Fly Like a Bird Read online

  Fly Like a Bird

  © 2019 Jana Zinser. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

  (an Imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

  www.bqbpublishing.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-945448-24-9 (p)

  978-1-945448-25-6 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940447

  Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

  Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

  Author photo by Amy Stephens Photography in Castle Rock, Colorado.

  First editor: Caleb Guard

  Second editor: Pearlie Tan

  DEDICATION

  My love for Iowa knows no bounds.

  As a child, my small Iowa town offered me the freedom and safety of riding my bike all over town, the joy of the gently rolling hills, and the music of the colorful birds. It provided the comfort of a community that knew my name, the thrill and competition of sports, and the close-knit bond of friends and family who knew what I was up to at all times. Iowa gave me a great education and an expectation to succeed, access to the arena of state and national politics, and the ability to accept and appreciate the uniqueness in all of us.

  We all see the world from our own limited perspective, but I remember as a child trying to understand racism and beyond that, the inequities of the world, sometimes right in front of me. I’m not sure I understand it any better today.

  In Fly Like A Bird, I wanted to explore the awakenings of a young girl and her struggles to make sense of the artificial unfairness placed upon many of us with the invisible bars of race, sex, poverty, and family circumstances that frequently restrict our choices and our successes.

  In this story, as in real life, it is often the cruelty of just a few that stops the freedom of many. We all shelter self-doubt and insecurity within our hearts, but if we could stand up for each other when we see injustices, we might find we end up accepting ourselves as well. We should not shy away from differences, we should embrace them.

  In Iowa, if you listen, you will hear the melodious songs of so many different birds and they all belong in that glorious state that I love. FLY LIKE A BIRD means finding your freedom to be who you are, to stand up for yourself and others, and to soar to great heights on the winds of the Iowa prairie.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Although Fly Like A Bird is inspired by musings told to the author, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental or incorporated in a fictitious way.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue (1959)

  Part I: A Family of Sorts (1966)

  Chapter 1: Best Left Unsaid

  Chapter 2: The Sandwich War

  Chapter 3: The Cookie Jar Violation

  Chapter 4: Spooks

  Chapter 5: Eavesdropping Isn’t Polite

  Chapter 6: Thrasher’s Pond

  Chapter 7: The Dump

  Chapter 8: The Devil’s Pictures

  Part II: Finding Her Way Home (1970–1971)

  Chapter 9: The Garden Hoe

  Chapter 10: The Doll Baby on Mulberry Street

  Chapter 11: Another Holiday Tainted by Discord

  Chapter 12: The Barbershop

  Chapter 13: The Rosie Project

  Chapter 14: Mushroom Hunting

  Chapter 15: The Supreme Court Said You Could

  PART III: Mischief, Trickery, and Disappointment (1975–1976)

  Chapter 16: The Coffey Shop

  Chapter 17: The Dusty Library

  Chapter 18: The Corn Quicksand

  Chapter 19: Where the Buffalo Roam

  Chapter 20: Deadman’s Woods

  Chapter 21: The Lawn Creatures

  Chapter 22: The Great Purple Dog

  Chapter 23: The Rain Stopped

  Chapter 24: Leaving Coffey

  Part IV: Hearts Have No Skin Color (1979–1980)

  Chapter 25: Losing Touch

  Chapter 26: The Woman at the Window

  Chapter 27: The Betrayal

  Chapter 28: The Death Grip of Love

  Chapter 29: Every Ending Creates a Beginning

  Chapter 30: Patty’s Day Out

  Part V: The Great Hereafter (1984–1985)

  Chapter 31: Preparing for Death

  Chapter 32: Ivy Visits Her Past

  Chapter 33: A Child is Worth Some Trouble

  Chapter 34: The Rescue

  Chapter 35: Play the Hand That’s Dealt

  Chapter 36: Rose Hill

  Chapter 37: Sentimental Journey Home

  Chapter 38: Will the Night Ever End?

  Part VI: The Return of the Birds (1985–1986)

  Chapter 39: The Geriatric Scuffle

  Chapter 40: The Benches

  Chapter 41: The Vanishing of the Ghosts

  Chapter 42: The Halloween Heist

  Chapter 43: Finding Your Spirit

  Chapter 44: Nothing Worse Than Being Caucasian

  Chapter 45: The Pies

  Chapter 46: The Wings of Hope

  Recipe for Angel Pie

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE (1959)

  The violent December wind whipped the pelting rain and turned it to ice on the roads of southern Iowa as Robert Taylor pulled into the driveway of his mother’s white Victorian house. He stepped out of the blood red Pontiac and into the storm, shielding his shivering baby in his arms. The moon lay buried deep behind the storm clouds and lightning flashed in the dark Midwestern sky, startling the baby. The crashing thunder and howling wind drowned out the little girl’s cries. Robert was twenty-six and overcome with fear and panic.

  Robert’s tears mixed with the pouring rain as he kissed his daughter’s cheek and handed Ivy into his mother Violet’s waiting arms. Violet grabbed his arm as he turned back into the storm, but Robert pulled away. Her frantic warning evaporated into the thunderous night.

  Violet Taylor tucked Ivy against her body inside the front of her big coat. The baby calmed and peered out from her Grandma’s lapel. They huddled together on the front porch and watched Robert’s car back down the driveway past the big maple tree that swayed and groaned in the storm. The old tree had survived many decades of Iowa storms by holding fast to the earth with its deep roots and bending with the power of the wind.

  Cold rain poured from the porch eaves as Robert drove off. Fifty-four-year-old Violet pushed her short, wet hair out of her face and kissed the top of Ivy’s little head. She stared into the darkness for a while as if she thought her son might reappear, but he didn’t. Ever.

  Later that night, someone reported that Robert’s car briefly stopped outside the Coffey Shop then hurriedly drove back into the freezing rain that coated the roads with an invisible sheet of black ice.

  The new Deputy Sheriff, Charlie Carter, said the car carrying Robert and his wife, Barbara, skidded and swerved as it approached the two-lane Highway 69. He reported their new 1959 Pontiac Bonneville did not stop in time to avoid the oncoming tractor-trailer. The truck’s giant headlights must have appeared in the blackness of the storm-ravaged night, hazy through the cascade of freezing rain on their windsh
ield. Bright-colored sparks exploded on the highway as the big truck dragged the mangled car beneath its belly.

  And Ivy was left an orphan.

  PART I

  A FAMILY OF SORTS

  (1966)

  Chapter 1

  BEST LEFT UNSAID

  Iowa’s late sunset showered bright colors of red, gold, and orange across the broad horizon like an explosion of fire in the summer evening sky, and the Iowa sun bowed behind the prairie skyline.

  The hot summer night in 1966 produced only a slight breeze as eight-year-old Ivy put on a thin summer nightgown and pushed her sweaty strawberry blond hair off her neck. Grandmother Violet pulled back the yellow daisy-printed quilt and Ivy jumped into her antique sleigh bed.

  “A little bird told me that you rode your bike out past the Thrasher place today,” said Grandma. “I’ve told you not to go out there. If you do it again, you will be in deep, dark trouble with me. Do you hear me, little missy?”

  “Why?”

  “Never you mind. You need to do what I say because my job is to protect you.”

  “Okay, Grandma, but I don’t—”

  Grandma shook her head. “Uh. Uh.”

  The crickets serenaded outside Ivy’s bedroom window and the glowing fireflies danced. Ivy kissed the black-and-white picture on her bedside table and snuggled into her bed. The old photo showed her father with curly hair and dark eyes. Beside him stood her mother, wearing a silver heart necklace engraved with a rose, the only possession of her mother’s that Ivy owned. She never took it off.

  In many ways, Ivy’s parents only existed through Grandma’s stories and a few photos. Most of Ivy’s newly created images of her parents drifted thin and fuzzy, like half-remembered dreams, and the hazy thoughts of their tragedy haunted her.

  Ivy held her Grandmother’s hand and floated away on her dreams.

  A few hours later, a nightmare of exploding colors, crashing metal and terrifying screams jolted Ivy straight up in bed. She felt the cold wetness of the sheets and her urine-soaked nightgown clung to her skin. She crawled out of bed and crept down the dark stairs to find Grandma.

  She padded lightly down the expansive stairway of the old Victorian. When she reached the bottom of the wide stairs, Uncle Walter’s voice boomed from the kitchen where he and Grandma played cards.

  “She’s just a little girl, but don’t you think she has a right to know what happened? There’s a few in town that have their suspicions. Someone might tell her.”

  Grandma muffled a growl in her throat. “Now, Walter, you know some things are best left unsaid. Even if anyone suspects anything, they’ll stay quiet because I know too much about them. Everyone’s got family secrets. Now that’s the last I want to hear of it.”

  Uncle Walter mumbled something Ivy couldn’t hear. She turned and tiptoed back up the stairs, and crawled into her wet bed. The pungent smell of urine pierced the humid air as she huddled in a dry corner of her bed. Her wet nightgown stuck to her skin. Grandma’s words inflamed Ivy’s worst fears. Were they hiding something horrible about her parents’ accident?

  The headlights of passing cars moved around the walls of her room as she picked up the picture beside her bed. Having no parents made her feel empty. She needed to find out what Grandma and Uncle Walter were talking about.

  Ivy could hear Grandma’s heavy steps climbing the stairs. She hurriedly set the picture down on the table just as Grandma peered in.

  Ivy sat up. “I wet the bed again.”

  “Why don’t I change your bed while you get on a new nightgown?”

  Ivy pulled a clean nightgown from her drawer. “How come nobody ever talks about my parents’ accident?” she asked as she changed her clothes.

  Grandma finished tucking the clean sheets under the mattress and Ivy climbed back into bed. Grandma patted Ivy’s cheek and sat down beside her, her weight making a deep dent in the mattress. “Too painful, I suppose. Time often stands still in families.”

  Ivy fingered the silver chain around her neck and Grandma shifted on the bed, making the old bed springs creak. Ivy tucked her hair behind her ears. “Tell me about my mom.”

  “Well, she grew up in Stilton and she was beautiful. You look a lot like her, you know.” She patted Ivy’s freckled cheek. “She liked to have her own way. Your father loved your mother more than life itself. Your mother had that effect.”

  Ivy fiddled with the ring on Grandma’s finger. “How come my mother isn’t buried in the cemetery with my dad?”

  “Guess it just wasn’t meant to be. You’ve always liked this ring, haven’t you?”

  Ivy nodded. She picked up the framed photo of her parents and lay it on the daisy-printed pillow next to her. Grandma pulled her soft housecoat around her ample lap and stared into the distance as if looking into the past.

  “On my wedding day Sam Taylor gave me his ring and a bottle of lilac perfume. I’ve worn that fragrance ever since, and I’ve never taken this ring off.” She sighed. “Sam Taylor and I thought we would always be together. But life changes your plans. When he died, he left me three grown sons and 4120.” That was the nickname she gave to her big Victorian house on 4120 Meadowlark Lane. “But families survive tragedies. You have to go on.”

  Grandma touched the tip of Ivy’s freckled nose. “Your Grandpa would have adored you. Now go to sleep. You promised Uncle Tommy you’d take the birdseed over to his place early tomorrow.”

  With no brothers or sisters, Ivy spent a lot of time with her two uncles who lived in Coffey, a small farming community in southern Iowa. She loved being with her Uncle Walter. And, at Grandma’s insistence, she reluctantly spent time with Uncle Tommy.

  Ivy’s uncles hadn’t spoken to each other since 1959. No one quite remembered the incident that started the silent treatment, except that a pastrami sandwich at her father’s funeral was to blame. Ivy felt drawn to her uncles’ feud, and she was driven to find out what had started the long-standing sandwich war.

  Ivy nodded, clutching Grandma’s hand. “You’re not going to die tonight, are you, Grandma?”

  Violet Taylor, who was sixty-one, gave the same response she had given every night since she had a breast removed because of a cancerous lump. “No, I’m not prepared for death. I’m only prepared for life. Death can’t touch me. I have you to raise. God won’t take me until you’re ready.” Grandma covered Ivy with the sheet and kissed her forehead. “I love you more than the great blue sky.”

  During the previous winter of 1965, Grandma had discovered a lump in one of her breasts. Two weeks later, the cancer specialist in Des Moines removed one of Grandma’s breasts without much contemplation or concern. “As if it was just a moldy piece of bread,” Grandma said. “Maybe he thought a fat old woman wouldn’t miss her sagging breast. Fool. But life can’t wait for breasts. My brassiere will never know the difference.” She shook her head and rearranged the miscellaneous stuffing in her bra.

  Grandma soon adjusted to the change. Loss was nothing new to Violet Taylor. She stuffed her large, vacant bra with socks, kitchen tea towels, or anything she could find, and went about her business.

  That night, Grandma sat on the bed and sang the old Western cowboy song, “Red River Valley” like she did every night. The crickets outside chirped along in chorus. Ivy’s sun-streaked hair spread tangled on the pillow. Her eyelids closed.

  “Goodnight, Grandma. I love you, too.”

  Pushing the floor with her feet, Grandma bounced the bed until Ivy’s breathing slowed and she floated on the edge of sleep. “I pray I’m doing the right thing and that you will have a forgiving heart, for all of us,” Ivy heard Grandma say as if from a million miles away.

  Grandma brushed the stray hair off Ivy’s face, so much like her mother’s, and put the photo back on the bedside table. The crickets’ rhythm thumped like the heartbeat of the night. The fireflies played hide-and-seek, flashing in the darkness of the woods. The wild birds settled in the trees. But the squirrels never slept. Neither did Grandma. Sh
e cooked, cleaned, or watched TV at all hours. Ivy worried about Grandma dying, but hearing Grandma’s constant sounds in the night, gave her the comfort to finally drift away into that deep sleep.

  Chapter 2

  THE SANDWICH WAR

  The air hung thick and heavy a few hours after the sun rose. Ivy, dressed in a yellow sleeveless shirt and peddle-pusher shorts, came downstairs ready to ride her bike to Uncle Tommy’s house to deliver the bag of birdseed.

  She found Grandma in the kitchen. “Can I go over to Uncle Walter’s after I drop off Uncle Tommy’s birdseed?” she asked Grandma. “Luther Matthews is building him a cookie jar shelf today.”

  Grandma stirred a huge pot of red raspberry jam, cooling on the stove. A row of Mason jars stood ready to be filled. “Okay, but stay out of Luther’s way, you hear? He’s got enough on his mind, poor man.”

  Grandma scooped red raspberry jam into the first jar. She tilted her head and wiped the sweat off her forehead with a tea towel. “Best not to tell Uncle Tommy about Uncle Walter’s shelf.” She raised her eyebrows. “You know how he can be.”

  Ivy dipped her finger in the jar of jam and licked it. “Why do they hate each other?”

  Grandma bent down and rummaged for the jar lids in the bottom cabinet. She set them beside the jars on the counter. When the jars were filled, she would take them to the canning room in the darkest corner of the cold basement where they also kept the pop for game nights. She placed her hand on her thick waist and slowly straightened. “They don’t hate each other. They just tend to hold a grudge.”

  “You always say that, but why don’t they talk to each other?” Ivy dipped her finger into the raspberry jam again and licked it, then pointed to the backyard. “I bet your bird friends would tell you if you asked.”

  The woods surrounding Coffey were full of hawks, eagles, owls, goldfinches, and other wild birds and Violet Taylor knew them all. She believed that if a person loved birds, he couldn’t be all bad. Ivy was always on the lookout for the glimmer of a goldfinch, the Iowa state bird, because according to Grandma, it brought good luck.