The next few traps do have animals in them. Two muskrats, three beavers, and an otter. I feel a little sad for them, but mostly I’m thinking how nice it will be to eat something other than fish and wapatos for every meal.
The sun’s high overhead when Mr. W points to a narrow break in the trees. We step onto a sheltered stretch of mud and stumps that opens right onto the lake. It’s like the dock, only instead of being surrounded by water, a beach of sorts has been built up over the stumps with dirt and clay and sand. Mr. W calls it the long bank, and he says we’re going to skin and dry some of the meat here.
“Watch carefully.” Mr. W pulls out a knife the length of his hand. “I’m going to do a few, then it’ll be your turn.”
The first time I had to wring a chicken’s neck, I cried like Jer. My constitution wasn’t nearly as sturdy back then.
“All right, but . . .” I study my dirty bare feet under my dirtier skirt. “Maybe this is something you should wait and teach Jer.”
Mr. W chuckles. “It’s going to be years before Jer is ready to come out with me. You’re ready right now. If you’re trying to hint that skinning animals isn’t for girls, I wish I could take you over to Port Madison and sit you down with Louisa and her sisters. There’s also more than one Seattle matron who can make short work of a still-warm otter if her husband’s not around.”
I must learn to be on the Pacific coast, where girls can keep lighthouses and skin otters and scrub floors and teach school and make socks to sell and chop firewood.
I kneel next to Mr. W. I hope my breakfast stays down.
Mr. W slits and slices, and the beavers and the otter are soon relieved of their pelts. Then it’s my turn. I take the limp muskrat he hands me, pull in a deep breath, and cut.
“Like that,” Mr. W says. “Good. Now wait for the blood to drain. Remember, you shouldn’t puncture any of the organs, because it’ll ruin the meat. All right. Slowly there. Well done! You’ve got it now.”
My meat does not look like Mr. W’s, all thin strips that can be draped over racks for drying. It looks like meat you’d throw to dogs. I just ruined a perfectly good muskrat, and next time I’ll be scrubbing floors for sure.
Mr. W only shrugs. “Don’t worry. This is how you learn. We’ll take it home, and Mrs. Wright can stew it up. Your pelt isn’t so bad for a first try. Here, I’ll show you how to flesh it.”
Two minutes in, I understand why we remove the lingering shreds of meat from the pelts on the long bank. It’s stomach-turning, slimy work. Mr. W explains everything as we do it, how to stretch the skin and how to peg it so it keeps the proper shape. Just like Nell and Flora taught me how to bid and trump at whist.
This is how you learn.
I didn’t know how to change a diaper till Jer was born. I couldn’t read a word till I went to school, and I couldn’t get a stew to thicken till I fumbled in a corn muffin. I didn’t know port from starboard till the deckhands on the Continental set me straight, and if it weren’t for Nell I wouldn’t know how to count cards.
Maybe my mind is broader than I thought.
Once all the pelts are curing beneath the canvas shelter, Mr. W and I wash up and eat our dinner. It’s peaceful on the lake, and we watch birds glide overhead and otters splash nearby.
It’s not a banker’s fancy parlor. It’s not even a room in a hotel. But it takes a certain kind of clever to make a sturdy shoreline out of stumps and mud when the trees are determined to grow down to and into the waterline all hidden and treacherous.
It takes a certain kind of stubborn to decide something should exist when it’s never been there before.
I tear my skirt as I’m climbing off the long bank. Not just a little rip, either. I’m showing the whole world my petticoat past the knee. My legs, too.
But the world right now is just Mr. W and me, and after he finishes flustering and turning red and babbling that maybe I should start wearing britches to do my chores, he puts himself in front of me so there’s no one but the birds and deer behind me to stare.
Papa would have been horrified. The Lowell mill girls would have all turned away to spare me the shame. Same with Nell and Flora, the card-room girls, and probably the missuses of Seattle, too.
Out here there’s no one to see. This isn’t Lowell. It’s not New York City. It’s not even the Queen City of King County.
When I get back to the cabin, I write a reflection: This is the Eastside, and birds and deer don’t care about things like doors on privies and girls in trousers.
19
IT’S INDEPENDENCE DAY TODAY, AND we’re spending it in Seattle. There’s going to be horse racing and speeches and maybe even fireworks.
And my friends. I hope.
The sun rises as Mr. W paddles, and before long we land at the old Indian camp where the trail to town begins. There are other canoes lined up above the waterline, and I can’t help but wonder whose they are. I thought we were pretty much the only people on the whole Eastside.
The sun is higher now, and it sends a shaft of light down the mill road and lights up the bay beyond. At the bottom of the hill, through the gap in the big cedars, the streets appear in their angled grid and the white-shiny buildings pop up like mushrooms.
Ahead, Jenny is helping a woman who must be her mother put up a table made of sawhorses. Her green dress isn’t stitched up the haunch where she tore it on the long bank, and she’s got ribbons on her braids, because it’s Seattle and there are no low-hanging brambles to catch and tear them.
Jenny spots me and waves. She waves like it was only yesterday she asked after me at the hotel and we met the others at the old Blaine orchard to watch boats. She waves like it doesn’t matter how ragged my hands are.
I turn to Mrs. D. “May I go play with my friends?”
“I want to go wi’ Daney,” says Jer.
“You may, if you take your brother,” Mrs. D replies.
Mr. W fidgets with his hat. “Today’s a celebration. We should all enjoy ourselves. I can’t see how—”
“Charles, I know you mean well,” Mrs. D says to him in a buttery voice, “but you have a lot to learn about children.”
He has a lot to learn about Mrs. D, too, but he’s got to learn it the same way I did. The same way I learned to skin a muskrat and turn the heel of a sock.
“Yes, ma’am.” I take Jer’s hand and promise to meet them at sundown on the Occidental’s common.
As soon as she and Mr. W are out of sight, I walk Jer real slow past the little cabin the Pollards are renting. Sure enough, Jimmie Lincoln is playing in the yard, and both he and Jer squeal with joy when they see each other. They rush to the fence and reach their small hands through the slats, trying to hug.
Mrs. Pollard invites me in for a mug of tea, and considering I’m about to ask a big favor, I don’t think I ought to refuse. When she hands me a plate of butter cookies, I’m glad I didn’t.
“I don’t mind at all, lamb,” Mrs. Pollard says as we finally get up from her hearth bench. “Keeps Jimmie out of my hair. You can come get your brother whenever you like.”
Jer waves a happy farewell as I bang through the Pollards’ gate and down the muddy street. Jenny’s mother has spread a pretty cloth on their table and put out a tempting plate of strawberries. Evie’s joined them, and she and Jenny are arguing.
“. . . dolls, of all things!” Jenny rolls her eyes. “We can play dolls anytime. It’s Independence Day, for heaven’s sake!”
“I like playing dolls,” Evie replies. “Besides, the celebration isn’t even starting till—Jane!”
She gives me a hug, then holds me at arm’s length. Jenny does too, and both of them start exclaiming how good it is to see me and how much they’ve missed my company.
“You like playing dolls, right?” Evie asks, giving Jenny a Look.
“Jane probably doesn’t have a moment for us today,” Jenny teases. “She’s managed to escape the wilderness and she likely wants to visit with Miss Stewart and the other young ladies.�
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Jenny’s smiling, but there’s a catch in her voice. She means it. These girls have missed me. They think I’m the one who’s beyond their company, not the other way around.
“Of course I want to play dolls,” I say, and I nudge them both cheerfully like Nell might. “Jenny can run home and get hers, and Evie and I will find Inez and Madge.”
It’s still hard for me to just walk through Evie’s front door. Her papa is a ship’s captain, and their house is so grand it makes me want to go around back like a servant. Evie’s room is spotless as always. There are two windows with yellow gingham curtains and a bed covered in quilts and a tall, graceful wardrobe.
Before I can even ask, Evie opens the fancy sea chest at the foot of her brass bedstead and holds her old rag doll out with a smile that says, I’m sorry she’s so shabby. Evie’s rag doll is not made of rags at all. She’s got a muslin body, braided yarn hair, and a tiny pinafore made out of calico that’s newer than the dress I’m wearing now.
Soon, Jenny’s clattering up the stairs, and we’re all gathered on Evie’s rug. The four of them have dolls with china heads and party dresses, and I have Felicity with her flat-stitched hands and feet. You can tell she’s a doll, but she’s definitely not like the others.
The dolls go to a fancy ball and dance with handsome princes, then they go back to their finishing school. They’re always together wherever they go, and they’re the best of friends, even Felicity, who until recently had been forgotten in Evie’s sea chest.
After a while it starts being fun. We make it fun, all of us together. There are lots of things the dolls could do and adventures they could go on. If only I could come back to Evie’s every day and the five of us could play this game forever.
When the dolls are asleep, I ask Evie for a drink of water. She walks me downstairs to the bucket and dipper, and while we’re passing through the kitchen, there’s a knock at the door. Mrs. Mason answers, and it’s an Indian woman selling fresh fish.
“Ik-tah kunsih?” Mrs. Mason asks. They go back and forth awhile before she trades the woman some eggs for two big salmon.
If Mrs. Mason in her back East dresses and rosewater perfume speaks Chinook, it really does mean everyone knows some.
Back upstairs I pick up Felicity and ask, “Do they teach Chinook in school here? When there is school, I mean.”
Evie shakes her head. “Chinook is something you just pick up. Even me, and I didn’t grow up speaking it like Madge and Inez and Jenny did. You’ll learn.”
This is how you learn.
I stand Felicity on her flour-sack feet. “What if the dolls meet a prince at the next ball, and he only speaks Chinook? Then you all can help me help Felicity talk to him.”
Madge purses her lips. “No one only speaks Chinook. All right, though. Hyacinth will help Felicity talk to Prince . . . Pierre.”
Felicity has a nice conversation with Prince Pierre, who is played quite ably by a dishrag bound with string to make it shaped like a boy. They talk about how much things cost and where things are, and by the time we hear the band start up, I can confidently ask people’s names, tell them my own, and say please and thank you.
My mind is a little broader already.
The streets are much busier now that the sun is higher. The band is playing on Yesler’s Pavilion down by the wharf. Houses are all hung with bunting, and most of the stores have tables out front where they’re selling lemonade and sweets and ale.
Kids are everywhere. They’re racing through the streets shouting and cheering and chasing dogs and losing their hats and bonnets. Indian kids are running around as well as white kids, and there are even a few small Chinese boys who have pigtails just like their papas.
It makes no sense that there’s no school here. There are plenty of children.
I spot Ida and Nell walking with two young men. How boring. Nell should come join us. We’ve got big plans, starting with trying to sweet-talk Mr. Plummer into giving us lemonade without handing over a nickel none of us have. I’m still not happy they didn’t tell me there were no schools, but my head may well have been turned too, had I gotten all that attention just for setting foot in town.
Nell doesn’t look bored, though. She looks happy. She’s twirling a parasol and grinning that old saucy cards-in-the-necessary smile.
I might not be old enough for courting, but I know now’s not the time to rush up and embrace her. So I just wave. Nell doesn’t stand on such formality, though, and plows over to me like a ship under sail.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Nell whispers in my ear. “He’s also a total bore! Looks like I’m at the Carrs’ a little longer. Not that they mind. Nor do I. I love them. They’re teaching me to mend nets. Fishing nets! Can you believe?”
I can, actually. Ostrich-plume, flouncy-skirt Nell Stewart, queen of the last-minute trick, is learning to mend fishing nets in yet another family she’s found herself part of.
“Your friends are waiting.” Nell nudges me toward Evie and the others, who are staring like fish caught in her new-mended nets. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you later. I have to let ol’ Snoremaker down gently.”
Nell squeezes my arm and swishes off. My Seattle friends are still exclaiming over how exciting courting must be, when there’s a gunshot.
I flinch, but Inez squeals, “Oh! They must be racing on Front Street already.”
Evie trots a few paces ahead. “We should go watch my brother. He’s got a chestnut gelding that’s so quick off the line it’s breathtaking.”
“I’m going to run over to Mrs. Pollard’s,” I say. “I have to check on my brother and make sure he isn’t driving her to distraction. I’ll meet you there.”
Jenny takes my elbow. “We’ll all go.”
So we do. All of us together.
Jer is napping when we stop by. Mrs. Pollard says he’s been no trouble at all, and we girls should go have fun and eat plenty of oysters for her.
I make a face—everyone here can’t get enough of those slimy rock-slugs but I can’t stand the sight of them—and Mrs. Pollard laughs as we plunge out of her gate and down the hill toward the bay.
The horse racing is most exciting. We shout our lungs raw for Evie’s brother, but he comes a distant third to Stephen Collins’s glossy black mare. Jenny’s mother treats us all to strawberries and cream, courtesy of the Ladies’ Mite Society.
We’re sitting in the shade outside the old blockhouse waiting for the next race to start when Mrs. D darts around the corner like she’s looking to hide. Mr. Mercer is right behind her. He puts himself in her path and stabs his finger into his palm as if he’s making a point. Mrs. D lifts her chin, but doesn’t say a thing. Her cheeks are bright red. Mr. Mercer gives a massive fed-up sigh, then stalks off.
That’s likely for the best. As far as I can tell, she’d still as soon kill him with her bare hands.
Mrs. D leans against the side of the blockhouse and lets out a long breath like a bull when he’s angry. Then she spots me. I give a little halfhearted wave, but her eyes drop to my side and her whole face goes panicky.
“Jane? Oh my heavens, where is he? Where’s Jer? Why aren’t you watching him? He could be trampled or drowned or—”
“It’s all right,” I cut in. “Ma’am! Jer’s playing with Jimmie Lincoln. Mrs. Pollard has him. It’s fine.”
I know full well it’s rude to interrupt, and she’s bound to give me an earful, but she’s so screechy and terrified I feel honest-to-goodness bad for her as she fights to catch her breath and presses both hands to her chest.
Mr. W comes up behind her and gently squeezes her shoulders. “See? Jane has it all in hand. Jer’s bound to have a better time playing with a boy his own age than tagging after his big sister.”
Mrs. D busies herself brushing dirt off her sleeve. If she gets upset at me for doing something nice for Jer—even if it happens to be nice for me as well—she’ll be the one to look the fool.
“Well, then,” Mrs. D says, “I’ll go check on
him, shall I? Make sure he’s not too much trouble for Mrs. Pollard?”
“Yes, ma’am, only I just—”
She’s already bustling up the hill, clutching her hat with one hand. Mr. W smiles in a what-can-I-do? sort of way and follows.
I know what’s coming. I turn to my friends and say, “Let’s go back to Evie’s and send the dolls on a sea voyage.” It will take Mrs. D a long time to find me there.
“No thanks,” Jenny says. “I want to see the next race.”
“Me too,” adds Inez. “Everyone says Mr. Ling’s colt can’t be beat.”
Sure enough, before the next set of horses is even lined up, Mrs. D comes back to Front Street towing Jer by the hand. Mr. W trails her, holding a bowl of strawberries and cream and looking like he could use a long drink of water.
“See?” Mrs. D sits Jer beside me on the bench, then pulls the bowl of berries out of Mr. W’s hands and thrusts it into Jer’s. “Jer had had enough of Jimmie Lincoln, and it wouldn’t be right to keep Mrs. Pollard from enjoying Independence Day, would it?”
She’s giving me a Look, so I know the right answer.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good.” Mrs. D nods like everything is finally in order. “We’re beholden enough without owing Mrs. Pollard, too. I’m away to Mrs. Grinold’s. There’s a lot of horses out today, Jane. Do please keep a firm eye on him.”
Then she’s off, still holding down her hat, in the direction Mr. Mercer didn’t go.
“I hope she can have your pardon,” Mr. W mumbles to me. “Asa Mercer had the bad taste to confront her about money. In public, too.”
Madge and Inez are studying their bowls. Jenny is picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, and Evie is swinging her legs. They are all trying to pretend my stepmother didn’t just have the bad taste to confront me about something that was already taken care of in a way that gave everyone something they wanted.
“Jer wanted to see the mill.” Mr. W is pink from the sun and the walk and probably Mrs. D, although he’d never admit it. “I don’t mind taking him over there. Seems like you’re having a good time with your friends.”
The Many Reflections of Miss Jane Deming Page 13
