35

 

“WHAT’S WRONG?CAN’T I stay the extra day?”

It was Sunday morning. Tante Gudy had finally got off the phone with Mom, but the look on her face wasn’t promising.

“Ya, she said you could stay so we can go fix the haircut. That isn’t the problem.”

“Is she angry with me . . . for snooping through her stuff?”

“It’s not that either. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her, after all. She was an emotional wreck already.”

“What happened?”

“Your father got himself arrested. He went into the town hall on Friday to search for more records . . . from the lumber company.”

“So? How is that against the law?”

“The offices were closed for the holiday.”

“Oh, no.He broke into the town hall?”

“That’s the charge, although George has a different opinion. I guess one of the side doors was left unlocked, and he just waltzed in and helped himself to the files. His behavior is getting erratic again, I’m afraid. I simply told your mother that you decided to, ah . . . experiment with a short haircut, and it didn’t work out. She’s not upset about it at all; she’s got bigger worries. Oh . . . she sends her love.”

 

MONDAY MORNING WE took a city bus and went downtown to Miss Sally’s Beauty Shop. I was very grateful to have my nice wool hat with the velvet bow for the trip.

“My goodness me! What have we done to our hair?” Miss Sally asked in dismay as she ran her fingers through it.

“I used to have long hair, but I wanted a change,” I said casually.

“Well, I guess you’re not the first girl who tried to cut her own hair. Don’t worry, angel, we’ll put it right. Let’s have a look at the bible.” She lifted a large book from the shelf by her station with glossy headshots of glamorous girls modeling a multitude of hairstyles. It was hard to choose; the girls were so pretty, they would have looked good without any hair. “Now, we’ve got to take into account those curls,” Sally said.

I flipped through the section of short haircuts and found one I liked. “What about that one?”

“Hmm, I think that cut is a bit too grown up for you, and it’s even shorter than we have to go. How about a reverse bob, like this?”

“It looks like something from the flapper era,” Tante Gudy offered. “But I think you could pull it off,” she added.

“Can you shape it so it doesn’t stick out?” I asked, pulling at the sides.

“Yes . . . it’ll take some doing, but I can make it pretty for you.”

About a half hour later, I looked like a cross between Marlene Detrich and Silvio Salvatore. When I flipped my head a certain way, one heavy curl tumbled carelessly to caress my cheekbone.

“I must say, it came out even better that I thought it would,” Sally remarked.

“Now, you truly look like a young lady. No more little girl.” Tante Gudy sighed. “I expect your mother will like it too,” she added.

“Oh, you’re not her mother?” Sally asked.

“No, I’m only the aunt.”

 

I WATCHED FROSTED acres of fallow fields roll by the window as the Greyhound bus rumbled northwards, my dread increasing with each passing mile. Late November is the bleakest time of year. The certainty of deepening cold and deluge of snow that would surely follow weighed heavily, but not nearly as much as the seemingly inevitable end of my parents’ hopes and dreams.

I’d been burdened with secrets when I’d left Blackstone and would return laden with even more. My aunt suggested I wait until things settled down before I spoke with my parents—thank God I could tell Sparrow.

 

“YOU DON’T SEEM very surprised,” I remarked, as we sat at the back of the school bus on Tuesday morning.

“That’s because I’m not,” she whispered.

“But how could you have known?”

“I didn’t know for sure who your mother was . . . and I had no idea about your dad, but I knew your ma couldn’t have given birth to a baby so soon.”

“So soon after what?”

“Those pictures . . . on their trip with the baby. Your ma wasn’t anywhere near eight months pregnant,” she explained.

“Ohmygosh.” I recalled my mother’s slender figure in her pretty summer dress. “How dumb could I be?”

“It was a lot to take in,” she offered. “I didn’t think I should add to it.”

“There’s so much more I’ve got to tell you, but it’ll have to wait,” I whispered. I relaxed a bit, comforted by the knowledge that I’d have a friend to mull it over with later that afternoon.

I thought school would never let out, but at last the bell rang. We were filing by twos outside to the school busses, when Horace the Horrible sidled up. How did he always manage to step out of line without getting caught?

“Hey, Parsons—what happened to your hair? Did you have to sell it to bail your dad out of jail?” He snorted with laughter. I ignored him. “You still ain’t out on the street?” he snarled. Sparrow bristled beside me, but kept silent like I’d asked. “Cat got your tongue?” he taunted. When I refused to take the bait, he pushed harder. “It’s getting pretty cold, but don’t worry. I suppose you can always move into the Schitschack with your little half-breed friend . . .”

“Shut up, Horace,” I shouted; my resolve had cracked.

“. . . and her fat, retard brother . . . and her dirty, Injun-luvin’ whore of a mother,” he finished, baring his teeth and grinning like an evil monkey.

Sparrow swung her schoolbag like David with his sling against Goliath, clocking Horace full in the face with a history textbook and knocking him flat on his ass. I think it was the book’s spine that caught him; when he took his hand from his face there was blood gushing from both nostrils. Just when I thought things couldn’t be any worse, he spit out a bloody front tooth; it landed on the pavement between his sprawled legs.

We were quickly surrounded by a sea of gawking, squawking children. The only one more shocked than Horace was Sparrow. I knew she never meant to hurt him that bad—kids were always bopping each other with schoolbags when the teachers weren’t looking, mostly the boys. I guess she got so mad she didn’t know her own strength and it was just dumb luck the book hit at the precise angle to inflict maximum damage.

“You’redead, Schimschack!” Horace hollered, climbing to his feet with his tooth in his hand. “Dead. You hear me, slut?”

“Here, here!” Mrs. Moore was working her way through the crowd. “What kind of language is—oh my God.” She got a look at Horace. “How did this happen?”

“They ganged up on me.” Horace pointed at us. “Waaahh,” he began to wail. “Go get my auntie!”

“Both of you in my office . . . now!” Mrs. Moore ordered, pointing at me and Sparrow.

“Yes, Mrs. Moore,” she said, “but please . . . Cassandra had nothing to do with it. She was just standing here when I—”

“I said both of you!”

I didn’t know it, but I was being sent inside for my own protection. Someone had alerted Hester Hatchet and she was coming at a run, all red in the face with the wattles on her neck in a flap.

“Junior! Oh, my poor boy. What has that craven girl done to you?” She fawned on Horace while he blubbered like a baby. “Somebody call an ambulance. I told you she was dangerous,” The Hatchet shouted at Mrs. Moore. “This is your fault. Wait until my brother finds out—it’ll cost you your job. You,” she turned and shouted at the bus driver through his open door, “use your radio . . . call an ambulance, summon the police. That deranged Indian girl needs to be taken into custody.”

The wounded bear returned to strike with a vengeance. Lisa Schimschack was removed from her mother’s home and sent to The Girl’s Industrial School. The sparrow’s wings were clipped.