Prudence (11 page)

“Flat,” she said.

“How about another sour?” asked Prudy.

“How about it?”

“I’ve got it,” said Dave Gardner from the end of the bar. “But it’ll cost you a dance or two.”

“Fine by me. I just got to warm up.”

She drank the second as fast as the first.

*   *   *

P
rudence had walked farther, much farther than any of them knew. All by herself, with Grace to take care of and protect. And yet she had done it. After her mother died she had taken care of Grace, and when it got too rough, she had lit out of there, and found them a place at that school in Flandreau. And when they were going to send her away to Wisconsin she didn’t let that happen, either. All by herself, she got Gracie out of the school and they walked. They walked clear from Flandreau up to Crookston and over across the north of the state. They had been so close, so very close to making it, when they veered too near the Pines on that day of all days, with that goddamn escaped German. Now Gracie was gone. But it had brought her Frankie, at least.

“That brandy going to your head, Prudy?” asked Dave Gardner.

“That’s where it belongs, Davey boy. That’s where it belongs.” Prudence felt her limbs loosen.

If Frankie could endure the war, Prudence could endure his absence. How long could it last, anyway? Another couple months? A
year? How many missions did Frankie have to fly before he was done? Twenty-five? Or was it thirty-four? Anyway, he must be close by now.

“I might as well pay up,” she said, shaking her head. “How about something we can dance to, Harris?”

“You gonna go easy, Prudy?” asked Harris. “I’m the one who’s got to deal with Felix if you don’t.” He took off the record mid-song, and everyone looked up from their drinks and conversation to see what was happening. He chose another record and set the needle down abruptly.

Drinkin’ beer in a cabaret and I was havin’ fun!

Until one night she caught me right, and now I’m on the run

“Come on then, Davey,” said Prudence, and she reached out past Dick.

Davey finished his drink and walked around Father Paul, who stood with his eyes closed and his fingers laced over his belly as though rehearsing the next day’s service. He swayed on his feet.

“I’m not that good of a dancer, Prudy.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

He took her hand in his. His hands were thin and soft. His palms felt wet.

“Nervous in the service, Davey?”

“That’s just how they are. Sorry. They’re always like that.”

“Ahh,” she said, as they found the rhythm and shuffled across the floor in an awkward two-step. They made two turns around the dance floor, everyone watching them.

“You hear from Frankie?” asked Prudence as they passed under the pike.

“Who, me? Naw, Prudy. I haven’t heard from Frankie since that day. Since, you know, your sister.”

“Don’t sweat it, Davey.”

When they turned again, Prudence saw the farm boys looking at her hips and legs. She held their gaze till she and Dave made another turn, then she moved her hand a little lower on his back, just above his belt. The farm boys stared harder. Prudy shut her eyes, wishing Davey would take the lead. Frankie, surely, was a good dancer. He must have gone to a lot of dances in college, fancy ones with real bands. He would know how to lead.

He was a gentleman. These boys weren’t so bad but they weren’t anything compared to Frankie. After the accident, they had put her in the maid’s room off the kitchen and Jonathan had checked her over and Emma made a big fuss about chamomile tea and tucked her in and washed her face and hands with a warm washcloth and then went in and out, bringing in things (a chamber pot, a glass of water, a sweater) and removing other things (a Sears catalog, the .22 rifle they kept there behind the door). After a long while the house finally went quiet. And Frankie had appeared at her door. Prudence smiled toward the thought. He had hemmed and hawed. Didn’t know what to say. Wouldn’t really look at her. He said he was sorry about her sister and that he would come back. He would come back. He hadn’t tried anything funny. Hadn’t so much as let his eyes rest on her too long. Light. His voice and how he stood and how he didn’t eat her up with his eyes or barge in the room or bang furniture around or stomp his feet. He was a gentleman, through and through. He would never try, not until it was right, what these boys would be willing to do in a car or a closet or anywhere, really, if she gave them the chance. She rested her cheek on Davey’s shoulder. The brandy sours had gone to her head.

Three of Dick Bolton’s boys asked the girls from the village to dance. The farm boys continued to hold the girls’ coats. The loggers whooped and set off on the dance floor until Harris barked at them from behind the bar.

“You gonna chew up my floor with your hobs!”

Dick turned to look at his crew. “Boys,” he said.

The men looked at one another and shucked their boots into a corner and spun the girls in their stocking feet. The song ended and Harris put on another.

You’re completely unaware, dear, that my heart is in your hand

So for love’s sake won’t you listen and try to understand?

They’d had three good years at Flandreau Indian School. Three good years. Before that, after their mother died, they’d lived like squirrels in a shed next to the agency, eating what food they could find, scrounging blankets, enduring—oh, it was better not even to think about what had happened there. They made it through one winter, then Prudence got them into Flandreau and they traveled there by train. What a change that had been! What a delicious change. They were given clothes, the dorms were snug enough. And they were safe. Gracie was safe. Every morning began with the ringing of a metal triangle. They lined up by company—A for the oldest down to E for the youngest—though there was an “L” company for the laziest children, the ones who needed to be punished. The triangle rang and they scurried into formation and marched out in step and got their tooth powder and washed their hands and faces and combed their hair. Then the triangle rang again, and they marched into the yard where, no matter the weather, they did their exercises. The triangle rang again and they marched to the classrooms, where they spent the morning on book learning. And again the triangle, and off to dinner for a half hour. The afternoons were spent on “vocation,” which meant sewing, cooking, cleaning, milking cows, currying the horses. Then, in the dimming day, the triangle would ring again and, still in their companies, they marched to chapel. As the sun ground down to the earth, they quietly, with hands clasped, practiced their devotionals.

Prudence had done her best not to end up in Company “L,” and she was never once reprimanded. She didn’t see Gracie much during the days except on Sundays, when they got to eat together. Other than that, Gracie was just another head of black braided hair tucked in the rectangle of her company. But that had been, barely, enough. She was there and she was safe. The summers were the best—they were sent to work on farms across South Dakota. And for two blessed months for three summers, Prudence and Grace were sent to the same farm near Vermillion. The work wasn’t much different from what they did at Flandreau. They milked and picked eggs and killed chickens, mucked out the stalls, and churned butter. The farmer and his wife didn’t have any children of their own and they were kind enough.

I want you so, more than you’ll ever know

More than you dream I do, I dream of you

They’d had three good years at Flandreau. But then she had to leave. The superintendent called her into his office and congratulated her on graduating. They had found a place for her in New Glarus, Wisconsin, wasn’t she pleased. Oh, yes, sir. There’s a war on. Yes, sir, of course. You’ll be working at the Swiss Miss Textile Mart and Lace Factory, they make chevrons and insignia, don’t you know. I didn’t, sir. Thousands of our boys will be wearing those, don’t you know. I didn’t, sir. You’ll be doing your part, Prudence. Aren’t you glad, don’t you know. What will Grace be doing, sir? she had to say. But Grace wasn’t ready yet, of course. Three more years. Three more years and she would graduate, too. I see, sir.

Three more years proved too long. Too long for Gracie and too long for Prudence. Prudence lasted the summer in New Glarus, then she’d packed her things and made her way back to Flandreau and taken Gracie away.

The song ended, and Davey stepped away from her and wiped his
hand on his trouser leg. Prudence blinked widely and wiped her forehead with her hand.

“Well, now,” she said.

Mary, doubled over, two gallon jars in her arms, stood straight and heaved them with a grunt onto the bar. One held pickles, the other pickled eggs.

“Belly up,” said Harris. “Belly up, and merry Christmas.”

The dancers parted. Some went back to their tables. Others, including Dickie’s men, walked to the bar and accepted the pickles and eggs Harris lifted out of the brine with a ladle.

“Hungry?” asked Dave Gardner.

“Thirsty,” said Prudence.

“Jesus, Prudy. You a fish or what?”

“Be a doll, Davey.”

“Whiskey and Coke all right?”

“If it’s all right with you.”

The farm boys, looking at one another for approval, finally set down the girls’ coats they were holding and brought their empty beer bottles back up to the bar.

“Thank you,” said the oldest.

“Thank you,” and “thanks,” said the others.

Clarence Brown, the stationmaster, came in. He wore a green Mackinaw, a blue cap, deerskin choppers, and pac boots.

“Mr. Brown!” said Harris.

“I pray to God it’s warmer for our boys in Belgium,” said Mr. Brown, stamping his feet, though no snow stuck to his boots. He had a thick mustache, which was iced over in the middle. He combed out the frost with the back side of his glove.

“That’s the right prayer,” said Father Paul, with his eyes shut. “That’s the right prayer.”

“What’s the news?” asked Dickie Bolton.

“They’re holding on. They’re calling them the ‘Bloody Bastards of
Bastogne.’” He held up his hand in the direction of Father Paul. “No offense, Father.”

“You’re reporting the news.”

“Skies are finally clear. They’re dropping supplies.”

“Finally,” said Harris.

Dickie nodded.

“Funny,” said Mr. Brown, “you know what the temperature is at twenty-nine thousand feet? An interesting fact. Same as it is right now, right here where we are. Minus thirty.”

Prudence drank deeply from her whiskey and Coke.

The farm boys talked among themselves, sneaking looks at Prudence.

Clarence Brown took off his coat and folded it neatly in half. He handed it over the bar to Harris.

“Just a mo,” said Mr. Brown. He leaned across the bar and took a sheaf of yellow telegrams from the patch pocket and brushed them dry and stowed them in his breast pocket underneath his vest. “Obliged,” he said.

“What can I do you for?” asked Harris.

“Hot toddy would agree,” said Mr. Brown. He set his cap on the bar and clapped his gloved hands together. He looked much like a walrus. “Don’t that beat all?” he continued. “Five miles up”—he pointed past the tin ceiling—“and it’s the same as right here.” He pointed down. “But our boys got their ammunition now. They’ll break out.”

Prudence finished her drink and sighed.

“Be a gent,” said Harris to Mr. Brown, pointing at the kettle on top of the stove along the far wall. Mr. Brown walked across the dance floor and lifted the teakettle off the stove with one of his gloves. “Make way,” he said, though no one was dancing. Harris put another record on and turned to take the kettle in his ungloved hand. Helen Forrest came on, singing “I Had the Craziest Dream.”

I never dreamt it could be

Yet there you were, in love with me.

Prudence adjusted her hair band and smoothed the front of her skirt and walked across the dance floor toward the farm boys. Only one held her gaze as she approached.

“Dance with a girl, wouldya?”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. No one’s gonna mind?” He looked past Prudence to Davey Gardner.

“I don’t mind,” she said, and offered him her hand.

He led her around the dance floor. He was unsure where to look. He looked her in the face, and then his gaze slid over her shoulder and down at the dance floor.

“You’re really pretty,” he managed.

“Oh, baby,” she sighed. “You’re a peach.”

“I ship out in two weeks,” he said to the floor.

“You’ll be fine,” she said.

*   *   *

A
t first she and Gracie had walked at night. All they had were two of Gracie’s school uniforms and a set of sheets they used to cover themselves at night, as protection against the bugs. It was warm. They slept in windbreaks and in sheds. Between Flandreau and Crookston they ate in cafés until Prudence’s money ran out. In Crookston, a farmer discovered them in one of his sheds, with green potatoes in their pockets. He brought them back to the farmhouse, and his wife set a glass of milk and a piece of bread in front of each of them without saying a word. When they were done, the woman asked them if they knew how to milk cows. They nodded. Can you pluck? They nodded again. The man and woman spoke with strong accents. Show, said the man. They milked the three cows. Then the
farmer brought them to the chicken coop and pointed at the door. Prudence and Grace scooped up a chicken each, tucked the heads under their wings and swung them through the air as they’d been taught, then twisted the heads off. By the time they’d finished scalding and plucking the birds, it was late. The farmer showed them to the pump house behind the main house. His wife had set up two pallets on the cement floor. And that’s where they stayed till they couldn’t anymore, and then they set off again.

I found your lips close to mine so I kissed you

And you didn’t mind it at all.

Prudence and the boy turned and turned. He couldn’t look at Prudence for very long. He had limp, sandy hair and a very large forehead that came up to Prudence’s chin. She could see a faint rash of acne across his forehead. They had moved close to the stove and Prudence tried to steer them away but the boy wasn’t looking. His body slid past hers. She felt his erection glide over her thigh. His face colored and he bit his lip.