A Corner in Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  Due to the recent acquisition of the Florida Union, and subsequent merger with my daily paper, the Florida Daily Times, it is imperative that I expand my staff to appeal to a larger, more varied readership. As editor in charge, I would be quite remiss if I did not include an excellent writer who specializes in feature articles of the most entertaining kind to encompass all areas of reading enjoyment, and my hope is that you will be agreeable to fill that post.

  If you are interested in this position, I would be delighted to discuss the required duties, as well as the bimonthly salary, and would be available to meet with you as your schedule permits. Please be assured that should you accept this position, our company would be most helpful in providing a generous allowance for moving expenses to the Jacksonville area, for that would be a necessary requirement.

  I do hope you’ll give great consideration to this excellent opportunity, Miss Stewart, but I also ask that you contact me as soon as you are able so that I may plan and move forward accordingly.

  With warmest regards,

  Charles H. Jones

  Editor-in-Charge

  Florida Times-Union

  My hands were shaking as I folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope, and then stuck it under my pillow. I would sleep on it, though I was quite sure my head and heart were already heading down the St. Johns River into Jacksonville, and it was just a matter of getting my feet prepared to follow.

  As I lay on my side, with my hand beneath my pillow touching the letter, I thought about how people’s lives could change so drastically and in just a matter of seconds. There was no doubt about it—the day had been an amalgam of lightness and darkness, a day during which both nightmares and dreams had come true.

  I heard Ivy come into our room a little after the living room clock struck three. I was lying with my back toward her, but I could hear her undressing and then heard the squeaking of the bedsprings as she lay down. I wondered if she’d call over to me, and she finally did.

  “Eve, are you asleep?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “Eve, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. I’d give anything if you hadn’t—”

  “If I hadn’t what, Ivy? Seen you and Moses?” I turned over to find she was on her side facing me.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. I’m sorry you had to see us…you know…like that.”

  “Do you know what would happen had it been someone else who saw you? Dear God, Ivy! You’re playing with fire!” I hissed. “And you’re both going to get badly burned.” She didn’t say anything. “How did this start?”

  “I don’t know. It just did. I spend a lot of time over at the Haileys’ place. Sometimes, when Mayoma couldn’t go with me to gather the plants we needed, Moses would go. We’d talk about things, you know? And we got to know each other better, and we got to where we wanted to spend more time together. Sometimes, we’d go swimming, or fishin’. Then, after time, one thing just kind of led to another. You know what I mean?”

  She sought confirmation that I understood, that it made sense to me. Only it didn’t. I knew the boundaries that society had set up and it never occurred to me to step over them. “How long has this been goin’ on, Ivy? And don’t you dare lie to me.”

  “About six months, I suppose.”

  “And didn’t you suppose this could get you and Moses killed?”

  “We knew it, so we’ve been real careful.”

  “Oh, Lord, Ivy!”

  We both lay there saying nothing. Then my sister asked me the question that I knew had to be foremost on her mind.

  “Are you going to tell Mama and Papa?”

  “You really don’t know me anymore, do you, Ivy! And after tonight, I can promise you that I don’t know who you are anymore, either! Of course, I’m not going to tell them. It’s taken months for things to simmer down around here, and the last thing I want to do is stir everyone up again. This would make things a thousand times worse.”

  “I’m sorry, Eve. I know it’s gonna to be hard on you to act like everything’s okay—between you and me, I mean.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Really, Eve?” Ivy, sounding both surprised and hopeful, propped herself up on her elbow.

  “I’m leaving, Ivy. I got a job offer from the Florida Times-Union. It’s a paper in Jacksonville, and I’ve been offered a full-time position as a staff writer. If I take it, I have to move there, and I can’t think of a better time to go.”

  “Oh, Eve, please don’t go because of me. Can’t we just go on like noth—”

  “Stop, Ivy! Just stop. Don’t say another word! If you cared so much about me, or this family, you wouldn’t have started this mess with Moses. But, to answer your question, no, I can’t pretend I didn’t see what I saw or know what I know. But I’ll tell you this: I’m not going because of you. I’m going because of me. I’m going to a place where I don’t have to stand between Mama and Papa anymore when they’re fighting or boil onions in vinegar water until my eyes are nearly swollen shut because our father feels too sorry for himself to get out and get a job. And I’m going so that I won’t have to worry about seeing something so disturbing when I innocently glance through a window.

  “I want a future, Ivy, where I can be excited about what may come instead of worrying about finding a bunch of roughnecks pounding at our door with the intention of taking the law into their own hands. That might be your future, Ivy! James and Joseph were right to get out when they had the opportunity, and now I’m going do the same for myself. I’m leaving y’all to make your own choices about what your futures will be—no matter how dangerous or pathetic they may be.”

  “Oh…Eve! Please…I…”

  Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t finish, so I finished the conversation for us. “I’m tired now, Ivy—more than I’ve ever been in my life. And I’ve got to be back at the store in four hours to get ready for that egg hunt. I need to get some sleep. So, please, let’s not say anything else right now.”

  And with the finality of that statement, I turned my back on her and my life in Silver Springs.

  Chapter 12

  A New River

  St. Johns River

  Outside of Jacksonville, Florida

  April 14, 1884

  I leaned against the railing of the elegant steamboat the Chattahoochee as I admired the size and grandeur of the St. Johns River. It dwarfed the Ocklawaha in width and length. Though I missed the protective confines of the narrow Ocklawaha, to feel the openness of the expansive river, and the wind that blew wildly across it was exhilarating. Even though I’d ridden it before, the St. Johns took on a whole new persona now that it belonged to me, just as the Ocklawaha had belonged to me days ago.

  Joseph joined me at the railing, leaning over it and allowing the wind to wash away the stench of the coal that covered him like a second skin from long hours spent down in the boiler room. My brother breathed in the fresh air deeply. “Sure is a long cry from the Ocklawaha, isn’t it? Makes it look more like a stream.” He turned to me, smiling. “You must be excited, landing that job at the paper ’n all.”

  “I am.” I nodded enthusiastically. “It’s hard to believe I’m actually a journalist.” I shook my head at the amazing turn my life had taken in such a short time, when just the week before, I’d been listening to complaints about the prices of Mrs. Brody’s merchandise and stocking shelves with cans of lard and gunpowder. But, as of four o’clock the previous afternoon, I’d become officially employed at the Florida Times-Union, when the editor in charge and owner of the paper, Mr. Charles Jones, and I had agreed to a starting salary and my duties as a new staff writer. I was then given the tour of the enormous building, introduced to other employees, and shown to my very own desk. Though it was one of many in a large room, the three by four-foot oak desk belonged to me, and it would act as the starting gate for me to become the kind
of journalist that I always dreamed I could be.

  It was decided that my articles would be printed several times a week and would cover more than just the weddings and coming-out parties of the various debutantes in the city. I would also write feature stories on a wide range of subjects, lending creative flair to the writing instead of just hard facts. Mr. Jones wanted the newspaper to be a consistent source of current news as well as delightful entertainment for its subscribers. And if that wasn’t enough to keep me busy, I could always help out with the writing of obituaries or ads for the classifieds.

  After I had completed my interview and a tour of the paper, I was driven in Mr. Charles Jones’s own elegant conveyance to Mrs. Sikes’s “boardinghouse for proper young women,” where I was whisked upstairs to the Victorian home’s third floor and a tiny corner room I would be sharing with two other young women. Both were nurses at the hospital, and their schedules varied. Because it was the only available bed, I assured Mrs. Sikes the girls’ odd hours would not disturb me and immediately told her I’d take it. Thus, by six thirty that evening, I had an oak desk and a twin-sized iron bed and a future I could call my very own. And, because of that, the air on the St. Johns River smelled even sweeter than the familiar pungent air of the vegetation-infused Ocklawaha.

  “So, how long before you’ll be back to Jacksonville for good?” Joseph asked.

  “I’ll start a week from Monday, so ten days from now. It’d be nice if I’m on the Chattahoochee with you again.”

  “You might well be,” my brother said. “Well, I’d best get back to my post. Don’t want those stokers slackin’ on their jobs, and I don’t want ’em blowing us sky high either. I’ll see you for dinner.”

  I watched him walk down the promenade deck and back into the main cabin. I was proud of him. He was building a fine reputation, as well as a new home so that he and Regina could start to fill it with the large family they hoped to have. They were obviously happy, and I was happy for them.

  I was also happy for James. I’d had a letter from him already, and it seemed as though he was quickly falling into his own rhythm at the University of Georgia. Because he was on a partial scholarship, he’d needed to find employment and he had but not with a timber company. Instead, he’d found work as a cook in one of the student dining halls. He said he qualified for it because he’d cooked plenty for the men in the timber camps, and the manager of the dining hall figured if James could keep a camp full of lumberjacks happy, he could keep a bunch of students happy, too. His classes were interesting, for the most part, and his dorm was comfortable and reasonably priced, so he was making it just fine, he said.

  And then there was Ivy.

  She and I had not said too much before I left to interview with the paper. Actually, we hadn’t seen each other much either because she stayed away even later than she usually did. She gave Mama and Papa all kinds of excuses, and because it was just easier to believe her than argue with her, they accepted them. There would have been a time when Papa would have put his foot down about her gallivanting around at “ungodly hours and with God-only-knows who,” but those days were all but forgotten. Everyone in the family was changing or moving in their own direction.

  I went over a mental checklist of what all I needed to do for my move to Jacksonville. Of course, there was the packing to be done, but that wouldn’t be much of a chore. I didn’t have an abundance of anything. I would work at the general store for a few more days for the extra money, but it was more of a favor for Mr. and Mrs. Brody, than out of necessity. And I’d try to spend a little time with Ivy.

  As angry as I was with her, she was still my sister, and I loved her. I realized that most of my anger was fear-based and that nothing was going to change that. Her relationship with Moses was a hopeless and reckless one. At best, they’d part ways after coming to the conclusion that the road they were on would lead to disaster. At worst, they’d be forced apart, and the different ways that could happen were too awful to think about. I prayed that the two young lovers would come to their senses before someone knocked sense into them, and I prayed that if that should happen, they’d both live through it.

  A white seagull landed on the railing just several feet from me. I guessed he’d done this before and been rewarded by finding a bit of food on the deck, or even in the hand of a passenger. “Sorry little one,” I softly said. “I don’t have a thing to offer you.” As if the bird understood, it immediately flew off, catching the current of the river’s stiff breeze. It gracefully lifted higher and banked off to the left and out of sight as it flew across the ship’s bow. I felt like the bird in some ways: I was now free to fly wherever I chose and to land where I wanted to. I just prayed that the ground beneath me would be a little more solid than it had been in a long, long while.

  Chapter 13

  When the Sun Goes Down

  I settled into my job at the newspaper easily. I felt like it was something I’d been destined to do. In just the three months I’d been there, I’d become friends with my roommates and enjoyed spending time with them, though it didn’t happen very often. We were all busy with our careers but made a point of getting together whenever our schedules allowed. At work, however, female journalists were well outnumbered by men. There were a few women who were secretaries and friendly enough, but they were busy with husbands and children and had little time for anyone or anything else. But one young woman, Colleen Hannigan, who wrote a column about food and included her “tried-and-true” recipes in her articles, had been friendly with me from the very first.

  Colleen and I enjoyed dining together, especially in any new restaurant that the paper paid her to review. She was considered royalty in the area’s eating establishments and was treated as such. Colleen even looked the part, standing nearly six feet tall, with a full-figure and bright red hair. It wasn’t hard to imagine her lording it over the masses at a jousting match in medieval Scotland. I admired her greatly and enjoyed being with her, never minding that I often felt quite invisible next to her.

  Another person I’d met through work, though he didn’t work for the Florida Times-Union, was David Perlow. He worked for Henry M. Flagler, the oil tycoon who had become interested in developing Florida. David was a land developer who scouted different locations as possible sites for Flagler’s future hotels in the St. Augustine and Jacksonville areas. After visiting the area on his honeymoon, Mr. Flagler had seen a wealth of opportunities awaiting those willing to risk investing in the undeveloped, sparsely populated state. Once railroad tracks were laid and the iron horse started opening Florida in ways that steamboats and mule-pulled wagons never could, the need for more lavish hotels, restaurants, and other amenities would immediately follow. I’d interviewed David Perlow for one of the articles I was doing on how the economic growth of Florida would mean the demise of certain long-running businesses, which, undoubtedly, would include the steamboat industry.

  We met on a Wednesday afternoon at the St. James Hotel. He was only in town for two days, and one and a half of those days were completely booked, but he agreed to see me while having dinner, although the Philadelphian referred to it as “lunch.” “We’ll kill two birds with one stone, so to speak,” he’d written in response to my request for a meeting with him. “Meet me on Wednesday, in the St. James Hotel’s dining room at 12:30.” I immediately sent a response back to him via our paper’s messenger boy, agreeing to the time and place.

  The day of our meeting, I arrived a minute or two before twelve thirty. As I hurried down the sidewalk in front of the enormous multistoried hotel, I didn’t stop to admire the façade of the imposing structure’s exquisite wraparound verandas and fine Victorian woodwork, which never failed to impress society’s most well-seasoned traveler. Nor did I take a moment to admire the St. James Park, which was directly across the street and one of my favorite places in town. The park, with its natural, simple beauty, perfectly balanced the grand opulence of the hotel. Once i
n a while, if time permitted, I ate my dinner there, just to escape the confines and noise of the newspaper.

  Two of the hotel’s doormen opened the massive front doors for me. As I hurried into the lobby, I was once again awestruck by the elegance of the room. Its dark wood appointments had been polished until they glowed, and magnificent materials and tapestries adorned both the furniture and the walls. Beautiful carvings, from cherubs to Greek goddesses, peered down from pedestals and balustrades throughout the room, and rugs that looked as though they’d been inspired by the world’s great gardens graced the inlaid wood floor throughout the massive room.

  Off to the left and next to the elevator—which was a testament to the modern conveniences of the hotel—was the Bougainvillea dining room. Standing in front of the etched glass door was the formally attired maître d, complete with well-waxed handlebar moustache and well-oiled slicked-back hair.

  “Good afternoon,” I said as I walked up to his podium.

  “Madam.” He bowed slightly. “Will you be dining with us this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Actually, I’m meeting someone who is probably here already. Mr. David Perlow?”

  The maître d’ scanned the reservation sheet on his podium, and I watched his gaze go from the top to the bottom and back again before he shook his head. “I have the reservation, though I don’t have the party—well, at least not the full party. I’m afraid he hasn’t arrived yet. I’d be happy to seat you, though. We have quite an exquisite wine list, and I’m sure—”

  “That’ll be fine,” I abruptly interrupted. I was irritated that David Perlow was late, but then the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was being stood up. “If you don’t mind seating me, I’m sure my party will be here soon.”

  With an affected bow, the man asked me to please follow him and led me through the dining room and out to a corner table on the veranda, where a soft breeze carrying the slightest hint of roses wafted in from the open expanse of the park across the road. As soon as I was seated, the maître d’ snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared at his side. After ordering a sweet iced tea, I sat back and tried to relax. My new light-yellow suit, complete with brown trim on the cuffs and collar, also had a bustle, and though it was smaller than previous fashions, the yards of bunched-up material were uncomfortable to sit on. But even more annoying than the bustle was the little matching hat that sat at a jaunty angle in front of my bun. Though it was pinned in place, I felt as if it would fall off at any moment. A straw hat was much more my style, for it fit well on the head, and, more important, it had a purpose. This decorative headpiece was nothing more than that, and I’d had enough of it. Fashionable or not, I removed it and sighed audibly.