The Daughter's Walk, Page 2

  “American women listen to their husbands,” my father said in Norwegian. “Or they should.” He rose from the table, shoved the chair against it, and stomped out.

  I wanted my father to forbid her to go so I wouldn’t have to leave either. I didn’t dare defy her; I never had. We always did what she wanted. I was stuck.

  “He’ll come around,” my mother said more to herself than to me. “He’ll see the wisdom of this. It’ll work. When we succeed, then, well, he’ll be grateful I did this for him, for the whole family.”

  “Maybe he will,” I said. “But don’t expect me to ever be.”

  TWO

  The Plan

  Two days later, on April 26, we stood in city hall “to receive the blessing of the mayor of Spokane,” Mama said.

  “Mayor Belt,” I said, curtsying to the rotund man standing before us in his walnut-paneled office.

  “My daughter Clara,” my mother said after she’d introduced herself. She wore a small hat with a single feather that topped off a dress with wide sleeves, a high neck, and a velvet throat ribbon. She had sewed everything herself. She had made my dress as well, and we looked like fine ladies worthy of a meeting with the mayor of Spokane even though I didn’t feel we were. “She’ll be making the trek with me. I can’t thank you enough for your support.”

  “And how do you feel about this extraordinary if not dangerous journey, Miss Estby?”

  I hesitated.

  “Well, answer him, Clara.”

  I wanted to say I felt awful. I wanted to say: My life is coming to an end with this ridiculous scheme. My father is upset. My brothers and sisters will be when they find out, especially Ida, who will be left to cook and clean and tend the youngsters we’re abandoning. I think the whole thing is foolish, without any real certainty we can survive the trip let alone receive the elusive money at the end of it that my mother puts such hope in. I can think of dozens of things that could go wrong. I don’t want to be separated from my family for so long or from my own budding life to satisfy my mother’s plan to rescue the farm. There must be another way.

  That’s what I wanted to say.

  “We’re very grateful for your support,” I said instead.

  “Hmm. Not exactly an answer,” Mayor Belt said. “But then, young ladies aren’t expected to be articulate.” My face burned and my mother frowned. “You should thank my wife for this,” he said then, holding an envelope marked For Mrs. H. Estby. “She’s found the … romance in this entire thing. Two women, walking their way across the country to prove their stamina.”

  “And promote the new reform dress,” my mother added.

  “Yes, indeed.” He looked at our ankles, well covered with our long skirts, and I imagined him visualizing risqué hemlines raised above the tops of our shoes, the leggings we’d have to wear, waistlines without corsets. I scratched the back of my leg with my foot and he looked away.

  “Until a woman is in charge of her ankles, she’ll never be in charge of her brain,” my mother said in her cheeriest voice.

  He smiled. “I suspect easterners don’t understand the strength of the western woman,” the mayor said. “Why, my mother walked the trail carrying me, worked side by side with my father to clear fields, helped build a house and barn, planted fields, handled mules. She once outran a wheat fire started by dry lightning. Remarkable woman. She grabbed my hand and—”

  “Did what was necessary for her family,” my mother interrupted. Everyone knew of the mayor’s tendency to go on and on telling stories. “Is that the letter of introduction?” He still held the envelope.

  “Yes. Indeed.” He withheld it from her. “How did they happen to pick you, Mrs. Estby?”

  I wondered that myself. It amazed me that I often found out important details affecting my life by listening to my mother talk to someone else. “On behalf of the sponsors who are in the fashion field, the newspaper asked for essays, statements of why I thought I could make the walk and why I must succeed to save our family’s farm. I was chosen for this from many entries, I was told.”

  She told them of the pending foreclosure.

  “It’ll bring fine fame to Spokane if you do it,” he said. “And if you don’t, well, what can one expect from a woman?” He grinned. “You really have nothing to lose and everything to gain. A perfect wager.” He handed her the envelope, and she thanked him again without looking at what he might have written.

  We made our good-byes and began the walk to the portrait studio where our picture would be made and sent to the New York World, compliments of “the sponsors.”

  “May I read what he wrote?” I asked.

  She handed me the letter. I stumbled while opening it and she grabbed my elbow. I was forever tripping, the clumsy one in a family of light-footed souls. “Wait until we’re at the studio, Clara. You don’t want to be like me and fall and break your pelvis.”

  “Mother!”

  “There’s no shame in the word, Clara. If the city had kept their streets repaired, I wouldn’t have fallen and there wouldn’t have been the lawsuit.”

  “Which told everyone of your … female problems.”

  “Yes, but I won, and the money allowed us to buy our farm. Besides, I located a good doctor because of it and had the surgery and met a fellow suffragette in the process. It all worked out. Out of bad came good. Remember that.”

  “Then maybe if we … couldn’t pay the mortgage, if we lost the farm, something good could come of that too.”

  My mother stopped as though struck by lightning. Her shoulders stiffened and she looked like she might slap me, something she’d never done. “Clara. How you talk. Nothing could be worse than a foreclosure. Nothing. Give me that letter.”

  She read it then. “Please, sirs, give kindly considerations to Mrs. H. Estby, who has been a resident of this city and surrounding area for nine years and is a lady of good character and reputation.”

  “Why does he call you Mrs. H. Estby? Shouldn’t you use Papa’s name?”

  “A woman has a name of her own, Clara.” She looked at the letter and nodded. “It’ll be enough. We have to get the signatures of dignitaries when we visit a state capital or large city, to verify that we’ve actually been there.”

  I looked at her, aghast. “The sponsors won’t sign a contract, but they expect us to show that we’ve done our part? Mama.”

  “We have signed a contract.” To my surprised gaze she added, “Well, I do listen to you.” She nudged me with her hip. “We have seven months to make the trek. We start out with five dollars and must earn the rest as we go. We can accept no rides but must walk the entire way. And we can accept meals and lodging from friendly supporters but not beg for it or money.”

  “Beg? We might be so destitute we’d need to beg?” I could hardly swallow, the bow at my throat as tight as a noose.

  She waved her hand to dismiss my worry. “I expect we’ll sleep most nights at the railroad stations, at least until our journey makes the newspapers and people are curious to meet us. They’ll discover we’re ordinary women doing something extraordinary. We might like a bed in their haymow or their attics. There’s even a provision in the contract to make time adjustments if one of us becomes ill. So you see, it’s not such a big risk.”

  “And the money?”

  “They’ll provide ten thousand dollars if we arrive on time and have met the conditions. Oh, Clara.” She grasped my gloved hand. “It will be the trip of a lifetime. You’ll see.”

  “If we die, it’ll be the last trip of our lifetime.”

  “Nonsense. Where’s that Estby spirit of accomplishment?”

  She said nothing to my scowl.

  The spring breeze lifted the soft curls at my face. I hoped we could wear our hats in the photograph, as I hadn’t brought my curling iron along to spruce up, and a hat turned my hair flat as a deer’s bed lying in the meadow.

  My mother hummed as we walked along. “Remember the story I told you, Clara, about when I was a young student in Os
lo? In religion class they told of Jonah swallowed by the whale, and then I went to science class and learned the whale has a narrow throat? Too narrow for a man. So I—”

  “Challenged the religious teacher the next day,” I said. I’d heard the story numerous times.

  “Yes, and he said to me, ‘Don’t you know, Helga, that with God all things are possible?’ So you see. We will pass through the narrow throat of uncertainty. We’ll succeed, get the money, and pay off the mortgage.”

  “With the mayor’s letter?”

  “With all of us doing our part. That’s what families do, Clara. They sacrifice and serve, and then all will be well.”

  I wished I could share her enthusiasm, but it wasn’t in my nature.

  THREE

  Letting Go

  MAY 1896

  I entered the servants’ quarters at the Stapleton household. It would be my last day working for this fine family. Giving a two-week notice would have been the professional thing to do, increasing the likelihood of reclaiming my position once we returned, but my mother hadn’t granted me the luxury of an organized departure.

  I’d first worked for another family, the Rutters. When Bertha, my now fourteen-year-old sister, was ready to serve at age twelve, she took my place there and I joined the Stapleton family household. (My mother would correct me if I said “joined the Stapleton family.” She’d remind me that I merely worked in it.) Olaf tended the Rutters’ yards and gardens weekly. During our trip, Bertha would continue working out; Olaf would return to the farm to help my father.

  I donned my cap and white apron and entered the drawing room to ask Mrs. Stapleton if I might have a word with her.

  “Of course, dear,” she said. The Spokesman-Review lay on the table. She looked at her lapel watch. “Come back in, say, thirty minutes? I’m sure the upstairs linens need tending. It’s Monday after all.” She was a stately woman who dismissed me by adjusting her glasses and returning to the newspaper.

  They’d had houseguests over the weekend, and that meant changing the linens on all the beds in the five upstairs bedrooms. I didn’t mind the work, but it wasn’t what I intended for my life. What I wanted was to be a wife and mother, to support a husband’s efforts at managing money as he cared for his family. I was good with numbers and once even imagined becoming a banker myself, but it wasn’t an occupation for a woman—or at least I knew no women who were. I’d be a fine mistress of a grand house and generous because my husband would be kind and generous to me. And we’d never worry over money or do ridiculous things like expose an unfortunate personal situation to the world because of money.

  Mr. Stapleton was a banker and his son, Forest, would be one day. I sighed, thinking of Forest as I worked and nearly burned my hand on the hot iron while pressing the sheets left for me.

  When I came downstairs, Mrs. Stapleton was standing in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest, and she tapped her foot though I wasn’t late at all. Lilac scent wafted in from the open window but didn’t sweeten Mrs. Stapleton’s disposition.

  “I know what you have to tell me,” she said. “Or does your mother have another daughter she intends to take across the continent on this ridiculous scheme?” She nodded toward the Spokesman-Review. “ ‘Walk to New York,’ it says. ‘Hoping to meet a wager and save the family farm,’ it says. ‘Wearing the new reformed dress.’ ” She scoffed and picked up the newspaper, jabbed at it with her finger. “What on earth is your mother thinking? Aside from the fact that it’s terribly dangerous, it’s … it’s … an affront to womanhood. Traveling across town unescorted is uncivilized enough, but across the country? And to publicly announce your family’s financial position? Well, I … And the dresses you’re to wear! Absolutely provocative showing so much ankle. You’ll be assaulted and understandably so.”

  “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.

  FOUR

  Wedding Thoughts

  On 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 g
iftetanke.”

  “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.