The horse gathered speed as they neared the far fence. What was she doing? My eyes were like saucers as I watched Francesca steer that little mare over the five-foot-high gate. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the ground was still mushy. As RedBird landed, she kicked up a shower of muddy water.
Francesca was gone for hours. I was frantic with worry. At one point, I considered catching up Miss Blossom and going after them. But Francesca was someone who rode like she raced a car. Considering the state of mind she was in, she might very well have been all the way to Clinton County.
It was way after suppertime when I heard the faint rhythm of hooves on the gravel drive. Babe and I slipped out the back door and trotted over toward the barn to wait. The rain poured down my face and body like a sheet. The only light came from the back porch and out through the kitchen window.
Both Francesca and RedBird were soaking and covered with mud. RedBird was panting as if she’d run for her life. Francesca’s body was draped exhaustedly across RedBird’s neck, her hands cramped in a death grip around a piece of that lush mane. By fits and starts, Francesca slid onto the ground, barely able to stand. When I went to help her, she pushed me away and managed to stumble into the house.
“I’ll take care of everything,” I called through the gloom.
RedBird was shivering as I led her to her stall. Miss Blossom nickered a greeting, but the little roan mare was too spent to respond. I dried her and massaged her legs and curried her till she sighed and snorted with pleasure. I watered her and fed her an extra serving of oats. And as I worked, I started getting mad at my grandmother.
How dare she behave this way? Maybe I had no business being angry with her, but I couldn’t help myself. What if something terrible had happened? What if she’d been thrown? And killed? I threw myself on the stack of hay near Miss Blossom’s stall and began to cry, great moaning sobs of pity. Some of it was for Francesca, but the larger portion, I’m ashamed to say, was for myself. Babe sat down in front of me and licked the tears off my cheeks. I felt exactly like some lost orphan caught in a storm and wished with all my might that Mommy and Daddyboys were here. They’d know what to do.
After a while, exhausted and with Babe serving as my blanket and my comforter, I fell deeply asleep.
I dreamed about Francesca and RedBird flying over the gate and Matt standing beside me clapping and whooping.
Chapter 27
Eye of the Storm
I
t was Miss Blossom nickering that awakened me. I hadn’t a clue what time it might’ve been, and I was stiff as a board. The hay down my back itched. Although it should have been pitch black outside, I could make out a faint glow from the back porch light. I called softly for Babe, but she wasn’t in the barn. I struggled to my feet and stumbled through the big wooden doors out into the night.
There was a deathly stillness in the air. Even the crickets were silent. I felt some unformed apprehension. My feet made squishing noises in the mud. The back door was still unlocked, which struck me as odd. Carefully, I opened it and peeked into the kitchen.
Francesca was sprawled across the floor. Stunned and shocked, I was only able to process the scene slowly, one detail at a time. I felt frozen. I was unable to cry out. After what seemed like a year, I noticed Babe lay next to Francesca.
Next, I picked up on the shallow rise and fall of Francesca’s chest. Thank heaven! I tiptoed over and touched her face, but she didn’t respond. Her breath reeked of whiskey, an odor I recognized from Matt’s early days with us.
To say I was scared was the great understatement of my life up to that point. I felt helpless and vulnerable and shattered.
“Francesca! Francesca! Wake up!”
My grandmother groaned but didn’t move or open her eyes.
Suddenly, I heard the wind start to pick up, like some gigantic fan had been cranked into motion. I was able to raise Francesca’s head but could only hold it steady for a moment. I tried to lift her and drag her to the couch, but I wasn’t nearly strong enough. Running into the storm for help would be futile, and I couldn’t leave her alone.
I decided to stay in the kitchen until she woke up.
I rooted in the linen closet for a woolen throw and a large pillow. I covered Francesca, tucking the edge of the blanket around her legs and feet, then slid the pillow under her head. She still didn’t stir, but at least she looked comfortable. While I prayed aloud twenty times she would be alright by morning, I retrieved another blanket for myself and Babe, and I slept fitfully beside Francesca on the kitchen floor.
Even in my dreams, I could hear the sound of the wind growing louder and louder. Eventually, a rasping of branches against the house alerted me. The storm was frenzied now. Just above the din, I thought I could hear RedBird whinnying in terror.
Francesca was still out cold. I looked outside the window and saw the air was filled with leaves and dust and twigs and bits of trash. The barn door started slapping back and forth, the hinges crying out. I realized this was perfect tornado weather and that Francesca and the animals and I were in terrible danger. Somehow, I had to get us all into the basement storm cellar. Dug out beneath Main House almost two hundred years ago, it was a more than ample safe haven.
After warning Babe to stay with Francesca, I grabbed a rain slick, barred the doggie door and pushed my way out into the maelstrom.
The wind was so strong I had to walk at an angle as I fought my way to the chicken coop. I opened their pen, so they could move around freely and if need be hide somewhere safe. I also hooked the small shutters on the outside of their shelter.
Next, I ran to the barn and haltered Miss Blossom. She was older than RedBird and of a calmer nature, and I figured I could handle her well enough. I tied a handkerchief over her eyes and led her out into the yard, where the rain was pouring down in torrents. Blossom shied a bit, but I whispered into her ear and blew into her nose to keep her quiet. When we’d made it safely to the cellar, she stood obediently while I unbolted the big storm doors. It took forever to drag them open. I lit an oil lamp I remembered was hanging on my right before leading Miss Blossom down the wooden ramp my father had crafted exactly for this occasion.
It was amazingly quiet there, under the earth. The dimly lit root cellar smelled of apples and potatoes and dampness. I was breathing hard by this time and sweating with exertion. My throat was dry. I uncorked a large jug of water by the apple bins and took a long swallow. It comforted me, somehow, maybe because I’d seen Grandpap do that very thing so many times in the past.
It was much cooler down below than I’d expected, and I made sure there was a supply of extra blankets in the trunk near four folded cots.
I was on my way back to get RedBird when lightning darted across the sky, followed immediately by a booming clap of thunder. I heard a crackling sound somewhere over my head and smelled smoke. I stood still for a second, trying to get my bearings in the chaos swirling around me. But I could barely stand up as the wind pushed against me, and I couldn’t see a thing. I held my hands in front of my face to protect my eyes from flying debris. That’s when I heard an even louder CRACK that sounded like a cannon shot.
I never saw it coming. An eight-foot branch from our elm tree split from the trunk, falling with a crash on top of me. It knocked me flat, forcing the air out of my chest. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what had happened. Then, I panicked. I’d heard that people could suffocate or black out after that kind of injury. Finally, my lungs burst back to life with a tremendous gasp. I inhaled and exhaled as slowly as I could. I tried to get up then, but I was pinned solid.
The sound of the wind ticked up a notch. In the barn, RedBird snorted and pawed her feed bin in agitation. The thunder rolled over me like a blanket. It came in waves and echoed back through itself and off the foothills.
I struggled under that old branch. I swore and squirmed and twisted and kicked. I wasn’t seriously hurt, but I could no more have gotten out from underneath that weight than I could have flown to
the moon. I screamed, but it was no use; there was no one to hear me in that deafening din.
I don’t know how long I lay there before I started to cry. I realized it was possible I would not make it through the night. At some point, I went in and out of consciousness from sheer exhaustion. Reality and dreams became blurred. My mind was deceiving me. Or was it? I thought I heard voices.
“Francesca! Babe!” I called over and over to the voices that might have been inside my head. “Save them; they’re in the kitchen! And RedBird! Don’t forget RedBird!” Although my eyes were blurry from rain and dust, I thought I saw the shadows of giants standing over me, dressed in flowing cloaks, their faces covered, the brims of their dark hats streaming rain. From somewhere, a pinpoint of weak light glowed.
“I’m okay. I’m not hurt. Please help us,” I whispered again and again. One of the giants squatted beside me as the other two forms lifted the branch off me. “Let’s get her inside.” Then, they carried me to the cellar and lay me down on a cot. After a careful searching touch of my limbs, I was covered with blankets. As the blood in my fingers and toes began to circulate again, I became slightly more alert. But I was still weak and felt dizzy. When I could make out RedBird’s unmistakable snorting nearby, I knew we’d been saved.
I saw that one of the giants was carrying my grandmother in his arms. But he didn’t put her on the other cot right away. His face was still hidden, but I could tell he was staring at her face. At last, as gently as he might have handled a newborn babe, he lowered her inert body onto the cot and covered her.
Babe came running in and jumped on top of me. She nudged her nose under the blanket and laid her head on my stomach. I was too disoriented to respond.
The giant glanced back at us once from the door. With a shake of his head, he disappeared into the night. The wind still roared above us, but in the storm cellar, it was quiet and dry. I closed my eyes and faded into oblivion.
Chapter 28
The Calm after the Winds
I
t was uncanny how, during that summer, the weather so often mirrored the emotions washing over Home Farm. When I opened my eyes the next morning, I had never seen such a day. It felt as if all the evil in the world had been scoured away. The sun played hide-and-seek behind fat, puffy clouds. A gentle, northerly breeze softened the air.
Coming out of the storm cellar, I was blinded by the sun. The garden was a shambles, true, but all the dead leaves and most of the branches had disappeared. I scratched my belly and heard it gurgle in response, informing me it was at least noon. When I discovered that Miss Blossom and RedBird had already been returned to the barn, I realized Francesca was not only up but at it.
I was supremely interested to observe what kind of shape she was in.
“Don’t slam that screen door, Sarah” were the first words out of her mouth. She was certainly in A State. It reminded me of what Matt often referred to as “The Rasps.” He’d explained it as a condition that showed up after “a night of bourbon and bad dreams.” Francesca definitely exhibited a colossal case of “The Rasps.”
She laid her forearm across her forehead. She massaged her temples gently for a moment before running her tongue around the inside of her mouth. Her body was never quite still, as one tic jerkily followed another. She reminded me of one of Grandpap’s favorite homespun phrases — fidgety as a bug on a cat’s paw.
She glanced at me, then away. Her eyes flickered and darted across the gap that lay between us. “I …” She didn’t finish her sentence, stopping to lick her lips. She sighed then tried again. “I can’t …” was followed by another sigh. She shook her head stridently enough to loosen some cobwebs and looked me right in the eyes. “I pray I will never behave in this self-pitying, self-indulgent way again. I owe you the most profound apology.” The words were forceful, the voice barely above a whisper.
She stood more erect. “I pray I don’t have to straighten this place out all by myself.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond. “The barn is a shambles. Part of the roof of the Bridal Cottage blew clear to Michigan, and that dog of yours has been barking her fool head off.”
Francesca gasped for breath and rubbed her temples again. She cocked her head. “Did … Was there … What happened last night?”
“Here?” I asked stupidly.
“Don’t answer a question with a question,” she said and took a huge swig of water right out of the glass pitcher.
To me, the night’s events were simply a blur, and whether I had dreamed, imagined or experienced any or all of the goings-on was far beyond my comprehension.
“I thought I heard … voices?” Francesca probed.
I shrugged my shoulders.
Francesca walked to the sink and dipped her face under the running faucet.
“Are you sure nothing unusual happened last night?” Apparently, Francesca didn’t have a clue about “last night.” Thankfully, except for the hangover, she didn’t seem any the worse for wear.
I had battled terror the night before and yet had somehow got us all to safety. I was quite proud of myself, and under different circumstances, I might have crowed a little. However, my tale would have had to include that ugly episode with her and the bottle. Somehow, I was sure she’d die of shame if she knew that I knew.
Come to think of it, there was the possibility that a posse of strangers also knew … Hang it, once in a great while, the truth is the last thing that needs to be told! Period, exclamation point!
Francesca turned to face me. “How did you manage to … get us all into the storm cellar?”
I was about to consider which prevarication to give over when the phone rang. Thank heavens. Francesca massaged her forehead with renewed vigor while I answered it.
It was Aunt Maude, calling to check on us. The line crackled, snapped and popped so that every other word was almost unintelligible. As I gave her an account of the storm damage to Home Farm seven different times, she oohed and aahed and uttered “Really? No!” about every 26 seconds.
“Is my sister around?” Maude asked, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial level, as though my grandmother could somehow hear her over the receiver.
“Francesca?” I repeated while my grandmother was frantically shaking her hands, no. “Why, she’s outside, cleaning up the vegetable garden. Insisted she didn’t wish to be disturbed. You know how she is about those dumb cucumbers. Will you be home later, Aunt Maude?”
“Yes. You have her call me.”
“I will … I promise. Love to Uncle Harry.”
“Kiss kiss,” she said and hung up.
“My cucumbers are not dumb,” said Francesca, massaging one hand with the other. “You must have been … very brave last night. I know I … we … couldn’t have survived without your … thoughtful command of the dire situation.” She was starting to sound a little more like herself.
When she took a deep breath, I could tell she was going to steer the conversation around a corner. “It’s such a beautiful morning. I haven’t seen one like it in the summer for years and years.”
“Maybe I should go into town,” I ventured. “We’ll need the stuff for the roof, and we could use some veggies, now that the garden’s demolished. I could hitch Miss Blossom to the pony cart.”
Francesca grunted.
“I could call Abraham to come in the taxicab,” I offered.
Francesca went to the ice box and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice.
“Yes,” she said, “you could do that. But we should go together; there will be people needing our help.”
There are no secrets in a small town, where all things are known and most of them are dissected at great length with relish. Small-town intimacy assumes advice is welcome, even when not solicited. There was no way anyone knew about Francesca’s toot the night before. How could they? However, the fact of Matt having left was a whole ‘nother enchilada.
Her relationship with Matt had been common knowledge. And as far as she was concerned, wha
tever judgment they’d encountered face-to-face as a couple was infinitely preferable to sneaking around. She usually made the bold choice and accepted all the consequences.
I was more than relieved that Francesca had apparently decided to wade back into life. A little like me at the pond, she was ready to waggle in the shallows. Fine; I would waggle with her.
It wasn’t going to be easy with so many treacherous traces of Matt hiding innocently around and about. A perfect example was the floogle horn on the driver’s side of the pickup. Francesca and I stared at it as she started the engine, and she brushed her fingers tentatively across its base twice. Her face took on a sad, faraway look.
Then, she whistled, and Babe came running, vaulting into the cab of the old truck like there were coiled springs in her legs.
“Good girl,” whispered Francesca, kissing the dog’s silky ear.
Babe responded with a wet kiss to Francesca’s nose.
Francesca cleared her throat and sounded the floogle once, twice.
*
Lost Nation had been hit hard by the storm. Shop windows had imploded along Main Street. A hundred-year-old elm in the park had been upended. There was an army of people cleaning up everything from broken glass to underclothes still in their plastic packaging to rusted oil cans escaped from the town dump.
Francesca cruised around for a few minutes before stopping in front of Abraham’s place, a small, two-story frame house with a stoop in the front. One of the pillars that held up the overhang was bent practically double.
Abraham’s eldest son, Jefferson, was a huge and chiseled young man who dwarfed his father and brother. He was mightily strong and tough as nails, and he had an almost eerie knack when it came to building things. When he drew up plans for additions to houses, he already knew where support beams had to go and how large the windows could be without weakening the structure. Weirdly, he’d never had any formal education beyond high school, where he’d been a math whiz.
He’d already taken measurements of the damage and come up with a plan to brace the bowed pillar until it could be replaced.
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