Francesca of Lost Nation (3 page)

As we approached the garage, I could hear the men talking.

“I know you can fix it, so you fix it,” Mr. Blackfeather said with deliberate intention.

“It’s not that simple, Tom. I just don’t know where I can get the brake fittings I need.”

“You’ll get 'em. You will, because you always have. And if you can't get 'em, you'll get 'em anyway.”

Tom Blackfeather loved that old collection of nuts and bolts.  For years, my father had tried to talk him into getting a new car, or even just a newer car, one he could depend on. But Tom refused to contemplate such faithlessness. So the old black Ford kept breaking down, and my father kept patching it up.

Daddyboys sighed. “I can't get to it today, Tom. But if you can leave it with me, I'll start first thing in the morning.”

“Okey-dokey. I brought Totem. I'll just ride 'im on home.”

Totem was Mr. Blackfeather's paint pony. On any given day, you'd see it trailing along after the old Ford, connected by a long rope. Totem was a lot more dependable than the car and didn't seem to mind the cloud of gas fumes that spewed out from the exhaust.

As Tom swept out with a solemn nod to us, Daddyboys saw the package in Francesca’s hand. His face changed color, paling noticeably.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's from New York,” Francesca answered.

“Open it! Open it!” I couldn’t contain myself a second longer.

Daddyboys took the manila envelope and turned it over gingerly in his hands, like it was filled with explosives. Finally, he held his breath and slit the flap open. Then, he smiled, a dazzling light-up-your-eyes smile that made you want to please him and hug him. Without a word, he folded the letter back up and began to hum an old favorite, “How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm.”

“Is someone gonna tell me what’s going on here?” I asked rather bluntly.

But Daddyboys was lost in his private thoughts, meaning there would be no revelations from him until he decided it was proper.

I kicked up some dust on the dirt floor of the garage. 

“Sarah!” Francesca shouted as she pulled me outside into the daylight.

“What?”

“Happiness is a treasure, Sarah, especially someone else's. It is therefore civilized behavior to think carefully before you set about spoiling it.”

She took me firmly by the hand and walked me back to the porch, where Humphrey was showing signs of a complete recovery.   He was about to become a moral lesson, though I’m sure he was ignorant of the fact.

“Let’s take Humphrey as a for-instance,” Francesca began. “What if your mother had been too busy or too unconcerned to watch him, and he’d fallen over the side of the table and been eaten by the Teems’ cat?”

“Francesca!” I protested.

“It would have hurt you. Your mother realized this fact and took a little bit of care about it. Just a little bit of care is all that's required most of the time.”

As you can see, Francesca used peculiar discipline. She never griped at me for not making my bed or for tracking mud across the kitchen floor or letting the screen door slam. Her concerns had more to do with spiritual tidiness. She gave me a walloping great hug and finished up with, “I love you, Sweetchild. You're going to grow up to be the cat’s pajamas!”

Humphrey began some serious cawing. He seemed to be expecting some kind of answer. And sure enough, within a couple of minutes, he got one. It must have been his mother squawking back from the elm, obviously urging him to fly to her. Humphrey was still a little the worse for wear and moved like Joshua Teems after a jug of hard cider. But the mother bird persisted. Pretty soon, she was joined by a fistful of other adult birds, and they all began calling. Whenever Francesca started to approach Humphrey, they screamed at her to keep away. Humphrey became more and more agitated and finally flew up to join them. An immediate quiet settled down on Home Farm, which led me to think those ravens knew exactly what they were doing.

            In fact, about three days later, the entire rookery gathered together and began to caw, just at sundown. Neither Francesca nor I had ever heard them do that before. We decided they were singing a psalm of thanks for the miracle of the return of their beloved brother Humphrey from the land of the dead. It gave me the goose bumps.

That night at dinner, Daddyboys came to the table dressed in a suit and tie and polished shoes! He brushed past Mommy several times and hummed into her ear. When he took her in his arms and began dancing her around the room, she decided she’d had
enough.

“I’m tired of this mysterious behavior!” she said, using her hands for emphasis. “Staying up late at night; writing at all hours; singing French songs; wearing Sunday clothes, and now all this dancing. Clay!
What is going on around here?”

My mother could be loud and physical on occasion. Frankly, it ran in the family. But my dad didn’t pay any attention. He just smiled and shrugged himself loose from her grip. He went to the Victrola phonograph in the parlor and turned up the sound so we could hear a new
Edith Piaf recording.

She was performing a tune she’d written in 1945 that went on to become known as her signature song. But for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why my father was attempting to sing it now as he pirouetted across the room.

“
C'est toi pour moi, moi pour toi, dans la vie
Tu me l'as dit …”

Then, he gathered up the tiny
Eiffel Tower on top of the ice box and proceeded to place it ceremoniously in the middle of the trestle table. I figured he'd gone right around the bend, like his Aunt Beedie, who sometimes thought she was Catherine the Great.

Though my mother was clearly irritated, Daddyboys was not deterred; he kept right on dancing and singing:

“
It is you for me, me for you, in the life
you said it to me…la vie en rose.”

Then, my father began to laugh. It was a rumbling laughter that came right from his toes. He gathered Rachael up as easily as a doll and set her gently on a ladder-back chair. As he gathered himself
                           
together, we all waited excitedly for his news.

I held my breath. You could have heard a biscuit drop. Francesca sat calmly, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her curiosity.

“Rachael, I’ve won a contest,” Daddyboys beamed with delight.

“A contest, Clay?”

“Yes, a contest, in
World Travel
magazine. You know, sweetheart, the one you always pore over at Purdy's?”

My mother sighed in relief and clapped her hands. “And you've won a subscription for me; is that it? How lovely!”

“No ... not exactly. I won a trip to Paris.”

The words hung suspended in the air. My mother seemed unable to speak for an eternity. “
Paris. Paris, France?” she finally whispered.

“Umhmm.
Paris, France. That’s right; that’s right! We’ll make a stop in New York and then board the Queen Elizabeth, which will sail across the Atlantic all the way to Cherbourg, a lovely town in Normandy. Then it’s on to Paree where we weel stay at a luxe otel,” my father said with a hand flourish, using a French accent for emphasis. Then he fingered an imaginary moustache, puffed out his chest like a rooster and practically burst his shirt buttons.

“During the war, most of the great steamships were refitted to carry troops. Now, they’re being reconverted, so, to generate interest in overseas travel, cruise ship lines have been running promotions, many in the form of contests.
World Travel
co
-
sponsored this publicity campaign, and I won it! I won a trip of a lifetime!”

Mommy sputtered,
“This is why you've been prancing about? But how, I still don't ...”

“It was an essay contest: Dreams of Paris. Of course, I added a little something to my title ... I called it: Dreams of Paris, Dreams of Love.”

“And you didn't tell me? Exactly how long have you known?”

“They wired a couple weeks ago, I guess. But it wasn’t final until today.” My father was still grinning. Then, Mommy got the giggles. She started laughing uncontrollably and holding her sides, pointing at my father and shaking her head. She tried to speak. “You ... essay ...
Paris, France?” was about all I could decode before Mom had to run upstairs to the bathroom.

Daddyboys looked a little shaken by this response, so Francesca stood up and put her arm around his shoulders.

“No two ways about it, Clay ... I'm stunned. Obviously, Rachael is, too. But we’re all proud, so very proud,” she said, and she kissed him on the cheek. “Now, why don't you go on upstairs? I'll bet Rachael is settled down by now.” Francesca gestured toward the staircase. “Go on,” she said quietly.

Clay took the stairs three at a time.

Long into the night, I heard playful noises coming from the master bedroom. At one point, I even heard the unmistakable pop of a champagne cork. Now, you may think I didn’t get a wink of sleep with all those goings-on. And you’d be right. But this celebration was better than sleep. It was like having the most wonderful dream while you were still wide awake.

Chapter 4

Bon Voyage

W

ith only eight days left before my parents’ departure, there were a million things to attend to. We actually had lists of lists. And let’s not forget the blizzard of special delivery letters: one from Daddyboys to Mr. Toynbee at
World Travel
, formally accepting the award; another from Francesca to our relatives in upstate New York, telling them Clay and Rachael would be passing through; and still another to Great Aunt Maude and Great Uncle Harry, who were asked to visit and help out with Daddyboys’ business … not to mention keeping Francesca and me out of trouble. Fat chance!

Travel documents needed signatures; a money draft had to be drawn up and trip reservations needed verification. My parents would also linger an extra day in Manhattan to hammer out the rest of the “particulars” with the editors of
World Travel
before venturing across the pond.

Our usually silent phone didn’t stop ringing. People we hardly knew called or stopped by, trying to sell my parents luggage, wallets,
 passport holders and cures for Montezuma’s Revenge. Then, there was the constant stream of unsolicited advice: don’t drink the water; watch out for pickpockets and don’t spoil those European waiters and bellhops by over-tipping.

Daddyboys was clearly enjoying the spotlight. We did boast a pretty good newspaper in Lost Nation,
the
Daily Pulse.
But in our tight-knit
community, the grapevine was the fastest way to get the word out. I recall a time when word of mouth caused 1,000 people to gather at one of the neighboring farms to witness a gizmo dreamed up by a local. He’d designed it to pick up and drop mail sacks in one fell swoop. Apparently, he’d worked on the darned thing for nearly a decade. That was considered really big news.

These days, however, the folks just wanted to gaze upon the town’s newest celebrity, whose face and prose would grace the feature page of a big-time magazine. While my father was basking in the radiance of his growing notoriety, Rachael also looked to be caught up in the excitement. This surprised me. For once, she didn’t seem to care a whit about letting her beloved stove go cool for hours at a time.

She and Francesca also metamorphosed into each other’s constant companions. Together, they redesigned and altered everything “decent” in my mother's closet at least twice.

Shopping trips were high on the list. Hats, gloves and shoes were waiting to be tried on and purchased, not to mention two new sets of suspenders in gray and blue for Daddyboys.

“And you need proper lingerie, Rachael,” Francesca pronounced. “No daughter of mine is going to Paris without a few frilly underthings. They'll add to your confidence."

While my mother made a series of ruthless packing decisions, Daddyboys finalized arrangements for help at the garage while he was gone.

Uncle Harry would take on the occasional major mechanical problems. But my father also wanted to bring in someone who already knew the day-to-day ropes and could help Harry out with the nuts and bolts of routine maintenance. For that, there wasn’t anyone better than Abraham Lancer, the solitary taxicab driver in Lost Nation as well as the head of the only black household.

Abraham often worked with my father during the winter months, when farm vehicles got their annual overhauls and the taxi business was slow. So it was decided; Abraham and Harry
would be

looking after things, with Uncle Harry expected to drive over from
Des Moines in a couple weeks.

The idea of his visit, however, was sure to unsettle Francesca.

My Great Uncle Harry Schneider had lived a rather steady sort of life with just one or two major hitches in the proceedings. He was born and grew up on a large and successful farm across town from the Pittschtick place. Early on, all the boys in the county were well aware of the real treasures of Home Farm — two little girls who grew up to be Maude of the gorgeous face and Francesca of the regal limbs. Harry was no exception.

It was common knowledge that my Great Uncle was the catch of the county, being the eldest son from the wealthiest family in the area. He was an earnest, sober and patient man who early on showed a gift for both fixing machinery and fiddling with numbers. One thing was sure — he had no interest in farming and so would have to find his own way in the world.

It was impossible not to like Harry. He was not effusive, yet he got along famously with the highborn and the lowbrow. And for a time, Harry and Francesca seemed to be deeply and truly in love.

I wasn’t there for the courtship but was told bits and pieces of the story many times. Everyone in Lost Nation had an opinion that colored their own incontrovertible set of “facts.”

The tale in a nutshell: When sixteen-year-old Harry first noticed that the budding fourteen-year-old Francesca was no longer a child, she was receptive to his attentions. In a matter of weeks, they were considered “an item.”

Like many young people in the throes of first love, the couple dated for the remainder of their high school years and even spoke about marriage and raising a family one day.

But Francesca was a most unusual woman for her time. She was determined to attend college instead of settling down immediately after graduation — an unheard-of choice for well-bred young ladies from Iowa farm communities. And to be honest, she was quite well known for her stubborn streak, along with an inclination to speak her mind.

Though older and more experienced, Harry was also much more traditionally minded than Francesca. And though he’d fallen head-over-heels for her, this intersection of character and circumstances caused a rift between the two. They
had a rather noisy public falling out at Porter’s Emporium on a May
afternoon that sent them irrevocably on their separate ways. To my knowledge, neither ever disclosed the specific cause of the breakup, which remained a secret between them forever.

But Harry didn’t leave our family circle altogether. Instead, he took up with the younger and less strident sister, Maude. It was
the scandal
to hit Lost Nation that year.

When it came time for Harry to choose a career, Maude made it abundantly clear she would not countenance becoming the wife of a “grease monkey.”

That left Harry with only one choice, really — accounting.

After earning his degree, he married Maude and landed a good job with a large company in
Des Moines. Within seven years, he’d started his own firm, and it seemed they were successfully settled into wedded life, if not exactly bliss.  

Francesca had a “slogging, soul-searching” time, recovering from the heartbreak of losing her first love, but she went on to college, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts degree. While there, she soaked up a wide range of courses about the art and history of the big, wide world and slaked her hunger for knowledge of other cultures both ancient and contemporary.

She also eventually found comfort in the arms of another man, perhaps one who reminded her of Harry ... his younger brother, Joseph Robert, aka Cox or J.R.

Although Francesca married Cox and went on to enjoy a satisfying life with him, I know that Harry was never too far from her thoughts. Sometimes, I’d see a particular faraway look in her eyes, and I could tell just where she’d escaped to. And then, she’d tell a part of the whole sad story over again, as if by sharing one more time, she could somehow desensitize the jolting electric current of the memory.

Over the years and with a tremendous investment of time and energy, Harry’s accounting firm became stunningly successful. At age 55, he was able to sell it for a tidy sum, allowing him and Maude to revel in a rather luxurious “semi-retirement.”

But in a karmic twist of fate, Harry’s innate love for engines of every description bloomed once again. He began to collect antique automobiles he delighted in restoring himself.

Needless to say, Maude was not thrilled by the ensuing turn of events. However, it did mean that Uncle Harry’s “bent for incessant tinkering” (that was Maude speaking) would be perfect for the aging collection of cars and tractors to be found in Lost Nation.

“It'll be just like a vacation,” he observed in his quiet way during a telephone conversation with Daddyboys.

*
     *     *     *     *

By now, you have enough information to imagine the undercurrents when, without any warning, Maude arrived at Home Farm on Friday by herself. For Francesca, it was one lousy surprise, to put it gently.

I’d almost forgotten how fashionable Maude was, for an
Iowa great aunt. She had a little way of draping a scarf or trimming a hat with pheasant feathers that reminded me of picture spreads I'd seen in movie monthlies like
PHOTOPLAY
.

Seeing her fashionable sister arrive unexpectedly like that, you could have toppled my grandmother over with a puff of smoke.

Francesca knew what was right. She was always more than happy to explain it to anyone who would listen. To be fair, she made a real effort to practice what she preached. But no amount of effort on Francesca's or Maude's part, however heroic, was going to make their coming together anything but strained.

My grandmother's eyes naturally lit up whenever she greeted Harry, but this business with her sister conjured up a whole different set of rituals.
 

“Maude, dear,” my grandmother said unconvincingly.

The two women stood for a moment, stock-still, hesitant, and stiff. Then Maude hugged Francesca, whose arms remained at her sides. There was an air-kiss worthy of a couple of lock-jaw Connecticut debutants, and Maude swept into the house, calling, “Rachael? Rachael, where are you?”

Right under Francesca's sniffing nose, Maude took Rachael firmly in tow, and my mother’s wardrobe was made over yet again. This time, though, my mother seemed more pleased with the results, which rattled my grandmother.

Maude was a very sweet person. I thought her a little naive, but she was quite grand in her way and very artistic. In fact, she taught me to draw and broadened my appreciation for painting. I got along with her swimmingly. She sometimes put on airs, of course, but I always found the stories of her travels and lifestyle exciting. She and Harry had wandered a good bit through the years. They’d been to Europe,
Canada, Mexico and toured extensively through California. They even had plans underway for a trip around the world.

Maude’s experience made her very free with advice about what
 Rachael and Daddyboys absolutely must see and do during their “sojourn to the continent.”

My grandmother’s only trip outside Lost Nation had been her honeymoon with Cox to
New York, so she had few observations to contribute during the animated exchanges. But Francesca still managed to make her feelings known.

She sat too quietly, studiously working on a needle-work pillow which read, “Silence is Golden.” It was a pillow I had seldom seen before Maude's arrival and after her return to
Des Moines, it vanished for good.

As Maude continued to expound, my grandmother continued to stitch, accompanied by little sighs.

On the eve of my parents’ departure, Francesca organized a going-away celebration. She festooned the house with French sayings written on long pieces of butcher paper. She had studied the language in college and was pleased as punch to translate for everyone who would listen.

It seemed like the whole town turned out to wish Clay and Rachael a Bon Voyage. Uncle Harry even managed to make it over from
Des Moines.

Of taste bud-tingling food, there was plenty, and a number of our friends and neighbors contributed to the feast.

Rachael made her famous fried chicken and steamed our entire first crop of asparagus. The Tycorns brought hand-churned ice cream; Mrs. Sweeny baked her double devil’s food chocolate cake; and Abraham’s family contributed candied yams that melted on the tongue. The Purdys provided a sugar-cured ham, and the Porters served German potato salad. I think they used dark lager in the dressing.

As for spirits, Joshua Teems brought a large barrel of hard cider, which the men drank neat and the women softened with lemonade.
  

Of course, no going-away party would be complete without gifts, and Hunny and Greely Clack had a special one to offer. They'd managed to put together a gigantic telegram, on extra-long paper, which was titled: “Lamour Toujours
.
”

I wondered if this was a reference to Dorothy Lamour in the “Road” pictures. But Francesca, lording it over everybody, translated the message with full body movement: “Love Always.” Uncharacteristically, she was snippy about the missing apostrophe in the word,
l'amour,
and no one dared contradict her.

There was more company at the door.

It was Sheriff Daniel Mosley and his wife, Starr, who was Mr. Blackfeather’s eldest daughter. Standing hunched over and hidden behind them was Daniel’s older brother, Matthew, a barnstorming pilot who’d recently moved to Lost Nation to recuperate from a terrible plane crash. The poor man was a mess. There were crisscrossing stitches straight across and slightly underneath his hairline, set off by a gruesome set of bruises in various shades of purple and green. He was gaunt and slack-limbed, and his energy level dragged much like his broken leg. He limp-shuffled along, leaning heavily on a wooden cane.