Francesca of Lost Nation (5 page)

So the name “Babe” was by way of being appropriate.

“Here girl. Here, Babe,” I ventured. To my utter astonishment, the little red dog trotted over to me and sat down on my left shoe. I melted. And so “Babe” it would be.

Just then, we heard the rumble of an automobile. A long, fancy, silver vehicle pulled onto the gravel drive from
Thunder Ridge Road.

Our houseguest had arrived.

Francesca walked over to greet him. I followed close behind, my new best friend at my heels.

Chapter 6

Unfamiliar Territory

I

t was a glorious machine — long, sleek and meticulously polished. It certainly hadn’t been left out in the rain. Even from where I was standing, I could appreciate the depth of the perfectly painted silver-gray metal.

Francesca motioned him to a spot behind the house under the elm.

Matthew Mosley looked just as broken-down and diminished as he had at Mom and Dad’s party. If anything, I noticed his skin had developed a definite pallor underneath his tan, the mark of a body whose caretaker was careless. 

He was neatly dressed; his shirt and trousers had seen an iron recently. One pant leg was split below the knee to accommodate the cast. His energy was low, and his vitality seemed pent-up, like a sleeping tiger. You could sense the raw power hidden deep inside. Even at my age, it was impossible not to be aware of the strength that was, for the moment, disguised by the fragility of the man. 

He was better-looking than Sheriff Dan, but only just. Matthew was slightly finer-featured, with more elegant bone structure. He had the same general coloring, brushed here and there with gray. His eyes were pale like his brother’s, but Matthew’s were dulled by pain, and there were worry creases etched in his forehead.

He didn’t appear at all grateful about his new home. In fact, he acted downright sullen.

Francesca didn’t appear terribly concerned and behaved in her usually gracious manner. She actually opened his car door.

“We’ve decided to put you in the Bridal Cottage. You’ll have more privacy there,” she said.

No comment.

“It’s down this gravel drive. Perhaps you'd like to park closer to the cottage to unload your things? It's the first building you'll see on your right ...,” she gestured.

No comment.

I was still gawking at the car.

“What in the name of heaven is this?” I spoke my enthusiasm out loud. “It’s … too much!” I tap danced around the classic auto, touching the chrome and looking at my reflection in the glistening paint job.

Francesca held out her hand. “Welcome to Home Farm.”

Matthew looked at it like it was radioactive. She drew it back like it was on fire. They stared at each other for a long, long minute.

“Afternoon,” he finally mumbled. I decided he reminded me of Gary Cooper — the strong, silent type.

He shifted his weight from the left foot to the right. “I won’t need any help, Mrs. Schneider, or anything to eat later.”

He then turned to me and said, “It’s a Duisenberg, from
Germany.”

*   *   *   *   *

We watched from Main House porch as Matthew hobbled back and forth, unloading his suitcases and a few boxes. His cast rendered him unsteady.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of sweet tea.

“Babe, come back here!”

It was too late. She had slipped out the screen, run across the yard and grabbed Matthew’s pant leg, growling like a tiger.

When he tried to kick her away, he fell on his backside and into a mud puddle. Though he’d missed her by a mile, Babe hightailed it back to the porch, her tail now between her legs.

That made me angry. “Did you see …?” I started in a huff.

“Yes, my child,” Francesca responded soothingly. “You have to take into account each animal’s pain and treat them both accordingly.” Then, she turned her face away, and I saw her shoulders quiver, her head bobbing up and down.

Matthew had finally stood up, with a third of him covered in black ooze. He did look comical. But never mind! I thought our houseguest was mean. “Babe is just a puppy. He could have hurt her. He better be planning on taking his meals alone.”

“He’s probably depending on it,” Francesca said. But she wound up cooking dinner for three just the same.

Francesca had always prepared food with gusto. No careful measuring for her — a handful of this and two dashes of that! She was a very good cook but not a great one. With some things, like chicken and dumplings, she excelled. But after Grandpap died in ‘43, she lost her appetite for several months, and her love of all things kitchen disappeared with it. At the time, it seemed only natural that Mother should take up the slack. Rachael had always adored the odors and rigors of the kitchen and had somehow mastered the great black stove, a feat Francesca had given her little help with. 

For some reason, that night was different. Francesca had a new zeal, or maybe it was a return of the old calling. And her meal would not disappoint; the chicken was crisp, the dumplings light as air and the country gravy smooth and creamy.

As Francesca bustled capably, I figured it was time to peek in on Matthew Mosley. Dinner wouldn’t be for a while, and I wanted to know more about this mysterious man. At least that’s how I convinced myself it would be alright to spy.

From the cottage window, I watched him unpack, placing only one article of clothing in the closet or bureau at a time.

When he finished, he set up a small portable phonograph near the fireplace and mixed himself a drink. He stirred something into the Coca-Cola. With the window closed, it was difficult to hear the music, but it sounded like “Sentimental Journey.” He must have liked it a lot, because he replayed it five more times as he continued to sip and stare into space.

When I had enough spying for that evening, I went back to the house, where Francesca was already setting the table. When she asked me to run over and invite Mr. Mosley to dinner, a tinge of guilt came over me but not enough to tell on myself.

Matthew was still playing the phonograph, but this time it was a different song, something about a “Buttermilk Sky.” I peeked through the screen door and saw him gimping around. Then, without preamble, he howled like a wounded animal. I heard the sound of glass tinkling to smithereens on the oak floor, accompanied by some inventive cursing. In fact, he strung a few words together I’d never heard before.

I curled my toes, took a deep breath and tapped lightly on the door. I swallowed and whispered that supper was ready.

No answer.

I tapped again, slightly louder this time.

He opened the door with a bang.

“Yes! What is it?” he snarled. I could see shards of glass splayed out behind him alongside an empty bottle. I was unnerved.

“Uh, my ... a ... grandmother ... she made some supper. She ... that is, we thought ...”

Then, I froze and just stood there. He stared through me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t make myself move.

Then, he looked down on me and suddenly no longer seemed angry. I mean, it was like a curtain swooped down — boom! It was like snapping your fingers, and a different guy popped out.

“Supper? Yes. Hey, about the dog, I … that is … Supper sounds nice. Let me just wash up, and I’ll be along,” he finished, almost gently.

Dinner was exceptionally quiet. When Daddyboys was home, we would play silly games.

Matthew wasn’t the game-playing type. He shoveled his food, barely taking time to taste any of it. He didn’t say anything at all during our meal, even when prodded quietly by Francesca. When he finished, he stood up, rinsed off his plate and put it in the sink.

“Excuse me,” was all he said. Out the back screen door he went. Slam! Just like that. 

Babe had stayed clear of Matthew during dinner but now returned to the kitchen to be with Francesca and me. Within a matter of seconds, we had developed one super-duper case of the giggles. It’s something that runs in our family, and once we start, we can’t stop. Every word, sigh or movement becomes another trigger for increasingly loud laughter. We had worked all day and were bone-weary. Dealing with the tension Mr. Mosley carried around with him was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Our eyes were wet with tears, and I even accidentally spurted a mouthful of milk at Francesca. Babe licked it up off the floor, which caused me to nickname her the “Vacuum Cleaner.” That set us off again. We left the dishes until morning.

*   *   *   *   *

Francesca and I lay across her bed together, watching the moon hang like a pearl in the black velvet night.

I wondered if my mother and father were looking at it, too.

“They’re probably drinking champagne and dancing the tango,” Francesca said. “They’ve been sitting at the Captain’s table, I’m sure, as they are celebrities of the cruise.”

All at once, I missed them terribly and sniffled twice, which caused Francesca to stroked my hair.

“We’ll have our own adventures,” she offered.

“As good as
Paris?” I sniffled again.

“Indeed,” she whispered.

We spent the next few minutes writing down a list:

I was going to learn how to drive.

“Really?”

“You’re definitely tall enough. Let’s see … We could look for Thunder Ridge and catch the Indian spirits dancing.”

“I don’t see how. No one else ever found them.”

“Ah, but we’re not ordinary mortals.” She touched my nose. “And we could forget about doing chores for a day or two.”

“No
chores
?”

“I ask you … what’s an adventure with chores?”

I could have schemed like that all night, but Francesca said it was time for me to brush my teeth and get ready for bed.

“Where will Babe sleep tonight?” I asked innocently.

With a serious tone, Grandmother offered several solutions, including tying the dog outside on the porch. I didn’t like any of the ideas.

“Sarah, where do you think Babe should sleep?” She knew exactly how I would respond.

“On my bed. Just until we can build her a doghouse and get her settled. I'll put a sheet over the covers, so ...” I said, grinning, “... no dog hairs.”

Francesca pretended to be surprised by this solution. She blew me a kiss and gently reminded me that we needed to try and find Babe’s owners.

“We’ll post some signs and ask around tomorrow,” Francesca said and closed the door to my room.

Suddenly, the thought of losing this little dog, this mutt, left me heartbroken.

Maybe no one will claim you. I love you, little red dog.

Chapter 7

New Confrontations

y the time Babe shot out through the screen door the next morning, Francesca was already sitting in her glider, sipping freshly made coffee. The kitchen was spotless.

“I would have helped you,” I said as gave her a hug.

Francesca shook her head. “It was clean when I got down here this morning.”

Daddyboys would have said the “Dish Fairy” had dropped by. Mr. Mosley didn’t look anything like a dish fairy. However, some things didn’t deserve too much attention, especially when we were about to launch into our first Wild And Amazing Adventure. WAAA!

As we had determined the night before, Francesca called Abraham’s son, Lincoln, to help out with the chores.

*
   *   *   *   *

You can never tell when any old ordinary moment is going to run haywire.

My heart was racing. I had been taught, reminded, schooled, educated and warned not to get behind the wheel of any vehicles on our property, especially the ones in Daddyboys’ shop. But Grandmother insisted it was time I learned to drive.

“What if I bash it, or something?”

“We'll cross that divide when we hurtle through it.”

“Have you ever taught anyone how to drive before?”

“You're my first victim.”

I sensed a recipe for disaster but said nothing as we walked toward the Dodge pickup. Babe jumped in first and plopped herself on the passenger side.

The truck was old, Francesca explained patiently, and already had more than its share of dents, so I wasn’t to worry. She drove to an open pasture near the fishing pond, carefully explaining all the mysterious workings as we bumped along.

“This is the gear shift. Of course, you can't get into gear without engaging the clutch. This is the clutch, you see. It’s right next to the brake pedal.”

I examined the equipment I was supposed to maneuver but wasn’t sure my legs would be able to reach.

“You push it in with your left foot, firmly but slowly,” Francesca went on. “And this is the accelerator pedal. It makes the car go forward. Except, of course, it doesn’t work that way when you’re in reverse. Try not to confuse third and reverse gears, or we’ll be leading with our gluteus maximus.” 

I’d watched my parents drive oodles of times and always imagined how nifty it would be to toddle down the highway with the air blowing through the wind wing and the radio blasting. But the reality was intense.

Of course, Francesca was not fazed and continued her litany: First, second and third gear. It’s a snap.

“Now, to drive, you use your right foot for the accelerator and the brake, but squeeze; don’t pump. It’s just like your father’s 410 over-and-under trigger.” At this point, Francesca’s mind veered at a right angle.

“That reminds me,” she said, “I need to get that gun out of storage and clean it. I guess I'll have to start keeping it under my bed.” Then, her thoughts leaped back to the task at hand. “Well, I think that's it. Now, you try it.”

She had me rest on her lap, so I could reach the pedals. My arms were twitching. I could barely see through the windshield. Francesca nudged me and whispered she would help me.

Turning the ignition on wasn’t too bad. Okay … okay.

“Push the clutch in, and shift it into first,” Francesca said calmly.

The horrible grinding sound sent chills up and down my spine, and the truck bucked like a champion bull. Babe yowled and tried to crawl under the seat. I yanked the door open and jumped out, accidentally kicking Francesca’s shin as the engine died.

She tilted her head down at me and said soberly, “I believe you were in the wrong gear. Let's try it again.”

The last thing I wanted to do was to get back into the truck but she called me “Sweetchild.” And you know how
that
goes.

After an hour or so, I was starting to get the hang of it. In fact, I was doing so well that Francesca thought it was time to venture away from the field onto the driveway. Still struggling with the pedals I could barely reach, I looked down just for a second. That’s when it happened.

CRASH!!

The jolt, however, was nothing compared to the explosion out of Mr. Mosley’s mouth. He’d pulled into the property at the worst possible moment.

“Dammit! What in the most fired blazes of Hell do you two think you’re doing? Son of a bitch if I'm not one!” He yelled a ton of other things — including some of those interesting, unfamiliar phrases he’d used before.

When I saw Mr. Mosley get out of his car, I slunk down onto the floor of the truck next to Babe.

“Jesus have mercy on me! I have driven this car all over this country. Nothing ever happened to it before! How could you be so careless? So stupid!”

Francesca wasn't above railing at her own family on certain occasions, but she couldn't stand for someone else to do it.

“There's absolutely no reason to behave like a screaming Mimi. It was an accident,” Francesca defended me. “And the damage …” She bent over and peered dramatically at the offending mark, “is miniscule.”

“Why in the Hell were you letting that child drive in the first place? It’s asinine ... completely asinine!”

Grandmother swallowed some anger before responding calmly.

“It is the
custom hereabouts, to introduce young people to the mysteries of driving early. The practice has saved many lives in an emergency and will doubtless save many more!”

This was an exaggeration and Matthew called her on it.

“Bull!” he fumed.

That’s when they had their first stare-down. Francesca always won these competitions, even when she broke away first. It was uncanny.

She took on a statue-like stillness. He started strong, refusing to give in. Finally, with three deep breaths, she condescended to speak to him. “We apologize for the state of your car. But you have to admit, the dent is practically unnoticeable. It was an accident, purely and simply. Is there anything else?” Francesca asked. Her voice warned him there had better not be.That sent Matthew storming off.

Babe and I hid in the wood box for an hour or so. That’s when I overheard Francesca on the telephone.

“It’s just not going to work out, Daniel. I can appreciate…That’s not fair, Daniel. You know that I couldn’t … You don’t understand … But he … but I … oh, brother. Okay! I’ll give it one more
week
,” Francesca said, slamming down the receiver for emphasis.

I opened the wood box door. “Are we getting rid of him?” I asked hopefully.

Francesca didn’t even hear me, as she was talking heatedly to herself.

“What a baboon! The man’s insane, gone completely round the bend and will never return. And his brother isn’t any gift, either.”

She clattered the dishes as she put them away and slammed the cupboard doors as she continued ranting: “It was an accident!”

Bang! More clatter.

“The way he spoke to me!

Another Bang!

“The way he spoke to you!”

Clash! Bang!

“How did I ever let myself get into this?”

Clatter! Bang! Now, she was working on the pots and pans.

“Matthew and Daniel Mosley can both go straight to Hell!”

Bang!

I sat silently, waiting for Francesca to calm down, as I knew she eventually would. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge … unless Maude was involved.

“Maybe we can have
Lincoln fix the dent in Matthew’s car,” I suggested, when relative calm had been restored to Home Farm.

“I suppose so, although it’s more than that cretin deserves,” she sniffed.

Lincoln didn’t think the dent would be too much trouble.

“Sure is a shame someone marked up this beautiful car,”
Lincoln remarked with a grin. “Look here, hardly even scratched the paint. You must have been travelin’ kinda slow.”

A plumber’s helper was all that was necessary to make the car like new again. Save for the few scratches we waxed out, you couldn’t even tell the Duisenberg had been hit by a delinquent child driver.

*
   *   *   *   *

When the mail came, a little past noon, there was a letter from the Waldorf Astoria in New York City, one of the most famous hotels in the world.

Dear Frances and Sarah,

How we love you both and miss you dearly…

The traffic never seems to stop here. You awaken to its rhythm in the early morning and it rocks you to sleep at night. Your mother and I became instantly accustomed to the sounds and hardly notice them after only 20 hours! 

The smells overtake you on every street corner, where small groceries, called “delicatessens” flourish, selling exotic delights from many cultures.
 

The city is patrolled by men on horseback and your mother and I took a ride through
Central Park in a hansom cab, pulled by a sweet-coupled bay …

We set sail tomorrow.

Love to you both, from our hearts to your hearts.

After reading the letter two or three times, I folded it carefully and put it into my treasure chest. I still have all the letters I received from my parents that summer
.

I wasn’t so keen on our next chore. It was time to post notices around and about that we had found a small, reddish female dog. The good news was there would be no truck-driving lessons for me today. Instead, we saddled up RedBird and Miss Blossom and ambled down the highway, nailing the flyers on telephone poles and fence posts as we went.

I fastened mine where I thought it would be difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to see. Francesca noticed but said nothing.

When we returned to Main House, Matthew Mosley's car was
gone, an occasion for gentle rejoicing on my part.

Since
Lincoln was still at the house doing chores, we invited him to have lunch with us — left-over chicken and mashed potato sandwiches — open-faced ones. Although this was a common meal in Lost Nation, I haven’t seen it anywhere else. Their loss!

As the afternoon heat swelled, it was time for a swim. Using the shortcut, Francesca beat Babe and me to the pond. As per usual, she dove in head first while I wriggled in one inch at a time. Babe delighted in the water, too, slapping at it with her paw, barking as she played.

It was the perfect, glorious, lazy afternoon. Nearing sundown, we dozed underneath the oak, letting the warm air dry us. It was positively paradise … or so it seemed.

At first, I thought I was imagining it, since Francesca didn’t stir. It felt like someone was watching us.

What was that?

I heard a twig snap. That’s when Babe took off barking, tearing in the direction of the escalating noise. It sounded like someone stomping quickly through the undergrowth. I started to go after Babe, but Grandmother grabbed my arm.

We gathered our things and made our way back to Main House as quietly and quickly as possible. But just a short distance from the house, we heard another sound, this one sharper and much closer. We froze.

Francesca took my hand and silently mouthed one word to me, pointing toward the house, “Run!”

As I took off, someone jumped into the clearing, aiming a twenty gauge at me. I started screaming.

“It’s okay, Sweetchild,” Francesca said, running up to me to hold me.

It was Matthew.

“Are you two alright?” he asked as he walked over to us.

In a month of Sundays, I never thought I would have been relieved to be startled by Matthew Mosley holding a weapon.

“Someone was here,” Francesca explained.

Matthew nodded. “Yep. Last I saw, Babe was chasing after a man, heading toward Lost Nation. I whistled her up, but I couldn't get her attention. Ah, here she is."

Babe trotted over to me and sat down in a puffing heap. I knelt and hugged her hard around the neck.
 

“Good girl! What a good girl!” I looked up at Matthew and took a deep breath. “Was it the man that burns houses?”

“Could be.”

“Do you think he’ll be back?” Grandmother asked.

“Well, I made sure he saw me with my shotgun. That ought to discourage him. Just the same, we should telephone Daniel.”

“Yes, of course. And thank you.”

“Nothing at all, ma'am.”

He suggested next time we went swimming, to take some extra precautions.

Sheriff Dan stopped by that evening to look around the grounds but didn’t see any traces of an intruder.

“Still, I second Matt's advice. Take a little extra care, you two.”