Betsy Was a Junior and Betsy and Joe (38 page)

“To town?” asked Betsy, startled.

“To Butternut Center. We buy at Willard's Emporium, there.”

Somewhat to the Beidwinkles' mystification, Betsy blushed. Her heart began to pound inside her shirt waist. Willard's Emporium! She might see Joe! She wanted to see him, but she didn't want to seem to be running after him. He knew she knew that he spent
his vacations with his uncle and aunt in Butternut Center.

That was where she had seen him first, four years ago, when she was taking the train home after her visit with the Taggarts. It was a very little village, just a depot and a grain elevator, a white church, a sprinkling of houses, and a general store. The store was Willard's Emporium, where she had gone to buy presents for her family.

Joe had waited on her. She had been struck by the way he walked, with a slight challenging swing. She remembered his very light hair brushed back in a pompadour, his blue eyes under thick light brows, his lower lip pushed out as though seeming to dare the world to knock the chip off his shoulder.

He had been reading
The Three Musketeers
, she remembered, but he had put it aside when she said that she was going to buy presents. He had been amused at her statement that no Ray ever came home from a trip without bringing presents for the rest.

No Ray…ever came home from a trip…without bringing presents! Suddenly Betsy's heart raced faster. Why, she was away on a trip! She would have to buy presents. She simply had to go to Willard's Emporium.

Looking up, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes dancing, she replied, “Of course. I'd love to go. How early do we start?”

I
T WAS VERY EARLY
, still dark and cold, when Mrs. Beidwinkle knocked at Betsy's door. That morning springtime concert of the birds, to which Betsy had become accustomed during her week at the farm, was more uproarious even than usual. It sounded like a contest, but a contest without rules or regulations. Each bird was trying to sing down every other bird,
caroling, warbling, whistling, some humble anonymous performers chirping wildly, while others executed elaborate arias.

Lighting the lamp, she dressed quickly. She put on the plaid skirt and the red blouse, of course, braided her hair, looped it up with the red ribbon. It hadn't been put up in Wavers all week. She had forgotten about Magic Wavers.

Still sleepy, she stumbled downstairs into the kitchen. The coffee, freshly made, was stimulating and delicious. She put on her red tam and cravenette and high buckled overshoes and went out into the barnyard.

The world was still gray, but the east was a river of crimson. It seemed strange to see the windmill whirling against that lurid sky. A team of horses was pawing the ground in front of a wagon full of milk cans. Mrs. Beidwinkle was critically directing the addition of a case full of eggs. The egg money went to Mrs. Beidwinkle; she didn't want any eggs broken.

Mr. Beidwinkle helped Betsy to a box covered with a rug, which was placed just behind the high seat. “I'll bet you never rode to town with milk cans before,” he said.

He and Mrs. Beidwinkle climbed into the seat, he clucked to the horses, and they were off.

It hadn't frozen the night before, Mr. Beidwinkle
pointed out. Yesterday's pools and puddles were pools and puddles still. The road was very muddy. Down and up, down and up went the heavy wheels, making a sucking sound, and Betsy would have bounced on her box if she hadn't held fast to the seat in front of her. Slowly the sky paled and light spread over the prairie.

Mile after gray-white mile slipped past: frozen fields which would soon be ready for the sowing; planted groves of trees which would soon be green; orchards which would soon be fragrant bowers of pink and white. Farm houses were flanked with big red barns, granaries, and silos. At last they saw an elevator sticking up over the prairie ahead.

In Butternut Center, Mr. Beidwinkle went first to the depot and unloaded the milk cans. Then he drove down the street to Willard's Emporium, and with Mrs. Beidwinkle watching, unloaded the eggs.

Betsy scrambled down from her box and went into the store. Excitement fluttered inside her as she went, but Joe wasn't there. Probably he hadn't come out this week. Probably he was working at the
Sun
. She realized with a pang of disappointment how much she had counted on seeing him.

Mr. Beidwinkle had disappeared. Mrs. Beidwinkle was now supervising the counting of her eggs by a tall, square-faced man, Joe's Uncle Alvin, probably. Well,
Betsy thought, she must buy the presents whether Joe was there or not, and she started browsing along the overflowing counters.

Willard's Emporium seemed to have everything under the sun for sale. Kitchen stoves, straw hats, clocks, calico, buggy whips. She remembered how Joe had helped her buy cheese for her father, a butter dish for her mother, side combs for Julia, doll dishes for Margaret, a mouth organ for Tacy.

She paused before a case full of china and looked at a little speckled vase. That would be nice for the wild flowers Margaret would soon start bringing home from the hills.

She felt someone looking at her and turned to see Joe.

His blue eyes, under those heavy brows, were boring into her. His lower lip looked defiant, and so did the swinging walk with which he came toward her. She blushed.

“What are you doing here?” Joe asked. His tone was almost rough.

“Don't act as though you were going to put me out,” she said. “I'm buying presents to take home to my family.”

“Oh.” He seemed nonplused.

“The Rays always take presents home when they've been away on a visit.”

“Oh.”

“It's an old family custom,” Betsy said, and smiled.

Joe looked odd. Something in his face seemed to melt. He didn't smile, though.

Betsy kept on talking. “I've picked out this little vase for Mamma. Don't you think it's nice? But what do you suppose Papa would like? Now don't say cheese again!”

Joe smiled. And when he smiled there were the most attractive, warming crinkles in his face. One of them looked almost like a dimple, but you didn't associate dimples with Joe Willard. His eyes began to shine.

“How about tobacco? Pipe tobacco? Willard's Emporium will throw in some pipe cleaners in honor of…in honor of…well, to be brief, we'll throw in some pipe cleaners.”

“That's fine,” said Betsy. “Now, Margaret likes things for her room.”

“How about a calendar? Here's one full of dogs and cats. This ought to suit her.”

“Yes. This will do.” Betsy kept her eyes lowered longer than she needed to, the expression in his eyes was so disturbing.

“When you were here before, you bought something for Tacy, too.”

“Of course. I want something for Tacy and Tib.”

“Lollipops. A pink one and a yellow one.”

She looked up to laugh. Joe's face was alight and glowing.

“You staying with the Taggarts?” he asked, coming nearer.

“No. The Beidwinkles.” She nodded to Mrs. Beidwinkle, who had disposed of her eggs and was buying groceries now. Her purchases bulked so large on the counter that it looked as though she were going to start a store herself.

“I adore the Beidwinkles,” said Betsy.

“I adore Mrs. Beidwinkle myself. What's more, she adores me.”

He went swinging toward her, and Betsy followed.

Mrs. Beidwinkle's face did indeed wreathe itself in smiles when Joe spoke. “How do you do, Mrs. Beidwinkle. How are you today?”

“Hello, Joe,” she said. “Do you know Betsy?”

“We're classmates,” Betsy put in.

“She's terrible in school,” Joe said. “How does she behave at your house, Mrs. Beidwinkle?”

Mrs. Beidwinkle frowned at him. “She behaves like a nice little girl. She wipes the dishes and sings for us every night. We wish she stayed with us all the time.”

Joe turned to Betsy. “A good report! I never expected it.”

“Mrs. Beidwinkle,” he said, turning back to her, “won't you let me see Betsy home? There are some
places around here I'd like to show her. Maybe my uncle would loan me the phaeton.”

Mrs. Beidwinkle beamed. “Why, of course,” she said. “I don't mind at all. In fact, I'd just as soon have Betsy out of the way today.”

“Aha!” cried Joe. “I knew that report was too good to be true. What does she do? Bite her nails? Track in on your floor?”

Mrs. Beidwinkle pushed him, laughing. “
Dummkopf!
Nothing like that. Betsy knows, or she can guess.”

Betsy raced after Joe, while he searched out a youth named Homer. Homer, looking at Betsy curiously, promised to take Joe's place at the store.

They raced back to the square-faced man who had been waiting on Mrs. Beidwinkle. He
was
Uncle Alvin, but he didn't look at all like Joe. Joe introduced Betsy and then nudged her to retreat. He returned to her, smiling.

“Uncle Alvin says I may drive you home.”

They raced up some stairs which ran from the street to the second floor. There was a small parlor, as crowded as the store beneath, but with fat chairs and sofas covered with tidies, and embroidered sofa cushions. Betsy met Aunt Ruth, who was spare, sad, and kind. They clattered down the stairs again.

“I have an idea,” said Joe.

“What is it?”

“Haven't I heard you say you like picnics?”

“Joe!”

“Then we'll take along some crackers and cheese.”

“And olives and cookies…Nabisco wafers, maybe, and that kind with marshmallows on top.”

“Why, you little glutton! I'll slice some bologna, too. What else shall we take?”

“A bottle of milk,” said Betsy. “If you can borrow some cups.”

“Of course I can,” said Joe, and went clattering back upstairs.

He left Betsy again to hitch up the horse. She went happily around the store until he returned with a stocky cream-colored animal hitched to a buggy with a fringed adjustable top.

“Rocinante,” said Joe, helping her in. “Ever read
Don Quixote?
Do you get these literary allusions?”

They put the top down. They wanted the whole width of the sky from end to end, the whole width of the flat prairie landscape.

With their basket and Betsy's presents at their feet, they drove down the single street, which was all of Butternut Center. The muddy road was very muddy, so that the buggy lurched in and out of holes. But Joe and Betsy didn't mind.

They didn't mind anything. They didn't mention Tony or their quarrel. Their happiness overflowed the phaeton and ran like spilled water to the edge of the horizon on both sides.

“Joe,” Betsy said, “you don't look like your uncle.”

“No. I look like my mother's people. He's my father's brother. My father,” Joe went on, “died when I was a baby. He was a lumberman, yanked down trees in the north woods. I've always been strong as a horse, and I guess it's because of him.”

“How did your mother look?” asked Betsy.

Joe paused before he answered.

“She was beautiful,” he said slowly, at last. “People toss that word around a lot, but my mother really was. She had dark golden hair and blue, blue eyes and the reddest, sweetest lips I ever saw.

“She was a dressmaker…after Father died, that is. She worked hard; too hard. I can still hear that sewing machine. I tried to help when I got old enough, but I couldn't do much.”

“What did you do?” Betsy asked.

“Sold papers at first.” He paused as his thoughts went back. “Once, when I was about nine, I lost my route list. I borrowed a bike from another boy to go back and find it. When I returned the bike and thanked him, I offered to shake hands. I thought, from the books I had read, that that was the proper thing to do. But all the boys hooted. I'll never forget it.”

He looked at her suddenly. “I never told that to anyone before.”

Betsy didn't answer.

“Mother was a great one for books, too,” Joe continued. “She's the one I get my love of writing from. I found poems and unfinished stories and bits of description among her things after she died.”

“How old were you then?”

“I was twelve. Uncle Alvin is the only relative I have on either side. He and Aunt Ruth gave me a home and I helped them in the store until I was fourteen and finished country school. I had to come to Deep Valley then, to high school.”

“I'm glad you did,” said Betsy.

They drove on and on. No matter how far they drove, there was no variety in the landscape. It was just prairie, poles, and wires! Prairie, poles, and wires! But there were song sparrows trilling on the wires. There was heavenly warmth in the air.

It grew so warm that Betsy took off her cravenette, her tarn.

Joe turned and looked at her. His eyes studied the red hair ribbon.

“You look different,” he said.

“That's right,” Betsy replied.

“Your hair isn't curled. Do you know,” he continued, studying her critically, “I like your hair straight.”

He liked her hair straight! If he had looked through all the poetry books in the world he couldn't have found a better compliment to pay her.

Joe wanted to know when they ate, and they
stopped Rocinante at a point where a brook, just unfrozen, babbled with frantic joy over brown leaves. He unfastened the horse's checkrein and gave him some oats. He took out their basket and they found a large rock which provided a seat a little above the soggy ground. There they ate their bread and cheese and bologna and olives and cookies, smiling at each other.

“Do you know,” Betsy said, “this is the first picnic I've ever been on with you? That seems strange, for picnics are so important and…” She blushed.

“Go on,” said Joe, “finish it.”

Betsy didn't answer.

“Why are picnics so important? I know why I am, of course.”

“They just are. There's nothing so nice as eating out of doors. And I've discovered since I've been visiting the Beidwinkles that I like to live in the country. I shouldn't like to be a farmer's wife. I'd be no good at it. But to have a house in the country and write would be nice.”

“Very nice,” said Joe.

They started riding again, and Betsy realized suddenly that the sun was getting low. She remarked that she liked sunsets almost as well as she liked picnics.

“We'll ride until the sun sets, then. What else do you like?”

“Sunrises. But I don't see very many of them.”

“What else?”

“Oh, dancing, and writing stories, and reading. I've been reading
Little Dorrit
. Have you read it?”

“You haven't said the right thing yet.”

They stopped Rocinante to watch the sunset. Rows of clouds made a pearly accordion, the creases touched with gold.

Mrs. Beidwinkle met them at the kitchen door.

“Well!” she said. “I thought you were lost, for sure. I was just going to send Bill out looking for you.”

“All my fault, Mrs. Beidwinkle,” Joe replied.

“I'm sure it was your fault. Betsy, come here!”

Betsy came there and Mrs. Beidwinkle whispered in her ear.

“Maybe,” she said, “Joe would like to come to the party?”

Betsy smiled and gave the invitation. Joe accepted.

It was a wonderful party. Betsy had never been to a party quite like it. They had supper first—Joe stayed for supper—and Rocinante had supper in Mr. Beidwinkle's barn. After supper, Betsy washed the dishes, then went upstairs to put on her white wool dress.