Francesca of Lost Nation

by Crosby, Lucinda Sue

  “You’re sure that’s all?” she asked pointedly.

  I squirmed and gathered myself, and then, I lied again. “Yes. That’s all.”

  At that moment, Babe nuzzled her nose under my right arm.

  “I love her more than anything else in the world, except you, Francesca!”

  My grandmother’s gaze narrowed and intensified. Gad, she was powerful.

  Chapter 19

  Out in the Open

  “W

  ell, look here… if it isn’t the goddesses of the soil!” Harry called out as he and Matthew approached the garden.

  “Honestly, Harry, such language.” Maude was not amused. Harry waggled his lips in salute.

  “You should see what we’ve been about. Lost Nation’s conveyances have fallen into an appalling state of disrepair with Clay away. Busy as a bee is what I’ll be while I’m here.”

  Uncle Harry boasted about how Matthew was smarter than a whip snap when it came to engines.

  Maude responded predictably. “Dirty old smelly gasoline is what you two are about. I don’t like the odor now any more than I ever did in the past.” She sniffed for emphasis.

  Daddyboys had been working on Mr. Blackfeather’s vehicle before he left for the cruise. The project was more of a challenge than my father had let on.

  “Rattletrap!” is how Uncle Harry described it.

  Matthew smiled and remarked, “Clay has held that metal contraption together with a needle and thread and a touch of glue. It must have 80 thousand miles on it.”

  Francesca looked up from her weeding. She sifted the loamy dirt through her hands.

  “He’s on the Roll in Oklahoma,” she said, speaking about Mr. Blackfeather. “Tribal oil subsidies. He has to drive back there several times a year to vote on where the money goes when it’s spent.”

  Maude shook her head. “You don’t mean to say that he’s one of those rich Indians?”

  “He could buy and sell us all,” was Francesca’s answer.

  Harry was puzzled that Mr. Blackfeather would want to live in Lost Nation if he had enough money to go anywhere else. Francesca said it was because of the great spirits that were supposed to reside in the hills above the town.

  “He’s never seen them himself, but he heard stories about them during his childhood, all the way back in Oklahoma,” Francesca said.

  “You mean that all kinds of different Indians think this is a … a holy place?” I asked.

  “That’s what Tom says.” Francesca went back to weeding.

  Matt walked over to the garden plot and squatted next to Francesca. He began weeding in her rhythm. “To take nothing away from Tom’s spiritual inclinations … I’ve been on a reservation,” he said. “It’s not a pretty place. The men are mostly drunk, when they can get liquor.” His face grew thoughtful. “And they can’t seem to reconcile their ancient ways of living with their income. The reservations are filled with shoddy homes and poor schooling. Sometimes, I guess the only answer is taking your money and getting out.”

  “How really awful,” sighed Maude.

  “Can’t expect any better, dear,” Harry pointed out. “Silliest ones think you’re stealing their souls if you so much as take a photograph.”

  Francesca’s eyebrows lifted. “Harry, you make them sound like savages,” she said in a deceptively soft tone.

  Harry saw what was coming and put up his hands to try and fend off the lecture. But Francesca breezed forward.

  “Before a white man ever set foot on this continent, our native brothers had established a thriving culture. The so-called Five Civilized Tribes developed reading and writing. Why, parts of our very own Constitution were lifted straight from the Cherokee nation’s document.

  “We white folks made and broke too many treaties to count. We sequestered a sovereign people on pig sties the government called reservations. We sent them blankets filled with small pox germs and inhibited education. We made the children speak English and take European names.” Francesca leaned toward Harry, who leaned back. “Yes, they have beliefs that differ from yours and mine. How very American of them …”

  Harry sighed.

  I had taken a seat on the ground near Francesca and was wriggling my toes in the weeded earth. The women had watered that morning, and it was still damp and malleable. It felt gorgeously cool and crumbly on my feet. I could imagine some Indian princess doing exactly the same thing decades before on this exact spot.

  “I’ll bet Tom misses his kin,” I said.

  Francesca looked at me and smiled.

  Harry stretched defensively and changed the subject. “Listen. Matt had a grand idea. Let’s eat at Ernie’s tonight.”

  Until now, the idea that Matthew Mosley and Francesca Pittschtick Schneider were an item was nothing more than gossip around town. It had been whispered about, sure. But add innumerable busybodies to the stew, all the regular kind of nosy folks in a small-town restaurant, especially bartenders and waitresses, actually seeing the set-up first hand, and only heaven could conceive of the outcome. Francesca was stunned for the moment. Her mouth gaped, and she was about to say something when Maude cut her off.

  “Do you think that’s the wisest idea?”

  Matt was a wonder. So many times, I’d seen him skirt serious questions. But this time, he stood up to emphasize his thoughts before answering.

  “It’s time, you see? I may look like a fool, but I’m not one. It’s just … time.”

  He leaned over to Francesca, grasped her right hand and kissed it with a smack. “It’s time God and the folks in this county saw for themselves what the hell is going on here. Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

  Harry was caught between a rock and a hard place. He’d made a kind of tense peace with Francesca, you see. Which meant he also realized how unique a woman he’d let slip away so many years ago. Of course, he was still a conservative-thinking man.

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Harry said. “I didn’t mean we should all troop in there and put on a show-and-tell.”

  The lids on Matt’s eyes lowered a fraction.

  Sensing the harshness of his words, Harry softened his stance. “I didn’t mean to offend. But let’s face it, it is a small town. That’s one of the reasons we moved away—the gossip is unceasing. Matt, you don’t have to stay and live here. But Fran does. What happens to her after you go along your merry way?”

  “One — who says I am going anywhere? Two — we aren’t children anymore, Harry.” Matt sat perfectly still.

  Francesca went back to digging with a vengeance. Without looking up, she warned we’d all be ready for dinner at six thirty that evening, or she’d know the reason why.

  Isaac and Lincoln would keep an eye on the place while we were out. I prayed they wouldn’t run into the stranger. What if something bad happened to those nice, oafish boys, because they didn’t know he was around?

  Like he could hear my thoughts, Isaac arrived just then. He was long and gangly with honey-colored hair. He looked just like a giant Saint Bernard puppy. He loose-limbed his way down the drive and knocked on the kitchen door.

  “Yoo hoo! Mrs. Frances. I’m here.”

  Francesca and I were rinsing one another’s hair with rain water in the kitchen sink, a once-a-week ritual. Francesca swore it left her hair shiny and soft, and I followed along happily enough.

  “Come in, Isaac. Gingerbread and cherry coke on the table.”

  He nodded and looked at me.

  Isaac was the nicest boy. Not dull-witted by any means, he just took his own sweet time to react to life. He was unusual for a farm boy, because he loved to read poetry and was quite familiar with The Romantics and Emily Dickinson, among others.

  “Here, Sarah, let me help dry.”

  You might have thought I would have felt embarrassed having Isaac dry my hair. But he was just this rather large boy-person who didn’t have a sister of his own to torment. We’d been neighbors since long before I was born. I never thought a thing about it.

&n
bsp; As he rubbed a towel softly across my head, he said, “Don’t you worry about things here, Mrs. Frances. You know that Lincoln and I’ll take care of everything while you’re gone.”

  “I know you will, Isaac. Did you read the book of sonnets I sent along?”

  “Sure did. I brought it back with me. I like the one about the moonlight on the bank. I could almost feel the night air, you know?”

  Francesca asked him if he had any questions about feeding the animals. He told her I had already left special instructions pinned to the barn door. “You sure have beautiful printing, Sarah.”

  “Crud,” I answered. Getting compliments from young men, even Isaac, was awful, simply awful.

  Isaac smiled that slow smile of his and placed the book of sonnets back into its place. “What should I read next?”

  Francesca offered him a volume of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, which he took appreciatively.

  Isaac drained the soda glass, chomped on the cookies, stepped into the cool gloom at the front of the house and let himself out by the front door.

  “I think he likes you, Sarah,” Francesca whispered.

  “Maybe like a brother.”

  “Yes, for now. He’s a nice boy with a soft soul. Not bad-looking either.”

  “Stop plotting, Francesca.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Isaac is only 15-years-old, you know.”

  Francesca took my face in her hands and kissed my nose.

  “Whatever in the world has age got to do with it?”

  She had me there.

  Francesca and I wore the same outfits we had the first time Matthew had taken us out. Maybe we could turn them from disaster wear into “good luck” outfits. One thing for sure, Harry and Maude were stunned by Francesca’s appearance. You’d have thought she was wearing harem pants.

  “My God! Frances,” Maude said, wide-eyed. “What are you wearing?”

  “A dress, dear, Surely you’ve seen a dress before?” answered Francesca with a demure smile.

  “But it’s so …”

  “Perfect, absolutely perfect,” Harry broke in. “Why, she looks like a debutant.”

  Matt called from outside, “Everybody ready?”

  I didn’t want to leave Babe behind, in case the Scarecrow man came back. Even though the Teems were on the case, I would worry every minute we were gone.

  Francesca looked at me inquisitively.

  “I was just thinking about that dream I had.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t want to leave Babe here. What if something happened? Don’t get a bee in your bonnet.”

  Francesca peered at me closely. I felt her eyes piercing into my soul, where she’d uncover the truth, so I pretended to sneeze. I was quite convincing and even rubbed my eyes lightly with my fingertips.

  Francesca’s gaze hadn’t changed any, but she agreed.

  “All right, Sarah, no bonnet bees this evening. But you are responsible for Babe.”

  I bear-hugged her, knowing I hadn’t fooled her for an atomic second. She’d let me have my way for reasons of her own, not the least of which was her understanding that taking Babe along was important to me.

  The men sat in the front seat, while the women, including Babe, sat in the back. It was still muggy, so we left the car windows down the entire drive into town. Harry and Matt spoke about Chicago and the future of international airplane flights.

  The sisters didn’t say much. Maude kept glancing at Francesca’s outfit, and Grandmother kept pretending not to notice. I kept looking out the window but didn’t catch sight of the skinny old man. Maybe we’d all enjoy a peaceful night on the town.

  Ernie’s was a charming, lively place and one of our favorite spots to eat. New York-born Ernie Jones had been an army cook during World War I and had opened the restaurant with his savings in l921.

  He ran the place with his sister, Selma , a war widow. They offered two different meals each night, six nights a week. Tonight, it was spaghetti and meatballs or chicken fried steak complete with homemade soup or salad, French fries or baked potatoes. Sweet corn bread with butter came with every meal.

  Selma was at the door when we arrived.

  “Why, Maude, what a whale of a nice surprise,” she said, clamping her arms around my great aunt in a hug. Selma was very big on hugging. In fact, she was just plain big.

  “Ernie,” she called over her shoulder to the kitchen, “guess who’s here? Maude and Harry and Fra …” She was stunned into silence mid-sentence by Francesca’s sweeping entry.

  “Selma, it’s so nice to see you. You remember Sarah, of course, and this is Matthew Mosley,” she turned toward Matt. “This is Selma.”

  “Good to meet you, son.” Selma had a foxy look on her face and some sarcasm in her voice. “Are you some friend of Harry’s?”

  “Actually, he’s with me,” Francesca said quietly.

  We were now officially off to the races.

  Matt was polite and well-behaved, his presence generating quite a buzz as people whispered to one another. You could almost see the questions hopping from table to table. He didn’t kiss Francesca or even hold her hand. But everyone knew they were a couple.

  Ernie snuck out of the kitchen to say hello and take a gander.

  “Hear you’re an airplane stuntman. Tough business, idn’t it? Heard ya broke the leg. That so?”

  Matthew nodded.

  Ernie wasn’t usually this sociable. Most of the time, he preferred dissecting business matters over small talk. But tonight, he made over Matt and Francesca like they were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. My grandmother and her escort were creating quite the stir.

  It appeared every person in the place had a sudden need to use the restroom, each stopping by our table for a moment or two to get an eyeful. It was as if Francesca and Matt were on exhibit.

  Harry was irritated, and Francesca looked ruffled, but Matthew sat as cool as a cucumber. Maude, surprisingly, was unshaken by the entire episode and even offered Francesca encouragement throughout the meal.

  “Ignore the attention; it will pass.” Maude squeezed Francesca’s hand.

  “Dessert, anyone?” Ernie had brought gooseberry pie, remembering it was Francesca’s favorite.

  “Tell ya the truth, Frances, ya look like some kinda queen sittin’ here,” Ernie exclaimed with a nod.

  At that moment, Fay Phillips from Chez Fay swept through the front door. She saw us and wriggled a hand.

  “Frances, that dress looks … elegant. So fresh,” she said, walking over. “And who is this?” she asked, ogling Matt.

  “Matthew Mosley, ma’am,” Matthew drawled and slowly got to his feet. This gesture melted Fay’s heart into a tiny pool. Her voice dropped an octave and got huskier.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Mosley.” Fay blinked her eyes at Matt. “And how long will you be visiting our fair city?”

  Matt turned to Francesca and took her hand. “Long as she’ll have me, I expect.”

  Fay Phillips’ eyes widened as she examined the lay of the land. Then, she insinuated herself away. Maude laughed. “Did you see the look in her eyes? I enjoyed that, I must say.”

  “Maude,” Harry remonstrated, “you sound positively gleeful.”

  With that, the second public showing became a resounding success.

  Chapter 20

  Possibilities and Uncertainties

  I

  t had been a grand night. We laughed and carried on all the way home, rehashing the display we’d put on for the locals. It was refreshing to see us all getting along swimmingly for a change.

  When we got back to Home Farm, Maude suggested poker and hard cider. I, of course, would have to drink regular old juice. When my Great Auntie won just about every hand, Harry teased it was all due to the reddish concoction she’d been swigging straight from the bottle. In response, she dabbed a little cider behind each ear.

  You could tell Harry was stunned and pleased by the about-face in his wife’s d
emeanor. I watched the two nuzzle as they went arm in arm up the back stairs to their room.

  The night had cleared, and a silver moon filled the sky with a pale light. I could hear the cricket choir harmonizing just outside and the bullfrogs’ basso profundo calls all the way from the pond. I sat on the window seat in my room and gazed out over my kingdom.

  A skinny shadow swaying near the big elm tree startled me. I squinted to get a better look. As my heartbeat flipped into double time, I stared into the night and imagined the shadow scuttling closer. I shut my eyes tight and rubbed them hard. After a moment or two, I looked again and saw nothing. Was I imagining things? With my heart still relentlessly in drum-solo mode, I went downstairs to the kitchen to see if Francesca and Matt were still awake.

  Matthew was puttering around the kitchen. He turned his head when he heard me.

  “Couldn’t sleep, Sarah?”

  I had to protect Francesca, so I lied and said I was hungry.

  Peanut butter and sweet pickles have the power to lighten any mood. Matt liked the idea, too, and made a sandwich for each of us.

  “I think we’re gonna need some milk, here,” he observed as I tried de-buttering the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

  We sat quietly, munching. To this day, I can’t tell you why, but after a while I simply blurted out, “Are you going to marry Francesca?” Opened the mouth, out the words tumbled.

  Mr. Strong and Silent didn’t respond right away. Instead, he finished his glass of milk and peered at me intently. It’s hard to eat comfortably when someone’s staring at you. I put what was left back on my plate.

  “You are fond of hard questions aren’t you, Sarah?” he asked finally. “I’m not sure the topic is any of your business. Are you?”

  “Francesca says it’s rude to answer a question with a question.” I countered.

  “Does she, now?”

  “You did it again. You answered a question with a question.”

  Matthew nodded and said nothing.

  We sat in a kind of lip-zipped mental stand-off for another moment until I got up to get a cookie from the tin box on top of the refrigerator. I had to stand on a chair.