Moon Over Manifest Part 8

JUNE 6, 1936.

A warm wind blew as I headed for Miss Sadie's house the next day. I was still wondering about the grave marker beside the craggy sycamore tree near Billy Clayton's house. With Miss Sadie's stories floating around in my head, I came up with any number of folks who might be buried there. Maybe it was a lonely immigrant with no family. Or it could be a drifter who had come through town and they'd buried him where he'd dropped dead. Either way, I wondered if the lanky Mr. Underhill had measured out the grave. warm wind blew as I headed for Miss Sadie's house the next day. I was still wondering about the grave marker beside the craggy sycamore tree near Billy Clayton's house. With Miss Sadie's stories floating around in my head, I came up with any number of folks who might be buried there. Maybe it was a lonely immigrant with no family. Or it could be a drifter who had come through town and they'd buried him where he'd dropped dead. Either way, I wondered if the lanky Mr. Underhill had measured out the grave.

Maybe it was just thinking about spooky Mr. Underhill that made me feel a little uneasy. Like someone was watching me, following my footsteps. I was nearing Miss Sadie's but wasn't close enough to make a dash through the gate. I kept walking, looking back over my shoulder. I expected to see Mr. Underhill's long legs and hunched shoulders right behind me.

My game of rhyming started up. "Horse is in his stable and Pig is in his pen. Dog is in his doghouse and Farmer's in the den. Cow is in the field and Cat is on the stoop, but where is Chicken? Fox is in the coop!"

I was not comforted by my rhyme, and feeling a little too out in the open, I veered off the path and into the hedge for some cover. I took another long look behind me, through leafy branches swaying and bowing in the wind, to convince myself that my imagination had run away with me. I could swear I'd even heard a rattling sound echo in the woods. But there was no Mr. Underhill. No one was there. Finally, I let out a long breath and vowed to stop thinking about graves, and undertakers, and dead people. I tried to start up what I hoped would be a happier rhyme. "Johnny likes suns.h.i.+ne, I like rain. Johnny likes to ride his bike-" I bolted from the bushes and ran headlong into a tall figure dressed in black.

"Thunderation!" I yelped. My heart was pounding to beat the band when I saw that it was Sister Redempta.

"Thunderation, indeed." She raised her chin at me.

I hoped thunderation thunderation wasn't on a list of forbidden words. It must not have been, as she'd said it herself. wasn't on a list of forbidden words. It must not have been, as she'd said it herself.

"I, uh, I didn't see you. Sorry for running into you." For the life of me, I couldn't figure where she had come from, but scary as she was, I was relieved it was her.

"That happens when one comes sprinting out of bushes." She tucked her hands up into her sleeves, studying me. "Well, go on. Finish it. If Johnny likes to ride his bike..."

"I ride the train?" I hadn't meant for it to come out as a question.

"I see. I think it's best that I a.s.signed you a story to write over the summer and not a poem. Still, I know a good rhyme can calm the soul." She looked a ways past me. "When the sisters ran an orphanage here, some children would sing themselves to sleep, often in their native language, as many were immigrant children."

For some reason, I felt tears creeping up in my eyes. I felt like one of those orphan children. "Did it help? Did their rhyming make them feel better?" I asked, knowing that I'd get a truthful answer from Sister Redempta.

"For some, their rhymes would make them smile; others would cry. But eventually they would all fall asleep." She seemed to sense I needed one that ended in a smile. "I remember one boy who used to play a sort of peekaboo game. He would cover his face with his hands, just barely peeking out. Of course, his didn't actually rhyme, because it was half in English and half in his own language. It started with 'Where is little boy hiding? Where did little boy go?' Then he'd finish the verse and take his hands away from his face as if he'd been found."

"That's a nice story," I said, afraid to ask if he ever had been found, or taken in by somebody.

"Are you making good use of your summer?" Sister Redempta asked, back to business.

I thought she stole a glance at Miss Sadie's Divining Parlor, and figured she would have something to say about my going down the Path to Perdition, so I didn't mention my visits with the diviner. Searching for the Rattler probably wouldn't go over too well either. I was glad I didn't run into Sister Redempta very often, as it seemed there wasn't much to talk about.

"Lettie, Ruthanne, and me went frog hunting," I said.

"Lettie, Ruthanne, and I I went frog hunting." went frog hunting."

The thought of Sister Redempta and anybody going frog hunting was a hoot, but I knew she was just correcting my grammar.

"Well, I'm sure you will have much to write about for your end-of-the-summer a.s.signment," she said.

I'd almost forgotten about that. "Yes, Sister." She must have heard the hesitation in my voice.

"You might want to start with a dictionary."

"A dictionary?" Even I knew that a dictionary didn't have stories.

"Yes. Start with the word manifest manifest. It's a verb as well as a noun. Look it up." Sister Redempta started to take her leave, then called back over her shoulder, "And remember, Abilene Tucker: to write a good story, one must watch and listen."

Lord-a-mighty, if she didn't sound like a diviner herself.

I was still wondering where Sister Redempta had come from and what the dictionary might have to say about what manifest manifest meant when I opened Miss Sadie's gate and plodded up the creaky stairs. meant when I opened Miss Sadie's gate and plodded up the creaky stairs.

As I walked through the divining parlor, I was hopeful that maybe I'd mostly worked off my debt. My aching back and blistered hands were equally optimistic. But Miss Sadie was sitting out back on her metal patio chair, smoking her corncob pipe, like she hadn't budged since the day before.

Her intentions of making me work on her garden hadn't budged either.

"Your rows must be straight. Some plants must be kept apart. Otherwise neither will thrive."

I didn't say anything, as I was still pondering my run-in with Sister Redempta. Besides, dry as it was, those seeds were never going to sprout, let alone thrive.

"When you are finished today, I have herbs to be ground into paste for Mrs. Clayton. They go in her tea and will help her milk come in."

I looked up, surprised that she knew about Mrs. Clayton and the new baby, and wondered if some visitor had given her the news. For someone who didn't get around much, Miss Sadie never seemed to be short on information. And there were all those people and events in her stories. I'd pretty much put aside the notion of Miss Sadie's being a fortune-teller, but how did did she know everything? she know everything?

"We were out near the Clayton place yesterday, Lettie, Ruthanne, and me. I think that new baby had a hard time being born." This didn't register any sort of amazement from Miss Sadie. "Sister Redempta looked nearly worn out. We saw her without her veil on and her sleeves all rolled up. She's almost like a regular woman," I said.

It occurred to me that maybe Sister Redempta had come by and told Miss Sadie about the baby, but Miss Sadie's silence gave no clue. I remembered the way Sister Redempta had raised an eyebrow that last day of school when referring to Miss Sadie's den of iniquity. It seemed there was something between those two, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe these were two women who lived far enough off the beaten path that there was some strange common ground between them.

"Elam bouzshda gramen ze."

I poked my head up from the dust. "Say again?"

"It is Gypsy. It means the person you encounter is often more than the person you see."

The last person I'd mentioned was Sister Redempta. Was that who she was talking about? I knew better than to lock her in to only one explanation. Something I was beginning to learn about Miss Sadie was that whatever she said could mean more than one thing at a time. And it usually led straight to the past.

Miss Sadie continued in her Hungarian accent.

"There was much churning in Manifest those many years ago. A war. A quilt. And a curse..."

The Victory Quilt

OCTOBER 27, 1917.

That evening at the fairgrounds, Ned paid for a bag of popcorn. He walked past the army recruitment booth and the Liberty Bond table, over to the Daughters of the American Revolution. Pearl Ann stood with a bevy of women bragging about their sons and nephews in the army and all a-twitter over the coming New Year's festivities.

Mrs. Larkin seemed to be holding court as she pa.s.sed out flyers.

VICTORY QUILT AUCTIONSponsored by the Daughters of the American Revolution Manifest Chapter Mrs. Eugene Larkin, PresidentThe ladies of each fraternal order are invited to submit squares for a special victory quilt to be signed by President Woodrow Wilson himself on his tour of the Midwest.The Manifest Victory Quilt will be auctioned off to the highest bidder during the New Year's festivities at the Manifest depot following the president's quilt signing.Quilt squares should be the standard six-inch block and must be submitted for approval by December 1 to Mrs. Eugene Larkin, president.Proceeds will go toward the purchase of Liberty Bonds to support our young men in arms.Mrs. Eugene Larkin, President "Now, ladies, everyone take a quilt square and flyer." Mrs. Larkin clucked. "My husband, the late Eugene Larkin, who, as you know, was the county appraiser for twenty-five years, was a strong supporter of President Wilson. I'm sure that is in large part why Manifest is one of the stops on the presidential tour of the Midwest. Of course, my nephew, my sister's boy, works in the governor's office. He's an a.s.sistant to the a.s.sistant...."

Ned sidled up to Pearl Ann. "So the president's coming to town. He must have heard we have the prettiest girls in the state." Pearl Ann smiled as Ned handed her the bag of popcorn. "You going to enter a quilt square?"

"Every girl's got to do her part in supporting our boys in arms," she said, waving a swatch of paisley fabric. "But with my quilting, I think I'd set the war effort back a few Liberty Bonds." She tucked the fabric into Ned's s.h.i.+rt pocket like a handkerchief.

"Care to take a ride on the carousel?" Ned asked.

Before she could answer, a high-pitched voice called from the bevy of quilter women: "Pearl Ann." It was Pearl Ann's mother, Mrs. Larkin. "Come along, dear." Mrs. Larkin spoke with pursed lips and looked at Ned as if he was not fit to carry Pearl Ann's luggage, let alone share popcorn with her.

"I don't think your mother is too fond of me," Ned said.

"She just doesn't know you yet."

"Yet? I've lived in Manifest most of my life."

"To someone whose people have lived here for generations, that's not that long."

"Oh, so I have to have a pedigree going back to the time of George Was.h.i.+ngton."

"I didn't say that. It's just that Mother doesn't feel she knows knows a person until she knows their aunts, uncles, and second cousins twice removed. She just likes to have her ducks in a row." a person until she knows their aunts, uncles, and second cousins twice removed. She just likes to have her ducks in a row."

Ned's shoulders stiffened. It was this whole notion of lineage and background that had sent him back into the mines for a second s.h.i.+ft. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, well, you'd have to row quite a ways to find my ducks somewhere in Italy, or France, or maybe Czechoslovakia, so that presents a problem, doesn't it?"

"That's not what I meant. I I don't care where you're from," she said softly. don't care where you're from," she said softly.

"Pearl Ann!" Mrs. Larkin called again, this time with one eyebrow raised.

Just then, Arthur Devlin, wearing a dapper pin-striped suit and sporting a sleek black cane, approached Mrs. Larkin. He bowed and took her hand. "Good evening, Mrs. Larkin," he said in a booming voice. "Or may I call you Eudora, as in our school days?" He winked as he kissed her hand. "Would you be so gracious as to accompany me on a stroll?"

"I'm afraid as president of the DAR, I really must distribute these quilt squares-"

"Come now, surely that can wait. My dear departed Esther always said, 'Don't do today what you can put off until tomorrow.'" He chuckled, turning Mrs. Larkin away from Pearl Ann and Ned, his large build cutting her off from view.

"It's pretty clear that your mother cares about where a person is from," Ned said.

Pearl Ann grimaced. "Who is it you want to take on the carousel? Me or my mother?"

Ned dug in his heels and didn't answer.

"I see. Well, be careful going round and round on the carousel. Mother is p.r.o.ne to nausea." Pearl Ann marched away from Ned and and her mother. her mother.

"Hey, Benedetto. Benedetto." A young man s.n.a.t.c.hed the paisley fabric from Ned's pocket. "You getting your quilt square ready for the victory quilt?" It was Lance Devlin, the mine owner's son, with a couple of his buddies. "Well, it's good to see you're doing your part for the war effort." The boys, who normally sported their high school letter sweaters, were dressed in smart brown military uniforms and jaunty hats. They formed a half circle around Ned.

"Going to a costume ball?" Ned said, still smoldering.

"You didn't hear? We signed up to do our bit. After all, somebody's got to go over and fix the mess your folks got themselves into over there."

"I didn't know the army was so desperate that they've lowered their requirements in intelligence as well as age."

"You mean because I haven't had my eighteenth birthday yet?" Lance asked. "Yeah, well, it's amazing how twenty-five dollars can help a recruitment officer overlook a thing or two. Maybe you should try it, Ned old boy, but then, company vouchers might not do the trick."

"You're right about that. The Devlin vouchers aren't worth the paper they're written on."

"Tut-tut, Ned. You should be relieved that you won't see me on the track this spring."

"Oh, I am relieved." Ned rubbed his neck. "I strained my neck last year running against you in the mile."

"Really?" Lance looked a little pleased as well as surprised.

"Yeah, from craning my neck to see how far behind you were."

The other boys in uniform snickered behind their hands. Lance Devlin got his face up close to Ned's and tucked the paisley fabric back into Ned's pocket. "Well, for now you'd better just st.i.tch up your little quilt square and leave the fighting to us. Then again, maybe we should check to make sure you're not st.i.tching in some kind of spy message. You can never be too careful around those of unknown unknown heritage. And your heritage is about as unknown as it gets, isn't that right, heritage. And your heritage is about as unknown as it gets, isn't that right, Benedetto? Benedetto?" Lance stepped back and spoke loudly. "For all we know, that might not even be your real name. Maybe it's Fritz or Hans. C'mon, fellas." He b.u.mped Ned's shoulder in pa.s.sing.

Jinx walked up with some warm biscuits. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing." Ned stole a glance at the army recruitment stand. "So a con is the art of distraction, huh?"

"Yes. Are you reconsidering my little pyrotectic plan?"

Ned squared his shoulders. "Sign me up."

The first of December rolled around and all the quilt squares had been turned in-except one.

"But the deadline is today." The Hungarian woman shook her quilt square, her bracelets jangling.

"I'm sure you must have misread." Eudora Larkin peered through the screen door of her home. "The deadline has pa.s.sed and the quilt is full. Besides, as president of the DAR, it is my responsibility to ensure the suitability of anything going before the president of the United States. Involvement of someone of your profession would be inappropriate, to say the least."

"My profession?" the woman said, challenging her.

"Well, yes, you know, a fortune-teller. A caster of spells and curses."

"Curses?" the woman repeated, her eyes blazing. "Keep your victory quilt. I give you a curse." She pulled open the screen door. "Ava grautz budel nocha mole."

Mrs. Larkin stepped back, cowering, as the screen door slammed shut. Then, trying to regain her composure, she said, "Oh, for heaven's sake. It's all poppyc.o.c.k." She watched the woman walk away. "Poppyc.o.c.k, I tell you."

Mrs. Larkin was so distressed by the woman's curse that by New Year's Eve she had dark circles under her eyes and was of an overall irritable disposition.

During the weeks leading up to the New Year's festivities, Jinx and Ned were busy collecting empty cans and filling them with ingredients gathered from sources as varied as the hardware store, bakery, and mine supply.

After word had gotten out that the coveted Manchurian Fire Throwers were for sale, Jinx and Ned knew they could sell as many as they could make. The abandoned mine shaft Shady used for mixing hooch became a convenient hideout for a new shady endeavor. It was located on the long narrow stretch of land, owned by the Widow Cane, that ran alongside the mine. The shaft had been abandoned years before, when Devlin's geologists had figured that the heart of the coal vein would be found farther west. For Jinx and Ned, it was a secluded area perfect for making fireworks.

Jinx carefully emptied black powder from his pockets into a large can.

"Whoa. Hungarian olives." Ned read the label on the oversized canister. "Those must be some olives."

"Yeah, I've been helping the Hungarian woman with some fence work and she gave me this one. It'll be just the right size for the last of the TNT. Otis, at the mine, said even though a bottle of Shady's hooch for two pockets of TNT is a bargain, he can't risk Burton finding out."

Ned shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it. Burton, Devlin, the whole mine has no trouble blasting through anything or anyone who gets in their way."

Jinx looked sideways at Ned. He'd been awful moody of late. Ned must have noticed Jinx looking at him, because he said, "How'd you learn all this stuff? The sh.e.l.l game, the art of distraction? Arctic glacial water? Arctic glacial water? And don't tell me you picked it up from a hundred-year-old medicine man." And don't tell me you picked it up from a hundred-year-old medicine man."