Francesca of Lost Nation (9 page)

“Did she love your grandfather Cox?”

“Of course she did. He was funny and made her laugh about practically everything.”

“I see,” was all Matthew replied.

Chapter 12

Inklings

S

heriff Daniel was waiting for us when we picked Babe up at the animal hospital.

My poor little dog still resembled a refugee from a disaster area, with her cast, stitches and bandages, but to me she looked absolutely gorgeous.

“We were lucky we found her,” Daniel said. “I just wish I had a photograph of you hanging by a rope down that narrow dark hole, gaily throwing your shoes in the air!”

Then, Babe weighed in with her own editorial. Cast and all, she squatted right there on
Main Street in front of God and everybody.

“The vet says Babe was cut with a knife,” the sheriff observed. “I’m thinking that means someone did it on purpose. Now, the person could have been defending themselves if the dog tried to attack them.”

He turned and looked at Francesca.

“Is she the kind of dog that’d go after someone, maybe to defend herself?”

Francesca answered carefully. “Babe is not vicious by any means. She may have been provoked, or she may have thought she was protecting us.”

Matthew said, “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts this was the same guy Babe chased after few days ago.”

“It could even be the same person that’s setting these fires,” Daniel speculated.

“You think he'll be back?” Francesca asked.

“Be a fool to. But these folks don't think the way the rest of us do. If the person setting these fires is the same convict that escaped from the state facility, he’s got a rap sheet long as a skunk’s tail. Believe it or not, he’s an educated man. Used to be a doctor, from the report I got last week. Anyhow, he supposedly escaped by hiding in a laundry hamper.”

The Sheriff scratched his jaw line. “There was another fire in
Dubuque last night. The head shrinkers say these fire-setters usually have some type of agenda. Maybe they want revenge. Whatever his motives, this guy is dangerous, and until we catch the S.O.B., you ladies need to be careful. Don’t trust anyone you don’t know, and don’t take any dumb risks.”

Matthew hadn’t said anything, but he was looking at Francesca with concern. Without thinking, I blurted out: “We might be safer if Matthew moved in to Main House …”

Francesca and Sheriff Mosley tried not to smile. Matthew looked embarrassed and carefully studied the ground. No one said a word, but something got decided at one point or another, because Main House did soon have a new resident.

We gave Matthew the first-floor bedroom and bath, so he wouldn't have to navigate the stairs every day.

Francesca and I helped him move his things. It was fascinating, discovering what this mysterious man considered valuable: A fist-thick book of maps; two worn leather aviator jackets; and an assortment of gloves and scarves, neatly folded by color. He also had 13 dog-eared books on aviation and craft maintenance, none with covers, as well as a stuffed cobra, with fangs rampant! It was a hideous-looking thing and scary at first. And I learned something truly weird: Once a cobra is stuffed, it's impossible to get the hood to widen out.

That was a big disappointment.

Although Matthew had some nice clothes and hairbrushes and such, he certainly traveled light. His life hadn't been substantial like the one I'd lived in Main House, surrounded by family portraits and furniture that had been with the Pittschticks for generations. 

Matthew Mosley was as wild as the west
Texas wind and free as that red-shouldered hawk that lorded it over Home Farm. Either one could just pick up and go ... whenever something pushed him too far and he didn’t feel he could push back ... whenever he got too disappointed or someone got too close.

There was no sign of the urge to run in his behavior today. I was familiar with that particular look animals have when they’re going to slaughter, so I’d have recognized that look on Matthew. On the contrary, he seemed unusually calm and relaxed.

Francesca was downright bustling cheerful — so much so that she finally shared Maude’s letter with us.

“Your Uncle Harry and Aunt Maude will be paying us a visit over your birthday on July 17,” she announced.
 

“Your birthday!” said Matthew. “Oh, we'll have to do something. Something special, won't we Fran?”

Grandmother asked me if I had anything in mind.

I licked my lips to capture a last drop of chocolate milk while I considered options.

“How about going to the Clinton County Fair? We haven’t been there in a dog’s age,” I said.

During the summertime several counties across
Iowa sponsored fairs to promote tourism and show off the skills of locals. In the past, Mommy had won a slew of blue ribbons for her pies with crusts light as angel hair. Francesca had won a prize for my birthday quilt, while Grandpap had actually won a cash prize for a three-foot-long pipe he carved all of a chunk of walnut. 

The more we discussed this possibility, the more enthusiastic we became. Then, Francesca’s eyes lit up, and she bolted upright in her chair. I knew what she was thinking.

“Francesca, you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” asked Matthew.

“Maybe you should!” I prodded, warming up to the idea.

“Should what?” Matthew asked again.

“Race!” Francesca and I shouted in unison.

Francesca had always been notorious for having a lead foot. She could drive like nobody's business on any kind of road. Through a fluke, which grew out of a dare, she discovered she drove best on oval dirt tracks in front of thousands of screaming fanatics. Grandpap had even kept a saucy little roadster for her occasional foray onto the racecourse at the
Clinton fair grounds. 

But she hadn't raced since Cox's death, and the roadster had been sold long ago.

“You mean auto race?” Matthew asked, somewhat horrified.

“Yep. Francesca's been in more races than any other driver in the history of the fair!” I said, puffing my chest out proudly.

Francesca had been about to celebrate her twenty-fourth birthday in 1910 when the Clinton County Fair added car racing to its agenda. There were only four entries that first year, all of them men.

Cox and Francesca were newly married, and teasing was as much a part of their relationship as spitballs were to the World Series. As it happened, Cox was teaching Francesca to drive.

As she explained to Matthew, “We constantly fought about the power of the car. He told me over and over that I was going too fast for a woman. You can imagine how I felt about that kind of nonsense. Without telling anyone, I entered the race. Daddy and Cox only discovered my little plot a few minutes before the race started, as the officials were announcing the names of the drivers. It was too late to call me off by then ... I had already pulled onto the track.”

“You should have seen her, Matthew,” I broke in. “She was the cat's pajamas!”

Matthew asked how I would know, since I hadn’t been born yet.  

“Are you kidding? Francesca is practically a legend in these parts.”

Francesca had borrowed a scarf and some goggles. She managed to scrounge up trousers and a collared shirt. She'd entered the race as Francis, with an “i,” and the judges assumed she was a man. Of course, Grandpap knew differently.

“Weren’t you … nervous?” Matthew asked, unsure of what to make about this tale.

“I can still taste the swirling dust as I revved the engine. It covered me like a curtain. It was marvelous. I was excited beyond belief. It was … the single greatest experience of my life.”

Matthew’s head jerked back in surprise. “You, a daredevil?”

Francesca shrugged her shoulders.

Matthew went on, “You mean to say that racing was better than getting married? Better than having Rachael? Or half-pint here?”

Then, it occurred to me that Matthew was bewildered that a woman, especially one as regal as Francesca, would dare step into such a traditionally masculine pastime — and a dangerous one to boot.

Francesca was beginning to get the drift, too.

“There's nothing that happens in a woman's life that rivals holding her own newborn in her arms,” she said carefully. “My wedding to Cox was a most tiresome day. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. As for Sarah,” and she paused here to smile at me, “she'll be the best friend I ever have.”

Matthew was sitting on the edge of his seat, intently looking at Francesca as if he were seeing her for the first time. Maybe this would be okay after all.

“But racing ...” she continued, “You see, it was the only thing I've ever done in my life for which I had zero expectations of myself. No woman I knew had ever done such a thing.”

She looked into his eyes and finished, “It all came right from the seat of my pants. It was marvelous.”

Francesca admitted her father wasn’t too keen on what she had done and would have “loved to skin” her hide with a “personally picked birch branch.”

“But as soon as the judges handed me the trophy, I was out of there like a shot. In fact, I didn’t show my face until after nightfall,” Francesca laughed and brushed the top of my head with her hand. “Hell, they didn’t even realize a woman had won until
much later.”

Matthew sat silently, absorbing this information. With a twinkle in his eye, he asked Francesca if she was going to get out the old racing silks.

“You gotta, Francesca. You just gotta!” I screamed.

“You could use my car,” Matthew chimed in.

We looked at the man in utter shock. For a moment, I even felt forgiving toward Matthew for his … well, everything. I didn’t want to like him, but he did have an awful nice car, and it was a grand gesture.

“The Duisenberg?” Francesca asked. “Hmmmm. It’s a generous offer. Let me think about it.”

It was strange, having a male other than my father and Grandpap in the house. Matthew was certainly different. And as the days passed, he seemed to warm up and open up.

Similarly, something closed-down in Francesca began to bloom again. She began spending more time on her appearance. She wore scent and a rather feminine shade of rose lipstick. She actually brushed her hair more than once a day.

Francesca and Matthew’s friendship grew in depth and closeness. They’d spend entire evenings on the porch in lengthy conversation. They developed silly inside jokes between them, the same way my father and mother had. I think the part of her that withered when Cox passed away had finally been reawakened and invigorated. I could see it in the way Francesca would listen quietly yet intently when Matthew spoke and in the way she brushed her hand against him when it wasn’t necessary.

And despite my confusion and initial misgivings, I was starting to like Matthew. To be fair, he made quite an effort to get on my good side. He secretly taught me how to play poker until I became well-acquainted with the terms and strategies: bluffing, check, raise and ante. I was on my way to becoming a card sharp.

He helped me with Babe, too. I had trouble keeping her from putting too much strain on her mending leg. Since she was still a young dog, she wanted to run around and play. Matthew created a sling on a rope with a pulley. That allowed Babe to run around with her bad leg never touching the ground.

The
Lum and Abner
radio show had just ended. We were eating spice cookies and drinking milk in the kitchen when Matthew casually asked Francesca about Maude.

When Francesca closed her eyes and stood up in a huff to leave the room, Matthew gently took her by the wrist to keep her from escaping.

“Sarah, I think it's time you got into your pajamas,” he said.

“But it's early yet,” I protested.

“Sarah, I'd take it as a mark of great personal favor if you'd go upstairs for a while.” he said, firmly but kindly.

“Don't you dare go,” said Francesca.

A rock and a hard place, that’s what it was. The horns of a dilemma! I wanted to stay, and I wasn’t about to take sides against my own grandmother, but I didn’t want to start an argument between her and Matthew.

They both looked at me as I tossed a cookie into the air.

“Heads I go, tails I stay,” I said as the cookie landed with a splat on the table. I scooped up the pieces, kissed Francesca and went halfway up the back stairs — out of sight but within earshot.

“Fran, what is this between you and Maude?”

No answer.

“One of these days, you’re going to have to grab the bull by the tail and face the situation.”

“It’s none of your business,” Francesca said tightly.

“Growling at me won’t be helpful. Look, whatever happened, happened. It can’t be changed. It can’t be erased, and it can’t be forgotten. The only aspect you can change is the way you feel about it. Isn’t that what you told me that day you rescued me from the tavern?”

“You don't understand,” Francesca said adamantly. “No one understands! Sarah? Are you in bed yet?”