Will had laid the posts along the fence line the previous day, but he didn’t have time to set them. Today he planned to finish this work and inspect his fields on the way home, so he had brought Fanny Too to the pasture.
Will raised his maul overhead and lowered it on the post with the power of sinewy muscles that had been forged by years of physical exertion. He thought about his father, and how he could set a post with three powerful strokes of his maul. Will couldn’t do that, not unless the soil was uncommonly soft. He swung again and dust billowed into his face. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, spit out the grit, then pulled his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was the last post, and he was glad for that. He felt like he’d been hoisting full feed sacks all day, his muscles a flaccid mass. Two more good swings and the post was solidly in place. Will dropped the maul through a rope loop that he’d rigged to the saddle and mounted Fanny Too. He’d string the wire tomorrow.
Will looked up at fluffy clouds that, with a little imagination, seemed to morph into recognizable shapes. Will gawked at one that slowly drifted into a shape that looked like a fish lazing through a huge sky-blue bowl. He wished that he had more time to enjoy God’s work, but he had to get home.
Mary had said that Marge Roberts was stopping over, but she wasn’t sure about Earl. Will didn’t know what to expect, but he tried to put it out of his mind. He inspected his fields as he rode toward home. He whispered to Fanny Too, “The Fourth of July’s almost here and the corn’s ’bout knee high. Best lookin’ corn I’ve had yet, now isn’t it?”
Fanny Too nickered her approval.
“Humid nights and a few thunder storms’ll make a bumper crop.”
Fanny Too snorted and tossed her head.
“You don’t like storms, do you old girl?” He thought about Betsy and Mazy. “Makes me a bit nervous, too.”
He rode alongside his oat field. The slender stalks’ topmasts waved their greeting when a breeze picked up and blew through the fleet.
“See, Fanny Too, they’re glad to see us.”
Even though the grain wasn’t mature yet, when he inhaled, he could smell its perfume in the air. “Filling out real nice, they are. They’ll be golden-haired beauties within a month.”
Fanny Too stretched toward the nearest clump.
“Oh, no.” Will pulled her around. “Not yet, old girl. You’ll get yours back in the barn.”
Before his final push for home he detoured west toward his soybean field. When he dropped Fanny Too’s reins and dismounted, she eyed the grass along the fence line but stood still when he called, “Whoa, old girl.”
Will knelt and dug his fingers into soil that, near the surface, was as dry as a bag of flour. When he found a pointed stick and poked deeper, the ground felt cool and slightly damp. “There’s a little moisture down there from last week’s rains.”
Prices had begun to improve, and although killing continued in Europe, it seemed that God was smiling on America. Will hoped they deserved it, but he knew their good fortune couldn’t last.
After he watered, bedded, and fed Fanny Too her promised oats, Will checked to see that Petr had locked down the windmill blade, and then he walked to the house. Earl and Marge hadn’t visited since he left the co-op. But it was good of Earl to help when he was flat on his back.
Will hoped that Earl would come along today. Maybe he knew about Will’s efforts to expel McGried.
“Why, yes,” Mary said, “I called Marge an hour ago, and she said they’d be over at eight. Said Earl’d come if she had to drag him by his ear, that this co-op business had stood between you two far too long.”
Marge entered when Mary opened the door, but Earl held back until Will stepped forward and took his hand. “Come on in, Earl.”
Mary motioned Marge to the counter. “I’ve just made a sponge cake, and I have some fresh strawberries and sweet cream. Would you help me dish them up?”
“It’ll be the first strawberry dessert we’ve had this summer,” Marge said. “It’s Earl’s favorite, you know.”
“That’s what I remembered,” Mary said. “And there’s homemade root beer in that pitcher over there.” She pointed down the counter. “Why don’t you men go to the parlor and get comfortable. We’ll bring the food in a minute.”
Will directed Earl to his big, soft horsehair. “Good of you to come, Earl.”
Earl fished a corncob from his coverall pocket.
Will took his Meerschaum from his ash tray, and then he went to the secretary and reached for his Dunhill. “My favorite smoke.” He handed the can to Earl.
Earl packed his pipe and lit it off Will’s flaming matchstick. He took a long draw and sat back in his chair before exhaling. “Good tobacco.” He drew again, exhaled, and cupped the bowl between his gnarled fingers. “Like old times.”
They puffed in silence for a while.
Will wanted this to be a friendly visit, so he was leery about broaching the topic, but if he wanted Roberts back in the fold, now would be his best chance to discuss it when feelings weren’t running high.
“We’re both grade A,” Will said. “We have the same needs and problems.”
Earl exhaled smoke.
“I’d like you to come back, Earl?”
“McGried wouldn’t stand for it.”
“McGried’s softening.”
“I don’t think I could sit with him. I still have the scars.”
“Feelings ran too high. It got too heated.”
“I know you stood for me. I appreciate that.”
“Times are getting better.” Will blew a smoke ring that first expanded, then faded as it floated across the room. “We’ve got to work together. Come on back.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do that, Earl.”
Mary and Marge brought four large bowls, each filled with a sponge cake that was covered with juicy, red strawberries and topped with freshly whipped cream. “Don’t wait until the cream sags. Start eating while I get the root beer,” Mary said.
Earl took several bites, and then he took a deep breath and whistled softly. “Mary, I always said you made the best shortcake in Willow Township. I’ve missed it.”
“We’ve missed you,” Mary said. She set the pitcher down and took Marge’s hand. “It’s good to have you here again. I don’t know why we ever let these stubborn old coots keep us apart.”
That night at bedtime, Mary said, “Do you think Earl will come back to the co-op? Do you think times will get better?”
“I think so.” He reached for her. “On both counts.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to afford a few cows to replace those heifers?”
“I think we’ll be in this war before we know it, before we’re ready. I don’t like to prosper from others’ misery, but it’s likely milk prices will go up. They did during the last war.”
“What if we don’t win?”
“Oh, we’ll win it. We’re a sleeping giant. But it won’t be easy.”
“Shouldn’t we try to increase our production?”
“Probably so. And I will as soon as I get some money ahead. But I don’t have it yet.”
“I’ll have to be more frugal,” Mary said.
“I can’t think of another thing you can do. You’ve already kept us afloat with your thrift.” Will pulled her close. “And I do know how lucky I am.”
* * *
The day of the Fourth broke cloudy and misty. A bad omen, Will thought. He hoped that it would clear for the fireworks that night. And Senator Robert LaFollette Jr. was to give a noon hour address at the Willow square. Will knew that he’d speak against the war, against America entering to help England. He’d already opposed sending our liberty ships across the ocean. Will didn’t like war, but he didn’t like Hitler either. He was torn by indecision, but he wanted to hear all sides.
Will led Fanny Too to the house and helped Mary into the buggy as soon as she stepped out the door. After a thirty minute ride, they pulled into Willow’s livery at eleven o’clock. He wanted to be sure that Fanny Too was watered, fed, and comfortable for the hot, muggy afternoon. They told the girls they could come to town, but to get home early so they’d be done with chores in time for the fireworks that night. Petr said that he’d seen enough fireworks in his homeland to last a lifetime, that he’d be happy to finish the milking.
As Will expected, the Senator railed against America entering the war. His words drew cheers from some and derision from others. James Henning, an ardent LaFollette supporter, shouted, “Give ’em hell, Senator.”
Will didn’t like the strident rhetoric on so important an issue. He knew that once in office, LaFollette, like most politicians, would find that it had been a lot easier to throw bombs than to catch them. Will’s friends were split on war, even more than they had been over the co-op. Will wanted to avoid another heated argument, so he eased away from Henning and decided to avoid the Waterin’ Hole, to stay on the park side of the street today. Besides, Mary had warned, “Will, I expect you to have a clear head for our trip home tonight.” He was determined to appease her this time. He supposed he was a Neville Chamberlain at heart.
“Will,” Henning called after him as he moved away, “come down to the Waterin’ Hole. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I’m eating ice cream today. I wanta stay away from the arguments. I got into enough hot water last time.”
“Oh, come on. Just one.”
“I’ll buy you a cone.”
“I’m having a Jameson. Sure you’re not interested?”
Will started after his friend, but paused. “Better not, James.”
Will confronted Mayor Stephens as he crossed through the square. “Mayor, I heard there’s no parade today, how come?”
“The band director’s out with the measles.”
“Doesn’t seem right, a Fourth of July without a parade.” Will walked toward the green where several boys played football. Then he spotted Junkie Jenkins sitting on the curb banging a pail. That gave him an idea. “Junkie, go round up your friends and meet me down at the rapids, by the big willow tree. Tell them to bring pails and all the sticks they can find to bang with.”
Will found Ruby and Catherine sitting under the village oak with some of their classmates. “Ruby, Catherine, follow me to the river.” He rushed past. “Now hurry along, girls.”
Ruby looked at Catherine and shrugged. “Why, Dad?”
“Bring your friends and meet me at the rapids,” Will called back as he hurried down the path toward the willow tree.
He fished his knife from his pocket, sliced off several long, straight branches, and cut them into ten-inch lengths. Ruby, Catherine, and their friends arrived and watched intently as he crafted whistles from the willow pieces. Junkie, Jinks, and the younger boys came with their pails and sticks. Will handed the whistles to the older youth and told the younger boys to grab their drums and form a line behind the fife corps. He lifted a wooden baton that he had cut from a long willow branch, lined up his performers, and said, “Follow me, my fine fellows and ladies. Willow will not go without a parade this Fourth of July day.”
They marched through town, and more youth joined the group. By their fourth go-round, most of the town’s children were marching, and the adults stood at the streets and cheered them along. Henning and his friends watched from outside the Waterin’ Hole and saluted as they passed. Afterwards, he told Will, “That’s the finest parade I’ve seen since the university band came to town.”
Later, Will rested under the oak and watched the boys play their football game. After a while, he ambled toward the action. He saw Jack Hornking talking to Billy O’Dell and hoped that Jack still didn’t resent being let go. “Hey fellas,” he shouted as they took a rest break, “can you use another player?”
“Not if you throw a football like you throw a baseball,” Jack shouted back.
“My slow pitch?” Will laughed. “Naw, I’m a running back. Not very big, but I used to be fast.”
“You can referee,” Billy said. “We need a ref.”
“Come on in,” Jack said. “These guys can use a runner. Billy just doesn’t want to lose his position.”
Billy scowled, but Will laughed and said, “Don’t you worry, Billy. I’ll block for you.”
The first down, Billy followed Will for five yards, but after the ball was grounded, Jack crashed into the pile, hard against Will’s back.
“Whoa, young man,” Will said, “this isn’t a professional game, now is it? We wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Jack got up, wiped his hands on his trousers, and, as he walked away, said, “If you can’t take it, don’t play.”
“Okay, Billy, let’s get tricky,” Will said. “When you get the ball, take a step or two toward the scrimmage line, then stop and pass it to me. Jack’ll rush up to tackle you, and I’ll run by him.”
The play worked as Will hoped. He rambled down the lawn and past the picnic tables, the designated goal line. He felt like a kid again—except his back hurt.
“You’ll pay for that, old man,” Jack said.
Jack took the kickoff and brought the ball back to midfield. Will helped pull him down, but before Will could get off the ground, someone grabbed his leg and twisted hard. Will heard a pop, felt a sharp pain in his right knee, and limped to the sidelines. He knew that his football career was over.
Billy ran alongside and tried to prop him up. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Shaughnessy. Jack did it. I saw him.”
Jack Hornking took a step in their direction. “That’s right, O’Shaughnessy. This time, it was my fault.”
Will limped toward the tables where Mary was setting out their picnic lunch. She stood with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, glared at him as he approached. “Will O’Shaughnessy, you promised you’d stay sober. I should skewer you.” She pointed the knife in his direction. “Why, I’ve a mind to take Fanny Too and let you stumble home again.”
“Mary.” His hands pleaded his case. “I’ve not had a drop, I swear it, not a drop. I didn’t go near the Waterin’ Hole. I’m wounded, and I’ve come for your help.”
Mary rushed to him and took him under the arm. “How’d you hurt yourself, Will?”
“I was playing football with the boys, and I—”
“Playing football?” She dropped his arm. “And you weren’t even drunk? Who do you think you are, that athlete, Jim Thorpe? Who’ll do the milking tonight?” Mary rushed back to the food and utensils.
Will limped to a picnic table at the far side of the green and flopped down. Should have gone to the Waterin’ Hole with James, he thought. Mary would still be mad, but at least he wouldn’t have gotten hurt.