Mostly White. Alison Hart

to sleep. I don’t know how long I sleep, a day? Birds are talking in the house. Walk into bottle and barrel room, there he is making bird calls out of his mouth, he stops.

      “Well, there she is, awake now? There’s a potato for you to eat for we’ve got a long journey.” Empty bottles, full bottles with clear liquid cover the floor. “Come on, lass, get going.” I sit down at table and eat. Bird Man makes his bird sounds as he rushes, filling bottles, screwing in wood corks on top. “We are taking a journey down the river, yes, we are going to sell these spirits.” I finish potato. “Come here now and fill this bottle.” He hands me bottle and shows me how to fill it. It smells sharp to my nose. I liked how it made me feel in the canoe, warm, light, like I was floating. I fill bottles and put cork on top, we put in a box. Many boxes. Many bottles. He starts bird calling again even dances some jerky motion, knees in air. I laugh, laugh so hard at this strange dancing Bird Man.

      “So now I know you laugh, eh?” He stops his silly dance. “Come, let’s load the canoe.”

      He wraps potatoes in sack, puts on his hat and we carry boxes to canoe. In canoe I am surrounded by boxes of spirit bottles. The river talks its familiar sound, this river I know. We follow it a long time. Sometimes I take the paddle, Bird Man sings and we eat potatoes. I start to recognize the land; this river Papa and the men would fish in—I’m going home? The strange Bird Man is taking me home?

      “Well that’s about it,” he says. We pull canoe to the side of the bank, at a pier with ships. We hide the canoe. He gives me basket with bottles covered with a blanket. He slips bottles in his boots and walks funny, slow like an old man. We walk up bank to dirt street. Smell of fish, rotting fish, a factory, sardine factory, men and women swarm out of building. We stand in dirt street. Bird Man moves his feet nervously—men know him, they come and ask for a pint, give him money, he reaches into his boot and hands them a shiny bottle. More and more men come by, stop to talk with Bird Man, they laugh—give money, get bottle. They all talk like Bird Man, same bubble stream talk—all white men. Most of them hairy, they happy to see Bird Man, happy to get their bottle.

      We run out of bottles and walk back to canoe to get more. Bird Man whistles. “Not a bad day, lass, not a bad day at all.” He fills the basket and his boots, we walk back to our spot. A few men come to buy some bottles. A man in a blue suit with stick comes towards us—is he an agent? I freeze—Bird Man hands a man a bottle. Is the agent going to take me back to the school? He takes Bird Man’s arm, men scatter.

      “What are you selling here?” The man in blue suit carries a stick, like the stick that beat Papa down. Bird Man tries to slip bottle in his pocket. Blue suit man catches him, Bird Man raises bottle up. “Just an elixir, just an elixir, sir.”

      “Is that right?” Blue suit man is a big man, wide shoulders and a barrel stomach.

      “Yes sir.” Bird Man’s hands tremble.

      “Well, let me see.” Blue suit man takes bottle, opens cork and sniffs. “This is no elixir.”

      “I can explain, sir”

      “It is against the law to sell alcohol in Maine.” Blue suit taps his stick.

      “Yes sir, yes sir, let me explain.”

      Maybe I should run. Blue suit gets real close to Bird Man and whispers, “I tell you what, you give me three pints and I’ll forget the whole thing.”

      “Sure, sure, officer, sure.” Bird Man gives two more bottles to blue suit who slips them in his coat.

      “Now git!” he shouts, 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.