From Ridge Row, we crossed Jefferson Avenue and drove up the broad Lackawanna Avenue. As we crossed the river, I spotted Father’s breaker, a gloomy structure that rose a short distance down the river. No clouds of coal dust plumed the air. It sat idle, its workers on strike.
At the top of the hill, the carriage turned onto Main Street. Hyde Park was just a short ride from my house, but it might have been another country. The houses were tiny and cramped and run-down. They sat one after the other, like a row of broken teeth. It was Sunday, and the streets were filled with children, running, playing, chasing each other and screaming happily.
The carriage pulled up to the iron cemetery gate on Washburn Street. Jenkins offered to accompany me, but I said no, that I wished to be alone.
I followed the winding gravel path, past the graves of the Welsh miners killed in the Avondale accident two years ago, all the way to the small rise where my parents lay.
There was no headstone or monument. It would be placed on the first anniversary of their death. I pressed my cheek against the ground and sobbed.
Two Days Late (Again!)
As I cried a pool of tears deep enough to drown in, a shadow fell over me. “Are you all right, miss?” asked someone.
I looked up, blinking in the sunlight. It was a young man, a few years older than I, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. I bristled at his poor manners! How dare he intrude upon a mourner paying her respects. “I’m fine,” I said.
He reached out to help me stand, but I ignored his hand. As I stood, my foot caught my petticoat, ripping its hem and pitching me forward. I landed on my knees.
In a single, flowing movement, he shot out a hand and caught me. His hand was rough and had a quiet strength.
“After a fall such as that,” he said, “you shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs. How brave they’ll all think you at home!”
It was the very thing Alice had said, after her fall down the rabbit hole! Oh, this boy’s laughing gray eyes and grinning face! Didn’t he think he was clever! Of all the bad manners! To poke fun at someone wearing a mourning dress!
“‘Why, I wouldn’t say anything about it,’” I retorted, “‘even if I fell off the top of the house!’” Which is very true and the very thing that Alice had said after her great fall.
Was he ashamed? No. He had no shame. He laughed.
Was there no end to his coarseness? The familiar way he looked at me! As if he knew me!
I glared at him, taking in his medium height, his slight build, his dark hair, and thin, pink scar on his cheek. His striped shirt and its heavy collar were fresh and clean but his trousers and cap were the common clothing of a worker.
But, of course he knew me. He worked in the mines. Every mineworker knew my father and knew about the accident.
That realization made his bad manners inexcusable. I have no patience for coarse boys. I swished off toward the waiting carriage.
“I wish you wouldn’t be so easily offended!” he called after me. “Come back! I’ve something important to say.” And then, as I hurried through the cemetery gate, “‘Well, be off, then!’”
It didn’t matter how many lines from Alice he tossed after me. I climbed into the carriage and pulled the door shut. “Home, Jenkins,” I said.
With each lurch of the carriage, something ticked like a clock in my head, except, instead of ticking forward, it tocked back to where I’d seen that grinning, impertinent face before. He was the same young man who had rescued Alice at the train station and returned her to me. That day, he wore a yellow duster and the cut on his cheek was red and raw. That day he had said his watch was two days late, just like the White Rabbit.
And now, here he was again.
My mouth twitched and spread into a grin for the first time in a very long time, and it felt good. Of course, I scolded myself soundly.
This train is stingy with its lighting — just six candles for our car. It’s growing too dark to write. I’ll close here and try to sleep, though sleep is impossible when I recall that grinning face.
Tuesday, September 5, 1871
Buffalo, New York
8:30 A.M.
Miss Ringwald’s Letter
The train arrived in Buffalo at 7:20 this morning. Tired! My legs had turned to sea legs. At a clean-looking inn, we filled ourselves with eggs and ham and thick toast slathered with strawberry jam. Lucy spit out the pits from her stewed prunes onto Adam’s plate. Then Gideon showed Adam and Lucy how to hang a spoon from the ends of their noses. (It was a trick that Father taught Gideon.)
We walked to the Lake Shore & Michigan Southern station on Exchange Street, where we must wait until noon for the Lake Shore train. Gideon keeps taking out his pocket watch and checking the time. I told him it won’t make the train come faster and to put the watch away or I’ll take it from him until we reach Miss Ringwald’s.
At Miss Ringwald’s name, Gideon brightened. He dug through my carpetbag until he found her letter. How could a plain piece of rose-colored stationery mean so much? It’s our ticket to a new life.
With his elbow, Gideon nudged me again until I agreed to read the letter once more. What a pest he can be!
This is what Miss Ringwald wrote:
My darlings,
I was crushed — crushed! — when I learned of the loss of your mother and father! How difficult this time must be for you and Gideon!
When I think of your mother, I think of our days together at Merrywood. We were young and as happy as larks! Trouble comes soon enough, my dear child. Enjoy life whenever you can!
Your mother and I enjoyed our school days. Did you know the switching our headmistress gave us when we climbed the bluff behind the chapel? (Of course, that didn’t stop us!)
How proud your mother was of you and Gideon! In each letter, she told me of your many accomplishments and your great potential!
Remember this: No matter how much pain you feel, there is something inside you that’s stronger than the pain. In the coming days ahead, you must draw on your mother’s courage and strength! (There was never a braver woman than your mother!)
How I wish I could be with you! If only so many miles did not separate us!
May God bless you and Gideon during this time and always!
Beatrice Ringwald
I like Miss Ringwald’s large, loopy handwriting and the great flourishing strokes of her capital letters. This is what my name would look like in her handwriting:
I like Miss Ringwald’s exclamation marks! too! because they make everything! she! writes! look! so! passionate! and! exciting!!!!
I tucked the letter away. From the bottom of the carpetbag, I pulled out Mother’s red cloak and draped it over Gideon and me.
As we huddled, I told Gideon the story of our great-grandmother Annabella Duncan, and how she spun the wool from the fleece of Lord Duncan Abbot’s finest sheep. Its stitches, so tiny and perfect, look as though a fairy sewed them with a silver needle.
When I wear the cloak, I am as strong and brave as my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother. That’s what I told Gideon.
Your Eyes, Sir
Miss Ringwald is Mother’s favorite friend from their school days. She is a tiny woman, as bright as a firefly, who sleeps late every morning and refuses to wear a corset or hoop skirt. She wears drawers tied with ribbons around her ankles and often dresses in a robe de chambre in the afternoon.
“Beatrice,” Mother would beg when she visited us, “this is Scranton, not Chicago,” and “Please don’t stand on the porch dressed like that.”
Some women would say things like “Little pitchers have big ears,” which was a secret code that meant adults should be mindful of what they say around children.
But not Miss Ringwald! She never told if I eavesdropped, never let on when I hid under the dining room table.
One night I spied from between the staircase spindles. Miss Ringwald was sitting in our parlor, one arm draped over the back of the divan, and talking to my mother, saying, “And so, Eliza, at a party a gentleman said to me, ‘Madam, if I were to walk into your chamber and find you undressed, what part would you cover first?’”
My mother gasped. “Beatrice! He’s no gentleman! Surely you didn’t answer!”
Beatrice’s laugh was one hundred silver thimbles. “Of course, I did. I said, ‘Your eyes, sir! That’s the part I’d cover first.’”
My mother and Beatrice collapsed into giggling fits on the divan.
Mother sat up and dabbed at her eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever marry, Beatrice?”
“Pshaw!” said Miss Ringwald, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand. “I see no need for marriage, unless I find a man who deems me equal in all things and who likes cats.”
The rest of the weekend, all my mother or Beatrice had to say was, “Your eyes, sir,” and they would giggle like schoolgirls. Father said, “What’s wrong with my eyes?” And then, hearing them laugh, he would stare and them and ask, “Have you ladies been nipping the sherry?”
Miss Ringwald’s Great Cause
Father liked to say, “God helps those who help themselves,” but Miss Ringwald said, “God helps those who can’t help themselves.”
Miss Ringwald’s mission was the humane society. She wrote letters to newspapers and state legislators, urging them to enact laws to protect animals from cruel owners. She led boycotts against horse companies that neglected or abused their animals. She lectured on the evils of blood sports such as dog and rooster fighting and animal baiting.
She formed a patrol to prevent and punish animal abuse. Once, she performed a citizen’s arrest of two men who were dragging a frightened, squealing pig through the streets to the slaughterhouse.
“Each time my name is printed in the newspaper, it embarrasses my father,” she confessed to Mother.
“There was that pistol incident,” said Mother.
“It was a warning shot!” said Miss Ringwald. “And well over his head! Honestly, Eliza, if you saw the way that driver flogged his horse! The dray was too heavy for the poor thing.”
She sniffled. “Father took away my pistol. He says as long as I live in his house, I must abide by his rules and I must do something about the cats.”
“Twenty-six is quite a few,” said Mother.
Miss Ringwald sniffled again. “It boils down to a difference of religion.”
Mother looked shocked. “Are you no longer a Presbyterian?”
“I’ve converted,” said Miss Ringwald brightly. “I’m a Saint Bernard.”
12:30 P.M.
At long last we have boarded the Pacific Express, the Lake Shore & Michigan Southern train that will carry us to Miss Ringwald’s Chicago!
The sun is shining brightly and the sky is the clearest blue with piles of white clouds, reminding me how far we’ve traveled from Scranton’s clouds of black coal dust.
Our carriage is crowded with women dressed in steel-plate fashion, as Godey’s Lady’s Book would say. The women look as fine and finer than the two Mrs. Duggans.
One woman is wearing violet silk and a skirt trimmed with six narrow ruffles. She has a kind face and yellow hair. She bumped into Gideon as she boarded. She apologized profusely and patted his head and gave him a lemon drop.
Just as the conductor passed through our carriage to punch our tickets, the woman in the violet dress slid from her seat and headed toward the washroom. The conductor scowled at her empty seat and wrote a note to himself.
She took a very long time in the washroom, and when she seated herself again, the conductor had already passed through. Lucy is standing on her seat, watching the woman intently. “Your eyebrow is missing,” said Lucy.
She hurried back to the washroom. The woman’s eyebrows are painted on!
Later
I don’t know what’s gotten into Adam and Sallie. Usually it’s Lucy who misbehaves, but Adam assailed the seat cushions, punching them, sending up clouds of dust.
Then, without provocation, Sallie sank her teeth into Adam’s shoulder. Adam screamed but Sallie had latched on and wouldn’t let go, not when Gwen shook her (Adam screamed louder) and not when Gwen swatted her behind (Adam screamed even louder). Sallie sank her teeth deeper.
The woman in the violet dress tossed a tumbler of water into Sallie’s face. The shock broke her hold. Sallie wasn’t hurt, just surprised. Her wet little face puckered up and she cried.
Gwen smiled at the woman, embarrassed, but inside that smile was a set of clenched teeth. “Two days ago, she turned into a cannibal,” said Gwen, mopping Sallie’s face with a handkerchief.
“Bite her back,” said the younger Mrs. Duggan.
“What kind of mother would do that?” said the woman in the violet silk. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Young Mrs. Duggan huffed and went back to minding her own business.
Meanwhile, Gideon tugged frantically on my sleeve. His pocket watch is missing. Adam and Lucy and I have searched everywhere, high and low. I fear he dropped it down the toilet hole and it’s lying somewhere on the tracks.
I feel terrible. Why didn’t I take the watch from him while I had the chance?
Later
The conductor returned for the violet lady’s ticket. As soon as she spotted him, she closed her eyes and pretended to be napping, but he leaned over and said, “Excuse me, madam. Your ticket, please?”
She awoke with a dramatic start. “My ticket? You frightened me half to death for a ticket?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Meanwhile, Lucy hugged the back of her seat, watching the woman fumble through her carpetbag. “It’s here someplace,” said the woman. “You needn’t lord over me. You must have other tickets to collect.”
“Just yours, madam,” said the conductor. “I don’t mind waiting.”
The further the woman dug through her bag, the farther Lucy tipped herself for a better look. Suddenly, Lucy piped, “There’s Gideon’s pocket watch!”
All kindness evaporated from the woman’s face. She snapped the carpetbag shut. “Shut your trap, kid.”
The conductor hurried from the car and returned with a man wearing a uniform and a badge. He pawed through the woman’s carpetbag. He found no ticket, but he did find Gideon’s pocket watch. The woman was a stowaway and a thief! He arrested her immediately, and at the very next stop, he will escort her from the train.
Lucy beamed and puffed up with importance when the conductor praised her and called her a heroine. There will be no living with that child now.
To Live in a Rabbit Hole
Lucy is the most exasperating and contrary child I have ever met! Just after we left Dunkirk, she began speaking in opposites. If her mother says yes, she says no. If her mother says up, she says down. If her mother says “Lucy,” she says, “My name is Sallie.” If her mother calls her “Sallie,” Lucy changes the rules and says, “I’m not Sallie, I’m Adam.”
One minute Lucy is happy and laughing. The next minute she is throwing herself against the seat cushions, whining, “I hate this train! I want to get off!”
To think we have nearly twenty more hours to go!
“I’ll tell you a story,” I said.
“Stories are stupid,” she said as she climbed into my lap.
“Once upon a time,” I began, “there were three little children and their names were Adam, Sallie, and Lucy —”
“No!” said Lucy. “I’m not last. Sallie’s the baby. She goes last.”
Lucy had a point. I started over. “Once upon a time there were three little children and their names were Adam, Lucy, and Sallie, and they lived at the bottom of a rabbit hole.”
Lu
cy clapped her hands. “A rabbit hole! I should like to live in a rabbit hole.” Then a worried look crossed her face. “Except that a rabbit hole would be damp and dark because it’s in the ground.”
“Oh, but this rabbit hole is dry and snug,” I told her.
Lucy furrowed her brow, thinking it over. “Dry and snug are good. But it’s still dark.”
“Rabbits have excellent eyesight,” I said.
“How do you know?” said Lucy.
That was a good question. “Have you ever seen a rabbit wearing spectacles?”
Lucy chewed on that.
“This rabbit hole was dug beneath a garden,” I told her. “All the rabbits have to do is reach up to the ceiling and pull out a carrot. Morning, noon, and night they eat carrots.”
“I don’t like carrots very much,” said Lucy.
“Then you can’t be a rabbit,” said Adam.
“But I want to be a rabbit!” wailed Lucy.
“You can’t be a rabbit,” said Adam. “Rabbits like carrots.”
Lucy slid off my lap and threw herself into the aisle and rolled around, kicking her legs and flailing her arms and crying because she couldn’t be a rabbit because she didn’t like carrots.
The stares from the other lady passengers! I heard words like “spanking” and “over my knee” and “my children never.” The younger Mrs. Duggan sniffed and said something about giving that child something to cry about. Gwen shot her a scalding look that could singe eyebrows.
I wanted to pick Lucy up, but Gwen stopped me. “Ignore her. She’s overtired. When she has a tantrum like this, Peter and I wager how long it lasts.”
Adam guessed two days.
I guessed an hour.
Down the Rabbit Hole Page 4
