One Came Home (13 page)

I looked at him. “Did Ma know about this?”

Billy’s chin lifted defensively. “Your grandfather was going to tell her.”

“I can
not
believe it.”

Billy held up his hands. “Did you think no one would
notice our absence? Your grandfather would follow you in two snaps after what happened to Agatha. I was ready to tell if you asked.”

“That’s less than honest,” I said.

I remembered how Grandfather Bolte had cleaned both the guns—the Springfield and the double-barrel—right before we left. I remembered how he’d put the Springfield into my hands and called it a “good rifle.” I
had
thought it odd that he cleaned them in June when he’d just done it in February.

I felt my strength leave me. I crossed my arms over my body, more to hold myself together than anything else. “Why’d you agree to come?”

In retrospect, I can see that I wanted him to say something about my companionable nature. Sure, the trip was a
task
, but not an onerous one, because Billy liked me. Any small hint would have done it—it would have been merely polite.

Instead, Billy said: “You approached me! I was the best choice. Come on, Fry, we all
know
you. You were resolute. Even Mr. Bolte said he didn’t think he could dissuade you, not after he heard you’d offered me the Bechtler dollars.”

“To force me to face the facts.”

“Absolutely.”

“Anything else I need to ask you so I know what you’re hiding?”

“Nope.”

I laid my eyes on him. “What about pay? Did Grandfather Bolte
pay
you to chaperone me?”

“Criminy, Fry.”

“Tell me.”

Billy puffed up his cheeks and exhaled. “Some. Yeah. For my time.”

That was it for me. I turned on my heel and began to load up my mule.

“I’m sorry, Fry.”

I did not answer that.

“Where are we going?” he said.

I looked over my shoulder at him. “We’re going to see this spot where the body was found, remember? You’re a hired hand, so I expect you to do as I say and not give me a hint of trouble. You hear me?”

“Is that the way it’s going to be?”

“Are you
hired
or not?”

“I swear,” said Billy.

So now I knew: Billy was not out here to meet Agatha. Money was his motive. It made too much sense for me to ignore. Weren’t he and Polly planning to move to Minnesota? Homesteading is nothing if not expensive. That was why Billy was traveling with me, and why Polly Barfod would not object.

Farther on, we roasted pork sausage for dinner. Our destination was about five miles up the road, but I decided that I wanted to view that spot fresh, after I’d tried to get some sleep. I had a lot on my mind.

I questioned Billy good and hard over dinner. Billy said
that his pa, the sheriff, had tracked Agatha and the pigeoners to Dog Hollow. He figured that they were headed to Prairie du Chien, so he continued on Miller Road past Dog Hollow. When he found the body in the blue-green dress, he thought he should bring it home as quickly as possible for Ma to identify.

At this point, Billy pulled out a leather pouch that hung around his neck. He opened it and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “He gave me this.”

I unfolded it and saw a crude diagram of the roadside location of each body part found. I swallowed hard and handed it back to him. “Tomorrow,” I said.

Who had the sheriff talked to in Dog Hollow? He told Billy that he’d talked to several people, and though some had seen Agatha and the pigeoners, no one seemed to know much about them. They didn’t know their names, or where they were headed. It seemed the pigeoners kept to themselves.

I told Billy about the Dog Hollow store owner and the bottles of medicine made from pigeon dung, and how one of the pigeoners had used the name of Metcalf. It was news to him, which meant I’d sniffed out something the sheriff had not. I felt no pride in it. It amounted to the same situation—not enough information.

I asked if Sheriff McCabe had theorized about how this all came to be.

But Billy said that his pa didn’t engage in scenarios and what-ifs. “You know how Pa always says that keeping the
peace is his main job. He called those pigeoners ‘lazy schemers.’ I don’t think he considered them murderous. He
was
curious about why that body had been left out so animals could get it. But his first concern was to get the body back to your ma.”

“To
identify
,” I said.

Billy shrugged. “Whatever you want, Fry.”

I kept company with my thoughts for the rest of that dinner. Afterward, I did my chores and Billy did his. I had momentary notions of subjecting Billy to hired-hand treatment, but as it turned out, I did not have the energy for exerting authority, and in the few days we’d traveled together, we’d developed certain routines. For instance, I cleaned the dishes, and Billy took care of our mounts. So I let that desire go.

As I was preparing for bed, Billy grabbed my elbow and looked me square in the eye. “We were saying good-bye. That was all.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the kiss.

“She said she was going to marry Mr. Olmstead. She wished me well. That’s it. It didn’t mean nothing. I never made a plan to meet her. I didn’t send her a telegram. If you think she could have made all her family think she was dead …” He shook his head. “Agatha wasn’t like that.”

“You
whistled
,” I said quietly.

“It didn’t mean nothing.”

Then he walked away.

*  *  *

That night I unfolded my bedroll out in the open and lay on top.
Take me
. I offered myself to any passing cougar that might want to feast on one skinny little neck. But no cougars came. Apparently, I wasn’t worth dragging off. I stared up at a sky spread over with stars. Silken breezes brushed against my skin. The scent of evergreen lingered in the air. It was an irritatingly beautiful night.

I closed my eyes, and instead of counting sheep, I counted ifs: If I hadn’t seen that kiss. If I hadn’t told Mr. Olmstead. If I had told Agatha instead. What if I could not find her? What if there was a good reason for Agatha’s tracks ending in Dog Hollow?

What if she was …?

It was a nowhere place. It wasn’t even in Dog Hollow. It was a half day’s ride out of Dog Hollow.

As Billy and I rode the next morning, I was silent. I guess my head was working so hard there was no way to make talk too. I did worry about Long Ears taking it personally. Don’t know why. He was only a mule. But for some reason, I cared, so every once in a while I’d feed Long Ears a sugar cube, which made him like me better. I wish sugar cubes worked that well with people. I’d carry them in my coat pockets, my hat, my shoes.

“Lying off the side of the road” was the only description I’d heard when people explained the location of the body.
Still, I’d imagined this place so many times that without hesitation I’d have described it as somewhere with sweeping vistas, a rock formation jutting into open air, and nearby, a knotty oak. The limbs of that oak would tangle in every direction, testifying to the struggles of wind, sun, fire, and rain, and yet there it stood, going on, full of leaves. The body, of course, would lie under this tree.

I’d like to point out that this is a sight short of what the place of someone’s death should look like. People are
supposed
to die at home. They’re
supposed
to have time to tell last wishes. They’re
supposed
to be able to pray, to repent for their sins, and to commend their soul to God. And the family? We’re
supposed
to be able to gather round the deathbed, hear those final words, watch the dying breathe their last, and witness their countenance. So given all this, I do not think the presence of a big oak tree was asking too much.

But no matter what I had imagined before, I had never imagined this: that we would pass the spot right up. This spot was
that
unremarkable. Billy figured it out—a sure miracle if there ever was one. He pulled Storm up short, took Sheriff McCabe’s diagram from the pouch around his neck, studied it, and then turned around. For about a mile, we couldn’t have gone any slower if we’d been strolling on foot. Finally, Billy stopped and got down off Storm.

I knew what that meant. “Are you sure?” I said.

If Billy felt any surprise at my finding my tongue, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded and stared down at the
paper. He lifted his head to gaze at a rock, then pointed at it. “See that fissure? It’s the same on the diagram. This is it.”

My feet felt leaden as I eased myself off Long Ears. (I still hear the scuff sound my shoes made as they hit dirt.) After that, about all I could do was keep hold of Long Ears’ reins and stare about me.

This is all wrong
, I thought.
Not here
. This was nowhere. Instead of being wide and generous, this was a squeezing, wrenching place, somewhere with a grip around the windpipe. It barely held a set of wagon-wheel tracks. A high hill with a rocky front formed a wall on one side, tossing shade over the road. On the other side, brambles, thistles, and tall grasses blanketed a slope leading down to the Wisconsin River. We’d passed miles and miles of road that looked like this—pass-through spaces, not stopping places.

It couldn’t be here.

I can hear your thoughts. You’re thinking:
See, she cares. This isn’t about
some
body—this is about
Agatha’s
body. It’s good to see her coming round to her senses
.

Though I’d argue with you on principle. Think about it: no one should be found dead in a nowhere place—somewhere between here and there with no distinguishing marks except (like I found) a fresh pile of horse apples confettied with flies.

Now, I know people die in nowhere places. My own pa is gone. He’s probably dead, and we never did find out what
happened to him, let alone his last wishes. And what about Pin Eyes’ brothers who died in the Civil War? Down South they’re still burying bodies, and it’s six years past the end of the war.

Of course, I
knew
all of this as I stood by the side of the road. But I was learning that knowing things does not mean you understand them.

Billy reached for his hat.

“Do not take off your hat,” I said.

He lifted the hat off his head and brought it down to his chest. He held it there.

I let go of Long Ears’ reins and started slugging Billy anywhere I could reach. “Do not take off your hat! Do not take off your hat!”

Billy pulled me toward him, pressing my face into his chest with the hat hand. The hat clapped against my back. I yelped. Under that hat, it was a dark, dark place with the sound of a shovel, then dirt and rocks striking pine boards.

My teeth found flesh and clamped down.

“Almighty!” he yelled, letting me go.

I ran up the hill on the north side of the road. I could hear his voice as I ascended. “You bit my arm? I’m bleeding.” But his words were wallpaper to the sound of my feet pummeling the ground, my hands swatting back saplings, and my lungs gasping for breath.

At the top, I saw the rocks—big rocks piled high. As I tried to catch my breath, I knew that if Agatha had been
anywhere nearby, she’d have climbed up here. She wouldn’t have been able to resist. Agatha would have seen this place was full of hiding spots. She’d have left something here—her sketch pad or perhaps a note. Yes.

I ran over to those rocks, climbed to the highest point, and stuck my hand in a crevice all the way around the rock. Everything I touched—living or dead—I pulled out. Then I did it again and again, working my way over that entire pile of rocks. I shoved, leaning into them until they moved and I could see what lay underneath.

There was one rock I couldn’t move easily. I pushed it with the palms of my hands. I pushed at it from east, north, south, and west, and then picked the most promising angle, put my back against it, and heaved.

My feet slipped and gave way. I rolled ten feet, ripping my sleeve, bruising every part of my body, and banging my cheek hard. I felt my cheek swell—heat rising in it. (No wonder my face later looked like a topographic map.)

Still, I picked myself up and sifted through what I’d collected: dead beetles and flies, decomposing leaves, twigs wrapped in old spiderwebs, a snake skin, a deserted mouse nest, live pill bugs and centipedes.

Oh! I felt something leggy run up my arm. I brushed a spider off. Then I saw another on my foot, and another on my elbow. I was brushing myself everywhere, half crying out. I quick untied my hair and shook it—dancing like a greenhorn since I do not like creeping things. I saw a four-inch
centipede caught in my hair. I picked it out and slung it away, stepping back at the same time. My ankle twisted. I swore.

There was not one piece of paper in all that mess—not a note, a sketch, or a scrap with a message. I had been so sure too: I’d
felt
it. I’d
known
it. Agatha would leave me something. It would be
here
. She would not leave me with nothing!

I felt everything I cared about drain from me as a result of that word: nothing. No thing. No.