by April Smith
“Yes, sir,” Cal replied. “We’ve tried several times to get out, but no go. Would you happen to have a rope?”
“I do have a rope, and ordinarily I’d be happy to give you a tow, but that would make two of us stuck.”
“My family’s inside,” Cal said. He wanted to snap his fingers in the man’s face to get some kind of reaction.
“How’re they doing?”
“The kids are pretty hungry.”
Randy Sturgis ran the flashlight beam over the half-buried tires.
“Tourists, are you?”
“Visitors.” Cal realized he had to break through somehow. “Say, I’m a friend of Scotty Roy, at the Crazy Eights Ranch—”
Immediately Randy Sturgis straightened up.
“So that’s you. You’re the pilot!” he said, shaking Cal’s hand all over again. “You’re a hero, Scotty says—”
“I just did my job. There were a lot more deserving heroes than me over there—”
“—and you’re staying with the Roys till you find a place of your own,” Randy Sturgis announced, giving Cal his first taste of small-town hearsay.
“Just for a while. We’re hoping to—”
“You know, we got Ellsworth Air Force Base, you might want to go up there sometime, they’d be happy to put out the welcome mat for a veteran, show you around.”
“Sure thing,” Cal said, blinking rainwater out of his eyes.
“Let’s get you out of here. Best bet would be to get the wife and kids to my car and I’ll take you up to the Roys’. Think we can manage that?”
They grabbed one suitcase, wrapped the children in blankets, locked the car, and trekked through the flooded wash toward the faint red pulse of the Plymouth’s running lights. When they had all squeezed in, Randy Sturgis reached behind his seat and came up with a green metal lunch box.
“Here, you take these,” he told Betsy, passing her a wax paper bag filled with doughnuts. “Fresh this morning.” He laughed merrily. “Probably seems like a long time ago.”
“Another lifetime,” Betsy agreed, offering a doughnut to Jo, who was wide-eyed and stunned to silence by everything that had happened. “We just can’t thank you enough.”
“We got nice people here. We all pitch in and help each other. No other way to do it, really.”
By the time Trooper Sturgis knocked on the door of the main house at the Crazy Eights Ranch it was past nine o’clock at night, but Chris “Dutch” Roy answered, fully dressed in wet jeans and a sheepskin vest over a wool shirt. He was a big, heavyset man, barrel-chested, six foot five, and took up the light in the doorway. He’d been tending to broken gutters, he explained, looking curiously at the rain-soaked refugees huddled on his porch.
“You know this fella?” Randy Sturgis asked ironically when Scotty Roy appeared behind his father.
“Like hell I do!” Scotty shouted, bounding out to shake hands with Cal.
He was noticeably shorter than his dad, with those oddly bright light blue eyes, and as wiry and high-strung as Cal remembered of the wild airman who’d jockeyed to be first in line to parachute into the dark. The body heat just came off him. He was in jeans, a white undershirt, and stocking feet.
“Great to see you,” Cal said sincerely. “Been a long trip.”
“Don’t I know it! Look at you! You made it! And who do we have here?” he asked, squatting down eyeball to eyeball with Jo, who leaned shyly against Betsy’s leg.
“She’s tired,” Betsy explained, caressing her daughter’s hair.
“Do you like baby chicks?” asked Scotty.
Jo nodded sleepily.
“We’ve got baby chicks and goats and maybe even a few calves, what do you think of that? Hey, Mama! They’re here!”
When Doris Roy came into the entryway, the resemblance to her son was almost comical. She was a robust little woman with smooth pink skin who wore her short white hair in tight ringlets like a poodle. Her teal-blue eyes were as startling as Scotty’s, but it was her take-over energy that was most like his.
“Randy, I hope you parked away from the truck.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the trooper said.
“Dutch ain’t so good at backing out.”
Her husband frowned. “Since when?”
She ignored him. “Come on in, you all!”
Betsy hesitated at the threshold. “Are you sure, Mrs. Roy? We don’t want to mess up your clean floor.”
The older woman grabbed Betsy’s arm and pulled her into the warmth of the house. Along the way they passed an oversized living room, a hodgepodge of mismatched sofas, easy chairs, and magazine tables, with deer heads mounted over a stone fireplace—the kind of place meant for a lot of people to eat great quantities of food. They settled around a big oak table in the kitchen. Doris and Scotty were like little indoor tornadoes, producing leftover macaroni casserole, whiskey, milk, and homemade ginger snaps, even an old crib and baby blankets from the storeroom. Cal asked about Scotty’s sweetheart, a girl he’d said he was engaged to marry, which seemed to take him by surprise.
“Oh, that broke off,” Scotty said shortly, and Cal wondered if he’d forgotten over the years, or maybe, under the influence of the African sun, and the gin they used to drink on top of the old railway cars, Scotty had made the whole thing up.
Doris handed Betsy a pile of linens.
“Don’t you worry, dear, you’re almost there,” she said, apologizing for the cabin not being all set up, but they hadn’t known when to expect them. “You’re lucky to have such a beautiful family,” she crooned.
“We’re lucky you can take us in,” Betsy replied gratefully. “And that Mr. Sturgis came along and was nice enough to help.”
“People here are nice,” Doris agreed.
“I hope so,” Betsy said. “We left our worldly goods in the car.”
“Harrington’s road,” Randy Sturgis put in.
“Oh, don’t worry, stuff like that don’t happen here. Not like New York City,” Dutch said, smiling with big teeth. Despite his vigor, he looked worn down by outdoor work, with ruddy, veined cheeks and tired eyes beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows gone to gray.
“We’d better get the kids to bed,” said Cal.
“Come down in the morning,” Dutch said heartily. “After breakfast I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
The children, dead asleep, were carried through the heavy rain to the ranch truck, along with the crib, and Scotty drove half a mile over potholes and logs to a pitch-black maw that turned out to be the darkened shape of a stucco-sided log cabin. He said it was built by homesteaders in the 1890s.
The cabin had two rooms, including the kitchen, and a corrugated tin roof that magnified the snap of every raindrop like a drum. Raw, unpainted wallboard had been coarsely nailed in places to the logs. He flipped on a light and said, “Oh, hell!”
“What’s the matter?”
“They been in here again.”
Cal asked, “Who?”
“Local kids,” Scotty said dismissively, kicking cigarette butts and beer cans into the fireplace.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Betsy, pointing to the head of some poor animal on the floor, maybe a raccoon, with patches of fur stuck to the skull and a piece of spine sticking out.
“Probably a cat.”
Betsy watched, horrified, as he kicked it into the fireplace as well.
“A house cat could do that?”
“Cougars,” Scotty explained. “You better keep watch on the baby.”
Betsy sought Cal’s reassurance with a worried expression. Is that a joke? He shrugged.
“So the cougars and the hoodlums just kind of wander in and out?” Cal wondered, pleasantly enough.
Scotty didn’t answer, absorbed in pointing out the features of the cabin. There was cold running water and a privy out back. No phone, and a generator for electricity.
“You got your kindling already cut,” he said, indicating they could start a fire in the iron stove. “I’ll be back at six
a.m.,” he promised, adding generously, “You might as well sleep in.”
Cal used his last drop of energy to put up the crib. There were two cots with thin cotton mattresses on bare springs. They pushed them together, tore off their damp clothing, and climbed in with Jo for warmth. Cal fell asleep instantly, but Betsy’s eyes stayed wide, thinking about the raccoon head and where the rest of the body might turn up, alerted by the constant wind.
The wind was big and it was everywhere. She was afraid that it would shake the house, but the stucco and logs held firm. Sometimes the wind sounded like a distant train whistle, changing pitch as it tore across the grasslands. Sometimes it was very close and regular, like a big, breathing animal just outside the door.
3
Everything was golden, Jo thought, when she woke up in the Roys’ cabin the next day, even the walls, which were made of logs like her Lincoln Logs play set, only huge. There was a friendly little fire in the black stove, which Jo knew not to touch. Mommy and Lance were still asleep, but Daddy wasn’t there. She wondered where he’d gone, and if he was the one who’d made the fire, so they’d be warm while he was away. The sun was coming through the windows and Jo was glad the big rain was over. She remembered being trapped in the car when it wouldn’t go. She’d rubbed a clear spot on the glass so she could see the familiar shapes of her parents, her mother holding Lance like she always does, but they were blurry and far away, and she had been alone and cold in the car, telling stories to herself.
She felt small as an ant when Daddy wasn’t there. He was big and kind as a papa bear and always knew where they were going and how long it would take to get there. She ran a finger along the blanket that was covering her. It was made of squares. Inside every square there was a tiny Christmas tree. Jo slipped out from under the blanket very quietly because it wouldn’t be any fun if they woke up, there would be all kinds of “projects” her mother would make her do, but for now she could sneak all over the new house, playing her favorite floating game, where she had to fly like a fairy around the whole room by only stepping on the furniture. Her bare feet were not allowed to touch the floor—not even once—because there was a huge ocean of deep water down there.
She started out on the sofa, making sure to jump on every cushion. At the end of it she came to a flat wooden arm that made a natural step to the seat of a chair and then to the top of the kitchen table, which was made of silvery metal folded at the corners, like a package, and hammered in with nails.
It was exciting to be up there, like at the top of the monkey bars in the park. First of all, as Jo liked to say in her grown-up voice, like Daddy, “First of all,” it was right next to a window that had high curtains with bears walking on them, and she could touch the bears if she stood up on the table, because, first of all, no matter what you did, that table didn’t shake. It had a boat on it that was really a lamp, two pink pigs that were really salt and pepper shakers, but the most interesting thing was her mother’s black purse, which happened to be open—which it never was—a cave of hidden pockets as forbidden as the dangerous water that was rising quickly up the white legs of the table.
Spicy smells were coming out of the purse. Jo sat cross-legged on the table to examine it. Dollar bills were soft and had a special aroma like face powder. She knew they were kept in Mother’s wallet, but that would be at the bottom. She’d have to wiggle her fingers way down into the cave to get it and there might be snakes. Thinking about this made Jo hesitate, but the earthy scents kept drawing her closer, knowing that dollars meant toys, and if she had enough dollars she could have as many toys as she could want, and none for Lance. Then a frightening lady’s face was looking at her right through the tall window! Was the lady a giant? Jo was afraid the lady could see “exactly what you’ve been up to!” but she didn’t seem angry. The lady was motioning for Jo to come outside, so Jo climbed off the table.
The front door was easy to open. It didn’t have two locks like the door in the other house in New York City. Outside the wind was blowing everything, even her hair, but it wasn’t cold wind, it was hot. She put her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. All the way to the bright blue sky there was yellow grass that was blowing with a crackly sound. The lady came from around the back of the house. Now Jo could see why she was tall enough to look through the window. She was riding a real live horse! It was amazing to see an old woman wearing a cowgirl hat on a horse. The horse’s feet snapped sharply on the ground and its head went up and down, and then it stopped and stood perfectly still. It had large spots in two colors: brown and white.
Jo stared in wonder. The lady was very high up, as high as the roof. She was dressed in dungarees, and she was wearing gloves.
“Is your dad at home?”
Jo shook her head sadly. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Do you remember me?” the lady asked.
The child didn’t answer.
“I reckon you don’t. You were very tired.”
Jo was fascinated by the gloves. They had silver buttons and leather fringes, and Jo recognized right away that they were magical. They could make the horse fly, and the girl who wore them would have the power to ride that flying horse. In that way, Doris Roy and her deerskin riding gloves would become part of Jo Kusek’s earliest memories of South Dakota: the golden light; the queenly figure towering above, framed by an aura of sun, wearing a talisman that could give you powers, arousing in the child her first exotic, unnamable feelings of lust.
“My name’s Doris and I live in the main house down the road,” the lady said. “I bet I know your name.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Jo-Anne.”
“You’re wrong. It’s Jo.”
“Joe? Not Jo-Anne? Just Joe? I don’t believe it! That’s a boy’s name.”
“It’s my name, too,” the girl insisted, stamping her foot like the horse.
“Well, all right then, Miss Jo!” Doris Roy said with some amusement. “Where’s your mama?”
“In the house.”
“Run and get her.”
Jo turned and saw that her mother was already coming out the front door with Lance on her hip. Jo squinted up at the lady, expecting something bad to happen because there she was, alone and out of the house, but instead the lady offered to let Jo pet her horse.
“What’s his name?” Jo asked.
“His name is Pete. He’s part dog, likes to be scratched behind the ears.”
Jo stretched up. “I can’t reach.”
“Easy,” Doris told Pete.
The horse flicked his ears, relaxed and lowered his head almost to the ground. His eyes drooped when Jo found the sweet spot. She smoothed his wiry hair. He had bangs, like hers. And eyelashes. She stuck a finger in his nostril and he sneezed gooey green stuff all over her nightgown.
Doris said, “That means he likes you.”
Betsy had panicked when she couldn’t find Jo in the cabin, thrown on a robe, and raced outside. Now she was surprised to find Scotty’s mom sitting on a horse, all decked out in cowboy gear and, despite her small stature, looking dominating in the saddle. She wore a washed-out light green checkered shirt, and her white curls were neatly coiled beneath a huge black cowboy hat, while Betsy looked and felt like a mess, hair undone, brainless and exhausted from endless days of driving that had culminated with yesterday’s battle with the mud and rain.
“Doris!” Betsy managed. “Good morning! What are you doing out here?” she admonished Jo, not wanting to seem completely disorganized in the older woman’s eyes.
“It’s all right,” Doris said. “She’s saying hello to Pete.”
“Pete likes me,” Jo said, looking up at her mother with a bashful smile.
Doris said, “I take it my son Scotty ain’t here with your husband?”
“He was here earlier. They left to dig out the wagon.”
“That’ll be a job.” Doris tightened the reins and the horse woke up. “Never mind. I’ll go over to the Gibsons’.”
“There’s a cow stuck in a draw.”
Jo broke out in high-pitched giggles.
“What’s so funny?” asked her mother.
“A cow can’t fit in a drawer!”
Betsy and Doris both cracked up laughing.
“A cow is too big for a drawer,” Doris said. “But this is what we call a draw—”
“Like with crayons?”
The two women were howling and wiping their eyes.
“No,” Betsy managed, “it’s a place in the ground like a giant crack—”
“See that bunch of trees, way out there?” Doris chimed in. “That’s what we call a draw. You can’t tell from here, but it’s got water in the bottom of it because of the rain.”
“If you can’t see it, how do you know the cow got stuck?”
“Well,” said Doris, leaning forward on the saddle horn, “I was out checking fences and I heard her bawling. They do that, go down for a drink and can’t get back on their feet, just like some men I know,” she added with a wink.
“Will the cow be okay?”
“We’ll need a truck to pull her free. We could use Fred Gibson’s truck. He’ll be home—he’s got testicular cancer,” Doris explained matter-of-factly. “You want to see that cow get saved?” Doris asked.
“Me?” said Jo, pointing to herself.
“If you mind me, you can watch.”
“Can I, Mommy?”
Betsy tried to picture a cow being pulled out of mud by a truck and whether that was a safe place in this unknown territory for her little girl. She was so discombobulated that she found it hard to think.
“But we don’t have the car—” she began.
“She can ride with me over on Pete.”
Jo was staring at Betsy with a look of frozen excitement. “Can I?”
Lance was fussing, so Betsy put him down, then grabbed him up again before he could toddle off the porch.
“Do you want to go and watch?”
Jo nodded hesitantly, waiting for her mother’s reaction. For a moment, neither of them moved, equally immobilized by the lightning speed with which their lives were changing. Jo was old enough to know she had to wait until the light turned green and hold her mother’s hand on the street. To look through the peephole and say, “Who is it?” before opening the door, and to never let her baby brother touch an electric outlet; but what were the rules in the middle of nowhere?
