The Daughter's Walk

  “He wasn’t that old,” Louise said.

  “Old enough,” Olea told her. “Come along now, let’s have an egg sandwich. Clara made bread this morning. Isn’t that nice?”

  “I made the bread, you say? It isn’t clear.”

  “You might have,” Olea said. “I think you took it from the oven. You did your part.”

  When Franklin called from New York, I was out building a fire on a spot in the backyard, thawing the ground so I could dig a hole deep enough to bury Lucky. Olea called from the porch. “I’ll watch the fire,” she said. “Franklin wants to talk with you.”

  I grieved Lucky’s death, maybe even the loss of the routine we’d developed with our four-footed pal. Grief can affect our hearing and our hearts.

  “But your telegram didn’t say anything about meeting you in New York,” I said. “It read ‘reach New York.’ ”

  “That was a mistake then,” he said. “It was to have read ‘meet,’ not ‘reach.’ I wanted you here. That’s why we sailed ahead of the cargo.”

  “But why?”

  I didn’t really want him chattering about personal affairs on the party line. Olga, the phone company operator, would be listening even now.

  “Well, at least you know about the insurance situation.”

  “Yes, the telegram said the price was exorbitant. The cost of doing business, right?”

  “What? No, I said the cargo was secured, not insured. It was aboard ship and ready to transport.”

  “But it is insured,” I said. My heart started pounding in alarm. “You did arrange it with Lloyd’s, didn’t you? You had the money.” I could feel my palms grow moist.

  “I couldn’t,” he said. “They make … exceptions during wartime, and the cost. It was too much, Clara. They said themselves that they wouldn’t underwrite the policy because everything was too risky.”

  “You let the cargo ship without insurance?” My throat felt dry. “But we planned for it.”

  “It would have cost nearly as much as the initial investment,” he said. “I didn’t have that kind of cash, and I suspect neither did you.”

  “How much would the insurance have cost us?” I said. “We should have sold—”

  He told me and I shivered at the amount. “You’re right.” I swallowed. “I would have taken the risk too. There wouldn’t have been time to sell the diamond ring. But we should have been consulted.” Could I have come up with more money quickly enough?

  “The phone lines are spotty for getting through, Clara.” He had a reassuring voice now. “Most of the ships have made it fine. America isn’t in the war. And I agree. I ought to have wired you, but I thought that if you’d been with me, you would have done the same. That’s how I evaluated it, by asking what Sharon would do.”

  “Who is Sharon?” I said.

  “What? I meant I asked myself what would Clara do.”

  “And you thought I’d risk the shipment?”

  “I did,” he said.

  “Is the cargo on an American ship?” I held my breath. It would be the safest.

  “No. British.” he said. “The Brits have lost only a few ships, and those farther south. I just hoped you’d be here so we could talk in person. And so that, well, so that you could meet my wife. I hoped you could get to know each other on a train ride out west.”

  Franklin’s married. I wanted to learn of the trip, everything that he hadn’t been able to put into letters or that phone call. Franklin is married. I wanted to know about the production of the designs. Franklin. Married.

  I wanted him to be happy. I tried not to think that he might have been distracted, and that was why he chose to let the cargo be transported uninsured. We had several thousand dollars invested, and not to cover it seemed foolish. And yet, the price … Insurance wasn’t always considered necessary by our neighbors. I wondered what Sharon had thought.

  I heated my curling iron. Things would change yet again. I’d enjoyed knowing that someone special thought about me when I wasn’t there. I had looked forward to Franklin’s letters, his calls. Because I so seldom saw him, he proved more angelic in my eyes than he probably was. “He was your held-out hope,” I said to the image in the mirror. I felt the tears come—hard, wrenching sobs that I hoped Louise and Olea couldn’t hear. I set the curling iron down and stood at the window, my chest aching with an uncertain future. I was not alone, not with Louise and Olea outside my bedroom door playing Chinese checkers. Louise had to be told the rules over and over, but Olea didn’t seem to mind. They were special in each other’s hearts, shared a common history as cousins. I had no one with whom I shared an uncommon past—no one except my mother and our walk, but I was no longer special in her eyes. My shared “common” past with Louise and Olea would have to be memory enough.

  My mother used to say that each of us is unique in God’s eyes, that God offered a fullness of life if we but allowed it, even if no one else on this earth did. I have loved thee with an everlasting love. I remembered the scripture from Jeremiah.

  “Women friends fill up a certain space in our hearts,” my mother told me following a presentation in Omaha, “and romantic love fills another. Family, though, has a special chamber that expands and expands.” She’d widened her hands to show me how large a family place could be. “There’s room for sunsets and rainbows and shiny rocks that remind us of our strengths, for dogs and horses and cats too. Room for the giggles of toddlers you don’t even know. And over all is God’s love, which flows through all the chambers, seeping into cracks and filling up the empty spaces until you’re so full you almost cannot breathe. It’s God who shines in the faces of all those other people looking back at you. You don’t really need Forest Stapleton or anyone else.”

  Now, years later, I had to accept that at thirty-eight years of age, it was unlikely I’d ever find that special spark of romantic love. Franklin had come as close as any, and now he lit another woman’s life.

  Franklin’s second call came a week later. He and Sharon were heading west as soon as the shipment arrived and he’d placed the garments in the retail shops in New York. He’d make deliveries along the way in Chicago and Detroit, Minneapolis too. Once here, we could celebrate and confer about our affairs.

  I tried to imagine what Sharon looked like. He said she was French, and he pronounced her name with emphasis on the second half, “share-own.” I wondered where he’d met her and how apparently effortlessly he’d brought her into his life. He might have been lonelier than I imagined to have taken a wife he’d known for such a short time.

  Or maybe he’d known her for a long time. I’d had a chance with Franklin, and I’d turned it down. I felt a little sorry for myself, but I deserved this. I hadn’t taken the risk of the heart. Only in business had I ventured into the unknown.

  I blew my nose and lifted my chin. It was what a Doré did.

  Then the third call, at three in the morning.

  Franklin’s voice cracked. “She’s gone,” he said.

  “What! Who? Sharon’s gone?”

  “No,” he said. “The ship. It went down and—”

  “What! No! No, don’t tell me that! Don’t say that.”

  “What is it?” Olea asked, stepping out from her bedroom, the kitchen phone having awakened her. I shushed her.

  “January 27,” he wailed. “I don’t know what she was doing in those waters, but the Germans sank her on January 27. No lives were lost, and they didn’t even try to save the cargo. Ours wasn’t the only cargo lost.”

  “The garments? They’re … gone? Nothing was salvaged?” I thought of the beaded cape.

  “Nothing,” he said. “If it had been, the Germans would have taken it.”

  “Are you certain? Are you?”

  “I am. I’m … so sorry. I …”

  “I’m ruined,” I told him, sinking onto the chair. “We’re ruined.”

  Franklin had been right those years before: only God and love last, with the latter having a statute of limitations.
r />   FORTY-TWO

  Necessary Alterations

  Sharon, tall and slender with eyes as dark as good earth, was gracious when they arrived in Coulee City after the disaster. That’s what I called my investment gone so wrong. She told me how much Franklin cared for me. “He is like a brother to you, oui?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “A very fine brother.”

  “This is good then. I have a new family with a sister-in-law and aunties. A family all into one.”

  We sat in the kitchen going over our accounts. Franklin’s face was drawn as he talked about receiving the news, how he’d hated to call me. He apologized again and took my hand in his. Sharon sat beside him. “I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you; you know that. We were partners.”

  “We were.” I pulled my hand from beneath his. “DDOL, gone. What will you do now?”

  “We’ve talked about it.” He turned to his wife. “I think we’ll settle in Montreal. I can get contracts from there. I’ll still be in the business. And you? Would you consider more designing?”

  “I suspect military designs will be of greater importance now.”

  “I love what you did,” Sharon said with her French accent. “The clothes were magnificent.”

  “You saw the coats before they shipped?” I felt a twinge of envy.

  She nodded. “Fur as soft as a baby’s bottom. Supple and such beautiful lines. Franklin picked skillful tailors. And the pearl cape”—she kissed her fingers—“magnificent!”

  “I don’t think I’ll pursue design,” I said. “I’m going to get steady work, with a paycheck. Something we can count on. In time, I might reinvest in property. It financed this … adventure.” I tried to be philosophical about this great loss, remembered my mother’s attitude that December in New York.

  “It was circumstances, the way things happen. You do what your heart tells you,” Franklin said. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  I nodded, and I knew he spoke not only of furs but of the love of his life now sitting beside him, a gold ring on her finger. I’d made a different choice years ago not to pursue that life.

  We moved into the living room. Franklin and Sharon sat on the settee, one Olea had imported and kept. We three women of the house sat in high-back chairs across from them. I felt like my aunt Hannah, though I was only thirty-eight. Somehow I’d become the older generation that my younger brothers and sisters and I had giggled over when they came to visit, smelling of cabbage or pulling on their heavy socks.

  “Do you have a big family?” Olea asked Sharon.

  “Oh no. Only me now. My parents are both gone. I am without brothers or sisters. And my first husband, he has died too.”

  “How did you two meet?” Louise asked. “I love romantic stories.”

  Sharon cuddled up against Franklin’s shoulder. “She’s a model,” Franklin said. “I met her on the runway at the Montreal fair.”

  “He was the tall American who always arrives late,” she said. “This time I bump into him, and voilà, it is love at the first seeing.”

  “It was that,” he said.

  As much as I struggled with the business loss and my own emotional disjoining from Franklin, I found I liked Sharon. I enjoyed seeing my friend’s eyes shine when he looked at her. We’d find a way to accommodate, to alter our relationship. When they left, I became another shoulder for Franklin to hug, just like Olea and Louise; Sharon’s was another cheek to kiss. I’d accept it and be grateful. I wouldn’t become embittered like Ida, letting past disappointments or mistakes define my future.

  I worked as in a daze, forgetful like Louise, unable to stay focused. I had no real goal, no real plan except to survive. Louise complained that I’d stopped filling my plate again, picked at my food “like a chicken.”

  There was nothing to keep us in Coulee City, I decided. Farm auction signs sprang up like tares among the wheat. In February, a cattleman expressed interest in our wheat land, and I told him to make me an offer. It was less than I’d hoped for, but once the house sold, we’d have enough to buy a place in Spokane, which is where I felt we needed to go.

  Olea said I chastised myself too harshly about the grandeur of the plan, the impact of the insurance and the war. “People make judgments. They’re good or bad. Seeking wisdom is like that. Look at us, with you and your mother’s wager,” she said. “Five of us offered funds in 1895 to set up the walk, and one year later, everyone’s pot was less full. But we found a way to come back, at least a little, and then we could help you. You’ll rise again, Clara. We’ll rise together.”

  I looked at her, this resilient woman who had endured loss she rarely spoke of, hurts over faith too deep to share with friends.

  “I’m not the prettiest woman—”

  “That’s not true,” Louise said. “You’re lovely!”

  “Please.” I held up my hand to stop her. “I have to say this or I won’t. I’m not the most attractive woman. I know that. I’m not particularly talented. Oh yes”—I rushed on to prevent another Louise interruption—“I know I’ve created some designs that were well-received, but those lie at the bottom of the ocean now. I have no ability to talk to people, make them feel warm and welcome the way you do, Louise, and I’m certainly not relying on my faith the way you two do. I told myself I listened for God’s direction, but it’s not true. I go on about things my own way, as independent as … well, you know.” I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “The one extraordinary thing I did in my life I can’t talk about without pushing my family further from me, because it was a failure in their eyes.”

  I could feel the emotion welling up, threatening to choke my words. “The one thing I thought I did well—manage my money, make something of myself financially, be a successful businesswoman …” I scoffed the way Olea did when she was disgusted with something. “I’ve now proven that was a sham as well. I’ve failed at everything.” My voice broke. “And I’ve taken your confidence in me down too. I’ve … failed, and I’m sorry, so very, very sorry.”

  The clock ticked into my terrible ache.

  “May we speak now?” Olea asked.

  I nodded.

  “You’ve left out the greatest gift,” Louise said. I looked up at her, took the handkerchief she handed me as she slipped her arm around my shoulders. “You have a servant’s heart,” she said. “You give to your family.”

  “My family won’t even claim me,” I said, “unless I abandon you.”

  “This family. Us. Our family.”

  “But I’ve lost the money you invested, all the money I invested too. How is that serving you?”

  Olea said, “You’ve looked after us from the time we met you, helping with our books, giving us new interests at a time in our lives when we’d begun thinking we were, well, old. And most of all, you forgave us for not rescuing you in New York.”

  She’d once said I kept them in a business they’d tried to get out of. Time had changed the tune.

  “But it was you who took care of me, sending me to school, giving me a roof over my head, providing me with a job, granting me money—”

  “Which you’d earned,” Louise insisted. “Didn’t she, Olea? It isn’t clear.”

  “It isn’t clear,” I said. “You let me become involved in your fur industry, introduced me to Franklin,” I rushed on. “What did I ever do for you?”

  “You let us,” Louise said. “You let us give to you.”

  I sat stunned.

  “I’d add another gift,” Olea said. She came to sit in front of me on the big round hassock. “You know how to evaluate a situation, take in new information, and start again. That’s no small feat. And that’s exactly what we’ll do. We’ll go to Spokane and we’ll get jobs.”

  “I’ll need to sell the car.”

  “If you wish. But we can still work. We’re not so old. Louise is right. You’ve taught us that. We’re a family of new beginners.” She patted my hand. “Clara, the best is yet to be.”

  “Is it?” Louis
e asked. “It’s unclear.”

  But it wasn’t.

  “You’ll come back,” Louise said as I boarded the train in June 1915. I knew she wasn’t talking about my business acumen. Here I was: nearly as penniless as my parents had been when the farm foreclosed. The pharmacist purchased my car for nearly what I’d paid for it, so we had a little cash, and the women insisted I keep Franklin’s ring “until we’re desperate.”

  “Yes,” I said. “As soon as I have employment, I’ll come back. We’ll move, and things will get better.”

  As the train rumbled across the tracks, I thought of how I’d gotten here, my risk taken. I’d tried to control everything, but of course, no humans control the weather or “acts of war” or, I was learning, much of anything else. I leaned back on the seat, closed my eyes, tried to hear the Voice I hadn’t heard for so long whispering to me, This is the way, walk ye in it.

  At the newspaper office in Spokane, I searched the help-wanted ads. No openings were posted for any accounting work, furrier work, or even ranch management. I chose a job waiting tables at the Davenport Hotel, a grand facility that had opened the year before. I’d apply and see if my previous years of domestic service would meet requirements. Of course, they might want younger people now, but a mature woman could be an advantage in handling disgruntled customers.

  The city directory lay next to the Spokane Daily Chronicle. Because I couldn’t resist, I found the Estby page. Helga, Arthur, Agnes, William, Ida, Lillian. All still lived on Mallon Avenue. I wondered who Agnes was. Maybe Arthur or Billy had married.

  Spokane felt like an eastern city to me as I walked toward the Davenport Hotel. New construction promised prosperity. Washington women had earned the right to vote in 1910, and there were parks with benches to sit on that I attributed to their influence. The Huttons had poured much of their $150 million silver, lead, and zinc strike into Spokane, especially helping with orphaned children. The Colville and Spokane Indians I met walking on the street stood taller. Fewer leaves gathered in the door wells, and the streets looked cleaner to me than I remembered. The Church of St. Joseph, grown from a carpenter’s shop and a brick structure when I’d left, had become the Our Lady of Lourdes Cathedral, a building as imposing and intricate as any I’d seen in Europe.