Hattie Big Sky (17 page)

Mr. Hanson catcalled good-naturedly when he saw that. “Come on, children.” He took Mattie by the hand. “Let's get something cool in you.” Chase followed, and some of the other children from around town did, too.

“Go on ahead,” I said to the children, handing Fern to Leafie. “Now that the parade's over, I can retrieve her flag.”

“Better hurry,” said Leafie, smashing her hat tight to her head. “With this wind, it'll be blown clear over to North Dakota in no time.”

I scampered down the stairs from the sidewalk to the street. Fern's little flag had not escaped being trampled by the parade's participants. I picked up the sad, tattered souvenir, hearing her wails in my head. I didn't want her day to end on tears, so I walked back over to the
Herald
office to buy another flag. What was a nickel, anyway?

A wrangle of male voices caught my attention. Down the way, from where the parade had ended, another parade of sorts was beginning. The leader appeared to be Traft Martin.

The crush stopped next to the land office. Several hulking men shouldered their way inside. Soon they were back, pushing a slim man with glasses out ahead of them. It was Mr. Ebgard.

“Word has it, Ebgard, that you haven't been doing your share to support the war effort,” growled a man I didn't know.

“Seems mighty unpatriotic of you,” said someone else.

“Maybe with a name like Ebgard, you're hoping the Kaiser wins.”

A tall man stepped forward, towering over the much smaller Mr. Ebgard. “Perhaps you forgot how many boys from Wolf Point are over there—”

“And Circle and Vida,” called other voices in the ever-growing crowd.

“From all over around here, boys we grew up with…” The tall man's next words were nearly drowned out in cries and shouts. “Seems you'd be thinking of them instead of some foreigners.”

I pressed up against a storefront, close enough to Mr. Ebgard to see sweat beaded up on his nose and forehead. His glasses were askew. He straightened them. “I have done nothing wrong,” he said quietly.

“Nothing wrong?” Traft Martin spoke up, looking at the gathered men. “Why weren't you watching the parade? And what about writing that letter to the governor? In support of that preacher over to Brockway?”

“His church is mostly immigrants. They can't understand him if he preaches in English.” Mr. Ebgard's voice was calm.

“That's the language of loyal Americans.” Traft took one step closer to Mr. Ebgard. I could see veins popping out on either side of Traft's neck. Rivulets of sweat rolled in icy streams down my spine.

“Tell you what we'll do, Ebgard.” Traft spat out the name. “You can prove your loyalty here and now. Fred?”

The tall man—Fred—pulled out a small American flag. He waved it under Mr. Ebgard's nose.

“You love this country?” asked Traft.

“You know I do.” Mr. Ebgard's chin quivered slightly, but his voice was strong and clear.

Fred backed up the street, almost to Erickson's Hotel. Traft pointed toward him. “Then prove it. You get down on your hands and knees and crawl before your flag.” He stepped closer to Mr. Ebgard. “And when you get there, you kiss it. You hear me?”

The crush of men closed in on him. I wobbled like a newly dropped calf, overcome with the smell of sweat. And fear. And pure meanness.

Step forward,
I told myself.
Make them stop.

The men continued with their vicious prank. Someone pushed Mr. Ebgard, hard. He fell to his knees. His glasses flew toward me.

“Start crawling,” Traft ordered.

Dread and disbelief turned me into a statue. I watched Mr. Ebgard struggle to his feet. His jacket sleeve was torn out of the shoulder seam, and his pants were filthy with horse droppings.

Do something!
My brain cried out the orders, but my legs refused. I couldn't take my eyes from the horrifying scene.

Someone kicked Mr. Ebgard. He fell to the ground face first. Blood trickled from his nose.

I glanced around. Why wasn't anyone stopping this? A wave of nausea swept over me as it had that day I fainted in the field. There was no “anyone” at a time like this. There was only me.

“Traft.” I could hardly get the name past my trembling lips. I tried again. “Traft!”

Startled, he turned.

“Go on home, missy,” one of the men called.

I took a baby step forward. Thank God my legs held. “I—I—” What could I say to these men? “I have business with Mr. Ebgard.” Another baby step forward. And another. I bent to pick Mr. Ebgard's glasses up out of the dust. “A legal matter.” With trembling hands, I returned his glasses to him. “I'm sorry I'm late.”

Mr. Ebgard rose and slipped them back on his face. “Won't you step into my office?” I took his arm—to steady myself.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. “What do you think you're doing?” I didn't recognize the voice, but I refused to turn. My stomach churned; I could taste bile in my throat. I steeled myself against the blows that were sure to come.

“We've nothing against her.” That voice I did recognize. It was Traft's. “Let her be,” he said.

The stranger released me with a jerk, spinning me away from Mr. Ebgard.

“You're all a bunch of traitors,” the stranger said. But most of the men began to ease away, as if they'd suddenly found other business in town. Fred and his flag were nowhere to be seen. Traft stared at me, then opened his mouth as if to say something more. He shook his head and walked away.

I made it into Mr. Ebgard's office before I collapsed, slumping into the nearest chair. “I feel…” I swallowed hard. “Sick.”

Mr. Ebgard rummaged in the cabinet behind his desk. He pulled out a bottle and two glasses. He poured something into each one. “Drink this.”

The liquid burned down my throat. After one sip, I set the glass on the desk. “That was horrible,” I said. “Those men—”

Mr. Ebgard set his glass down, too. His hand trembled as he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

“They all look so normal.” I couldn't express what was roiling around inside me. “Like neighbors.”

He poured himself another shot. “Some of them were. My neighbors.”

“I don't understand.” My arms, legs, head, everything was heavy. Too heavy to move.

He lifted his glass to his lips, started to sip, then put the glass down. “It's the war.”

I placed my palms on the desk, breathing deeply. “Did the war burn Karl's barn?” I said slowly. “Break little Elmer's arm? Change you into a criminal?”

“No.” He sat heavily in a chair. “No. But this evil is so big. The fight has spread far beyond the battlefield. It's to the point that anything—even writing a letter on behalf of a pastor and his flock—can be seen as treason.”

Mr. Ebgard's voice was calmer; I noticed my hands had stopped shaking. “I'd better get back to Leafie and the children. They'll wonder.” I stood slowly, testing my legs. They wobbled as they had that day on the train, during the fat man's tirade. But they held.

“You are a brave girl.” Mr. Ebgard patted my arm. “A brave girl.”

I looked at his scraped and bruised face. “You might want to clean up before you head home,” I said. “Good day, Mr. Ebgard.”

“Good day, Miss Brooks.” He opened the door and glanced outside. “All quiet,” he said.

I stepped through the open door, pausing on the walkway to take another deep breath. I paused again before going over to Hanson's Cash Grocery. I tried to clear my mind of what had happened. Clear my mind so it wouldn't show on my face. My legs were barely shaking as I went inside.

“Here.” Mr. Hanson handed me a sarsaparilla. “You look like you could stand to wet your whistle.”

“Fwag?” asked Fern. Absently I handed her the trampled one.

“Hattie?” Leafie looked at me. I shook my head to keep her from saying anything else.

“Dirty.” Fern threw the flag down.

I thought about Traft and the men with him, swarming like enraged wasps. I wiped my eyes. “Yes, it is,” I said.

         
CHAPTER 18         

JULY
1918

THE ARLINGTON NEWS

Honyocker's Homily ~ Independence Day

Don't think, because we have no fancy bandstands or city parks, that we can't celebrate Independence Day with as much verve as you do in the big city. Folks from all around will gather on the banks of Wolf Creek to picnic, play baseball, and commiserate about the dreadfully dry weather. Though the tone will be light, we will stop at noon to honor our servicemen. And each of us, this writer especially, will pray that the current Allied success at the Battle of Cantigny signals a speedy end to this war.

“And there'll be vanilla ice cream.” Chase had gone on for a full five minutes about the upcoming Fourth of July picnic. “Oh, and the baseball game!”

“It sounds wonderful.” I filled another kettle with water from my well and lugged it over to the struggling garden. Thank the Lord for the deep well Uncle Chester had dug. After carrying countless kettlefuls to the green beans that morning, my arms felt as if they would fall right out of my shoulder sockets.

Chase filled a smaller pot and carefully measured the water out over my sunflower. “Mama did this last year,” he said. “Planted flowers in coffee cans. She said this year, she planted a baby instead.” We both laughed.

As we carried water to my onions and beets and melons and carrots, I thought back to all the gallons of water I'd wasted in my life. Not here! Every drop was put to good use: even my Saturday night bathwater was stretched out, first washing me, then washing the cabin floor, and then washing the dust off the tiny flower garden by the front steps.

I stood and tried to stretch the kinks out of my aching back. “Oof.”

“Karl says it's thirty-two days without rain. Mr. Nefzger says it's thirty-one.” Chase dipped his hand in the pot, wetted his fingers, and sprinkled his red face with a few drops of water. “I think Karl's right.”

“I'd bet on Karl, too.” I tousled Chase's hair. “If I was the gambling kind.”

With Chase's help, my chores were soon done. I sent him home. “We'll be by for you tomorrow, early!” he called over his shoulder. I bustled myself inside, and soon there were four chokecherry pies cooling on the kitchen table—if it were possible to cool in this blamed heat. I'd taken to sleeping on my mattress out in front of the cabin in the last week. There wasn't a breath of air inside at night, even with the door open.

The first night I'd slept outside there was a lot of outside and not much sleeping. It's amazing what you can hear when you're stretched out on the prairie grass. Once the chickens settled, the night birds got to talking. Then there was the rustling grass all night long. I could only wish that rustle was caused by a breeze. But the air was as thick as corn syrup. No, these rustles belonged to the prairie night—pack rats and prairie dogs and who knew what else. Perilee had seen a skunk not long back. The only animal I didn't much worry about was Violet's wolf. There'd been no sign of it since that one winter's day; bounty hunters no doubt had dispatched it, as they had most of the wolves in this part of the country.

The second night I dragged my mattress outside, I was done in from lack of sleep, the heat, and pulling weeds all day. Sleep snatched me up as fast as the hawk I'd seen snatch up a field mouse that day. Though the mattress did little to smooth out the lumps on the ground, it was better than sleeping inside that oven of a house.

Independence Day morning, Mr. Whiskers tickled me awake with a lick of his sandpaper tongue. I patted him, then stretched.

“Ouch.” Every night I'd slept out, I'd found some new crick in my neck or back the next morning. I bent stiffly to pick up my mattress, took it back inside, and got myself organized for the day at Wolf Creek. In with the pies and the blanket and the fan from the National War Savings Day parade was something that would no doubt surprise everyone at the picnic.

When I was ready, I added to the letter I'd started to Charlie:
Here Leafie and I were worried about Lottie at first, being so small, but that child is now solid as a tin of lard. I wondered if the other children might have their noses out of joint a bit about the baby, but they all adore her. Mattie nearly mothers her to death! She got it into her head to make Lottie a quilt—“a sister quilt”—so I am helping her. The stitches are uneven but full of love.

The jingle of harnesses made me set aside the letter, grab my hat, and take one last look around. If I'd forgotten anything, it would have to stay forgotten. I hefted my basket of goodies and stepped out to greet the Muellers.

“Don't you look the picture?” said Perilee. I smiled, noting with approval that there were some cherries in her cheeks. She'd been slow coming back from giving birth to Lottie.

“A picture of a cooked goose, you mean.” I climbed up next to her and began to fan myself. “Do you think we'll ever get a breath of breeze again?”

“It'll be cool by the creek,” she promised. “Nice and cool.” We rode along in companionable silence. It was too hot even to visit.

“Hello there!” Rooster Jim helped the children out of the wagon when we reached the picnic grounds. Mattie ran straight to Leafie to show off Mulie's new sunbonnet. Chase helped Karl settle the horses, then took off with Elmer junior and some of the boys from the Lutheran church to bob for critters at the creek.

“Saved you a spot in the shade.” Leafie waved us over. We set out blankets and an apple box for Lottie's bed.

I served up sweet tea, and we chatted with some of the women from church. “Is this everyone?” I asked.

“Nefzgers will be out after they close up the store at noon.” Leafie rolled her cool glass against her forehead. “They never miss a baseball game, not even Bub.”

I smiled into my iced tea glass. Wait till they saw what Arlington, Iowa, had to offer!

“Grace and Wayne will be along, too,” she continued, ticking our neighbors off on her fingers. “The Martins rarely come.”

That would suit me fine.

True to Leafie's prediction, the Nefzgers arrived in the early afternoon.

“Ready to play?” Bub called as he drove up in his wagon.

Though there were some good-natured grumbles about the heat, soon enough a field was laid out and players divvied themselves up. It had been a long time since I'd been on a baseball field. Though none of my neighbors knew it, baseball was something I could do. And do well, thanks to Charlie's patient instruction.

I reached into my basket and brought out my surprise. “Can anyone play?” I asked, slipping my baseball mitt on my right hand.

“What's this?” Gust Trishalt spat juicily in my direction. He'd grumbled a bit earlier about the German folks from the Lutheran church playing. When Wayne pointed out that the name Trishalt sounded German, Gust shook his head. “It's Swiss,” he said. “Swiss.” I figured he'd fume more about me playing than the Lutherans.

“A willing player,” I told him.

Gust hooted at that. “'Spect you'd better play, then.” He thumbed toward young Paul Schillinger. “On t'other team.”

I nodded and went to join Paul's team. We would have first ups. Hitting was not my strength, but I managed a serviceable single after Paul's own single. Henry Henshaw hit Paul in with a powerful double. Then Chase came up to bat.

“Bunt!” I hollered. Even in this heat, I was pretty sure I could beat out a bunt and make it home.

But boys will be boys. With two outs, Chase swung for heaven, three times.

“You're out!” called Reverend Tweed.

Chase dropped his bat dejectedly. “I almost had it,” he said.

Reverend Tweed patted him on the shoulder. “Better luck next time,” he said. “Now, get on out in the field with your team.”

Chase took his position in left field. We put all the young ones in the field, figuring they had the energy to actually run after any ball that might find its way out there. Paul took the ball and headed for the pitcher's mound. The first batter he faced was Wayne Robbins.

“See if you can hit this,” boasted Paul.

Wayne had a good eye. He connected sweetly and sent the ball sailing. So did the next five batters.

“None away,” called Reverend Tweed as yet another batter came to the plate. “Score's five to one.”

“Hey, Paul,” I called out from third base. “Come here.” Paul looked puzzled but came over to see what I had to say. I wish I'd had a camera to capture the expression on his face when I suggested we trade spots.

“But I always pitch,” he said.

I pointed to the loaded bases. “This well?”

He shook his head but handed me the ball. I hurried out to the pitcher's mound.

“Now wait a minute,” called Gust.

“Mow 'em down, Hattie,” Leafie hollered.

Reverend Tweed wiped his face. “Play ball!”

Charlie would've been so tickled to see me strike out the first two batters. Six pitches was all it took.

Then Wayne stepped up to bat again. “Show me your best stuff,” he called.

“It's so fast, you won't even be able to see it.” Bragging wasn't ladylike, but it was part of the fun of baseball.

“Fast for a girl, maybe,” he egged.

That did it! He was getting a snake ball.

I wound up and delivered. The ball spun toward the plate. And Wayne smacked it a good one. It soared over my head and far out into the field. The runners emptied the bases and the game was over. We'd been royally beaten.

“I'm sorry, Paul.” I handed the ball back to our captain.

“It's only a game,” he said. Then he winked. “I bet you'll get him next time.” We shook on it.

“Next time,” I said.

“Ice cream's ready,” Pa Schillinger announced. It was just the thing atop a slice of my chokecherry pie, even if I do say so myself.

We visited and ate. Perilee and I walked down by the creek, shedding shoes and stockings to cool our feet. We filled our lunch baskets with wild plums from a tree at the creek bank, then rejoined the others and visited some more. Pa Schillinger was the first to pack up. “Evening chores,” he explained.

“We best be going, too,” said Perilee. I helped her carry the picnic things and tired, dirty children to the wagon.

Mattie screeched when Perilee tried to set her in the back of the wagon. “I wanna sit with Hattie!”

“Okay, sweetie.” I took her from her mother and we settled on the wagon seat. Within a few minutes, she was sound asleep, her little body a hot water bottle on my lap. The front of my dress was drenched in perspiration.

As we neared the trail to my place, I eased Mattie onto Perilee's lap. “Drop me here,” I told Karl. “I'll cool off as I walk.” I kissed the top of Mattie's head, fetched my basket from the back, and strolled the rest of the way home. My dress front was nearly dry by the time my house came into view. I sat on the front step, drinking in the sweet scent of the wild plums in the basket on my lap, first enjoying the memory of the lovely day and then thinking about how to end this month's “Honyocker's Homily.”

The sound of riders nudged me out of my reverie. Cowboys often rode my way, chasing down the odd Tipped M cow or two. These riders, three of them, appeared to be headed east, toward the Martins'. One rider broke off from the others. He turned his horse—a very large horse—my way.

“Evening, Hattie.” I could smell whiskey from where I stood. “You have a nice time at the picnic?”

“I did, Mr. Martin.” I stood up and turned to go in. There'd be no sleeping out tonight.

“Hot, isn't it?” He flicked the end of the reins at a mosquito. “Even worse than last summer.”

“Yes, it is hot.” Surely he hadn't ridden over simply to discuss the weather.

“Of course, last year we had the grasshoppers, too.” Traft shifted in the saddle. “One minute the sky was as clear as Wolf Creek.” He paused to look up, studying the twilight sky.