The Daughter's Walk

  “What’s his name?” Ida asked.

  “His name is Franklin Doré.”

  Mama dropped the spoons she had in her hand. Her back stiffened and she turned, shook her head at me, her eyes wild with concern. Speaking of a Doré doesn’t violate a rule, does it?

  My stepfather had said my father’s name was John Doré and his mother’s name was Clara. I’d been so intimidated by his outrage that I hadn’t realized I’d heard that last name before. Doré.

  “What kind of fur is this?” Lillian said. She rubbed the gold-cast pelt of the purse, then put it to her face. “So soft.” She ran the zipper back and forth again.

  “It’s ermine, from Russia. Maybe you should put that down and let’s set the table,” I said now that the cream stood stiff as frozen snow.

  Ida said, “Clara, about my letter—”

  Commotion followed the men and boys’ arrival inside. Billy teased me about the mud on my shoes. The men sat down, and when they heard Sailor bark his old dog bark, Mama looked out the window and announced that Olaf was coming too. “Now I’ll have all my children here. What could be better?” She sighed.

  You could have the farm. Couldn’t she see? Where was that independent spirit that had shot a tramp, walked right up to the president-elect’s house, worked her way across the continent, keeping us safe, hoping to rescue this farm?

  Olaf stepped inside then and hugged Mama, Ida, and me, tugged on Lillian’s braid. He plopped his newspaper on the table. “Only two weeks old, this one,” he said. Mama picked it up, set it aside. She thanked him for remembering. So news still kept her interest. Ida put plates on the table while I moved my hat to the daybed. Lillian set a plate or two, picked the purse back up.

  “Arthur, put that umbrella away. Don’t you know that opening an umbrella inside is bad luck?” Ida told him.

  “Who believes in superstitions like that?” he said.

  The pie was served then with dollops of whipped cream on top. I didn’t look at my stepfather as he sat at the head of the table. For a moment, as people ate, the silence seemed normal, what it should be while hungry people received sustenance prepared by loving hands. I memorized the scene. It would be the last time I’d see my family in this kitchen, where so many sunrises had freshened the morning, so many conversations helped the evening wane. The farm would be gone. The sale would pierce my mother’s heart yet again. How many more wounds could she accept without disappearing? How many little pieces of a lace heart could she leave behind? She had suffered enough.

  There was nothing I could do about it.

  I captured the faces of my family. Even in my stepfather’s eyes I saw true sadness. He’d said I wasn’t an Estby if I kept the dirty money, as he called it. But even before I’d received the money, I wasn’t an Estby. That was the truth. Maybe that’s why I could see the money objectively, as a means to an end, while my stepfather and mother gave it evil intent.

  Life would change for all of them after today, me most of all.

  I shook my head, remembering my brother’s sage vision once shared in secret that the foreclosure would at last free them from a terrible debt that sucked them all dry. The thought gave me hope that maybe it would be all right for Mama without the farm. This amputation from the land might in time allow true healing to take place without the daily reminder of the losses suffered here.

  “Do you want to go upstairs and see what’s yours to take with you?” Mama said as we finished up.

  “I think mostly I’d like …” I rose to the cabinet and pulled it out from the wall. The packet was still there tied with a dusty ribbon.

  “What have you got there?” Ida said.

  “My drawings. You remember,” I said. I brushed off the packet. “And a few of Olaf’s old newspapers.” I hoped Ida wouldn’t want to look inside. The clippings were there, the signatures of the famous people. It might challenge my stepfather if he saw that I’d kept evidence of our walk. I didn’t want him to grab the packet and see what had been kept of the trip right under his nose.

  “Ohhhh,” Lillian said. “Look at all this!”

  We all turned.

  From the ermine purse, Lillian pulled one-hundred-dollar bills. They unfurled on the floor at my stepfather’s feet like leaves falling from a windblown tree.

  “Oops,” Lillian said.

  “Lillian,” Ida said. “What are you doing getting into Clara’s things?”

  My mother gasped.

  Lillian bent to pick up the bills, tried stuffing them back inside. Ida squatted to help her. She looked up. “Clara? There’s so much money here.”

  Arthur stopped eating and looked at what his sister held. “There must be … thousands,” he said.

  “Maybe millions,” Billy added.

  Ida’s face lit up. “You brought it for us!”

  I looked at my stepfather. I pleaded with him to take this gift of accident, another chance that Lillian’s curiosity had given. Under his breath I heard him say, “Sjusket kvinne.”

  “Who lives like a slattern?” Olaf asked.

  “It isn’t dirty money,” I defended.

  “Is it yours?” Ida said. “Are you giving it to us, to save the farm—”

  “Yes, it’s mine. And I would but—”

  “You’ll pay the mortgage? We won’t have to move?” Arthur asked.

  “No,” I said. “Ole, Papa, has refused the money.”

  “Papa?” Ida said.

  “It’s money Mama and I earned by making the trip. The women I work for were two of the sponsors.”

  Ida gasped, dropped the money as though it held disease. “And you would take their money after what they did to us?” Her eyes flashed in outrage. “You worked for them, knowing this?”

  “I didn’t know when I started. It … The sponsorship … It was a business arrangement, with other people,” I said. “They never intended for bad things to happen. Now they’re hoping to make amends.”

  “Dirty money,” my stepfather repeated.

  “Papa,” Ida said. “If it would save the farm …”

  “No!” He banged his fist on the table, making the plates and forks jump. He shouted so loudly Lillian started to cry. That awakened Mama, who put her arms around her.

  “We accept nothing touched by that time. Clara is foolish to want it. Or to work for them, to have anything to do with them.”

  For a moment, Ida teetered on our future, but she was driven by the past.

  “Well,” Ida said with no longer even a hint of an ally. “You have to quit working for them.”

  “They’re the ones that wouldn’t pay you and Mama?” Arthur asked. He looked confused.

  Ida nodded. “Papa’s right. It’s a … betrayal to work for such women. Give the money back. Find another job. You need to be loyal to our family, Clara. How can you even consider taking it?”

  “But it would save you. Us!” I pleaded. “It’s only money.”

  “It has been decided,” my stepfather said. “Ida is right; you must give it back. Get away from the influence of those women. You can live with us in Spokane. Help your family in an honorable way.”

  Help my family. Wasn’t that what I’d always done? They refused my help. They couldn’t see the merit of the money nor of allowing others to pay penance for a wrong.

  I looked at my mother. She sat, a frozen sea within.

  And then I chose.

  “You said that an Estby wouldn’t keep it, Papa. You’re right. But I’m not an Estby, and you’re not my papa. I guess that’s the truth of things. This money is a tool; it’s … it’s not good or bad. Can’t you see that? It would do what you wanted it to do. You’re the ones who are foolish and betray the family by not accepting it.”

  “Clara. Stop now.” My stepfather stood.

  I could hardly hold back the tears. “I’ve done everything I could for this family. Everything. I made that trip even though I didn’t want to. I grieved with Mama over Bertha’s death, just the two of us alone. I ached wit
h you over Johnny’s. I gave up my own life to help save this farm, but it doesn’t matter to you. If I have joy from my work, you say it’s from dirty money. If I can’t help in the way you think is good, then I can’t help at all.” My voice broke.

  “Clara,” my mother said.

  “What?” I turned on her.

  “Do what Ole asks.”

  “No. I’ll get out of your way and make my own way.” I pulled my hat onto my head, grabbed the purse.

  “It’s all right, Lillian,” I said. The child shrank on the daybed, pulling her knees up as though all this emotion was her fault, begun by her opening my purse. But it had begun years before, perhaps when Mama chose to do what her family asked and marry my stepfather even though she didn’t love him, denied herself to save her family. Always for the family.

  “If you can’t live with our rules, then you must live without us,” my stepfather said.

  The tears ran freely, and a sob escaped me.

  “You’re abandoning us,” Ida said. She whispered as if in shock. “In our hour of greatest need.”

  “A need I can fix but not the way you want,” I said. I hiccupped with sorrow. “Call it what you will. You’re sending me out.”

  I thought Mama’s eyes spoke to me as I pushed past her. I hesitated, to see if she’d reach up to stop me, keep me in this family. But her eyes had no message, at least none I could read through my tears. I touched Olaf on the shoulder as I passed behind him, grabbed my fur from the coat tree. I looked into the wide eyes of Arthur, Billy, and Ida, and then I stepped outside, struggling to catch my breath.

  Sailor sat up on the porch, his tail hitting the boards in happy anticipation. I patted his head. I hoped someone would come outside and ask me back. I prayed that Olaf would say, “Let’s think this over.” But no one did.

  Sailor padded with me down the lane until I stopped. “Go back, Sailor. Just go home.” Snow fell like melting tears. “Turn around. You can’t come with me.”

  The dog stopped, tail down, head cocked as though trying to understand what I told him. I pointed toward the house, and he turned around. “They need someone to take care of them,” I said.

  I wasn’t certain if I spoke to him or to myself. It didn’t matter. I was alone now, on my own, taking my first steps into exile.

  PART TWO

  Exile

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Journey Outward, Journey Inward

  For the love of family, I’d been sent away. At least that’s how I saw it. While I waited at Schwartz’s store for the afternoon train, I pulled my jacket tighter against the cold, as adrift as a snowflake tossed in the wind. The ride back to Spokane was long and lonely. A part of me wished I’d taken time to walk around the old farm before I left, to look in the barn and smell the hay, listen to the chickens cackling, scratch behind a horse’s ear. Take one last cold drink at the pump. I’d never go back to that place even if it remained with the Estbys. I wasn’t one of them anymore.

  The train chugged along through the falling snow. I wasn’t sure what to tell Olea and Louise. They’d want to hear how I heroically saved the family farm, rescued my mother from the shame of foreclosure, gave my parents a fresh start on a landscape they loved, used the money we’d rightfully earned for a good cause.

  Would I tell them that my family thought their money was dirty? They’d both been so happy to help, when they hadn’t done it before. My receiving the funds relieved them from a former guilt. Maybe they’d wash their hands of a family so foolish as to turn down good money. Maybe they’d wash their hands of me.

  “Did the day go well?” Louise chirped when I came through the door. “Why, you’re soaked. Where’d you leave your umbrella?”

  “I left it at home. At the farm,” I corrected. “One day I’ll own a car,” I said. “So I won’t get so drenched.”

  “Well, get those wet things off and I’ll heat up water for a tub.” She took the fur jacket and hat, hung them in the hall while I peeled the packet of mementos out from under my blouse, where I’d kept it as dry as I could.

  “I’ll be fine.” I shivered.

  Olea came out of her room. “I thought I heard talking.” She looked at her lapel watch. “Was there a train at this hour? We assumed you’d stay the weekend to finalize things.”

  I took a deep breath. “There was nothing to finalize. My stepfather, my mother, everyone … They … rejected the money.”

  “What?” Louise said.

  “Indeed,” Olea said. She sat down on the arm of a chair. Louise brought a fur wrap and put it around me. “They didn’t want to pay off the mortgage?”

  “They … didn’t like the source of the funds,” I said. I felt embarrassed for my family, shamed that they couldn’t see the benefit of the money without the story behind it carrying more weight.

  “But you earned it,” Louise said. “You and your mother.”

  “Not in my stepfather’s eyes. And Mama … she’s too worn out to stand against him anymore. Saving the farm would have been a gift to her. She might have forgiven herself for not being home when Bertha and Johnny became ill. I wanted to do that for her. For them. But they …” The tears began again. “They want nothing to do with the walk or money from it. They think I’ve abandoned them because I came back here, because I want to continue to work for you. If you’ll have me.”

  “Of course we’ll have you.” Louise put a teakettle on. “You must get out of those wet things. Go now,” she urged.

  I followed her advice, stripped the wet clothes, then put on a wrapper and rolled the fur around my shoulders again. Louise pointed to a chair and put slippers onto my feet when I sat. She brought me tea. My eyes pooled with tears at her care.

  “The money is in my purse,” I said. “Take it back.”

  Olea sipped her tea. “It’s not our money anymore, Clara. It’s yours. To do with as you see fit. You earned it. Invest it. Turn it into something your parents can be proud of.”

  “They’ll never be proud of anything I do with it,” I said. Nor would they ever be proud of me. I could see that now. Even Mama couldn’t speak up for me anymore, though we’d shared a memory none of the rest of the family had. That might have been another reason why my brothers and sisters could so easily side with my stepfather against me, against their own best interests. They wanted to keep the farm too, but not if I gave the money.

  “Then invest it for yourself. Make your own way,” Olea said. “Prove that it isn’t money but what you do with it that is the moral base of who you are. After all, God loved things. He made things every day for six days and said they were all good. It isn’t having things that is the issue; it’s the attitude. Make your own way; give back in your own way too.”

  I’d dreamed of having a career, a profession too, a life apart from working for my family. I could go on to college now. The world was open to me if I kept the money, so open that I was paralyzed to act.

  “They’ll feel better about it in a few days,” Louise said. “Time is always a good healer. You plan to go back out there again. After they’ve had a little time to consider, they’ll likely welcome your offer.”

  In that moment, Louise reminded me of my mother’s once cheerful optimism about mishaps, and I knew it to be equally hopeless.

  “They’re not welcoming me back.”

  “Not want you?” Olea asked. “Surely that can’t be right.”

  “I’m not an Estby anymore,” I said.

  My teeth chattered from the cold train ride back to Spokane. Or maybe from the possibilities that now lay before me with no one but myself to stand in my way.

  I caught a cold. Its sneezing and sore throat kept me down for a week. I coughed and ran a fever and heard Louise say the word diphtheria followed by Olea’s reassuring scoff. But as Mama had once tended me through food poisoning and my sprained ankle, so these two women looked after me, reassuring me that I’d be better soon with Louise’s concoctions, prepared with what the doctor recommended.

  Wh
atever it was the doctor had ordered to stop my cough put me to dreamless sleep, so I didn’t feel up to taking the train back to Mica Creek on the day of the auction. Going would have been self-punishment. Even Louise didn’t suggest it again after that first night.

  I didn’t know what I did want to do once I finished my classes at Blair College in a month, except for one thing.

  “I’ve decided to change my name officially to Clara Ann Doré,” I told Olea one morning close to my graduation.

  “Doré? How odd. That’s Franklin’s name,” Olea noted. “Our agent.”

  “I remember you told me that. I’m choosing it because one thing I did learn when I visited my family was who my father was. John Doré. Apparently his mother’s name was Clara, and Mama named me for her.”

  “Indeed,” Olea said.

  “Maybe your mother wanted to maintain connection to him and chose his mother’s name to honor him,” Louise said. She put milk in a bowl for Lucy, who had now become an inside cat all the time, not just during cold winter nights.

  I wondered if Mama might have named me as an act of defiance, the only action left to her with everyone else making the decisions that defined her life—leaving Michigan and arriving in Yellow Medicine, Minnesota, where no one knew her secret shame.

  No one defined my life now.

  “There’s little use to speculate,” Olea said.

  “No, I suppose not,” Louise said.

  “Will I have to find a lawyer to change my name?”

  “Oh, goodness no,” Louise said. “I changed my name back in 1897 in New York. You go to the courthouse and fill out forms and stand before a judge. Like when you get married. I used to be Gulbrandson instead of Gubner. Gubner is so much easier to spell.”

  “You changed it because of the spelling?” I asked.

  “As good a reason as any.”

  “We can get that started for you,” Olea said. “I’ll pick up forms when I’m at the courthouse later this week. So you’re to be Clara Doré. And what will Clara Doré be doing with her time, once she’s well, of course?”