One Came Home

by Amy Timberlake

  It was two o’clock by the time we got started. The clouds stretched tight across the sky, and the hot stuck to me. My head felt like it might split, ripening under all that heat. The bruise pounded out its own rhythm. I assumed that by nightfall my left eye would be shut entirely.

  In general, Old Line Road wasn’t much. A table-flat boulder piled with rocks marked the turnoff, and after that we followed two spindly wagon tracks straight up into the hills. (Hills on the lower Wisconsin River push out of the ground for no discernible reason, and Old Line seemed determined to traverse them.)

  The state of that road gave me pause. It was in no shape for wagons: boulders and rocks studded the route; gullies and trenches ripped through it; and good-sized seedlings sprouted between the two ruts. Obviously, someone had dragged a wagon over that land, but I could not imagine who’d be fool enough to do it.

  In addition, it was an uncomfortable ride. Those steep hills trapped bloodsuckers. We dipped down into two valleys foggy with mosquitoes. The mosquitoes blanketed us upon arrival, biting even Long Ears, who nipped at his hide. I smashed them for several minutes and then gave up, letting them feast, reasoning that they’d bring down the swelling of my eye. (They didn’t. Instead, they made my face itch and lump up like dried oatmeal.)

  Four hours later we arrived at a fence with a wagon wheel leaning against it. According to the store owner, this was Garrow Farm. The sun hung low in the sky. It was now six o’clock.

  “Wait here,” said Billy. He clucked his tongue at Storm.

  “If you go, I go. If anything, you should wait here. This is my journey. She was my sister,” I said. I nudged Long Ears.

  Billy pulled Storm short. “We need to make a good impression. Fry, you look …” He made some abstract hand motions, my appearance seemingly too much for his descriptive abilities. He decided to try anyway: “You’re wrinkled and dirty. Your hair … Your face—it’s orange. They’re going to think I beat you. You cannot make a call looking like you do.”

  I was having none of it. “Clean me up!” I said. “I am not waiting out here, and we are far from a hand mirror. May I remind you that as soon as you get out of sight, Long Ears will trot to his true love—Storm? I don’t have the will to stop him.”

  Billy sighed. “You will not talk. Agatha will not be mentioned. Then we go home.”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  “Get out your hairbrush.”

  That was how Billy McCabe came to clean me up. His hairbrushing was rough and his spit-cleaning unbearable, and Billy did not know how to braid hair (four younger brothers), so I did that. After I passed inspection—barely—Billy unlatched the gate and we walked our mounts through.

  It wasn’t a place I’d have chosen to live. Garrow Farm was buried in a hollow on the back side of the hill. Sure, it was a fine clearing, but if you sat on the porch of the Garrows’ frame house, about all you’d see was the field in terraces, cupping the house on three sides. Mr. Garrow had set his farm on a slope away from the Wisconsin River. And practically speaking, where they were—way up the hill—was far from water and the best soil (which lay all around them on the lowlands). If I were going to be impractical and live on top of a steep hill, I’d at least want a view of the river.

  And imagine the work in terraced fields! Stones had been brought up on the hillside to make the terrace walls, and then crops laid in so they ringed the hills in earthen steps. It was one of the tidiest fields I’d seen, and the prettiest too, especially with the gold light of early evening dusting those crops. But I would guess it was subsistence farming. I didn’t see much to sell.

  Yet somehow, the Garrows did all right. The frame house was two stories, with a wide stone chimney and a recently repaired roof. Mind you, it wasn’t a palace—the porch leaned appreciably—but it looked as nice as any house I’d seen in Dog Hollow.

  As we walked down their road, I saw a well for water and clothes billowing on a line. A basket sat on the ground.

  A tiny girl with hair as red as a copper penny darted out from behind the house and ran to the line. She spotted us and stopped, frozen, one hand suspending a wet shirt above the basket.

  She dropped the clothing. “Ma! Ma!” The girl ran back, disappearing behind the house.

  We stopped.

  Carroty hair, I thought. Never liked that phrase. It was common and lacked specificity. People tossed it about willy-nilly to describe red hair. Whenever someone had used it to describe Agatha’s auburn hair—the color so pretty it made you ache to look at it—I had thought less of them.

  But recently someone had used that term. Who was it? In my mind, I saw those three men—the sharp-toothed, the mustached, and the oldermost—sitting on the bench outside the sawmill. Hadn’t the sharp-toothed one said “the Garrow girl”? They’d been discussing this family—I was sure of it. Funny how we’d ended up here.

  Billy gave me a quick smile and removed his hat.

  A moment later, a woman about the size of a fifteen-year-old boy with straight hips and a plain walk appeared. The tiny girl ran behind her and wrapped herself around the woman’s leg. The woman stopped, then disentangled the girl and gave her a shove toward the house. She shaded her eyes in our direction and strode toward us.

  A useful woman—that’s what Ma would say. There wasn’t one ounce of waste on her, everything toughened and wiry. I didn’t doubt that she’d built these terraces herself. She didn’t look done in either, like most of the homesteading women that came into our store. This woman knew where to spend her strength. I admired that. I found I wanted her to like me. But friendship was out of the question: it was clear by the directness of her gaze that we were idling away the last of her daylight.

  “Mrs. Garrow?” said Billy.

  The woman lifted her chin up.

  A door slammed. I glanced at the house and saw that the tiny girl was gone.

  “I’m Billy and this is Georgie,” Billy said.

  Mrs. Garrow took a long look at my face. When Billy offered his hand, Mrs. Garrow did not take it.

  Billy continued unabashed. His voice was so honey-thick I could have spread it on bread. I knew his charm wouldn’t work, but it was too late to stop him. “We’re trying to find some pigeoners coming from Placid. Their name may have been Metcalf. They traveled through this area about three weeks ago. Have you seen them?”

  “Never heard of them. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I got work. Good day,” she said. She turned to go.

  Billy tapped his hat against the side of his thigh, then called out: “What about a young lady with auburn hair about eighteen years of age?”

  We’d agreed not to speak of Agatha. I stared at Billy.

  Billy opened his hands wide, indicating that he didn’t know what else to do.

  Mrs. Garrow turned abruptly. “If you’re talking about my eldest daughter, Darlene, she’s gone. She eloped with her beau, Morgy Harrison, of Owatonia. And no, I don’t know when she’ll be back. They’ve gone off and gotten married, so there’s no use in you holding out any hope. Now, I know my Darlene has plenty of followers, but it does beat all when someone comes in here and asks after my daughter accompanied by a young girl so obviously struck in the face.”

  “I fell,” I said quickly. Meanwhile, my mind reeled. Had Mrs. Garrow said what I thought she had said? Had another auburn-haired girl gone missing?

  Mrs. Garrow smiled slightly. “Yes, girls who ‘fall’ always seem to be with sweet-talkers,” she said.

  I stepped away from Billy so he wouldn’t put his hand on my shoulder like he was about to do (Mrs. Garrow wouldn’t like that), and said what I desperately needed to say: “When did Darlene leave?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.” Then Mrs. Garrow gestured at the fields. “She left me with all this work. Slips off without leaving a note. I heard from the Harrisons that the two of them eloped. My husband says he gave his blessing. Gives his blessing!”

  I barely listened. Two girls missing around the same time and from the same genera
l vicinity: this Garrow girl lived outside of Dog Hollow, and my sister disappeared from somewhere around Dog Hollow.

  Mrs. Garrow paused, then said: “Listen to me. I don’t normally chatter on like this.”

  A wild idea had taken root in my head. I hardly dared to hope it. Still, the only way it could have happened was if Agatha had given the blue-green dress to Darlene. I reached into one of the saddlebags for the photograph of Agatha.

  I held it out to Mrs. Garrow and said: “I am sorry to hear how Darlene left you like she did, but Billy was describing my sister, not your daughter. Have you seen my sister? Her name is Agatha Burkhardt.” As Mrs. Garrow took the photograph, I added: “Is there any chance Darlene might have met her?”

  Billy exhaled, and I knew he understood where I was going.

  Mrs. Garrow looked at the image. “I’ve never seen this girl. Darlene hardly ever leaves the farm. I keep her busy.”

  “You lost?” a voice called out.

  I looked over and saw a bear of a man with a barrel chest and a woolly rust-colored beard push out the front door with a pitcher and two tin cups. Three children followed in his wake. I noted all the red hair: there was the tiny girl (copper hair), one arm latched around a porch pillar; the next tallest, a strawberry-blond boy maybe a year older standing in the center of the porch; and finally, an even older rusty-haired boy who had dropped to the porch’s edge to sit.

  The man came toward us holding out the pitcher. “Quite a trip up here. Must be thirsty. I’m Mr. Blair Garrow. I see you’ve met my wife,” he said. He smiled all the way to his hairline. We couldn’t help but smile in return as we introduced ourselves.

  But before Mr. Garrow could give us cups and pour the water, Mrs. Garrow put her hand on his forearm. “These people want to know if we’ve seen three pigeoners by the name of Metcalf traveling with this girl.”

  Mrs. Garrow handed her husband the photograph. She continued: “They’re wondering if Darlene met her.”

  As Mr. Garrow glanced at the photograph, I thought I saw something pass over his face. I didn’t know what it was, though. A thought? A recognition?

  He shook his head. “No. Never seen her. You searching for her?” Mr. Garrow looked briefly at his wife, then handed the photograph to Billy, who passed it on to me.

  “We are,” said Billy.

  “Never heard of any of them. Except my daughter, of course. Wish I could help.” He paused and said: “Well, sun’s going down. Don’t want to keep you.” He held up the pitcher. “Water for your canteens?”

  Billy shook his head. “Appreciate it, but we filled them in Dog Hollow.”

  He pointed at me. “That’s quite a mouse on your eye.”

  I nodded, thinking it best not to say any more.

  Mrs. Garrow gave Billy a piercing look. “She’s no more than eleven. Shame on you,” she said. She left without saying good-bye.

  Billy turned bright red. (I did not think I looked that young.)

  Mr. Garrow sighed. “She means well.” He patted Billy on the shoulder. “You’ll have to get going if you want to make it out of these hills by nightfall.”

  “Old Line goes over the hill and joins up with Miller Road?” said Billy.

  “There’s no road that way anymore. The only road is the one you came in on. Good night, now.” Then he also turned to walk to the house.

  As I tucked Agatha’s photograph in a saddlebag, I saw that the tiny girl had snuck up behind me to get close to Long Ears. She leaned against his muzzle like he was some sort of puppy. Why that mule allowed it, I did not know, but other than snapping his tail, Long Ears seemed unperturbed.

  The girl peered at me from the other side of Long Ears’ head. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  I touched my face. The skin felt stretched, hard, and bloated. “I slipped on some rocks.”

  “Oh,” said the girl. She came out from behind Long Ears’ head to where I stood. “I admire donkeys. My pa says I can get one as a pet.”

  “It’s a mule,” I said irritably. I did not care for my mount being referred to as a pet. Especially by a girl less than half my size, with not a tenth of my vocabulary.

  “What’s a mule?” she said.

  “Never mind,” I said. No one wants to explain the origin of mules to small children.

  The tiny girl wasn’t listening anyway. She stretched up to try to bend one of the mule’s ears down so that she could stroke it. Being unsuccessful with the ear (too small to reach it), she covered Long Ears’ velvety snout in kisses. Long Ears snorted and backed away, finally drawing his proverbial line in the sand.

  Billy had mounted and started off. Long Ears now wanted to go too. He stomped.

  And then I saw it in the tiny girl’s hair. I saw a most unusual shade of blue green.

  “Do you like black licorice sticks?” I said quickly, unbuckling the nearest saddlebag.

  “Yes!” Her hands fell from Long Ears’ face. She hopped right beside me.

  I held the licorice stick out away from the girl and put my other hand on one end of that blue-green ribbon. As the tiny girl leaned to take the licorice, the bow in her copper hair came undone and the ribbon fell away. I balled the ribbon up, hiding it in my palm, and mounted Long Ears.

  Even when her hair tumbled to her shoulders, the tiny girl didn’t notice the ribbon was gone. She was too busy sucking that licorice stick.

  I wonder how many significant decisions in the course of history have been made because of mosquitoes. Billy and I made a decision that way. We decided we could not fathom sacrificing our bodies to the fog of mosquitoes floating in those valleys. So we did not go back the way we came, as Mr. Garrow had advised. Instead, we went up the bluff. We took the store owner’s advice and followed the remains of Old Line Road. Along the way we hoped to find a flat stretch of ground to lie upon. Honestly, I barely remember discussing the topic—the decision felt that insignificant.

  Past Garrow Farm, Old Line worsened in a hurry. It narrowed as it wound around the bluff. Trees pressed in, and fully grown bushes and brambles lined the ridge between the wagon tracks. We squeezed through, the branches slapping my legs and the barbs snagging my clothing.

  Still, there’s always a rut where wheels have rolled. Though after what Mr. Garrow had said, I wondered if this road would abandon us, wearing away at the top of the bluff. Fortunately, it did not.

  While we rode in the usual formation—Billy and Storm ahead, Long Ears and I following—I pulled out the blue-green ribbon. In the honey light of the setting sun, I observed the row of stitches. It was a homemade ribbon. I rubbed it between my fingers and stared at it some more. For all the world, this ribbon appeared to be made from the same material as Agatha’s dress. Was my sister alive? A thousand tiny hopes swarmed over me like a cloud of gnats.

  All that hope nearly did me in. I had no endurance for it. I stuffed the ribbon into a saddlebag. I was so, so tired. From my saddle, I watched the shadows lengthen and tried not to think about any of the day’s happenings. The bruise on my face had finally succeeded in closing my left eye, and seeing one-eyed made me dizzy. Between tiredness and dizziness, I knew it would be a joy to go to sleep.

  I do think there is a limit to how much a person can feel and think on one particular day. I’d been to the nowhere place and come to the realization that my sister was dead. I’d been ready to go home. Now? I didn’t know what I thought or what I wanted.

  Finally, the last of the sunlight slipped over our heads, lavender evening came upon us, and we arrived at a wide, grassy spot with purple-gray boulders to lean against. Through my right eye, I could see where the fire pit should go and where I would unroll my bed. The river sprawled below, slipping by sand islands. Behind the open area was a bald, rocky hill that climbed maybe forty feet, and then the forest took over, thick as a lumberjack’s beard. I felt irked with Mr. Garrow for not mentioning this spot, but the irritation passed because finally the day was at its end. Billy and I dismounted, hobbled Storm and Long Ears, and set up ca
mp without a word.

  Seeing how we ate quickly and in silence, I think both of us were spent. I remember pressing my finger against the plate to dab up the last of the jam and then wiping my hands on the split skirt. I felt a tingle and found a tick winding its way up my shin. I flicked it into the fire and watched half amazed as it crawled right out. I swear those things are made of iron. I grabbed a twig, put the hot-to-the-touch tick on the end of it, and pushed the end into some embers. The end of the twig burst into flame. I pulled the twig out of the fire and examined it. When I looked up, I saw Billy watching me.

  “A tick,” I explained. It embarrassed me to have Billy observe me being cruel (even to a tick).

  I threw the twig into the fire, looked at him, and said what I was thinking: “I want to go back to the Garrows’.”

  Billy nodded. “Yeah, that confusion between Darlene Garrow and Agatha would make anyone want to go back. There’s two young ladies with auburn hair gone from home, and a pack of red-haired kids at that farm. I started wondering if Agatha might be alive. First time I ever thought that.”

  “Mr. Garrow recognized the photograph too,” I said.

  “Huh. I couldn’t tell.”

  “I read something in his face. I’m not sure what, though. Not fear, or anger—which is what I’d expect if he shot Agatha. And if he recognized her—saw her someplace—why wouldn’t he say so?” I paused for a moment, trying to remember the look on Mr. Garrow’s face. Finally, I had it. “He looked confused. Why would Mr. Garrow be confused?”

  Billy shook his head. “Who knows.” Then he chuckled. “Asking about whether Darlene and Agatha had met was quick thinking.”

  I liked that he’d noticed and said so.

  Billy observed me for a moment.

  “I need to show you something,” I said quickly. I got up and dug in the saddlebags. I brought the blue-green ribbon back to Billy. I told him how I got it.