by Helen Frost
apart from a few hours on the train.
Get some sleep now, Muriel, says Mama.
Thank you, God, she breathes. Thank you, Muriel,
says Papa as I pass him in the doorway.
I Had My Rifle, Loaded
Ollie
Crown him Lord of all, Emma sings through a
haze of tears, a triumphant song of quiet strength.
We’re standing together by the water. I have come to tell her
Grace got up and ate an egg; after Emma weeps and sings, we stay
to talk. Grace is like a sister to me, Emma says. Then she listens as I
tell her about the war; like Muriel, she doesn’t ask too many questions.
My memory of it clears in patches, thick fog rising off a field. But Emma,
why couldn’t I shoot him? That bothers me. I had my rifle, loaded with a
shell—after all my training, I couldn’t kill a man. She thinks about it.
You have been tenderhearted as long as I’ve known you. It’s not my
place to try to read your mind—but I don’t think it was only
fear. She dips her fingers in the creek, then lets them
graze my cheeks, trying to smooth away my
frown. Let love wash the war away.
A Small, Cold Stone
Muriel
You’ve been asleep for thirteen hours, Mama tells me.
I’ve been dreaming I was on a train, holding
a baby, singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”
(What a funny song to sing to a baby.) I dreamed
a soldier came and took the baby from me;
I’ll bring her right back, he said, but he
got off the train and it went on without them,
moving too fast for me to follow and get the baby back.
I blink, trying to remember both the dream
and what has happened since I got home.
Was the train in the dream going to Washington?
Who was sitting with me—Ruby? Was the baby
hers? No … someone’s little sister … Oh!
Grace … How is she? I ask. Mama looks tired,
but she smiles. Grace will be fine, Muriel.
Dr. Brower is as surprised as we are.
Three of his patients have died this week—they’ve canceled
the dance on Saturday, and won’t have school
for at least another week, to keep the flu from spreading.
Who is that, whistling at the door? Ollie
comes in, so happy I hardly recognize him.
I thought you’d never wake up, Muriel!
Grace is going to be okay! She is okay! And
Emma says you brought presents from Chicago.
I turn to find my suitcase—it’s true, I do have gifts
for everyone—but something catches at the edge
of my attention: a small, cold stone sinking
into a depth I can’t quite see.
“Emma says…” said Ollie? She told him
what I told her, and he is telling me
what she told him. Something here
has shifted while I’ve been away.
With Our Three Arms
Emma
Ollie gently mentions Frank: I hate to see you cry
about your brother. I’ll try to do things he would have done
for you. The kindness in his eyes and voice loosens a tight place
deep inside me, releasing an ache I’ve been trying not to feel. Instead
of simply saying “Thank you,” I start to tremble, my shoulders shake,
and I can’t stop myself from crying. Ollie, startled, steps back. I’m sorry,
Emma. Of course no one can take Frank’s place. I know I could never …
His arm drops to his side. I nod my head: It’s okay. All the tears I’ve ever
kept myself from crying seem to be falling now, torrential. Don’t worry,
Emma, I don’t mean … I want … I put my finger to his lips to make
him stop apologizing. He leans down to kiss my forehead …
and then somehow, with our three arms, we embrace.
I whisper, You’re not my brother, Ollie—I find one
clear smile—and I don’t want you to try.
Nothing in the World
Muriel
It’s true, Muriel. I saw them, Grace confides.
They didn’t see me, though—Emma might think
I’m still sick. I’m sure Ollie has told Emma
that Grace is out of bed, but it’s true that Grace
can be so quiet you don’t know she’s there.
Why shouldn’t I believe her? Ollie and Emma,
hugging and kissing—I’m not surprised.
Emma has always had a soft spot in her heart
for Ollie, though he has never quite believed it.
Two people I care for, together now—I’m …
happy for them. What’s wrong, Muriel? Grace’s question
catches me off guard. I’m on the edge of tears—
I don’t know how to answer. Nothing,
Grace, nothing in the world is wrong.
Is that closer to the truth than I admit?
Nothing. Is that what will be left for me, if
Emma and Ollie are to be a pair? At home, we were
always Frank and Emma, Muriel and Ollie.
At school, it was Frank and Ollie,
Muriel and Emma. If Frank is gone, and now
it’s Emma matched with Ollie, where
does that leave me? With no one.
Nothing. Nothing in the world.
Worth Knowing
Ollie
Clever words and witty conversation are not
how I make friends. Still, I never dreamed that being
nice could be enough to get a girl to notice me. All these years,
I haven’t dared to hope for Emma’s love. And now, the past two days,
old tunes come whistling back to me from who knows where; it’s like an
“all clear” in my mind. Yankee Doodle went to town, a-riding on his pony,
stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni. Macaroni? Something
struck me this morning while I was whistling that song: What did he
call macaroni, anyhow—the feather, the cap, or the pony? It’s not a
bold original thought, no one has to tell me, but it stopped me in
my tracks to realize: it’s the first time, since that bullet took a
slice out of my shoulder, I’ve had such cheerful thoughts.
Wow—that’s a fact worth knowing. Something can
sever an arm without destroying your brain.
A Quick Nod
Muriel
Oh—you shouldn’t have! Most people,
when they say that, make it sound like thank you,
but when Mama says it, I always feel I’ve done
something wrong. Spent too much money,
made a careless purchase, chosen a color
that is not quite right. But Mama, I argue, it looks nice
on you—I saw lots of women in Washington, D.C.,
wearing hats like this one. She gives me a quick glance
(am I putting on airs?), longing—I can see it—
not exactly for the hat itself, but to be the kind of
person who could wear it. I don’t know, girls …
(Is Grace going to cry?) Mama tilts her head
and looks at me—a peculiar mix of love and
hard appraisal, with a touch of guilty vanity
tossed in. Grace grabs her hand—Mama can’t stop
herself from smiling. She gives a quick nod of
acceptance. Thank you, Grace, it’s lovely.
Thank you, Muriel, she says.
I Can See Myself
Emma
Corn, potatoes, butternut squash. A woodchuck
waddles through the garde
n. A V of geese flies overhead.
I’ve always loved this time of year, when all the work we’ve done
comes back to feed us. We put up ten jars of pickles, fifty pints of beans,
sixty-five quarts of applesauce. Now I see Ollie, crossing the creek, carrying
something to our house. Look, Emma, he says, here’s the first fish I’ve caught
since I’ve been home! Just last week, we were all afraid that Grace might die,
and now she (and everyone else, too) is brimming over with exuberant life. I
was thinking that if Muriel ever takes another trip to Washington, I ought
to go along—but it’s not likely. I can see myself staying here, marrying
Ollie someday. I know Muriel is restless. She thinks marriage means
we’d be hemming ourselves in. Mother calls her plucky. But one
life can’t be less full than another; making sure everyone is fed
and clothed and cared for—that also takes a kind of pluck.
Bluebird Stitched in Such Detail
December 1917
We Have Reason to Believe
Muriel
Aunt Vera sends me a small parcel—
a box of suffrage pins and fliers, a program
from a speech she heard, along with a three-page
letter, all about her work. I’m fully recovered,
and all the prisoners have been released,
but I’ve decided to stay here and see this through.
A vote comes up in Congress on January 10th.
We have reason to believe the president
will offer his support this time! Everyone here sends
greetings to you, Muriel, asking when you
will return. Ruby asked me to enclose her letter—
consider what she asks of you. We need
all hands on deck these coming weeks,
and I would love to see you be a part
of what could be a historic time for women.
Whatever you decide—thank you for coming
in November. Your presence helped me
more than I can say. Give my love
to everyone in Michigan. With fond affection
(and power to women everywhere!),
Aunt Vera.
My Friend Miss Muriel
Muriel
Dear Muriel, Ruby writes, I’m glad to hear
you make it safely home, and that your sister
is recover from her flu. I won’t beat the bush—
is that how you say it? I hope you
think about come back to Washington.
She says they need an assistant kindergarten
teacher, and if I want the job, it’s mine! Remember
Joey, the little boy who not could tie his shoes?
Now, every time he tie them, he say, “My friend
Miss Muriel teach me how.” I haven’t told Mama
much about my trip yet, and she’s full of questions:
Who is Ruby? How did you meet her?
Where does she live? Does Vera know her?
I put the letter in my pocket while I take my time
to think this through. In the kitchen, making rolls
with Grace and Mama, I let my thoughts go back and forth
from here (What if Grace gets sick again, and I’m not here
to help?) to Washington (Ruby says I would be paid
enough to support myself if I live where she lives—
a room is vacant now, and I could have it).
Ollie/Joey. Ruby/Emma. Mama and Papa/
Aunt Vera and the other suffrage women.
Grace—nothing in Washington comes close
to balancing how I’d miss Grace. I go out to feed the hens,
scattering these thoughts as I scatter corn, then climb
Cobb Hill to see if any answers come to me.
I look out over our two farms—
there’s Mr. Norman coming home from work,
stopping at the clothesline to kiss Mrs. Norman
and help her hang the sheet she’s struggling with.
I think about Grace—I left her sitting
by the window reading Anne of Green Gables
for the third time. Mama came in to feel her forehead,
as if to reassure herself: Thank God, yes,
Grace is still here, Grace is fine. I see Papa trying
to repair the windmill by himself. Where is Ollie?
Where, come to think of it, is Emma? I start
back down the hill—maybe I can help Papa
fix the windmill. I pass by Grace’s playhouse,
recalling that day last June, when Ollie
(with both arms) worked so hard to finish it.
Grace seemed so much younger then,
jumping up and down as she watched him work.
Wait … what do I hear? Someone
in the playhouse—not Grace—
two voices—Shhh … she’ll hear us.
Soft whisper—We shouldn’t …
I hurry on; I don’t want to hear more.
I am “she,” I’m sure of it.
Ollie and Emma are “we.”
This is how it is, how it will be
from now on—their new forever.
I start composing letters in my mind:
Dear Ruby, I will take the job.
Dear Aunt Vera, Count me in.
It Also Happened to Us
Ollie
Tie his shoes? Muriel is leaving home because she taught
a child in Washington to tie his shoes? I don’t understand. Aren’t
there plenty of children around here that she could teach? Pa and Ma
are determined not to tell her what to do: It’s up to you. We’ll miss you,
but you’re old enough to decide for yourself. If you’ve made up your mind,
we won’t try to change it. Pa is very quiet. Ma is thinking hard. I heard her
crying after Muriel went to bed. She looks tired. Maybe she’s lonely. I’m
trying to recall how it was before—Mrs. Norman came over all the time.
She was here almost every day, before the war, I remind Emma. That’s
what you don’t understand, Emma answers. We’ve changed, too. The
war happened to you over in France, but it also happened to us
here at home. She holds my hand. I think about that. Yes, I
say, but now maybe it’s time for us to make some blackberry
pie and fried chicken! Get together for a little music.
Blackberry-Apple Cobbler
Muriel
It won’t be easy, leaving home;
Ollie sounds so mournful when he
talks about it, I’ll never tell him my decision
has anything to do with him. In truth, it doesn’t;
hearing him and Emma whispering together
in the playhouse was just the nudge I needed
to make me go out looking for whatever happiness
will be my own. I promise Grace, I’ll come home
as often as I can. And when you’re old enough
to take the train, you can come and visit me.
Emma hears our conversation and offers
to come to Washington on the train with Grace.
Ollie and Emma have accomplished what
Mama, Grace, and I could not: the two of them
have brought our families together, almost
like we were before Frank and Ollie went to war.
Ollie invited Mrs. Norman over, so sweetly, Emma told me,
that she could not refuse, and Mr. Norman
said of course they’d come: We have a lot to celebrate.
Here they come now, crossing Crabapple Creek,
Mrs. Norman carrying her blackberry-apple
cobbler—I’ve been missing that these past few months.
Why is Mr. Norman carrying Frank’s banjo?
Grace, h
e says when they arrive, you’ve said
you’d like to learn to play an instrument.
This was Frank’s—we gave it to him when he
was not much older than you are. Now
we’re giving it to you. Mama’s hand
goes to her mouth—she glances up—
Mrs. Norman gives a brief nod
and they both look at Grace, who simply answers,
Thank you, Mr. Norman. Will you teach me
how to play it? Mr. Norman smiles.
Yes, he says. My father’s uncle taught him,
he taught me, I taught Fr—
I taught … my boy …
I’d be happy to teach you.
One Hand, Drying
Emma
Muriel and I are in the kitchen with our mothers, frying
chicken, slicing sweet potatoes. Mrs. Jorgensen lays out her best blue
tablecloth, the one she brought from the old country. As we set the table
for eight instead of nine, we pause, but no one says Frank’s name out loud.
The men come in together—they have managed to repair the windmill. I pay
attention, watching how Ollie’s mother helps him when he needs it, without
embarrassing him. She cuts his food into bite-size pieces before she brings
it to the table and she moves his spoon to the left side of his plate. Things
I might not have noticed if … (Does Muriel know I’m thinking about
marrying her brother?) He glances over at me. He’s found a way
to wash his hand and dry it. Is he showing off a bit, proud
of the muscle in his arm? (Look, Emma, I’m capable.
I can carry two chairs in one hand.) Inviting me to
witness his accomplishment: one hand, drying.
Bluebird Stitched in Such Detail
Muriel
After supper, Mr. Norman teaches Grace
to play Frank’s banjo—she learns quickly. Emma
sits beside Ollie, humming the tune Grace plays.
Mama and Papa are outside looking at the windmill
and I’m standing by myself at the window.
Mrs. Norman studies me. She’s holding
something white—clean, ironed, neatly folded.
Muriel? she says, careful not to interrupt my thoughts.
