Tallgrass (29 page)

“She probably went into the house to check on Granny. Or maybe she’s putting Amy Elizabeth in the cradle,” I said. But the door was closed, the storm door shut tight, just as we had left them. If Daisy had gone inside for just a minute, she wouldn’t have bothered to secure the doors.

Then I pointed to the rusted old truck that had passed us on the Tallgrass Road. It was parked by the side of the barn, the engine running, the driver’s door open. I knew that truck. Mom and I started running. As we got closer, we saw the wind whipping one end of the sheet back and forth across the ground. Daisy wouldn’t have left it like that on purpose, one end pinned to the line, the other loose, because now the sheet would have to be washed all over again. Beneath the line, the wet clothes from the laundry basket were spread over the dirt.

“Daisy!” Mom called. She looked around frantically. From somewhere we could hear Sabra and Snow White barking, but the wind had picked up, and I couldn’t tell where the noise was coming from.

I grabbed Mom’s arm and showed her the clothespins scattered in the dirt. Most were under the sheet, but a few lay beyond, as if Daisy had dropped them as she ran away from the clothesline. “The barn. She’s in the barn,” I said.

“Daisy!” Mom called as loudly as she could so that not just Daisy but anyone in the barn would hear her, but the wind drowned out her words. “Daisy!” It was almost a shriek. We started for the barn, both of us running.

When we reached it, we stopped at the door, letting our eyes adjust to the darkness inside. All I could see at first were big black shapes in the light that sifted through the roof. On one side, bales of hay were piled halfway to the ceiling. On another were the stalls for the horses. From the hayloft came the sound of the radio turned up loud. As my eyes adjusted, I saw Daisy backed up against the hay. Amy Elizabeth was still in the sling, but Daisy was clutching the baby against her chest, protecting her. Danny Spano stood in front of her, a beet knife in his hand. Neither of them saw us.

“I’m not telling you again. Give me the baby,” Danny said.

Daisy didn’t reply, only held Amy Elizabeth tighter.

“She’s mine, and my kid ain’t growing up in no damn camp. I’ll take her, and you’ll never see her again. She’s a Spano, not some dumb Jap.”

“She’s not yours.”

“I’m her father, ain’t I?”

I turned and looked at Mom, who had a stunned look on her face. I mouthed, “Is he?” Rut he couldn’t be, I thought. Daisy wouldn’t have had anything to do with Danny Spano. Harry Hirano was Amy Elizabeth’s father.

“You don’t give her to me, I’ll take her. I’ll kill you if I have to. Wouldn’t bother me.”

“Call the sheriff,” Mom whispered, her voice so low that I could barely hear her above the noise of the radio. I hesitated only a second before I backed away and raced for the house, covering the ground in seconds. I yanked open the storm door and was twisting the knob of the back door, pushing it open with my hip, when I heard the scream. It didn’t seem like a human scream, and it was so loud that it carried through the wind. The closest thing to it that I’d ever heard was the sound of a pig being butchered, the high-pitched squeal of fear at the instant of death. The sound from the barn chilled me like nothing else I had ever heard. Daisy, I thought. I turned and retraced my steps as fast as I could, stumbling and pitching forward onto the frozen ground and scraping my knees. I scrambled to my feet and ran on, moving, it seemed, as if in a dream where no matter how fast I tried to go, I stayed in place. But at last I reached the barn and stopped where Mom and I had stood, not sure what I would find.

Mom had gone inside the barn. Slowly, I made out her figure standing next to Daisy. And Carl was on the bottom step of the ladder that led to the hayloft. They were all three frozen in place, silent. The only sound and movement came from Amy Elizabeth, who cooed and swung her little arms back and forth from the sling on Daisy’s chest. Then I saw Danny Spano sprawled on the floor, a beet knife sticking out of his stomach. I crept up to Mom and looked down at Danny. His eyes were open and glassy. Mom, still staring at Danny, reached out her hand to me, and I gripped it.

“Is he dead?” I asked.

“Yes,” Mom whispered.

No one spoke after that, not for the longest time. We just stood there and stared at the body. I couldn’t move. Even my eyes wouldn’t move. All I could do was look at Danny. Then Daisy began to shake. Her body jerked violently, her arms going in all directions, her chest heaving, her head swinging back and forth, her teeth chattering. She shook so hard that I thought the baby would fly out of the sling. Carl stepped off the ladder and took off his jacket, putting it around Daisy and holding her tight. “It’s okay, Dais. It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.” He held her, repeating over and over again that everything was okay, and after a bit, Daisy quieted down.

“Where did you come from?” I asked Carl.

He gestured to the haymow. “Up there. The radio was on. I thought that was Mr. Stroud talking to Daisy.”

Nobody said anything, until I asked, “Was Danny really Amy Elizabeth’s father?”

“Hush,” Mom said.

“He’s the one who raped you, isn’t he?” Carl asked, and Daisy nodded. He released Daisy then and spit on the barn floor next to Danny.

Mom’s hand went to her mouth, and she said, “Oh, Daisy.” I opened my mouth, but no words would come.

Carl turned to Mom and said, “When Daisy was walking home by herself that time, that boy caught up with her in the arroyo. She tried to fight him off. I should have been there to—” Carl broke off, slamming his right fist against a wooden post. I sucked in my breath, thinking that something terrible had happened to Daisy on our farm, and we hadn’t even known about it. She had been ravished, just like Susan Reddick. The same horrid thing had happened to her, and she’d kept it to herself. She’d let us think Harry was Amy Elizabeth’s father, when all along it was Danny Spano.

“I would have killed him,” Carl said. “Harry and I would have killed him, but Daisy wouldn’t tell us who he was. I didn’t know till now.”

“And of course you didn’t know then you were pregnant,” Mom added.

“Is that when you said you fell in the shower house?” I asked. “Is that when you broke the compact?”

Daisy nodded and looked at Amy Elizabeth. I sneaked a look at her, too, but I couldn’t see that she looked like Danny Spano.

Daisy began to sway, and Mom took her arm and made her sit down on a bail of hay.

“You didn’t tell the sheriff,” Mom said.

“Who’d believe her?” Carl asked angrily. “Nobody’d believe a Japanese girl, even about Danny Spano.”

“No, I don’t suppose so,” Mom said.

“I would.” The voice came from behind us—small and quiet, but clear—and we all whirled around. No one had heard Granny come into the barn. She stood a few feet behind us, a tiny figure, her head high, her hands clasped in front of her in her apron. I wondered how long she’d been there and if she understood what she’d heard.

“Granny,” Mom said. “Rennie, take Granny—”

“No, Mary,” Granny said. “My mind is clear. I believe Daisy. I know that boy did that bad thing to her.”

“Well, of course, Granny. Now don’t you worry.”

“Don’t baby me,” Granny snapped. “Don’t you doubt that girl. I saw that awful boy in here with Marthalice, too.”

Mom drew in her breath, then asked in a sharp voice, “What are you talking about, Granny?”

“Sometimes at night, when I was in the yard, I’d see Marthalice sneak out and go into the barn. I followed her once, and she was with this boy.” Granny pointed at Danny. “They were doing things . . . . Marthalice was crying.” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t know what to do. Marthalice wouldn’t like it if she found out I’d snooped, but I didn’t want you to be angry with her. I was so confused, and then I forgot about it. Maybe he’s the reason Marthalice went away . . . .” Granny’s voice trailed off and she sat down next to Daisy, reaching out her finger so that Amy Elizabeth could grab it with her little fist.

“Is he the reason?” I asked.

Mom put out her hand and closed her eyes. “Be still, Rennie. We’ll talk about that later. Let me think.” Mom stood silently for several minutes—whether thinking or praying, I didn’t know; probably both—while we all watched her, waiting. When she opened her eyes, she was calm, and she spoke quietly but firmly. “Carl and Daisy, you are to go back to the camp right now. You are to say you left when the storm started, which was just as Rennie and I went to town. You didn’t see Danny turn in at the farm. You didn’t even see him drive down the road. You don’t know he’s dead. Do you understand?”

Carl and Daisy exchanged glances. “I guess so,” Carl said.

“Daisy?” Mom asked.

Daisy nodded.

“This is very important,” Mom said. “You left when the storm started. You never saw Danny,” Mom repeated.

“Why?” Daisy asked.

“Because if we tell what really happened, nobody will believe us, and I’m afraid there could be trouble about the baby.”

Daisy clutched Amy Elizabeth to her, and Carl asked, “Are you going to call the sheriff?”

Mom nodded.

“What are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know yet. I just know that when somebody tells you the Spano boy’s dead, you’re to act surprised. Do you understand ?”

Carl started to say something, but Daisy touched his arm, and they both nodded.

“Go now,” Mom said. “Go across the fields. It’s better that nobody sees you. We’ll give you a few minutes before we call Sheriff Watrous. Go. Run.” They started off, and we watched them from the barn door until they disappeared.

Then Mom turned to Granny, who was playing with her fingers. “Granny, would you go upstairs and get out your piecing?” Granny smiled. Her mind had already clouded over.

Mom waited until Granny was inside before saying, “I’ll call the sheriff now. You pick up the laundry on the ground and take down that one sheet, Rennie. It’ll all have to be washed again. Somebody’s bound to wonder why it’s dirty.” I thought it was strange that in a time like that, Mom would think about laundry, but she was right. If one of the Jolly Stitchers came by, she’d notice first thing the washing lying in the dirt.

MOM TOLD THE SHERIFF
only that we had an emergency and to come as quickly as he could. She didn’t want anybody who was listening in on the party line to know what had happened. We waited in the house, Mom pacing back and forth and biting her fingernails. “I wish I could put in that laundry,” she said a dozen times, “but the sheriff would wonder why I’m washing sheets at a time like this.”

I offered to make coffee then, but Mom said coffee would only make her nervous, so I fixed tea, and we drank it with milk and sugar at the kitchen table. Then I asked about Marthalice, and Mom sighed and stopped playing with her hands and folded them on the oilcloth. “I guess you have the right to know now. Marthalice got pregnant a few months before she graduated from high school. She went to live with Cousin Hazel for a while. Then Cousin Hazel arranged for her to stay in a home for unwed mothers in Denver. That was why I went to visit her so sudden fall before last. The baby came. After that, Marthalice didn’t want to move back home, and we didn’t blame her. So she got a job and stayed on in Denver.”

I bit my knuckles. My sister’d had a baby, and nobody had told me. Dad would have known, of course, but had they told Buddy? Probably not, because he had joked about Marthalice going to Denver and meeting lots of servicemen. Mom and Dad had kept the baby a secret from both of us. “Didn’t she tell you Danny Spano was the father?”

Mom shook her head. “She wouldn’t tell us. We assumed he was Hank Gantz, because Hank joined the army so sudden, just as if he was running away from getting married. Marthalice had a wild streak. Once, your Dad . . .” Mom looked at me and didn’t finish. “But Danny Spano? Our poor girl.” Mom put her head down on her hands and began to cry. But she steadied herself and shook her head. “I can’t think about that now. You musn’t ever let on to Marthalice that you know. She’d be shamed. Promise me that.”

I wouldn’t tell for anything. No wonder Marthalice had changed so much. There couldn’t be anything worse than having Danny Spano’s baby. I wondered if Danny had known Marthalice was pregnant, but of course he hadn’t. He’d have bragged about it. And maybe he’d have claimed the baby, just as he had Daisy’s. It would be horrible to raise a Stroud baby as a Spano.

Mom said, “These are awful burdens for you to carry, Rennie.”

“You, too, Mom.”

She picked up her cup and looked at it, then set it back down. “I never liked tea too much.”

“What if Granny tells?”

Mom gave me a sad smile. “She forgot about Marthalice. I expect she forgot about Daisy before she left the barn. Don’t you?”

I thought that over and agreed. “What happened to Marthalice’s baby?”

Mom brightened for an instant. “That nice little girl from Mississippi you played with at the Varian house next door to Cousin Hazel, the Brown girl? The baby’s her new sister. Her name is Alice, for Mrs. Varian’s mother and for Marthalice, too. They’re a nice family. Cousin Hazel arranged it.”

We heard the sheriff’s car then and went to the door. Mom gripped my hand hard and asked, “Ready?”

“I think so.” I wasn’t, but if Mom, who could hardly stand up in the wind, was strong, I could be, too.

“You let me do the talking.”

We took our wraps from the hooks beside the door and went outside, waiting for the sheriff to get out of the car and come to us. He touched his hat to Mom but didn’t say anything, just waited for her to speak. She took a deep breath. “We’ve had a terrible accident, Sheriff Watrous. The Spano boy’s dead. He’s in the barn with a beet knife in his stomach.”

“Is that so?”

Before she could continue, there was the sound of a team and wagon, and Dad drove into the barnyard. “Oh, thank God,” Mom said. She sagged against me, and I wondered how her heart could hold up under all the strain.

Dad pulled the team to a stop beside the sheriff’s car and got down off the wagon seat, tying the reins to the fence. He looked from Mom to the sheriff, waiting for an explanation. It was the sheriff who explained. “Your wife says the Spano boy’s dead in your barn with a beet knife sticking out of him.”