by Keli Gwyn
“There are several things we’re collecting. Used kitchen grease. Peach pits. Rubber. Scrap metal. Yarn.” The paper fluttered as she spread her arms wide. “There are dozens of drives we might put on. In addition, we’ll be collecting funds door-to-door, including encouraging folks to buy more war bonds, and we’ll have several knitting bees to make socks. I believe Trudy Rivers has a new knitting machine we can use.”
Mr. Gibson stepped forward again. “I challenge you each to sign the pledge sheets. Put your name down and how much you think you can raise for the war effort. Be sure to include in your sum the amount you yourself will be contributing. Every bit helps.”
Conversations buzzed, the excitement still high in the room. All around Meghan, folks chattered, passing the sign-up lists and jotting their names down. But none of the activities seemed big enough or grand enough to match the zeal in Meghan’s heart. Each time she glanced at that poster, now hanging from the front of the podium, each time she thought of those stories Mr. Gibson had told and imagined the bravery with which those soldiers were fighting, she wanted to do something substantial and tangible to help them.
She left Natalie dithering between signing up to roll bandages or to collect peach pits to be used in the making of gas masks and sought out Mr. Gibson. She had to wait for her turn as he was surrounded by eager faces.
“What they really need there on the front are more ambulances. A single ambulance can be the saving of dozens of lives. If only the cost wasn’t so steep. One thousand dollars to purchase and ship an ambulance from the US to France. Most groups of this size, communities of this size, aren’t up to committing that kind of money.” He tucked his thumbs behind his suspenders and bounced on his toes. “Still, if we pool together a lot of little efforts, I’m sure it will make a difference.”
“A thousand dollars?” One girl’s jaw dropped. “We’d have to collect dimes from now until forever to come up with that kind of money. Especially as we’ll be asking folks for bandaging materials, yarn, grease, iron, rubber, and about anything else that isn’t nailed down. We’ve already been through rationing and buying war bonds. I don’t think the folks of Needles could raise that kind of money.”
Meghan stepped forward. “I’ll raise the thousand dollars.”
Conversations slowed. Mr. Gibson’s eyebrows arched, and he plunked down off his toes, landing hard on his heels.
“Young lady, I admire your spunk, but perhaps you should attempt a more modest monetary goal.”
Nothing less would do. One thousand dollars, one ambulance. “I can do it.” The hot coals of zeal burned bright in her chest. No sum was too big, no obstacle too immense. She could and would get an ambulance to France. She would prove her courage and her value. And no one, not Mrs. Gregory or her father, or anyone would be able to deny what she had accomplished.
She stepped up to the pledge sheet and boldly wrote her name with a flourish. Beside it, she wrote the sum: One Thousand.
“A lofty goal, Miss Thorson.” Mrs. Gregory’s voice pricked like a pin. “I hope you have a plan for raising such a significant amount of money in only a few months. The Red Cross takes these lists very seriously. They plan ahead based upon the pledges made by citizens. I’d hate for them to fall short because you bit off more than you could chew.”
Meghan’s glance flicked to the paper and a splash of uncertainty damped a bit of her enthusiasm. Then the crowd parted a bit and her gaze fell on the poster: If I FAIL, HE DIES.
And she mustn’t fail. Not for his sake, nor for her own.
Now if only she had a plan.
Chapter 5
A week later Meghan felt like she was the only one not contributing to the war effort. Every idea she had failed to stand up under much scrutiny or was already being done by someone else. She considered the calendar on the bedroom wall.
“Mr. Gibson said he will return October 15th, and between now and then, I’ve got to come up with a way to raise one thousand dollars.” She tapped her front teeth with her fingernail, racking her brain.
Natalie finished pinning up her hair. “I wish you hadn’t made such a pledge. If you’d shown more sense, not let yourself get caught up in the fever in that room, you wouldn’t be worrying so much now. You’re spending every waking minute trying to come up with a way to raise the money, and it’s affecting your work, your appetite, even your sleep. You tossed and turned for hours last night.”
The thousand dollars had consumed her. To fail would be not only to humiliate herself in front of Mrs. Gregory, but to let down her brother and men like him. Men such as she served every day on their way to war. How could she do that to them? Not to mention what Papa would say about what he would call another one of her harebrained schemes.
She couldn’t fail. She’d have to come up with a way, and that was that.
“Are you ready?”
After three weeks of steady work, Meghan and Natalie had finally earned a half day off. With the arrival of two more new girls, Mrs. Gregory had enough staff to allow them their one afternoon off each week, and Meghan could hardly wait to get out of the hotel and explore the town.
Only she wished their half day was in the morning when it was still marginally cool, but they were low in the pecking order and their days off were assigned accordingly. She took a deep breath that seemed to bake her lungs in her chest. The afternoon sun roasted everything in sight. Only the palm trees seemed indifferent to the swelter.
They passed through the front doors of the hotel and crossed into Santa Fe Park. Though it had been created ten years before when the new hotel had been erected, the trees looked small, stunted, and brittle. Nothing like the lush, greenness of Minnesota. Her eyes longed to see a blue spruce or red maple. The ground crunched under their shoes, parched and hard as terracotta tiles.
“Where should we go?”
“Jenny said Claypool’s is the best store.”
They meandered slowly. As they walked along the wide street, railroad track after railroad track stretched by on their left, shimmering in the heat. A hot wind blew against their faces, and Meghan scanned the eastern landscape.
“There’s the river. Jenny said sometimes the girls take a trip out there to swim. Wouldn’t that feel nice, to sink into the water? There’s not a soul out here on the street right now.”
“And there’s the sign for Claypool’s.” Natalie fanned herself with her handkerchief. “Nobody is silly enough to be walking around in this heat. We should’ve stayed at the hotel and taken a nap.”
“I don’t care how hot it is. I’m tired of the hotel. It feels good to get outside for a change. Back home, unless it was a blizzard, I never stayed indoors.”
“I could use a blizzard right now.” Natalie dabbed at her throat and temples, her brows coming together. “It’s unbearable out here.”
“I tell you what, as a reward for coming out with me, we’ll stop and get some ice cream at the drugstore on the way home.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, though we could’ve gotten ice cream at the soda fountain in the hotel.”
Meghan frowned a little, but let Natalie’s comment slide. The heat made everyone a touch irritable, even the normally even-keeled Natalie.
They stepped into Claypool’s, and once out of the sunshine, the temperature dropped to almost tolerable.
“Afternoon.” The clerk barely looked up from his newspaper.
The store stocked everything from groceries to clothing items on two floors. Ceiling fans stirred sluggish air, and the place looked dead. Meghan began to wonder if Natalie wasn’t right, that they should’ve stayed at the hotel. Still, they were here. They might as well look around. She just might find some inspiration for her Red Cross pledge idea.
Nothing caught her eye. Housewares she skipped by quickly, in no mood to look at coffeepots or gravy boats. She saw too many of those every day. The book department slowed her down some as she ran her fingers along the spines. Not much time to read right now and less when she figur
ed out what her Red Cross project would be and got it into full swing.
“Help you with anything?” The clerk scratched his ribs and yawned. “You from the hotel?”
“Yes. We’re Harvey Girls.”
“Figured. Seen enough of them. They having a social up there this Friday? Been awhile since they had one.”
“I believe Mrs. Gregory is planning something, not for this Friday but for next. A Dime-A-Dance to raise money for the local Red Cross chapter.”
“Good. Always like those Harvey socials. I’ll bring the wife. She’ll enjoy it.”
Natalie stopped to study a bin of yarn balls, and Meghan found herself in the fabric and notions section of the store. Bolts of cotton, muslin, denim, and twill, patterned, striped, plaid, and plain. She missed her sewing machine at home. Working the treadle, feeding pieces of cloth through, turning bits into a finished garment or quilt.
Her hand stilled on a bolt of bright red cloth. A single thread of an idea wisped through her mind. She grasped it and tugged gently. Sewing. Maybe she could use her love of sewing.
Suddenly, full-blown, the idea surged into her head.
“I’ve got it!”
Natalie dropped a skein of yarn, and the sales clerk jerked.
“I’ve got it.” She grabbed Natalie’s hands and swung them. “Why didn’t I think of it before? I’m going to make a quilt. A signature quilt. I’ll sell space on the blocks for folks to have their signatures embroidered, and I’ll sell advertising space to the businesses in town, and when it’s done, I’ll raffle it off.” She hugged Natalie, who stood like a wax doll, blinking her long lashes.
Stirring herself, Natalie’s brow wrinkled. “A quilt? Are you sure? That’s an awfully big project to take on. Not just the sewing but the embroidering and the selling of names? And how are you going to afford the fabric and such? Or find a sewing machine? You’ll be so tired.”
The idea had taken such a hold in Meghan’s mind, she didn’t want to hear anything dampening. For the first time in a week, she felt like she could breathe freely.
“As my grandma is fond of saying, ‘No one ever died of tired.’ I’ll figure it out.” She turned to the clerk. “Do you have a piece of paper I could use? I need to do some figuring.”
The man produced a scrap of brown store paper and a stubby pencil, and Meghan went to work.
“The women in my mama’s auxiliary at home in Mantorville made a quilt like this last year. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. A white quilt with red crosses and red names embroidered in the corners of the squares. They had four names per square, and fifty-six squares. Plus some room on the end of each row for a business name or a big donor…” The pencil scratched as she slashed out a sketch of the quilt as a whole, a single quilt block, and some rough estimates of cloth, batting, and thread. “I would need at least two hundred twenty-four names to fill the blocks, and with seven staggered rows of eight squares each, that leaves seven half-blocks on alternating ends to be filled with company names.”
“Meghan, please, think about this before you jump in boots and all.” Natalie tugged on Meghan’s sleeve. “I’m sure it isn’t too late for you to amend your pledge to something more manageable. You could knit socks with me. Just stop and think, please?”
She looked up from her scribbling, her mind racing so fast she had to concentrate on what Natalie said. “I’ve done nothing but think about this for the past week. I made the pledge, and it is up to me to see it through. I’ve been quilting since I was a little girl. Just imagine. In a few months, I’ll have a whole thousand dollars to turn over to Mr. Gibson, and he can buy an ambulance to help our wounded soldiers. I don’t care how hard I have to work. The end result will be worth it.”
“What if you don’t raise enough money?”
“I will. I have to.” She turned back to her paper. “If I get two dollars for every signature, plus maybe ten dollars to have a business name on the quilt…” More scratching. “Then I can raffle the quilt or auction it off. Didn’t Mrs. Gregory say something about having an auction on the night Mr. Gibson comes back?” A glow burned in her chest. This would work. She could do it. She just needed to get started.
“Where are you going to get the money for the fabric and such?” Natalie crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
Meghan narrowed her eyes and her thoughts raced. The idea was so big, so perfect, she couldn’t wait to get started, and it bothered her that Natalie wasn’t as excited as she about it. Instead of joining in her enthusiasm, Natalie insisted on pointing out all the roadblocks. Meghan turned to the clerk. “Do you own this fine establishment?”
He chuckled and scratched his ribs. “No, ma’am. You want to talk to William Claypool.”
“And where would I find him?”
“Back there in the office.” He pointed them to the rear of the store.
Twenty minutes later, Meghan clutched a scrip for fabric and thread as well as a ten-dollar donation to get Claypool’s name embroidered in one of the half-blocks on the quilt. She put a superior little skip into her step as she showed Natalie the paper and the cash.
“He was most kind.”
“You got him to donate the fabric and some money? How?” Natalie’s eyes narrowed. Her hand went to her hip, and a schoolmarmish pucker drew in her mouth.
“You act like I robbed the man. I simply told him what I wanted; explained how, as a leading citizen of Needles, I was sure he would want to be at the forefront of any civic cause; and he did the rest.”
She would not mention her nervous stumbling, how she’d invoked the name of the Red Cross several times, and—her conscience gave a little shiver—pandered just a wee bit to the man’s pride. Flattery often got you what plain speaking couldn’t.
“Miss Thorson.” Mr. Claypool stuck his head out of the office doorway. “Thank you for your patronage. I look forward to seeing the end result. Mr. Weeks, be sure you give them just what they ask for.”
The clerk snapped to attention like he’d been poked in the ribs. “Yes, sir.”
He unrolled bolts of cloth onto the cutting table and with an enormous pair of shears, snipped off lengths of white and red fabric. Natalie found skeins of embroidery thread to match, and Meghan selected a suitable length of fiber batting.
“I’ll have these delivered to the hotel for you.” Mr. Weeks tucked his pencil behind his ear after totting up the total.
“Thank you.” Meghan hesitated at the door. No time like the present to get started. “By the way, would you like to make a two-dollar donation and have your name on the quilt? I’m sure, as someone so familiar in the community, you would want be an example for your friends and neighbors.” She smiled. This was exactly the phrase she’d used on Mr. Claypool. “I imagine folks around here would notice if a name as prominent as yours didn’t appear on the quilt.”
His hand was already diving into his pocket. “Best put my name and my wife’s on there, too. She’d be put out if she got left off.”
Meghan and Natalie headed to the drugstore, and Meghan couldn’t help but put her chin in the air a bit. “Fourteen dollars and free materials.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Only nine hundred eighty-six dollars and one whole quilt to piece, embroider, and auction off left to go.”
Caleb handed Joshua the metal bucket and length of pipe. The bucket had a rusted out hole in it anyway and couldn’t be any less useful. It would do for what he had in mind.
“When I give you the signal, you go to whacking on it.”
“Why? You’ve got that horse eating out of your hand. He’s perfectly trained and bridle-wise. We’ve done nothing but school horses for the past month, and each one is as gentle as a lamb. Why upset them?” Joshua set his jaw, an expression Caleb was all too familiar with. Nothing seemed to happen on this place without an argument from his hired man. No, not quite a man, or he’d quit arguing all the time and do what his boss said. He was a hard worker, Caleb would grant him that, it was just that he expec
ted to be informed of the reason behind every chore before he’d stir a step.
“You’re a smart lad. I’ll leave you to work it out.” He headed toward his mount. Grit filtered through the seam in his boot, working its way through his sock and abrading his skin. Those new boots couldn’t come soon enough. Sunshine baked everything around him, whitening the sky and making him squint, even under the broad brim of his hat.
The bay stood quietly in the morning sunshine, one hind leg tucked up, resting. A level-headed, hardworking, honest mount, typical of the animals sent to him by the US Cavalry’s horse buyer for the Southwest. Major Alexander had a good eye for horses and a firsthand knowledge of what was needed in a military mount.
Caleb gathered the reins and jumped, landing on his stomach across the saddle and scrambling upright. Once mounted, he slipped his right foot easily into the stirrup, but he had to guide his left leg into position. He couldn’t mount any other way, not with his bum foot. The maneuver might not be pretty, but it was effective. Settling aboard, he couldn’t help but miss the deep seat on his favorite saddle. This flat, cavalry saddle was what the officers at Fort Riley and overseas would be using, so he trained with it, but he didn’t like it as well. Being forced to put more weight on his left leg than he otherwise would caused the muscles to radiate weakness, but he gritted his teeth, balanced himself, and gripped with his knees.
Shaking up the reins, he put the horse into a slow walk, then trot, then canter, circling the big corral. When the horse had fallen into a rhythm, he lifted his hand to signal Joshua. As the horse approached the boy, Joshua did justice to his job and banged the bucket with vigor almost under the animal’s nose.
The horse jerked his head up and bolted, skidding sideways and seeking to escape the cacophony. He added a few bucks, just for good measure. Caleb hung on to the swerving animal, keeping a tight rein and finally, on the far side of the corral, bringing him back under control. He let the horse stand for a moment, trembling and sweating. With soft words and a few pats on the neck, Caleb soothed his mount.
