Mr. Beidwinkle laughed and slapped his knee. “Gollee, gollee,” he said over and over.
After that, every evening Betsy sang “Tonight Will Never Come Again” for Mrs. Beidwinkle, who always wiped her eyes, “Yip-i-addy-i-ay” for Bill, and “Kind, Du Kannst Tanzen” for Mr. Beidwinkle, who chuckled and said, “Gollee.”
Betsy went upstairs and into her little room smiling. It was cold, but she didn’t mind. Without lighting the lamp, she sat down by the window and looked out at the ghostly landscape.
She was glad she had studied German. There had been such satisfaction in being able to talk a little with the Beidwinkles. And she was glad that when Julia went away, she had learned to play the piano! She would never play well, she knew. She could never sing like Julia. She didn’t even want to; she wanted to write stories. But how pleasant it was to be able to play enough to give pleasure to people!
“I’m going to write Miss Cobb and tell her. She’ll be glad to hear.”
Her thoughts turned to Leonard. She had thought about him when she was out walking today. She felt a little better about Leonard out here in the country. It was just being close to nature, she supposed. In the country you felt as you never could in town the return of spring after winter. You felt a sort of pulse in the earth, which proved that nothing dies, that everything comes back in beauty.
Leonard was coming back…in some place beautiful enough to pay him for leaving the world. God knew all about his music, too. He would use that music someplace.
“I should have known that in church Easter morning. I’m surprised that I didn’t. But I was awfully mixed up.”
She was thankful to her father for having sent her out here. The trip had already given her perspective. The problems about Tony didn’t seem so difficult now. There would be some way to get back to the old loving friendship.
The days fell into a pattern similar to the pattern of the first day. Betsy had her first breakfast with Mrs. Beidwinkle’s second. She took a walk every morning and every afternoon, going farther and farther afield. The weather warmed up, melting the snow, so that there was a terrible mixture of ice, slush, and water underfoot. But there were compensations.
There was the vivid spring sky. There was the spring taste in the air. There were buds swelling on the trees in the wood lot, and white bloodroots, pink and lavender hepaticas under wet mats of last year’s leaves. There were meadow larks rising with a flash of yellow to sing in a rapture that made one catch one’s breath.
She finished her first story and began a second one. She finished the second and began a third. She and the Beidwinkles talked in German every night at supper. Mrs. Beidwinkle taught her a poem in German which she recited to uproarious applause. Every evening she went into the parlor and played the organ and sang.
She wasn’t homesick. She remembered how homesick she had been at the Taggarts’ farm four years ago. That farm had been just as nice; the Taggarts had been just as kind as Mr. and Mrs. Beidwinkle. But she had suffered so much with homesickness that for months the mere memory of it had filled her with desolation. Now she was happy from morning until night.
“You do grow up,” she thought.
It was pleasant to talk with her mother, who telephoned sometimes in the evening. And she had letters from Tacy and Tib. But the letters seemed to come from a great distance. She had forgotten the woes which had weighed her down at home.
“Betsy,” Mrs. Beidwinkle said on Friday at dinner. “We would like to have a little party before you go home.”
“A party?” asked Betsy, startled. The word surprised her. She associated parties with the Crowd and Deep Valley, not this peaceful haven.
She saw that Mr. Beidwinkle and Bill were watching her eagerly. Mrs. Beidwinkle looked as pleased as a child.
“Ja,” she said. “We would like to invite Amelia and her husband to come and hear you sing.”
“To hear me sing?”
“Ja,” said Mrs. Beidwinkle. “On Saturday night. We’ll have refreshments. It will be a regular party.”
Betsy knew then why she had brought the white wool dress!
That evening Mr. Beidwinkle remarked, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Mamma usually goes to town with me on Saturday. Would you like to go along?”
“To town?” asked Betsy, startled.
“To Butternut Center. We buy at Willard’s Emporium, there.”
Somewhat to the Beidwinkles’ mystification, Betsy blushed. Her heart began to pound inside her shirt waist. Willard’s Emporium! She might see Joe! She wanted to see him, but she didn’t want to seem to be running after him. He knew she knew that he spent his vacations with his uncle and aunt in Butternut Center.
That was where she had seen him first, four years ago, when she was taking the train home after her visit with the Taggarts. It was a very little village, just a depot and a grain elevator, a white church, a sprinkling of houses, and a general store. The store was Willard’s Emporium, where she had gone to buy presents for her family.
Joe had waited on her. She had been struck by the way he walked, with a slight challenging swing. She remembered his very light hair brushed back in a pompadour, his blue eyes under thick light brows, his lower lip pushed out as though seeming to dare the world to knock the chip off his shoulder.
He had been reading The Three Musketeers, she remembered, but he had put it aside when she said that she was going to buy presents. He had been amused at her statement that no Ray ever came home from a trip without bringing presents for the rest.
No Ray…ever came home from a trip…without bringing presents! Suddenly Betsy’s heart raced faster. Why, she was away on a trip! She would have to buy presents. She simply had to go to Willard’s Emporium.
Looking up, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes dancing, she replied, “Of course. I’d love to go. How early do we start?”
20
Butternut Center
IT WAS VERY EARLY, still dark and cold, when Mrs. Beidwinkle knocked at Betsy’s door. That morning springtime concert of the birds, to which Betsy had become accustomed during her week at the farm, was more uproarious even than usual. It sounded like a contest, but a contest without rules or regulations. Each bird was trying to sing down every other bird, caroling, warbling, whistling, some humble anonymous performers chirping wildly, while others executed elaborate arias.
Lighting the lamp, she dressed quickly. She put on the plaid skirt and the red blouse, of course, braided her hair, looped it up with the red ribbon. It hadn’t been put up in Wavers all week. She had forgotten about Magic Wavers.
Still sleepy, she stumbled downstairs into the kitchen. The coffee, freshly made, was stimulating and delicious. She put on her red tam and cravenette and high buckled overshoes and went out into the barnyard.
The world was still gray, but the east was a river of crimson. It seemed strange to see the windmill whirling against that lurid sky. A team of horses was pawing the ground in front of a wagon full of milk cans. Mrs. Beidwinkle was critically directing the addition of a case full of eggs. The egg money went to Mrs. Beidwinkle; she didn’t want any eggs broken.
Mr. Beidwinkle helped Betsy to a box covered with a rug, which was placed just behind the high seat. “I’ll bet you never rode to town with milk cans before,” he said.
He and Mrs. Beidwinkle climbed into the seat, he clucked to the horses, and they were off.
It hadn’t frozen the night before, Mr. Beidwinkle pointed out. Yesterday’s pools and puddles were pools and puddles still. The road was very muddy. Down and up, down and up went the heavy wheels, making a sucking sound, and Betsy would have bounced on her box if she hadn’t held fast to the seat in front of her. Slowly the sky paled and light spread over the prairie.
Mile after gray-white mile slipped past: frozen fields which would soon be ready for the sowing; planted groves of trees which would soon be green; orchards which would soon be fragrant bowers of pink and white. Farm houses were flanked with big red barns, granaries, and silos. At
last they saw an elevator sticking up over the prairie ahead.
In Butternut Center, Mr. Beidwinkle went first to the depot and unloaded the milk cans. Then he drove down the street to Willard’s Emporium, and with Mrs. Beidwinkle watching, unloaded the eggs.
Betsy scrambled down from her box and went into the store. Excitement fluttered inside her as she went, but Joe wasn’t there. Probably he hadn’t come out this week. Probably he was working at the Sun. She realized with a pang of disappointment how much she had counted on seeing him.
Mr. Beidwinkle had disappeared. Mrs. Beidwinkle was now supervising the counting of her eggs by a tall, square-faced man, Joe’s Uncle Alvin, probably. Well, Betsy thought, she must buy the presents whether Joe was there or not, and she started browsing along the overflowing counters.
Willard’s Emporium seemed to have everything under the sun for sale. Kitchen stoves, straw hats, clocks, calico, buggy whips. She remembered how Joe had helped her buy cheese for her father, a butter dish for her mother, side combs for Julia, doll dishes for Margaret, a mouth organ for Tacy.
She paused before a case full of china and looked at a little speckled vase. That would be nice for the wild flowers Margaret would soon start bringing home from the hills.
She felt someone looking at her and turned to see Joe.
His blue eyes, under those heavy brows, were boring into her. His lower lip looked defiant, and so did the swinging walk with which he came toward her. She blushed.
“What are you doing here?” Joe asked. His tone was almost rough.
“Don’t act as though you were going to put me out,” she said. “I’m buying presents to take home to my family.”
“Oh.” He seemed nonplused.
“The Rays always take presents home when they’ve been away on a visit.”
“Oh.”
“It’s an old family custom,” Betsy said, and smiled.
Joe looked odd. Something in his face seemed to melt. He didn’t smile, though.
Betsy kept on talking. “I’ve picked out this little vase for Mamma. Don’t you think it’s nice? But what do you suppose Papa would like? Now don’t say cheese again!”
Joe smiled. And when he smiled there were the most attractive, warming crinkles in his face. One of them looked almost like a dimple, but you didn’t associate dimples with Joe Willard. His eyes began to shine.
“How about tobacco? Pipe tobacco? Willard’s Emporium will throw in some pipe cleaners in honor of…in honor of…well, to be brief, we’ll throw in some pipe cleaners.”
“That’s fine,” said Betsy. “Now, Margaret likes things for her room.”
“How about a calendar? Here’s one full of dogs and cats. This ought to suit her.”
“Yes. This will do.” Betsy kept her eyes lowered longer than she needed to, the expression in his eyes was so disturbing.
“When you were here before, you bought something for Tacy, too.”
“Of course. I want something for Tacy and Tib.”
“Lollipops. A pink one and a yellow one.”
She looked up to laugh. Joe’s face was alight and glowing.
“You staying with the Taggarts?” he asked, coming nearer.
“No. The Beidwinkles.” She nodded to Mrs. Beidwinkle, who had disposed of her eggs and was buying groceries now. Her purchases bulked so large on the counter that it looked as though she were going to start a store herself.
“I adore the Beidwinkles,” said Betsy.
“I adore Mrs. Beidwinkle myself. What’s more, she adores me.”
He went swinging toward her, and Betsy followed.
Mrs. Beidwinkle’s face did indeed wreathe itself in smiles when Joe spoke. “How do you do, Mrs. Beidwinkle. How are you today?”
“Hello, Joe,” she said. “Do you know Betsy?”
“We’re classmates,” Betsy put in.
“She’s terrible in school,” Joe said. “How does she behave at your house, Mrs. Beidwinkle?”
Mrs. Beidwinkle frowned at him. “She behaves like a nice little girl. She wipes the dishes and sings for us every night. We wish she stayed with us all the time.”
Joe turned to Betsy. “A good report! I never expected it.”
“Mrs. Beidwinkle,” he said, turning back to her, “won’t you let me see Betsy home? There are some places around here I’d like to show her. Maybe my uncle would loan me the phaeton.”
Mrs. Beidwinkle beamed. “Why, of course,” she said. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’d just as soon have Betsy out of the way today.”
“Aha!” cried Joe. “I knew that report was too good to be true. What does she do? Bite her nails? Track in on your floor?”
Mrs. Beidwinkle pushed him, laughing. “Dummkopf! Nothing like that. Betsy knows, or she can guess.”
Betsy raced after Joe, while he searched out a youth named Homer. Homer, looking at Betsy curiously, promised to take Joe’s place at the store.
They raced back to the square-faced man who had been waiting on Mrs. Beidwinkle. He was Uncle Alvin, but he didn’t look at all like Joe. Joe introduced Betsy and then nudged her to retreat. He returned to her, smiling.
“Uncle Alvin says I may drive you home.”
They raced up some stairs which ran from the street to the second floor. There was a small parlor, as crowded as the store beneath, but with fat chairs and sofas covered with tidies, and embroidered sofa cushions. Betsy met Aunt Ruth, who was spare, sad, and kind. They clattered down the stairs again.
“I have an idea,” said Joe.
“What is it?”
“Haven’t I heard you say you like picnics?”
“Joe!”
“Then we’ll take along some crackers and cheese.”
“And olives and cookies…Nabisco wafers, maybe, and that kind with marshmallows on top.”
“Why, you little glutton! I’ll slice some bologna, too. What else shall we take?”
“A bottle of milk,” said Betsy. “If you can borrow some cups.”
“Of course I can,” said Joe, and went clattering back upstairs.
He left Betsy again to hitch up the horse. She went happily around the store until he returned with a stocky cream-colored animal hitched to a buggy with a fringed adjustable top.
“Rocinante,” said Joe, helping her in. “Ever read Don Quixote? Do you get these literary allusions?”
They put the top down. They wanted the whole width of the sky from end to end, the whole width of the flat prairie landscape.
With their basket and Betsy’s presents at their feet, they drove down the single street, which was all of Butternut Center. The muddy road was very muddy, so that the buggy lurched in and out of holes. But Joe and Betsy didn’t mind.
They didn’t mind anything. They didn’t mention Tony or their quarrel. Their happiness overflowed the phaeton and ran like spilled water to the edge of the horizon on both sides.
“Joe,” Betsy said, “you don’t look like your uncle.”
“No. I look like my mother’s people. He’s my father’s brother. My father,” Joe went on, “died when I was a baby. He was a lumberman, yanked down trees in the north woods. I’ve always been strong as a horse, and I guess it’s because of him.”
“How did your mother look?” asked Betsy.
Joe paused before he answered.
“She was beautiful,” he said slowly, at last. “People toss that word around a lot, but my mother really was. She had dark golden hair and blue, blue eyes and the reddest, sweetest lips I ever saw.
“She was a dressmaker…after Father died, that is. She worked hard; too hard. I can still hear that sewing machine. I tried to help when I got old enough, but I couldn’t do much.”
“What did you do?” Betsy asked.
“Sold papers at first.” He paused as his thoughts went back. “Once, when I was about nine, I lost my route list. I borrowed a bike from another boy to go back and find it. When I returned the bike and thanked him, I offered to shake hands. I thought, fr
om the books I had read, that that was the proper thing to do. But all the boys hooted. I’ll never forget it.”
He looked at her suddenly. “I never told that to anyone before.”
Betsy didn’t answer.
“Mother was a great one for books, too,” Joe continued. “She’s the one I get my love of writing from. I found poems and unfinished stories and bits of description among her things after she died.”
“How old were you then?”
“I was twelve. Uncle Alvin is the only relative I have on either side. He and Aunt Ruth gave me a home and I helped them in the store until I was fourteen and finished country school. I had to come to Deep Valley then, to high school.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Betsy.
They drove on and on. No matter how far they drove, there was no variety in the landscape. It was just prairie, poles, and wires! Prairie, poles, and wires! But there were song sparrows trilling on the wires. There was heavenly warmth in the air.
It grew so warm that Betsy took off her cravenette, her tarn.
Joe turned and looked at her. His eyes studied the red hair ribbon.
“You look different,” he said.
“That’s right,” Betsy replied.
“Your hair isn’t curled. Do you know,” he continued, studying her critically, “I like your hair straight.”
He liked her hair straight! If he had looked through all the poetry books in the world he couldn’t have found a better compliment to pay her.
Joe wanted to know when they ate, and they stopped Rocinante at a point where a brook, just unfrozen, babbled with frantic joy over brown leaves. He unfastened the horse’s checkrein and gave him some oats. He took out their basket and they found a large rock which provided a seat a little above the soggy ground. There they ate their bread and cheese and bologna and olives and cookies, smiling at each other.
“Do you know,” Betsy said, “this is the first picnic I’ve ever been on with you? That seems strange, for picnics are so important and…” She blushed.
“Go on,” said Joe, “finish it.”
Betsy didn’t answer.
“Why are picnics so important? I know why I am, of course.”