The Daughter's Walk (19 page)

“And you are?”

“I'm Miss Estby, Clara Estby.”

“You're headed for Spokane?” Miss Ammundsen said.

“Yes. Home at last.”

“That's my home too, or it may be soon. I'm from Norway. Well, New York most recently. I've been visiting my sister in St. Paul.”

“My mother too, a long time ago. Near Oslo. Christiania it's called now. I forgot.”

“One day they'll change the name back to Oslo, I suspect,” she said. “Much easier to spell and takes up less space, so more efficient. We Norwegians are obsessed with efficiency.” She laughed.

“My … stepfather, my mother's husband. He grew up there.”

It was the first time I'd described him as anything other than Papa. Our relationship too would change, I realized. Unveiling secrets opens doors whether we're ready for what's on the other side or not.

“So,” Miss Ammundsen said, “tell me about crossing the trestle at Dale.”

I found I could make the woman's eyes grow large with anxiety then crinkle with laughter at my descriptions of our crossing and how I made light of my fears. I didn't tell her that I'd learned on that same day about my Michigan birth or my mother's trials and decisions as a young woman. Instead, I could sense a bit of what Mama enjoyed being up on stage, holding an audience's interest, though mine was an audience of one. I embellished the feel of the wind, the cry of a hawk flying beneath us as we crossed.

“When I was there,” the woman said, “it was winter and dreadful.
We were in a train car, of course. I thought the wind would push us over like a wheat shock, but we survived. I have to say, I haven't been back since and didn't leave anything there I have to go back for.”

I laughed. “What takes you to Spokane?” I asked, a question I often overheard at the Stapletons' while serving at parties.

“Business,” she said. “I prefer to travel for pleasure, but this time it's business bringing us here.” She didn't elaborate on the “us.”

“When we left, there wasn't much building going on in Spokane,” I said. “The city is still coming out of the depression.”

“Often that's the best time to invest,” she said.

“Maybe the situation has improved while we were gone.” I hoped my stepfather was stronger and could take on construction work again. That would help us stave off the mortgage man.

“What kind of business?” I said.

“Furs,” she said, the word spoken as though filled with magic. She rubbed the binoculars absently. “Wasn't there a wager attached to your journey?”

I nodded. “But because of my ankle sprain, the sponsors wouldn't extend our deadline. We arrived ten days past, on December 23, I'm sad to say.”

“Have you considered a legal suit?”

Her words surprised. I couldn't go into detail with this stranger about the great humiliation, as I'd begun to think of it. We didn't even know whom to sue. How foolish would that sound? “It was a business risk,” I heard myself say, a phrase spoken by Forest's father when men discussed their stocks and bonds. “I gained the equivalent of a college degree from the experience, and my mother improved her health. So we achieved something without earning the wager.” I wasn't sure I believed this, but it sounded wise and Miss Ammundsen nodded her head
sagely. Then before I could stop myself I added, “Now the sponsors have offered a new incentive for us: we'll still receive the award money, but first my mother has to write a book. I'm to illustrate it.” I made my voice sound light, the way Mama had bantered with the reporters from the Minneapolis papers. I could perform too.

“Yes. The article mentioned that. Well, I'll look forward to reading your book,” she said.

A porter leaned at the waist and offered service. “Would you join us?” she said. “I'll go get my cousin, and you could invite your mother.”

“Oh, we have our basket for supper,” I said.

“Another time then. My cousin, Ms. Gubner, will be wondering where I've gone off to anyway.” She looked thoughtful, lifted her binoculars, then let them rest. “New adventures await you, Miss Estby, you and your mother. What a pleasant time you must have had on this journey together.” Then the woman removed a calling card from the reticule hanging at her wrist. “Here,” she said. “Perhaps we'll have a little more time to talk on the train, but if we don't and you'd like to meet in Spokane, you can reach me at this postal address of the friend we're staying with. I'm always interested in the future of young Norwegian women who show such promise.” I felt my face grow warm.

Miss Ammundsen turned away, then stopped and looked back. “I think you should call me Olea when we meet again,” she said. “And if I may, I'll call you Clara. We're reform women, yes?” I smiled. “It's been such a pleasure to meet you, Clara.”

“Likewise, Olea.”

I watched her walk away with a twinge of envy and no anticipation that one day she'd be back into my life. But I hoped for the financial security to travel, dress well, and consider real business risks as she did—well-studied risks, nothing foolish, decisions that didn't put my family in jeopardy or change their lives forever.

T
he train arrived earlier than expected, so no one was there to meet us at the stop near Mica Creek.

“Well, I guess we walk up to the house,” Mama said.

“They'll come greet us, surely,” I said. “This gives us time to find the frog.”

“That's right! Johnny would never forgive us if we forgot his frog.”

We stepped across the tracks, headed toward the banks of Mica Creek, then set our bags down. The air smelled of new-mown hay, and the sky was as blue as Mama's eyes. The landscape seemed to open its arms to us, welcoming. I squatted beside the little creek that rushed across leaves and swirled broken willow boughs around. I could see where the water had been higher with spring rains before time tamed it.

“Here's one,” I shouted. I shivered at the feel of its skin, all rippled and wet, and it leaped from my hand.

“I've got one too,” Mama said. “Well, I guess I don't,” she added when the frog disappeared from her palm. We hollered back and forth, laughing as our prey departed, and then I found another.

“Here, put it in my grip,” Mama said.

“No, it'll mess up your papers. Take off my hat,” I said. “Plop him in here. Johnny will be so surprised and he'll never guess we didn't bring it from New York. I wonder where they are? You don't suppose they're still—”

“In quarantine,” Mama gasped. Color drained from her face. “I should have thought.”

We heard Sailor barking as we left the road and walked up the lane to the house. The sign “Quarantined” hung on the gate like a pox. Mama hesitated, inhaled deeply, gearing up for what lay ahead. I patted her back. In a strange way, I felt stronger at that moment, perhaps because I had lost a sister while she had lost a part of her flesh and her heart.

The farmhouse sat in a dimple of green, the pig shed and barn beyond, and I heard my heart pounding against my temple. We stood for a moment, Mama and me as we'd been for over a year, just the two of us. Now all that would change. Sailor nosed up and I bent to hug him. “Where is everyone?” I said scratching at his ears. He leaned into me, sniffing at my closed hat.

“Hello!” Mama shouted. “Ole, children, we're home.”

The sound of muffled talking reached us as my brothers and sisters came out of the house, their slender forms straight as arrows, eyes hollow. Arthur and Billy stepped out first, followed by Ida holding Lillian's hand, with my stepfather and Olaf walking—no, standing behind them. I didn't want to look at the space that Bertha would have filled beside Ida.

For my mother's sake, I wanted my stepfather to give a nod or smile. He wasn't the kind of man to take Mama in his arms, at least not
in front of us children, but it would be good if they could weep together for their lost child. I wanted them to be glad we were home, and I hoped they'd be happy once Mama told them about the book, that good had still come from the walk.

Arthur stepped forward then, the first. “Mama,” he said before Ida grabbed at his shoulder and pulled him back. He waved a small hand but didn't approach again.

“Hi, Mama. Hi, Clara.” Billy followed with his own greetings, but he didn't push ahead either. “We're quan-tined,” he said, his five-year-old tongue stumbling on the word.

We'd be now too.

Ida had picked Lillian up, held her on her hip. The child lay her head on Ida's shoulder, looked warily at us.
She doesn't recognize us. She doesn't know who Mama is
.

Olaf was the only one to actually smile. “Welcome home,” he said. “Though this isn't much of a homecoming.”

“They shouldn't expect a party,” Ida said.

Mama looked at Ida, and I felt or maybe even saw a wave of revulsion roll between them, daughter riding on hostility so thick and powerful that Mama actually stepped back. Something more was wrong, more than Lillian acting cautious, more than Bertha missing and my stepfather not giving even a nod of greeting to his wife, whom he'd not seen for more than a year.

Mama dropped the grip she'd held in her hand. She let her arms fall to her sides.

The hair at the back of my neck prickled.

“Where's Johnny?” Mama whispered to the hedge of eyes and anger before us. “We brought along a frog for Johnny. Where is my son?”

“He's dead,” Ida said. “Just like Bertha. And you weren't here to save them.”

L
illian jerked her head up from my sister's shoulder, Ida's words like gunshots slamming into my heart.

I looked at Mama, ached for her.

She covered her mouth with her hands. I dropped my hat, stepped back to reach for her, caught in a crossfire. The frog jumped out and the dog gave chase.

“When?” Mama wailed. She dropped to her knees. “How?”

My stepfather came forward but didn't reach to comfort. He lifted Lillian from Ida, who looked like she'd explode with rage. “What do you think?” she growled. “What do you think killed him?”

“Diphtheria,” Olaf said. “Four days after Bertha. We did what we could, but …”

“But the children were quarantined, weren't they? You kept everything clean, sterile?”

Mama, grabbing at straws.

“I did what was needed,” my stepfather defended, his first words to
Mama. “As soon as we know Johnny is ill, Olaf carries him from the pig barn, where Ida keeps the children when Bertha becomes ill. We had to do it without the help of a mother here to do her part.”

“I did everything I could,” Ida said. “Everything. But we were in the shed! The pig shed.”