“That clasp needed coming off.” His father said this but he did not seem to be thinking about this. He seemed to be thinking something else.
“I kept forgetting,” he said. “It’ll be the first thing on my list when we get back.”
His father was quiet. Then he said, “Wait for me in the car. I’ll be along.”
“They’re all in the car and it’s cold,” he said. His father didn’t move. “Please, Dad,” he said. “Please put the gun down and come with us.”
Ansel lifted the gun and pointed it at the rafters, where owls and other birds roosted. He raised the rifle slightly and cocked it.
To shoot doves in the barn would be cheating. Clare knew this. His father did, too. He had stropped him for it once.
“Please, Dad,” Clare said again.
His father sighted and fired. One bird fell with a dull plop. The other plowed the air and circled, terrified, but it couldn’t find a way out. It returned to the same beam where it had been sitting before.
“You have to drive, Dad,” Clare said. He walked toward his father. His feet felt heavy again, like they had last night. He held out his hand for the gun. His father didn’t speak or move. Clare wrapped his hand around the barrel, which still pointed up.
His father didn’t move. Clare pulled on the rifle, and his father let go.
“Okay,” Clare said. To what he was saying okay, he had no idea. “Okay.”
His mother came to the open door of the barn with a wild look on her face. She saw that everyone was standing up, unbloodied, and she saw that Clare held the rifle. She brought her gloved hands up to her mouth, and then put them down again. “Ansel,” she said, as if starting a pleading sort of sentence, but she went no further.
Clare walked over to the dead bird and picked it up by the legs. There was nothing to do with it. He set it back down in the soft dirt for the barn cats.
In a coaxing way, his mother said, “Neva’s going to freeze to death in that car, Ansel.”
Clare walked toward the door, listening for his father’s footsteps behind him. When Clare finally turned, he saw his mother wiping her nose with a handkerchief, and he saw his father step out of the barn. His father didn’t have the dulcimer, he didn’t close the door, and he didn’t look at Clare. The way he walked toward the car put Clare in mind of a stick that has fallen into a river without much current. When his father sat behind the wheel of the car, and his mother once again had the glass shade on her lap, Clare closed his car door. Neva was asleep. Charlotte’s face was set, writing something in her journal. As the car began to move she did not even look up.
Two hours passed without a word. Familiar farms and houses and little towns gave way to unfamiliar farms and houses and towns. They passed through Garden City and had almost made Colorado when Neva awakened and said, “We forgot Krazy Kat.”
His father looked over at his mother, who said, “We’re not going back.” A few seconds passed. Then, over his shoulder in a soothing voice, his father said, “Krazy Kat will be happier there, Nevie. It’s her home. It’s all she’s ever known.”
PART TWO
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With every mile that passed, Charlotte felt better and better. They were actually going. They were not turning back. She kept her notebook at hand and jotted little reminders of the sights. She intended to write all about her fantastic journey to Opal and Emmeline, and perhaps also to Mrs. Gilman, the English teacher who’d once said she had a gift.
March 1, 1933
Dear Opal, Guess where I am? In a cabin camp at La Junta, Colorado! Neva keeps asking about her goldfish so if you write don’t include news of its demise. Permission granted for happily ever after story however fishy! I hope the dust hasn’t been so bad in Dorland. We went over to have dinner at the Otero Hotel this evening and my was it regal. Prices to astound. My mom said we should just go back to the cabin and heat some soup but my dad said, no, it was what she’d been wanting forever, to be in the Harvey House again and we had the cow money so we could afford it this once. I had Tournedos of Beef Marco Polo and Mom had Lamb Chops a la Nelson. The price includes dessert so I had Brandy Flip Pie. Was too delicious for words.
Your vagabond pal,
Char
March 2, 1933
Dear Emmeline, Boy is Colorado nice. Tell your dad he was right that this route would be the nicest. Today was all paved roads (much easier on the derriere) and we’ve been lucky with the weather. It snowed some in Pueblo but didn’t stick. I sure like Santa Fe. We found a brand new Harvey House while walking about and it sure was pretty. It’s called La Fonda and the girls wear Mexican skirts and blouses instead of the regular black and white. My mom thought it looked like fun and I was half afraid she’d indenture me. We’re staying at a cabin camp, though, not the La Fonda. Dad says we have to for Artemis. We forgot Neva’s cat and she breaks out crying ever so often over that, but it’s for the best Mom says.
Your roving reporter, Char P.S. I don’t know if you heard that the Scottish Songbird went to Emporia to work at the Harvey House. Tell your dad in case he goes there on business and needs to avoid. Dad says she still expects to be paid!
March 4, 1933
Dear Mrs. Gilman, I wanted to write and thank you for all you taught me. I’m sorry I didn’t get to come to Abilene and say good-bye. My sister’s been sick and the doctor said we’d better go before the dust kills her. For her health, we are moving to California to live with my aunt and uncle and then to farm there, lemons probably, but maybe alligator pears. (Watch out for them! Ha ha.) On the way, we sure have seen some pretty country. Yesterday we drove from Santa Fe through Albuquerque to Gallup, which was a rough road. Then we crossed into Arizona and it took all day to reach Phoenix. I waved to it for you and said you sent your regards. It is as you say a very cosmopolitan city (hope I spelled that right! We’re staying in a camp cabin and there’s a Bible but no dictionary). My dad says we’ll get to California tomorrow.
Sincerely yours,
Charlotte Price
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