A Proper Pursuit (49 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me it was over, Violet? Matilda reads the newspaper every day and she never said a word about it either. And you would think that Gilbert would write immediately to tell me the good news.”

“Maybe you’ll get a letter today. Let’s go home and see.” I was trying to rush her out of the theater, but the crowd was still too thick. People stood talking in the aisles and in the lobby, and we could barely move.

I didn’t realize that Louis had followed us until Aunt Birdie turned around and said, “Did we win the war, young man? Did we set the slaves free?”

“Yes, the North won and the slaves are free. But the War Between the States ended in 1865, Mrs. Casey, and this is—”

“Louis, no!” I was too late.

“—the year 1893. The war ended twenty-eight years ago.”

“Oh, but that can’t be true!” Aunt Birdie said. “If the war ended that long ago, then what has become of my husband?”

There was a terrible silence that no words could fill.

“Please, let’s go home, Aunt Birdie,” I begged.

“Maybe that soldier would know,” she said, pointing.

“He isn’t a soldier. He’s a theater usher. We need to go home.”

“Is your husband deceased?” Louis asked. I punched his arm. Again, I was too late.

“Deceased?” Aunt Birdie repeated. “Deceased? My Gilbert didn’t come home … he went … he’s in …”

The look of pain that suddenly filled her eyes broke my heart. I knew it was my fault for dragging her away from the refuge of her home, but I took it out on Louis.

“Couldn’t you have just shut up?”

“I don’t understand what’s going on, Violet.”

“That horrible undertaker came to my house!” Birdie cried. “He was dressed all in black … and he said … he said that Gilbert was
dead
!” I pulled Aunt Birdie into my arms and hugged her tightly as she finally grasped the truth. Her grief was heartrending.

“He’s gone … he’s gone! Oh, my Gilbert, my love—he’s gone forever!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Birdie. I’m so sorry.” I wept along with her. Her beloved husband was dead, leaving a hole that nothing else had ever filled.

I remembered the day that I’d learned my mother was gone. I had wandered into her bedroom searching for her and found the bed neatly made. The room was still rich with the scent of roses, but her clothes and shoes were no longer in the wardrobe. Father sat down on the bed with me and told me Mother was sick—that she had gone away to get better. I remembered the aching emptiness I felt, the deep sorrow, the loss. He had lied to me, and I finally understood why.

“Why did you have to tell her the truth?” I asked Louis.

“Because it’s wrong to lie. Satan is the father of lies.”

“Well, sometimes it’s better not to know. Sometimes it’s better to say the kind and loving thing, instead of the brutal truth.”

Louis seemed at a loss to know what to do. He tried to offer me his handkerchief, but I shook my head. I didn’t dare release my arms from around Aunt Birdie, fearing that she would fall to pieces like a broken vase.

“Did her husband know Christ?” Louis asked. “Do you think he’s in heaven?”

“Stop talking, Louis!” His insensitivity infuriated me. I knew that I could never marry Louis Decker. “Why did you have to tell her?”

“I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t know… .What can I do?”

“Go flag down a carriage so I can take her home.”

“I can drive you—” “No! I don’t want you to. Just get us a cab. I’ll meet you out front in a few minutes.” He hurried away.

Aunt Birdie wept as if she never would stop. I rocked her in my arms, murmuring “Shh, shh …” I couldn’t say
“It’ll be all right”
because I knew that it never would be.We were the objects of many rude stares and odd looks, but I didn’t care. Several choir members and people from Mr. Moody’s team tried to approach us, obviously concerned, but I waved them away. It was my fault for dragging her with me on my useless quest. The best thing I could do for her was to take her home.

By the time we reached the door to the street, Louis had a hired cab waiting. Aunt Birdie and I climbed in. We wept all the way home.

The truth hurt. Love sometimes brought a great deal of pain with it. These were the hard lessons I had learned this summer. In the past I had often tried to escape the grown-up world of sorrow through my imagination, dreaming that a handsome young lieutenant would ride to my rescue, or that a great impresario would discover my musical talents and whisk me away. I had envisioned knights in shining armor and happily-ever-after scenes to escape from rules or boredom or pain, including a vision of my mother walking through our front door, whole and well again. But now I knew that a lifetime of escape led to a life like Aunt Birdie’s.

My imagination was a gift, but I had to live in the real world. My eyes had been opened this summer to poverty and crime and abuse, and I needed to use my imagination—not to escape, but to help people like Irina and Katya; to make my own contribution, as the women in the Woman’s Pavilion had done. I couldn’t do it in the same way that Jane Addams and my grandmother and Aunt Matt were, but I would find my own way in my own time.

Aunt Birdie was still mourning when our carriage halted in front of our house. I saw someone sitting on our front steps and couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Silas McClure. He leaped up and hurried over to the carriage to help Aunt Birdie climb down while I paid the driver.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “We’re not going to the fair until tomorrow night.”

“I know. I came by to show you something.”

“Well, this isn’t a good time. Aunt Birdie has suffered a terrible shock.”

“What happened?”

“My Gilbert is dead!” she moaned. She moved into Silas’ open arms. He closed his eyes as he held her, rocking her gently in sympathy.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mrs. Casey. So sorry.”

“Come into the house, Silas,” I said after a moment. I couldn’t have her weeping on the front steps for the entire world to see, and she was still clinging to Silas.

He led Aunt Birdie into the parlor and sat beside her on the sofa. She gazed around as if she had never seen this room before—then started crying all over again.

“Gilbert … Oh, my love, my Gilbert! What will I do without him? How can I go on?”

I had no idea how to console her. I could only cry along with her.

“The undertaker came and brought Gilbert home to me in a wooden box!”

Silas took her limp hands in his. “That wasn’t him in the casket, Mrs. Casey. Gilbert is alive and in heaven with the Lord, where he’ll live forever. He’s waiting there, waiting for the resurrection of the dead. Jesus rose from the dead on Easter—and that means all of His followers will live again one day. Gilbert is waiting for you.”

His words astonished me. How could a thief like Silas suddenly start talking like a preacher? He must have astonished Aunt Birdie too, because she stopped crying and looked up at him in surprise.

“Yes …” she murmured. “That’s what Gilbert promised me the day that he left. He promised that we would be together again—if not here on earth, then in paradise.”

“Mrs. Casey, tell me again why Gilbert went away to war.”

She drew a shuddering breath, as if for strength. “He wanted to end slavery. He worked so hard to abolish it—going to meetings, writing articles. For years and years. We both were involved. He saw me for the first time at a meeting of the Chicago Abolition Society … and he fell in love with me.”

“He died a hero, you know. The slaves are all free. Millions of men, women, and children—and they’ll never have to suffer as slaves again. Your husband did what he could to help make this country a better place.”

“So their freedom was worth dying for?”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Casey. And he’s still here with you, you know. We never lose our loved ones, because we always carry them in our heart. When we love someone as much as you loved him, we’re changed. We become better people. That’s how our loved ones always remain with us. We’re different because of them.”

“Have you lost a loved one too?” she asked.

“My mother—God rest her soul. But I remember all the things she taught me and the sacrifices she made to raise me—and I carry her here, in my heart.”

“Gilbert used to help runaway slaves escape to Canada. He would risk going to prison himself just so they could be free. I used to be such a fearful person, but he taught me to be brave.”

“And he would want you to be brave now, wouldn’t he? As long as you remember his love, he will always be with you.”

“But I can’t hold him in my arms. I miss his arms …”

“I know, I know. That’s why God gives us friends to hold.” Silas drew Aunt Birdie into his arms and let her cry. I watched in amazement, aware that I never would have been able to console her the way he was doing.

“Did he send letters to you, Mrs. Casey?” he asked after a while. “I have letters from my mother, and sometimes when I read them, it helps me remember her voice and her smile.”

“Yes.” She pulled away to look up at Silas. “I have all of his letters. Every one he ever sent. He talked so much about the things he saw in Virginia and the horrible way that the slaves were treated. It made him want to fight all the harder for them.”

“He sounds like an amazing man, Mrs. Casey.”

By the time my grandmother came home, Aunt Birdie’s tears had finally tapered off. But I knew Grandmother would see our red, swollen eyes and soggy handkerchiefs and know that something was wrong. I jumped up from the sofa and drew her aside.

“What happened, Violet? Is Birdie all right?”

“Louis Decker told her the truth about the war,” I whispered.

“Louis did? But why?”

“He said that Satan is the father of lies.” I was still furious with Louis and I wanted Grandmother to be too.

“Oh, dear. Come here, Birdie, dear.” Silas helped Birdie to her feet, and Grandmother led her upstairs to her room. I drew a shaky breath and faced Silas. When I recalled everything he’d said to comfort Birdie, I could only stare at him, dumbfounded.

“I don’t know what I would have done without your help. You knew exactly what to say. Thank you.”

Where had all of his beautiful words about Jesus and heaven come from? Were they simply a memorized spiel, like his sales pitch for Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder? I didn’t think so—Silas had spoken as if he’d meant them. But then why did he consort with thieves? Why hadn’t he revealed this side of himself before? Was he still being the professional con-artist—even now?

“Say, listen—I should go,” he said, edging toward the door.

“Wait. Didn’t you say you had something to show me? Was it about my mother?”

“It’s nothing definite. It can wait until tomorrow night.”

“You came all the way over here, Silas. You must have learned something definite.” He rubbed his forehead as if it ached. He took a long time to reply.

“Your aunt kept saying that your mother loved the theater, and I began to wonder if maybe she was an actress or something. So I looked into it and found a showgirl who goes by the name of Angelina. No last name. I didn’t speak with her, but I was able to take a photograph of her. I was going to show it to you and see if you recognized her, but … this isn’t the time.”

“I want to see it.” He seemed very reluctant to hand it over. When I finally convinced him to show it to me, I immediately understood why. The woman wore a harem costume that looked like an illustration from the Arabian Nights. Her midriff was bare. She was very beautiful and had dark, curly hair like mine, but my heart rebelled at the idea that she was my mother.

“I didn’t say anything to this woman about you,” Silas continued, “because I didn’t think it was a good idea to barge into her life until we’re certain that it’s her. If you want me to, I’ll go back and talk to her.”

“No, I don’t want her to run away again. Please tell me where she is. Tomorrow might be my last chance to see her before my father comes to take me home.”

“I don’t think you should go there—”

“Why not? I’ve been to the tenements and the slums with my grandmother and to the Jolly Roger with you… . Can you go with me tomorrow?”

“Violet, it’s not the neighborhood I’m worried about.” Silas’ smile was gone. He looked sorrowful. “I doubt that it’s your mother.”

“Why? What aren’t you telling me?”

He hesitated a long time before saying, “This woman dances at a burlesque theater.”

I should have been prepared for the truth after what the old Bohemian woman had told me about my gypsy ancestors, but I wasn’t. I was sorry I had ever come to Chicago in the first place. I never would have tried to find my mother if I had known it would hurt this much. I was better off living with a lie, the way Aunt Birdie had.

“It can’t be her!” I cried out. “It isn’t my mother!”

I thought I had run out of tears, but I couldn’t stop them from falling. I covered my face with my hands and wept. The next thing I knew, Silas had pulled me into his arms to console me the way he had consoled Aunt Birdie. He smelled like bay rum aftershave. I buried my face in his shoulder and sobbed.

I don’t know how long we stayed that way before my good sense returned. My behavior was highly improper. I squirmed out of his arms and looked away, embarrassed. He handed me his handkerchief to dry my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffed. “There has been entirely too much weeping here this afternoon. I’m sorry for subjecting you to it.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Violet. I never should have shown you the picture when you were already so upset. We don’t even know if it is your mother. It might not be, you know.”

“It isn’t,” I said, although I knew that it was.

“Anyway,” he said with a sigh, “I should leave now and let you and your family recover. I guess I’ll see you at the fair tomorrow night with your fiancé?”

“Nelson isn’t my fiancé.”

“I see.” Silas was trying not to grin, but I could tell that the news delighted him. “Well, we can talk more tomorrow night.”

“Thank you again for helping my aunt. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

“It isn’t necessary.”

He retrieved his hat, then turned to me, studying me for a long moment. I could only imagine how awful I looked with my bloodshot eyes and reddened nose. But his tender gaze told me he hadn’t noticed.