Crossing the Deadline Read Free Page B

Gates says. She motions with her finger for me to come closer. I lean in, and with a hushed voice she says, “Even Mrs. Loggins, who’s meaner than a cottonmouth cornered in an outhouse, surrendered a swatch of white from a piece of bedding.”
    Mrs. Peckham laughs. “Not that she gave up much. Looked like it hadn’t been washed in seven years.”
    â€œMargaret!” Miss Gates says.
    â€œI’m just tellin’ the truth, Amanda. I’m only tellin’ the truth.”
    â€œI’m sure everyone will love your flags,” I say.
    Miss Gates nods toward Margaret. “She made the stars. She wound white thread around her needle three or four times, held the knot in place, and pushed the needle back through the same hole it came from. White dots the size of tomato seeds.”
    I smile at Margaret. “Miss Betsy Ross herself would be proud.”
    â€œWe don’t want the governor of Indiana to be embarrassed by his hometown,” Margaret replies.
    Miss Gates lays the fabric in her lap and shoots a sideways smile at her friend. “Horsefeathers, Margaret. How could Governor Oliver Morton not be proud of his own hometown?We’re family. When he sees these flags waving, he’ll have to be wallpapered not to be impressed.”
    Miss Gates holds up her latest creation. “Stephen, does this look crooked to you?”
    She’s fishing for a compliment. “What on earth are you talking about, ma’am?” I say. “The seams appear straight as rails. They’re expecting a couple hundred people to hear the governor. Do you think you have enough flags?”
    â€œThey’ll go as far as they can go,” Miss Gates says.
    * * *
    Two hours later I see the ladies carrying their baskets through the crowd at the depot. Their hands retrieve one flag at a time as if they’re delicate dried flowers. They nod to each man and hand a flag to each lady. Sherry Ball stands next to me. She runs her fingers over a row of French knots.
    â€œEvery single flag has exactly five rows of seven stars, Sherry,” Margaret assures her. “There’s no need to count ’em all. One star for each state. The thirty-fifth star is West Virginia’s. It was official on July fourth.”
    â€œShould only be twenty-four stars on your flags, ladies,” Richard Charman butts in. When the war started, Charmanhung a flag from his front porch. But he cut one star out for every state that left the Union. “Seceshes’ stars should be taken off every Union flag,” he says with venom in his words.
    Margaret raises her voice. “You may call any state who seceded a Secesh, Richard Charman, or whatever else you like. But this is an American flag.” She stares him dead in the eyes, daring him to blink. “What you do with your flags, at your house, sir, is your business. These are my flags, and I worked hours to put every dadblamed star on ’em. I thank you very kindly to keep your comments to yourself.”
    â€œIt’s a very beautiful flag, indeed, Mrs. Peckham,” I interrupt.
    â€œThank you, Stephen,” she says, fighting back tears. She walks away, then stops. After taking several seconds to collect her thoughts, she turns and looks back. “Stephen, your brother, Robert, is fighting for all of this flag, every red and white stripe and all thirty-five stars. His efforts are not for a cut-up and tattered flag with some stars missing.”
    That brings a smile to my face and a lump to my throat.

CHAPTER FOUR

    A train whistle draws everybody’s attention west. I look down the tracks and see pillars of smoke swell from a locomotive’s engine. The train’s “welcome whistle” blows, and Mr. Wilson waves his hand to get the band members’ attention.
    Our director has taught music for twenty-five years in Centerville. A year ago he formed the Community Band with boys too young to enlist and men who