Crossing Stones

by Helen Frost

  I’m still steaming about all this

  when Frank offers me his arm to walk

  from the school to the dance hall. The soft swish

  of my dress doesn’t stop me from stomping along,

  arguing point by point with Arthur’s speech.

  Why is everyone just doing what they’re told?

  The presidents of all the countries should

  meet somewhere and fight this war themselves

  if they think it’s worth fighting.

  What are they sacrificing? Have they asked the mothers

  who gave the best years of their lives to raise

  these boys the presidents are sending into battle?

  No! Women don’t even get to vote—it isn’t fair!

  Frank listens for a while, then says, You’re starting

  to sound like one of those Woman Suffragists, Muriel.

  It doesn’t sound very patriotic. But who cares?

  You graduated! Let’s dance! And so we do,

  together, and with other friends—I dance with all

  the boys except for Arthur, who doesn’t ask me,

  and Frank dances with each of the twelve girls

  in my class, and then he and I dance

  the last dance, relaxing into each other’s arms,

  Frank’s heartbeat steady in my ear. I have to admit,

  I’m enjoying this, and when the dance is over,

  it’s nice to walk outside into the night,

  with Frank, my almost-but-not-quite brother.

  Someone

  Muriel

  The horses clip-clop down the road ahead of us—

  the fragrance of lilacs, then the sweet scent of skunk,

  a chorus of crickets and spring peepers. It’s not often

  Frank and I are alone together, neither Emma

  nor Ollie with us. Frank clears his throat.

  Did you know, Muriel, that Ed and Howard

  enlisted yesterday? I say nothing. He goes on.

  John and Hal are planning to sign up next week. It’s dark—

  Frank can’t see me roll my eyes. The ants go marching …

  is my only comment. That childish song is still

  singing itself in my head as we come home

  and Frank holds out his hand to help me

  from the buggy, as if I were a fine lady,

  and he Sir Galahad. And then: May I

  kiss you, Muriel? So gently asked,

  a sweet surprise. A kiss would change

  so much—I hesitate. Ordinarily, he says, I wouldn’t be

  in such a hurry; you know me, I always take my time.

  But—I’ve been trying to tell you—

  I’m going to France. I leave next Monday.

  It would sure be nice to have a girl

  back home to write to—someone waiting

  for me, someone to keep fighting for.

  A girl. Someone. He doesn’t have time

  to choose, to court, to fall in love,

  and here I stand. It must seem easy, obvious.

  But— No, Frank, I answer, I can’t

  do that for you. I’ll be glad to write to you;

  you know we all will. Grace will keep on

  sending you her little drawings. We’ll miss you—

  I’ll miss you—more than I can say.

  I wish you wouldn’t go. I wish no one would …

  Frank shakes his head. Am I confusing him?

  Has he planned how this should work—get a girl,

  go to war, come home a hero, and get married?

  His smile fades—if I believed that one sweet kiss

  could bring it back, I might

  want to give him that small comfort.

  But no. Frank signed up for this.

  I didn’t. It is not up to me

  to make it easier.

  Would It Hurt?

  Emma

  A kiss is not a marriage vow,

  I argue with Muriel. For pity’s sake,

  would it hurt you to give Frank a little dream

  to tuck into his heart before he leaves? One kiss—

  you wouldn’t be engaged, just something for my brother

  to hang on to in the lonely times when he’s far from home.

  I don’t know exactly what happened between you last night,

  but from Frank’s face today, it’s not hard to guess. He might

  not come back from this war! Are your ideas so set in stone

  that you can’t put them aside, or at least consider another,

  more gentle point of view? Believe me, Muriel, I hate this

  war as much as you do, but truly, in the overall scheme

  of things, would one little kiss be so hard to take?

  Muriel’s only answer is, I don’t know.

  Right in Front of Everyone

  Ollie

  Light in the eastern sky has turned

  from red to gold in the hour we’ve been

  standing here with Frank, waiting for the train

  to take him back to camp. Emma looks at her brother

  as if she thinks he’s already been to war and is returning

  home a few feet taller, covered in ribbons and medals. She

  stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek, then folds her

  hands around his arm. (For a look like that from Emma, I’d

  roam the earth, swim across oceans and fight lions.) Muriel

  has not yet said goodbye. Looking up at Frank, she says,

  You don’t always have to be the hero. You stay safe now!

  Commanding him with such ferocity that he jokes,

  Come here and say that. And when she does,

  right in front of everyone, he kisses her!

  Circles for the Crossing Stones

  June 1917

  Would You Be Willing?

  Muriel

  Look, Mama—Papa forgot his lunch—

  Ollie’s over at the Normans’, helping

  with the planting—I’ll hitch up the horses

  and take this to Papa at the lumberyard.

  It’s good to be out on this warm day,

  half an hour into town, and half an hour back,

  time to think my own thoughts, sing to the horses,

  wave to men out in the fields—though lately

  half the people in the fields are women,

  and at the lumberyard, six women, wearing overalls,

  are working just as hard as men. They’re filling in

  for men who have been drafted, Papa tells me.

  All the way home, and all afternoon, I think about

  applying for a job myself—I’d earn some money, and

  it’s considered “the patriotic thing to do” these days.

  But at supper, Mama tells us she has decided to go to work

  at a shop in town. The bookkeeper was drafted,

  and the manager asked Mama to help out

  “for the duration”—that’s the phrase they’re using, to avoid

  having to say “war.” (No one knows, of course, how long

  the duration will be.) Muriel, would you be willing

  to take care of Grace and help with the housework?

  “Help with the housework”—ironing and mending,

  washing dishes, cooking, milking, churning, mopping.

  And, oh yes, “take care of Grace,” as if that’s

  a little thing you do when all the other work

  is finished. Mama and I together are barely

  keeping up with everything; I don’t see how

  I’ll do it all myself. But this is not a question.

  It’s a request that will define my days—

  for the duration. Grace shines a little grin

  my way when Mama turns her back—

  no doubt thinking of some mischief

  I’ll allow that Mama wouldn’t.

  The Gentleman Should Always

  Muriel
/>
  Grace draws a picture: our two houses with the creek

  between them, circles for the crossing stones

  spaced across the creek, stick-people

  standing on the circles holding hands,

  a small girl with brown braids (Grace)

  between two bigger girls—she means them to be

  straight-haired Emma and curly-haired me—

  and a slightly taller boy—obviously Ollie—

  holding Emma’s other hand. On my other side,

  she’s drawn a stone with no one on it, my hand

  stretched out toward it, reaching out to someone

  who’s not there. I drew this for Frank, she says.

  Can we send it to him? I’ve been thinking

  I could write to him—why not? Yes, Grace,

  let’s do that, I say. I’ll write a note to send him,

  along with your picture. Frank will enjoy that.

  It’s harder than I thought to find the words I need:

  Dear Frank, How are you? I’m (no …)

  We’re guessing you’re in France by now.

  There’s a lot of work to do around here—

  you know how it is this time of year—

  picking the strawberries, weeding the beans.

  Boring. I tear it up. I’m looking out the window,

  chewing on my pen, when Mama comes home

  from her new job. Muriel, are you writing to Frank? she asks.

  I bend my head over the paper, but I can’t hide

  the blush that rises—Oh, I mumble,

  Grace drew a picture, I’m only …

  I’m not aware I know this rule, until

  I’m embarrassed to be caught breaking it:

  The gentleman should always

  be the first to write, Mama informs me.

  A lady never writes until she has received a letter.

  Grace bursts into tears. I drew this for Frank!

  Why can’t I send it? Mama smiles down at her.

  Don’t be silly, Grace. You’re a little girl,

  not a young lady. I’ll help you mail your drawing.

  The two of them go in the other room to find

  an envelope, and I pick up my pen and try again

  to find the words I want to say to My dear Frank …

  No. Hello, my friend? No …

  Frank’s Absence

  Emma

  Summer is different now. Bessie demands

  we clean her stall; Frank isn’t here, so it’s up to me.

  Who will help Father plow the field? Ollie will help, I say—

  yes, here he comes now, whistling through our door just as I stoke

  the fire to heat some soup for lunch. But even Ollie can’t fill the empty spot

  that Frank leaves, an odd-shaped missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of our lives.

  And maybe worse—what I did not expect—although we all claim nothing can fill

  that space, somehow the chores do get done. Mother takes the wheat to the mill;

  I watch Grace while Muriel helps Father shoe the horses. We sharpen knives;

  we pitch the hay. Mother and I help Father birth the calf—Bessie does not

  even seem to realize Frank isn’t here. Muriel’s father makes a joke

  to mine about turning us into boys while Frank is away.

  Even as we figure out who will do what, we

  hold his place open, however we can.

  Rocking

  Muriel

  The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that

  rules the world, Mama says, by which she means

  I should be content to learn the women’s work

  that she and Mrs. Norman do so smoothly

  anyone would think there’s nothing to it—

  until a day like today when I almost burn

  the house down making eleven pints

  of strawberry jam—how should I know

  paraffin can catch fire so easily?

  I ignore my burning hand and rush to the creek

  for a bucket of cold water—only to discover that water

  fans the flames instead of putting out this kind of fire.

  I’m never going to get married! Never! I burst out.

  Mama tries to quiet me: No one’s talking

  about marriage. Calm down, Muriel—all’s well

  that ends well. It’s a good thing it happened

  on a Saturday when I’m at home. She thinks

  I can be soothed and smothered,

  like the fire she extinguishes so quickly,

  so competently, it doesn’t even burn the blanket

  she puts over it—where did Mama learn to do that?

  She smiles her sweetest, most infuriating smile

  as she wraps a bandage around my blistered hand.

  Women influence the world in quiet ways,

  she says. We keep peace in our families, and

  raise our children to be decent, honest people.

  Decent. Honest. (Frank)

  But what good does that do, I argue, if your

  decent, honest children are sent off to fight

  and maybe die in a war someone else

  started, and all the girls and mothers

  in America have no way of stopping?

  She holds my bandaged hand, pushes

  a strand of hair from my flushed face.

  I don’t know the answer to that question,

  she finally admits. She studies me:

  Maybe you won’t rock a cradle, Muriel.

  Some women seem to prefer to rock the boat.

  She speaks gently, thoughtfully; there’s truth

  in what she sees and says. But her words sting

  like yellow jackets flying from a nest I don’t

  know is there until I step right into it.

  Geranium

  Ollie

  Will Emma write to me? I can’t ask

  because I’m not saying goodbye to anyone.

  They’ll all know, by this time tomorrow, that I’ve

  left home to catch the train to Kansas for basic training.

  What will Pa do when he finds out I enlisted, underage? I

  think it’s better not to tell him. Grace asks, Why are you

  being so nice to me now, Ollie? I’ve been spending all my

  free time finishing her playhouse. Emma hung new

  pink curtains in the windows. Now she holds the

  cat in her lap, stroking it. This morning, Grace

  slept on an old quilt as I pounded in one last

  nail and looked around. Remember this:

  Emma’s hand on the freshly painted

  sill as she waters a red geranium.

  Your Son and Brother

  Muriel

  We wake up and Ollie’s not here—nothing

  so unusual; he’s probably gone over to the Normans’.

  Mama and Papa go to work, I milk Rosie

  and make breakfast, Grace wakes up and eats it.

  I feed the chickens, churn the butter.

  It’s early afternoon when Mrs. Norman

  comes to ask if Ollie might spare an hour or so

  to help them fix a leak in their roof. What?

  I thought he’d been at your house since

  six o’clock this morning. We look everywhere

  in both our houses, anyplace he might be working.

  Grace says, He finished my playhouse yesterday.

  Emma made pink curtains! We look there.

  No. And then the mailman comes,

  with Ollie’s letter: You’ll receive this

  on Wednesday afternoon, after I have left.

  I’m headed to Kansas for basic training.

  You might think I’m too young, but I’m

  only twenty months younger than Frank. It’s been

  rough on me, thinking of him over there while I

  stay safe at home. I had no trouble getting

  the r
ecruiters to believe I’m eighteen—

  think of it this way: by the next time you see me,

  I will be. Pa, don’t go in and try to change this—

  if they find out my real age, it could cause trouble.

  I’ll write again when I get settled in.

  Ma and Muriel, I know you would have made me

  a chicken dinner if you’d known I was leaving,

  but I hope you’ll understand why I decided

  not to tell you. I’ll look forward to that

  dinner when I get home. Don’t be sore.

  Your son and brother, Ollie.

  The Normans come over and we all talk

  through supper, and on and on until the sun goes down.

  Papa wants to follow Ollie on tomorrow’s train.

  I’ll go in his place, if they’ll let me.

  He’s a mere boy. I’m not too old.

  But Mr. Norman convinces Papa

  that Ollie is right: A dishonorable discharge

  for lying about his age could follow him

  all through his life. Mama and Emma keep talking

  about the danger he’ll be in. It scares me, too,

  but for once I keep my opinions to myself.

  If I start talking, I’m afraid I might admit

  how my thoughts keep turning from the war

  to Ollie’s chores. Who will do them now?

  Conversation Through a Thick Curtain

  July 1917

  Love to Everyone

  Muriel

  Emma comes leaping over the crossing stones,

  waving a letter: It’s from Frank! He’s in France now.

  He says the trip over was terrible, everyone was seasick,

  but now they’re getting ready to fight. He sounds

  excited, he sounds proud—here, read it yourself.

  I take the letter from her and turn away

  so she can’t see my hand trembling,

  heaven knows why—it’s not as if Frank

  is my brother, it’s not as if … Well, in any case,

  I’m glad to know he has safely crossed the ocean:

  The sea voyage was very rough, but at least

  we finally got some time to write a few letters,

  and tomorrow we’ll be able to mail them.

  The food is terrible—Mother, what I’d give

  for a dish of your apple crisp, warm from the oven.

  But I can’t complain—the blisters on my heels