Home Sweet Home

by April Smith

  “Are you tourists?”

  “We just moved from New York City. What about you?”

  “We both grew up in Rapid. My husband went to law school in New Jersey, but now we live in town.”

  “My husband is a lawyer, too!”

  “No kidding. Where are you staying?”

  “With the Roys.”

  “Oh, the Roys. My husband knows them better than I do.”

  A well-dressed young man was running across the street with an umbrella over his head. He was dark-haired and wearing a business suit, the first time in weeks she’d seen a man in a suit. When he got close Betsy saw he was clean-shaven with bright blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, a striped varsity scarf around his neck. She didn’t know which college, but maybe, because the woman had mentioned New Jersey, it was Princeton.

  “Stella, what are you doing? Everyone’s waiting,” he said.

  “I can’t get him off,” said his wife.

  The father faced the son. “Robbie, come down off that horse. I’m going to count to three.”

  “Obey your father,” Stella said.

  Robbie’s lips compressed and the tips of his ears flushed red as if he couldn’t decide whether it was to his advantage to stand his ground or give in to remorseful tears.

  “Let’s go. This little girl is waiting,” said the father.

  “It’s okay,” Betsy said.

  “No, it’s not!” Jo protested.

  Despite his frustration, the man bent down and smiled at Jo.

  “You’re right, young lady, it isn’t, and we are going to fix that immediately. Hello,” he said, extending his hand to Betsy. “My name is Nelson Fletcher and this is my wife, Stella.”

  “Stell,” said the woman from behind the handkerchief. With her husband in charge, her mood seemed to lift.

  Betsy introduced herself and they all shook hands.

  “We just have to go across to the bank and sign some papers,” Nelson said.

  “Go ahead,” said Betsy. “I’ll watch your son.”

  Nelson glanced uncertainly at his wife, wondering whether they should trust even a well-dressed stranger.

  “They just moved here from back east,” Stell explained.

  “New York City,” Betsy added, for credibility.

  “They’re staying with the Roys.”

  Nelson nodded. “Scotty Roy. I knew him in high school.”

  “Robbie really is a good boy,” Stell interjected quickly. “He won’t be any trouble.”

  “Go on,” Betsy assured her. “I’ll be right here.”

  “Ten minutes,” Nelson promised, as the umbrella flared and they headed into the rain. To the children: “You two get lollipops if you’re good. Take turns, got that, Robbie?”

  Robbie murmured yes. He’d defeated the enemy. He was not doomed to sit in the boring old bank all day.

  Jo and the boy ignored each other as he slid off the horse. She clambered up but her chiffon dress wasn’t meant for galloping, so she gathered it above her knees and plunked her bottom on the saddle, feeling the not unpleasant sensation of warm hard plastic through the crotch of her cotton underpants. Betsy put a dime in the slot and Champion moved up and down in smooth oval loops. Jo shot the boy a disparaging look and took up the reins the way Doris had taught her. Like a real cowgirl.

  —

  The following morning the sun was shining and the wind brought the scents of anise and mint from the prairie flowers. The Roys were putting in their two-acre vegetable garden and Cal drove down to help. With the tractor out of commission it would be hell to pay, breaking up the rain-compacted soil, but according to the Farmer’s Almanac, the next two weeks were favorable for planting. As each twenty-four-hour cycle passed, Dutch became more incensed by the problem of the tractor he couldn’t solve. After dinner, while Doris served Dutch his coffee and pie and he tried to smoke a cigarette in peace, she would tick off all the vegetables—cucumber, carrots, radish, and beans—she would not be able to pickle if they didn’t get seeds in the ground. Finally Dutch had decreed: horsepower.

  That morning, when he arrived from the cabin, Cal saw that Scotty was leading two big chestnut workhorses out of the barn. He tied them to the post, went into the tack room, and came back with the heavy leather harnesses to pull a plow that hadn’t been used in years. Doris passed with a wave, carrying a bucket of water for the ram. Cal noticed that ranch women don’t waste time. They strut fast, their arms are strong and movements efficient, and they’re always looking ahead at the next task—or several at the same time.

  The ram was kept separate from the ewes. He was excitable, pacing back and forth, distressed that his only companion was a wayward hen. Cal felt like butting someone’s head as well, and that person was Scotty Roy, but now was not the time to bring up Scotty’s tales of his war escapades. As he walked toward his old air force buddy, boots crunching the dirt still wet from yesterday’s downpour, Cal’s hands were clenched inside the pockets of his jacket.

  “Get the starter fixed?”

  “Like I thought, nothin’ wrong with it in the first place,” Scotty said. “I installed it back in and tried again. No luck. Right now Daddy’s on the phone over to the dealer in Pierre. I tell you, it’s a head-scratcher, and every day it’s costing money.”

  “Can I try?”

  “Have a ball.”

  Cal climbed into the seat and started moving the gearshifts, trying to get a feel for anything that did not seem right. For one thing, the shifter had a lot more play than any car or truck he’d driven.

  “This feels kind of loose.”

  “Does it now?” Scotty drawled.

  Cal started fooling with switches and buttons and the tractor started.

  Scotty’s jaw dropped. “Do that again.”

  Cal cut the engine and turned it on. Twice more. Each time it fired up like a dream.

  “For God’s sake, Kusek, don’t mess with the odds. Let it run.”

  Cal hopped down as the engine rumbled. “It’s okay. I think I know where the problem is.”

  The sound brought Dutch running from the house, where he was so amazed he’d simply hung up the phone on the talkative Ford dealer in Pierre. They gathered around the machine like worshippers at Stonehenge, awed by the mystery.

  Dutch said, “What the hell?”

  “Got your tractor working,” Cal said.

  “You did this?”

  Cal shrugged. “Beginner’s luck.”

  “What’s the trick?”

  “Okay, there’s a neutral interlock switch that prevents you from starting the engine when the shift levers are out of line,” Cal recited from memory of what he’d read in the manual. “It works off the linkage in the transmission.”

  Dutch and Scotty exchanged dubious looks.

  “We’re aware of it,” said Dutch. “You’re talking about a safety feature they put in to prevent accidents. Stops the tractor from starting while it’s in gear.”

  “Right,” said Cal, “but if the shift levers are too loose, the safety feature kicks in, preventing the engine from turning over.”

  “Bullshit,” Scotty said, scoffing. “That’s way too simple. Come on, us country folk are not as dumb as we look. Believe it or not, I have, on occasion, consulted the almighty manual, too.”

  The manual had been sealed and unopened when Dutch gave it to him, but Cal kept himself in check. “It’s in the footnotes at the bottom of the page,” he said stiffly.

  “There you go!” Dutch said to Scotty. “I always told you—read the fine print!”

  He was halfway kidding, but Scotty took it badly.

  “I took the starter out, like you said, which was no help. I spent all that time on nothin’, and because of that I never got to the post office so I went and missed the cutoff for the rodeo in Deadwood.”

  “Oh, give it up,” said Dutch, irritated. “You ain’t never gonna make the finals.”

  “I won’t if I don’t compete.”

  “Not my
fault.”

  “You think bull riding’s just a pastime—”

  “I never said that.”

  “It’s a professional sport that requires training and commitment—”

  “Then stop whining and act like a professional,” his father snapped.

  “I can’t when you got me running errands for a fool.”

  “Scott,” said Dutch, pointing a thick finger, “I told you ever since you were a little boy: I never want to hear you say ‘I can’t.’ ”

  The two men faced each other with hips squared and chins out. Cal felt his own blood rise. Everyone was getting way too hot.

  “For what it’s worth,” Cal interrupted, “the problem getting it to start was hard to pinpoint. It’s one of those maintenance things that people don’t pay attention to.”

  “We pay attention,” Scotty said menacingly.

  “Just trying to help,” Cal replied, jaw tightening.

  Dutch clapped him on the shoulder. “You did help, son. Scotty, move them horses back inside and drive the tractor around. Put the harrow on, let’s get going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Scotty did not take the horses in. When his father was out of earshot, he leaned toward Cal and said, “Hey, Kusek. Stop trying to get between me and my dad.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You tell me.”

  Cal’s response was a statement of fact. “I’ve flown an airplane.”

  Scotty’s eyes bugged out in exaggerated confusion. “Huh? What’s this about an airplane?”

  “What’s this cockeyed story you’ve been telling everyone about how you landed with the Americans and got in the middle of friendly fire?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know damn well and I’m tired of hearing it.”

  “What are you trying to do, buddy?”

  “Fix a tractor,” Cal said over his shoulder. He walked around to the driver’s side.

  Scotty followed. “Hey, professor, just because you read the footpages, you think you know everything—”

  “I do know, Scotty,” Cal said, facing him. “I was the pilot. I know where the drop zone was, and it was behind enemy lines, a hundred kilometers north of the beachhead.”

  He was angry, but more than that, he was hurt. It hurt to know the kid he’d admired for his moxie, whose innocence and spirit had convinced him to pick up his family and move to the other side of the country, was a fraud.

  “Why’d you have to make something up?” he asked almost sadly. “Everybody over there was a hero.”

  “What’s it to you? Nobody really knows what went on. A lot worse stuff happened that night, believe me.”

  “It’s disrespectful to other soldiers,” Cal said gravely. “It’s stealing from men who deserve it.”

  “Stealing what?”

  “Honor.”

  Scotty gave a hollow laugh. But the word hit him and he appeared shaken. “For Christ’s sake,” he managed.

  “Somebody might have landed on the wrong side of hell and warned our boys to stop shooting our troops, but it wasn’t you.”

  “Not your concern,” Scotty said, drawing himself up. “You’re just mad because you want to be the hero.”

  Cal watched the other man carefully, calculating his defense if Scotty threw the first punch. “What’s my secret plan to be the hero, Scotty?”

  “Taking over the ranch. Learnin’ all the ins and outs.”

  “Your father offered to teach me. All I ever asked was to get in out of the rain.”

  “Then he’s drivin’ you to the sale barn, introducing you around. Don’t think I don’t hear about it. Then him and Mama start talking about selling you the cabin and the upper pastures. You’re angling for acreage, ain’t you? A piece of the pie you got no right to.”

  Cal’s mind went fuzzy. He didn’t trust himself. He stalked back to the wagon, where the manual sat on the front seat. He reached through the open window and picked it up.

  “Don’t need this anymore,” he said, throwing it against Scotty’s chest.

  “Nah,” said Scotty, catching it easily. “I guess not, since you’ve driven so many tractors.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re the expert.”

  “Admit it. Just between you and me. Admit it about Italy and I won’t bring it up again.”

  Whiskey had begun to bark her head off, putting a stop to their unfinished business. A car pulled into the driveway and the question went unanswered as the barnyard erupted in bleating and squawks. It was a sky-blue Dodge sedan driven by a young woman—a blonde with a pink scarf tied under her chin. She rolled down the window and waved.

  “Hi there!” she said brightly.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t spill your secret,” Cal said over the racket.

  “Hello?” the woman called again. She took off her sunglasses. “Excuse me. Can I ask you boys a question?”

  “Over there you were a big swinging dick,” Scotty told Cal. “But here you’re green as grass, so just stay out of my way.”

  8

  Up at the cabin, Betsy was washing clothes in the kitchen sink, using a washboard and a chunk of homemade soap. Made the old-fashioned way by boiling water, lye, and fatty scraps saved from the kitchen, the soap did the job but left her hands red and itchy. She would have run barefoot over stones for a box of Ivory Flakes right now—except a sky-blue Dodge sedan was heaving its way up the hill toward the cabin.

  Betsy looked out the window as a woman with strawberry-blond hair stepped from the car.

  “That’s Robbie’s mom!” she exclaimed.

  “Who’s Robbie?” piped Jo.

  “The boy on the horse we met yesterday.”

  “I’m gonna hide!”

  Jo climbed into the crib with Lance and pulled the blanket over their heads.

  Betsy met Stell Fletcher at the front door.

  “Hello! Good to see you again.”

  “I just stopped by the main house and your handsome husband said you were here. I won’t stay long,” Stell said, taking off her scarf.

  “Come inside and meet the mess! What do you think?” Betsy asked, sweeping a hand over the woodstove, kerosene lamps, worn curtains that didn’t block the daylight, cots they slept on, suitcases they locked because of the mice.

  Stell said, “Let me guess. No phone, no electricity except maybe a cranky old generator that never works when you need it?”

  Betsy nodded.

  “Well, at least you don’t have to vacuum.”

  Betsy laughed. “Hey, would you like some coffee? I just spent fifteen minutes getting a damn fire going.”

  She spooned some instant into the only two mugs that came with the cabin and they sat at the zinc-covered kitchen table. Stell put down two Ball jars filled with dark red jam.

  “These are for you. Homemade wild plum preserves. I wanted to thank you for watching Robbie,” Stell said.

  Betsy smiled with delight and held the jars to her chest. “You made this?”

  “I’ll show you where the wild plums grow. Way out in the prairie, a place they call, well, the ‘Spooky Place,’ because everything’s burned black from a fire. Robbie loves to pick—we’ll take the kids there.”

  “Jo will love that.”

  “Robbie’s really a sweet boy. It’s just that things have been rough. My mother died recently, and he was close to Grandma.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “I must have looked a nut, crying my eyes out on Main Street.”

  “Hey, no, not at all. I lost my mother, too,” Betsy said earnestly. “More than ten years ago, but she’s still with me every day.”

  Stell nodded. “Sorry, dear.”

  “When did your mom pass?”

  “On the fifteenth. It’s funny but it was very sudden.”

  “Geez, that’s hard.”

  Stell’s eyes grew teary. “You were really nice to me yesterday,” she said, touching Betsy’s hand.

  Bets
y’s eyes also welled, but the feeling was too poignant and she snuffed it with a polite smile. “So what kind of law does your husband practice?”

  “General law, I guess you’d call it—but half the time he’s out in the hinterlands, trying to organize the party.”

  “The Republican Party?” Betsy ventured cautiously.

  “Democratic,” Stell said almost apologetically. “We’re very much the minority in South Dakota.”

  “Well, now you’ve got two more.”

  Stell slapped the table. “Democrats? I’ll tell you, it’s an uphill battle. If we had any hills.”

  Jo popped her head out of the crib, shouting, “Surprise!”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Stell theatrically. “You scared me!”

  “Look! Papa’s coming!” said Jo, climbing out and dashing for the door. Lance pulled himself up on the rails and stood tenuously.

  “I do have children,” Betsy admitted. “I just don’t always know where they are.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Stell said.

  “Spontaneity,” Betsy advised slyly. “In the car.”

  “Really?”

  “Works every time.”

  They were giggling together when Cal came through the front door holding Jo’s hand.

  “I see you found Betsy,” he told their visitor.

  “Good directions,” Stell replied. “Nice place you have here.”

  “We’re camping out,” Cal replied. “This is temporary.”

  Betsy knew something was up. He’d forgotten his hello kiss and didn’t seem interested in chatting. Normally a new person would spark his curiosity.

  “They’re Democrats!” Betsy announced.

  “What do you know?” Cal said.

  “And Stella’s husband is also an attorney.”

  “I look forward to meeting him. Where’s his office?” he asked politely.

  “Rapid City. Right now he’s trying to sell my mother’s property. That’s what we were doing at the bank, when we ran into Betsy. It was my grandmother’s ranch, that’s what’s so sad. The ranch my mother grew up on. It’s been in the family three generations, but we just can’t afford the taxes. I hate to give it up, but we have to sell. Nelson’s not optimistic about finding a buyer. There’s a lot of stuff for sale right now.”