Leaving Ordinary: Bonetrail Series, #1

CHAPTER ONE

1999

Today Louise would visit the land. This trip would return her to a past she brushed against almost daily. It could happen when she filled the blue speckled enamel roasting pan used to make years of meals, dusted a color photograph of the farm framed by wheat fields and grass pastures, or heard violin music. The moments could generate cheer or reflection, and, at times, land emotional wallops.

The stretched doleful coos of mourning doves voiced her melancholy. Louise’s knee hooked the bedsheet as she rolled away from the North Dakota summer sunrise that spread from between the white pull blind and the window frame.

She told herself to stop being so mopey.

Get up. You can’t get out of this.

The hem of her lace-trimmed blue nightgown dropped low as she left her bed. She raised the blind seeking the hush-filled planned and pruned senior community’s landscaping. Dwarf shrubs squatted in oblong beds of pea gravel or rusted brown mulch surrounded by a brochure-ready lawn.

Louise thought it was all tidy and dull.

Why can’t there be more flowers around this place?

Turning from the view, Louise questioned if there was an easier way to go back. She gripped the dresser top, and her 89-year-old knees lowered her like an antique, overworked elevator. She tugged the heavy bottom drawer an inch at a time as wood scraped wood. The smell of mothballs stung the air.

I haven’t looked at his violin in years. What if seeing it makes the missing hurt more?

Louise saw the travel-worn violin case. Her mind wanted to fast swing away, but her heart locked on and looked. When Louise moved into her apartment five years ago, she placed Leo’s violin in the drawer of the oak dresser. Storing away the instrument had quieted memories, but their magnetic pull had not lessened: a life created by two when now there was one. Her age-spotted hand caressed the case’s cracked and wounded leather. Her thumb stroked the handle.

I miss you.

Louise let the instrument be and moved aside newer photo albums with the plastic pockets until she saw the ebony scrapbook with the ragged gilt edging. The book had the heft of longevity built into it. Louise hoisted this scrapbook and herself and went to the kitchen.

I’ll make coffee first.

She brewed strong, tongue-burning coffee like all the gallons she had made before. Louise settled in at the small kitchen table that her children had given her when she’d moved into the apartment. The newer dining set wasn’t as sturdy as her old farm table, but it fit the space. Taking a few sips, she steadied herself before reaching for the memory book.

This is silly. Nothing in there is going to bite me.

The coarse, ebony sheets crackled as she pulled apart and turned pages of old-timey black-and-white photographs bonded into place by paper corner brackets. One picture showed the farm’s wooden windmill that creaked and swayed in the gusty prairie winds. Another, their first automobile: a third-hand used Ford truck. Family and friends grew up and grew old in the flip of pages. Grainfields and vegetable gardens in different stages of growth and seasons were kept static. This stop-and-go chronicling continued until she came to a photograph that was years out of order.

Framed by scalloped white borders, the photo showed a young couple sitting outside on uneven wooden high-back chairs next to a white clapboard house.

Louise recalled that house party. She had been eighteen, and Leo was nineteen. They’d been married a short time.

Leo’s brash smile tight-lipped a cigarette. He held a violin. Leo rarely turned down an opportunity to play. Louise, next to him, smiled softly and posed in proper posture. She was not wearing a hat. Mother said ladies were supposed to wear hats outdoors. Louise never did like wearing one.

She stilled. The music was faint, but she could hear it nonetheless. It was no song in its entirety but instead a high-spirited compilation of chords, melodies, and crescendos.

She whispered, I want the music.

Sometimes when Louise was washing her few dishes, she fantasized she could hear Leo playing. Foolishness, she knew. There was the radio or television, but she ached for him and his music. When Leo held his violin and gripped his bow, it was as if the dirt on his palms disappeared, and his musician’s heart came out to play. Back on the farm, on the silent evenings when there was no music, its absence was so loud it reverberated all over the house. A person could reach out and touch the missing.

1926

Wheatville’s town hall doors were propped open in wide welcome. Late April evening breezes attempted to cool the steamy makeshift dance hall of that western Minnesota farm town’s Annual Fireman’s Dance.

The salt and pepper mustached band leader’s voice boomed. Folks, welcome! We are the Midwest Musicale Extravaganza. We hope you have a grand time. Boys, let’s begin.

Like a train leaving the depot, the Musicale’s quartet eased, then chugged until they picked up steam and raced along the rails. Rotating on and off the dance floor were ladies wearing short-sleeved cotton dresses whose mid-calf hemlines floated and snapped as men wearing their Sunday button-up-best trousers or bib overalls spun them in polkas and waltzes amongst a fragrant fracas of rose and lily perfumes, sweat, and rolled tobacco smoke.

Sixteen-year-old Louise looked good-girl charming in her homemade flowered red and blue voile dress. Her below-the-knee hem showcased her legs, stepping and whirling across the tongue-and-groove oak floorboards. She shined from her short bobbed brown hair, held back by a green apple brain-binder headband, to her black patent leather shoes.

Her eyes were drawn to the fiddle player, not much older than herself, and his slicked-back hair. The musician’s talent pushed and pulled jubilant notes across his instrument, revving up the crowd.

The fiddler’s pant cuffs hung above his ankles, making his slim five-foot ten frame appear taller. The black wool fabric matched the snug suit coat gaping and straining its button threads. Early into the music show, the musician removed his coat and rolled back his shirtsleeves, displaying muscled forearms and a torso outline. The man’s suit didn’t fit, but it didn’t display farmer. The verve of his music and rascal smile kept her sneaking looks. She wished he’d ask her to dance.

He held his back straight, then tilted back, and then leaned into the rhythm’s vigor. His left foot planted firm. The right foot tapped the beat. The violin player grinned at the horn player, who threw a smirk to the drummer, and the drummer beamed at the crowd as the band showed off their up and down swings of tempo and musical swagger.

At nine o’clock, the bandleader stood up from his piano and called a break and announced that the Homemakers Club was serving a meal. Wives, widows, and daughters hurried to organized positions at long food tables offering home-baked bread and cooked-to-a-blush ham. Similar to the upright pipes of a church organ, the famished and tipsy partygoers lined up to choose homegrown lettuce and cabbage salads, coffee, and water. For something stronger, a person sidestepped Prohibition and located Jacob Swansen’s automobile.

Several matrons shooed back residents so the musicians could fill their plates first. Louise’s insides fluttered when she saw the violin player approach her dessert table. Smiling, Louise asked, What would you like?

The musician’s mouth corners hooked high, and then his gaze moved over the tall chocolate and vanilla cakes, juicy apple and sour cream raisin pies, and flat, brown-speckled Norwegian lefse. Ahh…how about some of everything.

Was that your approach at the other tables? Louise asked nodding at the two plates he carried laden with golden fried chicken, sliced bread, sour pickles, and sharp white onion-seasoned chunky potato salad.

Hard to pass up food like this. Plus, I don’t want to offend any of the ladies.

She filled a third plate for the musician. That’s smart, and a potential bellyache.

It was then Louise noticed he was staring at her. The hall was overheated, but the added recognition of the man’s interest made Louise want to fan herself with a plate. She must have been distracted for too long because he raised the plates in his hands.

She glanced down, up, and stopped at his grin. Their shared laughter skipped with nervousness.

Louise asked, Would you like me to carry this to where you’re sitting?

Please. Ladies first.

Louise scanned the hall. There’s the band, and moved towards the table.

The musician stretched his step to walk alongside her. My name is Leo Zint. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You are?

Her keen hazel eyes noticed his sparking brown ones. My name is Louise Miller.

Are you enjoying the evening?

Yes. The music and dancing have been wonderful. She noticed him stand straighter.

Are there any songs you would like us to play?

Delighted, Louise said, I like what I’ve heard so far. Keep doing that.

They reached the seated band members. The horn player, who appeared a few years older than Leo and wore his suit like a city slicker, pulled out the chair next to him. Miss, this seat is for you.

Louise raised an eyebrow. Isn’t that for Mr. Zint? Good manners dictated she address Leo formally, but Louise already thought of him as Leo.

The musician laughed. He can find another seat. I’m Erik…

Leo interrupted, Don’t pay him any mind. He can’t help himself when a pretty girl is around.

Is that so? Louise said.

You’re welcome to join us.

I’m Colson, the bandleader, singer, and all-around musician. Nice to meet you. Erik is our horn player. Karl here is our drummer. Of the four of us, he’s the loudest musician and talks the least.

Karl’s quick head nod bounced with shyness, and the rest of the Musicale chuckled.

I’m Louise Miller. I’ve been enjoying the music.

You’re my kind of gal, Erik said.

Louise heard Leo say under his breath, Not tonight.

She set Leo’s plate down. I have to return to my table. It was nice meeting you all. Enjoy the food.

Louise could feel Leo watching her stroll back to the desserts. She added a frisky swish to her glide. Her rash behavior made her hands twitch. To calm herself, she rearranged platters of desserts. Throughout the meal, Louise peeked at Leo. The boisterous band ate, laughed, and invited anyone who strayed near to join their party.

When the musicians returned to their instruments, the cooled-off townspeople reassembled on the dance floor. Soon enough, the dancers wore damp clothing and high spirits, including Louise. When she looked in Leo’s direction, she flashed him flirting smiles, and he reciprocated.

Colson yelled, Last song!

The rambunctious finale rocked the revelers who clapped and hooted their appreciation. The Musicale began packing their instruments, and the town hall cleanup followed. As Louise wiped a table, she saw Leo amble towards her.

Did you like the rest of the show? Leo asked.

I did. Most everyone stayed until the end.

I like hearing that. Tonight’s crowd had a good time. When you’re standing on stage, you get to see what the audience likes and doesn’t. People-watching makes the music better. Helps too if there’s trouble brewing.

Louise held the rag in her hands and tugged at the ends. You sounded good to me. Have you been playing long?

I bought my violin when I was thirteen. You have the long, pretty fingers of a piano player.

Louise looked down at her hands. On one hand she spread out her fingers. Thank you. Does the Musicale leave today, or will you stay around for a couple of days?

We’ll sleep for a few hours and then head to the next gig.

It must be exciting to go places and play for audiences. See something other than the hind end of a cow.

Leo let loose a fast laugh. Playing music is more fun than plowing a field. I started with the Musicale when I was fourteen. The band gave me a job and a suit that was too big for my bones. That was three years ago, and now there’s more of me, and my suit still doesn’t fit.

Louise giggled. Maybe you could find someone to sew you a new suit? and then, with a searching tone, asked, Do you like life with the Musicale?

I can’t imagine doing anything else. Leo cupped his hand on the back of his neck. We’re headed out. Could I…write you?

Louise swallowed so she wouldn’t stutter on her next words. I’d like that.

She hoped Leo’s request was more than a traveling man’s empty flirtation.

CHAPTER TWO

Six weeks had passed since the dance. On and around Louise’s parent’s farm, green sprouting spring wheat busted through bare brown topsoil. The scent of backyard lilacs wafted round the two-story house, into the screened, long front porch, and through open windows. Daylight pushed dusk to nine o’clock.

Near supper time, Louise stopped short of entering the house’s back door to knock the field dirt from her shoes. She had one clean when she heard her mother’s no-nonsense tone calling her.

Coming, Louise said.

Her mother, a farmwife in perpetual practical motion, and who did little bending, appeared on the other side of the screen door. You received a postcard from a man named Leo Zint.

Shock turned Louise’s face towards her mother’s questioning look.

Mrs. Miller wasn’t done. Who is this Mr. Zint?

Louise felt a heated red crawl up her torso into her neck. I met him at the Fireman’s Dance. He plays violin in the band. You heard him play.

Mrs. Miller's forehead furrowed, and the skin between her eyebrows accordioned into a number eleven shape. Why is he writing to you?

We spoke about music, and he asked if he could write to me.

Louise! It is not proper for a stranger to write to you.

Louise’s red color receded and surprise transformed into anger. How is receiving a postcard improper? I’m sure you read it.

Mrs. Miller stiffened. I can read any mail that comes to my home. Especially if it’s addressed to my children.

From inside the house, Louise’s father called, Mother.

I’m in the kitchen speaking to Louise.

Mr. Miller approached mother and daughter. What are you doing talking through the screen door?

Louise received a postcard from a man we don’t know. He’s part of that band who played at the dance.

Mr. Miller raised his eyebrows, and a guffaw sprung from his barrel chest. Louise, did you attract a love-sick bull?

Mrs. Miller’s apoplectic expression punctured Mr. Miller’s teasing.

Come inside. You have chores, Mrs. Miller said.

Louise entered and guided the screen door, so it would not smack itself closed and annoy her mother further.

May I please have the postcard? Louise asked.

Mr. Miller presented to his wife, I don’t see how reading a postcard makes trouble.

Her mother delivered the postcard and her verdict. You may have this, but you will follow my rules and behave as a young lady should. Help your sisters in the kitchen.

Thank you, Louise said and slipped the postcard into the pocket of her day dress. Her mother would be monitoring her. Her younger teenage sisters, Martha and Rose, would want to know what the mail said. Louise would have to wait if she wanted to read it alone.

After supper, Louise, her parents, sisters, and older brother Charlie, who was home between his road crew jobs, sat in the parlor listening to the radio. Each time Louise felt the card bump against her body, she relished the accompanying zing of excitement. Her opportunity arrived when her youngest sister, thirteen-year-old Rose, asked where the Montgomery Wards’ catalog was.

Louise stood up. It’s in our bedroom. I’ll get it. She soft-stepped up the stairs and into the bedroom. Unadorned whitewashed walls surrounded the three girls’ shared bed. Louise sat on a pieced-together homemade quilt of fabric scraps and read the postcard’s precise block printing.

Hello Miss Louise Miller,

How are you? Hope you can still hear my violin. The Musicale has been in Kansas for a month. In Kansas City, we visited Union Train Station pictured on the front. It has a high ceiling and windows to match its grand size. On the second floor, you can look at the trains and across the city like a bird on a roof. Saw a bull get loose in a town near Topeka and folks had to catch him. The bull was faster. Our next gigs are around St. Louis, M.O. Please write and mail your letter general delivery. Cordially, Leo Zint

Louise traced the stiff paper’s edges. An ecstatic tingling in her fingertips sped up her arms and about her shoulders.

Leo wrote to me!

He had written to her. She returned the postcard to her pocket, wanting to keep Leo’s attention close.

The next afternoon, Louise hid behind the chicken coop. Sitting on an overturned bucket, she considered what to write to Leo. Slight dismay ruffled her happiness. What does a small town farm girl write to a traveling musician?

She wrote,

Hello Mr. Zint, How are you? My school year is done. I’m working more around the farm as the growing season continues.

Leo isn’t interested in farm life. Louise erased all the words after the question mark. Her life was dull. What could she say to him? She tried again.

Hello Mr. Zint, How are you? It’s been quiet since the dance. I miss being in school and all the activities. Field and garden planting are done.

Again, she made words disappear. What if Leo thought she was a ninny? What if he was no longer keen on her? What if he didn’t write back?

Louise stared at an adjacent field of corn. Green leaves hung like hound dog ears on the young corn stalks awaiting their forthcoming yellow top tassels and cobs. She looked past the nearby and towards the horizon, trying to see farther than the vanishing point. Louise knew there was more beyond that perceived limit. A correspondence with Leo could import events and a livelihood that wasn’t tethered to agriculture and weather. He was also a charmer that she desired to know better.

Hello Mr. Leo Zint,

I hope you are well. Thank you for sending me a postcard. Kansas City sounds exciting. I would like to see the city from a bird’s perch. I’ve only traveled to the neighboring counties. Someday, I would like to see more of the nation.

My junior year is complete, and next May I graduate. I have not yet decided what to do after high school. If I go to college, I’ll be able to leave the farm and live in a town or a city.

Planting is done. My chores have grown faster than the wheat. This week’s excitement was Mr. Olmstead’s cows getting out. He was worried about them straying into the neighbor’s pasture.

What new songs is the Musicale playing? I can still hear your violin. We have a radio and sometimes listen to music programs, but it isn’t the same as hearing it in person, especially your violin. How is the band? What is St. Louis like? Please write soon and tell me about your gigs and travels. Louise Miller

She mulled over if the ‘write soon’ was presumptuous. Louise was willing to risk it.

July arrived and turned up the days’ heat. Louise was outside taking the wash down from the clothesline when Rose burst like sunshine through overcast clouds in-between the gap of a pink summer dress and blue jean bib overalls to announce, I have a surprise for you.

You’re going to help take clothes off the line? Louise said as she folded a button-up shirt and dropped it into the basket at her feet.

That’s work, not a surprise.

Louise rolled her eyes. There’s always work around here.

Rose threw out her arm as if she was about to curtesy and proclaimed, Let there be more fun, movies, and no work.

Louise clapped. Thank you, Miss Hollywood. Help me with the wash.

I came to give you this. Mother doesn’t know. Rose whipped a postcard from her dress pocket and thrust it into Louise’s hand. The action distracted Louise, and before she knew it, her sister skipped away.

The postcard showed the Mississippi River shoreline in St. Louis, Missouri.

Hello!

How are you? I hope you and your family are well. Is the corn knee high? Last night we played a wedding in a small town south of St. Louis. Lots of Irish and spirits. Played loud fiddle with an Irishman. Another had a flute that he could make whistle. People danced and sang until sunrise. A man knows how the Irish walk and mourn by the sound of their music. The band is good and busy. We head to Iowa City, I.A. next. Please mail your letter general delivery.

Leo Zint—standing by the Mississippi.

Louise tried to imagine what an evening of Irish music would be and sound like.

I wish I had been there.

She pretended to hear sweet yearning and promising melodies, quick jigs, and popular Tin Pan Alley tunes. Leo’s violin played in it all. Louise raised one arm and rested it on an imaginary Leo’s shoulder, and her other hand palmed his invisible hand, and together they danced between hanging shirts and drying sheets.

Leo’s postmarks wandered the Midwest, and Louise’s imagination and letters followed his musical migration. Years before on a Sunday, Wheatville’s young people were congregated in the churchyard when a traveling circus passed through. Louise and Rose had run shouting and waving alongside the caravan of flatbed trucks hauling equipment and exotic animals. Several circus workers waved back. At the town’s boundary, the circus kept going and she and Rose had to stop.

I wish I was going with them, Rose said.

Me too, Louise agreed. She felt Leo, and the Musicale, was like the circus. Again, Louise had to remain within the limits of her small town, but Leo’s letters brought exhilaration even if it was secondhand.

In fall, the blustery air currents carried the smell of decaying musty leaves, and empty dirt clod fields waited for snow. It was Louise’s senior year, and she was closer to adulthood. School had released for the day, and as Louise stepped into the house she heard her Mother say, Louise. Come into the kitchen.

Coming. Louise smelled the beef broth and pickling spices before she saw her mother minding a simmering pot of bobbing cubed potatoes and carrots.

A letter came from that young man, her mother said pinching a dirt-smudged envelope.

Surprise had Louise asking an unspoken, not a postcard?

His name is Leo. May I have my letter please? Louise held out her hand palm up.

You need to tell this Leo to stop writing you. First it was postcards, and now a letter.

We’re pen pals. He tells me about his life. You’ve read the postcards, Louise said.

Your father and I know nothing about him Neither do you. The paper waved back and forth with each strong annunciation. Do not give me, or your father, any reason to open this letter.

Louise’s bubbling irritation began to roil. Leo has been a gentleman. He’s states away from this farm. Getting kicked by livestock is the most danger I’m near. May I have my letter please?

Her mother held out the envelope. Louise noted the nail indentations her mother had scarred into the paper.

Aren’t you going to read it? her mother queried.

When I’m away from you, Louise thought, but rather said, Later. I have chores to do.

Before the evening milking, Louise snuck behind the red painted barn. Her head curled around his words. The envelope’s corner touched her bottom lip. The dryness of the paper and her mouth’s moisture made the two stick together.

Dear Louise,

How are you? Postcards don’t have much room, so I’m writing you a letter.

How are your classes? Have you decided what you’ll do after graduation? You’re smart. I can see you going places, even a big city. Maybe Chicago.

We’re in Chicago now. This place moves fast. Erik has a new gal, and Karl spoke to one. Saw the gangster Al Capone in a club. Lots of people here and even more music. The jazz slides into a man’s ears and down into his bones to stay forever. The blues roll around the heart and head looking for home. We’ve been going to the Southside clubs to hear all the music we can. The men from New Orleans are the musicians to learn from. Wish we could play more jazz. Colson says that many audiences don’t like the color of that music. Those people are missing something special.

I know you’d like the music. If you were here, I’d take you to those clubs, and you could hear for yourself. We could go to a restaurant and try fancy food. Maybe one day?

Good luck with your classes. Your days are probably full of school goings-on and dances. I like seeing your letters.

The Musicale will be here