We found Abraham in the front room and pitched in to help him clean up the broken dishes, torn sheets, wayward tools of all descriptions and half a piano bench.
“Good to have you back among the living,” were his only words to Francesca.
This rather cryptic comment startled my grandmother, but she said nothing. For once, I was smart enough to keep my lips zipped. But the thought struck me … Could Jefferson have been one of the mysterious visitors?
We spent the rest of the morning making sure our friends and neighbors had adequate food and water. We lugged supplies alongside the Porters, the Tycorns, the Blackfeathers and assisted Doc Gearneart with plaster casts and stitches. At lunchtime, we made trays of sandwiches and passed them out along Main Street. By afternoon, Francesca’d been accepted back into the fold — like the prodigal son returned. Some couldn’t hold back an I-told-you-so-tinged remark, but most people cared more about righting the storm damage and seeing to their kith and kin than they did about Francesca’s love life. The winds that ripped through Lost Nation in the middle of the night were actually a blessing for us — they focused the town’s energy on a new set of mind-boggling circumstances. My grandmother had always been an ally of Mother Nature, and in turn, Nature had taken care of her.
One man’s curse is indeed another woman’s blessing.
On the way out of town, Francesca pulled up in front of the jailhouse. She just sat and stared out the windshield for a long time. Then, after looking carefully up and down the street, she entered the office. Through the window, I could see her address Sheriff Dan, but I couldn’t hear anything.
He started to speak, and she held up her hands to stop him. She turned away from him and picked up a magazine, waving it around her head like a Samurai sword. Then, she turned toward him and said something that must have been a question, because he responded with a shake of his head. She said something else then, something that made Dan Mosley shut his eyes tight and exhale deeply. He took her shoulders and shook them ever so gently, talking calmly. She nodded once. Then, he kissed her forehead, and she turned to come back out to the car. And although Francesca never revealed the gist of that conversation to me, I knew they’d spoken of Matt.
When she sat down beside Babe and me, she only said, “I know you were watching us, Sarah. And I appreciate your concern. But you must learn that some things in life are private.”
With that, she started up the engine and roared out of Lost Nation.
Chapter 29
The Ties that Bind
T
he next few days were just like all the other summer days I’d ever spent on Home Farm. Yet they were so very different. There was a tension in the house, a division, as though the silver thread that attached me to my grandmother had been stretched almost to the breaking point.
She worked like a dog in the garden, at her roses, in the orchards. She telephoned Maude and Harry to assure them yet again that we’d gotten through the storm and that everything was hunky-dory. She even repaired the roof of the Bridal Cottage with no one to help except Babe and me. She cooked and canned and cleaned like a woman possessed. But she never whistled any more. She smiled fleetingly once in a great while, but there was vacant space behind her eyes where the joy of living used to well up and overflow. The mere fact of being alive had ceased to invigorate her way of being in the world.
She read the newspaper from cover to cover and spent hours poring over the aviation news. She spent time alone in her room. And although she never mentioned it one way or another, she was relieved that I’d stopped knocking at her boudoir door in the morning. I knew somehow that I wasn’t welcome there, that Francesca needed time alone with her grief, time to heal. That was the most awful part, I think—our morning ritual had disappeared from our lives. How I longed to take her café au lait and kiss her forehead. But I never mentioned it, and neither did she.
She continued to drink in the evenings but never got drunk again. She rarely listened to the radio and never offered to play cards. She’d lost interest in the swimming hole. Or at least if she did go, she didn’t include me.
It was like living with a stranger.
My dog and I got to acting jumpy, especially at night. Babe would prowl around or worse, suddenly take off through the house, barking to beat the band. I began to notice how the timbers of Home Farm creaked in the wind and had a bad habit of settling into new positions only after midnight.
The only person Francesca could bear to be around for more than a few minutes was Dan Mosley. I don’t believe they ever spoke of Matthew. In fact, they never discussed anything important at all, to my knowledge. He’d tell her how pretty she looked, and she pretended to believe him. She gave him recipes for Starr and made him fresh lemonade. He revealed the latest news about the arsonist: Someone resembling him had been spotted in South Dakota and/or Indiana, which meant he was probably out of the area. Weirdly, his mother’s name had been Sarah, so just in case … Dan was adamant we should have some male protection. Francesca dismissed such “trivialities” with a wave of her hand and led him outside to see her rose garden.
It wounded me to see her loneliness so obvious and aggravated. I was lonely, too, but at least I had Babe to comfort me. Francesca had just closed herself off, shut herself down, as though the mere idea of contact with another human being, even me, was enough to scrape away the thin scab that was attempting to form on her smithereened heart.
My grandmother rode flat out almost every day. RedBird was always soaked with sweat by the time they got back to Main House from God knows where. Francesca whispered in RedBird’s ears whatever terrible and sad things were struggling for the upper ground in her soul. I realize now she was in the grip of a grand depression, and I was absolutely powerless to ease her suffering.
We got a letter from Daddyboys and Mommy on August 6; it provided a bit of relief to our dour household. It was full of glad tidings and excitement, and I was tickled by his funny, grand style. Felt guilty about it too.
We’re hopping over to London on the aero plane, my dears. Too trala for words. After another two weeks seeing the sights, we’ll be cruising back to New York in early September. Gad! It’ll be merveilleux to see Lady Liberty and have a real old-fashioned hamburger!
We’ve been advised that school in Manhattan begins second week of September. Sarah can enroll there and attend for a week or two before finishing out the term in Lost Nation as we discussed. And there’ll be so much shopping! All my lovely women will have to find us a pied-a-terre tout-de-suite and furnish same forthwith! We can’t wait to see the two of you! You’d better plan to rendez-vous on or near September 5. Mr. Toynbee’s booked us all in at the Waldorf Astoria. Ha! Won’t we be the toasts of Manhattan!
Your mother and I have grown expansive with our travels (mostly around the midsections) but there will be time enough for watching our weight when we’re living on the income of a starving writer. That’s me, my dears.
I had a whale of an idea just yesterday. I should pen a how-to manual on fixing cars, complete with diagrams and lots of stories about Lost Nation’s eccentric automobile Armada. Mr. Toynbee jumped at the idea and is searching, even now, for a book publisher.
You know, I worked hard my whole life and always felt dissatisfied with the lot I’d made for us all. I felt that I was remarkable, that we all were remarkable and that we should be leading remarkable lives.
Frances, dear, you were always OUT THERE somewhere fine, marching to the beat of an ancient and mythic orchestra few others knew existed, let alone heard. In a way, you were the reason I never quite gave up the ship. I am going to buy you the most expensive dinner and the largest bottle of champagne in NYC.
I can’t tell you what it means to me to finally be able to do … everything. I feel like a kid again. It fills me with pride (I might to have resize my hat). So, I offer you, my dearest loved ones, the sun and the moon. I’m working on the stars!
Lovelovelove,
Daddyboys
> Francesca broke into tears and ran outside, slamming the screen door hard in the process. I didn’t follow, but I did watch her anxiously (and surreptitiously) for the rest of the afternoon.
What a tribute Daddyboys had written to his mother-in-law! And they were so true, the things he’d poured out from his heart to hers. I wondered if her pain had been eased.
Later, I discovered it hadn’t.
“We’ll have to get you packed.” She started in on me with an attitude.
“Don’t you mean ‘us?’ We’ll both have to get packed?” I asked meekly.
“No. I said exactly what I meant, a habit more human beings should cultivate.”
“You’re thinking of not going to New York.” It was an accusation, not a question.
“I never considered going in the first place,” she said, thrusting that jaw out.
That wasn’t true, of course. And it made me mad.
“Well, if you’re not going, I’m not going!” I stamped my foot for emphasis.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah,” she warned. “Of course you’re going. And I’m staying. And that’s that! There’ll be no more argument about it, as I find the process too unpleasant to belabor.”
We were in the kitchen, drying lunch dishes. Babe stood up from the cool floor and cocked her head at our raised voices.
“You’re running away from me again. I don’t understand why,” I hurled at her retreating back.
We really got into it then.
Francesca whirled back around. “It’s none of your damn business, Sarah. You are a child, and I am an adult. I have recently experienced something rather humiliating, and I think it’s best we don’t share …” she dragged that last word out. She was oozing sarcasm by now. “… My most intimate feelings. It isn’t appropriate. And God knows, I’ve indulged in enough inappropriate behavior recently to last me the rest of my life.”
My voice rose a couple of octaves as I blurted out a response.
“Don’t say that! It isn’t true. You said love was never inappropriate.”
She opened the ice box and grabbed a bottle of hard cider. I had come to recognize the terrible wounded look that came into her eyes. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“I have spent my life living in a certain way. I believed that I … knew what was right for me. What was right for all of us. I considered life to be my friend, not my enemy.”
She stopped and took a swig straight from the bottle.
“I gave up on all-consuming love while still in my teens. I’d read about that kind of passion often enough. But I was never going to experience it. And so, I poured my passion into life.”
Francesca recapped the bottle and replaced it in the ice box, all the while gulping down some huge emotion.
“Life let me down. I’m not about to stagger off to New York, dragging my woe behind me, and rain on everyone’s parade. I couldn’t bear to see the pity in my family’s eyes. I’m not sure I could survive it.”
Hot tears welled up in my eyes.
“You’re selfish,” I cried out. “You’re sad, and I don’t know how to help you. We used to share everything together. Now, you only make me feel awful … like you don’t love me anymore.”
She raised her face to say something, but I screamed her down.
“No! Don’t say anything!” I felt like sobbing now, but I managed to strangle the words out. “You lectured me all my life, and I believed in you. I trusted you! But you’re just like everybody else. You don’t mean what you say. You’re a fake. And Matt was, too.” My grief was wild now. My arms gestured madly, and my body shivered. “But even so, I’ll always love you, even if you don’t love me.”
With one last raging howl, I ran up the back stairs and slammed myself inside my room. I cried so hard, my stomach hurt.
I don’t have any idea how long it took for my personal storm to begin ebbing. My gasping sobs had been reduced to hiccups when I heard a hesitant knocking at my door. I didn’t have the strength to tell her to go away.
Francesca came in carrying a tray of iced coffee and homemade cookies. She set the tray down at the end of the bed and without a word, she sat beside me, gathered me up in her arms and held me.
That was all. She didn’t say anything or try to explain or make excuses. She just held me.
Chapter 30
A Hint of Old Times
T
he blow-up between Francesca and me only served to prove for the umpteen-millionth time how strong our love for each other was. However, after all that had happened, even we couldn’t heal overnight. We communicated a bit more, and she didn’t waste as much energy avoiding me, but we both still felt uneasy.
Then, a thunderstorm moved into Lost Nation. You could see the Great Wall of threatening clouds and squiggles of lightning stretching for miles across the horizon.
Francesca adored thunderstorms.
I was currying Miss Blossom. She had a habit of rolling her head and snorting in pure pleasure whenever I rubbed a particularly delicious spot on her belly. Babe had climbed up on a stack of canvas bags, and Miss Blossom nuzzled her occasionally while I worked. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so peaceful.
When Francesca stuck her head through the double doors of the barn, she asked the obvious. “Do you hear that delicious rumbling?”
“Yep,” I answered. “It sounds like a big blow. Is there a tornado watch?”
“No and none expected. Just a lovely, lovely thunder and lightning extravaganza! You hungry, child?”
But of course.
Over chicken salad sandwiches crispy with diced celery and apple pieces, Francesca said, “You know, this was supposed to be a summer full of adventure.”
“And?” I asked expectantly.
“Summer isn’t over yet.”
I looked into her face then and saw the glimmer of a twinkle. “What’s up?” I asked.
“I think we should venture out into the gale and try to find the dancing tribe of Lost Nation up on Thunder Ridge.”
“There’s a storm brewing. Besides, we don’t even know where Thunder Ridge is.”
“Where’s your adventurous spirit? This is the perfect day to do some archaeological sleuthing.”
She was right as rain.
We were careful to take flashlights and slickers, a bag of cookies, a thermos of water, a jug of cider and a rope. Francesca actually considered a shotgun but decided it would probably only get in the way of our exploration. She did pack her pistol, which she tucked in the pocket of her trousers. With Babe on the bench seat of the truck between us, we drove off toward the foothills east of Lost Nation.
It was a gorgeous drive. The day was chiaroscuro, alternating between sunshine and shadow — the clouds billowing closer and then retreating. We followed Thunder Ridge Road south for forty-odd minutes and eventually came to a bend in the pavement with a dirt access forking off to the right.
“I seem to recall this road,” Francesca said, gesturing. “I think Grandpap and I explored it once a long time ago. There was a deserted farmhouse.” She paused and frowned. “No. How could I forget? It was such a tragedy. The little girl died of a burst appendix, and a short while later, the family was burned out of their home. I think it was some type of cooking accident. That’s right. Eisly, Eisner … something like that. They disappeared after that. Hadn’t they been to Indiana and come back?”
I could feel a tickling sensation at the back of my mind.
Francesca rolled her neck from side to side, loosening the tension that always seemed to hover there these days. “They homesteaded this place, a man and wife and a ten-year-old girl.” She looked at me then. “Well, still game?”
The dash of fear in my stomach felt spooky but fun, like the sensations you get from riding on a tilt-a-whirl or watching a Dracula movie.
“You bet. This’ll be swell.”
It was a good thing Daddyboys was such a whiz-bang mechanic, because our old truck got quite a bruising on that d
irt road. It was little more than a cow path in some places. You could tell where the floods had swept whole sections away.
There were several other forks in the “road,” and we made a series of turns that dead-ended. The storm was still looming in the east, and the soft echo of thunder came in waves. Each time we turned left or right, she reminded me, “You’d best mark down that last turn, Sarah.”
Francesca was organized. It wasn’t something she waved in your face, though. Unless you knew what to look for, you might not even notice it. She didn’t have a neurosis about neatness and iron the sheets or anything. But her soul was on the tidy side, and she was good at planning ahead. For example, she’d insisted we bring along pencil and paper with the rest of our survival gear. I was supposed to use them to draw a rough map so that we could find our way out of the maze of dirt roads we’d be negotiating. She had instructed me to a line and mark the mileage to the first turn. Then, I had to write out which way we went and whether or not we came to a dead end.
When she had first brought this wacky scheme up, I’d shaken my head and said, “I can’t do this.” How I had sat and stared at the spiral notebook paper on my lap!
“Don’t be ridiculous, child. Your ancestors navigated oceans, scaled mountains and cleared trails out of dense forest to get to Iowa. I feel confident you’ll be able to help me navigate from Home Farm to Thunder Ridge and back.”
There’s a much longer ancestral speech Francesca could have chosen to make. She could have mentioned raging flash floods, snow drifts seven feet high, hostile natives and unbearable loneliness. When she trotted out the edited version, I took it as a signal that our relationship was truly on the mend.
“Right,” I muttered and bit my lip in concentration.
The terrain changed as the path underneath us began to slope upward. The trees grew closer together, and you could hear the wind hissing through tightly bunched branches.
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