She picked up the tempo and found the rhythm.
“You’ve got it.”
Louise peeked in from the kitchen. “Time to get dressed.”
Marie stood steadfast, and her hands galloped on.
“Hit the trail, Junior,” Frank drawled.
Marie left and a few minutes later returned wearing her new yellow dress with flowers embroidered at the neckline, cuffs, and hem. Carrying Dolly on her back in the cradleboard Yonder had made for her birthday, she shadowed Henryetta, who shooed flies away from the cake and smacked them with a swatter.
“Tell me,” Marie said.
“Cake’s right pretty. Wish you could see it.”
“What’s on it?”
“Nine candles in fancy holders—ceramic carousel horses.” Henryetta swatted another fly.
“Where are the flowers I pressed?”
“All around the cake.”
“Are we using the good dishes?”
“Only the best for you, missy. Haviland china and sterling silver. And table linens too nice for a passel of kids. It’ll take the wash girls a pound of elbow grease.”
“What’s elbow grease?”
“Mercy sakes, I never knew a child had so many questions.” Henryetta handed Marie some red party poppers. “Put these above the plates.”
“What are they?” Marie asked.
“Party poppers. You hold it real tight at both ends, give it a tug, and it sounds like a firecracker.”
The doorbell rang, and Frank opened the door for Curly Ambrose, who held a tripod and large case. Frank took the tripod and led Curly, limping, to the kitchen, then picked up a ruler and returned to the dining room. He waved the ruler like a scepter over the table. “Table’s fit for a princess. Now let’s see how much the princess has grown.”
He placed Marie’s hand in the crook of his elbow and escorted her through the kitchen to the back door. Henryetta followed them to the kitchen where Louise and Yonder had stopped what they were doing to observe the annual ceremony while Curly positioned the tripod and mounted his camera to it.
Marie set down the cradleboard and patted Dolly’s head. Then standing with her back against the doorframe, she stretched her body to reach the ruler Frank held above her as Louise arranged her long braids over her shoulders. Curly took pictures of Frank holding the ruler on top of Marie’s head and making a pencil mark on the doorframe where the ruler indicated.
“Now, Junior, step aside so I can make a notch.” He took his pocketknife and cut into the doorframe at the pencil mark. Then he measured the distance between the fresh notch and last year’s. “Look. You’ve grown a full three-quarters of an inch,” he said.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.
Curly got another picture of Marie feeling the two notches.
“Three-quarters of an inch marks the difference between a little squirt and a budding neophyte,” Frank said.
Louise moved to the doorway, hugged Marie, and touched the latest notch. Her baby girl growing up. What was important now was to see to it that her daughter had a wonderful time at her party.
Marie picked up the cradleboard and patted Dolly. “We’re having a party.” She slipped the carrier on her back.
The party guests arrived—Dovie’s twin boys, Paul and John; Madge’s step-granddaughter, Ella; and Alice’s daughter, Lana. Louise sent the children to play on the balcony.
But no sooner had she returned to the kitchen than Marie came in crying. “John threw Dolly off the balcony.”
Louise hastened to the balcony where the children were leaning over the railing and laughing. Dolly flew up from below in a high arc over the railing, and Paul leaped to catch her. Louise looked over the railing and saw John shinnying up a support column. Louise yanked Dolly from Paul’s hand. “All of you take your places at the table and sit like young ladies and gentlemen.”
Once assured that Dolly was safe, Marie allowed her mother to place the doll and cradleboard high on a shelf.
Marie sat at the table surrounded by lively chatter but invisible to her guests. Invisible except for the novelty of watching a blind girl eat. When Marie asked for the pitcher of root beer, the children stared as she placed one finger inside her glass and poured with her other hand until the drink reached her finger.
Louise was at a loss as to how to coax children to include Marie in their activities. One time she had Marie play songs they all could sing, but the children broke into laughter when John sang loud and off-key. At Ella’s recent birthday party, Marie won a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey only to have the others accuse her of cheating because she didn’t wear a blindfold.
Frank entered as the children finished their cake. “Time for a pony cart ride.”
John jumped off his chair.
“Whoa,” Frank said. “Pop your poppers first.”
“I didn’t get one,” Lana said.
Henryetta looked at the table and frowned. “I’m sure Marie set out five.” She got another one from the buffet drawer for Lana.
Poppers had been Frank’s idea, in spite of Louise insisting that loud noises upset Marie.
“Poppers ready,” Frank said, “on the count of three. One, two, three!”
The poppers sounded, and the children squealed. Even Marie clapped her hands, and Frank gave Louise an “I told you so” look.
“Let’s go.” Picking up Curly’s tripod, Frank led everyone outside where Yonder waited with the pony cart and its driver, an old, grizzled imitation of Buffalo Bill.
Louise carried out a bunch of carrots, which the children fed to the friendlier of the two ponies while Frank helped Curly set up the camera.
As the children climbed into the cart, scrambling over one another for the best seats, Yonder set Marie on the bench next to the driver who placed the reins in her hands. Louise remained by the ponies, feeding them the last of the carrots.
Curly was taking his time composing the first shot, alternately ducking under the hood to peer through the viewfinder, then jumping up to move the tripod or to direct youngsters to change places.
Seated in the cart, the driver turned to face the children, the fringe of his buckskin waving in the breeze. His eyes had the faraway look of another place and time. “Drove the Concord stagecoach for Wells Fargo,” he drawled. “Finest coach ever built—sturdy enough to handle the meanest, rutted trails you ever seen and gentle enough to rock you to sleep on them very same trails.”
He went on talking even while the children fidgeted and ignored him “Don’t know what we feared most—robbers or Indians.”
The children giggled at John, who was mimicking the driver. Louise was glad to see Frank stride to the cart where he gripped John by the ear until he sat perfectly still, a move that sobered the other children, who listened respectfully as the driver told his story about outsmarting the robber Rattlesnake Calhoun.
Soon after Frank walked away, Paul pointed to one pony’s elevated tail and held his nose. When the children grabbed their noses and laughed, Louise realized the breeze was wafting the odor over the cart. She stepped away from the animals and the aroma and watched Marie laughing along with the others.
She looked past Marie just in time to see John take something from his pocket. Snap went the party popper, and the ponies bolted. Shrieking children grabbed the sides of the cart and each other. Marie dropped the reins and held onto her seat. When the driver jerked the reins, bringing the cart to an abrupt halt, Marie lost her grip, and her flailing hands sought another hold without success. She tumbled to the ground.
Yonder rushed to where she lay motionless on her back and scooped her into his arms. Louise ran to them and huddled over her daughter. “She’s not breathing.” Louise screamed at Yonder. “Do something!”
Frank nearly knocked over Curly’s tripod in his haste to join them.
The driver asked Yonder, “Is she okay, Dad?”
“I’m her father.” Frank snatched Marie from Yonder and jostled her until she gave
a little gasp, then gasped and cried at the same time.
“Thank God, she’s just winded,” Frank said. “You’re all right, Junior.”
“Are you hurt?” Louise tried to wipe away her daughter’s tears, but Frank’s jiggling made it difficult.
Choking on little sobs, Marie shook her head.
“You’ll be fine,” Frank said. “I’ll sit next to you in the cart and keep you safe.”
“No, no!” She pounded his chest. “Don’t make me go. Take me inside.”
Curly bobbed up from under the hood and threw up his hands.
“Your mother will hear about this, John Henkleman,” Louise said. Then she instructed the pony cart driver to take the party guests for their ride without Marie. If the youngsters’ solemn looks were any indication, they felt repentant. But no sooner had the cart left the driveway than she heard boisterous Indian war whoops. She vowed that next year’s celebration would be different.
10
July 1904
Louise wrapped up the book discussion at the next Tuesday Bibliophiles’ meeting and asked Madge to present the word of the day.
“Portend. Portend is a verb meaning ‘to serve as an omen or warning, to presage.’ It comes from the Latin portendere. Synonyms include ‘bode,’ ‘foretell,’ and ‘presage.’ I quote from our reading of Shakespeare’s King Lear: ‘These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us.’”
“I do declare, I hope none of us has occasion to use that word.” Alice’s asthma was under control so she talked without wheezing.
As the others moved to seats around the reading table, Dovie looked up from pouring glasses of lemonade. “I already know how I’ll use it. I’ll say to my boys, ‘Poor table manners portend no dessert.’”
Madge raised her eyebrows. The others laughed. Looking proud of her witticism, Dovie passed around a plate of frosted sugar cookies.
A welcome rain patted the windows. The library, uncomfortably hot in recent weeks, was now pleasant and cozy, its ceiling fans stirring and lamps glowing. Five umbrellas left open to dry huddled in one corner.
Madge wiped her glass. “I suppose everyone saw Mr. Bok’s editorial in The Ladies’ Home Journal.”
Everyone except Gertrude nodded.
Dovie licked her fingers. “He thinks mothers should explain the ‘mystery of life’ to their daughters so they won’t get caught unawares on their wedding night.”
Gertrude lifted her formidable eyebrows. “It’s that kind of indelicate subject that’s the reason I cancelled my subscription.”
“He evidently writes for urban readers,” Madge said. “Girls reared around cows and horses are not likely to get caught unawares.”
Dovie fingered a tendril of hair and absently twirled it. “I’m glad I have sons. How about you, Alice? You going to have a little talk with your daughter?”
“Madge is right,” Alice said. “I grew up on a farm. Nobody has to tell farm girls how babies are made.”
As Louise listened to the conversation, she thought of Marie. At some point, she would have to explain her “monthlies.” But she regretted she would probably never have occasion for “the talk,” as a blind girl stood little chance of marrying.
“Did you see that other write-up, the one by Helen Keller?” Dovie asked.
“Now that was edifying,” Madge said. “Just imagine being deaf and blind and working on a college degree.”
“What’s it about?” Gertrude asked.
“She writes about her life, what it’s like to be deaf and blind,” Dovie answered. “I always thought she’d been afflicted since birth, but she could hear and see until a fever struck her unconscious sometime before her second birthday.”
“Changing the subject,” Gertrude said, “Mother asked me to invite all of you to the Hoover party she’s holding a week from Thursday.”
“I’m dying to see the Hoover,” Dovie said. “My sister in Ohio bought one for her maid and raves about it.” She looked at Alice. “And they say it’s just the thing for asthma.”
Louise’s thoughts went to Frank and the many hours he was spending on his cleaning invention, the Whirlwind Maid. Would the Hoover dash his dreams?
“Mother is planning games and refreshments after the Hoover man does his demonstration,” Gertrude said. “And you know she invites only the best people.”
“Please thank your mother for the invitation, but I won’t be able to attend,” Louise said. “I have a prior commitment.” It was not exactly a lie. Her commitment was to Frank.
Curls of paper tape streamed from Frank’s adding machine, the product of an afternoon’s work. His nimble fingers punched the machine’s keys as he worked out the financials of the Whirlwind Maid’s business plan.
Louise might think his invention a passing fancy, but what she didn’t know was the state of their finances. The “pressing business matter” that had prevented him from accompanying her and Marie to Philadelphia involved his failed attempt to salvage what amounted to worthless railroad investments. That left the Inn as the family’s principal source of income. Now it was rumored that Burlington might close its Riverbend depot, leaving only freight service and the yards, a move that would leave the Inn high and dry. There were no two ways about it: the Whirlwind Maid would have to succeed.
Sounds of the adding machine’s keys clacking and its handle grinding prevented Frank from noticing Henryetta’s entrance into the den until the yellow- and blue-speckled Whirlwind Maid caught his eye. It was cleaning day, and Frank loved nothing more than to see his beautiful brainchild in operation.
“How’s she working for you, Henryetta?”
“Recoiler’s stuck again.” She untied a string from her finger and tucked it in her apron pocket.
Frank sprang from his chair and saw about three feet of cord behind the cart. He pulled the cord, and it unreeled just as it was meant to. But when he let go, it failed to recoil. “I’ll get the boys at the bicycle shop working on it. Other than that, how’s she doing?”
“Picks up dirt good.”
Frank would have liked for Henryetta to display a little enthusiasm—the Whirlwind Maid should arouse passion in every user—but that was not her way even though she had played a part in the invention’s development. For one thing, it had been Henryetta’s idea to speckle the cart’s lemon yellow and flag blue enamel finish so it would not show wear.
Her major contribution, however, had to do with the size of compartments for holding cleaning supplies. Frank had based his design on products used by the Inn’s maids. Henryetta pointed out that not everyone used the same sized products, such as a gallon jug of vinegar or giant box of baking soda. Frank turned the idea over in his mind. Doing away with compartments altogether would not work, as things would shift when the cart was taken up or down stairs. The solution, he realized, was to make the compartment dividers adjustable, instead of fixed.
“Okay to turn it on?” she asked.
“Music to my ears,” he said. “What do you think of the adjustable dividers─your idea?”
“Uh-huh.” She plugged in the cord and flipped the power switch.
The machine growled, an assuring sound to Frank. He returned to his calculations, fine-tuning his business plan, but it was hard to concentrate with Henryetta vacuuming the rug, drapes, and upholstery. The rattling sound when the machine picked up a foreign object unnerved him. He cringed at the thought of a pen nib puncturing the hose.
After Henryetta wheeled the Whirlwind Maid from the den, Frank spent several more hours reviewing and revising the costs of production materials, labor, marketing, travel, shipping, and repairs. He made a conservative estimate of monthly sales and arrived at a price per unit. Finally he committed the figures to paper in ink.
When he finished he mentally tied a string around his finger to remember to talk to the boys at the bicycle shop about the recoiler. A nagging but minor problem. He was confident they would fix it once and for all. But he had far less confidence about what h
e needed to do next: tell Louise he was taking to the road to sell the Whirlwind Maid.
After supper Louise was surprised by Frank’s invitation to take a walk in the woods, something they had not done for many months.
There was a time long before Marie was born when sharing the walk with Frank could transform the experience of the woods. Coming upon a tree once split by lightning, Louise would marvel at how one half thrived while the other stood scorched and lifeless. Frank would marvel along with her, and the moment would become transcendent. Such resonance between them was rare these days.
A walk might do him good. He needed to relax. For weeks he had holed up till all hours in the den, and it was starting to show. His face looked haggard, he showed no interest when she brought home the latest gossip, and he seldom teased Marie and Henryetta anymore.
Exiting the Inn, they exchanged pleasantries with guests who lounged in the Adirondack chairs on the porch. Louise linked arms with her husband as they descended the Inn’s front steps. “Those chairs are overdue for a new coat of paint,” she said.
“I have more important matters on my mind than a bunch of chairs,” he said.
His solemn tone of voice worried Louise. What did he need to tell her that Marie shouldn’t hear? Was he ill? Louise knew Frank’s fear that, like his father, he would die before his time, before achieving fame and fortune. At forty-three, he carried a cloud over his head, his father having had his first heart attack at that age. The older man lived three more years, a sleepwalking version of his former ambitious self. “Cut down when he still had a chance to conquer the world,” Frank used to say.
They entered the woods in silence. The noisy chatter of birds settling among the tree branches for the night was one of Louise’s favorite twilight sounds.
Frank looked up at the tree canopy. “They sound like a bunch of convention-goers.”
“Frank, forget about the Inn, forget about the Whirlwind Maid, and just enjoy nature. You’ve been inordinately preoccupied lately.”
He kicked a small stone along the path until it skipped into a dense growth of ferns. The path narrowed, and Louise walked ahead. She pointed out a doe and her twins in a clearing.
Compromise with Sin Page 10
