Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  Mother

  For brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

  Philippians 3:13-14

  I met my reflection in the mirror. A sliver of moonlight danced on my face as the curtains swayed with the gentle night breeze. Like a game of hide-and-seek, the light shifted, illuminating parts of me, hiding others in the darkness. I stood there for several minutes until Wesley’s breathing changed to a slight snore. I was alone with God.

  God, I know You’re real, and I want to believe You love me. It may be true that You have a calling for me, some plan that’s hard to understand. But I need to do some things on my own for now. Prove to myself that I’m capable to make my own way. I don’t want to depend on anyone else to be happy or content. Even You.

  Carefully, I folded the paper and set it on the dresser, took a slight step backward into the darkness, and then slipped out of the room.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mary ~ Lizzie Talk, September 10, 1893

  A few days into our journey to Arkansas City, it was easy to understand why Joseph was a man of few words. Lizzie did all the talking. Not that I minded. She had a thought about nearly every farmhouse, town, and traveler we encountered. Even though I hardly got in a word, her way of recalling details from the past and vivid descriptions made her stories come alive like an illustrated book. Best of all was her ability to see the beauty in endless fields of yellow, brown, and occasionally green-feathered grasses. The talking went on and on for hours, but it helped pass the days of traveling on the rutted and dusty roads.

  Her sixty years of living included a childhood spent in upper state New York before being sent to Chicago by her parents to attend art school. Her adeptness with a brush and palette had been noticed when she was coming of age, and a plan by her parents to send her away was soon realized.

  “But the real reason was that Thomas Horner had fallen in love with me.” Lizzie leaned in closer to me as we bumped along in the back of the wagon. “And,” she whispered, “I had feelings for him as well.”

  Joseph glanced back at the two of us. “I heard that, Lizzie.”

  We were wedged between a large wooden chest, a barrel of water, bags of flour, slats of wood, and a roll of canvas for our makeshift tent that would serve as our home until the start of the race.

  “Oh, Joseph. You know that was only infatuation. Nothing like my love for you and our forty years of marital bliss.” Lizzie pinched my arm, and I had to suppress a giggle.

  “That’s the truth, amore mio.” He turned his attention back to the road. “And may God give us many more years together.”

  “How did you meet?” I shifted my position to relieve the numbness in my backside. Surprisingly, neither of them spoke as if they hadn’t heard my question. “In Chicago?”

  More silence followed, and then Joseph spoke. “At the art school.”

  “I didn’t know you studied art as well.”

  Lizzie’s face reddened, and she looked away.

  I reached for her. “Are you all right, Lizzie? Your face is all flushed.”

  “Whoa!” Joseph called out to Sadie. The wagon came to an abrupt halt.

  Wondering why we had stopped so quickly, I propped myself onto my knees to see if something had blocked our way. Nothing ahead appeared out of the ordinary, so I figured Joseph had to relieve himself behind a cluster of trees, especially when he hopped off the front board onto the ground. He walked toward the back of the wagon, folded his arms over the sideboard, and stared, first at Lizzie and then at me. That’s when he started to laugh. It began as a low rumble, but then his laughter turned into a full belly laugh as his eyes watered and snorts erupted.

  “Here we go.” Lizzie sighed, though she couldn’t help but disclose a smile. “This is what happens when he’s kept his emotions in check for too long.” She shook her head. “Comes out like a prisoner set free.”

  I’m sure my eyes were wide, but I never expected to witness the stoic and serious Mr. Joseph Contolini nearly doubled over from a fit of laughter. This was as good a chance as any to stretch, so I stood and arched my back. “Are either of you going to tell me what is so funny?”

  Joseph cocked his head at Lizzie. “Should we tell her?”

  “I don’t know, honey.” Lizzie pushed herself to a stand as well. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Explain what?” I asked, continuing to stretch. “Come on, Lizzie. You’ve talked for days, so you can’t hold back on me now.”

  “True enough, and you’ve provided me a good audience. Joseph gets tired of being the only set of ears.”

  Another snort followed. “Don’t let her fool you. I’ve learned to pretend I’m listening.”

  Lizzie waved off his comment. “Go ahead, Joseph. Tell her what’s got you in such a fit.”

  As though contemplating the decision to share, Joseph proceeded to pace alongside the wagon. When he stopped, he looked me straight in the eyes. “I wasn’t a student of art. I was an object of art.”

  My eyes traveled from Lizzie and then back to Joseph, whose mouth widened into a broad smile.

  “I don’t understand.” Now heat was rising to my own face for not being privy to their inside story. “What do you mean you were an object of art?”

  “He was a model,” Lizzie stated as though sharing the day’s weather.

  “A model?”

  She tugged on my sleeve. “You know … the person who poses in the middle of the room, and the students sketch the human form.”

  Joseph had struck an absurd pose on the side of the road—one hand on his hip, the other under his chin with head tipped back, staring at the sky.

  “He was a divine subject. Full of muscle and form.” Lizzie giggled like a schoolgirl.

  A flashback to the pictures of Michelangelo’s paintings and sculptures in an art history book tucked on Mother’s bookshelf brought a startling realization. I placed my hand over my mouth and blinked my eyes a few times to try and shut out the images.

  “No, ma’am. It’s not what you’re thinking.” Joseph waved his forefinger in the air. “I was clothed, to be sure.” He spread his arms as if to take a bow. “The young ladies were so smitten, all they could do was sit and stare. Hardly any painting happened in that studio.”

  “And Monsieur Patelle, our French-born instructor, would turn purple in the face and tell us we were doomed to become nothing. Or at least he said something like that.” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “I never did very well in French class.”

  “Regardless, that’s when Lizzie fell in love with me.” Joseph reached toward his petite wife and lifted her from the wagon.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his check. “That’s partly true, my dear. There I was, trying to concentrate on sketching the human figure. Then it occurs to me, that man is staring at me.” As if pulled back by time, she surveyed her husband.

  “It was my wink.” Joseph ceremoniously closed his left eye. “That’s what made her swoon.”

  Lizzie nodded in agreement. “I believe that is true, Mr. Contolini. And from head to toe, you were quite a sight—even fully clothed.”

  “Lizzie!” Now my face was surely the color of a ripe apple. “There’s more to you than I ever knew.” I shook my head at Joseph. “And much more to you than anyone could have ever imagined.”

  “Freely admitting my guilt, ma’am.” He pushed his hat back, revealing tousled gray hair. “The moment my eyes beheld that blonde-haired beauty with the emerald-green eyes. I was in love, and there was no turning back.”

  “But your parents. Whatever did they think? You going off with—”

  “An artist’s model?” Lizzie’s laugh was as delicate as her small frame. “They never knew. I couldn’t tell them the truth. Not only did I meet Joseph under the most unusual and improper way for a high-society
girl, he was a poor Italian boy. He barely spoke English. Besides, he hardly had more than a penny to his name.”

  “No disrespect to your fine husband, but what did you do?”

  “Wrote them a letter telling them I had fallen in love with one of the instructors. You know, a professor of the arts who had a high position at the school. I knew they wouldn’t be too happy about that either since they planned on me marrying a son of one of their New York friends upon graduation.” Her smile faded. “I’m still not proud about lying to my mother and father. But even though they loved me, they would never have understood.”

  “I wanted to face her parents, ask for Lizzie’s hand in marriage. You know, do the respectable thing.” Joseph grimaced. “But we both knew her father’s answer. We couldn’t take a chance on losing each other.”

  “And there was the matter of his temper.” Lizzie spoke quietly and glanced around as if assuring herself we were alone. “Even out here, far away from another soul, I can still hear his yelling and feel the sting of his hand.”

  Joseph slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “We headed out and never turned back.”

  In front of me stood a leather-faced, slightly hunched-over man like a tree that had been blown by the wind for ages. Next to him was a silver-haired, frail woman, reminding me of the last leaf, holding on until the snow would release it from its branch. Together, aged versions of what I imagined were once a dark, handsome young man and a lovely, fair-skinned young woman. Now, they held on to one another on a barren and unpredictable path to the next, and most likely, final season of their lives.

  Joseph pulled his wife closer. “Mary, true love has a way of triumphing, even when it doesn’t seem to stand a chance.”

  “Don’t think poorly of us, child,” Lizzie said.

  “Not on your life, my friend. It’s a delightful love story.” A sadness long kept at arm’s length crept into my heart, and I wondered if I had ever really experienced true love.

  “You will.” Lizzie patted my cheek.

  “Excuse me?” Did I say that out loud?

  “But stay away from that sheriff.” Joseph gave Lizzie a quick kiss and then hoisted himself onto his seat.

  I frowned at Lizzie. “What does he mean by that? I have no feelings for that man.”

  Lizzie took me by the arm, and none too gently. “That doesn’t matter ’cause he has some for you.” She wrinkled her nose, reminding me of my mother. “You be careful, child.” She stepped toward the sideboard and pulled herself up to where Joseph had gathered the reins and was talking with Sadie. The chestnut mare bobbed her head when he spoke, and I could only imagine she was thanking her owner for the brief rest from the arduous journey.

  I climbed into the back of the wagon and settled as best I could, wedged between the supplies we would need when we camped in Arkansas City before the race and in the open prairie when we staked our claims.

  Like so many times before, Joseph clicked his tongue and Sadie quickened her pace to a slow trot. For several hours, the road behind me faded into the distance, and I wondered if my life as I knew it would soon do the same.

  *****

  That evening, we camped along a small creek somewhere fifty miles or so north of Arkansas City. If we got a start at daybreak and held a steady pace, Joseph said we would reach our destination at sunset. If not, we’d settle for one more night and pull into Arkansas City in two days. Either way, we’d have a handful of days to stand in the necessary lines to register and each pay fourteen dollars to participate in the race.

  I must have been in a deep sleep when Joseph’s voice awakened me.

  “Mary, get up. I need help.” His voice was strained.

  I pushed back the blanket and rolled onto my hands and knees in the rough grass. We had laid our bedrolls under a large cottonwood to be protected from any rain that may have fallen in the night. Since it hadn’t rained for weeks, even a drizzle was unlikely but would have been a welcome visitor.

  “What’s wrong? Is there trouble?”

  We had been fortunate. So far, there had been no substantial problems other than a bear wandering near our campfire one evening and an angry swarm of bees that had nearly set Sadie off running as she grazed near a rotted tree stump.

  “It’s Lizzie.” Even in the dark, the whites of Joseph’s eyes were visible in the moonlight. “Been turning and tossing all night, and she’s hot as a baked potato.”

  I jumped up and ignored my tangled hair that had come loose from its bun. “Where is she?” I looked around, trying to adjust my eyes.

  “In the back of the wagon. Didn’t think it best to have her on the ground.” He jogged toward the wagon, and I hurried after him.

  We climbed into the back, careful not to jostle the rickety boards or wake her if she was able to sleep again. Lizzie moaned and called out for Joseph in slurred words. Immediately, he was at her side, whispering something in Italian.

  Kneeling on the other side of her, an odd sensation of fear sweep across me, and I realized how quickly anything in life can change. I pushed the thought from my mind and spoke to her. “Lizzie. It’s all right, honey. Seems you took on a slight fever. Maybe the sun or too many mosquito and horsefly bites got to you today.”

  Joseph glanced at me and nodded, looking hopeful.

  I hope that’s all it is. I nodded back at him, wanting to believe my quick diagnosis.

  The moonlight cast a pale glow on her moistened face. Her forehead and cheeks were covered with tiny droplets as if the late autumn dew had visited in the night. Her eyes opened slightly, and even in the dim light, they appeared blurred—as though a fog had rolled in from the creek bed, unwilling to lift.

  “I’m going to the river to soak my shirt again. The cold water seemed to settle her down.” Joseph leapt over the sideboard and disappeared towards the gurgling creek that, before this dry season, probably swelled four-fold. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized he was bare-chested, using whatever he could to bring comfort to his wife. Instinctively, I knew he would sacrifice anything, even himself, to keep her from harm.

  Her small frame shivered, and she let out another moan.

  “You’re going to be all right, my friend. When the sun rises, you’ll be brand new.” Lord, don’t let anything happen to her.

  With my face toward heaven, I gazed at the pinpricked sky dotted with millions of stars.

  Unworthy. That’s me. I can take care of myself without You. That’s what I said, didn’t I? Not so sure if that’s true any longer. But this is the truth, Lord. Lizzie is a much better person than me, and she doesn’t deserve to travel all this way for something to happen to her now.

  CHAPTER 13

  Daniel ~ Arrival, September 10, 1893

  It took some convincing for Mr. Reid to believe our story. He admitted that when he surfaced from crawling under the seats only to find us missing, he was sure we had taken the money and were long gone. He vowed he would find us if it meant looking for the rest of his life—which he figured would be shortened by Mr. Simon and Mr. Levy. Not until the envelope was securely in his own coat pocket did he reach across the aisle to shake our hands.

  “Sirs, you are honorable and brave. Perhaps dense as well.” He whispered the last part. “The two of you could be lying dead on the side of the tracks, and I would be soon to follow if my bosses found out the money was gone.” He leaned in closer, mouthing the words. “Security money.”

  “If you aren’t as quick as the others to make your claim?” Finn raised one eyebrow.

  “A possibility, but rest assured, gentlemen, there are other ways to get what I came all this way to secure.” He slipped his hand under his lapel.

  “Hopefully, your plan doesn’t involve getting us killed,” I said.

  “Let’s hope not.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, with his hand still in his pocket.

  After my heart resumed a normal beat, I knew he was right. Maybe it was gut intuition after years of observing my surroundings on t
he job that made me go after the stranger. It was ingrained in me to notice the details of people and places, sometimes obvious, but often subtle or unnoticeable.

  Or could it have been that still, small voice I had ignored for so many years, ever since Eloise chose another man … and the stables burned? I closed my eyes, hoping to push the memories away that lingered like smoldering embers until words I hadn’t heard since childhood, echoed in my mind. Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and shew thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not.

  After my mother died when I was fourteen, my father continued the tradition of gathering my older brother, Joel, and me around the wobbly table in front of the fire before supper. What I remember most was my growling stomach—hungry from a day of working in the fields on our small farm outside Boston—not the verses he read over and over. But suddenly, I missed those days, huddled together with only the light of the fire and a single candle on the table.

  Without Mother, the three of us held to one another like moorings in the sea. But after Father passed a year later, my brother and I were cut loose from the safety of the harbor, only to float away—me to the neighbors to the north and my brother to New York City, hoping to make a life for himself.

  I was fortunate. The McPhersons were a kind, young couple—Kate a seamstress and Robert a tailor. With no children, they took me in as their own. And although I could never call them Mother and Father, they didn’t expect it. Rather than working the farm as I had with my father, my time after school was spent helping them maneuver heavy bolts of fabric onto a cutting table and delivering completed dresses and suits to the wealthy in the city and the clothing shops in town.

  Best of all, I learned to paint. Robert McPherson’s real love was art, and when the jobs were few or the day’s work complete, we sat near the fire as he drew the skeleton of a scene with a bit of charcoal or the stub of a pencil. He taught me how to make the paints, combining just the right amount of pigment, linseed, and turpentine.