by Ann Treacy
That evening before going to sleep, Martin allowed himself to read one more of Cora’s diary entries. He was nearing the end and trying to savor each one.
27 February 1865
Father got home last night. I don’t know a word to say how happy we are plus how worried we are at his changes. He is so thin. He says the soldiers are sick and there are no provisions for feeding such large armies. He is well pleased with Jacob. I think Jacob has grown a lot because I know the months of work that have gone into that boy, but Father thinks Jacob is so small. Mother says to let Father alone, that he must sit many weeks by the fire to warm up. Ma is thin again, but looks like her normal self, not like Father. The wedding ring fits back on her finger.
—Miss Gunnarsson, schoolteacher
15 March 1865
I could not write until now. Pa died two days ago. The fever broke right before he died and Ma kept saying how sorry she was about a dowry. I did not understand many things she said. The Perry men fetched the Connors, but they did not arrive until late last night. Mr. Connor brings with him the smell of sawed pine again. The casket does not smell like roses to me now. There is still frost in the ground, but the men think they can get the grave dug. Mrs. Perry told Ma, “That’s a blessing, no waiting.” It didn’t make me feel better. Nothing in the world will ever make me happy or lucky again. People say things to Mother like “It’s not surprising, as sick as he was.” But I am surprised. Death is a bad surprise, not like new babies. The ladies dressed Pa in his best clothes.
22 March 1865
“He whom the gods love dies young,” wrote Menander, a Greek poet, who drowned. This the reverend said at the funeral, though he arrived three days after the burial. The days are like cheese with plenty of eyes. We wander through the house, Mother and me, discovering new holes everywhere. Many things want doing but this is a much harder grief than when Father was just away at war. Now the churn is idle, the cow cries out in newfound pain, even the smells are missing—of fresh dried washings and favorite foods.
Chapter 15
For six full days the boys crisscrossed two fields, picking stones and hauling them to corner discard piles. The ground was weedy and matted; the rocks were knitted into the dry earth’s surface. They pried large boulders with the long iron rod Martin had found in the barn. In some cases removing a rock left a hole so deep they shoveled clumps of sod into it so the horses wouldn’t stumble when they came back to work the field. They diligently removed all visible stones and hoped that more didn’t lurk just below the surface, waiting to strike the plow blade.
Martin made an offhand remark that next year the rock clearing might not take so long, that he might need only one horse on the stone boat. He saw Sam’s ears actually lower as his eyes bulged like wagon wheels. Sam jumped up and yelled, “YOU MEAN YOU HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN?” The entire time it took Martin to explain about annual frost heave, Sam shook his head as if the sheer force of his will could prevent it.
They made a game of the tedious work by naming the larger stones they hauled—Reverend Rock, Straight Stone, Boring Boulder. One huge boulder remained; Martin hoped to bury it. The process involved digging a deep hole right next to it, so deep that the boulder could be pushed and pulled into it and then buried beneath a plowable depth of earth. Martin shared stories his father had told of farmers who had died or broken their legs attempting to bury rocks.
Sam’s solution was to leave it in the middle of the field and name it Lunch Rock.
One morning Sam was not waiting in the field when Martin arrived. Martin had filled the stone boat twice before the heavy boy came staggering along, breathless and holding his generous middle.
He raised one hand to his chest, “Sorry I’m late today, Martin.” Sam waded through rough grass to the stone boat.
“I went to town last night with my uncle. He had horses to sell, and I did magic tricks on the boardwalk.” He helped Martin pick up rocks off the stone boat and together they hurled them at the pile of discarded stones. “I saw that fellow from the automobile, the one that came to see your ma. He was talking to a man about business things. . . . Sometimes folks talk right in front of us, like we’re only there to entertain them. They figure we don’t know anyone in the community, or maybe they think none of us speak English.”
They chunked the rocks onto the heap. “He was talking about you, out here trying to farm alone. The man asked him if he still wanted your place. That Meehan fellow said yes, said the upgraded county road proposal goes right past here, and the hill your house is on will be the best site in the entire county for his big new home.” The horses walked back into the half-cleared, half-rocky field without anyone directing them where to go. Martin waited, holding his heavy leather work gloves, until Samson had told him everything.
Martin resolved to see that Meehan didn’t get his dream. His family would never stand in their own yard watching everything sold around them just for Meehan to have a new country house. Martin said, “It’s nice to know his real reasons, Sam. I was thinking he might know something I don’t. And I guess he does, but there’s something else too.” He weighed his secret and felt safe sharing a bit of it—not the diary-reading part, but the rumor. He explained about his grandmother coming to America with something mysterious, then entertained Sam with a recounting of every place on the homestead he had searched. Sam laughed at the image of Martin holding a lantern and peering down the privy hole.
During the days of hard work, the boys found four rattlesnake rattles, seven perfect stone arrowheads, and a spearhead. Martin attached a small canvas bag to Finn’s harness to hold the treasures. Samson stooped, picked up a large chiseled point, and showed it to Martin. He dusted it as he turned it in the sunlight. Martin stopped picking rocks to admire the trophy and then watched as Samson passed his left hand over the point held by his right. The arrowhead disappeared. Samson grinned, and Martin had to admit he had a definite flourish.
“It’s a good trick,” Martin said, genuinely wondering at the stone’s whereabouts since Samson wore a summer shirt with sleeves that ended above the elbow. The Gypsy smiled his toothy smile and showed both bare palms to Martin, then leaned to pet Finn high on the forehead and pulled the arrowhead from behind his twitching ear.
They worked until the sun was high and its hot rays followed them and stuck to their skin wherever they went. In seventy-two hours spring warmed from cool to planting weather; Martin could feel it in his bones. It was a Wednesday in late April when he and Samson finished picking rocks for the season. They would dump this one last load, then visit Mr. Perry. Martin needed more advice.
Samson spotted Lilly and pointed to her when she was still a field’s width away. She walked slowly through the thick grass, her bonneted head dipping whenever she bent to pick a wildflower. Martin straightened, wiped his brow, and replaced his hat. He couldn’t figure what Lilly was doing out here, and it annoyed him to have to stop and bother about her. There was no point in hiding Samson since she’d probably seen him already. He jerked his head toward the edge of the barren field. “My little sister.”
“What’s her name?”
Martin was surprised he would care to know. “Lilly.”
She arrived at the rock pile and stopped to play. Martin ignored her until the stone boat was fully loaded. When they drove the load over, she was engaged in some game involving many tiers of flat rocks piled in front of her.
Martin did not greet her. It was Samson who approached first. “Hello, Lilly?” She looked up at him. “I’m Sam, Martin’s friend. Have you come to visit us today?”
Lilly’s curls jostled when she nodded. She stood and brushed off her skirt, then walked over to where a basket lay next to an armful of spring flowers. “Aunt Ida made me come. It’s Ma’s fresh bread and buttermilk.”
Samson accepted the basket from the girl, studying her tiny pale hands. He rummaged under the napkin. “And butter too?”
“I made that. Aunt Ida says I must work more, or I will become
a devil’s workshop.”
Samson laughed. Martin approached the two, explored the contents of the basket, then held it up. “Come on, there’s plenty for two.”
“And Lilly?”
“She can go back to the house and eat.”
Samson didn’t follow right away. He squatted and looked into the child’s face. Kindly, he said, “Show me what you were playing over there.”
Lilly smiled at Samson and bounced happily. She stopped before the pyramid of flat stones. Long braided strands of wild grasses flowed out and down the structure’s sides from the various tiers of rocks that anchored them. Flowers were tucked into this rope, making the triangular pile quite attractive.
“It’s spitz kaka,” she announced, clasping her hands in front of her dress.
“What is this spits . . . what?”
“Wedding cake,” she whispered from behind her hand as if Samson should be embarrassed for not knowing.
“It’s lovely,” he said. To Lilly’s apparent surprise, Samson patted her on the head. “I wish I could eat it, but I have to content myself with plain bread today.”
The boys had finished clearing Lunch Rock field and now rested and ate at the end of a long rock pile. That morning Martin had hauled out water for the horses on the empty stone boat; Samson left the lunch spot to see to watering them. Lilly knelt before her slab wedding cake, humming and prattling to herself.
Martin stared across the field they had labored to clear. His back ached from stooping and lifting but even more from the difficult labor of prying the rocks from the earth in which they seemed rooted. His eyelids were floating down in sleep when, half consciously, he noticed how quiet everything had become.
Aware that Lilly had been playing and singing on the ground to his side, he turned and studied her face, then followed her gaze. She strained to keep her snow-white features from trembling as she stared at a coiled rattlesnake, level with her neck. She still held a flower-decorated rock with both hands, and Martin could see that its weight would soon cause her to drop it.
Approaching from Lilly’s other side, Samson whispered a Romany word, one of the few that Martin had learned. Drabaneysapa. Poisonous snake.
As if angry at being interrupted from his noon nap, the agitated rattler danced from right to left. Then it concentrated on Lilly and grew motionless. It rose on its tail-like trunk and hovered in midair, without quivering. At the instant the serpent struck out at the tiny girl, a flash of red crossed its path. The snake’s head bit and snagged on the offending fabric. Immediately a crash broke the silence and Lilly fell backward. Samson scooped her up and carried her toward the horses while Martin hit the snake three more times with the iron pry rod.
Lilly shook in Samson’s arms. Her lower lip trembled, but she made no sound. He held her as Martin approached, holding up a red silk sash.
“We work well together,” Samson said.
“Another trick of yours?” Martin asked shaking his head, his heart pounding. “I don’t know where you hid this, Samson; you don’t even have long sleeves on that shirt.” Martin focused on Lilly then and borrowed a term of Aunt Ida’s, “And you, young lady, don’t you know these rock piles are filled with snake nests? You could have been killed. Even if it’s not poisonous, snakes still bite and it still hurts.”
Samson held up a hand to silence him. “Your sister has experienced . . . what is the word . . . a terror. This is not a good time to teach her anything.” He turned and spoke soothingly to the child.
Teach? Martin had no intention of teaching her a lesson. He wanted to punish her for wasting daylight with her foolish notions about playing. Everything was always play for Lilly. He forced himself to step back and just breathe. No, it wasn’t anger he felt; it was the realization that Lilly could have died. Martin’s lunch squeezed up his throat as he imagined being responsible for another death.
But Lilly had already forgotten the fright. Samson had seated Lilly in the center of the stone boat and was entertaining her by walking on his hands. The muscles on his arms bulged under his considerable weight as he strained to lower his face so that he could pick a flower from the dirt with his teeth. He collapsed, tucked his head, and managed to roll onto his feet. Lilly rocked and clapped. Samson thrilled her, just like his brother, Dan, had done with his endless teasing.
Martin stooped to look in her face. He hadn’t seen her this close up in a long time. “Listen, Lilly,” he said sternly, “Ma and Aunt Ida don’t know about Sam, and they can’t know.”
“How come?”
Samson joined them, pulled an arrowhead out of Lilly’s ear, and brandished it. “Because I am magic, and if the grown-ups learn about me, I will disappear. Would you want that?”
Wide-eyed, Lilly shook her head until her curls wiggled.
“Then we have a deal?”
She solemnly shook Sam’s hand.
As Lilly returned to the house with the empty lunch basket, Samson asked, “She is your only sister?”
“Yes.”
“And no brothers?”
“I had one. Dan. He died in an accident.” Then Martin told him everything. He described Dan, and Stillwater, and how hemmed in he felt despite the openness of this huge farm. It seemed easier to talk to someone who maybe didn’t catch each and every word. Martin explained how mourning had put Ma off in her head, and to his surprise saying these things didn’t make him feel worse. Grief had hollowed him out like a dried gourd, regret rattling in him like seeds. But by sharing, even a little, he felt as if the load of his memories was lightened by half.
Heading home, Lilly stopped fifty feet off in the field just to twirl, her face raised to the sun, arms outstretched. Martin thought about yelling a warning, Open your eyes, there’s holes, we cleared there. But Sam, who also knew the dangers, just leaned on his shovel, watching and grinning.
Lilly’s laughter reached them now. How Dan had loved to make Lilly laugh. The unforgiving sun burned the twirling image onto Martin’s mind like a photographer’s glass plate. Similar images crowded in of Lilly when she was three or four years old raising her arms to the boys—either boy—and saying “I need spinning!”
He remembered that once he also delighted in making Lilly laugh; he had swung her in great circles and teased her for sport. Maybe Martin had rewritten their history and convinced himself that Dan was the only brother she wanted.
Lilly dropped to the ground. Even Martin for all his watchfulness recognized it as joyous exhaustion.
“You protective her,” Sam said.
“I am protective of her,” Martin corrected, then thought mind reader. I have protected her. Even from myself.
That night Martin searched the homestead again. Sam’s information about Mr. Meehan, coupled with the diary references, made him redouble his efforts. He scrutinized the remains of the dilapidated shed and the sod stable his grandparents had used before building the barn. He recalled every tiny building from the homestead painting at the Perrys’. Had Cora used the springhouse as a play place? The windmill took its place now, but he poked around the footings anyway with a shovel. He reexamined some of Cora’s diary entries about her doll’s house and investigated every inch of the homestead as it would have been in her day. Under the guise of dismantling it, he explored the ruined chicken coop. Certainly no child had played dolls in a messy chicken coop. He sighed. Maybe Mr. Perry was right. And Pa. Maybe it was just a rumor.
5 April 1865
Jacob is bringing us back to our normal selves. Even Mother. A baby gives love, but a baby also brings work that has to be done. Last night Mother spoke about her life in Sweden. I think that I will never see my grandfather who lives there. In Sweden there is not much land like in America. Swedish farms always go to the sons—and maybe just to one son, the oldest. She talked to me in whispers even though we could shout here and no one would ever hear us. My grandfather gave land to his sons and a dowry to my mother. I don’t know exactly what this means. Mother says we will try to finish proving u
p our homestead, which means we have to live here three more years. But if we can’t we will be safe. She wants me to understand the family plans now and not to worry.
Chapter 16
“Grai, horse.” Samson pointed at Finn. During lunch breaks he taught Martin Romany words. “Kanni,” Samson waved the thighbone he was eating.
Martin said, “Chicken?” Then when Sam held up bread, “Don’t tell me, ahh . . . panum. How do you say ‘ants’?”
“Emets.”
“How do you say ‘automobile’?”
Sam turned his serious teacher face to Martin and enunciated slowly, “Au-to-mo-bile.” Both boys laughed.
They also exchanged lunches most days. Martin liked the spicy Gypsy fare, and Samson marveled at Swedish breads and sweets, though despite eating Martin’s generous lunches, Samson was getting thinner and stronger.
Unsealing the earth was more difficult than Martin ever imagined. They traded off Finn and Marshall so each horse pulled the plow half a day. It was hard work holding the hand plow steady and straight, while at the same time keeping the blade a uniform depth underground. Their first plowed furrows were so uneven that Samson laughed and said, “I told you that Roma can’t farm!”
The new work accentuated the horses’ personalities. Taking to farming, Finn pulled evenly. The beast sensed when the plowshare was surfacing and would slow a bit so Sam or Martin could dig in hard with the handles. Marshall acted like fieldwork was beneath him. Although he skidded logs on ice roads all winter, he was soiling his hooves now. The boys could make him obey, but they started to call him Mister Marshall when he got too contrary.
Spending long days together they had also grown comfortable with silence. Almost like friends. Almost like when Martin would sit quietly fishing with Stan and Chet. At times he and Sam talked, moving from discussions about farmwork to talk about their lives. Each wanting the life the other had.