Crossing Stones Read online

  have turned to calluses, and I guess we’re all

  as ready as we’ll ever be for what comes next.

  Tell Ollie thanks for helping on the farm.

  Tell Muriel—Why has he crossed that out?

  My love to everyone, Frank.

  2:25

  Muriel

  One good thing about Mama’s working:

  I’m the one to meet the mailman

  at 2:25 this afternoon while Grace

  is taking her nap. Dear Muriel, Thank you

  for your letter. I meant to apologize

  for my behavior on the train platform.

  I’m glad to see you aren’t holding that

  against me. I don’t know what came over me—

  you looked so pretty in that yellow blouse, I guess

  I got carried away. Well, we’re in France now,

  and I’m afraid there’s not too much to write about,

  unless you’re interested in trench shovels,

  mud, the sound of other fellows snoring

  all night long. You’re not? I didn’t think so.

  How’s everyone at home? Tell Grace

  I liked her picture, and she can draw me

  standing with the rest of you on that last stone. That’s

  where I see myself whenever they give us time

  to think of home. Which isn’t often.

  Yours, Frank.

  Seeing Things

  Emma

  Everywhere, I’m seeing

  things that make me think of

  Ollie. The red geranium in Grace’s

  playhouse window—his last day, when

  he knew he’d be leaving, but I did not. A hay

  bale’s wisps of hay stick out like Ollie’s hair—I

  reach out to tuck them back into his hat. The cat,

  lost for three days, comes home skinny—even that

  makes me wonder: Is Ollie eating well? When a fly

  lands on my arm, I remember Ollie’s arm, the way

  he’d flex his muscle, showing off. The white hen

  is laying three or four eggs every day in places

  she never has before: Wouldn’t Ollie love

  an omelet? (He is only sixteen!)

  Careful

  Muriel

  Papa slaps the newspaper down on the table.

  They’ve gone and done it. Now it is, in fact,

  against the law for Muriel to speak her mind

  as freely as she’d like. I read the article:

  Congress has passed an abominable law,

  the Espionage Act, which threatens punishment—

  twenty years in prison! a ten-thousand-dollar fine!—

  for arguing against the war. It’s now illegal

  to mail newspapers, or even letters, that give arguments

  against the draft. Does this mean Aunt Vera can’t write to us

  like she always does, telling us about her suffrage

  meetings and why she and her friends are angry

  about the war, especially the draft—remember

  that article that called it “a new kind of slavery”?

  Papa paces, door to table, table back to door.

  I don’t know, he says. They’re not likely to arrest my sister,

  but the worst of this is—this! Exactly what is happening

  right here in this room, right now. Mama

  doesn’t see it the way we do. She listens and then

  puts in her two cents’ worth: Be careful, Muriel,

  in what you write to Frank. I glance at her—

  how does she even know about our letters?

  Most likely from the nosy postmistress

  who sorts the mail and shares our party line;

  I bet she listens in on my private conversations

  and tells my parents things she’s heard me say

  to Emma. As for Mama’s admonition

  to be careful, I have to smile—the letters

  Frank and I exchange could hardly

  be more careful than they are.

  Adventure

  Muriel

  Frank writes letters to Emma and his parents—

  Emma shows them to me—cheerful,

  hearty: he’s having an adventure

  he can’t wait to tell them all about

  when he gets home. He’s met people

  from all over the world! Soldiers from India

  who don’t use helmets—they wrap their heads

  in turbans! Scottish soldiers who wear kilts

  that look like skirts. Frank hopes to visit

  Scotland when he gets a few weeks’

  leave, probably three months from now.

  How are the crops? Is everyone well?

  He’s proud to serve his country.

  Don’t worry about him, he’s doing just fine.

  Frank Writes to Me

  Muriel

  I’m surprised they even sent this letter,

  after censoring so much of it. I read what I can,

  then hold it up to the light and guess the rest.

  Frank must have written something

  other than what he knows he is allowed

  to say, but now he’ll think he’s told me

  things I haven’t read—it’s frustrating, like trying

  to carry on a conversation through a thick curtain.

  Dear Muriel, Thank you for writing to me.

  I bet it’s hard on you, trying to keep up

  with all the work. (Did I complain too much?)

  Don’t go burning down the house, now.

  I’m glad you don’t sugarcoat things

  when you write to me, Muriel—

  I’ll try to do the same, though as you know,

  all our letters have to pass through censors,

  so I can’t tell you everything. To tell the truth,

  it’s a mess over here, and no one can say

  when this war might be over. Death smells like

  rotten fish (Is that word “fish”? He went fishing?),

  and sounds like a rabbit with its foot caught in a trap.

  I hate to tell you all this, Muriel. I want you to

  think of me laughing, on a Sunday picnic

  with you and Ollie, Emma, and little Grace—

  I was surprised, when I was home, to see how tall she was!

  If you tell me about your days there, and I

  tell you about mine over here, we’ll know

  each other better by the time I get home.

  (I would like that.) I think of you more

  than I should, I suppose. (How much

  should we think about each other?)

  I’m beginning to wonder if you might be right

  in some of your opinions—that’s all I’ll say.

  You’ll know what I mean. From your good friend, Frank.

  P.S. Tell Ollie NOT to sign up for this unless

  they draft him and he can’t get out of it.

  (“NOT”? “drift”? or “draft”? I can’t make it out.)

  I’ll do my best to get the job finished

  before he’s old enough to join me here.

  I don’t show Frank’s letter to anyone.

  I spend long hours weeding the garden,

  picking peas and thinning rows of beans,

  letting my mind go where it will—which is,

  most often, straight to Frank and Ollie:

  What makes boys go to war? Did Ollie sign up

  because Frank did, or does he honestly believe

  the president is right? If those speeches about democracy

  are true, why do they censor the soldiers’ letters home?

  Let our boys write and tell us what they know.

  Let us write back and tell them what we think.

  Blisters

  Ollie

  Latrine digger, message boy,

  pot scrubber—not exactly my idea of

  life as a soldier.
Almost everyone at this training

  camp is faster and stronger than I am—they’re all older

  by several years. I can’t get out of this. I should have waited

  two and a half years, until I am nineteen—except by then, Frank

  could be home. (Will I see him over there?) By that time, maybe I

  would have missed the whole war. Okay. Don’t think about home.

  Too late now to go back. Time to lace up my boots, strap on

  my pack, and move out into formation. My socks are

  damp and muddy. Bloody blisters on both heels.

  Right, LEFT, right … Could I kill a man?

  (Not man. Enemy: Enemy Soldier.)

  What if Muriel is right?

  Courage

  Muriel

  I try not to look as if I’m waiting, but it must

  be obvious: here comes the mailman, smiling—

  A letter for you, Miss Jorgensen, and one

  for your parents. One from Frank for me?

  Ollie’s for all of us? I’m right about Ollie—

  but as it’s not addressed to me, I put it aside.

  My letter … is not from Frank. Familiar

  handwriting I can’t quite place—Aunt Vera?

  Why would she write to me, rather than to Papa?

  Dear Muriel (small, careful script), I’m writing

  to you because I’m about to embark on a journey

  some might consider foolhardy, and many

  are suggesting could be dangerous.

  I sent your family, as I always do, the most recent

  issue of Suffrage News, but it was returned—

  the post office will no longer deliver what the government

  deems unpatriotic. (Come to think of it, it is a long time

  since we’ve heard from Aunt Vera—no letters,

  no newspaper clippings, no political cartoons

  from the Chicago papers.) It is not right that women

  should have no voice in these matters of great

  concern to us. President Wilson has his mind

  on the war at the moment, but I, and many others,

  refuse to let him ignore our cause—universal

  suffrage for all adult citizens, in all states.

  I am going to Washington to join the picket line

  in front of the White House. (Have you heard

  any news about this?) I am writing to say

  I am doing this for you, Muriel, and for

  Grace—for all the girls yet to be born. I expect

  to be in Washington for one week. I’ll stop to see you

  on my way home so that I can speak to you in person

  about the reasons for what we are doing.

  You give me courage, my dear Muriel.

  I look forward to seeing you soon.

  With love, Aunt Vera. I read the letter

  over and over—foolhardy? dangerous?

  She says I give her courage—how

  can I give what I don’t have myself?

  Fifteen Words

  Muriel

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  I’m fine. Could you send me some socks?

  Your son, Ollie.

  Papa pores over the Sears catalog

  as if he’s ordering a tractor.

  What do you think, cotton or wool?

  What size? How many pairs?

  Mama spends the weekend furiously

  knitting—and finishes two pairs of socks by

  Monday morning. I bake oatmeal macaroons

  and Grace draws a detailed portrait of the cows

  to add to the parcel we send off to Ollie.

  No one says what we’re all thinking:

  fifteen words after three weeks does not

  sound “fine.” Could I board tomorrow morning’s

  train—to Chicago, and from there to Kansas—

  and take these socks and macaroons to him myself?

  If, as I suspect, Ollie is not fine, could I tell

  someone he’s too young to go to war?

  Could I bring my brother home?

  Politics

  Emma

  I’ve never really understood

  why Muriel gets herself so involved

  in politics. I don’t know why she’d want

  to vote. When I look at all the things women

  have to think about already—cooking, mending,

  laundry, gardening, babies, keeping house—I don’t

  know when we’d find time to decide who’d be the best

  man (or maybe woman!) for president, and for all the rest

  of the government. Voting and expressing myself won’t

  change anything. Will it keep the army from sending

  Ollie overseas? Will it bring Frank back home any

  sooner? And what if I’m wrong? I simply can’t

  be as sure of myself as Muriel, so resolved,

  so certain of what’s right and good.

  A Long, Low Moooooooo

  Ollie

  Guess they got my letter. It’s great,

  getting this package from home the day before

  we leave. New socks (clean and dry!); oatmeal cookies;

  long letter from Ma, Pa, and Muriel; one from Emma; and

  a picture from Grace—I think it’s Rosie and her new calf. She

  drew a big smile on Rosie’s spotted cow-face—I could swear I

  heard a long, low moooooooo when I unfolded the paper, and it

  occurred to me: if I tuck it into a pocket of my knapsack, with a

  few of Muriel’s macaroons, it will be like a window to home. I

  may run into Frank over there—he’d love to see these things.

  Strong as all this hard training has made me, I still feel like

  me—and I’m afraid that’s not saying much. The sun is

  setting on our last day in America. Am I up to the

  test I’m about to face? I don’t know.

  Like a Rain-Soaked Wool Jacket

  August 1917

  “Kaiser Wilson”

  Muriel

  I’m not sure we should let Muriel read it,

  Mama says to Papa as I walk in the door.

  After milking Rosie, feeding the chickens,

  and helping Grace find a dozen eggs,

  then bandaging a cut she got on her knee

  when she fell off her swing onto a piece

  of broken glass—suddenly, now, I’m a child?

  What is it they’re not sure I should read? Papa

  answers me before I ask: It’s a hard letter

  we’ve received from Aunt Vera, Muriel. She

  was injured as she held a banner in front

  of the White House. Mama purses her lips.

  If you’re going to tell her, tell her what

  the banner said. I already know. I saw it

  in the newspaper, although I didn’t know

  Aunt Vera had been holding it.

  The paper called it the “Kaiser Wilson

  banner,” accusing President Wilson of being

  like the Germans we’re fighting in the war.

  HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR SYMPATHY

  WITH THE POOR GERMANS BECAUSE THEY

  WERE NOT SELF-GOVERNED? the banner asks,

  then declares, for the president to read

  every day when he walks by: 20,000,000

  AMERICAN WOMEN ARE NOT SELF-GOVERNED.

  It goes further than they’ve gone before,

  true, but they have a point. Mama is outraged:

  What do they expect? It’s a slap in the face

  to all our boys and everything we’re fighting

  for. Ollie, her own nephew, is on his way

  to fight the Germans—those women are undermining

  him, and Frank, and all our boys. It isn’t right.

  If you ask me, she says (though no one has), Vera

  should expect exactly this, and worse. She
looks at me,

  daring me to disagree. I hold out my hand to Papa

  for the letter. How badly was she injured?

  He gives it to me. Not badly enough to keep her

  off the picket line long enough to stay out of prison.

  Now she’s been arrested. I read the scribbled note

  on the outside of the envelope: “I’m giving this

  to Ruby Madsen, to mail to you. I don’t expect

  I’ll be writing any letters for a few weeks.”

  Bluebird

  Emma

  Saturday afternoon. A bluebird

  flies against our kitchen window. Mother

  says, Keep that window closed! Don’t let it in.

  When I go out to look beneath the window, I find

  the bird on the ground, stunned but warm, still living.

  I hold it in my hands and sing a lullaby, some psalms,

  and other songs I know by heart, until its wings spread

  against my hands, and it flies. I go on kneading bread,

  the bluebird’s heartbeat in my fingertips, my palms.

  This evening, slicing into the fresh loaf, I’m giving

  some to Father (pumpernickel, his favorite kind)

  when a warm breeze moves across my skin.

  Look: the bluebird, on the screen. Neither

  Mother nor I breathe, or say a word.

  In the Night, Through Towns

  Ollie

  Dread weighs me down

  like a rain-soaked wool jacket.

  We move in the night, through towns

  where little girls like Grace must be asleep

  in their warm beds, through countryside where

  cats toss mice around in dark corners of the barns.

  One thing bothers me: I don’t know the overall plan.

  None of us do. They’re moving us to the battlefront,

  that’s obvious. I’m sure they have a strategy for us to

  win; maybe they’ll fill us in. To tell the truth, I don’t

  care as much about their lofty goals as I do about

  seeing my family again—there’s a man on a

  bike, pedaling into morning, bringing

  bread home to his family, I bet.

  A Few Eggs, Five Peaches, All the Peas

  September 1917

  Restless

  Muriel

  I’m glad not to be going to school this year—no more