by Kirby Larson
A familiar horse meandered its way toward me with a familiar rider. Traft Martin had taken it upon himself to pick up my mail from Bub Nefzger’s in Vida and bring it out when he was headed my way. It saved me the walk to town, but I wished he wouldn’t do it.
“You’re making great progress.” He slipped off Trouble, landing lightly on well-worn boots.
“Will it ever end?” I pounded in another staple.
Traft took off his hat and hung it on the pommel. A cowlick at the back of his head stood up like a question mark. I could smell the warm pine scent of hair tonic. “Want me to pound for a while?”
My arms begged me to say yes. But my stubborn heart answered, “No. No, thanks.”
“I brought your mail.” Traft patted his coat pocket. “And some newspapers. I know how much you love to read them.”
“Thank you.” I wriggled my hand out of my work glove.
He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else. Then he handed me the packet. “Another letter from France,” he said.
“My school chum, Charlie,” I answered the question in his voice, then tucked the letters in my lunch basket.
“A good friend?” His words made my stomach turn a somersault for some reason.
“We’ve known each other a long time. He gave me my cat.”
Traft nodded briskly, as if shaking that bit of information into his mind’s proper file.
“I’d better get back at it,” I said.
He moved toward his horse. “Good afternoon, Hattie.”
“Afternoon.” I started hammering before he’d even stepped into the stirrup.
“Oh, there was something else.” He stopped. “A dance. At the Vida Community Hall. Wondered if you’d be going?”
“I don’t dance.” I could imagine Aunt Ivy’s shrieks of disapproval: Next thing, you’ll be drinking and carrying on!
“What if I said it was your patriotic duty?” he asked. “It’s to raise money for the Liberty Bond drive.”
I stiffened at the word patriotic, still on edge from that message left on my table. “Like joining the Loyalty League?”
He started. “What?”
I told him about finding the note. “I’m not sure what it means.”
He toyed with Trouble’s reins. He acted like he had something to say, so I waited. “Have you…” He stroked his horse’s neck. “Have you said anything about the war? Given anyone the impression that you might be against it?”
“I’ve never had call to discuss it much with anyone,” I said. Except Rooster Jim, but that was none of Traft’s affair.
“Well, then, maybe…” he paused again. “You know, Hattie, folks are looking at one another hard these days.”
I waggled the hammer in my hand. “If anyone’s looking at me, all they see is unpatriotic activity like picking rocks and setting fence posts.” I forced a laugh.
“Don’t take such things lightly.” His tone had cooled more quickly than a doused fire.
“Name one thing I’ve done that might cause someone to suspect me of being unpatriotic.” The current running under this conversation had changed. I felt as if I might be caught in a whirlpool at any moment. No matter how charming he was, Traft was still head of the County Council of Defense. Still his mother’s son.
“I know this is not going to sit well with you, but I’m going to say it flat out. There’s talk about Karl Mueller.”
“What?” I nearly dropped my hammer. “What kind of talk?”
“You heard about the Verne Hamilton case over in Roundup? Been charged with making seditious comments, saying he wouldn’t go to war, that they’d have to take him feet first if he was conscripted?”
I nodded. I’d read about it in the paper.
“Over to Bub’s one day, Karl said the man had the right to say such things. Said it was free speech and all that.”
“And isn’t it?”
“It’s war, Hattie.” He looked me in the eye. “And Karl’s an alien enemy.”
“He’s no enemy,” I said. “He’s the finest man you’d ever want to meet.”
Traft smiled at me, but it was an Aunt Ivy smile, the kind she wore when she would tell me the switching I was about to receive was for my own good. “Last thing I’d want to do is upset you. I told you because I thought you’d want to know.” He shrugged. “Maybe some kids were playing a prank on you. With that notice, I mean.”
If he was trying to shift the topic, it didn’t work. “Traft, he’s my friend.”
“I know.” He nodded. “And he’s lucky for that.”
He swung his hat off the saddle and snugged it on his head. “About the dance—I didn’t mean to set you off. It is for a good cause. And I hope, if you come, you save one dance for me.” Now he flashed a smile so warm and genuine it made me think perhaps I’d taken offense where none was meant.
I smiled back. “Your toes will be sorry. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“I’m a good teacher,” he said.
“I best get back to work.” I turned toward the fence to hide my red cheeks.
“See you at the dance, Hattie.” In one movement he was up on Trouble. They wheeled around and pounded away.
My heart pounded to the rhythm of Trouble’s hooves. I felt behind me, found the stone boat, and sat against it. Being with that man was like walking the circus tightrope. I breathed deeply a few times to slow my heart. Of course he was right about the pamphlet. No doubt a prank. And, really, he was doing me a favor, telling me about Karl. I could speak to him, let him know to be more careful about what he said in town. Maybe Traft and I were more alike than I realized. Him, stubborn about things that mattered to him, like his ranch and this country. Me, I had my own stubborn streak, still going strong no matter how many times Aunt Ivy had tried to switch it out of me.
I pictured myself at the dance, trying hard not to step on Traft’s feet. One dance and he’d find another partner, you could bet on that. Wouldn’t Mildred Powell be fit to be tied to see me dancing with such a charmer? I thought back to the eighth-grade graduation ball. “Oh, Hattie,” she’d said to me, “how clever of you to dress so plainly for the event.” Her friends had laughed, too. I would’ve left right then, but good old Charlie had stepped up and asked me to waltz. I’m sure his feet regretted the invitation, but Charlie never said a word about my clumsiness. “You look pretty in blue,” he’d said.
I sighed to remember his kindness. Then I looked down the row of fence posts waiting for wire. And sighed once more.
I hefted the hammer and began again, keeping at it until I couldn’t lift the hammer one more time. Then I tucked into the lunch I’d packed, sipping cool well water from a glass jar. With a little imagination, I could envision I was sipping a strawberry soda from Chapman’s Drug back in Arlington. Or an icy bottle of sarsaparilla from Uncle Holt’s store. Imagining even turned the cold pancakes, mushy apple, and handful of dried fruit into a tasty meal. Brushing off my hands, I reached for my mail. The papers would be dessert after supper and the evening chores.
Charlie’s letter was terse. He mentioned finally receiving a letter from me, and working twenty-four-hour shifts at the airfield. He concluded:
Men are falling here, but more from various ailments than the war. Our unit’s managed to avoid it thus far, but the Spanish influenza is taking its toll. It’s as bad an enemy as the Huns. Yesterday we passed a line of men blinded by mustard gas—they stumbled along like a string of elephants, one man’s hand on the next man’s shoulder.
The next section of Charlie’s letter was sliced out by the censor’s knife. I read on:
I met three fellows from Montana—Great Falls, I think. They are mad to get a baseball game up soon. I may join in and show them what Iowa can do!
Your (lonesome) chum, Charlie
I closed the letter with a shiver. The spring sun seemed to have cooled several degrees. Charlie had been so excited when he signed up. He’d been going to save the world! And how excited I’d been to g
et Uncle Chester’s letter and leave Aunt Ivy behind. I guessed Charlie and I were in the same boat. We’d both signed on for something we’d envisioned as heroic and glamorous. The heroism and glamour might be there somewhere, but you had to dig and scrape and scrabble through the dirt, pain, and misery to find it. Assuming you could find it.
I shook such thoughts out of my head and reached for the letter from Uncle Holt. It was a thick one. It wasn’t like him to send such a long letter. Perhaps he’d tucked in another magazine article, as he had a few letters back.
I tore open the envelope and a slip of paper fluttered to the ground. Pay to the order of Miss Hattie Inez Brooks: $15. A check? I looked again. It was from the Arlington News. I shuffled through Uncle Holt’s packet for an explanation.
Dear Hattie,
Your letters have provided me such entertainment and enlightenment that I have shared them with Mr. George Miltenberger, editor of the Arlington News. He concurred that such lively observations about homestead life would be of general interest to his readership. As you will see from his letter (enclosed), he hopes to publish more of your stories. I hope you can accommodate him.
With affection,
Uncle Holt
I snatched up the letter from Mr. Miltenberger. He offered $15 an installment, “preferably monthly,” until my claim was proved up and I was no longer a homesteader.
“Hallelujah, Plug!” I startled the old horse with my outburst. Manna did fall from the Montana sky—at least from writing about living beneath it. “Cold hard cash!” I ticked off the months on my fingers. “April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November—Plug, that’s eight months. Eight times fifteen is…” I did a quick calculation. “One hundred and twenty dollars!” I reached my arms to that vast blue sky. “Thank you, Lord, for your mysterious ways!”
Carefully I tucked the letters and the check back in the lunch basket. With each nail I pounded the rest of the afternoon, I hammered out my next installment for Mr. Miltenberger. Fifteen dollars a month! Until I proved up! I’d set aside the $37.75 I needed for final fees. Of course, there’d be some other costs, but my savings should cover them. Maybe now I could buy some new boots, ones that really fit my feet, not Uncle Holt’s old ones. And I could get my own subscription to the Wolf Point Herald. That and boots would take only $7 out of my stash. I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Plug, I think we’re going to make it.” The hammer felt like a feather as I finished the next section of fence.
When I’d pounded in the last nail and gathered up my tools, I fairly floated across the blooming prairie. “What do you think all the other millionaires are doing today, Plug?” I asked. An image flashed behind my eyes of Perilee pointing out the $3 oak rockers in the Monkey Ward catalog. “Wouldn’t that be fine for rocking the baby?” she had asked. They were saving for a new tractor, so I knew she wouldn’t even think of spending that money on herself.
Violet was crankier than ever as I milked her that night. Almost as if she knew what selfish hands were on her teats.
“All right,” I said, slapping her ornery hide. Devil cow that she was, I felt she was giving me a message from heaven this time. “I’ll make do with these old boots. Then I can get Perilee that rocker.”
Violet looked at me with her big brown eyes…and stepped hard on my right foot. So much for signs from God!
CHAPTER 11
April 5, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana
Dear Uncle Holt,
How can I ever thank you? My monthly checks will grow like the wheat I hope to plant soon. Just think—Miss Simpson may read my first article to my old classmates. I’m sure she’ll find a way to point out my dangling participles and awkward syntax. I am so pleased, I don’t even mind being a bad example!
Karl shakes his head at me when I try to tell him about the scientific studies Mr. Campbell set forth in his Soil Culture Manual. If I take Mr. Campbell’s advice, I should order seven bushels of seed, all told, for my forty acres. Karl says I should order twenty! That is a difference of thirteen bushels. I would be floundering without Karl’s guidance, but Mr. Campbell is a scientist. And with wheat seed going for $2.50 a bushel, his plan means nearly $33 more in Hattie’s coffers. I would appreciate any advice you might have for me.
There are big doings at the schoolhouse this weekend: a dance to raise money for the Liberty Bonds. This will be my first social outing, aside from church (yes, Aunt Ivy, I have been attending). Perilee is baking one of her cakes, but I thought it safer if I brought sandwiches. My bread is not nearly as heavy and dry as it was at first.
Your niece,
Hattie Inez Brooks
“What do you think, Mr. Whiskers?” I laid out my clothing choices on the table the night before the dance. “The yellow gingham dress or the navy wool skirt and bodice?”
Mr. Whiskers sniffed at both outfits. He sneezed at the navy wool.
“My thoughts exactly.” I picked up the dress. “Time for a little color around here!” It was foolishness, certainly, but I even took some care with that bird’s nest on top of my head. First I washed it and rinsed it with sugar water. Then I set it in rags all over my head. I left the rags in place till it was nearly time to go on Saturday. With some fussing and coaxing, my hair looked presentable. I held it back at each side with Mama’s tortoiseshell combs. Mr. Whiskers meowed his approval.
I’d finished making a stack of sandwiches when I heard Rooster Jim’s team trot into the yard. I set the sandwiches on my least chipped enamelware plate, covered them with a clean towel, and grabbed my overcoat and shawl.
“You look awful nice, Hattie.” Jim even clambered out of the wagon to help me up.
“You aren’t so hard to look at yourself,” I teased. Since becoming my chess partner, Rooster Jim had improved in the olfactory department. Or maybe I was getting used to his smell.
“Hope you wore comfy shoes.” Rooster Jim hopped back onto the seat and clucked to the horses. “You’re going to be dancing all night.”
I blushed but managed to get the topic off me and onto news of the war. The Germans had launched new attacks in France, between the Somme and Arve rivers and were now claiming to have taken ninety thousand prisoners. I couldn’t help but think of Charlie.
“You ever figure out where your chum is?” Jim asked.
“No. Once he wrote down the name of some town, but the censor cut it out.” I sat quietly for a moment, thinking. “I like to think they keep the airfields back of the worst of the fighting, to keep the planes safe,” I said.
“That’s what you’d hope,” said Jim.
“Hope and pray,” I said, pushing away a sense of dread. Last week we’d had our first local casualty, Mr. Kirkpatrick from Terrace. Though I hadn’t known him, his death brought the war all that much closer to home. We were both quiet, Jim and I, the rest of the ride.
“Come on in!” Leafie waved to us from the doorway. “It’s nice and warm in here.”
Soon we were inside, coats off, helping to set up tables of sandwiches, cake, beans, and cottage cheese. I helped make coffee. Perilee brought over a cake.
“This smells like heaven!” exclaimed Leafie. “How on earth did you bake a cake like this with all the shortages?”
“I’ve been hankering sweets something awful. My gran used to whip up cakes out of nothing. I figured I could do the same.” Perilee smiled shyly. “You cook up the raisins first. That’s what makes it sweet and moist.”
Mattie came over and threw her arms around my legs. “We have kittens!” She let me go to smooth out what was left of Mulie’s hair. “We each get to name one—me, and Chase, and Mulie.” She leaned closer. “Mulie had a hard time choosing, so I helped her.”
Before I could ask about the kittens’ names, Mattie was off, playing tag with a little girl I didn’t know.
It wasn’t long before the room was filled. I waved at Grace Robbins, stepping inside with her husband, Wayne, and her two children. Her daughter, Olive,
skipped over to Mattie and her other friend. The Schillinger brothers warmed up their violins as older children chased each other around the school room. I saw Chase in the far corner, snugged behind a desk, reading. Folks were laughing and chattering. I didn’t see Traft.
“You think the Martins will come?” I asked Leafie.
She made a face. “And miss the chance to make a show of buying Liberty Bonds? Not likely.”
“It’s for a good cause,” I said.
Leafie crooked an eyebrow at me. “Hattie, don’t you know that man is trouble?”
“Thought that was his horse,” I said, trying to make light.
“You.” She laughed, then patted my hand. “I’ll tell you what my mama told me: handsome is as—”
“Handsome does,” I finished. “Your mama and my aunt.”
“Speak of the devil.” Leafie tilted her head toward the door. In walked Traft Martin with a handful of cowboys.
A few men nodded at these late arrivals, but the music started up, turning the crowd’s focus to the dance floor.
“Don’t them Schillingers play some toe-tappers?” Leafie asked me, with an elbow to my ribs. We watched others dance for a while, clapping and shouting and having a grand time.
After a particularly lively two-step, I felt a pat on my shoulder. I turned and found myself facing Traft Martin.
“Nice to see you again, Miz Brooks,” he said. His slicked-up hair smelled of Packer’s Scalptone. It was the same stuff Charlie used to wear; he snitched it from his father.
“Evening.” I smoothed a stray lock of my sugar-stiffened hair.
“Would you like to dance?” He held out his arm.
