Tumbleweed Skies

by Valerie Sherrard

"Are you sure these are made right?" she asked crossly as she picked herself up and brushed away some dirt and grass that was clinging to her.

  "They're stilts," Uncle Roger said. "What could be wrong with them?"

  Marcy's eyebrows ploughed together in a frown but she got over her anger fast. "Anyway, it's ages and ages since I was on stilts," she said. "I probably just need to practice. Then you won't be able to believe how good I am on them."

  "No, we probably won't," Uncle Roger agreed. I saw a smile try to bust out on his face, but he fought it off. Then he showed me how to get on the stilts, and he guided me while I took my first few steps.

  I was pretty shaky at it and I figured I'd soon be landing on my behind, too. But Uncle Roger told us that if we felt we were losing control, we should lean forward a bit and jump down.

  Marcy made another attempt. She did all right for a few steps before she lost her balance and landed on the ground again.

  "I did that on purpose," she claimed. "I just realized how thirsty I am, so I got down to get a drink of water."

  "Well, now. I'd best be getting back to work," Uncle Roger said, but he didn't move.

  "Uncle Roger?" I said. "Did you and my mother have stilts?"

  "We sure did," he said. "We used to race on 'em and make bets to see who could stay up the longest. Your mom won most of the time and I'd end up doing one of her chores. That's usually what we bet—a chore."

  I tried to picture my mother as a little girl and Uncle Roger as a little boy, playing together right in this yard. I wondered if their stilts were like the ones Uncle Roger had just made. And then I remembered my grandmother's face when she'd said Uncle Roger's name in that strange tone of voice earlier, and I knew she'd thought that he was going to let me use my mother's stilts. Mostly, I knew she didn't want me touching them.

  "Do you still have those stilts?" I asked.

  "They're here," he said, "up in the rafters. But the wood is old and dry and starting to split. They wouldn't be safe anymore."

  "Did you make these new ones just for me and Marcy?" I asked.

  He nodded. "There was nothing to it," he said.

  "But I never used stilts before, and now Marcy and I have something to do," I said. "Thank you, Uncle Roger."

  "Aw," he said, like he was brushing away my thanks. But his face looked pleased, and watching it, I discovered something odd. Uncle Roger's burn wasn't nearly as noticeable as it was when I first met him.

  I went into the kitchen and was surprised to see Marcy standing beside Grandma, drying dishes and talking.

  "I felt like helping," Marcy said with her chin up in the air. "I don't think your grandmother should have to do all the work by herself, Ellie."

  "Elizabeth helps me every day," Grandma said.

  "My mother says I'm the best helper there ever was," Marcy claimed.

  "That's nice," Grandma said. "Elizabeth, would you sweep the floor, please? You always do an excellent job of it."

  I picked up the broom and began to sweep the floor extra carefully.

  "I can't believe I fell off the stilts today," Marcy said. "Mother says I have natural grace and balance, and I could be in the ballet if I had lessons. And Daddy told me one time that I was the best stilt-walker he ever saw."

  Grandma didn't give Marcy much encouragement—a grunt now and then—but that didn't stop Marcy from bragging on and on. It was a relief when the chores were all finished and it was time to go back outside. Marcy was out the door like a bolt, but I held back for a minute or two.

  "Is there anything else you'd like me to do before I go play, Grandma?" I asked.

  "No. You go on with your friend." It seemed her voice was just a little softer than usual. It gave me a flash of courage.

  "All right," I said. "And thank you…for letting me and Marcy make cookies."

  Grandma's chin lifted and her eyes seemed to settle on the tired old wallpaper over the stove. "Roger likes sugar cookies," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said, but as I turned to walk away, Grandma spoke again.

  "But you're welcome, Elizabeth."

  Marcy was already on the clothesline stand, holding onto one pair of stilts. She shouted, "I'm over here, Ellie!" as if I might not notice her there.

  I got there quick enough and we both balanced ourselves on the stilts and took a few wobbly steps before we lost control. Remembering my Uncle Roger's instructions, we pitched forward and then jumped down.

  Laughing, we raced back to the stand and tried again. And again. We lurched and veered off course. Down we went over and over. If it wasn't for Uncle Roger's help in telling us how to keep from crashing, we'd have been bruised from head to toe. I'm sure if anyone was watching they'd have thought we were the most hopeless stilt-walkers in the entire world. Maybe we were, but it sure was fun.

  Even so, it wasn't long before we were managing more than just a few steps. By the end of the afternoon, we could both walk around for a few minutes at a time.

  "My uncle said he and my mom used to race," I told Marcy when we were taking a break and lying back on a shaded patch of grass.

  "Race?" Marcy looked doubtful. "You want to try it?"

  "Nah. They had a lot more practice than us," I said.

  "Oh, well, maybe some other time," Marcy said. She sounded disappointed, but her face looked relieved.

  We were just starting to get tired of playing on the stilts when Mrs. Knowles arrived to pick Marcy up.

  "It's a girl!" she called as soon as she was out of the car. "Marcy, honey, you have a new cousin!"

  Marcy didn't seem very excited at her mother's news. She said something about crying babies, but her voice was too low and mumbled for me to hear it clearly.

  "And you'll be happy to know that Aunt Dottie is doing just fine," Mrs. Knowles added.

  "Hello!" came Grandma's voice. She was just coming out the front door. "Did I hear you say the little one has arrived?"

  "Yes, a girl."

  "The baby is healthy—everything went well?"

  "Yes, thank you," Mrs. Knowles said. "Dottie is tired, of course, but she and the baby are both fine."

  "Good, good," Grandma said, smiling. Her face crinkled and her dark eyes almost disappeared in the folds.

  "I hope Marcy behaved herself for you," Mrs. Knowles went on.

  "Oh, yes," said Grandma.

  "We made cookies and played on stilts," Marcy announced.

  "You did! Well, isn't that nice." Mrs. Knowles smiled at Grandma like it had all been her idea. "I can't thank you enough for watching her for me."

  "It was no problem," Grandma said. "But wait here one moment. I have something for the little one."

  She disappeared inside and reappeared with a beautiful new baby quilt.

  "What lovely stitch work!" Mrs. Knowles said. "I know Dottie will be thrilled."

  "Did you make it?" Marcy asked. When Grandma nodded, she said, "You must have worked on it all day!"

  And then, you wouldn't believe it, but Grandma laughed. Mrs. Knowles did too, and she explained to Marcy that quilts—even small ones—take a long time to make. When they were gone, I gathered my nerve up and asked Grandma when she had made it.

  "I start one whenever I hear news that there will be a new baby," she said. "I like to keep busy."

  She glanced down at me. "It would be good for you to learn this too. Life is about work, not play."

  Sixteen

  After Marcy's visit, the next few days were pretty dismal. Grandma seemed extra grumpy and hardly spoke to me, except to give me chores to do or remind me to be quiet.

  One afternoon I was sweeping off the back step when she came along.

  "You like to disobey, is that it?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am." I knew I didn't have to ask what I'd done wrong. If there was one thing that seemed to make her happy, it was explaining my shortcomings.

  "So, why do you make this noise?"

  It took me a few seconds to figure out what noise she meant. Then I realized that
I'd been singing. I told her I was sorry and I'd try harder.

  "Heedless girl," she muttered as she walked away.

  I finished sweeping in silence, reminding myself that it was only for a little while longer and that Daddy would soon have sold enough Marvelous pots and pans to come get me. I missed him all the time, but I missed him the most when Grandma made me feel bad.

  Usually, when I got to feeling real lonesome for my daddy I could fight off tears by breathing in huge gulps of air and holding them, but not this time.

  They spilled out of my eyes and fell onto the steps, forming splotches of wet on the sun-bleached wood even as I swept. Somehow, I knew if Grandma saw me crying this time, it would make things worse. I stood the broom up against the door frame and ran across the yard with only one thought in my head— escaping her watchful eyes and ears.

  I'd meant to go out behind the barn, but as I got close to it I could see that the side door was open just a little. A shuffling kind of sound inside told me that Uncle Roger was in there, and without thinking, I stuck my head in and peered around.

  It was hard to see at first. There were only a few small windows in there, though a bit more light did get in through all the spaces between the wall's boards. It was hard to say if the light helped or not because it mostly seemed to show up the dusty haziness in the air.

  Uncle Roger was sitting on an overturned pail, holding a long piece of wood that was curved on both ends. He looked over almost at once, probably because the door squeaked a bit when my head nudged it.

  "Hello, Ellie's head," he called out.

  I swallowed and blinked and cleared my throat a little, then answered him hello back.

  "Come on in, and bring the rest of Ellie with you," he said.

  I knew there were streaks down my face from the tears but it didn't seem likely Uncle Roger would be able to see them in the dark of the barn. I swiped at my cheeks to brush the wet away and then stepped in and walked toward him, stopping about ten feet away.

  "There's a milking stool over there," he said, gesturing with his thumb. "Bring it here and have a sit-down."

  I got the stool and brought it over. It was short, like it had been made for someone like me who didn't have very long legs.

  "This here," he said, nodding at the curved piece of wood he was holding, "is a handmade swingle tree. It goes on the horse's traces when we're setting up to haul big loads."

  I looked it over carefully and nodded like he'd just confirmed what I'd been thinking. Actually, I'd never even heard of a swingle tree before and couldn't begin to picture how it worked.

  Whatever he'd been doing, it seemed he was just finishing when I got there, because he stood up, crossed the barn, and hung it on a hook beside some other odd things. They looked like tools of some sort, though nothing I'd ever seen before.

  I stood when he did. "I'd better get back to my chores now," I said as he started back toward me. But my feet didn't move.

  "Aw, come on outside and set a spell," Uncle Roger said. "See what the sky has to say."

  "Skies can't talk," I said, but I went with him and sat down against a bank of hay on the far side of the barn. When he leaned back and stared up at the sky, I did too.

  "What do you think this here sky's telling us?" he asked.

  "I don't know," I said, watching the clusters of small clouds. "Looks like it might be gathering for a rainstorm."

  "Could be." He didn't sound convinced. After a bit, he said, "Your ma would have called this a tumbleweed sky."

  "How come?"

  "She said these kinds of clouds were dry and dusty and blowing along like a bunch of tumbleweeds. One time she told me they were like people who'd forgotten how to love—looking normal on the outside, but withered up and empty on the inside." He shook his head and smiled sadly. "Maggie saw things different, that's for sure."

  I didn't know what to say to that, so I just stayed quiet and hoped he'd keep on talking. But when he spoke again, it was just to ask me how I was getting along with Grandma.

  "Fine," I lied.

  He looked at me for a long minute, like he was figuring something out, but all he said was, "Those cookies you made the other day—did you know they were your ma's favorite kind?"

  "Grandma said they were your favorite," I said.

  Uncle Roger shook his head. "Nope. I like the ones with dates in the middle."

  "Do you think Grandma forgot?" I asked.

  "Can't see it," he said. He put his arms up and folded them behind his head. "No sir, my guess would be that your grandma wanted to make those cookies for you."

  "For me?" I couldn't have been more surprised if he'd told me the hay we were lying on was going to be spun into gold.

  "Sure. But I don't suppose she could admit it. So she had to let on they were for me."

  I thought about that for a bit. Uncle Roger just stayed quiet and let me. I think that might be what I like the most about Uncle Roger—he doesn't try to persuade you about things like most grown-ups.

  "I think they were the best cookies I ever tasted," I said after a few minutes.

  "Maybe they'll be your favorite, too," Uncle Roger commented. "Just like your ma. Maybe people inherit taste in cookies the same way they inherit eye color and such."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I don't see why not." He sat forward and pulled up his knees, circling them with his arms. I did the same and we stayed that way for a few quiet minutes. Then Uncle Roger told me he really should be getting back to work.

  "But you know where I am most of the time," he said. "One of the fields, usually. So you come find me anytime you feel like having a visit."

  I felt lighter and happier as I headed back to the house and Grandma's stern face. I even tried not to let it bother me too much when Grandma asked me if I'd been hiding, trying to get out of helping with the chores and did I think she was there to wait on me?

  I talked to Sammy about it all later—how mean Grandma was and how hard it was to be there.

  "Some days I just feel like a prisoner, trapped in this horrible old house," I told him. "I know Grandma is feeding me and giving me a place to live while Daddy gets back on his feet, but I just can't find it in my heart to feel thankful. It's hard to be grateful when you're sad and lonely and just want to be back in your own home."

  Sammy tilted his head sideways like he was truly trying to sympathize, but I was probably imagining that.

  That night at bedtime, I prayed a prayer that Daddy would be the best Marvelous pots and pans salesman ever so he could come back for me soon.

  I don't guess that's the kind of prayer God really wants to hear. Daddy says we should always ask Him to do His will, but I didn't want to take a chance in case His will wasn't the same as what I wanted. Not if it meant I had to stay with Grandma Acklebee one minute longer than I absolutely had to.

  Seventeen

  "I'll have to go into town tomorrow morning," Uncle Roger said the next day when we were all at the table having headcheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch.

  Grandma looked up at him questioningly. I guess trips to town in the middle of the week aren't that usual.

  "Broken part on the tractor," he said. "I thought Ellie could come along with me. And we can stop in at the Knowles's place so she and Marcy can make plans for another visit."

  Grandma opened her mouth and it wasn't hard to figure out what she might say to that. But she saw the look on Uncle Roger's face and it seemed to be saying there wasn't going to be any arguing about it. Her mouth hung open for a bit and you could tell she was struggling, the way it was quivering.

  In the end, she forced it closed and went back to her soup. Her hand trembled as she lifted each spoonful and I could see her jaw muscles working.

  It was so peculiar. For the first time since I'd been there, I started to wonder why Grandma gave in to Uncle Roger all the time. Anyone could see she didn't want to, and yet she did.

  Whatever the reason, I was only too glad to be goin
g to town again the next day. I made up my mind that when it got to be bedtime, I would watch out my window carefully for the first star.

  Marcy wasn't such a great friend—not like Judy or Sheila at home, but it would still be nice to have something different to do for a day. Maybe even a whole night too—if she asked me to sleep over like she'd said she would the first time I was there.

  Only, that made me a bit nervous. What if Grandma said no and even Uncle Roger couldn't persuade her? How would I explain that to Marcy? She sure wasn't the type to keep things to herself. It would be all over the countryside that my own grandmother wouldn't let me sleep at the Knowles' house.

  Then I remembered that Daddy would have called that "borrowing worries." He says folks who do that must really like to fret, or they'd at least wait and see if there was an actual reason to worry. He says our Heavenly Father doesn't like us going ahead and getting all stirred up about something that hasn't even happened yet and might well never happen at all. He says we ought to just push those thoughts right out of our heads.

  I did my best to push the thought out like Daddy says, but I might just as well admit I couldn't completely get rid of it. An uneasy feeling sat on me, and every time I glanced at Grandma's stern face, it was a little worse.

  If there's one good thing about fretting ahead of time, it's that it makes you forget about other unpleasant things. Before I knew it, my afternoon chores were done, and I was laying the table for supper and listening for the sound of Uncle Roger's boots thudding down on the step to knock the dirt off before he came into the kitchen.

  When he did, he was smiling and holding an envelope, which clean took my mind off everything else.

  "Look what I found out in the mailbox," he said, passing it to me. "A letter for Miss Elizabeth Stewart."

  Sure enough, my name was right there on the front—in my daddy's handwriting! Maybe there'd be news about when he was coming back for me! I took the letter and ran upstairs to my room. I closed the door tight and sat on the bed to open it. My heart was pounding with joy and excitement.

  Dear Ellie, Daddy's letter started. How are you doing, kiddo?

  I had to swallow all of a sudden, only it was hard to because it felt like something was squeezing my throat from the inside. I took a couple of slow breaths to calm myself down and gave my eyes a quick wipe 'cause they were getting blurry.