“Why don’t you ask Violet?”
“Violet? Why sure. I don’t see why not.” He looked up suddenly and said, “Why did you say that?”
“Oh, she’s sensitive. I think she’s a little bit jealous of the attention you show Maury.”
Dent laughed. “That’s crazy. She’s just a child.”
“No, she ain’t.”
Dent looked up suddenly, his dark eyes fastening instantly on Pete Stuart. “Why, I can remember when she was just a kid—in pigtails.”
“She ain’t no kid. She’s seventeen. She’s a young woman and she’s trying to learn how to grow up. That’s pretty hard for anybody, but the problems she’s having are worse than some. Be nice to her, will you, Dent?”
Dent was embarrassed, “I never thought anything else. You know she’s always been a pet of mine, Pete. I’ve told you that.”
Pete stared at Dent, taking in the tall, lean form, black hair, and the fine eyes. Dent was thirty-one now and a confirmed bachelor, Pete supposed. Most men who survive encounters with prospective brides until that age remain in that condition. But Pete was a man of sharp insights as far as human character was concerned. He had seen Violet’s eyes following Dent and knew that she had a special feeling for the tall man. He could not put this into words, however, and finally said only, “Well, be good to her. She’s had a hard time.” Then he turned and left.
Dent stared after him, then idly hefted the hammer from one hand to the other. He stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll have to be careful, I guess. She’s probably got some kind of crush on me; I think they call it that in Hollywood. That wouldn’t do her any good,” he muttered. He tossed the hammer down and walked inside saying, “Hello, how about some of that whatever-it-is you got cooked?”
“You’ll have to wait till supper,” Violet said briefly.
There was something in her manner—a hurt attitude—and Dent blurted out, “I’d like you to go to church tonight. Me and Maury are going over. Good preacher, so I hear.”
“No, I don’t believe I’ll go tonight.”
Dent stared at her. Violet’s oval face was turned down, and he could not see her dark blue eyes. He was very fond of this young woman, and suddenly was forced to notice that she was not a child, but full-figured, with all the charm of a young girl just entering into womanhood. She’s seventeen, he thought. My sister, Beulah, was married and had a baby almost by the time she was that age. Still, for some reason, he felt depressed and said, “Well, we’d be glad to have you, if you want to go.” He turned, went outside, and began hammering on the pipe with unnecessary force. “Blast it! Why do little girls have to turn out to be full-grown women?”
The revival was well attended. It was held in a tent by a strong, bull-throated evangelist who preached for over an hour and a half. Ray accompanied Maury and Dent, and they had found themselves seated beside the Dances, Johnny and Winona.
Ray was a little surprised to see them at a revival, although he could not say why. After the meeting, Johnny asked him to stop by their house the next day, saying that he had some books that Ray might like.
The next afternoon, Ray borrowed the pickup and went over to visit the Dances. Johnny welcomed him in and Winona set a glass of milk and some cookies in front of him.
“You sure can make good cookies,” Ray said admiringly.
“She didn’t make ’em; I did,” Johnny said. “I’m a better cook than she is.”
For some reason this amused Ray. “I thought Indians made their women do the cooking.”
“That was back in the good old days,” Johnny grinned at him. He winked slowly so that Winona could not see it.
Winona ignored their teasing. There was an innate dignity about the young woman. She moved over and picked up a box. “Here are some books,” she said. “You said you like to read.”
“Sure do, and I’ve read everything on Pete’s place.” Ray sorted through the books eagerly and said abruptly, “Hey! I’ve heard about this one. I read one of this fella’s poems in a magazine.” He picked up a book and thumbed through it eagerly.
“That’s poetry, ain’t it?” Johnny asked idly. He shook his head and said, “I got some chores to do. You and Winona can read poetry. Not me!”
As soon as he was gone, Winona sat down. She was wearing an old green dress, worn and tight fitting, that she had almost outgrown. Her slim figure and smooth cheeks made her very attractive. Ray said, “Well, I don’t guess you like poetry either?”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I, a lot of it,” Ray confessed. “But this fellow—his name’s Robert Frost—some of his stuff is really good.”
“Read some of it.”
“Well, all right.” He thumbed through the book and paused, saying, “Here’s one I really like. It’s called ‘Mending Wall.’” He read the poem carefully, and when he put the book down, he looked at her and grinned. “How’d you like it?”
“It seems too simple to me to be poetry,” Winona said. She leaned forward and rested her chin on the heel of her hand, her dark eyes fixed on him. “What does it mean?”
“Why, I guess it means—I guess it’s about a wall and about putting it together again.”
“I thought poetry was supposed to be about love and God and things like that—important things.”
“No,” Ray said slowly. He tried to put his thoughts together. He liked poetry, and although he had not had training in it, he sensed the power of it. “I think good poetry is about people and the things that happen to them. Like this poem,” he held the book up, “it starts out talking about a wall and says, ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.’” He began to go down through the poem, which related how a stone wall was repaired by a New Hampshire farmer. He stopped and said, “Look! Here it says he’s fixing the wall, putting the stones back up, you see, and this man comes to help him and he says, ‘There where it is, we do not need the wall.’” He hesitated, then said, “And the guy says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ And here’re the lines that I like, and what I think this whole poem’s about. He says, ‘Before I’d build a wall, I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.’” He looked up at her and said, “That’s what the poem’s about. Not just stone walls, but any kind of wall.”
Interest quickened her eyes. She pursed her lips prettily and ran her finger along her cheek. “What kinds of walls can there be?”
“Why, all kinds. There’s walls where I come from between Baptists and Pentecostals. Supposed to be serving the same God, but there’s just a wall between them—can’t see it, but it’s there.”
His words brought a sober look into Winona’s brown eyes. There was a hurt in them, something he could not fathom, and he leaned forward saying, “What’s the matter? Something wrong?”
“I guess I know about walls,” she said. “You can’t be an Indian and not find that out.”
She stood up abruptly and walked over to the window and peered out, her back straight. Ray was a little shocked at her statement. He had known that she was highly sensitive about her heritage. Laying the book down, he walked over and stood beside her, trying to look into her face. When he could not, he reached out and turned her around. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said, “any more than any of the rest of us. White people have walls, too.”
“It’s different.”
There was something vulnerable and soft and yielding in her for once. Ray reached out and put his hands on her arms. They were soft and round, yet firm, at the same time. “Why, you’re one of the prettiest women I’ve ever seen! Any man would be proud to have a woman like you.” He hesitated, and in the quietness of the moment, was taken with a sudden desire. Yielding to it, he leaned forward and pulled her to him. She was watching him steadfastly, and he kissed her gently. Her lips were soft and he held her for a moment. Then suddenly, she pushed him back.
“You’re like all the rest of them—think an Indian woman is cheap an
d easy.”
Ray was shocked and at the same time angry. He stepped back and stuck his hands in his back pockets. “I always did like pretty women,” he said. “Sorry, but that’s the way I am. You’re no different to me, except prettier than most. But maybe you need to read that poem over. ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,’ the guy says. You’ve got a wall around yourself a thousand feet high, Winona. If you don’t break it down, nobody’s ever going to know who you are, and you’ll be lonesome all your life.”
Winona stared at him, his words seeming to strike against her. Then she turned and walked away.
Ray left. When Johnny came in, he asked, “What’d you two fight about?”
“How did you know we fought?”
“I guess I know you pretty well, Sis. You like the guy, don’t you?”
Winona hesitated. She was a very private young woman, sensitive to a fault, and with pride, like a steel bar, running through her spirit. She turned to her brother and nodded slowly. “Yes, I like him, but I guess I’ve been burned too often.”
Johnny felt a sudden wave of sympathy for this sister of his. He looked at her and tried to find the words that would bring some comfort to her. Finally he said, “Well, Sis, you go hide in a cave and live small.”
“You think I ought to let him kiss me then?” she challenged.
“Can’t say about that. He seems to be a nice fellow. Not that there aren’t plenty out there who would take advantage of you. But that kind will take advantage of any woman, white or Indian.”
They said no more, but Winona could not get away from the memory of the touch of his lips on hers. He had not been rough and demanding as others had been. There was a gentleness and goodness in him, she sensed, and she thought, If he tries to kiss me again, I’ll see.
KINGMAN STRIKES BACK
Governor Roosevelt will see you shortly, Mr. Stuart.”
Amos Stuart looked up from his seat in the governor’s waiting room and smiled. “That’ll be fine,” he said, then turned his eyes back to the notebook. It was a habit of his to jot down ideas for stories as he waited, and he looked down at what he had written for a story:
One vivid, gruesome moment of these dark days I will never forget. I saw a crowd of some fifty men fighting over a barrel of garbage that had been set outside the back door of a restaurant. American citizens—fighting for scraps of food like animals!
It was a depressing thought, and Amos tried to turn his thoughts to something more pleasant. He had been on a trip across the United States trying to get a feeling for the country’s mood and had found little to encourage him.
Turning over a page, his lips turned upward into a smile. He had encountered several utterly ridiculous activities, not the least of which was the fantastic epidemic of tree-sitting.
Probably inspired by Shipwreck Kelly, who had made a career out of sitting on flagpoles for weeks at a time, thousands of publicity-crazed boys had begun roosting in trees by night and day in hope of capturing a record—but they occasionally suffered misadventures.
A boy in Fort Worth fell asleep, hit the ground, and broke two ribs; the owner of a tree at Niagara Falls sued to have a boy removed from its branches; whereupon the boy’s friends cut a branch from another tree, carried him to a new perch and enabled him to continue his vigil; a boy in Manchester, New Hampshire, was knocked out of a tree by a bolt of lightning and, undaunted, climbed another tree immediately.
“The governor will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
Rising to his feet, Amos moved quickly into the office where he found the governor of New York, Franklin D. Roosevelt, sitting behind his desk. “Come in, come in, Mr. Stuart!” Roosevelt exclaimed cheerfully. He did not rise, for he had been stricken in the full bloom of health by polio. His rise to the top of the political arena was an indication of his sheer iron will and determination. He was a wealthy man and able to stir crowds, and now his teeth gleamed in the familiar smile seen so often by audiences. “Sit down! Sit down! Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Going over and shaking the outstretched hand of the governor, Amos said, “I’ve been out trying to find out who’s going to be the next president.” The grip that held his was firm and the eyes were lit up with anticipation. “From what I can pick up, I understand that’ll be you, Governor.”
Roosevelt laughed heartily and waved Amos to a chair. “Well, I like to hear good things like that! But Mr. Hoover is the president for now.” Leaning back in his chair he studied his visitor and said candidly, “I’m not a candidate yet, you understand.”
Amos considered the broad face of Governor Roosevelt. “I remember interviewing Teddy Roosevelt,” he remarked. “He said the same thing—and then was elected without any trouble.” Amos liked Roosevelt tremendously—as he had liked and admired his relative, Theodore Roosevelt. “I would like to see it,” he said. “Something’s got to be done. The country’s going down the drain.”
Roosevelt’s face grew more solemn, very serious and intent. He had that ability, this man, to put his energies and mind on one object, excluding everything else, a tunnel vision that allowed him to look at any one item with an almost terrifying scrutiny. “How do you think the country feels? Tell me what you’ve found, Amos.”
Amos began to speak of what he had seen. He had traveled extensively and had a journalist’s fine eye for picking conditions—a single one—making it graphic and real. As he spoke, Roosevelt sat silently in his chair listening intently. Amos had the idea his words were being filed, labeled, and put into some kind of a cabinet and that Roosevelt would be able to draw them forth when needed. Finally, Amos spread his hands and said, “It’s getting worse, I’m sorry to say, Governor.”
Roosevelt shifted some papers on his desk, stared at them bleakly. “It’s been the cruelest year of the depression,” he said quietly. “Twelve and a half million people out of work. Jobless men going from office to office, from factory to factory, getting more hopeless all the time. People have lost their savings, borrowed on their life insurance, sold everything they had to sell.”
Amos nodded. “Mr. Hoover’s done some good things—but I don’t think he has a grasp of how bleak the situation is.”
“I believe you’re right,” Roosevelt nodded. “It’s going to take more than tinkering with the machinery to bring this country out of this depression. Something drastic has to be done. Something we’ve never done in America before.”
Amos listened as Roosevelt spoke on for several minutes, and as he listened, he became more and more aware that this man, if he became president, would not sit idly by on the sidelines hoping, as Hoover did, with a rather futile optimism, that somehow things would come right. No. He studied the direct eyes of the governor that had almost a fanatical gleam as he spoke of how government must come to the aid of the country. Finally, Roosevelt seemed to remember himself. He smiled again and touched the tips of his fingers together. He shook his head and said, “But it will take a miracle to get me into the presidency. So far it’s just in the planning stage.” Leaning forward abruptly, he said, “If it does begin to open up, I trust I can depend on your support—just as Teddy did.”
The charm of the man warmed Amos. He nodded at once saying, “Of course, Governor. We haven’t had a man like Teddy Roosevelt for some time. I’d like to see another Roosevelt at the helm.” He hesitated, then said, “I’ll be praying for you.”
His remark caught Roosevelt slightly off guard. Roosevelt studied the face of the journalist silently for a moment, then nodded. “I would appreciate that very, very much,” he said quietly.
Amos asked, “Do you think America will survive this depression, sir?”
Roosevelt gave him a direct stare and thought hard. “Someone asked at Andrew Jackson’s funeral, ‘Do you think General Jackson will go to heaven?’ And do you know what the answer was?”
“No, I don’t, Governor.”
“The answer was, ‘He’ll go there if he wants to!’” Roosev
elt leaned forward, his face tense. “We’ll survive—if we want to bad enough.” Then he said, “I’ll appreciate your support, Amos. I’d like to see your story when it’s finished.”
“You’ll have it, Governor, and I think you’ll like it. It’s harsh, but the country has to be awakened.”
Leaving the governor’s office, Amos went out with the agony of the depression on his mind. He had seen much to discourage him, but he had an unbounded faith in this country and felt that with a man like Roosevelt in charge, something could be done. Going back to his hotel, he packed his bag. He went to the airport, where he waited for an hour, then got on a plane, and headed for the oil fields of Oklahoma. He had thought much about Maury during his travels and a sudden urge to see her, to speak with her, to find out how she was coping with life in the raw, had come to him. Leaning back and looking out at the fields that unfolded below him, he remembered Jerry saying that she’d never put up with an outdoor toilet for long. A smile touched his lips briefly and he leaned back in his seat until the cadence of the motors wafted him off to sleep.
“I admire you for what you’ve done, Maury,” Amos said, giving his daughter a fond look over the unsteady kitchen table. “I didn’t think you’d be able to tough it out.”
Maury glanced up at him quickly. She was wearing a plain, blue-flowered cotton dress that clung to her, pasted down to her figure by perspiration. The summer heat seemed to collect inside the house, and from outside the sounds of banging machinery and the voices of children playing floated in through the open window. “I wasn’t sure of it myself,” she said. A smile touched her well-formed lips and she glanced involuntarily at the window. “Especially the outside toilet! Now that’s been an experience!”
Leaning back in a cane-bottomed chair, Amos admired this daughter of his. “Jerry was wrong,” he said. “I told him so at the time. I said that you’d stay just out of pure bullheaded stubbornness, if for no other reason—just because we all said you couldn’t do it.”
A Season of Dreams Page 18