Ribbon in the Sky

by Dorothy Garlock

  “I’ve got something to tell you and—” Her voice started out strong, then weakened and fell away.

  Grandma looked up and saw the worried look on Letty’s face. Her hands stilled, then fell into her lap. A little scowl appeared on Jacob’s forehead. He slowly placed his lead pencil beside the scrap of paper he had been writing on.

  “I . . . ah . . . I thought I could just c-come here, stay a while, and I-leave. But you’ve been so good to take me in that . . . that I feel bad about not telling you the reason Papa threw me out.”

  “You don’t have to tell us about the trouble you had with your father,” Grandma said gently. “We’re just grateful you came and that we got to know you.”

  “You might not want me to stay after I tell you!”

  “Say what you’ve got to say, girl,” Grandpa said gruffly.

  “I’m . . . going to have a baby and I’m . . . not m-married!”

  Silence. Both of her grandparents gaped at her in shock.

  “Jehoshaphat!” The word finally burst from Jacob’s lips.

  “Oh, dear me. Oh, goodness gracious.”

  “I’m not a bad girl!” Letty exclaimed when she saw the stunned looks on their faces. “Oh . . . please—”

  “You poor child.”

  “Mike will come for me as soon as he finds out where I am. He went to the logging camps to earn money so we could get married. Papa wouldn’t’ve let us, ’cause . . . ’cause Mike’s a Catholic.”

  Leona held out her hand. “Come sit down and tell us about it.”

  Letty grabbed her grandmother’s hand and sank down on her knees beside her chair. The story poured out of her.

  “I’m not the bad girl Papa said I was. Mike and I love each other. If Papa knew it was Mike, he’d see to it that the members of his congregation didn’t buy coal from Mike’s father. All Mama and Papa and Cora live for is the church. He said . . . he said I was never to come back and that as far as he and Mama and Cora were concerned I was . . . dead.”

  “Mable let that Bible-spouting bastard throw you out!” Jacob exclaimed. “Now ain’t that a ring-tailed tooter considerin’ what she is.”

  “Mama never disagrees with Papa. If . . . if he told her to jump in the fire, she would. She didn’t come near . . . not even to say goodbye.”

  “Mable doted on him right from the start.” Grandma’s hand stroked Letty’s hair.

  “Harumph! She was hoodwinked by that claptrap. It’s clear as the nose on my face. With her not having the sense of a goose, it was easy fer him.”

  “Well, we can’t look back. We got something new to look forward to. Put some yarn on that list, Jacob. I’ve got to start making booties for my great-grandbaby.”

  “Then I can stay until Mike comes for me?” Letty searched the faces of her grandparents for a sign of disapproval. There was none.

  “Of course you can stay—as long as you want.”

  “Grandpa?”

  “I ain’t a mule’s ass like yore pa is. He’s a bullheaded, low-minded scallywag if he thinks all Catholics are bound for hell. Harumpt! They’ll have to stand in line behind some Holy Rollers I know of,” he snorted. “The first time I set eyes on that bounder and heard him caterwauling ’bout how he could heal the sick ’n’ save souls, it made my rear end crave a dip a snuff. I’ll tell ya straight off, girl, God ain’t working through no jackass such as Albert Pringle.”

  Grandma Leona laughed softly. “I guess you can tell that Jacob doesn’t think too highly of your father.”

  “I’ll never forgive Papa for the things he said. I shouldn’t have done what I did out of wedlock, but . . . but I’m not . . . I’m not what he said.”

  “My word. Of course you’re not.” Leona clicked her tongue against her teeth in a gesture of sympathy.

  “You . . . don’t feel that I’ve . . . disgraced you?”

  “Pshaw. When you love so desperately, the flesh is weak. You and the boy were wed in your hearts. We’ll just introduce you as—let’s see—Letty Graham. Graham was my maiden name. When your young man comes, you can suddenly become a widow and the two of you can be married. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  Jacob snorted again and painstakingly added yarn to his list.

  * * *

  Leona Fletcher didn’t live to see her great-grandchild. One morning in late March while sitting in her huge padded chair looking out the window at the change spring was bringing to the land, she quietly slipped away. Jacob was devastated. He went through the days that followed in a grief-induced stupor. After the burial he rode home in the wagon with Letty only to get out and, in a cold spring rain, walk more than three miles back to the Lutheran cemetery.

  When he didn’t return, Letty became worried and urged one of the Watkins boys who was helping with the chores to go look for him. He found Jacob sitting on the ground beside Leona’s grave and brought him home. Racked with chills and fever, Jacob took to his bed and would have died if not for the young doctor who came out from Piedmont and stayed for two days and two nights.

  “Mrs. Graham, your grandfather is very sick.” Doctor Hakes, a slender young man with a serious-looking face, stood at the door with his hat in one hand, his medical bag in the other. The mustache he wore to make him look older was blond and thin.

  “Will he . . . die?”

  “Not if we can make him take care of himself. He’s sound as a dollar for a man his age. What about you? Will your husband be here in time for the baby?”

  “I don’t know.” Letty’s face turned as red as a beet pickle. “He’s working up north.” Why was he looking at her like that? Didn’t he believe her?

  “Yes, I heard he was off working in the logging camps.”

  “He’ll come as soon as he can.”

  “Will you be staying on here after your husband joins you? Jacob will be lost without Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “We’ll not leave him if he wants us to stay. Right now he doesn’t seem to care about anything,” Letty said.

  “Well, life goes on.” The young doctor said tiredly. “You’ll have to make arrangements for someone to come stay a while after you give birth.”

  “Grandma said Mrs. Watkins would come or send one of her girls.”

  “From the position of that baby it appears it won’t be long until he’ll be clamoring to get out. From now on carry only half a bucket of water at a time.”

  “It won’t be for another month.”

  “First one can come any time. I’ll be back day after tomorrow to see Jacob. I’ll examine you too.”

  “Will you come when I . . . when I have the baby?”

  “Of course. Send one of the Watkins boys for me.” He chuckled. “That horn Jacob rigged up to let the Watkinses know when he needs help is pretty doggone clever.” He took the doorknob in his hand, turned, and regarded her with fine deep-set eyes, saying nothing but looking thoughtful, waiting for her to speak.

  “Thank you. Grandpa will pay when he is better.”

  He nodded, slammed his hat down on his head, and went out.

  Letty pressed her face to the window and watched the doctor’s buggy head back toward town. He had scoffed at Doc Whittier’s toy automobile, saying that when he was ready to go home, his horse knew the way and he could catch up on his sleep.

  Letty looked across the road to where Harry Watkins was plowing the field. It was spring. The days had gone by, slipping carelessly into the past. She had stored the image of Mike’s face and his promise to come back for her into the voiceless regions of her mind. At night in her lonely bed, she took them out, playing them over, savoring every tender word, remembering the sweetness of his kisses, and praying he would come to her soon.

  So much time had gone by. In another month her baby would be born.

  Mike, please hurry—

  * * *

  That night Letty wrote a letter to her mother telling her about Grandma Leona’s death. It didn’t matter to her now if they knew where she was. She doubted that it mat
tered to them either. She wrote the bare facts, omitting any mention of herself. When she finished, she simply signed it Letty and sealed it in an envelope. Then, with her lead pencil, she carefully edged the envelope in black to prepare her mother for the sad news within.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Mike Dolan lay on his back looking up at blue sky. He shifted, gathered his strength to sit up, but at first movement, pain exploded in his side. He fell back and silently swore. The pain pinned him to the ground and pounded him fiercely, relentlessly, clawing at his insides, ripping him, defeating him. The goddamn pain was going to kill him! He tried to control it by breathing deeply, but the air he drew into his lungs set his chest on fire.

  Was he dying?

  Letty’s image, clear and beautiful, appeared before him, and his desire to fight the pain ebbed. Why was he trying to hold onto this worthless, useless life? He tried to speak, to call her name, but nothing came out. Her features began to waver. He lifted his hand to push aside whatever it was that was pressing down on his face.

  “Don’t take off the mask!” The stern voice reached into his consciousness.

  The gas mask. He remembered. He had been shot too. Nothing worked; his limbs, his mouth, not even his brain. Let it go, Dolan, give it up. He was not afraid of dying—it would be a relief. He was tired of being alone. The excruciating pain that carried him into a black void eased as darkness and warmth enveloped him.

  He had no fear as he gave up the struggle to live. Behind closed eyes, the calm, beautiful face that had haunted his dreams for the past five years appeared once again.

  “I’m scared, Mike. ”

  “Letty, sweetheart, don’t be scared. I’ll be with you always—”

  * * *

  The war was over.

  It was strange to be lying in a hospital bed and to hear men cheering. For the past three weeks it had been as quiet as a tomb. Mike had come through the Belleau Wood offensive only to be struck down by a bullet in the side during the Meuse-Argonne battle shortly before phosgene, a gas the Germans used in projectiles fired by their artillery, cloaked their position. He had been lucky. A friend had told him to throw his coat over his face and breathe through the heavy cloth. He had done that until the corpsman arrived with a gas mask. It saved his life. Unprepared for gas warfare, men had dropped like flies. If it had not been for his quick thinking, Mike, too, would be sleeping forever in Flanders alongside a countless number of other American soldiers.

  The war was over. Now there would be no more wallowing in muddy trenches, no more charging over the next hill, bayonet ready, and no more nights spent wondering if he would see the dawn. During the last year and a half, he had lost friend after friend and had seen enough of blood and death to last a lifetime.

  The men in the ward had first cheered at the news of the armistice; then they cried tears of joy. They were going home—home to wives, mothers, and sweethearts. Mike never felt so lonely as when one of them talked to him about his sweetheart or showed him pictures of his wife and child.

  He’d had a sweetheart . . . once. A slim, brown-eyed, auburn-haired girl with sweet, soft lips and a beautiful smile. Now all he had were memories and six inches of frayed blue ribbon that he kept in his pocket. It had been five years since he’d said goodbye to his sweetheart and headed for the logging camps. In his foolish young heart he had believed that he and Letty would live out the days of their lives together.

  Mike tried not to think about the last time he had been home. He felt a hundred years older now than he had that spring. With money from his winter’s work in his pocket, he had gone home to Dunlap to fetch Letty and take her away so they could be together. He closed his eyes against the painful memory.

  Letty was dead! Lost to him forever.

  His mother had told him the news as gently as she could. A week before his return, a letter edged in black had arrived at the Dunlap post office for Mrs. Pringle. Everyone in town knew that the preacher and his wife had received bad news and waited to express their condolences. Finally, the family announced that their daughter, Letty, who had been sent to take care of her bedridden grandmother, had sickened and died. A memorial service was held at the church and a collection plate passed to pay for the burial expense. Shortly after that the Pringles, racked with grief, packed up and left on a tour of revival meetings.

  Later his mother had shown him the letter she had received from Letty months earlier asking her to tell him that she was with her grandparents. Take the train to Piedmont, Nebraska, the letter said, then ask directions to Jacob Fletcher’s farm.

  Even after Mike had drunk himself into a stupor, he had no peace. He thought of going to where Letty had spent her last days. But his mother convinced him that it would be too painful.

  “You should let the past go and look to the future,” she said. “Someday you’ll find a nice Catholic girl and settle down. Your Letty will be only a pleasant memory.”

  Mike took the train to Pennsylvania. For two long years he labored in the coal mines, drank, fought, and caroused. During this time he grew two inches in height, put on thirty pounds, and acquired the reputation of a man who would fight at the drop of a hat.

  When the United States entered the war, he was one of the first to enlist. His daring and commitment to duty earned him the rank of sergeant. His brawling and hell raising took the promotion away. Every soldier in his platoon wanted to be by his side in the time of heavy fighting. He was also the man they avoided during the infrequent lulls.

  One night in a cold, dark trench, while the German shells were falling all around him and his chances of living until dawn were slim, he promised himself that if he lived through the war, he would go to Piedmont, Nebraska, and talk to Letty’s grandparents if they were still alive. He would visit her final resting place and tell her that he had not broken his promise to come back for her. If he could do that, maybe he would be able to let go of the memory of the young, sweet, vulnerable girl who had clung to him and whispered, “Mike, Mike, I’m so scared.”

  The hospital bed felt like a prison. Mike sat up. The men who were able to get out of bed had gathered together in one corner of the long room. They had sung every war song they could remember. Now they were repeating everyone’s favorite:

  “The American soldiers crossed the Rhine, parlez-vous,

  The American soldiers crossed the Rhine, parlez-vous,

  The American soldiers crossed the Rhine, to kiss the women and drink the wine.

  Hinky dinky parlez-vous.”

  Soon they were making up their own risqué verses. Laughter and merrymaking rang throughout the hospital ward, but Mike Dolan’s mind was far from the scene.

  Through the months and years Mike had kept a clear picture of Letty before him, remembering the dark richness of her hair, the depth of her eyes, and the trusting way she had given herself to him. He never failed to think of her when he saw a rainbow—a ribbon in the sky.

  Mike reached for his pack of personal belongings and took the frayed ribbon from the envelope. He hadn’t looked at it for a long time. Now he pulled it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling its satin softness. Even though it was faded and tattered, to Mike it was as bright and new as the day he had plucked it from the lilac bush. He closed his eyes. Once again he saw it attached to the bush, fluttering in the breeze. This little scrap of blue was the tie that bound him to the memory of that wonderful summer when he and Letty—young, so in love, and so very innocent—had been one in spirit as well as in flesh. For an instant he felt her fragrant hair on his face and her slender, warm body pressed against his.

  Wearily, Mike lay back on the bed, fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed he was getting off the train at the station in Huxley. The band was playing, the platform was crowded with a cheering throng, but he saw only one person. Letty. She ran to him and flung herself into his arms as she had done when they met beneath the willows. Her soft arms encircled his neck, her lips searched for his. The scent of lilac was in her hair.


  Mike, Mike, I love you so much!

  He woke with a start. The hospital ward was dark and quiet except for an occasional groan or whimper from a seriously injured soldier. Mike stared up at the whitewashed ceiling. The heavy hand of loneliness gripped him, wrapping its icy fingers around his heart.

  He sat up on the side of the bed, the tears sliding silently down his gaunt, whiskered cheeks.

  “Letty . . . Letty—” A strangled sob escaped him. “Oh, sweet Mother of God, take away the pain.”

  * * *

  A freezing mist blew into northwestern Nebraska the last week in March, coating everything with a thin layer of ice before it turned into heavy snow. Letty was grateful it was happening now instead of a few weeks hence. She had seen the effects of a late spring blizzard when one blew in the year Patrick was born. Early leaves and blossoms were killed. For three weeks longer, spring pasture was denied horses and cattle that were already gaunt from a meager winter diet.

  At the Fletcher farm the fall harvest of pumpkins, potatoes, yams, turnips, and cabbage was almost gone, and the livestock had been put on short rations to stretch the hay and corn. What had seemed an ample supply of firewood had dwindled faster than expected because the winter had been so severe. Letty had taken the team to the woods and dragged in all the deadfalls she could find. With a two-man saw, she and Jacob had sawed the logs into usable lengths for the fireplace and cookstove.

  Now, along with Harry Watkins and twelve-year-old Irene Watkins, she was picking up coal along the railroad tracks. Last night, when the coal train came through, it had scattered chunks of coal along the right-of-way as it crawled up Colfax Hill.

  Letty picked up a chunk of coal in each hand and tossed them into the wagon. Then she lifted her head to the wind and sniffed.

  “I smell smoke. I bet there’s a hobo camp over there in the woods.” She glanced at flaxen-haired Irene. “Keep your cap pulled down. We don’t want those men to realize we’re women.”