“We, that is, we know about the sponsors, the ‘parties’ in New York. There were five sponsors,” Olea said. “Each put up two thousand dollars to make the wager. We hoped to raise awareness of new trends in the fashion industry. It was an investment. We were … two of those investors.”
My face burned at their betrayal. These very women had been the ones to victimize Mama and me? How could I have come to trust them, to think of them almost as family? I stood. I had to get out. “You … withheld the money? What kind of people would do that?”
“Please sit. Let us explain,” Olea said.
“No! You made us beg to get back home. You didn’t keep your part in the—”
“Please. Sit,” Olea said.
In my confusion I sank onto the divan, shaking. I nipped at my nails, then clutched my hands in my lap.
“Louise and I were in Europe when you arrived, and the other sponsors didn’t even advise us of the details until we returned in May, when the only thing in bargaining position by then was the book. We protested. It didn’t seem fair at all, but we were outvoted by the other three, and even that was after the fact. You were on your way back to Spokane, and there was this agreement about a book, which they said they wouldn’t honor if we gave you some of the money ahead of time for having reached New York at all.”
“There’d been a bit of a downturn in their resources,” Louise said. “Well, ours too. They were looking for an honorable way out. It got very confused. And didn’t feel right at all. We made the trip to Spokane that summer to get away from it, thinking a change of scenery would be good. And we knew Mary Latham, but she had no part in the decisions.”
“They did urge Mr. Depew to advance the ticket,” Olea said. “I’m sorry it took them so long to arrange for that.”
“It was an ugly business,” Louise said. “We consider it a gift that Olea met you and we saw what a fine young woman you are and that you had such hopes to finish the book. We hoped everything would work out, but then there was never any book.”
“Because of my stepfather.” I didn’t add that my mother’s sorrow might have prevented her from writing the book at all, but because of Ole, she wasn’t even allowed to try. And neither was I. “But you … I …” I ought to leave, have nothing to do with them, and yet they had been so kind. I was as torn as an old bed sheet.
“So, no. You cannot have the loan for fifteen hundred dollars,” Olea said.
I nodded. Of course not. These were wealthy people, and they played by their rules. I’d violated my own rule by trusting someone and then letting money become part of the equation. How foolish I’d been. Foolish and trusting, just like my mother.
I stood. “I’ll pack my things and be gone in the morning,” I said.
“What we will do is give you what we’d committed back then,” Olea said. “We’ll give you four thousand dollars, two thousand from each of us. You can give half to save the farm if that’s what you’d like, and we hope you’ll keep half for yourself to invest or to make your own start. No strings attached.”
“You’ll give it to me? But—” My words faltered. Such generosity was unheard of! Were there truly gifts without obligation?
“We won’t loan it; it’s yours. We’d consider it one of our best investments ever if you’d forgive us for the very long delay.”
TWENTY-SIX
For Family
I took the train to Mica Creek the weekend before the auction. I thought about simply sending Mama a money order, but Ole would surely ask where she’d gotten the funds, and she’d have to say where it came from. Maybe he wouldn’t mind knowing it came from reform women, though he’d be very upset if he knew the women had been part of the sponsors and that Mama and I had accepted funds from them. Besides, giving her the money and the mortgage wouldn’t necessarily allow Ole to relieve Mama of his order that she never speak about the trip. What I wanted was a way for Mama to be freed from both the agony of the foreclosure and to speak again of her experiences. Olea was right. Our stories belonged to us. Mama ought to be able to speak about hers.
As the train clicked south, I thought it would be best if I spoke to my stepfather alone. I’d tell him I had the money to save the farm and the condition was that he must let Mama speak again of the journey. I’d been right to tell Olea that he wasn’t a mean-spirited person. Only stubborn at times, seeing things in certain ways that no amount of evidence or even practicality could change. I’d have to be a superb negotiator.
I breathed a prayer of relief as I stepped off the train and saw my stepfather’s wagon parked in front of Schwartz’s store. Perfect timing. I opened my parasol against the cold drizzle. The scent of snow filled the air. I’d wait until he picked up whatever he’d come to town for and then ride home with him. On the way I’d put my proposition to him.
But when my stepfather came out, my mother was with him. Well, it might work fine to have them both together, so Mama could hear me fight for her, stand up to my stepfather the way she used to. And Ida and the others wouldn’t be around to witness it.
Martin, my stepfather’s friend, walked out with them, helped Mama into the wagon as I approached.
“Well, look who’s here?” Martin said. “Your lovely daughter all dressed like a fine lady.”
“Ja. She’s grown up now,” my stepfather said.
“Clara?” Mama said. I put my foot on the step, covered us with the umbrella.
“May I ride with you?”
“Must be doing pretty good, all that store-bought finery she’s wearing,” Martin said. “Your fine shoes will get muddy.”
“I have a good job in town now, Mr. Siverson,” I said.
“Maybe she’ll attract a rich farmer and you can borrow his tractor after she goes in wedding thoughts,” Martin said.
Norwegian men had no trouble speaking of money with each other or assuming where a woman’s thoughts might go, wedding or naught. But women taking on financial matters, that was an affront.
“I’ll get one of my own one of these days,” my stepfather said.
“Ja, that would be good for your back and all. Make harvest easier.”
His friend still held out hope that they wouldn’t lose the farm, or Martin wouldn’t have spoken quite so teasingly nor have ended with encouragement about a tractor. Yet everyone must know about the auction and its purpose.
“It’s good to have girls to take care of you in your old age,” Martin said. “Otherwise age only leads to worse things.”
My stepfather laughed. “One generation plants the trees, the next one gets the shade.”
Martin lifted my fabric bag into the back and pulled the canvas over it and the lumber loaded there. I held on to my fur purse. “What are you going to build?” I asked.
“Making repairs,” Ole said. “Before the sale. It should go into the hands of someone new in best condition.”
My mother winced.
He flicked the reins and we started off as Martin stepped back under the store porch and waved.
“That’s the reason I came to talk to you,” I said. “I have a proposition.” I cleared my throat from its soreness. “Mama. Papa. I’ve come into money of late. You won’t have to have the auction. I can pay the mortgage and the back taxes. You can start fresh.”
“What are you saying?” Mama said. She twisted to look at me.
My stepfather pulled the wagon up short, clucked to the horses so they knew to relax. “What’s this?”
“I have enough money to stop the foreclosure. That’s why I came, to give it to you.”
“Where would you get such funds?” he demanded.
“Does it matter?”
“From these women you work for,” Mama said.
“Yes.”
“They would loan money to a girl such as you? Why would they do that?”
“Maybe because they see promise in me,” I said. “I’m not a girl any longer. Twenty-five in November.”
“What do you do that they give you such mon
ey? Betre tom pung enn rangt skaffa pengar,” he added.
“Better an empty purse than wrongly got money?” I repeated in English. “It’s not ill-gotten gain, Ole. In fact, it’s a just reward for work accomplished. ‘A woman doesn’t have to be shy about asking for what she wants nor bow too low in gratitude for what she rightfully deserves,’ ” I quoted.
He snorted. “Suffragette talk.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s the truth.”
“These women you work for are suffragettes.”
“I am too,” Mama said.
“None of that,” my stepfather cautioned. “None of that now.”
Mama lowered her eyes and looked away as though struck.
“They’re businesswomen. They’ve earned their money through wise investment and business decisions. I’m learning from them.”
“And you want to give me their money.”
“Give to the family some of my money,” I said. My heart pounded. “It’s mama’s money too. A portion of what we were to earn by making our walk to New York.”
“Fandem! Those women are—”
“Not of the devil,” I said. “They’re good people, and they know we deserve payment for our incredible journey.”
He leaned out around Mama, who sat between us. He lifted his hand as though to strike me, his eyes wild with outrage. I shrank back, held gloved fingers to my face. He had never struck me, nor anyone in the family that I knew of.
“Ole,” Mama said. She tugged on his arm, pulled it down. “Let her talk.”
“That … walk, that walk is not a subject allowed in my presence,” he shouted at her.
“But I am in your presence, and it is my right to speak what matters to me,” I said. “I offer you a way out, a way to save your family from the humiliation of foreclosure, from financial ruin. Money rightfully earned! Accept it. Don’t let your pride keep you from doing what is right for your family, for your wife. Let her speak of an accomplishment. Let her know she helped keep the farm you both worked so hard for, we all worked so hard for.”
“What do you know of swallowing pride?” His eyes glared at me, my mother between us. The horses stomped, aware of his intensity. His hands were in fists. I thought he might snap the reins and jolt them forward just to keep me silent. “Years ago I swallow my pride for your mother, for what John Doré did to her, tossing her aside. How does she repay me? She names you for his mother! I do nothing about this. I accept. I let her go, with you, on that stupid walk.”
John Doré? This is my father?
“Ole, please. She didn’t know—”
“I do for her because I … love her.” He choked, didn’t say Mama’s name. “I … accept because I care for her. New York.” He spit the words. “I allow her to come back after she disobeys me, has left behind me and her children. She takes John Doré’s child with her. I let this happen because I love her. But no more!”
“You don’t love my mother anymore?” I shook. “After all she’s done for you?”
“No more doing what she wants!”
Grief like a train whistle coursed through his voice.
“No more going back on what I say. No one talks about that. walk. No one who wants to be in this family takes money related to it. No one. I have spoken. That is enough.”
“But the farm?” Mama said. She grabbed his sleeve. “We could save the farm.”
“I do not want your dirty money.” He seethed. “I do not want people with dirty money to have any say in my life. No more. None.”
“And me either, I guess?” I said.
“You either if it is through that dirty money.”
“Ole, please.” He shook off her hand.
“I will provide for my family. Not those women, not you, Clara, nor you, my wife. It is over.”
“Mama—”
“It. Is. Finished.” Spittle had gathered around the corners of his mouth. His eyes blazed like a minister preaching that hellfire was imminent.
I looked at my mother, caught between us. “It’s the one thing I can do for you,” I said. “The one thing that would make it all worthwhile. Take it.” I shoved the purse toward her. “Take the money. We earned it, you and me.”
But my mother wasn’t the woman who had defied her husband to walk across the country. She wasn’t that woman. She shook her head, no.
“I’ll pay the mortgage myself, then. Pay it for you,” I said. “Mama doesn’t have to be able to talk about the walk, but you could stay here, on this land you both love. It’s a business decision, nothing more. Turning down money …”
“Don’t you listen?” He shook his finger in my face, eyes narrowed in fury. “You do not pay our bills with dirty money. You hear me? If you even speak of this to any of our family, I will send your mother out. She will no longer be under my roof. You have made your choice, but you will not sour the rest of my family. If you were an Estby, you would give the money back. You would not work with those women who caused your brother and sister to die.”
“It was a tragedy! Even if Mama had been here, she likely wouldn’t have done any better than you did.”
How can he say this in front of Mama, who already bears the weight of their deaths?
“You are nothing but a girl. How can you know the way of things? A daughter of mine would never touch such money.”
“I’m not a daughter of yours.”
“Never were. We are foreclosed. The auction is set. That is God’s will.” He snapped the reins, jerking me backward, forcing me to grab at the seat as we headed toward the house.
Bare trees without leaves blurred through my tears. The purse warmed my belly. I held a pocketful of money I couldn’t use to save my family, while my mother … my mother sat broken in silence, tears streaming down her face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sacrifice
Well, aren’t you the fancy one?” Ida said. We stood in the kitchen. I reached to give her a hug, and she accepted it. I took Mama’s coat, hung it. She stood, uncertain, it seemed to me. She moved to the cupboard, opened the door, closed it, went to the icebox. Ida shooed her away. “I’ll take care of that, Mama,” she said. “You set the table.”
Through the window, I watched as Arthur and Billy helped my stepfather unload the wagon, then bring my bag toward the house. I took off my fur jacket, removed my hat, and Ida said, “Lovely work,” then set the hat on the table, tested the felt’s thickness. “Those women must pay you well.”
“I work for it, but they’re very kind. The purse was part of their inventory when they leased their furrier shop.” I didn’t add where. “The coat was a Christmas present.”
Ida raised an eyebrow.
“Are those blue things beads?” Seven-year-old Lillian pointed at the purse.
“They are. Imported from Spain.” I tried to keep my voice steady and light while my heart ached for Mama. I could rescue them all; I couldn’t. I wanted to be away, not watch this scene play out, but I didn’t want to desert them.
“I’d like to work in a millinery that sells that kind of quality,” Ida said.
“You should then.”
“Not while I’m needed here.”
“Working in a millinery would be a good job once you’re in Spokane,” I said. “Crescent’s department store employs several.”
“Can you whip the cream?” Ida asked me then. Mama had taken down the creamery bowl but seemed lost at what to do next.
I crossed the room to stand beside her, touched her slender back. She is so thin.
I removed the pitcher from the icebox and began to whip, turning my frustration and disappointment into spiky peaks of cream.
“You must take whatever you left here, Clara,” Mama said then. “We can’t move everything to Aunt Hannah’s.”
“It looks like you’ve already sold some things,” I said.
“Papa’s furniture gets a good price,” Ida said. “He’s very talented.”
“I think the buyers purchase out of pity for us.” Mama shoo
k her head in shame. “I have my red slippers, the ones I brought from Norway when I was a little girl. I’ll take those with me.”
“Of course you will, Mama.” She sounds like a little girl.
It makes no sense, their refusal of my help.
What would I want to take with me? The packet! I’d nearly forgotten it. Fortunately they hadn’t sold the kitchen flour cupboard that hid it.
Ida motioned with her eyes and whispered. “Did you get my letter?”
Lillian dropped the hat at that moment and picked up the ermine purse with the black zipper ring.
“Will you stay in Spokane?” I said to Mama, ignoring Ida’s question.
“Papa’s trying to get back with the union for carpentry work,” Ida said. Her eyes snapped at me. “He’s been fixing things around here. It helps him not feel so bad about losing the farm. All he’s worked for all these years.”
“And all you’ve worked for. All of us,” I said.
“If only you and I had been successful in New—”
“Mama. No,” Ida said. She spoke as sternly as a mother telling her child to not even think about picking up that awful, dangerous black widow spider she stared at.
“Ja, I know.” Mama sighed. She acted as though her tongue had outwitted her mind in letting her speak of such terrible truths. “So what kind of work do they have you doing, these women? What are their names again?” Mama asked. It was as though she pulled her interest out of a deep sack, the words flat and dusty.
I could hear the zipper pushed back and forth on my purse.
“Be careful now, Lillian. That’s your sister’s,” Ida said.
“I’m being good,” Lillian said as she moved the zipper.
The money the sponsors gave me is in there. Maybe if Ida knows, she’ll convince Mama and Papa to take it.
I told them the women’s names and described how kind they’d been, how interesting the fur industry was, how they got to travel but because they were women working in a man’s world they had a man who actually signed their contracts. “I haven’t met him, but his name is.” I stopped myself.
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