Tumbleweed Skies

by Valerie Sherrard

  "Come in," Grandma told him.

  "Why, thank you kindly." Mr. Cobb scampered to the back door of the car. He yanked it open, lunged inside, and reappeared almost instantly lugging a large, black satchel. It was leather—old and cracked and so full that it was straining at the seams.

  Mr. Cobb made no further attempt at conversation while he carried the bag inside. It seemed that the task of lifting it took all the strength he had and some besides.

  Even after he'd gotten seated in the kitchen, it took a moment for Mr. Cobb to stop huffing and gasping. When his breathing finally evened out, he smiled secretively and reached for his satchel.

  Seven

  Mr. Cobb placed the bag on an empty chair and arranged it at his side. He opened the mouth of it just a little and peeked down into its depths. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to lift things out of it one at a time.

  Grandma Acklebee leaned forward. Her whole attention was concentrated on whatever was in that bag.

  Mr. Cobb drew out a shiny silver eggbeater with a red wooden handle and knob. He turned the knob quickly and the beaters became a blur.

  "Very popular, this item," he said. "You can make meringue in no time with this beater."

  "I have a beater," Grandma said. She waved it away andMr. Cobb laid it off to one side on the table and reached in for the next item.

  He brought out a can opener, a rolling pin, trivets, a glass reamer, a knife sharpener, a can opener and a flour sifter. Mr. Cobb talked about each thing for a minute before Grandma cut him off and decided against it.

  I was almost ready to give up on there being anything tempting in the bag when he pulled out a box that was full of cookie cutters in all different shapes. I looked at the picture on the box with interest. There was a heart and a star and a Christmas tree, which made sense. I wasn't quite so sure about the turkey or some of the other animals, but the one that really seemed strange was the fish. Who would want to make cookies shaped like fish?

  Not Grandma, it seemed. She passed on the cookie cutters too.

  "Now here's a nice everyday butter mould," Mr. Cobb said cheerfully. He didn't seem discouraged that Grandma kept turning everything down. "Look at the workmanship of the finger joints on each and every corner."

  Grandma actually took the mould and turned it around a few times. She inspected the wooden knob and the corners. Then she shook her head and gave it back.

  "Not too many ladies can resist this next item," Mr. Cobb announced. He paused, to build suspense I suppose, before pulling out a strange looking gadget shaped rather like a can opener. He held it up for us to admire.

  "This combination tool does so many things I hope I can remember them all,"Mr. Cobb announced. "Why, it opens jars and bottles, tenderizes meat, and even pits cherries. And if that wasn't enough, it's also a garlic press."

  Grandma looked this gadget over too and put it on the table beside her without saying anything. Next, Mr. Cobb showed her a pasta cutter and a pie-crust edger and a spice grater. She left them all near her on the table.

  "Here's another very popular item this season," the salesman told her, pulling out a chimney flue cover with a winter scene on it. "In fact, I don't think I have but two or three of them left all told."

  "There's nothing wrong with my flue cover," Grandma said. "Anyway, black is more practical."

  Mr. Cobb nodded and put his aside. And then he smiled his thin smile and pulled out a pink and yellow cardboard box, rectangular shaped. He admired it for a second before turning it around so that the cellophane window faced Grandma and me.

  It was a doll. It had brown hair and blue eyes, and it was dressed in a yellow dress and matching hat.

  The smile on Mr. Cobb's face grew wider, which stretched his lips even thinner. "This doll," he said, "is mighty popular with the little ladies. It sure is. And a bargain at only one dollar and ninety cents. Dolls like this are selling for three dollars or more in the stores, and if you want my opinion they're not nearly as nice as this one. Why, I'll just bet this is the finest doll you've ever seen."

  Suddenly my chest hurt, and not because I wanted that doll. I didn't—not even a little bit. It hurt because I could see anger on Grandma's face. Even though I hadn't caused it, I felt as guilty and ashamed as if I'd been begging her to buy that doll for me.

  Mr. Cobb leaned toward me, holding the hateful thing out. "Would you like to hold it?" he asked, winking at me.

  "No, sir." I said. "No, thank you."

  Grandma's chin lifted a little.

  Mr. Cobb looked confused. He drew the doll back and looked it over as if he was trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

  "I've seen enough for today," Grandma said.

  "Oh?" Mr. Cobb said. His eyebrows rushed together in a frown. "But I haven't shown you—"

  "It's enough," Grandma repeated. Very deliberately she pushed the pastry edger and pasta cutter back across the table to Mr. Cobb. Then she nodded at the two remaining items. "I will take just these—the garlic press and spice grater. How much do I owe you?"

  Mr. Cobb gave her a price and she paid him. As small as he already was, he seemed to shrink a little. He gathered up his wares and put them back into the black bag, leaving out only the two things Grandma had purchased.

  "Now, I'll try to get back before the snow flies but I can't make any promises," Mr. Cobb told her as he tucked away the last few things. "I sure hope there's nothing you'll need before my next visit."

  "Anything I managed without for all these years, I can manage without until you come again," Grandma said.

  And then he was gone, struggling to carry his bag back the way he'd come. Grandma saw him to the door but not before she gave me a look that made it clear I was to stay right where I was.

  When she returned to the kitchen, she picked up her new gadgets, looked them over again, washed them, and put them into a drawer.

  Eight

  The next day was Saturday. Right after breakfast was over and I'd given Sammy his morning meal, Grandma announced that we would be going to town. She looked me up and down with one of her sighs and said that I should put on something that made me look like less of a ragamuffin. To that, she added that I might try to behave myself properly and not disgrace her in front of other people.

  I put on the skirt I'd worn that first day and brushed my hair extra carefully. I even turned one of my white ankle socks inside out and used it to shine up my patent leather shoes before putting them on. Even though I was going with Grandma, the thought of a trip into Weybolt was exciting. It would be my first chance to see the town that had been my mother's for her whole life—or, at least until she married my dad. I wanted to look my best.

  But when I presented myself downstairs, Grandma shook her head sadly like she just couldn't quite believe what she saw.

  "Come, sit," she said, pointing to a chair.

  I went nervously and was startled when she began yanking at my hair. For a second I thought she was pulling at it for no reason, but I soon realized she was making braids.

  "Hold still!" she told me more than once.

  I did my best, even though it was difficult with Grandma tugging and jerking my head the whole time. When she was finished, she said she was no miracle worker and that was the best she could do.

  I'd never had braids before. I can only make ponytails. It would have been nice to see how the braids looked, but there was no chance for that. Grandma shooed me into the middle of the seat of Uncle Roger's truck and told me not to be making noise on the drive. Then she got in beside me—on the passenger side.

  "Is Uncle Roger coming too?" I asked.

  "Of course he is," Grandma said. "How else would we get there?"

  "I thought you were going to drive," I told her.

  "I don't drive," Grandma said.

  "Don't you know how?" I asked, but Grandma said nothing more.

  Uncle Roger came along after another moment or two. He got in and looked down at me like he was going to say somethin
g, only he didn't. Instead he stared for a few seconds and then he faced forward and turned the key. The truck grumbled a couple of times and then started up. The motor made a low, growly sound all the way to town. It was the only sound on the whole drive—nothing like when I go in the car with Daddy. We always sing or talk or play games, like guessing which color the next car we meet will be.

  I sat and watched out the window, but there wasn't much to see except more farms until we got to Weybolt. The farms all looked the same—fields and fields of grain stretching out on every side of tired-looking farmhouses. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed like the barns and silos were better cared for than the houses. Most places had big old trucks like Uncle Roger's, though I don't know if they were Ford Pickups too. They all look alike to me, with their fat fenders and wide grills like a great big smile. None of the trucks were shiny. Not like in Moose Jaw, where it seems all the men are forever washing their cars. Daddy, too. He keeps our car good and shiny all right, and he lets me help wash it and rub in the wax when it's dry, too.

  First thing I saw when we reached the town was the water tower—an enormous tank held up with skinny legs. It put me in mind of a spider, the kind with a big fat body, carried around on legs that aren't much thicker than a strand of hair.

  The stores in town were mostly tall wood buildings along one street. It looked like their owners had given up on painting the buildings, and the signs hanging out front or over the doors were faded too. Even the windows looked hazy and uncared for.

  Uncle Roger pulled the truck to a stop beside a big, faded, olive-colored building with a sign that said Fletcher's General Store. Grandma looked down at me, like she was checking to see if I was still there. Then she sighed and told me to come along and remember to mind my Ps and Qs.

  I walked through the store with her, wishing I could stop whenever there were particularly interesting things to see or smells to identify. I'm good at figuring out different smells, but there wasn't much time for any except the easy ones, like cloves and peppermint and leather.

  The floor was made of long strips of wood that lifted here and dipped there along paths worn by the customers' feet. Grandma clomped along the floor as she clutched a list tightly in one hand. She glanced at the list from time to time, adding things to her basket or sometimes just picking something up and looking it over before putting it back on the shelf.When she'd finished we went to the counter, where a thin man stood smiling.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Acklebee," he said, lifting items out of her basket. "I see you have a little visitor with you today."

  "I need five pounds of sugar," Grandma said, ignoring his remark, "fifty pounds of flour, a jug of molasses, and a gallon of vinegar."

  He nodded, glancing at me quickly with a half smile, like he wanted to be friendly but was afraid to. He fetched the heavier items Grandma had requested.

  "Is that everything for you today, then?" he asked. His voice sounded too loud and cheery. When Grandma nodded, he pulled out a book and flipped a few pages until he came to one with her name on it. He wrote down each thing in the order and added up the total. Then he turned it around and slid it across the counter to Grandma.

  She read it through carefully, checked his addition twice, and signed it.

  He closed the book and put it under the counter, then came around to help carry the flour and other heavy things out to the car. But before the man could leave the store, Uncle Roger showed up from wherever he'd been and took the load from him.

  "This is my niece, Ellie," he said as he hoisted the flour onto a broad shoulder. "Ellie, this is Wendell Fletcher."

  "Pleased to meet you, Ellie," Wendell said. He smiled and shook my hand, then reached into one of the big jars of candy. "Say, do you like peppermint sticks?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Fletcher," I said. My mouth was already starting to water.

  "On the house," he said passing one to me. "Welcome to Weybolt."

  I thanked him, and then he and Uncle Roger talked for a couple of minutes. After that we went back to the car, where Grandma was sitting, hands folded on her lap, looking straight ahead.

  Nine

  One thing I can say for Grandma—she's good at braiding hair. Even though we drove to town and back with the windows down and the air blowing through the car, the braids were still in good shape when I finally got to see them.

  After a long look in the bathroom mirror, I decided I didn't care for them. They were smooth and even, but it felt strange to have my hair tamed that way. It's always been kind of wild—long, brown waves dancing around my head. Even tied with rubber bands, my hair is quite bouncy.

  There was no problem with taking the braids out that night because it was Saturday, which of course meant a bath. I washed myself and then scrubbed my hair and rinsed it slowly with a jug of warm water. The water felt nice running over my shoulders and down into the big round wooden tub.

  Just sitting in the water felt good, but there was no time to relax and enjoy it because Uncle Roger still had to have his turn and it was already starting to cool.

  I squeezed my hair to get some of the water out, wrapped a stiff white towel around me, and stepped onto the back porch floor. After a quick towel-off, I slipped my cotton nightie over my head and went inside to get my comb.

  "Did you wash your ears?" Grandma asked. She'd bathed first and had already combed her hair and put it back into the tight bun she wore.

  "Yes'm," I said, though it wasn't true. I soothed my conscience by deciding they'd probably gotten clean when I was washing my hair.

  Grandma didn't check. Instead, she said it was bedtime and I should say my prayers with extra care because tomorrow was the Lord's Day and it would be a terrible thing for me to go to the Lord's House with my heart all black and sinful.

  "Yes, Grandma," I said. "Good night, Grandma."

  "Just mind what I told you," she said.

  I made sure to kneel beside my bed for my prayers that night. I usually do that anyway—at least, I do most of the time, but sometimes I forget until I'm already in bed under the blankets feeling good and sleepy. When that happens it's hard to get back out so I usually just sit up and clasp my hands together and hope God doesn't mind.

  When I'd finished owning up to fibbing about washing my ears and having unkind thoughts about my grandmother, I got to the "God blesses." I always say God bless Daddy and my friends Sheila and Judy. Then I do Ron and Yvonne Laughlin, who are our neighbors back in Moose Jaw, and Premier Douglas and Prime Minister St. Laurent (because Daddy says we're supposed to pray for our country's leader, even if he is a Liberal).

  I was about to say Amen and jump into bed when it struck me that I should probably be adding on Grandma and Uncle Roger. I didn't mind Uncle Roger, but I was kind of grudging asking God to bless Grandma. After I'd finished up and gotten under the covers, I wondered if maybe I'd gone and blackened my heart again, so I got back out of bed and back on my knees.

  "P.S.," I said, "If it was a sin to ask You to bless Grandma when I didn't really mean it, could You go ahead and forgive that, too?"

  That must have done the trick, because I slept peaceful as can be and woke up in the morning feeling just a tiny bit less homesick.

  I expected we'd be going to church in Weybolt so I was surprised that Uncle Roger headed his truck the other way.

  Like most tall buildings on the prairies, the church came into view long before we reached it. It stood out against the sky, tall and thin and white. I listened hard, hoping it had a bell, but there was only silence.

  Grandma said she hoped she didn't have to tell me how to behave in the Lord's House and I told her no, ma'am—that I went with my daddy every Sunday. She sniffed like she doubted it, but she didn't say anything else.

  In we went and sat in an empty pew four rows from the front on the left side. There were only about thirty other people there. A few of them nodded and murmured good morning, and then the preacher came out and everyone fell silent.

  He preache
d about being a faithful witness in four ways—discipleship and stewardship and two more. I can't remember the others exactly. I don't think they were ships, which kind of threw me off after the first two.

  When we were leaving, Uncle Roger shook the preacher's hand and introduced me to him. Grandma told him it was a good sermon and she hoped certain people were paying attention. That made me a mite nervous in case she meant me and planned to ask me questions on the way home.

  Just as we reached the car, though, a girl came running over. She stopped dead in front of me and put her hands on her hips.

  "I'm Marcy Knowles and I live on the third farm south of where you're staying," she said in a quick burst of words. "You can come over and play if you want to tomorrow. I have a tire swing and a real live carriage big enough to hold four dolls."

  "Marcy," a woman's voice called behind her, "remember your manners."

  "Yes, Momma. Good day, Mrs. Acklebee," Marcy said. She turned to face my grandmother and it seemed as if she was about to curtsey. If she meant to, she changed her mind and just looked back at me again.

  "Elizabeth is busy during the day," Grandma told her. I tried not to frown when I heard that. It was true Grandma had been finding more chores for me to do each day, but it wasn't as if she really needed me. After all, she'd done everything on her own up until I got there.

  "She's not so busy that she can't make new friends," Uncle Roger said just as Grandma opened her mouth to continue. "And you come along over to our place too, anytime you like, Marcy. We'd be glad to have you."

  The next thing I knew, Uncle Roger had gone to talk to Marcy's mother to see what time I was to go there. Grandma looked angry, but she never said a word. She just got into the truck and sat there as usual—stiff and still as a rock.

  When we got back to the farm I hurried out to tell Sammy about the invitation. You'd think he might have shown some sign of being glad for me, since I was his only friend at the moment, but all he did was scream for some bugs and add another dropping to the paper lining his cage.