Dawn of a New Day (10 page)

Without missing a beat, or a spin, or a revolution of her baton, the girl, who was chewing gum at almost the same speed of the baton, gave a nod saying, “Mr. Henderson. Over there.”

Mark walked in the direction of the girl's gesture and stood for a while as a rather short young man with dark hair and dark eyes watched the spinning batons. “Mr. Henderson?”

“Yes, I'm Henderson.”

“My name's Mark Stevens. I'm here to cover the twirling contest for the Hearst Newspapers.”

Henderson's eyes lit up. “Well, that's fine. Real fine,” he said in a southern accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Let's go over in the shade, and I'll be glad to tell you whatever you want to know.”

When they reached the shade, Mark said, “Just tell me a little bit about the basics, and remember, I don't know anything about baton twirling.”

“Right. Well, first of all you got to know that it's the second largest girls' movement in America.”

“What's the first?”

“Why, Girl Scouts, of course. I want you to get this in your paper, Mark. There are three reasons why it's a popular sport. First, you can do it by yourself. Second, it doesn't require any expensive equipment, and finally, you don't have to go a million miles to do it. You can practice in your own backyard, or in your own living room.”

Mark could see the young man was highly enthusiastic and said, “Don't be offended, Mr. Henderson, but what's the point of it all?”

“The point of it all? Why, the point is these girls can master a complex skill. It gives them all self-confidence, poise, ambidexterity, and discipline coordination.”

Mark wanted to ask,
But how is that going to help these girls when they get out in the world? Not much call for baton twirling.
However, he did not, for he saw that the young man was full of the sport, or hobby, or whatever it was. As he listened, jotting down his notes, he discovered that there were multitudinous categories: advanced solo, intermediate solo, beginners' solo, strutting routine, beginners' strutting routine, military marching, and ad infinitum. He also discovered that the girls who came to the institute were divided up strictly into age groups; the winner in each category would receive a trophy, and the first five runners-up, medals.

Finally he left Henderson, who was called to his duties, and stopped a young woman who appeared to be about sixteen and who was wearing an even briefer costume than the other girls.

“Do you design your own costumes?” he asked.

“I sure do. Do you like this one?”

“Very nice. Do you find that the costume has anything to do with your efficiency as a twirler?”

“Well, of course, I do!” the girl said quickly. “Back home we got these little skirts that sort of flare out, and of course, they're short, but I don't want anything gettin' in my way.”

Mark wanted to observe that the costume she wore could not possibly get in anyone's way, but he refrained.

He moved on through the field and saw a pretty girl of no more than eight tossing a baton at least sixty feet straight up. She caught it behind her back, not moving an inch.

“How long did you have to practice to do that, miss?”

“Oh, about an hour a day for six years.”

“You're certainly good at it. What's your goal in baton twirling?”

“I want to be the best there is at the High Toss and Spin.”

“How many times does it spin?”

“Well, I'm up to seven,” she said, “but I'm going to get more.”

Mark spent a pleasant afternoon with the young women, took several pictures, then visited William Faulkner's house and his grave.

Standing over the grave, he said, “Well, Bill, I wonder if you're turning over down there with all these teenyboppers treading on your turf.” He thought about the great writer for a moment, and then he said, “No, I think you would have found it amusing. So long, Bill.” He turned and walked away and was glad that night to catch a bus headed for Fort Smith.

Prue had put on her most disreputable outfit, for she wanted to do some work on the barn. The outfit consisted of a pair of ratty old jeans that had belonged to her brother and that she had to hold up with a pair of his crimson suspenders. Her blouse was faded and patched, and she thought as she pounded the nails into the barn,
I look like Huckleberry Finn!
Her thick hair was tossed in the wind, but she did not notice. She loved to work on the farm and had become an expert in most of the things that needed doing. She picked up a board, held it in place, tapped a nail with the hammer, and was banging it in when she heard a voice calling, “Hey, Prue!”

Turning, she saw that Mark Stevens was rapidly approaching at an easy lope. He was wearing a pair of brown slacks and a light blue shirt, and the sun caught his hair as he came to stand before her. “I see you're all dressed up for my return.”

“Mark Stevens, I hate you!” she said, throwing the hammer down and running her hands through her hair in a hopeless gesture. “You always manage to catch me when I look like a tramp!”

“You look good to me, Prue.” Mark smiled. “I'm glad to see you.”

Prue's face flushed, and she said, “Come on in. Mom made a chocolate cake last night, and there's still some ice cream left.”

When they were inside and Mark had greeted Violet Deforge, the two of them sat down, and he plunged into the cake, smiling at Violet. “The best cake I ever had in my life.”

“You always say that, Mark.” Violet smiled. “Flattery is your strong point. Come to supper tonight. We want to hear all about your new job.”

The two, after Mark finished his cake and ice cream, walked out and headed toward the woods. As they ambled slowly down the old pathway that led to the creek, Mark looked around and said, “I've missed all this. It's good to be back.”

“We've missed you too.”

Mark looked at Prue, saying, “Well, you're a senior now. How does it feel?”

“How did it feel when you were a senior?”

“I felt like I was a prisoner serving his last days.”

His remark amused Prue, and she laughed. She had a fine laugh, full-bodied, but not at all masculine. Her eyes squeezed almost shut, and she looked at him and said, “That's the way I feel. I think everyone does.”

“What's Debbie doing now? Have you heard?”

“She's dating the first-string quarterback at the University of Arkansas.”

“It figures.”

Prue shot him a quick glance. She wanted to ask if he grieved over his breakup with Debbie but said nothing. Finally she said, “How long will you stay, Mark?”

“Oh, maybe as much as a week.” He told her about his job, that his time was pretty much up to himself and he could make his own decisions. They reached the creek and walked along it, tossing stones in, and once a large fish of some kind broke the water not twenty feet away. “I'd like to get you on the end of a line, buddy,” Mark said.

“They've been biting good, Mark. I come almost every day.”

“I'd like to come with you sometime.”

Prue was pleased, and the two ambled along, stopping beside a willow that hung out over the creek. “Do you remember when we used to swim here?”

“I sure do. We must not have been more than ten or eleven.”

“You were twelve, and I was eleven,” Prue said instantly.

They talked for a while about those days, and finally Mark worked up the courage to ask, “Have you got a steady fellow now?”

“No.”

The brevity of her reply disturbed Mark, and he said, “I can't understand what's wrong with the guys. They must be idiots.”

“Well, I'm the dumbest girl in school, and most of them are two or three inches shorter than I am. What do you expect?”

“I told you so many times! Don't put yourself down, Prue!”

“All right. I won't then.”

They spent the afternoon reminiscing, and the woods rang with the sound of their voices and their laughter.

At long last Mark said, “I guess I better go home and spend some time with my folks.”

“I'll make you a cherry pie tonight.” She was looking up at him and said wistfully, “It's nice to look up to somebody.”

“It's nice to look down at somebody.” Mark reached out, pushed the curls away from her face, and said, “It's good to be back, Prue.”

Prue did not answer. She was conscious of the touch of his hand on her cheek. It disturbed her somehow, for she knew that it was only a friendly gesture. Turning, she said, “Come on. I'll race you to the house.”

A
ll right! Come and get it, Bucky!” Prue called out as the small black bear came tumbling out of the doghouse that had become his bed. Perhaps
small
was not the correct word, for although he had been no bigger than a kitten when she had taken him to raise, a gift from neighbor Tom Hankins, now the bear was as large as a big Labrador. His black fur glistened, and his snout seemed to quiver as he came up to Prue, reared up, and pawed at her, whining. He snapped at the pieces of leftover roast that she fed him, and Prue laughed. “You're the greediest thing I've ever seen. Now, get down! I've got work to do.”

But the bear followed her everywhere she went, rearing up on his hind legs and seeming to beat time with his paws. Prue stopped from time to time, reached into her mackinaw pocket, and fed him peanuts, which he loved. He ate them, shells and all, and continually begged for more.

Dent Deforge had been watching the scene, leaning on the fence that held two dozen Black Angus cattle. He ambled over and said, “Prue, that bear's getting too big for a pet.”

“I know, Dad,” Prue said quickly. “He'll be going back to the wild pretty soon.”

“Those things can be dangerous.”

“Bucky? Why, he wouldn't hurt a flea!”

“Not you maybe, but when he gets a little bigger and he encounters a child it might be different.”

Prue stroked the bear's head and said sorrowfully, “I hate to let him go.”

Dent reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of gingersnaps, extracted two of them, and stuffed them in his mouth. As he put the bag back he chewed slowly, then shook his head, saying thoughtfully, “You've got to learn to let things go.”

Something in his words caught at Prue. She turned from the bear, shoving him down, and looked up at her father. “I don't have much to let go, Dad,” she said quietly. “No boyfriends, no career. I guess Bucky's all that I can let go of.”

“Don't talk like that, Prue,” Dent said, concern bringing a frown to his face.

“All right, I won't, but I'll tell you the truth, I don't have any idea what I'm going to do when I get out of school. Who would hire me with my lousy academic record?”

“Books don't mean everything.”

“No, not out here on the farm, but they do when you go looking for a job.”

Dent shifted his feet uncomfortably, pulled out the bag of gingersnaps, and this time took three of them and offered her the bag. When she shook her head, he stuffed one in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. “I guess you'll have to find something that doesn't call for straight A's.”

“I can always work at McDonald's,” she said, smiling. Seeing his worried expression, she reached up and patted his cheek. “Don't worry, Dad. I won't.” She changed the subject, saying, “I'm going out to get some quail today. Do you have any shells for the twelve gauge?”

“Sure. They're in the cabinet by the hot water heater. Be careful. Don't blow your foot off with that thing.” He smiled, for he knew she was an excellent shot, almost as good as he was. “Where are you going?”

“There's a covey over by the old Olson place. I won't even need a dog for them. The last time I went they flew up under my feet and scared me to death.”

Dent laughed. “They do that, don't they? I always think something bad's got me. Well, I'm partial to quail. Bring back a sackful.”

The breeze had died down, and the November sun was a pale, silver disk high in the sky as Prue moved cautiously through the open field. She held the twelve gauge lightly, and the thought passed through her mind,
If I were a little thing like Debbie Peters, I couldn't handle this gun.
The thought gave her satisfaction for some reason, but she put it out of her mind, concentrating on the clumps of dried grass that lay ahead of her. She had a hunter's instinct, her father having taught her a great deal, and now as she moved forward slowly, she wished she had brought a dog. However, her favorite bird dog, Sissy, was expecting pups any day, and she had thought it wise not to bring her.

The smell of burning leaves was in the air—crisp, and sharp, and acrid, and she knew someone was burning their fields and thought for a moment about the dangers of a forest fire. But she had no time to think further, for when she took one more step the long grass in front of her seemed to explode with birds, their wings making a miniature thunder as they rose. Quickly she pivoted, planted her feet, and swung the twelve gauge up. She shot three times deliberately, and three birds came tumbling out of the air, falling to the ground.

Lowering the rifle, she advanced, claimed the birds, and stuffed them into the canvas bag that hung from a strap at her side. “That makes eleven,” she said aloud with satisfaction. “That ought to please Dad and fill his stomach.”

Moving forward, she encountered no more birds until she came to within a hundred yards of the old house where the Olsons had lived. Here, again, a covey flew up. She was too far away to get an accurate shot, but she knocked one bird down.
If I had a dog, it would have been better
, she thought as she walked over to claim the bird. As she bent over to pick it up, she heard a voice and was startled. Whirling, she saw that a man had come out of the old two-story frame house and was saying something to her.

She saw that the man was lame, for he leaned heavily on a cane. He was a stranger, and she studied him as she did when she encountered anyone new. He was no more than five feet ten inches with light brown hair and dark brown eyes. His face was sharp featured, and there was a frown on his lips. “You're not supposed to hunt on this land,” he said, stopping in front of her.

“I'm sorry,” Prue said. “I didn't know anybody was here. It's been vacant since the Olsons moved away last year.”

“Well, it's not vacant now. I've rented it.”

Prue felt awkward and said quickly, “I'm very sorry. I won't do it again.”

“Are you from around here?”

Prue turned and nodded. “Yes, sir. My name is Prue Deforge. I live with my folks about a mile across those fields.”

“My name's Kent Maxwell.” The man hesitated, and it was now he who seemed awkward and ill at ease. “I'm new here. I just moved in yesterday.”

“I'm glad to have you. You'll have to come over and meet my folks.”

Her words seemed to encourage the man, and he lifted the cane and swung it for a moment, almost idly. He was wearing what Prue called city clothes: a pair of wool light green slacks, a pale beige shirt, and a pair of brown loafers. He seemed strong enough; his upper body was well built, and she wondered what was wrong with his leg.

“I don't know anyone to ask. I was intending to go into town,” Maxwell said. “What I need is someone to help me. Kind of a part-time housekeeper, and maybe someone to do some cooking. Do you know anyone like that?”

Prue thought for a moment. “Mrs. Rowden does some housekeeping, but she lives way over on the other side of us. It'd be a little bit hard for her to get here. I'll ask her if you'd like.”

“You say you live only about a mile over that way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you in school or working?”

“I'm a senior at the high school.”

Maxwell studied her for a moment, then asked, “Could you do some housekeeping and some cooking?”

For a moment Prue hesitated, then she said, “I guess I know how to keep house all right, and I can cook some, but I'd have to ask my momma and daddy.”

“You could come almost any time you wanted, after school and on weekends. I can't keep up this big old house, and I don't want to.” There was a discontented look on Maxwell's face. He was handsome in a way, his features neat, but his hair needed cutting, and there was a food stain on the front of his shirt. “I just moved in from Chicago. Don't know a thing about the country. Don't even know how to buy groceries.” He smiled and seemed to look younger to Prue. “Ask your parents. I'll pay whatever the going rate is around here for that kind of work.”

Prue nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll ask them.”

She turned and walked away and felt his eyes watching her. She walked with a country girl's slide that covered the ground quickly, and as she moved back into the woods following the old trails, she thought,
Strange for a city man to come out and live in that big old house. He must rattle around in there.
She thought about his offer, and when she got home went at once to her father and mother, who were sitting in the kitchen. Dent was watching his wife cut up a chicken, and they both listened as Prue told them of her encounter. “I'd like to make a little extra money,” she said, “if it'll be all right with you.”

“I don't see anything wrong with it,” Violet said. “What do you think, Dent?”

“Might go by and have a talk with him. If he seems like an okay sort of man, it might be all right.”

Kent Maxwell answered the knock at the door, and when he opened it he saw that he was facing a very tall man in his fifties, probably, with a shock of black hair and a pair of steady gray eyes. “I'm Dent Deforge,” he said. “Your neighbor over to the east.”

“Oh, you must be the father of the young woman that was hunting birds.”

“Yes, I'm Prue's father. Came by to welcome you.” Dent held up a sack and said, “My wife sent some homemade bread. Thought you might find it good.”

“Come in, Mr. Deforge. Glad you dropped by.”

Deforge followed Maxwell into the kitchen, taking in the limited use of the right leg, but, of course, did not mention it.

“I've got coffee made, and I can eat some of that bread right now.” Maxwell poured the coffee into large white mugs, took the bread out, and sawed off a heel of it. He went to the icebox, pulled a stick of butter out, and sitting down, began to spread it on the bread.

“I'll have to bring you some homemade butter,” Dent offered. “I can't eat that store-bought stuff myself.”

“Well, I don't know about the butter, but this bread is fine. Your wife's a good cook.”

“Prue's a good cook too. Her momma's taught her. You're from the east, Prue tells me.”

“From Chicago actually.” Maxwell took another bite of the bread and chewing it, said, “I never have lived in the country, Mr. Deforge. I'm kind of at a disadvantage.”

“Just call me Dent. Everybody else does.”

“I'm Kent, then. I'm looking for someone to help me keep up this big old place and do some cooking. I've had TV dinners until I'm sick of them already, and I've only been here a few days.”

“A man misses home cooking all right,” Dent nodded. “How long do you figure to stay here?”

“I leased the place for a year. Bought what furniture the Olsons had left, and so far I like it.” He took another bite of the bread, then when he swallowed it said, “It gets so busy in the city, it got to where I couldn't think. I needed a little peace and quiet.”

“Well, you got that out here. This is so far off the main road you won't have many visitors. Maybe an encyclopedia salesman or a Jehovah's Witness following the power wires in. What sort of work do you do, if I might ask?”

“I'm a teacher, but I got a sabbatical—a year off to do what I please. I thought I'd go to Europe, but I finally decided to just stay here. Find the quietest place I could while I do some work.”

“Well, we're glad to have you in the community. The church is right down County Highway 6. We'd be mighty proud to have you come and visit next Sunday. It's a good way to meet all the neighbors in the community. Election's coming up. I don't know how you vote, but I'd be glad to talk with you about politics.”

“I don't know much about that,” Maxwell shrugged his shoulders. “This war on poverty that President Johnson's started, I don't think it'll ever work.”