Beyond the Mapped Stars

by Rosalyn Eves

  I listen for a note of irony, but there’s none. He means it.

  We both stand there for a moment. Finally, Samuel sets the derby hat on his head. “It’s been good to see you, Elizabeth. I hope you have a fine time at your party, and that the eclipse is everything you hope it will be.”

  He turns away. I don’t know if he’s heading back to his room, claiming his dance with Alice, or exiting the building, but he’s leaving me.

  My heart thuds against my breastbone. If I say nothing, if I let him walk away now, we’ll go back to that casual neighborliness we shared before we left Monroe. He will tease me sometimes, and I will ignore him most times.

  Do I want that?

  Or I could say something. I could apologize and bring him back and open the door to something bigger: a real friendship. Maybe more. Somehow, that scares me more than saying nothing.

  But Samuel said I looked like wrapped sunlight, wearing a dress that makes me brave and maybe a little wicked.

  “Wait,” I say.

  It’s not the most eloquent start to an apology. But Samuel stops and looks at me.

  I swallow and run my tongue across my lips. Samuel’s eyes follow that movement and fix on my mouth. I blush. “I owe you an apology. I didn’t mean those terrible things I said about you back by Mona.”

  A familiar, teasing gleam comes back into Samuel’s eyes, and my body loosens in relief. Then he says, “Are you expecting me to eat my words too? I should tell you, I don’t eat crow. Or humble pie.”

  This time I do poke him.

  Samuel falls back a step, laughing. “But words? I suppose words go down easy enough. I’m sorry too.” He holds out his hand to me. “Truce?”

  I take it, shaking firmly.

  “I suppose I’d better accompany you to this dance of yours. I promised your friend I’d dance with her.” He holds out his arm, and I take it.

  As we walk, I tell Samuel about the robbery, about meeting Alice and Will.

  He looks startled. “I heard about the robbery. I didn’t know it was your train! By the time I came through from Salt Lake, everything was back to its regular order. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. And now I shall have a story for the children when I get home.” When I get home. For a moment, it’s hard to breathe—I feel the close expectations of home gathering around me, disapproving of where I am, what I am wearing.

  When we reach the ballroom, another dance has already started. Alice stands near the head of the room with a partner. Beside me, Samuel heaves a mock sigh.

  “I’ve been jilted. You’ll have to save me from disgrace and dance with me.”

  I peek at my dance card. The spot for the current dance is conspicuously empty. Satisfying as it would have been to show Samuel I was already claimed, I suppose I should take pity on him. He is a neighbor, after all.

  No one but Alice seems to mark our entrance, and she grins at us. We find an unoccupied bit of floor in one corner. Unfamiliar music wafts through the room, and my heart sinks a little, but it turns out it’s some kind of waltz.

  Samuel takes me in his arms.

  His hand is warm at the small of my back, his grip firm but not hard. It takes us a minute to find our footing—I step on his shoes and he treads on the hem of my skirt. But eventually we figure it out and relax into the movement. Samuel tells me about the furniture seller he visited that morning to learn about a new inlay technique, and I tell him about Rebekka, the tense birth, and baby Ida.

  I try not to notice how well our two bodies move together.

  Maybe it’s just that seeing someone from home in a new place makes all their angles seem softened, their annoyances seem friendly just because they’re familiar.

  But maybe—

  I glance up at Samuel and find him watching me. When our eyes catch, a blush like sunburn spreads across his cheeks.

  Maybe it’s something else entirely.

  chapter seventeen

  Sunday, July 21, 1878

  Denver, Colorado

  Eight days until eclipse

  The next morning, a Sunday, the Stevens family invites me to attend their Methodist worship services with them, in a brick church on Stout Street. I don’t realize until we walk into the chapel that it’s a black Methodist church, with a black minister leading the congregation. Mr. Stevens and I are among only a handful of white faces spread through the crowd. I feel uncomfortably exposed, more aware of myself and my round body, my pale skin, than I normally am. I wonder if this is how Will and Alice feel all the time, in a mostly white city like Denver.

  The opening hymn pulls me out of my thoughts, grounding me in the pew. I’ve never been to another church’s service, and at first everything seems strange, from the songs I do not know to the energetic way the congregation responds to the preacher’s sermon. “Amen! Hallelujah!”

  The sermon touches on the upcoming eclipse and the wonder of God’s creation. Crimson and gold light streams through the stained-glass window at the front of the church, spreading glowing pools across the wooden pews.

  I think about Sister James, whom I met on the train. She could have worshipped in a congregation like this, served by a minister who shares her race. Instead she chose my same religion, even though she has faced prejudice there, even though, like many churches in America, we do not ordain black men to the priesthood. Sitting beside Alice, I’m embarrassed that I haven’t thought about this much, because it didn’t affect me. But I should think about it. I should care. The Bible teaches that we are all one body in Christ—that which touches one of us should touch all of us.

  I can’t hold God accountable for the foolish things people do in His name, but maybe I can set a higher standard for people. For myself.

  At church we talk about how we have God’s truth. Sister James’s path to God led her to the Mormons. But Alice’s led her here, to the Methodists. Maybe there are lots of places where people can find God, and lots of paths to Him. Where will I find mine?

  The sermon winds down, and the strains of the final hymn ring out. This time, I recognize it, though the music is a little different. “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.”

  I sing with gusto, my voice mingling with Alice’s in a subtle harmony.

  * * *

  After a lunch of cold meat and fruit and cheese, Alice shows me her paintings, all kept in a room on the upper floor with a south-facing window that lets in lots of light. Some are done in watercolors, some in oil paints, but all are breathtaking in their realism, in their attention to light and shadow and blend of color. There are men and women and children, of all sorts of skin tones, from umber to ivory. Some of them wear rich velvets and silks, some wear linens and leathers.

  Alice watches me anxiously. “What do you think?”

  I turn to face her fully. “I’ve never seen anything like them. You have a true gift—I hope you make it to Paris to study. Your artwork should be in museums, for everyone to enjoy them.”

  “Thank you.” Alice flushes with pleasure. “You don’t think it silly for a young lady to spend so much time dabbling with paint?”

  The way she articulates the words, in a cadence not quite her own, makes me think someone has said as much to her. “No. Of course not. Just because someone else can’t see the importance of your work doesn’t make it silly. If it’s important to you, it matters.”

  “My parents do not really understand it. Even Mama, who has worked so hard on the hotel, does not see her work as a career, but a way to give Will and me a better life.”

  “But art isn’t just a career for you, is it? It’s a vocation. Maybe art is what God means for you to do.” I give her the words Rebekka gave to me.

  Alice stares at me for a good minute, so long that I think either I’ve offended her, or I have something on my face from lunch. Surreptitiously, I brush at my upper lip.


  Finally, she says, “I have never— No one has ever said something like that to me. Even my drawing masters treated my work as though it were an expensive hobby. Sometimes I have felt that maybe my gift was God-given, but that seemed too like blasphemy.” Her voice cracks a little.

  “Before I came to Denver, my sister told me, ‘Maybe you are meant to study the stars.’ ” My voice cracks a little too. “It’s the reason I was able to come.”

  Alice holds out her hand. “We should make a pact—I will do what I can to help you study the stars while you are here, and you will do what you can to help me with my art.” She grins. “Starting with your sitting.”

  “Deal.” I take her hand and shake it, a delicious thrill of defiance running through me.

  Following Alice to the door of the studio, I glimpse a painting set on an easel by one wall, partly covered by a cloth. I move toward it. “What’s this?”

  Alice intercepts me. “It’s nothing, really. Just a sketch I’m playing at. It’s not finished at any rate.”

  “Could I see it?” When Alice hesitates, I add, “You could sketch something blindfolded and it would still be better than anything I can do. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t press. But I’d like to see your new idea.”

  With a deep breath, Alice lifts the cloth aside. It’s a forest scene, with just the hint of snow-capped mountains towering in the distance. Right now the shapes are still rough, not the fine-edged things of her portraits, but there’s something about the scene that tugs at me. Some quality of light, filtering between the massive trunks. It feels like being in the Methodist church, watching light stream through stained glass above the altar.

  “Alice,” I breathe, turning back to her. “This is— Is this the kind of landscape you were talking about?”

  She nods.

  “It’s amazing.” Her portraits are careful, detailed works of art. But if the domestic scenes hum, this sings.

  Alice shrugs diffidently. “It helps to get it out, anyway. Maybe if I can get the scene on paper it will stop haunting me.”

  “Will you do more like this?”

  “The landscape? No. No one wants landscapes by a woman—I’ll have better luck getting into school with the domestic portraits.”

  “But—”

  Alice cuts me off. “It’s not your decision. It’s mine. Besides, domestic scenes are important too. We like to praise nature as this immense, sublime thing—but really, most of our lives are made up of small, domestic moments. Those moments matter too. That’s what I’m showing in my paintings.”

  She’s right, of course. It’s not my business to tell her what to paint.

  And she’s right about the importance of her scenes too. Lots of people would dismiss Mama’s life—Rebekka’s life—as one of no importance, as not being worthy to record in history books. But there are hundreds, thousands, of lives just like theirs—lives that are no less worthy because they are recorded privately instead of publicly.

  But when Alice turns back to the painting and lowers the cloth again, she lowers it with the care one would take in handling fine, fragile china. Everything she told me might be true, but it’s clear that this painting matters more to her than she’s willing to say.

  * * *

  * * *

  At dinner that night, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens pick apart the sermon as they cut apart their meat. I listen closely, fascinated by their friendly banter.

  “I don’t know that God Himself had a hand in all created things,” Mr. Stevens says. “I think maybe He set things down and let them sort themselves out.”

  Mrs. Stevens says, “The scriptures say that not one sparrow falls but God knows about it. How could He do so if He’s not actively involved in creation?”

  Mr. Stevens looks at me. “What do you think, Miss Bertelsen?”

  I think about what he’s saying. There’s not much thoughtful challenging of doctrine at home—Papa tends to dismiss things outright, and Mama treats everything said at church as God’s own truth—but I like their approach, the idea that you can have different interpretations and still find meaning inside your faith. “I don’t know that God governs the shape of every living thing. A tree that grows twisted in the wind is shaped by its environment.”

  Mr. Stevens lifts his eyebrows at his wife, who only shakes her head at him.

  Flushing a little, I add, “But that doesn’t mean He’s not mindful.”

  “Spoken like a true diplomat,” Will says, laughing at me.

  Mrs. Stevens changes tack. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

  “I’m hoping to see a man about a new carriage horse,” Mr. Stevens says.

  “I’m starting my shift at the hotel,” I say.

  “I mean to take Elizabeth to lunch after her shift,” Alice says, smiling at me. “And paint.”

  “And you, Will?” Mr. Stevens’s tone is light, but I see the way the others tense slightly. “Do you intend to be at the hotel tomorrow? Your grandfather could use help with the ledgers.”

  Will grimaces. “I’ve made other plans, Papa. Me and some of the fellows—”

  “You can’t keep doing this, William. If you’d like to go to university, we’d gladly fund your way. But if you won’t, at least make an honest living for yourself.”

  I stare down at the cloth napkin covering my lap and run a finger over the nails of my left hand.

  The chair legs shush against the carpet as Will pushes his chair away. “To make an honest living as you have, all I need to do is find a rich wife.”

  Mrs. Stevens’s shocked “William!” follows the sound of Will’s footsteps from the room. Mr. Stevens stalks from the room as well, and a moment later the front door opens and closes. Beside me, Alice tears her roll into smaller and smaller pieces. Mrs. Stevens watches the empty doorway, a troubled expression on her face.

  * * *

  * * *

  Monday morning, the Stevenses’ driver takes me into town to the Trans-Oceana hotel. It’s so early that only the stars are out to see me off, but the familiar constellations overhead quiet some of the anxiety stirring in my gut. I watch the route carefully—I don’t want to inconvenience the driver more than necessary, and perhaps tomorrow I can walk. It is not far, maybe a mile or so.

  We pass Champa Street and a thrill shoots through me. Dr. Avery said I might call on Miss Mitchell today. This afternoon, after my shift is over. After lunch with Alice.

  The desk clerk has a porter take me to the head housekeeper, Mrs. Segura, a middle-aged woman with white-streaked dark hair and the faintest of Spanish accents. Mr. Davis must have apprised her of my coming, because she only looks me over once and asks me if I know how to clean and tidy beds. When I assure her that I do, she sets me to work with Frances, a blond girl about five years older than me.

  Frances shows me the linen room, where they store the clean bedsheets, and both of us load our arms with fresh linens and carry them up the stairs. I marvel at the details of the second floor: the rich russet-and-yellow-patterned carpets, the bronze chandeliers at intervals along the corridor. Frances knocks at the first door, and when no one responds, she tugs a key from her waistband and opens the door. Inside, the room is covered with a yellow-and-white-striped wallpaper, with lush velvet drapes trimmed with satin and yellow and black braid around a small balcony. I spy the button for the annunciator by the bed, but resist the temptation to push it and summon the desk clerk upstairs to us.

  The room is only a little untidy and we make quick work of it, beating the rugs at the window, setting the lace curtains straight, and replacing the linens on the bed. My task is to carry the soiled linens downstairs, where they will await pickup by a local laundry.

  Frances talks as we go, almost incessantly, of the famous local guests they’ve had; of the upcoming eclipse and the reams of tourists, whom she hopes will tip well; of her beau, who has
been courting her for nearly two years but can’t yet afford to marry her; even of the Davis family themselves.

  “They have an awful lot of money, for a colored family,” Frances says. “I suppose that’s why Mr. Stevens married into it.”

  “I think Mr. Stevens married Mrs. Stevens because he likes her,” I say, thinking of how he looked at her over dinner, before Will upset everything.

  Frances looks at me scornfully. “Where’d you say you were from again? Utah? I don’t suppose folks have much by way of standards where you’re from.”

  Words crowd along my tongue, filling my mouth, but I swallow them down. If I want to keep this job, making trouble with another employee won’t help me. But when Frances tries to draw me out in gossiping about the Davis-Stevens family again, I ignore her. Eventually she stops talking.

  But I notice that afterward Frances leaves the worst of the messes in the rooms for me to clean. Over a stretch of carpet smeared with grease and tobacco stains, she meets my eyes, as though daring me to complain.

  * * *

  * * *

  My shift ends in the early afternoon. Frances watches me narrowly as we walk downstairs to report to Mrs. Segura. She seems disappointed at something—perhaps that I don’t seem more exhausted by the unrelenting work? It’s no different from what I’m used to at home, caring for seven younger siblings.

  Frances ties on a bonnet and marches down the hall toward the back entrance. I draw on my own hat, but then hesitate. Alice won’t be here for a few minutes yet.

  Before I can let myself think too closely about my actions, I go back to the desk clerk and ask for Samuel’s room number. I haven’t seen him since the dance on Saturday.

  I brace myself for the possibility that he’s out for the day, but at my soft knock, Samuel calls, “Come in!”