Moon Over Manifest

  All three of us crawled into bed, one beside the other, listening to the sound of a harmonica in the distance. It was probably just a folk tune being played, but after Ruthanne’s story, it sounded like a mournful wail.

  When Lettie and Ruthanne were quiet, I reached for the not-so-shiny Liberty Head silver dollar in my windowsill collection of mementos. I tilted it slightly to catch the glimmer of moonlight. It no longer surprised me to find connections between the articles in the box and Miss Sadie’s stories. Still, some things were a mystery. I thought of our stash of worms outside. The life churning in the bucket was a mystery. How did Miss Sadie know things like where to find worms in the moonlight? What happened to the man who lost his foot in Uncle Louver’s trap? Who or what was haunting the woods? Was it the Rattler? I put the silver dollar back in its place beside the Wiggle King lure.

  These many questions swarmed in my head, leaving me restless and uneasy. But it was the look on Lettie’s face that night in the growing moonlight that made me wonder the most. The way she’d beamed when Ruthanne had asked her to sing us a song. I thought I knew a thing or two about people. Even had my list of universals. But I wondered. Maybe the world wasn’t made of universals that could be summed up in neat little packages. Maybe there were just people. People who were tired and hurt and lonely and kind in their own way and their own time.

  Once again, I felt off balance, as if I was playing tug-of-war and the person I was tugging against let go.

  Lettie, half asleep, sang, “Once I hit the tracks, my burdens at my back, I hopped that train in the pale moonlight.” I admired how Ruthanne knew what I did not. That Lettie hadn’t had her fill of gingersnaps. With six kids in her family, she had more than likely given up her own cookie and traded something for an extra one to share with us.

  The moonlight shone on the silver dollar and I thought of Miss Sadie’s story of Jinx and Ned. Of Uncle Louver’s ghost story. Of Lettie’s story about having had her fill. Of Ned’s letters and Hattie Mae’s “News Auxiliaries,” that I read like bedtime stories. And of Gideon’s story I was struggling to learn. If there is such a thing as a universal—and I wasn’t ready to throw all of mine out the window—it’s that there is power in a story. And if someone pays you such a kindness as to make up a tale so you’ll enjoy a gingersnap, you go along with that story and enjoy every last bite.

  Yodel-ay-hee. Yodel-ay-hee. Yodel-ay-hee.

  PVT. NED GILLEN

  CAMP FUNSTON, KANSAS

  MARCH 14, 1918

  Dear Jinx,

  Thanks for your letter. We’re shipping out soon. Troops already over there will be whooping and hollering to see us replacements show up. Heck, Holler, and me are in the same regiment. Guess they figured the Manifest championship track team should stay together. Soon as we send old Heine back to Germany, the other guys from the Manifest High class of ’18 plan to meet up at the Eiffel Tower with us to drink a toast. Tell Pearl Ann and the other girls not to be jealous of the mademoiselles. Their bonne boys in uniform will be home in time to take them to the homecoming dance in the fall.

  And tell Velma T. thanks for the relief parcels she sent. There’s some kind of bug going around that’s waylaid half the camp with aches, fever, and chills. It started a few days ago, when one guy reported to the infirmary before breakfast, and today there are five hundred in makeshift beds all over the place. I’ve been taking an assortment of Velma T.’s home remedies. After my umpteenth trip to the latrine, I figured most of her elixirs are laxatives, but so far I’m holding up better than most.

  All for now. Next time you hear from me, it’ll be on some of that fancy perfumed paper from “over there.”

  Ich habe widerlich footen (I have stinky feet),

  Ned

  P.S. We told Heck that means “Put down your weapon.”

  HATTIE MAE’S

  NEWS AUXILIARY

  MAY 30, 1918

  The recent commencement ceremony for the senior class of 1918 was a momentous occasion and certainly brought back fond memories of my own graduation last year. However, by all accounts, this year’s event was bittersweet, as some of the class members were not present. You all recall the recent bon voyage celebration for the army recruits from the Manifest class of 1918. It was a moving event as we said goodbye, though only for a time, to our brave lads. I thought it fitting to name them here, along with some of their activities.

  LUTHER (HECK) CARLSON

  Track and Field, Glee Club

  IVAN (HOLLER) CARLSON

  Track and Field, Class Treasurer

  LANCE DEVLIN

  Track and Field, Football

  NED GILLEN

  Track and Field, Senior Play

  DOUGLAS HAMILTON

  Booster Staff

  Having bid a fond farewell to our boys in arms, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. That means you, ladies! The Daughters of the American Revolution will be sponsoring a blanket drive, a bake sale, a letter-writing campaign, and much more. Thanks to Pearl Ann Larkin for organizing the effort before she heads off to college. Miss Velma T. Harkrader was going to enlist the aid of her chemistry class in mixing up some of her “good for what ails you” elixir. (It seems the need is great at Camp Funston, as many of the soldiers are still battling the flu.) Unfortunately, she is having to produce her elixir at home, due to another freak mishap, which resulted in her classroom windows being blown out. But thanks to everyone for your support. And for those of you who requested a printing of the special send-off cheer, it is as follows.

  Off to war and don’t be late!

  Here come the boys

  of one-nine-one-eight!

  (Special thanks to Margaret Evans, senior class president, for writing the class cheer, which I have adapted here. Permission granted for printing.)

  For all the whos, whats, whys, whens, and wheres, both here and abroad, refer to the Manifest Herald. We’ve got sources we don’t even know about.

  HATTIE MAE HARPER

  Reporter About Town

  OLD ST. JACK’S LUMBAGO LINIMENT

  Don’t Moan About

  the Ache in Your Back.

  Rub It Out

  with Old St. Jack.

  Back hurt you? Can’t straighten up without feeling sudden pains, sharp aches, and twinges? That’s lumbago or sciatica, or maybe you’re just getting old. But whatever the case, Old St. Jack’s is the liniment for you. Just have the little missus rub the ointment on your back and blessed relief will come your way. The ointment leaves a slight discoloration of the skin, but this gives a hearty glow, and it can be used on the face as well. Don’t wait. Get your trial bottle of Old St. Jack’s at your local hardware store, next to the varnish.

  Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor

  JUNE 13, 1936

  The next day was hot. I wasn’t sure those worms were going to be happy with their new place, but they wiggled their way into that dry dirt like it was home sweet home. I figured they’d have to go down so deep to reach water that they’d come up on the other side of the world.

  Miss Sadie seemed in a dark mood that morning. “Today you make rows. Not too deep. Not too wide. Dig.” Her leg was red and swollen, so even her rocking on the back porch made her grit her teeth. And her bark made me grit mine.

  Still, I’d been working up the nerve to ask her what the curse she’d laid on Mrs. Larkin was. The one that had left the county appraiser’s wife in a tizzy. Lettie and Ruthanne weren’t going to let it go until I found out.

  “Um, m-ma’am?” I stuttered, not sure if she’d mind my having figured out she was the Hungarian woman in the story. Miss Sadie kept rocking. “That curse you popped on Mrs. Larkin?”

  “Curse,” she scoffed. “You believe everything that is told to you. Curses? Spies?” I jumped at her mention of spies. How did she know about that? I’d never even mentioned the Rattler to her. She may not have a bead on the future, but Miss Sadie surely had second sight when it came to the present.

&n
bsp; “The only curse that woman bore was her own ignorance,” Miss Sadie huffed.

  “Well, what exactly did you say to her?”

  “Ava grautz budel nocha mole.”

  I cringed as she repeated the phrase.

  “It is Gypsy. It means ‘May your life be as long as the hair on your chin.’ And if you do not get busy, I will put an equally devastating curse on you.”

  I couldn’t help grinning as I took up a shovel. Digging a square of dirt, then pitching it to the side, I hoped Miss Sadie’s mood had lightened. It hadn’t.

  “No,” she scolded. “You shovel like a disznó. A pig. You cannot toss the ground aside like an old rag. Then it will not help you later. Use a hoe, there by the shed.”

  What kind of demon woman is she? I wondered as I gripped the hoe, scooping the dirt to one side and then the other, making a gully in the middle. That made me a bit cantankerous, because crazy as she was, I could see the sense in making a neat row of ground piled on each side to keep the moisture from running off. If ever the rain came.

  But time wore on, and as the dirt mingled with the sweat on my body, I felt strangely comforted by the chunk, chunk, chunk of the hoe digging into the ground. I let the rhythm of it take me back to many a dusty ride in a freight car with Gideon. The two of us, listening to the chunk, chunk, chunk of the track joints, lost in our own thoughts.

  I continued with my list of what I knew about Gideon. He could start a campfire quicker than most. He always let out a contented breath after a first sip of coffee. And he liked to flip flapjacks high into the air.

  I smiled at the thought, but a worried frown took over as I wondered what Gideon was doing right then. Maybe unloading twenty-pound sacks of flour from a boxcar. What if he’d been let go from his railroad job? Was he sidling his way into a diner, offering to work for food? He’d know that the man behind the cash box would turn him down, but on a good day, a man eating at the counter might buy him a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It always helped to have a little girl in tow. He needed me.

  Or so I thought. What had changed? If there was ever a part of Gideon’s life that needed divining, it was this. Why had he sent me away? As Miss Sadie liked to say, I’d have to dig deeper.

  It had only been a scratch on my leg the day Gideon had started turning in on himself. It was April 12. I remembered because it was Easter and the day after my twelfth birthday, just two months earlier. We were in Shreveport, Louisiana. The Shreveport Gospel Mission Church was having an Easter supper for anyone who would come and listen to the preacher’s sermon. The way he went on for two hours about sitting down to the Lord’s great banquet and eating manna from heaven, we had our hopes set a little on the high side. So when they ran us through the chow line for a bowl of watery onion soup and stale bread, it was a disappointment. One weathered old hobo told the preacher that if he wanted more pilgrims on that road to heaven, they should pave it with pork and beans instead of onion soup.

  That night we hopped the Southern bound for St. Louis. We were both in a mood. Hungry and tired, I sat with my legs dangling out the boxcar, catching a breeze, when a tree branch caught me on the leg. It nearly flung me from the car but I managed to stay on. Still, it gave me a good gash on the leg and we had to find a doctor.

  Chunking up the dirt in Miss Sadie’s yard, I could feel it grinding into the scar above my knee. The infection and fever had lasted three days. I didn’t remember much other than frightful dreams and sweating clear through my nightgown and sheets. And Gideon’s worried face beside my bed. When I finally came out of it, he looked at me like I was a different person from the little girl he’d known before. He kept saying I was growing up. I was becoming a young lady and other nonsense. I told him I hadn’t seen the branch coming and it was just a scratch, but I guess he figured it would be easier traveling without me along to get into trouble.

  “He thinks it is his fault,” Miss Sadie said in her out-of-the-blue way.

  The hoe nearly struck my foot. “Why would he think that?” I asked, not even bothering to wonder how Miss Sadie could know the thoughts swimming in my head.

  “To see Ned get on the train and leave Manifest and the people who love him. Jinx thinks it is his fault.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I suppose it was Jinx’s fireworks scheme that got Ned the twenty-five dollars he used to bribe that recruitment officer into letting him enlist underage. But Ned’s the one who was so anxious to leave.”

  “When there is suffering, we look for a reason. That reason is easiest found within oneself.” Miss Sadie held up her hand, shielding herself from the stark light of day.

  I thought of Jinx saying goodbye to Ned at the train station. Watching him until he was out of sight, then watching some more. Wondering why one had to leave while the other stayed behind.

  For some reason, my face flushed, and it wasn’t from the heat. “So let me guess. Jinx skipped town. He ran away. Isn’t that what people do when things get tough? They move on to the next town and leave all their troubles behind? And everyone they care about?” My words came out in such a rush I wasn’t sure if I was talking about Gideon or Jinx.

  “You speak of a town of immigrants. People who already left everything behind.” Miss Sadie spat. “Yes, there is plenty of blame to go around and much of it ended up in Manifest.” Her words trailed off and she fixed her stare ahead.

  Somehow, I felt we weren’t talking about Gideon or Jinx anymore, but about Miss Sadie. It was in that moment, when I saw the weight of age and pain weighing down on her, every creak of the rocking chair sounding as if it was coming from her very bones, that I had a revelation. As much as I had a need to hear her story, she had a need to tell it. It was as if the story was the only balm that provided any comfort.

  “So what happened after Ned left?”

  Miss Sadie drew a breath and seemed to hold it forever. Finally, she exhaled and her breath carried the words.

  “After Ned left, the troubles we had all run away from came and found us.…”

  Elixir of Life

  JULY 12, 1918

  Ned had been gone for months, and for Jinx the warm summer days dragged. After Ned had enlisted, he’d been able to come home once or twice a month on leave from Camp Funston, but now that he’d shipped out overseas, there would be no more visits until he came home for good. Most of the troops were figuring they’d be home before Christmas. Jinx wasn’t so sure.

  He occupied his time doing odd jobs. Shady thought Jinx needed to learn a trade, so he set about doing some welding. He was even commissioned to make a wrought iron gate. With helmet down and torch blazing, he practiced to his heart’s content, welding all manner of metal objects—forks, shovels, horseshoes, even the grate off a potbelly stove—right into the gate. His highly unusual work did not spark any great demand and that was his one and only paying job.

  His next assignment was working chemistry boot camp at Velma T.’s house to make up for blowing out the chemistry room windows during science class. And, of course, Sister Redempta kept after him about his studies, assigning him extra reading to do over the summer to get him caught up with the rest of his class. Still, fishing was his favorite pastime and he had great luck with Ned’s Wiggle King fishing lure. In these long summer days, his uncle Finn, Junior Haskell, and Joplin, Missouri, all seemed like a faint memory that was no longer nipping at his heels.

  “You think it’s a ten-pounder, Shady?” Jinx stood in the doorway of Shady’s place, holding up a catfish still dripping from the creek.

  Shady wiped a wet rag across the bar top. “If he’s not, he ought to be. There’s a scale in back.”

  Jinx made his way through a cramped maze of tables, chairs, and empty whiskey glasses, past a frayed curtain. He found the scale, filled with stubbed-out cigar butts, in the back room.

  “Did you have a good crowd last night?”

  “It was kind of slow,” Shady said, following Jinx to the back room. “All the Germans were having a miners’ meeting at the Germ
an Fraternal Hall.”

  “Miners’ meeting? I’d think they’d have enough of mining when they’re working. Why do they want to meet about it?”

  “They’re trying to get organized enough that they can have some say in their working conditions. You know, when they work, how long their shifts are. Anyhow, it’s kind of empty here without them. And the ones that were here seemed kind of puny. Lots of aches and coughs.” He dumped the cigars onto the floor and flopped the fish onto the tray. The arrow teetered, then stopped just under ten pounds.

  “Not quite.” Jinx frowned, looking at the scale.

  Shady rubbed his whiskers. “What time is it?”

  “I went fishing at sunup. It’s probably around eight by now.”

  “Well, you caught this feller before he could even have breakfast.” Shady shoved a half-eaten apple into the fish’s mouth, sending the arrow over the ten-pound mark. “Even a condemned man gets a last meal. I’d say that fish deserves nothing less.”

  Jinx grinned. “I’m pretty hungry myself.”

  “You’d better get to scaling if we’re going to have us some fish for breakfast.”

  A voice called from the front, “Anybody here?”

  Shady peeked out from behind the curtain. “It’s Sheriff Dean,” he whispered to Jinx.

  Jinx looked toward the back door, ready to bolt. He’d been able to avoid Sheriff Dean all these months, and even though he seemed to have evaded his past, he didn’t want a face-to-face encounter now. Jinx’s reaction did not slip past Shady. “Be right with you,” Shady called. Then he whispered to Jinx, “He’s coming for his complimentary libations.” That meant his illegal alcohol.

  Jinx stood still. Shady had never asked any questions about Jinx’s dealings before he’d come to Manifest. But Shady wasn’t blind and it was painfully obvious that Jinx got nervous anytime Sheriff Dean was within a stone’s throw.