Finding Dorothy

by Elizabeth Letts

  “Until one is ill, it is hard to fully understand the plight of the invalid,” Maud said.

  Matilda nodded. “Old age has taught me that.”

  Maud smiled, but then she noticed that her mother was crying.

  “I blame myself for baby Jamie’s death.”

  “But, Mother, how could that have been your fault? You weren’t even there!”

  “Julia wrote to me and asked me to send her money to return to Fayetteville for the delivery, as she had for Magdalena’s birth. But, you see, she had sailed right through her delivery, while you had taken ill. And, Maud, I had no idea of the conditions she was living in. When I pictured her homestead in Dakota, I thought of a civilized town like Aberdeen. So, when she wrote to me, I said no. You remember, your father was gone, the store was closed, and money was tight.”

  “Of course, I understand.”

  Matilda held up her hand, dabbed her tears, and tried to compose herself.

  “I wanted to attend the National Woman Suffrage conference in Washington, D.C. I had enough money for my own fare. To send for Julia, I would have had to cancel my trip.”

  Maud nodded.

  “I wasn’t willing. I thought that the fate of all womankind was more important than the fate of one individual—my own daughter. I thought it was the duty of we women who were fighting the fight to stay strong.” Now Matilda was openly sobbing. “I didn’t understand that you can’t always just ‘stay strong,’ that sometimes the conditions we are fighting are greater than our individual abilities. If that ignorant back-country nurse hadn’t told Julia to dry up her milk, that baby might still be alive.”

  “Mother! You don’t know that! You mustn’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “No, Maud. I had to learn something that you always knew instinctively. The fight for all women has got to begin with the women closest to you.”

  “No mother is perfect,” Maud said. “I’ve always been proud to be your daughter.”

  “But all that I’ve given up…and so little to show for it,” Matilda said.

  “So little to show for it, Mother? Not so! The day will come when you will be proven right. Your daughters, or at least your grandchildren, will be alive to see that day, and we will thank you.”

  Matilda was looking at Maud searchingly, as if hoping her daughter could answer her deepest fears. “And that will be enough?”

  Maud stood and enfolded her mother’s frail shoulders in her arms, catching her faint scent of mint and lavender. “Oh, Mother dear, of course it will be much more than enough.”

  * * *

  —

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE, the giant fir in the parlor of the Baum household reached all the way to the ceiling, and the entire thing was cordoned off behind a giant red curtain that Frank had fashioned to hide half of the room. At the agreed-upon moment, Maud pushed open the parlor door, and the boys tumbled in behind her, like a litter of puppies on their way out to play. The boys—Robin, twelve; Harry, eight; Kenneth, six; and even fifteen-year-old Bunting—had not outgrown their excitement about Christmas. Every year, Frank spent weeks preparing an elaborate pantomime. In terms of gifts under the tree, no Christmas had ever equaled their first in Aberdeen, when a profligate Frank had brought half of their store home to place under the Christmas tree. Now Maud controlled the Christmas budget. She counted out just a few dollars for Frank to spend on gifts. But he more than made up for it in homegrown merriment.

  “Well now, Santa.” Frank’s voice was audible behind the curtain. “Have I paid you enough? Will you be getting on your way?”

  A deep hearty “Ho-ho-ho” followed.

  “Open the curtain!” Kenneth piped up. “Open it!”

  “Yes, open it!” the other boys called out. Even Bunting (who now insisted on being called Frank Jr.) had joined in the fun.

  “Well now, don’t leave just yet…” Frank’s voice said behind the curtain. “There are some boys here who would really like to meet you!”

  This was followed by some rustling of the curtain and the sounds of much shuffling.

  “What? Don’t leave! Please!” Bells jingled behind the curtain; then came the sound of hoofbeats. More bells.

  Frank had rigged the red curtain on a rope pulley, and suddenly the curtain jerked aside to reveal the giant Christmas tree, trimmed with popcorn and cranberry strands, blue balls made of glass, delicate gingerbread men decorated by Maud, and shining candles that cast a warm flickering glow across the room. Underneath was a modest assortment of colorful packages tied up with bright satin ribbons.

  A collective “Aaah” went up from all assembled.

  Then little Kenneth said in a voice as clear as a silver bell, “But where’s Santa?”

  “Why, he’s…” Frank feigned shock as he looked all around himself. “Why, I don’t know. I swear he was just here a minute ago. I asked him to wait!”

  Harry turned and pointed to the hearth.

  “There he is!” everyone cried.

  A pair of red pants and black rubber boots (that looked suspiciously like a pair of Frank’s) were sticking out from the hearth. Only the legs and feet were visible.

  “Santa! I thought you said you would wait!” Frank called.

  The younger boys didn’t notice when he grabbed a second rope, and with a flick of the wrist, suddenly the boots and pants disappeared, as if climbing up the chimney.

  “He’s gone!” Kenneth cried.

  “Quick, everyone! Outside!” Frank called out. “We may just catch St. Nick’s sleigh as he’s flying away.”

  “Outside? Children, not without your jackets and boots!”

  Ignoring Maud’s entreaties, the entire group burst out the front door into the frigid night, where fat snowflakes were swirling, softening the city’s edges and making the world look like a wonderland.

  “Boys, come back inside! Frank, have you lost your mind? The children will catch their death!”

  Matilda was already back in the house, but Maud had to scoop up the boys’ coats and toss one to each of them. Frank was holding a lantern and telling them to scout for reindeer tracks in the snow.

  “Daddy!” Kenneth called out. “Quick. Over here!”

  “What have you got there, son?”

  “Look, it’s a bell! I think it fell off Santa’s sleigh.”

  Kenneth held up a cheap penny bell. He shook it, making a muffled, tinny sound.

  “Why, by golly!” Frank exclaimed. “I think you’re right.”

  “Santa!” Kenneth cried out. “Come back! You lost your bell!”

  Kenneth’s teeth were chattering. Maud took his cold hand in hers and called to the rest of them: “Let’s go in now. I’ve got hot chocolate warming on the stove for all of you!”

  She shoveled more coal into the iron stove until it roared hot, then placed a cup of steaming cocoa in each boy’s hands. Before bed, the children opened their packages, but none of their gifts—new woolen socks, and pencils and paper for school—could ever equal the special magic that Frank’s imagination brought to the holiday.

  That night, after the boys were all tucked into bed and Maud was resting in the rocking chair in front of the fire, Matilda placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “You know, Maud, I was wrong about Frank in the beginning. I worried about you marrying an actor. But now I see it. He’s been a good father and a good husband to you. You chose well.”

  Frank burst out from behind the giant fir tree, tinkling the glass ornaments and causing the candles to sway.

  “Finally!” he crowed. “I’ve gotten the great Matilda Gage to admit she made a mistake!”

  Matilda’s eyes flew open in mock horror, and then all three of them dissolved into laughter.

  * * *

  —

  MATILDA WAS SCHEDULED TO return home to Fayetteville jus
t after Kenneth’s birthday, in March. With Maud’s nurturing, her mother had rallied and seemed much better, but then in late February, she came down with influenza. She had a high fever and a racking cough that persisted in spite of Maud’s best efforts. Matilda protested, but at last she allowed Maud to call in the doctor. After examining her, he pronounced her to be weak and in need of fortification.

  The doctor took out a small pad of paper and wrote down a prescription.

  “There is a brand-new medicine that is working wonders for coughs. Please administer one injection daily.”

  Maud read the words on the piece of paper he handed her: BAYER HEROIN. 4 CCS Q.D.

  * * *

  —

  FOR THE FIRST FEW DAYS, Maud was relieved that the heroin injections seemed to be working. The doctor had promised that Matilda would sleep easier and cough less, and indeed, that was the case. One day, Maud came into the bedroom to check on her mother and found her awake, propped up on her pillows, writing a letter.

  “I’m so pleased to see you looking better,” Maud said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “There is something I need to tell you,” Matilda said. “We need to have a private discussion. For when the time comes.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to you! You are doing much better with the new medicine.”

  “I am feeling better, but I can’t live forever. I just want everything clear, in case something happens to me.”

  “All right,” said Maud, settling on the rocker near the window. “What is it that I need to know?”

  “My will divides my remaining fortune equally among my children,” Matilda said. “It’s not as much as I would have wished. You know that my book Woman, Church and State has been banned from libraries. Even with acclaim from all over the world, from Victoria Woodhull of London and Mr. Tolstoy in Russia, I still have not earned as much as I should have.”

  “You should have earned more,” Maud said soothingly, “but your contribution to the world of ideas is more significant than money.”

  Matilda, mollified, continued: “Now, listen to me. I realize that your life is difficult. I see that your husband works hard but spins his wheels. You know the golden path?” Matilda was referring to her theosophical beliefs. Maud nodded.

  “I have meditated upon this, and I feel that your journey is not yet over. So I ask you this. The money that I bequeath you is yours. Frank will think of uses for it. He will want to spend the money along the journey: newspapers, inventions—I don’t know what it will be. Don’t listen to him. A woman must never be without a home. You will know when the time is right. Use the money to buy a home for your family. But make that decision alone.”

  “But, Mother!”

  “Do you promise?”

  “But, Mother…”

  “I shall not rest until you promise.”

  Maud promised.

  * * *

  —

  MATILDA LAY ON A black leather couch, dressed in a dark blue tea gown. Her repose was restful, her hands crossed over her heart, left over right. Her shiny white hair was coiled behind her head, in death, as in life. Julia and T.C., along with Frank and Maud, were seated in Frank and Maud’s parlor, along one side of the open casket. All day long, the post had brought letters and telegrams of condolence for the great woman.

  T.C. read the will, which indicated that Matilda wished to be cremated, as she believed it was more salutary for the earth. Her casket and the entire parlor were filled with her favorite flower: the American Beauty rose. Frank had made the rounds of six different florists and bought out all of them.

  When the undertakers placed Matilda in the coffin, she lay upon a thick bed of roses. Their delicate scent filled the room even after the coffin was closed.

  Matilda’s will specified that her ashes be scattered in the garden in Fayetteville. Frank was scheduled for a sales trip and, understanding that Maud wanted to make the journey, Julia kindly offered to stay in Chicago to look after the children, so Maud boarded a train for Syracuse alone.

  It was late March, and the town was still locked tight in the grip of late winter. The trees were barren, and patches of old sooty snow remained on the ground. The train arrived late on a Thursday afternoon, and Maud rode in a hired hack, her mother’s ashes in an urn, inside a box, on the seat beside her.

  She had held herself together through her mother’s illness and death and all of the obligatory ceremonies, but arriving at the family home, Maud could no longer contain her tears. She paused at the end of the front walk. The bare winter branches of the big dogwood tree she had once climbed to save a kitten still spread expansively over the front lawn. The house’s exterior looked the same as ever, square and stately, its four white columns lined up across the front porch. But as she pushed the door open, she was greeted by chilly, stale air, and a strange stillness seemed to vibrate in her ears as she strained to hear the whispers of the pattering footsteps, swishing skirts, and excited conversation that had filled the home of her youth.

  She made her way to her mother’s parlor. A half-finished watercolor still sat on the easel. On the wall, in the place of pride, was a framed sampler embroidered with the words to “The Golden Stairs”; Maud had made it for her mother one Christmas. She had worked on it all winter, the year after they left South Dakota. Maud had copied the famous lines from her mother’s favorite theosophist, H. P. Blavatsky.

  Scanning the words now, she realized that she still had them memorized. The verse had grown so familiar to her as she’d slowly stitched the letters in golden thread. A clean life, an open mind, / A pure heart, an eager intellect. This was her mother. An unveiled spiritual perception. Mother had always been able to imagine the better future, a better world, as if she could divine things that others could not. These are the golden stairs, / Up the steps of which the learner may climb / To the Temple of Divine Wisdom.

  She could remember hearing Frank and Matilda talking about this—the golden path—in those dark days in Dakota, the two of them sitting immersed in discussion about their theosophical theories while she busily went about her daily chores, a nugget of resentment in her breast. Yet now those times seemed dear to her, woven into the fabric of her life just as surely as her own nimble fingers had threaded the words of Helena Blavatsky into cloth. And wasn’t there a golden path, after all? Looking back, she could see its traces, leading her out into the great big world and, wiser now, back to her old home.

  The next day, Maud gathered her strength and walked to her mother’s garden, behind the house. The towering fence that separated their property from the Crouse home next door was in fact only shoulder height. Beyond it, there was no sign of the old scarecrow that had once frightened her so much. Old Mr. Crouse had died many years ago. Leftover snow was still clumped in the shady corners. Her mother’s lawn was brown, but a smattering of fresh green shoots had emerged.

  Maud made her way to the back of the garden. She carried a small spade, which she used to clear away the snow. There, she found the flat rock where she had once buried her pet crow—her childish introduction to death.

  Maud opened the silver urn and scattered the ashes over the place where she knew in the spring her mother’s favorite peonies would bloom. She watched the ashes fall upon the cold ground, and brushed away the silvery gray grit that blew onto her black silk crepe de chine. Right now, on this cold March afternoon, she lacked the power to imagine that in June, this same barren patch of ground would bloom forth with the soft white and pink flowers, so heavy, so full of life, that the stalks would bend with the weight of their blossoms. Bees would buzz, butterflies would flit, and giant puffy clouds would float high in the sky. Now it was gray and cold, and that seemed fitting.

  By the end of the week, Maud had sorted out and packed the house. When she left, she took just a few items with her. She took the embroidered message of the golden path, as well as a
tin can labeled BAUM’S CASTORINE that she’d found in the back shed. And she took a handkerchief she had embroidered for her mother, on which she imagined she could still catch a whiff of Matilda’s favorite homemade salve of dried lavender and mint mixed with Vaseline.

  On her last morning, Maud made the rounds of each of the rooms, once full of a family, now populated by ghosts. She thought of her father, quiet and kind, always there with a word of encouragement, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an aggie or tiger marble and tossing it to her with a wink. She pictured Julia—the little mother, always running after Maud with a clean handkerchief or a warm scarf on a cold day. But most of all, Maud saw Mother: nurse and doctor, priest and witch, fighter and patient mender, brilliant mind and kindly heart.

  As Maud locked the door behind herself, every home she had lived in since leaving here flashed across her mind: the elegant rooms in Sage College, the tawdry western boardinghouses where she and Frank had happily spent their first married days, their home in Dakota, where frigid winds had rattled the windows and giant hailstones pelted the roof. She thought of Julia’s square of weathered wood perched on the landscape like a bird just alighted and ready to fly away. She thought of the run-down row house on Campbell Park, and of her present home on Humboldt Boulevard, filled with the sounds of boisterous boys and joyful laughter each time Frank came home from the road.

  But unlike this house, each of those had a temporary quality. She and Frank had never owned their own family home. As the heavy lock clicked into place, Maud thought of her mother’s instructions for her small inheritance. Mother had been so certain that Maud would know when the time was right to use it, but how would she know? Maud whispered a prayer to her mother, asking her to always stay with her; then she turned her back and walked down the sidewalk, away.