Twisted River

by Kelsey Gietl

  An exterior door led into the outer gardens. She would search there next then the upstairs offices and even the gardening shed if she must.

  “I thought I told you not to come here again.”

  Dr. Schweitzer’s narrow voice caught her with one foot out the door. He stood halfway up the aisle, two fronds flanking him on either side. His eyes narrowed. “I told you I have nothing more to say.”

  Try as she might, Maggie couldn’t picture him at home in a garden with dirt trapped in the creases of his slender fingers, coaxing life from nothing. Like Laurence Archer, this man too was one of knowledge, more content to teach the world from behind a podium. Do as I say not as I do. ... The truth shall set you free, but only when I will it.

  “Perhaps not,” she said, stepping back into the conservatory, “but there’s more I need to hear.” She lifted her chin. She wasn’t a child anymore, yet she could remember how he made her cower in her nightmares, the way he owned her there. To a five-year-old, every adult seemed ten feet tall. “You may not wish to speak of it yourself, Dr. Schweitzer; nevertheless, what is still is. My mother told me who you are.”

  His expression didn’t waver. If anything, it drew tighter still. “That is her right. I, however, made a commitment to hold my silence.”

  “Silence has already been broken. Already I know more than is good for me, more than was ever right.” She exhaled a bitter laugh, thinking of the husband she sent away and the daughter she planned to let another mother love. “My life has been irrevocably altered by this truth. There is not a way to return from that.”

  “I will not betray a promise at the request of a child.”

  Maggie laid a protective palm upon Abigail’s back. “In your eyes, I may forever be a child, but I have a child too. I saw you that day at Shaw’s Garden, and I need to know—did you come to America to find me?”

  “No.” So flat, so completely unemotional. So very like herself, she thought. “It was pure coincidence,” he continued. “Henry Shaw based his original designs on the Royal Gardens. It only made sense then that when they planned the addition of a Palm House in St. Louis, I was invited to lend my expertise. Until I saw you that day, I assumed you to still reside in Fontaine.” Although his expression hadn’t changed, he had the audacity to raise a tender hand to her. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you—”

  “It doesn’t. You didn’t desire to be a father to me then, so why should I expect your affections now?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not your father, Maggie. If you’re searching for a replacement to the one you lost, you will not find him here. Your father was the man who raised and loved you—”

  “Who bribed you to stay away from your own child?”

  “Who–who told you that?” He appeared stunned, as stunned as if she slapped him.

  Maggie’s confidence rose. She had brightened the flashbulb with her accusation and captured the image with his words. Words were all she had left, and Hugo would tell her a photograph was worth one thousand of them. “Laurence manufactured all of this, didn’t he? He came to you before my mother could carry out her plan. He offered you money for your research, more than you could ever hope to receive fresh out of university. He promised to contribute as long as you stayed away from us and would withdraw immediately if you ever spoke a word. Fifteen years of extortion; that’s the legacy my so-called father left for me, isn’t it?”

  With a great sigh, Dr. Schweitzer’s lids lowered and just as slowly raised. There was an awful weight within their depths and an even greater relief of finally setting it at her feet. It must be a terrible burden, Maggie realized, to carry such a secret for so long. How had she ever believed she could?

  Abigail’s sudden cry pierced the silence, and Maggie felt a surge of milk to her breasts as the infant began to root for her next meal. It had been a blessing, her ability to nurse Abbie without a single complication. So many mothers had a difficult time of it, some never successful, while Maggie, the most undeserving, had been granted a generous supply from the beginning. Her body was equipped with nourishment, while her soul starved from lacking.

  She slipped her finger between the child’s toothless gums, and after several arguments, Abigail finally accepted the substitute. A sad smile lifted Dr. Schweitzer lips as he watched her slowly suckle, remembering another time and another child. “What do you call her?” he asked.

  “Abigail Lorraine.”

  “She takes after you and you after your mother. As beautiful as I remember.” He quieted. “You may believe your father only maintained interest in manipulation or that I exchanged you to further my own personal gain, and that may well hold some truth. But the truth is also that, in the end, Laurence and I made each other better. It was a trying journey to be certain, but rivers of contentment never flow straight.”

  His fingers moved to cup her chin, and she was staring into her own eyes. More grey than blue today, more dead than alive. “We’ll never know if I would have been a suitable father, Maggie. That makes no difference at this point. What we do know is that the day Laurence offered me payment for my silence, I met a man who was willing to sacrifice his soul to keep you with him. I couldn’t knowingly ruin a family without bearing that same confidence inside myself.”

  “It’s too late, Doctor. My family is ruined anyway.” A sudden surge of panic gripped her middle and a million memories flowed from that contraction. Children’s laughter before dawn, tender lips against hers, infinite possibilities not yet believed in. She couldn’t believe. Not when she was witnessing firsthand the heartbreak liable to befall her. She was her mother’s daughter. She needed to rid herself of Abigail before she led her own child to make the same mistake for a third time.

  “Maggie, so often we feel trapped between two terrible choices, but we must hold hope that someday we can find the reason for the decision that didn’t make sense. Sometimes the best choice is the one we don’t even know why we made.”

  He motioned for her to follow him inside, leading her upstairs to an office as cluttered as the one in Hugo’s studio. She didn’t need any additional explanation. Because there they were, exactly as she had seen in her dreams for months. Those violet flowers reached towards the window, their pointed little petals desperate for a touch of light in an otherwise dismal sky. She reached out to touch one, soft and smooth in the middle, slightly rough on the outside. A little bit broken. A little bit beautiful.

  A little bit like her.

  ~~~

  Back in the taxi, Maggie unpinned her hat in order to slide the Magdalena blossom between the combs in her hair. She remembered the torment of being seventeen and having the May crown forced upon her. It was the last thing she wanted then, but how pleased it made her parents and how proud. Would her father honestly be proud of her now?

  Although it might have brought temporary relief, she couldn’t bring herself to cry anymore. She couldn’t even force herself to scream. It couldn’t magically return her husband or change her blood to match Laurence Archer’s. It certainly wouldn’t still the knife that slashed at her heart.

  Never had she been more afraid that she had finally received exactly what she deserved.

  I don’t love myself. That’s my own doing, but I don’t know if I can shoulder it anymore.

  Her actions hadn’t saved her from the pain of life; they had only barred her from a life worth living.

  Claim your happiness, Laurence wrote. Oh, how she desperately longed to.

  She wanted unfailing love like Tena, unabashed passion like Reuben, unwavering devotion like Hugo had for his children. To use her brazen determination to save instead of ruin. To build a home, a family, and a life they would be proud of. Maggie wanted it so much it hurt.

  The taxi slowed. “We’ve arrived, ma’am.”

  “Come along, Abbie girl. It’s time.” Looking forward, she lifted her daughter and stepped from the motorcar. One foot in front of the other, one day after the next, one moment at a time until she finally reached
the woman she most wanted to be.

  FORTY-FIVE

  April 29, 1912—

  Two weeks later

  Pinching the tongs against the corner of the saturated paper, Hugo slid the photograph from the development rinse and hung it on the line strung above his studio workbench. Twelve others preceded it, all moments captured during his time in England.

  After his argument with Reuben, Hugo rode the train to London, refusing to allow himself to think about anything. He strode into Bianca Smith’s home, collected his belongings, and accepted her offer of a ride to the piers without speaking more than a handful of words. He didn’t answer her inquiries about the others’ location or when they might return. When she said Maggie deserved someone who could actually hire a servant to carry her trunk, he didn’t disagree. When she called him a simpleton, he didn’t reply.

  He had lost his daughter and his wife; in a mind numb with grief, it was unable to process anything else. He hoped Reuben convinced Maggie to keep Abigail. He prayed she changed her mind.

  Upon arriving at the ticket office, Hugo was handed a single berth second class passage in exchange for Mr. Archer’s voucher. Not due to sail for two days’ time, he stowed his luggage at the nearest inn, grabbed his Brownie, and wandered into the city. It was quite possibly the only chance he would have to visit Europe. Capturing a place so rich in history should have been every photographer’s dream.

  With eyes closed, he now listened to the city of St. Louis through the studio’s open window. Even from behind the confines of heavy darkroom curtains, he made out the clang of a streetcar, a street vendor’s shout, and the shuffle of feet on the walk. This was his city, and there was still none better. Why did he ever feel the need to leave it?

  It was his worst mistake, telling Maggie he would continue searching for his former wife. Emma’s memory wasn’t the one who held his attention during the day. She wasn’t why Molly cried so often or Henry reverted to being a hellion. Thankfully Isa was too young to understand much, but the others understood all too well. Emma’s leaving he couldn’t have done anything about, but Maggie he could have.

  Even so, he wouldn’t convince her to come home; he wouldn’t even try. He would give her what she asked for even if it tore him apart.

  He wouldn’t leave home again. It wasn’t more of the world he wanted, it was less of it. Despite what he said, he wouldn’t hunt for Emma anymore. Instead of paying an investigator, he would hire a suitable nanny and remain right where he belonged. He would be a father to his children in all the ways his own father hadn’t been for Damaris. Between portraits in the studio and sales to the Mid-Mississippi, they could make ends meet. If Emma wanted to rejoin their family, he would allow her to do so, but he wouldn’t continually seek her out in vain.

  “If you think that is what’s best,” Damaris said when he broke the news after dinner last night. There was fire in her eyes; however, to Hugo’s relief, her tone remained steady. He had expected more of an upheaval.

  “I do. Too much bad happens when we leave St. Louis. Emma disappeared, Molly got sick, then Maggie. We should take it as a sign that we’re meant to stay right here.” He squeezed his fingers around his thighs to stifle another bout of emotion.

  The first night back from England and also the first spent in his own bed since the wedding, he wept himself senseless surrounded by all the photographs he took when Maggie wasn’t watching. The second night he shoved them into the bottom drawer of the desk in his studio. He hadn’t opened it or cried since.

  “If you think that is what’s best,” Damaris repeated. She stretched her hands towards him upon the tabletop. “You’re my brother. You know I would do anything to keep us together.”

  Hugo’s hands slid to hers with a smile. “I thank heaven that you’ve always been here.”

  Dredging the final photograph from the solution, he clipped it on the line beside the others. He would deliver them to the Mid-Mississippi first thing in the morning before Reuben arrived. Hugo rubbed his knuckles. They still twinged from his uncharacteristic bout of aggression, but not nearly as deep as the ache in his heart.

  Bells tinkled at the downstairs parlor door. Hanging his apron up, he pulled on his jacket and smoothed his hair back. His four-fifteen sitting had arrived right on time.

  “Mr. Carson, I presume?” Hugo asked as he entered the parlor. A young couple stood near Damaris’s vacant desk admiring a framed California mountain range.

  The man turned with a broad smile. “Right you are.” He shook Hugo’s hand then drew the attention of the slender woman beside him. “My future bride, Miss McClay.”

  Hugo nearly choked as he accepted her hand. McClay? What could the odds be that she bore the same name as his former wife’s alias? Calm down, Hugo, he scolded. McClay was a fairly common name; it was a complete coincidence. With her dark brown hair, this woman obviously wasn’t Emma, yet something about her was startlingly familiar.

  “Have I photographed you before, Miss McClay?” Hugo asked as he released her hand. “It feels as though we’ve met.”

  She gave a slim smile. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Frye. Although perhaps I have served you before. I’m a waitress at the Nightingale only a few blocks over.”

  A waitress? Hugo spun on his heel, throwing open the door to the rear office. He ran to the desk and shoved a crate onto the floor to shuffle through stacked papers. Invoices, session requests, more blasted bills. Where were they?

  He yanked open the bottom desk drawer, strewing broken photography accessories across the floor as he tossed them out. Not there either. He pulled at his hair as he racked his brain for where he left those photographs.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Frye?” Hugo’s clients stood in the office doorway with alarmed expressions. “Are you quite all right?”

  Grabbing his satchel from the chair, he upended the bag onto the desktop. Stacks of paper shifted and sheets cascaded to the floor. There on top of the pile was the envelope from the investigator and Adeline McClay’s photographs stored within. Sliding them free, his eyes shifted between the woman in the photograph and one watching him. The angle of the frame left plenty of room for doubt before, but not when he had the subject. The Miss McClay in his studio and the one in the photograph were indeed the same woman.

  No wonder there was no information when they went to Utah. No wonder everyone in the city looked at him like he was insane. He had visited every café, every boarding house, every last hotel. He wasted precious time chasing an illusion when he could have been at home not destroying any chance at happiness with Maggie.

  He slapped the photos face down on the desk and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Smeared like a blood stain was Maggie’s, “Yes.” Lord in heaven, he thought. She loved me once if only for a minute, and I threw it all away for a dead lead.

  A dead lead, he thought. Those had been Damaris’s words, not his.

  Terror could have stopped his heart. Oh, my Emma, you never wanted to leave me, did you?

  Hugo snatched his billfold and house key from the mess and pushed past his bewildered clients. “I’m sorry,” he said without glancing back. “We must reschedule. I have an emergency.”

  “At a discount!” called Mr. Carson as the studio door closed. Hugo raced for the streetcar, jumping for the back rail and barely able to pull himself onto the landing as it rounded the corner. He flipped a coin into the bin and prayed there would be no delays.

  The magnitude of his ignorance seemed so terribly obvious now.

  Emma hadn’t left him. She was dead.

  FORTY-SIX

  Traffic was an absolute nightmare.

  “Come on, come on,” Hugo muttered. Ever since automobiles had gained popularity, adding their numbers to the already congested streets only made travel times worse. He had expected some delay, but the streetcar was currently at a complete standstill and had been for a good ten minutes.

  He shuffled his way to the front of the car, attempting to see what the hold up was.

&
nbsp; “Delivery wagon flipped onto the tracks,” the conductor told him. The man settled back in his seat and folded his arms. “’Fraid we’ll need to get comfortable, ’cause we ain’t going anywhere soon.”

  “Bread and butter, I don’t have time for this.”

  Leaping from the streetcar, he ran two blocks to the next junction and stepped onto the National Railway line as the streetcar started up. He dropped a coin into the till and himself onto the nearest seat, his knee bouncing in agitation.

  It felt like the streetcar stopped at every intersection, for every passing wagon ... the conductor even waved a friendly “hello” to a passerby on the walk. Hugo combed his hair back, raking his knuckles across his scalp nearly to the point of pain. He couldn’t believe what a colossal idiot he had been. Damaris had the know-how to frame her story; even on her worst days, she could capture a photograph every inch as good as his. It would be easy enough to cover up a murder by appealing to her brother’s ignorance and affections. But why? His own sister ... why had she done it?

  His children were at home with an aunt they could no longer trust. Dear Lord, he prayed, keep them safe.

  Rather than switch lines again at the final junction, he raced the remaining mile on foot, his chest heaving when he sped onto the front walk and a stitch pulsing in his side. Sweat pasted his shirt against his back and his neck stung where the starched collar had rubbed it raw.

  That was when he saw the smoke.

  A grey fog billowed from the kitchen windows on the backside of the house. Although the flames appeared to be contained to the northern wall, it was only a matter of time before they engulfed the kitchen and worked their way into the master bedroom directly above it. Why hadn’t any of the neighbors rang for help? he wondered. Perhaps they had. It took the fire department longer to respond this far out. Then again, maybe no one even noticed. The acrid smell could be assumed as someone burning the wrong sort of wood, and the house wasn’t fully visible from the road.