Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  As we carried water to my onions and beets and melons and carrots, I thought back to all the gallons of water I’d wasted in my life. Not here! Every drop was put to good use: even my Saturday night bathwater was stretched out, first washing me, then washing the cabin floor, and then washing the dust off the tiny flower garden by the front steps.

  I stood and tried to stretch the kinks out of my aching back. “Oof.”

  “Karl says it’s thirty-two days without rain. Mr. Nefzger says it’s thirty-one.” Chase dipped his hand in the pot, wetted his fingers, and sprinkled his red face with a few drops of water. “I think Karl’s right.”

  “I’d bet on Karl, too.” I tousled Chase’s hair. “If I was the gambling kind.”

  With Chase’s help, my chores were soon done. I sent him home. “We’ll be by for you tomorrow, early!” he called over his shoulder. I bustled myself inside, and soon there were four chokecherry pies cooling on the kitchen table—if it were possible to cool in this blamed heat. I’d taken to sleeping on my mattress out in front of the cabin in the last week. There wasn’t a breath of air inside at night, even with the door open.

  The first night I’d slept outside there was a lot of outside and not much sleeping. It’s amazing what you can hear when you’re stretched out on the prairie grass. Once the chickens settled, the night birds got to talking. Then there was the rustling grass all night long. I could only wish that rustle was caused by a breeze. But the air was as thick as corn syrup. No, these rustles belonged to the prairie night—pack rats and prairie dogs and who knew what else. Perilee had seen a skunk not long back. The only animal I didn’t much worry about was Violet’s wolf. There’d been no sign of it since that one winter’s day; bounty hunters no doubt had dispatched it, as they had most of the wolves in this part of the country.

  The second night I dragged my mattress outside, I was done in from lack of sleep, the heat, and pulling weeds all day. Sleep snatched me up as fast as the hawk I’d seen snatch up a field mouse that day. Though the mattress did little to smooth out the lumps on the ground, it was better than sleeping inside that oven of a house.

  Independence Day morning, Mr. Whiskers tickled me awake with a lick of his sandpaper tongue. I patted him, then stretched.

  “Ouch.” Every night I’d slept out, I’d found some new crick in my neck or back the next morning. I bent stiffly to pick up my mattress, took it back inside, and got myself organized for the day at Wolf Creek. In with the pies and the blanket and the fan from the National War Savings Day parade was something that would no doubt surprise everyone at the picnic.

  When I was ready, I added to the letter I’d started to Charlie: Here Leafie and I were worried about Lottie at first, being so small, but that child is now solid as a tin of lard. I wondered if the other children might have their noses out of joint a bit about the baby, but they all adore her. Mattie nearly mothers her to death! She got it into her head to make Lottie a quilt—“a sister quilt”—so I am helping her. The stitches are uneven but full of love.

  The jingle of harnesses made me set aside the letter, grab my hat, and take one last look around. If I’d forgotten anything, it would have to stay forgotten. I hefted my basket of goodies and stepped out to greet the Muellers.

  “Don’t you look the picture?” said Perilee. I smiled, noting with approval that there were some cherries in her cheeks. She’d been slow coming back from giving birth to Lottie.

  “A picture of a cooked goose, you mean.” I climbed up next to her and began to fan myself. “Do you think we’ll ever get a breath of breeze again?”

  “It’ll be cool by the creek,” she promised. “Nice and cool.” We rode along in companionable silence. It was too hot even to visit.

  “Hello there!” Rooster Jim helped the children out of the wagon when we reached the picnic grounds. Mattie ran straight to Leafie to show off Mulie’s new sunbonnet. Chase helped Karl settle the horses, then took off with Elmer junior and some of the boys from the Lutheran church to bob for critters at the creek.

  “Saved you a spot in the shade.” Leafie waved us over. We set out blankets and an apple box for Lottie’s bed.

  I served up sweet tea, and we chatted with some of the women from church. “Is this everyone?” I asked.

  “Nefzgers will be out after they close up the store at noon.” Leafie rolled her cool glass against her forehead. “They never miss a baseball game, not even Bub.”

  I smiled into my iced tea glass. Wait till they saw what Arlington, Iowa, had to offer!

  “Grace and Wayne will be along, too,” she continued, ticking our neighbors off on her fingers. “The Martins rarely come.”

  That would suit me fine.

  True to Leafie’s prediction, the Nefzgers arrived in the early afternoon.

  “Ready to play?” Bub called as he drove up in his wagon.

  Though there were some good-natured grumbles about the heat, soon enough a field was laid out and players divvied themselves up. It had been a long time since I’d been on a baseball field. Though none of my neighbors knew it, baseball was something I could do. And do well, thanks to Charlie’s patient instruction.

  I reached into my basket and brought out my surprise. “Can anyone play?” I asked, slipping my baseball mitt on my right hand.

  “What’s this?” Gust Trishalt spat juicily in my direction. He’d grumbled a bit earlier about the German folks from the Lutheran church playing. When Wayne pointed out that the name Trishalt sounded German, Gust shook his head. “It’s Swiss,” he said. “Swiss.” I figured he’d fume more about me playing than the Lutherans.

  “A willing player,” I told him.

  Gust hooted at that. “’Spect you’d better play, then.” He thumbed toward young Paul Schillinger. “On t’other team.”

  I nodded and went to join Paul’s team. We would have first ups. Hitting was not my strength, but I managed a serviceable single after Paul’s own single. Henry Henshaw hit Paul in with a powerful double. Then Chase came up to bat.

  “Bunt!” I hollered. Even in this heat, I was pretty sure I could beat out a bunt and make it home.

  But boys will be boys. With two outs, Chase swung for heaven, three times.

  “You’re out!” called Reverend Tweed.

  Chase dropped his bat dejectedly. “I almost had it,” he said.

  Reverend Tweed patted him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time,” he said. “Now, get on out in the field with your team.”

  Chase took his position in left field. We put all the young ones in the field, figuring they had the energy to actually run after any ball that might find its way out there. Paul took the ball and headed for the pitcher’s mound. The first batter he faced was Wayne Robbins.

  “See if you can hit this,” boasted Paul.

  Wayne had a good eye. He connected sweetly and sent the ball sailing. So did the next five batters.

  “None away,” called Reverend Tweed as yet another batter came to the plate. “Score’s five to one.”

  “Hey, Paul,” I called out from third base. “Come here.” Paul looked puzzled but came over to see what I had to say. I wish I’d had a camera to capture the expression on his face when I suggested we trade spots.

  “But I always pitch,” he said.

  I pointed to the loaded bases. “This well?”

  He shook his head but handed me the ball. I hurried out to the pitcher’s mound.

  “Now wait a minute,” called Gust.

  “Mow ’em down, Hattie,” Leafie hollered.

  Reverend Tweed wiped his face. “Play ball!”

  Charlie would’ve been so tickled to see me strike out the first two batters. Six pitches was all it took.

  Then Wayne stepped up to bat again. “Show me your best stuff,” he called.

  “It’s so fast, you won’t even be able to see it.” Bragging wasn’t ladylike, but it was part of the fun of baseball.

  “Fast for a girl, maybe,” he egged.

  That did it! He wa
s getting a snake ball.

  I wound up and delivered. The ball spun toward the plate. And Wayne smacked it a good one. It soared over my head and far out into the field. The runners emptied the bases and the game was over. We’d been royally beaten.

  “I’m sorry, Paul.” I handed the ball back to our captain.

  “It’s only a game,” he said. Then he winked. “I bet you’ll get him next time.” We shook on it.

  “Next time,” I said.

  “Ice cream’s ready,” Pa Schillinger announced. It was just the thing atop a slice of my chokecherry pie, even if I do say so myself.

  We visited and ate. Perilee and I walked down by the creek, shedding shoes and stockings to cool our feet. We filled our lunch baskets with wild plums from a tree at the creek bank, then rejoined the others and visited some more. Pa Schillinger was the first to pack up. “Evening chores,” he explained.

  “We best be going, too,” said Perilee. I helped her carry the picnic things and tired, dirty children to the wagon.

  Mattie screeched when Perilee tried to set her in the back of the wagon. “I wanna sit with Hattie!”

  “Okay, sweetie.” I took her from her mother and we settled on the wagon seat. Within a few minutes, she was sound asleep, her little body a hot water bottle on my lap. The front of my dress was drenched in perspiration.

  As we neared the trail to my place, I eased Mattie onto Perilee’s lap. “Drop me here,” I told Karl. “I’ll cool off as I walk.” I kissed the top of Mattie’s head, fetched my basket from the back, and strolled the rest of the way home. My dress front was nearly dry by the time my house came into view. I sat on the front step, drinking in the sweet scent of the wild plums in the basket on my lap, first enjoying the memory of the lovely day and then thinking about how to end this month’s “Honyocker’s Homily.”

  The sound of riders nudged me out of my reverie. Cowboys often rode my way, chasing down the odd Tipped M cow or two. These riders, three of them, appeared to be headed east, toward the Martins’. One rider broke off from the others. He turned his horse—a very large horse—my way.

  “Evening, Hattie.” I could smell whiskey from where I stood. “You have a nice time at the picnic?”

  “I did, Mr. Martin.” I stood up and turned to go in. There’d be no sleeping out tonight.

  “Hot, isn’t it?” He flicked the end of the reins at a mosquito. “Even worse than last summer.”

  “Yes, it is hot.” Surely he hadn’t ridden over simply to discuss the weather.

  “Of course, last year we had the grasshoppers, too.” Traft shifted in the saddle. “One minute the sky was as clear as Wolf Creek.” He paused to look up, studying the twilight sky.

  “Next it was dark as night and thick with grasshoppers.”

  I shivered.

  “Gorley’s wheat was gone in minutes.” Traft shook his head in an exaggerated display of sympathy. “Robbins’ too. The flax was next. They didn’t have enough of a crop left to cover seed money.” He snorted a rough laugh. “Course, it wasn’t only crops they got. I left my good jacket hanging on the fence post. Danged if those hoppers didn’t munch their way through that, too.”

  “What is your point, Mr. Martin?” There was a point, of course. And tingles down my spine made me certain it wasn’t a good point.

  “Trying to get your attention,” he said. He slipped off his horse. “That’s all.”

  Crackling prairie noises carried softly on the air. I strained my ears over them to listen for the clicking of grasshopper legs and wings.

  “Well, you have it.”

  He took a few steps toward me. “This is a hard life,” he said in a gentler voice.

  I had to laugh. “Stop the presses!”

  “Hattie.” He paused for a moment. “We got off on the wrong foot somehow.”

  “Wrong foot?” The levity was short-lived. “You call setting a man’s barn on fire the wrong foot? Leading a mob against Mr. Ebgard the wrong foot?” I slapped my palms against my skirt in anger.

  He reached me in one stride, grabbed my arm, and shook it so hard, plums went flying from my basket. “I want you to listen to me. To finish what I started to say once.”

  Was I getting used to his bullying ways? My legs didn’t wobble one bit. I eyed his hand, and he turned me loose.

  “I didn’t set the fire at Karl’s. By the time I heard about it, it was too late to stop them. And don’t ask me who it was.” He turned his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “But I was able to drag the burning bundle away from your barn before it went, too.”

  “What?” He’d been trying to save my barn, not burn it?

  “And that thing with Ebgard. It did get out of hand, I admit.” He shook his head, then cursed. “There’s laws that say we got to support this country, this war. And when folks like Ebgard dodge their duty—”

  “You have a nerve,” I snapped. “Dodging his duty? What about yours? There you stand safe and sound while people like Elmer and—and—” I wouldn’t even mention Charlie’s name to this man. “Countless others go off to fight.”

  Traft reacted as if I’d whipped him. “You’re right. That’s what they all think. That I’m shirking my real duty.” He rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t wait to get drafted like some. I enlisted.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  “Same thing I wondered a dozen times over.” He reached down and picked up one of the wild plums he’d jarred from my basket. “Then I found out. Mother finagled the governor to appoint me to the Council of Defense. The draft board said that could be my service.” He rolled the plum in his hand, then cocked back his arm and fired the fruit off into the night.

  The look on Traft’s face was all too familiar. I’d seen it on my own face countless times while I lived with Aunt Ivy. I felt as if the final piece of a crazy quilt had just been stitched in place. This was one angry man. Angry at his mother, yes. But no doubt angrier at himself for letting someone else run his life. A thought presented itself to me—an understanding thought. Traft and I had that in common. Before coming out here, I hadn’t much say in my own life either.

  I couldn’t help myself; in that moment, I granted Traft forgiveness for the ugly actions his bitterness had led him to. “I am sorry,” I said, “for your troubles.” Do this unto the least of these, the Bible taught. I could almost feel the star being added to my heavenly crown for this gesture.

  He turned to face me. “You see, then, why I need your land.”

  “What?” My crown slipped. “No, I mean, I’m sorry for your troubles, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Is it that fellow you write all them letters to?” Traft’s eyes bored into me. “Are you working the place for him?”

  “Charlie?” This conversation zigged and zagged like the rickrack on Mattie’s dress. “Traft, I do thank you for saving my barn. And for attempting to save Karl’s. But this conversation is over.”

  “You won’t sell?” It was dark enough now that I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the tone of his voice oozed barely controlled anger.

  For some strange reason, Aunt Ivy’s voice came to me at that moment. A proper young woman turns down at least two proposals before accepting one, she’d told me once. She’d been speaking of marriage proposals, of course, but I decided to take her advice anyway. “No,” I said, turning down his offer to buy my land for a second time. “Good night, Traft.” I strode up my two rickety steps with as much pride as I could summon. I turned as I opened the door, but he was already astride Trouble, wheeling the big horse around. They thundered out of my yard.

  That wasn’t the only thunder I heard that night. The skies opened up and rain—glorious rain—quenched the dust-dry prairie.

  Listening to the patter on my roof, I sat myself down and wrote the conclusion to my July “Honyocker’s Homily”:

  My uncle’s hero is Abraham Lincoln, surely the ultimate symbol of independence. One of the stories I love best about Lincoln is that after his election to of
fice, he appointed some of his bitterest enemies to his cabinet. It seems then, as now, the greatest freedom is found in forgiveness. Let us embrace that element of liberty as we forgive our enemies as we forgive ourselves.

  June 15, 1918

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Hattie,

  I’ve thought of you often lately. How you used to make me laugh, how you used to wind up like a windmill before you threw a ball, how you used to blow at the hair falling across your forehead. A fellow needs to think of pleasant things like that.

  I came here thinking I was going to win this war and come on home in no time at all. Now I think I’ll never leave this mud and cold and misery.

  I know you expect your old pal to be full of humor, but my best buddy died this morning. I was not twenty yards from him. In all the training, they never told us about the smell of death.

  For the first time, I was not so confident of coming home. Not so confident of anything. I always bragged about killing some Germans. Killing is nothing to brag about. Nothing at all.

  Yours,

  Charlie

  CHAPTER 19

  AUGUST 1918

  * * *

  THE ARLINGTON NEWS

  Honyocker’s Homily ~ Reaping What Was Sown

  I could now give demonstrations at the state agricultural college on cutting and threshing grain. Plug was joined by his pals Joey and Star, as well as Wayne Robbins’ horse, Sage. The foursome was hitched to the binder (by these very hands, after no small effort) and off they went through my wheat field. The flax had already been cut. That had been hard, as I hadn’t been ready to give up my own little ocean. For that’s what a field of flax in bloom looks like: acres and acres of sea-blue flowers, rippling in the August winds like waves.

  Now the horse-pulled machine cut a swathe—literally—through the wheat. A reel feeds the standing grain into the sickle, where it is cut. I do not know for certain what magic is worked inside the binder, but the final product is a tied bundle of grain. These bundles—shocks to us farmers—are left standing on the cut end to dry. After my first day of binding, I surveyed my kingdom with no less pleasure than any royal personage. In a few weeks’ time, my neighbors will come to help thresh my grain. My grain. Are there any lovelier words in creation? You longtime farmers may laugh at my enthusiasm, but I ask you to think back to your first harvest. I believe you will have to admit to such feelings yourself.