Chances

by Pamela Nowak

She stared at him, eyes widening. “I do that?” The question came out in a quiet breath.

  He nodded, reluctant to reveal too much of himself but needing her to understand. “You have made me feel, at various times, heartless, backward, and childish. Yet, I consider myself none of those things and neither would most people who know me.”

  Her eyes clouded, her bag of garbage falling at her feet. With an uncharacteristically tentative movement, she touched his arm. “Goodness, I didn’t intend to make you feel that way.”

  “You are very adept at stirring people to action, Sarah, even when they don’t wish to be stirred.”

  “You give me a great deal of power.” The comment hung between them, its impact unsettling.

  “I don’t give you anything,” Daniel sidestepped. “You take it.”

  The moment passed and Sarah pulled her hand from his arm, offering her attention to the last remaining remnants of refuse. A group of fellow garbage collectors passed them and drifted away from the creek. Sarah waved to them and turned back to Daniel. “I’ve charged right into things for years. Mother always told me I had to make myself known, leave a mark on the world, prove I was a leader and not just another pretty face.”

  “But you are a pretty face. Why would you want to downplay it?” He marveled at her complexity. What other woman would dismiss her own beauty that way? In his eyes, it only served to increase her appeal.

  “Because I’m more than that. I can do whatever needs to be done and I can do it well.”

  “Did anyone ever say you couldn’t?” He watched her, waiting for her to point out that he had said that very thing, and wondering how the devil he could ever deny it.

  “No, but most people assume women are frail-minded creatures who don’t know what they’re doing. They think of us as decorative without a care to our capabilities.”

  Daniel mulled her words, needing her to understand, and chose his own words carefully. “I was always taught that women were superior to men’s baser instincts, the personification of all that was fine and good, and that men should treat them as such, not place burdens on them. Doing so is an indication of respect.”

  She nodded, digesting the explanation but clearly not agreeing with it. “But what if we see it as an indication that you feel us incapable and unworthy?” she offered. “Besides, you may all be fooling yourselves into thinking that you do this as a symbol of supplication, but we all know such behavior has come to mean more than that. Pick up any etiquette book, homemaker’s guide, or pamphlet on the ‘facts of life’, so to say, and they will all tell you that a woman is to be subservient because she has fewer mental and physical faculties.”

  He wrinkled his eyebrows, puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked at any of those items.”

  She sighed. “Well, most women are indoctrinated with such garbage. Is it any wonder I’m trying to prove such beliefs wrong?”

  She had a point. Again. “Yet you persist in doing things flamboyantly and your behavior draws attention.”

  “Precisely. Do something out of the ordinary and people take a closer look.”

  “Sometimes they dismiss you as too radical.”

  “Then they miss the point entirely. They’re the same people who would refuse to consider the issue no matter how it was presented to them.”

  “Like me?” he prompted, already knowing the answer.

  She offered a soft smile. “Yes, like you.” She kicked at a rock, sending it toward the creek, before gazing directly at him. “You don’t like it when life is not how you expect it to be, do you?”

  “No. But, then, you don’t like it much when it is.”

  She laughed. “Goodness, we are quite an unlikely pair, aren’t we? Do you know we’ve managed to have a whole conversation without yelling at one another?”

  “I could fix that.”

  “I’ll just bet you could.” She hugged herself against the cold and offered a disarming smile.

  “You’re shivering. How long have you been out here?”

  She shrugged. “A few hours, I suppose.”

  “Look, our sacks are full, folks are starting to drift off, and the wind is picking up. Let’s head over to the cafe for a cup of something hot. We could stop and get Kate and Molly.”

  Sarah’s eyes brightened. “Cocoa would be wonderful,” she glanced down at her muddy clothing, “but we’re hardly fit for the cafe.”

  Daniel laughed. “True enough. How about my kitchen?”

  Sarah wavered, then nodded. Waving at the few scattered remaining souls along the creek, they turned toward Blake Street. Within a few short minutes, their muddy shoes were on the back porch and Mrs. Winifred was tsking about the mess.

  “It’ll clean up,” Daniel told her.

  She shook her head and set cups of cocoa on the table before exiting the kitchen.

  “Gosh, you and Papa must have worked very hard,” Molly piped up. “Papa never lets us make such a mess unless we’re so tired we’re gonna drop.”

  “Molly, be polite,” Daniel cautioned.

  Sarah detected a hint of nervousness in his voice, as if he was unsure about inviting her now that it was all said and done. Perhaps he was as unsure as she was about coming.

  “It’s all right, let her chat. I don’t mind. I suspect, Molly, that you’ve managed to hit the nail squarely on the end. We’re very tired.” The comment seemed to satisfy Molly, and Sarah was glad when the tension of the moment drifted away.

  “We’re very glad you decided to stop by,” Kate said.

  Sarah smiled at her and nodded, recognizing that Kate never seemed to need the response that Molly always courted.

  “Here’s to you, ladies,” Daniel announced, lifting his cup high into the air. Sarah noted just enough surprise in Kate’s raised eyebrows to realize that his abandon was unusual.

  “Mrs. Winifred says Papa’s gonna be running for mayor, next thing.”

  “Molly.”

  Sarah laughed at Daniel’s chagrin. “Well, I don’t think I’d lay my bets on that one if I were you. I don’t believe your Papa is quite ready for politics. I think you’d more likely find me running for office than you would him.”

  “You can’t be a mayor, Miss Sarah. Only men can be mayors and stuff like that.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. She shouldn’t be surprised that Molly would believe such a thing was true. Obviously Daniel hadn’t offered her any other alternative. “Did you know women can vote and serve on juries up in Wyoming Territory?” she queried, her eyes on Daniel, gauging his reaction.

  “Sarah,” he cautioned, just as she had expected.

  She ignored him as Kate and Molly shook their heads, then she pasted a smile on her face and stared at him. “Is there something you wanted, Daniel?”

  “Must you discuss suffrage with the girls?”

  “I was making conversation. Besides, what on earth is wrong with exposing them to suffrage?” She widened her eyes at him. “Or are you back to being narrow-minded again?”

  “I am not being narrow-minded,” he announced. “I am sharing a cup of cocoa with my daughters and I am allowing them to converse with an adult despite the fact that most folks advise that children should be seen and not heard.” The teasing left his voice, indicating she’d crossed some invisible line he’d neglected to tell her about. “Don’t you dare tell me that now I’m a stick-in-the-mud because I do not want to have them embroiled in a political discussion.”

  “But you are a stick-in-the-mud,” she reminded him with a lilt. Goodness, toss in the girls and he lost all sense of the progress they’d made. The man was absolutely maddening, but she’d be hog-tied if she was going to get drawn into another argument.

  “And you’re—”

  “Papa?”

  Sarah and Daniel both started at the strict note in Kate’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I’m not used to conversing with children.” She smiled at Kate and Molly. “I’m sorry, girls.”

  Daniel’s eyes sof
tened. “My apologies, as well. Perhaps I’m a bit protective.”

  A bit? The thought fluttered, unchecked, through her mind. Heavens, the man was sheltering the girls so much that they’d never be able to develop an independent opinion about anything. She wondered momentarily if he’d do the same if they were sons rather than daughters then shooed the idea away. She was judging again, drat it all.

  “Miss Sarah?” Molly’s voice pulled her back to the trio at the table.

  “Hmmm?”

  “If you aren’t much used to children, maybe you ought to come help the other ladies up at our school. They’re gonna help us put on a recitation.”

  “Oh, please, Miss Sarah,” Kate chimed in, abandoning her usual reserve. “Our teacher said she could use extra hands. You could get used to us and help out at the same time.”

  Daniel looked from his daughters to Sarah, his expression one of apology merging with worry. “Now, girls, I’m not sure Miss Sarah—”

  “It’s all right, Daniel. I think it might be good for me and I’m sure I could help somehow.” She offered a reassuring smile. It would be good for her. Besides, what possible trouble could she cause at a recitation for heaven’s sake?

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah shifted in her too-small seat in the primary classroom of the Arapahoe School. She glanced at the sparse group of mothers, some with toddlers at their knees, and resisted an urge to get up and flee. She wasn’t anyone’s mother and had no soapbox on which to stand, and everyone here knew it.

  She drew a breath and reminded herself it was a meeting, like any other. Despite the unfamiliar territory, there would be things to do, things she’d be good at, things that had nothing to do with children. There must be something associated with recitations that needed a firm take-charge person.

  Miss Clay walked to the front of the room, her ample hips swaying with each step. The distinctive scent of lemon verbena followed in her wake.

  A willowy mother in the next line of seats leaned toward Sarah and whispered, “Best teacher in the city but she hasn’t a clue how dull this thing is.” She offered a wry smile and extended her hand. “Margaret Lassiter, mother of five.”

  “Sarah Donovan, mother of none, recruited by the Petterman girls.” She shook Margaret’s hand and shrugged her shoulders.

  Margaret laughed and shifted her gaze to the front of the room.

  The plump teacher clapped her hands together twice and beamed at the group. “Good afternoon, ladies. I see we have new faces, just as I had hoped when I asked the students to invite family friends as well as mothers. Our numbers have so dwindled these past few years. Please welcome those who are not among our usual group.” She clapped her hands again, this time in a brief show of polite appreciation. “I’ve prepared a list of our entertainments as well as the tasks needed to support them.” She waved at the blackboard behind her.

  Sarah read the list. Kate and Molly hadn’t been kidding when they’d called the show a “recitation.” The long list contained one poem after another. The second list, tasks, was devoted to refreshments and setting up chairs.

  “My hope this year is to attract a wider audience,” Miss Clay explained, clasping her hands in front of her rather large bosom. “We seem to have dropped off in that area, as well.”

  Mrs. Lassiter rolled her eyes.

  “Isn’t this the same list as last year?” an unkempt young woman asked. She smoothed a few errant hairs from her face and crossed her arms in a defiant gesture of complaint.

  Miss Clay stood straighter and leveled a gaze at the woman. “Classics, tried and true, Mrs. Benson. McGuffy’s standard offerings. The framework of great literature.”

  “Great literature, yes, Miss Clay,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “but must we always use the same ones?”

  Mrs. Benson nodded. “I was thinking we should offer something new this year?”

  The teacher’s plump face twitched. “Changing the content would alter the intent of the exercise. Besides, I’ve already assigned the poems. Perhaps we should expand the refreshment table. Maybe more of the fathers will come.”

  A twinge of sympathy welled in Sarah’s heart. Distasteful as the poems were, Miss Clay seemed attached to them, and there was no mistaking the hostility between her and Mrs. Benson.

  “Miss Clay, if I might be so bold,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “I’ve had four children come through your class and each year, it has been the same recital. Those that continue to attend do so only because they do not want to disappoint their children. We need to look at change.”

  Mrs. Benson scowled. “These poems are flat-out dull.”

  A well-groomed older woman stood and glared at the group. “I think Miss Clay is doing an admirable job and we ought to just stay out of it unless we can propose something better.” She tossed her head at the group and resumed her seat.

  Sarah shifted in her seat, more sure than ever that she did not belong there. Her mind leapt into action, seeking solutions that would end the growing sense of conflict filling the room.

  “Aren’t there any new poems?” Mrs. Benson asked.

  Miss Clay shook her head. “These pieces are classics.”

  Tired of the bickering, Sarah stood and smiled at the group. “Perhaps the poems could be taught in class rather than used as the recitation pieces. That way, the children would still be exposed to them. Miss Clay could then explore something more entertaining for the presentation, perhaps forego poetry altogether.”

  “Hear, hear,” Mrs. Benson added. “My husband says we ought to just let the kids make up limericks.”

  “The recitation is intended to expose the children to literature, to foster memorization skills, and to allow them to present in front of people. Limericks are out of the question.” Miss Clay’s voice shook and her chubby face had stiffened in defensive resolution.

  Sarah glanced around the room and saw the same fierce expressions deepening on others’ faces. “What about a play?”

  The teacher stared at her as though she’d proposed a song and dance routine. “Oh, no. I hardly think …”

  “It’s not a bad idea. The men hate poetry and the children are not fond of it themselves.” Mrs. Lassiter sat down at her desk and raised her eyebrows at the teacher. “Why not?”

  “Oh, my, a play? I … well … I couldn’t. I mean, I’ve never done such a thing. I wouldn’t know how.”

  “Nonsense,” said the woman who had earlier defended her skills. “You’d do fine.”

  Miss Clay’s lower lip trembled. “As fine as I do with poetry recitations? I can teach a play, but I do not possess the skills to direct one. Do not put me in that position.”

  Sarah swallowed. “What about allowing someone else to direct? Miss Clay can teach about the play and utilize her talents to educate the children on drama and its history while organizing the other aspects of the event.”

  Miss Clay stood at the front, looking oddly relieved. “What a grand idea,” she declared. “Would anyone like to serve as director?”

  The room filled with silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the well-dressed woman who had earlier defended Miss Clay raised her hand. “Mrs. Elliot is an ardent supporter of the theatre. Perhaps we should ask her.”

  Mrs. Lassiter snorted. “If Mrs. Elliot directs, we shall have nothing but melodrama, with her little darlings in the midst of it.”

  “Well, we all know that the very best of the roles with go to your children if you take on the job,” the woman said, shaking her head.

  “I don’t want the job.” Mrs. Lassiter stood with her hands on her hips. “Why does it even have to be one of us? Ask someone who doesn’t have children.” She turned and pointed to Sarah. “You, Sarah Donovan. It was your idea. You direct it.”

  Nine sets of eyes focused on Sarah and a wave of panic washed over her. She didn’t even know how to talk to children. “I’d be happy to do what I can to assist, perhaps secure props or arrange advertising but—”

  “You’re good enough t
o come up with the idea but not to see it through.”

  “That’s hardly the case, Mrs. Lassiter, and I think you know it.”

  Mrs. Lassiter pinned her with a stare. “Or is what they say true? That Sarah Donovan got her job through no skill of her own, that she is not truly as accomplished as she would have people believe?”

  Sarah’s breath caught and her jaw stiffened. Was that really what people were saying?

  She glanced at the blackboard, with its list of poems. A play was definitely the right answer, for the children as well as the audience. Still, a poorly directed play would be as disastrous as the worn-out recitation.

  Could she do it? It would be a whole new test of skills, something she’d never done. With children. But wouldn’t it be something to pull it off?

  Sarah straightened her back, feeling the familiar irresistible lure of a challenge, and nodded her acceptance.

  Seconds later, she caught Mrs. Lassiter’s satisfied smile and realized she’d been suckered.

  * * * * *

  Frank Bates lay on the rumpled bed of his sparse room in Mrs. King’s boarding house. He peered at the tiny gray mouse in the corner and smiled.

  “You like that cheese, huh fella?” he whispered.

  The mouse tensed at the sound and waited without movement.

  Frank smiled and sketched whiskers on his charcoal drawing of the rodent. As sketches went, he reckoned this one wasn’t too bad. He didn’t much like charcoal, but his pastel crayons were across the room, in their metal tin. Squeaky didn’t pose for him all that often. He’d made do with the tools at hand.

  He waited while the mouse snatched up the last crumb of cheese and scampered off behind the dresser. Then, he rose and looked up at the high shelf that held his other drawings. Mostly all animals, they peered down at him, wordless friends.

  If he’d had the nerve all those years ago, he’d have told his father to go to hell. Maybe one of his sketches would be hanging in some fancy museum somewhere. Maybe he’d be wealthy and famous and recognized everywhere he went.

  Instead, he was working at a shit job in a railroad station. As jobs went, it was just one more shit job in a long line of shit jobs, all of them ruined in one way of another. He’d have been good at all of them, if it weren’t for bad luck.