The whole exchange left me flustered, and I walked that batter. Jack trotted over from short.
“Where the hell are you?” He pointed at his head. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
“I’m all right,” I said impatiently.
“Yeah?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Come on. Let’s get back to the game here.”
Jack trotted back to his position. And maybe it was his intention, but I was annoyed enough that I struck out the next two batters with six pitches, firing the ball so hard that Steve kept taking off his glove and shaking his hand.
However, we failed to score in the bottom of the ninth, and lost by one run, much to the dismay of my teammates. To come so close to beating Belle Fourche for the first time ever was disheartening, and some of the players were angry enough to go off and pout for a while.
Despite the disappointment, I was feeling pretty good. I had pitched better than ever, and I was inspired by the experience. It had been a good, close game. And I felt confident enough now that I was ready to write to Mr. Murphy and let him know that I was ready to give it a shot. Part of me wanted to run home and write the letter that afternoon.
I saw a spot of yellow approaching from the corner of my eye, and I turned to find myself facing both Jack and Rita. Rita was beaming.
“Blake, you were great!” she said.
I nodded my appreciation, not wanting to look her in the eye and risk having all the blood in my body rise up into my head. “Not quite good enough,” I said.
“Ah, hell,” Jack muttered. “That guy’s never hit a ball in his life. He just got lucky.”
“That’s right, Blake,” Rita agreed. “You were great.”
My face did turn red, and I was trying to think of something to say when an unfamiliar couple walked past us. The guy leaned toward his girlfriend, or wife, pointed at Jack with his thumb, and muttered, “That’s the guy.”
They kept walking, but Jack, after a confused glance at the guy, just pulled his mouth to one side and shook his head.
“Come on, Jack,” Rita said, pulling at his elbow. “Let’s get some food. We’ll see you later, Blake.” Jack walked away looking down, clearly chewing on what the guy had said.
I waved, standing quietly, shaking my head. But when I turned to get some food, I met the smiling face of Lawrence Andrews. His big, bony hand took mine and squeezed hard.
“Good game, Blake,” he said.
“Thanks, Lawrence. I got to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.” I smacked him on the back.
Lawrence laughed. “Thanks for hitting the bat for me,” he said, and I found myself taking even more of a liking to him. Just then, Sophie Roberts sauntered up to his side, her head tilted toward her shoulder, one cheek rosy. She had hair the color of a crow’s feathers, and it hugged her head in tight waves, sweeping just above one eye. I nodded to her, and was shocked to see her looking at me the same way she had been during the game.
“You know Blake Arbuckle, don’t you, Sophie?” Lawrence gently placed a hand in the small of her back, and held the other hand out toward me.
“Yes, I do, although it’s been a very long time,” she said. “Nice to see you again, Blake. Nice job out there.” She held out a hand that was slender but strong. And met me with that look—the inviting, vulnerable smile. After shaking her hand, I started to pull mine back, but Sophie held it for a second longer. She finally let go, but her fingertips brushed against my palm as I backed away, and a tingle skittered up my back like a waterbug.
“Thank you, Sophie,” I said, blushing. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Lawrence just told me this morning.”
She looked down and tipped her head to the other side. The sunlight flashed off her hair. “Well, it wasn’t easy, I must say,” she admitted. “But things are improving.” She looked up at Lawrence, and smiled. He, of course, was beaming.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, although I was unnerved by Sophie’s intense gaze. I kept thinking it must be my imagination, but every time I let my eyes dart over in her direction, there it was—the suggestive, almost painfully suggestive, expression. My face felt like an oven, and I finally had to plant my eyes firmly on Lawrence, who seemed either oblivious or completely comfortable with Sophie’s flirtatious manner. Finally, to my relief, he suggested that they go find something to eat. I stood, flustered, sweating, and watched them walk away, unable to stop myself from admiring the curve of Sophie’s form. I tried one more time to believe that I was imagining things—that she couldn’t have possibly been giving me the signal that I thought she was giving me. Just then, she turned her head, looking over her shoulder, and winked. I nearly fainted.
What followed was an evening of a delightful blend of food, dancing, and attention. I pondered the mystery of women—or more accurately, the mystery of love, and the dynamics between the sexes. I wondered how I could be oblivious to the smattering of single women in our county, but be completely smitten with a married one—not only a married one, but my sister-in-law. It made no sense to me that for the nearly three years Jack and Rita had been married, I had been unable to think of another woman. I had invented countless excuses to visit their humble house, despite my feelings about my brother, and often for just a brief glance at Rita. And now I wondered how Sophie, a woman who was seemingly happily engaged, would not feel strange about such bold attempts to flatter someone else.
My confusion was only confounded as the evening wore on. I gathered a plateful of chicken, roast beef, corn on the cob, and lettuce salad, and after I found a seat with my parents and started eating, I noticed that a lot of younger women slowed their pace as they walked by us. They smiled, or even spoke to me, complimenting my pitching, or they simply said hello. I was used to being fairly anonymous in crowds. People don’t tend to notice a medium-height, round-faced, bowlegged man with thinning hair. So this newfound celebrity was uncomfortable.
But by the time the traditional Pioneer Days Dance began, I was starting to enjoy it. I shared a few snorts from the bottle under the seat of Steve Glasser’s pickup, and when the dancing started, I was oiled up enough to overcome my usual shyness. I was thrilled to find that I didn’t have to do much asking, which was always the hardest part for me. I danced until my legs ached. For a while, I forgot about Rita, and even lost track of where she was.
After a couple of hours of hard dancing, I needed a break, so I went out behind the hall to get some fresh air. I stood there, soaking in the pleasant sounds of the band from inside, and the shouts of everyone dancing, and the drunken chuckles from teenagers pulling bottles from under their dads’ front seats, tipping them to their lips. I looked up at the clear sky and felt an inexplicable sense that this night was a turning point for me, with the confidence I’d felt on the diamond, and now this attention. I believed that my life was about to change. Oddly enough, just about the time that this thought entered my mind, I felt someone touch my arm. Looking down, I discovered Sophie and that alluring smile.
“Hello, Blake,” she said, tilting her head. “Getting some air?”
I nodded. “Hi, Sophie.”
She smiled, looking directly at me with those powder-blue eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but a series of prickly needles ran along my forehead, disrupting my efforts to think.
“Well, I hope you ask me to dance sometime before the night is over,” Sophie said.
“Okay. Sure,” I answered. “Yeah.”
And then she leaned forward, rising to her toes, slipping her hand in mine as she also completely surprised me with a peck on the cheek. “See you,” she said, twirling back toward the dance hall. She waved over her shoulder.
I stood there with my hand out, tingling from her touch. I didn’t move for three songs. Until the blood had found its way back to my head, I didn’t move. And of course, the minute I had my bearings back, I made a beeline back inside to find Sophie. But she and Lawrence were just leaving as I entered the hall. She waved discreetly.
And I felt the force of disappointment, watching her back leave the building. But I floated on the current of that kiss, and I was eventually able to welcome the continuing invitations to dance.
For the first half of that evening, not only did I forget about Rita, but I didn’t think about the ranch. Or Jack. I felt as if I had entered into a completely different world, and that I was the center of it. The dance lasted long into the night, and just as the band was about to wind down, I again felt a hand on my elbow. This time, I turned to find Rita’s warm green eyes fixed on me with an earnest combination of fondness and curiosity. It took me back to the day she had stepped off the train.
“Blake, you haven’t danced one single song with me.”
“Well, let’s go then.” I pulled her to the floor, and we fell into an easy sway as the band played a waltz.
“What a day, huh?” Rita said.
I nodded, smiling. “It was great.”
“You were great.”
I blushed. “Well…”
“You were. Might as well enjoy it.”
Suddenly a presence intervened, bumping me from behind. I turned to find the smiling face of my brother. “Hey, buddy. You having a good time?” he asked.
“Great,” I answered.
“Okay,” he echoed. “Me, too.” He laughed, his head tilting back, and I could see from the droop in his eyes that he’d also had a few belts. More than a few.
Just then, the guy that had made a snide comment about Jack happened to swing by, his date in his arms. Just as Jack noticed him, the stranger said to his wife, “See what I mean?”
Jack whirled, and his mood immediately shifted. “Who the hell are you?”
The guy ignored him, dancing away. And when Jack started after him, I couldn’t watch it happen. I let go of Rita.
“Blake, let him go.”
But I grabbed Jack’s arm. He turned and looked at me, not angry, but trying to pry himself loose. “I just want to know what he’s talking about,” Jack said.
The stranger, no doubt purposely, made his way within a few feet of us.
“People don’t talk about people that don’t do nothing,” he uttered right near Jack’s ear.
Jack’s elbow jabbed me in the ribs, and he broke loose, lunging at the guy. I had a hand on my bruised ribs, so I couldn’t respond right away. Jack got ahold of the stranger, and the next thing I knew, they were piled in a tangle of limbs in the middle of the dance floor.
Again, a hand gripped my elbow.
“Come on, Blake.” Rita pulled. “Let’s get out of here.”
If it had been anyone else, I probably would have resisted. I probably would have worked myself free and tried to break up the fight. But I followed Rita without even thinking, and we zigzagged through the crowd, out into the clean, clear night. Word of the fight spread, and within thirty seconds, we were the only ones outside.
I leaned against the rounded fender of a Model T, holding a palm against my rib. Rita stood facing me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “He caught me pretty good, but I’ll be all right.”
Rita folded her arms, looking with concern back toward the dance hall. It looked as if a part of her wanted to go back inside. But she forced herself to turn away, pointing her gaze down toward the dry ground. The music had stopped once the fight started, and it was actually quiet enough outside that I could hear the faint sound of the Little Missouri in the distance.
I thought it was odd at first that Rita wanted to leave, and that she brought me with her. I wasn’t sure what to say, or do. I felt as if I was abandoning my brother.
Rita finally looked up at me, smiling a little sadly. She even looked slightly guilty. She shrugged. “I knew what I was getting into,” she said.
But when she dropped her head again, I could tell that whether she knew it or not, Rita was at least partially blaming herself for what was going on inside. And again, I felt the need to say something, anything.
“He’s always been this way,” I finally muttered. “From as far back as I can remember.”
Rita sighed, looking up again. She nodded.
“You all right?” I asked.
She nodded, taking a long, slow breath. “Yeah. I’m fine now. I just needed a few minutes. A little air.” She rolled her shoulders a couple of times. And she looked up at me again, thoughtfully, as if she was trying to decide something. Finally, she spoke. “You know what that guy was talking about, don’t you?”
I frowned. “No. Do you?”
She nodded, then tipped her head to the side and looked at me with a measured gaze. “You really don’t?”
I shook my head.
“It’s about George,” she said. “Your brother.”
I frowned again. “George?” My head was fuzzy from the booze, and I had to think for a moment. “You really think that’s what he was talking about?”
Rita folded her arms, and looked down at the ground. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring it up. But I thought you might…well, I thought you might know.” She turned. “I think I should go back inside.”
“No, wait.” I grabbed her arm.
Now Rita broke free of my hold and turned again. “Blake, let’s just drop it. It’s just a rumor, you know? You know how people talk.”
“No,” I said again. “It’s stupid. They shouldn’t even be…I can’t believe people would say that. I can’t believe anyone would say that.”
“Like I said, Blake. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry. Come on. Let’s go back inside.” She reached out for my hand. “Come on. Forget it.”
I nodded. “Okay.” But I walked in a daze.
And for the rest of the night, for the rest of the dance, although I still managed to have a good time, my mind kept going back to this rumor, baffled by the realization that people were still resorting to such cruel speculation about something that happened years ago. At the same time, my mind was reviewing the events of the evening we found George, and all that had happened since. And I hated the fact that, despite every part of me trying so hard to push the thought from my head, I couldn’t.
That night, riding home in the back of the pickup, I lay on my back, staring at a coal-black sky that was filled from horizon to horizon with tiny stars. I felt the cool air wash over me, and smelled the sagebrush. And I lay there thinking that as much as I loved this land, this area that I called home, I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to stay here. With the exhilaration of my experience pitching, and Jack’s presence, and all that came with it, and considering the way I felt about Rita, I began to ponder the possibility that I would be better off somewhere else.
5
fall 1924
I’ve always dreamed of seeing more of the world. Despite my love for the land around me, I’ve always been curious about what else is out there. Some of my neighbors are content clinging to the prairie, with no curiosity at all about how other people spend their days. I suppose that most of these folks are simply happy enough or too busy with their lives to think about all that unexplored territory. But there are also those who talk with a sneer about city folks—rantings that are not usually based on firsthand experience, but assumptions, and hearsay.
I figure they’re just scared—scared of a life they know nothing about. But it seems a waste to shut out half the world just because they wear softer pants. And I think it simply makes sense to say hello to someone who’s sitting right next to you. As far as I know, there’s no better way of getting to know them. So after my Pioneer Days experience, I looked for any chance I could find to make my way to St. Louis and meet up with Mr. Stanley Murphy.
My chance came in 1924, when we needed to ship a load of calves to Omaha. Neither Dad nor Jack was anxious to go, so I quickly volunteered. I contacted Mr. Murphy, who just happened to have someone else in Omaha that he wanted to get a look at that week. So once I knew the date I’d be there, he sent me the name of his hotel, and told me to contact him when I arrive
d. I told no one.
Dad and I moved the herd of calves to Belle Fourche, a three-day ride. We stabled them for the night at the stockyards next to the train station, and seventy-five calves and I caught the train at dawn the next morning. It was my first time on a train, and although I was twenty-two, I’m sure I was as big-eyed as a kid at his first fireworks show. I wore the suit I’d bought for Jack and Rita’s wedding; the jacket was too tight, the sleeves a little short.
The trip took two days, with a stop in Chadron, Nebraska, to feed and water the stock. I barely slept from the excitement. Even during the dark hours, I pressed my face to the window, as the countless unfamiliar lives rushed past. The click, clack, pause, click, clack, pause of the wheels became such a part of the journey, like a heartbeat, that I didn’t even hear it after a while.
I studied each town—homestead towns, mostly. There were usually just a few buildings—always a store, and a saloon or two, a post office, sometimes a hotel, a blacksmith, or a five-and-dime. But more interesting to me were the farms and ranches—the lone, miles-from-anything places like our own. I took a good look at each of these, trying to imagine as much as I could about the people who lived there. Some were easy—sod houses with chunks of earth hanging off, or crude ten-by-fourteen-foot shacks with oiled-paper windows, mud stuffed into the cracks, and a swaybacked mule out front. These belonged to the honyockers—the new settlers who were either already gone or nearly defeated, probably a winter or two away from being pushed eastward where they came from, or further west to another dream.
In Open Spaces Page 10