“We should invite her for dinner,” Louise said.
“She doesn’t want to be with us,” I told her.
“That doesn’t matter. We want to be with her. All she can do is say no, and we’re strong enough to live through that, aren’t we?”
We were, but Olea had chosen to go away; Olea should choose to come back.
The real estate agent I’d had my property-buying fling with contacted me about a small rental house I might want to invest in. I looked at the figures, thought it through, and told him to buy it. The rents would make the payments. Over time, he told me of two or three others, and I invested. The home values increased; I kept the rents low to help young families in Spokane. It was better than fur ranching and, as the drought came, better than wheat farming too.
When Louise began having trouble tying her apron strings with hands that she said “acted like sticks,” I sewed an apron for her that went on over her head. It covered both the front and back of her dress, with no ties but big pockets.
“It’s a perfect design, Clara,” she told me. “You should make several for the Ladies Aid Society bazaar. We’re raising money for the Turkish refugees.”
It was something I could do, and the satisfaction of making useful things to give away surprised me. I came to cherish our slow and steady life, with just a hint of sadness for the empty chair beside the extra place setting that Louise always put out for Olea. The three of us were like a tree struck by lightning. We gaped at an open wound and yet lived on as though it wasn’t even there, though all the world could see.
In February 1908, Franklin surprised us. The drayage firm delivered wood and coal to our door, and Franklin arrived from the train seated beside the driver. He hugged me close when I greeted him, offering the same affection toward Louise.
“I’m inviting Olea,” Louise said. “She’ll be pleased to see Franklin.”
Olea accepted our invitation for dinner while Franklin visited, and it felt like old times with Franklin regaling us about his trips and Olea and Louise blushing to his attention. Louise invited Olea for Easter dinner and again at Christmas. Our family might be fractured, but every now and then it reformed itself into something warm and substantial, just like a carefully crafted fur coat that is split open then re-sewn to make it lie so perfectly.
Following one of our Franklin dinners, in 1909, after he’d escorted Olea home and Louise had retired for the night, Franklin said, “Louise doesn’t look well.” We discussed her swollen ankles and the perpetual rosy blotches on her face. “She nodded off several times during dinner,” he said.
“It’s my cooking,” I said. “I’ve never really gotten the hang of it.”
He laughed. “Neither of you is starving. In fact, you look quite perfect. I’ll bet the motor coat still fits.”
“It does.” I winced as I stepped to pick up the dessert plates.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s just my foot,” I said. “A bunion, the doctor says. I favor the ankle I sprained all those years ago.”
“Let me,” he said. He rose and took the dishes and put them in the kitchen. I knew of few men who ever stepped inside a kitchen except to eat, let alone pick up after himself if a woman was about. When he returned, he said, “Take your shoes off, and I’ll rub your feet for you.”
“Oh no, I …”
“I’m practically your brother,” he said. “Now just do it.”
I sat and unlaced the hooks. “I’m looking after her,” I said. “The doctor says it’s likely her heart’s not working well enough to move everything through her body, so water settles in her feet, maybe her lungs. That all affects her thinking too.”
“She has someone good to care for her,” he said. He sat down on the stuffed hassock and lifted my foot, careful to keep my skirts chastely near my ankle. The massage felt wonderful, though I worried about my feet bearing smells. “You need someone to take care of you, though. And so do I.” His eyes met mine.
“Surely you meet lovely women all the time,” I told him. “You could find one willing to look after you.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he said. “Did you know that Cleopatra bathed in wine?”
“That’s fascinating. No, I didn’t know that.”
“Picked that tidbit up in Egypt.”
“You’re full of delightful trivia.”
“You see? Who is there that understands what I do better than you?”
“Olea. And Louise,” I said. “And dozens you must meet in your travels.”
“None as comfortable as you, Clara. I truly mean that. And none with such beautiful feet as you either.” He grinned. “I’ve checked.”
“People change,” I said. I thanked him and pulled my feet up under my skirts as I sat on the divan. He took a chair, sighed. “If we spent more time together,” I said, “you might discover whatever it was I did that made Olea want to separate herself from me.”
“There are always strains in families, Clara. The cleavage remains unless someone is willing to risk hurt feelings to bridge the chasm.”
“That’s why you keep bringing up us.” I smiled.
“For that, yes, and because I know the three of you would be happier under the same roof. But one of you has to be brave enough to take the first step. Louise would benefit from it, don’t you think? Do it for her.”
Fur ranching became an idea left on the back of the stove to simmer. Farming of another kind consumed me the rest of the year as we planted our wheat. I made visits to my land along the Spokane River, checked on my rentals driving Louise with Lucky in the backseat. At home in Coulee City, Louise and I planted a big garden. Turning dirt calmed Louise, and I found I liked the weeding, tending, and then the harvest. We dried fruit, canned beets and beans to have a taste of summer every winter. Louise remained about the same, but I couldn’t see myself risking her well-being for the bustle and uncertainties of fur ranching. Gradually I came to accept that I was never going to be the grand success I thought I’d be one day, that I was just an ordinary woman separated from her family of birth, teamed up with a kind older woman who needed me. Could the two of us really be the family God formed in the heart of exile?
The wheat yield in 1912 proved light. None of us ranchers who chatted at the feed mill thought it was a pattern. “It’ll be better next year,” we told ourselves.
Storm clouds gathered but misted over us instead of dropping the cleansing, soaking rains we so badly needed for our dryland crop. We had more insects each year too, which lowered the yield. The newspapers carried no new information about selling bonds to build the reclamation dam for irrigating our coulee lands. I read that drought spread in the plains states too. We all depended on the rain. Another year like this one, and we’d be unable even to buy seed.
That same year, the train changed its schedule, not coming as often round the Big Bend, as we locals called our little coulee town. Our boarders left, and we found no one to replace them except occasional visitors riding or driving through. I heard from two of the Spokane renters that they were leaving town, their jobs having disappeared. I advertised for others but paid the mortgage for several months without benefit of the rent. It was a great relief to me when I lowered the rent and the homes finally filled up again.
Once or twice a bachelor farmer approached us after church and asked to walk us home. I often let them, fed them, reminded of my brothers. We spoke of crop prices, rainfall, the growing insect problems. The discourse was safe and friendly and didn’t trespass on safe borders; we didn’t talk of any alien doors needing to be opened.
I drew from my reserves to buy winter coal and to pay our taxes that year. I had the pelts I bought from the Warrens and made a little at the sale, but my account books showed more going out for doctors’ bills too. Louise seemed to like the blond physician despite the fact that she claimed he was “one of those Danes.” But in checking the books as I closed out for November 1913, it soon became clear that the pelts, the poor grain yield,
and Louise’s small income left from the sale of the furrier business would not be enough to keep us solvent. I had to do something different.
I planned to sell the smaller acreage along the Spokane, the one with the orchard. I wouldn’t get much gain selling this time of year, but people liked to make a purchase close to Christmas to celebrate in a new home. I hoped for that kind of buyer. Selling the rentals was part of my plan too. I asked Olea if she’d look after Louise while I was gone. “It might be a day or two,” I said.
“Of course. If she’ll stay here,” Olea said.
Louise agreed when I assured her it would be a vacation and I’d be back in a flash.
When I finished my legal business, I drove to the city library to read the latest New York Times, which we no longer subscribed to. Wars kept the Balkans busy, the front page announced. I checked the financial section, where extensive commentaries waged about the Sixteenth Amendment and federal income tax becoming law. In New York City, one hundred fifty thousand garment workers went on strike for better working conditions and wages. I wondered if I’d met some of the seamstresses when Franklin and I had been in the city. Not much comfort in the news, I thought.
I put the paper back and picked up the latest city directory. My family was the only Estby listed now, all living on Mallon Avenue, Arthur and Billy as carpenters, Ida as a domestic, and Lillian as a dressmaker. My stepfather’s name was missing. Has he found work out of town? Has the printer made an error? I’d had no return from the cards I’d sent. I flipped to the D section to see if any Dorés appeared: one did. Marion Doré, a carpenters’ union representative. On a lark, I drove to that office. They’d know if Ole worked out of town. Maybe his absence meant I was to try to see my mother without fear of running into him.
“I’m looking for Marion Doré,” I told a chubby-looking man shorter than I.
“Found him,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “I … I’m a Doré. My father was from Manistee, Michigan. I always like to see if I’m related to any Dorés I encounter.”
“Don’t think so. I’m from Minnesota originally.”
“I am too. But my name wasn’t Doré then, it was Estby.”
“We got Estbys here in Spokane,” he said.
“Yes. I wonder if you have an Ole Estby on your rolls. What’s he working on?”
“He a relative?”
“My stepfather,” I said.
He looked on his ledger, his finger running down lists of names. “Well, then I’m sorry for your loss, Miss. Missus.”
“My loss?”
“Earlier this year. Accident while roofing a house. Fell and died. He was a good man. Always paid his dues without complaint. You didn’t know?” I shook my head. “Oh, I forget. You hail from Michigan.”
Maybe they thought I wouldn’t care, but I found I did. Ole was stubborn and had sent me away, but he was also the only father I’d ever known. Why hadn’t my mother contacted me? Without Ole to enforce my separation, she was free to choose. My eyes started to water, and I excused myself from the carpenters’ union office, sat in my car, and cried. Should I go there? Is this an alien door I should open? Should I walk that way? I prayed into the sounds of the Spokane Falls, hoping the thundering water could numb the pain from such deep old wounds. Without choosing, I drove and pulled up in front of the Mallon address, hands sweaty beneath white gloves. I pulled the brake. I sat. Did I hear, Walk this way? or were those my own wishing words? Wind whipped the elm trees in a swirl and then settled still as stains. I left the car, walked up the stone steps, and knocked on the door. I hoped Mama would be home alone.
Instead, Ida opened the door.
“Clara? Why, Clara, what are you doing here?” Little lines around her eyes suggested she’d aged beyond her years, but she still stood board-straight tall, her embroidered apron colored with stylized Norwegian birds and flowers at the bodice and the hemline.
“I’m fine. I … didn’t know about Papa. I just learned. I’m sorry for you all.”
A flash of irritation crossed her eyes. “Are you?”
“Yes. I mean I was angry when he sent me away but—”
“He didn’t send you away, Clara. You chose to go away … with your dirty money and those women. You abandoned us.”
I blinked. That wasn’t at all how I’d seen it. Papa said I wasn’t an Estby, as no Estby would take the money offered. Mama let him. My family practically applauded! They sent me away. How could she not see that?
My throat felt tight, but I spoke. “Taking the money wasn’t meant to discount your suffering, Ida,” I said. “I know that time in the hog shed must have been horrible.”
“It’s not about that.” She looked away.
“We suffered too, Mama and me while in New York. Everyone suffers. We make do the best we can.”
“You did well with your money.”
“That money belonged to us,” I said, keeping my voice calm, though my hands felt damp and my chest ached. “Mama and I earned it.”
She shook her head. She did not invite me in but came out to the porch instead. Wicker rockers sat waiting, but we both stood. I’m not allowed inside.
“Papa was right. He got better; he worked until his accident. We’re doing fine. We all support each other, Arthur and Billy and now Lillian too. We take care of Mama. The union gave a small life insurance payment. God provides, Clara, without taking dirty money.”
A rush of emotion surged up my neck and flushed my face, but I kept my tongue. There was no need to argue. Her wounds ran deep and defined her life even after all these years.
“I just stopped to see how you’re doing.” I should have kept quiet then, but I added, “I thought with Papa gone Mama might speak again of our walk and—”
“No!” She raised her hand. “It is not talked about. That’s what Papa wanted, and that’s what we all want too. You’re the only one who has trouble with it. We didn’t appreciate your postcard from Finland about suffrage. Mama has no more interest in that. I don’t think she even signed up to vote last year. They ask for our birth dates; how disgusting.” She shivered as though she’d eaten raw liver. “She paints now. It’s good for her. Talk of that walk, never.”
“Ida,” I said, tears brimming in my eyes. “I’m not a terrible person. I only wanted to make my way. I would have helped you, but you wouldn’t accept—”
“You could come home now, Clara. We’d welcome you. Take your name back. Doré. That’s so … affected, really, isn’t it? Let those women make their own way. You’ve done enough for them. Leave them and their money behind and start over with us. You could get a job here. You could serve your family. We don’t mind if you’re poor.”
“Turn my back on my friends?” Live with rules of what can be said as though Papa were still alive?
“It’s a small sacrifice to pay for your family.”
“I can’t leave them, Ida. They gave me a job when I needed one, paid for my schooling, taught me a trade. They nursed me when I was ill. I’m in the furrier business with them. I ranch, own properties. They—”
“No talk of them,” she said. “Come home.” She reached for my hand.
This was what I’d been waiting for all along, to be invited back. Yet the joy of it escaped me riding on Ida’s conditions. This wasn’t how the Israelites were called out of exile, was it? They weren’t asked to deny the stories of where they’d been and what God had done in their lives. Why, God commanded people to tell their stories to their children.
A bird chirped over Ida’s shoulder. “I … can’t come home, not the way you want.” I couldn’t stop the tears. I wiped at them with my fingertips. I reached to hug her and she allowed it, though her arms did not hug back. “I have another family now; I can’t leave them,” I whispered.
“They’re not family, Clara. You’ve chosen wrongly.” She brushed my arms aside, moved past me back into the house. From the other side of the screen door she said, “I won’t tell M
ama you were here. It would just upset her that you’ve chosen not to return after you’ve been welcomed.” She turned away, then looked back, squinted. “Your hair looks nice with that shorter style. And the color is good. You look like an Estby now.”
I drove home, aware that I did have a family, with its ups and downs, but that family didn’t silence me, didn’t stand in my way of success or making my own mistakes. Maybe Mama knew the price I would have paid if I’d remained. I would have suffocated inside the silence, watching my tongue, not pursuing what I wanted. I had a freedom Ida never knew, never chose. My mother gave me a gift by sending me out, an expression of confidence that I could make it on my own.
The idea of a shopping spree crossed my mind, but I resisted. The sound of the car engine numbed as I chugged along but soothed too. I knew I had work to do. I needed to bring Olea back home. I needed to move forward on something that could sustain us through the years. I needed to be grateful I’d chosen the road I’d been given, even if I could never be sure where such roads would take me. Maybe I was my mother’s daughter after all.
FORTY-ONE
Risk for All
Both Olea and Louise were at my house when I arrived. “We had a little problem,” Louise said. She sniffed at her lavender sachet, looked away from me.
“She scorched the kitchen,” Olea told me.
I looked around them through the door. The kitchen looked fine. I didn’t smell smoke.
“My kitchen,” Olea said.
“I started to fry the chicken, but then I heard Lucky groan and went to see about him—he’s so old, you know—and Olea smelled the smoke and came downstairs. I heard her and noticed the fire then and tried to lift the pan, but I burned myself and threw fiery grease all over the kitchen.”
“We got it out,” Olea said, “but not before significant damage and the sacrifice of a perfectly good quilt to smother the flames.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ll be doing carpentry work and painting. I find I like that kind of work, especially now with European imports drying up with war talk. It’s as much fun to make furniture as to buy it.”