Pioneer Days was an annual event that drew a huge crowd, not only from Carter County but from the surrounding areas, including South Dakota and Wyoming. In 1920, nearly a thousand people made the trip, and we expected about the same the next year, despite the huge number of homesteaders that had packed up their belongings and moved on.
The Homestead Act and a vigorous campaign by the railroads had brought hordes of adventurous souls from the east to our little corner of Montana. And for a while, the land had played a cruel trick. From 1910 to 1917, all the propaganda that had been spread about this area’s fertile soil was supported by record rainfall, as well as milder winters. A man named Campbell proposed a ridiculous theory that abundant years were progressive, with the abundance increasing each year. There were plenty of people naïve, or perhaps dreamy, enough to believe it, and the evidence had even the skeptics considering that he might be onto something.
So the honyockers rumbled out in massive numbers, made a few dollars, and while they carried on about how generous the land was, those of us who knew better could do nothing but nod and hope that once Montana showed its true face, it would be gentle about it.
Instead, in 1918 and 1919, we suffered through less than ten inches of moisture. That was hard enough on the people who were just hanging in there. But it was actually the winters that caught our new Montanans off guard. They were willing to work hard, and we rarely heard complaints about having to pound away at the rock-hard gumbo just to break a furrow or two. What they weren’t prepared for was snow piled as high as their heads, or cold air that froze their tears to their faces. They didn’t expect to spend days at a time just sitting, waiting for the subzero temperatures to break. And they didn’t expect the devastating effect of being trapped in your own home—the cabin fever, the loneliness. Scores of banks—nearly half—all over Montana and the Dakotas had closed. The population of Carter County had decreased by a quarter. So we did what our people had always done during troubled times. We gathered.
Dad covered the two miles from our ranch to Albion quickly, parking the pickup amongst the herd of similar mud-splattered vehicles, and we piled out. Albion consisted of only three buildings—the school, the post office, which also had a small store and rooms in the back for the postmaster-storekeeper, and the town hall. But the buildings weren’t even visible in the midst of several massive canvas tents. We entered a sea of hats, bonnets, and oiled hair. Bob and Muriel tore past me, toward the tent where the carnival games were set up. Muriel had a bow stretching out behind her head like wings, and it had already started to come undone.
Scanning the crowd, I spotted a bright yellow shirt, like a lemon drop in a bowl of chocolates. Jack was playing horseshoes with Art Walters, Gary Glasser’s son Steve, and a fellow I’d never seen. I headed over, hoping that Rita would also be in the vicinity. Despite all reason, my attraction to Rita had become almost uncontrollable. I could barely speak when she was around, but instead of trying to avoid her, I migrated in her direction at the slightest hint that she was nearby. As I approached the horseshoe pits, I spotted Rita from the corner of my eye.
“Who’s winning all the money here?” I asked the horseshoe pitchers.
Jack tipped his hat and tossed a shoe, laying it about two inches from the stake.
“Does that answer your question?” Art asked, smiling.
“Hi, Blake.” The singsong greeting tickled my ears from behind, and my head went light. I turned.
“Oh, hello, Rita.” I crouched down next to her, acting surprised to see her, my face immediately filling with blood.
“You going to play some baseball today?” she asked.
“That’s probably the only reason he showed up,” Jack said.
I swallowed, smiling shyly. Despite the fact that I was completely leery of Jack, we had settled into a fairly peaceable existence. And the main reason was Rita. From the moment she stepped off the train, and she and Jack exchanged vows, Rita had won the hearts of my family. And the effect she had on Jack was fairly dramatic. Jack built a small house for the two of them as soon as weather permitted. And Rita showed a decorative touch, making the tiny cabin a comfortable haven from our house when things got testy. The only drawback was that Rita loved cats, and she brought two of the mousers from the barn into their home, not paying any attention to their genders. Soon the place was overrun with cats.
Among the members of my family, I was the most skeptical toward my brother, but after a year of Jack working harder than he ever had, and even showing signs of sociable behavior, even I had to admit he’d changed. Still I wasn’t convinced that it would last. For one thing, he had developed an obsession with the get-rich schemes that were often advertised in the Eagle, or in catalogues he’d pick up in town. Jack ordered pamphlets and books by the score, and it seemed that every week he had a new plan.
First he ordered a case of some kind of medicine—an ointment that smelled of oranges and supposedly provided instant relief for everything from arthritis to yellow fever. We all tried it, of course. I rubbed it on a knee I banged against the corral one morning, and it didn’t do a damn thing. But Jack pressed several people into buying the stuff, and before long he’d ordered two more cases. I don’t know whether he ever sold another bottle, but it wasn’t long before he was on to the next scheme. He bought two cases of yo-yos, apparently overlooking the fact that most people could barely afford food for their kids, much less toys. He became a representative for a wool company, selling clothing and blankets. This was one arrangement that showed promise, but it seemed that even in the cases where he started to show a profit, Jack lost interest before he could benefit, moving on to something new.
That day, he had what he was sure would be the breakthrough item. He had ordered four boxes—ten in each box—of lightning rods. He was going to set up a table and sell them that afternoon.
To the rest of the family, Jack’s interest in these schemes was a mild annoyance. It seemed to be wasted money in their eyes. But to me, it represented something more, something fundamentally unchanged about Jack. To me, it meant that at his core, he still didn’t want to be here. That something about life on the ranch would never be comfortable to him. I suspected that his commitment to the ranch was only temporary.
Jack’s return, and the events that occurred while he was gone, had also left me feeling very differently about being on the ranch, and about devoting my life to it. I had written a tentative letter to Mr. Murphy, the baseball scout, telling him that I was considering taking him up on his offer. He wrote back immediately, saying he would welcome the opportunity to give me a tryout. But I put him off, giving him whatever excuse I could think of. The real reason, of course, was that I couldn’t just up and tell everyone that I was going to St. Louis to try out for the Cardinals. I had to have a reason to go down there. But the primary mental barrier was that I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I didn’t know if I was any good. I managed to talk my neighbors into letting me pitch in a few of the local games. And I pitched fairly well. But I had a feeling that in order to make an impression on Mr. Murphy, I would have to be much better than anyone out here.
“I heard they’re going to ask you to pitch today, Blake,” Steve Glasser said.
“Yeah?” I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my enthusiasm, my voice rising.
Jack chuckled. “The way Blake’s been pounding down the wall in our barn, they better let him pitch or I’ll have to drive him home right now.”
I felt myself blush, trying not to look at Rita, as I could feel her eyes on me.
“You guys finished putting up hay yet?” Steve knocked his horseshoes together, cleaning the dirt off, then threw a nice spinning arch that landed like mud just short of the stake. Steve had one eye that was a little off center, staring absently off to one side. He aimed his good eye toward the stake. “Is that a point?”
“Don’t think so,” Jack said, bending over the pit.
“We got most of our hay up, but that’s not saying much,” I said.
“You’re right about that,” the stranger said.
“We haven’t met, have we?” I stood and offered my hand. “Blake Arbuckle.”
“Lawrence Andrews.” Lawrence shook hands as if it was the most important thing he could possibly be doing at that moment, looking me square in the eye. I felt as though we’d just completed an important business transaction. He stepped back and settled his broad, bony hands onto his hips in an effort to look relaxed.
“So you two are brothers, are you?”
Jack and I nodded, not looking at each other.
I asked Lawrence Andrews the most common question heard around our county with so many newcomers around. “Where you from?”
“Nebraska, but we live just the other side of Belle now, near the river.”
“Quite a trip from here,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I left yesterday afternoon and stayed at the Roberts road ranch last night.”
It was Lawrence’s turn to pitch, and he planted his left foot even with the stake, stepped stiffly out with his right, then swung his right arm back and then forward without the slightest bend of the elbow, like a pendulum. It seemed that none of the joints halfway down any of his limbs worked. The wobbly shoe landed on its side then rolled away from the pit. It was, without a doubt, the least graceful act I ever witnessed. From the corner of my eye, I could feel Jack’s gaze on me, and I had to turn my head, knowing that I would have to stifle one of those explosive bursts of laughter if I glanced his way.
“How is that road ranch doing, anyway?” I asked. “I wouldn’t think they’d be getting much business with everyone either broke or buying vehicles.”
Lawrence tossed his second shoe, this one soaring with less wobble but no better results. “As a matter of fact, not too well. They’re talking about buying more land, going back to ranching.” He stepped away from the pit, surveying his tosses with a calculating expression, as if he might figure out what he did wrong if he studied it long enough. “Or they might move to town. They were in Oregon for almost a year after Sophie’s husband passed on. So they’re having a hard time getting back into the routine anyhow.”
“Sophie’s husband?”
Lawrence nodded. “Cancer.” He brushed his hands together, then looked them over. He spotted a smudge on the edge of his palm, and he licked his thumb and rubbed the spot clean. Then he took a sudden, almost threatening step toward me. A flicker of a smile flashed across his face. “I’m going to marry her,” he said.
Lawrence came so close to me that I had to stiffen my muscles to prevent myself from stepping backward, and the others stopped what they were doing and turned toward Lawrence. We were not so much surprised by the announcement as by the peculiarity of its delivery. My first instinct was to ask whether Sophie knew about this plan, but I had a feeling Lawrence wouldn’t get the joke. He was so proud.
“Look, Blake.” Lawrence held his horseshoes out. “Why don’t you take over for me here? I’m not much good at this anyway. And I want to go see what’s cooking.”
“All right.” I took the shoes, feeling a sudden admiration for Lawrence’s modesty. “Nice meeting you, Lawrence. And congratulations.”
The others offered Lawrence good wishes.
“Thanks, fellas,” he said.
I watched Lawrence, his long gangly frame teetering like a newborn colt’s through the crowd. “Have you ever seen a prouder groom-to-be?” I asked.
Art Walters, who had been silent since the announcement, looked from the side of his eyes at me. “That fella is in for trouble,” he said.
We all smiled, a bit uncomfortably, knowing that Art’s one attempt at marriage had fallen short of a year. “Why’s that, Art?”
“Any man who’s that worshipful of his bride is gonna be gathering eggs before the ink is dry on the marriage license,” he said.
We all laughed.
Art sniffed. “You can laugh, but take my word on that. Just wait and see.” And with that, Art tossed a perfect ringer.
It was an ideal day for the fair. The temperature topped out at eighty degrees, with no wind. The mosquitoes were light. I bathed in the heat, playing horseshoes for a while before partaking in the tents bursting with homemade food. I wandered among the displays of livestock and children’s art and always, always, maintained a vigilant awareness of where Rita was. I couldn’t help it. Jack had even teased me about it on occasion, accusing me of being lovesick. He had no idea how right he was.
I noticed the endearing tilt of her head as she listened to my mother tell a story, and the way she relished a leg of fried chicken, or a piece of rhubarb pie. I noticed the elegant movements of her hands, no matter what she was doing. Even wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, Rita had a graceful air.
“You ready to play some ball, Blake?”
I dropped my horseshoe and followed Jack toward the two baseball fields that several of us had carved out of the sagebrush. We had stuffed six flour sacks with sand for the bases, and Steve Glasser cut a couple of wooden home plates. He sank them into the ground back-to-back, a little off center, so two games could be played in different directions without interfering with each other. He then rigged a couple of canvas tarps, like sails, to prevent balls from scooting past the catcher onto the other field.
There were coin tosses to decide which teams would play, and we ended up drawing Belle Fourche, while Capitol and Camp Crook took the other field. Our little community, which was about a fifth the size of Belle, had never beaten them that any of us could remember, so we stormed the field with a resolve to change history. I took my position at third base, and Jack started out catching.
Ever since I can remember, every baseball game between two of the communities out here starts out with an air of easy banter, with everyone acting as if they don’t really give a damn who wins or loses. But nobody’s really fooling anyone. The polite chatter usually lasts an inning or two; then the jaws set, the eyes narrow, and the spoken word takes on a harder edge.
Belle Fourche scored three runs against us in the first inning. We answered with three of our own on a solid, bases-loaded triple by Jack. And we scored two more in the second when Gary Glasser hit a grounder between the legs of Lawrence Andrews, who was as awkward in the field as he’d been in the horseshoe pits.
After Teddy Teagarten, Belle Fourche’s blacksmith, hit a ball over everyone’s head with two runners on, Belle Fourche led by a run, and our pitcher surrendered the ball, which took five minutes to find, to me. I trotted in from third base, and took a few deep breaths while I warmed up. I nodded to the next hitter.
I felt as if the desire of our entire community was being funneled toward me, and I discovered that I liked the responsibility. I liked the pressure. But in the fifth, my determination to live up to these expectations took over, and I started throwing too hard. I walked the first two batters, bouncing several pitches in the dirt. I took a short break, walking behind the mound, breathing deep, and when I returned to the rubber, I looked up to see Lawrence Andrews at the plate. He had shown little promise with the bat, so I felt myself relax a little. My first pitch to him was a good curveball, screaming toward the middle of the plate. Lawrence took a big swing, but when the ball broke down and away, he missed completely with a twirl that looked more like ballet than baseball. His bat was tipped at an angle, toward the sky, and one leg kicked up behind him. I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling as I took the throw from Jack.
I took a little something off the next pitch, and lost control of it, bouncing the ball a foot in front of the plate. The runners moved up one base, now standing on second and third. Jack held up his palm, encouraging me to relax, and I tried to talk myself calm before throwing again. The ball sailed toward the inside corner, and Lawrence twirled toward it. Somehow, the bat plunked its target, and the ball squirted along the bumpy ground, bouncing back and forth like a jackrabbit, toward Steve at shortstop. He crouched, but the ball caught the nub end of what had been a scrub of sagebrush. The ball bounded into left field, and both runners scored as Lawrence loped to first. In his excitement, he rounded the bag, looking bewildered about what he should do next. His pause gave our left fielder time to throw a strike to the first baseman, who tagged Lawrence on the thigh. Lawrence trotted off the field with a huge grin, not the least bit discouraged about getting thrown out. The Belle Fourche crowd was delirious, clapping him on the back and ruffling his oiled hair.
I took a deep breath, got my rhythm back, and retired the next two batters, striking out the last one. But with those two runs, we came to bat behind by one. Still, I was excited. The competition, the energy from the crowd, it all felt good. I was pitching well, and I knew that Lawrence’s hit was a fluke. As I ran off the field, I glanced over at the crowd and saw Rita, who was clapping, and smiling at me. She waved when she saw me looking at her, and it made my heart swell a little.
“What the hell happened there?” Jack stood next to me, his face toward the ground. At first I thought he was angry, but a glance at his expression told me otherwise. He was laughing.
“I don’t think that guy could hit his chest with his hand,” he said, still laughing.
I chuckled. “Hell, his eyes weren’t even open.”
Jack spit into the dust, smiling, but his tone became businesslike again. “Yeah, well, let’s beat these guys for once, huh?”
I nodded.
“Don’t hold anything back.”
A thin coat of dust gathered over the crowd as the game moved from inning to inning with no runs scored by either team. Jack, who had moved to shortstop, made an incredible diving catch of a shot up the middle by Teagarten. And we had a good laugh when one of my pitches got past Steve and hopped over the tarp, skipping onto the other field just as the batter there hit a grounder toward the second baseman. Both balls came toward him, from different angles, and he froze as if he’d just come upon a rattler.
But the highlight of the game came in the seventh inning, when Shag Tompkins hit a long fly ball to right field. Art Walters, whose legendary status in the community had nothing to do with his athletic ability, was standing out there with his back to the game, gazing at something. We all yelled, and Art turned just in time to see the ball coming right down at his head. His hands flew up in front of his face, and the ball bounced off his palms, and ricocheted directly into the front pocket of his overalls.
Art was looking around at the ground, crouching, trying to find the ball, when he suddenly spotted the dome of dusty white in his pocket. He plucked the ball from his overalls and held it up, proud as hell, as though he’d planned it that way. Our fans cheered as if a three-month drought had broken.
Shag argued briefly that the catch couldn’t count, but he was laughing too hard to make a very convincing case for himself.
By the top of the ninth inning, I had not allowed any more runs, and we were ahead by one thanks to Jack’s second triple of the game. Belle Fourche was up with one out and a runner on second. I walked the next batter, knowing that Lawrence was up after him. I felt confident that Lawrence couldn’t repeat his earlier heroics, especially if I gave him my best curveball. So I took a deep breath, and bore down, snapping off a beauty. The ball dropped toward his shoes. Lawrence spun, his eyes clamped tightly shut. And in a miracle of almost religious proportions, the ball and the bat crossed the plate at the same moment, in the same place. A pock rang out, and the ball floated like a sick bird out over second base. Jack raced toward it and dove, but missed it by a foot. There was so much spin on the ball that it squirted past the charging center fielder. Both runners scored, and if Lawrence had run like anything other than a lame colt, he might have scored himself. But he stood with both feet on second base, too happy to care that he was perhaps the most comical sports hero in the history of Montana.
I shook my head, half angry but also amused. And as I tried to gather myself for the next batter, I caught a look from the crowd—an intense expression aimed right at me. Thinking it was Rita, I looked away immediately, knowing that a look from her right then would completely destroy my concentration. But as I wound up, my eyes quickly glanced that way again, and saw that it wasn’t Rita at all. After I threw the pitch, and the batter swung and missed, I looked over again to see the same powder-blue eyes staring at me with an unnerving allure. I knew the face was familiar, but because I hadn’t seen her for several years, it took me a second to recognize Sophie Roberts. She smiled, a smile so inviting that I blushed, quickly averting my eyes, remembering with some alarm that just a few hours before, I had learned that this woman was engaged to Lawrence Andrews. And then it occurred to me that he was standing behind me, and I realized that she wasn’t even looking at me, but at her fiancé, the hero.
The whole exchange left me flustered, and I walked that batter. Jack trotted over from short.
“Where the hell are you?” He pointed at his head. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
“I’m all right,” I said impatiently.
“Yeah?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Come on. Let’s get back to the game here.”
Jack trotted back to his position. And maybe it was his intention, but I was annoyed enough that I struck out the next two batters with six pitches, firing the ball so hard that Steve kept taking off his glove and shaking his hand.
However, we failed to score in the bottom of the ninth, and lost by one run, much to the dismay of my teammates. To come so close to beating Belle Fourche for the first time ever was disheartening, and some of the players were angry enough to go off and pout for a while.
Despite the disappointment, I was feeling pretty good. I had pitched better than ever, and I was inspired by the experience. It had been a good, close game. And I felt confident enough now that I was ready to write to Mr. Murphy and let him know that I was ready to give it a shot. Part of me wanted to run home and write the letter that afternoon.
I saw a spot of yellow approaching from the corner of my eye, and I turned to find myself facing both Jack and Rita. Rita was beaming.
“Blake, you were great!” she said.
I nodded my appreciation, not wanting to look her in the eye and risk having all the blood in my body rise up into my head. “Not quite good enough,” I said.
“Ah, hell,” Jack muttered. “That guy’s never hit a ball in his life. He just got lucky.”
“That’s right, Blake,” Rita agreed. “You were great.”
My face did turn red, and I was trying to think of something to say when an unfamiliar couple walked past us. The guy leaned toward his girlfriend, or wife, pointed at Jack with his thumb, and muttered, “That’s the guy.”
They kept walking, but Jack, after a confused glance at the guy, just pulled his mouth to one side and shook his head.
“Come on, Jack,” Rita said, pulling at his elbow. “Let’s get some food. We’ll see you later, Blake.” Jack walked away looking down, clearly chewing on what the guy had said.
I waved, standing quietly, shaking my head. But when I turned to get some food, I met the smiling face of Lawrence Andrews. His big, bony hand took mine and squeezed hard.
“Good game, Blake,” he said.
“Thanks, Lawrence. I got to admit, I didn’t think you had it in you.” I smacked him on the back.
Lawrence laughed. “Thanks for hitting the bat for me,” he said, and I found myself taking even more of a liking to him. Just then, Sophie Roberts sauntered up to his side, her head tilted toward her shoulder, one cheek rosy. She had hair the color of a crow’s feathers, and it hugged her head in tight waves, sweeping just above one eye. I nodded to her, and was shocked to see her looking at me the same way she had been during the game.
“You know Blake Arbuckle, don’t you, Sophie?” Lawrence gently placed a hand in the small of her back, and held the other hand out toward me.
“Yes, I do, although it’s been a very long time,” she said. “Nice to see you again, Blake. Nice job out there.” She held out a hand that was slender but strong. And met me with that look—the inviting, vulnerable smile. After shaking her hand, I started to pull mine back, but Sophie held it for a second longer. She finally let go, but her fingertips brushed against my palm as I backed away, and a tingle skittered up my back like a waterbug.
“Thank you, Sophie,” I said, blushing. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Lawrence just told me this morning.”
She looked down and tipped her head to the other side. The sunlight flashed off her hair. “Well, it wasn’t easy, I must say,” she admitted. “But things are improving.” She looked up at Lawrence, and smiled. He, of course, was beaming.
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, although I was unnerved by Sophie’s intense gaze. I kept thinking it must be my imagination, but every time I let my eyes dart over in her direction, there it was—the suggestive, almost painfully suggestive, expression. My face felt like an oven, and I finally had to plant my eyes firmly on Lawrence, who seemed either oblivious or completely comfortable with Sophie’s flirtatious manner. Finally, to my relief, he suggested that they go find something to eat. I stood, flustered, sweating, and watched them walk away, unable to stop myself from admiring the curve of Sophie’s form. I tried one more time to believe that I was imagining things—that she couldn’t have possibly been giving me the signal that I thought she was giving me. Just then, she turned her head, looking over her shoulder, and winked. I nearly fainted.
What followed was an evening of a delightful blend of food, dancing, and attention. I pondered the mystery of women—or more accurately, the mystery of love, and the dynamics between the sexes. I wondered how I could be oblivious to the smattering of single women in our county, but be completely smitten with a married one—not only a married one, but my sister-in-law. It made no sense to me that for the nearly three years Jack and Rita had been married, I had been unable to think of another woman. I had invented countless excuses to visit their humble house, despite my feelings about my brother, and often for just a brief glance at Rita. And now I wondered how Sophie, a woman who was seemingly happily engaged, would not feel strange about such bold attempts to flatter someone else.
My confusion was only confounded as the evening wore on. I gathered a plateful of chicken, roast beef, corn on the cob, and lettuce salad, and after I found a seat with my parents and started eating, I noticed that a lot of younger women slowed their pace as they walked by us. They smiled, or even spoke to me, complimenting my pitching, or they simply said hello. I was used to being fairly anonymous in crowds. People don’t tend to notice a medium-height, round-faced, bowlegged man with thinning hair. So this newfound celebrity was uncomfortable.
But by the time the traditional Pioneer Days Dance began, I was starting to enjoy it. I shared a few snorts from the bottle under the seat of Steve Glasser’s pickup, and when the dancing started, I was oiled up enough to overcome my usual shyness. I was thrilled to find that I didn’t have to do much asking, which was always the hardest part for me. I danced until my legs ached. For a while, I forgot about Rita, and even lost track of where she was.
After a couple of hours of hard dancing, I needed a break, so I went out behind the hall to get some fresh air. I stood there, soaking in the pleasant sounds of the band from inside, and the shouts of everyone dancing, and the drunken chuckles from teenagers pulling bottles from under their dads’ front seats, tipping them to their lips. I looked up at the clear sky and felt an inexplicable sense that this night was a turning point for me, with the confidence I’d felt on the diamond, and now this attention. I believed that my life was about to change. Oddly enough, just about the time that this thought entered my mind, I felt someone touch my arm. Looking down, I discovered Sophie and that alluring smile.
“Hello, Blake,” she said, tilting her head. “Getting some air?”
I nodded. “Hi, Sophie.”
She smiled, looking directly at me with those powder-blue eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but a series of prickly needles ran along my forehead, disrupting my efforts to think.
“Well, I hope you ask me to dance sometime before the night is over,” Sophie said.
“Okay. Sure,” I answered. “Yeah.”
And then she leaned forward, rising to her toes, slipping her hand in mine as she also completely surprised me with a peck on the cheek. “See you,” she said, twirling back toward the dance hall. She waved over her shoulder.
I stood there with my hand out, tingling from her touch. I didn’t move for three songs. Until the blood had found its way back to my head, I didn’t move. And of course, the minute I had my bearings back, I made a beeline back inside to find Sophie. But she and Lawrence were just leaving as I entered the hall. She waved discreetly. And I felt the force of disappointment, watching her back leave the building. But I floated on the current of that kiss, and I was eventually able to welcome the continuing invitations to dance.
For the first half of that evening, not only did I forget about Rita, but I didn’t think about the ranch. Or Jack. I felt as if I had entered into a completely different world, and that I was the center of it. The dance lasted long into the night, and just as the band was about to wind down, I again felt a hand on my elbow. This time, I turned to find Rita’s warm green eyes fixed on me with an earnest combination of fondness and curiosity. It took me back to the day she had stepped off the train.
“Blake, you haven’t danced one single song with me.”
“Well, let’s go then.” I pulled her to the floor, and we fell into an easy sway as the band played a waltz.
“What a day, huh?” Rita said.
I nodded, smiling. “It was great.”
“You were great.”
I blushed. “Well…”
“You were. Might as well enjoy it.”
Suddenly a presence intervened, bumping me from behind. I turned to find the smiling face of my brother. “Hey, buddy. You having a good time?” he asked.
“Great,” I answered.
“Okay,” he echoed. “Me, too.” He laughed, his head tilting back, and I could see from the droop in his eyes that he’d also had a few belts. More than a few.
Just then, the guy that had made a snide comment about Jack happened to swing by, his date in his arms. Just as Jack noticed him, the stranger said to his wife, “See what I mean?”
Jack whirled, and his mood immediately shifted. “Who the hell are you?”
The guy ignored him, dancing away. And when Jack started after him, I couldn’t watch it happen. I let go of Rita.
“Blake, let him go.”
But I grabbed Jack’s arm. He turned and looked at me, not angry, but trying to pry himself loose. “I just want to know what he’s talking about,” Jack said.
The stranger, no doubt purposely, made his way within a few feet of us.
“People don’t talk about people that don’t do nothing,” he uttered right near Jack’s ear.
Jack’s elbow jabbed me in the ribs, and he broke loose, lunging at the guy. I had a hand on my bruised ribs, so I couldn’t respond right away. Jack got ahold of the stranger, and the next thing I knew, they were piled in a tangle of limbs in the middle of the dance floor.
Again, a hand gripped my elbow.
“Come on, Blake.” Rita pulled. “Let’s get out of here.”
If it had been anyone else, I probably would have resisted. I probably would have worked myself free and tried to break up the fight. But I followed Rita without even thinking, and we zigzagged through the crowd, out into the clean, clear night. Word of the fight spread, and within thirty seconds, we were the only ones outside.
I leaned against the rounded fender of a Model T, holding a palm against my rib. Rita stood facing me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded. “He caught me pretty good, but I’ll be all right.”
Rita folded her arms, looking with concern back toward the dance hall. It looked as if a part of her wanted to go back inside. But she forced herself to turn away, pointing her gaze down toward the dry ground. The music had stopped once the fight started, and it was actually quiet enough outside that I could hear the faint sound of the Little Missouri in the distance.
I thought it was odd at first that Rita wanted to leave, and that she brought me with her. I wasn’t sure what to say, or do. I felt as if I was abandoning my brother.
Rita finally looked up at me, smiling a little sadly. She even looked slightly guilty. She shrugged. “I knew what I was getting into,” she said.
But when she dropped her head again, I could tell that whether she knew it or not, Rita was at least partially blaming herself for what was going on inside. And again, I felt the need to say something, anything.
“He’s always been this way,” I finally muttered. “From as far back as I can remember.”
Rita sighed, looking up again. She nodded.
“You all right?” I asked.
She nodded, taking a long, slow breath. “Yeah. I’m fine now. I just needed a few minutes. A little air.” She rolled her shoulders a couple of times. And she looked up at me again, thoughtfully, as if she was trying to decide something. Finally, she spoke. “You know what that guy was talking about, don’t you?”
I frowned. “No. Do you?”
She nodded, then tipped her head to the side and looked at me with a measured gaze. “You really don’t?”
I shook my head.
“It’s about George,” she said. “Your brother.”
I frowned again. “George?” My head was fuzzy from the booze, and I had to think for a moment. “You really think that’s what he was talking about?”
Rita folded her arms, and looked down at the ground. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t bring it up. But I thought you might…well, I thought you might know.” She turned. “I think I should go back inside.”
“No, wait.” I grabbed her arm.
Now Rita broke free of my hold and turned again. “Blake, let’s just drop it. It’s just a rumor, you know? You know how people talk.”
“No,” I said again. “It’s stupid. They shouldn’t even be…I can’t believe people would say that. I can’t believe anyone would say that.”
“Like I said, Blake. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry. Come on. Let’s go back inside.” She reached out for my hand. “Come on. Forget it.”
I nodded. “Okay.” But I walked in a daze.
And for the rest of the night, for the rest of the dance, although I still managed to have a good time, my mind kept going back to this rumor, baffled by the realization that people were still resorting to such cruel speculation about something that happened years ago. At the same time, my mind was reviewing the events of the evening we found George, and all that had happened since. And I hated the fact that, despite every part of me trying so hard to push the thought from my head, I couldn’t.
That night, riding home in the back of the pickup, I lay on my back, staring at a coal-black sky that was filled from horizon to horizon with tiny stars. I felt the cool air wash over me, and smelled the sagebrush. And I lay there thinking that as much as I loved this land, this area that I called home, I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to stay here. With the exhilaration of my experience pitching, and Jack’s presence, and all that came with it, and considering the way I felt about Rita, I began to ponder the possibility that I would be better off somewhere else.