, “so you can have a turnover.” I sat. Instead of rolling the curls around her finger, she deftly brushed it out as smooth as possible, then pulled it over my left shoulder, so it was easy for me to reach. “There, you see? Take three hanks like this. Then lay one over the other, crisscross, crisscross, like so. Here, you try.” I was clumsy at first, and my braid was all lumpy. “Almost,” she said. “Let’s try once more.” She undid my first attempt, and I did it again. This time I got the hang of it; it wasn’t perfect, but there was one long braid running down my left side. “Good, very good,” she praised. “Isn’t that simple? Now, remember to get up for school in time to brush and braid your hair in the morning . . . and make sure you do it before bed each night . . .” She swallowed hard. “Or else it will get all tangled while you sleep.” Her eyes were glistening, but the smile never left her face.

  I was suddenly struck by the enormity of what I was about to lose. Especially at bedtime, my hair had been the focus of countless loving hours, a bond of touch and smell and intimate talk that was woven into the fabric of my childhood. I knew then why Aunt Gudrun hadn’t shown me how to braid it earlier.

  I managed to eat half of a raspberry turnover—Tante ate the other half. I don’t know how we got through breakfast and goodbye without crying, but we did it. It hurt less, now that I knew her calm demeanor was an act, just as make-believe as anything Kitty and I concocted in the attic.

  As we were getting ready to load up the car, my father said flatly, “Goodbye, Gudrun. Thanks for the pastry and one more thing,” he addressed her firmly. “It would be best if you didn’t come outside. You understand.”

  “Ya sure, George. Whatever you wish. I’ll go downstairs now.”

  “I’ll walk down with you,” I cried.

  “No, Cassandra,” he said sharply. “Start getting your things to the car. Didn’t you have some dolls and stuff that were coming, or did you decide to leave them?”

  “That’s right, Cassandra,” Tante affirmed. “Listen to your father . . . hurry and round up your dollies. I wish you all a great trip,” she added, then looked at my mother with pleading eyes. “Tina, do you suppose you could give me a quick phone call, so I know you arrived safely? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she begged.

  “Of course, Gudrun. Well, goodbye, and thank you for the lovely breakfast. It was really so . . . so very . . . thoughtful of you.” My mother went close enough to give her sister a peck on the cheek, then stepped back, looking as if she expected her to leave.

  Tante Gudy walked away. I listened as she closed the door to our flat and strained to hear every last footfall on the staircase. All the while, I felt the weight of my mother’s hands from behind, pressing down on my shoulders to hold me back.

  We slipped into the car like thieves in the night. Chatty Cathy was allowed to ride in the back seat with me as long as I didn’t make her talk. My father said the doll’s voice sounded like fingernails on a blackboard. Kissy was allowed to join us too. I’d asked Mom, and she said it’d be okay, so long as she didn’t talk. I explained that Kissy kissed but couldn’t talk and pressed her plastic arms together to demonstrate; she puckered her lips with a loud pop. “Don’t do that in the car,” Mom said.

  As I settled into the far back seat my father warned, “If you pull that string even once, it’ll be Chatty’s last chat—I’ll toss her out the damned window.”

  ONCE WE DROVE past the cities, there wasn’t much to look at. I watched endless tracks of farmland roll by, acres of corn and soybeans punctuated by groves of dense pine that were planted as windbreaks. I hadn’t seen so much nothing since our last trip to Blackstone. Back then it was an adventure; I didn’t know what to expect and besides, it was only for a week.

  I recalled that Grandpa Parsons’ place was decidedly dull. There were no other children within walking distance—there was nothing within walking distance. It was off a rural highway, down a dirt road and smack dab in the middle of the woods by a river. Even though I was fumigated with Off, I was still covered in mosquito bites. Even in July, the nearby lake was cold, too cold for swimming, at least as far I was concerned. Mom kept me close to her side, terrified that I’d be swept away in the Stony River, which was running high and swift that year. Dad and Grandpa went off fishing, leaving us bored silly. But we did have one adventure.

  Mom and I went walking alongside but not too close to the river, rounded a bend and suddenly found ourselves within a stone’s throw of a big black bear. I’d only seen a bear in the city zoo, and believe me, they look a lot bigger when there’s no fence between you and the bear. Dad had explained that they almost never bother people—if you keep your distance and don’t run. I froze, wondering if the bear was going to move along peacefully, or whether this would be one of those almost times when it would charge and maul us to death. My mother gripped my hand tight, probably so I wouldn’t panic and run, but my feet seemed glued to the ground. The bear lifted his massive black head, looked right at us, and sniffed the air. He was so close I could hear his breath. I was sure he was deciding whether we smelled good enough to eat. The brief encounter ended when the bear casually resumed his business and lumbered away. We ran off in the other direction and stuck close by the lodge for the rest of the week.

  This time there was no sense of adventure. I knew what lay in store up in those woods, or at least I thought I did. As we made our way north, I felt as if I were being driven off the end of the earth. The vast flat emptiness seemed to suck up my old life like a giant Electrolux.

  By noon, I wasn’t sleepy anymore. I played with my Etch A Sketch for a while, but my interest soon fizzled out. Usually, I could entertain myself for hours with my dolls, creating marvelous adventures all in my mind, but now they just reminded me of Kitty. Kissy and Chatty’s plastic eyes stared dully from their hollow heads. My imagination was as vacant as the landscape.

  It wasn’t long before I spied a dead fox by the freeway—red with a beautiful fluffy tail. It gave me an idea: I decided to pass the time by counting the roadkill. By the time we merged onto I-10 East, I’d already counted another fox, two full-grown deer, four raccoons, and no less than six skunks, as well as a large brown hawk. The hawk had apparently swooped down to scoop up a skunk, resulting in a double fatality that probably scared the driver out of his wits. Four of the skunks were babies, crossing with their mother, which is why I counted so many dead skunks.

  We were finally heading for a rest stop to make a quick picnic lunc
h. As we eased off the interstate, I got a close-up view of a white-tailed doe lying dead just by the on-ramp. She wasn’t crushed or bloody or twisted at all, just looked as though she’d lain down and gone to sleep. But I knew she was hurt from the impact of the car that hit her. The injuries were on the inside.

  Lunch turned out to be tuna fish sandwiches. To save time, Mom put them up the night before, and the mayo had seeped into the Wonder Bread. I didn’t like tuna under the best of circumstances, but I was pretty hungry after eating only half of a raspberry turnover. I gripped the soggy sandwich with resolve and took a big bite. She’d put onions in it.

  “Yuck!” I declared, after I’d managed to swallow, then plopped the sandwich onto the paper plate with more force than I’d intended.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Mom wanted to know.

  “Don’t be rude to your mother,” Dad scolded.

  “The bread’s all gooey, and you put onions in the tuna. You know I don’t like onions.”

  “Well, isn’t that too darned bad,” Mom snapped.

  “You’re lucky to have a meal. Eat it,” Dad ordered.

  “I’d rather go without lunch,” I said with a pout, deliberately back-talking for the first time in a long while—I think the last time was the disagreement over when I ought to empty my bladder.

  “Young lady, it’s time you learned that you don’t always get everything the way you want in life . . .” Mom began to pontificate. That’s as far as she got.

  Without another word, my father walked calmly around to my side of the picnic table, grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me off the bench. My feet dangled momentarily in the air as he whirled around and sat down with his back to the table in one smooth move. The next thing I saw was a carpet of pine needles about six inches from my nose and a view of the underside of the picnic table as he walloped my heinie with the flat of his palm. Somebody’s hotdog had rolled under there and the ants were devouring it.

  “George, stop,” Mom said urgently. “Someone will see us and think you’re abusing a child.” I thought she was on my side. “Take her back to the car if you’re going to spank her.”

  Dad got in a couple more swats before setting me roughly to my feet in front of him, so we were face to face at eye level. He glowered in vexation. I suppose he expected me to start bawling, but I glowered right back at him. I was boiling mad. My ass smarted, but my pride was far more bitterly stung.

  “Kitty’s father is better than you!” I blurted. “Mr. Gunderson never spanks her . . . she told me so.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, maybe that’s ’cause the old man only has one arm. Maybe if he hadn’t been busy fraternizing with the enemy, he’d of paid more attention to the hand grenades.”

  “George,” Mom said reproachfully.

  I’d heard my father make snide comments about Kitty’s family—he said her mother talked like she had a mouthful of sauerkraut—but he’d never before mocked her father’s amputation. It was mean and coarse, and I felt ashamed of him.

  “He wouldn’t hit her even if he did have two arms,” I retorted. “Mr. Gunderson is nice!”

  “You want another?” He raised his hand menacingly; a sarcastic snarl contorted his face. In that moment, my father looked like a stranger to me, and I wondered if I’d ever known him at all.

  “I hope you meet up with a bear in the woods . . . I hope he tears your old arm right off!” I said and promptly burst into tears.

  “Now, you don’t really mean that,” Mom said more gently. “She’s just tired, George, that’s all,” she soothed. Suddenly my father got up and strode briskly away from us. “George, where are you going?” My mother sounded alarmed.

  “To the men’s room—if that’s okay with you.” He tossed the words over his shoulder.

  Once he’d disappeared into the cement building, Mom spun me around hard to face her. She actually gave me a little shake as she demanded, “Cassandra Lynne Parsons, what in God’s name has gotten into you?”

  “I, ah, I wanna . . . g . . . g . . . go hoooome,” I sobbed. “I want my Tante Gudy. I miss Kitty already. Why . . . why’d we have to leave our home? Why, Mom?”

  “Well, I’ve already explained how Grandpa Parsons . . .”

  “Nooo, it’s not only that.” I shook my head. “I know there’s something else. I can tell . . . Something’swrong with Dad,” I whined. “He didn’t used to be this nasty. Now he’s almost always mad at me for one thing or another, mad at Tante too. He’s taking me away because he hates her.” I wanted to reveal what I knew about my disappointing gender but figured I’d only get in deeper trouble for eavesdropping—and fibbing on top of it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mom sounded more startled than angry; she looked toward the restrooms to make sure my father was out of hearing. “Your father isn’t nasty. You behaved like a spoiled brat, and he won’t stand for it. When we were children, you did what you were told and ate what they put in front of you with no back talk. And he certainly doesn’t hate Tante, or anyone else. I don’t know where you got such an idea, but you put it out of your silly head, right this minute.”

  My mother was pretty upset; her face looked like a radish again. Then she leaned in close, looked me in the eye and warned sotto voce, “I don’t want to hear another complaint out of you and not one more disrespectful word about your father. Understand? And when he comes back, you’ll apologize.”

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “You’ll apologize, you betcha, or else . . .” she began on an angry high note.

  Or else what? I was wondering, when I heard a sound over by the trees. Something moved. At first I thought it was a small dog, but then I noticed the little white spots on its coat and the big brown eyes. Mom turned her head and followed my gaze. “Look,” I whispered. “It’s a fawn. He’s all alone . . . must’ve belonged to that doe over there.” I pointed to where the poor beast lay. “Oh, what will happen to him now?” I asked mournfully, filled with fresh sorrow over the wanton cruelty of life.

  “The poor little thing,” Mom said with emotion. “He’s so small . . . probably still nursing. The poor, innocent baby.” I saw her lower lip tremble, and when she turned back to me, her eyes had welled with tears.

  I heard my father’s footsteps crunching twigs as he approached from behind. “Let’s go to the ladies’ room,” Mom said quietly. I nodded and turned my face away so I could walk past without looking at him.

  My mother didn’t say any more about my outburst. She only cautioned me not to touch anything in the public bathroom, which made it rather difficult to use the toilet, and then instructed me to wash my hands with plenty of soap afterward.

  When we returned, the picnic table was bare, and the cooler packed away. I looked across to the parking lot and saw that my father was already in the driver’s seat, with one arm hanging out the window and a smoldering butt between his fingers. The little fawn had gone.

  I took another hard look at the dead doe before climbing into the last bench seat with Kissy and Chatty then slid way over behind the driver’s side, so my father couldn’t see me without craning his neck, and cast furtive looks of defiance at the back of his head. The angry scar seemed to watch me like a third eye. My stomach growled with hunger, but that only made my sulking more satisfying. I’d gone without lunch. I didn’t apologize.

  9

  HISTORIC HIGHWAY 13 runs straight up the middle of Wisconsin. Since it’s the only reasonable route from the southern part of the state to the Lake Superior region, the way is heavily traveled and fraught with tourist attractions. Dad insisted on taking multiple detours, picking up rural roads, county highways, and cow paths to avoid traffic and save time. (Mom complained that we’d get lost for sure and probably wouldn’t arrive ’til midnight.) But there was another reason to take the slower back roads, one Dad was too embarrassed to mention: the old Woody rattled at lower speeds, but when you got it much over fifty miles per hour, the steering wheel shook like something demon possessed.


  As we slowly wended and zigzagged our way north, the pine trees grew taller and signs of civilization dwindled away. We passed through towns so small that they were no more than a crossroad with one or two stores, a gas station, and maybe a diner, but they always had at least one bar. No matter how sparsely populated or remote, you could find a Rudy’s Lounge or My Brother’s Place. Even in the absence of any discernable town, the back roads were dotted with drinking establishments.

  Late that afternoon, we pulled into a gas station by a railroad track. There was a grain hopper by the tracks, and I could see a lone farmhouse in the distance. On one side of the tracks was a place called Two Toots and a Beer; on the other side was the Whistle Stop Lounge and Package. Both had cars parked in the dirt lots by the road.

  My father honked the horn but was impatient for the gas station attendant. He hopped out and began to pump the gas himself. A young man hurried from the garage where he’d been working, wiping his greasy hands on a thick rag. He tipped his cap to my mother as he passed the front windshield. “I’m sorry, sir . . . I’m supposed to pump the gas.”

  “I haven’t got all day, ya know?” Dad said. I saw Mom look down at her lap with one hand shading her eyes as if bothered by the sun.

  Dad paid for the gas. The attendant handed back the change and picked up the squeegee to wipe down the windshield. While he was cleaning, my father leaned closer and asked him something, but I couldn’t make it out. The man put the squeegee back in the bucket and pointed across the tracks toward Two Toots and a Beer.Dad jumped behind the wheel and revved the engine for the short drive across the railroad tracks.