I’m still steaming about all this
when Frank offers me his arm to walk
from the school to the dance hall. The soft swish
of my dress doesn’t stop me from stomping along,
arguing point by point with Arthur’s speech.
Why is everyone just doing what they’re told?
The presidents of all the countries should
meet somewhere and fight this war themselves
if they think it’s worth fighting.
What are they sacrificing? Have they asked the mothers
who gave the best years of their lives to raise
these boys the presidents are sending into battle?
No! Women don’t even get to vote—it isn’t fair!
Frank listens for a while, then says, You’re starting
to sound like one of those Woman Suffragists, Muriel.
It doesn’t sound very patriotic. But who cares?
You graduated! Let’s dance! And so we do,
together, and with other friends—I dance with all
the boys except for Arthur, who doesn’t ask me,
and Frank dances with each of the twelve girls
in my class, and then he and I dance
the last dance, relaxing into each other’s arms,
Frank’s heartbeat steady in my ear. I have to admit,
I’m enjoying this, and when the dance is over,
it’s nice to walk outside into the night,
with Frank, my almost-but-not-quite brother.
Someone
Muriel
The horses clip-clop down the road ahead of us—
the fragrance of lilacs, then the sweet scent of skunk,
a chorus of crickets and spring peepers. It’s not often
Frank and I are alone together, neither Emma
nor Ollie with us. Frank clears his throat.
Did you know, Muriel, that Ed and Howard
enlisted yesterday? I say nothing. He goes on.
John and Hal are planning to sign up next week. It’s dark—
Frank can’t see me roll my eyes. The ants go marching …
is my only comment. That childish song is still
singing itself in my head as we come home
and Frank holds out his hand to help me
from the buggy, as if I were a fine lady,
and he Sir Galahad. And then: May I
kiss you, Muriel? So gently asked,
a sweet surprise. A kiss would change
so much—I hesitate. Ordinarily, he says, I wouldn’t be
in such a hurry; you know me, I always take my time.
But—I’ve been trying to tell you—
I’m going to France. I leave next Monday.
It would sure be nice to have a girl
back home to write to—someone waiting
for me, someone to keep fighting for.
A girl. Someone. He doesn’t have time
to choose, to court, to fall in love,
and here I stand. It must seem easy, obvious.
But— No, Frank, I answer, I can’t
do that for you. I’ll be glad to write to you;
you know we all will. Grace will keep on
sending you her little drawings. We’ll miss you—
I’ll miss you—more than I can say.
I wish you wouldn’t go. I wish no one would …
Frank shakes his head. Am I confusing him?
Has he planned how this should work—get a girl,
go to war, come home a hero, and get married?
His smile fades—if I believed that one sweet kiss
could bring it back, I might
want to give him that small comfort.
But no. Frank signed up for this.
I didn’t. It is not up to me
to make it easier.
Would It Hurt?
Emma
A kiss is not a marriage vow,
I argue with Muriel. For pity’s sake,
would it hurt you to give Frank a little dream
to tuck into his heart before he leaves? One kiss—
you wouldn’t be engaged, just something for my brother
to hang on to in the lonely times when he’s far from home.
I don’t know exactly what happened between you last night,
but from Frank’s face today, it’s not hard to guess. He might
not come back from this war! Are your ideas so set in stone
that you can’t put them aside, or at least consider another,
more gentle point of view? Believe me, Muriel, I hate this
of things, would one little kiss be so hard to take?
Muriel’s only answer is, I don’t know.
Right in Front of Everyone
Ollie
Light in the eastern sky has turned
from red to gold in the hour we’ve been
standing here with Frank, waiting for the train
to take him back to camp. Emma looks at her brother
as if she thinks he’s already been to war and is returning
home a few feet taller, covered in ribbons and medals. She
stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek, then folds her
hands around his arm. (For a look like that from Emma, I’d
roam the earth, swim across oceans and fight lions.) Muriel
has not yet said goodbye. Looking up at Frank, she says,
You don’t always have to be the hero. You stay safe now!
Commanding him with such ferocity that he jokes,
Come here and say that. And when she does,
right in front of everyone, he kisses her!
Circles for the Crossing Stones
June 1917
Would You Be Willing?
Muriel
Look, Mama—Papa forgot his lunch—
Ollie’s over at the Normans’, helping
with the planting—I’ll hitch up the horses
and take this to Papa at the lumberyard.
It’s good to be out on this warm day,
half an hour into town, and half an hour back,
time to think my own thoughts, sing to the horses,
wave to men out in the fields—though lately
half the people in the fields are women,
and at the lumberyard, six women, wearing overalls,
are working just as hard as men. They’re filling in
for men who have been drafted, Papa tells me.
All the way home, and all afternoon, I think about
applying for a job myself—I’d earn some money, and
it’s considered “the patriotic thing to do” these days.
But at supper, Mama tells us she has decided to go to work
at a shop in town. The bookkeeper was drafted,
and the manager asked Mama to help out
“for the duration”—that’s the phrase they’re using, to avoid
having to say “war.” (No one knows, of course, how long
the duration will be.) Muriel, would you be willing
to take care of Grace and help with the housework?
“Help with the housework”—ironing and mending,
washing dishes, cooking, milking, churning, mopping.
And, oh yes, “take care of Grace,” as if that’s
a little thing you do when all the other work
is finished. Mama and I together are barely
keeping up with everything; I don’t see how
I’ll do it all myself. But this is not a question.
It’s a request that will define my days—
for the duration. Grace shines a little grin
my way when Mama turns her back—
no doubt thinking of some mischief
I’ll allow that Mama wouldn’t.
The Gentleman Should Always
Muriel
Grace draws a picture: our two houses with the creek
between them, circles for the crossing stones
spaced across the creek, stick-people
standing on the circles holding hands,
a small girl with brown braids (Grace)
between two bigger girls—she means them to be
straight-haired Emma and curly-haired me—
and a slightly taller boy—obviously Ollie—
holding Emma’s other hand. On my other side,
she’s drawn a stone with no one on it, my hand
stretched out toward it, reaching out to someone
who’s not there. I drew this for Frank, she says.
Can we send it to him? I’ve been thinking
I could write to him—why not? Yes, Grace,
let’s do that, I say. I’ll write a note to send him,
along with your picture. Frank will enjoy that.
It’s harder than I thought to find the words I need:
Dear Frank, How are you? I’m (no …)
We’re guessing you’re in France by now.
There’s a lot of work to do around here—
you know how it is this time of year—
picking the strawberries, weeding the beans.
Boring. I tear it up. I’m looking out the window,
chewing on my pen, when Mama comes home
from her new job. Muriel, are you writing to Frank? she asks.
I bend my head over the paper, but I can’t hide
the blush that rises—Oh, I mumble,
Grace drew a picture, I’m only …
I’m not aware I know this rule, until
I’m embarrassed to be caught breaking it:
The gentleman should always
be the first to write, Mama informs me.
A lady never writes until she has received a letter.
Grace bursts into tears. I drew this for Frank!
Why can’t I send it? Mama smiles down at her.
Don’t be silly, Grace. You’re a little girl,
not a young lady. I’ll help you mail your drawing.
The two of them go in the other room to find
an envelope, and I pick up my pen and try again
to find the words I want to say to My dear Frank …
No. Hello, my friend? No …
Frank’s Absence
Emma
Summer is different now. Bessie demands
we clean her stall; Frank isn’t here, so it’s up to me.
Who will help Father plow the field? Ollie will help, I say—
yes, here he comes now, whistling through our door just as I stoke
the fire to heat some soup for lunch. But even Ollie can’t fill the empty spot
that Frank leaves, an odd-shaped missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of our lives.
And maybe worse—what I did not expect—although we all claim nothing can fill
that space, somehow the chores do get done. Mother takes the wheat to the mill;
I watch Grace while Muriel helps Father shoe the horses. We sharpen knives;
we pitch the hay. Mother and I help Father birth the calf—Bessie does not
even seem to realize Frank isn’t here. Muriel’s father makes a joke
to mine about turning us into boys while Frank is away.
Even as we figure out who will do what, we
hold his place open, however we can.
Rocking
Muriel
The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that
rules the world, Mama says, by which she means
I should be content to learn the women’s work
that she and Mrs. Norman do so smoothly
anyone would think there’s nothing to it—
until a day like today when I almost burn
the house down making eleven pints
of strawberry jam—how should I know
paraffin can catch fire so easily?
I ignore my burning hand and rush to the creek
for a bucket of cold water—only to discover that water
fans the flames instead of putting out this kind of fire.
I’m never going to get married! Never! I burst out.
Mama tries to quiet me: No one’s talking
about marriage. Calm down, Muriel—all’s well
that ends well. It’s a good thing it happened
on a Saturday when I’m at home. She thinks
I can be soothed and smothered,
like the fire she extinguishes so quickly,
so competently, it doesn’t even burn the blanket
she puts over it—where did Mama learn to do that?
She smiles her sweetest, most infuriating smile
as she wraps a bandage around my blistered hand.
Women influence the world in quiet ways,
she says. We keep peace in our families, and
raise our children to be decent, honest people.
Decent. Honest. (Frank)
But what good does that do, I argue, if your
decent, honest children are sent off to fight
and maybe die in a war someone else
started, and all the girls and mothers
in America have no way of stopping?
She holds my bandaged hand, pushes
a strand of hair from my flushed face.
I don’t know the answer to that question,
she finally admits. She studies me:
Maybe you won’t rock a cradle, Muriel.
Some women seem to prefer to rock the boat.
She speaks gently, thoughtfully; there’s truth
in what she sees and says. But her words sting
like yellow jackets flying from a nest I don’t
know is there until I step right into it.
Geranium
Ollie
Will Emma write to me? I can’t ask
because I’m not saying goodbye to anyone.
They’ll all know, by this time tomorrow, that I’ve
left home to catch the train to Kansas for basic training.
What will Pa do when he finds out I enlisted, underage? I
think it’s better not to tell him. Grace asks, Why are you
being so nice to me now, Ollie? I’ve been spending all my
free time finishing her playhouse. Emma hung new
pink curtains in the windows. Now she holds the
cat in her lap, stroking it. This morning, Grace
slept on an old quilt as I pounded in one last
nail and looked around. Remember this:
Emma’s hand on the freshly painted
sill as she waters a red geranium.
Your Son and Brother
Muriel
We wake up and Ollie’s not here—nothing
so unusual; he’s probably gone over to the Normans’.
Mama and Papa go to work, I milk Rosie
and make breakfast, Grace wakes up and eats it.
I feed the chickens, churn the butter.
It’s early afternoon when Mrs. Norman
comes to ask if Ollie might spare an hour or so
to help them fix a leak in their roof. What?
I thought he’d been at your house since
six o’clock this morning. We look everywhere
in both our houses, anyplace he might be working.
Grace says, He finished my playhouse yesterday.
Emma made pink curtains! We look there.
No. And then the mailman comes,
with Ollie’s letter: You’ll receive this
on Wednesday afternoon, after I have left.
I’m headed to Kansas for basic training.
You might think I’m too young, but I’m
only twenty months younger than Frank. It’s been
rough on me, thinking of him over there while I
stay safe at home. I had no trouble getting
the r
ecruiters to believe I’m eighteen—
think of it this way: by the next time you see me,
I will be. Pa, don’t go in and try to change this—
if they find out my real age, it could cause trouble.
I’ll write again when I get settled in.
Ma and Muriel, I know you would have made me
a chicken dinner if you’d known I was leaving,
but I hope you’ll understand why I decided
not to tell you. I’ll look forward to that
dinner when I get home. Don’t be sore.
Your son and brother, Ollie.
The Normans come over and we all talk
through supper, and on and on until the sun goes down.
Papa wants to follow Ollie on tomorrow’s train.
I’ll go in his place, if they’ll let me.
He’s a mere boy. I’m not too old.
But Mr. Norman convinces Papa
that Ollie is right: A dishonorable discharge
for lying about his age could follow him
all through his life. Mama and Emma keep talking
about the danger he’ll be in. It scares me, too,
but for once I keep my opinions to myself.
If I start talking, I’m afraid I might admit
how my thoughts keep turning from the war
to Ollie’s chores. Who will do them now?
Conversation Through a Thick Curtain
July 1917
Love to Everyone
Muriel
Emma comes leaping over the crossing stones,
waving a letter: It’s from Frank! He’s in France now.
He says the trip over was terrible, everyone was seasick,
but now they’re getting ready to fight. He sounds
excited, he sounds proud—here, read it yourself.
I take the letter from her and turn away
so she can’t see my hand trembling,
heaven knows why—it’s not as if Frank
is my brother, it’s not as if … Well, in any case,
I’m glad to know he has safely crossed the ocean:
The sea voyage was very rough, but at least
we finally got some time to write a few letters,
and tomorrow we’ll be able to mail them.
The food is terrible—Mother, what I’d give
for a dish of your apple crisp, warm from the oven.
But I can’t complain—the blisters on my heels