Francesca of Lost Nation (6 page)

Then, Sheriff Dan rubbed his hands together. 

“Starr is off visiting her mother, and that means our stove is cold tonight. What's for supper?”

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My childhood was filled with adventure. I'd knocked down a hive once, by accident, and was chased by some angry bees. I'd broken my finger, swinging on the rope that hung over the fishing pond, and I'd gotten myself scraped and bruised, with the breath knocked out of me a number of times. I’d even fallen off a horse. But except for the occasional nightmare, that experience was the first time in my life I could ever remember feeling real terror.

Chapter 8

Starting Over … Again!

M

idweek was the best time to market, according to my grandmother. She and Rachael relished attending to this pleasant chore, because it “added some welcome distractions.” Though today I would have the honor of accompanying Francesca, I wasn’t the only one going.

We stood on the stoop of the Bridal Cottage, taking in the empty booze and beer bottles.

“Humf,” Francesca grunted.

The windows were closed, but the panes fairly shivered with the raucous snoring coming from inside.

I saw a tell-tale twinkle steal into Francesca’s pale blue eyes. Though her actions often surprised me, I had learned to accept her eccentric “inspirations” unquestioningly by the time I was three years old. So what the heck we were doing disturbing a cantankerous man while he slept off an entire bottle of hard liquor was a question I kept to myself.

KNOCK! KNOCK!! POUND! POUND!!

That should have awakened a hibernating bear, but it didn’t seem to affect Matthew Mosley. Francesca banged on the door harder, with enough vigor to startle a granite boulder.

With a growling “What the
Hell?” followed by a crashing sound and more curse words, Mr. Mosley seemed to have risen at last. He flung the door wide and stood at the entrance bleary-eyed and bedraggled in a rumpled robe.

I had never seen a hangover in action before. It wasn’t pretty.

“Sorry to disturb you. Sarah and I are going into town. Can we get you anything? Or would you care to ride along?” Her words were sweet, her intention not very.

He stood silently and glared at Francesca.

“Can we get you anything?” she repeated.

“Give me a moment,” he said and slammed the door shut.

“We’ll be waiting by the truck.” With a toss of her head, she turned and strode back up the drive. I swear I heard her whistling.

While Mr. Mosley was still about as amicable as a rattlesnake, he had turned out to be someone we could count on. That won him some points.

He’d also stopped objecting to my driving the truck around the place. Even so, Babe and I avoided him as much as possible. Francesca, on the other hand … looked at him with an alert attention I didn’t like.

We entered Lost Nation grandly in the Duisenberg. You should have seen the heads turn! For some strange reason known only to our resident flyboy, he’d insisted we take his car. I felt like the Lord Mayor of
London heading up a parade, and by the time our “chauffeur” dropped us at Porter’s Emporium on Main Street, we had left a sea of gape-jawed Iowans in our wake.

Matthew went on to visit his brother while we entered the general store. Porter's Emporium sold just about anything you could think of: canned goods and meat, clothing and paper products, treats and fresh-baked pastries (often whipped up by my mother). The heart of the place was a small wooden table surrounded by chairs, where the coffee pot was always full and the gossip flowed.

The Porters had been in Lost Nation almost as long as the Pittschticks and much longer than the Schneiders, Grandpap’s people. 

Chet Porter came from British stock. His house boasted several fine pieces of rosewood furniture and Royal Doulton china his forebears had brought over generations back. He was tall, skinny, sandy-haired and soft-spoken. And what beautiful manners! 

His nose was exactly the same shape as Princess Elizabeth’s, and he insisted he was distantly related to the House of Windsor, which Francesca doubted.

His wife, Emily, was just like a bird. She had fine features, glossy black hair and a pointed way of looking around that reminded me of Humphrey, the crow. She and Hunny Clack would have been co-winners of any enthusiasm contest anywhere, anytime.

If you can imagine, Emily was the perfect cheerleader type and had actually been head Spirit Girl at Lost Nation High back in the early 1900s. She and Francesca had grown up together. They'd been best friends throughout school and shared a number of my grandmother’s wilder excursions, including one outing where they mooned the governor.

They also bobbed one another’s hair and painted one another’s toenails, thereby driving both sets of parents to distraction. They loved the movies and agreed that Scarlett was a “silly twit,” as they put it, for not latching on to Rhett Butler with both hands.

These days, the girlfriends weren’t so much in each others’ pockets, but there was a lively banter they shared that kept the connection between them strong.

“Isn’t this a surprise? It is so nice to see you, Francesca. And Sarah!”

“It's Thursday, Emily. I come to town every Thursday. It'd be a lot more surprising if I didn't.”

“You'll cut yourself one day on that sharp tongue of yours.”

“No doubt, but you'll be there to sew it back on again!” They laughed loudly and hugged.

Francesca got out her list, and the two women began to gather up our order from the meticulously organized shelves, each product sorted alphabetically by brand name.

“Sarah, dear, what do you hear from those world travelers?” Emily asked.

“Daddyboys said
New York is nothing but smells and sounds. He and Mommy took a hansom cab right through Central Park!”

“Clay Morgan has a deep stretch to his soul. I always said so,” Emily replied.

“You never said anything of the kind, Emily. I suppose you’re still out of bleach?” And on it went like that between the two of them.

In one corner of the truly general store, Kett Purdy had set up a meat counter, a nicety that made shopping so convenient, it was a practice later adopted by the supermarkets.

Kett was a medium man. He wasn’t thin or fat. He wasn’t short or tall. His disposition was even-keeled. He wasn’t the brightest man, but he wasn’t dumb, either.

He was your average Joe in spades.

Butchering was his specialty, everything from dressing venison to cleaning trout. Of course, he bought beef, lamb and chicken from the local farmers to sell to the city people. But he didn’t mind helping the farmers out, even when they were eating from their own stock.

Kett was married to the reclusive Mary. It was common knowledge that his wife was a little like my Great Aunt Beedy, the one who sometimes insisted she was Greta Garbo. The butcher never hid the situation. It would have been futile in Lost Nation, where word of mouth spread rumors and facts faster and farther than a tornado could spread cow patties.

Francesca always made it a point to ask Kett about his wife while she did her shopping.

“I need a pound of bacon, some stew meat, a roast and a nice sausage. How’s Mary? Is she having a good spell?”

Kett appreciated people asking about his wife.

“Actually, she's on a definite upswing these days. I may even persuade her to join me at the July Fourth picnic.”

Independence Day celebrations were a delicious excuse for flag-waving, barbecuing, and parading. As in most rural areas and smaller towns, Lost Nation was a place where people invented their own entertainment, with many traditions dating back to before the turn of the century. Annual celebrations or monthly events like ice cream socials, oyster suppers, church teas, school events and town plays were big deals and filled everyone’s calendars. Lectures were also commonplace, with political debates being a perennially hot ticket.

Francesca and Kett exchanged opinions on the weather, the Clinton County Fair car races and the G.I. Bill while she stacked the neatly wrapped meat packets in her shopping bags. She then exclaimed, “You tell Mary we’ll look forward to seeing her!” and you could tell she meant it.

While Francesca continued visiting and filling out her grocery list, I slipped away and took Babe for a stroll. I was a little nervous that someone might recognize her and felt relieved when no one did.

There was a relatively new store in town called The Sweet Shoppe. Banana splits and root beer floats were only five cents. I thought the soda jerk was dreamy. He was tall and blond. His name was Bill Tycorn, and his family owned the place.

I peered into the window to see if Bill was working, but when he spotted me and waved, I turned around and ducked out of there with Babe at my heels.

It was time to go snooping again. Mr. Mosley had mentioned he was going to visit his brother, so that’s where I headed.

It was relatively cool inside the sheriff’s station — they had an overhead fan that kept the air stirring smartly. At first, it didn’t appear anyone was there. I was about to call out when I heard muffled voices coming from Sheriff Daniel’s private office at the back of the building.

I had been warned many times not to listen in on private conversations, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Maybe the sheriff was questioning a notorious prisoner or he had caught the arsonist! 

When I tiptoed to the door, I heard someone crying.

“I know how awful you feel. I wish ... Hell, it wasn't your fault.” Sheriff Mosley's voice, low-pitched and soft, was offering some words of comfort.

“I can't help it. Seeing Sarah every day ... I can't seem to put it out of my mind.”

To my amazement, it was Matthew Mosley. I crept closer. Did you know if you cup your ear to the surface of a wall, it improves your ability to hear noises on the other side?

“I don’t think I can stay there. I don’t think I should.” Matthew was sobbing.

“Now, Matthew, you weren’t responsible for the death of that little girl. Look at the thing objectively. What more could you have done?”

I shivered. Is that why the poor man acted so strange, especially around me?

I needed to find Francesca, so Babe and I tore out of there.

Emily told me Francesca had walked down to the dress shop, Chez Fay. What in the world Francesca would be doing in there, I couldn't imagine.

Chez Fay was owned and operated by Fay Phillips and stood next door to her beauty salon. She was fairly new in Lost Nation, having been here even fewer years than myself. Born in
Des Moines, Fay was quite tall and had a large-boned elegance that was hard to ignore. She and Francesca were looking over the “summer frocks,” as Fay put it.

Francesca didn’t gussy up much; what purpose would there be in frilly dresses or high heels in a vegetable garden?

Today was somehow different.

“I don't know ... I just don't see anything here I really like, Fay.”

“Well, what occasion are we celebrating?” Fay liked to use the word “we” instead of “you.” Her mode of expression was theatrical, and when she spoke, she made full use of the scales.

“No occasion. A woman feels like dressing up once in a while. What could be more natural?” Francesca offered as if her appearance at Chez Fay was every-day ordinary. Truth be told, diamond-studded fingernails couldn’t have seemed more out of place on Francesca. I could not recall the last time she'd worn a skirt. Maybe it was Cox's funeral. Yes, I can picture her navy suit and matching felt hat, complete with veil, come to think of it. And her gray raincoat, as it was perfect weather for a funeral, cool and misting.

Anyhow, the idea of Francesca putting down good money for girly clothes was odd. Very odd.

“Let me put on my thinking cap. Hmmm ... You know, I may have something in the back. A sky blue dress with short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. We could take the lace off; maybe it wouldn't look too ... I'll just check this week’s shipment.”

As Faye searched for the dress, I took a chair near the door. I wanted to tell Francesca about Matthew, but at the moment, I was more intrigued with my grandmother’s behavior.

I watched, astounded, as Francesca sniffed the various perfumes on the countertop in front of her. She held up some lacy handkerchiefs, tracing the delicate pattern with her fingertips. After a few moments, Fay came bustling out with the dress fairly floating across her arm.

“Yes, here it is. Isn't it wonderful?”

It certainly was. When Francesca swept out of the dressing room, she resembled a movie star. She pirouetted, looking at herself in the mirror.

“Wow!” I enthused.

Francesca never said a word. She got back into her own clothes and handed the lovely garment to Fay, along with some nylons and silky underthings. After some thought, she decided to try on a pair of heeled sandals and bought those, too. Then, she looked me up and down long and hard.

“You know, Sarah, you're growing like a weed. You haven't got a decent dress in your closet.”

“A dress? So who needs one?” I asked, but it was no use — I would spend the next hour trying on clothes, shoes and hats. Hats! What would I need with a hat? I was still at an age where dungarees were more than adequate … but Francesca’s enthusiasm was hard to dismiss. And after a while, I actually found myself enjoying the moment. 

Finally, we left the shop, struggling as we walked, for all the boxes and packages. Babe, who’d been sitting quietly, walked dutifully at my side.

We didn’t see the Duisenberg, so we sat down on a bench in front of Fay’s shop. After thirty minutes or so, Francesca checked her watch for the third time. She was tapping her foot in agitation.