Francesca of Lost Nation (16 page)

Chapter 22

Written in the Sky

C

linton was bustling and hustling. As we passed a parade of fair banners snapping in the breeze, I couldn’t get over the swirling energy in the town or the promise in the air. All the motor courts we passed had “No Vacancy” signs, making us thankful we had made reservations.

Francesca directed Harry to the Lakeview Lodge, which hadn't changed at all since our last visit when Grandpap was still alive. It had never actually overlooked a lake; the fishing competition would take place a few miles outside of town. 

Francesca and Maude registered while Harry and Matt went to make arrangements about a fishing boat. It was important, having exactly the right conveyance: not too big, with a small, quiet engine so we could sneak up on those fish.

The kitchenette cabin suites were brightly painted and smelled of Bon-Ami cleanser. The Lakeview also took dogs, always had, which made it perfect for us. Maude, Francesca, Babe and I were going to share one room, with Matt and Harry next door. 

Francesca arranged for a roll-away bed for Babe and me. Then, she and Maude began unpacking while Babe and I took an exploratory walk before lunch.

The motel stood on a quiet tree-lined street. In those days, business establishments and private homes were built side by side, unlike the strict zoning regulations today. There was a wading pool on the property that looked promising. Maybe later that night, I'd sneak Babe back there for a swim and totally ignore the bold sign warning, "No Dogs Allowed."

As Babe and I explored together, I mulled over Daddyboys' news. Imagine living in
New York! Imagine eating in glamorous restaurants and mixing with “literati.” I did know a little about the Algonquin Round Table — a group of infamous intellectuals/writers who met regularly, mainly to trade naughty stories and throw clever insights about society or religion or the woeful state of theater back and forth. Daddyboys was always sharing magazine articles about the feuds between Zelda Fitzgerald (author F. Scott’s wife) and newspaper critic Dorothy Parker as well as the peccadilloes of that notorious group of undisciplined yet fascinating folks. At that age, of course, I didn’t have a firm idea of what “peccadilloes” were.

I wondered how much I'd miss my friends and if they could come to visit. I’d seen
New York in the movies, of course. It seemed a seamless collection of traffic jams and crowds of people. Could horses be kept in New York? If not, whatever would we do with Miss Blossom and RedBird? 

But by far the most troubling thought to me was the possibility of leaving Francesca behind. I understood that she might not be open to leaving Home Farm, but my life without her was unthinkable. I literally shuddered at the thought.

Babe was enjoying our walk, nosing out new smells. Together, we soaked in the day’s sun, sights and sounds. Although I had no reason to feel anything but delight, at times a tiny frisson of fear tiptoed over my skin. There was a prickle on the back of my neck that said something wasn’t as it should be.

As we walked along the trail to the top of the hill behind Lakeview Lodge, I kept glancing over my shoulder. Nobody was following us, but I felt as though we were being watched.

“C’mon, Babe,” I called as I skedaddled back to the motor court.

“Sarah, dear, there you are,” called Maude.

“Just in time,” Harry chimed in. “Thought we'd go down to the fairgrounds and take some lunch. Try some of those lovely fried chicken recipes.” He touched my cheek. “I'll bet there isn't a decent piece of fried chicken in all of
Manhattan.” 

“We brought lovely food from home,” Francesca said.

Harry rubbed his hands together with relish. “Even better.”

“Wait till you see the boat, Sarah,” Matt said in a jovial way that was unusual for him. “If you can't catch a fish from this baby, you can't catch a fish.”

Harry was skeptical. “Be lucky not to sink the moment we untie from the dock. Still think we should have taken that little Chris-Craft. What a keen specimen.”

Being the county seat,
Clinton was good-sized as cities went in the midwest, and it always struck me how noisy it was. As soon as you stepped out of the car, the sounds washed over you from all sides. It probably didn't hold a candle to New York, but it was exiting just the same.

Very few people are aware that
Clinton was actually once named New York, so designated in 1836 by its original settler, Joseph Bartlett. The newly borne community was one of several clustered in those days on the west bank of the Mississippi River.

Continuous development and the introduction of a rail system adjacent to the settlement spurred its sale to land speculators. When the Iowa Land Company bought
Bartlett’s tract, they renamed it Clinton, in honor of Dewitt Clinton, who was the governor of New York State. Talk about coincidence …

There’s nothing like a state fair! Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, tilt-a-whirls and all sorts of games awaited us, not to mention all the mouth-watering food. There would be cotton candy and popcorn, canned fruits, fried dishes and a variety of homemade sweets. There were also plenty of contests like car racing, bake-offs and livestock competitions.

I loved saying how-do to the farm animals. Rows of different-sized covered pens housed hand-raised lambs, cows, horses, rabbits and even chickens. Some of the animals would go to the butchers, true, but the best of the best would be breeders. As long as I didn’t dwell on the fate of the animals, I was eager to enjoy their company.

The newborns were the cutest: piglets squealing, baby chicks chirping and ducklings waddling. Plenty of wonderful scents, too, like the smell of fresh straw and sweet feed, a mixture that boasted molasses as its not-so-secret ingredient. It was supposed to give calf yearlings a thick, glossy coat.

It was going to be my best birthday ever.

A roar shook the buildings. The animals hollered in agitation and stirred in their enclosures. We all ran out to see what was causing the commotion. Matt instinctively seemed to know where the noise was coming from and what it was. He stood with his head tilted upward and his eyes closed, savoring the sound as if it were music.

It was the first airplane I’d ever seen close-up. The pilot and his craft must have been no more than 100 feet above the roof lines. The craft swooped gracefully, its metal wings flashing in the sunlight as the engines thundered above our heads. To me, it was another spectacular sight, one more memory to mark my time at the fair. But when Francesca saw her enemy, a crop-dusting biplane, her face fell.

Matthew, on the other hand, looked more spirited than ever, like a three-year-old at his own birthday party. He gave a couple of giant hand swings to the sky, and the plane waggled its wings in response. It bore down over us once more, close enough to raise the hair on our heads, before coming to rest in a grassy field some few hundred yards beyond the fairgrounds.

The plane thumped as it hit the ground. Her pilot hit the air brakes and steered it in a straight line toward a stand of live oaks. Before the plane stopped, Matthew had taken off in a trot, his recovering leg preventing him from taking full strides.

What could we do but follow?
 

The dust had just begun to settle when a tall man jumped off the wing and started running toward Matt. The two stood there embracing and back-patting like long-lost brothers. The pilot was huge, hearty with red hair and a craggy face. He walked in a good-natured swagger and winked at us before he let go of his friend.

We all stood in silence, trying to understand.

“You old sonuva moose! I heard a rumor you might be over this way. Say, you look fine, just fine!” The pilot’s words had a lot of pronounced “ay’s” embedded in an accent I'd never heard before.
 

Matt beamed. “Everyone, this is my oldest and most bull-headed associate, the dearest friend I have in the world, Ian Emerson. Watch out; he’s a rascally chap from
Vancouver.”

“
Canada?” I gasped. “You mean you're from the top of the world?”

The men laughed as Ian shook hands with the family and even said hello to Babe.

Matt’s friend was very unlike him — so hail-fellow-well-met it would be difficult not to immediately take to him. He had a dash of the devil, no doubt, but he was talkative and cheerful where Matt was cool and wry. We soon learned that Ian had another talent: He could drink more beer than anyone we had ever met, a skill he proudly demonstrated from almost the moment he stood on terra firma.

Ian joined us for lunch, oohing and aahing over the picnic Francesca and Maude had created for all of us. We sat under a live oak tree.

“We need some brew and lots of it,” Ian reminded Matt and Harry, who had gone to unload beverages from the car.

Ian then proceeded to charm Maude right out of her shoes. “Even before I arrived in
America, I’d heard about the beauty of its women, and I can’t say I've been disappointed, not in the least,” he explained.

Maude blushed.
 

I noticed that Ian seemed to include Francesca in the conversation but not to address her.

“And the way you ladies cook. I’m a big man with an appetite to match,” he said, slapping his rock-hard mid-section, “and the American midwest is heaven to me.”

“Why are you here?” Francesca said with a piercing look.

“Have to make a living.”

“And it was this particular fair that attracted you, because of its profit-making potential?”

“I've never been here before, and that’s as good a reason as any, you can wager. Say, Sarah, what else can Babe do? This is one intelligent dog; wouldn't you say so, Maude, sweet?”

“I certainly would,” answered Maude, preening.

Matt and Harry had returned, a welcome diversion. “Well, folks,” said Ian, his mouth stuffed with a drumstick, “I'm off to check on my baby. I’ll be strutting my stuff tomorrow and Thursday.” He opened his palms to Matt. “Say, why don’t you join me now for a test run? Get your feet wet. She's a sweet little piece, Matt, my boy.” He downed the last gulp of his beer.

“Well ...,” Matt began, sliding a guilty look at Francesca out of the corners of his eyes, “... we sort of have plans for this afternoon. You know.”

Ian took in Francesca and Matt and nodded his head sagely. “Yes, I see. Well, what say we take a spin later? In fact, I'll be happy to take everyone up. Mrs. Pittschtick,” he said, bowing grandly, “you can go up first … after Matt, of course.”

He looked straight into Francesca’s eyes. He was challenging her, and she knew it. Never one to pass on a bald-faced dare, she stood up and straightened her back. Then she lifted her chin and purred, “Why, Mr. Emerson, that would be lovely, thank you.”

“Right, then, I’ll be looking for you here about six.” He took Matt’s hand and shook it as though it might disappear from his grasp. “It’s good to see you, my friend. Good to see you.”

With a furtive glance at Francesca, Ian sauntered away

Ian seemed to know a lot about … things. Had Matt written him? Francesca was attuned to all these nuances, I’m sure.

*     *     *     *     *

The boat was everything Matt and Harry had promised. On the one hand, it was quiet and easy to maneuver. On the other hand, its paint job was peeling rapidly, and you could see where it had been patched below the water line.

“Are you sure it's quite safe, Harry?” asked Maude, gingerly setting her foot into the unstable-looking craft.

“It's safe enough. But it’ll never win a beauty contest.”

Francesca laughed. “I just hope it doesn’t scare the fish the way it's scared Maude.”

I liked to fish. It was something I'd grown up with, spending lazy mornings putting along with Grandpap and Daddyboys. But that day, my mind wasn’t on fish, boats or paint jobs. Who cared about fishing when I had an airplane looming on my immediate horizon?

It was two and a half hours before sundown when we gathered around the landing field. Ian was there, proudly showing off his craft, which he explained was a de Havilland Tiger Moth named
The Lady Victoria
.

She was bright yellow with red stripes down the side and over the nose. Matt touched her the way he sometimes touched Francesca, with a kind of still wonder. It was eerie.

“Why do planes have female names?” I asked.

“Tradition,” muttered Uncle Harry as he inspected the propeller blades. “Sailing ships have always been considered she’s.”

Francesca stood apart from us, arms across her chest to ward off the evil spirit that lay anchored by a mooring rope in front of her. “Those that don't like women,” she said, “say it’s because while women may be beautiful, they are also unpredictable and hard to handle.”

Matt offered, “I think it's because ... because they glisten in the sunlight. They’re of the air, not of the earth. Airplanes take us up beyond where we could go by ourselves.”