One Came Home (24 page)

By September 1871, though, the drought was impossible to ignore. By then, the news was that all of the Middle West was afflicted. In Placid, a smell like burnt toast coated the wind, the air tasted stale, and a brown haze rested on the horizon. A few days later, the haze migrated into town, and people found it cradled in cupboards and washbasins. The
Placid Independent
reported odd fires in the north (Minnesota, northeastern Wisconsin), which caused people to question the sanity of the editor. Ground so hot it burned holes in people’s shoes? Wisps of fire streaking through the forest like fairies? Without a doubt, though, fire threatened. We kept about our business with pails of water at the ready.

Out of this brown haze came a knock at the door. I heard Ma and Aunt Cleo speaking with a woman in the front hallway. The woman coughed. Ma said something about the smoke.

Then I heard: “I could use a guide.”

“That’s no trouble. I’ll take you,” Ma said.

It sounded like another person had come to see Grandfather Bolte’s grave. All summer we’d been taking people up to Mount Zion Cemetery so they could say their good-byes.

But some quality in that voice made me curious. I cleaned
my hands of the bread I kneaded and stepped into the back garden to see who’d come.

What I saw was a boy-sized woman with straight hips and a purposeful walk—a useful woman—striding straight up the hill to Mount Zion Cemetery. That walk brought back a terraced farm on the back of a bluff—Mrs. Garrow. She walked with such quick steps Ma could not keep up.

I remembered that Ma had never met Mrs. Garrow. I grabbed my coat and raced after them.

I caught up as Ma’s hand flitted out in the direction of the marker:

Mrs. Garrow read the name and frowned. “Where is it?”

I stepped up, startling Ma, and pointed. “The grave bearing my sister’s name is there.”

Mrs. Garrow stepped hastily over to the tombstone. “Agatha Burkhardt?”

I nodded.

Like that, Mrs. Garrow sat down in front of the tombstone. Then she scooted forward to lay her hands on the letters.

A small sound left Ma’s lips. Then she said: “Are
you
Mrs. Garrow?”

Mrs. Garrow nodded, her eyes never leaving the tombstone. She ran her hands down each side of its curve. Then she leaned her forehead against the tombstone and slammed the ground with a closed fist.

Ma sat down and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Garrow. In the dim light of that smoky September afternoon, Ma and Mrs. Garrow sat for some time.

It was an accident. Three days after she got the dress from Agatha, Darlene met Morgy Harrison up Old Line Road at a wide, grassy spot with purple-gray boulders. From that location, a person saw the Wisconsin River winding its way below, and the rocky bluffs beyond, scruffy with pine, hemlock, and oak. It was a romantic place tucked in the bluffs. Darlene knew it well because this spot hid her father’s cave
.

At the sound of Morgy’s horse, Darlene stepped out in the open so the first thing he’d see was her in that ball gown. It did the trick. Morgy gasped. The afternoon sun seemed to set sparks of fire racing through her russet hair. And that dress! It was a living deep blue-green interwoven with hints of color (midnight, robin-egg blue, evergreen, gold) that surfaced and submerged as Darlene twirled and twirled. That day Darlene seemed like some sort of divine being to Morgy. When he met her eyes, she grinned, pleased with his response
.

But then Mr. Garrow walked into the clearing with packs full of his “business” (as they called it). Darlene hadn’t expected him
.

As soon as he laid eyes on Darlene, Mr. Garrow’s face purpled
.
He set his rifle down, placed his packs beside it, and began to yell at Darlene. Morgy couldn’t hear it all, but he thought he heard something about “lying about that girl.”

“How do you think that made me look?” Mr. Garrow said several times. He began to circle Darlene
.

Darlene could give as good as she got. She yelled back and began to walk. They circled each other
.

Morgy hopped off his horse and ran to split the two of them up. Darlene twisted free of his grip and shoved him aside. Morgy decided to let them go at it. He knew they were both hotheaded, but that they loved one another
.

It might have all turned out well, except that Mr. Garrow caught hold of that dress. In his grasp, a section of the skirt ripped free
.

Darlene became still. She ran her hand slowly over the rip
.

“You can repair that,” Mr. Garrow said weakly. He offered up the fabric
.

Darlene slapped his hand away. “I am sick to death of you and Ma telling me what I can and cannot do.” Darlene walked over to her father’s packs and reached for the rifle
.

And this is an important fact: The packs had shifted. They’d rolled over the rifle. Now the rifle lay barrel out, under the packs. Darlene put her hand on the barrel. “I am leaving with Morgy today. You can’t stop us.”

“It’s loaded …,” Mr. Garrow yelled
.

It is unwise to pull a gun by its barrel, but Darlene pulled. When the gun stuck, she wrapped both hands around the barrel and tugged harder
.

The gun went off
.

In the next moment, Mr. Garrow gathered Darlene up in his arms
.

“That’s what Morgy told me. My husband doted on that girl. Called her his darling,” Mrs. Garrow said as she stood.

Ma got up with Mrs. Garrow and gave her a handkerchief. Mrs. Garrow used it and continued: “My husband, Blair, made Morgy leave, told him to write a note to his family saying he’d eloped, and gave Morgy a tidy sum to do it too. I know Blair was scared of telling me.
I’m
the one thing he
is
afraid of. That fool! I’d half forgive him for the accident if he had only buried her right off. He panicked—that’s all I can think. Leaving her where animals could get at her!”

“But how did that body come to be on Miller Road?” I said.

Mrs. Garrow shook her head. “How am I to know? I can’t ask. If I go near my husband, I’ll get arrested myself. I’ve got three children.”

“Don’t you have a theory? Anything?” I said.

Mrs. Garrow shrugged. “He might have left her on Miller Road because it’s well traveled. Maybe he figured someone would see the red hair and bring the body back to us—we’re the only family with red hair. It would look like an accident, and I would never know he had anything to do with it. Morgy would be another matter, but Blair
knows how to deal with that sort of situation. It’s me he can’t figure out.”

I crossed my arms. “But
our
sheriff found that body.”

“Coincidence,” she said in a tone that suggested absolute confidence.

Ma said: “I
made
that dress, though. That’s
two
coincidences. There’s
three
if you count the similarity between the girls.”

Mrs. Garrow took this in.

Suddenly her face cracked into a wide grin. “Ha! You think my Blair is
that
clever? You’ve got a high opinion of the malefactor’s mind!” Mrs. Garrow coughed, and the cough became a scratchy, bone-rattling laugh.

Then Mrs. Garrow met my eyes. “Mrs. Harrison and I got your letters. We figured my visit would be enough of an answer.”

I said it was.

As Mrs. Garrow left, she pressed a wad of banknotes into Ma’s hand for a revised tombstone. We watched her disappear into the brown haze, and then Ma looked down at the bills in her hand. “Do I dare use these?” she said.

The money
was
counterfeit. Despite this, a new tombstone appeared in the cemetery where Agatha’s used to stand. The inscription was simple:

Ma never said a word, but I’m sure she arranged for the tombstone. Agatha’s tombstone appeared in the root cellar, words to the wall. Waste not, want not, Ma always says.

A story cannot end where there’s smoke, and where there was smoke in 1871, there came Sunday, October 8.

Remember? That was the day an inferno blazed along the shores of Lake Michigan. Every issue of the
Placid Independent
that fall (and into the winter) brought news of the Great Chicago Fire. Didn’t we all pore over newspaper pages filled with illustrations of swarms of people pushing over bridges, or of fire pluming from sinking ships on Lake Michigan and billowing from tall, tall buildings onshore? I still see the one of two girls with eyes round as plums hovering over a third girl who lay still. The numbers of Chicago homeless crept up with every report, until finally I read somewhere that one hundred thousand people were without a home.

What you didn’t hear about was the
second
fire. Yes, there were
two
distinct fires that night—one down in Chicago, and the other up along the shores of Lake Michigan in Wisconsin. As it turned out, more people died in the Wisconsin fires. We in Placid knew all about this fire because the survivors appeared at our borders.

And so began the second great migration of 1871. This time the migration was all earthbound. The survivors came, carried by oxen, horses, or wagons, or on their own two feet. They spoke of a fire so hot it split boulders, melted
metal, and wrapped trees in glass. They said those that survived had run into Lake Michigan to escape the fire. When they walked out of the lake the next morning, there were no landmarks to guide them. They did not know where they stood. They saw only miles and miles of blackened beach.

For months, our doctor was so busy with the burned that he slept in two-hour increments. Every extra space in Placid, Wisconsin, was filled: parlors became bedrooms, an empty stall became a home. A shed on Main Street that had been used to prepare and barrel pigeons had three people living in it (a small boy, an uncle, a cousin). People slept between the pews at the churches. The town hall became a makeshift one-night hotel for those needing a place to bed down before journeying on. The inns let survivors stay for free as long as the room wasn’t already booked. The Olmstead Hotel donated an entire floor to the cause. Ten people stayed in our home at various times: a girl and her mother, three farmers, two sisters, an elderly woman, a midwife, and a butcher.

For most of these survivors, Placid, Wisconsin, was only a pass-through space, not a settling place. Still, a few survivors decided to stay in Placid. They saw that their skills filled a need. Or they made friends and wanted to continue the conversation. Or they fell in love. Yes, even knee-scuffing, will-you-marry-me love happened. I tell you, near anything can come from ashes.

It’s too true that some survivors never got a chance to think of rebuilding their lives. These people breathed their
last in temporary beds. We dug them graves at Mount Zion Cemetery, put their names (if they’d been able to tell them) on markers, and paid them the respects we were able.

Every once in a while, I rode Long Ears up to the cemetery and laid flowers on those graves. I tried to remember each person’s particulars (a walk, a smile, the way they clung to a photograph). I spoke the names I knew.

“You are not in nowhere,” I told the dead.

The ones that lingered in our town, I befriended—if they’d have me. (A notorious thirteen-year-old thumb shooter isn’t to everyone’s taste.) I listened to their stories. I told my own. Some of them wished they’d passed away with their families. Some of them felt surviving meant God wanted them to do something remarkable. Whatever they thought, I wanted them to know that this small corner of Wisconsin would make a fine home.

As I did this, I thought of Ma, Aunt Cleo, the sheriff, Mr. Olmstead, and our friends and neighbors in Placid. For the most part, they’d let me back into their hearts unconditionally. I tell you, it felt good to give to others what I’d received myself.

I suppose you’re wondering, so I’ll say it: I have laid down my gun. In the end, there is nothing else for it. I speak here metaphorically because, as you know, the Springfield single-shot is in pieces. But I haven’t hunted since all this happened, and I don’t expect to hunt in the future. Truth be told, I do not find taking life—
any
life—palatable anymore. I’m well aware that it was
life
I was taking.

Nothing is a “target” anymore. Nothing is “
just
one bird.”

Nor is there any satisfaction to be had in one
less
anything—not one less father, not one less grandfather, not one less sister. Not one less cougar (though I wouldn’t mind them keeping their distance). Likewise, not one less Mr. Garrow or Bowler Hat. And not even one less fire survivor, even though they’ve taken over the parlor until all of kingdom come.

I do not even think an animal as abundant as the wild pigeon should be minus one. I say let all the earth be alive and overwhelmingly so. Let the sky be pressed to bursting with wings, beaks, pumping hearts, and driving muscles. Let it be noisy. Let it make a mess. Then let me find my allotted space. Let me feel how I bump up against every other living thing on this earth. Let me learn to spin.

One Came Home
is a work of fiction set in 1871 in south-central Wisconsin. There are a host of questions held in that simple statement. “What’s the truth?” and “What’s made up?” only scratch the surface. I’m fairly certain that all authors write historical fiction in their own way, so I’d like to describe a few of the ways I’ve used history in this story.

I began writing this story after reading a history of passenger pigeons (A. W. Schorger’s
The Passenger Pigeon
). Therefore, it seems right to start with the birds that guided my passage through 1871 Wisconsin.