“He won’t come in,” she half shouted against the take-a-melody-tear-it-to-pieces-stick-it-back-together-bleeding type of music that was going on.
I shook my head regretfully. “I guess not,” I mouthed and then was drawn into a half-audible, completely incomprehensible conversation with Mrs. Frisney. It wasn’t until the next dance started and she was towed away by Grampa Griggs that I could turn back to Twyla. She was gone. I glanced around the room. Nowhere the swirl of blue echoing the heavy brown-gold swing of her ponytail.
There was no reason for me to feel apprehensive. There were any number of places she might have gone and quite legitimately, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming need for fresh air and swung myself past the romping dancers and out into the gasping chill of the night. I huddled closer inside my jacket, wishing it were on right instead of merely flung around my shoulders. But the air tasted clean and fresh. I don’t know what we’d been breathing in the dance hall, but it wasn’t air. By the time I’d got the whatever-it-was out of my lungs and filled them with the freshness of the night, I found myself halfway down the path over the edge of the railroad cut. There hadn’t been a train over the single track since nineteen-aught-something, and just beyond it was a thicket of willows and cottonwoods and a few scraggly piñon trees. As I moved into the shadow of the trees I glanced up at the sky, ablaze with a skrillion stars that dissolved into light near the lopsided moon and perforated the darker horizon with brilliance. I was startled out of my absorption by the sound of movement and music. I took an uncertain step into the dark. A few yards away I saw the flick of skirts and started to call out to Twyla. But instead I rounded the brush in front of me and saw what she was intent upon.
The Francher kid was dancing—dancing all alone in the quiet night. No, not alone, because a column of yellow leaves had swirled up from the ground around him and danced with him to a melody so exactly like their movement that I couldn’t be sure there was music. Fascinated, I watched the drift and sway, the swirl and turn, the treetop-high rise and the hesitant drifting fall of the Francher kid and the autumn leaves. But somehow I couldn’t see the kid as a separate Levied flannel-shirted entity. He and the leaves so blended together that the sudden sharp definition of a hand or a turning head was startling. The kid was just a larger leaf borne along with the smaller in the chilly winds of fall. On a final minor glissade of the music the Francher kid slid to the ground.
He stood for a moment, head bent, crumbling a crisp leaf in his fingers; then he turned swiftly defensive to the rustle of movement. Twyla stepped out into the clearing. For a moment they stood looking at each other without a word. Then Twyla’s voice came so softly I could barely hear it.
“I would have danced with you.”
“With me like this?” He gestured at his clothes.
“Sure. It doesn’t matter.”
“In front of everyone?”
“If you wanted to. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Not there,” he said. “It’s too tight and hard.”
“Then here,” she said, holding out her hands.
“The music—” But his hands were reaching for hers.
“Your music,” she said.
“My mother’s music,” he corrected.
And the music began, a haunting lilting waltz-time melody. As lightly as the leaves that stirred at their feet the two circled the clearing.
I have the picture yet, but when I return to it my heart is emptied of adjectives because there are none for such enchantment. The music quickened and swelled, softly, richly full—the lost music that a mother bequeathed to her child.
Twyla was so completely engrossed in the magic of the moment that I’m sure she didn’t even know when their feet no longer rustled in the fallen leaves. She couldn’t have known when the treetops brushed their shoes—when the long turning of the tune brought them back, spiraling down into the clearing. Her scarlet petticoat caught on a branch as they passed, and left a bright shred to trail the wind, but even that did not distract her.
Before my heart completely broke with wonder, the music faded softly away and left the two standing on the ragged grass. After a breathless pause Twyla’s hand went softly, wonderingly, to Francher’s cheek. The kid turned his face slowly and pressed his mouth to her palm. Then they turned and left each other, without a word.
Twyla passed so close to me that her skirts brushed mine. I let her cross the tracks back to the dance before I followed. I got there just in time to catch the whisper on apparently the second round, “... alone out there with the Francher kid!” and the gleefully malicious shock of “... and her petticoat is torn...”
It was like pigsty muck clotting an Easter dress.
Anna said, “Hi!” and flung herself into my one armchair. As the front leg collapsed she caught herself with the dexterity of long practice, tilted the chair, reinserted the leg, and then eased herself back into its dusty depths.
“From the vagaries of the small town, good Lord deliver me!” she moaned.
“What now?” I asked, shifting gears on my crochet hook as I finished another row of my rug.
“You mean you haven’t heard the latest scandal?” Her eyes widened in mock horror and her voice sank conspiratorially. “They were out there in the dark—alone—doing nobody knows what. Imagine!” Her voice shook with avid outrage. “With the Francher kid!
“Honestly!” Her voice returned to normal. “You’d think the Francher kid was leprosy or something. What a to-do about a little nocturnal smooching. I’d give you odds that most of the other kids are being shocked to ease their own consciences of the same kind of carryings-on. But just because it’s the Francher kid—”
“They weren’t alone,” I said casually, holding a tight rein on my indignation. “I was there.”
“You were?” Anna’s eyebrows bumped her crisp bangs. “Well, well. This complexions things different. What did happen? Not,” she hastened, “that I credit these wild tales about, my golly, Twyla, but what did happen?”
“They danced,” I said. “The Francher kid was ashamed of his clothes and wouldn’t come in the hall. So they danced down in the clearing.”
“Without music?”
“The Francher kid—hummed,” I said, my eyes intent on my work.
There was a brief silence. “Well,” Anna said, “that’s interesting, especially that vacant spot I feel in there. But you were there?”
“Yes.”
“And they just danced?”
“Yes.” I apologized mentally for making so pedestrian the magic I had seen. “And Twyla caught her petticoat on a branch and it tore before she knew it.”
“Hmmm.” Anna was suddenly sober. “You ought to take your rug up to the Sew-Sew Club.”
“But I—” I was bewildered.
“They’re serving nice heaping portions of Twyla’s reputation for refreshments, and Mrs. McVey is contributing the dessert—the unplumbed depravity of foster children.”
I stuffed my rug back into its bag. “Is my face on?” I asked.
Well, I got back to the Somansons’ that evening considerably wider of eye than I had left it. Anna took my things from me at the door.
“How did it go?”
“My gorsh!” I said, easing myself into a chair. “If they ever got started on me, what would I have left?”
“Bare bones,” Anna said promptly. “With plenty of tooth marks on them. Well, did you get them told?”
“Yes, but they didn’t want to believe me. It was too tame. And of course Mrs. McVey didn’t like being pushed out on a limb about the Francher kid’s clothes. Her delicate hint about the high cost of clothes didn’t impress Mrs. Holmes much, not with her six boys. I guess I’ve got me an enemy for life. She got a good-sized look at herself through my eyes and she didn’t like it at all, but I’ll bet the Francher kid won’t turn up Levied for a dance again.”
“Heaven send he’ll never do anything worse,” Anna intoned piously.
That’s what I hoped fe
rvently for a while, but lightning hit Willow Creek anyway, a subtle slow lightning—a calculated, coldly angry lightning. I held my breath as report after report came in. The Turbows’ old shed exploded without a sound on the stroke of nine o’clock Tuesday night and scattered itself like kindling wood over the whole barnyard. Of course the Turbows had talked for years of tearing the shaky old thing down but—I began to wonder how you went about bailing a juvenile out of the clink.
Then the last sound timber on the old railroad bridge below the Thurmans’ house shuddered and dissolved loudly into sawdust at eleven o’clock Tuesday night. The rails, deprived of their support, trembled briefly, then curled tightly up into two absurd rosettes. The bridge being gone meant an hour’s brisk walk to town for the Thurmans instead of a fifteen-minute stroll. It also meant safety for the toddlers too young to understand why the rotting timbers weren’t a wonderful kind of jungle gym.
Wednesday evening at five all the water in the Holmeses’ pond geysered up and crashed down again, pureeing what few catfish were still left in it and breaking a spillway over into the creek, thereby draining the stagnant old mosquito—bearing spot with a conclusive slurp. As the neighbors had nagged at the Holmeses to do for years—but...
I was awestruck at this simple literal translation of my words and searched my memory with wary apprehensiveness. I could almost have relaxed by now if I could have drawn a line through the last two names on my mental roll of the club.
But Thursday night there was a crash and a roar and I huddled in my bed praying a wordless prayer against I didn’t know what, and Friday morning I listened to the shrill wide-eyed recitals at the breakfast table.
“... since the devil was an imp and now there it is...”
“... right in the middle, big as life and twice as natural...”
“What is?” I asked, braving the battery of eyes that pinned me like a moth in a covey of searchlights.
There was a stir around the table. Everyone was aching to speak, but there’s always a certain rough protocol to be observed, even in a boardinghouse.
Ol’ Hank cleared his throat, took a huge mouthful of coffee, and sloshed it thoughtfully and noisily around his teeth before swallowing it.
“Balance Rock,” he choked, spraying his vicinity finely, “came plumb unbalanced last night. Came a-crashing down, bouncing like a dang ping-pong ball an’nen it hopped over half a dozen fences an’nen whammo! it lit on a couple of the Scudders’ pigs an’nen tore out a section of the Lelands’ stone fence and now it’s settin there in the middle of their alfalfa field as big as a house. He’ll have a helk of a time mowing that field now.” He slurped largely of his coffee.
“Strange things going on around here.” Blue Nor’s porchy eyebrows rose and fell portentously. “Never heard of a balance rock falling before. And all them other funny things. The devil’s walking our land sure enough!”
I left on the wave of violent argument between proponents of the devil theory and the atom-bomb testing theory as the prime cause. Now I could draw another line through the list. But what of the last name? What of it?
That afternoon the Francher kid materialized on the bottom step at the boardinghouse, his eyes intent on my braces. We sat there in silence for a while, mostly I suppose because I could think of nothing rational to say. Finally I decided to be irrational.
“What about Mrs. McVey?”
He shrugged. “She feeds me.”
“And what’s with the Scudders’ pigs?”
Color rose blotchily to his cheeks. “I goofed. I was aiming for the fence and let it go too soon.”
“I told all those ladies the truth Monday. They knew they had been wrong about you and Twyla. There was no need—”
“No need!” His eyes flashed, and I blinked away from the impact of his straight indignant glare. “They’re dern lucky I didn’t smash them all flat.”
“I know,” I said hastily. “I know how you feel, but I can’t congratulate you on your restraint, because however little you did compared to what you might have done, it was still more than you had a right to do. Especially the pigs and the wall.”
“I didn’t mean the pigs,” he muttered as he fingered a patch on his knee. “Old man Scudder’s a pretty right guy.”
“Yes,” I said. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I could swipe some pigs from somewhere else for him, but I suppose that wouldn’t fix things.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You should buy—do you have any money?”
“Not for pigs!” he flared. “All I have is what I’m saving for my musical instrument, and not one penny of that’ll ever go for pigs!”
“All right, all right,” I said. “You figure out something.”
He ducked his head again, fingering the patch, and I watched the late sun run across the curve of his cheek, thinking what an odd conversation this was.
“Francher,” I said, leaning forward impulsively, “do you ever wonder how come you can do the things you do?”
His eyes were quick on my face. “Do you ever wonder why you can’t do what you can’t do?”
I flushed and shifted my crutches. “I know why.”
“No, you don’t. You only know when your ‘can’t’ began. You don’t know the real why. Even your doctors don’t know all of it. Well, I don’t know the why of my ‘cans.’ I don’t even know the beginning of them, only that sometimes I feel a wave of something inside me that hollers to get out of all the ‘can’ts’ that are around me like you-can’t-do-this, you-can’t-do-that, and then I remember that I can.”
He flicked his fingers and my crutches stirred. They lifted and thudded softly down the steps and then up again to lean back in their accustomed place.
“Crutches can’t walk,” the Francher kid said. “But you—something besides your body musta got smashed in that wreck.”
“Everything got smashed,” I said bitterly, the cold horror of that night and all that followed choking my chest. “Everything ended—everything.”
“There aren’t any endings,” the Francher kid said. “Only new beginnings. When you going to get started?” Then he slouched away, his hands in his pockets, his head bent as he kicked a rock along the path. Bleakly I watched him go, trying to keep alive my flame of anger at him.
Well, the Lelands’ wall had to be rebuilt and it was the Francher kid who got the job. He toiled mightily, lifting the heavy stones and cracking his hands with the dehydrating effect of the mortar he used. Maybe the fence wasn’t as straight as it had been but it was repaired, and perhaps, I hoped, a stone had been set strongly somewhere in the Francher kid by this act of atonement. That he received pay for it didn’t detract too much from the act itself, especially considering the amount of pay and the fact that it all went in on the other reparation.
The appearance of two strange pigs in the Scudders’ east field created quite a stir, but the wonder of it was dulled by all the odd events preceding it. Mr. Scudder made inquiries but nothing ever came of them so he kept the pigs, and I made no inquiries but relaxed for a while about the Francher kid.
It was along about this time that a Dr. Curtis came to town briefly. Well, “came to town” is a euphemism. His car broke down on his way up into the hills, and he had to accept our hospitality until Bill Thurman could get around to finding a necessary part. He stayed at Somansons’ in a room opposite mine after Mrs. Somanson had frantically cleared it out, mostly by the simple expedient of shoving all the boxes and crates and odds and ends to the end of the hall and draping a tarp over them. Then she splashed water across the barely settled dust and mopped out the resultant mud, put a brick under one corner of the bed, made it up with two army-surplus mattresses, one sheet edged with crocheted lace and one of heavy unbleached muslin. She unearthed a pillow that fluffed beautifully but sighed itself to a wafer-thin odor of damp feathers at a touch, and topped the splendid whole with two hand-pieced hand-quilted quilts and a chenille spread with a Technicolor peacock
flamboyantly dominating it.
“There,” she sighed, using her apron to dust the edge of the dresser where it showed along the edge of the dresser scarf, “I guess that’ll hold him.”
“I should hope so,” I smiled. “It’s probably the quickest room he’s ever had.”
“He’s lucky to have this at such short notice,” she said, turning the ragrug over so the burned place wouldn’t show. “If it wasn’t that I had my eye on that new winter coat—”
Dr. Curtis was a very relaxing comfortable sort of fellow, and it seemed so good to have someone to talk to who cared to use words of more than two syllables. It wasn’t that the people in Willow Creek were ignorant, they just didn’t usually care to discuss three-syllable matters. I guess, besides the conversation, I was drawn to Dr. Curtis because he neither looked at my crutches nor not looked at them. It was pleasant except for the twinge of here’s-someone-who-has-never-known-me-without-them.
After supper that night we all sat around the massive oil burner in the front room and talked against the monotone background of the radio turned low. Of course the late shake-making events in the area were brought up. Dr. Curtis was most interested, especially in the rails that curled up into rosettes. Because he was a doctor and a stranger, the group expected an explanation of these goings-on from him, or at least an educated guess.
“What do I think?” He leaned forward in the old rocker and rested his arms on his knees. “I think a lot of things happen that can’t be explained by our usual thought patterns, and once we get accustomed to certain patterns we find it very uncomfortable to break over into others. So maybe it’s just as well not to want an explanation.”
“Hmmm.” Ol’ Hank knocked the ashes out of his pipe into his hand and looked around for the wastebasket. “Neat way of saying you don’t know either. Think I’ll remember that. It might come in handy sometime. Well, g’night all.” He glanced around hastily, dumped the ashes in the geranium pot, and left, sucking on his empty pipe.
His departure was a signal for the others to drift off to bed at the wise hour of ten, but I was in no mood for wisdom, not of the early-to-bed type anyway.
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