Francesca of Lost Nation (7 page)

“Where could he be?” she asked herself.

It was time to tell Francesca what I had heard.

When I’d finished, Francesca admonished Babe and me to stay where we were and told me to keep an eye on the packages.

She motioned through the shop window for Fay to keep watch over Babe and me and headed toward the sheriff’s office.

I saw her storm through the jailhouse doors and heard most of her side of the conversation. People in the next county probably heard

her. How dare Matthew keep us waiting, standing in the streets. And what was all this about a child? “What is
going on?”

“You don’t understand, Francesca.” And that’s when Grandmother heard the whole sad tale.

*   *   *   *   *

It was a bitter start to autumn in Mohawk,
Michigan. Matthew was staying at an old mining town, the largest in a string of mining settlements stretching along the central spine of the Keweenaw Peninsula. He had been barnstorming around the state during the late summer, crop dusting and stunt flying by turns. He was hanging around to attend one last air show when a freak arctic storm blew in from Canada and began dumping snow. The weather forced
Matthew to put a hold on his plans, a decision that would alter his life.
        

Twenty-seven children were on their way home from school when their bus skidded across a patch of black ice on a downgrade and crashed into a stone wall. Most of the elementary-schoolers scrambled out with bruises and fractures, but one was pinned tight.

Volunteers from the local fire department worked liked demons to cut her out, and it was clear she was going to need some serious medical attention — attention they were unequipped to give in Mohawk or any of the nearby communities.

Matthew offered to fly the little girl through the zero-visibility storms to
Flint, which was the closest city with the necessary doctors and facilities. The chances of Matthew getting through were slim, but he never hesitated. If he could manage to get to Flint, his precious cargo would have a slim chance of survival. Staying put, on the other hand, amounted to her death sentence.

Matthew reassured the girl’s parents. But sometime during the flight, he lost radio contact. His sense of direction was impacted, and he crashed into a fallow wheat field. The little girl died and with her so did a vital piece of Matthew’s peace of mind. What would he tell her parents? And why had he survived the accident? The guilt haunted and drained him as he lay in his hospital bed.

Matthew’s leg was broken so badly, they had to put a pin in the bone to keep it together. His face was a crazy quilt of scars and bruises.

He’d damaged his spleen and one kidney. He learned that, due to the severity of his injuries, he might never fly again ... not that he cared to. 

His physical recovery took longer than doctors had anticipated. Matthew’s leg didn’t heal properly and had to be broken and reset. An additional surgery repaired two torn tendons.

Eventually, his body would mend. His soul, however, was a different matter.

Francesca didn’t share the details of her exchange with Sheriff Daniel that morning, so I didn’t learn the harrowing story until years later. Apparently, she had bawled like a baby after Daniel recounted the events.

Twenty minutes later, Babe and I waited dutifully while Francesca went to Joe’s Tavern to retrieve Matthew Mosley. He wasn’t drunk. He was staring into space with a cold cup of coffee sitting on the counter in front of him.

When we got home, Francesca invited Matthew to join us for some lemonade. He thanked her and sat. Daddyboys and Mommy had sent another letter. I could hardly wait to read it.

… The ship is pearly white and spanking bright. The dish fairies and the brass polishing fairies and the window washing fairies have been hard after it day and night, you can tell. We have a stateroom with a private toilet and a tiny shower and a balcony on the upper deck, with a view of the limitless ocean rolling, rolling, rolling past our window. 

Every night is a new pleasure. When we sit at table to dine, a bottle of champagne nestles in its silver bucket surrounded by shaved ice, awaiting our pleasure to uncork its sweet power. All this compliments of Mr. Toynbee and
World Travel
.

Your mother is in bloom like the apple trees in spring and looks like a young girl. We love you and miss you and wish you were here. Hey, that's a fine title for a column, isn't it: “Wish You Were Here.”

Love Daddyboys. I send kisses, Rachael.

When I finished reading, Matthew stood up and stretched, like a cat. He bobbed his head to me and moved toward the back door. 

“You know,” he said, “I haven't had a Saturday night on the town for an age and a half. I’d be honored to escort the two prettiest ladies in Lost Nation to dinner at the best restaurant in town.”

What was this?

As if he had read my mind, he pointed outside to the Doozy. “I especially owe you two, since you were kind enough to get Lizzie there all patched up so perfectly. And I do thank you.”

“You have a date,” Francesca answered.

I sensed that something big was happening, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what. I realized I would have no choice but to go along. I started to say something sarcastic, but I stopped short when I saw the soft look on Francesca’s face.

Chapter 9

Hidden Treasures

F

riday brought black clouds and pouring rain. It would have been silly to hire
Lincoln for chores; there wasn't a whole lot a body could do surrounded by ankle deep puddles. While pursuit of our adventure list was out of the question, I did wade out to the barn in order to feed RedBird and Miss Blossom.

Babe’s skinny frame was plumping up nicely, as Francesca had begun feeding her a mixture of milk, water and oatmeal. She insisted the added calcium would “make Babe’s teeth so strong they would never fall out.” They never did.

On the rare occasions Matthew joined us for breakfast, he hardly ate and was politely quiet as a library. At times, he reeked of alcohol from the night before. As the evening he’d been so friendly became a distant memory, it was obvious that Matthew’s 10,000 demons still ran his life

Even when Francesca muttered some pointed reference to a hangover, Matthew scarcely noticed. Instead, he drifted out into the day and vanished. We never knew where he went; we simply let him be.

Since we were trapped inside and on our own, we devised new diversions.

The attic could be reached by a pull-down stairway in the back of the double linen closet in our upstairs hall. It was a spacious hidey hole of family artifacts: wooden trunks stuffed with petticoats, corsets, ascots, worn-out Levi overalls cheek-by-jowl with work boots from five different decades, a cupboard full of classic English novels that had been translated into German, suitcases packed with quilts and curtains and gloves … at least 20 pairs of ladies’ gloves.

“Shall we investigate, child? No telling what we may find up there.”

“Indubitably,” I replied.

I couldn’t recall ever having been inside the attic before. What I knew about such places had come generally from radio shows, like “The Shadow.” I hadn't quite made up my mind about ghosts at that time, but I figured an attic was a likely place to encounter a phantom. Or maybe even an arsonist in hiding. Just the day before, Sheriff Mosley had told us no arrests had been made in connection with suspicious fires that had recently flared in the area. One thing was certain … Whoever had frightened us by the pond was still out there.

The entrance into the “mysterious chamber” was a solid oak door mounted on well-oiled springs. It opened silently and was therefore highly unsatisfactory in the squeaky/scary noise department. But the smell that came wafting out of the dark was damp and stale enough to evoke a hundred spirits.
 

At the top of the stairs, a long thin chain hung from the ceiling. When Francesca pulled it, a bright light flooded the space. Except for a few king-sized cobwebs hanging around, the attic looked like any ordinary room. It was a big disappointment. A fairly high ceiling sloped on one side. Some faded throw rugs covered the wooden floors, and the windows were grimy with a layer of dirt and yellowed lace
curtains. If the arsonist had been lying in wait up here, he'd have died from a coughing spasm.

“These could stand a good wash,” Francesca sniffed, fingering the stiff curtains.

We took them down, fanning away the dust motes. I wanted to grope through the fascinating trunks right away, but Francesca was firm: First we scrub.

So we trooped up and down between the kitchen and the attic with pails of soapy water, furniture polish, brooms and dust pans. Francesca taught me the trick of tying an old tea towel over my nose to prevent what she called seismic sneezing.

We found piles of newspapers which Cox had obviously been saving. Something of a pack rat, he resisted parting ways with something once he possessed it. He and Francesca had constant tug-of-wars. “Treasure!” he’d exclaim. “Trash!” she shouted back. Eventually, Francesca would sneak a carton of magazines out in the dead of night. Cox never seemed to miss them.

This morning, instead of putting the publications straight onto the garbage pile, Francesca began to finger through them one by one. Cox had circled various articles of interest. There was one from a February 26, 1933
New York Times
piece, titled “Golden Gate Breaks Ground,” a piece about the official start of work on what would be the longest clear-span bridge in the world. We discovered clippings of Henry Ford and his automobile enterprise; reports of Charles Lindbergh’s trans-Atlantic flight; and profiles of Ted Williams’ batting records with the Boston Red Sox, some pieces dated as recently as 1943, the year Cox had passed.

When she finished looking over her husband’s collection, Francesca carefully folded the clippings and placed them neatly back in the same box. That’s when she spotted the yellow envelope.

It was addressed to her in my grandfather’s careless handwriting. She held it gingerly, as though a rubber snake might be lurking inside. It'd be just like Grandpap to pull a prank like that so long after his own death. Finally, she undid the seal.

There were two poems inside, on separate pieces of paper. The first was labeled “Anon.” She read it out loud:

“Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there, I do not sleep.
 

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift

uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars

that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.”

We were both stunned. Then, she read the second poem. It had been written by Christina Rosetti in the 1600s and became one of Francesca's favorites. Many years later, I read it at her wake, which consisted of flowing champagne and many shared memories of what a wonderful “dame” she'd been.
 

The poem was titled “Remember.”

“Remember me when I am gone away, gone far away into that silent land when you can no more take me by the hand and I, half turned to go, yet turning, stay.

Remember me when no more day by day,
you tell me of the future that we planned.
Only remember me.

You understand, it will be late to counsel then or pray.
But if you should forget me for a while, and afterward remember, do not grieve.

For if the darkness and corruption leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had, better by far you should forget and be happy
 than that you should remember and be sad.”

Francesca sat very still. I remember how the muted light leaking through the window softened her face. She turned those pages over and over in her thin hands and dabbed them across her forehead as if they could replenish some memory etched there. She stood and walked to the window as she sighed to Cox across Untimely Death: “Why didn't you ever show me?”

The mood remained somber as we went into the kitchen for lunch. Francesca made sandwiches halfheartedly, probably more for my sake than hers. I don’t think she was very hungry. The poetry hung over her like a shroud.

When we finished, she only said to me, “It’s a terrible thing when you discover something truly important about someone you love only after they're gone.”

The rain was coming down harder than ever, and water gushed down our driveway like a mountain river in an April flow. Matthew hadn’t been back since breakfast, and frankly, we were relieved.
 

Francesca had recovered her vitality somewhat and was ready to tackle the trunks in the attic at last. What fabulous secrets might we find? What remnants of lives lived long ago?

The first was a steamer trunk that looked old enough to have been brought from Essen by the original Pittschticks. It was dotted with colorful dated decals. It wasn't elegantly made, but it was sturdy and snug-fitted. No doubt, some German carpenter had lovingly fashioned the thing himself as a preparation for his family's journey to the New World.

The hinges creaked slightly, making me tingle with anticipation. Francesca gave a whoop of delight when she recognized the contents.

Her mother’s wedding dress, yellowed now with age, lay across the top of old photographs. A christening robe, once worn by Francesca, was folded along with a set of tiny, lacy outfits, all in various widths and lengths.

“Oh dear, my first grown-up hat,” she said, awe-struck that her mother, Frieda, would have saved such a trivial thing.

It was navy blue felt, shaped like a crescent moon with a kind of veil across the front. Francesca tried it on and ran down to her bathroom mirror to see herself.

She looked so beautiful. I could easily imagine her at sixteen years old. Her skin glowed, and her eyes sparkled. I peeked around the corner, half-expecting that her childhood sweetheart had come to fetch her for a weekend date.

As soon as I blinked, the mirage disappeared. Back from my daydream, the person before me now was my sweet, regal grandmother wearing a funny-looking hat. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. 

The giggles came and went as we continued opening trunks and uncovering hallmarks of the family’s past: my mother’s wedding dress, my baby scrapbook, wedding albums, anniversary photos, my first pair of shoes and even a tiny petticoat. All my report cards and the handmade notes I’d given my parents on holiday as well as my father’s army pictures.

I found baby photos of my father. It was unsettling, seeing him as a child. He’d always seemed too capable to ever have been anything but a full-grown man.

“Oh, look. Love letters,” I said, pointing to a stack of mail addressed to my mother from Daddyboys when he was in the service.

He had written unfailingly two times a week. They were wonderful letters, full of telling and observant descriptions about army life.

September 1942

“... walking around the compound can be rather trying as saluting officers and returning the salutes of any and all is mandatory.
  Your arm goes up and down like an oil derrick. 

“And in the beginning, when the various insignia resembles hieroglyphics, it's wisest to salute everything in uniform, even the county sheriffs.”

March 1943

“… I keep the various vehicles here immaculate and running perfectly. Of course I cringe down to the bottom of my insteps when I see some jackass officer with his shoes on the dashboard!

“One day, I remember seeing a particular second Louie scuffing up the insides in this way and practically lost my head. He was a nice enough guy but even more of a hick than yours truly!”

Daddyboys had another surprise for us. At the bottom of the trunk, we found a blue spiral notebook with the words “Sketches of Humanity”
written across the front. Inside lay an old curriculum for the University of Iowa Correspondence Course of English and Literature. Several of the assignments had already been completed with top marks. Professor Gump had even written my father encouraging notes. Daddyboys’ compositions had
“... depth of soul and clarity of thought ... ,” Gump wrote.

It turned out that “Sketches of Humanity” amounted to a final exam. Students were directed to choose ten names from a list of famous people and in fifty words or less illuminate the essence of that personality.

Thomas Jefferson was Daddyboys’ first pick.

“A huge and evocative man with hair the color of fires blazing and leaves turning. He probed life’s mysteries with his intelligence and his hands through a viewpoint broad enough to encompass all that he did not know. He was equally dedicated to the serious and the whimsical, having composed The Declaration of
Independence and invented the collapsible farthingale.”

In pencil, scribbled across the bottom of the page was “59! No good!”

My father's second pick was Babe Ruth.
 

“He was built more like a pastry chef than a baseball player
.” This line had been scratched out. The rest was as follows:

“Even though shaped like a dumpling, the Babe was a ball-playing machine. His homeruns and his cigars were of legendary length and his appetite for The Game, women and food was Bunyanesque. You can shout out Cobb or Gehrig or Young but baseball is still spelled B-a-b-e-R-u-t-h.”

The penciled remark on this was "infantile!" But the handwriting didn’t look like the professor’s; it looked like Clay’s.

Francesca began to thumb through the rest of the descriptions.

“Here’s one about Roy Rogers, called ‘My Hero.’”

“Through the sagebrush, tumbleweeds carom in the wind like lost souls.
A coyote's lonely call echoes down rocky canyon walls in harmony with the mourning dove.

Into this American landscape comes a fair man on a golden horse.
The sunrise carries the song of his soul like a joyful noise.