September Wind (11 page)

             
He rolled down the window and poked his head out. “You might as well pack your bags,” he said over the roar of the engine. “Oh! And leave the tools in the shed.” He popped his head back in and spun the car out of the yard.

Grandfather shook a fist. “Get the hell out of my sight, you son-of-a-bitch!”

              She watched the car disappear, and then returned to the bed in the hope of recapturing her excitement, but it was no use.

             
Grandfather burst into the house cussing up such a storm that she dropped the letter and lay back on the pillow.

As the old man ranted, she was reminded how quick he was to anger, especially at the mention of her mother’s name. She recalled hearing her grandparents argue after he tried to set a fire to more of what he hadn’t already burned, which was anything his eyes landed on that reminded him of his daughter. Grandmother managed to save a few items, like a scarf and a couple ribbons, a picture she’d taken the summer before Rachael died, a bookcase and a number of books, her favorite being two Nancy Drew mystery novels. Everything else had been hauled out and burned like trash. Those fights might have been few, and far between, but when they came, they upset her grandmother so much her speech often drifted into her native tongue.

Emily smiled, remembering how whenever her grandmother didn’t want her to understand what she was saying, she would speak Italian. She thought of how much she loved it when she called her
Bella Bambina,
meaning
Beautiful Child.

Although Aunt Francine revealed some about her mother, more at the end of her life, it wasn’t enough. And except for maybe a handful of times from her grandmother, no one talked about either of her parents.

              Emily recalled her aunt’s bitter response a number of years back when she had dared to ask about them.

             
“
Some things are better left unsaid,” Francine snapped as she hacked the wings off a chicken.

             
This didn’t prevent Emily from trying again. “But I have a right to know.”

             
Only Aunt Francine thought differently and she exploded. “Is that what you want? For me to tell you the gory details about how your father’s to blame for putting an end to the both of them?”

             
She threw the carving knife into the sink and then turned to Emily. “Well, there you are. Your parents are dead, and I’m stuck trying to explain. If your grandfather got wind of this conversation, we’d both be up a creek. You should know by now, that nothing gets him angrier than being reminded of what he lost. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it.” Her aunt had turned away and that was the end of it.

             
Emily reached for the letter and folded it back into the envelope. Now at least she had a sense of purpose. Nothing was going to stop her from going to San Francisco to find Samuel. Nothing.

When Grandfather slammed out of the house, Emily knew he might be on his way to Francine’s that very moment. The thought of what he would do when he realized the necklace wasn’t there put her in a panic. Her plans to leave the farm had to begin immediately. She grabbed her notebook off the nightstand and began to scribble:
Ride to Watseka with Steven. Bus to Chicago. Chicago to San Francisco by train.
Just writing it down gave her goosebumps.

Her biggest concern was catching a ride to Watseka with Steven. He went to town every two weeks or so, although she was seldom allowed to go with him. She thought back to when he’d gone last and realized that his next trip would be any day.

              Filled with renewed vigor, she stuffed the letter under her mattress and picked up the brown box. Inside she found the black velvet necklace case her aunt described. When she opened it, she gasped. “Oh my, it’s so beautiful!” She carefully lifted the necklace and examined the sparkling red beads, wondering if Grandfather wanted it because he thought it was worth something. But of course, that was impossible. “He’ll kill me, either way,” she said, glancing at the door.

             
She replaced the necklace into the soft velvet of the box, and looked around for a safe place to hide her new treasures. Her gaze fell upon a pail she used as a flowerpot. She removed the dried bouquet of irises, violets, and pansies she’d picked from along the front yard fence. Placing the necklace and sliver bar at the bottom, she shortened the stems of the bouquet and returned it to the pail.

             
A few days later, Grandfather began to tear Francine’s cottage apart. The first inkling Emily had of his demolition was while she was preparing dinner late one afternoon. What first caught her eye was a fast-moving trail of dust in the distance, followed by the familiar tin-canny sound of Grandfather’s pickup. From the way he tore into the yard and stopped next to the house, she could feel trouble brewing even before he slammed into the kitchen.

A cold chill washed over her as she turned to face him.

              The old man barreled across the room holding up a piece of cloth with a picture of half a poodle face. “This was hanging on some nails up in Francine’s attic!” he bellowed.

             
She stared at the material, knowing she had to do some quick thinking.

             
He waved the fabric in the air. “It came from one of your outfits. I should know, you wear it enough.” She was surprised that he had noticed. He glanced down at her skirt. “At least you used to. So now you’d better tell me when in tarnation you were over at Francine’s?”

             
She studied the source of his aggravation. “Mm, let’s see. The last time I was over there was a few days before she died.” She took the material from him and turned it over in her hand. “You’re right, I do wear a skirt with this print, except this particular piece of cloth came from one of Aunt Francine’s dresses that she ruined. I don’t know how... well... I guess I know now…” She looked up to check if he believed her.

             
“
Anyway, after she ruined it, she ended up making a skirt out of it, which she gave to me.” She raised her eyebrows. “Looks like you found some patching material. Thanks, Grandfather.”

             
Her confidence surprised even herself, especially something so ridiculous, since Francine was much shorter than she was and as far as she knew, had never owned a dress like that. She tossed the piece of fabric onto the table and returned to the preparation of dinner.

             
Grandfather didn’t make a move and she could almost feel him breathe down the back of her neck. After what seemed like minutes, instead of seconds, he made a hissing sound before heading back outside.

             
At that moment, she knew even though her grandfather never put a foot into her bedroom, things could suddenly change.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Moonlight flickered through the leaves of an oak tree, casting shadows into the second story bedroom window. When a gust of wind hurled a branch filled with acorns against the faded walls of the farmhouse, Emily opened her eyes. She shivered, pulled the covers under her chin, and watched the reflection of tree branches dance on rose-colored wallpaper.

              “
Well, this is it.”

             
She slipped from her bed and went to the open window that faced the back yard. Her tall slender body framed by the light of the moon, tingled with anticipation as she took in the quiet beauty of approaching dawn. She followed the line of trees to where tops of oaks, maples, and cypress stood like chessmen in the moonlight. Up in the shade of those tree branches was a bungalow she had built, with walls, a roof, and even a door. She thought of the peaceful hours spent there reading or snuggling with the cats, or running and playing below with the dogs. Leaving the animals behind was something she tried not to think about.

             
A lump filled her throat as she turned to light a lantern, realizing as much as she wanted to go, she was leaving part of her soul behind. Everything in her room had meaning, such as the set of encyclopedias that had been in the family for years, along with books like
Tom Sawyer
and
The Secret Garden
.

             
She went to the closet and pulled out her clothes. As she dressed, she looked up at the poster that once hung inside her grandmother’s closet door. It had meant so much to Martha, not only because it was her favorite movie star, Vivian Leigh, but also because Rachael surprised her with the poster. Emily remembered her grandmother promising that one day she would take her to see the movie
Gone With The Wind.

             
Knowing she may never see the picture again, Emily moved a hand over the life size image, and thought of the times after her grandmother died, when she snuck into Grandfather’s bedroom to stare up at the beautiful actress. Her grandmother had looked so much like Miss Leigh it wasn’t hard for her to make-believe it was really her.

             
One day she brought the poster upstairs and hung it on her own closet door. For months, she expected her grandfather would punish her. If he noticed it was missing, he never said a word.

             
A gunnysack once used for flour sat at the foot of her bed. She had shortened it, covered it with blue material, and then attached a long strap to place over her shoulder. Now the bag bulged with supplies, which included a pair of red peddle-pushers, a floral top to match, a light tan hooded-jacket, the necklace wrapped in a white blouse, the silver bar in a brown skirt, underwear, and a cloth sack containing toiletries. Within an envelope she made with a pair of scissors and glue, were a picture of her mother, one of her grandmother and herself sitting under a tree in the front yard, and the letter from Samuel Dimsmoore. Inside a cloth sack were ribbons, three scarves – a silk scarf that belonged to her mother, another that belonged to her grandmother, and a cotton scarf she made for herself. She’d also packed a rag doll made by her grandmother, three books she couldn’t leave behind,
The Secret Garden, and two books from the Nancy Drew series
, and a money pouch containing a few dollars. On top was a hat she made, inspired by one she saw on a magazine cover, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

She went to the nightstand and picked up the notebook she received from Miss Tucker and the class, only now with a pencil drawing she had done herself on the front cover. Inside was a large white turkey feather she used as a marker. She drew the picture a few years ago: a girl riding on the back of a white dove with the moon and stars in the distance. Below were shadows of an empty forest consisting of gangly trees and bare, sharp-edged branches that rose out of a fog. Most of the branches represented Claude, the worst man she ever hoped to know.

              There were no more than a handful of entries for the first few years after she received the notebook. Now, many of the pages were filled with her writing. At times, she wrote in diary form, other times strokes of inspiration, rationalizations, or reflective scribbles – always small but set firmly. Occasionally, she found herself writing as if she were telling a story.

             
This book had become a place of refuge and a pledge to her sanity. Here she said things she would have said to a trustworthy friend, if she had one. Haity and Daniel had been her friends, but not long enough, and she couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done without the release the pen and paper gave her.

             
She clipped a pen to the inside cover and placed the book in her bag. Then she went to the front window and stuck her head out. The light in the kitchen was on – more than likely just Timothy up for a glass of milk. She thought of using the back window to drop her bag, but decided against that because Steven’s bed was directly below.

The night before she had attached a rope to the bag, and now she began to lower her belongings. She tried to keep it next to the house away from the tree but, halfway down, the rope snagged a branch. Her stomach lurched. She gave a sharp tug. Still, it didn’t budge.

              “
Come on,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to the window above her bed. Her heart sank when she saw a dim glow fill the eastern skies. Quickly turning back, she gave one last frantic tug. The branch snapped and the bag hit the side of the house. She glanced down at the kitchen window where a shadow moved behind the shade. When it disappeared, she let the rope slide through her hands until the bag touched the ground. Then she dropped the rope and closed the window.

             
As she stepped from her bedroom, she looked down at the pot of acorns sitting in the corner of the stairwell. She could still see herself as a young girl. She would sit on the top step and roll the acorns down one by one, trying to see how many she could put into a tin can sitting up against the baseboard.

             
Her childhood sentiment regarding the acorns began after learning how her mother collected and planted acorns, hoping to create a forest of oak trees. That same day, Emily went out and collected her first batch of acorns. She leaned over now, picked the healthiest nut she could find and dropped it into her skirt pocket.

             
As she neared the bottom of the staircase, the dogs began to bark outside. She poked her head around the banister and saw her grandfather’s empty bed. Her heart raced as she leaped over the last few steps and hurried up the hallway. As she turned into the kitchen, his hand was already on the doorknob. “Where’re you going?” she asked, rushing across the room.

             
The old man swung around. “What do you mean, ‘where am I going?’ And since when is it any of your damn business where I go?”

             
“
I was just…I-I’m sorry.”

             
“
You forgot to feed the dogs last night.” He shoved a bowl of scraps against her chest, raising a hand. She flinched, and he dropped his arm.

             
“
Auh, get outta my way,” he growled, pushing her aside. He walked away with a slouch she hadn’t noticed before, his slippers sounding like sandpaper against the floor. She watched his shadow move down the hallway, and then she slipped out the door.

             
Angel and Tokeep were sniffing her bag. She set out the scraps for them, picked up her bag, and began working the knots out of the rope. Glancing at Steven’s pickup next to the barn, she wondered how far she’d get if she loaded up the dogs and cats and headed for San Francisco. If it even started, she knew it wouldn’t be far. The dogs began rubbing up against her legs, and she grabbed them for a hug, and then hurried to the barn.

She set her bag inside the door, lit a lantern, and milked the cows. Gathering enough eggs for breakfast, she set them, along with a pail of milk, outside the barn door just as the sun was beginning to rise. She reached back into the barn for her bag and headed to Steven’s pickup. Stepping onto the footboard, she lifted the lid on the wooden box. Just as she placed the bag inside, footsteps came up behind her.

              “
What the hell are you doing?”

             
The lid crashed to the bin, and she jumped down and wheeled around.

             
Claude was supposed to be asleep in his cottage beyond the barn, yet there he was, mean and drunk as ever.               “I asked what you were doing!”

             
“
I’m riding into town with Steven. H-he said I could.”

             
“
This early? My ass.” He pushed her aside, confiscated her bag from the pickup, and began tossing everything out. The rag doll dropped at her feet. She started to reach for it, but he kicked it aside.

             
A long whistle made her look up. The brown skirt she had carefully wrapped the silver bar in, lay open. He chucked it onto the hood of the pickup, reached in and pulled out the blouse containing the necklace box. She grabbed for it, but he yanked it away. “Wonder what we have here.”

             
She tried again, moving around him. “That’s mine. Give it back.”

             
He elbowed her away as he opened the cloth and lifted the lid. “Son of a bitch. Ole Gramps has been ranting about this necklace for ages. And here I thought he was lying when he said it was stolen.”

             
“
Well, you can see it wasn’t.” She tried to snatch it again as he lifted it from the case.

             
“
Man-oh-live. I can’t believe it. Here all the time and even after the old geezer searched your room when you were up town.” He dropped the box on the ground and stuffed the necklace into his left jean pocket.

             
“
Ha. I didn’t know you had it in you, Mud. Guess the old man didn’t either.” His eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Hmm. You know, I was just thinking. If I wouldn’t of caught you trying to sneak off, who’d you think was gonna take care of us men after you were gone? Who’d you think? Huh? Huh?” He was moving toward her now, and she backed away, knowing what was coming. “Maybe, just maybe I could forget all about this stupid notion of yours. That’s if you’d be reeeal nice.”

             
She continued to step back, her eyes searching for an escape.

             
“
I know what you’re doing,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

             
“
Please, you’re hurting me.”

             
He yanked, pulling her up so they were eye to eye. “Shut up. You hear? Shut up.”

             
“
Let me go then.”

             
He dropped her with a jerk then belted her across the cheek. “Shut up. You want everyone to hear? Want ole Gramps to find out you were about to run off with his necklace?”

             
She nursed her cheek, inching back. “The necklace is mine. Besides, I-I’m eighteen now. I can go if I want.”

             
“
Oh, and I’m forty. Big deal. Around here, all eighteen gets you is more work, and less time ta live.”

             
“
Please, Claude. Give me the necklace.”

             
“
Not on your life.”

             
He glanced over a shoulder, then back at her. “Let’s go,” he said, tilting his head toward the barn.

             
She knew what he wanted and tried to run. But he grabbed her arm again, and as she struggled, twisting and kicking, he dug in his nails until bloodspots soaked through her blouse.

             
Still she fought as she yanked and pushed her up the ladder. When they reached the top step, he grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her onto the loft floor.

             
Her eyes fell on a pitchfork lying next to the railing. To the right was a large opening used to bring baled hay into the barn. She considered the jump that would be at least twenty feet. Of course, this time it would be without a truckload of hay as cushion.

             
“
Oh, now that’d be a smart move.” He climbed the last step and yanked her to her feet. “I’ll tell you what. You jump and if you don’t kill yourself in the process, I’ll put you out of your misery myself.”

             
He lifted her by the shoulders and slammed her against a beam. His weight drove the knotted wood into her back as he buried his whiskered-face into her neck, biting and slobbering that awful liquored breath. She’d never seen him quite like this. When he began to work his way up her chin, she swung her head to the side, ready to die before he dare take the dream she still owned. to all but himself, he grabbed her hips, driving his hands around behind her, yanking so hard she thought her bones would snap.