No wonder they need so many streetcars, I thought, as the fifth streetcar in twenty minutes clanged by.
Thousands more people now lived here, many of them rich and prospering, and the city was sprawling in every direction but west. Only the expanse of the Missouri River had kept St. Joseph from spreading in that direction. That it had continued to grow ever since didn’t surprise me. When my father arrived just before the War broke out, St. Joseph was one of the most important cities in the country. Serving as the western terminus of the country’s railroads, operating as the eastern terminus for the Pony Express mail service, and offering telegraph service to the east, St. Joe was a major staging point for the Oregon-California Trails, a major steamboat hub, and one of the major connections to California and its huge gold reserve.
But it was also growing up: Single-story buildings, though not common in my youth, were now almost nonexistent. Businesses had expanded, been rebuilt, or been forced to move away. For every shop I recognized, there were three others that had different establishments operating or were completely gone. Where a livery once stood, there now towered a four-story dry goods warehouse. Where there was once an undertaker’s, there was now an insurance company. Every other shop was a dressmaker, grocer, or saloon. I’d seen drastic change in my youth; in the year I turned eight alone, I saw the demolition of the market house, the start of construction on City Hall, and the end to river ferries when the iron bridge was completed. And yet it was still disorienting to see such change.
Therefore I was thrilled and relieved when I saw HAMLIN MILLINERY in bold white letters on a square sign jutting out from a strip of buildings on a once well-known corner. I’d purchased my first hat from Mrs. Hamlin. I’d used my own money, earned from reading every Sunday afternoon to the blind butcher’s widow who smelled like cabbage and stale tobacco. The millinery shop wasn’t open yet, so I admired a currant red straw with exquisite white egret tips and a decidedly continental military air about it in the window. And then I caught sight of my reflection.
There were dark circles under my eyes, pronounced freckles across my nose, and my long neck was a bit saggy and thin. At the back of my head, a long curl, as usual, had escaped the pins and was trailing down my neck.
It’s not just the city that’s changed, I thought.
I shouldn’t be surprised that no one treated me the same as before, not Ginny, not even Mrs. Chaplin. I’d changed. I was now either the infamous Hattie Davish, tainted forever by the unfortunate events of the past year, or the woman who worked for Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew. I’d hoped to be recognized for who I was, but that was foolish of me. What I’d seen and done in the past ten years had molded me into a person even I wouldn’t recognize if I’d passed myself on the street.
What would my parents think? I wondered.
I tucked the loose strand of hair under my hat before adjusting my head below the hat in the display, blurring its image with that of the hat on my head. I smiled at my reflection and liked the woman who smiled back. A shopkeeper emerged to rearrange the window display, catching me admiring my image. She smiled, but I stepped back, feeling silly, and hastily turned away. But the moment of confidence and self-approval hadn’t completely dissipated.
They would be proud, I thought, as I spied the new models of Remington typewriters in Wyckoff, Seamans & Benedict’s window a few doors down. EVERYTHING FOR THE TYPEWRITER, a sign in their window declared.
Yes, my parents would be pleased to know how successful I’d become. But what of my less agreeable traits: my impatience, my newly acquired readiness to lie or hide the truth, and my curiosity bordering on nosiness? Would they overlook those and recognize my need to do whatever was required to keep my position? Would they recognize me if they saw me on the street? To my shock and delight, I got an immediate answer.
“Hattie? Little Hattie Davish?” a voice called, interrupting my speculation. I turned to see that I’d passed Boone & Bro. grocers. Unlike many of the businesses I’d passed this morning, it hadn’t changed a bit. And neither had the man smiling broadly at me from the shop doorway, wiping his hands on a white apron.
“Could that possibly be Mary Margaret McAnich’s daughter before me?”
“Good morning, Mr. Boone,” I said, returning his smile.
Mr. Boone had owned and operated Boone & Bro. grocers since before I was born. He’d opened the store with his brother, Jacob, hence the name, but soon after Jacob Boone joined the Pony Express. When that ended, he headed west. As long as I could remember Mr. Boone had a full head of white hair, even in his youth. Now in his middle fifties, it was more appropriate but gave to my eye the sense of agelessness.
“You’re looking well,” I said, approaching him.
“It is you! I barely recognized you!”
“I visited your store every other day for almost seventeen years, Mr. Boone. How could you say such a thing?”
In fact, not only had I been a loyal customer, it was well-known that Mr. Boone had been my mother’s suitor before my father arrived in St. Joseph. There had been an unspoken agreement between them to marry. “Poor Rufus Boone,” my mother used to say. “From the moment I met your father, he didn’t have a chance.”
But oddly, Mr. Boone, as far as I could tell, harbored no ill feelings toward anyone in my family, though he insisted on using my mother’s maiden name. Instead, he treated my mother and then me as special customers, always finding us the freshest blackberries (my mother’s favorite) or holding aside a pound of hazelnuts when a shipment came in. Granted my father never once stepped foot in the store, out of courtesy or out of fear of what Mr. Boone might do, I never knew. But either way, I’d always regarded Mr. Boone as a friend of the family.
“But that’s when you were a little girl. Now look at you—a grown woman!”
“I was seventeen the last time you saw me.” I laughed. “Hardly a little girl.”
“A fine lady, I should say.” He nodded his head with approval. “Your mother would be proud.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone. I’d like to think so.”
“Oh, she would. She would.” He reached out his long, broad arms. “Not too old or too fine to give your old friend a hug, are you?” I shook my head and happily let him wrap his strong arms around me. He pulled me close and tight, almost choking the breath out of me before holding me out at arm’s length. “Still as skinny as a rail, I see. But you look good. Something must agree with you. Is it working for the rich ladies or finding them dead in their trunks?”
I cringed as yet again someone mentioned a piece of my past I’d rather forget. He, on the other hand, laughed wholeheartedly at his tactless jest, letting go of me and holding on to his belly trying to contain himself. Finally, he noticed the expression on my face.
“I’m sorry, Hattie. I couldn’t resist. I’ve followed your escapades in the paper. You’re quite famous around here, did you know?”
“Yes, I’m beginning to realize that.” First the mourners’ reaction at the funeral and then the students from the school and now Mr. Boone. I’d misjudged how my misadventures would be perceived by those who knew me.
“What’s it to be, then? Mrs.?” I cringed again. “Who’s the lucky man that benefited from the biggest mistake my boy ever made?”
“I’m still Miss Davish, Mr. Boone.” I smiled, trying to take the sting out of admitting I was in danger of becoming an old maid.
“What? How can that be?”
“How is Mrs. Boone?” I asked, changing the subject. Despite his unrequited love for my mother, Mr. Boone did eventually marry.
“Mrs. Boone is well. And . . . since you’re both still unattached, you might be interested to know . . .”
His hesitation could only mean one thing. He was about to relate some news of his son, Nathan, someone else I knew well as a child. Nathan was a well-known Christian name in Daniel Boone’s family. The irony was that Mr. Rufus Boone wasn’t related in any way to the famous frontiersman. Mr. Boone had named his son Nathan beca
use it would “be good for business.”
“That Nate performed for Queen Victoria last week?” My reply was slightly more sarcastic than I intended, but then again Mr. Boone’s jest at my expense still stung.
“No, actually he played at the World’s Fair last week. Nate hasn’t played for Her Majesty yet, but he has played for several presidents. Did you know he played at President Harrison’s inaugural ball?”
“No, I didn’t.” And I don’t care, I wanted to add but didn’t.
“Yes, he’s been to the White House many times, but that’s not what I was going to say. No, what I wanted to tell you was that you’ve timed your visit right. Nate’s due home any day. We haven’t seen him since he started that tour of Europe. Now isn’t that a coincidence?” He winked at me. And then he frowned. “Are you all right, Hattie? You’ve suddenly gone quite pale.”
I was speechless. What was the likelihood that Nate Boone and I would both be in St. Joe at the same time? Could it be a lamentable coincidence or was there more to it? I’d wrongly assumed Ginny had sent me the funeral announcement for her father in the mail. Then who did? Could Nate have lured me all this way because he knew he’d be here as well? Would he stoop to playing such a nasty trick? But to what purpose: to gloat, to try to win me back, to apologize? None of it made sense. I hadn’t heard one word from him in almost ten years. Why now?
Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six . . . I counted in my head as I unclenched my fists.
“Hattie?” Mr. Boone’s face was full of concern.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Boone. I’m fine. I was marveling at the amazing coincidence.”
“Yes, it is amazing. We’ll have to have you over for dinner once Nate gets home. You don’t still eat like a bird, do you?”
“I appreciate the invitation, but I came for a funeral and I don’t anticipate being in town long. My employer expects me back in Newport by the end of the week.” It was a complete lie and yet I hadn’t hesitated.
Definitely one of the ways I’d changed that neither of my parents would approve of, I thought. And yet I didn’t regret saying it. I’d no intention of crossing paths with Mr. Nathan Boone and yet I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of his dear father.
“Well, maybe next time then. Did you come for the Hayward funeral?”
“Yes, Virginia Hayward was my closest friend at Mrs. Chaplin’s school.”
“I don’t know the family, but it was in the Gazette. Terrible way to die.” He scrunched his nose and grimaced. “To be trampled by a horse. A customer came in this morning saying he was disfigured.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t have known him.”
Mr. Boone held open the door for a woman with two empty baskets in her hands. “I must get back to my work, Hattie, but it was great to see you.”
“And you, Mr. Boone.”
Wouldn’t have known him, I’d said without thinking. As I returned Mr. Boone’s wave before he disappeared inside his store, I immediately recalled my thoughts yesterday at the funeral. Could there be any doubt?
CHAPTER 5
After my encounter with Mr. Boone, I strolled down Edmond Street, passed the elaborate limestone City Hall and its market, dodging vendors and customers bargaining with each other over the colorful fruit and vegetables in stalls lining the sidewalks, passed the new electric powerhouse, with its assortment of poles and wires, and headed toward the river. I lifted my skirts and carefully navigated the railroad tracks that ran alongside. After a bit of looking, I found a grassy spot on the muddy embankment and sat down. The riverside, completely deforested and eroded with only weeds to hold back the mud, was nothing like the idyllic Cliff Walk I’d hiked in Newport. And the water was dirty brown.
There was nothing aesthetically pleasing about it, but it was the river of my childhood. I lingered there, watching as a steamboat pushed back from the dock, its twin chimneys spewing black soot into the air. A dozen ring-billed gulls squawked, squealed, and flapped furiously high above the churning water. I pulled up some Kentucky bluegrass and tossed it, hoping, in vain, that it would catch in the wind and fall into the river. Instead, it blew back toward me.
I gazed downriver to the iron bridge. Spanning hundreds of feet across, it was St. Joseph’s only connection to Kansas. I’ll never forget the day the bridge opened. To commemorate the occasion, there had been a parade that stretched for six miles, the longest parade in the city’s history. After growing tired and sore from waving my flag and craning my neck to see all the wagons, dignitaries, and marching bands, my father let me sit on his shoulders. That night everyone in the city poured back into the streets where the parade had passed, and danced beneath the light of Japanese lanterns. Now it was just an ordinary day on the river.
After several minutes, a train entered the center of the span from the Kansas side. Within seconds, it rumbled across the bridge, blocking my view of the foot and horse traffic crossing on the side lanes. The ground trembled beneath me as another train approached from the north. I held on to my hat as it whisked by. I read CB&Q as it passed, heading toward the depot.
What am I waiting for? I wondered.
I stood, brushing soot from my shirt and grass from my skirt, and headed back across the tracks. I strolled by the Tootle Opera House, a large, imposing square building that covered a quarter of the city block on the corner of Fifth and Francis streets. The five-story building was constructed of red brick, ornamented with fine-cut limestone in front, and embellished with ornamental cornices. I’d never been inside, but I’d heard it described as “truly magnificent.” When I was small, I’d accompany my mother on her errands. Regardless of where our shopping would take us, we would inevitably walk past the Opera House, my mother hoping to catch a bit of music reaching the street as the musicians practiced inside. It was quiet now.
What was that? I thought.
I headed toward Felix Street when a sudden chill ran down my spine. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find someone walking too close behind me. No one was there. But hadn’t I heard footsteps? Directly across the street, a man in denim overalls and a navy blue cap stood in front of a tailor’s shop, his back to me. With one hand holding a pail of soapy water and a rubber scraper in the other, he was obviously preoccupied with washing the windows. A young woman walked toward me with a jilting gait that sent her fluted brimmed straw hat flopping down over her brow with every other step. A group of talkative nuns carried woven baskets full of produce halfway down the block. I’d been completely at ease by the river a few minutes ago. Why was I suddenly jittery?
“What’s the matter with you?” I said, berating myself out loud.
I brushed some more soot off my sleeve, straightened my hat, and continued down Fourth to Felix. The White Way, as it was known, was, even in my youth, one of the busiest commercial streets in all of St. Joseph. My father had chosen well when he bought his shop there. I turned the corner and stopped. A man, with the broad brim of his Panama hat pulled down over his eyes, muttered something as he barely avoided walking into the back of me. I didn’t care. I ignored his grumbles as he stepped around me.
From where I stood, the triangular State Savings Bank towered over the traffic of pedestrians, while buggies and wagons with their numerous horses all vied for a space to hitch. One team and wagon was parked in the middle of the street. Being without a driver, it forced others to drive down the wrong side of the street. On the north side, a row of attached limestone and brick buildings, individualized with awnings or lack thereof, differed in cornice ornamentation, glass storefronts, and signs. All but one building was three stories; I headed straight for the two-story building at 405 Felix Street.
I hesitated outside, gazing up at the second-story windows, trying to picture the parlor they belonged to. I imagined my mother in her rocking chair next to the window, darning socks, shucking peas for dinner, or playing her fiddle, while I did my schoolwork sprawled out on the carpet floor. My father smoked his pipe and read his newspapers across the room in his armchair.
Home, I thought.
And then I stared at the shop door. The storefront was as much home as the rooms above it. This was where my father reigned as one of the most profitable hat merchants in St. Joseph. This was where, after my mother died, we’d sit together at a little table in the back room and pick at whatever the housekeeper had cooked for us. This was where, hiding behind the counter pretending to do my homework, I’d learned the values my father cherished: quality of service, quality of product, loyalty and friendship. This was where I’d listen to my father debate with fellow fanatics the various abilities of baseball players or the decisions of the ball clubs’ managers and owners. I didn’t know until I was twelve years old that there were other sports besides baseball.
Everything about our life together was embodied in this two-story building. And it looked exactly the same as I remembered it: the green-and-white-striped awnings, the whitewashed pilasters around the recessed doorway, the metal step with the maker’s mark, HOERMAN BROS. MANUFACTURING CO. WASHINGTON, KS, slightly worn down from thousands of feet treading on it, and even the sign, DAVISH’S FINE HATS FOR MEN, painted in bright gold letters across the top of the storefront window. And wasn’t that Mr. Minier coming out of the shop? One of my father’s most loyal customers had aged considerably since I’d seen him last, but he was sporting the latest in men’s haberdashery.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 3