Crossing Stones Read online

  Ollie sharply looks away, walks faster.

  As we approach the gate, I stop myself

  from reaching out to open it for him, and he finds

  a way to unlatch it, swing it open, catch it, and close it

  behind us with one hand. We keep walking, our footsteps

  falling in a steady rhythm. Eventually

  Ollie breaks our silence with one word:

  Lucky, he mutters. And then, I’m supposed

  to feel lucky because I still have one arm.

  (Luckier than Frank—I regret the thought

  the second it crosses my mind.) What kind of luck

  is that, Ollie asks, to go through life

  thinking about all the ways it could be worse?

  I could have lost both arms, both legs, I could

  be blind and deaf, I could have burns on my face

  so bad you wouldn’t know me, I could be nuts,

  I could be

  dead.

  I saw all those things, he tells me,

  in the army hospital. Are they supposed to cheer me up?

  Muriel, I’m telling you—he searches for words—

  this stinks. I try my best to think of something

  wise and comforting to say.

  Yes, Ollie, is all I can come up with,

  it sure does.

  A Few Sentences Each Day

  Muriel

  Every afternoon (five days in a row now),

  Ollie and I take a walk together—today

  we follow Crabapple Creek all the way

  to Reuben Lake, the rhythm of our steps

  accompanied by small sounds of birds,

  chipmunks, a family of raccoons, the crunch

  of dry leaves, and, when we reach the lake,

  the back-and-forth lament of a pair of loons.

  Returning home along the road, Ollie

  glances toward the school. What time

  is it? he asks. One o’clock, I answer. Grace and Emma

  won’t be out for two more hours. Ollie turns his face

  away from me; he may be embarrassed

  that I’ve guessed he’s thinking about Emma.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever graduate, he says.

  I can’t seem to think straight; my mind keeps

  wandering back to things I don’t know how

  to think about. A horse whinnies and comes over

  to the fence; Ollie pulls up a handful of grass

  and feeds him. Animals always seem to trust you,

  I say. He nods and starts to speak, but

  doesn’t. A shudder passes over him, and

  we walk home in silence—not the kind where

  two people are so comfortable that nothing

  needs to be spoken, the kind where

  something is trying to be said

  and no one knows the words.

  As soon as we get home, Ollie

  goes into his room, shuts the door,

  and stays there until dinner.

  Daisies on a Pillowcase

  Emma

  Mother needs a good, reliable friend

  these days, more than she ever has. I wish she would

  go with me to the Jorgensens’. Each day she says, I’ll go tomorrow.

  She’s been embroidering daisies on a pillowcase for five weeks! It’s best

  not to push her, Mrs. Jorgensen says. Your mother can’t talk about Frank yet,

  but she probably can’t think about anything else. Be patient, Emma, grief takes time.

  Yes, but so does my schoolwork plus cooking and washing dishes and hanging clothes

  and dusting furniture and cleaning out the horses’ stalls. While Mother grieves, those

  endless tasks aren’t doing themselves. Has Father, or anyone, even noticed that I’m

  doing most of Mother’s work, all my own, and half of Frank’s? Will I ever get

  time to grieve for my brother? (And, in a way, for Ollie.) When can I rest?

  Now I’m ashamed of this anger—a mix of exhaustion and sorrow

  that bubbles up, then settles down. Here comes Ollie. Could

  he help stack the firewood? I have clothes to mend.

  The Phone Rings: Two Short, One Long

  Muriel

  I’m home alone, except for Ollie,

  who is sleeping at noon on a Monday

  while Mama and Papa are at work.

  The phone rings: two short, one long—

  our ring on the party line. You have

  a long-distance call, the operator says,

  from Washington, D.C. (Could it be Aunt Vera?)

  Hello, am I speaking to Mrs. Jorgensen? (Danish accent,

  a younger woman, not Aunt Vera’s voice.)

  No, I answer, this is Muriel, her daughter.

  May I help you? A slight pause, then,

  I am wanting to speak to Mr. Jorgensen,

  Vera’s brother. I tell her I’m home alone.

  Can you give to your father a message for me?

  (No, I’m tempted to reply, we’ve had all

  the bad news we can take.) Of course, I answer,

  picking up a pencil. My name, she says,

  is Ruby Madsen. I am living

  in Washington, and I have been

  picketing the White House with Vera.

  She is in prison for five weeks now.

  (Five weeks? I’ve lost track of time!)

  They are beginning to see they can’t

  prison us forever—they release a few

  women already. Vera still refuse to eat,

  no matter how hard things are for her.

  You know how strong she is in her mind,

  but in her body she is very weak now.

  We are hoping they release her next week,

  but she can’t travel alone then. I want to ask

  your father can he come to Washington

  to travel home with his sister. Ruby gives me

  a number where she can be reached, and asks me

  to have Papa call her back or send a telegram.

  I’ll give him the message, I promise.

  I stay on the line to find out how many

  people have been listening in.

  Two clicks—no, three. Who else, besides

  the operator, heard our conversation?

  I hitch up the horses as quickly as I can—

  I want to reach the lumberyard and give Papa

  this message before he hears it as the gossip

  it will become within the hour.

  Muriel Can Help

  Muriel

  I don’t see how I can go, Papa says to Mama.

  We’re shorthanded at work as it is these days.

  He studies Mama’s face. Could you go? he asks.

  Mama shakes her head. It’s all too much; I’m

  going to quit my job—Ollie needs me at home.

  But that’s the reason I can’t do this for Vera.

  How could I be away for a week right now?

  Ollie objects—he’s finally woken up, after sleeping

  for twelve hours a day, six days in a row—I have to

  learn to take care of myself sometime, Ma.

  Go ahead, if you want to—Muriel can help me.

  Mama glances from me to Ollie, and then

  to Papa; she opens her mouth, closes it—

  she doesn’t want to go, she’s hurt that Ollie

  doesn’t think he needs her, and neither she,

  nor anyone, questions Ollie’s assumption

  that “Muriel can help.” They all know

  I’ll do what’s asked of me, in this, as always. I see

  in that glance a long lifetime ahead of me—am I to be

  “my brother’s keeper”? His right arm? Even as

  I’m forming words, about to spill them out,

  I’m wary of hurting Ollie and Mama,

  wishing Papa would come to my defense

  before I s
ay things I’ll regret—and then Grace,

  sitting quietly, combing out the tangles in

  Eliza Jane’s long hair, looks around

  at all of us. Maybe Mama could stay home,

  she says, and Muriel could go.

  Crazy Ideas

  Muriel

  Sometimes the most obvious idea remains

  hidden, and when it shows itself like this,

  we all wonder how we missed it.

  Within a day, it’s settled: I’ll take the train

  to Washington, D.C., next Tuesday, meet

  Aunt Vera and travel home with her.

  She’ll come here and rest for a few days,

  then continue on her own, back to Chicago.

  Papa jokes about Aunt Vera’s friends: Radicals,

  freethinkers—be careful not to come home with too

  many crazy ideas, Muriel. He’s smiling, but does he

  mean it, too? I’d bet anything he had to convince Mama,

  and now he’s warning me about her worries.

  Emma has come for supper (without her parents—

  Not quite yet, she said to Mama). Sitting between

  Grace and Ollie, she heartily approves.

  Go ahead, Muriel—I can help with your chores

  while you’re away. And Grace chimes in,

  I will, too, Muriel. Go to Washington! Come home

  with all the crazy ideas you want. A shadow

  passes over Ollie’s face, but he says nothing

  at the time—it’s only later, after we’ve walked

  home with Emma, and the two of us are coming back

  together, that I realize how worried Ollie is,

  how much he counts on me since he’s been home.

  I’ll only be gone a week, I try to reassure him.

  I know, he says. It’s just that you’re the only one

  who lets me talk about what happened

  over there. He pauses at the gate,

  leans his weight against it, glances

  up at me—yes, he sees, I’m listening.

  I’m starting to remember things, he tells me.

  Ollie’s Patchwork Story

  Muriel

  A rat with a man’s face, Ollie says. Or a man

  with the face of a rat. I don’t know which.

  I hated those filthy rats. They scurried

  through the trenches, tried to chew into

  our rations, got into our bedrolls.

  Then one night, I was eating, and I looked

  up to see one staring at me. I saw its hunger,

  and I was hungry, too, and then in that same

  moment, a man behind me threw a stone

  and hit it, and it leaped into the air and

  tried to run and couldn’t, and it curled up

  and died. Ollie is struggling not to cry;

  he’s determined to say what he can see

  while he can see it. There was a tank

  rolling toward us—was it that same day?

  It’s all packed together in my mind, it’s hard

  to separate. The nurse in the army hospital

  told me I carried my buddy Phil out

  of harm’s way; I saved his life, she said,

  before I lost my arm. I don’t remember that.

  I remember a soldier coming toward me

  with his rifle pointed at my chest. He looked

  at me—he saw me, Muriel. The rat was hungry,

  he was hungry. Did that soldier see that I was

  hungry, too? Of course he could have killed me.

  But he didn’t—I had my rifle strapped

  across my shoulder. He must have had

  a moment of compassion—I don’t remember

  this—but think about it, Muriel. A

  German soldier looked me in the eye

  and didn’t kill me. Instead—I’ve thought

  long and hard about that moment—my

  enemy decided to … disarm me.

  A Sharp Yes-and-No Shoots Through Me

  November 1917

  Toward—I Don’t Know What

  Muriel

  Mama’s birthday is coming up, Grace says. Take this,

  and add it to your egg money—see if it’s enough

  to buy her a new hat in Washington. She gives me

  all her money, a stream of warm coins poured

  from one of her old socks into my hands.

  All of it? I ask. Yes! She’s certain. Grace

  almost makes me want to stay right here

  with her and Ollie and Mama and Papa—

  I start to think of everything I’ll miss. But my suitcase

  is packed, and Papa calls out, We don’t have

  all day. I hug Grace—Thank you. I’ll be home

  in eight days. Help Mama all you can.

  I ride to town with Papa, buy my ticket,

  board the train, and wave goodbye.

  And then the whistle blows and I’m carried

  out of the life I know, toward—I don’t know what.

  The world goes by outside—we pass farms like ours:

  a girl no taller than Grace leads three cows to pasture;

  a young man rides his horse along a rough dirt road;

  a woman holds two chickens she’s just killed,

  her large hands encircling their necks;

  a little boy waves at us and grins when I wave back.

  At every stop, young men get on the train,

  their mothers weeping as they say goodbye: soldiers,

  sailors, whole and bright-eyed like Frank and Ollie were

  five months ago. I want to jump out of my seat

  and stop them: Stay where you are, stay home!

  Don’t go to war! Everyone around me

  is offering them food, thanking them

  for things they haven’t even done yet.

  The young men soak up the admiration,

  stand a little taller. It isn’t that they’re foolish—

  I’m sure they’re brave and smart.

  But they don’t know what’s coming.

  They haven’t seen the look in Ollie’s eyes

  as he struggles to recall what happened;

  they haven’t tried to comfort Mrs. Norman.

  Here with Grace

  Ollie

  Who’s to say I can’t? I have an arm, a left foot, a

  right foot. We set up a system: rope, hook, and pulley.

  Pa encourages me: I don’t see why it shouldn’t work. He’s sure I

  can lift a bale of hay from down here on the barn floor up into the

  loft—I’ll be there to pull it up and over, he says. I’m here with Grace,

  who watches from a safe distance—I’m determined to do this by myself. I

  lay the rope straight out on the ground and use my arm and feet to roll the

  hay bale onto it. Holding the rope in place with one foot, I can tie a knot. I

  do that twice, then hook the bale to the pulley rope. (It’s not hard, I’ve

  often done this.) I sit on the rope’s other end as I reach and pull. A

  man is more than arms and legs, Pa said. (Tell that to Emma.)

  Ma argued: It’s too much to attempt at this point. (She

  might be right.) The bale rises—I’m scared I’ll

  lose it. I don’t. I’ve got it! Pa calls down.

  Look Deeper

  Muriel

  These buildings—they’re enormous!

  How could people build something so high?

  This is Washington, D.C.! I’ve never seen so many

  people in one place—everyone rushing about

  as if they have important business.

  That lady’s hat is three times the size of her head—

  it must take a hundred hat pins to hold it in place!

  Ruby Madsen meets me at the station; I recognize her

  by her gold-and-purple suffrage sash, her long black cur
ls,

  just as she described herself. She’s not much older than I am.

  You must be Muriel! Are you hungry? Yes, and yes—

  we go to the station café and sit down.

  We are expecting Vera to be release tomorrow,

  Ruby tells me. Until then, I show you around.

  Will you like to see National Woman’s Party

  headquarters while you’re here? I nod—there is so much

  to see! Ruby has been in America for two years; she came

  on her own from Denmark when she was seventeen.

  I’d like to hear her whole life story, but she’s

  anxious to get back to the picket line.

  As we leave the café, I feel a tug at my skirt—

  a girl about four years old, with dirty tear streaks

  down her face, holds out her hand to me. I reach

  into my pocket for a coin, but Ruby shakes her head

  as we walk on. It’s a bad idea, she says,

  to courage beggar children. This is not

  a safe place for them—someone use

  that little girl. The child’s face

  stays with me—shouldn’t someone

  help her? As we move through the station,

  more children approach us, two boys, another

  little girl, then an old man in tattered clothes

  who looks so hungry I give him the apple

  I still have from home—Bless you, miss, he says.

  I smile, but almost immediately a woman

  carrying a baby holds out her hand,

  and I don’t have another apple. People

  who look like they have plenty of food and money

  walk past and no one begs from them. Why is everyone

  asking me? I ask Ruby. She studies me: You have

  a kind face, she answers. Outside the station,

  we get into an electric streetcar that pulls us along

  the tracks, without horses. The streets are so busy—

  hundreds of buggies, motorcars, bicycles,

  young men and women walking arm in arm.

  I’m dizzy from looking. We pass a row of mansions

  with grand doorways and white pillars;

  then gradually things change—smaller houses,

  dirty streets. Just two more blocks,

  Ruby says. It’s hard to describe what I see.

  This neighborhood … it looks … so … I pause.

  Poor? Ruby suggests. I nod, a little embarrassed.

  Look deeper, she says. (A rat runs by.