I started to have that talk with God, praying in earnest.
“Listen …,” Billy rasped.
“Billy?” There was a clarity in his eyes I hadn’t seen an hour earlier.
“Listen to me …”
I leaned down, closer. “I can hear,” I said.
“I need to tell …” His eyes closed.
“I’m here, Billy. I’m here.”
“The kiss … I knew you’d tell … I knew you’d see it from your grandfather’s study. I planned it so you’d see … Agatha said good-bye. I made it look … more … whistled …”
I sat back.
Billy opened his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to sit up.
“Lie down,” I ordered.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want Agatha to marry Olmstead. Thought Agatha would come back to me if he was gone. She didn’t come back. She ran off. I knew then she’d never come back. When she ran off, I asked Polly to marry me.”
It had taken everything out of him to say it, cost him strength. He continued: “I do love Polly. She would have been … good wife.”
At that moment, I did not care about Polly. I also did not care that he had used the third conditional tense—“would have been”—suggesting the end was in sight.
“You manipulated me?” I said.
He did not answer.
“Used me? Answer me, Billy. If it’s the last thing you do, you tell me.”
Billy opened his mouth. “Yes …”
I stood up and looked down at him prone on the ground, so weak—nearly dead, as far as I could tell.
“So, so sorry … why I came here. To make up.”
I stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Finally, I said: “You did not show love to my sister. You never cared for me. You talk to your maker about it.” And I walked off.
I did not go far.
Furious? Oh yes.
But Billy was dying, for heaven’s sake. Dying. There is a night-and-day difference between “dying” and “dead.”
I turned around, went back, and sat near his head. I told him how it would be (not knowing if he could hear): “My name is Georgina Burkhardt. Miss Burkhardt to you. We are no longer on a first-name basis. In fact, from this day forward, we are strangers.”
It was what I imagined Grandfather Bolte would say under such circumstances. How I missed him then! My grandfather always knew what to say, and I imitated him as best I could. I tipped my chin into the air, and I gave Billy a stare as hard as granite. (It did not matter that Billy’s eyes were closed as I did it. It made me feel better.)
Then I whispered into Billy’s ear: “I’ll sit with you, Billy. I won’t leave. I’m right here. You are not alone.”
Billy’s mouth jerked open as if to speak. I leaned in. But all I heard was a hiss, a hard swallow, and “Fry.”
I put my head on my knees and started to cry.
Rocks popping under wheels.
Wheels. Not horse hooves.
I ran into the center of the road, waving the hand that didn’t hold the repeater. “Stop! Help! Man hurt! Help me, please!” I yelled.
The wagon pulled over to the side. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Mr. Benjamin Olmstead.
Next thing I remember is waking in that miraculous room in the American House in Dog Hollow. It wasn’t a fancy room. It was slightly larger than a pantry, and held only a bed, a wooden chair, and a mirrored dresser with a bowl and water pitcher set on top. A small square window had been opened for a breeze.
But it was a room without memories. It did not suggest any pasts or futures. It was simply a room in a place in time. The ropes of the bed had been turned tight. The sheets were clean. A rug lay folded at the foot of the bed. In the closet hung a new set of clothes—everything from snow-white bloomers to a fine cloth blouse and, finally, a store-bought split skirt. (Where had Mr. Olmstead found that?) The miraculous continued when I saw breakfast laid out on a table and, on the floor, a large copper tub for bathing. Every bit of it was paid for by Mr. Olmstead.
I did not remember how I got back to Dog Hollow, or to the inn. I later learned that Mr. Olmstead had traveled with his groundskeeper. Mr. Olmstead had lifted me into the back of the wagon, where I immediately fell asleep. The groundskeeper had found Billy. It took both men to get Billy into the wagon.
Hours later I was rubbing my eyes and pushing off sheets that smelled of sunshine. It seemed to be midmorning, though of what day, I could not say.
I walked to the mirrored dresser. Is that me? I thought upon seeing my reflection. The only thing that seemed familiar was my right eye. Then I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and splashed it on my face. After drying off, I put my finger on the great bruise and followed its orange and green shoreline as it skimmed around my left eye and lapped against the side of my nose. The deep purple of it lay over my eye and cheekbone. Tentatively I pressed it, watching it lighten and darken. It was tender.
A knock at the door. “You up?” came a voice.
Then, without waiting for my reply, a woman opened the door and walked in.
Unexpected entries no longer suited me. My encounters with bad men (and a certain cougar) had left me skittish. I hopped right into a corner.
“It’s all right, kitten. I’m the owner here, Mrs. Tartt,” she cooed. She was a storybook character come to life: broomstick-yellow hair, red skirt, blue apron, and green-checked blouse. She held out a hand. I stepped away from the wall but did not come closer.
She put her hand down and said gently: “Mr. Olmstead is right downstairs, sitting on the porch waiting for you. You eat that breakfast. I’ll fill this tub with hot water and we’ll get you cleaned up. Then you can go downstairs. Mr. Olmstead says you’ll be leaving this morning. Billy will be staying with us for a week or so until the doctor says he can travel. Righty-ho?”
Mr. Olmstead is here. Billy is still alive. Relief flooded me.
In twenty minutes, the tub was filled and breakfast proclaimed done, and Mrs. Tartt was scrubbing my body clean. She said she did not trust the job of scrubbing me to anyone but herself. That wasn’t the only thing she said either. She kept up a near-constant monologue as she worked over my body with a brush: “My land, these bruises! There’s society and savagery, and you sure crossed that line. We’ve got to bring you back.”
You might think I’d be offended, but I wasn’t. The warm water felt nice. Mrs. Tartt never scrubbed too hard. And it was clear she didn’t expect a response. Her words ran off my back into the water with everything else. When I stepped out of the copper tub and into the towel she held for me, what I’d left behind looked like pond water. I half expected a catfish to surface through the murk for air.
I refused to let her take my old clothes. (She threatened to “burn the whole lot.”) After she closed the door, I folded those old clothes gently and tucked them into one of the saddlebags.
I did not meet Mr. Olmstead right away as—yes—I was told to do. See, there was one more question I needed to ask, now that I was back in Dog Hollow. Funny how it was one of the first things Ma had asked me to check when Agatha went missing, and yet I’d been in Dog Hollow two times and had never inquired.
I snuck out a back door of the American House and went to the train station. There were a lot of ifs: if Agatha still had her money, if she was not injured, if she was not forced to run away because the people she traveled with were of questionable quality. But maybe my sister had taken the train.
“State your business. I am not here to gossip.” The stationmaster’s fingers scrambled over small stacks of paper.
He stopped and eyed me.
“I don’t gossip,” I said.
I got out the photograph of Agatha, slid it under the glass, and said loudly: “Did this young lady buy a ticket from you? It would have been near the end of May. About three weeks ago? She’s got the prettiest auburn hair.”
“This is a busy station. I don’t take time to notice facial features and hair coloration,”
said the man. He pushed the photograph back at me without so much as a glance.
I blocked the passage of the photograph with my hand. “If you haven’t seen her, she’s dead. I’m her sister. Please take a look.”
The stationmaster frowned, but he took the photograph into his hands and gazed upon it for a lengthy second or two.
He pushed it back under the glass toward me. “There may have been a young lady like this. She had a hood over her hair. She left early in the morning.”
“Where did she go?”
“I do not know, miss. I barely remember the encounter.”
I thought for a moment. “Have you met Darlene Garrow? The young lady that lives up on the bluff with her family?”
He crossed his arms then. “I knew it. Gossip! That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”
I did not know what he was talking about, so I pressed on. “Was the young lady you saw Darlene Garrow?”
“Are you implicating me in all of that?” At this, he picked up a stack of papers again. When I did not budge, he said: “Anything else you need? A ticket perhaps?”
“Was this young lady alone or with someone?”
“Gossips!” he said. He drew the shade on his window.
The stationmaster’s agitation made no sense until I joined Mr. Olmstead on the porch of the American House.
Mr. Olmstead jumped up as soon as he saw me, and came over. “The men that did this to you will be captured. The sheriff and the federal marshal have recruited a posse to track down Mr. Garrow and his man. The federal marshal has been trying to find a gang of counterfeiters, and it looks like you and Billy found them. He’s determined to catch them. The posse left early this morning.”
What was Mr. Olmstead talking about? How did he know about the counterfeiters? And what did he mean by “the men that did this to you”? Then part of it dawned on me: “Are you talking about my face?”
“Someone hit you.”
I sighed. “Everyone seems to deduce that I got hit, but I fell. I fell off a big pile of rocks, landed on my cheek, and earned this bruise fair and square. Mr. Garrow and his man are innocent of hurting me. I hurt them. The man traveling with Mr. Garrow? Well, I accidently shot off his thumb.” I realized how that sounded, and added: “In defense! He was going to hurt Billy.”
Mr. Olmstead’s eyes went wide. “You shot off his thumb?”
“With Billy’s repeater. I was aiming for the stock of the Springfield and that was where he’d placed his thumb.” I saw the look on his face. “It’s a long story,” I said.
“That’s a story I’d like to hear,” he said. He chuckled. “Billy told us that there were two of them, and that there was counterfeiting involved. But it was your face that made me act.” He grinned at me. “Now I see that no one should underestimate Georgie Burkhardt.”
“How is Billy?” I said.
“The doctor said he’s lucky to be living. Six broken ribs. Some damage to his organs. He’ll stay until the doctor says he’s rested enough to travel. He’s probably awake. Do you want to see him?”
“No sir, sure don’t,” I said. Even I was surprised how quickly I said it.
Mr. Olmstead smiled sadly. “I take it he told you how he playacted that scene so you’d think Agatha promised him something?”
I nodded.
“He confessed to me too.”
I looked into those blue eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No. I should have listened to Agatha when she explained. I was jealous of her relationship with Billy. If I’m honest.”
“Thank you for the room and the clothing. Thank you for coming for us,” I said.
Mr. Olmstead waved off my gratitude, and indicated that we should sit.
I shook my head. “I’d like to get on my way. I want to go home.”
It was true. In my mind, I saw Ma and Grandfather Bolte eating dinner, and I wanted to join them. I smiled slightly, thinking of the pleasure that Grandfather Bolte would get when he heard this story. He’d be angry at first, but Grandfather Bolte never could resist a good story.
“We’ll be going soon enough. Please sit, Georgie. I’ve got news,” he said.
It was the way he said it. I sat.
Mr. Olmstead’s hand reached out and squeezed mine. “I came because your ma asked me to find you. Your grandfather died two days ago.”
“Grandfather Bolte?” I said.
But what other grandfather did I have?
Eventually, there’s nothing to be done with a body but bury it.
It was late afternoon when Mr. Olmstead, his groundskeeper, and I arrived in Placid. Mr. Olmstead had offered a spot in the hotel wagon, but I chose to ride Long Ears.
I would have it no other way. See, Long Ears had stood by me. He had been tried and proven true. All this time he had borne me up. I would not take him for granted like I had done with Grandfather Bolte. How could I have missed Grandfather Bolte’s last days alive?
I know—how could I have known? Still, I wished I had been with him.
* * *
As we arrived at Placid’s outer boundary, I nudged Long Ears and he broke into that trot. (Yes, it nearly jarred the teeth right out of my head.) We passed the hotel wagon and eased left onto Main Street. That was where I slowed Long Ears to a walk.
Placid was deserted. closed signs hung off doorknobs and in windows. Not one soul sat on a porch. The hoof strikes of our horses and mule echoed eerily off the wooden buildings, and rocks popping from underneath the wagon wheels seemed preternaturally loud. The wind blew a gate. It swung on a squeaky hinge and banged against its fencing.
The Bolte General Store was closed like everything else. On the front steps someone had left a bouquet of black-eyed Susans.
Where was everyone?
I let my eyes trail up the hill that led to Mount Zion Cemetery. I found my town.
According to Mr. Olmstead, Grandfather Bolte fell in front of several customers. His heart gave out, Doc Wilkie said. He died instantaneously.
They waited to hold the funeral as long as they could.
Halfway up the hill, I heard a familiar sound—shoveling. Then in twos, threes, and fours, dark-clad mourners appeared over the lip of the hill. First came a couple wearing black. The man put his cap on. The woman clutched his elbow. More people (women, children, men) began to spill down the hill. I had thought Agatha’s funeral was big, but this was bigger. Everyone in Placid must have attended, and plenty from towns one or two over. Long Ears and I parted the mourners, a dark fabric sea of ink black, midnight blue, brown, gray, forest green, burgundy.
The memory came unbidden: Grandfather Bolte saving me from strangulation in that borrowed black dress. I felt his callused fingertips unbuttoning the tiny collar button at the back of my neck. I remembered tightness, then air.
I bit my lip.
Some of the mourners recognized me. “Georgie?” “Georgina, is that you?” “Is that the last Burkhardt girl?” But I averted my eyes, well aware I was a sight with that bruise on my face. I wanted Ma to see me, to find me. No one else.
Then I was at the top of the hill and I saw her. Her back was to me. She was watching people shovel dirt into that hole. One by one, person after person passed the shovel on, then went to take Ma’s hand. She wore the same black dress. On her right, where Grandfather Bolte should have been, Sheriff McCabe stood. On her left, where I should have been, a sturdy woman wearing a wide hat of questionable taste had planted herself.
I sat atop Long Ears and observed Ma, unable to urge myself forward. Funny how the last two hundred feet felt insurmountable.
Sheriff McCabe whispered something to Ma. Ma turned.
She came running. I had never seen Ma run, but my ma ran. She let nothing stop her, pushing her way through those people (downright shoving one man, who did not see her coming), all to get to me. She wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me off Long Ears.
Then I stood on the ground and I heard Ma whispering: “One came hom
e! One came home! Georgie, you came home!” She kissed my head, put her hands on my hair, patting me, touching me, kissing my head again. My ears were wet with tears.
“Ma …,” I managed.
She held me out from her and ran her fingers over the bruise on my face. “Does it hurt?” she said. But before I could answer, she had gathered me in her arms again.
That was when someone bellowed: “It’s about time!” I lifted my head from Ma’s shoulder and saw the sturdy woman in the questionable hat.
Ma laughed at the look on my face. “Georgie, this is your aunt Cleo.”
A relative? I knew Ma had relations out in upstate New York. She wrote to them faithfully, once a week. But I never thought I’d see one of those upstaters in the flesh. From what I understood, they considered Wisconsin a wilderness devoid of law, manners, and all proper speech. I would have stared further (and eventually issued a greeting), but Ma grabbed hold of me and kissed me again.
As we walked down the hill together—Aunt Cleo with her arm around Ma’s waist, Ma holding my hand, me holding Long Ears’ reins—I saw Mr. Olmstead speaking with Sheriff McCabe.
The sheriff stopped talking to watch us. I saw him smiling widely. Then I looked up at Ma and saw that she had met the sheriff’s eyes. Like some sort of schoolgirl, she blushed and turned shyly away.
I did not take part in the gathering at our house. “You must be tired,” Aunt Cleo said, giving me permission to stay upstairs. From the way she said it, if I had wanted to take part, she would have let me. But I was grateful for the escape. All anyone would want to do was question me.
As the house filled up with sounds—shoes on hardwood, knives and forks tapping on plates, punch glasses chinking, laughter, conversations, and storytelling—I brought the saddlebags into my room.
My room—all mine now.
That room had shriveled in the sun. The walls seemed too close. I swore the floor was more worn, the window dirtier, the chair and desk plainer than I remembered. I saw someone had made the bed and tightened the ropes underneath.
One Came Home Page 15
