by Kirby Larson
I fed the children. Karl and Perilee didn’t come in for a very long time. When they did, I gave Perilee a hug and patted Karl’s hand.
“Karl will go for Myron Gorley. He’ll help us clean up and rebuild.” Perilee wiped her own sooty face with her grimy apron. “So will the folks from the Lutheran church.”
“You’ll have a new barn in no time,” I said, wiping an already dry plate with a towel. “Do you want me to stay today?”
Perilee glanced at Karl. He sat at the kitchen table, oblivious to the mug of coffee at his elbow. “No. Thank you, but no.”
I loosened the reins and let Plug amble his way home. I could barely see through the tears that kept filling up my eyes. Just when I thought I’d gathered myself together, Chase’s face would flash in front of me and the faucet would turn on all over again.
That’s why I couldn’t trust what I saw as we rode up the cutbank closest to home. A solitary rider, astride an enormous horse, was riding away from my house. I knew of only one horse that big around here.
I clucked my tongue and once again nudged Plug to pick up his pace. By the time I reached my own yard, there was no rider—no sign of any rider—that I could see. I went inside. Nothing looked disturbed.
It’d been a long night and an even longer morning. As much as I wanted to lower my bed and crawl into it, I had a cow to milk. I changed into overalls and headed for the barn. An idea had planted itself during my teary ride home—an idea so ridiculous I couldn’t believe I was entertaining it.
I stepped around to the back side of the barn. A charred bundle of hay, still smoldering, leaned at a drunken angle against a pile of rocks, spitting distance from the barn.
“Oh, Lord!” Snatching up the pitchfork, I smacked away at the glowing straw, all the while dragging the smoky bundle farther away from the barn. Then I ran for a bucket of water and doused the whole thing.
It was Traft. He had done this. Had to have. There was no mistaking his horse. Had he come here to leave this calling card—more to threaten than to harm—after setting fire to Karl’s barn? Was he crazy? Was I?
The message sent was clear: my barn was no safer than Karl and Perilee’s, not after tonight. I headed in to milk Violet, bumping against Uncle Chester’s trunk. If he were here, what would he do?
Violet mooed her impatience. “Hush a minute. I’ll be right there.” I unlatched the straps, then flipped the lid open. He would tell me what to do. He’d cared enough about me to leave me this place; surely he was watching over me now. I closed my eyes and reached in. The first thing I touched would show me the way.
I opened my eyes and saw what my fingers were brushing. Tears pricked the underside of my eyelids. “You are a scoundrel,” I said. “But you are right.”
The next morning, I wrapped a rope around Violet’s grumpy neck. I carried one end of the rope in one hand and the packet from Uncle Chester’s trunk in the other. The closer I got, the more I could smell the sodden ashes and burnt dreams. Crack crack crack! The sound of hammering meant Karl was already busy with a lean-to for the horses. I smiled. And their new stable mate.
Chase was in the yard. “Ma!” he called when he saw me. “Company.”
The door pushed open and there stood Perilee, wearing that winning smile of hers despite red-rimmed and tired eyes. She cocked her head when she saw Violet. “Hon, I’ve heard of walking your dog. But walking your cow?”
I handed the rope to Chase. “You already know how to handle her.” He looked at his mother.
“Hattie, we can’t—”
I held up my hand. “I can’t keep her when you need the milk more,” I said. “Besides, now I’ll have to come over more often. To get some of that milk of hers.” I shooed Chase. “Go get her settled.” To Perilee I said, “Is there any coffee on?”
Perilee pressed her hand to her mouth. Then she took a deep breath. “And fresh biscuits. You get yourself in here.”
After several biscuits, I brought out the slim packet wrapped in muslin and tied with a strip of calico. The calico slipped out of its knot; I pushed back the layers of muslin and uncovered a rainbow of patches—ticking and shirt cloth, gingham and calico, in faded blues and greens and yellows. I fingered the snippets, letting them drift through my hands like snowflakes.
“It’s time to start a quilt.” I pointed to the bulge under her apron. “For the baby.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you sure about all this?”
Sure? I wasn’t sure about anything. “I was thinking of an Ohio Star,” I said. “You know, like ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’”
“Mattie’s favorite song.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Thank you.”
We spent that afternoon cutting out the triangles, planning each patch. “What do you think of this piece next to that one?” I held up a blue calico and a green paisley.
She pursed her lips. “Too much friction,” she said. “How about this?” She slipped another fabric over the green, a soft yellow stripe.
“You have an eye,” I said.
“My mama always said piecing quilts is like making friends.” She kept her eyes on the scissors as she cut up a piece of blue ticking. “Sometimes the more different fabrics—and people—are,” she said, “the stronger the pattern.”
I looked up at her. She smiled a sad, sweet smile at me. I felt as if she’d looked right into my heart and seen all my warts and flaws, and held her own heart out to me anyway. I swallowed hard at the lump that had gathered in my throat.
“I ever tell you about meeting Karl?” She layered blue ticking triangles in a stack. “It was after Lemuel left. Lord, what a sorry man. I told him to leave when he’d nearly drunk us broke. He grabbed the rest of our money and I tried to stop him.” She patted her leg. “He got the money and I got this limp.”
I sucked in my breath. “He hit you?”
Perilee didn’t answer. She stroked her hand across the oilcloth on the table. “I was pregnant with Fern at the time. I thank God I didn’t lose her. Leafie came to stay till I was up and around again.”
I covered her hand with mine. “I am so sorry.”
“Leafie knew Karl from back in Chicago. He’d recently arrived, and she told him I needed a hand. When he stepped across that doorway, it was as if he was supposed to have been here all along.” She rubbed her lower back, all the while holding my gaze. “Really, Hattie. It might be easier if you didn’t come here so much. For a while.” She toyed with some triangles. “I’ll send Chase with your milk.”
Images flashed through my mind: the note on my table. Traft’s face at the dance. The barn fire. The smoldering hay bundle. I drew in a ragged breath. Easier wasn’t an option anymore.
“I think, as big as you are, we’d better get going on this quilt or we’ll never finish it before the baby comes.”
Perilee looked at me and shook her head. “Hattie, you are—” She paused, then patted her middle. “I am enormous, aren’t I?”
We began to talk about babies and crops and tricks for keeping bedbugs out of our beds. We’d talked about such things before, but today it was different. It’d been something big for me to ship myself out here, to work on Uncle Chester’s claim. But I was beginning to see there were bigger things in life than proving up on a claim. I was proving up on my life. My choices would no doubt horrify Aunt Ivy, but if they brought me friends like Perilee, it seemed like I was surely headed in the right direction.
CHAPTER 13
APRIL 1918
* * *
THE ARLINGTON NEWS
Honyocker’s Homily ~ Sowing Seed
There are as many methods as there are farmers for determining the readiness of the earth for planting. I adopted the method preferred by my closest neighbor, Karl Mueller. The handful of dirt I squeezed did not clump together wetly or crumble drily. It held its shape. That means that planting can commence. Twenty acres of flax and twenty more of wheat. I thought this day would never come. Once again, I am than
kful for Plug. I hope he knows enough about plowing to make up for what I don’t. But folks have been sowing seeds for centuries—surely even one such as I can manage.
* * *
“Oof.” I tossed the harness over Plug’s sturdy back and adjusted it and then the neck halter. “Good boy, good boy.” I patted his withers. He stood patiently while I connected the chains from the bottom edge of the harness to the beam on the plow. I wrapped one rein around each hand and grabbed the plow handles. “Hi-yup!” Plug strolled out until the reins were taut. Then he stopped and turned his head back to look at me.
“Yes, we are going to plow this field. You and I. If it kills us.” I flicked the reins against his back. “And it may.”
Plug decided I was serious. He moved ahead. I put my weight onto the handles to keep the plowshare embedded in the sod. It sliced through the prairie grass, upturning a two-foot ribbon of chocolate-colored earth. “We’re plowing, Plug!” I flicked the reins again, and we cut another six feet or so of sod ribbon. My gloves rubbed with each bump of the handles.
Another six feet, and blisters sprouted on each hand, even with the gloves. After one complete row, the blisters were bleeding. After the fifth row, my shoulders ached so that I couldn’t feel my hands.
Several neighbors rode by and saw my “progress.” “The general idea is to plow in a straight line,” said Rooster Jim. “Not circles.” He laughed till his face was red.
Leafie passed by after I’d fallen hard in the sod. “That’s some kind of shiner,” she said, and handed me a packet of herbs. “Mix this with some bacon grease. It should help. Can’t stay. I want to check on Perilee.” My eye did feel better after her treatment.
Later, Karl rode by. We stood side by side, staring at my field. I don’t know what Karl was thinking, but I knew what I was thinking. I’d be ninety before I got forty acres plowed.
“Gar nicht gut.” He shook his head. “You need a machine,” he said, imitating turning a steering wheel. He had managed to get enough gasoline despite the shortages to run his tractor. Even with his rough English, he managed to make himself clear. He would plow for me, sixty acres, if twenty of it were his to harvest. I thought his offer over carefully…for about two seconds. We shook on the best deal I’d made in a long time.
A few days later, when Karl came to plow, I headed over to spend the day with Perilee. That was the other part of our deal; he didn’t like leaving her alone. The baby was due in June, but Leafie and I wondered if she’d make it till then. “What are you carrying, girl, an elephant?” Leafie had asked her. Perilee laughed. “You remember how it was with Fern,” she said. “You thought I was carrying twins.” They went on to discuss Fern’s arrival in great detail. Their conversation gave me pause. Of course, anything to do with babies and giving birth gave me pause. What I knew about those subjects would fit on the head of a pin. I was thankful Perilee wouldn’t have to rely on me. Not with Leafie around.
It was Monday, wash day—again. While the whites boiled, I scrubbed a load of the kids’ dungarees and overalls. Perilee’s condition made bending over the washboard and washtub awkward and uncomfortable. When I finished wringing something, I handed it to Chase or Mattie and they carried it to their mama so she could pin it to the line.
“Now, Hattie, don’t be surprised if our laundry attracts company.” Perilee shook out Mattie’s green gingham dress.
“Company?” I said. The last company I’d had was Rooster Jim. He’d stayed for supper and afterward beat me at chess. Again. His parting gift to me was to share his bedbugs. I used up nearly a quart of kerosene trying to kill them off.
Perilee stood up and rested her hands on the small of her back. “Last week a band of antelopes came up to inspect our skivvies flapping in the breeze!” She laughed—a sound I’d heard too few times lately—then a frown of pain flickered across her face.
“Chase, go on in and bring out that rocker for your mama.” I was pleased that Perilee had accepted my gift of that chair, paid for with my newspaper story money. “For the baby” was how I’d offered it. And for the baby was how she had accepted it. Growing up, I hadn’t been around children much. The relatives I’d been sent to all seemed to have raised their broods; I was an add-on. At first, after moving out here, Mattie’s constant chatter and baby Fern’s drooling had got on my nerves. But now I made a habit of carrying a handkerchief for Fern, and I’d come to enjoy Mattie’s observations. I thought she had the makings of a good writer herself. Charlie would have laughed out loud to see me warming up to these little ones. And that Chase! He’d whittled himself a good-sized niche in my heart. So good to his mama. And loyal as a little Turk to Karl. Smart as a whip, too. He’d finished up Treasure Island and was now tackling Riders of the Purple Sage.
“Here’s the chair.” Chase brought it over. I set it up in the only sliver of shade around and pushed Perilee into it. There was cool buttermilk yet, thanks to Violet, and I poured some in a tin cup. I wished it could’ve been a nice tall drink in a real glass.
“A penny for your thoughts.” Perilee settled herself in her chair.
I laughed. “I hate to admit it, but it was something Aunt Ivy used to say.” I handed Perilee the buttermilk. “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”
“My mama used to say that, too.” Perilee sipped at the buttermilk. “Course, sometimes wishes do come true.” She patted her stomach and took another drink. “Oh, this tastes good.” Fern wobbled toward her mother’s lap. I grabbed Chase by the overall strap. “You and Mattie take your baby sister. Go pick me some wild greens. I’ll throw them in the stew.”
Chase stopped and looked at me. “You better at stew than you are at bread?” His brown eyes were as serious as Sunday.
“Chase Samuel Johnson!” scolded Perilee.
Chase laughed. Such a nice clean sound. Perilee joined in.
“See if I ever cook for you again,” I said. But I laughed, too. My cooking had improved somewhat, but I’d never match Perilee in that department.
The children gathered up empty lard pails to collect the greens in and headed off to the coulee. Perilee finished her buttermilk. “I believe I’ll close my eyes for a minute,” she said. Her rocking slowed. Soon I heard soft snoring.
My arms and back complained like the dickens as I refilled the wash boiler, kept the water hot, rubbed grimy clothes on the washboard, wrung them out, and hung them to dry. Aunt Ivy used to say, “A man just works from sun to sun. A woman’s work is never done.” Let me testify to that!
I hung the last of Fern’s diapers and stretched. Perilee slept noisily in her chair. I decided to go after the children. As I walked, I mentally composed the next section of my latest Arlington News installment.
It would be dishonest of me to try to impress with my tracking skills, to hint that living out in this wild country had brought out the native in me, able to discern from this twisted leaf or that disturbed rock which way my prey had gone. The buffalo grass around Perilee’s house was tall but thick as moss; I had no trouble picking up the tracks of three barefoot children. Plus, I had the advantage of knowing the exact location of the greenest patch of wild parsley.
In short order, I’d come upon the three urchins, more intent on skipping stones across the creek than filling their buckets.
I bent to pick up a dark smooth stone.
“That’s no good for skipping,” said Chase.
“It’s a wishing rock,” I said. “Better than a skipping stone.”
“I want one, too,” said Mattie. I showed her how to look for a dark rock with a circle of white around it. “When you’re ready to make a wish, you close your eyes, then throw it over your shoulder,” I explained.
She filled her pockets with stones. “I’m saving these for later,” she said. “When I need a really good wish.”
“I like that idea.” I collected a dozen myself. One to wish for good planting. One for a good harvest. Two for Charlie’s safe return. Another for Perilee’s new baby. And a handful
for proving up.
I looked up from my collecting. Fern had toddled off. “Fern must be part fairy, with the way she’s so crazy about picking flowers,” I commented to Chase. Her sturdy little legs carried her through the grass from one patch of wildflowers to another. In one pudgy hand she carried a slightly smashed prairie rose, in the other a bent wild iris.
“Let’s gather a bouquet for Mama!” Mattie handed me her bucket and went to work. She and Chase scooped up a veritable rainbow of flowers. When they were done, Fern reluctantly contributed her two treasures to the nosegay.
“Won’t your mama be pleased.” I brushed the petals with my fingers. Would I ever be on the receiving end of such a bouquet from my own little ones? I’d never thought before that I might actually long for such a thing. I ruffled Chase’s hair. “We’d better start on back if I’m going to tackle stew yet today.”
Fern stuck a sap-sticky hand in mine. I picked up one bucket; Chase carried the two others. “I have to carry Mulie,” explained Mattie.
We strolled along at an easy pace, careful of little legs. I breathed deeply of the sweetly scented air. It reminded me of the fragrance I’d caught when I first stepped off the train in Wolf Point. Someone practical like Perilee might tell me it was only the buffalo grass, warmed to sweetness by the spring sun. But it was more than that: it was the smell of home. Of a place to belong.
I’d marked off nearly five months on my calendar. Wouldn’t Charlie be amazed at what I’d done in those five months? With my own two hands—and help from Karl—I’d set what felt like miles of fence. Soon my first crop would be planted. Come fall, I’d have flax and wheat to harvest. In November, the three years would be up on Uncle Chester’s claim. On my claim. And I would have everything checked off, everything accomplished. I would step into 1919 a new person—not Hattie Here-and-There, reliant on relatives to give her a roof and board, but Hattie Inez Brooks. Hattie Big Sky, I added with a touch of romance. Hattie Home-of-Her-Own.
