The Curse of the Buttons (8 page)

Ike watched her disappear into a sea of white coats and white dresses. A man with one leg came up behind him and whacked Ike with his crutch. “Give a veteran some respect here, son.”

Ike jumped aside and opened the door for him, watching him hobble inside. There were several veterans in town missing arms or legs from previous wars. Ike touched his own leg. What if Leon or Jim had lost a limb? He wandered down the street, stopping to read a poster nailed to the wall of Cutts & Simms Umbrella Sales and Repair.

Fifty dollars! But more than the money, a horse. Fine jet-black. Fifteen hands high. Where a fellow could go on a Morgan of fine carriage. Barfoot had been old always, it seemed, and truth be told, Ike longed to feel speed. He looked into the street as if the horse would just appear. He turned back to study the notice again, and his eyes roamed to the next poster over.

Runaway from the subscriber, Clark County, Mo. Negro woman named MARY, and two boys.

He turned away. These posters made his stomach tighten. What made one colored person a slave or criminal and another free? There were colored people in Keokuk. If they went across the river into Missouri, would they be enslaved? And if Iowa was a Free State, why were they on wanted posters? It was easier not to think about it. He forced himself to read the horse poster again, but his eyes wandered back.

Runaway. Run away. Wasn’t that what he wanted to do? And was it wrong to run away when there was a reason, like going south to join the army? To design destiny?

A hand came from behind Ike’s back and tore the poster smartly off the wall. It was Albirdie’s father, with Albirdie coming up behind him. He rolled the poster up quickly and tucked it inside his vest.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Isaac,” said Reverend Woolley.

“Which lesson?” asked Ike, avoiding Albirdie’s eyes. The less chance he had of spilling his plan with Milton and Morris the better.

They were interrupted by the looming presence of Mr. Cutts and Mr. Simms, who’d stumbled out of Ohmer’s Saloon across the street. They stunk like liquor and sweat and had guns hanging from belts around their ample waists.

“Blame fools,” Reverend Woolley said under his breath. “Sunny-day nuisances.” He took a step back. Ike and Albirdie stepped back, too.

“Gentlemen,” Reverend Woolley said coolly.

“Padre,” snarled Cutts, the taller of the two. “I believe you got something what belongs to us.”

“That’s right,” said Simms. “It’s illegal to harbor contraband.”

“It’s a poster, not a person,
sir,
” said Reverend Woolley coldly. “And this here’s a public wall.”

“Aid,” amended Cutts. “It’s illegal to
aid
a fugitive. Fine of one thousand dollars or six months in jail.”

“We won’t hurt her,” said Simms, sounding suddenly reasonable. “Have you found her?”

“She’s got to go back to her rightful owner. Her and all of them sort. It’s the law,” said Cutts.

The Reverend patted his shirt. “And you’re her rightful owner? Here in Keokuk, Iowa? Land of the free?”

“Not us, per se,” said Simms. “But we got friends who are bounty hunters. They are hired by that gentleman what’s named on the document you have stolen.”

“Ah,” said the Reverend. “So it’s about the money, is it?”

“No,” said Cutts. “It’s about justice.”

“And justice is done. Good day, gentlemen,” the Reverend said as if they’d simply said,
Fine weather for a walk.
He stepped smartly around them and off the sidewalk onto the street.

“What are you staring at, kid?” Cutts growled at Ike, and huffed off after the Reverend.

“Come over later?” Albirdie asked Ike.

Ike looked away. He concentrated on his plan with Milton and Morris. “Maybe. Probably not.” Where was Susannah?

“Oh,” said Albirdie flatly. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then Albirdie followed her father. Mr. Jenkins stood in the doorway of the barbershop. He inclined his head to Reverend Woolley and Albirdie, then stepped inside. Cutts and Simms walked a few paces behind.

Ike glanced at the empty spot on the wall. He remembered seeing Mr. Jenkins at the church the night the
Jeannie Deans
arrived, and what Milton and Morris had said about the men at the junkyard. Could Albirdie’s father be arrested? Albirdie, too?

“Ike!” It was Susannah at last.

“Now what?” he said, running toward her. “When do we find Kate? I need to get home.”

“We did!” Susannah said. She held up a book triumphantly.
NOTES ON NURSING: What It Is and What It Is Not.
“I did. And now there’s this. I’m going to study at home and take the test when Kate does. She’s going to help me. And once I’ve passed, what is Mother going to say?”

“But what did Kate
say
?”

“About what?”

“Leon’s note!”

“Oh, that. I gave it to her, then we talked about this.” Susannah opened it and started reading while they walked.

“
Disease is a reparative process.
Well, that’s something, but I need more. Rules. Tools.”

“But did she say something back? Does she have a note for Leon in return? I should send him her reply.”

“Leon,” Susannah scoffed. “Kate does not have time for the likes of Leon Button. We have things to do, Kate and I.”

“What will I tell Leon?” Ike asked.

“Tell him Kate is considering his correspondence with veracity. He won’t know what you mean, but he won’t want to let you know that.”

“But what will I mean?” said Ike.

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you see?” said Susannah. “Now, walk in front of me and tell me if I’m going to run into anything. I’ve got reading to do.” And she walked directly behind Ike the rest of the way, reading, and quoting out loud anything she thought he would want to know.

Ike woke to the sound of girls’ voices chattering and pans clanking. He opened his eyes and looked directly into a new sack of flour.

Like the last eleven mornings, it all came back to him gradually. This cot. This pantry bedroom. His father, brothers, boy cousins, and uncles in Missouri, all sleeping in tents, their belongings in packs, or lying in the brush, bleeding. His belongings were stacked in the shallow space beneath him, and the hardest thing facing him was avoiding Albirdie. He’d prod Milton and Morris today.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Aunt Betsy thundered when he stepped into the kitchen. “We’ve et, but bless your tired little heart, you slept right on through. We saved you plenty. Plenty!” He ducked out of her embrace, but she grabbed him and gave him another squeeze. “Grace Gorman sends word that all Keokuk men are intact. Happy day.”

The babies squealed from their chairs, where they were secured with dish towels. They held out their arms to Ike.

“Come play with us!” the girls called from the parlor.

Leon and Jim were fine. And they were not picking up babies or entertaining princesses or being squeezed by aunties. Neither were Milton and Morris.

“Not now. I’ve got to take care of Barfoot,” Ike told the babies. “Horsey.” He whinnied and they giggled and clapped.

Barfoot had wandered across the alley and was nibbling on the tops of the early carrots coming up in the Hinmans’ vegetable patch.

“I’m trying to cultivate produce to feed my family, young man,” Mrs. Hinman called out the window. “Has your mother prepared the house for our meeting?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Ike pulled Barfoot away. “Are Milton and Morris home?”

“No, they are not. My sons have important business to attend to today. They’ve not got time to loaf about like some boys do.”

“What business?” Ike asked, but she had already turned away from the window.

“Come on home, old boy,” he said to Barfoot. “You’re a nuisance, know that?” What he wouldn’t give for a horse like the one on the poster. Probably the cavalry had horses like that. If the war lasted long enough, he would join the cavalry. For now, the infantry would do. There’d be no retreating, then.

Jane and LouLou hollered at Ike out the open window. “Mother says —” But Ike cut them off.

“I’ll be back!” he said. “Come on, Barfoot.” Milton and Morris could be at the river looking for a boat right now.

Barfoot set out at his own stubborn pace toward the river as Ike leaned forward, urging him on.

Four men passed on tall black horses, riding fast. Hooves pounded like a full drum corps in parade. Their flanks shone as their galloping muscles rippled.

“Hurry, Barfoot,” he said, digging his heels into Barfoot’s side. “Gallop like they’re galloping. Giddyup!”

But Barfoot plodded along, slow as ever.

“Fine, then,” Ike muttered.

He slipped off Barfoot’s back and ran ahead, cutting over to High Street to avoid the church and the chance of seeing Albirdie. He ran until his lungs hurt and his sweaty shirt clung to his chest, ran as if he were chasing rebel soldiers. He flopped down on the grass under an oak on Water Street. He looked up and saw Barfoot actually trotting toward him. A slow trot, but a trot all the same.

“Barfoot,” Ike exclaimed, and ran to him. “Old boy! See? That’s the way!”

He led Barfoot to the water and let him drink. Then they walked along the rocky shore. The Mississippi here was like an elbow, with Keokuk tucked inside it. No sign of Milton and Morris.

Ike gazed across the river. “That’s Illinois,” he told Barfoot. “And over there, Missouri. That’s where the rest of the Button men are.”

They ambled a bit farther and stopped where the bank went up steep, thick with trees and underbrush. Ike sat on the ground and they watched the sky for eagles.

“Hawk,” he said. “Pheasant.” A small boat passed with three boys aboard. Not Milton and Morris. They waved as the current carried them slowly downriver.

“They’ve got a boat,” Ike said as Barfoot wandered into the shady protection of the trees.

A pair of stout men on tall stallions meandered down the shore. They had guns across their saddles and were looking around as if something or someone would jump out of the bushes at any moment. Ike walked over to admire their horses as they passed.

“Get out of our way, rascal,” the first man snarled. Ike watched them go, pretending they were enemy soldiers and he was with the Iowa First.

He loaded his slingshot, took aim at the hat of the rider closest to the water, and fired. The stone arched, then dropped too soon, striking the ground alongside one of the horses. It reared and Ike ducked behind a tree.

“Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe,” he recited. When he got to
Polk
he peered out. All clear. The men had controlled the horse and continued on without looking back. Ike stepped into the open and took a few paces toward the river.

If this were real war, those men would have chased him. If this were real war, he could put all his skills to use: tree climbing, finding his way after being lost, carrying heavy objects.

But the real war was far from here. If he didn’t get south soon, it would be over before he got to take part.

Ike stuck his slingshot in his back waistband and looked for Barfoot. He paused to pick a handful of berries, stepping into the trees and brambles. “Barfoot!”

Ike whistled, then stopped to listen. There was a rustling farther on. He hopped up on a boulder and jumped to a rotting log, moving stealthily, careful not to make a noise. If this were the South, he’d be tracking the rebs through brush and trees. A twig snapped just ahead.