what?”
“Four men from the Bolton area to die in the Civil War. One more in the Spanish-American War. Seven in the First World War. Three in the Second World War. One in Korea and two in Vietnam. Eighteen all told to die in war, of one thing or another—eighteen young men gone.”
“How could you know that?”
He smiled. “I could say I just know it—the way I knew the popsicle-stick cross would beunder the bush—but the truth is I looked it up. Military records. When the fair Mrs. Langdon wrote to me I contacted a clerk in the army and asked him to check the records. It’s all in St. Louis, you know—all the army records. Eighteen dead. And they want a monument.” He looked from the graveyard to the town. “I’ll wager there aren’t two people in town who know how many have been killed—or that there’s a hero here.”
“A hero?”
“Congressional Medal of Honor winner. A true hero.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Jennings. I drew his dog, didn’t I? I saw the name on his mailbox—that must have been him. He was a hero in the First World War. God, he must be close to a hundred.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t think anybody does.” He shook his head. “And we won’t tell if he doesn’t want it known, will we?”
“What did he do?”
“Killed some people. Killed a lot of them whilethey were trying to kill him, probably—that’s how they usually win those things. Although some have won it for saving people’s lives—medics in combat. I don’t know. Just that he Avon a medal and we’ll let it be. Now you have to help me.”
“How?”
“I need a place where the men come to sit and talk—a gathering place for them.”
“That’s easy,” I said. “The grain elevator or the bar. Which do you want?”
“Both—but in the interests of sanity and caution perhaps we might try the elevator first. Drinking establishments have a way of … affecting me.”
Twelve
FRED WAS SURPRISED to see me come to the elevator. We had talked it out the morning before I met with Mick.
“Seems like it’s in the interests of your new career to spend some time studying with this artist,” he said after breakfast.
“I’m caught up on the paperwork. I lined out all the books and stuff so you can just fill it in. Ican come in the evening and finish it out for the day.”
“Let’s not worry too much about that—art seems to be a little more important.”
“It does?” All this time and he’d never said two words about art and after breakfast he drops that.
“Yup.” He smiled. “Ain’t that right, Emm?”
And Emma nodded and I don’t know why I was ever worried about it.
So when I showed up at the elevator with Mick, Fred raised his eyebrows. He was covered with grain dust and it made him look like a monkey.
“He wanted to come here.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
“Because this,” Mick said, his arms sweeping around at the dust and the hum of machinery and the truck dumping a golden stream of wheat through the grate with Harry Clark standing by the rear end, his hand in the falling wheat and hundreds of sparrows and pigeons all over the ground getting grain. “This is the cosmic center of the universe.”
“It is?”
“Draw.”
He had made me carry the tablet and pencil box from the station wagon. I felt really silly taking it out to draw in front of Fred and Harry Clark. There were three more trucks that pulled up while we stood there, waiting to dump grain, and all the men and two boys who were helping their fathers came into the elevator. One of the boys was Jimmy Durbin, who I liked to look at, the way you do, and I felt shy about drawing in front of them.
But Mick looked at me. His eyes seemed to go into my brain, stopped me.
“Draw,” he said again, his voice low and even. “It’s what you do—draw.”
I knew he was right. I had decided to be an artist sitting alone in my bed, where it was easy to say that, but the decision held out here as well—out
“Four men from the Bolton area to die in the Civil War. One more in the Spanish-American War. Seven in the First World War. Three in the Second World War. One in Korea and two in Vietnam. Eighteen all told to die in war, of one thing or another—eighteen young men gone.”
“How could you know that?”
He smiled. “I could say I just know it—the way I knew the popsicle-stick cross would beunder the bush—but the truth is I looked it up. Military records. When the fair Mrs. Langdon wrote to me I contacted a clerk in the army and asked him to check the records. It’s all in St. Louis, you know—all the army records. Eighteen dead. And they want a monument.” He looked from the graveyard to the town. “I’ll wager there aren’t two people in town who know how many have been killed—or that there’s a hero here.”
“A hero?”
“Congressional Medal of Honor winner. A true hero.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Jennings. I drew his dog, didn’t I? I saw the name on his mailbox—that must have been him. He was a hero in the First World War. God, he must be close to a hundred.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t think anybody does.” He shook his head. “And we won’t tell if he doesn’t want it known, will we?”
“What did he do?”
“Killed some people. Killed a lot of them whilethey were trying to kill him, probably—that’s how they usually win those things. Although some have won it for saving people’s lives—medics in combat. I don’t know. Just that he Avon a medal and we’ll let it be. Now you have to help me.”
“How?”
“I need a place where the men come to sit and talk—a gathering place for them.”
“That’s easy,” I said. “The grain elevator or the bar. Which do you want?”
“Both—but in the interests of sanity and caution perhaps we might try the elevator first. Drinking establishments have a way of … affecting me.”
Twelve
FRED WAS SURPRISED to see me come to the elevator. We had talked it out the morning before I met with Mick.
“Seems like it’s in the interests of your new career to spend some time studying with this artist,” he said after breakfast.
“I’m caught up on the paperwork. I lined out all the books and stuff so you can just fill it in. Ican come in the evening and finish it out for the day.”
“Let’s not worry too much about that—art seems to be a little more important.”
“It does?” All this time and he’d never said two words about art and after breakfast he drops that.
“Yup.” He smiled. “Ain’t that right, Emm?”
And Emma nodded and I don’t know why I was ever worried about it.
So when I showed up at the elevator with Mick, Fred raised his eyebrows. He was covered with grain dust and it made him look like a monkey.
“He wanted to come here.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why.”
“Because this,” Mick said, his arms sweeping around at the dust and the hum of machinery and the truck dumping a golden stream of wheat through the grate with Harry Clark standing by the rear end, his hand in the falling wheat and hundreds of sparrows and pigeons all over the ground getting grain. “This is the cosmic center of the universe.”
“It is?”
“Draw.”
He had made me carry the tablet and pencil box from the station wagon. I felt really silly taking it out to draw in front of Fred and Harry Clark. There were three more trucks that pulled up while we stood there, waiting to dump grain, and all the men and two boys who were helping their fathers came into the elevator. One of the boys was Jimmy Durbin, who I liked to look at, the way you do, and I felt shy about drawing in front of them.
But Mick looked at me. His eyes seemed to go into my brain, stopped me.
“Draw,” he said again, his voice low and even. “It’s what you do—draw.”
I knew he was right. I had decided to be an artist sitting alone in my bed, where it was easy to say that, but the decision held out here as well—out
Similar Books
