Genealogy: a novel

by Mae Wood

  Thank you for the roses. They are hung upside down in my bedroom, tied together with a blue ribbon that they arrived with. The blue of the ribbon reminds me of your eyes. Your card sits on my vanity, where I look at it every morning and every night while I brush my hair. Thank you for remembering me before you boarded your ship that morning. Thank you for the kindness. I’m sure that you were quite in a state that morning, as I was. I know I’ve never been out so late before. Or was it early? Either way, I was an absolute slug the next day.

  I know I promised you words, and I don’t yet have words for our days. Perhaps one day I will. And perhaps you will have words for me then, too. A question, even. And I will have an answer.

  How soon can you return? I will be here, waiting for you, sending you words, and waiting for yours.

  Though I am not a true artist, I’ve enclosed a little sketch. I went up to Queen Anne Hill and brought along my sketch book and pencils. Perhaps I should borrow Frankie’s camera sometime. But until I have a photograph, this view of the bay that carries your name, and the city with Mount Rainier in the distance—this is my gift to you.

  Write back with plans for when I can expect you to be here with me. And I do expect you.

  Truly,

  Alice

  The day after his boat sailed she spent in bed, as well as the next. She’d ached all over. Only up for the necessities and beyond grateful for Frankie for giving her cover and excuses to the other teachers. Traveling was difficult, and Frankie swore that no one even noticed Alice’s absence. The next day she’d had no choice but to plaster on a smile and attend to her life.

  She met the new principal and the other teachers. Many of whom were returning, but some were new, replacing women who had left due to homesickness or husbands. Next year she’d be one of the missing. “Oh, did you know Alice?” someone would surely ask as she chatted with friends and exchanged stories of summers spent at home with family. Most of the women were also from the Midwest. Farm girls like her, who for one reason or another weren’t suited for farm life. These were her kinfolk. Women who lived in books and art and music and for the children in their classrooms, reminding them of the ones they might never have.

  On the morning of the first day of school, she and Francine have toast and eggs and coffee in their tiny apartment, packing simple lunches in a sack.

  “And for a box of caramels, how many angels and how many devils?” Frankie asks.

  “Don’t be silly,” says Alice, shooting Frankie a cool look as she hands her a breakfast plate to dry. “They are all angels.” The two women dissolve in gales of laughter. “Four angels for every devil is my wager,” Alice replies, wiping her eyes. “I can’t handle any more. I have twenty-three students this year. Twenty-three! That’s six devils in a classroom and God knows that I can’t handle any more.”

  “Amen. Did you know that I still have a small mark on the back of my leg where that little Petersen boy placed that tack on my chair?”

  “Really?” says Alice.

  Frankie shrugs in response. “It’s a tiny little mark. A battle scar.”

  “He was a devil,” Alice confirms. “I will be honest, I was so happy that no Petersen child was on my roster, but I’m worried about the new girl who has the sixth grade. Lottie from Wisconsin, I think? I saw Olaf Petersen assigned to her classroom.”

  “Should we warn her?” asks Frankie, her voice flat and impassive.

  “Well, certainly anyone who graduated from a university instead of a normal school doesn’t need our assistance in running a classroom,” says Alice dryly.

  “Excellent. Now, I have a treat.” Frankie disappears into her bedroom and emerges with two candies wrapped in waxed paper. “A caramel for each of us, out of the box. A little sweetness to place in your pocket if the day starts to sour.”

  In the lobby Alice and Francine meet with the other women and walk to the trolley stop, all chattering excitedly in the crisp morning air. Alice slips a letter into the postal box before alighting.

  “Letter home?” asks Ruth, another new teacher who Alice met two days ago, but liked immediately. Alice doesn’t want to lie, but she also doesn’t want to tell the truth about the letter that is most certainly not going home.

  “Alice is a prodigious letter writer,” answers Frankie with a wink at Alice. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if she posted a letter each morning.”

  “I’m a terrible letter writer,” says Ruth, kicking the long skirts around her ankles. “I never know what to say and my letters sound like a news report.”

  “Any suggestions, Alice?” teases Frankie. “What was in this letter, for example?”

  “Oh,” says Alice, shooting her dearest friend a look that says hush. “Only my hopes, my dreams and my dearest wishes for the future. Same as always.”

  Fifteen

  Alice

  February 1916

  Dear Elliott,

  This is the third day that snow has fallen. And my second letter to you in that time. If I wasn’t from Indiana and didn’t know about snow, I’d probably think that this is how the world ends. Well over a foot is on the ground and it just keeps fluttering down from the sky. It’s really quite beautiful, but also a little terrifying. It shouldn’t be this cold here. It seeps in through the windows and the wind off the water cuts straight through you. Schools have been closed. Everything is closed and we are stuck indoors.

  It’s best not to think about it at all. I can’t imagine what your January is like, but is it fair to say it’s above freezing in the tropics? Some of the girls are staging a variety show to keep busy. I don’t have a talent for the stage, so I’ve been keeping myself occupied by painting and reading. But, oh!—the talent some of the girls have!

  I know you like theater, and when you return, you are absolutely taking me to the new Coliseum Theater. It opened a few weeks ago and is spectacular from the outside. I haven’t been inside yet, but one of the girls had a beau take her to the opening night and she says that it is opulent like Louis XVI. One day we’ll see the palaces of Europe, but I am happy to start with this photoplay palace right here in Seattle. I’m looking forward to watching Mary Pickford (she’s my favorite) and then imagining you watching the same movie later in that funny little bamboo hut of a theater you described to me. Or, even better, imagining you watching from the seat next to me. Maybe I won’t go at all until you return. Make it something special for us to do together for the first time?

  Which brings me to my point, as always. How much longer? Can you and your uncle simply open a bank in Seattle? The city is boundless with opportunity but a touch closer to home. Even better, it’s a touch closer to me.

  Yours,

  Alice

  The snow and slush and streams of nearly frozen water destroy her boots. The salt and grit placed on the sidewalk eat through the soles.

  “You need to buy new boots,” Frankie had scolded her, but Alice had protested. New boots were expensive. She could find a cobbler and get hers repaired. Surely they’d hold together long enough for her to get home and make a purchase at the store that knew what she needed.

  But when the freezing water seeps through the leather and soaks her thick stockings, she concedes. Frankie is right. Penny wise and pound foolish, and certain to catch a cold. It isn’t much. It won’t ever be much, but Alice has been frugal. But now instead of putting away a few dollars each month so that she won’t be entirely dependent upon her family, she’s saving so that she can have new dresses made before she leaves for the Philippine Islands, dresses that she can wear as she begins her new life as Mrs. Elliott Keller.

  On Saturday morning after the blizzard, the women venture down to the Arcade. Piles of snow as tall as Alice tower along sidewalks. The newspaper claimed it was only two feet, but it has devastated the city. The dome of the cathedral has collapsed and people swap harrowing, secondhand stories of being stuck in offices and shops without sufficient food and fuel for heat. The assistant principal resorted to bre
aking up furniture to feed a fire to keep the small band of people trapped in the school warm. Buying a new pair of boots isn’t such a great hardship in light of what others have endured.

  The women meander through a department store, admiring the offered dresses, and hats, and kitchenware, and stationery, but not making a purchase. Alice lets her eyes linger on the elaborate valentine cards on display. Some of the cards are imported from France and trimmed with lace. Others have embossing or moveable parts or picture windows. A few even pop up to little standing displays. How she’d love to find something like this in the mail. Perhaps she could send one. But none are right for him. Or, more properly stated, none are right to send to him. So, she moves on, wishing that they were more fixed, that she could send him some token of affection that was more than ink scrawled on paper.

  Back on the sidewalk, they reach their destination. A large blue and white sign extends over the sidewalk. Wertheimer Shoe Company it proclaims in a bold script. A pair of glamorous embroidered satin pumps are on display in the window. The women pause to admire them before pressing through the door of the shop

  “Good morning. How may we help you?” asks a shopman, a neat white apron tied around his waist.

  “I need new boots,” answers Alice, forcing herself to look away from the fashionable displays and toward the utilitarian black boots that she needs.

  “Anders, can you assist the gentleman while I work with the ladies?” booms a deep and cheerful male voice. Alice looks at the handsome man as he approaches. Dark hair with silver at the temples and a smile that reaches to his eyes, making his whole appearance radiate joy.

  “Of course,” says Anders as he slides away.

  “Now, Miss…” continues the new shopman.

  “Geiger,” offers Frankie, a mirroring smile on her face at the handsome man.

  “Miss Geiger,” he says with a nod, “and Miss…”

  “Hirshhorn,” Frankie says with a smile.

  “Well, Miss Geiger and Miss Hirshhorn, we have some lovely new boots and we will get to them, but perhaps you’ll be willing to demonstrate those pumps you were admiring?”

  Frankie nods at him eagerly.

  “We’re only here for the boots, I’m afraid,” says Alice.

  “Won’t hurt a thing to try on the shoes,” says the man. “Tell me your size and I’ll fetch them from the backroom.”

  “Really—” says Alice, shaking her head to refuse.

  “We’ll try them,” says Frankie, nodding with glee.

  “Excellent,” the man replies and takes the information offered by Frankie.

  “Frankie,” Alice hisses as soon as the man steps away. “They are gorgeous, but I’m sure those cost a fortune! And where would you wear them?”

  “Like he said, it won’t hurt to try them.”

  “Don’t seek out temptation,” Alice counsels.

  “Hello, pot. I’m kettle,” she says, extending her hand. “And since we’re on the topic of temptation, what’s the latest from the sunny tropics?”

  “He’s asked me to meet him in Japan this summer,” Alice confesses as she looks more carefully at the display of women’s boots, entirely avoiding eye contact with her friend.

  Now it’s Frankie’s turn to look scandalized. “Japan? By yourself?”

  “He can’t return to the States until next April at the earliest because of his business, but he can meet me in Japan.”

  “And then whisk you away to the Philippine Islands?”

  “We shall see,” Alice answers, running her finger over a row of neat buttons on a delightful pair of black and white boots that would be entirely suitable.

  “Really, Alice!” Frankie scolds in a whisper. “Japan! And you’re getting onto me over a pair of shoes.”

  The handsome shopman returns and the women settle on a bench to try on the delicate shoes meant for the theater or parties, and definitely not designed for teaching school children. Frankie preens in the shoes, swanning about the store, gazing in mirrors angled along the bottom of a wall. She holds her skirt indecently high, her calf on display. Alice expects the shopman’s attention to be on her spirited friend and is surprised to find him looking at her.

  “And you, Miss Hirshhorn?”

  Alice goes to refuse again, but the shopman insists and kneels in front of her.

  He holds the shoe out for her to admire. The decorative stitching gleams in the light. Bold red and orange flowers amid a riot of green leaves. They are a painting in thread and she adores them and the skill of the woman who no doubt did the stitching.

  “Chrysanthemums,” he explains, turning them so that Alice can more carefully admire the workmanship. “They are well made, too.” He extends a hand, palm up, requesting to aid her in trying on the shoe.

  Still, Alice doesn’t extend her foot. She blushes and looks at her hands in her lap, where she’s twisted her fingers together in her discomfort.

  “May I?” he says, giving voice to his request.

  “No.” She shakes her head, wishing that she could sashay around the shop. “I’d like to try boots. Also, I’m not sure you can do it in-house or if I’ll need to find a cobbler—”

  “We have a cobbler on staff,” he answers brusquely.

  Alice nods in relief, her shoulders loosening and chest deflating at learning she’ll only have to explain herself once. “I’ll need the sole built up on the left. An inch makes the world of difference to me.”

  Understanding dawns in the man’s brown eyes, but there isn’t pity. There isn’t sadness that she’s somehow broken, that she’s somehow unfit. “That’s an easy enough fix,” he assures her. “I’ll speak with the cobbler about which pairs we have that would be suitable to the adjustment and bring them around.”

  He places the floral shoes in the box, nestling them in the delicate tissue paper before closing the lid. Alice bids a silent good-bye to the beauties. Gorgeous, expensive, and entirely impractical for her in so many different ways. She watches with envy as Frankie waltzes around the shop.

  The handsome man soon returns with another man in tow. “Mr. Grumman is our cobbler,” says the shopman, and Alice realizes she doesn’t know the shopman’s name.

  It feels too late to ask, and before she can gather her courage to ask, he steps away to greet another customer, leaving Alice with the cobbler for a few minutes to work through the details of her needs.

  “All good, Grumman?” the shopman asks upon his return.

  “Yes, sir,” the cobbler answers. “It isn’t a complicated fix, but she says she spends all day on her feet so I want to get it right.”

  “All day on your feet, Miss Hirshhorn?” asks the shopman with concern.

  “I teach school. Fourth graders. They keep me on my feet and on my toes,” she jokes.

  And he laughs. “I’d wager they say the same about you,” he says with a smile.

  “I do my best. Long division is a tricky beast. And yes, I’ll take the black and white button-ons.”

  “Excellent,” he agrees with a nod, extracting a pad from his apron pocket to take down her details. “The quality on these is good. They should last a good long while.”

  “I hope so,” she says, her smile fading a bit as she grows serious. “Frankie,” she calls out to her friend. “I’m almost ready to go.”

  On the walk home, Frankie raves about the embroidered satin shoes, pining for them. “But they were six dollars! Six whole dollars!” she says, trying to talk herself out of the shoes.

  “Perhaps you can create a pool of sorts,” teases Alice, knowing that her specially tailored boots cost more than five dollars, which explains why she owns exactly two pairs of shoes. “You can find out which other girls wear a size near enough to you and you can take turns wearing them out.”

  “To the Coliseum! I could borrow that outrageous stole that Marcie has. Now to find a man to take me. Perhaps the man from the shop. He was quite dashing.”

  Alice agrees. He had looked confident and unflappabl
e. His dark hair was slicked back neatly from his face, letting the whole world easily take in his brown eyes. “He is very handsome.”

  “When will your boots be ready? Perhaps we can visit together to pick them up.”

  “By next Saturday. I’m frankly impressed by how quickly they’ll be able to make the adjustment.”

  “Excellent. We’ll go back next Saturday, visit our new friend, and retrieve your boots. This week can’t pass by quickly enough.”

  Sixteen

  Alice

  February 1916

  On Thursday afternoon, Alice and Frankie relax after the children have extracted every bit of patience and energy from them. Alice works at the small table on an intricate card to send Elliott. He’ll get it late, no doubt. She should have worked on it months ago, so that it was already across the Pacific at this point. But it’s her first time having someone to send a valentine to, and the idea that she might send one to him only crossed her mind as they had milled about the department store over the past weekend.

  On Tuesday she’d painted a small watercolor image of blue forget-me-nots, and now she finishes the card. She carefully glues a piece of blue and gold ribbon to encircle the flowers. She signs her initials to the painting in a soft pencil, so that he’ll know it was not only from her, but by her. Maybe he won’t know the name of the flowers. Maybe he’ll think she’d sent him some blue flowers, but she’s confident he will know. He will recognize the flower and notice her initials. He will see the care she has placed into this gift for him. She places it in an envelope addressed to the post office box in Iloilo whose number she knows by heart. On the way to the shoe shop tomorrow, she and Frankie will stop by the post office to ensure she’s paid proper postage for this bit of affection to travel halfway around the world.