Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  “Good girl!” Funny how such a small thing can cause complete elation. Yawning, I rinsed out the bowl. I had to sit. Just for a minute. The rocker was right there. Oh, it was heaven to be off my feet. For a minute.

  I jerked awake. Heart pounding, I flew to check on my charges. Lottie was cooler and sleeping quietly. Fern’s color seemed improved, and Perilee was still sound asleep. When I got to Mattie, her lips were as purple as the spring crocus, her skin the color of wet ashes. She was mumbling, calling for Mulie.

  “Here she is, sweet, right here.” I placed the rag doll in her arms. But she didn’t seem to see it. She kept reaching, kept crying out.

  “Mama!” she said. And then she was quiet. I picked her up to rock her, her hot tiny body spooned next to mine. I rocked her for several minutes before I realized the awful grating sound had stopped.

  “Mattie?” No response. I took her warm hand and squeezed it, one-two-three. Nothing.

  “Mattie, honey. Wake up.” I held her close. Oh God, don’t take this child. Please don’t take this child.

  I kept rocking for quite some time. If I kept rocking, it wouldn’t be real. Mattie would wake up from this sleep, calling for Mulie and chattering away about the wonderful dreams she’d had. She’d wiggle off my lap and want to play nurse to Mulie, as I’d played nurse to her. She’d sing a warbly lullaby to Fern and Lottie. She’d pat her mother’s cheek. She’d do all those things and more if only I kept rocking. Then she’d wake up.

  Fern stirred. “Mama,” she moaned.

  “Shh, shh,” I quieted her. “I’m with Mattie now.”

  Fern’s voice woke Lottie and she began to cry. I slowed the rocker. The others needed me. I had to get up again.

  Even though she could no longer feel it, I stroked Mattie’s forehead. My heart unraveled as I bent to kiss her. Why this sweet child? Oh, why? I stopped the rocker and sat for several minutes more, tears pooling in my eyes, holding that precious body.

  “Mama,” Fern whimpered.

  I stood up and carried Mattie to the parlor. I gently laid our little magpie down on the sofa, Mulie across her chest. Slowly I slid a quilt up over her pudgy toes, over those hands I’d held in mine so many times, and lastly over the top of her brown curls.

  “Hattie?” Perilee’s weak voice straggled out of the bedroom.

  “Coming.” I wiped my eyes with my apron. As much as I wanted to have someone share this pain, I knew I could not tell Perilee. Not yet. Not till she was out of the woods herself.

  The day passed in a blur of bathing, cleaning, feeding, and forcing that vile tea into Fern, Lottie, and Perilee. I didn’t dare sleep. I would not sleep. Only by staying awake could I keep death from visiting this house again.

  At breakfast the third day, Leafie came. “I was by your place and the chickens were cussing up a storm to be fed,” she said. “Figured you were here.”

  “It’s bad, Leafie.” I wanted to fall into her arms and be comforted, as I hadn’t been able to comfort Perilee.

  Leafie took in the quilt-shrouded body I had placed in the parlor.

  “Ah, no. Not our magpie. Our Mattie.” She knelt by the sofa for several minutes. “Does Perilee know?”

  I nodded, aching with the rawness of that memory. Perilee had been so strangely quiet when I’d told her the bad news. It was as if she’d known it all along, even in her fevered state.

  Leafie closed her eyes. I handed her a handkerchief and we stood together, arms around each other’s waist, weeping for the senseless loss.

  She dabbed her eyes. “We need to bathe her. Dress her.” Her voice caught. “What does Perilee want her to wear?” That question started a fresh new flood of tears. But we composed ourselves, and Leafie went to talk with Perilee. She brought back Mattie’s Sunday school dress. Then we bathed and dressed her one last time.

  As we were finishing, I heard horses. Karl and Chase! I stopped them at the door. “Don’t come in. This house is full of the influenza.” I could not meet Karl’s eyes. “You’d best stay at my place for a while.”

  Karl nodded. He sent Chase on a pointless errand to the barn. “There is bad news,” he said.

  I pulled my shawl tighter. “Mattie.” It was all I could manage.

  Karl covered his eyes with his hands. Then he nodded again and turned away.

  The next day, Karl came back with a small, sound coffin he had built himself. October 28, the day I turned seventeen, was now a funeral day.

  Perilee was still too ill to move, so Karl, Leafie, Chase, and I would bury our girl.

  I had asked Karl to bring my navy dress. And something else. “My flowers are all withered,” I said. “Go to Uncle Chester’s trunk in the barn. Bring me the crepe paper flowers you’ll find there.”

  The morning of the funeral, I melted paraffin on the stove and then carefully dipped each crepe paper flower. I carried the waxy bouquet carefully as I joined the others. Before Karl closed the coffin lid, I took one last look, pleased to see Mulie tucked by Mattie’s side.

  “I did that,” said Chase. “I didn’t want her to be lonely.”

  I pressed my fingertips to my lips, not wanting to cry in front of Chase. After a moment, I felt composed enough to put my arm through his and we followed Leafie and Karl out beyond the house.

  “Perilee wants her here,” said Karl.

  Karl, Chase, Leafie, and I stood by the freshly dug grave, on the top of the coulee east of the house. “She can see the sunrise each morning,” said Karl.

  “You gonna say some words?” asked Leafie.

  “Me?”

  Leafie gave me a look. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I didn’t know what words to say. I began anyway.

  “Lord, it may take you some time to get used to our Mattie. She can talk your ear off.”

  Chase and Karl both nodded.

  “But you’ll soon come to see that knowing her is like having sunshine and strawberries every day. We ask you to take very good care of our little magpie. And help us, Lord…” Here my voice wobbled. “Help us get used to the quiet spaces she used to fill up.”

  Leafie blew her nose. “Amen.”

  Chase wrapped his arms around my waist, and I held him close. Karl lifted shovel-after shovelful of dirt onto the fine wooden box he’d built. We stayed until the hole was filled. Then I planted the three waxed flowers I’d brought. I felt as if I might crack in two as we all carried our sorrow back to the house.

  Ours was not the only loss on that prairie. The Nefzgers lost their Leta, Mr. Ebgard his wife. Not even the wealth of the Martins could save them from grief: the youngest boy, Lon, survived his bout, as did Sarah, but their mother, who was a faithful nurse to both, did not.

  Mr. Dye sold far too many black armbands for mourning and kept selling them right into November.

  CHAPTER 22

  NOVEMBER 1918

  * * *

  THE ARLINGTON NEWS

  Honyocker’s Homily ~ Quilting Lessons

  In my year on the prairie, I have learned to quilt. At the beginning, my fingertips bled from needle pricks that caught skin rather than the fabric. My eyes crossed from picking out stitches when I tried to pair up two acrimonious fabrics. My neck ached from crooking over the quilting frame.

  Slowly my skills improved. Calluses formed on my fingertips, my eye grew skilled at selecting friendlier fabrics to piece into the same block, and my neck is now accustomed to hunching over my work. And I can turn the saddest rag of a shirt to find the one good spot that can be snipped out and turned into a quilt patch. As much as I have improved, however, I have learned neither how to piece together a ledger book when the money isn’t there nor how to take a bitter loss and turn it this way or that to find a “good side.”

  * * *

  I took a cup of coffee and sat on my front steps, staring at that great expanse of Montana sky. A few short months ago, I’d seen it as a magic carpet, carrying me to my dreams. Now this sky held no promise.

  I thought back to finding that pho
to of my family in Uncle Chester’s trunk. I thought maybe it meant to keep going, that all would work out. But nothing short of a miracle would allow me to finish proving up on the claim. Last evening, after supper, I’d gone over my ledger half a dozen times. Each time I got the same answer. And it wasn’t good. They were the kind of numbers Uncle Holt would have written in red ink. And though I had prayed and figured and thought and schemed, I could not come up with a way to make those numbers look any better. This was beyond being short the $37.75 for the filing fee. This was debt. Owing folks. Something I’d come out here to avoid. There were still a few bushels of grain to sell for feed but that wouldn’t make a dent in my empty money pot.

  My stomach felt as if I’d eaten a bushel of green apples. Doing what I needed to do to prove up my claim had left me more beholden to the folks who meant something to me—Karl and Wayne Robbins and Mr. Nefzger—than I’d ever been to all those relatives I’d lived with.

  Maybe I could’ve rallied myself. Before. But Mattie’s death had upended me; I couldn’t get my footing. It was enough of an accomplishment to write my final installment for the Arlington News. I had no idea how to settle my accounts. And no heart for it, either.

  I sat, quiet and alone. No tears. No shaking my fist at God. Nothing but a heavy stone in my chest that used to be a heart filled with dreams and possibilities. There should be fireworks, at least, when a dream dies. But no, this one had blown apart as easily as a dandelion gone to seed.

  Perhaps there was no escaping my role of Hattie Here-and-There. Perhaps that was my fate in life. My call. Trouble was, while I might be able to talk my head into such a thought, my heart wasn’t buying any of it. My heart wanted a place to belong. A home of my own.

  A cloud of dust from the northeast clued me in to company coming. Over the coulee burst Rooster Jim, jouncing astride his new Indian motorcycle. It appeared he had a better handle on this vehicle than he did on the bicycle.

  “Hattie, didja hear?” He roared into the yard. “The war’s over. The boys will be coming home.” He parked his motorcycle and then himself on the step next to me. “You don’t look very happy about the news.”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful, Jim.” Charlie would be coming home, safe and sound. And all the Vida men I’d gotten to know. There’d be no more gold stars in anyone’s windows. And maybe things would go easier for folks like Karl and Elmer Ren and all the others. “Wonderful news, really.”

  Rooster Jim reached over and put his hand on mine. “I hope you don’t plan a career on the stage,” he said. “I love you, child, but you can’t act worth beans.”

  That won him a weak smile. I showed him my ledger. “I guess you’ll have to find a new chess partner,” I told him.

  Rooster Jim shook his shaggy head. We sat in silence for a long time. I have no idea what he was thinking, but I thought back to all our chess games. And his wild bicycle ride. And nearly drowning Rose trying to get her to be a good hen. Funny memories like that should make you laugh. Not cry.

  “You worked like a trouper to make it go, Hattie. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I thought about that. I wasn’t ashamed, but I was heartbroken. “I did give it a good shot, didn’t I?” I sniffled.

  “That you did.” Jim reached in his pocket for pipe and tobacco. He filled his pipe and lit it, puffing noisily. “You know, my mama used to say the Lord works in mysterious ways—”

  I held up my hand to stop him. “That was Aunt Ivy’s favorite saying, too. Well, letting me lose the claim is more than mysterious. It’s downright mean.”

  “Now, I know my mama’s still fussing about me up there.” Jim pointed heavenward and gave a wink. “But she’d be proud to know I believe it.”

  “What?”

  “That things have a way of working themselves out. That there’s reasons for our valleys and for our peaks.”

  “Well, I’m ready for a peak. And soon.” I stood up and brushed off my skirt.

  “Maybe you should trust in that Lord of yours. I suspect He’s got a grand plan for someone like you.” He pushed himself up, too, then moved toward his motorcycle.

  I felt bad to have been so short with him. He certainly had done his share to help me out. “Jim, I’m so down. I didn’t mean to drive you off.”

  He laughed. “Takes more than a cranky word to drive me away. I want to spread the good news about the armistice before it gets dark.” He straddled the motorcycle and started it up. I watched his dust trail for a good long while.

  The past few months played through my mind. I shook my head at my own foolishness. I had been so determined to do everything on my own when I first arrived. Chase had had to rescue me from my own stupidity on my very first homestead day. There were so many people who’d helped me. I pressed my fingers against my lips to keep from crying. It sure seemed like this was where I belonged. There was Leafie, with her blustery talk and gentle ways. And Jim. Of course, I couldn’t even let myself think about Perilee and the children. And Mattie.

  I resumed my list: Grace at church, Bub Nefzger, Mr. Ebgard. Oh, he had been my white knight that day with Traft.

  My white knight! He’d rescued me once before. Maybe he could help me again. He might know some way around this, something I could do. I freshened myself up, mounted Plug, and headed to Wolf Point.

  I launched into my story as soon as I burst in Mr. Ebgard’s door.

  “Slow down, Hattie,” he said. “And sit down.”

  I did both, then finished my thought. “I was wondering…” I had come up with this idea on my ride into Wolf Point. “Could I reapply? Start over?” I leaned forward. “I have some debts to pay off first.”

  “Oh, Hattie.” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d loan the money myself—”

  “I’m not asking that.” I sat up straighter. “Just a chance to start again. You know. Like Chester did.”

  He chewed on his moustache. “I wish you could. But…” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “There’s no such provision. The three-year deadline is firm.”

  My heart, which had been so full of hope on the whole long ride to town, slumped like a fallen layer cake. “I had to try…” I stood up. “I do thank you, Mr. Ebgard. For everything.”

  His mouth dipped down at the corners, as if he might cry, too. “This is no comfort, I’m sure, but you aren’t the only one.” He rearranged the papers on his desk. “Mabel and Elmer Ren, the Saboes, and…” His voice drifted off. “It was a bad year. Nobody’s fault. Next year we’ll shake these hard times.”

  “Next year,” I echoed. Who had told me some folks called this next-year country? Well, next year wouldn’t be better for me. Not here, anyway. I shook his hand and stepped outside. The November wind came up behind me and knocked me off balance. As if it was telling me to leave, too.

  “Miss Brooks.”

  I turned. Could the day get any worse? “Mr. Martin.” Something in his face caught at me. The confidence was diminished; there was actually a softness behind those eyes. Of course. “I am sorry about your mother,” I said.

  “Thank you.” He smiled ruefully. “She got her wish, didn’t she? The war ended before I could fight.”

  There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response.

  “I’m looking forward to being done with the Council of Defense, too,” he said. “Get back to being a rancher. That’s what I know best.”

  Being a rancher. It was an opening, and I was desperate enough to take it. “Mr. Martin.” I put my hand on his arm. “Traft. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” There was no way around it. I’d have to sell to Traft. But it would leave me with enough money to buy a house. Maybe in Wolf Point. Or even in Vida.

  “I don’t—”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m ready to sell.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not buying.” As hurtful as the words were, they were said without anger.

  My stomach looped itself into a knot. “Not buying? But you wanted to expand the Tipped M. You wanted past
ure land—”

  He turned to face me. “I’m a businessman. Why should I buy your claim now?”

  “I’d take four hundred,” I said. “That’s half of what you offered before.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Hattie, I can get it for next to nothing. At the end of the month, when the county takes it back.” Was there a twinge of sadness in his eyes? A touch of pity for my loss? “I pay the back taxes and it’s mine.” He gently removed my hand from his arm—I hadn’t even realized it was still there—and strode off.

  Perilee opened her front door to me the next morning. How many times had I climbed those steps since January? I couldn’t begin to count. “Coffee’s on and I’ve got strudel, fresh from the oven.” She pulled me into a hug as I stepped over the threshold and held me there extra long. When we stepped apart, she quickly ducked her head, but not before I saw the weary pain in her brown eyes.

  I waved at Karl, out by the new barn with Wayne Robbins. They were poking around Karl’s tractor. “Hey there, Hattie,” Wayne called out. Karl simply returned my wave.

  “Something wrong with the tractor?” I asked. Wayne was a whiz with persnickety engines.

  Perilee poured two mugs of coffee. “Sit you down. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Settled with a cup of Perilee’s coffee and a slice of apple heaven on the plate in front of me, I nearly lost my nerve to tell her my story. Maybe if I didn’t say it out loud, it wouldn’t be true.

  “I do, too. I went into Wolf Point yesterday,” I began. “Saw Mr. Ebgard.”

  “And?” Perilee’s fork paused over her slice of strudel.

  “I—” My head bowed and the tears I’d so fiercely held back in front of Traft fell fast and furious. I lifted my face to meet my good friend’s. “I’ve lost it, Perilee. Uncle Chester’s claim.” I fumbled in my skirt pocket for a handkerchief to wipe my drippy nose. “My claim.”

  “Oh, sugar!” Perilee jumped up, skimmed around the table, and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “I thought I’d have a home of my own,” I blubbered. “B-b-but now I’ve got nothing.”