Dawn came and the sun flickered above the horizon sometime before five. Finally, I lay back, closed my eyes, and let such questions float in and out of my mind like the breeze wafting the lace curtains. I wished I could speak with Hans about the photographs. But any questions would only embarrass him. Clearly, he’d hidden them—to him, they were merely girly photos.
The person I needed to find was the photographer. And there was only one portrait photographer in the area, a Mr. Foxridge. He was well respected, taking portraits of individuals—like Ennis and Worthington—and families. It was unlikely he had anything to do with these lurid images. But maybe he knew . . . something.
His studio was in downtown International Falls, three miles away.
That day at breakfast—in the kitchen instead of the dining room—I put down my fork. When a quiet fell, I tried my voice again, this time with a question. “Aasta,” I said, “at Red Stone, you said you’d heard I used to talk like a little sparrow.”
“Did I?” she said, looking away to Hans, who scolded her with a wag of his head.
“You did,” I answered. “Who—who told you I talked a lot?”
She nodded. “Sadly, I wouldn’t know that because . . . vel . . . we started our work here when the Worthingtons found you. They needed help. But I know people here now, and one day I went to find Darla, the woman . . .”
“—of course she was a woman,” Hans added, with a wink at me.
Aasta shushed him with a pretend swat in his direction. “Before she moved her business to Kettle Falls, I asked her about you, and about your mother. And that’s when I learn that you talked once like a little sparrow. That’s what that Darla said.”
“And that’s why,” Hans said, “we always lose hope.”
“Never lose hope,” I said, correcting his English.
He smiled wide. “Ya! Never lose hope.”
“Maybe now,” Aasta said, “you can help us with the English somedays. Ya?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. And Darla, is she still alive?” I tried to picture her in my mind, a large woman with a pile of red hair pinned high.
“Ya, she still way up the lake at Kettle Falls.”
“Kettle Falls,” I said, wondering how in the world I might get there someday to see Darla. I wondered if she might remember me, or be able to tell me anything about my mother. “Aasta, did you learn anything more about my real mother?”
Aasta jumped up from the table and started clearing away the plates and bowls of heart-shaped waffles, fruit sauce, and eggs—as if she hadn’t heard me.
“There is not much to say,” she answered, her voice distant. “Now, we better get tidy around here then.” She turned to the washbasins. “The Worthingtons come back on tomorrow’s train.”
“But it’s Wednesday. I thought Friday was when—”
“Change of the plans,” said Aasta, her back to me. “They called when you were gone on the lake with that young man.”
So that was why she was in a huff. Maybe she was worried that I would turn out just like my mother. Better not to bring her up, a subject that was clearly not to be discussed. Better to never have been born, it seemed, than to end up as a prostitute. And better for me, they seemed to think, to pretend that I had been born into the arms of Elizabeth and Walter Worthington.
Chapter 10
I played the piano for hours that morning, my eyes skipping over the notes, my fingers flying over the keys. But the only thought circling in my head, round and round like a turkey vulture, was that I had to find out more about my real mother—her life and especially her death. It was as if I were frozen, stuck in a state of barely living, and I couldn’t tolerate it any longer.
What I knew was that I had to get to International Falls and find Mr. Foxridge. I would take the city bus, officially labeled the Motor Inn Bus Line, a squat, five-seated vehicle on thick, fat tires that left regularly from the community building for fifty cents round-trip.
But Aasta and Hans hovered around the cottage like a pair of mallard ducks watching their brood—of one. I watched the hours tick by through the early afternoon. I read, perused the Worthingtons’ bookshelves, sat back at the piano, and hoped they would leave on an errand. I decided, finally, that I would have to lower myself to lying. When Hans was busy repairing dock boards, I stepped into the kitchen, pressing my palm to my forehead. “Aasta, I’m going to rest for a while.”
“Head aching, ya?”
I nodded and left. Instead of turning to the staircase, I slipped silently out the door toward the road and walked briskly to meet the bus at the community building. I felt spurred on, like a horse ridden by an impetuous rider, propelling me forward without caution, heedless of unforeseen holes.
By four o’clock, I was walking down the boardwalks of downtown International Falls, my wide-brim hat shading my face. Several Model Ts rolled by, swerving around dung and mud holes. Horses leaned into their traces, pulling delivery carts, wagons, and buggies. Men gathered outside taverns, smoking, heads tilting with curiosity as I passed. My goal was not to be seen by anyone who would recognize me and report back to the Worthingtons. But I so rarely left home, I realized, that most likely I would be taken for a tourist passing through, or perhaps a working girl, new to town.
The First National Bank dominated a Main Street corner. I glanced in. Behind teller windows of ornate steel scrollwork was a massive walk-in vault. But I wasn’t interested in the bank. I aimed instead for the nearby door with the half-moon sign overhead that read:
QUALITY PHOTOGRAPHY
MR. FRED FOXRIDGE
I climbed the narrow, steep staircase to the second floor. At the top, a dim light lit the hallway. Pleased with myself, I stopped at the first door on the left, its sign stating the hours, monday–friday, 8–4. Oh, no . . . I checked my pocket watch. It was three minutes past four. I’d come too late! And I didn’t know when I’d get another chance to return downtown with the Worthingtons returning tomorrow.
Halfheartedly, I knocked anyway.
“Enter!”
I stepped into a small windowless waiting room with two overstuffed chairs and a wooden smoking stand. Its inset ashtray of amber glass overflowed with cigarette butts. On a coffee table stood a ten-inch metal elephant, its tail a metal crank. I couldn’t help myself. I sat, leaned forward, and turned the crank. From the elephant’s belly rolled a fresh cigarette onto two metal prongs.
From behind the dividing wall, a man shouted. “It’s past four! I’m closed!”
“I know. Sorry to bother you. I—I just have a question.”
“Take a seat! I’m in the darkroom. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I sat back in the chair and waited, my hands clasped ladylike over my leather handbag on my lap. From the hallway came the creak and slam of doors and a pattering of footsteps. The door to the photography studio opened and in flew a young boy, suspenders over patched breeches. “Papa! Mama says the baby could come tonight! Tonight, Papa!”
“That’s good, Pete. Don’t worry. That’s what she thought last night, too. But you tell her I’ll be back soon.”
The boy stuck his tongue out at me, then twirled away back into the hallway. “Mama!” he shouted, before his voice was silenced by a closing door.
Finally, Mr. Foxridge stepped out, a wiry man I guessed in his thirties, dark hair cut fashionably short on the sides, longer on top, with a mustache that drooped on either side of thin lips. “Okay, what?”
I didn’t trust my voice to explain things right. I reached in my handbag, handed him the stack of six images, and waited.
He raised his eyebrows at the photographs, sorting through them quickly, as if they were a deck of cards in need of reshuffling. His eyes bore into me. “And?”
I cleared my throat, willing my voice to be my ally. “Did you take these photographs? Did yo
u know her?”
He sat in the chair kitty-corner to mine, drew a cigarette from the elephant’s belly, lit it, and inhaled. I waited for him to say something. He exhaled toward the ceiling. Smoke circled like an uncertain halo above his head. “Yes . . . and yes.”
I willed myself to sit still. I waited for more.
“Her name was Bella Rose. Sort of a sad story, really. I first met her when she was forced to sell her late husband’s photography equipment. Good equipment, too. She was pregnant. Needed money. So I bought it and got my start.” He waved his arms wide. “And here I am today, in large thanks to her.”
Mama had a husband. A photographer who died. I wanted to get up and leave, to try to absorb this information. But while I was here, I needed to learn as much as I could. “And Mr. Foxridge,” I asked, feeling like a fledgling newspaper reporter, “what can you tell me about the photographs?”
He tapped the top image. “She was a looker. I was getting started, and so was she, as a, well, you know . . . So I came up with the idea of taking her picture and some of the other girls’, and selling the photographs outside the area. Gotta tell you, I made some quick cash. So did the girls.”
He looked me over. “Not that I do that kind of work anymore. But if that’s what you came to ask about . . . turn your head to the left.”
Reluctantly, I did so.
In the long pause that followed, I felt his eyes trace my body.
“You’re a looker, too. Occasionally, I make exceptions. If that’s what you came for, I’m sure I could find some time—it would be after regular business hours, of course . . . Good, now turn to the right.”
I did as he asked. But if he thought I’d come to pose for such photographs, he had it all wrong.
“Oh, crap.” He sprang to his feet, gave the photographs and me one last glance, as if to be sure, then shoved the photographs into my hand. “You’re her kid, aren’t you? Damn it. I should have seen it right off. How stupid can I be? You look just like her.”
“But if you knew her, can you tell me anything more about her, please?”
“Kid, I’m not getting near this or you with a ten-foot pole.” He opened the door to the hallway, nearly pushing me out. “You better get going now, young lady.”
Stunned by his brusque dismissal, I stood in the hallway. Rather than finding answers, my mind flooded with more questions. Why wouldn’t he tell me more? He had been willing to talk until he found out I was her daughter. Was I scum to him, or was there something else that worried him? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t make sense of the pounding in my head. Barely noticing anything along the way, I stumbled along the boardwalk and soon caught the city bus back to Ranier.
I glanced toward the rear of the bus, hoping against hope to see Owen. I would sit beside him and tell him about my search—about my strange encounter with Mr. Foxridge. But a man and two women I didn’t know filled the seats.
To my amazement, I returned home without incident. I entered the house quietly, pressed through the swinging door, and found Aasta setting the kitchen table for three. “Oh, you’re up from your nap. You feel good, then?”
I lied. “A little better. Yes.”
On Thursday afternoon, by the time the Worthingtons returned on the first passenger train, I bristled at their return and my loss of newfound freedom. It was as if I’d found a lovely piece of colored glass on the beach and kept it in my pocket these past few days, only to have it taken away.
Chugging ever so slowly, creaking and squeaking, the train from St. Paul rolled toward the Ranier depot. I had debated about when would be the best time to let the Worthingtons hear me speak. Greeting them, I decided, would be a good surprise. I’d practiced in my bedroom. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Worthington,” I’d say clearly. “Can you believe it? After all these years, my speech has returned!”
But just as the train wheezed its last breath and settled onto the tracks, Aasta grasped my hand and squeezed it. “Use your new words with care,” she whispered, not meeting my eyes. As if anticipating my bewilderment, she added, “Some things better left not said.” And then she scanned the passenger car windows, almost as if she hadn’t said anything at all.
I squeezed Aasta’s hand in return, to let her know I’d heard the advice. Still, it was strange. What in the world was our good housekeeper talking about? If I were to begin speaking, wouldn’t this be the very best thing the Worthingtons would want for me? It opened up worlds of possibilities. Schooling with others. Perhaps going on to college someday. More acceptance, undoubtedly, and entry into their social circles.
Words were powerful.
With Victor, I’d angered him by speaking. I’d startled Aasta into a flustered silence when I brought up the topic of my real mother. And now she was advising me to be careful with what I said. And Mr. Foxridge couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.
Words set things in motion.
Aasta’s counsel sounded reasonable, but I couldn’t understand why she was advising caution. It made me think of the newspaper accounts of the recent war in Europe where mines were laid in the ground that soldiers only found by stumbling upon them, losing limb and life. All I wanted was to use my voice—to learn about my mother.
Stepping from the passenger train, her hair slightly off-center, no doubt from napping on the ride north, Mrs. Worthington exclaimed, “We passed a completely derailed train as we left the cities. What a mess of supplies! Oh, to leave all that bustle behind! And what a sight for these sore and tired eyes. Sadie Rose,” she said, wrinkles crinkling at the edges of her soft gray eyes. “And Aasta. I trust all is well.”
“Velkommen! Very good. Though I think, Mrs. Worthington, Sadie did miss you, truth be told.”
I smiled, then kissed Mrs. Worthington’s cheek.
Mr. Worthington followed, toting a traveling coat under his arm. Just as he neared us, Einar Grayson, a villager known for his love of debating, snagged his arm. He’d been by the cottage before to air his views.
“Say, Senator! You gonna set up a blockade against that rabble-rouser?” He brushed his pockmarked nose with the back of his hand, then waved a flyer in front of Mr. Worthington’s nose. “See this? It’s that Victor what’s-his-name stirring up trouble.”
My ears perked up, and I listened closer to this man with suspenders hanging like oversized pocket chains from his trousers. “Says we’ll lose our quality of life if the dams go through. Well, you ask anyone around here, and I’ll tell ya—! Quality of life comes from having a job! This weasel gets his way, we’ll all be out of work, and not just loggers. Mill workers, farmers, shopkeepers. Everybody.”
Mrs. Worthington waited, and I listened, watching from the edges of my vision. Days ago, I wouldn’t have cared what issue a villager brought up for debate with Mr. Worthington. It never concerned me. I knew better than to insert myself in the issues of city, county, and state. But things had changed. Now I knew Victor. He was well spoken, knowledgeable, and cared deeply about the waterways and wilderness. No one had ever talked about it before as something that might be lost.
“It’s time to set a snare for that meddler,” said another man with sharp cheekbones who was wiry as a heron with tufts of thin, white hair. “Same as I set ’em for rabbits. Get that wire between two trees just so—” He motioned like a conductor with crossed batons, then flung his arms wide. “Then snap. You break its little neck.”
Mr. Worthington clamped the man’s shoulder and, lowering his voice, said, “Bigby, you better head back to the bush where you belong.” He forced a laugh. “We’re more civilized than that.”
Bigby. The name caught in my chest. But I had no idea why.
“Back in the day,” Bigby began, spitting out a brown stream of tobacco. “Back in the day, I remember—”
Mr. Worthington steered him from the group. “Head on now, Bigby. Your boat must be leaving soo
n, yes?”
The wiry man snorted and headed toward the docks.
I felt my blood drain into the cobblestone. This was no idle game of politics. These men were serious about their differences with Victor. I thought to tell him what people were saying. Warn him, but to do what? To back down and back away? No, I couldn’t do that. But I could advise him to be careful.
Suddenly I wanted to talk. To risk whatever might come of it. I reached toward the man with the pamphlet and almost said, “Please . . . may I see it?” But my mouth didn’t open.
Einar’s eyebrows squirreled upward. “What? You want this?”
Mr. Worthington put his arm on my shoulder. “She doesn’t speak, but she’s curious about the flyer, that’s all.” He smiled benevolently down on me, in a theatrical way I’d experienced before. “She’s my biggest supporter.”
“Oh, the mute. I’ve heard about her.”
I cringed.
Hans stepped forward. “Einar, how can you be such the rock-head idiot? Sadie Rose can hear. Every single word. Now say you’re sorry before I tell your wife on you.”
The man lowered his eyes like shades half drawn. “Sorry, Miss,” he said. “You go ahead and take it. It’s only good for burning anyway.”
On our short drive home in the Model T—the Worthingtons in front, and I in back between the Johannsens—I whispered in Hans’s ear. “Thank you for standing up for me.” I used a little Norwegian I’d learned. “Tusen takk.” A thousand thanks.
He patted my hand in return.
At home, I immediately tucked the flyer in with the photographs to study later and then joined the Worthingtons on the porch, with the hope to learn something more from their conversation about the debate over the proposed dams.
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