“A fair price,” Franklin said to my surprise. “Will you consider it?” he asked, turning to me.
I knew that a single silver fox pelt could bring in well over one hundred dollars, more than ten times our little Presbyterian church’s budget for home and foreign missions. But acquiring the pair would be the least of my expense and worries. Getting the animals back to Washington would be costly, with no guarantee of survival. I wanted to raise game from my own land, not import them.
“I want to try it my way first.”
His wife laughed. “You could be Finnish,” she said.
Maybe the name Doré was.
“We’re this close to Norway,” Franklin said. “We could go to Christiania. Oslo. Your relatives came from there, isn’t that right?”
I hadn’t remembered telling him that. Maybe Olea had. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s where you began too,” he said. We strolled along the wharf at Hanko. “I think visiting Norway would give you a path on your family search,” Franklin continued.
I stopped and took a step away from him. Water lapped against the dock where we stood. What had I said or done that invited Franklin to speak of my family? It was more intimate than his kiss, which had neither been repeated nor discussed. “Have I said I’m searching for my family?” I asked.
He looked sheepish. “Memories can flow through blood.” He smiled and pulled my hand through his arm and we began walking again.
“My mother left Norway when she was quite young. I can’t imagine what I’d gain by walking where she walked as a child.”
“The land speaks to people, Clara. It does. Who knows what Norway might have to say to you?”
Franklin put his warm hand over mine as we walked, while memory threads to my family drifted around me like a spider web still being woven.
“I suppose in Norway we could locate the fox operation Olea spoke of and take back information for her,” I said.
“We have time. Let’s see if we can find where your mother was born. You have a region?”
“On the Hauge farm,” I said. “Near Kirkenaer, in Central Grue. Her father died when she was young. Barely two. She doesn’t remember him, only her stepfather. How odd,” I said, forgetting that Franklin stood beside me to overhear this thought of family. “My mother was raised by a stepfather too. I wonder when she knew?”
We crossed Sweden by train to Oslo. The silver fox operations weren’t far from there, and we spent the day discovering only small differences between the management of their farm and the Finns’. Again, though, the need for high-protein food and the oils from fish were identified as important for animal health and quality of pelts. Coulee City was far from a fish source, but maybe there were canneries in Spokane. It would be something I’d have to explore if my plan took wings and flew to the other side of the ocean. The word if loomed larger than it had before, as the Norwegian fur ranchers also scoffed at my plans to livetrap and breed weasels.
My mother’s birthplace lay north and we took another train to the city of Kirkenaer, arriving at the administrative town along the Glomma River. We headed east to Grue, past the new church built after the terrible fire that had killed over one hundred people years before. The property wasn’t known as the Hauge farm anymore, but when I asked locally, people knew where I wanted to go. My nearly pure Norwegian told people I had connection to the area, and they assisted us.
We knocked on the door of the tenant’s house. A small building housed pigs we could hear snorting. I thought of Ida stranded in that hog house on Mica Creek, trying to keep the children safe while Bertha lay dying. Ole had built a better building for his hogs than this one appeared to be. I could be grateful for that.
The young farmer and his wife listened to my story. They showed us the house, then urged us to walk the place. “You can’t discover where you came from until you’ve walked about.” The tenants’ children gathered up eggs, and we heard the clucking of laying hens pecking worms for their young ones. Goat bells tinkled in the distance. As on the Mica Creek farm, the buildings were down in a hollow of sorts, saving open land for crops. Only the denser timber made the land noticeably different. My mother couldn’t have remembered this place; she’d been too young, and yet she’d been the one to pick out the farm in Mica Creek. Maybe saving the farm had been, without her even knowing, about preserving something from her past. I wondered how she fared away from it.
Franklin was right. I enjoyed the landscape more than the old house and its sloped lean-to roof, where washtubs leaned against the clapboard. “It reminds me of our Mica Creek farm,” I said. “But the surrounding timber, the woods, that makes me think of my property along the Spokane River too. That surprises me,” I said.
At the local newspaper office, the editor showed us a copy of the Morgenbladet newspaper reporting my grandfather’s death in July of 1862.
“Would you like to visit your grandfather’s grave site?” Franklin asked.
“There’s no need.”
“We’ve come this far. Don’t you know, Clara, that moments at a grave site can link you to a place, a people, and a past more than almost anything else?” He patted my shoulder and asked the editor for directions to the cemetery.
I’d never had a man anticipate my needs as Franklin did. It was very disconcerting.
I’d found something on this journey that I truly loved. It was not Franklin nor the furrier trade so much as travel and the nurture that walking in new landscapes gave. Franklin was the perfect companion, giving me room to consider whether I wanted this venture in fur ranching or not, pushing me with his questions while expressing confidence in whatever I decided.
Franklin and I had barely spoken of Louise and Olea as the trip had gone on. I’d sent them a postcard from Norway. (I bought extra stamps to save. I liked the colors and variety and thought placing stamps from various countries into books might fill the winter evenings.) I told them we had stopped to see my mother’s home. I even sent a postcard to my mother, writing of Finland’s suffrage vote. I didn’t give a return address. From Paris I sent Olea and Louise an Eiffel Tower photograph, and from Greece I described our walk through the columns of the Parthenon, how the stones chipped at my leather shoes. They were not unlike the stones between the railroad ties that forced my mother to buy me more than a dozen pair on our trip east. I tried to describe the color of the Aegean Sea. The furriers were charming, I told them. I said nothing about Franklin other than to note his skill in getting me from here to there.
How different this trip would have been with them along. I’d have been looking after Louise, probably contending with Olea over travel details, and I know we wouldn’t have taken the time to ride the mules to Delphi. We’d probably have stayed in Norway until winter. No, Franklin was the perfect traveling mate. Curious yet cautious, wise and adventuresome, respectful of the countries we visited, of their citizens and me.
It’s what I complimented Franklin on as we steamed back to New York. We carried with us finished garments that he’d place in the retail stores in New York. He also had orders for Chicago’s outlets and for Stone’s Furs in Detroit. We’d not spoken of the kiss nor had any other intimate conversation, but I knew we needed to.
“I couldn’t have asked for a better companion,” I told him as I toasted him with my glass of white wine, which we’d taken to the ship’s deck following our last dinner. Tomorrow we’d be in New York. A new moon sliced the dark sky, and I could hear the sounds of water shushing up against the ship despite the steam engines pushing us along. The smokestack belched out its inky scent. “You’ve been the perfect gentleman.”
“Not that I think that’s a compliment,” he said.
“Well, it is. A single woman has to be wary,” I told him.
“I don’t doubt that. Especially one as lovely as you are, Clara. And you are. Don’t protest every compliment you receive,” he added as I started to object.
“You took the scare out of traveling for me.”
/>
“I suspect your mother did that, didn’t she?”
“She was daunting,” I said. “She showed me that a woman could be wise enough to raise funds to maintain us as we traveled and have judgment enough to get all the way to New York on foot. But we shouldn’t have had to make that trip. If there had been better decisions made before, and after …”
“People make mistakes,” he said. “It’s not a crime, Clara. Maybe you ought to forgive your parents for that. They were doing the best they could.”
“My parents couldn’t keep their commitments,” I said. “And they turned down an honorable way out.”
I wished again my mother could have written of the trek. Maybe she’d have discovered insights about herself, the commitments she made and kept.
Franklin spoke.
“What?” I asked.
“I said it’s not only your beauty that attracts, but the mystery and seriousness with which you approach life.”
“Mysterious? I’m just … shy,” I said. “I lack your wit and ease with people.”
“What you lack is confidence, though I don’t know why. You’re very competent, Clara.”
“Only because you and Olea and Louise have sponsored me. I have yet to do things truly on my own.”
He turned his back to the railing, leaned against his elbows, still holding his glass by the stem. “We could continue to travel together in the future.”
“I hope for that,” I said. “I may well take Kalmar up on his offer one day, and I’d want you to be my escort while bringing the foxes back.”
“That’s not what I mean, Clara. You know that.” I did. “I want us to pursue … what we’ve found here.” He pulled a box from his pocket. “It comes with no obligations, but it reminded me of you.”
I opened it. “You said I could set the pace,” I told him. I held the box in my hand, the diamond ring sparkling in the deck’s lights.
“True, but that doesn’t keep me from expressing gratitude to you,” he said.
“Franklin, I couldn’t. It’s much—”
“It’s not an engagement ring, though I’d be pleased if it were. It’s. to commemorate a wonderful journey because you rarely do nice things for yourself.”
It fit. I knew it would. I leaned over to kiss him, to see if my heart could open to what I knew he longed for—for me to feel for him what a woman in love should feel, more than the infatuation of Forest. I wanted what he felt to be a bridge to something more between us. His mustache tickled my lips, his breath was sweet, his mouth gentle. Sadly, there were no sparks, no thumping heart this time, as there had been that first night when he’d walked me to the door. Was I prepared to be a spinster all my life because I expected fireworks and frolic? Maybe true love didn’t demand one abandon all else for it.
“I like you, Franklin. We’re … Well, we’re like kin. We share a name,” I said. I started to remove the ring.
“Keep it, please,” he said. “It’s a gift to a friend and fine traveling companion.” I nodded. It was lovely. “I’d like more. This trip has shown me that. We could be a successful team.”
“We are a successful team,” I teased.
He said nothing. He was honest with me, and I needed to reciprocate, but the discussion made me want to chew my nails. “Perhaps I haven’t been fair to you, accepting your gift, your time. I surely haven’t paid you commensurate with all you’ve done. The side trip to Norway—”
“Was a highlight for me, to see you pick up stardust that links your family constellation.” He brushed at my cheek. “I want to make you want to explore our universe.”
“It’s been the most comforting time. I love to hear you think out loud. I enjoy your banter with other guests. I admire your … felicity with words and languages and the people. I love all of that about you.”
“But you don’t love me.”
“Love. Such a multilayered word with rich color, density, coverage.”
“Like a good pelt,” he said.
I nodded. “Could we see where this journey takes us?”
He smiled, but sadness crinkled at his eyes. “ ‘The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.’ Rabindranath Tagore. An Indian poet,” he explained.
“I guess I’m wandering through those outer worlds right now, knocking at every alien door.”
“What I know is that if one isn’t purposeful about affairs of the heart, they may never flower,” he said.
Experience entered into this conversation, but I didn’t want to know how he might have loved before and lost.
“Consider it, Clara,” he continued. “You’ll never find anyone who will love you more than I do.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving in his slender neck. “Promise me you’ll consider it. You could stay in Coulee City. You could continue life as you have it, but one day, we’d plan to be together, live and travel together.”
“Right now, I want to achieve financial security—or lose it—on my own.”
He sighed, turned back toward the sea. “I hadn’t thought about love as caught up in some financial endeavor, a sort of currency.”
“You invest. You risk. You can’t be certain of the outcome.”
“Or you double your money,” he said. He smiled then. “There is no real security in this world, Clara, save God and love.”
“Love is fickle and God distant from me,” I told him. “I’ll put my trust in the stability of funds. That’s what will open those doors to the innermost shrine.”
I truly thought it would.
THIRTY-NINE
Finding Home
Home in Coulee City felt right as I walked up the path to the porch. The wide boards had been swept of leaves, and the geraniums were spent-red, splattered into their grassy graves. “Anyone home?” I shouted.
Louise waddled out of the house, wiping her hands in her apron. She hugged me, admired my motor coat, and said we’d have to invest in one of those vehicles to wear it specially one day. “You look healthy and rested, Clara. The trip served you well.”
She’d gained weight in the time I’d been gone, or perhaps she’d been slowly gaining it through the years and I hadn’t noticed. Her face looked puffy to me and splotches of red that weren’t rouge dotted her cheeks and neck. The delivery man carried my trunk inside. “Set it there, please.” I pointed toward the alcove under the stairwell. I paid him and he left.
I pulled gloves from my fingers and looked around. I didn’t wear the ring, would save it for special occasions. The house smelled of lavender, and I could see small knitted sacks set beside the lamp, another on the mantel, filled with the herb. I squeezed the one on the entry table and inhaled the fragrance. “Where’s Olea?” I asked.
“She’s … well … she’s …” Louise kept wringing her hand in her apron. She turned abruptly, picked up books stacked beside a single chair, and straightened them.
“Is Olea all right?”
“Yes. Well, I believe so.”
“Louise?”
“She doesn’t live here anymore,” she wailed.
“What?”
She collected herself. “How was your trip? Did you have a good time? Did you get new ideas? I love your coat, I simply love it!” She stroked the fur.
“Louise. What’s happened?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She sat down and took a hanky from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “She came in one day and said she’d found another house, down the street, and that it was time we each had our own place. I … I didn’t know what to say. I haven’t lived with anyone else since that time—” She stopped. “She asked me to move with her, but I. Well, I’d made a commitment to you. And we have boarders, so I couldn’t up and leave them without a cook now, could I?”
I imagined Olea becoming upset about Louise’s not moving with her, but what would have made her leave in the first place?
“Did the two of you argue? How
soon after I left did this happen?”
If Louise had been running things on her own, that might account for the tired look on her face, the dust where my fingers left an impression when I’d reached for the lavender sachet.
“It wasn’t very long after you left, no. Olea has most of the money between the two of us, as I’m sure you know. John Stone may have had the marriage annulled, but he still left her with resources.”
“Olea was married? To a Stone?” So that was the reason for the constant tenderness whenever her middle name was mentioned.
“He married her and then left her.”
I sat down now and looked around for Lucky and the cat. I didn’t see him nor any sign of the cat either. I let Louise continue.
“When they got married, he didn’t realize she was … Jewish. His family wasn’t happy once they learned that.”
“Olea is Jewish?”
She continued to wring her hanky through her fingers. “Let me get you cocoa,” I said, to give myself time to consider her revelations. The image of a large candelabra on the Bakkes’ hearth in Minneapolis came to mind. It was a menorah!
“Oh, that would be so lovely.” She leaned back into the divan, and I saw then that her ankles were swollen and she wore slippers.
I said from the kitchen. “But Olea’s a Christian—”
“I know it,” Louise said. “She is. Her family is Jewish. She converted, but she lets her heritage stand, of course. Being Jewish in the furrier business wasn’t a problem, but she is truly faithful. It’s so sad she’s gone.”
The kitchen was in need of a thorough cleaning. Bits of toasted bread caked on the stove. A red sauce was so hardened on the enamel that my fingernail split when I tried to loosen it while I waited for the tea water to boil.
“Are you Jewish?” I asked, standing in the doorway. “Were you?”
“Not really,” Louise said.
“She must have felt terribly betrayed by her husband,” I said as I turned back to the whistling pot. Moments later I carried the tray out of the kitchen.