One Came Home (3 page)

She spoke rapidly. Agatha told me she’d asked for tuition money for the University of Wisconsin at Madison as her Christmas present. She explained how she had offered to spend her savings, which she said was enough for the first year’s tuition. But still, Grandfather Bolte had turned her down flat, saying the only thing she’d get at the university
was a
husband
, and
that
could be found in Placid, Wisconsin, for
free
.

She wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, she lay down. I knew she wasn’t asleep—she was gripping her pillow like it was a log saving her from submersion.

When I was sure she wouldn’t say more, I lay back upset. It was no surprise that Agatha wanted to study the natural sciences, but I’d never thought that meant more than reading books and rambling through the woods to observe and sketch. I’d never considered that she’d want to learn from a teacher, or to formalize it with an official piece of paper. It was a lot of effort, and for what? It would not lead to work. Grandfather Bolte was right.

That she had enough money to go to university for one year was another thing altogether. Agatha was good at making money. She gave tours to ladies wanting to explore the river and its caves, and she sold seeds and seedlings in our store. But I had no idea she’d saved up so much money. Was it
all
in that tin box under the closet floorboard? I had never dared to look. The one time I happened to
step
on that particular board (and I swear that’s all I did), Agatha questioned me for an hour.

No, I was not in favor of Agatha’s going to university, because it meant Agatha would leave Placid and me. Happily, Agatha did not speak of going again. I thought her craving for education was cured.

*  *  *

On Christmas Day, Grandfather Bolte gave me a present that made me yelp happily and hang on his neck. He told me I could take whatever ammunition I needed from the store as long as I showed him what I shot. Agatha wasn’t so lucky. Her present was a set of embroidery hoops, small to large. I do not know how she did it, but Agatha acted genuinely thankful.

Then Ma gave Agatha the blue-green ball gown, and everything passed away in the presence of that lovely, lovely gown. The color in that silk was so subtle and shifting we carried the dress all around the house to see it in different light. “You can wear it at the New Year’s ball,” Ma said.

Agatha did wear it to the Olmstead Hotel New Year’s ball. She made turn after turn around the ballroom in Billy McCabe’s arms while wearing that dress. Agatha’s auburn hair shimmered, and the crystal from the chandelier flecked Billy and Agatha in light. And that dress? The blue-green color caught your eye the way a hummingbird does: flicking in front of you, capturing your attention, then—suddenly—disappearing. As I watched Agatha spin around the ballroom, I heard my neighbors bet that by the end of January, Agatha Burkhardt would be engaged to marry Billy McCabe. I hated that idea. Marrying Billy was worse than attending the University of Wisconsin because Billy planned to homestead in Minnesota. Minnesota was so far away Agatha might never come home again.

*  *  *

Perhaps Billy asked her
, I thought as I loaded ammunition into the Springfield.
But if he did, she must have said no. There were no engagements announced in January
. I lined up the rifle, pulled the trigger, and nailed the brown bottle directly in the middle of the label. It disintegrated.

I loaded another cartridge, took aim, and shot. I repeated the process again and again. Every once in a while, I imagined mourners gathering in our home, asking after me. I was glad to be far away, sitting by the river with a rifle nestled in my shoulder. One by one, I let the bright, crisp sound of shattering bottles clear my head.

I shot the last bottle, set the gun down, and went to line more up.

As I sat on my stump, I noticed my list. It said “For Journey” and nothing else. I picked up the pencil and wrote the one thing I knew I needed. Then I let the pencil drop and laid my hand on the rifle.

While I fired at bottles, the last good conversation I’d had with Agatha came to mind. It was the middle of May. This was after I’d seen her kiss Billy and ten days before she left. In light of what happened later, the conversation seemed rife with portent, but I did not see it then.

Agatha had been giving me the silent treatment for my big mouth, but that night:

“Georgie?”

Agatha’s voice. I pivoted to see.

Agatha smiled. She patted the bed. I knew what that
meant, even though she hadn’t done it since I was eight or so. I jumped into the center and arranged myself cross-legged. She climbed up and kneeled behind me. She undid my braids. Then she rested one hand on the crown of my head and used the other to drag a brush through my hair. Tingling ran through my body. I closed my eyes. It was going to be all right now. She’d forgiven me. I knew it.

“There was once a wise old man who lived by himself in a forest lodge …,” Agatha began.

In my mind, tree trunks lined up side by side and branches wove into a roof.

“In the afternoons, the man liked to sit and think. He thought about everything—animals, trees, birds, insects, plants, and people. He thought about how things worked, and why things happened, and where each living creature belonged in this world. Because he spent so much time thinking, he became the wisest person in his village.…”

“This is a story about you,” I crowed. Agatha never could tell a story that wasn’t somehow about herself, and Agatha
could
go on and on about the natural world.

Agatha tugged harder on the brush. “It’s from the Seneca. Most of it, anyway.”

I pretended I hadn’t said a thing and sat stock-still. The brush resumed its slow descent through my hair.

“One afternoon, as this man sat thinking, a white pigeon flew into his lodge and landed on the man’s stool. Now, this was no ordinary pigeon. Instead, it was a messenger sent from
another people, much greater than the wise old man and those in his village. The old man watched the pigeon, waiting. The white pigeon blinked at him with one eye, twitched, blinked at him with the other eye, and then spoke: ‘As a token of respect, the Council of Birds has decided to give a gift from my kind, the pigeons. Each spring, man will seek the wild pigeons. They will take some of the young and leave the adults. In summer, fall, and winter, man will leave the pigeons alone.’

“The wise old man bowed and then rushed out of his lodge to tell the people. When he returned, the white pigeon was gone, except for one white feather that rested in the middle of the floor. The old man picked it up and studied it. As he did so, he saw another feather near a window ledge. He walked to that feather and picked it up, and saw a feather just outside. And so the wise old man walked from one feather to the next right out of his village. Feather by feather he picked out his path.”

Agatha paused.

I turned around and blurted what I’d been thinking: “When we own the store, you can leave anytime. You can do your studying. You’ll have to check with me to make sure I’ve got help, but after that you can leave. I won’t stop you.”

My intention was to show her how bighearted, how magnanimous, I’d become. Yes, I’d told Mr. Olmstead, and perhaps I did feel bad about doing it, but it was for the best.
She’d spoken to me and brushed my hair; I thought I was giving something back.

Agatha pulled my hair into a braid—roughly.

“Ouch!” I put my hand to the back of my head.

“Nice of you to
let
me study. Maybe I wanted to get married to Mr. Olmstead.” She tied off the braid and let it fall against my back.

“Then you shouldn’t have kissed Billy McCabe!” The words sprung from my lips.

Agatha’s face reddened. “You should have talked to me first. Not gone straight to Mr. Olmstead.”

“It was the
right
thing to do,” I said.

She smacked the mattress once, hard. “Hair done. Time for bed.”

“Agatha!” I said. But, as ordered, I got under the covers. Agatha joined me—wordlessly, of course.

There was a long pause, then Agatha sighed and turned to face me. She grabbed my hand. “Listen to me, Georgie. I love you. No matter where I am, or what I’m doing, I always love you.”

I blinked, confused. “I know. I love you too.”

Agatha squeezed my hand and began to roll over. But before she turned away from me, I started in: “It won’t be so bad.… A living is as good an inheritance as anyone’s got. I’d make a fine partner.”

Agatha groaned. “All you do is parrot Grandfather Bolte. I’m going to sleep.”

“You’d be a
full
partner. I’m making you an offer. More than equitable too, given how much you like to wander off.”

“You’re thirteen years old …,” said Agatha, moaning. She wrapped her head in her pillow.

I leaned over her padded head and spoke to her nose. “I did the work of an eighteen-year-old
and
a thirteen-year-old while you were busy with Mr. Olmstead.” The entire situation made me want to spit.

“My sister, Georgie, worked so, so hard. Let’s go to sleep,” said Agatha. She grabbed at the covers and yanked them up under her chin.

“I had to scrub that porch of pigeon droppings. And stock every other item.
And
help with the customers. Ma and Grandfather Bolte wore me out for you.”

At this, Agatha huffed. “You liked it. You
love
that store. You are a store owner through and through. And I’ve never seen anyone take to numbers like you do,” she said.

“What’s wrong with liking numbers? I’ve got a head for them. Which means maybe I shouldn’t be spending all day scrubbing defecation off pine boards! You should have seen my knees. Cracked up like the Sahairy Desert. It wasn’t fair,” I said.

Agatha laughed. “What desert? Say it again.”

“Sahairy Desert,” I said.

“Sa-har-a,” she said.

“It looks like ‘hairy’ in the books.”

“Does not!” she said.

“If you read it fast enough, it does! Anyway, you
understood
what I meant. You just made me say it so you could look well-read. That’s prideful,” I said. I couldn’t maintain anger, though. There was Agatha grinning at me. I fought a smile, lost, and grinned back.

“They would have made you scrub lime no matter,” said Agatha.

“Maybe. A deal? Spinsters? Together?” I held out a hand.

“You never give up.”

She did not take my hand. But all was well. “Glad you’re staying,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“What did you say to Billy that day? He looked so pleased with himself. He whistled and whooped.…”

“Georgie, shhh,” she said, and rolled over.

“Please,”
I said to her back.

“Good. Night.”

She would not tell me more. I rested my feet against Agatha’s calves. She didn’t resist the cold of my toes. And like that—my feet on her calves—I closed my eyes. I thought,
From here on out, the situation can only get better
.

Of course, it did not get better.

Ten days after telling the story of the white pigeon, my sister, Agatha, ran off. The date was Thursday, May 25. If the pigeons left with a great clapping sound, my sister slipped off with no sound at all.

*  *  *

My family lived in ignorance for at least two days, mostly due to what we knew of Agatha’s character. On Thursday, we thought Agatha had gone on a walk after running that blacksmith’s errand she’d mentioned. On Friday morning, when Agatha hadn’t returned or slept in her bed, we thought she had spent the night in one of those caves on the Wisconsin River. Though it did not excuse the behavior (chastisement awaited), she’d done this sort of thing before, and Agatha had experienced the hardship of a broken attachment with Mr. Olmstead. Being outdoors was the only thing that made Agatha feel better.

Saturday—the third day—worry set in. These worries centered on mishaps: losing her way (unlikely), twisting her ankle (possible), getting stuck in a cave (plausible). Grandfather Bolte and Sheriff McCabe set out to search Agatha’s haunts. They searched that day and the next (Sunday).

It was on Monday that thoughts of the tin box under the closet floorboard began to beleaguer me. If Agatha found I’d touched it, I’d be in trouble. But it was the only way I’d know, and I didn’t think anybody else knew the location of Agatha’s savings. After a silent and solemn lunch with Ma, I opened Agatha’s closet and pried up the floorboard. As soon as I touched the tin, I knew. The tin rested too lightly in my hand.

I went straight to Ma. “Her money was in this. She’s run away.” I held out the empty tin.

Ma’s glance ricocheted off the bottom of the tin and
landed on me. “Do you have
any
idea where she might have gone?”

Unexpectedly, I did. “Madison? The university? She was saving for tuition.”

“Yes,” Ma said.

Ma and I quickly searched the whole house to see what else was missing. Both Ma’s carpetbag and the blue-green dress were gone from the back closet. Then Ma sent me off to see the stationmaster. If Agatha had boarded a train to Madison, he would know. But the stationmaster claimed he had not seen my sister board any of the trains leaving town. Still, a lot of people were leaving town now that the pigeons had left, and Ma and I thought it possible that Agatha had escaped the stationmaster’s notice.

Then Grandfather Bolte and the sheriff returned with news. That Monday afternoon Grandfather Bolte had run across an itinerant field hand who said he’d seen Agatha go off with three pigeoners, a married couple and a single man, in a wobbly buckboard. As far as the field hand knew, they had headed southeast toward Prairie du Chien. Prairie du Chien was not in the direction of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. In fact, it was west of Madison by at least one hundred miles.

On the sixth day—Tuesday, May 30—Sheriff McCabe pursued these pigeoners. He ended up in Dog Hollow, Wisconsin. One week later, on Tuesday, June 6, Sheriff McCabe returned to Placid with a body.

*  *  *

I shot the last bottle and set the gun down. I picked up a pigeon feather, ran my thumb across the edge, and thought of the story of the wise old man and the white pigeon. “Feather by feather he picked out his path,” Agatha had said.