by Julie Kibler
Every corner of Oklahoma City was under construction, it seemed, with stores and offices and hotels rising on the flat plains faster than she’d thought possible—one day, an empty lot, the next, the frame in place, then before you knew it, an Open sign hanging in the window. Buildings with multiple stories went up so quickly, it was a wonder they were safe. Skirts were shorter and hats bigger—and waists, too, or at least it looked like it given the more relaxed corsets. The place was exciting, but the hustle and bustle overwhelmed her sometimes, especially after life at the Home.
When she was homesick, she wrote it away in a letter to Lizzie.
By the time we get back to our rooms, my feet are falling off, and my eyes are nearly as tired from looking. I never knew there were so many shades of brick and paint, or that hundreds, maybe thousands, could want hotel rooms on a single night. And the food, Lizzie! Oh my! I carry paper to make notes about what I see in the restaurant windows, on the sample carts and menus…there are too many choices, but I want to learn about all of them. I’ve always thought I was sick of cooking, but you know what? I’d like to run a restaurant one day. All my complaining about it being my only talent—I had no idea what a person could do. Sure wish you were here! I miss you so much, and I can hardly stand to sleep without my goodnight hug and kiss from Docie.
Lizzie’s transcribed responses were flat, reporting about Docie’s year-end exams, and how she and Ivy had done this and done that and…it never ended. Something bothered Mattie about Ivy, and it wasn’t simple jealousy. Mattie understood Lizzie’s need to replace her, but she bristled at the quick depth of their intimacy. At the top of her letter, though, Lizzie had carefully penned, so Mattie wouldn’t miss it, We miss you, too, with a heart and flowers from Docie.
Mattie’s homesickness faded. If Lizzie stayed, at least she was content. But Docie would become restless eventually. When that happened, Mattie would convince Lizzie to let Docie visit, and she’d show her the real world. She’d keep her safe. She knew the dangers.
In the meantime, Mattie had more than enough to keep her busy. Preparations for Uncle Bud’s crusade lasted more than a week. The men cleared brush beside a dilapidated building in the city’s worst section, then raised a tent while the women distributed notices from house to house and business to business, and handed them out to packing plant workers, who streamed past their corner in the morning on their way to slaughter livestock and back in the evening, covered in blood and stink. Mattie struggled not to gag. The packers would do nearly anything for liquor or women, and their crude comments humiliated her. These were not the kind of men she’d intended to meet. She hadn’t come for this. But she reminded herself she was no saint. She’d gone low too. She breathed through her mouth while smiling politely.
The first meeting pulled in fifty souls with more each night once word spread. Many walked the aisle, and several pledged to attend future meetings and help build a church.
Before Uncle Bud left, two weeks later, he praised Mattie’s cooking and invited her to go farther west with the band. She thought it over but decided to stay. Packing plants aside, she hoped to support herself eventually, and she thought she could do it here. Traveling with Uncle Bud, she’d be in a loop, never truly settled.
Another woman decided to stay on as well. Sister Welch had some means, and she rented adjoining rooms for herself and Mattie near a drugstore that had offered its basement for a Sunday school. Two local women joined their efforts. The three together were the liveliest church women Mattie had ever known—even more than her mother—always shouting in the services, and skipping and clapping up and down the aisles during the singing and the altar calls. Mattie got the giggles as their hats and hairpins flew. Aside from their boisterous enthusiasm, she felt unequal to their faith. She wasn’t stupid, but as they prayed and quoted scripture, it seemed they spoke a tongue she had no desire to learn. She craved real conversation. She missed her talks with Lizzie, and even Brother JT’s frank advice. She’d have been lost without the women’s guidance, but their fervent piety was sometimes more than she could take.
Worse, at the Home, there’d never been more than the matron and her assistant caring for all the girls; Mattie now had three personal chaperones. Sister Welch was the oldest—and consequently, the nosiest—dissecting Mattie’s every move. Mattie began to feel under lock and key, more than ever before. She wondered if Brother JT had given Uncle Bud a warning, and whether Uncle Bud, in turn, had advised Sister Welch to be on guard for any slip in Mattie’s mental state. If anything, Mattie figured it more likely she’d go crazy over their extreme vigilance.
It had been five years since she’d lost her mind, so to speak. They’d all, even Lizzie, assumed she’d had a nervous breakdown when she chose the way she did, but she’d known what she had to do—once she’d understood what was happening to her body. Even the doctor had said she hadn’t been the first in all of history to miss the signs…
She was lucky they hadn’t had her committed to an asylum.
But they had nothing to worry about here. She simply longed to explore, alone. Women walked on their own downtown—she’d seen them herself.
Three weeks in, after the Sunday school class dismissed, Mattie grew sleepy and numb to the prayers the sisters said together before returning to their homes. As best she could tell from the scriptures, the Good Lord had intended Sunday for rest, but it was the busiest day of the week for churchgoers. June was growing uncomfortably hot, and while the basement was cooler than the store above, her corset pinched. She wasn’t sure she’d last another hour—and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume they might carry on that long.
Sister Welch caught her yawning. “Mattie, dear, are we keeping you from something more important?”
Mattie sat up straighter. “I’m sorry. I’m just…” She hesitated a mere second before the fib emerged. “Perhaps I’m coming down with a summer cold, especially going from the heat outside to this basement. No telling what all these folks bring in with them.”
“Oh dear,” Sister Welch said. “I hate to keep on if you’re not well.”
A convenient tickle struck Mattie’s throat, and she coughed behind her hand. “Why don’t I go on home?” Their rooms were minutes away, and on Sundays the railway men and packers slept off Saturday night carousing. Respectable folks ruled the streets today.
Sister Jones had lived in the city several years. “Mattie’s been a real help the last few weeks, and she’s so responsible. I’m sure she can make her way back without any to-do.”
Sister Welch studied Mattie. “All right, then. Go on. I’ll be along in less than an hour.”
Mattie purposely drew heavy breaths climbing the stairs to the druggist’s shop.
The store was closed, but the manager sat at his desk, high up over the floor. He always waited to see the ladies out when they finished. His weary wife corralled five or six youngsters at the services, and Mattie suspected he appreciated an extra hour of peace. He hurried down to unlock the door. “Hotter than a frying pan out there. Where’re you headed?”
Mattie repeated her story.
“Care for an escort?” he said. “Folks in these parts can be up to no good.”
She assured him it was not necessary, but he watched as she went the first block. Having a man take care was nice, she supposed. Surely unmarried ones like him existed—somewhere.
She turned the usual direction, then looked over her shoulder. Instead of making the next left, she continued toward downtown. If she was conspicuous alone, you’d never know it. Nobody paid her any mind. She relaxed, glancing through windows and at various street activities—a surprising number for a Sunday.
When they’d first arrived, Uncle Bud had arranged a walking tour for the group, pointing out respectable businesses alongside saloons, houses of ill repute, and vaudeville theaters. New hotels had multiplied like dandelions near the end of downtown. She’d gawk
ed through the window of one before being pushed along by the group. Her eyes and brain felt stretched, gazing at men and women in expensive clothing who dined on lavishly prepared feasts.
She wanted to see more restaurants, but as Mattie neared the area today, she sensed someone trailing her. Folks had walked behind her the whole time, of course, but she’d heard the same footfalls now for several blocks. She slowed to peer in the reflection of a store window.
Behind her, a man slowed as well, taking his hat in his hands mere steps away. She turned, prepared to send him on his way. But it was just Mr. Percy from the drugstore. Her cheeks flushed hot to be caught in her lie.
Mr. Percy tilted his head, with a smile that set her on edge. “Miss Corder, are you lost?”
“I took a wrong turn, I’m afraid. My sense of direction isn’t what I thought. But I must have needed fresh air. I feel better already.”
He nodded but stood his ground. She squirmed under his scrutiny. “Perhaps you’d point me toward home now,” she said.
Finally he spoke. “I decided to see that you arrived safely, but I didn’t want to startle you. Of course, maybe you truly meant to go this way…” He shrugged indifferently, but his eyes clearly spoke his thoughts as he gazed suggestively, looking her up and down.
Mattie searched her memory, trying to recall whether he’d heard her testimony during the crusade, but she knew there was likely mention of her time at the Home among the church planners. She was the only one from the rescue homes, after all. Her former reputation had not mattered in the Home, but here, a man might think her loose simply because she’d been an unwed mother. She spoke sharply now, forcing Mr. Percy’s gaze back up. “Sir, are you questioning my intentions?”
“Now, ma’am, why would I do that? I simply wondered if—”
“Wondered what?” Mattie interrupted, glaring. She knew what.
“If, perhaps, you were seeking male company.” He grasped her arm, grinning lasciviously again.
Mattie drew herself up and shook his arm away. She stood nearly as tall as any man she’d met, and Mr. Percy hovered only slightly taller. “You are mistaken.”
“Things I’ve heard might make me believe otherwise,” he said. “But I’ll see you to your lodging, and naturally, I’ll see my way to forgetting you took a wrong turn. If you change your mind, though…I know a convenient place.”
Mattie gasped as he reached to run his finger under her chin. Further rebuttal was futile. He saw her only one way—in spite of the talk he talked in meetings. She backed away and fled. She didn’t need any escort, and especially not one who’d taunt her with her past. She glanced behind as she half ran for the building where she lodged with Sister Welch. She threw the lock, then backed against the door until she was certain no noise came from the stairwell.
She put herself to bed in her small room next to Sister Welch’s. Shivering under the covers, she knew now to avoid close quarters with Mr. Percy. She’d have to take more care than ever—the true drawback to leaving the safety of the Home.
But she’d hold strong against any such foolishness. She hadn’t risen this far only to fall again.
CATE
Arlington, Texas
2017
The morning after Thanksgiving, I sleep late, as if the presence of another human causes me to sleep deeper than I have in years. Maybe I’ve been on constant alert without even realizing it.
The temperature outside dropped overnight. I pull on yoga pants and a sweatshirt and emerge from my room, stopping to switch on the heat for the first time. In the kitchen I start the kettle boiling but suddenly wonder if Laurel drinks coffee. I prefer tea, hot, strong, and straight-up sweet. Coffee makes me retch.
Little noises come from the dining room and I peek through the opening over the bar. Laurel sits at the table, straightening papers and stacking her books.
“Good morning,” I say. “You’re an early bird. I’m not this morning. Or any morning, actually.” But I wonder now if living by myself for so long has even affected my morning energy. Then again, I was always a night owl. “Finish your studying?”
Laurel nods. “Yup. I can relax for a few days now. Thanks for letting me stay. I’d still be procrastinating if I wasn’t here.” She sniffs. “Oh my gosh, I love that smell.”
I know what she means immediately. Not the water boiling on the stove. The scent of dust burning off the heating coils. I love it too. It smells like winter.
“Hungry?”
Her cheeks redden. “I’m always hungry. I might have already had leftovers.” She raises her hands weakly with a meek smile. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I laugh. It makes me happy, and some other strange emotion. “I’d never eat all that myself. Do you want hot tea? I don’t have coffee.”
“Okay.” She smiles curiously, and I wager she’s never had it. I add splashes of milk and generous amounts of sugar to both mugs, then carry them to the table. Laurel sniffs the pale mixture, then sips with the spoon I brought her. “I like it.” She shrugs. “I usually have warm Dr Pepper for breakfast.”
No surprise. Dr Pepper is a Texas institution, a reasonable substitute for any morning beverage or, really, any meal in a pinch. But warm?
“What will you do the rest of today?” I ask.
Laurel leans back to study the light fixture. “Probably just get a head start on reading. Maybe binge-watch something if my computer cooperates.”
“I’m going on a quest,” I say. “I’ve been waiting for a day I don’t have any other responsibilities—no cleaning, no car maintenance or catch-up work. I’m going to wander around Arlington and Fort Worth and scout out places the girls might have been.”
She knows what girls I’m talking about. Her eyes light up. “That sounds intriguing!”
I chuckle at her choice of words. “You can come.”
I’d figured after a full day of company, I’d be so overwhelmed I’d want to be alone, but I’m not. And I don’t. And I hope Laurel doesn’t think it’s strange I’ve invited her. If I’m correct, she’ll worry more about whether it’s strange to accept. We’re two people hungrier for company than we even realized.
“Okay,” she says. “I want to pay for something today, though. You spent so much on Thanksgiving food.”
I could refuse her offer, but I sense Laurel doesn’t want to owe a debt just because someone made a bigger investment.
“You don’t have to,” I say, “but that would be nice.”
When I’m showered and ready to go—and Laurel uses the towels, too, in spite of her protests the night before—we climb into my car.
“Should we stop by your dorm? Drop your backpack or grab a coat?”
“I’m good,” she says.
Suddenly I feel self-conscious. My jeans are nearly new, and over a black pullover, I’ve twisted two scarves together at my neck. My lined tweed coat is in the backseat in case I get cold, and my boots are one of six pairs I own. Laurel is in one of the three shirts she wears on repeat, and her jeans are torn at the knee—not as a fashion statement. The warmest thing I’ve seen her wear is the hoodie around her waist.
In Arlington, the majority of historic buildings are gone. The city neglected preservation for too long, like so many others. Progress was all about modern entertainment at the edges—sports arenas, malls, and amusement parks. In the last decade or so, however, the planners have taken great care with what remains, and a nice little downtown area now boasts a gorgeous concert pavilion in near proximity to a number of renovated industrial buildings, several with lofts up and interesting shops and restaurants down. We can only picture in our minds, however, the Home buildings and Upchurch house near campus and the Interurban depot off Main Street.
Soon, we head west on what was part of the first transcontinental road in the country—called, depending on the decade, Texas Highway 1, US-80, the Bankhea
d Highway, and even the Broadway of America. The road still runs near the railroad tracks. We could take the interstate, but seeing where folks would have driven and where the Interurban cars ran between Arlington and Fort Worth when the girls were alive is more interesting. When the Home first opened, there wasn’t much more than a dirt road between Dallas and Fort Worth.
In downtown Fort Worth, the old train stations have been repurposed as housing, event spaces, and classrooms for university extensions. A restored Interurban car is on display outside the current Intermodal Transportation Center. I don’t know where Mattie was before the Home, but I’ve imagined she rode a car like this one, which stopped across the street from the original T&P station. She might have walked these very streets.
We walk and I tell Laurel what I’ve learned about the area from studying the archives—and through my own curiosity. We’re in the middle of what was Hell’s Half Acre, where outlaws roamed for years and where women lived when they turned to prostitution. The buildings, many of which are original, were crowded with saloons, dance halls, and bawdy houses.
Fort Worth is proud of its history, but at that time, the area wasn’t safe or advisable for respectable women, even in broad daylight. Times have changed. We still wouldn’t walk here alone in the dark, but in daylight, it’s about as safe as anywhere downtown.
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid frequented the Half Acre,” I tell Laurel. “The only known professional photo of the Hole in the Wall Gang was taken in downtown Fort Worth in 1901.” I’m not sure she has any idea who I’m talking about. She nods politely, and I make a mental note to find the old Robert Redford movie online.
Laurel shyly shares that she’s never walked around downtown, despite having lived in Arlington her whole life. She remembers attending the holiday parade once.
“What have you been doing, girl?” I say, half joking. I wonder if she might open up more soon. I’m not one to talk—but I like history and I’ve spent a lot of time exploring it alone.
