The girls whispered to each other, then separated. Lillian, lithe and blond, ran inside. The other girl walked off down the street. The emptiness I felt surprised me.
I took the streetcar back toward the Fairview house Olea owned and where we stayed when we came to Spokane. Instead of going all the way to the house, I got off and walked into a beauty shop and asked for a pompadour frame and spent the afternoon having my hair built up around it. “You’ll have to save the hair from your brushing,” the woman told me, “to fill in these thin places. Your hair is so soft!”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“A little color can give it body. Would you like to try blond?”
I nodded.
“I love adventurous women!” she said and poured warm water from a pitcher over my head.
My hair still had no body, lay weak and limp. And I’d just spent as much as a fur muff on a style that outmoded my hat. I stopped at Crescent’s to buy a new hat and bought one each for Olea and Louise. They met me at the front door of the house.
“Why Clara, you’ve …”
“Colored your hair,” Olea finished for Louise. “It certainly is … yellow.”
“But it’s so … big,” Louise said, gazing up. “That pompadour.”
“It is too big, isn’t it?” I had to duck to get through the door with the hat on. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” The flurry of hair activity had made me feel better, and I didn’t need to tell my friends about the goings-on on Mallon Avenue or that I couldn’t plug the hole I felt in my heart.
“It must weigh as much as Lucy,” Louise said.
“The cat might have added more style,” I said, and they both giggled. I did too, the three of us removing the hat and the frame, laughing at the idea of the cat, all balm to my aching heart. This was what friends were for.
The message at the First Presbyterian Church in Coulee City that next Sunday morning spoke of exile. “Being banished, expelled, sent out, is one of the deepest kinds of human suffering,” the pastor noted. “Imagine the Israelites wandering in the desert. It is not of our doing that we are freed from such bondage. God gives ‘the desolate a home to dwell in.’ ” He quoted a Psalm.
Olea leaned over and said, “In Hebrew the verse is translated, ‘God sets the lonely in families.’ ”
“What an odd verse,” I said. I wondered how she knew the Hebrew version, but Olea rarely shared her history. She was who she was now, a semiretired furrier, a woman interested in European furniture and birds, and apparently a student in Hebrew.
Olea shrugged and whispered, “In Exodus, when the midwives disobeyed the pharaoh, faced their fears, and did what God commanded, it says God gave them ‘families of their own.’ Family is apparently pretty important to the health of the soul.”
I looked at her, wondered if she knew she spoke wisdom as though it were a morning greeting, gracious and simple and deep. She’d already turned back, paying attention to the pastor.
I thought of my mother being expelled from the farm through an unnecessary foreclosure, how lonely she looked the day I left, even surrounded by her children. I thought of her family not letting her speak of one of her greatest accomplishments, how they were held captive by the past, how she was exiled from herself in that way.
Maybe I was as well.
Our lives took on a languid pace, no real ups or downs. Boarders came and went. We hardly noticed them with the separate outside entrance. Most worked for the railroad and were gone for several days at a time. Louise collected the rent from our boarders, who took the rooms and ate one meal with us. Louise complained about her bunions, so took fewer walks with Lucky. I noticed she’d make trips to her room, come out and say, “Now what did I go in there for?” then return. She might do it two or three times before remembering. Maybe she’d always been that way and I only noticed because I was around her more now, listening harder, because that’s what families did for each other.
Olea had her eyes checked and got spectacles. She said I should get my eyes checked too, that I might need glasses. I didn’t like the tiny lenses. They looked … froglike. “You’d squint less if you had them,” she told me.
“I don’t need them yet,” I said and found a magnifying glass I pulled out whenever Franklin’s letters arrived. Franklin and I corresponded with no declarations of anything but Affectionately yours.
These were days of servicing, I called it, doing menial things to keep the system running, like oiling the plow each fall to deter rust. I lived a life without drama or trial and should have been gleeful.
The New York Times arrived weekly and gave us things to discuss through the week. When I saw the article about experiments in Finland, my malaise took a name. I showed it to Olea.
She scoffed. “I thought you’d put that idea out of your mind,” she said. “You haven’t spoken to the Warrens about livetrapping. You haven’t arranged to travel to see things first hand.”
“I’ve been waiting for the right time. The Warrens haven’t been too encouraging about livetrapping for me. I either have to get someone else or try it myself. Look, it says in the Times that it’s working.”
Olea looked over my shoulder.
“With foxes maybe. You ought to pay attention to Franklin’s wish for you to design.”
Had she been reading my mail?
“What if it was a dream I had,” I told her, “to do something new and innovative?” I thought about Olaf reminding me that I hadn’t pursued any of my dreams. But I had. I owned property. I hired seasonal workers to harvest my fruit. We farmed wheat on shares, took chickens to markets that included Spokane restaurants. By all measures I was successful. So what was this longing that made me hungry even after one of Louise’s big meals if not the desire to do something more, something bold, the way my mother and I had walked across the country?
Olaf might not be interested in farming on shares, but maybe I could inspire him with my idea of fur ranching. We could do it on the acres near the Spokane River or on the wheat farm. Olea was right, I finally agreed. This separation between Olaf and me needed to be addressed. I took the train to Spokane and walked the four miles to the Elstad farm east of town.
“I’m a sister to a man I hope still works for you,” I told the woman who came to the farmhouse door. She was younger than I and wiped her hands on a yellow apron. “His name is Olaf Estby.”
She shook her head. Sheep bleated in the background, and I heard a dog bark behind the barn. A recent rain added freshness to the air. I looked around hoping to see Olaf come out from the field, but he didn’t. I wasn’t sure the woman spoke English, so I started to repeat my request in Norwegian when I heard a man call out, “Who is it?” He was inside the house. I hadn’t been invited in.
I handed her my card and she called back, “Clara Doré.”
“I’m Olaf Estby’s sister,” I said loud enough for him to hear, and shortly, as I’d hoped, Erik Elstad appeared.
“Miss Doré.” He grinned, looked at my card, dismissed the woman, and she disappeared. He stepped outside and directed me to a swing on the wide porch. “Would you like water? I can have Beatrice bring it.” I shook my head. “What brings you here?”
“I’m trying to track down my brother. He’s a terrible letter writer.” I smiled.
He looked puzzled, and in the silence that followed, my heart began to pound. “You don’t know,” he said at last.
“Don’t know what? That he doesn’t work here anymore?”
“No, no, he doesn’t.” He looked away from me, stared out onto his fields.
The pounding in my chest grew louder as though my heart knew the danger before my ears could hear the words.
“He’s. He died. I’m so sorry. Phthisis.”
“Tuberculosis? When?”
“I’d have to think,” he said. “Nineteen-ought-two. Yes. The year the irrigation Reclamation Act was signed. He resigned, said he’d help you farm. Got sick and went to Spokane. I assumed … to be with your family
. I think he was in a hospital for a while. I hated to lose him. He was a good worker.” He politely didn’t ask why I’d never been informed.
I hope I thanked him for his time. I don’t remember. He offered me water again, suggested he drive me to the train station when he realized I’d walked. “No, no, the walk will do me good,” I said.
My feet knew the way; my mind meandered. Olaf would have been twenty-three when he died. All that time I’d harbored irritation toward him, he was dead.
Waiting for his letters, watching as Louise brought in the packages and mail, had once offered a blend of hope mixed with ache, but now there’d be only ache. I should have tried to contact him sooner. Regret weighted each step I took. Sobs of sorrow made me stop, lean against the gate post. Too late; I was too late.
I’d lost five brothers and sisters to early deaths, all younger than twenty-five. I was living on borrowed time.
I didn’t return to Coulee City that afternoon. Instead, I stayed at the Fairview house. I didn’t sleep, couldn’t concentrate. My eyes swelled with crying. Finally, at dawn I knew what I would do.
The first house I bought was occupied by renters in a growing section of Spokane. Their rents would make the payments. I purchased a second house in the new Alta Vista Estates strictly for investment. I used my Spokane River property as collateral. I’d hold it until the price rose, then sell for a small profit. I’d slowly gain and make money, add to my accounts, that’s what I’d do. Build security. I ignored the silent voice reminding me of a different path. It felt right.
But by the next morning, it didn’t. There was no need for me to go into debt. This wasn’t what living an abundant life meant, was it? What had I been thinking?
“I’ve been impulsive,” I told the real estate agent, catching him before he left for the day. “I want to put both houses back on the market.”
“Now?” he said. I nodded. “But you’ll lose earnest money. I’ll have to charge fees.”
“I don’t care. Sell them.”
“Give yourself time to think this over. You can’t go wrong with property,” he assured me.
Of course one could. Mama had lost the farm.
“Just sell the rental then,” I said, “Even if it’s at a loss.”
There was something different I needed to invest in as a memorial to my brother. He’d lived a safe and simple life. I needed to fully live my own.
“Where have you been? We’ve been worried about you,” Louise said when I stepped up on the porch.
“I should have called,” I said.
“You’re not required to apprise us of your whereabouts,” Olea said. “But a week—”
“It was rude of me. I’m sorry. I had business to tend to.” I chewed on my nail.
“What is it?” Louise said. “You’re so pale.” She came to sit beside me.
“My brother Olaf died,” I said.
Louise gasped. “I’m so sorry.” Olea put her arm around my shoulder. “We would have come to be with you. Were there funeral arrangements to make?”
“He died years ago. I … didn’t know.”
Louise squatted down in front of me. “The brother you hoped to come here to help farm?” I nodded. “Oh, that’s so sad, so very sad. What happened?”
I gave her the obituary I’d gotten when I stopped at the newspaper office. I imagined my mother giving the newspaper the information for it. Yet one more child, gone from her life.
“What about one of your other brothers?” Louise asked. “Could you invite them to visit and consider farming it with you?”
“Louise, she needs time to grieve,” Olea corrected. “We can fix things later.”
But I liked solving a problem rather than dwelling on the sadness. Arthur would be twenty-one. He’d always shown more interest in Ole’s carpentry work than in farming. Billy would be fourteen, too young to manage a farm even if he had an interest. Olaf had been the one with soil in his soul.
“I doubt any of the others would be interested,” I said.
“Which brother was it again?” Louise asked.
“Olaf,” I repeated.
“Why don’t you contact your family?” Olea said. Her voice held sorrow. “Let them know you grieve with them.”
“They would have seen my letters to Olaf among his things,” I said. “It had my address on it. So did the birthday cards I’ve sent.”
“Maybe he didn’t keep them,” Louise said.
Maybe he hadn’t, but someone in the house knew where I lived. No, there’d been no effort to reach me.
I shook my head. I’d been growing new flesh over the cuts of the past, but they still weren’t healed. My family, not I, held the key to ending this separation.
“What will you do now?” Louise asked.
I inhaled a deep breath. “I’m going to Finland.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Traveling Mercies
It’s about time,” Franklin yelled at me over the phone when I told him I thought we should make the trip.
“It’s not necessary to shout,” I told him. “I can hear you fine.”
“So can our neighbors,” Louise said. She gave woolen mittens to children in the winter, so she sat knitting as Franklin spoke. It was eighty degrees outside, but she wore a sweater. Working with wool “keeps my hands warm,” she often told me. I’d begun to notice that she was often cold while the rest of us sweltered. Perhaps a sign of aging.
“Sorry,” he said and lowered his voice, but old habits die hard, and he soon shouted again. “I’ll meet the train on the fifteenth,” he shouted. His voice quieted down again on the phone with me. “I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he said, “and hearing firsthand about your progress. I intend to see if I can make progress of my own.”
His words fell into silence, then I said, “Every man ought to have good intentions.” I said good-bye, then hung up.
I dragged the trunk from the attic, ironed shirtwaists, and brushed Lucy and Lucky’s hair from the linen. Franklin and I would be gone no more than four weeks. There were too many demands here at home. I’d contacted the real estate agent and told him to sell the Alta Vista property too. Those were impulsive buys. I’d need to sign papers for that.
Two nights before I was to leave, I passed by Olea’s room on the first floor and saw her trunk packed too. I wondered where she was going.
“I had no idea you planned to go to Finland too,” I told Olea and Louise. We stood in the living room, Lucky relegated to the back porch. He was happier there anyway, as the house heated up by late afternoon while the porch remained in the shade of maples and elms. Lucy curled on the divan. “I mean, all of us travel abroad? What about this place? Our home?” The air had begun to cool enough that I’d stopped sweating while I packed. I perspired now for other reasons. The scent of coffeecake filled the air, and the sky was magnificent with frothy clouds like shattered silk kissing the coulee ridges.
“The farm takes care of itself,” Olea said.
“Yes, but our boarders. There’s no time to hire a cook, and the animals—”
“The pastor’s wife will look after Lucy,” Louise said. “And Lucky can go to … What’s their name again, on the farm?” I told her our sharecropper’s name. “Yes. And the boarders can eat at the restaurant. The house will be fine.”
“We’re interested in what might come of your fur ranching plans,” Olea said. “My cousin in Norway writes that they’ve had success in crossing an Icelandic arctic fox with Norwegian reds. They raise the kits on islands. We intend to visit both Norway and Finland. It would be a waste of time not to.”
In my conversations about making the trip, Olea and Louise had never once said they planned to go along. I knew they loved to travel. I should have anticipated. “You’ve never indicated much support for my fur ranching idea,” I said.
“That was before I learned that Norwegians were doing it,” Olea said. “I’d only heard about the Finns, and frankly, I was a little suspect of that. But Norwegians
are a very persistent people. If we can do it, then it can be done elsewhere. We told you that going abroad should have been the first thing you did rather than wasting your time with your trapping period. Now we can all go.”
“I always like to travel,” Louise said. She watched my face, glanced at Olea, then back to me. “But of course, if you don’t want to bother with two old women tagging along, well, I understand that.” She glanced back at Olea again, then looked at her hands.
“It’s not the bother,” I said. “It’s. Well, Franklin and I worked the expenses out. I’m paying for this trip. We’ll go first to Finland and then visit manufacturing houses in Europe. We only plan to be gone about four weeks.”
“It’ll take nearly that long by ship to get there,” Olea said, disgusted with my naiveté. She exaggerated. “If you’re going, you ought to make it worth your time. Three months at a minimum. We’ve worked everything out,” Olea added.
She didn’t name her annoyance, and I couldn’t find words for mine either. Traveling with them would be an adventure. It always was, and yet I didn’t want them along.
I must have scowled, because Louise said, “Let’s not be too hasty, Olea. These are things we didn’t consider. Maybe Clara and Franklin, well, maybe they wanted time … together. We might not have thought of that.”
“They can be alone all they want except when we’re talking furs. This is a business trip for Clara and Franklin, but we have an interest in this too. It’ll affect our lives as well. We’ll travel as the family we are.”
“Then you’ll have to make this a family trip without me,” I said. “I could as easily end up spending a month or more visiting your relatives or taking a side trip to Oslo that could last a month, as New York did. I spent a winter in Minneapolis because I didn’t speak up. I’m speaking up today.”
Olea raised one eyebrow. “You appeared perfectly happy to accept my sister’s hospitality.” She roughly folded a shawl, threw it into her trunk. “We’ll take a different ship, do what we want, won’t we, Louise?”