The Daughter's Walk (17 page)

Could there be anything more pitiful than to be paupers in the offices of a railroad magnate? Wealth shone elegantly in the brass ashtrays on the shiny wood tables that graced the reception room and reflected large pots of ferns. Chandeliers flickered golden light on us as we waited,
sunken into the posh leather seats. Glass cases with slender brass labels announced “President Abraham Lincoln's coffee cup” and “General Ulysses S. Grant's ivory toothpick.” People collected and touted the strangest things when they had little to do with their money. I used to love such opulence, but now it made me angry. Here we sat, prepared to beg to get us home to our desperate family instead of being able to take care of ourselves.

“Mr. Depew will see you now,” his assistant said. The slender man wearing a tidy suit had kind eyes filled with pity as he showed us into Mr. Depew's office, then he stepped back and closed the door.

“Please sit,” the railroad president, who was also a lawyer, said. “Would you like tea? I have cakes here.” His oak desk took up a quarter of the massive room. Another glass case displayed what purported to be a “Letter from Shakespeare to His Publisher.”

Mama declined the tea and I did too. I gazed around the room, saw plaques that read “state senator” and a framed diploma from Yale. Another photograph showed Mr. Depew standing in front of a podium. He sported a bow tie like the one he wore now beneath his chubby chin, and I remembered Mama telling me Mr. Depew gave after-dinner speeches as Mama did to raise influence and political supporters.

“I have read with interest your plight, dear lady. Ladies,” Mr. Depew said, nodding to me. He furrowed his brow. We still had no funds to replace my stolen curling iron, and I must have looked the way I felt: pathetic. “I admire the scrappy way you've tried to do all you can to save your farm,” he continued, smiling then at Mama. “Your journey for a man would be remarkable; but for two women, I must say it was a truly amazing feat.”

This was the moment when Mama would have waxed eloquently about the escapades, the people we'd encountered, the beauty of the
landscapes we'd crossed. She would tell stories that brought gasps to people or made them laugh. My mother the showwoman, raving about the adequacies of women.

But that woman didn't show up.

Mama sat silent, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes blinking back tears. We had nothing to offer, nothing to trade. What would he ask for? Would he grant us the loan?

I'd have to speak, be the one to beg.

“We're desperate,” I said. “But we are respectable women who keep their commitments. We will repay you if you grant us a loan. Can you help us?”

“I believe I can,” he said. “The newspaper provided the details of your plight. My offer is to provide you with a pass on my rail line to Chicago. It is not a loan but a gift. You'll have to make your way from Chicago to Minneapolis; walk, I imagine. But I've arranged for a ticket from Minneapolis on to your home in Spokane.” He tugged at his bow tie. “Hopefully you can garner publicity between Chicago and Minneapolis, as you did before.”

“For what purpose?” I asked.

“Oh, to let the world know of your amazing feat. And perhaps of a New Yorker's assistance in your return home.” He smiled. “One never knows what the future may bring. New York did host the first convention for women's suffrage, in Seneca Falls, all those years ago. The fairer sex will appreciate a man who supports the remarkable feats of women. Perhaps you'll come back and help campaign for such a thing.”

“
Mange takk
. Thank you,” Mama said.

“One more thing,” Mr. Depew concluded. “I would like a signed copy of the book you must write about your journey. It would please so many to hear of your exploits and all you did and saw.”

“You think there'd be interest?” I asked.

“I do. Both in Europe and in these United States. What you did was beyond belief for many, and it's a story that ought not to be forgotten.”

“First, we must go home,” I said. “Thanks to you, now we can.”

Mr. Depew pulled a bell cord, and the male assistant who had shown us into the room returned with an envelope in his hand. He gave it to the railroad president. “Will you have trouble earning your way between Chicago and Minneapolis?”

“We'll work and walk,” I said. “It's only four hundred miles.”

The hopeful Mama reappeared at the news office. “In addition to Mr. Depew's generosity, I have the first sale for my book,” Mama told the editor of the
World
after relaying the gift of tickets and thanking him for running the story. “Mr. Depew wants a signed copy. There is interest in this story.” She took a deep breath. “I can write it and promote it too. You've seen that. Clara will illustrate. I've already written to newspapers that covered our journey along the way. To get their clippings. They'll help re-create the walk. I'm sure we can generate good publicity for the book. Why, three papers here in New York covered our terrible need this week alone. Of course, I'll want the clippings from the
World,
” Mama said. “How could I tell the story without mentioning you? You printed the first photographs nearly a year ago. I hope you'll consider reviewing the book when it comes out.”

“We have been in on this story from the beginning,” the editor said. “I did notice that the
Times
urged financial help for you. And the
Sun
. They're such rags,” he sneered. He tapped his pencil.

“Did the sponsors ever respond to the suggestion of a book when we spoke of it earlier?”

“Let me make a phone call,” he said. “Could you wait a moment? I know you're anxious to leave.”

We waited. Mama tapped her fingers on her lap, looked up at the wall clock. This was what persistence looked like. I was anxious to be on the train, but coming to the
World
to report on Mr. Depew's generosity, Mama said, was a small price to pay for the tickets. “And if at the last minute we're able to pull off financial assistance from the sponsors, then it wouldn't all be for naught. We gain for Bertha.” Her breath caught. “A small portion of our loss might be redeemed with the book and money.”

“All right,” the editor said, returning. “You write the book. Clara illustrates it. She gets a ride back on the railroad this fall, repeating your trip to make the illustrations authentic, but this time she comes by rail. The book gets published and you get ten thousand dollars, and we split everything else the book might earn.”

Mama reached to clasp my arm. “They changed their minds,” she whispered.

“It appears … they've adapted to this new possibility.”

“Is there a contract?” I asked.

“Shush,” Mama said.

“No contract, but I have the sponsors' word.”

“The sponsors' word isn't reliable,” I said.

“Clara, please—”

“They didn't break the contract,” the editor said, his eyes shining with a hint of condescension. “You did, by not making it here on time. It'll all be up to you with the book. You don't get the money until the book is published.”

“And the train ticket for Clara, for illustration purposes?”

“Contact me when the manuscript is finished and you're ready to retrace your steps to develop illustrations, Miss Estby. I'll see that things are arranged. By the way, the sponsors aren't requiring that you walk back home now,” he added. “But the condition of earning your expenses along the way continues, though you may accept the train tickets, given the passing of your child. The sponsors aren't heartless. I'm authorized to give you the five dollars you started out with to help you depart as soon as possible, under the circumstances.”

Mama nodded. “I thank you, I thank you,” she said. “Isn't that wonderful, Clara?”

Outrage knotted my stomach.
Not heartless. May accept the tickets. How dare they!
But I had to think clearly.

“When we arrived here last December, before our robbery, my mother gave you the signatures of all the dignitaries we'd met and who verified our arrival in their towns. We'd like them back.”

“We would?” Mama said.

“You would?” the editor said.

“We'll need them to help with the writing, and since the original contract was voided—by my sprained ankle—those signatures really do belong to us.”

“Clara—”

“No, no,” the editor said. “She has a point.” He pulled at is earlobe. “I see no harm in that. I'll get them for you now.”

We left the offices, signatures in hand. “I wouldn't have thought to ask,” Mama said.

“We'll ask each one of them to promote the book. We could plan a trip when it comes out, stopping back at all those places. I'm sure the papers in Boise City and Lincoln and Canton would cover it. President McKinley—”

“That's brilliant, Clara.”

The admiration on her face was almost as satisfying as eating a piece of
julekaga
.

Mama looked almost peaceful when we boarded the train. We'd decided not to look for a frog for Johnny but to pick one up in Washington State, as the creature would never survive the train trip home. Mama had written to Papa to tell him that when we left Minneapolis, we'd send a telegram so he would know when to expect us.

“I told him to bring everyone to meet us,” Mama said. “I'm certain they'll be waiting for good news given the year we've all had.”

“At last we have some,” I said, thinking of the tickets home. Of all the skills I lacked, however, predicting the future was chief among them.

T
he trouble with a train ride is all the time one has to think. We rumbled through New York City and the Amish farms where we'd been treated with such care, through coal country, and out through Pittsburgh across its triple rivers, wide and swift. Everything looked different rushing by. Everything had changed since we'd dusted the earth with our footsteps.

Bertha's death wasn't real to me yet. I held her in my heart as I'd done during the entire trip east, as I had held all my brothers and sisters. Bertha was still there, right where she belonged. It didn't seem possible that she wouldn't be waiting for us when we arrived.

“Is Bertha with Henry now?” I asked as black smoke drifted back from the engine.

“It's what we Lutherans believe,” Mama said. “We will see them again, these baptized babies. Bertha knew her catechism, and she had the heart of Christ, loving and giving. It seems not right, I know, that young people like Bertha and Henry and young Ole should pass away
from this land while Ole and I still trek along as though we contribute to God's plan at our age.”

“Why is that?” I asked. “Why did I live but not little Ole or Henry and now Bertha too?” Mama winced, and I wondered if she said things to herself about how Bertha might have lived if she'd been there to keep the house clean of the disease, if she'd been there to comfort Bertha and nurse her through. What if I'd insisted that Olaf make the trip with her or if I'd refused to go at all? Maybe Mama would have stayed too; she might have kept Bertha alive.