Tumbleweed Skies Page 8

  I told him I would and left the counter feeling almost dazed. Two whole dollars! It was incredible wealth—more money than I'd ever dreamed of having. Daddy sometimes gave me a nickel, and once in a while even a dime, but that was about the extent of any riches I'd had before.

  For the first while, I wandered about feeling overwhelmed by the vast selection of goods for sale. There were so many things to tempt me—from beautiful bolts of fabric to a wide selection of toys. And, of course, there was candy! Large glass jars stood in a brightly colored line, offering penny candy, peppermint sticks, licorice whips, jawbreakers, and more. Just the sight of them was enough to make your mouth water.

  Even though the candies looked and smelled so good, I made up my mind almost right away that I wasn't going to spend any of my credit on them. If I did, they'd be gone in a few moments and I'd have nothing left to show for what I'd spent. I was only going to buy things that I could keep and treasure for always. Things to remember my Uncle Roger by.

  That was the exact second when I realized that I was going to miss Uncle Roger when I left. It was a bit of a shock when it hit me, because it wasn't that long ago I'd been sure that there'd never be one single thing I'd miss about this place when Daddy finally came to fetch me back home.

  As I stood there, I wondered whether I'd ever see Uncle Roger again after this summer. The thought that I might not made me so sad that for a moment all the excitement over my shopping adventure faded away.

  "Anything I can help you find?"

  I turned to find Wendell standing next to me. I hadn't even noticed him coming over.

  "I want to buy something for my Uncle Roger," I said. The words surprised me.

  "Do you now? Well, let's see." Wendell scratched his head. "I happen to know that your uncle is crazy about Coca Cola. Just loves the stuff."

  "I was thinking about something he could keep," I said.

  "Something to keep, huh? I see." He took a bit longer this time, but then his face lit up and he smiled. "I've got just the thing! Roger loves detective books and there's a brand new one just in. He hasn't even seen it yet."

  I followed him to the display rack of books and magazines. He handed me a paperback with a price tag of twenty cents on it. I looked it over. The cover had a picture of a man looking over his shoulder in a dark alley. I decided it was probably pretty exciting.

  "Thanks!" I said. "This will be great."

  "And what about you, Ellie? I'm pretty sure that whoever put that credit there for you wanted you to get yourself something nice, too."

  "I will," I said, "but first I need to get something for my daddy. He'll be coming to get me pretty soon but I want to get him a present for his birthday in September."

  I found just the thing in a section where there were a lot of goods just for men on display. There were razors and combs in special cases and boot polish and such, but what caught my eye was a round container labeled Scented Shaving Soap. It smelled like our cedar bush back home and Daddy is always saying how nice that smells. I thought he'd sure like to have his face smell the same.

  After I put it with the book, I wandered around again but the excitement of having presents to give to Daddy and Uncle Roger kind of took away the fun of shopping for me. That was when I thought maybe I should get something for Grandma. I looked here and there and finally came upon a folding fan with delicate orange flowers painted on it. Grandma is always fanning herself with a paper or piece of cardboard, or even her hand. As soon as I saw the fan I knew it was the perfect thing to get for her.

  It was strange how happy it made me to take that fan over to the counter and put it with the book for Uncle Roger and the fancy shaving soap for Daddy.

  "Got yourself a fan, did you?" Wendell asked.

  "It's for my grandmother," I told him. He nodded and smiled and told me I'd best be finding something for myself before it was too late.

  That reminded me that Uncle Roger should be along soon, but it was okay because I knew what I wanted by then. It was a bracelet of brightly colored beads, one of the prettiest I'd ever seen. I fetched it to the counter and asked could Wendell go ahead and wrap it all in brown paper so no one could see what was in it?

  He did that and tied it with a string. Then he told me I still had a credit of ninety-three cents but I said he could go ahead and put it on Uncle Roger's page in his book. I was pretty sure I wasn't going to be back to shop again, and even if I was, it seemed greedy to think of buying more things after all my shopping that day.

  Twenty

  Uncle Roger showed up for me not long afterward. He chatted with Wendell for a bit, and then it was time for us to head back home. He started up the truck again and we drove along past farms that were starting to look more familiar.

  When we got to Grandma's place, he didn't turn in at the driveway. I felt nervous when we just kept on past it, because I could picture Grandma at the window, seeing us go by. I knew it would make her angry, though I didn't know why.

  Soon as Uncle Roger turned the truck off the road, I realized where we were going. A small graveyard stretched out to our left with a dozen or more rows of stones standing at attention. Some of the gravestones had flowers hugging up to them but most of them were bare or had scrawny little bushes on either side.

  "I thought you might want to see where your ma was laid to rest," Uncle Roger said as the truck settled to a stop.

  I pulled the handle, swung the door open and stepped out without speaking. Uncle Roger hadn't moved. I paused and looked back at him.

  "Over yonder," he said, pointing. "I'll join you after a bit."

  My knees had gone wobbly but I managed my way along the rows until I saw the inscription.

  Stewart (Acklebee)

  Margaret Jean

  July 17, 1920—June 04, 1944

  It was strange, seeing my birth date carved there like an accusation. I stood for a few minutes, staring at the words, trying to take in the idea that my mother's body was in the ground underneath the spot I was standing. It was the closest I'd ever get to her but it didn't seem like she was there at all.

  I'd have thought being at her grave would have made me sad, but it didn't. In fact, I really didn't feel much of anything. Except maybe the emptiness of her place in me—which was suddenly more noticeable.

  "Funny the things you think of sometimes."

  Uncle Roger's voice startled me a little. I turned to face him, pulling my drifting thoughts to what he was saying.

  "I was just remembering how your ma had chicken-pox when she was fourteen. I teased her a good bit about having a little kids' illness at that age. She just laughed it off. Said whatever got her out of doing sums was okay with her. She was never all that fond of school—especially arithmetic." He sank down onto the ground near the stone then. I sat myself down beside him.

  "You look like her, you know."

  That surprised me more than anything he could have said. The few pictures we had of her backed up what I'd heard my whole life, that my mother had been beautiful. And, as gangly and skinny as I was, I couldn't imagine anyone ever thinking I looked like her.

  "You really do," Uncle Roger said, as though he could read my mind. "If I showed you pictures of her at your age, you'd see it. I imagine you'll grow up to look a lot like her too."

  "Maybe then Grandma will be able to stand the sight of me," I blurted.

  Uncle Roger smiled and shook his head. "I think probably your grandmother finds it hard to look at you because you remind her so much of Maggie."

  "Grandma says I killed my mother—that Daddy and I did."

  He didn't answer right off. Instead, he dropped back onto an elbow and then, after a bit, straight out flat on his back, hands folded under his head.

  "Your grandmother has a big load to carry around," he said at last.

  "Because my mother died?"

  "Well, that's part of it, but it's actually a small part, I'd say. You see, Ellie, when your mom and dad got married, it made your grandma bitter. S
he'd always been a sort of hard woman, toughened by too many disappointments, I suppose. But this was different.

  "She knew how to handle crop failure and hunger, years of poverty, times of sickness and hardship. But she didn't know how to deal with the kind of betrayal she felt when Maggie ran off. It broke her heart, and the only way she knew how to handle it was to close herself off from the hurt."

  He fell silent then. I lay down at his side and waited, sure there was more. The sun warmed me and made me lazy. After a bit, he picked up like he'd never paused.

  "Some letters came from Maggie but your grandma refused to read them. She burned them in the stove and said she had no daughter. Then the day came when Sheriff Danyluk came to the door holding his hat and saying that Maggie was dead."

  "The day I was born," I said.

  "The same day," he agreed. "Grandma had been ironing just before he came, and after he delivered the news, she got up and went back to it. Picked up that iron and started in on the shirts like pressing them was the most important thing in the whole world. Faster and faster she went, ironing like a madwoman, until Pa up and took hold of her and pulled her away.

  "She let out a long, terrible moan then. I can hear it still. But I never saw her shed a tear or heard another sound of grief from her. It's how she deals with things—maybe the only way she can. She just swallows it all down and waits for it to turn cold and hard inside her.

  "I know the things your grandmother had said—things like Maggie was dead to her—must have haunted her. Maybe it seemed to her that she'd brought it all to pass somehow, as if her words and thoughts had that kind of power. And even with all of that weighing on her, she held it all in. Not a tear."

  Twenty-one

  It didn't make any kind of sense that I could understand. Even though Grandma made it clear every chance she got that she didn't want me there, it seemed she was angry if I went anywhere for the day.

  The day after I'd been to town with Uncle Roger, she gave me all the worst chores to do, starting off with cleaning the outhouse. I sprinkled lye down the holes and scrubbed the wooden surface you sit on, but that didn't satisfy Grandma. She sent me back out to scrub the floor with a brush. All the time I was in there, flies buzzed around my face, trying to land. I shooed them away frantically, knowing full well where they'd just been.

  When I finished that, she told me to take the carpets out to beat them. Some of them were heavy and I could barely get them up over the clothesline. I guess Grandma would have helped if I'd asked, but I couldn't bring myself to do that.

  By the time I finished banging on them with the broom, my throat and eyes were dry and burning from the clouds of dust. I went to the pump-house to get a cold drink of water and to rinse the dirt off my face and get the scratchy feeling out of my eyes.

  My arms were sore, too. No matter how long you beat on a carpet, you never get to the end of the dirt in it. I was half surprised that Grandma didn't come out afterward, pick up that broom, and start pounding away—just to make it look like I didn't do a good job.

  I went back into the house once I got the grit out of my eyes. Grandma was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting up vegetables for a pot of stew. I told her I was finished.

  "Good," she said without glancing toward me or missing a beat in the rhythm of her chopping.

  "Do you want me to scrub the floors before I bring the rugs back in?" I asked, when I could find my voice again. I don't know where that came from—goodness knows it was the last thing I wanted to do with my arms near about to fall off.

  "The floors are done," she said.

  So. While I'd been working myself to a frazzle outside, Grandma had been just as busy inside.

  I went back outside and began struggling with the rugs, but Uncle Roger came along for his lunch, and he insisted on carrying them all back in and putting them in place. I thanked him and he tweaked my nose, which made a lump come into my throat. Daddy does that sometimes.

  "You give any thought to our talk about Sammy yesterday?" he asked as we reached the door.

  "Yes." I looked away. "I decided I'm going to keep him. Is that okay?"

  "It's all right with me," Uncle Roger said. "You'll need to explain it to Sammy, though, so he knows what's going on."

  "Okay," I said, wondering how you explain something to a magpie.

  "I'll help you," Uncle Roger added. "How about we have a talk with him after lunch?"

  I agreed, though I didn't see why I needed Uncle Roger with me to tell my bird I was keeping him.

  As soon as lunch was over with, Uncle Roger told Grandma we had something to take care of, and he asked if she could excuse me from the dishes for this one time.

  "Go," Grandma said with a shrug. "She worked hard all morning."

  "Sounds like Grandma appreciates all the help you give her," he said as we neared the shed. I didn't answer, because I was trying to think about what to say to Sammy.

  "Ree! REE! REE!" he screeched as soon as we walked inside.

  "Hi, Sammy," I said. Then I stood there, not sure how to start. I glanced at Uncle Roger, and he seemed to realize I needed a bit of help.

  "Sammy? Ellie came to give you some good news," he said.

  I hesitated, then leaned over and spoke very softly to Uncle Roger. "I don't know for sure if it's good news to him," I said.

  "Oh? Why not?"

  "Well, you know…because he might rather be free to fly around and stuff."

  "Ah! You know, I think you're right."

  I stood there, looking at Sammy and thinking about how small that cage was for a bird that was used to the whole outdoors to play in. And I knew I couldn't keep him there, trapped.

  "I guess I changed my mind," I said. "Sammy needs to go back where he belongs." Uncle Roger nodded and didn't look even a little bit surprised.

  "You know what, Ellie? I bet you think you're going to feel real sad to let him go, but I don't think you will."

  "You don't?"

  "When you're ready, we can find out."

  I took a big breath, shoved my shoulders back, and said I was ready right then and there. So Uncle Roger carried the cage outside and over to the edge of the field. He sat it on the ground and stepped back a bit.

  I walked up to the cage and leaned in close. "Ree! Ree!" said Sammy. His dark eyes were darting around and he started to hop up and down. I think he was excited.

  "Sammy, it's time for you to go back to your own home," I said. "I'm going to miss you—a lot, but I know you wouldn't be happy staying in this old cage."

  I noticed my throat was feeling a bit strange then, so I thought it might be a good idea for me to stop talking and just go ahead and get it over with. I reached down, unlatched the door, and swung it open.

  Sammy was completely still for a few seconds. He stared at the open cage door and then lifted his head to look at me, as if he was asking me a question.

  "That's right," I said. "You're free now. Go on."

  He didn't need any more persuasion than that. Sammy stepped forward and out. Then he hopped a few feet away and shook his wings as if they were dusty and he was clearing them off. He pecked at the ground a few times and hopped about a bit more. Then he spread his wings, opening them more and more until they were fully stretched out at his sides.

  I found I was holding my breath, watching and hoping so hard that he would be able to fly. Uncle Roger had warned me right from the start that it was possible Sammy might never be able to fly again. In that case I could have kept him, but I suddenly didn't want to. My whole heart wanted to see him rise up into the air and fly away.

  And that's exactly what he did.

  I stood very still, watching as he lifted off, flew a few feet, landed, and then repeated the whole process. It was on the fourth try that he stayed in the air, going higher and higher, his wings full of wind and pride.

  I felt a tear escape and run down my face, but it wasn't a sad tear. Uncle Roger's hand landed on my shoulder and stayed there.

  I
t came into my head that I should tell him he was right and that I felt much, much happier letting Sammy go than I would have felt keeping him in that cage.

  I didn't, but that was because I knew I didn't have to.

  Twenty-two

  Uncle Roger never seems to forget anything. You might think he's forgotten, but then he brings it up or does something that tells you different.

  It was four days after I'd let Sammy go, and we were all sitting at the table having our dinner. Grandma was scowling at me through the meal. I think she was cross because my knife was making screeching sounds on the plate when I was trying to cut my meat but I didn't know how to cut it without making any noise.

  Then Uncle Roger turned to Grandma and said something that proves he has a good memory but bad timing.

  "Say!" His voice sounded like the idea had just popped into his head that very second, but I knew it hadn't. "It's been the longest while since you made ice cream."

  Grandma's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She looked at Uncle Roger like he'd just suggested she go out and rob a bank or something.

  "I betcha Ellie here would love it," he went on. "Be no trouble at all to fetch home some ice next time I'm in town."

  "I have other things to do," Grandma said. Then she looked at me accusingly, as if to say she knew perfectly well that I was behind the whole idea, before going back to her food.

  "You ever see how ice cream is made, Ellie?" Uncle Roger asked me.

  I shook my head and wished he'd just drop it.

  "It's a lot of work, let me tell you," he said. "I used to think my arm was going to fall right off turning the handle. Might be too hard for a little girl like you anyway."

  "I'm a lot stronger than I look," I said without thinking. I wanted to grab the words back so Grandma wouldn't think I was campaigning for this darned ice cream along with Uncle Roger.

  Grandma pushed her chair back suddenly, scraping it along the floor. She stood and went to the stove where the kettle was heating water for the dishes. Only, she didn't pick up the kettle or do anything else. She just stood there with her back to us.