The Daughter's Walk (4 page)

“We'll carry a pepper-box gun,” I offered. “My mother will have a revolver too, and she does know how to use it.”

“What western woman doesn't? But that's beside the point,” she said. “It's your reputation, Clara. You're tarnishing it with this foolishness. You're old enough to make your own decisions now. Refuse to go. Save your mother from further humiliation.”

I agreed with her, but I had no choice that I could see. An Estby did what was required for family. “It won't be foolish if we succeed,” I said, my eyes downcast. “It's a … business decision. We're … advertising the new reform dress for the sponsors, and they'll pay us when we arrive.”

“Surely you don't think they'll actually pay that kind of money for advertising. Ten thousand dollars? Clara, that's … preposterous. I thought you were a much brighter thinker than that.”

“My mother says there's a huge push for suffrage nationally, and the sponsors are people who know that women are capable, able to do more, be fuller members of society. They're investing in the future through this walk.” I had to defend my mother.

“We women rock the cradle and rule the roost. Gaining the vote won't change that. It'll put women into the mess of politics with men. Unsavory at best.” She sat down, fanned herself with her fingers, clutched at her long beaded necklace with the other hand. She acted almost frightened.

“Clara, Clara.” She scanned the article again. “Who will look after your brothers and sisters? Don't you have a baby sister?”

“Lillian,” I said. “She's two.”

“A baby! How can your mother consider leaving a baby behind? Your father agrees to this?”

“He … he understands the importance of saving the farm,” I said. “He was injured, and the support we receive from the carpenters' union isn't enough.” My hands grew moist with this intimate disclosure. My father would be appalled if he knew I had spoken of the payments.

Mrs. Stapleton shivered, then stood. “I'll pay up your wages through today. I'm sure I can find a replacement, even with this short notice.” She shook her head. “Don't expect to have a place when you return. I can't have … your kind of person in my employ. I assume that's what you wished to discuss with me?”

“I regret the short notice, ma'am.” I curtsied, drying my hands on my apron.

“Finish up with your day, then you may leave. I imagine you need the money.”

If I didn't say it now, I never would. “I wonder if I might wait … until Master Forest returns from school,” I said. “I'd like to say good-bye to him as well. I'll wait outside, of course.”

Mrs. Stapleton stared at me, and then she narrowed her eyes and said in a low seethe, “Absolutely not. My son takes no notice of the help, and I'm certain he won't want to be bothered by a schoolgirl's silly
au revoir
as he's returning from his studies. That's foolish thinking, Clara. Foolish. Perhaps you should just leave now.”

“Yes ma'am.” I backed out, tears stinging from her rebuke and my lost wages.

My future in Spokane was over. I might never get another job in the finer households here. And all because of my mother's warped way of taking care of her family.

O
n the Saturday when my mother planned to tell my brothers and sisters of her plan (she was of the opinion not to give them too much time to cry or protest), I helped fix breakfast while the little ones slept. Even Bertha and Ida were given time to sleep past dawn in our shared room upstairs. I guessed it was because I wouldn't be frying bacon or grating potatoes in this kitchen for a while and Mama wanted to give them all a rest before she told them what was happening. While we worked I told her that I'd defied Mrs. Stapleton and waited to speak with Forest. She shook her head in disgust at me.

“I told you he was driving you,” mother said, “and how damaging that can be.”

“He's not driving me.” I'd blame the old onion for my pinched tears instead of her embarrassing words from the old country about men pursuing young women.

“But you wish he was. I see it in your eyes and that's a danger. You're
hun gâ i giftetanke.
”

“I'm not going in wedding thoughts, Mama,” I lied. “We've done
nothing.” I didn't tell her that last January, when I couldn't sleep and neither could Forest, I'd prepared warm milk for him in the kitchen and we'd had a conversation about school and life almost as though we were equals. I'd even told him of how much I missed my brother, Henry, who'd died that month. For comfort, Forest kissed my cheek as I stood between the copper pans and herb pots. It was then that my wedding thoughts began, and I wondered if I'd turned my face, if he would have kissed my lips instead. I would have let him, lived with the guilt of finding joy in the midst of grief, dreaming of a future as Mrs. Stapleton, wife of a banker.

“Trust me in this, Clara. A mother knows what can happen between the servants and the men of the house.”

“How does a mother know such a thing?” I asked.

She didn't speak, kneaded the bread a little harder, pushing out the scent of yeast. “We know. It is a mother's duty to anticipate.”

“He does like me, Mama, but he's a gentleman and would never do anything—”

“You don't know.”

“All I did was wait for Forest so I could tell him good-bye. I hope that was all right with you,” I snapped and chopped the onions smaller. She said nothing, leaving me to savor my last moments in memory.

I'd waited beneath the large elm tree near the corner of the lot, out of sight from the house. Forest's face lit up when he saw me, I know it did. He removed his hat, set his briefcase down. “Clara,” he said. “Are you off to the store for my mother?” He stood taller than I by two inches, and a section of his blond hair hung straight over his right eye, so it always looked as though he was peeking at me from behind a golden drape. His slender fingers and perfectly filed nails lifted the strand of hair to free both his eyes. His smile was butter to my bread.

“No,” I croaked. Clearing my voice I said, “I'm … I'm leaving. On a
trip. I won't be here for a time. Maybe never again.” I hoped he'd look sad at my parting.

“Nonsense,” he said. He looked behind me, toward the Stapleton home. I turned to look too, leaning out from behind the tree. Leafed out, the branches blocked a view of the window that his mother might look through if she still ruled in the parlor. He moved closer, smiled, and I pressed my back against the tree trunk, the bark scratchy and firm against my thin jacket. He checked the house again, then stared into my eyes. He leaned an arm over me, resting it on the tree, and with his other hand, he lifted my chin. So very close. “You'll be back. Trips don't last forever.”

“This one will take seven months at least,” I said. I swallowed, relishing his closeness, fearing it. He touched the back of his finger to my cheek, stroking gently, then to my neck, where blood pounded. His touch felt like lightning crackling in a summer storm. He left his hand there, my veins disclosing the secrets of my heart. “Your mother will fill you in, I'm certain of that,” I said. I wanted him to move his hand, and yet I didn't. “She thinks the trip a foolish one. So do I.”

“Don't let Mother frighten you,” he said. “I've read about it, your journey. You're … brave, Clara. I wish I'd known of your adventurous streak.”

I hadn't thought of bravery or being adventurous, only that I was obedient. His gaze caused my mouth to dry up like creeks in autumn.

He leaned away then, removed his fingers from my throat, empty cool air replacing them.

“Well, I shall miss our little chats,” he said.

“I could write,” I whispered. “Send a postcard.”

He shook his head. “Mother always checks the mail first.”

“Maybe I could send letters to one of your friend's addresses?”

He smiled, touched my soft curls as though they might break, wrapped one around his finger. “Write and keep them, and when you return, perhaps you can hand them to me in person. We can … have lunch together.”

“All right,” I said.
He invited me to lunch
. “They'll be my diary.” He returned his hat, picked up his case. “You could write to me,” I said. “The newspapers along the way will receive our mail and—”

“It wouldn't be wise for a Stapleton to send messages to a newspaper,” he said. “Possible publicity, you know. Bad for my father's bank.”

“I suppose … not.” I lowered my eyes. I'd embarrassed myself with such a suggestion.

“You write things down, Clara.” He sounded like one of my teachers indulging my enthusiasm for a subject unrelated to their classes. He stood in front of me, both hands on his briefcase. I no longer needed to lean back into the tree. “You can tell me all about it when you return.” He moved toward my face then and I thought that, yes, he might kiss me. Instead, he simply whispered, “Good-bye, dear Clara. I wish you well.”

He'd stepped around me, leaving confusion and the scent of his cologne in his wake.

I wiped my eyes of the onions. I didn't tell Mama that part, only that Forest Stapleton was a gentleman and I'd be writing to him instead of keeping a journal. She took that to be that I had wedding thoughts, for heaven's sake.

“There'll be little time for writing and such,” my mother informed me. “We must make twenty-nine miles a day to finish on time.”

I gasped. “That's walking from Spokane to Rockford. Every day.”

“Every day. Oh, don't look so glum. A woman can do anything for a day.”

“Hurry Ida and the children along,” Mama said. “No sense eating these cold.” She started to sing a Norwegian festival song. I didn't have the heart to tell her that she sang out of tune.

My siblings' timing proved impeccable. Ida joined us in the kitchen first. My father and Olaf entered from the barn, taking cooled milk from the icebox and replacing it with fresh warm liquid. The middle-age children, Arthur and Bertha, rumbled down the stairs and gathered round the table that Ida and I finished setting. My brothers filled in the bench where Henry once sat, but they couldn't fill in the space he left in our hearts.

Bertha wiped her eyes with her fingers as she sat, waiting for the signal to begin. She'd been called home from the Rutters' for this weekend. She scanned the table with the stack of pancakes, little dishes of jams and jellies, fresh-baked rolls promising to be soft and chewy. “It feels like a birthday party with Mama singing. All we need is a cake.”

“Do you remember when I made that cake for your birthday?” Ida asked Bertha.

“When Mama visited her mother? In Wisconsin?”

Ida nodded. “I was your mother for then.”

Actually, I'd taken care of the children while Mama was gone those two months, walking across Minnesota and Wisconsin. I didn't need to steal Ida's thunder; she'd be drenched by the end of this meal anyway.

“We had a big cake, Clara. Papa rode to Mica Creek, to Schwartz's store, but they had no soda, so he had to ride all the way to Rockford to get it so Ida could make my cake.”

“She knows the story,” Olaf told her. He arched one of his seventeen-year-old lanky legs over the back of the chair and sat down, reaching for
a slice of the bacon our mother set on the table. Ida rolled her eyes as he said, “We all know the story.”

I knew it but still felt left out. At the time I'd been working on a neighboring farm while they all shared this pleasure.

“Now I make cakes for the Rutters,” Bertha said and she wrinkled her nose at her brother. Bertha reached for a potato pancake.

“You wait for grace,” I cautioned.

“You weren't here for the party. And neither was Mama,” Bertha said, “so I have to tell you the story.” Her blond hair hung in braids and she smiled.