The Horseman's Graves

by Jacqueline Baker

  Far more outrageous was the idea of Leo alone out at the Krauss shack with that baby; and rightly so, to give that some thought, since for her—the baby—something might still be done.

  And since the news of the baby, it was easier than ever to be angered by Leo. Now that the secret was out, Leo had begun toting that baby to church with him, though he came now only occasionally, with the little thing all bundled up in scraps of cloth and burlap and tucked into an old apple crate. God only knew, everyone speculated, what he had done with it before, left it there at the house, they supposed, with Mary or without her. (And, though Leo brought the baby to church, he did not have it baptized and this was generally understood to be a crime against the infant and, more important, as Ludmila Baumgarten was fond of pointing out, a further outrage upon the community. They believed, too, that, as with all of Leo’s actions, it had been intentional, and wondered if perhaps Father Rieger might intervene, on the child’s behalf, but when Ludmila and some of the other women went to see him, Father Rieger only blew his nose and directed them to Psalm 127, quoting, “’Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord. The fruit of the womb,’”—here he blushed and looked away and finished quickly—“’is his reward.’” Then he placed his fingertips together and bowed his head. Though the women waited, it seemed Father had nothing more to say, and so, after an uncomfortable silence, Ludmila said, “Bless you, Father,” and led the women out.)

  So it seemed there was nothing to be done. And it was felt generally that Leo took great delight in flaunting the child in all their faces. He took that baby to church when he wanted to go to church and he took that baby to town when he wanted to go to town, and though it angered everyone, yes, they were angered at the very thought of Leo caring for an infant—who wouldn’t be?—it also seemed unfathomable—but who could deny it?—that Leo was as devoted a father as had ever been seen. Certainly (and this is what really rankled), a more devoted father than most, perhaps even all, of the other men around. Wives began to look at their own husbands and wonder why they could not, at least in this regard, have been a little more like Leo Krauss. And the husbands, if they had known what the wives were thinking, that they, the husbands, were being compared to Leo Krauss—the same Leo Krauss who had come not so many years previous to drink their liquor and ogle their daughters, their sisters—if they had known they were being compared to this Leo Krauss and coming up short, found wanting in the slightest respect, they would have had yet another and more immediate reason to hate him.

  But no one could deny that Leo seemed devoted to the child, to little Cecilia. And more than that, he’d stopped drinking. Now when he came to town, he parked his old wagon in front of Wing’s instead of the hotel bar. He went in every morning for coffee and a piece of raisin pie, always toting that baby along in her crate, as if it were a puppy he kept in there. And he sat at a table by himself, a little apart from the other men, and ate his pie and drank his sweetened coffee (Six teaspoons of sugar, I kid you not, in one cup, where is the sense in that?) and jiggled the crate with the toe of his boot, and, with God as their witness, they had never seen a more content baby in their lives—God only knew what he was giving it—but it let out a little squawk and Leo jiggled the crate with his toe—you could not call it rocking, there was nothing of comfort in it—and that baby settled right down and lay staring up at Leo with those dark Krauss eyes. And so Leo sat and drank and jiggled and chewed and did not listen to the men talking while the men pretended not to care that he was not listening, until finally, he was no longer not listening, and they no longer cared.

  And that was how Leo found out about Elisabeth.

  It was inevitable, of course. It was nothing short of a miracle that it had all stayed a secret so long, and a testament, too, to that lingering fear, or if not fear, at least caution, that the community had regarding Krausses. If Ronnie Rausch had not been so afraid to meddle in Leo’s business, he might have been more inclined to tell what had happened that night at the braucha’s (Erv, on the other hand, had other reasons for keeping quiet, that had little to do with Leo).

  So this was a Saturday morning. Leo was sitting in Wing’s, as usual, just finishing his pie. Now, typically, he would drink his coffee and eat his pie and then get up and make a hasty exit (while it was still busy enough that Wing might not notice, or so Leo thought) and not pay a red cent, leaving Wing to take the loss. At first the others did nothing, thinking that if Wing wanted to say something he would say something—what was it for them to interfere?—though it seemed odd to think that Wing would say something to Leo when even they themselves would not. Then they started to feel bad for Wing, so timid and fretful (As bad as a woman, that is what some of them said), and so one or the other of the men would pay Leo’s share, usually the same men, Mike Weiser, Art Reis, the Schneider brothers. Some didn’t care, wanted nothing to do with Leo, but, as Art Reis pointed out, this wasn’t helping out Leo, who would eat the pie and drink the coffee regardless, it was helping out Wing and right was right, not?

  But there Leo was this one Saturday morning, sitting alone at his table, stirring sugar into his coffee, his pie before him and the crate settled at his boots. The other men were still having a hard time getting used to the idea of Leo—of any man, but especially of Leo Krauss—sitting there among them with a baby, and now and then one or the other of them would shoot an uneasy glance at the crate to see was that baby all right in there, or maybe just to convince themselves that, by God, there really was a baby in there after all, when in walked Ronnie Rausch with his father.

  “Well,” one of the men said, “look what the cat dragged in.”

  “You two must be working awful hard out there. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you.”

  “Thought maybe you packed up and moved to Medicine Hat with the rest of the rich farmers.”

  “No, no.” Ronnie’s father waved his hand, a little nervously, as the two of them pulled up chairs and sat. “We just don’t have money to throw away like you.” He shot a quick look at his son.

  “Don’t listen to him,” one of the men said, “he’s sitting on a bundle.”

  “Is that right, Ronnie,” said another, “does he stuff his mattress with it?”

  Ronnie looked up from his boots. “What?”

  “What’s the matter with him?” someone said, nodding at Ronnie.

  “Looks pale.”

  “What, have you been sick?”

  “Must be in love.”

  “Love, nothing, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

  “What, another one?”

  “Oh, yah, Christ, I forgot about that. Is that what’s wrong?”

  “Must be, he can’t even talk no more.”

  “What ghost?”

  “He’s the one saw that dead girl. Up at the braucha’s.”

  “Yah, I heard about that. Whatever happened there, Rausch?”

  But Ronnie stood abruptly. “I’ll be out in the wagon,” he said, shortly, though the men hardly noticed him leave. His father still sat, twisting his hands in his lap.

  “What about this dead girl?” someone asked. “I never heard about that.”

  “Yah, up at the braucha’s there, him and Erv Rausch, not?”

  “Ach, those two dummkopfs,” Ronnie’s father said dismissively, rubbing his palms on his pantlegs, “out passing the bottle around—”

  “And they said they saw that dead girl there,” someone put in, “that Brechert girl, that one Leo brought back—”

  As soon as it had been said, they all suddenly became aware again of Leo, sitting over in his corner, who had just placed a chunk of pie in his mouth. It was as if someone had slammed a door, everyone sitting there, looking at Leo, but not looking at him either, or even at each other, and trying to think of something to say. Surely something must be said. But they could think of nothing.

  And then, while they sat growing slowly warm inside their spring coats, no one either moving or lifting their cups for fear of making a sound (and Ron
nie’s father pale now, too, and wanting to go cuff his son on the ear for stupidity, though Ronnie had said nothing, but just for beginning it all in the first place), then Leo lowered his fork and pried off another chunk of pie and raised it to his mouth and chewed slowly and swallowed and pried another and lifted and chewed and swallowed, just as if nothing had happened, eating steadily, taking a sip of coffee now and again, and the rest of the men sitting and clearing their throats and looking funny at each other and not knowing what the hell to do, wishing someone would say something, but not one of them willing to be the one to break the silence. So they just waited like that while Leo finished his pie, scraped up the crumbs and ate them, drained the last of the coffee from his cup, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, picked up the box with the baby in it, and walked out the door, just as he would have done on any other day. And the men still sitting there, until someone said, in a hushed voice, as if Leo were still with them, “Did he hear, even?”

  Rochus Schneider, who’d gone to the window to watch Leo go, said, “He heard all right.”

  For there was Leo’s wagon, rolling off into the distance, not down the road that led to his farm, but cutting east, straight for the braucha’s.

  Ronnie stepped back inside then, and stood looking at the men.

  “Well, Ronnie,” said Ronnie’s father, “and are you happy now, you and your big mouth?”

  “Ach, don’t get mad at him, he didn’t say nothing.”

  “What’s the big deal?” one of the men said. “The old woman will run Leo off. Be good for him. Teach him a lesson.”

  Ronnie said, “He’s going to the braucha’s? Leo is?”

  “Shut up, now,” said the father, “haven’t you said enough?”

  But Ronnie ignored him. “No,” he said. “Listen. You can laugh all you want, you can say what you want about me, but … someone should go out there.”

  “Where? The braucha’s?”

  “What for?”

  Ronnie rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, looked at his father. But his father was studying the floor. And so Ronnie said, “Just … there might be trouble.”

  The men looked at Ronnie’s father.

  Ronnie’s father sighed and raised his head and wiped a hand across his face and nodded. “Yah,” he said. And nodded again. “There might be trouble.”

  “Well,” Art Reis said slowly. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a ride out there, then.”

  And they all looked at Mike Weiser.

  ——

  There was some discussion about who should go. In the end, it was Mike Weiser, who, in spite of his objections, was considered to be a relative of sorts; Ronnie Rausch; Ronnie’s father, by his own insistence; and Art Reis, known for his level head.

  The conversation as they drove along in Mike Weiser’s car revolved mainly (since Ronnie’s father had forbidden Ronnie to speak, and each time Ronnie raised his head, delivered him a sharp kick at the shin) around Krausses and the reputation they had built for themselves, until finally Mike said, “Ach, but what have they ever really done? Isn’t it all just talk? They only hurt themselves, not?”

  But no one seemed to agree and so by the time they were nearing the braucha’s, Mike was starting to feel sorry for and defensive of Leo all over again, though he couldn’t have said exactly why, only that no one could be all bad, not even Leo Krauss, and he said as much.

  “Well, sure,” Ronnie’s father said, “you’re related, it’s different.”

  Art agreed. “Family’s family.”

  To which Mike said, “The next man who says I’m related to Leo Krauss is getting a swift kick in the ass and I’ll say no more about it.”

  After which the men rode along in silence, Mike staring peevishly ahead through the windshield and the men thinking to themselves that Mike was getting awful touchy these days, but maybe a man got that way where family was concerned.

  Finally, Art said to Ronnie, “So, what is all this about that drowned girl anyway?”

  And Ronnie’s father kicked him before he had even opened his mouth, and so Ronnie just glared out the window on the other side of the car and said, “I’m not saying nothing. You just wait and see. Just see for yourselves. Then you can laugh all you want.”

  To which Ronnie’s father said, “Nobody’s laughing, you dummkopf, shut your mouth.”

  After that, nobody said anything.

  When the car rolled to a stop beside Leo’s wagon, they sat a moment, marvelling at the silence of the place. They had been expecting a scene, or at least Ronnie had, he was the only one certain that Leo would, in fact, find Elisabeth there, apparently alive and well. The others merely wanted to avert trouble between Leo and the old braucha, who did not deserve to have to deal with him. But the span of yard was silent, just the wind stirring in the tall grasses.

  Art said, “Now what the hell is going on here?”

  And he moved to get out of the car, but just as he was doing so, the door to the old woman’s shack flew open and Leo stepped from the darkness, with the crate containing the baby under one arm, and the other hand gripping the girl they had all believed to be dead.

  They just sat in the car, staring stupidly.

  All except Ronnie, who said, “Who’s the dummkopf now? Now who’s laughing?”

  Leo stood a moment in the doorway, frowning at the men. He had the dead girl by the hair, it seemed, though he did not appear to be hurting her. They both looked so calm.

  Following Mike Weiser’s lead, the men climbed out from the car.

  Leo said, as if someone could have answered for him, as if he were the only one of them still in the dark, “What is this? What is going on here?”

  But the men could not speak, not even to say, You know as much as I, Leo. It’s a mystery to me, too. They were thinking, all of them, even Ronnie, his amazement renewed at having the girl before him again, But this is impossible, she is dead. We dragged the river until our arms ached with the cold, we held a Mass, lit candles for her soul, prayed, for her and for the mother too, the church bell rang her to rest. They had imagined her dead, out there in the river, everyone had. How could they help it? There had been no body.

  “What is this?” Leo repeated, and shook the girl a little by her hair.

  That seemed to snap the men out of whatever spell of shock and disbelief they had been under, and Mike stepped forward.

  “Leo—” he began, but he was looking at the girl.

  The old braucha appeared in the doorway then and spoke in Russian.

  “What is it?” Art said, to no one in particular. “What is she saying?”

  But no one knew and so they all just stood and watched while Leo took the girl, leading her by that wild red hair, not roughly, but very calmly and firmly, to his wagon. She did not seem to be struggling against him, either, just walking along beside him, her bleached dress swaying a little, her bare feet in the dirt.

  Before any of the men could think what to do, Leo and Elisabeth were up in the wagon and jolting away down the road, Elisabeth keeping one hand behind her on the seat to steady herself, resurrected.

  The men just stood there watching them go. It was some time before anyone said anything. Art Reis broke the silence.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” he said.

  The braucha spoke to them then, in rapid German, or mostly German, clutching at Mike’s sleeve as she spoke. Then she nodded and went back into her shack, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  “What did she say?” Ronnie asked.

  Mike looked from one to the other. “She said: ‘Look out for that one. That one is slippery.’”

  The men stood around in the yard, frowning at each other. Art said, “Leo, or the girl?”

  And Ronnie’s father said, “’Look out for,’ meaning take care of? Or, be careful of?”

  Mike just shook his head.

  ——

  There was nothing left but to drive back to town.

  Ronnie said, “I told you she was there.”
/>   And they all said, “That’s right, you did. She was there all right.”

  Then, after a minute, someone said, “Was she?”

  To which the men could only raise their eyebrows and shake their heads.

  “Christ,” Ronnie’s father said, “we should have touched her, see if she was real.”

  And then Ronnie said, “Erv.” He had kept it quiet so long, he could no longer stand it. “Erv,” he said, and this time his father did not stop him. “Erv touched her.”

  And he told, then, of the night in the chickenshed, the dark and the feathers and the blood on Erv’s hands.

  “You were drinking,” Mike said.

  “I’m not drinking now,” Ronnie said. “And I just saw a dead girl walk out of the braucha’s shack.”

  And the men could not really argue.

  “So,” Art Reis said, slowly, “she didn’t go through the ice?”

  “I guess not,” Mike said. “I guess she mustn’t have.”

  “She went through all right,” said Ronnie.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Just, that night at the braucha’s. She was strange before. But something’s different now. She went through. Or something happened to her.”

  The men were quiet. They had thought so, too, that something was especially odd about her. But then, what was not strange about it all, the whole situation? They sighed, frowned out the windows.

  Finally, Art said, “But what is she doing at the braucha’s?”

  They drove on in troubled silence.

  When they stopped in front of Wing’s, Ronnie said, “You laughed at me before, all of you did, and you can laugh at me again. But there was blood on Erv’s hands that night. There’s something about that girl. She’s no ghost, I guess, you can laugh all you want, but there’s something about her. You wait and see.”

  And, because there was really nothing to say about that, they went home, wondering the same thing, in spite of themselves: had she been raised from the dead, or had she never actually drowned? They tried to make some sense of it, though there was no sense to be found, and when they arrived home, they told their wives. The wives—Ma Reis and Erna Rausch and Marian Weiser—all said pretty much the same thing, which amounted to: What, and have you lost your mind? No, they told their wives, they had not lost their minds, had not even had a drink, and they’d seen her there, that Brechert girl, Leo’s girl, she was alive, they’d seen her with their own eyes. And they each went on to explain, in remarkably similar versions, what exactly had happened, what had been seen, what had been said. And when the wives still shook their heads and waved them away and said, Ach, don’t bother me, go back and find your drinking friends, the husbands said, Leo Krauss was there and the braucha was there and that girl was there, too. She was barefoot and her hair was all hanging down and she was wearing that white dress, it was so thin that you could see …