walking away, swinging his stick.
“That was a close one.” Bird Man smiles.
“Why didn’t he take me?” I say.
“Take you? Why in the world would he want to take you?” Bird Man laughs. “Now come on, lass, let us get some dinner after all our hard work.” Bird Man sings and every so often does some jerky steps. I catch his coattails and walk behind him, peeking out to make sure blue suit doesn’t come after me.
We enter a loud dark bar, music playing, happy music, feet stomping, men and women clapping hands. Women painted faces, red lips like cranberries. They all know Bird Man, crowd around him, slap his back, smile, we sit at a booth. Bird Man brings out more bottles, he is the hero, the hero of the spirits. A lady brings food: fish fried, cabbage, potatoes. I eat so much. Bird Man laughs with woman, tight dress showing her bosom. Woman takes Bird Man, they leave, I stay and eat.
“Here’s a young one, a darkie,” a man yells, red in the face, bottle in hand, swaying towards me. “How much for her? I bet she must be a virgin!” He leans over me; his breath smells sour. “I’ve never had a dark one like you yet, let me show you a ride tonight, show you how it’s done, how much—how much?” He kisses me, my body freezes, his hand slides down my shirt, he squeezes my breast. “Ooooh, like that? How much, lass?”
I kick, howl, try to get out of his arms, music so loud, he won’t let go—he picks me up, I try and get away—where is Bird Man? I scream again.
“Oh, I like that—a feisty one!”
He carries me to room it’s dark. He pulls my shirt off, squeezing breasts. He hits me, I fall. He undoes his pants, voices outside the door, a man and woman tumble in.
“How’s this room?” she says. The man squeezes her, she giggles.
“Alright, lass.” It’s Bird Man’s voice. I’m on floor, man standing over me.
“What are you doing with her?” Bird Man moves closer.
“What? This darkie isn’t worth nothing!”
“She’s just a child, you louse!” Bird Man takes bottle in hand and smashes it on man’s head. He falls like a tree and gets up like a bear, punching. Bird Man falls down—the woman screeches. I put my clothes back on and Bird Man gets up and slugs him. The man falls, I pick up a chair and smash it on man’s back. He goes down. Bird Man picks up his hat and takes my hand. “Come now, lass, time to go.” He doesn’t let go of my hand, the woman with painted lips hugs Bird Man.
“What about us?”
He squeezes her behind. “Another time.” We gather our things and walk out on street. Bird Man leads us back to the bank, to canoe, he is quiet, he makes no bird sounds.
The moon is out, stars are out. Bird Man covers me with a blanket and paddles up the river. I sleep, that night in the canoe, I dream a big owl comes to me, it’s Joe, I know it’s Joe, he hoots at me and flies away. Joe is talking from spirit land—I know Joe is dead. They caught him, tied him to a tree that’s what they did, like they did to the other one, his lifeless body slumped over, we couldn’t help him—
I have no one. Mama died, Papa died from agent’s stick, Joe died, Bird Man all I have. We make many trips down river selling spirits. He caught me but I caught him. After that night at the bar, Bird Man hold my hand, more careful. Spirits—selling spirits, that’s how we survived. I drank spirits. Spirits help me forget. Bird Man drank to stop sadness in his eyes. He was forgetting something too? Many years go by. I have babies—one die, one live, a girl, Deliah, she help with our spirit selling. We make our own, we survive, that’s how we survive.
DELIAH
Eastport, Maine
RIVER SPIRITS
Papa was an Irish man, he used to sing to me—all kinds of songs—we lived by the river near Eastport. Mama and Papa had a moonshine business. We were poor, but we had food, potatoes, lots of them. We turned them into moonshine, and we ate them. Had a small garden in front of our two-room shack with wood plank floors. We stored the potatoes under a wood plank, it was the middle one that was easy to raise up. The river sang songs to me. Mama told me there were river spirits and if you stayed long enough—you could see them dancing on the water. I waited and waited for a spirit to appear—I think I saw one, I think I did.
I’d go with them to town to sell their moonshine. Mama always kept me hidden, she was afraid someone was going to snatch me—especially the white people. I was fair, I had my papa’s auburn hair. He’d say: “That’s the Irish in you, lass.”
“Papa, what’s Irish?” I’d respond, and he’d laugh, smoke his pipe and sing me a song from Kerry, where his people came from. Every night before I went to sleep, Papa would sing to me.
“Papa, sing me a song!”
“Okay, lass, what song should I sing …” Papa teased me.
“The rose song! The rose song!”
“Hmmmm, I wonder, where is that song from?”
“From Ireland, Papa, you know that!”
“Oh, yes, how does it go again?”
And so, I started it:
“Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass,
Come over the hills to your darling.”
And Papa continued with his deep voice:
“You choose the rose, love,
And I’ll make the vow,
And I’ll be your true love forever.” His voice became mournful:
“It’s not for the loss of my only sister Kate
It’s not for the loss of my mother;
’Tis all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass,
That I’m leaving Ireland forever.” And I’d chime in,
“Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows,
And fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne,
But my love is fairer than any.”
“Papa,” I asked, “is this song true?”
His blue eyes watered. “Why yes, yes.” He took out his pipe, put tobacco in it and lit it with a match.
“How did they lose each other?”
“Hmm?” He puffed his pipe.
“The mother got lost, the sister and the bonny lass. How did they get lost? Did they ever get found again?”
