“Indeed. Something special,” Mr. Worthington said, but there was no warmth in his voice. He stepped closer, leaned down, and kissed the top of my head. Then he turned away toward the living room. “I’m sure as soon as Elizabeth returns, you’ll want to chat as females do. I must get to my committee notes before tomorrow’s meeting.” And then he was gone.
Eleven years of not speaking, I would have expected that I’d want to speak with the flow of a waterfall. Instead, I remained fixed to my chair. No, words were more like the ax. Or maybe a chest of coins. I would rather sit on the chest than start spending the coins without thought. I opened the pages of my novel, as if I were guarding a treasure that could be stolen away, until Mrs. Worthington returned with her questions.
Chapter 12
For nearly an hour, I talked with Mrs. Worthington on the porch. “Sadie, I confess, I’m hurt that I wasn’t the first one you talked to. But I am delighted you’re speaking—I truly am!”
When she asked everything she could about the canoe ride, I replied, “I canoed with him to Falcon Island. Then we came back.”
“Are you sure?” she leaned forward, her eyes large in her tiny frame. “Did anything else happen? Is there something you’re leaving out? This is the point in your life I have always worried about. You’re starting down the path toward womanhood. I’ve wondered what kind of strange ideas you may have picked up from your early years. I’ve fretted so about your sensibilities, worried that you might be damaged in your God-given sense of morals.”
I wanted to say, “If God was so worried about my morals, then why did He allow me to be born at a brothel in the first place?” I began tapping the edges of the wicker chair with my fingertips. “No.”
“Did anyone see you with him?”
I willed my fingers to stay still. “No, I don’t think so.”
When I began to feel like a parrot showing off its limited vocabulary, Mrs. Worthington snatched my novel and said, “Just read aloud, then, so I can hear your voice. It’s such a lovely voice, Sadie Rose. It’s like moonlight on water. No, it’s like honey in a soothing cup of warm tea. After all these years of wondering what your voice might sound like, I just need to sit here with you and listen. Just a few pages, please?”
I obeyed. And oddly, I listened as I read, too, as the words fell from my lips with less stops and starts, with more cadence and ease. It was like abandoning the piano for years and years, only to finally sit down to it and find it still in tune. All the keys still worked, the white keys and the black keys, the major and minor chords. Only the musician was rusty, but the instrument itself had retained its original qualities and timbre.
That evening, before settling in the dining room, I stepped into the kitchen, which was filled with the smells of baking onion and beef. On the counter, in an earthenware bowl, rising dough pressed up against a cotton towel, ready to be punched down. Unopened jars from the root cellar were lined up on the counter. Aasta wore a red scarf over her hair as she stirred a pot on the cookstove.
“Everything has changed,” I said.
“Ya,” Aasta said. “You come here.”
I stepped beside her. Dots of perspiration gathered above Aasta’s upper lip and on her brow. The day was humid, the air weighted.
“Everything has changed,” Aasta repeated, “and nothing has changed. You’re still the same as ever, ya?” Then she turned, stopped stirring the wooden spoon in the pot, and kissed the top of my head. “Uff da.”
Later, the dining room table was set with the floral tablecloth Mrs. Worthington had brought home from Italy, along with lead crystal Waterford goblets, blue and white Wedgwood china, and freshly polished silver. And it was set for not three, but five places. Mr. Worthington sat at the end nearest the window, as usual, and his wife sat on the other side of the oval table, but across from me were two empty chairs. “Who is joining us?” I asked.
At that, Aasta and Hans stepped into the dining room, but this time they were not in their work attire. They wore their Sunday-church best. Hans’s face was freshly shaved, with a red nick on his chin as proof. His hair was slicked to the side, and he wore a black vest, softened from time, over gray trousers. And Aasta beamed in her holiday best: her bunad from the Sunnmøre region of Norway, with its brightly embroidered threads over a navy vest and long skirt. At the neck of her white blouse sparkled her silver solje pin.
“The Queen of Norway has arrived,” Aasta said with a laugh. I’d only seen her dressed in her native costume at Christmas and Easter.
Hans pulled back Aasta’s chair for her to sit, and then he sat beside her.
“Let us pray,” Mr. Worthington began. “Bless us, oh Lord, with these Thy gifts. . . .”
Though Aasta still got up and down to serve the meal, I couldn’t have been happier to have them at the table with us. For the first time in my life, I felt part of a family.
Along with roast beef, potatoes, and carrots, Aasta put out a spread of pickled beets, codfish balls, freshly picked asparagus, and Parker House rolls (Mr. Worthington’s favorite, ever since he visited the hotel by that name in Chicago). For dessert, Aasta proudly set down a golden double-layer cake with a single burning candle. “A Golden Cream Cake,” I said, tickled at my free-flowing words, “for a golden celebration!”
Before slicing into the cake, Mrs. Worthington lifted her water glass. “To Sadie Rose!” she said, beaming proudly. “Who can speak!”
Glasses clinked, and I couldn’t keep from smiling as they added their cheers.
I knew I needed to say something. Anything. I felt suddenly shy from all the attention. Finally, the simple words came. “Thank you.”
I felt almost like the Worthingtons’ daughter. Perhaps it was my lack of voice that had earlier made them hold back. Maybe my muteness had been an embarrassment. Now, it seemed, things were going to change. Even Aasta and Hans seemed part of the family.
With his fork, Mr. Worthington examined the slice of cake on his dessert plate.
“Walt, what is it?” Mrs. Worthington asked. “Are you feeling unwell?”
He looked up, then with a smile shook off whatever was bothering him. “Oh, I’m fine. It’s just so startling, that’s all. I’ve been so intensely focused on the November election that it doubly takes me by surprise.” Then his eyes met mine. “I’m so very happy for you. I truly am.” Then he added with a forced smile, “And after so many years of being silent, be careful, Sadie Rose, what you say.”
Mrs. Worthington twisted her diamond ring. “Yes, I’m afraid he’s right. We’re a respectable family, and every effort must be used to maintain that respect. Good grammar and polite speech are so very important, Sadie. Not that you worry us, but the last time you could speak you were, well, at a different level of society. We’ve done our best to raise you up with good standards and quality tutors so you could be afforded a good education.”
“Sadie Rose,” Mr. Worthington added, setting down his fork and forming a steeple with his long fingers, “to whom have you talked?”
I felt as if I were on trial. “Why, no one really. A word or two to Victor and to Aasta. Why?”
“As a family, each of us must watch what we say, especially in public. Rumors can kill someone in political office. Newspapers would love to take down a senator over any little gossip.” He didn’t take his eyes off me. “And for that reason, and for your own good, I must forbid you from speaking with the likes of Victor Guttenberg and that flighty Trinity Baird.”
I swallowed carefully. What was he saying? I was going to be denied friends?
“God knows it’s not that they lack education,” he continued, “either of them, but they really do not understand how the real world works. Associating too closely with them can only lead to trouble. And I’ve steered this ship too carefully to run aground this election season.”
“But I—”
“Mr. Worthington, please,” I said.
“Don’t argue,” he said, leveling me with his gaze.
Hans and Aasta continued to eat as if they didn’t hear the conversation around them, but I knew they were listening to every word.
Mrs. Worthington took a bite of cake, then continued: “He’s right. They could corrupt your mind and your morals. I’ve heard enough talk . . .”
My face heated with frustration.
“Sadie Rose,” Mr. Worthington said, reaching over and pressing his hand down over mine, “we want to protect you. I ask you to trust us on this and exercise the greatest care, especially now.”
Words piled up inside me. I’d never had my own friends. The Worthingtons had kept me tethered at home with tutors. The only friends I had were employees or relatives of the Worthingtons. I could see it clearly now, as if the curtains to a dark, stale room had finally been drawn. They’d kept me out of view, holed up here or in the house in St. Paul like some kind of cripple. A liability.
“He’s right, Sadie dear . . . ,” Mrs. Worthington added.
I thought of Trinity and Victor. They were different. They didn’t care about what everyone else thought. They thought for themselves.
Whatever spirit of celebration I’d felt now faded like a spent candle. What good was it to have a voice if I wasn’t able to exercise it? I wanted to speak up. And I knew I could. Instead, I looked down at my plate. The dining room walls, covered with frocked floral paper, closed in around me until I felt it hard to breathe.
“May I be excused?” I whispered.
Mr. Worthington nodded. “Of course, but if you want to live in this house, you will follow our orders. I hope we’re clear on this.”
“Excuse me,” I said and pushed my chair back with a scrape. My throat was hot and tight, and I hurried upstairs to my room and locked my door. Then I threw off my shoes and dress and withdrew the photographs from the drawer.
I flopped on the bed, blinking back tears, and studied the image of my mother smiling from the edge of a dam. My mother had been a prostitute. There was no pride in that. But there must have been some good in her, too. She’d loved me. Was I better off under the unfeeling care of the Worthingtons? If I did exactly as Mr. Worthington was now demanding, I was certain I would shrivel like a plucked mushroom left to dry.
Chapter 13
With a pair of sewing scissors tucked into the pocket of my robe, I stepped into the bathroom. In front of the pedestal sink and mirror, I brushed out my long waves, then, calculating the amount of natural curl in my hair, held sections straight down between my fingers and carefully cut.
Long dark locks fell to the floor around my feet. I knew it wouldn’t please Mrs. Worthington, but I didn’t care. My hair would reflect that I was becoming a modern young woman. When I was finished, I turned my head and studied my new bob, angled slightly longer toward my chin. It was swell. The cat’s pajamas. I smiled back. Then I swept the floor, feeling lighter. Then I turned on the bathwater in the claw-foot tub to enjoy a leisurely bath.
I couldn’t wait to show Trinity.
When I returned to my room, I stared at the photograph of Mama sitting near the dam. There was only one dam that I knew of—other than the one downstream at Ennis’s paper mill—where my mother might have posed for the picture. Long ago, it seemed, I had traveled by boat for hours to a large two-story building in the middle of nowhere that must have been the Kettle Falls Hotel. My memory of it was threadbare. Climbing off the passenger boat, I’d held Mama’s hand. Water poured over the dam and thundered near the docks, as if it might suck me into its swirling, spitting waters. Mama lifted her red skirt as we walked through mud toward the hotel’s wide set of entrance steps.
I stretched on my bed. The evening air drifted in through my screen window; it was humid and warm, carrying the sounds of boys talking about fishing as they walked by on the road.
For a brief moment, my throat hot with emotion, I touched my forehead to the photo. But I held back. I didn’t want to spend the evening crying. I was like the earth after a long winter, thawing under the warmth of the sun. I was filled with questions, ready to explore and discover—to be alive—fit to burst with restlessness and unformed questions.
If I could just talk things over with Trinity. I couldn’t hold everything inside a moment longer.
I formed a plan. I’d row to Baird’s Island, which I figured I’d manage to find since I’d passed it the other day with Victor. Trinity had seen the world. She knew about living on her own. And she said she wanted to be friends. She’d help me.
With a sense of purpose, I gathered up the small stack of photos, wrapped them in the red cardigan Aasta had knit for me last March when I’d turned sixteen, and changed into sensible clothes for the next morning’s journey: a loose blouse, a mid-ankle navy skirt, leaving my feet bare.
Then I pulled my bedcovers up over myself, closed my eyes, and drifted off.
The sun was always quick to rise in the summer. It woke me as it climbed over the eastern horizon and the roof of the town hall. I rose, tucked the sweater-wrapped photos under my arm, and tiptoed past the closed door of the master bedroom and down the stairs.
From the kitchen, pans clattered. Aasta was talking with someone—probably Hans—or to herself as she prepared breakfast.
The path to the front porch and the lake beyond lay unobstructed. Without a creak, I eased out the screen door. Hoping to draw no attention, I acted as casual as possible and headed down the steps to the dock.
In the bay, a tugboat worked its way under the bridge, heading toward the lake’s open water. A pair of mergansers took turns diving, then bobbing up with their crest-feathered heads.
The family’s wooden cruiser was tied up on one side of the dock, the rowboat on the other. I wished I knew how to drive the cruiser. If I did, I could make it to Baird’s Island much faster. But I’d have to settle for the rowboat. Mr. Worthington couldn’t dictate my friends. I had to see Trinity, the one person I felt I might be able to talk to.
The photographs seemed to burn against my memories. I needed to find out more, to talk, to ask questions, and see if anyone knew anything. And in the process, perhaps, just maybe I would find out more about how Mama died—and more about my father, the photographer.
If such things were knowable.
I would visit then return home before dinner—if I hurried. They would assume that I was holed up in my bedroom—a squirrel in its nest—sulking. With renewed determination, I untied the green rowboat, settled onto its middle seat, and pushed away from the dock. With my back to the bow, I rowed toward the lift bridge, alternatively glancing up at the two-story cottage and holding my breath, hoping the Worthingtons would not spot me.
Beneath the bridge, I rowed furiously against the current, controlled by the dam downstream. To my fortune, the water that day flowed less swiftly. The river momentarily held my boat motionless as I rowed, but I leaned harder into the oars and pushed ahead into the lake’s open water, sweat running down the small of my back and under my camisole.
Hours seemed to pass as I rowed, keeping far enough from shore so that no one could easily identify me. As a breeze picked up, chopping the water into small waves, my hands and shoulders complained, but I kept rowing. Occasionally I stopped, even though the waves pushed me back toward Ranier. But I’d eventually pick up the oars again, clasp them with determination, and pull all the harder.
A motor rumbled close, then idled nearby. I turned and was surprised to see a small cruiser with an enclosed bow. Behind the windshield and forward steering wheel sat Owen Jensen. Owen with the bobbing Adam’s apple, the brown eyes flecked with gold, the smile that he probably gave every girl he met. His plaid shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows.
He waved. “Ahoy, fair maiden!”
I’d voyaged well beyond the Worthingtons’ view, well beyond the landing docks at Ranier, well beyond the strength in my arms. My palms were sore and red; my shoulders pinched with hot and burning pain. I stopped rowing.
“Sadie Rose! Whatcha doin’ way out here? Didn’t recognize you at first. You look different—but in a good way.” He steered his boat until it was parallel with mine. He lifted his cap in greeting, then snugged it back over wavy hair, which glinted more red than brown in the rays.
I nodded out of habit, forgetting for a moment that I could answer with words.
“I’m rowing. And I cut my hair.”
“What?” He jolted his head in surprise. “You can talk? But I thought—well, you never were at school because you didn’t speak, that’s what everyone said—”
“I couldn’t,” I replied, tapping my right foot against the wood planks of the rowboat’s floor. I willed myself to stop. “Until recently.”
“Well, shoot, that’s great! So where you headin’?”
I looked ahead to uneven shapes of green: islands, peninsulas, bays. I thought I’d know how to find my way to Baird’s Island, but from this spot in Sand Bay, everything looked like an endless landscape of varying hues of green and blue. It had seemed so simple when I’d sat in the bow of Victor’s canoe, with the mainland staying pretty much on the right, and the larger body of water—and Canada—to the left. Now I realized it wasn’t that easy. I had to aim for something, or I’d end up lost.
“To visit Trinity,” I said. “I thought I knew how to get there but—I think I’m lost.”
“Well, I can tell ya she’s not at her island, cuz I just came from Falcon Island. When I left, she was there visiting. I deliver to Victor and his mother once a week. If you’d like, I can give you a tow.”
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