The Year We Were Famous (4 page)

Avoiding Erick's gaze, I ran one finger around the rim of the compass case.

"When you look at that compass, I hope you'll think of me. I wanted to make sure you could find your way home to us—to me."

He gently took the compass from my hands, refitted it into its pouch and box, and gave it back to me to put into my pocket. Capturing my hands in his, he fixed his moony blue eyes on my not-so-moony speckled ones. "We can get married after next harvest, when you and your ma get back," he said.

He didn't ask; he took it for granted that we would marry. The only question in his mind was when.

I gently withdrew my hands from his and turned, pretending to be enthralled by the traces of pink and gold fading into the horizon. When I turned back, he was grinning so earnestly that I felt sorry for him. No doubt he thought the tears that welled in my eyes were from happiness.

"Could I give you my answer when I get back from New York?" I wiped my face with the back of my hand and forced a smile. "That is, if Ida hasn't snapped you up by then."

Erick stepped forward and brushed one last damp spot on my cheek. The pad on his finger was callused, but his touch was as gentle as the breath of a kitten. "It's not your sister Ida I'm asking. It's you."

The last morning at home was a blur. The only one of my brothers and sisters who didn't offer last-minute advice or caution was baby Lillian—unless you counted clutching my skirts and whimpering as advice to stay at home.

Pa had loaned me his pistol. I felt the heft of it cradled in my two hands; remembered the jolt of the recoil the first time I shot it last week, practicing with Pa and Arthur.
Ma and I are really going to do this,
I thought. Tomorrow Ma and I would be taking off on a journey of nearly four thousand miles with a .32-caliber five-shot self-cocking pistol. I hoped I'd never have to use it.

Besides what we'd bought in Rockford, Ma had packed the pictures and
cartes de visite
she'd had printed; Mayor Belt's letter of recommendation; a copy of the
New York World
article; maps; a few things from home like a washcloth and soap; a curling iron; and a pepper gun she had made out of an insect sprayer, following directions from one of her suffragist friends. She also had Pa's pocket watch, which she'd threaded on a cord to wear under her shirtwaist. I wore Erick's compass.

Just before we left, we gathered in the kitchen. For the first time since I'd reached my grown-up height, Pa wrapped me in a bear hug. His mustache scratched my cheek, and I breathed in the familiar smell of him: soap from washing up, harness leather, sawdust, hay, and eastern Washington soil.

"Love you, Pa," I whispered.

After Pa let me loose, he took my hand and pressed something into it. "Bring her home if this walk gets too hard."

I opened my hand. Nestled in my palm lay an owl, an inch high, carved of cherry wood and burnished as smooth as a mirror. Pa hadn't carved feathers, a beak, or eyes. Just the wise soul of an owl as a reminder of his trust in me to bring Ma safely back to him.

"I will," I promised. And if highwaymen, cougars, or stampeding cattle didn't finish me off first, it was a promise I would keep.

Lillian sensed that this was no ordinary leave-taking. She plucked at Ma's shoelaces, sobbing, "Off, off!" Pa picked Lillian up so Ma could hug her one last time. Ma's eyes glistened, but I couldn't tell if it was from second thoughts or pure excitement.

Pa's voice was husky as he said goodbye.

Ma gave each child one last hug and turned to go. By the kitchen door hung a gilded picture of an angel. As we left the house for the last time, Ma kissed her fingers and pressed them to the angel's heart. I did the same.

Forty paces down the path to the main road, I turned and looked back. My sisters and brothers had started back toward the house, but Pa was still standing at the gate by Ma's Austrian Copper rose. One strap of his overalls had slipped halfway down his shoulder, and he clutched his hat in both hands over his heart. The whole scene blurred for a moment until I blinked. When he raised his hand to wave, I caught up to Ma and touched her sleeve.

"Pa's waving, Ma."

She turned to wave. I put down my satchel to wave with both hands. Pa said something to the children, and they all turned and waved, too.

"
Adjo!
"

"Goodbye!"

"
Adjo!
"

"
Adjo!
"

The farewells echoed back and forth across the barnyard.

Ma was the first to turn back toward the road.

Just beyond the fields Pa and Olaf had plowed this spring were the Iversons' fields, plowed in curving lines that outlined each gentle rise in the land. As we approached their house and barn, I tightened my grip on my satchel and lifted my chin. While Erick Iverson was measuring his wheat, I was off to see the country, nearly coast to coast. I would not look back.

P
UFFS
of breeze cooled my cheeks as we set off along familiar roads. The air smelled like plowed wheat fields and budding lilacs. A meadowlark sang. This was the beginning of the biggest adventure of my life. At least that's what I told myself. I veered between giddy excitement and terror.

We were just walking twenty-five miles today. Except for the weight of the seven-pound satchel in my hand, the tug of the canteen strap on my shoulder, and the knowledge that I was carrying a pistol instead of textbooks in my bag, today would be just like a walk to school in Spokane. For seven months I would not be herding younger brothers and sisters through their chores and schoolwork. I would not be scrubbing floors or boiling overalls or canning tomatoes. Without slowing my pace, I leaned over to break off sprigs of Queen Anne's lace and chicory by the side of the road.

Ma watched as I tucked the flowers behind one ear. "You'll look like a gypsy," she said.

I snapped off another sprig of Queen Anne's lace and tucked it behind my other ear. If I was going to discover the gypsy in my soul, I was not going to do it in half measures.

Just then I caught sight of Mrs. Youngquist, who had popped out of her kitchen door and was headed toward the hen house.

Ma waved, but Mrs. Youngquist did not wave back.

"She can hardly wait to see us give up and come home next week so she can say 'I told you so,'" I said.

"
Ja,
well," Ma said. "Mrs. Youngquist will have to wait until Mica Creek runs backward. We'll reach New York and come back famous, with more money than she'll see in her lifetime."

Ma squinted at the road ahead, but there was nothing to see but Mrs. Youngquist's chore yard, more wheat fields, and an empty road. "Once word gets out on this walk, our path will be lined with people cheering us on."

I snorted. "And I suppose you think we'll have a brass band at each railroad station and the mayor's wife will be standing on the platform with an armful of roses for you." I was surprised Ma didn't have us carrying placards reading
HELGA ESTBY, TRANSCONTINENTAL PEDESTRIAN
and a trumpet to announce our arrival at each whistle stop.

"Don't you laugh now," Ma said. "When we land on Manhattan, we'll have to dodge all the newspaper and magazine photographers wanting a picture of us."

We passed Soderstrand's farm, Lingren's farm, Fosberg's farm, and the nearly finished house that my friend Tilda would be moving into when she married Carl next month.

When we finally reached the railroad tracks, I tried to keep my new boots out of the dirt and my skirts out of the sagebrush by walking from railway tie to railway tie, only to discover that the train's water closets dumped directly onto the tracks. After the first hundred yards of muttering
Uff da!
(as in "I almost stepped in it") and
ISH DA!
(as in "I
did
step in it"), I gave up, leaving the tracks to pick my path alongside Ma, several feet away from the line.

Ma stopped for a moment to tighten her shoelaces. When she straightened, she reached out to smooth my bangs. "If you aren't used to using the curling iron, you should have let me do it for you."

I pulled her hand away from my hair. "They'll loosen up by themselves." I already knew I'd turned them into sheep's wool instead of a reasonable copy of Nellie Bly's bangs. I didn't need Ma to tell me so.

As we continued, Ma chattered on about her high-flying fantasies of how we'd spend the fortune we hadn't yet won. I suspected it was her way of keeping her mind off the memory of Lilly reaching her arms out to her as we had turned to leave home. I traded hands again on my satchel, trying to delay blisters on my palms, but I couldn't trade off feet. I could already feel blisters rising there, erupting like bubbles on over-risen bread. I was relieved when we reached the Union Pacific station house at Hope. Without any deference to Ma, I plopped down in the only chair.

Ma dropped her satchel with a thump and stood over me while I started to unlace my shoes. "If your feet are swelling, you better not take off your boots. You'll never get them back on again."

"My feet aren't swelling," I said. "My new boots are just stiff." I found my spare socks and put them on over the pair I was already wearing, carefully avoiding contact with my blisters.

"
Ja,
well," she said. "I told you to break them in better." Ma had been smart to wear her comfortable old chore boots, which would be sturdy enough to carry her the first few hundred miles.

"
Ja,
well," I said as I forced my boots back on. "I wanted them to last longer on the road." I wiped dust off the toes and tightened the shoelaces so the heels wouldn't rub so much.

Just then I felt a gentle splat on my scalp. I looked up, thinking I had been the target of a passing hawk. Three more drops fell on my upturned face.

Ma held out one hand. "Just a spring spit of rain," she said.

I opened my satchel and shook out my oilskin poncho. "It can rain hard this time of year."

"Nonsense," Ma said. "This sprinkle will be over before you slip on that poncho and you'll just have to pack it away again."

We got back on the road, me with my poncho, Ma without. After ten minutes of rainy mist, the sun reappeared and a rainbow arced across the road before us. "See, what did I tell you?" Ma nearly strutted with the satisfaction of being right. "Nothing can keep us down, Clara. I tell you, that rainbow is our sign that this trip is meant to be, and we'll have good weather from here to New York."

But she didn't get to gloat for long. As the rainbow started to fade, another drop of rain hit my nose. Half a mile later, the spring spit of rain became a downpour. While I waited for Ma to scramble into her poncho, I tugged down Pa's fisherman's hat, crushing the flowers I'd put in my hair earlier. I squinted through the raindrops on my eyelashes at the gunmetal-gray sky and the miles of open land. I felt small, as vulnerable as a field mouse in a freshly plowed field with an eagle circling overhead.

Even in ponchos and oilskin hats, we got soaked. Rainwater and mud collected on the bottoms of our skirts with every step. Rain trickled down the ties of my hat and under the wide neck of my poncho.

We continued on in silence to Latah Creek, which was already becoming a river, and on to the Waverley station. This time there was a bench big enough for the two of us under the veranda roof. We had covered fourteen miles so far.

While Ma took out our sandwiches, I eased off my boots and socks. The skin was already rubbing off the tops of the nickel-size blisters on my heels, dime-size blisters on the sides of my little toes, and half-dollar-size blisters on the balls of my feet. I retrieved the bottle of iodine from my first-aid kit, wincing just to think how it was going to sting, and steeled myself to dab the glass wand across the raw, oozing mess on my feet. I padded each blister with a wad of cotton wool secured with adhesive bandage.

Ma watched in silence, holding both sandwiches in her hands. "
Ja,
well," she said. To her credit, she said no more aloud, but it was clear what she was thinking.

"
Ja,
well," I muttered. At least I'd had the sense to put on my poncho and try to keep dry when it started to rain.

We ate our boiled egg and butter sandwiches washed down with swigs of water. My canteen was half empty already. By tomorrow I'd have sipped the last of the water from our own well at home.

After finishing my sandwich, I spread out the newspaper it had been wrapped in to read the bits of articles on it.

Ma folded her scrap of newspaper and brushed her skirt of crumbs as she stood. "I'm happy to see you reading the newspaper instead of those novels. About time you took an interest in the real world."

"I get enough of the real world in my own life," I said. "I'm only reading the newspaper scrap because that's all there is to read." I eased my feet back into my boots and reluctantly stood. "Did you see an outhouse, Ma?" I started to look for a wastebasket for the newspaper, but Ma stopped me.

"You might be needing that," she said.

She approached the outhouse behind the station cautiously, knocked, then used the hem of her skirt to open the door.

We'd have to keep an eye out for old newspapers, it seemed, and not so we could keep up on current events.

By the time the sun—what I could see of it behind the clouds—was low on the horizon, the rain had slackened to a limp drizzle. As we tromped along, the vague bump on the landscape gradually took on the crisp outline of a grain elevator.

"That must be Rosalia, Ma!" Rosalia was twenty-six miles from Mica Creek, a mile over our day's quota. "This would be a good place to stop, wouldn't it?"

"We could go a few more miles, couldn't we?" Ma said. She trod on stolidly as if she could see right through the Rockies and across the plains to that ten thousand dollars waiting for her in New York. I suspected if I didn't make us stop at a reasonable hour each night, she would have us walking twenty hours a day until we both dropped dead.

Just beyond the town proper, another lantern flickered to life in a window not too far from the tracks. "That's probably the last house in town. If we don't find someone to take us in soon, we'll end up nesting in the fields like quail."