Hattie Big Sky (10 page)

With affection,
Uncle Holt

I snatched up the letter from Mr. Miltenberger. He offered $15 an installment, “preferably monthly,” until my claim was proved up and I was no longer a homesteader.

“Hallelujah, Plug!” I startled the old horse with my outburst. Manna did fall from the Montana sky—at least from writing about living beneath it. “Cold hard cash!” I ticked off the months on my fingers. “April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November—Plug, that's eight months. Eight times fifteen is…” I did a quick calculation. “One hundred and twenty dollars!” I reached my arms to that vast blue sky. “Thank you, Lord, for your mysterious ways!”

Carefully I tucked the letters and the check back in the lunch basket. With each nail I pounded the rest of the afternoon, I hammered out my next installment for Mr. Miltenberger. Fifteen dollars a month! Until I proved up! I'd set aside the $37.75 I needed for final fees. Of course, there'd be some other costs, but my savings should cover them. Maybe now I could buy some new boots, ones that really fit my feet, not Uncle Holt's old ones. And I could get my own subscription to the
Wolf Point Herald.
That and boots would take only $7 out of my stash. I couldn't contain my excitement. “Plug, I think we're going to make it.” The hammer felt like a feather as I finished the next section of fence.

When I'd pounded in the last nail and gathered up my tools, I fairly floated across the blooming prairie. “What do you think all the other millionaires are doing today, Plug?” I asked. An image flashed behind my eyes of Perilee pointing out the $3 oak rockers in the Monkey Ward catalog. “Wouldn't that be fine for rocking the baby?” she had asked. They were saving for a new tractor, so I knew she wouldn't even think of spending that money on herself.

Violet was crankier than ever as I milked her that night. Almost as if she knew what selfish hands were on her teats.

“All right,” I said, slapping her ornery hide. Devil cow that she was, I felt she was giving me a message from heaven this time. “I'll make do with these old boots. Then I can get Perilee that rocker.”

Violet looked at me with her big brown eyes…and stepped hard on my right foot. So much for signs from God!

         
CHAPTER 11         

April 5, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

Dear Uncle Holt,

How can I ever thank you? My monthly checks will grow like the wheat I hope to plant soon. Just think—Miss Simpson may read my first article to my old classmates. I'm sure she'll find a way to point out my dangling participles and awkward syntax. I am so pleased, I don't even mind being a bad example!

Karl shakes his head at me when I try to tell him about the scientific studies Mr. Campbell set forth in his
Soil Culture Manual.
If I take Mr. Campbell's advice, I should order seven bushels of seed, all told, for my forty acres. Karl says I should order twenty! That is a difference of thirteen bushels. I would be floundering without Karl's guidance, but Mr. Campbell is a scientist. And with wheat seed going for $2.50 a bushel, his plan means nearly $33 more in Hattie's coffers. I would appreciate any advice you might have for me.

There are big doings at the schoolhouse this weekend: a dance to raise money for the Liberty Bonds. This will be my first social outing, aside from church (yes, Aunt Ivy, I have been attending). Perilee is baking one of her cakes, but I thought it safer if I brought sandwiches. My bread is not nearly as heavy and dry as it was at first.

Your niece,
Hattie Inez Brooks

“What do you think, Mr. Whiskers?” I laid out my clothing choices on the table the night before the dance. “The yellow gingham dress or the navy wool skirt and bodice?”

Mr. Whiskers sniffed at both outfits. He sneezed at the navy wool.

“My thoughts exactly.” I picked up the dress. “Time for a little color around here!” It was foolishness, certainly, but I even took some care with that bird's nest on top of my head. First I washed it and rinsed it with sugar water. Then I set it in rags all over my head. I left the rags in place till it was nearly time to go on Saturday. With some fussing and coaxing, my hair looked presentable. I held it back at each side with Mama's tortoiseshell combs. Mr. Whiskers meowed his approval.

I'd finished making a stack of sandwiches when I heard Rooster Jim's team trot into the yard. I set the sandwiches on my least chipped enamelware plate, covered them with a clean towel, and grabbed my overcoat and shawl.

“You look awful nice, Hattie.” Jim even clambered out of the wagon to help me up.

“You aren't so hard to look at yourself,” I teased. Since becoming my chess partner, Rooster Jim had improved in the olfactory department. Or maybe I was getting used to his smell.

“Hope you wore comfy shoes.” Rooster Jim hopped back onto the seat and clucked to the horses. “You're going to be dancing all night.”

I blushed but managed to get the topic off me and onto news of the war. The Germans had launched new attacks in France, between the Somme and Arve rivers and were now claiming to have taken ninety thousand prisoners. I couldn't help but think of Charlie.

“You ever figure out where your chum is?” Jim asked.

“No. Once he wrote down the name of some town, but the censor cut it out.” I sat quietly for a moment, thinking. “I like to think they keep the airfields back of the worst of the fighting, to keep the planes safe,” I said.

“That's what you'd hope,” said Jim.

“Hope
and
pray,” I said, pushing away a sense of dread. Last week we'd had our first local casualty, Mr. Kirkpatrick from Terrace. Though I hadn't known him, his death brought the war all that much closer to home. We were both quiet, Jim and I, the rest of the ride.

“Come on in!” Leafie waved to us from the doorway. “It's nice and warm in here.”

Soon we were inside, coats off, helping to set up tables of sandwiches, cake, beans, and cottage cheese. I helped make coffee. Perilee brought over a cake.

“This smells like heaven!” exclaimed Leafie. “How on earth did you bake a cake like this with all the shortages?”

“I've been hankering sweets something awful. My gran used to whip up cakes out of nothing. I figured I could do the same.” Perilee smiled shyly. “You cook up the raisins first. That's what makes it sweet and moist.”

Mattie came over and threw her arms around my legs. “We have kittens!” She let me go to smooth out what was left of Mulie's hair. “We each get to name one—me, and Chase, and Mulie.” She leaned closer. “Mulie had a hard time choosing, so I helped her.”

Before I could ask about the kittens' names, Mattie was off, playing tag with a little girl I didn't know.

It wasn't long before the room was filled. I waved at Grace Robbins, stepping inside with her husband, Wayne, and her two children. Her daughter, Olive, skipped over to Mattie and her other friend. The Schillinger brothers warmed up their violins as older children chased each other around the school room. I saw Chase in the far corner, snugged behind a desk, reading. Folks were laughing and chattering. I didn't see Traft.

“You think the Martins will come?” I asked Leafie.

She made a face. “And miss the chance to make a show of buying Liberty Bonds? Not likely.”

“It's for a good cause,” I said.

Leafie crooked an eyebrow at me. “Hattie, don't you know that man is trouble?”

“Thought that was his horse,” I said, trying to make light.

“You.” She laughed, then patted my hand. “I'll tell you what my mama told me: handsome is as—”

“Handsome does,” I finished. “Your mama and my aunt.”

“Speak of the devil.” Leafie tilted her head toward the door. In walked Traft Martin with a handful of cowboys.

A few men nodded at these late arrivals, but the music started up, turning the crowd's focus to the dance floor.

“Don't them Schillingers play some toe-tappers?” Leafie asked me, with an elbow to my ribs. We watched others dance for a while, clapping and shouting and having a grand time.

After a particularly lively two-step, I felt a pat on my shoulder. I turned and found myself facing Traft Martin.

“Nice to see you again, Miz Brooks,” he said. His slicked-up hair smelled of Packer's Scalptone. It was the same stuff Charlie used to wear; he snitched it from his father.

“Evening.” I smoothed a stray lock of my sugar-stiffened hair.

“Would you like to dance?” He held out his arm.

I glanced over at Leafie. She frowned and turned away. “I'm not sure I've got the hang of it yet,” I told him.

Traft smiled. It was the same kind of smile he'd worn the day he helped me pick rocks. “And you won't, just standing there.”

Though I could feel Leafie's eyes boring a hole in my back, I took his arm and we moved toward the dance floor.

The Schillingers launched into a lively tune.

“Don't say I didn't warn you!” I stepped into line with the other women.

It wasn't so hard after all. Pa Schillinger hollered out the steps.

“Ladies bow low and the gents bow under, couples up tight and swing like thunder!” His walrus mustache wiggled as he sang. “Leave that lady and home you go. Opposite the gent with a do-si-do. Jump right up and never come down. Now swing that calico round and round.”

The floor was so crowded, there wasn't room to make a mistake. If you did, you laughed, grabbed your partner, and picked it up again.

The next dance was a waltz. “One more?” Traft asked. I nodded.

He slipped his right hand around my waist and took my right hand in his left. When our hands connected, I swear to Christmas I felt a current of electricity jolt through me. “Oh!” I jerked my hand away.

“Is my hand too rough?” He wiped it on his jeans. “Or too sweaty?”

“No. No.” I couldn't in a million years tell him. “I—my hands are still chapped from putting up fence.” I hoped I told the white lie smoothly enough for him to believe it.

“I know how that is,” he said. “I'll be real careful.” Then he took my hand again, as gently as if he was holding his own mother's very best china teacup.

We twirled this way and that around the room. I'd never danced with anyone like this before. True, Charlie had danced with me at the eighth-grade ball, but he was a worse dancer than me. We'd tromped all over each other's feet. Traft made me feel like a fairy-tale princess, dancing in a gingerbread castle. Too soon, the song was over.

“Time for supper!” Leafie called, banging on a pot. Traft thanked me, then stepped away, and I was caught up with the crowd of folks lined up for sandwiches.

Grace slipped in line behind me. She poked me in the back. “Hattie's got a beau!” she teased. I could feel my cheeks were hot, and not because of the stuffy room.

“Oh, Lordy!” Leafie threw her hands up.

“No such thing,” I mumbled.

“Friends and neighbors,” Pa Schillinger called out, “get you something to eat and then let's talk about why we're gathered together tonight.”

Folks filled their plates and coffee cups. Mr. Saboe began his pitch to sell Liberty Bonds. He wasn't as smooth as the Four Minute Man I'd heard back home at the Excelsior Theater, but his heart was sure in it.

“Now, you all know my own sons are over there right now,” he began.

“Mine too, don't you forget,” called out a woman—was that Mrs. Ervick?

Mr. Saboe nodded. “I've heard that there are more Montana boys fighting than from any other state in the Union.”

That brought a loud cheer from the crowd.

Mr. Saboe waved his hands to get everyone's attention. “No one can accuse this state of not supporting the war effort.” Another cheer. “There's one more way we can all help, and that's to buy Liberty Bonds. Montana's quota of the Third Liberty Loan is three million dollars.”

Someone let out a shrill whistle.

“Sounds impossible, I know,” said Mr. Saboe. “But it figures out to about thirty dollars for every man, woman, and child in this great state. That's a small price for Liberty. I know you'll all do what you can. I'll be in the back, so come on over and humble the Huns. Every dollar adds up to victory.”

“You go buy those bonds,” hollered Leafie, “then git on over here and have some of this cake.”

“Build up your strength for the next bit of dancing,” added Pa Schillinger.

I carried my limp and worn five-dollar bill to the back table. Mr. Saboe wrote my name down in his book. “That's your down payment. Four more payments of just ten dollars each and you'll have yourself a bonafidey United States guaranteed Liberty Bond,” he said. “Next payment is October twenty-first.” He handed me a pen. “Sign here.”

I thought of Charlie as I wrote my signature. My little bit wasn't much, but if everybody all over the country helped a little bit, it would add up to something. Add up to victory, like Mr. Saboe said. I was so thankful for my newspaper money. I wouldn't have been able to buy even a penny's worth of war stamps otherwise, let alone a Liberty Bond.

“Here you go, Hattie.” Mr. Saboe handed me a green button. “Wear this to show you're Uncle Sam's partner.”

As I pinned it on, someone stepped up behind me. Traft.

“Let me take a look at those names there, Saboe,” he said.

Mr. Saboe closed his receipt book. “This is none of your business.”

“Well, I see that different,” Traft replied. He surveyed the room like he was surveying the range. “As a member of the Dawson County Council of Defense, I'm sworn to identify slackers and encourage them to do their patriotic duty.” His loud words stopped the children's game of tag. Perilee scurried across the room and grabbed Mattie; I couldn't see where Chase was.

“This county measured up in the first two Liberty Loan drives,” answered Mr. Saboe. “No reason to doubt it won't happen again.”

Traft stared down the table at Karl. “Seems like there's some that might like to see it not happen.”

I held my breath. Karl's loaf-sized hands curled into two rock-hard fists.
No,
I willed him with my eyes. I knew all too well how easy it was to feed a bully's fire. I learned that the hard way, when I first moved in with Aunt Ivy. Frannie Thompson had been wicked cruel about my being an orphan, and one day I couldn't let it go. If Charlie hadn't stepped in, we'd probably still have been at it hammer and tongs today.