Features Short Story Contest First Place Winner A Way Up

Author: Ellen Smith

We fall out the door and down the two crumbling concrete steps that float rootless in the dusty soil. We shuffle along the shifting path in an eyes-closed rabbit dance. We run past an overgrown, rusted-out playground, past rows of government-issue housing in sickly pastels and the hungry menace of dogs lunging full against their chains. My name is Angie, a name you can hear in the rattle of a metal link fence as clearly as you can in the rustle of sweet grass and sage.

A week or so ago, Charity went into labor. She is 17 years old, my cousin, and wasn't due for another eight days, but she happened to see her man, Ray, driving by with another girl past "Sioux-per Sioux-venirs" right in the middle of Mission, South Dakota. The shock of it started her off early, so little Antonio was born on the 12th of July, just two days before my own 13th birthday. Come to think of it, "little Antonio" might not be so accurate, considering he was nine pounds at birth. My round, brown hulk of a cousin tore into the world on a day so hot the air could only move in lazy, dusty swirls kicked up by cars along the highway.

The sun glowed on the white crosses punctuating the ditches alongside the interstate the next afternoon as we drove home from the hospital. Su Anne Big Crow! Owen Left Hand Bull! the markers cry out in the summer haze. Some stand alone, jutting from the earth like a shout or a single drum beat, while others are strung in long lines like a low moan.

Once we reached Aunt Charlotte's house, Charity crawled into bed, leaving Antonio to sleep in Charlotte's arms, lulled by the stillness of our mercifully shady kitchen. Steeped in the vanilla fragrance of pipe smoke, my grandfather, Big Wayne to all, came out of the back room to see the new boy.

We stood for some time, Big Wayne and I, examining this fat newcomer encircled by Aunt Charlotte's arms. With his shiny, tender eyelids screwed shut and fine, filmy bubbles forming at the corners of his mouth with each easy exhale, Antonio slept. He was the color of rosy baked clay.

In a hushed voice just taller than a whisper and dry as the roll of a rattle, Big Wayne began to tell the sleeping baby a story. When he spoke the lines in his face grew deeper, then eased, and deepened back again, a rise and fall on the planes of his cheekbones that always seemed to illustrate his tales. This time the words poured like rain, creasing the skin around his eyes and mouth into broad rivulets …

"This is a story from our neighbors, the Kiowa, Arapaho, Crow,and Cheyenne — no one is sure who learned it first, but now even we Lakota call it our own.

"It begins with seven little girls playin' in the forest. They are havin' so much fun that they don't hear this great bear comin' near until he's already upon them. With fear in their hearts, these little girls run away as fast as they can, but with each step they can hear that bear gainin' on 'em, and they know they won't be able to outrun him. When the little girls figure they can't run any more, they all throw themselves upon this low rock, and they begin to pray. They call out to the Creator as loud as they can, sayin, 'O Great Spirit, help us! Help us!' They pray louder and louder as that bear comes crashin' through the woods, nearer and nearer."

"Then, just as the bear reaches the seven little girls, that low rock starts to grow! The girls hold tight as the rock shoots upwards, leavin' the bear far below. Oh that bear, he's so angry he jumps up on the sides of the rock and scratches the walls deep with his great claws. You can still see the claw marks he left there today — the place is called Mateo Tepee — Bear Lodge, and it's way off in Wyoming. As for the seven little girls, they were pushed clear up to heaven on top of that rock tower. So, they became seven stars. What do you think of that, baby boy?"

Antonio, still sleeping, didn't seem to have any comment on Big Wayne's story, although I secretly thought he was surely wondering, even then, at the idea of going straight up to the sky. I certainly was. Of all the times I'd heard this story I'd never given it a second thought, but here with Antonio, it wouldn't leave my mind. Who would have thought those seven little girls, or anyone for that matter, could have found a way into the clouds and amongst stars?

It might be nice to watch everything from a distance. Perched high among the stars we wouldn't have to wait so eagerly for the check at the start of each month. We would be safe from the cars on the highway that weave and charge through the night. Aunt Charlotte wouldn't have to take care of Antonio when Charity goes missing for days, and, hidden in the clouds, we would be out of reach when Ray gets drunk.

These are things I want for my baby cousin, that I want to give him. He may not understand this now, but someday, when his tiny, curled fists and chubby, brown legs have grown, when he can hold up his head on his own, Antonio will get it. He'll have the waving grasses and the summer rain beating at the earth with wild abandon. He'll have Big Wayne's stories and all the love he needs.

I think about this, watching my new cousin sleep and listening to him wail long before the first light of each morning. A way to the sky could be anywhere — in the parched, trampled grass at the pow-wow grounds, down every dead end street that looks like it might lead on up into hot, breezy blue — anywhere. I pray about it, and I search at night. With golden owl eyes I pierce the darkness, leaving a trail of downy feathers scattered in my wake. I am the messenger, walking for miles with Antonio in my arms, walking for thousands and thousands of miles. Without tiring I search throughout the night, certain that soon, somehow we will fall out the door and up the crumbling concrete steps to join the stars.