Francesca of Lost Nation (8 page)

The idea of the West lives in the heroic block of his Stetson.
And the faith and trust of children rest on his shoulders, light as air.

It was a deal he made with himself.

The King of the Cowboys ... just a man with a good heart who rides into the sunset.”

My father, my funny old grease monkey Daddyboys, wrote these things?

“How many are there?” I wondered out loud.

“Seven completed and one that is half-written.”

“You mean he never finished them? But they're really wonderful. Isn't there a final grade?”

“No. There's one last letter from Professor Gump, saying how disappointed he was that your father didn't finish the course.”
  Francesca frowned. “Sarah, what's the date on that letter?”

“Let’s see. It says July 10, l937”

“Oh, Hell...” Francesca started to say more but stopped.

“What is it?”
 

No answer.
 

“Francesca, what
is it?”

My mother had been ill the last month before I was born, explained Francesca. “She carried you above the placenta, instead of below, and they weren't sure whether you were going to struggle into this world alive. Rachael was warned to stay flat on her back day and night, and Clay was beside himself with worry. He was so loving and sweet with your mother.”

Because of me, my father had to give up a writing career. I burst into tears.

“Sarah Sue Morgan! Your father never regretted your coming one moment of his life, and you know it!” She threw her arms around me and held me tightly, though I squirmed and writhed to get away. I couldn’t stop crying.

Francesca finally calmed me down by devising a plan.

“I think Mr. Toynbee might be very interested to see these ‘Sketches of Humanity.’”

I was still teary, but Francesca made me happy with her idea, and I hugged her 30 seconds longer.

“Do you think Daddyboys can still get his certificate from the college?”

Francesca and I spent the evening painstakingly typing two sets of copies to send to the magazine and university. We ate casually

on fried chicken and au gratin potatoes. Babe went out a few times, only to return covered with mud.

All in all, it was a grand, fine day.

Chapter 10

Dark Places

I

t had been nearly two weeks since we last saw Matthew Mosley. He had become more of a curiosity to me than anything else, but Francesca seemed to have set her heart on catching sight of him. I couldn’t help noticing the way she sometimes perked up at the sound of the Doozy rolling up the gravel drive.

Then, one day, out of the blue, he appeared at the door.

“Good morning,” he said. In his hands, he had a John Deere cap, which he turned over and over while searching for his next words.

Francesca waited. Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty.

“I was thinking we should … it was time that we have that dinner,” he said slowly.

Francesca turned to me. “Sarah?”

“I guess so,” I answered with an exaggerated shrug.

Matthew took a deep breath. “Good. Good.”

“We can’t possibly get away until Saturday evening,” Francesca said.

“All right,” he agreed.

They discussed eating in Lost Nation, but Matthew felt we deserved more of a splurge than our community could offer.

“After all, I have stood you up for two weeks.” He looked downright sheepish.

I watched Francesca bite her tongue.

*   *   *   *   *

It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun sinking into a riotous fan of purple and orange. Francesca looked lovely and animated. Something had set back her clock. In that pale blue dress, she might have been forty-five instead of nearly sixty.

When Matthew saw her come out of the house, he hitched in his breath.

I was feeling very grown up. My dress was pale lemon, and my new black patent Mary-Janes were shiny enough to see my reflection.

Matthew looked like a movie star who'd been on a bender, handsome but raggedy-edged. He had on some soft dove gray flannel trousers that whispered hand tailoring and a white shirt that brought up his tan and the color of his eyes. His tie was red and blue and looked snazzy against his blue blazer. Matthew even smelled good, with no trace of the usual night-before rum.

We were going to Clement’s Steak House near Clinton, about 40 miles east of Home Farm. Babe wasn’t supposed to tag along but had obviously made up her mind to do so. She hurled herself through the flap of the dog door Matthew had built for her and leaped into the Duisenberg.

It was a pretty drive. Babe stuck her head out the window, the way dogs do, and I could imagine the honeysuckle and early summer hay tickling her nose.

We tuned in to a Duke Ellington marathon — a Saturday evening special broadcast on the local station. The Duke’s music was like a delicious secret. It made me swoon.

Now that I look back, Francesca and Matt were behaving strangely. If one caught the other looking, they both quickly glanced away. At times, they spoke quietly about Home Farm and about flying. I tuned out of the conversations, opting to read my book about old Mr. Scrooge instead.

The restaurant was supposed to be situated on a road lit only by the lights in the parking lot. They would be our beacon, Matthew had been told.

But we got lost.

Matthew pored over an unhelpful map that had been printed long before the war. When the road we were following suddenly came to a dead end, we were surrounded by corn fields.

I could see Francesca was starting to get antsy. But Matthew felt sure he could find the place.

“It has to be around here somewhere,” he insisted.

So he continued to drive around and around and around.

My stomach started growling. Francesca was drumming her fingers on the passenger door. And Matthew just kept driving, insisting over and over he wasn’t really lost.

“Stop the
car!”

Francesca’s command startled me and Babe so much we practically jumped out of our skins. She got out of the car and stared into the dark.

I hope she isn’t leaving me here with him. We’d be here forever! I don’t like being lost in the dark, and I especially don’t like him.

Francesca’s voice was soothing as she read my mind. “Not to worry. Everything will be fine, Sweetchild.”

She got back into the car, closed the door with a bang and ordered Matthew to turn right. “I think I saw a beam of light in the distance. Drive in that direction; I’m pretty sure there’s a farmhouse.”

Her tone left him little choice.

His attitude soured considerably, even though — or especially because — she’d been right on the money.

We arrived at the farmhouse within two minutes. In a flash, Francesca was back with a piece of paper in her hand. She thrust the directions at Matthew, who took off like a slingshot. The ride to the restaurant was silence personified, with tension so thick a buzz saw couldn’t have sliced it.

You can imagine the remainder of the evening.

The fancy restaurant Matthew had been promised turned out to be more of a tavern with a hint of dive tossed in. He and Francesca were still giving one another the silent treatment. In fact, the only time Matthew spoke was to order a series of rum and cokes.

The food wasn’t that good, either.

I had the children’s portion of prime rib, which was tough enough for bootstraps. Francesca picked at a listless salad, and Matthew kept tossing back Cuba Libres, a cocktail that became popular during the war years, when scotch and bourbon were hard to get. Matthew had obviously taken to the switch with gusto.

The more he drank, the further he sank into his irritated gloom.

On our way out, Francesca and Matthew argued over who was going to drive. But my grandmother stood her ground and finally managed to snatch the keys out of his hand.

Matthew looked daggers at her but plopped himself in the passenger seat, where he was soon snoring to beat the band.

I was exhausted, unused to this kind of emotional tug-of-war. It occurred to me then that people live at different emotional settings. Some are perpetually riding a seesaw, while others glide through life on a much more even keel. 

Matthew Mosley was a tilt-a-whirl. I began to equate Matthew Mosley with the eye of a hurricane. He craved experiences, every sort, good and bad. I found him fascinating in the way a mongoose is fascinated by a snake — fascinating and exhausting.

I guess I’d been asleep and dreaming about a house ablaze. The images were so real that my eyes watered from the smoke. Startled, I sat up and looked out the car window. It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing.

A fire!

“Look, it’s Joshua Teems’ storage shed!” I shouted.

Francesca was already slowing the car, and Matthew was out of the vehicle.

“Stay put, you two,” he said as he hobbled forward to help.

What if the arsonist was back? I watched in dread as flames licked into the night sky.

Some neighbors had arrived and had begun helping the Teems men smother embers hopscotching toward the barn. By the time they formed a bucket brigade, I could hear terrified horses shrieking inside.

Francesca grabbed a blanket from the back seat. After Joshua wet it down, she wrapped it around her shoulders and covered her face with a handkerchief.

Matthew tried to stop Francesca, but she wasn’t going to listen to any argument. We could hear the horses becoming frantic to escape, bucking and neighing. Matthew shrugged and followed Francesca into the conflagration. Together, they somehow managed to lead the animals to safety.

In the chaos, I could see everyone was doing something vital. I couldn’t just sit there and watch, so I snuck out of the car and moved closer to the action. Babe started barking and jumped out through the car window, but instead of following me, she took off like a shot. I ran after her, yelling her name. But she vanished into the dark, and I was too scared to go after her.

As I turned back toward the flames, I heard a fire truck clanging along
Thunder Ridge Road. Within minutes, the Lost Nation Volunteer Fire Brigade had arrived and gotten things under control.

Sheriff Mosley arrived on the scene and immediately began gathering evidence — through observation and by listening. While he was speaking with Francesca and Matthew, I burst into tears. It took them a moment to realize why I was crying — Babe had disappeared.

Still covered in sooty sweat, the Mosley brothers patted me awkwardly on the back. The Sheriff comforted me as best he could. Francesca drew me into her arms.

“That’s one smart dog. She’ll be back,” Daniel assured me and turned back to Matt. He spoke firmly and quietly.

“You don't think he maybe hung around for a while to get some kicks out of it, do you? The wood was still wet from the storm. He must have used ... kerosene, by the smell of it.”

Daniel turned to me and asked which way my dog had run.

I pointed toward Home Farm.

It was about a half hour more before the fire was truly out. The Sheriff officially requested we all camp at the Teems’ farmhouse for the night. “This guy is crazy as a bedbug, and he could be anywhere. I’d feel a whole lot better if you were all someplace where I didn’t have to worry about you.”

Joshua Teems was more than happy to accommodate us.

“If it hadn't been for you coming along when you did, I hate to think what would've happened. There is always room for you at the farmhouse; you know that.”

He then passed around a cool jug of hard cider, to help us “sleep.”

I was missing Babe with a sharp pain right in the middle of my heart
—a pain I’d never felt before. The idea that I would never see her again was bringing an entirely new kind of despair and emptiness. That’s when Matthew Mosley surprised me by picking me up and holding me in his arms. I was too painfully tired to care
.

Chapter 11

Unforeseen Recoveries

I

nstinctively, I groped for Babe and then realized she wasn’t there. Through cloudy eyes and a foggy brain, I scanned the unfamiliar room.

My once-beautiful lemon yellow dress, now torn and soot-stained, lay in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Visions of the night before came flooding back — the fire and Babe’s disappearance.

As I stretched, dull aches and pains invaded my arm and leg muscles as I began to take in my surroundings.

Joshua Teems’ comfortable old place had once been a part of the Pittschtick holdings. It had been sold off sometime around 1900 to Joshua’s father, Micah, a firm believer in the medicinal properties of apples and a literal interpretation of the Good Book.
 

Joshua had scoffed at his father's tenets and been a wild child in his teen years, spending some months with the state Youth Authority. The town nannygabbers even whispered he’d served a short spell in the state penitentiary.

Anyhow, after Micah was carried off by a stroke, Joshua married and settled down. Mirabella, a pious and sweet-faced Baptist, was the type of woman old man Micah would have been proud to have as a daughter-in-law.

Faced with her unwavering faith every morning and night, Joshua took over the apple orchards with vigor and begat Jacob and Isaac. Those two boys were like blue tick hound dogs — big and sweet and not too bright. Joshua’s only concession to his former devilish ways was the fermenting of hard cider, which, he maintained, came from a recipe that went all the way back to the Garden of Eden.

When Mirabella was taken by the influenza in 1932, Joshua was left to raise the boys by himself. He did a good job.

I found a bathroom and drank about a gallon of water straight from the tap. I then wandered my way through the big empty house and out into the yard. Ashes and charred wood littered the ground. The barn frame was still smoking. I wondered where the horses had been taken. No sign of the adults either.

The sun’s rays broke me out in a sweat that trickled down my neck and chest. I was hungry, disoriented and sad. I called out several times for Francesca and Babe, but when neither responded, I simply collapsed in a heap on my knees. Then, flashbacks of an unsettling dream from the night before overran my brain. I could almost hear Babe yelping for me, sounding like she was hurt or afraid.

Without thinking, I stood up and started running in the general direction of Home Farm, screaming for Francesca.

“Oh, my God, Sarah! Here I am, Sweetchild!” my grandmother called, appearing out of nowhere.

I wrapped my arms around her and held on tightly as she whispered words of comfort in my ear.

“My poor, dear girl,” Francesca said over and over. The adults had been retracing the events from the night before and were searching the area for clues. They had left me to sleep late.

“We have to help Babe; she’s hurt,” I finally said. “She’s hurt! She needs me. She needs
us
!”

“Did she come back last night?” asked Francesca.

“No! She’s … in a place that echoes. I … I dreamed it, but I know it’s true! We have to find her, Francesca.” And I took her arms and shook them.
“We have to help her!”

Jefferson, Matthew, Joshua and Sheriff Mosley looked at me oddly. Francesca, however, listened with heightened attention.

The Pittschticks were not, strictly speaking, religious when it came to church-going and psalm-singing or praying out loud. For Francesca, the organized-religion idea of God was simply too narrow.
Instead, Francesca believed that God was everything and everywhere. God was time, space, matter, good and evil, all rolled into one. Her opinion about suffering was that it was a part of the learning process and that it could be a blessing in disguise. Francesca put her faith in what she called the “benign character of the Great Unseen.”

Francesca began asking me gentle questions about my dream. Sheriff Dan, Matthew, Lincoln, Joshua and Jefferson were following us by way of the shortcut as we ambled toward Home Farm. When we finally reached the porch, I had calmed down a little. Francesca settled me into a rocker and continued her gentle prodding. “Close your eyes and tell me what you sensed, Sarah,” she said.

I took a deep breath and let the nightmare roll back over me. “I heard trickling water,” I offered.

Francesca nodded her head. “Could be a well, boarded-up or dry.”

“There must be fifteen in this part of the county alone,” the sheriff said.

“Could be an underground spring,”
Lincoln chimed in.

Since Babe had last been seen running into the woods from the Teems’ property, the adults decided to continue searching the area while it was daylight.

Lincoln spotted something first. He knelt down and touched it with his hand, a patch of something dark and sticky. “Blood,” was all he said.

I pressed against Francesca.

“Yep,” Lincoln said, pointing down.

“Babe! Babe!” I hollered.

Matthew motioned Francesca and me to wait while he and the sheriff walked ahead.

“I can hear her,” I said as a faint whimpering sound made its way through the trees.

Then Matthew motioned, “Over here!” He was gesturing at a gaping black hole.

Believe it or not, it was rare to hear of someone or something being trapped in a well. The Pittschticks were too fastidious and too
wrapped up in their children’s welfare not to take the greatest care in covering up such potential hazards. But someone had pried the lid off.

Matthew shined his flashlight into the pit.

“There she is,” Matthew said. “It’s a ways down there. Jefferson, I believe we’ll need your rope now.”

“Please,” I whispered, “can I just see her?”

“Okay. But don't excite her. If she's hurt, you don't want her to move till we can get someone down there."

On my belly, I crawled to the edge of the well and peered down. I could barely make out Babe’s shape in the gloom.
 

“It's all right, girl,” I called softly. “It's okay. Shhh. We're coming to save you.”

But the mouth of the well was too narrow for any of the men to fit.

“Well, you'd better hog tie me onto that rope. I don't want that dog hurting any longer than necessary.”

“Francesca, you can’t be serious … It’s too dangerous,” Matthew protested.

“Just do it.”

Lincoln and Matthew conceded defeat and helped her fashion a harness. Her light frame was misleading. Though slimly built, she was as strong as an ox. Matthew hunkered down as much as his cast would allow and thought for a minute.

“It doesn't look like you'll have enough room at the bottom to squat beside her,” he said. “You’re going to have to lean down and check her out for broken bones. If her back is broken, we'll have to rethink this. If one or more of her legs are broken …”

“Shit!” The word exploded out of my mouth unintentionally.

“Sometimes that’s a very appropriate word,” Francesca said to me. “Now, hold on to some really good thoughts.”

I could hear Francesca’s feet slipping along the casing as she tried to find a purchase.

“Stop a minute,” she said and proceeded to take her shoes off one at a time and toss them up to us. “Okay, I'm ready.”
 

Matthew worked the rope, and
Jefferson held the flashlight steady until Francesca could reach the dog.

“It’s okay, girl,” we heard Francesca say.

A few seconds later, Babe yelped, and Francesca said softly, “No, Babe. It’s okay. Easy. Easy.”

“What is it?” asked Matthew.

“She snapped at me. I think she's in some real pain here.”

“One of you gentlemen got a sock?” Francesca called up.

Lincoln
sat down, undid his shoe, peeled off a heavy gray work sock and handed it down.

“I’ll make a muzzle,” Francesca called up.

Then she examined Babe again.

“Oh, my God…”

“What is it?” I asked, not wanting to know yet needing to know.  

“I need something for a pressure bandage,” Francesca answered. “She’s got a gaping wound that looks to have lost a lot of blood.”

Matthew immediately took off his shirt and ripped it up the middle. He threw it down the well to Francesca. After what seemed like a million years, they were ready to be brought up.

“Take it slow — I've got the dog in my arms.”

We could hear a constant whimpering that broke my little heart. I held my breath. Francesca’s head came out first. Her hair was matted against her forehead, her arms covered with blood. She held Babe close to her chest, the dog’s broken leg hanging at a crazy angle. 

The trip into town was horrible. Babe trembled and shivered and cried. I did, too.

“It looks like someone took a knife to her,” Doc Gearneart said. “She’s got some serious contusions, too. But I’m confident she will make a full recovery. It’ll take some time, though. Yes, sir.” He turned to me and patted my shoulder. “You and Frances’ll have to nurse her and keep her quiet. Make sure the wound stays clean. Give her these pills. Make sure she eats proper. Can you do that, Sarah?”

I promised we would.

I don’t know what time it was when we finally got back to Home Farm. Matthew, Francesca and I sat on the front porch, numb and exhausted.

Francesca managed to find enough energy to check the mailbox, and when she got back to us she said, “I’ve been wondering …”

Matthew and I both looked at her as she paused before finishing her thought. “How the Hell did Babe fall into a well with a slice out of her side?”

Francesca glanced at Matthew, who shook his head.

“Is anyone here ready for some
good
news? Sarah, I think this is for you,” she said, handing me an envelope.

The letter from Daddyboys couldn’t have come at a better moment.

Dear Frances and Sarah,

“We’ve arrived in
England and are ready to ferry to France … The ship, a smaller sister to the Queen Elizabeth, looks, at first, to be roomy and comfy. But when we saw the top-deck cabin that had been engaged for us, there was just enough space inside for one overnight case and ourselves as long as we didn't try to change our minds! 

The captain is a handsome fellow with an enormous handle-bar moustache and ruddy skin. He is quite friendly though a touch imperious. When he urged us to be awake at dawn the next morning in order to catch our first glimpse of
France at fabled Calais, we saluted smartly and appeared at the appointed time.

I've never seen anything quite like those cliffs. They were a glorious sight, with the climbing sun pink on the horizon and the gulls and terns swooping.

Train travel is a lot more civilized in Europe, except in third class, where the French cheerfully toss the remains of their lunch out the window. We arrived in Paris later that morning and were taken to Hôtel Plaza Athénée
.

The city is half in ruins from the war, although rebuilding takes place at a furious pace. It's a crying shame, seeing what must have been the most beautiful city of the modern world reduced in some places to rubble.

Our hotel rooms are too elegant for a grease monkey and a baker from Lost Nation, Iowa ... all green velvet hangings and delicate rosewood antique furniture. 

We’re told that international society has flocked to this hotel of enviable glamour since 1911.

The telephone at the side of the bed has three buttons on it: One with a tiny drawing of a man carrying a tray; a second one depicting a woman with a towel; and another resembling a man carrying a hanger. They represent the room service waiter, the maid and the valet for our floor. If you wish to summon any of them, you just press the appropriate button. 

Posh, huh? Your old Daddyboys has decided to keep those gentlemen and ladies busy! Always wanted to patronize a French laundry ... now I'll get my chance!
 

Love, DB
 

Kisses and Kisses and Kisses, Rachael/Mommy

“Rachael is going to let some stranger do her laundry?” Francesca laughed. “No doubt she’ll be glad of her new unmentionables — she'll have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Matthew said, “You make her sound like a prude. After all, she is your daughter, Fran.”

No one ever called my grandmother Fran. It irritated me.

Francesca also had a letter. It was from Des Moines. She rolled her eyes when she spotted Great Uncle Harry and Aunt Maude’s return address.

“I’ll read it later,” she said and slammed the kitchen door on her way inside the house.

“Francesca and Maude aren’t too close,” I explained to Matthew, who was looking puzzled. “It has something to do with Harry. My great uncle used to be in love with Francesca, but no one is supposed to talk about it.”