Francesca of Lost Nation (4 page)

Why anyone would drag a sad-faced man like that to a party was a mystery to me. He cast a definite pall over the festivities. We were all polite to him, of course.
  Francesca even attempted to draw him out a little. She had always possessed a compelling empathy for injured creatures of every description.  

Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to keep to himself and spent most of his brief visit sitting on the porch, sipping from a hip flask. When the Mosleys left shortly after supper, the party breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I was not allowed to drink alcohol, but in all the confusion, I managed to sneak a gulp or two of that stomach-warming brew of lemonade and cider. At first, it made me giggle, but after the third guzzle, everything and everyone in the room had turned sideways. I squished myself into a corner and sat quietly for a while, trying to deep-breathe my way back to normal vision.

After dessert, Isaac Teems struck up some music on his fiddle, and Francesca joined him on the upright piano for a spirited rendition of one of her favorite popular songs, “Ac-cent-chu-ate the Positive
.
” 

Daddyboys also managed to get Rachael and Maude to sing a duet as he growled his way happily across their pretty harmonies on the song, “Don’t Fence Me In,” until the room exploded with laughter.
  

Francesca was forced to provide piano accompaniment or spoil the evening, which she could not bring herself to do. So she played the song as properly as she could with clenched fists.

The evening ended with my father waltzing my mother around the living room to the tune of “
La Vie En Rose.
” They were lovely, like newlyweds. It must have been just like the first time they ever danced together, and I got a little lump in my throat watching them. 

My parents looked fine side by side — the tall, thin, broad-shouldered man and the small, plump blonde woman. I realized that my parents were in love. It was something I had never considered before, picturing them in a romantic way. Suddenly, I understood that they had a deep feeling for one another that had very little to do with me.

Without warning, I burst into besotted tears. The combination of hard cider and the realization that my parents were leaving for a wonderful adventure without me was just too much.

Mommy rushed over and hugged me, and Daddyboys said maybe it was time little ones should be in bed. He scooped me up and carried me to my room, cradling me tenderly in his arms. They undressed me as I hiccoughed and sobbed and waited at the side of my bed until I quieted down.

As I began to fade off, I heard my mother say, “She looks so small, doesn't she, Clay? I'll miss her terribly.” And then, I was asleep.

*   *   *   *   *

I still felt dizzy and queasy the next morning as I eased myself gingerly out of bed. I found Francesca in the kitchen with my parents and Great Aunt and Uncle gathered around the dining table. They were looking over the checklists one more time, giving a final look-see to passports, travel arrangements, phone numbers and the magazine’s address.

“Good morning, Sarah dear,” said Francesca, without looking up. Then to Daddyboys, “Do you have your money? Now, you be careful with that. There are pickpockets all over the big cities these days!”

Turning to look at me for the first time, she asked, “Sarah, what on earth? Are you feeling ill?”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled. Everyone was now giving me “the look” — very much like the one doctors display when confronted by an interesting diagnosis. Aunt Maude poured me a glass of orange juice, which tasted just right to my dry mouth but gurgled down in my stomach.
 

Francesca went on, “Perhaps you should consider a money belt, Clay.”
 

“Don't be silly, Francesca,” Maude broke in. “
Paris is a very civilized place.”

“So was Ancient Rome, and look at what went on there!” Francesca pointed out and went on with the list. “Take some American bathroom tissue. Yes, you’ll need it; believe me. Do you have your motion sickness pills and your tickets? I think that does it.”

My stomach was still leaping and swaying when Mother shouted from the front door: “The taxi’s coming!”

Maude and Harry were also leaving but would be back in two weeks. That made saying good-bye even harder. I clung to my parents tightly and started to cry again. In a soothing manner, Daddyboys promised to bring me presents from
Europe and reminded me of the amazing adventures I would have with Francesca.

That turned out to be the second biggest understatement of 1947. 

With a last volley of waves, they were all gone. 

Francesca and I looked at one another for a moment before I dropped my chin to my chest.

“Look at me, child,” my grandmother said softly. “Mark my words; it's going to be one helluva of a summer.” 

Chapter 5

Surprise Visitors

L

ightning bolts sizzled across the sky, and the rain poured down in buckets as a string of thunderstorms hit Lost Nation near the end of June. The weather delighted Francesca. She would stand on the porch, watching the spectacle, breathing deep, letting her soul soak up the cool. Inside, as she cleaned and cooked, she hummed to herself in rhythm with the rolling claps of thunder.

These were the days when any self-respecting child had to get busy thinking of ways to entertain herself.

In the front parlor, next to the large stone fireplace, my grandfather had built an indoor-outdoor wood box. Under the eaves of the house, a substantial pile of firewood was always stacked, dry and ready for use. This was an efficient storage arrangement in a place where unexpected snow clouds could breeze in and unload in a matter of a few minutes.

At this time of year, the tin-lined wood box was empty. On drizzly days, I'd spread a comforter, open the outside door and laze away the hours, reading or just watching the massive cloud formations roll through. Now that I was almost ten, my little haven had grown cramped. But it was still a good way to pass the daylight hours that were too wet for outdoor activity.

I was an avid and precocious reader. That summer, I had taken a serious step up in material, thanks to Francesca’s enthusiastic ministrations.

She’d graduated from the State University of Iowa, one of the most forward-thinking schools of its time. State U was the first public university in the country to admit men and women on an equal basis. It was also the world’s first university to accept creative work in the arts (including literature) on an equal basis with academic research. It was just the kind of environment in which Francesca could thrive.

Even after she’d married Cox and rerouted her energies into gardening, her tremendous respect for and love of the written word was always a hallmark of her happiness. She made sure she passed these feelings down to me. Starting on my fifth birthday, she’d drive me once a week to the library, and we'd pick out children’s stories and biographies together.

I was currently working my way through
A Tale of Two
Cities
, a historical novel by Charles Dickens set in Europe during the French Revolution. Francesca had carefully explained the many threads of plot which the author wove expertly in and out of the fabric of his writing. I was madly in love with Sidney Carton, that heroic ne'er do well and pictured myself as Dr. Manette's hapless daughter, Lucy, saucy ringlets and hoop skirts included.

I was gazing adoringly into the gun metal sky at an imaginary portrait of Monsieur Carton when a sudden gust of wind began slamming the outside door of the wood box. The noise jolted me back to Lost Nation from the Bastille. In fact, I was so startled that I hit my head hard on the wood box ceiling. But even the sharp pain I felt was instantly forgotten when I noticed an animal the size of a fox and about the same color red digging in the garden.

No. Not a fox. A dog! A little red dog!

It was obviously having a whiz-bang time and seemed to relish the destruction of Francesca’s prize roses. I took out after it, yelling and waving my arms like a lunatic — straight into the middle of a particularly heavy downpour. Nobody but Francesca dared touch those bushes, because they had been brought over from the Old Country more than a hundred years ago. The stupid creature was killing a family heirloom!

After a minute or two, I managed to shoo it out of the side yard and across the property, where it disappeared into the curtain of rain. Then, the front doorbell rang.

Sheriff Daniel Mosley had a presence that filled up most doorways. He was a tallish, well-built man with dark hair and light eyes. He sported a trim moustache, and his boots were always see-your-face polished.

Daniel and Francesca had carried on a mild flirtation for years, each referring to their relationship as a “mutual admiration society.” Since the sheriff was obviously happily married and Francesca was also at least 15 years older than he, Daniel’s wife remained untroubled by a little innocent fun.

“Daniel, what a nice surprise,” Francesca said happily. “For Heaven’s sake, take off that wet coat. Hang it there on the hook. Sarah, get us all some bath towels, and try not to puddle so much.”

We settled comfortably in the kitchen, where Francesca poured out two mugs of coffee. She automatically put cream and sugar in front of Daniel. Remembering little preferences like that was one of her gifts.

“You still have the best legs in the county, Frances,” Sheriff Dan said.

“It's a little hard to tell in this get-up, Daniel. And I'm sure you didn't canoe all the way out here on this frightful day to talk legs. Though, of course, I'm always enchanted to hear your expert opinion.”

“Truth is,” Daniel said, looking more serious, “I got some information over the wire this morning, and I thought you should hear it personally. An arsonist named Eisenstaedt escaped from the Anamosa State Penitentiary sometime yesterday — nobody knows exactly when. He might’ve gotten away in a meat supply truck, of all things, and he could be heading this way. Seems he spent some time here years back and may still have family in the area. We're looking into that now.”

I wasn’t familiar with the word “arsonist,” so the sheriff explained it was someone who set fires on purpose. 

He continued, “The two of you are living out here alone for most of the summer, and I got to thinking about it ... and ...”

“I can certainly handle a gun, Daniel, if it comes to that,” Francesca said.

“I know it. I’ve seen you shoot skeet. But I'm a little worried about you two all the same. Home Farm is pretty isolated, you know. I hate to think something bad might happen to a woman with the best legs in the county. It might just ruin my day.”

They grinned at each other.

Dan sipped his coffee and was silent for a moment. Then, he shifted in his chair. “My brother, Matthew ... well, you met him ...”

“Yes,” she answered. “That poor man.”

“Well ... He's going to be here awhile, visiting. Can’t fly, you see, till he’s healed up. He's been staying with Starr and me, but I think he might do better ... that is ... you two’d be a lot safer if he came to stay out here. Just for a while. To keep an eye on things ...”

Francesca raised her right eyebrow.

Sheriff Dan headed her off at the pass. “He wouldn't be in your way. You can see he's a quiet one, and he'd only have to stay until we find Eisenstaedt.” He cleared his throat and took another sip of coffee.

I could see Francesca “cogitating.” She was an independent woman and proud of it. But she wasn't stupid. 

“When he’s healthy, does he look anything like you?” she asked.

Sheriff Mosley laughed. “Well, most folks say he got the handsome in the family.”

Francesca walked over to the kitchen sink and stared out the window.

“I'll be expecting him this afternoon,” she said.

A brooding, injured stranger was coming to visit. For how long, nobody knew. While I wondered what that would be like, Francesca was more concerned about where he would stay.

The Main House at Home Farm was a rambling two-story dwelling with seven bedrooms and three bathrooms. Three of the bedrooms were rarely used, in an effort to cut down on housekeeping chores.

“Why can't he use the downstairs guest room?” I asked. It was light and airy with an inviting featherbed atop an antique four-poster.

Francesca said she thought he might need some privacy. “And it might not seem proper. You know how the townspeople are here, Sarah, nannygabbers, many of them. He may be Daniel Mosley’s brother, but he is, after all, an unmarried man. It might not look … appropriate,” she concluded.

“Appropriate
” was a favorite word of Francesca's, especially when she was prepared to explain only half of something I wanted to know more about. It meant that no matter how I wheedled her, I couldn’t make her cough up the real skivvy. So I busied myself helping Francesca prepare the Bridal Cottage for our new houseguest.

In the old days, it was customary for the Pittschticks to invite their newlywed children and spouses to live at Home Farm. Family was everything; the more the merrier is how they looked at it. So with each new marriage, a snug new home was built. When children came along, a room was added to the couple’s cottage. Of course, not everyone stayed, and as people moved or died, lodgings changed hands. Most of these “bridal cottages,” as they were called, had been sold along with the land after the Depression. But we still had one. It was located between Main House and Daddyboys’ garage. It hadn’t been used for years, so there was no telling how many pounds of spider webs and dust would have to be scoured away.

Clay and Rachael and I had lived in the cottage from the time I was born until my grandfather, Cox, passed away. Francesca was lonely and had insisted we move into the big house with her to “take up some of the silence.”
 

The cottage drifted into neglect. My grandmother was convinced, however, that we could bring it back to life, just like Jesus did with Lazarus.
 

The rest of the day was spent lugging mops and pails and boxes of soap flakes through the rain. I’m sure we tracked as much mud in to the place as we mopped up. You could write your name in the dirt on the windows, which I did five or six times. We chased out some mice and cleared what seemed like a wheelbarrow of dried animal droppings. Some of the cobwebs were five feet long and made my skin crawl when I ran through them. But I did it just the same, screaming like a banshee from the nerve-tingling pleasure.

“Sarah! The mice have gotten to this coverlet. Be a darling girl, and fetch me another from the linen closet.” This entailed running to Main House, which meant tracking in more mud, which then needed to be mopped up.

It took about three more hours to get the cottage spic and span, but it was worth the effort. The woodwork fairly glowed. Francesca put
her thin arms around my shoulders and hugged me as a reward for a job well done.

Bark! Bark! Just as we finished up, we heard the unmistakable sounds of a dog. It was my little destroyer of heirloom roses, back for another assault! For some reason, it was running crazily around the yard in circles, yapping and yapping. As we ran to Main House, it followed us. Right up the porch stairs. Looking ever so bedraggled, it stood there wagging its tail, flinging muddy droplets all over us with every swish.

“It's some stupid old dog and he's after your roses and I've tried to chase him away, but he won’t go! Stop it, you stupid dog!”

“Hush, Sarah.”

I swear the dog stopped barking and sat down.

“What a good girl,” Francesca went on quietly as she cautiously approached the stray. “That's a good girl. No one will hurt you. Here, girl. Come here, girl.”

And the dog went right over to my grandmother and sat on her shoe. Francesca took the dog's face into the palm of her hand and examined it, looking into its deep brown eyes. How often I'd seen her commune with animals in that way.

My grandmother guessed the dog was about a year old. “It could be part herding breed with a touch of
Labrador,” she mused. “Look at the fine black hairs sprinkled across her back.”

To me, it looked like a mutt and nothing but a mutt.

“A very special mutt,” she said and added the dog was smart as a whip and possibly a good swimmer. “See the webbed paws?”

Where had she come from? Francesca and I’d never seen her before, and we knew all our neighbors’ pets.

Francesca blew softly into the dog’s snout. It made a joyful yelping noise and stood on its hind legs, bracing against Francesca’s pant leg.

“Sarah, I think this dog wants something from you.”

“From me? You’re the one she’s pawing. She doesn’t even like me. She practically bit me earlier.”

Francesca drew her eyebrows together. “Perhaps it was a simple misunderstanding. No collar. Hmm. Well, if we’re to do the right thing by her, we’ll have to call her something. Why don’t you name her? I think she’d like that.”

“Why should I? Muddy old thing.”

“Be my Sweetchild.”

There it was — her big weapon. It wasn't fair using that pet name, as it put me at a disadvantage. It was blackmail.

“Penny?” I offered grudgingly. “How about calling her Brandy? Maybe we could call her Pepper or Tracey?”

Francesca shook her head once, no.

“Then, how about calling her Babe?” I asked.

Oddly enough, my grandmother was keenly interested in a half dozen great athletes. Her two favorites were Il Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, and Babe Dedrikson Zaharias.

Bambino, better known as Babe Ruth, was a gifted
New York baseball player, acclaimed for his home run-hitting power, as well as his feisty personality and enormous appetites. Zaharias was a versatile champion, achieving outstanding success in a number of sports, most particularly swimming.