Everything She Didn't Say

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “No, ma’am, sorry to say. My wife up and left. Doctors said she never recovered from Willis’s arrival. We’ve done alright these past months. I have help. Sorry about today.”

  I had checked his references, which were excellent. And I liked the look of him, the way he gentled Oscar to come sit beside him, patted little Willis while he talked to me. Before the interview was over, I knew I’d hire him and would be getting more than I’d pay for.

  Oscar and Willis wheedled their way into our lives and shifted our world. If you must ask how they did so, then you’ve never been around children much . . . or dogs. My beloved bulldog Daisy had full rein through The Pines, her black-and-white body (a writer’s colors) chasing Oscar’s scampering feet and holding court when Willis took his first steps across the Italian tiles. We hired a nanny for them. It was a home. My home. Our home, peopled with family. The shortest path to home, I’ve learned, is with family and friends walking beside us. It was one of the happiest periods of my life.

  From Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage, vol. 1, by Carrie Adell Strahorn (dedication page)

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my dear husband Robert E. Strahorn whose constant chum and companion it has been my greatest joy to be for more than thirty years in the conquering of the wilderness.

  36

  What She Didn’t Say

  Much of the wide-open space we’d traveled through by stage is gone. The cowboys are few. The sheep even fewer. I only saw one herd of buffalo and it held up the train, but they went the way of the wilderness too. Indians are gone or rounded up and put on reservations. Seems a shame. I don’t like to think of our part in all that. Manifest Destiny was the war cry that removed them and brought settlers as though it was a right. My mind has found a place to lament those passings as well as celebrate the future of the West. I hope my memoir delights others as it has me. Only Daisy’s passing marred my joy. I miss her.

  July 1, 1910, at The Pines

  I began work with the publisher, hoping Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage would come out the following year, 1911. I decided to only write about our lives between 1877 and 1880 for volume 1 and cover 1880 to 1898 for volume 2, though we’d release them both at the same time. I didn’t want a six-hundred-page book. Who would read that, let alone hold it? If they held such a book at night in bed, it could break their noses when dropped on a face that sleep overtakes. Or tries to. I wouldn’t write about The Pines or of our lavish life in 1910 or 1911 either. And I wouldn’t tell stories of Oscar and Willis sleeping in their quarters above the carriage house or how I taught them to ride our horses. Nor how they loved our second Daisy and how she loved them back. No sense in dwelling on an opulent life in a memoir about discovering the West in a stagecoach. Stories of well-fed children putting sticky fingers onto the French artist’s murals in the large living room and ordering Daisy to “b-flat” had no place in my memoir. Neither did the Halloween party where we dressed the Greek statues in witches’ hats and cowboy chaps. Better to let the reader linger over the strength and resilience of those pioneer women looking after their babes, doing whatever it took for them to keep alive, a task made more difficult when their men read one of Robert’s books and left the green of Kentucky to head to the harsh lands of Montana or Idaho or Oregon. Besides, it wasn’t meant to be a book about me but about the West.

  The publication process wasn’t a great surprise, since I’d helped with Robert’s books, checking facts, writing up tables of contents, and whatnot. For Fifteen Thousand Miles, I collected dozens of photographs to include. Then Robert got the great idea to put sketches in the book for events we didn’t have photographs to illustrate.

  “Like the time my horse went head over heels into that ravine, remember that?”

  “No. Because it happened while you were in the Sioux war and I wasn’t there,” I reminded him.

  “You included the story in the book though.” He had yet to read the manuscript, but I’d shared snippets with him.

  “Because it was a fascinating example of the West and what can happen. Who could I get to illustrate it?”

  “That cowboy artist from Montana. His works are selling well. C. M. Russell. His young wife manages his business now.”

  “Behind every successful man . . .”

  “Is a railroad magnate willing to loan money.”

  “Loan?”

  “A figure of speech.” He patted my hand. “Why don’t you contact Russell? I think they’re in Great Falls.”

  I did that. Then I sent the artist the manuscript and identified a few places where I thought a sketch would enhance the work. He had suggestions of his own, including one I didn’t really like, the one of me being scraped off my horse, wounding my pride. But he captured so much. The sadness of a broken pioneer wagon. The rugged cowboy branding. And in the sketch he created of that business near Spokane with the sick Indian woman whom I gave stomach powders to (and her husband said he’d trade some horses for me on the morrow), he made me look as lithe as my niece instead of the “fluffy woman” I always was. I did like Russell’s rendition of me as thin.

  Charles ended up doing fifty sketches for the first volume alone. And our artist friend received nice recognition when the New York Times review came out. That same review said very kind things about my work and called me “The Mother of the West.” Robert added that I was “The Queen of the Pioneers.”

  I wasn’t really. Women like Mrs. Bunting were.

  Robert took the publication and the acclaim that followed in stride. And for our thirty-fourth anniversary, he planned a publication party at the Davenport Hotel. I didn’t have to do a thing, though I would have liked to. After all, hospitality was my gift and sharing The Pines was my serving platter.

  But that night he marveled us all when he presented me with a sterling-silver-and-gold-covered copy of my book. He’d had a stagecoach embossed on the front, matching the Russell drawing on my cover. And 174 guests had already signed the six sterling silver pages. He’d had to get those signatures in advance of the event so the engraving plates could be made. Robert had again sent that special car to bring our friends from the Wood River Valley to celebrate. There were plenty of oohs and ahhs over his gift and how clever and sweet he was to have planned for it. He also said some of the kindest words of me he’d ever spoken, that he ‘couldn’t have done what he’d done without me.’”

  Later, my oldest sister Mary said to me, “Robert always has a way of putting himself as the lead horse, doesn’t he?” She and Hattie and I sat in the living room at The Pines, lounging on the leather. Robert had gone up to bed and I held the heavy silver book on my lap, my fingers tracing the names.

  “What do you mean? He was sweet to have planned the party and arranged for this. He’s proud of me and I of him.”

  “Oh, I know. But this should have been your night, your big event. You wrote the book,” Mary said. “Two, for goodness’ sake, and they’ve gotten marvelous reviews.” She picked at a silk thread of her burgundy dress. “Tonight, everyone raved about how thoughtful he was. Your memoir and you writing it is what should have held the floor. Not Robert’s adoring gift.”

  “He loves doing splashy things,” I defended.

  “I don’t doubt it. But why not hold the party here, let you enjoy doing what you do best, making everyone feel welcome so they ooh and ahh at what you’ve done—the marvelous books and holding court in your finally permanent lovely home.”

  “I don’t mind playing second fiddle to Robert. He’s my Pard,” I said. I realized I was telling the truth. I admired my husband.

  “You don’t have to play cheery with me, Carrie.” I must have looked chagrined, because she changed her tone and said, “Oh, never mind. Now is not the time for me to express my big-sister views. It was a lovely party and the book is an extravagant acknowledgment of both your publication and your adventurous lives together. It’s a very good remembrance of your experiences. I look forward to sharing it with our friends who only half believed the
stories I told them of my visits to you.”

  “My friends thought I was exaggerating like Mark Twain too,” Hattie said. “They still think the West is a foreign country.”

  “I suppose it is—or was,” I said. “But we’re civilized now.” Our second Daisy did her little snorting sniffs as she waddled over to lie at my feet. “We have the same ups and downs as any couple anywhere who writes a symphony of their lives, with crescendos and adagios repeating the themes.”

  “How are Robert’s businesses doing these days?” Mary asked.

  “Fine. We’re fine.” I wasn’t going to tell either of my sisters of that little nudge I felt with his work to build the Oregon line out of Klamath Falls. I loved Crater Lake, the jewel in Oregon’s crown, but I wished he would have kept his interests in Spokane instead of spreading himself so thin. But that was Robert and always would be. A wife comes to accept that or spend her life suffering.

  Those next years were full of parties, managing a staff, working to remember history through the Daughters of the American Revolution, singing in the First Presbyterian choir. I’d helped the Women’s Club raise funds for a new clubhouse but stepped away as things got rolling. It was their project and I didn’t want my presence to dominate. Mary would likely add to that sentence, “Unlike Robert who loved being the center of attention” and who perhaps did see everything as a promotional opportunity.

  The decade that followed was a challenge to him. The Great Northern put many impediments in Robert’s way as he tried to build his Oregon, California, and Eastern line, which kept putting him further and further into debt. But of course he never ought to have started it without millions of dollars to invest. We simply didn’t have that depth of personal wealth. But I’d given up trying to hold my “lead horse” back. He was the one who set the pace and I trotted along. But I was trotting in quite a lovely setting those years. I didn’t travel with him anymore, as I had two young boys to spoil and a mansion to run.

  Robert had another huge success when Union Station was finished and three major lines claimed their railroad dynasty with Spokane as their center. Robert got to pound in the golden spike during a big celebration where he gave a speech and train whistles pierced the air. It was 1914 and I was quite proud of him. The second printing of my memoir came out that year too. Robert’s coastline was complete—well, his and Harriman’s—and he truly was the railroad builder he’d always wanted to be.

  Of course, it was not enough for Robert, and that next year, he extended his investments in Central Oregon near Bend, a line he hoped would meet up with California tracks and link western Idaho and ultimately the East. He hadn’t asked my advice about that. We were no longer “partners” in that sense. I had my world in The Pines, which I thoroughly loved, and he had his schmoozing the halls of investors.

  Hattie had moved to Los Angeles to stay with her daughter there, but the year Robert planned a big “Railroad Days” event in Klamath Falls, she came up. We’d seen each other in Illinois the month before for Mary’s funeral. The map of our older sister was gone. I was the elder sister now.

  I took the train south to turn over the shovel of dirt that marked the beginning of the next phase of the line. Thirty miles of the 360 miles Robert had to lay between Klamath Falls and Ontario, Oregon—another town we’d started—was complete. He’d bought a locomotive, a passenger car, boxcars, and flat cars for freight that could be used between California and Klamath Falls. He called it the beginning of the Strahorn Central Oregon System. Robert always loved a party, with him giving speeches and the city fathers clapping his back. I suppose he thought looking prosperous would invite investors, maybe even James J. Hill himself. But Hill was as wily as Harriman of the UP. Buying his own rights-of-way before Robert could.

  Hattie and I and Robert took a side trip to Crater Lake. Seeing it again reminded me of what a glorious life I’d led. One should never die before seeing such a sight as that blue water. We stayed at the Lodge that had opened the year before, but I had seen that wonder of the world before a building broke the cauldron’s timbered edge.

  I returned to Spokane without Robert, who had “things to do” in Klamath Falls. But I didn’t mind. The staff at The Pines became my family. The Weiss boys were so much a part of our lives that when the 1920 census taker came around in January of the new decade, the two boys were listed as “sons of Robert and Carrie.” I didn’t correct it. Frank, their father, was identified too as a resident, which he was. He was a good dad. He never missed a beat putting those boys first. He was the best chauffeur. Perhaps the genuine affection I felt for Oscar (already fifteen) and Willis (eleven by then) showed itself while the census taker wrote down our housekeeper’s name, the first and second maids’ names, and the cook’s, as well as Robert’s and my legal name, Carrie A. I suspect Robert liked his occupation listed as “railroad builder.” I liked seeing Oscar and Willis listed as “sons of Robert and Carrie.” They weren’t those precious twins Kate and Kambree, but they were here for me to love.

  It was leaving the boys that pained me more than anything when Robert came to tell me the news I never hoped to hear. “Hill is a wily businessman, Dell.” Robert paced our bedroom while he talked, running his hands through his hair. It was 1920. “He owes nothing, never took bank loans to build his railroads, never got involved in accepting government land. He did it on his own. He can hold out and keep me from getting that track laid out of Bend.” I petted Daisy as she lay on the settee beside me. She didn’t usually jump up there. She was already ten years old and I didn’t encourage furniture assumption by canines. She must have sensed something I hadn’t and I let her stay, her pudgy body radiating heat through my silk Chinese dressing gown.

  We’d had a lovely dinner with friends where Robert railed about the Great Northern owners. He was particularly agitated that night. I did what I usually did: listened, never said “I told you so.”

  The small royalty payment from my book each month had been a boon to my sense of security and independence, and I still had funds in the Marengo Bank.

  I should let old silver tarnish in private. Still, I’ve grown fond of telling the whole story. For it isn’t the trouble or the riches we have in life but how we respond to them that gives life meaning. At least I think that’s so. It took me a time to get there, but I have.

  Finally, Robert pulled a chair up to sit in front of me, leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “Dell. Carrie.” He cleared his throat. His eyes looked tired, puffy around the edges. We were both getting on in years, already in our sixties. My hair was piano-key white. “I’ve got to raise more capital to pay construction costs for the line.” He continued, “Hill’s waiting for me to admit that I’m undercapitalized, have no more investors, have maxed out my own credit line at the banks. He wants to buy it cheap and finish the line himself. I can’t let that happen.”

  I waited for him to say he was going to sell the line. The dog looked up at me with her watery eyes and lapped my cheek. “Oh, you.” I patted her white head.

  “Dell. The construction loans on the short line are due and what Hill offered isn’t enough to cover them. I’ve—we’ve—got to sell The Pines.”

  I blinked. “Sell The Pines? But . . .”

  “I know, I know. It’s terrible. I’m terrible. I thought I had it covered. I mortgaged it. That lava rock outside of Bend, it’s a killer for laying tracks. Once the line’s operational, I’ll make a fortune. I’ll buy back The Pines, but the note is due now. And, well, Hill. That Hill.” He shook his head.

  “Sell our home? Where—where will we go?” I could feel my heart stop beating, I really could. But, of course, it kept right on.

  “San Francisco. I wouldn’t ask you to stay here and be forced every day to explain our, well, our circumstances. And I fully intend to buy it back. I’ve got a couple of ideas already, but the bank, well, you know banks. I just need another investor or I could sell to Hill, but he’d only pay me a pittance of my investment. We’ll plan a little ext
ended vacation in San Francisco. I’ve got rooms for us there. And a little cash. We’ll be comfortable.”

  “Another Single Room Occupancy arrangement.”

  “It’s temporary. And Hattie can come up from Los Angeles and stay with you when I’m back here working things out.”

  “Yes, my family can help heal the wounds, as you’ll be occupied.”

  “I’m so sorry, Dell. I am.” He reached for my hands, but I subtly moved them to bring Daisy onto my lap. “I did everything I could to prevent this.”

  No, you didn’t. But blame and accusation do no good. Those twin emotions only keep one from a commitment.

  He sat beside me then, pushing Daisy out of the way. I’d have preferred the dog’s comfort at that moment. But I did what I always did: gave comfort as I could. Robert leaned his head on my shoulder. I patted his back.

  “I really do have good ideas. I will buy this back from the bank, before they can ever try to sell it. I will, Dell. I will. This is so difficult for me.”

  “I know you’ll do your best,” I said.

  “Can you ever forgive me?”

  “It’s what I signed on for, Robert. For richer, for poorer.”

  “That’s my girl. I knew you’d understand.” He sat up to kiss my cheek; never commented on my tears. My eye caught that chunk of ore I’d gotten so many years before. I was capable of so much. I needed to remember that.

  Epilogue

  I write this not in the room where I wrote most of Fifteen Thousand Miles by Stage in my beautiful Pines but in a Single Room Occupancy hotel in San Francisco. Hattie is with me and her daughter. I haven’t been feeling so well, lots of swelling of my ankles and my kidneys tiring. Very annoying. Robert is in Spokane or maybe Klamath Falls or back east. He’ll join us for Christmas, I’m sure. He writes that he has a plan to buy The Pines back. We’ll see. I have my scrapbook with photos of that home, my horses, our trip to Europe. I love showing it to any who will listen. It brings me joy to look at these memories. I have had my time there, a glorious time, but home is where family gathers and where love blossoms even in a desert.