She looked so beautiful. I could easily imagine her at sixteen years old. Her skin glowed, and her eyes sparkled. I peeked around the corner, half-expecting that her childhood sweetheart had come to fetch her for a weekend date.
As soon as I blinked, the mirage disappeared. Back from my daydream, the person before me now was my sweet, regal grandmother wearing a funny-looking hat. We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
The giggles came and went as we continued opening trunks and uncovering hallmarks of the family’s past: my mother’s wedding dress, my baby scrapbook, wedding albums, anniversary photos, my first pair of shoes and even a tiny petticoat. All my report cards and the handmade notes I’d given my parents on holiday as well as my father’s army pictures.
I found baby photos of my father. It was unsettling, seeing him as a child. He’d always seemed too capable to ever have been anything but a full-grown man.
“Oh, look. Love letters,” I said, pointing to a stack of mail addressed to my mother from Daddyboys when he was in the service.
He had written unfailingly two times a week. They were wonderful letters, full of telling and observant descriptions about army life.
September 1942
“… walking around the compound can be rather trying as saluting officers and returning the salutes of any and all is mandatory. Your arm goes up and down like an oil derrick.
“And in the beginning, when the various insignia resembles hieroglyphics, it’s wisest to salute everything in uniform, even the county sheriffs.”
March 1943
“… I keep the various vehicles here immaculate and running perfectly. Of course I cringe down to the bottom of my insteps when I see some jackass officer with his shoes on the dashboard!
“One day, I remember seeing a particular second Louie scuffing up the insides in this way and practically lost my head. He was a nice enough guy but even more of a hick than yours truly!”
Daddyboys had another surprise for us. At the bottom of the trunk, we found a blue spiral notebook with the words “Sketches of Humanity” written across the front. Inside lay an old curriculum for the University of Iowa Correspondence Course of English and Literature. Several of the assignments had already been completed with top marks. Professor Gump had even written my father encouraging notes. Daddyboys’ compositions had “… depth of soul and clarity of thought … ,” Gump wrote.
It turned out that “Sketches of Humanity” amounted to a final exam. Students were directed to choose ten names from a list of famous people and in fifty words or less illuminate the essence of that personality.
Thomas Jefferson was Daddyboys’ first pick.
“A huge and evocative man with hair the color of fires blazing and leaves turning. He probed life’s mysteries with his intelligence and his hands through a viewpoint broad enough to encompass all that he did not know. He was equally dedicated to the serious and the whimsical, having composed The Declaration of Independence and invented the collapsible farthingale.”
In pencil, scribbled across the bottom of the page was “59! No good!”
My father’s second pick was Babe Ruth.
“He was built more like a pastry chef than a baseball player.” This line had been scratched out. The rest was as follows:
“Even though shaped like a dumpling, the Babe was a ball-playing machine. His homeruns and his cigars were of legendary length and his appetite for The Game, women and food was Bunyanesque. You can shout out Cobb or Gehrig or Young but baseball is still spelled B-a-b-e-R-u-t-h.”
The penciled remark on this was “infantile!” But the handwriting didn’t look like the professor’s; it looked like Clay’s.
Francesca began to thumb through the rest of the descriptions.
“Here’s one about Roy Rogers, called ‘My Hero.’”
“Through the sagebrush, tumbleweeds carom in the wind like lost souls. A coyote’s lonely call echoes down rocky canyon walls in harmony with the mourning dove.
Into this American landscape comes a fair man on a golden horse. The sunrise carries the song of his soul like a joyful noise.
The idea of the West lives in the heroic block of his Stetson. And the faith and trust of children rest on his shoulders, light as air.
It was a deal he made with himself.
The King of the Cowboys … just a man with a good heart who rides into the sunset.”
My father, my funny old grease monkey Daddyboys, wrote these things?
“How many are there?” I wondered out loud.
“Seven completed and one that is half-written.”
“You mean he never finished them? But they’re really wonderful. Isn’t there a final grade?”
“No. There’s one last letter from Professor Gump, saying how disappointed he was that your father didn’t finish the course.” Francesca frowned. “Sarah, what’s the date on that letter?”
“Let’s see. It says July 10, l937”
“Oh, Hell…” Francesca started to say more but stopped.
“What is it?”
No answer.
“Francesca, what is it?”
My mother had been ill the last month before I was born, explained Francesca. “She carried you above the placenta, instead of below, and they weren’t sure whether you were going to struggle into this world alive. Rachael was warned to stay flat on her back day and night, and Clay was beside himself with worry. He was so loving and sweet with your mother.”
Because of me, my father had to give up a writing career. I burst into tears.
“Sarah Sue Morgan! Your father never regretted your coming one moment of his life, and you know it!” She threw her arms around me and held me tightly, though I squirmed and writhed to get away. I couldn’t stop crying.
Francesca finally calmed me down by devising a plan.
“I think Mr. Toynbee might be very interested to see these ‘Sketches of Humanity.’”
I was still teary, but Francesca made me happy with her idea, and I hugged her 30 seconds longer.
“Do you think Daddyboys can still get his certificate from the college?”
Francesca and I spent the evening painstakingly typing two sets of copies to send to the magazine and university. We ate casually
on fried chicken and au gratin potatoes. Babe went out a few times, only to return covered with mud.
All in all, it was a grand, fine day.
Chapter 10
Dark Places
I
t had been nearly two weeks since we last saw Matthew Mosley. He had become more of a curiosity to me than anything else, but Francesca seemed to have set her heart on catching sight of him. I couldn’t help noticing the way she sometimes perked up at the sound of the Doozy rolling up the gravel drive.
Then, one day, out of the blue, he appeared at the door.
“Good morning,” he said. In his hands, he had a John Deere cap, which he turned over and over while searching for his next words.
Francesca waited. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty.
“I was thinking we should … it was time that we have that dinner,” he said slowly.
Francesca turned to me. “Sarah?”
“I guess so,” I answered with an exaggerated shrug.
Matthew took a deep breath. “Good. Good.”
“We can’t possibly get away until Saturday evening,” Francesca said.
“All right,” he agreed.
They discussed eating in Lost Nation, but Matthew felt we deserved more of a splurge than our community could offer.
“After all, I have stood you up for two weeks.” He looked downright sheepish.
I watched Francesca bite her tongue.
*
It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun sinking into a riotous fan of purple and orange. Francesca looked lovely and animated. Something had set back her clock. In that pale blue dress, she might have been forty-five instead of nearly sixty.
When Matthew saw her come out of the ho
use, he hitched in his breath.
I was feeling very grown up. My dress was pale lemon, and my new black patent Mary-Janes were shiny enough to see my reflection.
Matthew looked like a movie star who’d been on a bender, handsome but raggedy-edged. He had on some soft dove gray flannel trousers that whispered hand tailoring and a white shirt that brought up his tan and the color of his eyes. His tie was red and blue and looked snazzy against his blue blazer. Matthew even smelled good, with no trace of the usual night-before rum.
We were going to Clement’s Steak House near Clinton, about 40 miles east of Home Farm. Babe wasn’t supposed to tag along but had obviously made up her mind to do so. She hurled herself through the flap of the dog door Matthew had built for her and leaped into the Duisenberg.
It was a pretty drive. Babe stuck her head out the window, the way dogs do, and I could imagine the honeysuckle and early summer hay tickling her nose.
We tuned in to a Duke Ellington marathon — a Saturday evening special broadcast on the local station. The Duke’s music was like a delicious secret. It made me swoon.
Now that I look back, Francesca and Matt were behaving strangely. If one caught the other looking, they both quickly glanced away. At times, they spoke quietly about Home Farm and about flying. I tuned out of the conversations, opting to read my book about old Mr. Scrooge instead.
The restaurant was supposed to be situated on a road lit only by the lights in the parking lot. They would be our beacon, Matthew had been told.
But we got lost.
Matthew pored over an unhelpful map that had been printed long before the war. When the road we were following suddenly came to a dead end, we were surrounded by corn fields.
I could see Francesca was starting to get antsy. But Matthew felt sure he could find the place.
“It has to be around here somewhere,” he insisted.
So he continued to drive around and around and around.
My stomach started growling. Francesca was drumming her fingers on the passenger door. And Matthew just kept driving, insisting over and over he wasn’t really lost.
“Stop the car!”
Francesca’s command startled me and Babe so much we practically jumped out of our skins. She got out of the car and stared into the dark.
I hope she isn’t leaving me here with him. We’d be here forever! I don’t like being lost in the dark, and I especially don’t like him.
Francesca’s voice was soothing as she read my mind. “Not to worry. Everything will be fine, Sweetchild.”
She got back into the car, closed the door with a bang and ordered Matthew to turn right. “I think I saw a beam of light in the distance. Drive in that direction; I’m pretty sure there’s a farmhouse.”
Her tone left him little choice.
His attitude soured considerably, even though — or especially because — she’d been right on the money.
We arrived at the farmhouse within two minutes. In a flash, Francesca was back with a piece of paper in her hand. She thrust the directions at Matthew, who took off like a slingshot. The ride to the restaurant was silence personified, with tension so thick a buzz saw couldn’t have sliced it.
You can imagine the remainder of the evening.
The fancy restaurant Matthew had been promised turned out to be more of a tavern with a hint of dive tossed in. He and Francesca were still giving one another the silent treatment. In fact, the only time Matthew spoke was to order a series of rum and cokes.
The food wasn’t that good, either.
I had the children’s portion of prime rib, which was tough enough for bootstraps. Francesca picked at a listless salad, and Matthew kept tossing back Cuba Libres, a cocktail that became popular during the war years, when scotch and bourbon were hard to get. Matthew had obviously taken to the switch with gusto.
The more he drank, the further he sank into his irritated gloom.
On our way out, Francesca and Matthew argued over who was going to drive. But my grandmother stood her ground and finally managed to snatch the keys out of his hand.
Matthew looked daggers at her but plopped himself in the passenger seat, where he was soon snoring to beat the band.
I was exhausted, unused to this kind of emotional tug-of-war. It occurred to me then that people live at different emotional settings. Some are perpetually riding a seesaw, while others glide through life on a much more even keel.
Matthew Mosley was a tilt-a-whirl. I began to equate Matthew Mosley with the eye of a hurricane. He craved experiences, every sort, good and bad. I found him fascinating in the way a mongoose is fascinated by a snake — fascinating and exhausting.
I guess I’d been asleep and dreaming about a house ablaze. The images were so real that my eyes watered from the smoke. Startled, I sat up and looked out the car window. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing.
A fire!
“Look, it’s Joshua Teems’ storage shed!” I shouted.
Francesca was already slowing the car, and Matthew was out of the vehicle.
“Stay put, you two,” he said as he hobbled forward to help.
What if the arsonist was back? I watched in dread as flames licked into the night sky.
Some neighbors had arrived and had begun helping the Teems men smother embers hopscotching toward the barn. By the time they formed a bucket brigade, I could hear terrified horses shrieking inside.
Francesca grabbed a blanket from the back seat. After Joshua wet it down, she wrapped it around her shoulders and covered her face with a handkerchief.
Matthew tried to stop Francesca, but she wasn’t going to listen to any argument. We could hear the horses becoming frantic to escape, bucking and neighing. Matthew shrugged and followed Francesca into the conflagration. Together, they somehow managed to lead the animals to safety.
In the chaos, I could see everyone was doing something vital. I couldn’t just sit there and watch, so I snuck out of the car and moved closer to the action. Babe started barking and jumped out through the car window, but instead of following me, she took off like a shot. I ran after her, yelling her name. But she vanished into the dark, and I was too scared to go after her.
As I turned back toward the flames, I heard a fire truck clanging along Thunder Ridge Road. Within minutes, the Lost Nation Volunteer Fire Brigade had arrived and gotten things under control.
Sheriff Mosley arrived on the scene and immediately began gathering evidence — through observation and by listening. While he was speaking with Francesca and Matthew, I burst into tears. It took them a moment to realize why I was crying — Babe had disappeared.
Still covered in sooty sweat, the Mosley brothers patted me awkwardly on the back. The Sheriff comforted me as best he could. Francesca drew me into her arms.
“That’s one smart dog. She’ll be back,” Daniel assured me and turned back to Matt. He spoke firmly and quietly.
“You don’t think he maybe hung around for a while to get some kicks out of it, do you? The wood was still wet from the storm. He must have used … kerosene, by the smell of it.”
Daniel turned to me and asked which way my dog had run.
I pointed toward Home Farm.
It was about a half hour more before the fire was truly out. The Sheriff officially requested we all camp at the Teems’ farmhouse for the night. “This guy is crazy as a bedbug, and he could be anywhere. I’d feel a whole lot better if you were all someplace where I didn’t have to worry about you.”
Joshua Teems was more than happy to accommodate us.
“If it hadn’t been for you coming along when you did, I hate to think what would’ve happened. There is always room for you at the farmhouse; you know that.”
He then passed around a cool jug of hard cider, to help us “sleep.”
I was missing Babe with a sharp pain right in the middle of my heart —a pain I’d never felt before. The idea that I would never see her again was bringing an entirely new kind of despair and emptiness. That�
��s when Matthew Mosley surprised me by picking me up and holding me in his arms. I was too painfully tired to care.
Chapter 11
Unforeseen Recoveries
I
nstinctively, I groped for Babe and then realized she wasn’t there. Through cloudy eyes and a foggy brain, I scanned the unfamiliar room.
My once-beautiful lemon yellow dress, now torn and soot-stained, lay in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Visions of the night before came flooding back — the fire and Babe’s disappearance.
As I stretched, dull aches and pains invaded my arm and leg muscles as I began to take in my surroundings.
Joshua Teems’ comfortable old place had once been a part of the Pittschtick holdings. It had been sold off sometime around 1900 to Joshua’s father, Micah, a firm believer in the medicinal properties of apples and a literal interpretation of the Good Book.
Joshua had scoffed at his father’s tenets and been a wild child in his teen years, spending some months with the state Youth Authority. The town nannygabbers even whispered he’d served a short spell in the state penitentiary.
Anyhow, after Micah was carried off by a stroke, Joshua married and settled down. Mirabella, a pious and sweet-faced Baptist, was the type of woman old man Micah would have been proud to have as a daughter-in-law.
Faced with her unwavering faith every morning and night, Joshua took over the apple orchards with vigor and begat Jacob and Isaac. Those two boys were like blue tick hound dogs — big and sweet and not too bright. Joshua’s only concession to his former devilish ways was the fermenting of hard cider, which, he maintained, came from a recipe that went all the way back to the Garden of Eden.
When Mirabella was taken by the influenza in 1932, Joshua was left to raise the boys by himself. He did a good job.
I found a bathroom and drank about a gallon of water straight from the tap. I then wandered my way through the big empty house and out into the yard. Ashes and charred wood littered the ground. The barn frame was still smoking. I wondered where the horses had been taken. No sign of the adults either.
The sun’s rays broke me out in a sweat that trickled down my neck and chest. I was hungry, disoriented and sad. I called out several times for Francesca and Babe, but when neither responded, I simply collapsed in a heap on my knees. Then, flashbacks of an unsettling dream from the night before overran my brain. I could almost hear Babe yelping for me, sounding like she was hurt or afraid.
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 8