Hattie Big Sky Page 8

  I stood up straight to retie my bonnet and caught sight of a single rider drawing near.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” The rider sat straight in his saddle. “Here we are neighbors and haven’t even met yet.” At this, he dismounted and extended his right hand.

  I stepped across the cleared patch and took it. “Hattie Brooks.”

  “Traft Martin.”

  I started. Surely anyone this good-looking could not be all bad, no matter what Leafie said about him and the Council of Defense.

  “Seems a shame we haven’t met until now.” He smiled. It was a nice smile in an even nicer-looking face. He couldn’t have been much more than twenty.

  “I thought Sunday was come-calling day.” I pushed my bonnet back on my head.

  He smiled again, this time with his eyes as well. “Well, I was out this way to speak to Rooster Jim about a horse.”

  I remembered Jim talking about Traft Martin wanting his horses. “No sale?” I guessed.

  Something behind his eyes shifted. “Not yet.”

  A chill snuck over me. Handsome is as handsome does, Aunt Ivy used to preach. Right now those words seemed created with Traft Martin in mind. I bent back to my work. “If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Martin, I’ve got ground to cover before sundown.” I waved my hand over the rocky patch.

  “I admire you.” He pulled a pouch from his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. “This is hard work. And lonely, too.”

  I had leaned over to pick up another rock, then stopped. Something in his words caught me. It was the tone of someone who knew what it was like to be lonely. Alone. “I’m getting used to the hard work part,” I said. Clunk clunk clunk. Three more rocks.

  Without saying anything, he strode over to where I was clearing and began picking rocks, too. Clunk clunk clunk. “You don’t have to do this,” I said.

  He talked around the cigarette in his teeth. “Just being neighborly.” Clunk clunk clunk.

  I felt very confused. According to what I’d heard, the devil himself was a saint compared to Traft Martin. What kind of devil helps someone pick rocks? Didn’t figure. We worked together for an hour or more. The sun slipped to the horizon. Traft rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I best git going.”

  I brushed dirt off my hands. “This was so kind of you.”

  “Neighbors should help one another,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Do unto others,” I said.

  He nodded at me, then mounted his horse.

  “Let’s go, Trouble.” He and the horse wheeled around. “It was nice meeting you, Miz Brooks.” He rode off. Mr. Whiskers padded up behind me, rubbing against my legs.

  “Trouble,” I mused, bending down to scratch Mr. Whiskers behind the ears. “I have a feeling that could be Traft Martin’s middle name.”

  That night, the four walls of that shack squeezed so snug that I did my reading on the front steps. After a few pages into my book, I set it aside. Traft’s help in the field had brought up a memory of me and Charlie painting half the fences in Arlington that one summer. With the two of us, it seemed more like a taffy pull than work.

  I leaned back against the rough siding of Uncle Chester’s house and studied that Montana sky. I know the same sky hangs over Iowa—over Charlie in France, for that matter—but I don’t think it looks like this anywhere else in the world. There weren’t many trees or mountains to catch at that sky and keep it low. No, it stretched out high and smooth and far, like a heavenly quilt on an unseen frame. Back in Iowa, I’d spent my fair share of time studying the clouds and the stars. Sometimes, lying out on Aunt Ivy and Uncle Holt’s back lawn, it’d felt as if I could stretch out my arms and my fingertips and rake them across the underside of the heavens and end up with a fistful of stars.

  Not even the biggest giant I could imagine could brush this Montana sky with his fingertips. It made me feel like one of the prickly pear cactuses I crunched under my feet: small and unimportant on the prairie near Vida. Was I feeling lonely? How could I be? Mattie and Chase stopped by after school most days, and Rooster Jim had deepened the path from his shack to mine. Was there a word in Uncle Chester’s big dictionary to describe what I was feeling? Solitary? Desolate? Forlorn? “It’s like when you play Old Maid,” I said to Mr. Whiskers. “That’s what I feel like. Leftover.” He wiggled into my lap, purring away. I stroked his dark head. “Not that you’re not good company,” I told him. “But there is something to that two-by-two business.”

  Mr. Whiskers flipped over for a belly rub. All he cared about was a warm place to sleep, something to eat, and someone to give him a pat now and then. Maybe I should learn from his example, quit moping, and think about November, when I’d march into Mr. Ebgard’s office. I closed my eyes and pictured the flax field come fall. Perilee had said it would look like the ocean, all bloomed out in blue. And the wheat, golden and whiskery. I saw the fence—every inch of it—marking off the lines of my claim.

  “It’s going to be mighty fine to be land barons, isn’t it?” Mr. Whiskers batted at my hand. He was done with petting. And I was done with moping. Here, under this big sky, someone like me—Hattie Here-and-There—could work hard and get a place of her own. A place to belong. Wasn’t that my deepest wish?

  A warmth wrapped over me, like I was being covered with a quilt. I whispered a prayer of thanks, then went back inside, turned out the lights, and crawled into bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Ides of March

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Charlie,

  Mr. Whiskers sends his greetings. You might not recognize him, he’s gotten so full of mice and who knows what all else. He’s still not warmed up to Chase but lets Mattie fuss and pet at him to no end. One day she even dressed him in one of Mulie’s bonnets! That little girl could sweet-talk anyone into doing anything.

  And now you are an engine fitter. How exciting to work with aeroplanes. Mind the propellers!

  Have you heard about the Daylight Saving Time plan? It seems so odd to begin it on Easter Sunday. President Wilson says it will save millions of tons of coal and thus help the war effort. When I think of you bunking in leaky barracks, and all of the other sacrifices you and the other doughboys are making, such a change seems a small thing.

  I have puzzled out what the stars mean that you put in the margins of each letter. Each one is a sad accounting. I weep to think of each mother who stitches a gold star on her service flag to signify her son’s ultimate sacrifice.

  I pray every night for an end to this war. And that every single soldier, including the best pitcher in Fayette County, comes home safe and sound.

  Your fretful friend,

  Hattie

  A stitched sampler hung on Aunt Ivy’s kitchen wall: “Monday, Wash Day; Tuesday, Ironing; Wednesday, Mending; Thursday, Market; Friday, Cleaning; Saturday, Baking; Sunday, Day of Rest.” It was Tuesday, so both sad irons were heating on the stove and I’d covered the kitchen table with a clean blanket. The sheets were the hardest to iron, so that’s where I started. When one iron cooled off, I’d set it back on the stove and pick up the hot one, running it over a piece of old flour sacking to clean off any ash. I had my camisoles and underthings laid out to iron next when I heard a horse in the yard.

  “Hello there!” a male voice called out. “Miz Brooks?”

  I peeked out the open door. Traft! For a fleeting moment I wished I’d put on my skirt that morning instead of the more practical pair of Chester’s old overalls.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” The range horse was slick with sweat. “Wonder if I might water Trouble?”

  I nodded. “Out for a long ride?”

  “You might say so.” He slid to the ground with a jingle of spurs.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I motioned him toward the house. “And some bread? It won’t compete with Perilee’s, but it won’t kill you.”

  Traft laughed. “Sounds about like my own cooking.” He watered and tethered his horse, then s
tepped inside.

  “Won’t you sit—” I stopped. There for all the world—and Traft Martin—to see were my underthings. I snatched them up and deposited them in a nearby empty lard bucket.

  “You’ve made it very homey around here,” he said. A crinkle at his eyes betrayed him. He’d seen. Oh, Lord, what would Aunt Ivy think?

  I pointed to the apple crate. “This chair is especially comfortable.” I quickly tipped over the lard bucket so he couldn’t see its contents, then set out some refreshments.

  Traft devoured several slices of bread with Uncle Chester’s buffalo berry jam and two cups of coffee. Then he pushed his plate and cup away. “Thank you,” he said. “That did hit the spot.” He shook his booted left foot. “Right down there.”

  “I’m working on getting it lighter,” I said.

  He grinned. “It’s hard to get light bread in damp weather. Maybe next time set your sponge over the water reservoir in the stove. That’s what my mother does.”

  “Why, Mr. Martin, you are better than a subscription to the Ladies’ Home Journal.” I finished my coffee.

  “Speaking of my mother, she wanted me to invite you to church on Easter. There’ll be supper after and a sewing circle. For the Red Cross.” He stood up. I couldn’t tell if his cheeks were badly chapped or if he was blushing. “I’d be pleased to come take you.”

  “Oh, thank you. But I don’t know—I mean, if I’m not planting, perhaps I’ll go. But I’ll bring myself.” I wasn’t sure what it meant out here to ride to church with a man, but back home, that was reserved for courting couples.

  “Suit yourself, then.” He picked up his hat and set it on his head, holding my gaze as he situated it just so. The look he gave me nearly undid my resolve to decline his offer. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I stopped at Bub Nefzger’s store this morning, and he had some mail for you. I said I’d bring it out.” He reached inside his shirtfront and brought out a small bundle.

  “That’s so kind of you.”

  “No trouble at all.” He shrugged back into his jacket. “I like the scenery out this way.”

  It was my turn to blush.

  With a nod, he slipped out the door. I watched him mount his horse and ride away. I fanned myself with the packet he’d brought; funny how the cabin had warmed up so quickly. I shook myself and untied the packet holding two letters and the Wolf Point Herald. The first letter was from Uncle Holt, with a small postscript that pleased me to no end: I surely enjoyed your last letter.

  The second letter was from Charlie. It was dated several months before and sent on from Arlington; the envelope was stained and creased. The words “Opened by Censor” were stamped heavily on the back.

  February 10, 1918

  Dear Hattie,

  You know I’m not one to complain, but I’ve been in France for three months without one letter from you. Could it be that you don’t think of your old pal Charlie anymore? I sure hope not.

  Well, I haven’t won the war yet. Give me a few more days! So far, it’s mostly drills and drills and trying not to get sick. My bunkmate’s in the hospital now from the dysentery. We hope we don’t all end up in the wards before we see some action.

  You would swoon if you saw how handsome your old pal looks in his uniform. A Red Cross nurse took my photo yesterday. If it turns out, I’ll send it to you.

  I can’t tell you much about where I am—the censors turn most letters into Swiss cheese as it is—but I hope I can come back someday. The buildings here have been standing for centuries. And the food even beats Ma’s cooking. Don’t tell her but I’ve sampled some of that French wine. It slips down pretty fine.

  Today was hand grenade practice. No trouble at all for the best pitcher in Fayette County. Couldn’t help thinking of the day I taught you to throw. Remember when you beaned old Jack the rooster? You straightened out your throw considerable after that but I’m not sure poor Jack ever fully recovered.

  Guess what? They asked for volunteers to learn to be aeroplane mechanics, and you can bet I stepped right up. Suits me fine, and my sergeant says I’m picking it up real quick.

  Don’t forget about your old pal. Write me a line now and again.

  Charlie

  The post was so frustrating. I’d sent Charlie five letters since my arrival in Montana. It took forever for mail to get to him, and our letters were clearly crossing each other. Still, no matter when he got it, he’d get a chuckle out of my wolf story letter. Odd, both of us using our baseball skills for survival. I reread his letter, then poured myself another cup of coffee and savored every word of the paper. The ironing could wait. According to the front page of the Herald, the British had staged daylight raids on Stuttgart, and another hospital ship had been torpedoed, but not sunk this time. Nothing about what was happening in France. Aunt Ivy would say no news is good news, but still my stomach tightened as I scanned the front page. Nothing much more but the earthshaking report that Henry Hahn’s gray mare had wandered off again. And the Glacier Theater was showing In the Balance, starring Earle Williams. I hadn’t been to a show since I saw Kitty Gordon in The Purple Lily, right before Charlie signed up.

  The old Hattie would’ve lingered over the movie ad, but not the new one. I turned straight to the market report and learned that flax was going for $3.66 a bushel. Chicago markets were paying $2.20 per bushel for wheat. I scribbled some figures in the margins of the newspaper. Uncle Chester had planted twenty acres in flax and harvested eighty bushels. Surely I could do as well, too. Eight times six and carry the four—that’d be $292.80. It was tight but no red ink yet, as Uncle Holt would say. So if I put twenty acres into flax and twenty into wheat, that would be the needed forty acres. I wondered how much wheat I could count on. Another question for Karl. I rubbed my eyes. No wonder farmers looked grim all the time.

  I slapped the paper closed. The back page advertised “opportunities.” The Shamrock Café wanted “experienced Chinese cooks.” I didn’t exactly qualify. The Smith Rooming House was getting ready to open: “experienced chambermaids wanted.” I sighed. I’d left Iowa rather than work for Iantha Wells, but to save my claim, I might have to hire out to the Smith Rooming House. Folks did it all the time—worked a job as well as their claim. How they had the time, I had no idea. Mr. Gorley’s sister, Clarice, taught at the Powder Creek school, Wayne Robbins from church helped out at Nefzger’s store, and Leafie had told me about a young man from England who rode from town to town taking photographs of folks. His claim was down by Brockaway.

  I couldn’t teach school, and Bub Nefzger had plenty of help at the store. And I sure didn’t own a camera. My prospects looked puny.

  “Lord, now would be a good time to move in your mysterious ways,” I said aloud. Mr. Whiskers jerked awake. Assuming the crop came on strong, I couldn’t harvest forty acres on my own. Rooster Jim told me most folks hired Wayne Robbins or Mr. Gorley; they had binders and threshing machines. I hadn’t asked him what that would cost. I’d have to ask him next time I saw him. Dollar signs flitted before my eyes.

  I drained the last of my coffee and stood to finish my ironing. Enough money or not, I would make it—prove up Uncle Chester’s claim. I had to.

  Little routines crept into my life. Chase and Mattie had worn a path next to my house, which was on their way home from school. Sometimes they didn’t do more than wave, and sometimes they stopped and we discussed all manner of things. Chase was going places, that’s for sure. He had ideas that most men never had, let alone eight-year-old boys. He trained his calf, Fawn, to come when he whistled like a killdeer. Last week he’d made an elaborate trap to catch a prairie dog. “Then I’m going to harness it to this wheel-and-pulley gizmo,” he’d said, showing me a remarkable contraption. “This goes in the chips bucket and”—he rolled his hands around—“yee-haw! The chips flip right in the stove. No more mess.” While he had successfully trapped the prairie dog, the rest of his invention wasn’t quite the success Chase imagined. But he kept after it.

  And read! He seemed purel
y starving for stories.

  Where Chase preferred words on a page, Mattie favored the spoken word. She could talk rings around anyone, and from her and Mulie I learned much about the doings in Vida. Even if I’d had a telephone, like some of the folks closer to town did, I wouldn’t have needed to listen in on the party line. Mattie would keep me up to snuff on goings-on. Those that mattered to a six-year-old, at any rate.

  It was a cool day, damp from a recent rain. Another good day to pick rocks from what would be my wheat field. This land was shy on trees but flush with rocks. I could’ve built a wall to rival that one I heard about in China. Some days I was certain I’d be picking rocks even in heaven.

  The angle of the sun clued me in that I should be seeing two small figures anytime now. I’d made some of what Perilee called “sore finger biscuits”—when your fingers were too sore to knead the dough, you’d pinch off balls and bake them. I’d sprinkled them with some cinnamon sugar, thinking they might shorten the walk home for two certain schoolkids.

  While I chunked rocks into a pile and waited for Chase and Mattie to pass by, I mentally composed my next letter to Uncle Holt. I wanted so badly to describe the prairie smell to him, the sweet promise of spring after a Chinook, the warm, edgy rub of sage, the rib-eye steak smell of my fields. I feel as if I need to make up a new alphabet to be able to create the words that would summon up the stew of smells out here. I’ve learned not to take too deep a whiff when mucking out the barn, but most of the smells are good, wonderful, and hopeful, if smells can be such a thing.

  I got to turning words over in my mind so, I nearly forgot about my little trespassers.

  “Unhh.” I straightened up, aching from toe to hip with the strain of bending over, hour after hour. I scanned the horizon. Oh, there they were. I waved and hollered. “Fresh biscuits,” I called gaily.

  But they didn’t come toward me. In fact, they were running—stumbling—away. Two figures, the larger one tugging the smaller along, kept to the top of the cutbank.