An author has so many people to thank. Where does she begin?
In this case, that's a question so easily answered. He's a young man, and it seems that he makes his home in The Eternal City. No, this isn't some religious tract I'm writing. Most certainly not! But Rome does seem to attract all types, don't you think? And never having had the good fortune to meet Haley Brimley face to face, I can only imagine what "type" he might be.
Youthful, most certainly, yet he seems to have a maturity and good sense that many of his elders well might envy. Though not native to the English language, his facility at romantic prose is rivaled by very few.
And his energy. My, what energy! To be able to operate his own publishing house at Down in the Den while simultaneously offering encouragement (and an occasional word of moderation, gentle but firm) at the finest publishing house in the Yahoo chain.
Now as to his looks, I haven't the slightest idea, but looks are really so very unimportant, as you'll find out as you read my present novel. I don't imagine him to be dashing, though, but more likely a bit shy. Well, this is all certainly just my imaginings, but that's how I think of young Mr. Brimley.
At all events, I must take this present opportunity to thank young Haley for offering me the opportunity to showcase the premier chapter of my latest literary endeavor, Indian Summer, a tale of the American West and of the young women (and some young men, as well) who helped to create it. Without Haley, this novel would be doomed, I fear, to moulder in a desk drawer (or, in more contemporary terms, on a hard drive). My thanks to you, my dear young friend.
And now, on to some other acknowledgements. I was especially delighted, while conversing in Down in the Den's Forums, to encounter a fellow connoisseur of the cinematic arts, an Australian gentleman by the name of Nathan, who called my attention to several wonderful motion pictures and television miniseries and especially reminded me (who should have needed no reminding) of how deliciously frightful a hand-caning can be. Detroit Jordan will never forgive you, Nathan, for having planted such an idea in the mind of her creator!
And now, to acknowledgements of my friends at the Yahoo publishing house with which Haley is affiliated. Here their numbers are so numerous that I beg indulgence in advance should I forget any of you, and I assure you that amends will be made in the Preface to any future edition of Indian Summer.
First there is Rachel Beatty, that rare find, a woman of my own generation who discusses her experiences in a religious boarding school, Grapevine Academy, that was not at all dissimilar to my Little Flower. Oh, Rachel, how anxious I am to read more of you and your friends, and I most certainly hope that we have not seen the last of your publications.
And among the younger generation, I must never forget Arielle, our home-schooled sprite, who was the first to offer me words of encouragement in the publication of my memoirs of Little Flower, variously but most recently entitled Quinnie and Tavi. You know that you hold a special place in everyone's heart, don't you, dearest?
And our dear Cat, that wonderful "Princess of Light" whose "writer's block" so often reminds me of my own. I don't think you'll ever understand, Cat, just what a wonderful help you've been to me, but Detroit Jordan might never have been born were your Light not shining, little Princess, at Yahoo.
And Christy! Well, what's there to be said of Christy? That she has the most finely appurtenanced boudoir in the Yahoo universe? I jest, dear Christy, for there's really so very much more to be said for any young lady who could capture the heart of our dear friend Haley. But I thank you for your kind words on my memoirs of Little Flower and hope that this tale of the American West will receive your equal approbation.
Well, there are just so many of you, and some whom I don't know quite so well but am still so very fond of, like Brad and Nubby, and I know I've forgotten a few but I hope my penance won't be that so very severe and I most certainly promise to remember anyone I've forgotten in future Prefaces to Indian Summer.
Indian Summer, this tale of Nebraska in its early years of statehood, may prove enlightening to those young people who have grown up in a more permissive society in which discipline is frowned upon until some such person faces the full consequences of her acts and must accept a lifetime of incarceration or, worse, years on death row. What might have become of Detroit Jordan had it not been for her father's strap, her teacher's switch, and her older sister's firm but loving hand is something that we will never know. And fortunately for Detroit, these were fates that she never knew, for the firm discipline that she received made her a pioneer of the American West.
But Indian Summer is first a tale of adventure and maidenly derring-do, of the ghastly murder of an innocent and the secrets of an Indian maid, and of some very strange romances that may produce more surprises than a reader will suspect just from a perusal of this first chapter.
Enjoy, gentle reader, and when you are through enjoying, perhaps you may also learn.
"Since you can't pay attention to the spelling lesson, Detroit Jordan, you can stay after dismissal and write the word list on your slate."
Aw shuckers. Gettin' held after on last day of school.
A moment later Detroit felt a pinch to the back of her head, like she'd got a pigtail caught on a snag in a fence railing while doing her chores. Then, a moment later, another pinch, but on the other side. And it seemed to keep up.
Hey, that Thurlow boy. Told him before about pullin' my hair.
In a fit of anger, Detroit turned around in her seat and slapped the boy behind her, slapped his face and slapped it hard, just once but hard enough to let out a crack like a pistol shot and just as loud, and Jedidiah Thurlow's cheek suddenly bore the bright red of Dee Jordan's palm print.
"Detroit Jordan! Whatever possessed you to do that, young lady?" Mr. Stone asked.
Dee felt her face turn a bright burning red, and she could feel the scarlet flush spread down her neck and onto her breasts.
"I, I, uh, I don't know, Mr. Stone."
"Well if you don't know, Miss Jordan, then I certainly don't either. But I do know what I'm going to do about it. Come up here."
As Dee Jordan walked up to Mr. Stone's desk, the teacher walked to the book shelf whereon was kept The Switch, that ominous bundle of a half-dozen twigs, each of almost exactly equal length (about two feet) and bound tightly at one end in black cloth that held the entire collection securely together while providing its wielder a handle of sorts about an inch in diameter, which allowed him to secure a firm grip on this instrument of modern education while it was applied to whatever would prove that day's unfortunate portion of a young scholar's anatomy. Meanwhile, Dee stood with her back to the class, staring at that peculiar little knothole in the front wall while she felt fourteen pairs of curious eyes boring into her back, every occupant of this one-room school from seven-year-old Monika Ólafsdóttir through sixteen-year-old Jedidiah Thurlow.
Ooooh, that beastly Thurlow boy, bet he's really enjoyin' this.
Having picked up The Switch, Mr. Stone hesitated for a moment and then unshelved the heaviest tome in the library, which he brought with him and laid upon his desk before confronting Dee.
"Turn around, please, Miss Jordan, and unlace your collar."
While her fingers fumbled nervously at the leather thongs that laced her rough calico bodice from mid-breast to chin, Dee could see the smirk on Jed's face, and her own blushed even more furiously than it had as she faced the wall.
I'm gonna git him, just wait, I'll git him if it takes all summer. A sixteen-year-old's thoughts of vengeance can be fearsome indeed!
"Kneel down, please, Miss Jordan."
Dee Jordan wasn't an exceptionally tall girl, standing only a few inches over five feet, but Charles Stone was a stunted young man whose total height of just five feet was further reduced by the spinal deformity that produced such a stoop in his posture that his head did not even reach to Dee's chin. It was for that reason no doubt that he commonly required his three older students, Jed and Dee and Dee's best friend Marta Ólafsdóttir, to kneel for their punishments, though of the three it was Dee who most frequently found herself in that awkward position.
The Switch gripped tightly in his right fist, Mr. Stone pulled Dee's collar back with the middle fingers of his right hand while pressing the young woman's head forward and down with his left to expose the nape of her neck to the cool morning air of late springtime in Nebraska as her pigtails bobbled and waved to the floor on which Dee's eyes were now fastened.
(Young woman? Most certainly and indeed, for youth matured quickly in Nebraska in the early Eighties, and today would be the last schooling for Detroit Jordan and Jedidiah Thurlow, though Marta Ólafsdóttir would have one more year before she would complete her studies in the Cozad schoolhouse and be deemed, at least in her neighbor's eyes, a fully grown woman.)
pfwwwt
Dee had always wondered how a sound so small and soft could mean such pain. Even a hornet swarm buzzed louder when they were stinging at an intruder, and right now the back of Dee's neck felt like it had just been stung by ten dozen of those critters.
pfwwwt
Hey, how many's Stoney givin' me?
pfwwwt
Gonna be one mudball fer each lick. Dee was already plotting out her revenge.
pfwwwt
"That was for disrupting the class. Now, Miss Jordan, to teach your hand to behave itself. . . . Which hand was it you used on Jedidiah, Miss Jordan? Hold that one out, please."
Dee tentatively raised her right hand, holding it at about waist level as she straightened herself up and massaged the back of her neck that felt like it was on fire up against the cool of her palm.
"Higher, that's it, higher. Come on, Miss Jordan, get that hand up over your head. Hold it out, palm up. That's good."
By now Dee's arm was stretched upward and out at about the angle the flag pole made over the entrance to the Dawson County court house.
pfwwwt
Dee gasped. That one finally got to her. It always did, across the palm like that. As the teacher turned to lay The Switch down on his desk, Dee clutched her throbbing hand under her armpit, squeezing, squeezing, trying to squeeze the pain away, but . . .
"Not so fast, I'm not done yet, Miss Jordan. Now get that hand back up where it belongs!"
Uh-oh, shoulda remembered to wait 'til he said he was done . . . And Dee's hand dutifully returned to position.
pfwwwt
"Uhnnn," Dee finally moaned, and she visibly winced but wisely kept her hand in position waiting for Mr. Stone to assure her he was finished. But within a few moments the teacher had taken hold of the book, the heaviest book in the book case, and definitely the heaviest book Dee had ever seen, and placed it on Dee's up-raised palm and assured her that if she dropped it she'd be doing more after school that afternoon than just writing out a spelling lesson on her slate.
The rest of the morning passed slowly, slowly, as it always does when your neck is stinging and your hand is throbbing-hot and the muscles of your arm, outstretched and up-raised, are tightening as you try as best you can not to drop the heaviest book you've ever in your life seen, and how your knees do hurt on that bare wooden floor, and you didn't even have a chance to lace up your collar so Jedidiah Thurlow is getting a good look at your neck, and you hate letting people see all those freckles all over your neck, so you're blushing like you think you've never blushed before, and you hate it when your face is so red like that, and your neck too, and even down onto your breasts, though at least you didn't unlace your collar so much that Jedidiah Thurlow is going to see those freckles. . . .
Well, leastwise I figger Martie be waitin' for me when Stoney finally turns me loose so we can decide just how I'm gonna sling those mudballs at Jed!
"You're such a pretty girl, Miss Jordan, that it's really quite a pity you can't be more ladylike in your deportment." Charles Stone was finally dismissing Dee after she'd spent over four hours before achieving something like partial success in scrawling out the day's spelling lesson on her slate, so that what should have been an early dismissal on school's last day turned into a purgatory that stretched from her lunchless noontime through a fast approaching twilight on the Nebraska plains.
"I'm ladylike as needs be, sir."
"Ladies don't disrupt their fellow students' studies by slapping someone's face."
"Well that Jed Thurlow had it comin'.
"Of course he did, Miss Jordan, and you need only have raised your hand and told me that he was pulling on your pigtails and it's his rump that would be smarting right now rather than the nape of your neck. And I might have been less strict in examining your spelling assignment and you'd have been out of here by an hour or so after noon."
"I don't tell tales, sir."
"Quite self-sufficient, aren't you. Though that kind of self-sufficiency isn't going to get you a husband."
"Don't know what I need with one, sir."
"Oh-ho, and just how do you plan to support yourself? No matter how strong a woman might be, it's still hard enough for man and woman together to make their lives out here on these farmlands."
"Well maybe I'll get a job."
"Really, and just what kind of job do you plan on getting, Miss Jordan? I don't worry that the School Board will ever take my job away from me to give it to someone who can't even recite the names of the twenty-one Presidents this Republic's so far had."
"Other jobs besides school marm."
"You're going to serve licker to the cowhands in town? Don't forget what happened to Marian Ruggles and her girls."
Dee blushed furiously. Who could ever forget Marian Ruggles, who was serving two years in the state prison for running that brothel in the county seat, and the three girls who'd worked for her had been put on the train to California after being horsewhipped by the church ladies.
"You know I'm not that kind of girl, sir. But I reckon I'll live with my Paw for awhile, 'cause it's sure 'nuff better than having to settle for some old school teacher or someone like that."
"'Someone like that,' maybe, but definitely not some old school teacher, at least not while I'm the school teacher here in Cozad," Charles Stone laughed. "A boy like Jed Thurlow's more in your line. I'd want a wife who could write out a proper letter, and I'd sure want my children to have a mother who could see after their learning.
"Anyway, that's it for your schooling, Detroit, so off with you now and enjoy your summer. But remember, when your father comes back from Omaha in August . . . . Just remember that he may have some plans for himself that don't include your living with him."
"Well, whatever, I ain't never gonna be horsewhipped by no church ladies."
"No, I know you won't Detroit. And you have too much good sense to wind up like Cheyenne Lucy."
Dee's eyes started to tear up at the thought of Lucy Tall Feather. Her father had given Cheyenne Lucy some work around the stables, because the girl seemed to have a real talent with horses and the church ladies at The Mission had spoken so highly of her. Then she went off and got herself in trouble, and too proud to tell anyone about it, so they found that little newborn of hers strangled. Seven months now it had been, and her appeals had been denied, and here she was just waiting in the county jail for the governor's warrant, which should arrive any day now . . . .
"Good luck, Detroit, and stop in and say hello when you're passing by. I think I'm really going to miss you. You're not much of a student, but you've got a spunkiness to you, even if it did earn you a few switchings."
"Well, sir, you were always fair about them. And I hear some male school teachers still give their older girls skirts-up lickings. It's right decent you never did that to me or Martie."
"I don't believe in that for any young woman over twelve years, though I don't think modesty's offended when a lady school teacher gives it to older girls."
"Guess I've been right lucky to have you for a teacher then, Mr. Stone, even if the back of my neck don't always feel too good. And only five of those whacks today were Jedidiah's fault. I should have remembered to keep my hand out, so he doesn't get anything for that one."
"Come on, Detroit, you know the difference between 'doesn't' and 'don't,' and you should also know the difference between 'too' and 'very.' Stop pretending to be less educated than you really are."
"All right, sir. It's just fun to try to get you upset, especially now that my school days are over so you can't use that Switch on me any more." Detroit chuckled. "Just wish my Paw would feel the same way about that strop of his."
"It's different when a father does it, Detroit. But just remember, you don't know what his plans might be when he gets back from Omaha in August."
"We'll see. Well, so long, sir."
"Good-bye, Dee, and take care of yourself."
Huhn. Four times now he called me "Detroit" and the last time it was "Dee." Wonder if he's getting sweet on me? Got a real nice face he does, and he's not really a cripple, just hump-backed real bad--
"Oh, and Dee, just remember that all six of today's 'whacks,' as you call them, were your fault, not Jed Thurlow's. So don't go off getting yourself into any trouble you'll regret later on."
How many girls can have a pal like Martie? Gosh, we're lucky to be best friends. And here she is, waitin' for me more than four hours, just so we can take care of Jed Thurlow.
"You are certain this we should do, Dee?
"Sure, Martie. Hey, remember how last week Jed made fun of the way you talk? And he called you and Monika both 'dumb Swedes'? Well, neither one of you'se dumb, and Jed Thurlow's the dumb one 'cause he don't the difference between a Swede and a Norwegian. And 'sides, Monika came over here so young she doesn't even talk Norwegian, does she? Hunh?"
"Your father not here in Cozad but in Omaha for most summer. If we discovered, min mor put stick to me and then min far put strap to me when min mor finished. I frightened we get caught, Dee."
"Everyone knows Jed got me switched by Stoney today, so they'll all figure it's me and Sis'll lay into me, but you know I don't tell on anyone. Hey, Martie, I got switched by Stoney today 'cause I wouldn't tell on Jed. You think I'd get you in trouble?"
"I know you not do that. You be my best friend, Dee. So I help you."
"So we hide down by the creek, in the possumhaw patch, and we get him when he and his Ma are goin' to the camp meeting grounds, and we only got about twenty minutes so let's get goin'."
When a sixteen-year-old and her best friend are set on vengeance, they could be more fleet of foot than the goddess Atalanta, and within five minutes the two girls had ensconced themselves in the grove of possumhaw holly (what a botanical scholar like Mr. Charles Stone would call Ilex decidua) that stretched along the creek, right by the path they knew Jed and his mother would be taking to the camp grounds for the Bible Meeting that evening. And of course it took only a moment's effort for the top mudball slinger in Dawson County to assemble seven mudballs each on the tip of a slender sapling branch. Seven mudballs in all, one for each of the five 'whacks' that Dee considered Jed personally responsible for, and an additional one each for Martie and for Monika.
"Hey, Martie, don't Jed look fancy?"
And he did, dressed in his "Sunday best" though it was a Wednesday evening, for his mother was a particularly devout Methodist who considered attendance at any "camp meeting revival" de rigeur. But though Jed Thurlow "looked fancy," it wasn't a feeling that he at all enjoyed, because he was really as much a scraped-knee hellion as Dee Jordan. Well, though, if Jed disliked "looking fancy," he wouldn't be "looking fancy" for much more than another minute because as quickly as Martie could hand a mudball sling to Dee that mudball had found its mark with perfect accuracy, and within another ten minutes the two girls were giggling at Martie's doorstep and Dee was bidding her adieu until they could meet the next morning to discuss their triumph and Martie could praise Dee's martial prowess.
Delaware Jordan wasn't the type who enjoyed making her kid sister miserable. After all, Del was only eighteen herself, and since she was to be married as soon as her fiancé and her father returned from their business in Omaha she'd planned on making her last summer with Dee one they both remembered fondly, so she wasn't terribly upset that Dee had lost track of the time her first afternoon following the end of school. But as she was getting the peach cobbler she'd cooked up from preserves for Dee's last day of school, she heard a knocking at the door, and she opened it to a very angry Rachel Thurlow accompanied by a very muddied Jed.
One look at Dee's face told Del that something was wrong. "I think you'd better go to your room while Mrs. Thurlow and I have a talk, Sis."
About fifteen minutes later, Del appeared at the door of Dee's room. "Anything you want to tell me, Sis?"
When Dee remained silent, Del continued, "I guess you'll be interested to know that Marta Ólafsdóttir has already gotten her whipping. Great way to start a summer, isn't it, Sis?"
"Are you going to switch me, Del?"
"I'm not going to do anything to you, Dee. You're going to go see Mrs. Thurlow tomorrow morning, and she's going to give you a taste of the leather. Jed's going to come over here tomorrow, in clean clothes, and I'm going to use the switch on him."
"Hunh?"
"Hasn't it dawned on you, you little nitwit, that Paw's just waiting for me and Will Sommers to get married, then he and Rachel Thurlow are getting hitched? You're about to find out whether your new Step-Ma can swing the leather good as Paw can.
"And while Mrs. Thurlow's taking care of your behind, I'll be making Jed sorry he ever touched so much as a hair on my kid sister's head.
"And if you do a really good job on Mrs. Thurlow's laundry for the next few weeks, maybe Paw won't see any need to take the leather to you himself when he and Will get back from Omaha.
"Let's just forget about that peach cobbler. You're lucky you managed to eat your dinner before Mrs. Thurlow showed up at the door, or you'd be pretty hungry tomorrow while she's giving you your strapping. Good night, Dee."
The next morning dawned like a continuation of the previous evening since Dee hadn't really been able to fall asleep all night. At sun-up, when she left for the Thurlow place without even waiting to be told, she saw Delaware out back cutting some switches from the peach tree. "Funny how something can grow such sweet fruit but still hurt so much," Dee thought to herself as she passed Jed in the roadway, both of them trying not to look at each other.
"Come on in, girl, and lay yourself out on my bed, same way you lay yourself out on your own for your Paw to give you a licking." Dee hadn't even had to knock on the door, because Mrs. Thurlow was waiting for her in the open doorway, holding a meaner looking strip of leather than Dee had ever felt from her Paw.
Paw's belt's somethin' to hold his trousers up, but looks like that piece of leather's somethin' Mrs. Thurlow jus' keeps for lickin' with!
"I know how your Paw gives it to you, girl, he's told me all about it. You really got it good last time you and that Swede girl played hookey, and serves the two of you right, after your parents pay Seventeen Dollars a year to get you educated."
"Martie's not Swedish, she's Norwegian."
"Don't give me any of your backtalk girl, or you'll be getting your mouth washed too. Now onto the bed like you do for your Paw."
Mrs. Thurlow's bed was pretty much like Dee's, and her feet would fit under the bar, which would keep her from kicking her heels up while Mrs. Thurlow strapped her. So Dee positioned a pillow under her tummy, slipped her ankles under the bar just like her Paw would have expected her to do, and gripped the cloth quilt so she'd be sure not to try covering her rump with her hands and earn herself some extra licks. When Mrs. Thurlow was satisfied that Dee had positioned herself properly, she lifted up her soon-to-be-stepdaughter's skirt and slip, snorted when she saw that Dee wasn't wearing any underwear, and let loose with a swing of the strap that left an ugly crimson streak across Dee's backside.
THWACK
ugh
Gol' that ain't nothin' like Paw's belt! And neither was it the small soft pfwwwt of the schoolhouse Switch. This was a piece of leather that could be used to herd cows with, or teach a bucking colt to mind. It had been used more than once when Jed had gotten coltish, and now Dee, though not exactly a colt, was getting a taste of how Jed was reared and realizing that life might be a bit different at the Jordan homestead once a stepmother took over the place.
THWACK
ow
THWACK
YEOWWW
THWACK
PLEEEEZE
"All right, girl, I figure four of Bessie's enough for your first taste of her. Served Jed right to get a little muddied anyway, considering the disrespect he showed you in that schoolroom. But it still wasn't right for you to go off disrespecting me and slinging those mudballs at him while he was walking along with me to the camp meeting."
"Yes, Ma'am, and thank you muchly. Paw would prob'ly have given me a dozen, but that strap of yours hurts worse on just four than anything Paw's ever laid on me."
"I expect it would, girl. It's made from one tough old cow lived over twenty-five years, and my Ma used it to teach me a few things, just like I'll be teaching you.
"Besides, your Paw's too nice. He doesn't like to really lay it onto a girl. That's why you need a woman in the house, because your Sis will be moving out as soon as she's married and she was always a little too soft on you anyway.
"But your Paw and I have agreed that he's going to take on disciplining Jed, so that boy's going to feel how a man's arm can lay it on when he gets out of line.
"The week's wash is in the basket on the porch, so you can get started now if you like or you can wait for Jed to get back here to help you."
"Jed's gonna help me, Ma'am?"
"Of course he is. He's as much responsible for all this trouble as you are, so it's only fair. Besides, you and he are about to become almost like brother and sister, so you'd both better start getting used to each other."
"But what does a boy know about washing clothes?"
"Whatever you teach him, girl. And what's a girl know about whitewashing a barn? So you'll be learning that from Jed, because I want this Thurlow homestead in perfect shape by the time of my wedding so I can lease it out when I move in with your Paw.
"Oh, and next time I take Bessie to you, I expect to see you wearing knickers like a lady should."
"But they're so tight and scratchy, Ma'am."
"The next time I take Bessie to you, I expect to see you wearing knickers like a lady should. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Ma'am."