Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  “Mattie! Chase!” I called again. They probably hadn’t seen me, hunkered over in the field. Then I saw three other figures behind them. It didn’t look like a happy situation.

  “Children!” I hollered. I hitched up my skirts and cut a diagonal to meet up with them. It took some effort on my part; their legs were short but determined.

  Panting, I crested the cutbank. I found myself smack between Chase and Mattie and the three rough-and-tumble boys chasing them. “Ow!” I hollered as a stone clipped my shoulder. “What is going on here?”

  The trio stopped in their tracks, arms cocked back, hands loaded with rocks. No one answered me.

  I rubbed my shoulder where I’d been hit. My presence evened up the sides; I could tell they were thinking that over.

  “Young man.” I addressed myself to the tallest of the three. He seemed to be the ringleader. “I asked what’s going on here.”

  He just glowered at me. And held his ground.

  I slowly bent down and picked up the rock that had struck me. The other two boys lowered their arms.

  “We’re just having a game,” the leader said.

  “Throwing rocks at people isn’t a game.” I took a step closer to Chase and Mattie. “It’s cowardly.” I’d hit a bull’s-eye with that remark. The taller boy took a step forward. I squared my shoulders.

  “Where do you boys live?” I rolled the stone in my hand like a die in a game of chance.

  No answer.

  There was something familiar in the taller boy’s face. “You wouldn’t be a Martin, would you?”

  “Don’t have to answer to you.”

  “No. But I’m sure your mama will want to know I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance,” I said. “When I see her at church on Sunday.”

  “Why do you care?” he asked, though in a somewhat deflated tone. “You a Hun-lover, too?”

  It was painful to hear childish voices using such names and labels. “I am a friend to these children.” I tossed the rock up and down in my hand. It was clear my conversation was not making much of an impression on him. Time to change tactics.

  I looked for something to aim at. A wild plum tree yonder made a fine target. I let loose. The stone hit the tree trunk with a satisfying smack.

  “I gotta get home.” One of the smaller boys took a shuffling step backward. “Pa’ll skin me if I’m late for milking.” He and his buddy emptied their hands. “C’mon, Lon,” they urged.

  Lon gave me one last defiant look. “Hun-lover,” he spat.

  I held his gaze. “So you say.” I bent to pick up another stone. All three boys made elaborately casual turns, then loped back down the cutbank and out of sight.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  Chase shook his head. He began to march away.

  “They took Karl’s book,” Mattie said. Her soft gray eyes wore an expression so sad, it cut me.

  “Chase!” I ran a few steps, snagged his wiry arm, and turned him toward me. “Oh!” A smear of dried blood traced his cheekbone, and a small moist trickle leaked out of his nose. His face wore raw red marks, and a shiner threatened his right eye. “Here.” I dabbed at him with an apron corner held in trembling hands. He stood it for a moment, then jerked away.

  “I’m never going back there,” he said through clenched teeth. “Mama can’t make me.” He swiped at his nose again, forcing another streak of red across his face.

  “At least come to the house and clean up.” I hated for Perilee to see him like this.

  He hesitated. “All right.”

  I dragged the story out of him on the walk down the bank. Mattie, with help from Mulie, filled in details Chase overlooked.

  “It belonged to Karl’s mother,” said Chase as we climbed the steps to my front door. “Old fairy tales.”

  “And Lon threw it—” Mattie held her own nose and covered her doll’s. “In the necessary.”

  I ladled warm water from the reservoir on the stove into an enamelware bowl, soaked a rag, wrung it out, and handed it to Chase. He gently dabbed at his face.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They said it’s against the law to have German books.” Chase’s answer was so quiet I nearly didn’t hear.

  I took the rag from him and rinsed it out again; the water was sunset pink. “What did your teacher say?”

  Chase shook his head.

  Mattie shook Mulie at me. “Mulie’s mad at Chase for not telling.”

  “You didn’t tell Mr. Nelson?”

  Chase winced as I daubed ointment on his raw cheek. “I can handle Lon.”

  I stopped doctoring and studied his face. “I can see that.”

  “It’s not funny.” He jerked away.

  My hands dropped to my lap. “You are right. I was trying to make light, and this is not something to make light of.”

  “Mulie says those biscuits smell good,” said Mattie. At this hint, I served them up, wrapping a few in a napkin for them to take home.

  “It’ll be all right.” I patted Chase’s shoulder as they took their leave. “They won’t bother you anymore. And if they do, you tell Mr. Nelson.”

  “Won’t need to.” Chase grabbed Mattie’s hand and tugged her forward. “’Cause I’m not going anymore.”

  I watched them climb the cutbank hill and trudge toward home. The words I’d intended to write to Uncle Holt came back to me. I inhaled deeply, but the air didn’t seem as sweet or hopeful. Some new odor was wafting on the breeze. One that caused my throat to catch and heart to ache. Was this what mistrust and fear smelled like?

  I bent to pick up my work gloves. Whatever the ways of the world, there were still rocks to pick in my field. I got back to it.

  CHAPTER 9

  March 30, 1918

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Uncle Holt,

  Aunt Ivy can cease in her praying for my soul. I am going to attend my first church services here in Vida tomorrow, Easter Sunday. And it should please her all the more that I am staying after for the Ladies’ Knitting Circle. As for actually knitting—my spirit is willing, but my fingers don’t seem to cooperate. I can wind balls of yarn, at least.

  Traft Martin, a neighbor, asked to take me to church, but I declined. He runs his family ranch, one of the largest around. He’s nice-looking and has twice stopped to help me pick rocks in my field. That’s enough to commend even the biggest sinner. But my heart is already promised—to this 320 acres of mine. Perhaps after November, after I prove up, I can think about beaus.

  I finished Campbell’s 1907 Soil Culture Manual and am now reading some of Rooster Jim’s poultry journals so I can be ready for my chickens when I get them. Quite a change of reading from my usual fare. It’s only been three months and I already look the part of farmer in overalls and clodhoppers. Soon I’ll be fluent in farmer as well.

  The Saturday before Easter, I cleaned. First, I did up my breakfast things, then scrubbed the plank floor. I used the floor water to wash down the front steps and threw the last of it on the seeds I’d planted in coffee tins by the door. I smiled to think of the sunflowers bursting forth from those cans come August. After a long day of inside work and a supper of lima beans and ham, I lugged the washtub from the barn and slowly filled it, kettle by kettle, from the warm water reservoir on the stove. After my Saturday night bath, I set my hair on rag rollers. This was the first time I’d gone to such bother since leaving Iowa. But I’d decided that Easter was a good time for such primping.

  Plug was quite the gentleman as we picked our way around patches of mucky gumbo the next morning. I carried a basket filled with two Mason jars of Uncle Chester’s canned wild plums to share at the after-service dinner. The ride to town was pleasant and quiet. It would’ve been pleasanter with a friend, but when I’d asked Perilee to attend with me, she shook her head. “It’s been so long,” she’d said.

  “No time like the present to start up again.” It would’ve been a comfort to have company. “And there’s
Sunday school for the children.”

  But she was resolute and most mysterious about her reasons for turning me down. So I plodded to town alone.

  Now, as I drew closer, the faint strains of organ music caught my ears. A wave of longing swept over me; I hadn’t heard that hymn since Charlie’s last Sunday at church.

  “Hello, hello!” A young woman greeted me and introduced herself as Grace Robbins. “So glad to finally meet you.” She linked her arm in mine and led me inside. We sat together in the pew. “We’re going to knit a bit after supper,” she whispered as the organist cranked up the volume. “For the soldiers.”

  Mrs. Martin, resplendent in her yellow silk, silenced Grace’s whispers with a dour look. Grace pouted but shushed all the same.

  After the service, and shaking hands with Reverend Tweed, and eating a fine dinner with the congregation, the women broke into two groups. One group tidied up from the meal, and the other—the one Grace dragged me into—stayed seated at the sawhorse tables and took out handwork.

  “I have an extra set of needles,” said Grace. She rummaged in a large basket. “Oh, and a ball of yarn.” She handed it to me.

  I stoically cast on the requisite number of stitches, recalling the pair of socks I’d finally finished and sent to Charlie. They had more holes than a wheel of Swiss cheese. I glanced around the room. Other sets of needles clicked and flew; mine stumbled and rubbed.

  Grace gave me a sympathetic glance. “What do you think about this Daylight Saving Time plan?” she asked, tugging on the yarn ball to free up more yarn.

  “They say it will save on coal,” I said. “Twelve countries are going to do it.” Would Charlie be getting up an hour earlier, too, in France?

  “Doesn’t seem right that they start such a thing on Easter Sunday,” grumbled a plump woman I’d not yet met.

  “What do you expect of President Wilson? That human icicle,” complained Mrs. Schillinger. “And him the son of a Presbyterian minister, too.”

  Grace frowned at her work. “I think I dropped a stitch.”

  “It’s our patriotic duty to support this and any other law that helps the war effort,” Mrs. Martin pronounced.

  “Did I tell you my brother joined up last week?” Grace smiled proudly. “He’s on his way to Camp Lewis.”

  Mrs. Martin’s mouth twitched. It appeared that Grace had hit a sore spot.

  “One need not be in uniform to serve our country,” bristled Mrs. Martin. Her comment made me wonder why it was that Traft had not yet gone. To be fair, I knew many men who had registered, as required, but their numbers had not yet been called. Of course, Charlie hadn’t waited to be drafted. He had to up and enlist.

  Mrs. Martin continued, her voice edged with anger. “My son serves on the Council of Defense, for example. And Mr. Nefzger on the draft board, and—” Each word she spoke got higher and more shrill. Grace had clearly struck a nerve.

  “Leona,” soothed Mrs. Schillinger, “I hear you’ve some news for us.”

  Mrs. Martin rustled importantly in her yellow silk, then turned toward Mrs. Schillinger. “I suppose it’s fine that you ladies are the first to know.” She sat back as if waiting for us to beg her to tell us what she knew. No one begged. She went on. “Reverend Tweed and I are in agreement that it is time for a choir for the Vida church. He has asked me to direct.”

  Grace looked my way and rolled her eyes.

  “A choir’s a wonderful idea!” I said, trying not to laugh at Grace’s outrageous expression. This little congregation was fairly ragtag in the singing-in-unison department. A choir would brighten up services considerably. And it was the perfect excuse to invite Perilee again. “And I’ve got just the person to join.”

  “Do you sing, Miss Brooks?” Mrs. Martin peered at me over her spectacles.

  “Heavens, no. Not me!” I laughed. “The person I’m thinking of is a far better singer than I.”

  “Hattie.” Grace patted my arm. “My cow sings better than you do.”

  I joined the laughter. “At Aunt Ivy’s church, I was asked to leave the children’s choir because of my caterwauling.”

  “So if we are not to be graced with your presence,” said Mrs. Martin, “whom are you suggesting?”

  “Someone with the voice of an angel.” I set down my needles. “Perilee Mueller.”

  The room grew quiet. Grace glanced at me, but I couldn’t read the meaning in her look.

  “You should hear her sing,” I continued, trying to fill up the silence. “And she knows nearly every hymn.”

  Mrs. Martin dabbed her thin lips with a handkerchief. “I do not like to speak ill of others,” she began. It was a wonder she wasn’t struck down as she spoke. “But Perilee, uh, Mueller, does not attend services.”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” said Mrs. Martin.

  “Why not?” My blood began to simmer like sage hen stew.

  “Oh, you’ve got a tangle there, Hattie,” said Grace. “Let me help.” She reached for my knitting.

  Mrs. Martin cleared her throat. “I would say she has more than a tangle in her yarn,” she said, her voice one shade oilier than normal. “In a calmer moment, Miss Brooks, I am sure you would agree that Perilee Mueller would not be an appropriate addition to our choir.” She stuck her needles in the ball of green wool in her lap. “Of course, you are young.” She fixed a cold eye on me. “How old are you?”

  Surprised by the question, I blurted out the answer. “Sixteen. Seventeen in October.”

  “And you are proving up on a claim. On your own.” Mrs. Martin put her knitting in her carry bag, stood, and gathered her coat. “Quite interesting.” Her tone twisted the bland words like a knife in my heart. “The County Council of Defense will find it interesting as well.”

  My stomach knotted. “What do you mean?” I moved toward Mrs. Martin.

  Grace put her hand on my arm and whispered one word to me: “Don’t.”

  I swallowed the bitterness back down and pushed myself out of the chair. “Excuse me. I must get home to do my evening chores.”

  It was a three-mile ride home from Vida, and yet I did not recall one step of it. I sat on Plug as if I were a sack of flour. I had read an article in the Herald about soldiers suffering from something called shell-shock. That was exactly how I felt: shell-shocked.

  I settled Plug in the barn, rubbing him down. I held up a handful of oats for him. His velvety lips brushed my palm in a comforting manner. Maybe Mrs. Martin didn’t know what she was talking about. Why would the Council of Defense bother me about my claim? What did my age have to do with anything? Uncle Chester had left the place to me. To me.

  With a lighter heart, I patted Plug and even had a kind word for Violet.

  The lightness quickly fell like my last batch of bread dough when I reached my house. The door was ajar. I edged toward it and tapped it open.

  “Leafie?” Maybe she’d dropped in again. It was her habit to stop on her way to and fro. “Are you there?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Whiskers?” I stepped through.

  Again, silence.

  I moved inside. There was no one there. But someone had been there…. And had left something on the kitchen table. I picked it up.

  It was a broadside of sorts. Join the Montana Loyalty League, it read. It hunts home huns, checks class conflicts, promotes pure patriotism. Membership free to all Loyal Montana men, women, and children.

  I whipped around my house, checking on my meager possessions. It did not appear that anything had been disturbed—aside from my peace of mind.

  CHAPTER 10

  April 2, 1918

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Charlie,

  I hope to send you a packet soon—don’t worry! It’s not another pair of socks. I’m glad the pair I made brought you and your chums such amusement. What I lack in knitting prowess I am making up for with a quilting needle. Perilee is pleased by my progress.
To be honest, so am I. I’m sure you have guessed that I am making you a quilt. I call it Charlie’s Propeller. It’s my version of a windmill pattern. It’s in honor of your promotion to mechanic. It’s not waterproof, but it should help keep you warm.

  Speaking of warm, my chess-playing skills are heating up. Rooster Jim was by last week for another chess game and I held my own, though he beat me. He heard some troublesome news from his cousin over to Lewiston. A mob marched on the high school there, pulled out all the German textbooks, and had a bonfire. It was a miracle the school didn’t burn. One of the teachers was so upset, she quit and left town.

  I try to keep focused on my goal, which is to prove up. Karl showed me how to test the earth to see if it is ready to plant. His method is much preferred to Rooster Jim’s, which is to taste it. Karl grabs a handful and squeezes it in his hand. Mine is still too clumpy; the seeds would rot. Bub Nefzger says not to worry, that I may plant as late as the middle of next month, but I hope I don’t have to wait that long.

  Do you laugh at my little farm reports? It seems humorous to me sometimes that I fret over soil and weather and such. My worries are not all selfish. Being a farmer is now very patriotic. We are encouraged to grow as much as we can. Think! My wheat may be some soldier’s supper.

  I hope not yours, however. I hope you are home well before my crop is harvested come August.

  Your friend,

  Hattie Inez Brooks

  I took a hard look at my pocketbook. Any moths in there would soon starve. I thought of Moses leading the Israelites through the desert and God answering their hunger by raining down manna from heaven. I studied the never-ending Montana sky. No sign of manna or anything else falling from it anytime soon. With no small amount of concern, I spelled out my situation in daily prayer. “Lord, I need a bit of income to see me through to harvest,” I explained. “I’m not particular but would appreciate Your help.” I was eager to once again experience the Lord’s mysterious ways.

  With no ideas—and no lightning-bolt suggestions from the heavens—I finished my barn chores. Spring was firmly nudging winter on its way. The prairie was speckled with purple prairie crocus, yellow bells, and furry kittentails I couldn’t resist petting as I passed. I thought about gathering up a bouquet and taking them to Perilee. As tempting as that thought was, there were fence posts calling my name. I gathered up the fencing supplies and went out to work.