An Owl's Whisper (38 page)

“She is
très formidable
,” Eva said. “In English, fantastic!”

Jess leaned close to Eva’s ear and whispered, “To be honest, I’d be lost without her.” He smiled like he was proud of that. “When I had my stroke in March, she’s what got me through. Pulled her rocking chair next to the bed and spent about every minute there with me. Enforcin’ every rule Doc Fletcher laid down like a Ruskie commissar. Spoonin’ me out doses of the vilest yellow medicine every other hour, just cuz Doc said so. I took to callin’ her Nurse Hoosegow, the way she hawkeyed me. But inside I ’preciated it.”

Eva smiled. “You
are
a lucky man.”

“Been that from the day I met her.” Jess hesitated. “More’an once I’ve thanked God for fellin’ Harley there in France.” He winced. “How’s that for twisted prayin’? After my stroke, I figured I was probably a goner, so I finally bared my heart to Carrie. She was sittin’ on my bed, and the room was so dark I could barely see her—she was just a silhouette against the drawn, twilit shade. She sat there quiet for a spell ’fore saying, ‘Harley Matson was a fine man, Jessie. Sometimes, fond memories still carry me back to our few days together. But my life’s been spent intertwined with yours like clematis, and after all these years I can’t imagine not being with you. Harley’s in a better place, so he can’t take offense.’ I closed my eyes and felt Carrie squeeze my hand. I thought maybe my time had come, and I was glad to have said what I said and heard what I heard before slippin’ away. Figured I could finally face Harley.”

Jess patted Eva’s hand and chuckled. “So, darned if I didn’t come-to an hour later, feelin’ pretty good and pretty hungry. First thing I did was sit up and have some soup. Then I told Carrie, ‘As I was driftin’ off to sleep earlier, I wondered if talkin’ about Harley was me gettin’ ready to pull up stakes for good. To be honest, I was kinda surprised when I woke up, body and soul together. Had to wiggle my toes and see the kivers move before I really felt safe. ’Course, Miss Agatha’d say I may have reincarnated.’

“‘Doesn’t look that way to me,’ Carrie said. ‘When you come back, I expect it’ll be as a rattler or worse, a Democrat.’

“Both got a laugh at that. A laugh that kick-started a coughin’ fit in me. Better coughin’ than in a coffin, I reckon.”

Eva turned to Jess and smiled. “I like this talking. For me it’s
très américain
.”

They found just a hint of breeze on the hilltop, but the view, the shimmering purple of the prairie grass below the yellow of the setting sun and the pink of the sky, was breathtaking. As the sun slipped below the horizon, Eva said, “Your mother. In French we call her a
phénomène
. I don’t know it in English.”

“Miss Agatha? I guess folks here would call her a real character. If Carrie’ll keep my feet on the ground, Miss Agatha’ll keep me guessing. That woman’s never met a consarned notion she didn’t cotton to.”

“What means consarned?”

“Odd. Miss Agatha was orphaned, married, a mother of three, and abandoned by Pa by the time she was twenty-one. Woman’s tougher than leather when she needs to be. But odd, too. Like when, out of the blue, she started insistin’ on being called Miss Agatha. Us kids, Gill, Rose and me, could call her Mama at home, but outside and for everyone else, it was to be
Miss Agatha
. Said it sounded sophisticated.” Jess shook his head. “Got herself other peculiarities, too. Gets ’em like some folks get religion. Take plums, for instance. You saw the wild ones growin’ near the house. Pa moved ’em up from the riverbank. Golden ones and purple ones. I reckon plums are ’bout a religion with Miss Agatha. She eats ’em fresh and baked in pie. She dries ’em and makes preserves, like you had this morning, so she’ll have ’em year round. Come September, she’ll battle belligerent bees for the overripe ones on the ground. Durin’ Prohibition, the old gal was a regular Hooker County Capone, turnin’ those sweet fruit into wine.”

They walked a bit more. “Got herself other religions, too. Like Sioux Injun spiritualism. Picked that up from the book
Black Elk Speaks
—calls it her bible. And reincarnation.” Jess stroked his chin. “Better toss in Juicy Fruit gum and detective magazines, too.”

“I know stories of speaking animals,” Eva said, “but not of her black elk. Maybe someday the two of us will trade tales. Shall we walk back now? Stanley won’t forgive you if a buffalo eats me.”

“I wouldn’t forgive me, neither.”

Bluestem Folk

The next day, Jess and Stan took Eva on a horseback tour of the Garrity property and beyond. Jess rode his horse, Dutch, a big Appaloosa. Stan was astride Spook, the pinto colt of his old horse, Daphne. Miss Agatha had insisted Eva ride her horse, Mirabelle, a well-disposed bay sabino. It was her first time on horseback.

“Today I am christened the cowgirl,” Eva said, as they rode by the creaking old windmill beyond the barn. “It was always a dream to ride over the countrysides on the back of a horse.” She patted Mirabelle’s neck as she looked down at the mare’s foreleg. “And such a pretty one, in her white stockings. Like I used to wear in convent school.” Eva chattered in French to her Morgan, and Stan asked if she thought the horse understood. “Certainly she does, with a French name like Mirabelle. It means plum, you know.”

As they rode along the bank of the Middle Loup River, the horses’ hooves made a cupping sound with each step from the damp earth. Jess said, “Yep, my thirty acres of the Sand Hills are stitched to the hardtop road runnin’ into Mullen. River here’s one boundary of the property. Other side of the water is Rand Stingle’s land. Ol’ Rand runs the biggest spread in these parts.”

Stan said, “Uncle Jess had to sell out to Mr. Stingle when the hard times put the family’s farm under. Had 640 acres. When was that? ’32?”

“Yep, nineteen and thirty-two.” Jess stood in the stirrups and pointed downstream to a hawk perched at the top of a big oak. “Would you look at that handsome
hombre
! Yeah, Randon give us a fair price. Didn’t have to—no one else had money. The year before, he bought the Chandler land from Stan’s pa, Les.”

Stan shook his head. “The old man used to whine that Mr. Stingle hornswoggled him. Took advantage of the hard times. But that wasn’t true. He give us a damn good price.”

Jess leaned back in the saddle. “When I put our place up for sale, Les said he wanted to buy it. Only he didn’t want to pay nothin’. Claimed I blackballed his bid.” He took off his hat and ran his shirtsleeve across his forehead. “Mite warm today.” He slipped the hat back on. “Like he claimed I killed Rose back in 1918.”

Eva looked startled as she turned to Stan. “Rose was your mother, yes?”

“That’s right, hon.” Stan dismounted and helped Eva down. He led the horses to the river to drink. “S’pose I told ya before—Pa was a drunk.” He squinted up at the sun. “Not that he didn’t have cause, losin’ ma to the Spanish flu, then losin’ his land to the hard times. He killed hisself with whiskey and bitterness. Ten years ago this October.”

Eva put a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “But so many died from the epidemic. More, I think, than were killed by the Great War. How could your father say Jess killed with an illness?”

“You can try to explain her that, Uncle Jess.”

Jess swung himself down from the saddle. “Peculiar story. Les married my sister Rose in 1916. She fell head over heels for them curly locks of his. A year later, summer of ’17, she bore her only child, Stan here. Rose was carryin’ a second baby when the influenza took her, late in 1918.” Jess ran his fingers through Dutch’s mane. “Ya see, I was one of them sent to France to fight the Hun. In June of 1918, we faced the fireworks in the
Bois de Belleau
, as they called it. Folks say Belleau Wood was a great victory. I guess it was, but I came away with a chunk of hot steel in my shoulder. That damped my enthusiasm for it considerable. My blasted shoulder bled for a day, then it got cankered. Laid me up for a good while before they discharged me. To this day, I have trouble liftin’ old lefty.”

Jess raised his left arm like a soldier
volunteering
for a suicide mission. He rubbed the shoulder. “Hell’s bells, there I go, throwin’ out words willy-nilly as Froma Minson deals cards on canasta night, tellin’ war stories ’stead of talkin’ about Rose.” He tapped his temple. “This old noodle don’t work 100% since my apoplexy last winter. Like Herb Carson said after his stroke, ‘The old train just misses stops now and then.’ Before I spoke plain as a pistol. Nowadays, my talkin’s like Rand Stingle’s drivin’. On horseback, that feller can ride at full gallop straight as a rifle shot, rollin’ and lightin’-up a smoke, to boot. But put him behind the wheel of a Dodge pickup, and look out! Same way with me—my talkin’ wants to stray all over the highway.”

Eva tilted her head. “I think, Jess, sometimes your talkings leave me on that highway.”

Jess kicked at the sandy soil. “Sorry Eva. Gimme another stab at it. I’d been home from France a month when Rose took sick. Poor thing went quick as a sparrow in February. Les said I’d brought the flu back from France. Even though I never got sick myself. Didn’t make sense, but once Les grabbed a notion there wasn’t no pryin’ it loose. With Rose gone, Les sunk pretty quick. Sunk into blamin’. Into the moonshine bottle. Snide folks said, ‘Typical Chandler timing: Takin’ to the hooch just as Prohibition starts.’ ’Course, your Stan’s cut from different cloth.”

Eva took Stan’s arm and pecked his cheek. “For me he’s the chicest cut.”

Stan put his arms around her neck and kissed her.

Jess mounted up. “When the lovebirds finish their cooing, Dutch, we’ll move on.”

They rode to the top of a sandy ridge. Gazing over the rolling prairie, Jess said, “Yep, different cloth. Your Stan started helpin’ out at Granger’s general store in Mullen just after Les died. Stockin’, clerkin’ deliverin’, whatever needed done.” He nodded at Stan. “By the time he got pulled into the service in 1942, this feller was near runnin’ the operation. Old man Granger told me some day the place’ll be his.”

Eva put a hand on Stan’s knee. “Ah, and I’ll be the rich merchant’s wife. With many servants and babies!” She laughed, then inhaled deeply and gazed at the distant horizon. “Such a pretty land! You can feel so free here.”

“It’s a big country, all right,” Stan said. “County’s about 750 square miles. With a population well under a thousand souls, cattle outnumber folks a couple dozen to one. The county was named after “Fighting” Joe Hooker, an American Civil War general. From what I hear told, his troops likely druther been servin’ under “Thinking” Joe Hooker.”

Eva scanned the landscape and sighed. “A sea of little mountains of sand.”

“That’s why they call ’em the Sand Hills,” Jess said. “Western Nebraska’s made up of waves of grass-covered sand dunes floatin’ on the ocean of the Great Plains. The big dunes all run east-west—critters are a half mile or so wide and a few miles long. The first time I saw the ocean, shippin’ out to France durin’ War I, its waves looked puny compared to what I knew back home. The valleys between the hills was where farmers plowed and planted-up in corn and rye. ’Fore they all went belly-up. Now it’s all ranch land and we’re all ranch folk.”

Stan dismounted. “Aunt Carrie says if you want to understand Hooker County folks you only need to know a couple of things: One, livin’ here in 1945, they’re not far in time or in spirit from their pioneer parents. And two, they don’t just tread this land, they’re rooted in it.

Jess eased himself to the ground. “Stan, mind if I help this pretty lady down?”

“Be my guest.”

He reached up to lift Eva from the saddle. She saw him wince, but he said nothing.

Stan squatted down and tugged on a clump of prairie grass. “Feel this, hon. It’s called bluestem.”

Eva ran her fingers along the broad blades of grass. “Rough.
Robuste
!” She looked up and gazed at the grassy hillside before them. “Look how it dances with the wind!”

Jess chewed on a stem like it was spearmint. “
Rooted in it.
Carrie’s got it about right. Folks here
are
bluestem prairie grass.”

Eva nodded like she understood.

“They say sand bluestem’s been around about as long as these hills,” Stan said. “Grass and hills, they need each other. Bluestem’s stabilized the dunes over thousands of years. And the sandy soil returns the favor by givin’ the grass a home and feedin’ it.”

“Same as us.” Jess surveyed the rolling landscape like he was reading it. “Settlers that bent to the land, that put down deep roots, that became bluestem, they’re our pioneer fathers. Them that tried to bend the land to themselves are gone. Yep, we’re bluestem. Deep-rooted. Plain. Needin’ little.” He shook his head. “There I go again, playin’ out a spool of chin-drummin’ long as a set of coyote tracks and no easier, I s’pose, to follow. Meanderin’ along what I could say direct in few words: Hooker County folks are a hardy lot. Doc Fletcher tells me it ain’t unusual for strokes to change the way a feller talks. He calls what happened to me,
gettin’ poetical
. So, Eva, if my
poeticality
riles you—” He tapped his temple. “—blame this stroked noodle.”