Francesca of Lost Nation (2 page)

Chapter 2

Summertime Chores

H

e was the premier mechanic in a twenty-mile radius. My father enjoyed a thriving business and he also often burned the midnight oil. Sometimes, Daddyboys would stay at the shop for fourteen hours at a stretch, keeping the town’s outlandish cross-section of cars, trucks and tractors in good running order. In the summer, when the touring season was at its height, he had more work than he could handle.

My mother was a cook of considerable repute. I swear her pie crusts melted on contact with your tongue. In fact, Daddyboys insisted that she’d made a pact with the devil when it came to flour — “No lump would ever dare show its ugly face in her gravy,” he’d tease. Her biscuits were light as air; her canned fruits and vegetables were spiced with unusual seasonings of her own devising. She spent her days with her beloved stove, creating delicacies that sold briskly at Porter’s Emporium, Lost Nation’s sole general store.

It was up to Francesca and me to keep the farm running while my parents worked, so most of the daily chores on our property fell to us. We fed and curried the horses, RedBird and Miss Blossom. We also cared for the chickens and tended to the flower and vegetable gardens.

Our apple trees were harvested by next-door neighbor Joshua Teems and his sons, Isaac and Jacob.

Mr. Purdy, the butcher, dressed out the occasional sheep or pig I raised as a member in good standing of the 4-H Club. Butchering days were painful. I raised those animals practically from the day of their birth, and by the time they had grown to eating size, they’d become the dearest of friends.

Whenever Daddyboys loaded the truck for a mournful trip into town, I hid out down by the pond, so as not to hear the awful squealing and bleating that echoed in my head long after the truck was out of sight.

These woebegone episodes of mine prompted my grandmother to cluck her tongue and pronounce that I would never be a farmer’s wife. “Too much poetic soul,” she would observe, not unkindly. Prophetically, as an adult, I don’t eat anything with four legs.

Thankfully, there would be no butchering today. Instead, Francesca and I would take a delicious detour from our chores.

“Let’s ride RedBird and Blossom to the swimming hole,” I suggested, already skipping down the back stairs. I knew exactly what Francesca would say, which she did.

“But of course.”

In the kitchen, Francesca and my mother exchanged polite greetings.

“Good morning, Rachael.”

“Good morning.”

Their relationship was not distant, exactly. It did, however, exist on rather strictly defined terms. They were generous to and thoughtful of one another, but I never saw them in one another’s pockets.  

My mother was practical and outspoken; my grandmother was grand and outspoken. My mother was rooted to the earth; her mother’s feet always rested on a mountain top, the better to look down upon your little world and keenly observe every single thing that happened in it. My mother was business-like to the point of briskness and rather cheerful. Francesca was ... well ... more like an empress in a folktale. She was cooler, deeper. By some accident of birth, they had been thrown together like clashing colors in a crazy quilt.

“Wherever did that come from?” Francesca said, pointing to a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower that sat rather haughtily on top of the ice box.

“Why, I’m sure I don’t know,” my mother answered. “I thought maybe Sarah put it there.”

“I can’t reach that high,” I said. “Besides, what would I want with that old thing?” Of course, whatever I may have said, my interest was piqued. I have always loved a mystery.

Mommy smiled and took my face in her flour-scented hand. “It’s amazing that you can reach that high when spice cookies are cooling there. My daughter, the ‘stomach,’” she said with a shake of her dark blond hair.

Rachael could be warm and kind, but she could be stern, too. I learned to address her according to her mood, which is why sometimes I called her “Mommy” and other times it was “Mother.”

Today she was on a very even keel, quite unlike Daddyboys’ unusual antics and newfound love of popular music. Maybe we were about to find out what in the bejesus was going on.

At that moment, my father breezed into the room, wearing a Sunday shirt and smelling faintly of vanilla. He grabbed my mother and began waltzing her around the kitchen.

“Clay,” she sputtered, “what on earth? What has gotten into you this morning? Surely you don’t plan to go to work dressed like that?” Francesca and I traded knowing looks. Something was definitely up.

With a little huff, Mom pulled away from Daddyboys, who laughed, kissed her loudly on the cheek and disappeared out the back door. Wham, went the screen.

“I wish he wouldn’t slam it like that,” Mother sighed, staring after him with a frown.

My grandmother returned her attention to business.

“What can we do for you today, Rachael?”

There was a long list. Mary Porter was coming at ten to pick up the pies, and Mrs. Sweeny would be there in the afternoon for the laundry.

“I think the peas are ready, too,” said Mother. “You could clean and shell them. And shuck the corn, will you?” My mother looked at me sharply. “Just don’t eat all the peas.”

“Don’t worry; we won’t,” said Francesca as we went out the back door and down the stoop.

“And don’t let the screen door …” It was too late; slam!

The barn stood across a side yard, where grass struggled to find the sun under a broad elm. Francesca whistled softly, and RedBird nickered from her stall. Anyone who saw those two together, the woman and her horse, would have sworn they’d been sisters in another life. When Francesca communicated with her mare in that quiet way she had, RedBird’s ears pricked up. They gazed into one another’s eyes like long-lost friends. No matter how far out in pasture RedBird was, when Francesca whistled, that horse would come running. Francesca rarely used a saddle and never a bit, preferring a simple hackamore.

“After all,” she’d remind me, “you don’t steer with your hands. Just a little knee pressure suffices.”

Let’s just say I hadn’t quite mastered that technique. Francesca said it was because the riding was still primarily in my head.
 

“It needs to come right from your blood, from all your muscles, from your heart.”

Francesca was a great one for doing things from your heart. Things you’d never thought of as having anything to do with your heart. Like schoolwork and sewing and even weeding.

After we replenished food and water for RedBird and Miss Blossom, Francesca helped me saddle up. With a click of her tongue, she set RedBird into motion, and Blossom followed alongside and slightly behind.

Miss Blossom was under fourteen hands, fat and dappled. She’d had a hard life. You could tell by the scars on her knees. By the time Daddyboys bought her from a scrawny, mean-looking little man named Hoffstedder at the county fair three years back, she’d sunk pretty low. She was skinny and saggy in the middle, and there was dullness in her eyes that made my stomach knot. Under Francesca's care, Miss Blossom had regained her weight and had even developed a sunny disposition.

Daddyboys was against purchasing Miss Blossom at first.

“I don’t know, Frances,” I remember him saying. “She’s the right size for Sarah, but I don’t trust that look in her eyes.”

But I, in the odd way of some small children, had fallen in love with the ill-used pony, convinced that if I didn’t have her for myself, no one would ever love her again.

“Please, Daddyboys? Oh, pleeease ...”

Francesca had been quietly studying Miss Blossom for some minutes while my father contemplated the matter. She stepped up to the mare’s muzzle and blew softly into her nose. Miss Blossom snorted back, softly.

“Well, now, Clay, I appreciate your feelings. You know I do. But I have a sense about Miss Blossom.”

Francesca’s instincts about horses were similar to my father’s own senses about machines. He bought Blossom without uttering another word.

Sitting in the saddle now, looking down at Blossom, I couldn’t help but think how really great a horse she’d turned out to be. As we trotted down the gravel drive to the road, Francesca interrupted my thoughts. “Which way should we go?”

“Let's take the long way. I’m not too keen on seeing Isaac or Jacob.”
 

“Does someone have a little crush on someone?” Her eyes were twinkling devilishly. I was no fool, even at that tender age. I deftly rerouted the conversation. “Daddyboys has a secret! I’d give dollars to doughnuts to know what it is.”

Francesca pursed her lips slightly and turned things over in her mind for a moment or two. Then, “Yes, he's got something up his sleeve. You know, Sarah, there’s more to your father than meets the eye. I wonder ... It’s going to be an interesting couple of days.”

She began to hum
La Vie en Rose
softly.

Chapter 3

Unexpected Delights

M

y family lived on a piece of land that had once been part of a much larger tract. Francesca’s forebears had begun arriving in Lost Nation in the 1850’s, having survived a treacherous migration from Essen, Germany. Their stories, which were handed down by the generations with assorted embellishments, were hair-raising and full of ingenious creativity.

Farmers they had been in the Old Country and farmers they would be in the New. With their detail-oriented industriousness, the German settlers, many of them Pittschticks, were soon enjoying a vigorous prosperity and did so for about seventy years. But then, the Great Depression hit hard.

The family dug in for a grim battle with the American economy but came up losers. Little by little, bits of land were sold off from the thousands of acres that had been Home Farm, until only the last twelve were left. With farming no longer a career option, the Pittschticks became mechanics and teachers and Presbyterian missionaries traveling into the darkest regions of Africa — and California — to spread the Gospel and save so-called lost souls.

By 1947, Francesca, Rachael and I were the only descendants left out of a once-thriving colony of cousins. Home Farm, as it was still called, was not jointly held by my parents; it belonged to my great-aunt and grandmother equally and would one day belong to my mother and me. As my Grandpap had been a Schneider and my dad a Morgan, they were not eligible to inherit.

This morning, Francesca and I rode along the western boundary of Home Farm on Thunder Ridge Road, the main drag into and out of Lost Nation. There was supposed to be an actual Thunder Ridge up in the hills somewhere, and I’d always wondered where it was and where the name came from
.
 

My grandmother, who loved thunderstorms, with their great booming claps and corkscrew lightning bolts, insisted that those hills were the site of ghostly native rites. According to her busy imagination, long-dead Indians, their spirits keening and hollering, danced around spectral campfires. And it was true that whenever the thunderheads rolled in and draped our uplands in the purples and earth-tones of Apache blankets, I swore I could hear those phantoms in their celebrations.

RedBird was a whiz at anticipating Francesca’s moods. With scarcely any prodding, she took the path that led down to the fishing pond. It was swim time!

We tethered the horses and stripped down to bathing suits. In a flash, I was up to my ankles in the chilly water, but no matter how quickly I moved, Francesca always seemed to get there a tad ahead of me.

I was what my grandmother called an “inch-by-incher,” letting one part of my body at a time become accustomed to the shivery cool. Francesca (who had worn bathing suits under her farm clothes for decades) always dove right in head first, with little regard for the temperature of the day or the water. Never a fan of the Australian Crawl, she dog-paddled a little, and we started to splash one another, with me shrieking every time the icy droplets hit my still-dry back.

Suddenly, I glanced beyond Francesca and spotted what looked like a dead crow floating across the water. There was a rookery on our property, and since this was the time of year when fledglings were learning to fly, we found the noisy black birds — adults and youngsters — in the darnedest places. But this was the first one I’d ever seen in the pond.

Francesca took up the still form in her right hand and held it up to her ear like a sea shell.

“It's still alive,” she said.

“Can we save it?” I asked.

Without answering, she waded over to the bank, took up her soft cotton shirt and gently dried the still body. Francesca peeked under its wing and discovered down, which meant this was not a crow at all but a
baby raven.

“What should we do?” I asked.

Francesca determined we’d return to the house, where we could better tend the tiny, sopping survivor.

“Sarah, you carry it now.”

This was an unwelcome surprise. I was not allowed, by parental edict, to touch any of the chick hatchlings, for fear I'd be too rough and hurt them somehow. At age five and in a fit of love, I had smothered one to death with my tender but heavy-handed caresses. What if something bad happened now?

When I felt prickling behind my eyes, I screwed my brows together and forced my eyes into slits to hold back the tears. 

Reading my mind, Francesca put her free hand on my shoulder.

“It's time you left that nonsense behind. You, of all people, who wouldn't hurt a fly or eat a farm pet even if you were starving.”

She looked into my eyes and smiled, but I didn't smile back. I took a deep breath and set my mind to the task.

Using a stump as a boost, I scrambled up onto Miss Blossom’s saddle, finding the stirrups with my feet. Francesca handed me the baby raven, gathered up our clothes and hopped up on RedBird. 

We started off, with Francesca leading Miss Blossom by her reins. I paid no mind to anything but that tiny living bundle cradled in my hands.

We rode onto
Thunder Ridge Road and saw a cloud of dust closing fast. When I heard the rattle-a-tap of the truck, I realized that it must be Hunny Clack out early with the mail.

In the days before the war, Greely Clack had been the Postmaster of Lost Nation. When the draft scooped him up along with my father, they were sent to
Camp Dodge, Iowa’s only military training installation.

During the First World War,
Camp Dodge had been one of sixteen national training centers and was deactivated shortly after the Armistice. But when World War II broke out, the federal government dusted the place off, swept out the mothballs, patched up the roofs and commissioned it as an induction center.

Daddyboys’ tour of duty took place from 1942 to 1945, in the lower 48, mostly as the head mechanic of motor pools. He was happy enough doing what he loved to do, what he figured he'd been born to do. But his best friend had been restless. 

As soon as Greely got through basic training, he requested a transfer, hoping to get to any place with some “real action.” He was eventually posted to England, where he helped censor GI mail, mostly striking out any references to the soldiers' whereabouts. Greely Clack’s ultimate task was to make sure General Eisenhower's D-day plans stayed a secret, and Greely Clack did his job. In the event any American mailbags fell into enemy hands, they wouldn't learn one single thing from correspondence passing under Clack’s watchful eyes and black laundry marker.

With Greely overseas and Lost Nation needing a post person,  Hunny applied for the job and got it. A small, round woman with a fresh-scrubbed complexion, her hair was honey-colored and usually hung in a fat braid to her knees. It was her crowning glory and the source of her nickname.

It took Hunny a while to comprehend the postal way of doing things, but eventually she mastered the job and enjoyed her independence and new-found standing in the community.

When Greely finally mustered out of the Army, it was impossible for Hunny to consider stepping back into the shadows. Instead, she declared she would share the job with her husband, who knew better than to object. And since the Census Bureau predicted Lost Nation’s population would be increasing, the
county Postmaster kept them both on.

Rattle-a-tap, RATTLE-A-TAP! The truck got louder as it got closer.

Although our exchange with Hunny Clack was less than two minutes, it seemed an eternity to me, and all I could do was stare at the little bird. 

The window of her truck was already rolled down when she screeched to a stop alongside us. Peeking through instead of over the steering wheel, she waved and grinned.

“Hi ya," she called over the noise of the still-knocking engine. “you headin' back to Home Farm?”

Francesca nodded.

“Great! Can you take this with you? It’s for Clay.”

Francesca nodded again as Hunny handed a larger-than-normal envelope.

“It’s special delivery. It must be important. Hope it’s happy news.”

As Hunny drove off with another cheerful wave, Francesca turned to me. “You know, Sarah, the war was a terrible thing for most people. But it was quite a boon for Hunny Clack. Hmmm ... I wonder if this … has anything to do with your father’s little game.”

“Of course it does,” I answered fake-nonchalantly, pretending to think about something other than the bird in my hand.

Francesca then said idly, “Would you say you were about as tall as Hunny Clack?”

“Gee, Francesca, she's practically a midget! I'm at least as big, probably bigger.” I carefully shifted the baby raven from my right hand into my left. “Who'd write Daddyboys and have it be so important, and all?”

Francesca examined the envelope and noted the return address:
New York City. 

“We have relatives in
New York,” she observed.

“But if someone died, or something, wouldn't they telephone or send a wire?”

“Absolutely. How's that bird?”

“It's moving its claw, the right claw! What should I do?”

“Don't do a thing, Sarah. The life’s coming back into it little by little. The legs will move next.” 

And they did.

We rode along like this all the way back to Home Farm. Hovering between panic and despair, I’d pester her by observing every tiny change in the raven's behavior. Francesca continued to assure me that everything was going along perfectly and not to worry. She had the patience of a tomcat stalking a lizard.

When we finally reached Home Farm, the raven was beginning to squirm. I was terrified I’d have to squeeze it to keep it from falling to the ground.

Francesca herded the horses into the paddock and ran into the house for a dish towel. She arranged it across the wicker table, and I carefully set the raven down on top of it.

It was beautiful, with feathers so glossy black they looked blue. It kept looking up at me, cocking its head quizzically this way and that, as if trying to make out the secrets of Home Farm … of which there had certainly been a sufficiency that morning. 

Francesca brought out a saucer of water along with an eyedropper and quenched its thirst in this way. “Now, it's up to the raven. We'll keep an eye on it, and I'll ask Rachael to watch it from the kitchen.”

My mother wasn’t the kind of person to take this type of duty very seriously. She seemed rather indifferent to animals and their feelings unless she was folding parts of them into pie dough. She wasn't cruel or unthinking; she was just so brisk and busy, up to her elbows in flour and mixing bowls and recipe cards.

I watched through the back door screen as Francesca spoke to Rachael with low tones and animated gestures, pointing in the direction of the raven. I snuck closer, so I could hear.

“It's important, Rachael. I want you to mind that bird and no nonsense.”

Rachael nodded absently, and Francesca gripped her shoulders.

“Are you listening? I know this is your busiest day of the week. But if anything happens to that bird out there, I will make your life a misery. And you
know I can do it.”

This time, I saw Mother’s eyes focus, and she shrugged off Francesca’s hands. There was an odd expression on her face that met somewhere between annoyed and unnerved.

When my grandmother rejoined me on the porch, the raven was attempting to stand.

“I want to call him Humphrey,” I said.

“You do?” She looked puzzled for a split second before saying, “Well, of course you do. Humphrey will be fine here for a while. Let’s go find your daddy."

My father worked out of his garage, which was in reality just a drafty converted barn that sat at the southwest end of our property. Two driveways led to it from
Thunder Ridge Road, one bypassing the main house completely so that we were seldom bothered by Daddyboys’ customers.

A walk to the garage always took longer than expected, because Francesca stopped every few feet to examine a strand of sweet peas or a young bed of oregano, muttering mental notes to herself all the while.

“This one needs feeding. I’ll have to pinch this back. Crikey!  How did this get so dry?”

To her, gardening was like minding a brood of naughty children. Where Mommy cooed to and seduced her stove, Francesca scolded and praised her plants by turn, attempting to keep them in some kind of mystic balance.

Daddyboys was giving the once-over to Mr. Blackfeather’s 1913 Ford. Everyone in Lost Nation was amazed that the ancient contraption still ran, but my father was a genius with all things motorized. When he swore he could fix an airplane engine with a screw driver and a coat hanger, most people believed him.

Mr. Blackfeather was Lost Nation’s barber. His face was as fierce as any Indian chieftain’s, making him quite a sight when wielding his straight razor. In fact, I often wondered why our neighbors trusted him to use that glistening blade so close to their necks. But as he was the only barber in Lost Nation and environs, they didn’t have much choice.