CHAPTER 19
The week before the Fourth, the picnic was all anyone in town could talk about. All the ladies except Josie were baking, sewing, knitting, or making decorations for the fund-raiser. Someone had even taken out an advertisement in the Fairplay Flume to invite the whole county to our grand event.
Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Sorensen met with Mother and together they approved the kissing booth, so long as Imogene and I only offered our cheeks and not our lips for kissing and bestowed kisses in the same manner. To decorate the kissing booth, Mrs. Sorensen gave us a sheet from the hotel’s supply, and Mrs. Engel gave us some scraps of red felt. Imogene cut out hearts and cupids from the scraps, and we stitched them onto the sheet. Mother gave me a pickle jar to put the nickels in. We planned to curl our hair and wear our prettiest dresses, although I wasn’t sure it would make a difference. Everyone at the picnic would have seen both of us a thousand times before, so looking fancy wasn’t going to make much difference in whether or not they’d be willing to pay a nickel for a kiss.
As we worked, Imogene talked about who we might get to kiss and imagined that handsome strangers would appear out of nowhere. Listening to her made my stomach knot up. It was bad enough thinking about kissing the boys I knew from school. The thought of kissing strangers was too much.
“Imogene, I don’t know if I can do this,” I said.
“Don’t be a scaredy-cat. We’ve got to see it through now. It’s for the war effort. We’ve all got to do our part.”
When we weren’t working on the kissing booth, we were admiring the fine hat for the raffle, on display in the window of Mrs. Engel’s millinery and yard-goods shop. All the ladies agreed it was the most elegant hat they had ever seen, and raffle tickets were selling at a brisk pace. Imogene herself had already bought ten tickets, and insisted she had to win it, since it matched her Sunday dress.
The day before the picnic, a filthy, bearded miner stepped into the café while we were eating our lunch. At first I didn’t recognize him through the grime and the whiskers, but Mother leapt to her feet and rushed into his embrace at once. Father had come home for the big event!
We hugged and laughed and hugged again. Then he sat down and ate every single sandwich on the tray as he told us all about his work. Things were going well up at the Lucky Fork, and they expected to make good money when they brought their zinc ore down in the autumn. He figured he could stay on until August if we could spare him here in the café. Mother assured him we could. I agreed. I wanted my father to come home, but if mother was brave enough to be without him for the summer, I could be too.
After lunch he took a long bath, and by supper time he looked like my father once again, clean and shaved, his mustache neatly trimmed.
“I have to look respectable for the picnic tomorrow,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass my family.”
I didn’t want to either. But what if no one wanted to kiss me? Or what if fellas lined up to kiss me and I couldn’t see it through? I’d never kissed anyone before except my parents. Did you kiss a boy the same way you kissed your parents, or was there something more to it? I figured if fellas paid a nickel, they would be expecting a good kiss. I should have thought to ask someone sooner, but I didn’t know who to ask.
And then there was George. He’d be picking me up in the morning to take me to the picnic. That afternoon I had fried chicken and packed a basket for me and George. My dress was washed and ironed, but I still worried that I wasn’t prepared. After supper, Mother washed my hair and rolled it up with rags so it would curl. I went to bed shortly after, but between my nervous stomach and the bumpy rag curls all over my head, I did not sleep well.
The morning of the Fourth dawned clear and bright. Mr. Johnson had every horse from the livery hitched to a wagon or a buggy, and folks were loading up tables and chairs, baked goods, picnic baskets, fiddles and guitars, and anything else needed for a day in Larsen’s Meadow. For once, Willie had to work, loading tables and chairs from the café, while I did not. Mother said there was no point spoiling my curls or my dress doing hard work when there were men at hand to do it.
When the rags were all untied from my hair, I did not look like an elegant lady or a Gibson girl. I looked like I had a squirrel’s nest on my head. At least that’s what Willie said before he burst out laughing.
Mother shooed him away. She gathered up the hair around my face and pinned it back. Then she attached an enormous pink bow to the back of my head. It stood out on either side like wings, or elephant ears.
She helped me into my best clothes, a pale pink dress with a crisp white pinafore. When we were finished, I felt more like I was going to church than to a picnic. I thought, with a bit of regret, about past summer picnics, when Imogene, Willie, and I had thrown off our socks and shoes and splashed in the creek, or held melon-seed-spitting contests, the juice running down our chins onto our clothes. This year was different. This year, I was going with a boy, and I would have to be a lady.
Soon, George arrived to escort me. He was even more charming than usual, if that was possible. His wavy blond hair was combed smooth and shone with sunshine, even when he stepped out of the sun. In his fine suit, he could have passed for a city boy. He stunned me with his smile as he greeted me. I retrieved my picnic basket and we set out together, my arm through his, like a duke and duchess stepping out on promenade.
The meadow was already filling when we arrived. Along its southern edge, children were dabbling in the creek. On the north side, a barbed-wire fence divided the meadow from the Larsens’ south pasture. In front of the fence line, tables had been set up and were arranged with baked goods, knitted items, canned pickles and jams, and at the end, our kissing booth table, decorated with its red hearts and cupids. I wouldn’t have to go to the booth until after we ate lunch, so I tried to ignore it and give George my full attention.
People were already spreading their blankets in the best spots in the meadow. George picked a spot for us right in the middle, where everyone could see us. There was no shade here, but I didn’t mind. Besides, puffy white clouds were building over the peaks to the west and would likely keep the afternoon from growing too hot.
Soon, the whole meadow was filled with a patchwork of picnic blankets, laughing children running carelessly between them and being scolded by mothers and young lovers alike. Mother and Father spread out their picnic not far from us. I knew they were keeping an eye on my first outing with a boy, which made me a little nervous, but a little relieved, too.
Imogene and Willie arrived soon after and spread their blanket next to ours. Imogene looked gorgeous, her long blond hair falling in perfect ringlets around her shoulders. She had the porcelain complexion of her Swedish ancestors, and the sun and fresh air were brightening her eyes and the roses in her cheeks. The four of us made a merry party, talking and laughing and sharing our food.
While most everyone was eating their lunches, Mrs. Crawford was strolling regally through the meadow, reminding us all of the many ways to support the war effort and urging everyone to be generous.
“Good afternoon, girls. I hope you’ll raise a good sum for the Liberty Bond drive,” she said when she reached us.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure we will,” Imogene replied with her usual sunny smile.
Mrs. Crawford glanced at me. “You aren’t eating onions or garlic, I trust.”
“No, ma’am,” I said.
Mrs. Crawford gave Imogene a smile and made her way on through the crowd to the blanket my parents shared. Her surprise at seeing my father was loud enough for us to hear from where we sat several blankets away.
“Why, Mr. Barnell! How lovely that you could make it down to be with your family for the holiday picnic!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. It’s good to be here,” Father said politely.
“And will you be staying for a time now?”
“I’m afraid not. We have to make hay while the sun shines, as they say.”
“A pity,” Mrs. Craw
ford said primly. “I don’t wish to concern you, Mr. Barnell, but I worry about the upbringing of children without a father’s guidance.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Crawford. Maggie has everything well in hand,” Father said, patting Mother’s knee. “Besides, it’s only for the summer months. I’m sure they won’t turn into wolves in that amount of time.”
Willie snarled, wolflike, at Imogene, who giggled and gave him a playful shove. Mrs. Crawford’s back stiffened.
“You may make light of it, Mr. Barnell, but as your neighbor, I feel duty bound to tell you that your daughter has been associating with Josie Gilbert in your absence. If she was my child, I’d put a stop to it!”
My father leaned forward and made a quiet response to Mrs. Crawford. I couldn’t hear what he said, but she strode away, her jaw set and her eyes narrowed.
Around us, people who had heard the exchange were glancing in my direction. I looked at George, hoping he’d say something in my defense. He was pretending not to have heard as he gnawed on a drumstick. I pretended too as we sat in uncomfortable silence. I couldn’t help remembering how comfortable I had felt with Frank as we picnicked at Buckskin Joe, and I wished today was more like that. I wondered what Frank was doing right now. Did they have Fourth of July picnics in Denver? Had he received my letter?
“Oh no, not her again,” George said. I looked up to see what he was talking about. Across the meadow someone else was moving from blanket to blanket. Josie Gilbert, flanked by two well-dressed ladies, each wearing a purple-and-green ribbon across her chest, from shoulder to waist. The ribbons read NATIONAL WOMEN’S PARTY, and each woman carried an armful of leaflets.
They were moving our way. I stood up quickly. “Let’s take a walk before I have to run the kissing booth,” I suggested to George. He agreed and got to his feet. I grabbed his hand and started off in the opposite direction from Josie and her friends.
“Looks like we might get some rain this afternoon,” George remarked, glancing skyward as we walked. The clouds had continued to grow and darken over the western peaks, and a curtain of rain could be seen on the summit of Mount Silverheels.
“It wouldn’t be the first time we got a sprinkle or two at the Fourth of July picnic,” I said. I had even heard that some young couples hoped for rain, so they could huddle together under their blankets, but I didn’t mention that to George.
When we were nearly to the creek, someone called my name. Mrs. Nelson was picnicking with some of the old-timers and was waving at me.
“I was so delighted to get your letter, my dear,” she said kindly. “Pardon me for not writing back, but when I saw there was to be this lovely picnic, I decided it was time I came in person and saw all my old friends in Como. And I’ve brought something for you too.”
She reached into her picnic basket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a dishcloth. As she unwrapped it, I could see it was an old tintype photograph, its image hazy and faded with age. She held it out to me. I took it and examined it carefully. Two rows of school children posed in front of a two-story building, the smallest children seated in the front and the older ones standing behind them. In the back left corner stood a woman, undoubtedly the school teacher, holding the littlest child on her hip. Many of the children in the front row were blurred, as was the face of the woman and the child she held.
“This looks old,” George said, looking over my shoulder.
“It was taken in the 1870s,” Mae said. “It’s my mother’s school picture. Back then the little ones couldn’t hold still long enough for those old cameras, so you can’t see most of their faces.”
I looked closely at the building in the background. “It’s the dance hall at Buckskin Joe!”
“It sure is,” Mrs. Nelson said. “They used it as a school in the daytime, since Buckskin Joe never had a proper schoolhouse.”
Mrs. Nelson pointed to a round-faced girl, about nine or ten yours old in the second row. “That’s my mother, Eliza Carlisle. And this is Tom Lee, who I told you about.” She moved her finger to the boy next to Eliza. While everyone else in the photo was looking toward the camera, his head was turned a little toward the girl on his right. She was by far the prettiest girl in the photo, her sweet face framed by a cascade of blond ringlets.
“Tom’s people are buried up at Buckskin Joe. And this here is Joseph Richards, and I believe his son’s still in Park County. I can’t think of anyone named Wilson, though. Are you still trying to find out about Buck Wilson?”
I said I was, and she shook her head. “I’m afraid no one around here knows a thing about him. But if you want to borrow this photo, it might jog some memories. I have a few others from Buckskin Joe days too. Come back by the house another time and we can look through them.”
A cloud moved over the sun and a gust of cool air made everyone around us look up.
“Put it somewhere safe. It looks like we might get rain,” Mrs. Nelson said.
I assured her I would and thanked her before heading to our blanket. A second gust of wind hit as we walked back across the meadow, blowing men’s hats off their heads and kicking dust into people’s potato salad.
“Yep, it’s going to rain for sure,” I said, hoping to distract George so he wouldn’t ask about my interest in the photo and Buck Wilson.
“Don’t worry. A little rain won’t hurt us,” George replied.
By the time we got back to the blankets, Imogene had already gone to prepare the kissing booth. I carefully stowed the photograph in the bottom of my picnic basket and went to help her.
At our table, the decorated sheet was flapping in the growing breeze. Imogene was trying to hold it down, but it kept puffing up, tipping over the money jar. I borrowed some bits of yarn from the ladies at the knitting table and used them to tie the ends of the sheet to the table legs. Then I nervously sat down in the chair next to Imogene and steeled myself for the ordeal ahead.
All along the row of tables ladies were stationing themselves to sell their baked goods and craft items. Mrs. Engel’s fine hat was proudly on display next to a jar that was nearly full of raffle tickets. People were already browsing along the tables, seeing what they might buy.
At once, a line began to form in front of Imogene, with Willie at the front. I watched as he dropped a nickel in the jar, then leaned across the table and kissed my best friend square on the lips. I was scandalized, but neither of them looked a bit embarrassed. In fact, they both looked like they enjoyed it very much. It was a long kiss, and when they finished, Willie looped his thumbs through his suspender straps and swaggered to the back of the line, a big grin on his face.
I watched two more boys kiss Imogene. She made them kiss her cheek, much to their disappointment. Then someone in front of me cleared his throat. Nervously, I turned my eyes to my own line. My father smiled down at me. He dropped a dime in the jar.
“I believe that’s enough for a hug and a kiss from my little girl, isn’t it?” He leaned forward and kissed me, then gathered me into his strong, secure embrace. “I sure am proud of you, Pearl, and everything you are doing this summer,” he said. “You’re a big help to your mother.”
I squeezed him back in gratitude. Finally he let me go and smiled. “Now, I have to go see about winning that hat for your mother.”
I said good-bye to him and turned to look at the next person in my line. Unlike Imogene, though, whose line consisted of most of the boys a girl might look forward to kissing, the only boy of that sort in my line was George, and in front of him was an odd assortment. All the old-timers from the café stood at the front of the line, their hats and nickels in their hands. Behind them were the Larsen brothers, three farm boys who hadn’t done much washing up before coming to the picnic. One of them, to my horror, had a thick wad of chaw bulging out his lower lip. As I looked, he spit a pencil-thin stream of juice onto the ground. My lunch churned in my stomach, threatening to come up.
I swallowed and smiled weakly up at Russell.
He dropped his nickel in
the jar. “We couldn’t stay away when we heard our favorite little waitress would be here,” he said. Then he bent over the table and gave me a grandfatherly peck on the cheek. Harry, Orv, and Tom each followed suit. The tobacco-chewing Larsen boy was stepping up to the table when a huge gust of wind hit, bearing with it the first drops of rain. The wind billowed the sheet that I had tied to the table legs. Imogene and I leapt out of the way just as it pulled the table over. The pickle jar hit my chair and shattered, sending a spray of broken glass and nickels everywhere. A second mighty gust ripped the sheet from the table legs and sent it flapping and fluttering into the barbed-wire fence. In the chaos, I was vaguely aware of other tables tipping, and knitted socks and mittens sailing away. Then the rain burst upon us in an icy, wind-driven fury.
Across the meadow people shrieked and cursed as they scrambled after their belongings and ran for the shelter of the trees or their buggies. Other folks pulled their blankets over their heads like tents. I ran after the sheet, which whipped and snapped, trying to break free of the barbed wire. I was soaked to the skin, struggling to get it loose. Then George was there, saving me. He yanked the sheet from the fence and held it up to shield us from the worst of the rain—and from the eyes of the crowd in the meadow.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling up into his perfect face.
“You’re welcome.” Then he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me tight against him, and kissed me.
CHAPTER 20
My first real kiss. I had daydreamed about it for years while reading dime novels and penny dreadfuls. The moment had been exactly what it should be—I was a damsel in distress, and the young handsome hero had rescued me, taken me in his strong arms, and kissed me. Exactly the moment I had desired all my life.
Searching for Silverheels Page 13
