Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  The balloon rose higher and higher until the city receded below and left me with a stomach-dropping feeling of unreality. This is what the world looks like to birds, I thought with amazement. Houses resembled children’s blocks; people, Ben’s toy soldiers. How he would have loved this! I suddenly felt Ben’s presence, as if his spirit shared in the joy of my journey.

  For the first time in ages, I reached in my canvas bag and took out the sketchbook. I drew the world below. I flipped to another blank page and sketched clouds above. I could feel Val watching as I outlined sailboats in the harbor.

  His breath touched my neck and I felt little shivers of happiness as he leaned near to see the details. “It’s good to see you drawing again.”

  I closed the sketchpad and flung out my arms. “I feel as if I am flying. A bird catching the air in my wings.” I closed my eyes. The world was so beautiful, I couldn’t possibly hold all its splendors inside, couldn’t possibly cherish each moment before it slid away and became the past.

  Val cleared his throat. The man he hired to take up the balloon turned away. “There’s something I want to ask you. We’ve known each other for some time now, and—I mean, I hope I am not presuming—well, I am presuming, but I hope you’ll forgive me. You are a fascinating woman, one with great courage and fortitude—”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him curiously. What was he going on about? His thin face narrowed even more when he became this intense. He wore the same expression when he started in on the efficacy of some newly discovered herbal cure or the possibilities of cross-continent flight opened up by the Wright Brothers or the need to have federal inspection of meat, food, and drugs. His many enthusiasms tickled me. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps he had arranged this outing—perhaps he was going to overlook the many things that made me an unsuitable match. The humiliation I’d suffered by Jack’s attention to other women. Being a widow. The long depression after Ben’s death. My lack of family position. Maybe Val could overlook all these flaws. We did get along famously well. Was it possible he felt the same tingles in my presence I felt in his?

  San Francisco, 1920

  “And then he asked me the question every woman in love wants to hear,” I said, distracted from my tale as across the room Mindy placed a pink matte vase with iris blooms on top of a white box. Two similar boxes, each slightly taller, stood ready to accept additional pieces for display.

  “Oh, Mama, that’s the most romantic story ever!” Solina’s dark eyes sparkled.

  “Yes, wasn’t it?” Her response filled me with delight, though I should have turned my talents toward fiction writing, instead of visual arts, for fiction it was. The truth was constructed of considerably more dirt and less air, but I wanted my daughter to hold on to some illusions a while longer.

  Val had taken me on a balloon ride that morning, that much was true. As soon as we rose above the trees, he reached inside a large picnic basket and took out an assortment of Petri dishes, which he uncovered one by one. He exposed the contents of each container to air in the upper atmosphere because he entertained the notion that differences in air and gravity in the sky could affect mold growth on food and other substances. Grass. Soil. Snot. Those containers were bad enough, but I confess I covered my nose with my hankie when he uncovered the dish containing a sample of Little Cuss’s poo. He had prepared slides of these same substances yesterday. When he returned to earth, he would prepare a separate set of slides of the substances after exposure to the upper atmosphere to examine under a microscope.

  If he was so keen on diagnosing something, he should diagnose the nature of the disorder that sent him careening from one enthusiasm to another willy-nilly.

  Satisfied the containers had been exposed long enough, he recovered them.

  Val turned away and fished around in the picnic hamper for apples, tucked inside, probably bumping up against the unsavory contents of the containers. He gave me an apple and began to munch on one himself. A chunk of apple stuck in his throat and he coughed, and then chattered on. “Settlers mostly planted them for the purpose of making hard cider rather than to eat. When people happen onto one that produces tasty fruit, they graft new trees from the original. The first ones originated in Eastern Europe near the Caucasus Mountains. These—” he waved his apple in the air—“are a variety known as American Beauties.”

  I stared out at the clouds. “You must really like apples to have learned so much about them.”

  He reached into the basket again, and with a broad smile, announced, “Champagne! I understand it’s traditional to sip it on these flights.”

  The balloon master agreed. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  Val poured the bubbly into two glasses and proffered one to me. “Here’s to you, Ro, and to the success of my experiments.”

  Heavens, yes, let us drink to snot and poo.

  ~~~

  I could hardly confess the true version to my daughter. A touch of foreboding washed over me. In spinning my story, I had cast myself and Val in too grand a light. I wanted her to love us, to admire us, and yes, to see that even if life knocked you down one day, the next it could bring you joy. But was I filling the girl’s head with too many romantic notions?

  “Could we go up in a balloon while we’re here?” Solina asked.

  Heaven forbid. “Oh, I doubt we’ll have time.”

  Nellie smiled angelically, her hands clasped over her midsection. “I am sure we’ll make time, my dear. Who knows when you’ll have another opportunity.”

  Nellie winked at me, taking devilish delight in my predicament. She knew I had grown quite airsick on that balloon ride. I had purged the contents of my stomach, including the champagne, all over the basket’s floor. So much for romance. So much for the friend who knew all my secrets. She also knew the real story about the proposal.

  I had been sure he would propose on the balloon ride—but for whatever reason, he didn’t. Could have been his excitement over his experiments. Could have been my airsickness. Could have been the man was shy and bumbling around women. Or, most likely, as my life with him later bore out, Val Martin was a remarkably asexual man. Anyway, afterwards, we went to dinner at a fine restaurant and I decided if there was to be advancement in our relationship beyond the platonic, it would be up to me. I had planned to pop the question as soon as we were seated, but first there was the ordering and then the waiter hovered about and couples at nearby tables seemed to be listening to every word we said. I cut my amberjack into small pieces and pushed them around on my plate, unable to swallow more than a few morsels. As luck would have it, on a platform in a nearby corner of the restaurant, a pianist fingered his way across a Baby Grand and a stunningly beautiful songstress warbled along with him. The song was “I Love You Truly.” I took an unseemly large gulp of wine and set down my glass. It really was now or never.

  “Well, Val, in two days Solina and I will be off to West Virginia on the Southern Pacific. If you are coming with me, we had best get married tomorrow.”

  And so we were. For the second time that day, we opened a bottle of champagne. This time I savored every drop.

  I had heretofore regarded that “Love You Truly” song as rather mushy and overwrought. From that night on, whenever I heard its melodic refrain—“Life with its sorrow, life with its tear/Fades into dreams when I feel you are near”—my lips trembled. It is truly the greatest love song ever written.

  Solina need never know I was the one who did the proposing. A mother has to have some secrets.

  While I had been musing over the less than romantic beginning to my marriage, Nellie finished the fictional tale for Solina. “Your mother and Val married right away, and you and your papa both accompanied her back to West Virginia. I was so lonely without your mother and couldn’t wait for your return. I have always thought of you, Solina, as my niece. I am so glad you have come to visit. You must make your mother bring you back more oft en.”

  My daughter enthusiastically agreed. I was lost in my memories. Af
ter we married, I had gone home at last. I had arrived in time to tell my father goodbye and for him to make his peace with me. Everyone assumed Solina was our own child, mine and Val’s, and we saw no reason to tell anyone any different. After the funeral, Jack’s Aunt Elizabeth declared Solina looked exactly like me when I was a baby, though I knew there wasn’t a shred of truth in that. Solina was far, far more beautiful than I had ever been, and goodness knows she didn’t resemble Val in the least beyond the dark eyes. In fact, Nellie was the only other one who ever knew the truth about Solina’s birth. She was the keeper of all my secrets.

  The thought caused me to turn and look at her with fresh—and newly suspicious—eyes. Could Nellie have let my secrets spill to a reporter? She would never betray me deliberately, but the old dear could be a bit of a gossip.

  I watched Mindy Kenneson and Alexandra Underwood debate the placement of a green amphora and a blue vase with oranges. High or low. This side forward or that one. Alexandra was pushy, prone to getting her way, even though this was Mindy’s gallery. I crossed the room and turned the vase with oranges to show off what I considered the best side. After all, it was my work—even though Alexandra owned the vase. The set of her lips dismissed my opinion as inconsequential. As soon as she thought I wasn’t looking, she rotated the vase back.

  “Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow for the opening,” I said to Mindy and collected Solina and Nellie.

  I glanced over my shoulder one last time. Of all the people I knew in this city, Alexandra was the one I clashed with most frequently. She had been so angry when I led the revolt against eugenics. Had she somehow learned my secrets and fed them to a newspaper?

  ~~~

  1907-1911

  After my father’s funeral, we returned to San Francisco to live in Val’s newly built home. My insurance check for the destroyed house Jack had built finally came, so, added to his income, we had an adequate nest egg to live on.

  Sadly, I learned from Timmy that my father had left the farmhouse we’d been raised in to Martha. Each of my brothers would inherit some acreage. I wondered if they would keep it or sell it. Our neighbor Gunner Beck was courting Martha, and it was only a matter of time until the family home belonged to him. Timmy reckoned Gunner was finally going to get a piece of our land, and a piece of Martha’s temper, as well.

  Nellie, Mindy, and I resumed the push for women’s rights, with Val’s support. Attorney Clara Shortridge Foltz spearheaded our campaign in the Bay area. To my delight, the legislature agreed to put the issue on the ballot, so we redoubled our efforts to contact every male we could find and appeal to them as mothers, grandmothers, wives, teachers, and nurses. We distributed millions of flyers and “Votes for Women” buttons. We held a massive rally in October, enlivened by fireworks and a band playing. I insisted on attending, even though I had developed a rather serious cold.

  On October 10, 1911, my friends and fellow suffragists gathered in our parlor awaiting election results. I truly lacked the energy to leave the house, so my friends came to me instead. We had been pushing for our rights together for so long, they wouldn’t hear of leaving me out of what we hoped would be a grand celebration.

  But early in the evening, Val brought us the terrible news: the measure was failing in San Francisco again, and it had barely passed in Los Angeles. We were devastated.

  “All our work for naught,” Nellie said.

  Mindy reminded us of Aunt Susan’s slogan: Failure is Impossible! “She fought her whole life and never gave up. Neither shall we.”

  Eventually, I knew we would pick up our broken hearts and carry on, but it was difficult to think of that now. I pressed a handkerchief to my lips to catch a cough. Weariness dragged at my soul. Our gathering adjourned and I trudged to bed. Val brought me a cup of hot broth. Nellie took Solina and Little Cuss home with her so I could rest.

  News the next day heartened me. The rural counties were voting in favor of the measure. It took several days for all the ballots to be counted, but in the end, California women won the right to vote. The headlines declared that San Francisco was the largest city in the world where women could vote. My friends gathered in our parlor again to celebrate and our spirits were lifted by the victory, though Mindy reminded us the fight wasn’t over until women everywhere in the United States shared our rights.

  “It isn’t over until we can vote for President,” I said.

  Mindy and I planned to take a train to Washington, D.C., to protest, but by the time November came, my coughing had increased, persistent, sometimes violent, wearing me down more than I cared to admit. When Solina napped, so did I. A long journey anywhere was out of the question.

  One afternoon Val came home early after visiting patients. He found me asleep on the bed, Little Cuss snuggled against me, a sketchbook and pencils abandoned at my side. Solina was napping in her own room.

  The most recent sketch was one of Solina sleeping, thumb in mouth, looking like the angel she was. He moved the drawings and pencil from the bed where I was resting. “You have filled so many sketchbooks with drawings of that child, I might just get jealous.” I knew he was teasing because he adored her as much as I did.

  I started to laugh but it quickly descended into a coughing jag. Afterward I kept my handkerchief crimped in my hand to hide the blood.

  “Not feeling any better?”

  I shook my head, not trusting myself to talk yet for fear of coughing again.

  “Are you using the tincture of cannabis?”

  I took a sip of water from the glass by the bedside table. “Yes, thank you, it eases the sore throat.”

  “And the oranges I brought you—two a day?”

  I nodded.

  “And carrots?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “My skin is turning orange as a pumpkin.”

  “More like pale as a ghost. What did you think of the yoghurt this morning?”

  “Didn’t much care for it, a bit sour, but thank you for the trouble you went to in procuring it for me.”

  “No trouble, since I’ve decided to take it daily myself. Yoghurt has many fine medicinal qualities. Dr. Grigorov from Bulgaria has convinced me of its efficacy in treating many disorders.”

  I smiled weakly. Val was always on the hunt for the newest, the latest, the best health remedies. “Perhaps I’ll try it again, maybe with honey or mashed fruit.”

  “Good, good.” He frowned. “There are tears in your eyes. Is something wrong? Something I’ve said?”

  “You never are anything but kind, Val.” I dabbed my eyes with a clean corner of the handkerchief. “I’m worried Solina will catch my cold.”

  “I fear it is more than a cold.”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “You’ve been coughing for months, and I’ve seen the bloody handkerchiefs you’ve been trying to hide. It could be tuberculosis. I’m seeing cases everywhere I turn, more women than men. Breathing in all those ashes after the fire has caused an increase in the number of cases, I think.”

  “It’s just a cold. Once the weather warms, I’m sure it will clear up.” Solina was nearly four—she deserved a healthy mother to look after her. I refused to be sick.

  “Colds go away after a few weeks, Ro.”

  I could hold in my grief no longer. I bawled. I couldn’t fail another child. I just couldn’t.

  Val sat on the bed beside me. “It would be best if you spent a few months resting.”

  I shook my head but that exertion only started me coughing again.

  “Real rest without a child, a dog, and a husband to care for—my prescription for you, Ro. You need to concentrate on taking care of you, so you get well. Nellie is coming over in the morning to look after Solina. I have found just the place for you to rest. I went to visit the facility, and I was most impressed.”

  I dug my fingers in his arm. “No, I can rest here, please.”

  He kissed my forehead. “I know you don’t want to risk infecting Solina. Besides, you’re going to love this place, I p
romise. If you don’t, you don’t have to stay.”

  I agreed to a visit, only to make him happy. He had gone to so much trouble. But I had no intention of staying there, let alone loving it.

  I was wrong. I liked Arequipa immediately. The way the buildings nestled into the lush green hillside, as though they were natural as the trees and shrubbery. The openness of the graceful structures. Even the air was scented by new-cut wood and smoky leaves.

  Dr. Philip Brown, the handsome friend of Val’s who conceived this place, led us on a tour of the facilities. His eyes lit with enthusiasm as he showed off the open design of the dormitory. At times, clefts appeared in his cheeks balancing the deeper one in his chin. The dorm’s sleeping porch was walled in for three-and-a-half feet at the bottom, with the next four feet to the roof left open. A breeze ruffled the doctor’s thick white hair even though they stood indoors. I could see why Val liked this place.

  Next Dr. Brown led us to the pottery studio, which Val had kept secret from me. “For the first month, patients rest most of the day, but for the rest of their six-month stay at Arequipa they can work here if they wish.”

  “Arequipa is a lovely name,” I said. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a Peruvian word that translates roughly to ‘Place of Peace’ or ‘Place of Rest.’” Dr. Brown motioned to the walls, which boasted banks of windows. In between were shelves of pots ready to be decorated. “The women work for a few hours a day, whatever they feel up to. This isn’t a charity. Patients can feel comfortable knowing they earn their keep. But the biggest benefit is the pleasure derived from creating something with their hands. Your husband tells me you are an excellent artist, Mrs. Martin.”

  Blushing, I examined the potter’s wheel and the lathe. “Not excellent, but I do enjoy it.”