Francesca of Lost Nation

by Crosby, Lucinda Sue

  The rest of the day was spent lugging mops and pails and boxes of soap flakes through the rain. I’m sure we tracked as much mud in to the place as we mopped up. You could write your name in the dirt on the windows, which I did five or six times. We chased out some mice and cleared what seemed like a wheelbarrow of dried animal droppings. Some of the cobwebs were five feet long and made my skin crawl when I ran through them. But I did it just the same, screaming like a banshee from the nerve-tingling pleasure.

  “Sarah! The mice have gotten to this coverlet. Be a darling girl, and fetch me another from the linen closet.” This entailed running to Main House, which meant tracking in more mud, which then needed to be mopped up.

  It took about three more hours to get the cottage spic and span, but it was worth the effort. The woodwork fairly glowed. Francesca put her thin arms around my shoulders and hugged me as a reward for a job well done.

  Bark! Bark! Just as we finished up, we heard the unmistakable sounds of a dog. It was my little destroyer of heirloom roses, back for another assault! For some reason, it was running crazily around the yard in circles, yapping and yapping. As we ran to Main House, it followed us. Right up the porch stairs. Looking ever so bedraggled, it stood there wagging its tail, flinging muddy droplets all over us with every swish.

  “It’s some stupid old dog and he’s after your roses and I’ve tried to chase him away, but he won’t go! Stop it, you stupid dog!”

  “Hush, Sarah.”

  I swear the dog stopped barking and sat down.

  “What a good girl,” Francesca went on quietly as she cautiously approached the stray. “That’s a good girl. No one will hurt you. Here, girl. Come here, girl.”

  And the dog went right over to my grandmother and sat on her shoe. Francesca took the dog’s face into the palm of her hand and examined it, looking into its deep brown eyes. How often I’d seen her commune with animals in that way.

  My grandmother guessed the dog was about a year old. “It could be part herding breed with a touch of Labrador,” she mused. “Look at the fine black hairs sprinkled across her back.”

  To me, it looked like a mutt and nothing but a mutt.

  “A very special mutt,” she said and added the dog was smart as a whip and possibly a good swimmer. “See the webbed paws?”

  Where had she come from? Francesca and I’d never seen her before, and we knew all our neighbors’ pets.

  Francesca blew softly into the dog’s snout. It made a joyful yelping noise and stood on its hind legs, bracing against Francesca’s pant leg.

  “Sarah, I think this dog wants something from you.”

  “From me? You’re the one she’s pawing. She doesn’t even like me. She practically bit me earlier.”

  Francesca drew her eyebrows together. “Perhaps it was a simple misunderstanding. No collar. Hmm. Well, if we’re to do the right thing by her, we’ll have to call her something. Why don’t you name her? I think she’d like that.”

  “Why should I? Muddy old thing.”

  “Be my Sweetchild.”

  There it was — her big weapon. It wasn’t fair using that pet name, as it put me at a disadvantage. It was blackmail.

  “Penny?” I offered grudgingly. “How about calling her Brandy? Maybe we could call her Pepper or Tracey?”

  Francesca shook her head once, no.

  “Then, how about calling her Babe?” I asked.

  Oddly enough, my grandmother was keenly interested in a half dozen great athletes. Her two favorites were Il Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, and Babe Dedrikson Zaharias.

  Bambino, better known as Babe Ruth, was a gifted New York baseball player, acclaimed for his home run-hitting power, as well as his feisty personality and enormous appetites. Zaharias was a versatile champion, achieving outstanding success in a number of sports, most particularly swimming.

  So the name “Babe” was by way of being appropriate.

  “Here girl. Here, Babe,” I ventured. To my utter astonishment, the little red dog trotted over to me and sat down on my left shoe. I melted. And so “Babe” it would be.

  Just then, we heard the rumble of an automobile. A long, fancy, silver vehicle pulled onto the gravel drive from Thunder Ridge Road.

  Our houseguest had arrived.

  Francesca walked over to greet him. I followed close behind, my new best friend at my heels.

  Chapter 6

  Unfamiliar Territory

  I

  t was a glorious machine — long, sleek and meticulously polished. It certainly hadn’t been left out in the rain. Even from where I was standing, I could appreciate the depth of the perfectly painted silver-gray metal.

  Francesca motioned him to a spot behind the house under the elm.

  Matthew Mosley looked just as broken-down and diminished as he had at Mom and Dad’s party. If anything, I noticed his skin had developed a definite pallor underneath his tan, the mark of a body whose caretaker was careless.

  He was neatly dressed; his shirt and trousers had seen an iron recently. One pant leg was split below the knee to accommodate the cast. His energy was low, and his vitality seemed pent-up, like a sleeping tiger. You could sense the raw power hidden deep inside. Even at my age, it was impossible not to be aware of the strength that was, for the moment, disguised by the fragility of the man.

  He was better-looking than Sheriff Dan, but only just. Matthew was slightly finer-featured, with more elegant bone structure. He had the same general coloring, brushed here and there with gray. His eyes were pale like his brother’s, but Matthew’s were dulled by pain, and there were worry creases etched in his forehead.

  He didn’t appear at all grateful about his new home. In fact, he acted downright sullen.

  Francesca didn’t appear terribly concerned and behaved in her usually gracious manner. She actually opened his car door.

  “We’ve decided to put you in the Bridal Cottage. You’ll have more privacy there,” she said.

  No comment.

  “It’s down this gravel drive. Perhaps you’d like to park closer to the cottage to unload your things? It’s the first building you’ll see on your right …,” she gestured.

  No comment.

  I was still gawking at the car.

  “What in the name of heaven is this?” I spoke my enthusiasm out loud. “It’s … too much!” I tap danced around the classic auto, touching the chrome and looking at my reflection in the glistening paint job.

  Francesca held out her hand. “Welcome to Home Farm.”

  Matthew looked at it like it was radioactive. She drew it back like it was on fire. They stared at each other for a long, long minute.

  “Afternoon,” he finally mumbled. I decided he reminded me of Gary Cooper — the strong, silent type.

  He shifted his weight from the left foot to the right. “I won’t need any help, Mrs. Schneider, or anything to eat later.”

  He then turned to me and said, “It’s a Duisenberg, from Germany.”

  *

  We watched from Main House porch as Matthew hobbled back and forth, unloading his suitcases and a few boxes. His cast rendered him unsteady.

  I went into the kitchen for a glass of sweet tea.

  “Babe, come back here!”

  It was too late. She had slipped out the screen, run across the yard and grabbed Matthew’s pant leg, growling like a tiger.

  When he tried to kick her away, he fell on his backside and into a mud puddle. Though he’d missed her by a mile, Babe hightailed it back to the porch, her tail now between her legs.

  That made me angry. “Did you see …?” I started in a huff.

  “Yes, my child,” Francesca responded soothingly. “You have to take into account each animal’s pain and treat them both accordingly.” Then, she turned her face away, and I saw her shoulders quiver, her head bobbing up and down.

  Matthew had finally stood up, with a third of him covered in black ooze. He did look comical. But never mind! I thought our houseguest was mean. “Babe is ju
st a puppy. He could have hurt her. He better be planning on taking his meals alone.”

  “He’s probably depending on it,” Francesca said. But she wound up cooking dinner for three just the same.

  Francesca had always prepared food with gusto. No careful measuring for her — a handful of this and two dashes of that! She was a very good cook but not a great one. With some things, like chicken and dumplings, she excelled. But after Grandpap died in ‘43, she lost her appetite for several months, and her love of all things kitchen disappeared with it. At the time, it seemed only natural that Mother should take up the slack. Rachael had always adored the odors and rigors of the kitchen and had somehow mastered the great black stove, a feat Francesca had given her little help with.

  For some reason, that night was different. Francesca had a new zeal, or maybe it was a return of the old calling. And her meal would not disappoint; the chicken was crisp, the dumplings light as air and the country gravy smooth and creamy.

  As Francesca bustled capably, I figured it was time to peek in on Matthew Mosley. Dinner wouldn’t be for a while, and I wanted to know more about this mysterious man. At least that’s how I convinced myself it would be alright to spy.

  From the cottage window, I watched him unpack, placing only one article of clothing in the closet or bureau at a time.

  When he finished, he set up a small portable phonograph near the fireplace and mixed himself a drink. He stirred something into the Coca-Cola. With the window closed, it was difficult to hear the music, but it sounded like “Sentimental Journey.” He must have liked it a lot, because he replayed it five more times as he continued to sip and stare into space.

  When I had enough spying for that evening, I went back to the house, where Francesca was already setting the table. When she asked me to run over and invite Mr. Mosley to dinner, a tinge of guilt came over me but not enough to tell on myself.

  Matthew was still playing the phonograph, but this time it was a different song, something about a “Buttermilk Sky.” I peeked through the screen door and saw him gimping around. Then, without preamble, he howled like a wounded animal. I heard the sound of glass tinkling to smithereens on the oak floor, accompanied by some inventive cursing. In fact, he strung a few words together I’d never heard before.

  I curled my toes, took a deep breath and tapped lightly on the door. I swallowed and whispered that supper was ready.

  No answer.

  I tapped again, slightly louder this time.

  He opened the door with a bang.

  “Yes! What is it?” he snarled. I could see shards of glass splayed out behind him alongside an empty bottle. I was unnerved.

  “Uh, my … a … grandmother … she made some supper. She … that is, we thought …”

  Then, I froze and just stood there. He stared through me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t make myself move.

  Then, he looked down on me and suddenly no longer seemed angry. I mean, it was like a curtain swooped down — boom! It was like snapping your fingers, and a different guy popped out.

  “Supper? Yes. Hey, about the dog, I … that is … Supper sounds nice. Let me just wash up, and I’ll be along,” he finished, almost gently.

  Dinner was exceptionally quiet. When Daddyboys was home, we would play silly games.

  Matthew wasn’t the game-playing type. He shoveled his food, barely taking time to taste any of it. He didn’t say anything at all during our meal, even when prodded quietly by Francesca. When he finished, he stood up, rinsed off his plate and put it in the sink.

  “Excuse me,” was all he said. Out the back screen door he went. Slam! Just like that.

  Babe had stayed clear of Matthew during dinner but now returned to the kitchen to be with Francesca and me. Within a matter of seconds, we had developed one super-duper case of the giggles. It’s something that runs in our family, and once we start, we can’t stop. Every word, sigh or movement becomes another trigger for increasingly loud laughter. We had worked all day and were bone-weary. Dealing with the tension Mr. Mosley carried around with him was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Our eyes were wet with tears, and I even accidentally spurted a mouthful of milk at Francesca. Babe licked it up off the floor, which caused me to nickname her the “Vacuum Cleaner.” That set us off again. We left the dishes until morning.

  *

  Francesca and I lay across her bed together, watching the moon hang like a pearl in the black velvet night.

  I wondered if my mother and father were looking at it, too.

  “They’re probably drinking champagne and dancing the tango,” Francesca said. “They’ve been sitting at the Captain’s table, I’m sure, as they are celebrities of the cruise.”

  All at once, I missed them terribly and sniffled twice, which caused Francesca to stroked my hair.

  “We’ll have our own adventures,” she offered.

  “As good as Paris?” I sniffled again.

  “Indeed,” she whispered.

  We spent the next few minutes writing down a list:

  I was going to learn how to drive.

  “Really?”

  “You’re definitely tall enough. Let’s see … We could look for Thunder Ridge and catch the Indian spirits dancing.”

  “I don’t see how. No one else ever found them.”

  “Ah, but we’re not ordinary mortals.” She touched my nose. “And we could forget about doing chores for a day or two.”

  “No chores?”

  “I ask you … what’s an adventure with chores?”

  I could have schemed like that all night, but Francesca said it was time for me to brush my teeth and get ready for bed.

  “Where will Babe sleep tonight?” I asked innocently.

  With a serious tone, Grandmother offered several solutions, including tying the dog outside on the porch. I didn’t like any of the ideas.

  “Sarah, where do you think Babe should sleep?” She knew exactly how I would respond.

  “On my bed. Just until we can build her a doghouse and get her settled. I’ll put a sheet over the covers, so …” I said, grinning, “… no dog hairs.”

  Francesca pretended to be surprised by this solution. She blew me a kiss and gently reminded me that we needed to try and find Babe’s owners.

  “We’ll post some signs and ask around tomorrow,” Francesca said and closed the door to my room.

  Suddenly, the thought of losing this little dog, this mutt, left me heartbroken.

  Maybe no one will claim you. I love you, little red dog.

  Chapter 7

  New Confrontations

  B

  y the time Babe shot out through the screen door the next morning, Francesca was already sitting in her glider, sipping freshly made coffee. The kitchen was spotless.

  “I would have helped you,” I said as gave her a hug.

  Francesca shook her head. “It was clean when I got down here this morning.”

  Daddyboys would have said the “Dish Fairy” had dropped by. Mr. Mosley didn’t look anything like a dish fairy. However, some things didn’t deserve too much attention, especially when we were about to launch into our first Wild And Amazing Adventure. WAAA!

  As we had determined the night before, Francesca called Abraham’s son, Lincoln, to help out with the chores.

  *

  You can never tell when any old ordinary moment is going to run haywire.

  My heart was racing. I had been taught, reminded, schooled, educated and warned not to get behind the wheel of any vehicles on our property, especially the ones in Daddyboys’ shop. But Grandmother insisted it was time I learned to drive.

  “What if I bash it, or something?”

  “We’ll cross that divide when we hurtle through it.”

  “Have you ever taught anyone how to drive before?”

  “You’re my first victim.”

  I sensed a recipe for disaster but said nothing as we walked toward the Dodge pickup. Babe jumped in first and plopped he
rself on the passenger side.

  The truck was old, Francesca explained patiently, and already had more than its share of dents, so I wasn’t to worry. She drove to an open pasture near the fishing pond, carefully explaining all the mysterious workings as we bumped along.

  “This is the gear shift. Of course, you can’t get into gear without engaging the clutch. This is the clutch, you see. It’s right next to the brake pedal.”

  I examined the equipment I was supposed to maneuver but wasn’t sure my legs would be able to reach.

  “You push it in with your left foot, firmly but slowly,” Francesca went on. “And this is the accelerator pedal. It makes the car go forward. Except, of course, it doesn’t work that way when you’re in reverse. Try not to confuse third and reverse gears, or we’ll be leading with our gluteus maximus.”

  I’d watched my parents drive oodles of times and always imagined how nifty it would be to toddle down the highway with the air blowing through the wind wing and the radio blasting. But the reality was intense.

  Of course, Francesca was not fazed and continued her litany: First, second and third gear. It’s a snap.

  “Now, to drive, you use your right foot for the accelerator and the brake, but squeeze; don’t pump. It’s just like your father’s 410 over-and-under trigger.” At this point, Francesca’s mind veered at a right angle.

  “That reminds me,” she said, “I need to get that gun out of storage and clean it. I guess I’ll have to start keeping it under my bed.” Then, her thoughts leaped back to the task at hand. “Well, I think that’s it. Now, you try it.”

  She had me rest on her lap, so I could reach the pedals. My arms were twitching. I could barely see through the windshield. Francesca nudged me and whispered she would help me.

  Turning the ignition on wasn’t too bad. Okay … okay.

  “Push the clutch in, and shift it into first,” Francesca said calmly.

  The horrible grinding sound sent chills up and down my spine, and the truck bucked like a champion bull. Babe yowled and tried to crawl under the seat. I yanked the door open and jumped out, accidentally kicking Francesca’s shin as the engine died.