Growing Up Ivy

by Peggy Dymond Leavey

  When neither adult spoke, Ivy plunged on. “I had a letter from my mother the other day, and she’s going to be busy all summer long in New York with her new play. There’s really nothing keeping me here. Nothing at all.”

  Her father looked helplessly from Ivy to his mother and back again.

  “Your father’s a peddler, Ivy. Hardly the life for a young girl.”

  “I’m used to a hard life. Can’t I go with you? Please, Papa. I’m no trouble at all. I love to read and write stories. You’d hardly know I was there.”

  Maud was suddenly struck with a fit of coughing.

  “Really, Papa. I’m very quiet, and I know I could learn to love Dora. Even if she’s not the fine white charger I imagined you’d be riding when you came to rescue me.”

  “Rescue you!” Maud had recovered. “There’s no end to this child’s imagination, Alva.”

  Ivy’s father removed a wrinkled suit jacket from the back of the chair and picked up the hat that lay on the table. “She sounds for all the world like her mother,” he said. But he said it kindly.

  “I’ll be away all summer, Ivy. A long ways from here. There’s no conveniences in the caravan. And you might want the company of another female from time to time. Someone to talk about, well, womanly things.”

  He was turning the hat around in his hands, and Ivy saw his face redden. “It’ll just be me and the horse till we get to the travellers’ meeting in August. There’ll be kids there, I guess.”

  “I don’t need kids, Papa. And as for female company, I already know all about the womanly things you’re talking about. Momma explained all about it, before I even started getting the monthlies. I can look after myself; you can be sure of that.”

  “Ivy! Mind your tongue!” Maud looked horrified.

  “But he’s my father. He knows about such things.”

  “Of course, Ivy,” Alva said. He chewed at his lip while he considered her proposal. “There’s room enough in the caravan, I guess. It might be kind of nice to have some company. But you’ll find I’m not much of a talker.”

  “That’s all right, Papa,” Ivy said.

  “She does the talking, most of the time,” Maud said.

  “Well, Mother? What do you think? You’re probably ready for a rest now anyway.”

  “Oh, she is,” Ivy said. “She’ll be happy not to have to listen to all my idle chatter. Won’t you, Grandmother?”

  “I was counting on some help with the preserving,” Maud said. “But I’ve never had any before, so why should this summer be any different?”

  That appeared to settle it. But when Ivy ran upstairs to gather her clothes for the journey, Maud was right behind her.

  “There are some things we do not mention in mixed company, Ivy.” She opened the drawers of the dresser while Ivy pulled her old cardboard suitcase out of the chimney corner and flopped it onto the bed.

  “I know you can look after yourself. But stop and think before you speak. Your father is a man. A good man, to be sure, but still a man.”

  Ivy transferred the contents of the dresser to the bed, and together they sorted and folded the clothing into the suitcase. Maud shook her head over all the mends in the girl’s supply of underwear.

  “There’s another pair of bloomers downstairs, wanting some elastic. If your father can wait five minutes, I’ll thread it through. But you’d best take lots of safety pins with you.”

  She lifted the curtain on the closet and removed the purple dress from its hanger.

  “Not that dress, Grandmother,” Ivy said. “I can’t let Papa see me in that.”

  “Nonsense. Do you think for one minute that he cares what you look like? This dress is nice and cool, and you’ll be able to rinse it out yourself. You’ll be thanking me for it, one of these days, you mark my words.”

  There was no point in arguing; the hideous dress was already in the suitcase.

  Before Ivy and her father could get away, Maud insisted on filling a basket for them with fresh vegetables from the garden — green beans, the last of the radishes, and some cucumbers.

  “If I’d known you were coming, Alva,” she said, pinching off some bright green lettuce, “I’d have had a chicken ready for you — though I’d likely have had a fight on my hands with the girl.

  “Ivy, go back and see if there are any eggs. Might as well take whatever you can find.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” Alva was saying when Ivy returned with eight fresh eggs. “I’ve got enough food in the caravan for now. I hear tell that the customers will see that I don’t starve. And they tell me the fishing’s good along the way.”

  Alva received the eggs in his rough hands, and tucked them tenderly into the basket, down amongst the vegetables. “Off we go then, Ivy. Say goodbye to your grandmother.”

  He watched as Maud allowed Ivy to plant a kiss on her cheek. In return, his mother touched the girl’s shoulder briefly. “I’ll bring her back before the snow flies,” he said.

  “Absolutely not!” Maud had followed them out onto the front porch. “That girl’s got to go to school in September.”

  Alva hesitated, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Can’t really say where I’ll be in September, Mother. We could be heading back this way.”

  “This is important, Alva. I didn’t force her to go to school when she got here last month; she’s a bright enough child. But she’s got to start soon’s you can bring her back. You mind now, Ivy. We don’t want the truant officer coming around.”

  “Fine, fine,” Alva said. “And if the sales are as good as I hope, Mother, there’ll be some cash money to help you with your winter expenses. And Ivy’s, too, of course. What I’ve left you today should get you a load of wood, at least.”

  “Oh, I won’t be here in the winter,” Ivy said. “My mother will be home long before that.”

  Dora watched as the three crossed the road in her direction, carrying Ivy’s bags and the basket of provisions. The man tossed some bundles up onto the wagon and spoke in a low tone to the horse.

  Ivy kept a close eye on Dora while her father hoisted her up to the seat. “She’s not a wild animal, Ivy,” Alva said. “She’s a domestic creature, a horse as gentle as any you’ll find.”

  “I know, Papa.”

  In her excitement at the prospect of spending the summer with her father, Ivy hadn’t thought to ask what goods they’d be peddling around the countryside. When she scrambled over the seat and into the wagon, she discovered boxes and boxes of new shoes stacked on both sides of the caravan. And when she asked about it, her father told her that there were more bags of footwear in the two-wheeled cart they were pulling behind.

  “Once we sell everything in the cart, we’ll be leaving it off somewhere,” Alva said. “We can travel faster that way, and we’ll pick it up again on the way home.”

  He carried the old suitcase along the narrow aisle to the back of the caravan. “The bench under the window lifts up,” he said. “There should be room for your things in there.”

  No sooner had they climbed back out and settled on the wagon seat, than Dora sensed that the time had come to be off. The man had only to pick up the reins, and the horse began to move forward.

  Ivy waved at her grandmother, standing at the edge of the road. “Goodbye, Grandmother. We’re off on a wonderful adventure.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Maud suddenly flapped her hands. “Alva, wait just a minute!” And she went rushing back to the house.

  “Whoa,” the man spoke to the horse. “I guess we forgot something, Ivy. Whoa, Dora. ’Fraid I don’t know how to back this thing up.”

  Ivy leaned around the edge of the caravan until she saw her grandmother trotting alongside, waving a brown paper bag.

  “Ivy,” she gasped. “I wanted you to have this. I bought it special, for your birthda
y. But seeing’s how you won’t be here, you should take it with you.”

  A birthday present. Ivy couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given her a real present for her birthday, something that came from a store.

  “You going to open it?” her father asked. But Ivy knew that he wanted to get going; she’d delayed him already by at least an hour.

  “Oh, you can open it anytime,” Maud said. “Get away with you now.” She turned on her heel and strode back across the road.

  Consumed with curiosity, Ivy unrolled the top of the brown paper bag and peered inside. To her amazement, what she lifted out was a thick writing tablet — hundreds of sheets of clean, lined paper — and a brand new pencil, its lead already sharpened. On the cover of the writing pad, Maud had printed IVY’S STORYS.

  Opening the book’s cover, she smoothed her hand over the first pristine page, smiling to herself and thinking of all the things she would write. But not yet — for now, she would hold the birthday present tight against her heart until they had left the town of Larkin far behind.

  9

  Revelations

  “Don’t forget to make a wish on the first star you see tonight, Papa,” Ivy said, before climbing into the back of the wagon at dusk. “My wish has already come true.”

  How could she be any happier? Her father had found her at last; her mother — missing Ivy terribly — was following her dream in New York; and her grandmother, by giving Ivy a book in which to write her stories, had shown that she understood.

  For the next two months the cozy caravan would be her home. Her bed was a hammock, slung along the aisle between the walls of shoes that gradually, over the summer, would shrink to nothing.

  Alva had assured her that he’d be comfortable sleeping on the bench under the back window.

  Ivy was lulled to sleep by the swaying of the hammock, the creak of the wagon, and the rhythmic clop, clop of Dora’s hooves on the hard surface of the road.

  Then, before she knew it, it was morning. Sometime during the night the caravan had stopped. Ivy swung down from the hammock and pushed open the doors behind the wagon seat.

  Dora had been unhitched and was now tethered loosely to a tree, where she nibbled grass in the shade. Alva was crouched over an open fire. The aroma of frying eggs made Ivy’s cheeks ache in anticipation.

  “Good morning, Papa,” she called. “I didn’t hear you get up.” She jumped down onto the dewy grass. “I started to make up a poem in my head last night. But now that I’m awake, it’s gone.”

  Alva turned with a slow smile. “Well, I don’t need to ask you if you slept good,” he said. “Come and join me. There’s a real nice stream just down the bank there. How do you like your eggs?”

  “Any way but poached,” Ivy said.

  Maud would not have approved of the fact that she hadn’t changed into her nightgown before climbing into bed last night. All it took this morning was a quick splash of cold water, and Ivy was ready to choose a brown egg for her breakfast and to start her first day on the road with her father.

  “I’m so happy, Papa,” she said. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do while I wait for Momma, than to spend the time with you. It’s going to be a perfect summer. I can just feel it.”

  Although she knew by his own admission that Alva was not a great conversationalist, Ivy was curious to find out where he’d been all her life. It might take a while, but gradually the story would come out. She was sure of that. They had the whole summer to get to know each other.

  When he told her that for the past two years he’d worked in a shoe factory, Ivy understood the stained and calloused hands.

  She pictured him sitting astride a cobbler’s bench, wearing a leather apron and skillfully wielding a small hammer, exactly like the illustration in the book of fairy tales.

  This past spring, Alva had lost his job at the shoe factory. And then the peddling route had come available.

  “That’s the way it is with luck sometimes,” Ivy said. “Have you noticed? All of a sudden, just when you need it, you’ll have the most wonderful luck.”

  The man who’d had the route previously had grown tired of the life. Alva had bought Dora and rented the caravan from him, and the owner of the shoe factory had agreed to stock it, as he had in the past.

  “But I paid for all the shoes that are in the small cart myself,” Alva said. “So when I sell that lot, it’s all money in my pocket.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone growing tired of this life,” Ivy said. “Can you?”

  Already that morning they had stopped to let a large turtle dawdle across the road in front of them. A mile or two farther along, it was a spotted fawn and its mother, tiptoeing over the road to sample the grass on the other side. Ivy held her breath in delight. They watched the pair of deer until they slipped like shadows into the trees.

  Alva smiled at Ivy. “I bet you could write a poem about that, now.”

  “Maybe you could, too, Papa. Do you like to write, like I do?”

  A long silence. Then, “Well, it’s like this, Ivy. I’m not very good at letters and such.”

  “Letters?” Ivy said. “Do you mean the alphabet?”

  “I know my ABCs. Just not so many of the words they make when you string them together, like.”

  “You mean you can’t write?” Ivy was wide-eyed.

  “Nope. ’Fraid not. Not much of a reader, neither.”

  “Oh.” Ivy looked at her father with sorrow. “I don’t think I ever met anyone who couldn’t read or write. Not a grownup, anyway.”

  “Well, now you’ve met one,” he said.

  “Oh, Papa, I’m sorry.” She leaned forward so that she could look into his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sure you just never had the chance.”

  “True enough.” Alva flapped the reins. “But learning came hard for me, the short time I did go to school.”

  “Papa, I have the best idea. I’m going to write you a story. I’ll read it to you, and guess what, Papa? I will teach you to read it all by yourself. At first, I’ll use only little words in the story. Like we had in our primer.”

  “Well now, Ivy. I don’t know. It isn’t easy to teach someone to read. ’Specially not someone as old as me. Nor as set in his ways.”

  “You’re not set in your ways, Papa. You took on this peddling route, didn’t you? That was a new adventure for you. I’d say it was very brave. And then you said your daughter, who you didn’t even know, could come along with you. Anyone as brave and adventurous as you can learn to read.”

  “Well, now.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Just you wait and see!”

  10

  Life on the Road

  “I think Dora remembers the regular stops along this route,” Ivy said one day. “Don’t you, Papa? From all the times she’s travelled this way before.”

  Whenever the caravan approached a house or a farm gate beside the road, Dora’s pace would slow, as if she were anticipating Alva’s command.

  “She is a very smart horse,” Alva agreed. This mode of travel was a new experience for him, and he’d admitted to Ivy his relief at discovering a natural bond between himself and the animal.

  At each stop they made, Ivy was expected to remain with Dora, while Alva went to knock on doors and talk to whomever answered. She got to know, just from the way he walked back to the wagon, whether or not he’d made a sale.

  At times, her father’s gait was slow, as if his feet were too heavy to lift. Without a word, he’d climb back up to the seat, give the reins a flick, look over at Ivy, and shake his head. Other times, Alva’s stride was light and brisk, and he’d be wearing a smile as he made his way back to the wagon. He’d have with him a list of the shoe sizes the housewife had asked to be shown.

  Reading numerals was not a prob
lem for Alva Chalmers. He would simply match the ones on his list with those marked on the ends of the shoeboxes, and together he and Ivy would carry them up to the house.

  Ivy kept her fingers crossed that every order would be a big one, so that her help would be required. This usually got her inside the door of the house, where she could catch a glimpse of the way the family lived.

  Back in the city, she’d always welcomed an excuse to go walking at night with Frannie, looking in through lighted windows, imagining what secrets might lie in the rooms beyond their view.

  Alva tried to keep the caravan on the small country roads where the cars were fewer, avoiding the highways wherever he could. Dora maintained a steady, unhurried pace, leading them onto the shoulder of the road if the drivers behind them started honking their horns.

  The caravan drew curious stares everywhere they went, and if there were children around, they could be counted on to come running for a better look at the colourful contraption.

  “What kind of a wagon is this, anyway?”

  Ivy sat proudly erect on the seat. “It’s a caravan.”

  “Are you folks gypsies, then?”

  “I like to pretend that we are. But truly, we’re just regular people.”

  “Can we look inside?”

  It was evident from the awe in the voices that every child who took a peek inside Ivy’s house-on-wheels wished they could trade places with her — “Say, do you folks really live in here?”

  As she had predicted, Ivy grew to love the gentle Dora. It wasn’t long before she was the one who led the horse to the place she would be hobbled for the night, after Alva had unhitched her from the wagon.

  No longer did Ivy fear getting nipped when she stroked Dora’s nose or fed her a handful of oats. “Hold your palm flat, Ivy,” Alva had said. “So’s your fingers don’t get in the way of her teeth.”

  Ivy was sure that her father must be wondering what she was writing, all those endless hours spent beside him on the wagon seat — even though he seemed to show no interest in it whatsoever.