Without thinking, I stood up and started running in the general direction of Home Farm, screaming for Francesca.
“Oh, my God, Sarah! Here I am, Sweetchild!” my grandmother called, appearing out of nowhere.
I wrapped my arms around her and held on tightly as she whispered words of comfort in my ear.
“My poor, dear girl,” Francesca said over and over. The adults had been retracing the events from the night before and were searching the area for clues. They had left me to sleep late.
“We have to help Babe; she’s hurt,” I finally said. “She’s hurt! She needs me. She needs us!”
“Did she come back last night?” asked Francesca.
“No! She’s … in a place that echoes. I … I dreamed it, but I know it’s true! We have to find her, Francesca.” And I took her arms and shook them. “We have to help her!”
Jefferson, Matthew, Joshua and Sheriff Mosley looked at me oddly. Francesca, however, listened with heightened attention.
The Pittschticks were not, strictly speaking, religious when it came to church-going and psalm-singing or praying out loud. For Francesca, the organized-religion idea of God was simply too narrow. Instead, Francesca believed that God was everything and everywhere. God was time, space, matter, good and evil, all rolled into one. Her opinion about suffering was that it was a part of the learning process and that it could be a blessing in disguise. Francesca put her faith in what she called the “benign character of the Great Unseen.”
Francesca began asking me gentle questions about my dream. Sheriff Dan, Matthew, Lincoln, Joshua and Jefferson were following us by way of the shortcut as we ambled toward Home Farm. When we finally reached the porch, I had calmed down a little. Francesca settled me into a rocker and continued her gentle prodding. “Close your eyes and tell me what you sensed, Sarah,” she said.
I took a deep breath and let the nightmare roll back over me. “I heard trickling water,” I offered.
Francesca nodded her head. “Could be a well, boarded-up or dry.”
“There must be fifteen in this part of the county alone,” the sheriff said.
“Could be an underground spring,” Lincoln chimed in.
Since Babe had last been seen running into the woods from the Teems’ property, the adults decided to continue searching the area while it was daylight.
Lincoln spotted something first. He knelt down and touched it with his hand, a patch of something dark and sticky. “Blood,” was all he said.
I pressed against Francesca.
“Yep,” Lincoln said, pointing down.
“Babe! Babe!” I hollered.
Matthew motioned Francesca and me to wait while he and the sheriff walked ahead.
“I can hear her,” I said as a faint whimpering sound made its way through the trees.
Then Matthew motioned, “Over here!” He was gesturing at a gaping black hole.
Believe it or not, it was rare to hear of someone or something being trapped in a well. The Pittschticks were too fastidious and too wrapped up in their children’s welfare not to take the greatest care in covering up such potential hazards. But someone had pried the lid off.
Matthew shined his flashlight into the pit.
“There she is,” Matthew said. “It’s a ways down there. Jefferson, I believe we’ll need your rope now.”
“Please,” I whispered, “can I just see her?”
“Okay. But don’t excite her. If she’s hurt, you don’t want her to move till we can get someone down there.”
On my belly, I crawled to the edge of the well and peered down. I could barely make out Babe’s shape in the gloom.
“It’s all right, girl,” I called softly. “It’s okay. Shhh. We’re coming to save you.”
But the mouth of the well was too narrow for any of the men to fit.
“Well, you’d better hog tie me onto that rope. I don’t want that dog hurting any longer than necessary.”
“Francesca, you can’t be serious … It’s too dangerous,” Matthew protested.
“Just do it.”
Lincoln and Matthew conceded defeat and helped her fashion a harness. Her light frame was misleading. Though slimly built, she was as strong as an ox. Matthew hunkered down as much as his cast would allow and thought for a minute.
“It doesn’t look like you’ll have enough room at the bottom to squat beside her,” he said. “You’re going to have to lean down and check her out for broken bones. If her back is broken, we’ll have to rethink this. If one or more of her legs are broken …”
“Shit!” The word exploded out of my mouth unintentionally.
“Sometimes that’s a very appropriate word,” Francesca said to me. “Now, hold on to some really good thoughts.”
I could hear Francesca’s feet slipping along the casing as she tried to find a purchase.
“Stop a minute,” she said and proceeded to take her shoes off one at a time and toss them up to us. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Matthew worked the rope, and Jefferson held the flashlight steady until Francesca could reach the dog.
“It’s okay, girl,” we heard Francesca say.
A few seconds later, Babe yelped, and Francesca said softly, “No, Babe. It’s okay. Easy. Easy.”
“What is it?” asked Matthew.
“She snapped at me. I think she’s in some real pain here.”
“One of you gentlemen got a sock?” Francesca called up.
Lincoln sat down, undid his shoe, peeled off a heavy gray work sock and handed it down.
“I’ll make a muzzle,” Francesca called up.
Then she examined Babe again.
“Oh, my God…”
“What is it?” I asked, not wanting to know yet needing to know.
“I need something for a pressure bandage,” Francesca answered. “She’s got a gaping wound that looks to have lost a lot of blood.”
Matthew immediately took off his shirt and ripped it up the middle. He threw it down the well to Francesca. After what seemed like a million years, they were ready to be brought up.
“Take it slow — I’ve got the dog in my arms.”
We could hear a constant whimpering that broke my little heart. I held my breath. Francesca’s head came out first. Her hair was matted against her forehead, her arms covered with blood. She held Babe close to her chest, the dog’s broken leg hanging at a crazy angle.
The trip into town was horrible. Babe trembled and shivered and cried. I did, too.
“It looks like someone took a knife to her,” Doc Gearneart said. “She’s got some serious contusions, too. But I’m confident she will make a full recovery. It’ll take some time, though. Yes, sir.” He turned to me and patted my shoulder. “You and Frances’ll have to nurse her and keep her quiet. Make sure the wound stays clean. Give her these pills. Make sure she eats proper. Can you do that, Sarah?”
I promised we would.
I don’t know what time it was when we finally got back to Home Farm. Matthew, Francesca and I sat on the front porch, numb and exhausted.
Francesca managed to find enough energy to check the mailbox, and when she got back to us she said, “I’ve been wondering …”
Matthew and I both looked at her as she paused before finishing her thought. “How the Hell did Babe fall into a well with a slice out of her side?”
Francesca glanced at Matthew, who shook his head.
“Is anyone here ready for some good news? Sarah, I think this is for you,” she said, handing me an envelope.
The letter from Daddyboys couldn’t have come at a better moment.
Dear Frances and Sarah,
“We’ve arrived in England and are ready to ferry to France … The ship, a smaller sister to the Queen Elizabeth, looks, at first, to be roomy and comfy. But when we saw the top-deck cabin that had been engaged for us, there was just enough space inside for one overnight case and ourselves as long as we didn’t try to change our minds!
The captain is a handsome
fellow with an enormous handle-bar moustache and ruddy skin. He is quite friendly though a touch imperious. When he urged us to be awake at dawn the next morning in order to catch our first glimpse of France at fabled Calais, we saluted smartly and appeared at the appointed time.
I’ve never seen anything quite like those cliffs. They were a glorious sight, with the climbing sun pink on the horizon and the gulls and terns swooping.
Train travel is a lot more civilized in Europe, except in third class, where the French cheerfully toss the remains of their lunch out the window. We arrived in Paris later that morning and were taken to Hôtel Plaza Athénée.
The city is half in ruins from the war, although rebuilding takes place at a furious pace. It’s a crying shame, seeing what must have been the most beautiful city of the modern world reduced in some places to rubble.
Our hotel rooms are too elegant for a grease monkey and a baker from Lost Nation, Iowa … all green velvet hangings and delicate rosewood antique furniture.
We’re told that international society has flocked to this hotel of enviable glamour since 1911.
The telephone at the side of the bed has three buttons on it: One with a tiny drawing of a man carrying a tray; a second one depicting a woman with a towel; and another resembling a man carrying a hanger. They represent the room service waiter, the maid and the valet for our floor. If you wish to summon any of them, you just press the appropriate button.
Posh, huh? Your old Daddyboys has decided to keep those gentlemen and ladies busy! Always wanted to patronize a French laundry … now I’ll get my chance!
Love, DB
Kisses and Kisses and Kisses, Rachael/Mommy
“Rachael is going to let some stranger do her laundry?” Francesca laughed. “No doubt she’ll be glad of her new unmentionables — she’ll have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Matthew said, “You make her sound like a prude. After all, she is your daughter, Fran.”
No one ever called my grandmother Fran. It irritated me.
Francesca also had a letter. It was from Des Moines. She rolled her eyes when she spotted Great Uncle Harry and Aunt Maude’s return address.
“I’ll read it later,” she said and slammed the kitchen door on her way inside the house.
“Francesca and Maude aren’t too close,” I explained to Matthew, who was looking puzzled. “It has something to do with Harry. My great uncle used to be in love with Francesca, but no one is supposed to talk about it.”
“Did she love your grandfather Cox?”
“Of course she did. He was funny and made her laugh about practically everything.”
“I see,” was all Matthew replied.
Chapter 12
Inklings
S
heriff Daniel was waiting for us when we picked Babe up at the animal hospital.
My poor little dog still resembled a refugee from a disaster area, with her cast, stitches and bandages, but to me she looked absolutely gorgeous.
“We were lucky we found her,” Daniel said. “I just wish I had a photograph of you hanging by a rope down that narrow dark hole, gaily throwing your shoes in the air!”
Then, Babe weighed in with her own editorial. Cast and all, she squatted right there on Main Street in front of God and everybody.
“The vet says Babe was cut with a knife,” the sheriff observed. “I’m thinking that means someone did it on purpose. Now, the person could have been defending themselves if the dog tried to attack them.”
He turned and looked at Francesca.
“Is she the kind of dog that’d go after someone, maybe to defend herself?”
Francesca answered carefully. “Babe is not vicious by any means. She may have been provoked, or she may have thought she was protecting us.”
Matthew said, “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts this was the same guy Babe chased after few days ago.”
“It could even be the same person that’s setting these fires,” Daniel speculated.
“You think he’ll be back?” Francesca asked.
“Be a fool to. But these folks don’t think the way the rest of us do. If the person setting these fires is the same convict that escaped from the state facility, he’s got a rap sheet long as a skunk’s tail. Believe it or not, he’s an educated man. Used to be a doctor, from the report I got last week. Anyhow, he supposedly escaped by hiding in a laundry hamper.”
The Sheriff scratched his jaw line. “There was another fire in Dubuque last night. The head shrinkers say these fire-setters usually have some type of agenda. Maybe they want revenge. Whatever his motives, this guy is dangerous, and until we catch the S.O.B., you ladies need to be careful. Don’t trust anyone you don’t know, and don’t take any dumb risks.”
Matthew hadn’t said anything, but he was looking at Francesca with concern. Without thinking, I blurted out: “We might be safer if Matthew moved in to Main House …”
Francesca and Sheriff Mosley tried not to smile. Matthew looked embarrassed and carefully studied the ground. No one said a word, but something got decided at one point or another, because Main House did soon have a new resident.
We gave Matthew the first-floor bedroom and bath, so he wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs every day.
Francesca and I helped him move his things. It was fascinating, discovering what this mysterious man considered valuable: A fist-thick book of maps; two worn leather aviator jackets; and an assortment of gloves and scarves, neatly folded by color. He also had 13 dog-eared books on aviation and craft maintenance, none with covers, as well as a stuffed cobra, with fangs rampant! It was a hideous-looking thing and scary at first. And I learned something truly weird: Once a cobra is stuffed, it’s impossible to get the hood to widen out.
That was a big disappointment.
Although Matthew had some nice clothes and hairbrushes and such, he certainly traveled light. His life hadn’t been substantial like the one I’d lived in Main House, surrounded by family portraits and furniture that had been with the Pittschticks for generations.
Matthew Mosley was as wild as the west Texas wind and free as that red-shouldered hawk that lorded it over Home Farm. Either one could just pick up and go … whenever something pushed him too far and he didn’t feel he could push back … whenever he got too disappointed or someone got too close.
There was no sign of the urge to run in his behavior today. I was familiar with that particular look animals have when they’re going to slaughter, so I’d have recognized that look on Matthew. On the contrary, he seemed unusually calm and relaxed.
Francesca was downright bustling cheerful — so much so that she finally shared Maude’s letter with us.
“Your Uncle Harry and Aunt Maude will be paying us a visit over your birthday on July 17,” she announced.
“Your birthday!” said Matthew. “Oh, we’ll have to do something. Something special, won’t we Fran?”
Grandmother asked me if I had anything in mind.
I licked my lips to capture a last drop of chocolate milk while I considered options.
“How about going to the Clinton County Fair? We haven’t been there in a dog’s age,” I said.
During the summertime several counties across Iowa sponsored fairs to promote tourism and show off the skills of locals. In the past, Mommy had won a slew of blue ribbons for her pies with crusts light as angel hair. Francesca had won a prize for my birthday quilt, while Grandpap had actually won a cash prize for a three-foot-long pipe he carved all of a chunk of walnut.
The more we discussed this possibility, the more enthusiastic we became. Then, Francesca’s eyes lit up, and she bolted upright in her chair. I knew what she was thinking.
“Francesca, you wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?” asked Matthew.
“Maybe you should!” I prodded, warming up to the idea.
“Should what?” Matthew asked again.
“Race!” Francesca and I shouted in unison.
Francesca had always been
notorious for having a lead foot. She could drive like nobody’s business on any kind of road. Through a fluke, which grew out of a dare, she discovered she drove best on oval dirt tracks in front of thousands of screaming fanatics. Grandpap had even kept a saucy little roadster for her occasional foray onto the racecourse at the Clinton fair grounds.
But she hadn’t raced since Cox’s death, and the roadster had been sold long ago.
“You mean auto race?” Matthew asked, somewhat horrified.
“Yep. Francesca’s been in more races than any other driver in the history of the fair!” I said, puffing my chest out proudly.
Francesca had been about to celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday in 1910 when the Clinton County Fair added car racing to its agenda. There were only four entries that first year, all of them men.
Cox and Francesca were newly married, and teasing was as much a part of their relationship as spitballs were to the World Series. As it happened, Cox was teaching Francesca to drive.
As she explained to Matthew, “We constantly fought about the power of the car. He told me over and over that I was going too fast for a woman. You can imagine how I felt about that kind of nonsense. Without telling anyone, I entered the race. Daddy and Cox only discovered my little plot a few minutes before the race started, as the officials were announcing the names of the drivers. It was too late to call me off by then … I had already pulled onto the track.”
“You should have seen her, Matthew,” I broke in. “She was the cat’s pajamas!”
Matthew asked how I would know, since I hadn’t been born yet.
“Are you kidding? Francesca is practically a legend in these parts.”
Francesca had borrowed a scarf and some goggles. She managed to scrounge up trousers and a collared shirt. She’d entered the race as Francis, with an “i,” and the judges assumed she was a man. Of course, Grandpap knew differently.
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 9