by Ann Treacy
Martin looked around the room, searching for a way to answer. “It’s just till Pa gets back,” he said. Useful items—rug beater, ladles, a coffee grinder—hung on the walls. His eyes fixed on the only decorative piece in the house, a painting.
“That picture there is your place.” Mr. Perry pointed with his sugar spoon. “The Gunnarsson homestead. Let’s see . . . that was painted the summer before . . . before Cora and Jacob’s mother died. Would you like to bring the painting home to your ma?”
“Another day, not today.” Again Martin almost told Mr. Perry about Cora’s diary, but it didn’t seem right. Even Pa still didn’t know.
Moving closer, Martin touched the canvas. Dried brush lines left ridges in the paint. “I can see the likeness now. The place looks different, though.” The house logs were not yet covered with drop siding. Martin was seeing the place with dove-tailed corners where the squared-off logs of intersecting walls had been expertly fitted to each other. Like today, the barn was much larger than the house. The long garden showed behind and slightly to the side of the house; its windbreak of miniature evergreens was newly planted at the far end. Martin traced them with his finger. “These are huge now.”
Mr. Perry came up behind him. “We brought the picture here for Jacob, so he could remember his roots. Some of these buildings aren’t there anymore. ’Course, the barn’s the same. This here was a chicken coop. And here was the springhouse. No one kept up the garden, and these honeysuckle bushes out front went wild. Your grandma Anna Gunnarsson had everything fancied up nice in those days.”
Martin put his hand on a tall, heavily leafed elm tree that towered over all the structures. The bottom of the trunk divided into huge roots that buried themselves in the ground. “It’s my chopping stump,” he said, amazed.
“Fell down eight or ten years ago in a storm,” Mr. Perry said.
Martin was seeing the exact world that Cora described in her diary. He had read so many passages about her doll’s house and looked for it all over the farm. He had to know. “Mr. Perry, did my Aunt Cora have a doll’s house?”
“Why, I don’t rightly recall. Not that I would know of.” Mr. Perry smiled. “Say, that would be nice now for your sister, wouldn’t it?”
Martin hadn’t been thinking about Lilly, but he saw no reason to explain. He finished studying the picture, painted from the hillside in the common practice that Aunt Ida had described. He thanked Mr. Perry for the coffee and said, “I’ll be back this morning with the horses to pick up the plow and chain.”
17 October 1864
We are home from living in with the Connors. We waited there two weeks for Ma’s baby to come. The baby is a boy. He came in the night, just like Ole Berg. Babies come at night. Father picked his name before he left for the war. His name is Jacob. I did not bring my volume, so there is much to record about those weeks. Mother was pale blue for eight days after Jacob came. Blue white, not pale like pink. I spent much time sitting by her bed. I read aloud from the Bible or pieced my quilt squares. I have four squares ready to change off with friends. I sat many hours by Mr. Connor who knows carpentry like Father. My favorite thing is the smell of freshly sawed wood. It is different from cured firewood, which has lost its scent. I asked Ma if this is what roses smell like. She said roses are even better. I gathered the pine curls when Mr. Connor planed and called it a basket of rose petals.
—Cora Louise Gunnarsson, daughter and sister
Chapter 13
Martin strode across the field, hopped the rail fence, and headed home without seeing that someone was following him. In his mind he worked out various ways to handle the coming encounter with Aunt Ida and Ma. It would be obvious right off that he hadn’t gone to school, and he would have to explain his plans before taking the horses out.
A shower of small rocks landed around him. Martin’s heart lurched. The Barkers. He balled his fists and turned.
“I’d about given up on you, boy.” Samson was grinning.
Relief swept over Martin. But it’s a universal fact that frightened boys must act tough, so he said gruffly, “How long you been following me?”
“Saw you going to that farmhouse. I waited while you were inside. What did you do in there anyway?”
“Why didn’t I see you?”
“I’m magic!”
It was good to see Sam again. Even this odd Gypsy boy was better than having no friends at all. He kept walking, but backward, facing Sam, who trotted to catch up. “I thought you were going to watch for me in the afternoons.”
Sam nodded. “I was gone with some of the men a while, but I’ve been watching this week for you and figured you were sick or skipping school.”
“My pa had an accident at the logging camp. He broke his leg and can’t be moved until after planting season. I went to see him and brought home our team.”
They stopped, eye to eye. Martin read a message of sympathy in Samson’s large brown eyes. “So I’m running the farm myself. Starting now, picking rocks.” He didn’t want anyone’s pity. “I’ve got no time for fishing or carrying on.”
He spun and continued walking. Sam followed, caught up, and matched Martin’s gait. “I could help you,” he said. “I want to be a farmer, and the plan is for us to camp the summer here.”
“What do you know about farming?” Martin shot back.
Samson’s face tightened to hide a smile. “About as much as you.”
They had almost crested the hill in front of the homestead when Martin stopped and faced him. “I could use your help,” he said, looking around as if words lay on the dirt road. “But . . .”
Samson finished for him. “You don’t want your family to know about me.”
Martin looked him square in the eye again and saw understanding. “I already have enough to explain today.” He led Sam back around the hill so they could approach the barn from behind.
“Wait in here while I talk to my ma. She doesn’t know yet about my quitting school or anything. I need to talk to her, then get back to Perry’s for equipment.”
As he approached the front porch door, Martin saw Aunt Ida in the garden, poking around with her spade. Inside, Ma stood behind Lilly’s chair, removing thin white rags that had been tied in her hair the night before. She wrapped each yellow ringlet around her index finger before releasing it to fall in a tight coil. Ma looked so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn’t even register surprise when Martin walked in the door.
“Ma, I didn’t go to school today. I went to see Mr. Perry.”
Ma held a comb in her mouth. Her finger was wrapped with hair, and the ever-present tonic sat on the sideboard.
Martin crossed the room and poured coffee at the stove. “I told him about Pa, of course. But also I needed his advice about the farm.”
Lilly winced as Ma pulled another knotted rag out. Ma asked, “What kind of advice?”
“Farming advice. What to do right off to get the crops planted.” His mother blinked and refocused her gaze on him. “For Pa. I want to keep things going for Pa.”
Ma patted Lilly’s finished head but didn’t look at him when she said, “You’re just a boy. You can’t do everything yourself. We should sell and go back.”
Just a boy? He already did the work of a hired hand. “Nobody wants to get off this farm more than I do. But not until Pa’s had a chance to make a go of it.”
Ma looked thin and weak. “Mr. Meehan says why gamble that our first crops will be any good? Sell while we can.”
Martin struggled to keep from raising his voice. “I’m doing this for Pa, but you’ve got to help, too, Ma. You’ve got to be strong and stop taking all this medicine.”
Ma looked desperately around the room as if to locate the beloved potion.
“Meehan is thinking only about what’s best for him. Don’t let him scare you off even trying. Now,” Martin stomped to the door, “I’m taking the team to Perry’s to pick up the plow.”
29 October 1864
The house is lone
ly without Father. I do my work quickly so I can spend time in my doll’s house where I do not expect to see him. The weather is turning. A group gathered today to raise us a proper barn. Two girls of ten and eleven years came with three young children, still babies. We were told to mind the small ones all day. It was such a delight to have friends visit, and the children were no bother. We all played in my doll’s house, the little ones even napping there. Caroline and Evelyn and I sat in my little parlor and sewed quilt squares. We brought tea from the cabin.
Chapter 14
Samson had backed out the horses and both were standing in harness when Martin entered the barn. Samson talked softly to the gentle giants as he finished with the straps. “You can lead them out front,” he said. “I figured you plan to use that wagon.”
Martin almost commented on Samson’s way with the large horses that didn’t know him, but then he remembered that Gypsies were famed for their abilities with animals. He opened the barn doors and led the horses outside toward the wagon while Samson slipped quickly from the barn into the open wagon bed.
In Mr. Perry’s barn, the boys were loading the equipment when he came in. An awkward silence wrapped them, and they paused in their work as Mr. Perry studied Sam. Martin could see it was impossible not to notice Sam’s clothes, loose fitting and different. And his dark skin and black curls. Sam didn’t look like anyone in this area; he wasn’t fair like the Swedes, Norwegians, and Germans.
Still no one spoke. Martin worried how Mr. Perry would react to Sam’s being a Gypsy. He knew how Aunt Ida would react. He’d seen Aunt Ida almost attack Mr. Stone the photographer.
It was Sam who broke the silence. In his best, practiced, unaccented English, he said, “Hello. I’m Sam.” He completely took Mr. Perry by surprise when he wiped his hand on his pants pocket and stepped forward. Mr. Perry shook the hand and studied Sam.
He knows. Martin could tell. Would Mr. Perry let a Gypsy boy cart off a wagonload of equipment? Mr. Perry finally dropped Sam’s hand. “I’m Perry” was all he said in reply.
Then Martin realized that this was a man whose family had plucked a baby out of a field and raised him. Taken an orphan and made him part of a family. No questions asked. Not then or now.
“That’s a heavy team,” Mr. Perry said, leaving.
Sam nodded. “Yes sir.”
“You boys be careful.”
Samson rode in the wagon bed with the plow, which intrigued him. He fingered the heavy blade, thick with grease to keep it from rusting. “What’s the big chain for?” he asked.
Martin turned on the wide seat and settled in to talk. “To haul the stone boat. That’s what I’ve got to do first, clear rocks off a couple of fields.”
“You’ll need me for that. Do we start today?”
Martin shook his head at his new, overly eager friend. “It sounds to me like the worst job on earth; you must want to be a farmer in a bad way.” Martin felt the horses shift against each other and lurch on the reins. He turned toward them, noting the set of their ears before his own detected the rhythmic tickety-tickety-tock-tock of a motor.
“Somebody’s coming behind. Stay down.”
Martin gathered the reins firmly, but the horses quickly settled. They must have become accustomed to motor-driven saws at the logging camp, and they were plodding evenly again by the time the vehicle pulled up beside them.
Dang, it was Meehan. Without turning his head, Martin hissed over his shoulder, “Stay down, you hear? I don’t want to have to explain you.”
He had never studied Meehan’s automobile up close. But he had studied enough of them to know that Meehan wouldn’t be able to see over the wagon’s sideboards. From his high wagon seat he towered above the man who waved at him to stop.
“Morning boy. Ain’t you out and back early though.”
The scent of barber’s tonic rose up from the automobile below. The motor clickety-clicked now, almost louder than when it was in motion. Martin said nothing.
“Been to town?”
“No.”
Meehan caught sight of the long arched wooden handles of the walking plow and rose up in his seat. “You hauling something there, boy?”
“Plow is all.”
“And just what are you aiming to do with a plow?”
“Plow,” Martin said.
“Really? With your daddy gone, don’t you beat all doing that by yourself? And you just a schoolboy.” Meehan raised a parcel. “I’ve brought your ma a supply of her tinctures and the mail and the tax notice from the bank. There’s no letter come for you, though. Nothing from your friends.”
The horses took three tentative steps forward, then waited for a signal from their driver.
Meehan shaded his eyes with a white-brimmed hat. “What you need is help. I’ll talk with your mama about it today. Might be I could hire some hands for her.”
Martin willed himself not to speak his full mind. He’d been taught to respect adults. Staring at the road he said simply, “No, thank you. We don’t need any hands.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Could be your mama won’t want to keep the place with your pa like he is. I’d best get going; your ma is expecting me.” Meehan held up a round pasteboard hatbox, tied in twine, with holes punched in the top. “And I’ve brought a little beauty of a cat to the ladies out your way. Won’t your darling sister like that though?”
Martin lifted the reins and the horses picked up their feet. But he held them back enough that Meehan could go up the road ahead of them. This time the ground was hard enough that the automobile could drive into the farmyard.
It was not wise to have Samson come up to the barn again, so Martin dropped him off. “Head straight over this hill and wait for me,” he said. “I’ll harness the stone boat; then we’ll start by clearing the field back of that stand of trees.” Samson lumbered down awkwardly. “I could see him,” Samson said, “through the crack in the boards. He doesn’t like you much.”
“I’m not going to be buffaloed out by the likes of him; I’ll show him I’m old enough to run this place. One of my grandpas was married at sixteen and that’s not two years off for me. Walk on, Finn. Get up, Marshall.”
When Martin pulled up, he saw Lilly hugging the kitty with the hand that didn’t clutch her doll. Meehan held a satchel of papers that spilled when Lilly ran at him with outstretched arms and hugged his legs. Lilly would be hugging Pa that way right now if circumstances weren’t wired up all wrong.
Martin drove past the distracted group to the barn where he stowed the plow, unhitched the wagon, and attached the chain to the stone boat. The ends of two heavy planks were beveled in front to crudely skim the ground, resembling a sled without runners or wheels. Rough boards were bolted across them to form the bed. The horses dragged the heavy platform. As Martin led them out toward the back hills, he saw Meehan head into the house with Ma.
As the days lengthened, suppertime inched later. Martin was exhausted after his third twelve-hour day of clearing rocks, each at least as heavy as a blacksmith’s anvil. Even so, he enjoyed the sense of accomplishment that came with seeing the field clear and the rock piles grow. The farm felt less lonely too, probably because the horses were back. And he had to admit Samson was a mighty help on the pry bar used to move the rocks. Occasionally the boys took water breaks, and Martin would read the newspapers Mr. Perry passed along. Sam, who was quickly learning to read, loved sounding out the headlines.
“March is month date?”
“March is still news to us but too old to do anything about it,” Martin said, leaning back.
“Who is Jack the Ripper?”
Pantomiming he held a knife, Martin explained about the discovery that George Chapman had murdered many women in London. He poked at a different article, “Read that instead.”
“Thee bas-ee-ball rules com . . .”
“The baseball rules committee chairman proclaims—”
Sam nodded, “—that the pit-cher’s box must not be more than 15 inches higher than
the baselines or home plate.”
“That’s good. That’s real good reading.”
“What is this home plate?”
“Baseball? Someone hurls a ball and someone else hits it.” Martin jumped to his feet, selected a clod of earth to toss skyward, then thwacked it with a branch as it fell. “It takes a lot of people, but you and I could practice hitting the ball.”
Martin left the barn at dusk after bedding down the horses and nearly stepped on Lilly, sitting on a pile of fine sand and rubbing the blackened bottoms of the iron cooking pots to clean them. She was talking, as usual, to her doll. As usual, he ignored her.
Aunt Ida, who had waged a recent campaign to give Lilly more work to do, called from the house, “And you carry those pots inside too, you hear?”
Except for saying grace, the burden of mealtime conversation usually fell to the Gunnarsson women.
Aunt Ida said, “Better finish up that letter to your Pa, young lady. So it’s ready to post next time Mr. Meehan passes by.”
Lilly beamed. “Mr. Meehan is nice. He brought me Jack, my kitty.”
“Now that I can get to town, I’ll post our own letters,” Martin said, taking a chunk of bread. “I can’t see that we have much business for Meehan to concern himself with.”
Ma said, “It was nice though that he made the trip to drop off the tax bill. And he brought an offer to buy the farm.”
Martin’s eyebrows shot up. He reminded himself to chew the mouthful of meat that almost went down whole.
“It was just a proposal to read and think over.” Ma didn’t look at Martin but busied herself cutting food on Lilly’s plate. “Of course I would discuss it with Jacob before signing anything.”
Aunt Ida finally put her oar in. “There’s no sense in borrowing tomorrow’s troubles. We’re here now. And it’s soon planting time. We’ll all be busy, even you, young lady. Finish up now and fetch water to fill the reservoir.”
