In Open Spaces (22 page)

“Yeah?” Steve eyed me, squinting, waiting.

I reached for the bottle. “You done your calving yet?”

He laughed. “Blake, you sly son of a bitch.”

I was holding out on Steve. Actually, I was holding out on everyone. I’d learned something about Jack that I hadn’t told anyone, nor did I plan to.

What I’d found out was the truth about Jack’s years in the service, and it happened completely by accident. Several weeks after he disappeared, one of the possibilities that occurred to me was that he might have reenlisted. So I wrote to the army personnel office, explaining the situation. I gave them all the information I thought might be useful, including the fact that he had served during the big war, stationed somewhere in France.

They replied a few months later. They were very sorry, but they had no record of a Jack Arbuckle currently enlisted. However, they did have a record of a Jack Arbuckle, from Montana, who served during the big war. But he had been stationed in New Jersey, not France.

My first reaction was—well, obviously they’ve made a mistake. After all, he’d written us from France. Their records must be botched up. But I got to thinking, and the more I thought, the more I considered another explanation. With Jack knowing that the folks would be
mad as hell about him running off, what better way to win their favor than to come back as a war hero? It was the perfect strategy.

It made me think of Satchel Paige’s advice: the best secret is to make everyone believe you’ve got a secret.

The brilliance of the ploy had carried over even after he returned. For years, despite my anger toward him, I had often stepped back from the urge to be critical of Jack, figuring he needed some room, some time, to forget the war. I figured that being in a war was one of those experiences that only the people who were there could appreciate, and that only those who shared the experience could provide comfort. For years I had given him the benefit of the doubt when he showed his temper, or disappeared for a few days. Now to realize that he not only didn’t deserve this kind of leeway, but that he’d lied to get it, infuriated me. I wondered whether Rita was aware of this deception, and I considered talking to her about it. But I decided that if she didn’t know, it would just add more unnecessary grief to her memory of Jack. I decided not to tell anyone else for the same reason. Jack had hurt them all enough. So I simply added this to the pile of secrets I held about my brother.

Steve and I stepped back inside, where with my spirits lubricated, I was ready for some dancing. I danced every song for the rest of the night, bouncing from Muriel to Rita to Mom to any other woman with two feet. I even dragged Jenny out for a few twirls around the old pine floor. And finally, I endured a couple of songs with the belle of the ball, Helen, who hardly gave me a glance, even a foot away. I didn’t care. I was in it for the good time, and I sure as hell had one.

About halfway through the dance, as we all stood there sweating, waiting for the next song to start, Lawrence and Sophie Andrews came in, along with two little kids. I hadn’t seen them for a couple of years, although from time to time I fondly remembered the kiss behind the
Albion Town Hall. My stomach folded up inside, and in the time it took me to walk from one side of the room to the other, I felt as if a dry washcloth had been stuffed down my throat. I said hello to them, and the butterflies rose up inside me just from this brief greeting. As with every other time I’d seen Sophie since that fateful day in Albion, she was cool. It was obvious that this was her way of putting that night out of her mind, by pretending it hadn’t happened. She still looked terrific, though. So I was polite, and Lawrence was his usual friendly, oblivious self. But I didn’t talk to them for long.

The next day was a Sunday. We had finished shearing, and our sheep were done lambing. It would be a couple of weeks before we started calving. So I did a few chores around the place. It was beautiful out, with the sky the deepest, cloudless blue. Despite a slight hangover, I was in a great mood. But my mood was undermined by the knowledge that I had an unpleasant task ahead of me.

I walked to the house, up to my room, where I began packing my clothes. I was stuffing them into the old leather satchel from my school days in Belle Fourche when little George appeared at my door.

For a while he just stood there, not looking at me, not even answering when I said hello. He was six now, and looked more like Jack than ever—with the same narrow face and hooked nose, small eyes. He kicked at the floor a couple of times, the dust flying off his little boot. Finally he said, “My ma wants to talk to you.”

I set down the shirt I was folding and studied him, trying to imagine why he’d waited so long to say so. “All right,” I said. I packed the last of my clothes and followed George outside, toward the old house. Nate trotted along beside us, smiling and barking, his tongue dripping into the dust. He got a little too close to George at one point, and George bopped him in the ear. The dog yipped and tucked his tail between his legs, but quickly trotted back near George’s side.

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

George just shrugged, head down. He didn’t need to look where he was going—he’d walked back and forth enough times that he knew the trail by heart. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, and a small tuft of hair stuck up like a feather on the back of his head.

We approached the old house, where Rita was out in Katie’s garden, which she had brought to life. She drove a spade over and over into the ground, turning each shovelful back into its hole. Her movements were forceful and sure, with the blade disappearing well into the dry earth with each thrust. I wondered why she was spading by hand, when a cultivator would turn the whole square in a half hour. Teddy, who was three, was helping, following behind her, turning handfuls of dirt.

When Rita saw us, she buried the spade so it stood alone. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. I noticed her rigid jaw and the fire in her eye, and I understood. She was angry, and using the activity to work off the raw emotion. She motioned with her head, tilting it quickly to one side, and she started for the house. I followed.

George grabbed the spade handle and tried pulling it from the ground, but he didn’t make much progress. Teddy tried to give him a hand, but George pushed him away.

“Coffee?” Rita asked.

“You have anything cold?”

When Rita didn’t even hear my question, I realized just how angry she was. She put the kettle on the old wood stove, then opened the door, peering inside. She stuffed kindling and a couple of split logs into the stove’s belly. Then she struck a match against the stove and lit the fire. The flame spread through the blackness, and Rita slammed the door shut. I was glad it was a fairly cool day as the heat spread through the room.

Rita sat directly in front of me, just a few feet away, leaning one elbow on her knee. She rested the other hand on the table. A smudge
of dirt spread across her forehead. Because she’d called me there, I assumed she was angry at me, and I tried to imagine why.

She fixed a steady glare on me. “Did Mom ask you to move out here?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.” I watched, confused, as she leaned back in her chair and sighed.

“Are you and the boys planning to move to the big house?” I asked.

“No!” She slammed her hand palm down against the table. I jumped.

Rita didn’t say anything for quite some time, turning her head to one side and breathing deeply in through her nose. In that silent moment, I realized that whatever had brought on this reaction probably had nothing to do with me. And I embraced the hope that she was angry for the same reason I was.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

She continued to breathe in, real slow, through her nose, trying to calm herself, her eyes closed. She finally looked at me, but her eyes were slits.

“Blake, I don’t know if I should get into it. I don’t have much place talking about someone when I’m not really part of this family.” She kept her gaze fixed right on my eyes, those deep blue eyes of hers showing a passionate desire to express something that she felt very deeply. I knew I needed to reassure her.

“Well, maybe you should go ahead and say what you need to say.” I nodded. “I really think you should.”

She had to think for a minute. She measured me. Then she took another deep breath and nodded once, as if giving herself the go-ahead. She spoke in a low, steady tone. “It just seems to me that when somebody’s just starting out with a new family, they don’t have any business trying to arrange things to suit themselves.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, feeling a tremendous relief that I had an ally. To me, Rita had even more reason to be upset. Because whether she wanted to or not, she had never thought of asking to
move to the big house, much less suggesting that someone move out. She turned her head to one side. Her hand fell again with a loud smack. “She asked Mom before the wedding, even!” She shook her head. “I won’t live in the same house with that woman,” she said, more quietly now.

I nodded. “Well, you ought to have some say in the matter, right?” The water was boiling. Rita dumped some grounds in a pan, and after letting it brew a few minutes, she poured two cups.

I broke the news to Mom that Rita and the boys were going to stay in the old house. She took it hard. “Not a very good way to start things off with a new member of the family,” she said.

“You might mention that to the person who suggested it,” I said.

She looked hurt, apparently thinking I meant her. I realized that she had been taken in by Helen’s charm a lot more than I suspected. And that angered me even more. Because I have known few people more immune to charm than my mother.

Now I could only wait and see. Because I suspected that once Helen’s plans had been disrupted, there would be repercussions. I also suspected Helen would be subtle about it—something that wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but me, and maybe Rita. I thought it would be difficult to pull off a scheme like that. This would be the last time I underestimated Helen.

“Blake, you were on fire today!” Dad stabbed the big roast on the platter in front of him and began slicing, laying the thin cuts on the plates piled next to him. We passed them around the table, where the whole family had gathered. “I’ve never seen anyone pitch like that in my life.” I blushed and looked down at my plate. It had been one of those days when the rhythm was perfect. I felt as if I could throw the ball
clean through a wall. And the curveball spun through the strike zone like a diving mosquito. It was the first day in years that I had thought back to my tryout with a slight sense of regret. I dished up some mashed potatoes and corn on the cob.

Two months had passed since Bob and Helen’s wedding, and we’d all traveled to Capitol for a Sunday-afternoon game. We were covered with dust when we returned, and even after beating ourselves until a cloud filled the air, we were all powdered and gray, the color of mice. Muriel was off in Spearfish, where she was now going to school, and decided to stay for the summer to work in the local drugstore.

The one thing that I had told people about my trip to Omaha was that I’d seen Satchel Paige pitch. I told them that I’d met him, and that he’d taught me a secret pitch. The effect was immediate. The first game I pitched after that, the other team came to the plate as if they were facing a firing squad. I did my little glove flip every now and then, and after each strikeout, the batter shook his head as if the ball had been invisible. And I wasn’t doing a damn thing different. It was hilarious.

“I thought that scrawny little guy playing third was going to throw his bat at you after you struck him out the third time,” said Rita, raising an ear of corn to her mouth.

“Could you please pass me some of that gravy, Mom?” Helen pointed with her delicate, respectful manner, and Mom passed the bowl as if it was filled with gold dust.

“How many times did you use that pitch of Satchel taught you?” Dad asked.

I winked. “You don’t think I’m about to reveal my secret now, do you, after all these years?”

“Ah, come on.” Dad chuckled. “You think we’re going to sell it? Even if we wanted to, nobody’s got any money anyway.”

I kept my mouth shut, grinning at Dad, and after staring me down for a while, he shook his head. “All right,” he muttered. “I guess this is just something we have to get used to, living with a genius.”

We all laughed, then dug back into our food.

“Well, I think we need to drink a toast to both our heroes.” Helen raised her glass. “After all, Blake couldn’t have done what he did without someone to catch all those wonderful pitches.” She looked over at Bob, whose ears burned red. I caught a glimpse of Rita, who rolled her eyes just enough for me to see.

We all lifted our glasses and drank. I kept an eye on Helen, wondering as I had so many times in recent weeks whether her plan for revenge would kick into gear. Every time she did something nice to me, my suspicions ran high.

“How’s your hand?” I asked Bob.

Bob looked at his hand as if he hadn’t thought to check yet, then shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt too bad.”

“I just don’t know how you do it, catching those pitches over and over with that tiny little glove,” Helen said, and Bob blushed again.

Helen’s fawning started to embarrass me. “So when do you want to go after those cattle that got through Glassers’ fence, Dad?” I asked.

“How many did he say there were?” Dad smeared a piece of bread across the gravy on his plate.

“About twenty head,” I answered.

George reached over and took a stab at a piece of Teddy’s meat.

“Hey,” Teddy said, lunging at George’s plate. George whacked him with an elbow, and Teddy wailed, holding his little hand over his head. Rita calmly stood up and switched places with Teddy, putting herself between the boys. She gave George a hard look.

“You two behave or you’re going home.”

Teddy protested, blubbering, “But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even do anything.”

“I swear, it must be such a chore, raising children on your own.” Helen made a neat cut through the middle of her roast, pushing the halves apart with knife and fork, then cutting one of those in half, very deliberately.