Dust (10 page)

"It's not as tall as sunflowers," Robert said, matter-of-factly. The wheat was sparse and only reached his hips, unlike the fields he'd dreamed about from time to time, where he would traipse through the wheat, the stalks blocking the sun. But his dad was happy with it, and that was good. His dad had been really happy for a while now.

"We'll get back what we put into it and a bit more. Arnold at the elevator said the price might be going up a couple cents. Something to do with Russia."

Robert nodded. They were talking adult talk now and it seemed more natural. He thought about Russia, a big, majestic country. The Cossacks lived there: fighters and cavalrymen. What was their connection to Horshoe grain?

"We don't have to pay our loan, that eases the burden. Didn't even have to use butter on the tractor's axles this year. Real grease all the way." His dad motioned toward Uncle Alden, who was feeding a stook into the threshing machine. "Your uncle seems good now. Terrible shame about his crop. Just plain ol' bad luck. He should go for that deal with Samuelson—he'd be in good shape then." Robert's dad rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Well, we should get back to the sheaves. No rest for the wicked."

The phrase sounded odd to Robert. It wasn't a saying his father had ever used before. Robert leaned down and grabbed a sheaf of wheat.

They worked as the dull, red sun crept across the cloudless sky toward the horizon. When dusk turned the world gray, they set down their tools, stopped the growling of the threshing machine, and headed for the wagon. Uncle Alden held Robert with his stained, bleeding hands and lifted him into the box. His uncle's face was grim and tired, as though he'd gone sleepless for days. He sat silently beside Robert.

His father aimed the wagon straight toward the sun. It was like riding in a tunnel, a tunnel that led home, where his mother would have supper on the table: potatoes and carrots and peas, and maybe chicken. And she would have that strange, calm smile that made him feel more uncomfortable as each day passed.

"You read that book yet?" his uncle asked.

Robert shook his head. "Too busy. And it's dark when we get home."

"Sneak a candle upstairs. Your imagination is like a muscle; you have to keep it exercised."

"Okay," Robert said, but getting a candle would be tricky. And he really was tired at night. Exhausted. He had decided that people need more sleep as they get older. Then, eventually, they sleep forever.

"You hear about the dinosaurs in Alberta?"

Robert turned his head; his heart sped up. "Live ones?"

"Yeah, a T. Rex ate two politicians in Red Deer. Swallowed them whole." Uncle Alden chuckled gruffly. "I kinda made that up. But they did find a whole stack of fossils. Can't dig a fence hole there without hitting a dinosaur bone."

"Are there eggs?" Robert asked.

"Most probably. Reminds me of a story I wrote about a guy finding an egg and it hatched and he feeds this meat-eating dinosaur until it grows up and starts gobbling up everyone in town."

"That sounds like a great story!"

"It'd be greater if I could sell it. Can't sell my wheat. Maybe I'll make my living as a writer!" He laughed.

The wagon bounced along, and Robert imagined the dinosaur egg cracking open, a green, scaly snout poking through the shell.

His uncle leaned in close. "Your parents ever talk about Matthew?"

"No." Just hearing someone else mention his brother's name gave Robert an immense feeling of relief. He peeked over his shoulder. A thresher was riding up front, chatting with his father. Robert moved even nearer to his uncle. "It's like he was never here."

"People are forgetting things. I asked know-it-all Ruggles if there was anything new in the investigation into Matthew's disappearance, and he said, 'Who?' It took a few minutes for him to remember. Others have forgotten, too. All they think about is this windmill. Oh, pardon me,
rain
mill. Guess the Mountie has poked his nose around, but nothing's ever come of it. Wish I could find some logical explanation."

Robert nodded. It was hard to think about Matthew. He needed to wait until Harvest was done. Then he'd be able to think again. To dream again. He was silent the rest of the trip.

The next morning he was up at dawn, home at dusk. On Sunday, he slept in. He hadn't intended to, but neither of his parents had awakened him. When he went downstairs, his mother was pounding dough. She hit it like a punching bag, humming to herself. It took a few moments for her to notice Robert.

"So, you're up, Sunshine! What are you going to do with your day off?"

Robert shrugged. "I didn't know I was getting a day off."

"It's a day of rest." She draped a towel over the dough and set it near the window. "Unless you're making bread, of course. But that's not really work." Her hands were white with flour.

"Where's Dad?"

"He went to the rainmill. They started working on it a few weeks ago, and he wants to do his part. I gave him enough cheese and bread to last him the whole day."

Robert wasn't sure what to think about his dad stopping harvest to work on the mill. Even Sunday wasn't a big enough day to stop harvest.

Robert spent the day wandering around the farm, playing with the kittens in the hayloft, exploring the dry creekbed for signs of frogs. Later he crept upstairs and tried to read some of
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,
but the words only made him tired.

At suppertime, his father walked in with an empty lunch basket. "The mill is taking shape," he announced. "Abram says everything's turning out fine. People are pitching in. It's quite the sight."

Robert's mother set a plate of steaming cabbage rolls on the table. "Who was there?"

"Ruggles, the Wicksons, Samuelson, Charlie Kreklau, the Wallace brothers—they brought their Clydesdales. Those horses are amazing! Hagan and his sons were there, that short guy who lives on the bench, even some hobos showed up, I shared some of my bread with them ... Most everyone was there. And Abram, of course."

"So who
wasn't
there?" The question was spoken softly, but Robert had the feeling it was really important to his mom.

"Old Man Spooky, the Hereford Hill hermit, all of the Chinamen, but they're not Christians and ... your brother wasn't there, either."

Robert looked at his mom and was surprised to see she was smiling. "I wish he'd grow up." She shook her head. "He was always juvenile. No wonder he's still a bachelor—he's got to just grow up and accept his responsibilities."

They ate, and all the while Robert thought about his uncle. He seemed grown up enough. He shaved, swore, smoked a pipe. Even chewed tobacco. Just because he read a lot of books didn't mean he wasn't grown up, Robert decided.

The next day, Robert was up with the sun and on the wagon, working hard. And so it went for the following two weeks, until all the wheat was in the bins or hauled to the elevators. Muscles had grown in his arms. He felt stronger and older, like a birthday had passed while he was helping.

And he hadn't had one dream in all that time.

Robert cut through the old slough on the school grounds, walking over what was now caked and cracked earth. Several clumps of dried bulrushes pointed skyward, their sausage-shaped heads billowing with fluff. He searched for dinosaur tracks but found only rocks. He was in the wrong province, he told himself. Saskatchewan had nothing but rocks, Russian thistles, and sand. Uncle Alden had said there were loads of dinosaur bones in Alberta. He'd give anything to toss on a wide-brimmed hat, walk straight to Alberta, and dig. Maybe he'd find the jaw of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

He aimed for the door of Horshoe's one-room school. Mrs. Juskin probably wouldn't ever talk about dinosaurs. She mostly taught numbers, reading, writing, and more numbers. The lessons in their readers never had anything to do with prehistoric times.

He was late, so he carefully opened the door and peeped through the crack. Twenty-four boys and girls sat at their desks, facing the front. Mrs. Juskin was writing on the chalkboard. She didn't take disruption lightly. Robert liked that word—
disruption
—there was something unstable about it, as though it were about to explode. He sneaked to his seat, relieved that she hadn't noticed his tardiness.

All the other seats were full, which surprised him. There wasn't a place left for Matthew. Perhaps they had moved his desk to the shed outside. Worse yet, Robert couldn't remember which row his brother had sat in.

Someone had scribbled
I will not pull ponytails
a hundred times on the smaller chalkboard. Lines: it was a word that inspired fear in Robert's heart. Mrs. Juskin was a firm believer that writing the same sentence over and over again would correct a student's bad behavior. To him, it was a crazy waste of time to follow a sentence with the same sentence. That would never tell a story.

The king of England glared down from a picture above the chalkboard, making sure the pupils paid attention to their lessons. Below him was Mrs. Juskin. She really could look like a spider waiting to strike. Her frozen, marble eyes scanned for infractions. If you were loud, or a smart aleck, she quickly snapped the yardstick across your head. Robert had been smacked once when he'd asked whether or not God ever slept. Since God had rested on the seventh day of creation, Robert reasoned that He would probably sleep. It had been a logical question; a good one, even. Instead,
smack!
on the back of his skull. "Impertinent child."

The blow would have stung more if she hadn't said "impertinent." The word echoed inside his head. Now, whenever he heard it, he thought of the smacking ruler. He used to use the word whenever he thought Matthew was getting out of line.

Matthew had never been smacked. He had always sat up straight. Mrs. Juskin had even entrusted him with telling her when her coffee was ready on the pot-bellied stove. Or when her bacon was done at lunch. He was a good pupil, and he'd made lots of friends, too. More than Robert ever had.

He wondered if his dream about Matthew being raised by coyotes could work. It didn't seem that likely any more—why would a coyote raise a human kid? Matthew was probably dead, and would never come back. But they hadn't had a funeral; therefore, he might still be alive.

Mrs. Juskin banged her pointer on the desk. Everyone looked up, expecting a reprimand. Instead, she seemed peaceful, as though her stomach were freshly filled with fat, juicy flies.

"Today, we will study insects and their place in our world. To add insight to the lesson we have a special guest. He's right outside, ready to come in." She tiptoed to the door, opened it, and motioned, as though she were introducing a Hollywood star. Abram entered, smiling widely, two rectangular boxes in his hands.

"It's Abram Harsich, everyone! He's an amateur entomologist, and he's taking time from building his wonderful rainmill to lecture us. We're marvelously lucky, so
please
welcome him graciously."

She clapped lightly as Abram walked toward the front. His weight forced the hardwood floor to creak. Robert couldn't stop staring; the man attracted eyes like a magnet.

Abram set the boxes down on the desk and said, "Good morning, children."

No one answered. Robert set his teeth together, promising himself he wouldn't reply. The memory of his Uncle Edmund's warning drifted through his mind. Better to be silent, to watch Abram carefully.

"Good morning," Abram repeated, his voice gentle. The words amplified inside Robert's head, became so loud he had an overpowering need to repeat them. Before he could help himself he'd answered, "Good morning, Mr. Harsich," along with his classmates.

Abram grinned. "Mrs. Juskin has been kind enough to allow me to explain the order
Lepidoptera."

"We're gonna talk about leopards?" Mike Tuppence asked. Robert hadn't seen the younger boy since that day in the pool hall. He was still wearing the same oversized shirt and suspenders.

"No,
Lepidoptera
is the name for a family of butterflies and moths. Just as dogs are called
Canis familiaris."

"Oh, okay," Mike said slowly. Robert could tell that he didn't really understand.

"A lepidopterist catches, collects, and studies butterflies. They are the most remarkable of all Creation's creatures." He reached into one of the boxes, his back to the class. Robert moved from side to side but he couldn't see what Harsich was doing. The rest of the students craned their necks.

Abram turned and held his right hand high. An orange Monarch butterfly sat on his gloved palm, fanning its wings. It was the largest Robert had ever seen, and its golden colors shimmered in the dullness of the room. Thirty in a jar would light the way through the gloomiest night. Robert remembered reading that it was called the Monarch because it was the king of butterflies.

"A butterfly's color is in the scales of its wings." Abram's soothing voice drifted easily through the silent room. "In fact, the name
Lepidoptera
is from the Greek for 'scaly wings.'"

Robert listened intently. Mrs. Juskin had once said that Greek, Viking, and Latin words were mixed together to make the English language.

Abram brushed a finger across the tip of the Monarch's closed wings. Again, Robert wondered why he was wearing gloves. Perhaps he had soft hands that blistered easily.

"If you rub off the scales, the wings become transparent as a fly's."

Abram gently raised his hand, and the butterfly floated up and skimmed above the students' heads. He laughed, and Mrs. Juskin giggled sharply. It was obvious she wanted to impress Abram.

"Butterflies live in every corner of the world," he went on to explain. Then he lifted the lid of the box again and two more butterflies joined their brother, one light green, the other red as fire. They fluttered in circles, playing near the ceiling. If they could laugh, Robert thought, they would be laughing now.

"Colonial Americans were convinced the butterflies were beautiful witches who changed to this shape to steal butter. The Blackfoot believed that butterflies brought dreams to sleeping people. And the medieval Europeans thought they carried souls." Abram spread his fingers and the butterflies landed gently in his palms. He lowered them into the box.