Francesca of Lost Nation

by Crosby, Lucinda Sue

  “I know, Mommy.”

  “Well … maybe just this once, we’ll make an exception. Oh, it’s so beautiful here. It even smells different. You should see the flower beds and the orange trees. There’s a town called Grasse near where we’re staying, and most of the flowers they use in perfume across this globe are grown there. You should see it, field after field of fragrant, pastel blossoms.”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  “I love you, too. You both behave yourselves while we’re away.”

  Francesca and I burst out laughing.

  We heard some more static before Daddyboys said, “Sarah, this New York business … It’s a big opportunity for me. You do understand?”

  Francesca had retreated to a chair, so I took the opportunity to share my reservations.

  “But what if we don’t want to leave Iowa?” I asked softly

  “Nonsense, nonsense. Once you all see the kind of life your old dad is in for, even Francesca will be raring to go. Your grandmother, after all, is at heart an adventuress.”

  I started to protest, but he cut me off and insisted everything would be fine. “You’ll see, darling; it will be splendiferous for all of us.”

  He gave his farewells and then he was gone.

  After I hung up, Francesca and I couldn’t help but smile at one another. After all, it wasn’t every day a person received a telephone call from another continent. Of course, I also felt sad, because I missed my parents terribly. Francesca read my mind.

  “No fretting today, child. It’s your special once-a-year wing-ding. Let’s keep it that way. Remember, each thing in its own time. Right?”

  “Right,” I answered as unenthusiastically as possible.

  In order to whisk any hint of gloom away, I decided to open all of my gifts before breakfast. Maude and Harry gave me books, which was lovely. Lots of Dickens and a new author for me—Agatha Christie—whose intricately plotted tales of improbable detectives solving murders in quaint ivy-swathed towns started my lifelong love affair with mystery stories.

  From Matt, I received an ah-ooga truck horn he’d picked up at the fair. It was shiny brass with a convoluted neck and resembled a sea horse in a nightmare. It was beautiful.

  My parents sent me two Paris outfits. One was for play, pants that fell to just below the knee. At first I thought they looked odd, but within a month or two I realized I was just ahead of the rest of the country. Thanks to the Frenchies and their on-the-edge style sense, I was the first in my town (or state, in all probability) to own pedal pushers. The other outfit was for dress, all lace and fine embroidered cotton in coral pink, like clouds at dawn.

  I’d saved two gifts for last: Francesca’s and Isaac’s. His came in a small box, long and thin.

  “What the heck is this?” I said, peering down into the wrapping.

  Matt took the box and picked up the thing gingerly. “Looks a little like a fishing lure. I never saw anything tied like that before.”

  “It’ll probably scare the fish away,” I humphed.

  Harry scratched his head. “I think if I were a trout, I just might go for this.” He took the lure from Matt and waved it around in the air. “See how it wafts? Wafting is very important to any fish that knows a good dinner from a bad one.”

  Uncle Harry’s evaluation of my lure improved my opinion of it.

  Francesca’s gift was wrapped in a small silken sack. It had a name on the outside that had worn away with age. It looked like it read “TI F NY & C ., EW Y RK.”

  Inside the sleek-feeling pouch was a black box. It was heavy and had a tiny latch. I was already excited, because it looked like the perfect box in which to hide a treasure. It turned out to be a bigger prize than even I could have imagined. Nestled inside on a black velvet cushion was Francesca’s wedding ring. It was the one Grandpap had bought for her all those years ago in New York City on their honeymoon.

  I was stunned and struck dumb. No one else said anything, either.

  Francesca picked up the ring and threaded it onto the chain she’d worn around her neck since Grandpap’s passing. She slipped the chain over my head and kissed me on the cheek. “For my Sweetchild,” she whispered, “to keep her safe and us woven together in spirit, no matter how near or far we may be.”

  “I can’t take this,” I moaned, “It was yours and Grandpap’s.”

  “Sarah, it’s time; don’t you see? It is past time.”

  No, I didn’t see.

  Matt took my chin in his strong hands. He lifted it. “A woman can only wear one wedding ring at a time. Maybe she’s making room.”

  Matt’s explanation surprised me. I looked at Francesca and was about to speak, but she stopped me with a wave of her pointer finger. She stood up and began to act business-like.

  “Let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions, ladies and gentlemen.” She gave Matt a swift, sharp look. “Besides,” she went on, holding her hand over her left ear, “I swear I can hear the fish calling my name. What say we eat a rapid breakfast, settle ourselves in a quiet spot on the water and win that angler contest?”

  Though she surely had a way of stopping conversations, she couldn’t have stopped the wave of emotion that washed over me as I fingered her gift. It hung down, appropriately enough, right to the level of my heart.

  “Damn,” observed Harry after suffering through his second consecutive nibble-less half hour.

  The fish were not biting. Never mind that we had set out on the boat before sun-up, straight after breakfast; no one had caught anything at all, much less anything substantial. The lake was overflowing with disappointed fishermen.

  “Double damn,” agreed Maude. She was a sight to behold, sitting in the shade of a tremendous straw hat festooned with three different scarves. A great one for protecting her skin from sun damage, she looked like an innocent version of Bathsheba in the Dance of the Seven Veils.

  “It’s your damn paraphernalia,” groused Harry. “All that claptrap on your head, I swear, you’re scaring the fish.”

  “Says you. At least I’ve had some bites,” Maude retorted.

  Francesca rolled her eyes. “Will you two stop it? Please?” she whispered sharply.

  Matt didn’t say a word. He leaned back against the picnic hamper, eyes closed, face shaded by the brim of his Stetson. When I squinted at him, I fancied the hat had a Roy Rogers block to it. But maybe I was making things up to keep my mind from leaking out of my ear sockets in sheer boredom. I yawned big.

  “Why don’t you try your new lure?” asked Harry with a playful poke at my ribs. “Some gentleman caller went to an awful lot of time and trouble.”

  I sighed and dug the ugly thing out of our community tackle box.

  “I wouldn’t use this if I wasn’t so desperate to catch something,” I sniffed as I tossed my line out with Isaac’s homemade lure into the water.

  It had barely sunk into the lake when I got a hit. I stood up so rapidly, the boat tipped precariously, water lapping over the sides.

  “It’s a whale,” I yelled.

  Babe was yelping and lunging toward the water. Francesca had to hold her so she wouldn’t leap overboard.

  Matt peeked out from under his hat brim.

  “It’s a big one. Don’t panic, Sarah. Let him run.” Matt encouraged me, talking me through techniques. “Let out some line. That’s right. Now, reel some in. Feel it?”

  I pulled my rod smoothly back as hard as I could. It bowed almost in half before I felt the fish solidly hooked on the line.

  “I got him! I got him!” I shouted.

  Francesca shook her head. “I think he’s got you, child.”

  Matt leaned toward me, ready to assist. But even with Matt’s encouragement, I wasn’t sure we could win this battle. It seemed like an eternity since the fish had hit my line, and it had only been 10 minutes according to Matt. My arms ached. My fingers and palms grew raw, but I couldn’t give up. This would be the prize fish of the day, I was sure of it.

  Francesca must have sens
ed my weariness.

  “He’s tired too, Sarah. You stay in there. Just relax your hands for a moment, not your arms, just your hands. Wait for a lull on the line … good. See, he’s changing direction from the way he started out … Okay, now, hold on with your hands, and let your arms go just a little … take a deep breath … and another. You’re doing it, Sweetchild. You can do it.”

  Matt stood behind me to make sure I didn’t slip. We had been battling with this monster for twenty minutes by then, and the fight started to draw some attention. A flotilla of small boats floated our direction to get a closer look.

  My body ached, but the crowd’s cheers hiked my adrenalin, reinvigorating me.

  Suddenly, the fish broke the surface. He was brownish with long fins on his back and a mouth like a trout. He seemed to be looking in several directions at once.

  “That sumbich is one large wall-eyed pike,” Matt said. “Twenty pounds, I’ll wager. Sarah, you pay close attention. This could be the granddaddy of these parts.”

  Finally, the fish let go. All at once, he just stopped trying, and the absence of weight on the line sent me sprawling practically into the brink. Shaking like a leaf, I managed to get him up into the boat, but I didn’t have the strength to net him, so Matt did it for me.

  All the other fishermen began to applaud.

  “We could have Federico’s cook him up for us tonight,” Uncle Harry teased.

  “NOOOOO!” I shrieked. “Can’t we just weigh him and let him go?”

  Matt put his arms around me, and I collapsed into his embrace. I was totally exhausted and completely unaware of everything on our trip back to the dock except that fish, which we kept alive in a bucket of water. I watched him closely the whole time to make sure he was all right.

  A string of boats followed us to the weigh station to see how my pike would be recorded. It was a big one, noted the official. “That’s 19 pounds and seven ounces … a mighty fine catch, young lady.” The weight master tossed the fish back into the bucket of water, and we pushed the boat back into the lake. A few moments later, the pike was swimming madly back to the depths from whence it had come.

  By the time we returned to shore, I was practically asleep sitting up. Matt scooped me into his arms again, and with Francesca’s comforting hand soothing my fevered forehead, I began to doze.

  It was the applause that stirred me. I cracked my eyes open a quarter inch and saw all these strange people gathered at the shoreline. They were looking at me and clapping. I felt a buzz in my head.

  That’s when I saw the Scarecrow. He was dressed in the same grayish, raggedy cast-offs he had worn at Home Farm.

  I screamed and tried to struggle out of Matt’s arms.

  Babe saw the Scarecrow too. Growling to beat the band, she wiggled out of Francesca’s grasp and took after the skinny male figure in the distance.

  “Oh, shit,” Matthew whispered under his breath. He carefully set me down, then jogged after Babe as best he could.

  “What’s going on?” asked Maude frantically.

  That’s when I could have sworn I saw Sheriff Dan. What the blazes was happening? Tired and confused, I could only shake my head and iron my forehead with my hands.

  After what seemed like an eon, the gravity of the situation sank in. “We have to find Babe,” I sobbed, Then, I grabbed Francesca with all my might. “We have to find her!”

  Chapter 24

  In the Clouds

  W

  hen I came to, I was lying on my roll-away. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.

  “Aahh, that’s better,” Francesca said, touching my forehead softly. “You simply wore yourself out catching that fish. And then Babe took off, and you had a fit. That’s right, isn’t it?” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “There isn’t something else going on that I should know about, is there?” My grandmother was looking at me with her particular probing expression.

  “Babe,” I exclaimed as my dog jumped onto my bed. She was thumping her tail as she rested her head across my lap.

  “Where did you find her?”

  “She found us.”

  “You mean all by herself?”

  “I do.”

  I reached out to hug my clever and intelligent dog and was immediately ambushed by aching muscles. “Whoa.”

  “You’ll be sore a few days,” Francesca sat next to me and lightly massaged my arms. She stroked my hair and whispered in my ear how much she loved me and how proud she was of my fishing. Was she still looking at me to see if I was hiding anything from her?

  You bet she was.

  “Sarah, did you see anything unusual today?”

  “I thought Sheriff Dan was at the fairgrounds. I thought I saw him when Babe ran.” It was almost true.

  “Sheriff Dan in Clinton?” Francesca cocked her head. “I wouldn’t think so, child. Why would he be here?”

  “I don’t know … but I know I saw him.”

  Just then, I heard the unmistakable roar of the Doozy in front of our unit. Within seconds, there was a crisp knock on the bedroom door, which quickly popped open, revealing the rest of my family.

  “Ah, there’s our girl,” Uncle Harry smiled.

  “And there’s that damned dog,” Matthew grunted. Chasing after Babe had sent Matt to the doctor’s office. He would now be forced to use his cane for a few more days, as the jogging had been too much for his still-healing leg.

  “If you keep it elevated and apply some ice, it won’t be so bad,” Francesca offered.

  Apparently, everyone else had kept busy while I slept. While Matt visited the local doc, my uncle and aunt continued searching for the dog. After nearly an hour, when they were on the verge of giving up, Babe had apparently strolled onto the motor court grounds.

  “Well, now that everyone is accounted for and still in one piece, shall we go to the airfield?” Uncle Harry asked. “Ian invited us all especially.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Maude said with real enthusiasm. “Alright, Sarah, get your things on and join us double time.”

  They left the bedroom door slightly ajar — just enough for a professional spy like me to make out a conversation.

  Francesca took Matt to the side. “Would your brother Dan be in town for any reason?” she whispered.

  “Why would he?” Matt whispered back.

  “It’s impolite to answer a question with a question.”

  Francesca and Matt both turned and looked in my direction. I darted to the birthday boxes and whipped out my new Capri pants.

  “Next stop, the airfield.” Now that he, too, had conquered the skies, Harry was looking forward to the air show more than ever. The actual races weren’t scheduled until the following day. In the meantime, pilots were flying in from all over to register for the event. Ian thought we’d enjoy meeting the sky jockeys and seeing the unusual assortment of aircraft up close … like a backstage pass at a Broadway musical, only heaps better.

  Since Matt knew everyone and everyone knew him, he introduced us around. He explained that this was the first major air show since the end of the war, which was why it had gathered many of the greatest pilots still living. “I hear that the collection of flyboys at this fair will be over twice the expected number.”

  We were plain struck dumb in the presence of all those wild hawks, their life stories lurking behind their eyes, their souls so obviously cut from a different bolt of cloth than the rest of us poor mortals.

  Some had fought against Rickthoven’s Flying Circus in the First World War, others against the Luftwaffe and the Imperial Japanese Air force in the Second. More than a few had since sunk to the lowly rank of crop duster — and loved every minute of it. There were barnstormers, like Matt, more than a few now-civilian instructors and even a few who’d flown in the moving pictures. It was a small, tight club consisting mostly of men, although there were two women in the group.

  The pilots all seemed to have their own language, using an aero-jargon shorthand that couldn’t be deciphered by
outsiders. A couple of the boys asked Matt’s advice about one thing and another: fuel mix, drag, flap tension. He was in hog heaven. The rest of us gawked like star-struck fools. Except Francesca. She was quiet and somewhat shy with the larger-than-life men and women clothed in the shining armor of survival and past bravery. But she didn’t look at them as celebrities. She saw them as young people, some young enough to be her grandchildren.

  Terrible things happen in war, and many of these fliers had seen the worst of it. Their courage helped make our world safer, but at what cost? Up close, you could tell that some had been scraped emotionally bare by their experiences. While they might boast about hundreds of rubber band-stopped landings on aircraft carriers or flights through firestorms of shrapnel, how had those events reconstructed their souls? Some bore visible physical scars, but I began to realize that the worst wounds were most likely internal.

  Their common pain and glory combined to form a shared and cherished gossamer bond. A deep-rooted understanding was evident, and their humble sense of duty and love for their country was manifest. Even a small girl like me was stirred by their presence.

  Francesca felt it, too. She stood among them, graceful and quiet, and listened. Her sense of connection to all things and faith in her place in the world opened their society to her.

  In their turn, the pilots were drawn to my grandmother and treated her like a peer. As if reuniting with an old acquaintance, each stranger discovered her steady presence, her honest interest. She shook a hand or nodded with heightened awareness to a tone or a nuance of phrase.

  When Matt mentioned her upcoming car race, the other-worldly crowd drew closer. One of the female pilots whispered something in Francesca’s ear and threw a thumbs-up in Matt’s direction. Francesca smiled and shook her head. When a flask magically appeared, Francesca drank deeply from it without being asked.

  I saw my grandmother perform various amazing feats of living magic throughout her lifetime. But I never saw her more incandescent, yet more substantial, than on that afternoon. She had tapped into a well-spring of grace that no movie star ever boasted, that monarchs achieve only in fairy tales.