Searching for Silverheels (11 page)

“Well, at least he's gotten Frank out of town.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Honestly, Pearl, use your head. It was okay making George
jealous to get him to ask you to the picnic, but now that you've got him, you want to hold on tight to George.”

She flounced out of the café, knowing she was right. It was bad enough that my mother had just insulted his mother in front of half the town. I didn't need anything else to which George might object.

I began washing the dirty dishes and daydreaming about showing up at the picnic on George Crawford's arm. I would bring the most delicious picnic in the world for him, and after lunch . . .

My fancy, which had been taking flight, came crashing back to earth. After lunch, I'd work the kissing booth. My first kiss would be to whoever paid a nickel for the privilege—not exactly the way the daydream was supposed to go. Unless, of course, George stole a kiss before the kissing booth, and that wasn't likely with the whole town in Larsen's Meadow. No, my fist kiss wasn't going to be sweet or romantic. It was going to be my patriotic duty for the war effort. Real romance, it seemed, had left Park County, right along with Silverheels.

B
y the time I had the café tidied up from the meeting, there was no chance for me to get away. The lunch train was due at the station in only half an hour, and my mother was scrambling to get ready. I sliced bread and made sandwiches until I heard the approaching whistle. Then Mother sent me out front with silverware and napkins to get the tables ready. Across the street the train chugged into the station. It released its huge, hissing clouds of steam and the doors opened. Passengers began to emerge.

I paused in my work and stared. These weren't the usual lunchtime tourists and travelers. From every car it was the same—young men in uniform.

“Mother!” I called.

She stuck her head out of the kitchen. “What is it now?”

“Look. The whole train is soldiers!” I said, pointing through the window.

Mother came up beside me. As she gazed, her hand went to her heart, not in a patriotic salute, but more as if to ease an ache there.

“Oh!” she said.

She stood like that, watching as they spilled off the platform into the street. The first wave of soldiers had almost reached our front door when my mother crossed to it and threw it open.

“Come in, welcome, come in,” she said in greeting. “Your meal is on us today, gentlemen. Eat your fill, it's on the house.”

“What?” I said in surprise from my place by the window.

“They're to have anything they want, Pearl, and you are not to take so much as a penny for it.”

Soldier after soldier trooped inside, each taking off his hat and bobbing his head toward my mother with a “thank you, ma'am.” Then they rushed to the seats, cheerful and boisterous—and hungry!

For the next hour I was scrambling more than usual, with the tables packed full and so many men at the counter that they stood two between each stool. I had no time or energy to think about anything but getting plates to the right table, refilling coffee cups, cutting pies, and wiping up spills. I got plenty of thank-yous, but collected nothing else, even refusing those who offered money. I had no time to dwell on it, though. The very moment I set down a load of plates in front of one group of soldiers, another group was calling out for more.

I was in the kitchen lifting the last pieces of fried chicken out of the grease when I heard a shout and a loud burst of laughter. Afraid trouble might be starting, I snatched up the plates and hurried up front to see what was going on. A big
crowd had gathered at the window watching the scene unfold at the depot.

Josie Gilbert was standing on the platform, clutching her stack of new leaflets and shouting into the faces of two railroad security men. They were both shouting back. Even from this distance and through the wavy glass of our front window I could see the spittle flying.

One of the guards tried to take Josie by the elbow. She jerked free, a little flurry of leaflets scattering as she did. Another wave of laughter broke through the café crowd. I stood rooted, watching with the rest of them, the loaded plates forgotten in my hands.

The guard grabbed for Josie's arm again, and this time as her arm jerked away, whether by accident or intent, she caught the man with a right hook, square on the jaw. Another burst of laughter and a little applause sounded along with a collective “Ooh!” from the occupants of one table.

There was a pause of three blinks as the security guard recovered from the surprise punch. Then both men lunged for Josie. The stack of leaflets exploded from her grip and scattered across the platform as the men grappled for her arms. In short order they pinned them to her sides and marched her, still struggling, from the platform.

The show over, the still-laughing men returned to their places, and I remembered what I was doing. I took the plates to their tables, but I suddenly found I couldn't look anyone in the eye. Josie had ruined everything. Here I was, doing my patriotic
duty, working without a penny's pay, but that's not what they would remember of our small town. They would leave here remembering the crazy suffragist with the fierce right hook, as one fellow at the counter was already saying. And to make matters worse, I was actually worried about Josie!

More than ever, it was a relief when Mr. Orenbach came through ringing his handbell, and the crowd began to thin. When the final whistle blew, the stragglers grabbed their hats and their half-eaten sandwiches and scrambled away. I let out a huge sigh. There had been no further sign of Josie, but the last group of soldiers to leave were still talking about her. They were still laughing, too.

Silently, I began to stack up plates, saucers, and cups. My mother came in to help me. She didn't know what had happened. She had been busy in the kitchen and had only heard the buzz of conversation and laughter. I did not tell her either. I just kept gathering the dirty plates and carrying them in heavy stacks to the kitchen.

There was very little food left, so Mother sliced a rasher of bacon and scrambled a big mound of eggs for us. She made extra, knowing that Mr. Orenbach would be along. The coffeepot was down to the gritty dregs, so I refilled it and set it on the stove to percolate while the bacon sizzled in the skillet. Sure enough, Mr. Orenbach arrived from the station just as we carried out the platter of eggs and bacon from the kitchen.

He was not his usual cheerful self. In fact, he looked like he was about to boil over.

“Why, whatever is the matter?” Mother asked.

“That troublemaker Josie Gilbert has a new handbill. It's downright seditious, that's what it is. And she had the nerve to stand there on the platform, shouting her “votes for women” slogans and handing them out to all those brave young men being shipped off to war. The nerve! To soldiers!” He popped a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chewed angrily.

“The railroad guards got into a pretty big argument with her,” I said. “I saw it from here.”

“Everyone saw it!” Mr. Orenbach said. “They are going to be talking about it all up and down the line!”

“Good heavens!” my mother said. “What on earth did her handbills say?”

Mr. Orenbach pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to my mother. She read it, a little crease nesting between her eyebrows as she did. She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“She can't do this. She'll ruin me!” Mr. Orenbach said.

“Surely not,” my mother said, handing the paper back to him. “It's a public platform. It's nothing to do with you.”

Mr. Orenbach shook his head. “Every day the papers are saying how Germans shouldn't be in vital jobs like the railways.”

“But you're not a German. No more than the Schmidts!” I protested. Sure, he had a faint trace of an accent, but he was proud to have become an American citizen, and he'd been in Como all my life.

“Wilhelm Orenbach isn't exactly an American name, Pearl,” Mr. Orenbach said. “When Phoebe Crawford hears of this, she'll be writing the governor.”

“Don't worry about Phoebe, Mr. Orenbach,” my mother said. “There's plenty of folks in this town who would vouch for your character and your loyalty to this country.”

Mr. Orenbach was glaring out the window. “But there's those who wouldn't,” he said. I followed his gaze to see Josie Gilbert herself, striding angrily up the street. Russell was beside her, trying to talk to her, but she was ignoring him. I hoped the two of them would pass on by, but I was having no such luck today.

J
osie stomped straight up to our front door and right on through, looking madder than a wet cat. She tried to slam the door behind her, but Russell caught it before it closed and followed her in.

“Dagnabbit, woman! If you won't talk sense, you durn well better listen to it!” he exploded. Then the room fell silent. Russell snatched his dusty cowboy hat off his head and looked at my mother sheepishly.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Barnell,” he said.

My mother jumped to her feet. “We're all out of our lunch specials, but I've got bacon and eggs. Sit down and I'll go fry them up. Pearl, pour everyone a fresh cup of coffee, would you?” She seemed to think anything could be fixed with coffee and a hot meal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Barnell. I'd be glad of a cup of coffee, but I've already had my lunch.” Russell gave Josie a sharp glare before continuing. “I was mending fences just outside of town when I heard rumor that this stubborn old mule had gotten herself into trouble with the railroad. I came in to see if I could talk some sense into her. Should have known better than to try.”

“Yes, you should have,” Josie said, whirling to face him. “You are not my keeper!”

“Who's fault is that?” he muttered under his breath as he took the cup of coffee I filled for him.

I held a second cup out to Josie, but she only gave her usual donkey snort and plopped herself down at a table across the room from where we were sitting. Mr. Orenbach continued to glare at her.

My mother still stood by the table, looking from one to another of the folks in the room. “I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding. I'm sure everything can be cleared up.”

“Are you, Maggie Barnell?” Josie said. She had no right to talk to my mother in that sarcastic tone, but I held my tongue, knowing better than to get into the middle of this.

“You can't be causing trouble at my station like that,” Mr. Orenbach said. “I won't have it!”

“It's not
your
station, and I didn't cause trouble. It was your railroad men that caused the trouble.”

“You can't be saying those things there,” Mr. Orenbach said. “And especially not when the train is filled with new soldiers. It's not right.”

Josie straightened with self-righteous dignity. “I may not have the same rights to vote as you under the Constitution, but it seems to me I have the right to exercise my speech freely.”

“Not in war time, I'm afraid,” Russell said. “You know that good and well, Josie Gilbert.”

“It's sedition!” Mr. Orenbach said. Splotchy pink patches
appeared on his cheeks in his otherwise pale face. Sedition was a word that scared him, but it seemed to have no impact on Josie.

“Defending the First Amendment is sedition, Mr. Orenbach?”

Mr. Orenbach started to puff and bristle like an old porcupine, and my mother stepped between them.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Gilbert, if you worded your informational leaflets more—more gently?” my mother suggested.

“I will not whitewash the truth!” Josie said.

“I didn't mean whitewash, I just meant . . .” Mother searched for words, and Russell stepped into the void.

“She means you could be civil, like everyone else. You don't have to be spoiling for a fight every minute of every day. You might even get a few folks to listen to you if you made an effort to be sociable now and then. Decent manners wouldn't hurt either.”

“Manners!” Josie scoffed. “Oh yes, manners. Like Pearl here, she's got fine manners. All ‘yes, ma'am' and ‘no, ma'am' and not saying a word against things she disagrees with. No thank you!”

“I am proud of Pearl's manners,” Mother said, smiling at me.

Mother's support took a little of the sting out, but not much. I couldn't believe Josie would drag me into this and insult me for what everyone else said I had to do. It was not my place to speak, though, so I bit my tongue and kept to myself.

“Too many women are silenced by their manners, and for their sakes, I will not be,” Josie said.

“Mrs. Gilbert, no one's trying to silence you,” Mother said.

“Oh yes they are!”

“Mr. Orenbach is worried for his job. He's from Germany,” Mother said. “If the railroad or the government hears rumors of seditious activities at the Como depot, he could be blamed. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

“Of course I don't want that. I'm just fighting to better our country.”

“And our country is fighting a war!” Mr. Orenbach exploded.

“What about a compromise,” my mother suggested. She was the only one in the room still able to speak in a calm voice. “Mrs. Gilbert, you could promise to stay away from the train platform and to not give out your handbills to soldiers.”

“You call that a compromise?” Josie said.

“You can come in here instead. We serve most of the passengers off the train. You can give out your papers in here so you won't be associated with Mr. Orenbach.”

My mouth fell open. How could Mother
invite
Josie to campaign daily in the café! And at our busiest time! And when Mrs. Crawford might be writing to the governor!

“That's a very generous offer, Mrs. Barnell,” Russell said.