Throughout, Magdalena clutched her doll, who was now colored a streaky gray from the bathwater.
“Can I wash your dolly for you?” Maud asked. She didn’t care for these cheap Frozen Charlotte dolls. Naked, chalky white with painted features and immovable joints, they were sold in boxes that looked like little coffins. “I think she’d like to have a bath, too.”
Reluctantly, Magdalena stretched out her arms and let her take the doll. Maud rinsed the naked porcelain figure carefully and dried her with a clean dishtowel.
“What’s your dolly’s name?” Maud said. “Would you like me to make some clothes for her?”
“Her name is Dorothy,” Magdalena said softly. “I think she would like some clothes. She gets very cold when the wind blows.”
Maud wrapped her niece in a towel she had set out to warm near the stove, then swiftly plaited her hair, the braids so short now that they stuck out from the sides of her face. When Maud had the girl completely clean and re-dressed, her face pink, her hair smooth, the pair reentered the parlor, where Maud found Julia once again asleep, this time with the baby in her arms. The bottle of peptonized milk was still almost full. Julia’s eyes opened, and she looked at Magdalena, now nicely combed and scrubbed clean, but she hardly reacted. She had a glazed expression on her face, and a yellowish pallor showed through her cheek’s wind-whipped suntan.
“Julia, I’ll take the baby now. You go on up and get some rest.”
Julia retrieved the medicine bottle before she crossed the room and trudged slowly up the stairs. As the hours passed, Julia did not make a reappearance, and Maud, hoping to let her sister rest, sat with the baby in her arms, trying to coax him into feeding while Magdalena hovered nearby. Robin and Bunting, happily amusing themselves, zipped through the room from time to time, full of laughter, carrying toys, a ball, and, once, a stray calico cat, and then ran outside again.
“Run along and play with the boys, Magdalena,” Maud said. But the girl shook her head and stayed near Maud, whispering imagined conversations with her doll. Though Maud longed to follow the boys outside into the brisk prairie air, she stayed at her post, abandoning the bottle and using a teaspoon to dribble milk into the baby’s mouth, most of which appeared to drain back out without being swallowed. In spite of four straight hours of feeding, he had taken in just a few ounces. Maud longed for her mother, always so competent in the sickroom. Surely, she would know what to do.
As if in answer to Maud’s wish, the following day, the post arrived with a letter from Mother, who had heard the news of baby Jamie’s illness. A great believer in healthful remedies, like Maud she was a skeptic about many of the popular pharmaceuticals, dubious concoctions that, she believed, sometimes made people sicker. Mother treated people with natural tinctures and soothing balms—using the old-fashioned treatments she had learned from her father, a doctor.
In her letter, her advice was firm:
You must find a wet nurse for the baby. Not a single one of the medical concoctions will bring a baby to health like a mother’s milk.
As Julia read Matilda’s letter, she looked forlorn. She said that the nurse who had attended her on the homestead had encouraged her to dry up her milk because the hard life she led would spoil her milk, and so Julia had dutifully bound her breasts. But the baby could not keep any of the substitutes down—not the lactated powder, not the bitter peptonized milk, not even the teaspoons of brandy the doctor had prescribed to stimulate his appetite. Maud had given the baby no further drops of the Godfrey’s Cordial, convinced that it made him too sleepy to eat, but little Jamie remained frail and sluggish in spite of Maud’s constant ministrations.
Within a day of receiving Matilda’s letter, Maud had found a stout Bohemian woman who sat in the corner holding Jamie all day long, putting him at the breast, and if he wouldn’t suck, she would simply let the milk drip into his mouth from her swollen brown nipple. After several days, he started to rally. At night, the nurse went home, and Maud made herself a cot so that she could sleep beside him in the warm kitchen, where she fed him condensed milk from a bottle, insisting that her sister needed to rest. But Julia still seemed exhausted and continued to drop off at odd moments throughout the day. Maud watched worriedly as her sister kept her amber dram of Godfrey’s Cordial always at her side.
The sisters were consumed with caring for the children and the sick infant and rarely left the house, so more than ever Maud craved Frank’s good cheer, which burst like rays of sunshine whenever he was home. In the mornings, he got up early, dressed, and headed downtown, where he was working on his new variety store. His cheerful manner, friendly voice, and jaunty step on the stairs always set Maud’s heart soaring. The children ran to him, and Frank regaled them with stories of the goings-on downtown. He described his new store, Baum’s Bazaar, and all of the splendors that would be sold within. Half the time, Frank came home from downtown with something in his pocket—a can of oysters, a stuffed clown, a box of chocolates. Even Julia seemed to perk up when Frank was home, listening to his tales with an unfocused gaze.
Only Magdalena didn’t join in at story time. Since the day of the bath, she had attached herself to her Auntie Maud, playing at housekeeping as Maud swept and cooked and made beds and served and cleared the table and ironed. She had arrived in Aberdeen looking as raggedy as a beggar girl, but now, with Maud’s attention, she was clean and tidy, with an angular face and giant watchful eyes. The girl had taken to bringing Maud little gifts—a single bluebird feather, a bunch of bee balm, a smooth round stone—offering these small tokens on the palm of her outstretched hand. Her deep-set eyes, fringed with dark lashes, calmly regarded Maud. She rarely smiled or spoke above a whisper. Again and again, Maud marveled at how different her niece was from her own two boys, a rough-and-tumble mess of torn britches and scabbed knees, and both of them mile-a-minute talkers, full of wild stories—clearly cut from their father’s cloth. Maud adored her happy-go-lucky sons. Yet she had never imagined that she would be a mother to only boys. She wanted a girl to complete their family, and to carry on the Gage tradition. Nevertheless, Maud had accepted that she would never have another child. The doctor had made it clear: another pregnancy would endanger her life.
One evening, as Maud sat carefully mending and patching one of Magdalena’s worn dresses, she asked Frank if there was a little bit of spare fabric at the store that she might use to make Magdalena a new one. The following evening, Frank showed up with a bolt of cotton cloth.
Maud stood on her tippy-toes and kissed him on the lips, feeling the tickle of his moustache. “Blue gingham!” Maud exclaimed. “It’s perfect. It will set off the blue-violet in her eyes.”
After supper one night, Frank sat in his usual spot at the table with a pen and ink, writing up advertisements for his store’s grand opening. Maud sat across from him, her sewing basket out, working on Magdalena’s new dress. All of the children were asleep, even baby Jamie, and Julia had retired early. Maud’s deft fingers moved steadily as she enjoyed the peaceful house—just the sound of the wood crackling in the stove and the scratching of Frank’s pen on the pad of paper. Frank sometimes mouthed the words as he wrote, his expression amused. He seemed to enjoy writing—so different from her mother, who had always looked fierce at her desk, and woe upon anyone who interrupted her. Frank appeared just the opposite, as if he were reading a book that he just happened to be writing. She knew that he wasn’t thinking up any new plays at the moment, just jingles and advertisements for the store, but still, he seemed to be having fun.
“You’re hard at work,” Maud said.
Frank glanced up at her with a smile. “Work? Not at all…I’ve invented a poetry grinder. You turn the crank, and out pop clever advertising rhymes.”
Maud smiled. “Fancy that! And perhaps you could also invent a prose grinder for Mother—you turn the crank and out pour important women’s suffrage tracts!”
“Why, I imagine that I could! Give it a whirl.”
Maud laughed, setting aside the blue-and-white-checked sleeve. She held her hand up to his ear and pretended to turn a crank.
Frank straightened up, cleared his throat. “Women are granted natural and inalienable rights…” Maud tried not to laugh. Her husband could do a wicked impression of Matilda. She cranked again. “Votes for the women of Dakota!”
“All right,” Maud said, picking up her sewing again, “let’s leave dear Mother alone. And let’s see what you’ve come up with for the store.”
He began to read, cranking his arm alongside his ear:
“At Baum’s Bazaar you’ll find by far,
the finest goods in town,
the cheapest, too, as you’ll find true,
if you just step around…
“Much easier than making it up myself, don’t you think, dear?” Frank asked, then read on a bit, all the while cranking, as if he needed to operate the crank in order to turn the gears in his head:
“And then the toys for girls and boys
are surely—”
He stopped, pretending that the crank was stuck, and jerked his head back and forth and up and down with the most theatrical motions, as if he were a marionette and someone was pulling his strings.
“Oh, dear!” Maud laughed. “What happened?”
“The machine broke,” Frank said.
“Broke?”
“Too much fun jammed up inside!”
“You do love toys, Frank Baum! You’re as bad as the children.”
“Did you know that on opening day, we’ll have one hundred and ninety-six different toys? Why shouldn’t the children of Aberdeen be visited by the same Santa Claus that visits Syracuse?”
“Why not indeed?”
Nothing—not sickness, nor bad weather, nor the trials of life—could dampen Frank’s love of children, and more than ever she felt the burning deep within her, the desire to have another child. In the cold light of day, she knew the facts. If she died in childbirth, her boys would be left behind, motherless. To Maud, this was an unacceptable risk. But slowly, over these last few weeks, as she’d watched little Magdalena start to blossom, she knew it would be hard to let her niece go when the time came.
* * *
—
JULIA HELD A LETTER in one hand, baby Jamie, asleep on her shoulder, in the other. She was frowning.
“What is it?” Maud asked.
“It’s James. He wants to know when I’m coming home. Says he hasn’t eaten a decent meal or had time to do a washing since I left.”
“But you can’t go back now!” Maud said. “The baby is on the mend, and the cold weather is settling in. You and the children need to stay through the winter. What if the baby takes sick again—what if there is a big blizzard? You’ll be stranded with no access to help.”
“He says to come now as the weather may turn and we’ll be stranded.”
“Julia, be sensible. Better that you be stranded here than there!”
She shook her head. “He’s right. We need to head back north before we get snowed in here. The weather has been pretty mild the last few days, but you know it won’t last.” She peered down at the baby. “He’s doing better now. Dr. Coyine said so. I’m going to wean him from the wet nurse and keep him on the concentrated milk day and night.”
Maud tried to hide her frustration. She knew that if Frank were in the same situation, he would put the children’s safety over his laundry and cooking. Already, just caring for the baby was exhausting Julia. How could she cope with the baby and the work of the farm, not to mention looking after Magdalena?
“Tell him no!” Maud said. “Explain yourself. Surely he’ll understand.”
Julia’s face clouded as Maud spoke.
“It’s not like that,” Julia said. “He’s not like Frank. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Wouldn’t understand what?” Maud said, putting down her sewing and looking her sister in the eye. “It would be crazy to leave Aberdeen now. What is there to understand?”
“James doesn’t like to be challenged.”
“Challenged? You are not challenging him. You are looking out for your family, as any woman would do.”
“It’s different for you.” Julia sounded peeved. “Frank is so good-hearted. James doesn’t like it when I act too independent. He thinks Mother encouraged me to speak my mind too much.”
Maud’s mouth fell open. “He wanted a potted plant and got a sentient human being instead? Julia, that’s nonsense!”
Julia’s face turned sheet white. She raised her voice: “Don’t tell me that’s nonsense! Tell me nothing unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes. What do you know about anything, Maud Gage? Everyone has always indulged you. Beautiful Maud! You think my life has been as easy?”
“Dear sister, please don’t get vexed with me.” Maud’s voice was placating. “Forgive me if I’ve offended you. But surely James would understand that the baby is sick—that you need to think of the children first.”
Julia’s pallor had taken on a yellowish cast, the color the Dakota sky turned when storms were brewing. “James expects me to obey. I didn’t drop that pledge from my wedding vows, as you did.”
Maud folded her hands in her lap and regarded her sister with dismay. How many times had she heard her mother repeat that a married woman was at the mercy of her husband, whether he be drunkard or sober, wise man or fool? And despite all of Mother’s protesting and speechifying, here was her own daughter yoked to a man who seemed to think of nothing but himself and his own selfish interests, with Julia lacking the backbone to stand up for herself. She was blind to her own situation, just as blind as the day James had chased Maud into the storeroom and had then had the audacity to present her sister with a ring!
Maud gave up her hope of convincing Julia. Instead, she nursed a quiet plan. Magdalena needed a mother, and whatever mothering instincts Julia possessed seemed to be used up by caring for the baby. When it came time to leave, Maud would insist that she leave the girl in Maud’s care.
* * *
—
AT LAST IT WAS opening day for Baum’s Bazaar. Maud had not seen Frank so buoyant since his theater days. Julia insisted on staying home to look after Jamie, so Maud decided to bring Magdalena along. She had finished her blue gingham dress, shined her shoes, and tied her hair up in rags the night before so that it fell in curls that framed her face. Even Magdalena’s doll, Dorothy, had a new dress, sewn from the leftover gingham scraps. Maud made each of the children line up so she could put a last bit of spit and polish on them, and last of all she checked her own hair in the looking glass.
It was mid-October and the sky was bright, but a cold wind whipped across the prairie, carrying a crisp scent of clean air and drying grass. Maud and the children settled into the back of T.C.’s wagon and trotted the short distance into town. As they approached, Maud saw a gay crowd of well-dressed men and women, so large that it spilled right out the front door of Frank’s shop. Men carried silver-tipped walking sticks and sported bowler hats. Women wore dresses sewn in the latest eastern styles. Frank was constantly bringing home snippets of information about the citizens of the boomtown of Aberdeen—the young town now had seven newspapers, three hundred pianos and organs, seventy lawyers, seventeen doctors. Today, all that boomtown prosperity was on display.
Maud’s heart leapt as she caught sight of Frank. Tall and gracious, he was greeting his patrons at the doorway, shaking each gentleman’s hand and passing a free gift box of Gunther’s candies to each lady. When a child entered, Frank squatted down, engaged in a brief conversation, and pressed a piece of penny candy into each palm.
Inside, the store looked like a colored plate of Aladdin’s Cave in a children’s book. Everyone was commenting about the artful way the merchandise was d
isplayed. It reminded Maud of the theater. The store was a stage, the wares were the set, and Frank was the star of the show, dressed in his immaculate long-tailed coat, starched white collar, and bow tie. Maud thought about her own father: his apron, his eyeshade, his neat rows of numbers stenciled on a pad. Baum’s Bazaar was not even a close cousin to that enterprise. Up in the rafters, Japanese paper lanterns twinkled in shades of rose, blue, yellow, and orange. Piles of crockery and cut-glass vases sparkled. Fancy silver tea sets and sugar tongs glittered like jewels.
Maud could scarcely contain the children’s excitement as they took in the vast array of toys. There were monkeys, horses, rabbits, cats and pug dogs made from fur; there was a miniature tin kitchen with a full set of pots and pans; there were lead soldiers and toy villages to delight the boys, all manner of toy guns—pop guns, BB guns—and swords, plus steam engines and magic lanterns. Magdalena held tight to Maud’s hand as she looked with wonder at the dolls. There were dressed dolls and waxed dolls, patent dolls and bisque dolls. Dolls that cried when you lifted them, and dolls that said “Mama.” There were carriages and cradles, doll high chairs, and doll swings. Hobbyhorses with long manes and tails made of real horsehair were poised to gallop to imaginary lands. Shiny sleds with bright red runners would surely delight the children back home, but she wondered where a child could sled on such a pancake-flat landscape. Maud soon lost track of the boys, who had crowded around a brand-new bicycle.
Magdalena was gazing at the doll display, Dorothy clutched tight to her chest. When Frank joined them, he reached into the display, picking out the largest and most elaborate doll. It had jointed limbs, real hair, blue eyes that opened and closed, and a trunk full of elegant clothes.
Finding Dorothy Page 22
