VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  This particular memory was not one that had been forgotten by her as she had grown, but Greta nonetheless closed her eyes against its image now. It stung her heart to recall how her mother's words had given her a sudden hot chill of hope. Was Mother really interested in her again?

  How quickly that hope was smothered when Georgia Roscoe added, "It's time to establish a future for you. If we don't find you a suitable husband, you'll have to find placement with a decent family, start bringing in what you can to help support the household."

  Greta could almost feel her eyes burn again with those repressed tears. It was startling to see how much she had looked like her mother then. The rich auburn color of her hair, in a single braid and bound properly against her nape, was Lawrence's only bequest. The contours of her face, the gentle slope of her nose, the lofted cheekbones were all Georgia's. Softer, perhaps, not as distinctive yet, the face so new in its womanly mold. Ah, but the mother was in the daughter, rightly enough, though Greta's eyes were assuredly her own.

  Upon seeing Mother so closely mirrored in her own face, Greta shivered. But what turned into pain was to witness herself already mimicking the rigid gestures of the elder. With despair she watched herself push away from the table (pushing, really, away from the chill of that woman) and fold her trembling hands upon her lap.

  "I don't intent to marry right away," Greta replied, with amazing control. "I intend to travel. I want to become an educated woman."

  Her mother didn't even bother to look toward Greta's father for support. Rheumy-eyed, Lawrence ate his breakfast as though he were at one table and his family at another. Neither did Georgia waste time looking up at her oldest daughter. She was supervising Tess' breakfast, the one activity with the toddler she hadn't relinquished to Greta. At two years old, the child was getting most of the oatmeal to the proper goal, but near misses still had to be subverted. Thus engaged, Georgia's only reaction to Greta's comment was a stiff smile of dismissal.

  "Well, then," she said, "marry up as high as you can or the only travel you'll get is riding to and from a governess position. Without a husband, education will be what you can borrow from the master's library." Young Greta was up, away from the table, and over the dining room threshold before her mother could turn from Tess and call sharply after her, "Greta. Not another one of your tantrums. I'm warning you, young lady."

  If this had been one of her usual 'tantrums' young Greta would have simply stormed up the stairs to the room she and Tess shared. But, ah, how well Greta remembered the pain of that moment. Once again, Mother had not been thinking about Greta's well-being. She had been thinking only of how to make every member of the family as profitable as possible. She hadn't even thought young Greta's goals were worth an argument. Not even an argument. Her hopes, her dreams were so worthless, they were simply ignored.

  Young Greta stalked right out the front door with no hat, no gloves, just her simple house dress. The 16-year-old had no true idea of where she was going. The occasional person that walked past or was driving a buggy glanced at her peculiarly to see her so casually turned out in public, but the glower on her face discouraged any small talk.

  There were only two places she knew where she might go, and they both cleaved to the Mississippi. One of them was the St. Louis Bridge, which she usually shared with baby Tess, splurging on the 10-cent toll whenever she could. They both adored watching the fancy pleasure boats chug upstream, rear wheels churning up the loamy Mississippi scent as the vessels passed below the bridge. Sometimes Greta could hear the people over the soft, wet roar of the paddlewheel, the deep, rumbling noise of the coal engines. She might hear the shout of an elated gambler. Or see a cluster of passengers, parasols and bowlers concealing faces, voices lilting between the 'oom-pah' strains of a calliope until distance and the churning paddlewheel reined in the sounds again. Young Greta would have preferred to go there. But she had stormed away from the house not only without hat or gloves, but also without money. And she was hardly going to go back and beg for a dime now. So she turned toward the only other place she could go, other than home.

  She went to the chandlery, thinking she would sit on its warped dock and make plans about when she could leave--perhaps go to Chicago. She did not intend to go back home until she had a plan--a real one--that would include Tess. At the chandlery she saw the buggy and horse immediately; plain, black, and stately. But she didn't go in to investigate, because the shop was still closed. Even if her father had already arrived, she was in no mood to be helpful. She preferred to assume that, whoever the early customer was, he was probably strolling the riverbank while waiting for the chandlery to open. At least she hoped he was wandering on the bank. She didn't want to find someone on the dock as she rounded the south wall.

  But she did. His broad back, shrouded in funereal color, was toward her as he watched the sluggish creep of the river. He was a big man, in height as well as girth. Young Greta would have turned away then and there. But she had nowhere else to go. Disappointment and irritation stole away her good sense.

  "If you're not a customer, you're a trespasser," she said.

  The man turned to face her. She had no idea, as yet, that she was looking into the bemused face of Burgess Fielding. She didn't remember him. The terror of his presence at the chandlery when she was five, the horrid scene of base humiliation she had witnessed, had been an event her childhood mind felt necessary to lock away from memory. But the efficiency of her durable mind couldn't protect her now from a sickening feeling at the very sight of him.

  "Know who you're talking to?" he asked. There was a sense of both amusement and menace to him. "You're the Roscoe girl, aren't you?" Young Greta ignored him. She was still angry enough to be rude, and turned to leave, but her courage failed, when he snapped, "Don't show your back to me."

  She stopped, unable to help herself. But she faced him and stared him down defiantly. Yes, Greta recalled, as that 16-year-old she had tried to remember him, looking upon his aging face, craggy with frown lines, the eyes hooded from years of squinting in anger. The black day suit, his color of choice since Madeline's untimely death eight years before, lengthened him, seemed to rein in his girth, which was neither less, nor more than it had been for years now. And his black felt hat, wide brimmed, square-crowned, looking old-fashioned, made young Greta think of cemeteries and undertakers. Her dangerous visitor wouldn't be stared down, though; that was becoming clear. And the way he regarded her caused young Greta's stomach to sour, so much so, she lost the contest and glanced away.

  "There now. Yes, indeed, the Roscoe girl. Haven't you grown up all scrumptious?"

  Greta shifted on her feet, uncomfortable with the crudity of his comment, but unsure what to do about it. Finally, she said, glimpsing him furtively, "My father won't be pleased to see me speaking to you when we aren't even introduced."

  The grimace on his face must be an attempt at a smile. "We were introduced years ago. You were just a carpet monkey then. Now look-it you. Just look-it you."

  "My father's in the store," Greta lied, backing away from the crudeness in the man's eyes. "Did you have business with him?" she asked, and turned to moved as quickly as she could without running.

  "I am his business. I'm Mr. Fielding."

  She was paralyzed where she stood. As paralyzed as she had been that day inside the chandlery, when she had stood at that open door and watched her father's soul crumple under the weight of Burgess Fielding's contempt. She couldn't even turn as she felt old Burgess approach.

  He stood before her again. Under his heavy-browed gaze she felt like a prize game bird, stripped and hung for inspection. She wanted to tremble. She wanted to weep, there was something so humiliating in the way he regarded her. But no. She, at least, would not wither in his presence. She raised her head and stared tenaciously into his eyes. Old Fielding didn't so much as blink, but cocked his head as if making an assessment.

  "You got potential, you know that?" His mouth curled as if he were smiling again. "Spice.
That's what you got. Must come from your mama's side. Your papa's got goose down for guts."

  Young Greta's defiance steeled further for her father's sake...and in reaction against the idea that she was anything like her mother. "If he sees you blatantly harassing me, you'll see what he's made of."

  "Oo, big words. Educated, too."

  Greta pulled her head up in an attempt to look down her nose at old Fielding as he towered over her. "I'm going. Did you come to see my father or not?"

  "Not. That's why I always pay my weekly visit early, to look my business over. Can't stand the sight of him. So, you see I already know your papa's not here." He cut his last words off suddenly, his hooded eyes narrowing as though a new thought had managed to break through the crusty ones. "What do you think of that, partners in business, hating each other like we do?"

  "You're the one talking about hatred. Daddy hardly speaks of you at all."

  Burgess clearly didn't believe her. It was maddening to see amusement flicker again in his eyes. "Is that so? Then why do you suppose your papa's so eager to forget me? He ever tell you that?" Greta's nerve was wavering. She couldn't reply in the time the old tyrant had given her. "Didn't think he would. Hardly the thing to tell a daughter. But would you like to know? Want to know what your papa did to keep you stuck where you are for the rest of your life?"

  She swallowed hard, desperate to find courage, desperate to choke down the temptation to ask what he meant. She could see no reason to listen to this hateful man, to believe anything he was alluding he could tell her. And yet the question was poised at her lips, had even parted them slightly, and was nearly ready to tumble forward.

  "What are you still doing here?" It was Greta's father. He looked as though he were witnessing something vile. Apparently, he had heard their voices as he came upon them as young Greta had inched her way around the south side of the chandlery. "Greta, come to me, now."

  With relief, Greta went to her father's side. She looked at him. Her heart filled with pride, knowing he was as offended by Burgess Fielding's presence as she. But that pride wavered as she watched his face. There was anger there, yes. But there would be no protests in behalf of her honor, no admonishments about speaking so rudely to his daughter. Instead her father looked stricken, as if Fielding had found a secret treasure of his and her father knew he wasn't strong enough to defend it.

  "Lovely little robin there, Roscoe," Fielding said, as he strode past them. "About ready to leave the nest, isn't she?"

  Greta's father made no reply, and Burgess Fielding wasn't waiting for one. He disappeared around the chandlery and didn't look back as his buggy came into view on his way down the road.

  Among the many traits of a young mind, resiliency often proves the most saving. And Greta came to realize, in her darkest hours, that this trait was one of her best developed. It was her resiliency that allowed her to slough off the disturbing experience of Burgess Fielding at the chandlery. It was irrepressible youth that allowed her to turn her thoughts toward her birthday, as the week passed.

  Try as she might to spite her mother, Greta couldn't help enjoying her party. Alicia Maynard's father had volunteered to operate his newly acquired phonograph, and what a marvel the contraption was. Looking back on that day Greta remembered the chills that prickled across her arms when, cranking with one hand, Mr. Maynard set the heavy metal head with its thick needle into the grooves of the spinning cylinder. And then came the music, the very best of Stephen Foster. It seemed as though a whole orchestra were playing within the neck of the phonograph's speaker horn, looking like an exuberant morning glory and painted a rich, enameled blue. It was the first time Greta had heard a phonograph play. That alone was enough to make the party.

  But this was also the first time Greta was allowed to dress as a fully grown woman. A new corset, for the first time pulled tight enough to make her waist and ribs ache. She and her mother made a dress: a deep warm yellow, with a scoop neck and tight bodice. No matter that the material was plain serge instead of satin or velvet it was a woman's dress, a woman's; not a loose-waisted young ladies' frock. And she was allowed to put up her hair for the first time in a womanly fashion. It was pinned away from her neck, coifed to perch atop her head in elegant waves with 'Miss Collins' tight ringlets against her forehead. Oh, her hair looked so elegant, even though her mother said no to the idea of her buying extra waves at Goodman's Fashions. Greta had plenty of her own hair, and Mother wasn't about to approve of such an expense.

  The party was modest by some standards, perhaps. Still, it was perfectly appropriate within the Roscoes' social circle. Long ago, everyone had assumed that Lawrence Roscoe, inventor of the Roscoe engine, had a coffer deep as the Mississippi, but that he was eccentrically frugal. Not unheard of among those who were old enough to remember the War. Likewise, everyone knew Georgia Roscoe hadn't kept hired help in the household for years. But Mother's parlance of instilling good habits in her daughters seemed to satisfy curiosity, even if their peers considered this a curious way to go about it. The Roscoes' society offered them reasonable respect, and Greta's parents allowed such assumptions about eccentricity to flourish. It veiled the truth, and that had to be done if their daughters were to marry up, improve themselves.

  So young Greta's party wasn't without a suitable selection of young gentlemen, of which two or three would have been required to attend by their own parents, even if the boys hadn't already wanted to join the party. A Roscoe daughter was thought to be a good catch for any family among St. Louis's middle society. Everything went along fabulously. Greta's parents were in an unusually pleasant mood, and little Tess looked like a Valentine cherub, all lace and smiles and curls. Yes, going along very nicely indeed until, in the final moments of the party, Burgess Fielding arrived.

  Greta and her father had answered the insistent grind of the mechanical bell, to stand dumbfounded in the man's presence. Lawrence Roscoe, for the first time in years, seemed determined and fearless once the shock had passed from his face. He didn't back away from the door, even blocked it, stepping purposefully in front of his daughter.

  "What is it?" he asked, his voice strong, as though addressing a petulant errand boy. "We're very busy."

  "With a party, I know," replied Burgess, not the least ruffled by the curt reception. "That's why I'm here. To pay my respects to my partner's fine daughter." He looked past Greta's father and fixed his steely gaze upon Greta herself.

  "This house is still mine," Greta's father retorted. But his anxiety was betrayed, because he was whispering, fierce though his tone might be. "You're not welcome here, we agreed to that long ago."

  There were still a few guests lingering in the parlor, finishing up conversation, listening to the final notes of the phonograph while they slipped on their wraps. Already one of Greta's young guests had trotted into the hallway, curious to see where her hostess had gotten to. Greta was mortified.

  "Father..."

  Lawrence whispered, just as fiercely, "You're not welcome."

  And seeing the curious young face, Burgess replied, his voice louder, "Don't be sour, Roscoe. I got here soon as I could."

  "Father...Oh, just let him in."

  "Listen to your girl, mannerly little thing that she is. Tell you what. Invite me to the soiree, and I'll invite you to something for my son someday. You remember him."

  That familiar, rheumy glaze of defeat returned to her father's eyes. He didn't even look at Greta as he stepped aside to let Burgess Fielding pass through. Still in mourner's black Burgess silenced the remainder of the party with his presence. Mr. Maynard had just returned to his post beside the phonograph, which was gaily finishing a Sousa march. When he looked up to see who was honoring the party, he pulled the needle away from the cylinder as though he had been caught at some vile recreation. Greta's mother, seated by the hearth, looked as though she were staring at Death itself. As Greta witnessed this powerful memory, she wondered how long had it been since her mother had last seen Burgess Fielding? Clearly G
eorgia Roscoe could not bring herself to rise. After several awkward moments it became obvious to everyone else that her mother was not going to perform her proper duties.

  Greta asked, in a cracked voice, "Would you care for some punch, sir?"

  Burgess scrutinized the parlor and its occupants. "No. Got something for you though."

  He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and produced a blue velvet box, six or seven inches long. He thrust it at Greta as though he were trying to stab her with a dagger. Greta looked at her mother, but receiving no clues, took the proffered gift. It was a bracelet, gold and diamonds, and Greta could hardly hear her own gasp over the cries of her remaining guests. Gorgeous. It was beyond anything she had ever seen.

  Above it all, she heard her mother say, "No."

  Even as Greta swiveled her incredulous gaze toward her mother, she saw Burgess' challenging eyes narrow in Georgia's direction. "What's that, Mrs.?"

  "No, Mr. Fielding. I said no." Greta's mother was on her feet, her expression as frigid as Greta had ever seen. "It's generous, but too much for one so young. Greta's barely acquainted with you. She can't accept it."

  Greta's stomach knotted. Her mother was right. It was too opulent, quite scandalous, particularly for one her age. This was jewelry better suited to a mature woman, and it was an intimate gift to boot. Looking back on this memory, Greta realized it may have very well belonged to that old bastard's late wife. But it was her mother speaking, it was her mother once again not even giving Greta the chance to decline on her own. And now Burgess Fielding was reaching for the velvet box, snatching it out of Greta's hands before she could return it herself. She felt her face flame.