“Mind your own beeswax, darling. You don’t know everything about me.”
We all hooted and hollered indignantly over how she’d taken us in, especially Uncle Harry. “Maude! I’d hate to think you’ve been sitting there all evening, taking advantage of us!”
Maude smiled wickedly … and promptly won another pot.
I couldn’t remember the last time the Main House had been so full of raucous fun. Probably before Grandpap died. He had always been the instigator of madcap. Strings of cherry bombs under the back porch awoke you on the Fourth of July; short sheets on your bed greeted you on your birthday; toothpaste sandwiches showed up in your lunch box.
He was a terror, especially when he was young. Once, as a little boy attending a red one-room school house, he’d lassoed the outhouse and dragged it clear off its mark with the teacher still inside.
By the time midnight rolled around, we were settling up.
“Everyone, count up your chips in groups of fifty cents. The odd ones go into the pot for showdown,” Matt announced with authority. “Five-card, high-only, all cards face-up,” he added, rifling the cards expertly.
“I wish I knew how in the hell he does that. I just spew the cards all over the floor.”
“Here, here!” I sputtered. “No buttering up the dealer. Okay, now. Read ‘em and weep.”
Matt began laying the cards out, face-up, one at a time in rotation around the table: seven, a two, king and another king.
The dealer got an ace. He dealt another round: a six, a nine and a king.
Maude had a pair of kings and began to giggle. Matt dealt two more cards, both tens.
No one could beat my straight with a five high. I raked in the money: four dollars and sixty-seven cents.
“How are you going to spend your loot, Moneybags?” Uncle Harry asked.
“There’s not a whole lot I can do with four dollars, Uncle Harry.”
“What an odd child you are, Sarah,” Maude broke in. “You’re not like any child I’ve ever known. How much money is a lot of money, then?”
“Well … five hundred thousand dollars sounds right to me,” I answered, carefully gathering the cards and the poker chips and storing them in the cupboard by the fireplace.
My ill-gotten gains went straight into my piggy bank.
Chapter 17
The Scarecrow
B
abe must have jostled me. It was nearly three in the morning, according to my clock. I was startled but not afraid, because she often woke up in the middle of the night. She had excellent hearing and obviously felt duty-bound to investigate every significant noise.
Babe and I made our way slowly and oh-so-quietly down the back stairs. With my exquisitely honed spying skills, I could have snuck up on a tribe of Chippewa across a field of balled-up wax paper. Still, I had to be careful, because getting caught would have meant missing the action. Ahhh, it was Francesca and Maude. After what Grandmother had shared with me about the two of them, I was salivating to hear what they were … discussing. I use that term as a politeness , because although their voices never rose above a whisper, the sisters were having a real blowout.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business, dear.” Francesca said, emphasizing the words “business” and “dear.”
Maude came right back with “I’m making it my business. I want to know exactly what’s going on in this house. And I want to know now!”
“Why, whatever could you possibly be insinuating, Maude? And don’t think for a moment I owe you any explanations!”
“You know exactly … exactly what I mean, Frances.
This … this person … this man …”
“Correction! You mean this fascinating and attractive man, Matthew Mosley. Let me tell you about him so as there are no unfounded perceptions. He makes his living as a pilot, a little barnstorming here, a little crop dusting there.”
“You know damn well what I mean Francesca. He is living here.”
“Yes,” Francesca answered. “He’s here because of the arsonist. You remember the arsonist, don’t you? Or do you think I conjured up a crazy person — not to mention real fires — out of thin air?” I heard her snap her fingers for emphasis. “Huh! Should the arsonist ever meet with you, it’s he who would need rescuing.”
“What a convenient explanation for this pilot person. Now, stop beating around the bush! You know precisely what I mean.” Maude took a breath and continued, “I have always hated your games. They aggravate me so.”
Francesca’s tone grew more sarcastic. “Maude, have you considered some mental gymnastics to loosen your mind? It seems to have gotten stuck somewhere in the Middle Ages.”
“You have a single man …” Maude let the accusation hang in the air.
“How very perceptive of you, dear. Would you rather he be married?”
“You’re impossible!”
“You’re a prig,” Francesca hissed.
Someone slammed a glass down on the table.
“Maude,” Francesca began again more calmly, “have some more cider.”
“Don’t you dare try to intoxicate me!” Maude snapped back.
Someone pounded the table; it was surely getting a beating through all this. Francesca must have been gathering her thoughts, because then, it was quiet for a moment.
“Maude, we can take it outside and come to shouting over this. Frankly, at the moment, there’s nothing I’d like better. Or … we can communicate like two reasonably mature adults. God knows, if we aren’t mature adults by now, we never will be.”
Another silence. I could picture Maude mulling over her options — her face working this way and that. Then, to my utter astonishment, she capitulated. “Oh, all right. But you must know this whole business is sordid. Sordid!”
“I’ll make a note of that. Let’s see s-o-r-d-i-d, sordid.”
The two exchanged more pithy comments before mutually deciding a question-and-answer session might work best.
“Mature questions, that is. I will endeavor to answer in kind, or I may choose to remain silent. To protect the innocent, of course. But beware! Don’t ask a question if you aren’t fully prepared to hear the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Francesca cautioned.
“I’m not sure I want to know anything, much less everything,” Maude broke in, “but I feel it’s my duty. Well … to protect Sarah.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Uh-oh.
“I thought you said I was going to ask the questions, Frances.”
“Ask away,” Francesca said and slapped the table with the palm of her hand. It was a gesture I’d often seen her use to punctuate an uncomfortable moment.
There was a shuffling sound. Someone was shifting position. Literally and figuratively.
“You and Mr. Mosley have a relationship; is that right?” Maude began.
“Right as rain,” Francesca shot back.
“What kind of a relationship is it exactly?”
This was the moment I should have slipped quietly back to bed.
“He’s a good friend.”
Maude snorted.
“Yes, he’s a lovely man who brought me something precious in my dotage.”
They were calmer now.
“Maude, you can’t possibly know how lucky you are,” Francesca said with real feeling. “I know how happy you and Harry have been. How well-suited the two of you are.”
I could hear someone’s fingernails tapping on the table top.
“Don’t misunderstand,” she continued. “Cox and I had a good life. But I see now that you and Harry had the kind of marriage you both needed. Maude, I could never have given Harry the fulfillment you have given him. Let’s face it — I’m just not that kind of woman.”
Silence. I wondered if Maude was feeling as uncomfortable as I was. I could hear the large German grandfather clock ticking from the parlor.
“That’s … good of you to say …” Maude answered after a while. “No … listen. I fee
l a … a change in you after all these years. It makes me happy to feel like I have my sister back. I have you back, haven’t I? It’s not my imagination?”
Francesca acknowledged she had changed. “Meeting Mathew Mosley has stirred something inside of me … I’m in love,” she admitted quietly.
Harry had been Francesca’s first love, there was no doubt of that, but she had felt betrayed by him. Grandpap was gone. Now, Matthew was here, and he was so vital; he cared so much.
Maude started to cry.
Francesca went on quietly. She thought she had settled for second-best by marrying Harry’s brother, Cox, thinking it would ease the pain of a broken engagement.
“I realize now that you can’t love your way out of pain. You have to grieve properly before you can get on. I was so young — and rash.” I heard Francesca sigh. “Cox was a good man. He was fun and easygoing and so full of the devil. At the time I married him, he was the right choice for me, a sound choice. Don’t forget, he allowed me to be myself. I’m not sure too many men would have done the same.”
Harry would have never allowed it.
“So my loss was really my gain. I still had some wild ways in those days.”
“Then … you’re over Harry? The hurt, I mean?” my aunt asked. She was still sniffling. No one spoke for so long a time I almost nodded off against the banister.
“It’s time to get over him, wouldn’t you agree?” Francesca said at last.
“And Matthew?” Maude asked gently.
“I’m in love with him. Wow, I can’t believe I am saying that out loud. But I am fiercely, proudly and softly in love with him. I haven’t felt these things in my heart for decades, if I ever felt them at all.”
The conversation took a turn. Maude’s voice sounded more co-conspiratorial. I could actually hear the sparkle between the two that comes when women share intimacies.
Matthew’s features were explored. The women marveled about his calloused hands and how strong and graceful they were. His swashbuckling looks gave him sex appeal. But how did he feel about Francesca?
“He says he loves me. He acts as though he does care about me. But he’s a gypsy, a wanderer, someone always looking for the next adventure. God knows I understand those longings. If I’d been a man, maybe I wouldn’t have stayed here at Home Farm.”
She said she realized that Matthew was still healing and that once he fully recovered from his plane crash injuries, he could well be leaving. “In some ways, I don’t care. He’s given me so much life in such a short time. Maybe that will be enough to last me the rest of my days.”
More silence.
This time, Babe and I snuck back upstairs. It was weird to think of my aunt and Francesca as friends. As I snuggled against Babe, I wondered if Matthew would really leave. That meant I would have Francesca to myself again, something I thought would have made me content.
It didn’t. In fact, the idea made me feel sad.
*
It was a hot and humid morning. The sun was high in a cloud-filled filled sky when I ambled down the back stairs to start a new day. No one was around, so I made my own breakfast: orange juice and oatmeal cookies. Babe carefully placed her forelegs onto my lap to kiss me and do some serious begging.
I distracted her. “Where’s Francesca? Go find Francesca.”
First, Babe ran around the entire house, but no grandmother. Next, she ran out the back door and within moments, ran back in again. I understood she wanted me to follow her and was about to do just that when the front doorbell rang. Babe tore into the parlor, barking wildly.
“Be quiet! Babe, stop that!”
She sat.
When I opened the door, there was a thin, grizzle-haired man standing on our front steps. He looked like a human scarecrow.
“May I help you?” I asked politely, wishing I hadn’t opened the door.
Babe’s growling drew the stranger’s eyes to my feet, where she sat bristling, hair on end.
“That’s my dog,” the man rasped after a long moment.
Chapter 18
Night Terrors in the Day
M
y mind whirled, and my knees felt weak. I leaned my hand against the wall for support and tried to think.
It was impossible not to notice how thin he was. His face was creased with weather and worry. His clothes, whatever color they’d been when new, were gray and nearly transparent from washing and wearing. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping and smelled like bathing had not been a priority.
“I saw the notice on Thunder Ridge Road. That’s my dog.” He motioned a bony hand and reached for her collar. She snapped at him. Whether he was lying about Babe or not, I couldn’t tell, but it was obvious the little red dog wanted nothing to do with this collection of bones.
“Whoa there, girl,” he said. “She always was spirited. I’ve been looking for her everywhere.”
“This can’t be your dog.”
He looked past me, through me. I shivered.
“This can’t be your dog; she’s never gone missing,” I repeated.
“I know my own dog, miss.” Now, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“You can ask my dad,” I lied. “He’s just out back.”
He smiled, but not kindly. “I may have to take this up with the sheriff.”
I tried to close the door, but his hand held it open. His strength, even in his puny condition, couldn’t be overtaken by a nine-year-old. He leaned down and looked me in the eyes.
“Since I can’t prove my claim, I won’t insist on taking her with me today.” He moved his face closer to mine. “If I were you, I’d keep this visit to yourself. It will be our little secret. After all, it would be a shame if something happened to that nice-looking woman you are so attached to. A crying shame.”
We were startled by voices coming from the side yard. He took a step back, put a finger to his lips and scuttled off.
My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor. I grasped Babe roughly around the neck and whispered into her ear, “I’ll never give you over. Never.”
I wanted to run and tell Francesca but thought better of it; he’d threatened her. His words froze me. I wished Daddyboys were here; he’d protect us. I didn’t feel comfortable telling Matthew.
I took a deep, long breath to quiet my hammering heart and wandered outside to sit down under the elm. I needed to collect myself. Francesca and Maude were in the vegetable garden. I leaned back against the tree and observed the two sisters working together side by side.
I tried to put the ordeal out of my mind, losing myself in Francesca and Maude’s efficient, graceful movements. It struck me that the two were almost the same age. I’d never realized that before. To me, Maude had always seemed like an old lady, while Francesca was regal and somehow ageless. She wasn’t really a grandmother at all; she was a friend and confidant, an adventuresome woman. Yet she and Maude must have been born in similar years, time-wise.
The likenesses were obvious. They both had that glossy, pretty grayness that comes with dark hair if you’re lucky. They were both supple. But there was an undeniable electricity about Francesca. She had “it” — whatever “it” was. Whether it was her innate character or her love of life in general that lit her face and form from within, I can’t say. She certainly wasn’t matronly. Never had been.
“Do you remember Albert Geiger?” I heard Maude ask my grandmother.
Francesca laughed. “Do I? Every parent in town practically locked their daughters in chastity belts while he was here. A Bible salesman, of all things!”
I wondered what a chastity belt was and if I should get one to keep the scarecrow away from our home.
“He sold more than a few Bibles to those poor women who stayed home all day, alone, with only the dirty laundry to keep them company.”
“Maude!”
“Mother bought one, you know.”
“Maude!”
“She did! She did! I still have it. He inscribed it to her on the title
page, just underneath the copyright.”
“Maude!”
For once, Francesca seemed to have a limited vocabulary.
I continued to watch them. They were weeding in rhythm but in total opposite energies.
Maude pulled slowly, gently. She looked at each weed almost regretfully when it gave up the earth and lay down in her palm. Francesca attacked those weeds like they were enemy troops, come to ruin her life’s work. She ripped them out of the ground and threw them onto a trash heap and slapped her palms together with a smack, all in a kind of cadence, one women of the soil have used since the beginning of time. Maude worked at the garden purely as a pleasurable way to pass the time. Francesca was committed to the earth. She looked up then and saw me.
“Ahhh. There’s my girl. You must have been burning the midnight oil.”
I turned my face away to hide the blush that blossomed there.
“What’s the matter, Sarah?”
“I had bad dreams last night,” I answered as Francesca sat back on her haunches and brushed the surface dirt from her hands. Francesca didn’t use gloves, the way Mommy and Aunt Maude did.
“Come and tell me,” she said.
Guilt flooded through me; there were too many secrets. I had spied on her. I had listened to conversations that weren’t any of my business. And now an awful man had come to our front door, claiming Babe as his own and threatening to do something terrible if I told.
I sat dumbly for a moment before collapsing into Francesca’s embrace and burying myself in her sage smell.
“There, there, Sarah,” she said.
“Sarah, dear,” said Maude, reaching her hand out to me, “can’t you tell us?”
I only shook my head as the stranger’s face leapt into the front of my consciousness. I made a quick calculation and did what children like me always do in a situation like that. Lie.
“I had a dream,” I began, “about a man, a weird man. He was skinny. He said Babe was his. But she didn’t like him, and I told him to go away.”
You know by now that Francesca didn’t take dreams lightly. She thought they were psychic messages or spiritual lessons. So while Maude was clucking her tongue to demonstrate her empathy, Francesca raised my head and looked at me closely.
Francesca of Lost Nation Page 13