Skylark (3 page)

“Yes, Caleb. I dream about rain.”

“Good,” he said. “Then it will come true.”

But rain was only in our dreams. The winds came every day, blowing dust through the windows and into the house until it covered the furniture and got into the food and our clothes and hair. The land got even drier,
and we stopped taking baths. Every day we hauled river water for the animals in big wooden barrels.

And then the worst thing happened.

We drove to the river in our wagon, empty barrels in the back. Clouds hung high in the sky. Maggie sat in her wagon by the riverbed. Matthew stood on the bluff over the river, looking down.

“Hello, Maggie,” called Sarah.

But Maggie didn’t speak. She didn’t even look at us.

We got down from the wagon. The river was nearly dry, only a small trickle in the red prairie dirt.

Everyone was quiet.

“What will we do?” whispered Sarah.

“We’ll have to travel farther for water,” said Papa.

“Think about it, Jacob,” said Matthew. “It will be a three-day trip, maybe four. When we get back home, then what? Water for the crops? There
are
no crops.”

Papa looked at Matthew, then away over the land.

Matthew sighed.

“Maggie and I have been talking about another way,” he said.

“What?” asked Sarah.

“I think that what Matthew means is that they’re thinking about leaving,” said Papa softly.

Sarah turned and looked up at Maggie in the wagon.

“Leaving?” she said, her voice rough and dry like the fields.

Maggie climbed down and went behind the wagon, Sarah following her. I walked closer and stood out of sight, and saw Sarah put out her hand to touch Maggie. But Maggie took a step away, as if Sarah’s comfort was too hard. And I heard words I wish I hadn’t heard.

“I hate this land,” said Sarah. “I don’t have to love it the way Matthew and Jacob love it. They give it everything. Everything! And it gives nothing back.”

“They don’t know anywhere else, Sarah,” said Maggie.

I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t close out Sarah’s words.

“Jacob once said his name was written in this land, but mine isn’t. It isn’t!” said Sarah angrily.

“You are like the prairie lark, you know,” said Maggie. “It sings its song above the land to let all the birds know it’s there before it plunges down to earth to make its home. But you have not come to earth, Sarah.”

There was silence then, and I opened my eyes again.

“You don’t have to love this land,” said Maggie. “But if you don’t love it, you won’t survive. Jacob’s right. You have to write your name in the land to live here.”

Sarah didn’t speak. She took a handful of dry prairie grass in her hands, letting it crumble through her fingers. Then she walked away from us, through the dried grass, out onto the brown prairie that stretched all the way to the sky. She stood there all alone until Papa went to tell her it was time to go home.

We hung wildflowers from the ceiling to dry them for winter, I remember. Sarah cut our hair, tossing it into the fields so the birds could use it for nests.

And we sang.

When Sarah read books with us, even her words were like a song.

8

S
arah and I sat in the kitchen. The air was thick with the heat, and there was no breeze. There hadn’t been any wind for days. Sarah was writing a letter to the aunts in Maine. I wrote in my journal.

“Remember the wildflowers?” I asked Sarah. “And the roses that grew on the fence? Remember singing?”

Sarah looked up.

“Yes,” she said. She reached out and touched my hair. “I remember.”

“Papa! Papa! Coyote!” shouted Caleb from outside.

Sarah and I ran outside. By the paddock fence a thin coyote was drinking water out of the water pail.

“He’ll kill Moonbeam!” shouted Caleb.

Papa came from the field, took a step toward the coyote, then turned and ran to the house. He came out with his rifle.

“Jacob! What are you going to do?” cried Sarah.

“Go inside, Sarah,” he said.

Papa raised his rifle to shoot the coyote, but Sarah grabbed the barrel of the rifle.

“No! Don’t do it, Jacob. Don’t!”

“Sarah! Stop!” yelled Papa.

Papa tried to push her away, and the coyote looked up at the sound of their voices. Slowly he ran away over the fields, stopping once to look back. Then he was gone.

Sarah began to cry.

“He only wanted water. Water, Jacob!”

Caleb climbed over the paddock fence and stood next to me. Papa took Sarah’s arm and turned to Caleb.

“Put the animals in the barn, Caleb,” he said.

Caleb turned and walked to the barn.

Tears streamed down Sarah’s face.

“Water!” she said. “He only wanted water. Just like us. . . .”

She slumped to the ground and put her hands over her face as she cried.

“Get Sarah something to drink, Anna,” said Papa.

He took off his hat and sat down on the ground next to her.

“Anna,” he said sharply. “Now!”

I turned and went to the water barrel and scooped out a cup of water. Papa put his arms around Sarah.

His voice was soft.

“Sarah. Sarah,” he said softly. “It will be all right. It will be all right.”

But Sarah cried and cried. And when Papa turned and looked at me, I knew that nothing was all right.

The look in his eyes was fear.

And that night, when I came in from the barn to go to bed, there was something else missing from the fence. Missing like Sarah’s roses. Caleb’s glass was gone.

“They’re coming!” said Caleb, looking out the upstairs window.

He wore a clean shirt, and his hair was brushed smooth. I wore the dress I had worn when Papa and Sarah were married. Outside, wagons came into the yard.

“Will this make Sarah happy?” Caleb asked me, worried.

I watched more wagons drive in. I saw Maggie dressed in a rose dress and a straw hat.

“Yes,” I said. “This will make Sarah happy.”

“Anna? Caleb? What is this?” said Sarah in the bedroom doorway.

We whirled around, silent. Sarah walked to the window to look out, too, but I took her hand and pulled her out into the hallway. Papa looked up the stairs at her. He wore a vest and his hair was slicked back. He smiled at her.

“Happy birthday, Sarah,” he said.

“There are guests. And presents, Sarah!” said Caleb.

“But I’m not dressed,” said Sarah.

“Then get dressed,” said Papa softly.

Outside there was a table in the shade
of the house, set with food and lemonade. Maggie and Matthew were there, and Rose and Violet and the baby. All the neighbors were there, too. Papa carried something covered with a cloth out to the table.

“What is it?” asked Maggie.

“You’ll see,” said Papa.

“Here she is!” someone said.

We all turned, and Sarah came out on the porch in her white dress.

“Happy birthday, Sarah,” said Papa.

“Happy birthday,” everyone called.

Sarah smiled at the sight of them, everyone washed and clean as if the prairie winds had stopped covering us all with dust.

“A present from the aunts,” said Papa.

He took the cloth away, and there was a phonograph. I handed him a record and he put the needle on it. Suddenly, music filled the yard. Sarah stared. Papa walked up to her and held out his hand. She smiled and came down the steps and they began to dance. Maggie and Matthew began to dance, too, the baby between them. Everyone danced, then, in the dirt yard, the light around them all yellow like an old photograph. Sarah buried her face in Papa’s shoulder, and Caleb smiled at me. And for a little while, as the sun began to set, as they danced, everyone forgot about the drought. For a while, everyone was happy again. Even Sarah. Even Papa.

The last of the wagons left in the moonlight. Sarah and Papa waved good-bye. Caleb was asleep under the table and Papa took him off to bed. Then Papa helped Sarah carry the phonograph inside.

“I have a present for you, Sarah,” I said. I handed her a small book.

“Anna, what is this?” said Sarah.

“It’s a book I started. About you. About our family,” I said.

Papa went out to the porch. Sarah sat down and opened the book. She began to read.

“‘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

T
he 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

W
e 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.