You said the other night it was impossible for two people from such different circumstances as ours to be friends. I didn’t say so at the time, but I wholeheartedly disagree. This is America. We don’t have classes here as they do in England, for example. A man can choose whomever he wants as his companion. Even, as you described yourself, a maid from a little farm town in Indiana. Until I told you who I was, you appeared as smitten as I. If I hadn’t opened my big mouth, perhaps you still would be? Yes, it’s true that if we hadn’t been stranded at the train station in the middle of the night waiting for the same delayed train we might not have spoken. Perhaps, also, we would not have agreed to sit together in the dining car and talk until dawn broke over the horizon. However, we were. Fate brought us to that same station at the same time.
After I told you I was the great-grandson of William Garfield, you tucked your feet under the chair and hid your chapped hands in your lap. I’d seen your shoes and your hands all night by then. Your worn shoes and chapped hands told me the story of who you are just as clearly as your words. Being the daughter of Irish immigrants who works hard to make something of her life here in America is nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, a young woman who moves to Chicago to find work and then sends most of her wages home to her ailing parents is a person I want to know. A woman I would be proud to have by my side.
All this to say, would you allow me the pleasure of escorting you to dinner out?
Please write back to me with a date and time before I die of a broken heart.
Yours truly,
Nicholas Garfield
I carefully folded the thin paper back into its faded envelope. An image of Mrs. Purdy’s face flashed before me. Merely an imagination, I figured, given my writer’s mind. She’d looked like a potato left too long in the cellar, all lumpy and creviced. Those caterpillar eyebrows had wriggled when she laughed.
“Do you have the answer to his first letter?” Mrs. Lanigan sounded small and scared, all pretenses of the severe woman I’d met earlier vanished.
“I do.”
She closed her eyes. “Please, read.”
* * *
Dear Nicholas,
Thank you for returning the scarf. My neck is much warmer now. I didn’t expect to see it again. There’s no money for a new one. Even yarn is scarce in my world. I’m grateful for your kindness.
I’ve given your request much thought and concluded that I cannot go to dinner with you. I’ll not know the right fork to use. I have nothing nice to wear. My hands are red and chapped. There’s a new hole in my shoes. I’ll embarrass you.
While I have to admit how much I enjoyed getting to know you, our worlds are too far apart for this to ever go anywhere. You said yourself that your father has high expectations of you. The description of the type of work you do and the society in which you exist tells me there is no place for a girl like me. I could never be the wife of a Garfield. I’m uneducated and coarse. You know this to be true. It’s best for both of us if we never start what can only finish badly.
Thank you for asking me. In our brief time together, you have made me feel beautiful and special.
Sincerely,
Augusta
* * *
Mrs. Lanigan’s hands trembled. “If I’m understanding this correctly, my father was the great-grandson of William Garfield. Do you know who that is?”
“The name sounds familiar,” I said. “But I can’t place it.”
“William Garfield was one of the founders of the railroad system. At one time, he was the richest man in America.”
I remembered studying about him in school. “They were ruthless, isn’t that right?”
“I believe so,” she said.
I leapt up from the bed and grabbed my phone from the table. “I’m looking him up.” The search pulled up an article about William Garfield and his contribution to the railway system in the middle part of the nineteenth century. I summarized the content of the article for Mrs. Lanigan.
He and the other tycoons of the first railroad systems were known for ruthless business practices, many of which put passengers of their trains in great danger. Before the train industry was regulated, the founding men cared little about safety and a lot about amassing great amounts of wealth. He and his wife, Rose, had a son and daughter, Randolph and Ivy. Randolph inherited the family fortune. There was no mention of Ivy. Of course. They never told the story of the sister. Randolph had two sons: Nicholas Garfield and Boyce Garfield.
“It says here that Boyce died from suicide in 1938. Shortly thereafter Nicholas was disowned from the family. From that point on, Randolph said both of his sons were dead.”
“Does it say why they argued?” she asked.
“No. There’s no mention of him other than one sentence. Hang on, I’ll search for Nicholas.” I typed into the phone and waited as it pulled up several articles about him. I scanned them as quickly as I could. “There’s not much. No one knows what happened to him after he was kicked out of the family.”
Her complexion had paled to the color of her white sheets. “But why wouldn’t they have told me who he really was? He never talked much about his past, other than he grew up in Chicago. He told me he didn’t have any family. They were all deceased.”
“Maybe he thought it would be better if you didn’t know, since there was no chance of reconciliation?”
“Or it was too painful to talk about,” Mrs. Lanigan said. “Maybe he thought I’d want him to go after the money.”
“Or they thought they’d tell you when you were grown but didn’t have the chance because they died when you were so young.”
“They were protective of me,” she said. “Overly protective. They might have worried his family would try and take me.”
“What did your father do for a living?”
“He ran a magazine and smoke shop in our town in Indiana. There aren’t many places like this left, but when I was a child, they were the heart of the town. People of all ages would spend time together, talking or reading. In addition to newspapers, magazines, and tobacco, he sold popcorn, candy, and ice cream. My mother did the books and he took care of the customers. Like I told you, they were always together. Home and work.”
“May I hold the letters?” she asked.
I placed them in her lap. With her fingers she stroked one then the other. “One is thick, like card stock.”
“That’s Nicholas.”
“The other’s as fine as rice paper.” She brought the envelope addressed by her mother to her nose and sniffed. “It doesn’t smell like her.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Not after being in an attic for sixty years.”
“Do you have another?” she asked.
“I do.”
* * *
January 4, 1938
Dear Augie,
I don’t care what you’re wearing or what fork you use. I want to spend time with you, not your dress. I don’t care two figs about anything but what is below the surface. That which we cannot see with eyes alone, one’s essence, one’s soul, is what matters to me. Your essence makes you as rich as any man or woman on this earth.
You’re the opposite of coarse. You’re gentle and compassionate, yet strong and smart. All the rest of your worries of forks and manners and society are easily learned.
You could never embarrass me. Furthermore, the finest dress from Paris does not make a woman beautiful. A dress is only as pretty as the woman wearing it. In a room full of women, you will always be the most beautiful to me, regardless if you’re wearing men’s trousers or a gunny sack.
Please, I’m asking again. May I take you to dinner?
Sincerely,
Nicholas
* * *
I didn’t waste time asking if she wanted me to read the next one.
* * *
January 5, 1938
Dear Nicholas,
Yesterday, after I finished my duties at the Perry’s, I walked home in the newly fallen snow. There’s a hole in
my right shoe and snow gets in there and the cold comes through my thin coat. I shivered all the way home, thus I walked fast and touched my scarf wrapped around my neck from time to time, marveling that just a day ago it had been in your hands and in your home.
As I walked, I thought about the story you told me about your father. The image of the burn mark on your shoulder will not leave me anytime soon. There’s never a reason to physically harm a person, especially your own son. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. Taking a hot poker to an innocent boy’s skin is unconscionable.
This will seem strange to you, I suppose, but when you’re poor, there’s a feeling that rich people are somehow better than you. I can see now that although my father is poor, he is a fine man. He would never take his hand to my mother or me.
My parents came to America from Ireland to have a better life, only to find the same poverty waiting for them in this world as the one they left. All I want is to give them the life they dreamed of when they left everyone they loved behind. Today, as I walked past the men lined up for a cup of soup, I wondered if the promise of America is false. These times are hard for so many. Will it ever be different?
By the time I arrived at the boarding house, my left toes were wet and numb with cold. When I was a child, I dropped a heavy piece of firewood on them. Ever since then, they hurt when I’m cold. All I could think of was warming them under the stove in Mrs. Purdy’s parlor.
Those thoughts vanished the moment I arrived inside the house. All day I’d thought of you as I scrubbed and polished floors, hoping there might be a letter waiting even though I’d rejected your invitation. I was feeling quite sorry for myself until I saw my wish had come true. Your letter was on the table. No one was in the parlor, so I ran up the stairs to the sleeping room to read it in private. The other girls would hound me for details if they knew mail had come from a man.
I leaned against the door, still wearing my coat and hat, to read your letter. I didn’t even take off my wet shoe, though my left toes ached. As I read your words, I smiled, no longer cold. Just as quickly, though, I remembered who I am and who you are and that we’re from disparate worlds. I had myself a little cry and then went down to join the others for dinner.
At dinner, Mrs. Purdy asked me why my eyes were red. I told her and the girls about meeting you and your invitation to dinner. Like women do, they wanted to know every detail: how we met, and what we talked about, and what you looked like. When I told them who you are, everyone went silent, even Gladys.
I started to cry again when I told them I couldn’t accept because I didn’t have a nice dress and there were holes in my shoes, and I wouldn’t know how to behave, and the whole idea was ridiculous because I was nothing but a scullery maid.
Mrs. Purdy became cross with me. She said she would teach me about forks and glasses, for all that’s holy, and what kind of imbecile turns down the offer of a good meal from a rich man? She gestured toward our dinner of thin potato soup. “If for no other reason than to get something to stick to your bones, you must say yes.”
The girls all chimed in at once. Glamour puss Gladys said she’d cut her heel off like the ugly stepsister in Cinderella for a date with someone like you. Shy Millie said she understood perfectly. She wouldn’t be able to go either for fear she’d make a fool of herself. Hedda just shook her head like I was soft in the head and spoke to me sternly in her deep voice. “No more crying, you little idiot. If you’re too stupid to see when something wonderful is about to happen to you, then you deserve to be stuck here with the rest of us.”
Gertie’s eyes filled with tears and said I had to go for all of us. “When was the last time something good happened to any of us? You have to go for all the working girls.”
Lucinda said that I’m beautiful no matter how shabby my clothes, but that if it was a new dress I needed, she would make sure I have one. If you recall, Lucinda is a seamstress. She said she’d been sewing a new dress from scraps she’d gathered at the shop to give me for my birthday. If she worked hard on it all week, she could have it done by the weekend.
Gladys said she’d help me with my hair and let me borrow her lipstick. She works at the department store and knows all the latest fashions.
Mrs. Purdy looked around the table at each one of us and tapped the table with her fingers for emphasis. “Listen to me, young ladies. I don’t want to ever hear again that one of you turns down an opportunity because you’re ashamed of being poor. You’re all hardworking girls and in America we all have the chance for a better life. That a rich boy like Nicholas Garfield noticed our girl Augusta isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is.”
Right then and there, she gave us all an etiquette lesson. After she’d worked with us for an hour, she said to march right up to my room and write back that I would gladly accept your invitation.
All that to say, despite my better judgment, I accept your dinner invitation. The only evening I’m allowed out past six p.m. is Saturday. Mrs. Purdy said you would have to come in for a visit first. “I made a promise to your parents to keep you safe and I intend to make good on it.” She went on to say it’s her responsibility to make sure you’re a decent young man who won’t chop me up into a million pieces like Jack the Ripper.
Yes, she really said that.
She added that you’ll have to have me back no later than nine or I’d have to sleep on the porch. She and her caterpillar have strict rules.
I’ll count the moments until we meet again.
Sincerely,
Augie
* * *
“How remarkable,” she said.
“Which part?”
“The girls. Mrs. Purdy. All of it.” She pushed both envelopes toward me. “Put them away. I don’t want anything to spill on them.”
“I do have another surprise for you.” I slipped the letter back in its envelope and set it on the table.
I explained to her about the audiobooks and headphones. “Before you say no, you have to let me read you the descriptions of the books Ardan and I picked out.”
“I won’t be able to push the right buttons.”
“I’ll start it for you. When you’re done reading, you can just ring your bell and I’ll come turn it off.”
“Fine.”
Fine. I needed to start counting how often she used that same word to admit defeat.
When I brought Mrs. Lanigan her dinner, she was huddled under the covers and didn’t answer when I called out to her. I set the tray with the bowl of clam chowder on the dresser. I sat on the side of the bed and placed my hand on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t feel like eating. Leave me alone.”
“Did something happen?” I pulled back the covers. Her pillow was soaked with tears.
“I’m alone and useless,” she said. “I wish I would just die and get it over with.”
I brushed her hair off her damp cheeks. “I’m sorry you’re feeling like this. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“I want you to eat. It’s clam chowder.” Ardan had told us it was one of her favorites.
“Fine. Help me up.”
I helped her to a sitting position and put the pillows behind her back.
“Tell me what prompted this,” I said.
“It’s Finn’s birthday tomorrow and I forgot because I don’t even know what blasted day it is.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“How is he gone when I’m still here? It should be Finn that lived, not me.”
I had no idea the answer to that question or to the one that haunted me. Why had I lived when Roberta had died?
I set the napkin in her hand. She wiped her eyes. “He was everyone’s favorite. All the kids loved their brother Finn. They adored their dad. Yet, I’m the one still around.”
Roberta’s laughing face flashed before my eyes. Years and years after she died, I woke to the same question. Why was I alive when perfect Roberta was dead
?
I set the tray over Mrs. Lanigan’s legs. Steam rose from the bowl of chowder.
“It’s hot, so let me help you,” I said.
“I can feed myself,” she said.
“The chowder’s right in the middle of the tray.” I put a spoon in her right hand and led her to the side of the bowl. “A piece of bread is to the left.”
She tapped the bowl with her spoon, then dipped it into the soup and brought it up to her mouth, missing it by centimeters so that it spilled out of the spoon and onto her chin. “Blast it all.” She dropped the spoon into the chowder. “I told you I’m not hungry.”
“It’ll just take a little time to adjust,” I said as I wiped her chin. “You’ve got to eat. You’ll never gain your strength back without the proper nutrition.”
She set her mouth in the thin line that was supposed to deter me from further pursuit. I didn’t back down that easily.
“How about if I help just this once?” I asked. “Tomorrow, if it’s not something hot and runny, you can practice with your fork.”
Mrs. Lanigan’s eyes filled with tears. Her bottom lip trembled. “I hate being like a child.”
My heart ached in sympathy. “I get that it’s hard. But it’s just you and me. You don’t have to pretend. You know I’m a mess.”
“That’s obvious to everyone.”
“It’s going to be all right.” I much preferred her feisty and sharp-tongued to this.
“People always say that when the exact opposite is true. With your perfect mother and Pollyanna attitude, you couldn’t possibly understand.”
I picked up the spoon and wiped the handle clean with a second napkin. “I have more insight into how you’re feeling than you might think. When I was fourteen, my best friend was murdered while walking home from school. Normally we walked together, but I had the flu that day and stayed home in bed. I don’t know why it was her and not me. I wish I had the answers, but I don’t. She was pretty and popular. It should’ve been me.”
Blue Ink Page 7
