“‘When my mother . . .’”
She stopped and looked at me. Then she began to read again. Papa stood outside the screen door, listening.
“‘When my mother, Sarah, came, she came by train. I didn’t know I’d love her, but Caleb did. Papa didn’t know, either, but he does love her. I have seen them kiss.’” Sarah smiled at me. “‘And I have seen the way he looks at her and the way he touches her hair. My mother, Sarah, doesn’t love the prairie. She tries, but she can’t help remembering what she knew first.’”
Sarah stopped and closed the book, holding it close to her.
“You like it,” I said.
“I like it,” said Sarah softly.
She put her arms around me, and I saw Papa watching us.
Sarah got up, then, and went to the door.
“It was a fine party, Jacob.”
She put her hand up and he did, too, so that they touched through the screen.
“I’d almost forgotten music,” whispered Sarah.
Then she looked past Papa at the fence post.
“Where’s Caleb’s glass, Jacob?”
Papa didn’t speak.
“Put it back, please, Jacob,” said Sarah. “It should be there when it rains.”
Papa stared at Sarah. And when I went to bed later that night, I looked out and saw it there, shining and clean, on the fence post.
9
The next day, after the party, after the music and dancing, Matthew and Maggie’s well went dry. They drove their wagon to our house to say good-bye, and I could hardly look at Sarah’s face.
The wagon was packed with furniture and clothes; Rose and Violet sat in the back, the baby on Maggie’s lap.
“I’m sorry to be leaving you, Jacob,” said Matthew.
“It’s all right, Matthew. I know,” said Papa.
“I’ll miss you,” Sarah said to Maggie. Her face was tight, to keep all her feelings from coming out. She reached out to touch the baby’s hand.
“We’ll be back,” said Maggie.
Tears came down her face.
“We’ll be back,” she repeated.
The baby began to cry as the wagon drove out of the yard. When Sarah turned to look at Papa, tears sat at the corners of her eyes.
“They’ll be back,” said Papa.
He watched the cloud of dust that followed Matthew’s wagon down the road, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight.
That night I dreamed about roses, and green fields, and water. A glass of water on the fence post, and ponds of water to swim in; Caleb spitting streams of water in the air like a whale. Sarah laughing and splashing us with water.
A sharp clap of thunder woke me. Lottie and Nick barked as lightning lit up the sky. I turned over in bed, but then Papa’s voice from downstairs made me sit up.
“Sarah! Sarah! It’s fire!”
I got up and rushed to the window, and there was fire in the field close to the barn. Flames creeping up the fence, flames near the corral.
I ran downstairs and out to the porch, Caleb behind me. Sarah was running carrying wet sacks, her hair down her back. Sarah and Papa beat the flames around the corral. Then Papa stopped to let the frightened horses out.
“Get the cows,” he shouted to Sarah.
Sarah ran to the barn and pulled the cows outside.
“Shoo! Shoo!” she cried.
Caleb ran down to get Moonbeam.
“Get on the porch and stay there,” Sarah shouted at him as he led Moonbeam away.
I put my arm around Caleb. I could feel him trembling.
Sarah screamed as some hay caught fire and the side of the barn burst into flame.
“Buckets!” shouted Papa. “Get buckets of water! Buckets!”
Sarah ran to the barrel and filled a bucket, running back to him as the fire grew. Papa grabbed it and then Sarah stopped him. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I knew what it was. It was the last barrel. Papa stopped, then, and stared at the barn as flames caught the dry wood and then the roof. Sparks flew everywhere. And then part of the roof fell and Sarah and Papa moved back. Sarah put her arm around Papa as the barn burned. They stood there watching for a long time. Papa turned once to look away from the fire and I could see his eyes, shining red from the fire.
I had never seen Papa’s face so sad.
The sun came up in the morning the way it always did. But everything had changed. The barn was gone, only a few blackened timbers standing. The cows walked in the yard, the sheep in the cornfield, looking for green grass. I stood at my window and watched Sarah and Papa talking by the clothesline. I saw her shake her head, no. I saw Papa take her hand. She shook her head again. Then Papa put his arms around her.
I knew we would have to go away.
They told us at dinnertime.
“Maine?” said Caleb. “Are you coming, too, Papa?”
Papa shook his head and looked at Sarah.
“I have to stay here,” he said softly. “I can’t go away from the land.”
“Can Seal and the dogs come?” Caleb asked.
Papa shook his head.
“They’ll be happier here,” he said. “I’ll take care of them.”
“What will you do while we’re gone, Papa?” asked Caleb.
“I’ll miss you,” Papa said softly, reaching out to take Caleb’s hand. He looked at me, then, and as if he knew I would cry if I spoke, he took my hand, too.
“What will happen to us?” I asked after a moment.
Papa looked at Sarah, and his words were for her.
“We will write letters,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ve written letters before, you know.”
10
We traveled three days and nights on the train across the dry prairies. We passed packed wagons. We passed through towns and cities. We slept to the clackety sound of the train and woke with the red sun. Caleb was excited, looking out the window. Sarah was tired and sad. Sometimes I read to her from my journal.
“‘When Sarah came, she wore a yellow bonnet,’” I read. “‘She brought Seal to us. The corn was high and the wheat all yellow. We lay down with the sheep in the fields, and Sarah taught us how to swim.
“‘When they were married, my mother, Sarah, wore a dress soft like mist, and a veil. I think Papa cried. . . .’”
Sarah turned to me. “Did he?” she asked, her voice soft. “Did he cry?”
I smiled and Sarah closed her eyes. I covered her with a shawl.
We went over a bridge, the river shining in the sun.
Caleb turned from the window. “Sarah?”
Sarah opened her eyes.
“Is this the way you came?” he asked.
Sarah looked out at the land. “Yes, Caleb,” she said softly. “This is the way I came.”
Maine was green. When we got off the train, Sarah stood still. She looked at the train station, and at the trees, and at the people.
“Sarah?” I said.
“It’s all right, Anna,” said Sarah. “It’s just what you wrote in your book. I’ve come back to what I knew first.”
“Sarah! Sarah Wheaton!”
A man waved to Sarah. He wore a vest and a gold chain across it.
Sarah smiled.
“Chub!” she said. “You’re still here!”
The man hugged Sarah.
“Where would I be?” he said. “Except dead, maybe. Are the hens meeting you?”
Sarah laughed.
“No. And I’m Sarah Witting now. These are my children, Anna and Caleb. Can you take us there?”
“Get in.”
We got in Chub’s car, open all around, with shining brass trim and wood on the side.
“I’ve never been in a car before,” whispered Caleb.
“It’s about time you were,” said Chub. “Want to drive?”
“No,” said Caleb, looking alarmed. Then he smiled at Chub. “I won’t tell the aunts you call them hens, either.”
Chub laughed. He started the car. We passed green grass an
d green trees and flowers blooming in green gardens as we drove to the house where Sarah had lived.
And then we saw the sea.
“All that water!” said Caleb, running down the lawn of the aunts’ house. Sarah and I looked out over the water: at cliffs that went down to the sea; at birds that flew over us; at boats with white sails like clouds.
“Come on,” said Sarah after a moment. She took our hands. “Let’s go meet the aunts.”
We walked up the lawn to the house. The house was large with shutters on the windows. There were gardens with flowers I had never seen before.
“Will they like us?” asked Caleb.
“They will love you,” said Sarah, laughing. “They will fall upon you with kisses.”
We walked up the steps of the big porch. Sarah put out her hand to open the door, but it swung open, and a woman in a silk dress stood there, her feet bare. Her eyes widened when she saw us. Her hand went up to her mouth. Sarah smiled.
“Hello, Mattie,” she said softly. “We’re home.”
The aunts laughed and cried and fed us.
“I loved your letters,” said Aunt Mattie. “I loved all the pictures you drew.” She kissed Sarah and Caleb and she kissed me. Then she kissed Sarah again.
Aunt Harriet, tall with wire glasses, in bare feet, too, tried to feed us all the food in the kitchen.
“I made these cookies, Anna, Caleb,” she said. “Are you tired? I made the bread, too. And the soup! Do you want a nap? Do you want a bath?”
“Harriet, let them be!” said Aunt Mattie.
Sarah leaned over close to us.
“See?” she said. “I told you.”
And then Aunt Lou, dressed in overalls and high boots, came in the front door with her dog.
“Lou!” said Sarah.
Aunt Lou hugged Sarah. She hugged me.
“Mind that beast,” said Aunt Harriet.
“The beast’s name is Brutus,” said Aunt Lou.
“Lou works with animals,” said Aunt Harriet.
“Lou works with a veterinarian,” said Aunt Lou. She kissed Caleb twice. “Harriet wants me in silk and pearls.”
Brutus jumped up on Caleb’s lap.
“Oh, get away!” scolded Aunt Harriet.
“Dogs like me,” said Caleb, smiling. “We have two dogs at home.”
“This is what we’ve needed all along, a child!” said Aunt Lou, hugging Caleb. “We must get ourselves one.”
“It looks like we have two,” said Aunt Mattie softly.
“Sarah,” said Aunt Harriet, “will Jacob be coming, too?”
Sarah looked out the window.
“No,” she said softly. “Jacob won’t be coming.”
“Papa’s home,” I said.
Somehow hearing my own words made it worse. I started to cry. Sarah put her arms around me, and I cried harder.
“Papa had to stay home.”
* * *
Maine is green and full of voices and people laughing and talking; the tide going in and going out; the moon rising above the water. Sarah loves it here. The last thing every night she walks by the water, and the first thing in the morning she is there, too. Now I know how much she missed her old home. I miss my home. I miss Lottie and Nick and the land and the big sky.
I miss Papa.
* * *
11
It took longer for Caleb to miss Papa. Caleb swam every day in the cold water. Aunt Lou wrapped him in blankets when he came out, shivering, his teeth chattering. He went fishing with Aunt Lou and with Sarah’s brother, William, who was so happy when he first saw Sarah that he ran up the hill and whirled her around in his arms. It made me think of Papa and Sarah turning around and around in the prairie wind at night.
William’s wife, Meg, hugged Sarah, too.
“It’s been so long!” she said. “Almost two years since we’ve seen you!”
Two years. I looked at Sarah and wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking. Would it be two years before we saw Papa?
“William looks like you, Sarah,” said Caleb.
“Plain and tall, I told you so,” said Sarah. “Remember?”
“Did you hear what I just heard?” said Aunt Harriet as we picnicked on a blanket in the grass by the sea. “Seal is going to have kittens!”
“The father is orange,” called Caleb, making the aunts laugh.
“Seal!” exclaimed William. “I remember that Seal was independent. Independent like Sarah.”
William put his arm around Sarah. The sun came out from a cloud, but it wasn’t hot like home. It was cool and green and beautiful. But it didn’t make me happy. I thought about Papa at home by himself, building a barn in the hot sun.
“Where was your dune, Sarah?” asked Caleb.
“Down there,” said Sarah, pointing to an inlet.
“I remember when Papa made us a dune,” said Caleb softly. He looked up at Sarah. “A dune made of hay. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “I remember, Caleb.”
Sarah looked over at me as the aunts talked and laughed. She reached out to touch my arm.
“It’s all right, Anna,” she said softly. “It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t.
The next week letters came from Papa. Sarah, Caleb, William, and I rowed out in the bay in William’s rowboat, and Caleb read his letter.
“‘Dear Caleb, Moonbeam is getting bigger every day. I have started building the barn. Still no rain, but yesterday Seal had four kittens!’”
“Four!” said William. Sarah smiled.
“‘Three are gray like Seal,’” Caleb read. “‘One is orange. Nick and Lottie miss you. Every day they sit looking down the road, waiting for you to come home. I love you. Give Sarah a kiss from me. Love, Papa.’”
William rowed to shore, and we pulled the boat up.
“Papa misses us, too,” I said to Sarah. “When he writes about Nick and Lottie waiting for us. Remember you once said that Papa’s letters were full of things between the lines?”
“Yes,” said Sarah.
I leaned over and kissed her.
“That’s Papa’s kiss,” I said.
William leaned over to kiss Sarah, too.
“And that’s mine,” he said.
Dear Anna,
It is quiet here without you. I miss your voices and Sarah’s songs. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I think I can hear them.
Love,
Papa
The aunts played music. Aunt Harriet played a flute that squeaked sometimes. Aunt Lou played the piano in bare feet, and Brutus watched her pedal. Aunt Mattie danced with a long scarf and a serious look that made Caleb laugh.
Sarah took naps in the afternoons and slept late in the mornings.
Chub drove Sarah away and back again one afternoon. Aunt Lou said she had gone to the doctor.
“Are you sick, Sarah?” I asked her that night.
She smiled at me, a small smile at first, then a big smile.
“No, Anna. I’m not sick.”
She was in bed, her long hair down.
“Read me your Papa’s letter again,” she said.
When I did, she smiled more.
“Sarah?”
We looked up. Caleb stood in the door. He was in his pajamas, his hair all messed from sleep.
“Caleb, what’s the matter?” asked Sarah.
“A dream I had,” he said softly. “A dream about Papa.”
“That’s a good dream,” said Sarah.
She lifted the covers and Caleb got in bed with her.
“I dreamed that Papa looked and looked and couldn’t find us,” said Caleb.
“Oh, Caleb,” said Sarah, putting her arm around him. “Your Papa knows where we are. He does.”
Caleb picked up the family picture that Sarah kept on her bed stand.
“I used to dream about rain, remember?” he said.
Sarah nodded.
“Now I dream about Papa.”
There was silen
ce in the room, and then Caleb looked at Sarah.
“Is this our new home, Sarah?” he asked softly.
Sarah didn’t answer. She put her arms around him and looked at me over his head. She began to sing very softly.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word.
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don’t sing,
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”
I thought of Joshua, the photographer, who had told us about his grandfather leaving the prairie.
“Did he come back?” Caleb had asked him.
No, he never came back.
And that night I dreamed Caleb’s dream: Papa looking for us. He could hear Sarah’s song and our voices, and he searched the fields and the house and the barn. But we weren’t there.
12
We woke to a new sound. A sound I hadn’t heard for months. I ran to the window. Rain.
“Anna!”
I turned, and Caleb and I grinned at each other. We dressed quickly and ran downstairs to the porch. Rain came down, filling the rain gutters. It sent little rivers down the driveway. Everything smelled sweet. Caleb spread his arms and ran out into the rain in his clothes, racing around the yard. I laughed and ran after him. We jumped and ran, feeling the cool water run down our faces. We looked up, and Sarah stood on the porch. She smiled, and, very slowly, she walked down the steps and lifted her face to the rain. Then she ran down the lawn to take our hands and dance with us. The aunts came out on the porch to watch.
“Rain!” Sarah called to them. “It’s been so long!”
William came up from the water in his yellow slicker and hat to watch, too. Then, laughing, he took off his slicker to dance with us until the aunts made us come up and dry off with towels. We were sorry to see the sun come out.
“I remember you when you were little,” William said to Sarah. “Running, climbing. You were always in the trees; out on the rocks. You never stayed still.”
Suddenly Sarah looked at William.
“Do you remember a song Papa used to sing about a skylark?” she asked.