A Proper Pursuit (27 page)

By the time I finished crying and went downstairs in my robe, Grandmother had filled the copper tub with warm water. She had set it up in the kitchen behind a folding screen. I stepped into the bath gratefully and took the hot cup of tea she offered me.

“You and Louis Decker work so beautifully together, don’t you think?”

“Mmm.” If I said anything else I might start crying again.

“He is such a fine young man, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Very nice.”

And that was the problem—he was nice and I wasn’t. Any prolonged niceness on my part was nothing but an act. I always grew weary of being nice after a few hours. I was certainly not nice unless I had to be, and I could never be nice for an entire lifetime. Being nice was exhausting. It implied conformity, and conformity had been a lifelong trial for me. It went against my nature—which is why I’d grown so weary of pretending at Aunt Agnes’ parties. I was beginning to understand Aunt Matt’s claim that all women were actresses. But could I ever act nice enough to marry a minister?

“You of all people should have the blinders off when it comes to
marrying a minister,”
Aunt Matt had told my grandmother. I wondered what she had meant. My grandmother had pulled out a kitchen chair to sip a cup of tea with me. I decided to probe.

“Did my grandfather go into the streets and preach like Louis and Mr. Moody are doing?”

She shook her head. “He preached to his own little flock in his church in Lockport. He often railed against the evils of city life and would never have ventured to Chicago to preach the way Dwight Moody does.”

“I don’t remember Grandfather very well. To tell you the truth, I was a little afraid of him. He always looked angry.”

“In some ways he was angry. He didn’t preach about the love and grace of God very often, choosing to emphasize our need for obedience to Christ’s commands instead.”

“Wasn’t one of those commands to love our neighbor?”

“That one often slipped his notice.” She smiled faintly. “All in all, I think he was very disappointed with his life.When he died, my life changed completely. I had to leave Lockport and move in with Matt and Birdie to make room in the parsonage for the new minister.”

“Why didn’t you take care of us?”

“Your father didn’t want me to.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask him.”

“You
can’t
answer it, or you
won’t
?” I asked angrily.

My grandmother smiled sadly. “I made a promise to your father that I would let him answer all of your questions. I’m so sorry, dear.”

I handed her my empty cup and grabbed a bar of soap to scrub the mud off my face. I waited for my temper to cool before asking, “Is my father like the Prodigal Son?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You told me he worked as a Yokefellow, and that he went into saloons and tried to convert people. He certainly doesn’t do things like that anymore. What happened?”

She seemed very reluctant to reply. I was surprised when she did.

“There was a time in your father’s life when he nearly became a preacher. But he found out, just in time, that he was doing it for the wrong reasons. It’s never right to serve God out of guilt or in order to please someone else. Your grandfather wanted a son who would follow in his footsteps. He didn’t understand that being a minister wasn’t your father’s calling.”

“What do you mean—it wasn’t his ‘calling’? Going calling is what I do with Aunt Agnes, with our calling cards.”

Grandmother smiled. “Your calling comes from God. It’s what He would like you to do with your life. He calls some people to be evangelists and ministers, but most of us are called to serve Him in other ways. I believe my calling is to serve the poor in His name. But regardless of what God’s plans for us are, He always gives us a choice. We can go our own way and do something else with our life if we choose to. God won’t force us.”

“How do I know what my calling is? Will I really hear Him calling? Like a voice in the dark?”

“No, although it would be a good deal simpler if He did call us that way. He’ll ask you to do something that uses your unique gifts and interests.”

“Like playing the piano? Is it my calling to play piano for Louis? Because if it is, God is going to have to do something about the stench, and the mud, and the dead horses, and—” My tears started to fall again, and I couldn’t finish. Grandmother handed me her handkerchief to wipe my eyes.

“I’m wet all over, Grandma,” I said, smiling at the irony. “It’s useless to dry a few tears.”

“Yes, I suppose so… . But listen, Violet, ministering to the poor may not be your calling. God has a reason for creating each of us as individuals, with no two people alike. He has a unique place for you in His kingdom. Look how different my three sisters and I are—and we all have different callings.We would be wrong to judge each other or to expect each other to do the same work.”

I swished my hands through the water as I pondered her words. “At school, we were all taught to be alike. Madame Beauchamps wanted us to act the same and talk the same—we were even supposed to smile the same and walk the same. She told us that society has standards of decorum and proper manners, and we were taught to conform to them. We weren’t supposed to stand out. We were punished if we did.”

“I think that’s very wrong, Violet. I agree that manners help keep our society civilized, but we’re still individuals. Even twins aren’t exactly alike.”

I thought of all the “pea-pod” partners I had danced with at Aunt Agnes’ parties, and how boringly alike they were. I’d been drawn to Nelson because he was different. He could conform as readily as the rest of them when he had to, but he behaved differently with me.

“Madame Beauchamps taught me how to be a proper young lady, but sometimes I don’t want to be so prim and … and
boring
. It isn’t the real me. I used to rebel—quietly—against some of the rules at school. I stayed in bed late and read books after lights-out with my friend Ruth, books that Madame B. would never approve of. A lot of the time I lived in my imagination. So how do I know if I’m still rebelling or if this is the way God made me? How can I tell the difference?”

“You be exactly who God created you to be,” she said fervently, “and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And whatever you do, don’t make choices in life just to please somebody else. The only One you ever need to please is God.”

“But how will I know what my calling is?”

“Do you ever pray, Violet?”

“Yes, on Sunday mornings … and before I go to sleep… .” I gave a guilty shrug.

“From now on when you pray, ask God to show you what He wants you to do.”

As I sank down into the tub to scrub my hair, I pictured Louis standing in front of the crowd in the rain shouting,
“Come home and
let the love of Jesus Christ wash you clean.”

I knew then that even though Silas McClure and his friends might need to be washed clean, I was in no position to point a finger at them. When I went upstairs to my bedroom to get dressed, I tore up the rally tickets and threw them away.

Chapter

17

Saturday, June 24, 1893

I
was upstairs still getting ready when Herman Beckett arrived on Saturday morning to escort me to the World’s Fair. Aunt Birdie answered the door.

“Oh, Florence! Come quick!” I heard her cry out. “Someone died! The undertaker is here!”

I reached the top of the stairs in time to hear Herman say, “I’m here for Violet.”

“Oh no! Not Violet!” Aunt Birdie moaned. “She was perfectly fine at dinner last night. How could she pass away so quickly?”

“Wait! I’m not dead, Aunt Birdie!” I thundered down the stairs as gracelessly as a six-year-old.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She pulled me into her arms and hugged me tightly. I could feel her heart pounding. When she released me, she turned to Herman. “It seems that your services will not be needed after all, young man. Violet is perfectly fine. Good day.” She closed the door in his face.

“Aunt Birdie, wait! Mr. Beckett is here to take me to the fair.”

“Why in the world would you want to go to the fair with an undertaker?”

“Herman isn’t an undertaker,” I said, opening the door to him again.

“Well, he certainly looks like one. It just goes to show that you can’t judge a book by its cover, Violet. Remember how you thought that other gentleman caller of yours was a thief? But see? Our silver tray is still here.” She held it up for me to see.

“Have there been other gentlemen callers?” Herman asked in a worried voice.

“Please come in, Mr. Beckett,” I said, ignoring his question. “I’m sorry for all the confusion.”

Herman stepped aside and gestured for our chaperone to enter first. “I’d like you to meet my sister, Mary Crane,” he said. She was dressed entirely in black and wore such a gloomy expression on her face, I could see how Aunt Birdie might have mistaken her and Herman for undertakers. The small picnic basket that she carried on her arm offered the only hint that we were out for a day of fun.

“Mary lives in Riverside with her husband and two children,” Herman explained.

“Oh, will your family be joining us as well?”

“No. They won’t.”

Herman offered no explanation for the missing family, so I didn’t pry—although my imagination quickly supplied several reasons. Maybe she had chained them in the cellar for a few hours so she could have a day of fun without them. Or maybe they were horribly disfigured and she was ashamed to have them be seen in public. Maybe they were feral children who ate raw meat and howled at the moon, or maybe …

I noticed Aunt Birdie hovering in the hallway behind me, and I introduced her. She nodded curtly in reply. Herman Beckett and his sister were the first visitors we’d had that Birdie hadn’t greeted with one of her famous hugs. I could understand why.

“Would you care for a cold drink before we leave?” I asked.

“Thank you, but no. We have a lot to see today, and I think we should get going.”

I had dreaded returning to the fair and being reminded of my unsettling visit with Silas McClure, but seeing the fair with Herman Beckett turned out to be a completely different experience. Herman had purchased
Claxton’s Guidebook to the World’s Columbian Exposition
and he followed it as religiously as Louis Decker followed the Scriptures. He opened to the first page as we rode the streetcar to the fairgrounds and gave us a taste of what was ahead.

“It says here that the fair offers ‘the assembled achievements and products from the mind and hand of mankind, such as never before presented to mortal vision.’ ”

“My word,” his sister murmured. She was evidently too overwhelmed to say more. I said nothing. It was going to be a very long day.

We got off the streetcar at the fair’s 57th Street entrance and stood in line for our tickets. Herman showed me the guidebook’s map as we waited. “This red line shows the recommended route we should take. It’s the best way to experience the fair. We’ll start here,” he said, tracing the line with his finger, “and gradually make our way around from the north end of the fairgrounds to the south. The recommended pavilions and exhibits are highlighted.”

“Why see what the author wants you to see, Herman? Why not decide what you’re interested in and skip the rest?”

Herman’s dark brows met in the middle as he frowned. They reminded me of two wooly caterpillars kissing. “The author made a thorough study of the fair. I’m sure that the advice he gives is very sound. The grounds cover 633 acres, Violet, and there are more than sixty-five thousand exhibits. It would be impossible to see it all in one day. The guidebook has rated the best attractions as ‘interesting,’ ‘very interesting,’ or ‘remarkably interesting.’ ”

“Does he recommend that we ride Mr. Ferris’ wheel?”

“Certainly not! The wheel is on the Midway.” Herman made
Midway
sound like a dirty word.

“What’s wrong with the Midway?” My question caused his eyebrows to kiss once again.

“Those amusements cater to the lowest sort of person. I have no interest at all in seeing bawdy attractions.”

Herman’s sister leaned close to whisper in my ear as we walked through the entrance gates. “Some of the Midway exhibits are very vulgar. One of them features hootchy-kootchy dancers who are indecently clothed! And those women make the most obscene gyrations! Many of the primitive Africans on display are scantily clad as well.”

“Oh, I see.” I decided not to mention that I had already visited the pagan Midway and had found it “remarkably interesting.” But then, a thief like Silas McClure was exactly the low sort of person Herman had referred to.

We strolled around the northern section of the fairgrounds for a while, passing dozens of state pavilions and exhibits. In the center stood a magnificent building with enormous statues of women serving as support pillars. “That looks
remarkably
interesting,” I said. “What’s inside that building?”

“It’s the Palace of Fine Art.” Herman said
art
with the same horrified tone that he’d used for the Midway.

“What’s wrong with art?”