Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  I glanced over at Leafie. She frowned and turned away. “I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of it yet,” I told him.

  Traft smiled. It was the same kind of smile he’d worn the day he helped me pick rocks. “And you won’t, just standing there.”

  Though I could feel Leafie’s eyes boring a hole in my back, I took his arm and we moved toward the dance floor.

  The Schillingers launched into a lively tune.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” I stepped into line with the other women.

  It wasn’t so hard after all. Pa Schillinger hollered out the steps.

  “Ladies bow low and the gents bow under, couples up tight and swing like thunder!” His walrus mustache wiggled as he sang. “Leave that lady and home you go. Opposite the gent with a do-si-do. Jump right up and never come down. Now swing that calico round and round.”

  The floor was so crowded, there wasn’t room to make a mistake. If you did, you laughed, grabbed your partner, and picked it up again.

  The next dance was a waltz. “One more?” Traft asked. I nodded.

  He slipped his right hand around my waist and took my right hand in his left. When our hands connected, I swear to Christmas I felt a current of electricity jolt through me. “Oh!” I jerked my hand away.

  “Is my hand too rough?” He wiped it on his jeans. “Or too sweaty?”

  “No. No.” I couldn’t in a million years tell him. “I—my hands are still chapped from putting up fence.” I hoped I told the white lie smoothly enough for him to believe it.

  “I know how that is,” he said. “I’ll be real careful.” Then he took my hand again, as gently as if he was holding his own mother’s very best china teacup.

  We twirled this way and that around the room. I’d never danced with anyone like this before. True, Charlie had danced with me at the eighth-grade ball, but he was a worse dancer than me. We’d tromped all over each other’s feet. Traft made me feel like a fairy-tale princess, dancing in a gingerbread castle. Too soon, the song was over.

  “Time for supper!” Leafie called, banging on a pot. Traft thanked me, then stepped away, and I was caught up with the crowd of folks lined up for sandwiches.

  Grace slipped in line behind me. She poked me in the back. “Hattie’s got a beau!” she teased. I could feel my cheeks were hot, and not because of the stuffy room.

  “Oh, Lordy!” Leafie threw her hands up.

  “No such thing,” I mumbled.

  “Friends and neighbors,” Pa Schillinger called out, “get you something to eat and then let’s talk about why we’re gathered together tonight.”

  Folks filled their plates and coffee cups. Mr. Saboe began his pitch to sell Liberty Bonds. He wasn’t as smooth as the Four Minute Man I’d heard back home at the Excelsior Theater, but his heart was sure in it.

  “Now, you all know my own sons are over there right now,” he began.

  “Mine too, don’t you forget,” called out a woman—was that Mrs. Ervick?

  Mr. Saboe nodded. “I’ve heard that there are more Montana boys fighting than from any other state in the Union.”

  That brought a loud cheer from the crowd.

  Mr. Saboe waved his hands to get everyone’s attention. “No one can accuse this state of not supporting the war effort.” Another cheer. “There’s one more way we can all help, and that’s to buy Liberty Bonds. Montana’s quota of the Third Liberty Loan is three million dollars.”

  Someone let out a shrill whistle.

  “Sounds impossible, I know,” said Mr. Saboe. “But it figures out to about thirty dollars for every man, woman, and child in this great state. That’s a small price for Liberty. I know you’ll all do what you can. I’ll be in the back, so come on over and humble the Huns. Every dollar adds up to victory.”

  “You go buy those bonds,” hollered Leafie, “then git on over here and have some of this cake.”

  “Build up your strength for the next bit of dancing,” added Pa Schillinger.

  I carried my limp and worn five-dollar bill to the back table. Mr. Saboe wrote my name down in his book. “That’s your down payment. Four more payments of just ten dollars each and you’ll have yourself a bonafidey United States guaranteed Liberty Bond,” he said. “Next payment is October twenty-first.” He handed me a pen. “Sign here.”

  I thought of Charlie as I wrote my signature. My little bit wasn’t much, but if everybody all over the country helped a little bit, it would add up to something. Add up to victory, like Mr. Saboe said. I was so thankful for my newspaper money. I wouldn’t have been able to buy even a penny’s worth of war stamps otherwise, let alone a Liberty Bond.

  “Here you go, Hattie.” Mr. Saboe handed me a green button. “Wear this to show you’re Uncle Sam’s partner.”

  As I pinned it on, someone stepped up behind me. Traft.

  “Let me take a look at those names there, Saboe,” he said.

  Mr. Saboe closed his receipt book. “This is none of your business.”

  “Well, I see that different,” Traft replied. He surveyed the room like he was surveying the range. “As a member of the Dawson County Council of Defense, I’m sworn to identify slackers and encourage them to do their patriotic duty.” His loud words stopped the children’s game of tag. Perilee scurried across the room and grabbed Mattie; I couldn’t see where Chase was.

  “This county measured up in the first two Liberty Loan drives,” answered Mr. Saboe. “No reason to doubt it won’t happen again.”

  Traft stared down the table at Karl. “Seems like there’s some that might like to see it not happen.”

  I held my breath. Karl’s loaf-sized hands curled into two rock-hard fists. No, I willed him with my eyes. I knew all too well how easy it was to feed a bully’s fire. I learned that the hard way, when I first moved in with Aunt Ivy. Frannie Thompson had been wicked cruel about my being an orphan, and one day I couldn’t let it go. If Charlie hadn’t stepped in, we’d probably still have been at it hammer and tongs today.

  Karl took a step toward Traft. That step was matched by one of Traft’s own.

  Leafie broke the spell. “Let’s have some music, Pa.” She slapped her hands together so loud it sounded like a gunshot. She crossed the room and held her hand out to Mr. Saboe. “Ladies’ choice, Mr. Saboe, and I choose you.” Pa grabbed his violin and began to play.

  “But is everyone pulling their fair share? That’s the question I’m asking.” Traft’s cowboys came to stand behind him, apparently oblivious to the music that signaled a lively dance called the racket. I caught a glisten of perspiration on Mr. Saboe’s upper lip. Leafie wedged herself between Traft and the table. My own palms were slick and sticky, my feet stuck to the floor. I glanced over at Perilee, Mattie clutching at her skirt, and back at Karl, whose hands had pounded hundreds of staples in my fence. My fence. Because he was my neighbor. My friend. I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on my skirt, and stepped forward.

  “M-Mr. M-Martin.” I took a breath and started over. “Mr. Martin.” I reached out my hand. “This is ladies’ choice. Would you please dance with me?”

  Traft Martin turned to me with a bemused expression. The look he gave me seemed to see right through me, right to my back collar button. “A most gracious invitation, Miss Brooks.” He took my hand and led me to the dance floor, where we joined the other whirling couples. I swung by Wayne and Grace Robbins, and Leafie with Mr. Saboe. Leafie wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Thank you for the dance, Hattie,” Traft said as the music whirled to a stop. He walked me off the floor. “Take my advice on something.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Martin?” I brushed my now-sticky hair back off my face.

  He tipped his hat. “Don’t ever play poker.” He nodded to his men, and they all left.

  Pa didn’t miss a beat. He began picking out the next tune.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath. I walked across the room on rubbery legs and found Perilee.

  “Go, swirl a time or two with Karl.”
I took Fern from her. “It’ll be good for you.”

  “He does love to dance,” she said.

  “Then go.” I found a chair and settled in. Fern was a sweet, round-faced baby, content with even the most inexpert of baby-handlers. And I certainly fell in that category.

  “She likes to be held up so she can see.” Mattie appeared at my side. “Like this.” She turned Fern around in my arms so that her back was against my chest and her face was toward the dance floor. I was amazed to discover what a great comfort it was to hold that warm baby body next to mine. She calmed nearly all my jangled nerves. Mattie leaned against my side. I couldn’t help but smile—it was as if these two babies were propping me up.

  “Mulie made Mama cry.” Mattie tugged at the bow in her dolly’s hair.

  “She did?” I said. “For heaven’s sake.”

  Mattie nodded sadly. “Mulie was singing me a song. One Karl’s mama used to sing to him.”

  “A song made her cry?” Little Fern had grabbed my pointer finger and was working on it with her new bottom tooth. I glanced across the room. Two couples stepped off the floor just as it was time for them to square up with Karl and Perilee. Fueled by Traft’s fuss, no doubt. I sat forward, holding my breath. In an instant, Grace and Wayne Robbins stepped across the empty space and snatched Karl and Perilee up in a new square. “God bless you,” I murmured.

  “But Chase said it was the fence falling down,” Mattie continued. “He said that’s what made her cry.”

  “Fence?” I turned to her.

  She nodded. “Lots of it fell down. And there wasn’t even a storm or stampede or anything.” Mattie wiped Fern’s baby drool off my hand with the corner of her dress. Then she turned her face up to me. “Hattie, is Karl a Hun?”

  Hearing Mattie give voice to that word was worse than hearing the most vulgar profanity. I wrapped my free arm around her shoulders. “Don’t you pay any mind to such talk.”

  Mattie fiddled with Mulie’s ragged dress. “Karl’s making a cradle for Mulie. Mama thinks it’s for the new baby, but Karl and me know it’s really for Mulie.” She wiggled out from under my arm. “Miss Leafie baked snickerdoodles. You want me to bring you one?”

  “A snickerdoodle sounds delicious.” Fern leaned heavily against my arms. I gently eased her against my shoulder and patted her back. Soon she was sound asleep. I turned my face toward her downy head and breathed in the baby scent of her. Perilee and Karl spun by—he tall and solid, she round of belly and homely of face—and my heart filled up so full, it threatened to spill out my eyes. I took stock of my feelings then and there. Traft might cause my innards to flip-flop, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. I was looking for something solid, as solid as 320 Montana acres. As solid as good folks like Karl and Perilee.

  At midnight, the sandwiches and coffee were passed around again and folks danced some more. I danced several with Rooster Jim and Mr. Saboe and even once with Chase.

  “Last dance,” called Pa Schillinger. He launched into “Home Sweet Home Waltz.”

  Perilee yawned as we finished washing up the coffee cups and sandwich plates. We set them out on the tables so the women could pick out the ones they’d brought.

  The sun was rising when we set off for home. Karl, Perilee, and I each carried a sleeping bundle of child and settled them in the Muellers’ wagon. “Night, hon,” called Perilee. She leaned her head against Karl’s shoulder and looked to be asleep before they were even out of the schoolyard.

  Rooster Jim and I rode along quietly as the night sky softened from navy blue to faded denim to pink.

  “Sleep fast,” Jim called as I slid down from the wagon bench in front of my cabin.

  “I hope to.” I covered a yawn. “Violet will want milking in another hour or so! Thanks for the ride.” I gave a tired wave as he and his team jingled off.

  I bumped open the front door with my right hip and swung the basket I was carrying through the door. Setting it down with a thump on the table, I yawned again. All that dancing had left my stomach hungry. I lifted the towel to grab one of the leftover sandwiches in the basket. My hands brushed against something. Mulie! Mattie would fuss like sixty when she figured out Mulie was missing. I took a bite of sandwich, then turned myself around. Who needed sleep anyway? Plug could get me over to Mueller’s and back before milking time. I could catch a nap later.

  I regretted my generosity before I’d even gone twenty paces. There is nothing like a predawn prairie to get the juices flowing. Scritch, scritch, scritch. Plug’s hooves crunched against the stubby prairie grass, speckled with little cactus. Crunch, crunch, crunch. But what was that? No doubt some critter snacking on a late supper. My skin crawled, thinking of that hungry wolf from two months’ back. He’d have long ago digested Violet’s tail and be looking for something more substantial. Something a little over five feet tall and 130 pounds. I shivered, doubly glad to be up on Plug’s back.

  Folks don’t appreciate how open a prairie is, how there is absolutely no place to hide. “Hey there, Plug.” I kicked my heels into his sides to pick up the pace over the hardened sod. Lord knows how I could have thought that old horse would outrun anything, but there’s not a lot of clear thinking when you’re alone on the prairie at sunrise.

  If I hadn’t given myself the willies over the prairie’s nighttime noises, I might have noticed it sooner. At the bottom of a cutbank, about a mile along, I smelled it.

  Smoke.

  I urged Plug up the coulee. As we bumped over the top, the smell hit me hard, like a wildly thrown pitch. Smoke.

  And it was coming from the direction of Perilee’s.

  CHAPTER 12

  At the end of a sad day in April

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Charlie,

  It’s funny how you and I have been having similar experiences, despite the number of miles between us. I imagine that everyone benefited from your willingness to share the bars of soap your mother sent. I, too, have had a chance to share my bounty with my neighbors. And in doing so, I have lifted one chore from my ever-lengthening daily list.

  Plug’s hooves beat out a rhythm on the sod: Let them be safe. Let them be safe. Let them be safe. I urged Plug on even faster. “Dear God, please don’t let it be the house.”

  Bouncing along on Plug’s back, I scoured the horizon until my head ached. It’s hard to imagine how far you can see on the prairie. It’s as if a giant scroll of sod has been rolled out before you. The closer you get to the end, the more sod gets rolled out. Would we never get there?

  One more dip down a coulee and back up again and I could see the house. The house. It was not on fire! The smoke was beyond it. I pushed Plug on.

  We rode on for several more minutes, pounding against the prairie, until we pounded right into Perilee’s yard.

  Chase burst from the house with an empty bucket on each arm. Perilee stood at the pump, driving the handle for all she was worth. She took one look at me. “I’ll pump—you carry.”

  I nodded. By the time I’d tethered Plug, Perilee had both of Chase’s buckets full. He and I each took one and ran for the barn.

  We handed the buckets to Karl, and he threw the water at the fire. Chase and I ran back to the pump. Back and forth, back and forth we went: Perilee hauling water up from the well, and the rest of us forming a bucket brigade.

  We repeated this dozens of times. But the fire burned brighter. I staggered for another bucket of water. Karl grabbed my arm. “Halt.” He took the bucket from Chase’s hand and set it on the ground.

  “Nothing more to do.” He turned and signaled to Perilee to stop pumping.

  “The barn!” Chase dropped to his knees. “The barn.”

  Perilee ran to Karl, her progress hampered by exhaustion and her round middle. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Tears streamed down Chase’s face, and I dropped to my own knees to stroke his hair.

  “There, there,” I murmured. Real words could not comfort.
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br />   I was bewitched by the blaze. Blue flames gnawed the timbers like termites. The burning boards groaned and hissed. The barn, solidly built with Karl’s own hands, put up a brave fight. But the fire was too hungry. With a final growl, it wolfishly snapped the barn boards like twigs. The last of the walls crumpled to the ground.

  It was horrible and horrifying, yet I could not tear myself away.

  Chase’s sobbing quieted. “Me and Karl got the horses out,” he said. “They’re grazing the coulee over behind the house.” He rubbed at his eyes. “But we couldn’t get…” He choked.

  I glanced over at the coulee and saw the horses. Only the horses. “Marte,” I said. “And Fawn?”

  Karl shook his head.

  The cows were a huge loss. No milk. No butter. And sweet little Fawn. I glanced at Chase. His sooty cheeks bore muddy tear tracks.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Karl stood with his face to the charred building, soot striping it like war paint.

  “It was smoking when we got home,” said Perilee, slowly stroking her burgeoning middle. “After Karl and Chase got the horses out, the hay caught, and before we could do anything—” She lifted her hands helplessly.

  “I wonder how it started,” I asked.

  “Schweine,” said Karl.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I looked over at Perilee.

  “Pigs,” she answered. She brushed at her eyes. “The two-legged kind.”

  She took Karl’s hand and they walked away from us. Away from the remains of the barn. They walked to where the horses grazed and, wrapped in one another’s arms, stood there.

  I rested my hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Let’s get some breakfast for you and those sisters of yours.”

  He ran his sleeve under his nose. “I’m not hungry.”

  I patted his back. I could feel his backbone and his ribs, all tied together by stringy muscles. “Could you even eat one doughnut?”

  “Maybe.” Chase wiggled away from me. He trudged toward the house with the air of old man rather than eight-year-old about him. Watching him caused a dull ache under my breastbone.