A Mending at the Edge: A Novel (Change And Cherish)

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “Nein. I think he plans to supervise the church.”

  “Ja. I heard him say as much,” Helena said. Another quiet moment filled with the tiniest sound of needles pushing through fabric. “Then perhaps I should stay. To help Emma, of course,” she hastened to add, when Louisa frowned, considering.

  “I’ll be fine tending things here,” I said. “You could both go to Salem, though travel can be so dreary.” I gave an exaggerated sigh as she moved her hip, then stretched her leg out in front of her, twirling her ankle like the whirl on a white pine. No one said a word about her revealing her striped stockings too.

  We continued our work for a bit. “There is also voting here later this month,” Helena reminded us. “At Millers’ house. We’ll need to help Martha.”

  Martha wasn’t much younger than I, but she tended her father’s household well, and that’s where the men voted. I thought I should ask her to our quilting time, though this was Louisa’s prerogative, since it was her house.

  Louisa shifted weight from her bad hip to her good one. “Ja, maybe Dr. Keil will want to be here for that voting, as well as the church’s going up, so maybe he’ll see how things start on the band hall and then return,” Louisa said.

  “You should go, Emma,” Helena said after a moment of silence. “Louisa and I can remain here to assist with the more-demanding tasks. They hope to finish the pharmacy, and there are several other houses being readied.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ve heard too that Herr Keil wishes to begin building on a real hotel. He wants it three stories or more, with a huge porch on the front for the band to play and a balcony on the rooftop where they can serenade the train. It’ll be not far from the company store and the pharmacy, the center of our growing community.”

  “For stage customers?” I asked.

  “The rumors about the railroad bear truth.”

  “You do cook up fine food,” Louisa said. She apparently didn’t want to talk about the railroad and her husband’s new route to commerce and fame. “And maybe your boys could stay with Martin and your girls with your parents. Or maybe Kitty could watch them while you’re there. Or that Christine. Ja. That would be a good plan.”

  “I’m sure the boys would enjoy time with Martin.”

  “You’re so accommodating, Emma,” Helena said. “Though I did think you’d want them with you.”

  “Times have changed,” my mother-in-law said. “I remember when you protested mightily being separated from your sons.”

  My throat constricted. If I trust the colony to leave my sons here, then I am a lax mother; if I protest others tending them, then I am shamed for not understanding the gifts others offer.

  “Whatever is best for the colony,” I said.

  Louisa concluded, “We older women will stay here while the young women—and you, Emma—can go help them build, if you’re willing.”

  “I’m just happy to serve,” I said. I’d check later to see if I meant it.

  Because it was to be a dance hall, musicians who were also carpenters were selected as the best builders. Based on the number being sent to work, we women prepared hams and breads ahead and took the food with us. I hoped we’d have leftovers that we could sell to those who came by because of curiosity and the call of aroma. We’d present the best side of our colony to outsiders, the welcoming, loving side. We might have quarrels and tensions within our midst, but we had much to give away. It was the communal way: looking after one another, putting ourselves beneath the needs of others, and silencing for the outsiders those issues festering within. Like any family, we could appreciate virtues of generosity, even while irritations wedged at the edge.

  Matilda Knight joined us; Christine did not. I wasn’t sure whether that annoyed Helena, but when I asked Christine if she’d like to come, she declined. No one questioned her right to do so. My true sister Kitty came along, and I was grateful, since I wanted both Kate and Ida with me. Martin had agreed that Andy and Christian could remain with him during the day.

  “My home is perfectly suited for you all to stay there,” I told Martin, “so the boys can sleep at night in their own beds.”

  “It wouldn’t be right, my being there when the woman of the house wasn’t, don’t you know,” Martin protested. Color spread against his neck, nearly as red as my Running Squares block. He pushed at the straw cuffs of his shirt.

  “Ach,” I said. “How silly to leave a house empty while others are bundling up together. I have nothing you could catch, and it would be convenient.” Andy wouldn’t be listening to the gossip of the bachelors, I thought but didn’t say.

  “Ja, well, maybe then we will.”

  Fortunately, Martin was not the stubborn kind.

  Andy jumped up and down at the thought that he’d be remaining with Martin. “Here I thought you’d be upset that your sisters get to go,” I said.

  “I’m upset,” Christian told me. “Who will keep Andy from punching me?”

  “Martin will,” I assured him. “I’ll speak to him. And to you, young man.” I pointed my finger at Andy. “For someone who wants to grow up to be a healing soul, you should start with your brother. Smartness mixed with unkindness makes a sour sauce.” Andy lowered his eyes. I was glad to see shame on his face. “And, Christian, you don’t want to become someone who tells tales on others either. Or who expects to be punched just to complain of it. Notice things. Watch. When your brother thinks you’re in his way, he’ll give you signs. Look for them and before he hits your arm, you take your slingshot and go outside and hit targets. Or find one of the men making harnesses and ask about their work. Offer to help Brother Ehlen with his baskets. Do something. Don’t wait for Andy to do it to you.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Christian said.

  “I’m leaving you boys with Martin this one time, but if I hear there are problems, then that will never happen again, understood?”

  Both boys nodded in unison.

  Once I’d dreaded leaving my sons behind. Now I was content. They were content. Martin was a good friend. I allowed myself to savor hope.

  The journey to Salem took the entire day. At the fairgrounds, we women set up our food tent in the dusk. We’d be sleeping in the wagons, but we unloaded the heavy crates we’d packed with ham and eggs and bacon and bread. I’d fixed a cooler of sorts, helped by Daniel Steinbach, an arrival from Bethel. Inside a box we’d placed straw, then set a smaller box within it. In the space between, we placed ice chunks and covered them with more straw. The butter and cream kept cool, and once we made up our dressings for greens, we’d keep the leftovers in the cooling box too. We made tables with sawhorses and boards, “planed right in Aurora Mills,” as I told anyone who asked. I built up a fire while the girls found a water supply. I watched them pumping water from a hand pump, splashing it at their feet as they filled the pails.

  Kitty and Matilda Knight and one of the Schwader girls came along. I felt my older age with the need to keep an eye on both my little girls and these young women too. I hoped to have more time with Matilda. I wondered why she remained in Aurora while her brothers had left. I looked forward to discovering her mysteries. Except for Matilda, the girls were too young to marry, I decided. There was plenty of time for those commitments later, if only they could grasp that. If only Kitty could. She’d been talking with misty eyes about a Bethel widower. Becoming a twenty-two-year-old stepmother to a twelve-year-old didn’t seem like the wisest of decisions. But who was I to make an assessment on my sister’s interests or of what troubled Matilda, if anything did? Aside from Christian, I’d certainly not done well making my choices.

  Up until now, I haven’t done well, but I’m doing better.

  Matilda was a natural with children. She and I were the same age, but I had seniority since I was a mother. I was glad she’d had time in Willapa this past year. She used her stories from there to thread her way into Kate’s life, talking about oysters and mentioning the Giesy stockade, where Kate had been born during that winter when so many of us had huddle
d together under that one cedar roof. “I was born where everyone could see?” Kate said. She pinched her nose. “Mama!”

  At eight, Kate acted as though she knew everything there was to know, but she still lacked that self-control that would keep her from stating things better left unsaid.

  Matilda laughed. “Ja, aber your mama had a blanket for a private place, and your papa was there to welcome you, that’s the story I heard from Jacob Stauffer.” John Stauffer had been a scout, but I noticed whatever Matilda said about Willapa usually included Jacob, who’d come out later. “It’s a good story, Kate,” Matilda continued. “To be born with family all around is a blessing.”

  After the men finished their meals, we cleaned up and got ready for the next meal. We barely had time to eat, and what with watching children, cooking, and serving, I felt tired indeed. Maybe I was too old to be doing these fair things, traveling from home. At the last minute Brother Keil had chosen not to come along, so at least we didn’t have his directives to respond to. Eventually, we women might have time to ourselves.

  I wanted to visit Durbin’s livery, hoping to track down Brita. Once the brothers drew me a map, making quite a show of using what German they knew, and said it would be a long trip. “Several hours walking by foot,” one said. “Almost as long riding,” added the other. “But we can rent you a horse.”

  “I probably can’t do it this time, then,” I said. “But I’ll keep the map.”

  I walked back out toward the fairgrounds, disappointed. I passed the post office and decided that I could write a letter and tell Brita we’d be coming back again for the fair, and ask if she could meet me then. I’d do that before we left.

  Giving up on visiting Brita, I was free to make a detour toward Wallamet University, that place where one day my son would go to school if I could make it happen. It was a good hike from the fairgrounds, and I was glad I’d not brought the girls.

  The several-story brick building rose up like a castle into the blue summer sky. It had been around for at least twenty years, based on the size of the trees growing beside it. There were classes in session. At least I could see people moving behind the windows. Martin would come here to school one day. My Andy too. I thought I should see what kind of school it really was, assess its value for Andy. I looked at the sun. I had time. I walked up the steps and went in.

  My eyes adjusted to the wood-lined halls, the dark coolness a pleasant respite from my August walk. The doors on both sides were closed, but I could hear voices from beyond. A large staircase beckoned and I stepped up, my leather soles like breaths of air brushed against the oak. A door stood open. I moved toward it and watched a woman ease around the room, her long skirt swishing as she bent to comment to the female student who held a paintbrush in her hand. A painting class! Around her, other eyes lifted from their easels to hear what the woman said.

  “You can see through the portrait that the paint is but a vehicle to bring the subject into focus in ways she might not otherwise appear. Paint captures an idea, while a daguerreotype seizes a moment.” I looked toward the front of the room to see the model, a young woman wearing a shoulder-exposing gown, a velvet necklace at her throat, and her hair done up with curls and combs. My eyes moved to the student closest to me who had already completed her portrait of the model. To me, the model looked warmer on that easel than she really was sitting in the sunlight that highlighted her pale cheeks. Paint is but a vehicle for our experience. I thought the words, but I must have spoken them out loud, for each woman turned to me, including the instructor.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Nein. No. Ja. I didn’t mean to intrude.” I started backing away.

  “This is a third-level course,” the woman said, “for our more advanced students. We’re always welcoming other artists, if you’d care to join us.”

  “Join? No. I was…I sketch. My son is interested in medicine. I don’t live here. I’m so sorry.”

  She extended her hand to me the way a man does. “I’m Lucia Jordan, instructor. Perhaps you were seeking the registrar? There are always openings.”

  “I…ja. The registrar.”

  For a moment I put myself there in that room; I imagined my hand holding a brush, stroking the canvas with reds and blues and greens, painting the sea I remembered, the faces of my children. I sank into the images I could make that would bring me joy. I could turn my parlor into such a painting room. Like Brita, I could follow my desires; I could.

  “Please, don’t be shy.” The instructor stood beside me, urged me through the door.

  Before me was a dream I’d had for years, ripe for the plucking. I turned and ran down the steps to the sun outside. Taking a painting class would do nothing to make another’s life better than my own; certainly not my children’s.

  After the first night at the fairgrounds, the smell of fresh sawdust and hammering brought out several local men who asked questions, gave the carpenters advice, and bought up our wares. They came back each day, they said, to watch the progress, but I noticed they ate more each time, and they brought others with them. By the third day, we’d gathered up a crowd, and after serving the men their dinners, I could see that we might run low on food. I’d been selling sandwiches to this evergrowing gallery, especially in the evenings, when the band quit building and played. If Keil had been along, he’d have sold tickets. As it was, we were making money with our food sales.

  “Looks like we need to make some purchases,” I told Kitty. “Do you want to go to the market, or do you want me to?”

  “I’ll go with Kitty,” Matilda said. “I’d like a little break if you don’t mind.” Matilda had been a faithful tender of my girls, and I wanted her to have time to relax. I handed Kitty the list and told them to hurry back, for it looked like we’d have a crowd for dinner, and very likely several would stay after to listen to the music.

  I wrote my letter to Brita, then decided rather than give the girls another outing the following day, I’d mail the letter myself. With the girls in hand, we walked from the fairgrounds on a dirt path, then on the boardwalk toward the post office in the back of the apothecary store. We didn’t need to go as far as the shops where Matilda and Kitty would be filling their baskets. My girls trudged along, not happy to be taken from their grassy play area near the building site.

  “We won’t be gone long,” I said. “And we might have an adventure.”

  “What’s adventure?” Ida asked.

  “It’s Mama’s way of making us forget that our feet hurt,” Kate said. I gave Kate a warning look.

  “My feet hurt?” Ida asked, looking down at her scuffed toes. I’d need to get the shoemaker to fit her for a new pair, she was growing so quickly. Her right foot looked larger than her left. I wondered if I could talk the shoemaker into making a separate shoe for each foot instead of making both from a single mold.

  “That lady hurts,” Ida said then. She pointed to a woman standing in the shadow of the postal/apothecary building.

  A cowed-looking woman, she sank against the brick wall, her bonnet sagging at the top. Her dress was plain and the sleeves threadbare. Her small hands had knuckles red as strawberries and just as large. And she was crying silently, without even putting her hands to her face to stop the tears.

  “Don’t point,” I told Ida as she pulled back on my hand, forcing me to stop in front of the woman.

  “Mine,” Ida said. She offered the woman a wrinkled white cloth, pulled from the pocket I’d sewn onto her apron.

  The woman shook her head no.

  “For me,” Ida told her. “Take it for me.”

  She must have seen Ida’s disappointment, for she accepted the offer.

  I’d been that tearful once, that hopeless. I’d never worn threadbare clothes, but my soul had been tendering too, disintegrated and shattered as old silk from the caustic things of life. That was how this woman looked.

  “Can I help you?” I asked. Then I remembered that I would as easily have answered no when s
omeone asked if they could help, but I would accept the offer if it meant I could do something good for someone else. That was probably why the woman had taken Ida’s handkerchief at the second offer.

  “There’s little you can do to help,” she said.

  “Are you waiting for someone? We’re here mailing a letter, but we could wait with you if you’d like.”

  The woman again shook her head no. “There’s no one here waiting on me. Only my children talk to me, and they’re on the Clatsop Plains, far from here.”

  “I know where that is,” I said. Something about that area, which wasn’t too far from the Willapa region, rang a bell, but I couldn’t recall what it was.

  She lifted her head and with challenge in her voice said, “What do you know about that?”

  “I used to live on the Willapa River,” I said. “I remember hearing of the Clatsop people. It was a long time ago. Very wet winters.” Her shoulders relaxed. “I didn’t get out much.”

  “One finds that a common thing for women of that region.” She had gray eyes that shone clear and kind now, and looked right through me when the tears had been dabbed dry.

  I saw Matilda and Kitty walking along carrying their baskets of food. They waved at me from across the street. A voice nudged at my insides. “If you’ve nowhere to go right now,” I said, “maybe you could come back and help me. We have to cook up a storm for some men building a dance hall at the fairgrounds.”

  “I don’t dance,” she said. “It’s against my faith.”

  “I know many who share your views. We Germans love to dance, though. And the music is lovely. Surely your faith allows you to listen to the music.”

  “Music has seen me through my…some difficult times,” she said.

  “Perhaps our music will cheer you then, Miss…what did you say your name was?”

  “Almira Raymond,” she said. “But I don’t think I’m a miss anymore, not with nine children. But I’m also no longer a…missus.”