The Daughter's Walk

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “It’ll work out,” Mama said. “God provides.”

  December 13 found us still miles from the New York skyline, and I couldn’t keep the terseness from my tone as Mama chatted gaily with a tramp warming his hands over a metal tub near the tracks. I stomped my frozen feet. “We have to keep moving,” I said. Why couldn’t she see the consequences?

  “Don’t be so glum. With the publicity of our arrival—we’re only a few days away, Clara—the sponsors will change their minds. They wouldn’t want bad press, now, would they?”

  “If they didn’t allow an extension for my ankle on a walking trip, why would they give up ten thousand dollars when we didn’t meet the conditions of the contract? In business, even bad publicity can be a good thing, so they likely won’t mind at all. The facts do not support your view, Mama.”

  She said nothing, then in a firm whisper, “God will provide.”

  In New Jersey God did not provide. We walked forty-five miles in the wrong direction, then a blizzard rolled in as we headed back, forcing us to huddle for a full day in a rail station lacking coal. I think it was my lowest point.

  We limped into New York City December 23 while a big clock clanged 1:00 p.m. I looked up at the tall buildings, the seat of power and influence. We were almost two weeks late.

  I’d been right, and it wasn’t good.

  FIFTEEN

  A Business Decision

  Failed?” Mama said. She actually sounded like it was a surprise, yet she repeated the World editor’s words. “We’ve failed?”

  “You’re ten days past the adjusted date,” he said. He tapped a pencil on his desk, didn’t look right at us.

  “Because they didn’t account for my daughter’s ankle sprain, which is ridiculous. We made it within ten days, for heaven’s sake. The press across the country touted our walk and the reform dresses. That’s what they wanted. The time we had to stop and work to earn the money we needed to support ourselves equaled two months. We’re here, with proof.” She showed him the signatures. “We demonstrated a woman’s stamina.”

  “But not on time,” he repeated. “Not on time.”

  “Come along, Mama,” I said taking her elbow. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll write about your arrival,” the editor said. “Maybe you can sell more photographs and get speaking engagements, though during the holidays it’s difficult to draw a crowd. I …” He fiddled in his pocket, took out his wallet. He put a five-dollar bill on the desk, slid it toward us.

  “We don’t need your money,” Mama said then, standing. “We certainly won’t take charity. We earned that ten thousand dollars. If I could please talk—”

  “Mama,” I urged, “take it.”

  “The truth is, a couple of the sponsors are out of the country,” the editor said. “And those who are here don’t feel they can make any adjustments without the vote of everyone. I’ll make certain they see these signatures,” he added.

  “When might they all be here?” I asked.

  “Oh, not until the summer,” the editor said.

  “The summer,” Mama whispered. “We have to be home before then.”

  “I’m sorry.” He pushed the bill closer to Mama.

  I snatched it up.

  “Do you suppose they’re having lingonberry sauce and sour cream pudding at home?” I said. We’d rented a room at a Manhattan hotel. “Or maybe lefse and lutefisk. Or the almond cookies that Bertha makes. And do you think Ida could make the julekaga?”

  “Not the bread, but the other. I’m sure she could do that,” Mama said. She pored over the newspaper clippings. In the two days since we’d arrived, there’d been several articles about our walking “success” and our business “failure.” Letters to the editors supported us receiving the award, but that had little merit. The sponsors didn’t.

  I hated being right. I did.

  “I wish we were there with them,” I said. Thoughts of family made me wonder about my father again, whoever and wherever he might be. I thought of Ole too, how he must have taken the news that the wire service sent to the Spokane papers too.

  The Estbys would spend Christmas Eve together around the fire. They’d probably exchange few presents with money so tight, but they’d have the pleasure of each other. They’d play games and maybe reread letters sent by Mama and me. I’d written postcards addressed to Lillian, but the newsy ones came from Mama.

  My brothers and sisters … No, half brothers and sisters. That’s how I would need to think of them now. I was not only a year older on this trip; my family had changed too. I’d lost them as full brothers and sisters. Any children my natural father might have would be only half to me too.

  I was all alone.

  “We have to go back to the newspaper offices,” Mama said, standing. “Bring all of these clippings to verify where we were and that we accomplished this goal. If we hadn’t had to work to make expenses—why, a cat could have made the journey if it didn’t have to beat rugs for a meal.”

  “And if I hadn’t sprained my ankle or gotten sick so much.”

  “The time is less significant than that we did it. Walking all the way but for one little wagon ride near Walla Walla and the electric car in Pennsylvania, both allowed. They were free. It’s scandalous that they’d withhold the money because of a few days’ time. It’s not right.”

  “But those were the conditions,” I said. “Maybe they never intended to pay, thinking it so unlikely we’d succeed.”

  “Don’t talk dumb,” Mama said. She stuffed notes and photographs in the grip, put her purse inside along with my curling iron, all our goods.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t know how safe the hotel is,” Mama said. “We take everything with us. We’ll go back. Get the editor to wire the sponsors, wherever they are. The New York Times even ran a story this morning, Clara. They love the signatures we gathered. Come along. We need to return and finish this contract so we can buy train tickets and go home.”

  She was wasting our time talking to the editor. Maybe after January she could make some presentations and we’d collect enough for the journey. One had to face facts; Mama wouldn’t.

  “We need to find a charitable society who might be willing to fund our train ticket home,” I said.

  “What, beg? Never. That’s immoral.”

  “It’s simply accepting money,” I said. “It’s no different from Papa receiving union payments for his injury.”

  “It’s every bit different from that.” I thought I saw fear in her eyes, maybe for the first time on this entire trip except in the lava craters. “He earned that pension, as we earned our walk. We do not beg, Clara. An Estby does not beg. We will find a way to complete the contract and get home.”

  “We have to cut our losses,” I said.

  “Where do you hear such talk?”

  “At the Stapletons’, the Rutters’ before that. It’s business, Mama.”

  “How can you be so cold, Clara?”

  “Cold? I’m not cold at all. These are the facts, Mama. We made a contract; we didn’t keep it. It’s no different from what will happen if you can’t make the mortgage payment.”

  She slapped my face then, the sting shaped like her fingers staying with me even as I added through stinging tears, “It’s business, Mama. We misjudged our sponsors and our abilities, and we failed. I want to get home however we can.” She stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if my words or her action distressed her more. “It’s the day after Christmas, Mama. The editor may not be in. He may be spending time with his family. Like I wish we were.”

  “You can come with me or stay,” she said.

  Against my better judgment, I followed her, wishing later that I’d stayed right where I was. And yet I told myself, wrongly, it couldn’t get worse.

  SIXTEEN

  Nothing Left

  We pressed against people crowding the city’s streets. “I’ll buy you that ceramic pot
when we return,” Mama said. She pointed to a piece of pottery with a sunflower shiny beneath the glaze in the window of a store that sold only dishes. The piece was marked down, an after-season sale.

  “Before or after we buy the train tickets?” I said.

  “I didn’t have a present to give you for Christmas.” Her emotions simmered like a custard getting ready to jell.

  “It would be nice,” I said. “It would remind me to keep looking up for the light. But don’t waste any money on it. Not now.”

  “It will be a reminder of our success.”

  “Mama—”

  The man came out of nowhere, grabbed at the grip, knocking Mama down.

  “What …?” she groaned.

  “Stop! Stop that man!” I shouted while I tried to lift her up.

  “Go after him, Clara!”

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “I’m fine. Just go!”

  I pushed my way through the throngs of people dressed in their furs and finery, my heart pounding. He carried away everything we owned: the letters to Forest, our clippings, my sketches, our story, even what money we had left! I brushed people aside, bumping, shouting, “Stop! Stop him!”

  But people opened for him, then turned to look at him run, closing behind him, making me throw them aside. Off balance now, my ankle throbbing, all taking time—no time, we were out of time.

  He dipped past buildings and people and corners and the cars he ran in front of. I couldn’t gain on him. He disappeared the way a rock sinks to the bottom in a murky pond; one can’t see it even though it’s there. I bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. It was over. All of it. People nudged past me. No one stopped to ask why I cried. Everyone had a place to be. I guess I did too: back to my mother’s side.

  “Did you find him?” Mama had a gash on her head, but someone had placed a handkerchief against it. Two women knelt beside her and helped her lean against the brick building. They moved away as I approached, and Mama thanked them. Dizzily, she reached for my hands. “Did you find him?” Her eyes searched mine like a lost child’s looking for hope.

  Couldn’t she see? My hands were empty.

  “I didn’t, Mama. He. The crowd closed around him. I did the best I could.”

  “Of course you did. Of course.” She dropped my hands. “What will we do?”

  “Go to the charity house and ask for fare home, Mama. We have to go home.”

  “We’ll run a story of the robbery,” the editor of the World said when we arrived and Mama hurried out the story about the robbery. She held the handkerchief to her forehead. It had a good effect, though I knew that wasn’t why she did it. “Maybe the thief will take the money and dump your diary and personal things. Perhaps a good New Yorker will turn them in.”

  “Tell them to keep the money. It’s the notes in my pocketbook that I need.”

  “Mama.”

  “Well, it is.” She turned to me. “We’ll have the sponsors’ award soon, but those notes, the clippings, your sketches. They’re all gone.”

  The editor frowned. He had a face like a ferret, I noticed now: lean, eyes narrow and hard. “I wish you well with your search for the lost items,” he said, then saw us to the door.

  We visited other newspaper offices to tell them our story, and the Herald editor said they’d run a sketch of the criminal as well. “Someone might have seen you and this robber on the street.” He waved for a young man to join us. The artist worked quickly, making us out to be caricatures of strong western women. He put a gun in my hand and knife in my mother’s, making myth of our effort. “We didn’t carry a knife,” I pointed out.

  “It’s part of the romance,” Mama whispered.

  “Life isn’t about romance,” I said when we got outside. The cold wind snapped at our cheeks as we hurried back to our room. “It’s about making good decisions based on facts, not fantasy.”

  “Not always,” Mama said. “You have to have things to dream about.”

  “This dream is a nightmare.”

  We’d paid in advance for a week at No. 6 Rivington Street, Manhattan, so we had a bed to sleep in for a few nights while we tried to figure out what to do. The futility of the last months weighed like a stone on my chest as I stared at the water stains on the ceiling. My life had been defined by money: working for enough of it, saving for college, then using it instead for family needs. Neither Olaf nor I would be able to go on to the new state university at Pullman. The last months of my life on this trip, we’d earned money for the next pair of shoes, a warmer hat. Money. One night I even dreamed about it, old coins rolling away through the grates that covered holes in the streets of New York. Then I tumbled into one myself.

  “We need to go to the charity house and request money for the train ticket,” I repeated to Mama the next evening. We’d washed dishes in a sweaty restaurant and earned enough for a meal. We’d taken the tea leaves with us, reusing them for the cups that now steamed in our hands.

  “I know I could convince the sponsors to make at least a partial payment. I’ve conversed with the president-elect, yet I can’t talk to the sponsors? If only I could meet them.”

  “We simply need enough to get us home.”

  “We’ll look for cleaning work, or laundry or sewing.” She brightened. “I’ll write articles. Perhaps one of the reporters knows of a publisher who might be interested in portions of our story.” She set the cup down. “Clara, that’s it! We’ll write a book about the journey. I’ve sent hundreds of pages home to your father, and we can add to it from memory.”

  “He’s not my father,” I said, not sure why I needed to make the distinction. Maybe I wanted Mama to start living the truth of everything, including who I really was. “Did you ask him to keep what you sent?” I added before she could protest what I’d said about Papa.

  “Of course he’s kept them. We’ll go back to the sponsors and ask if the money might still be available if I write a book. We could share proceeds from the sales. That should sweeten the pot for them.”

  “They’ll want you to pay them,” I said. “Writing a book for money is just like the scheme that got us here in the first place. It’s almost as risky a wager as what we already made.”

  Mama raised one eyebrow in protest. “At least writing won’t require a new pair of shoes.” She sat beside me on the bed. “I know you’re discouraged, Clara, but things could be worse. We mustn’t let the darkness overwhelm us. Think of Jonah’s whale. Think of that sunflower. Keep your eyes toward light.” She spread her hand across the air as though declaiming. She’s making a presentation. “There’s no sense in dwelling on the negative. Our minds have to think of something; it may as well be something good. ‘Occupy,’ Scripture tells us. Multiply what God gives you. That’s what we’ll do.”

  “I guess I could try to sketch a few places. The trestle. That will be memorable … for what happened afterward.”

  “That your fears didn’t materialize?”

  “It’s when I learned about my. That I’m not an Estby,” I said. “How could you forget that?” I chewed at my nails.

  “I would have thought the lava rocks were more memorable. We nearly died there,” Mama said. She stood up. “You can draw whatever you like, Clara. We’ll get the sponsors to bring you back by train so you can carry the manuscript to New York. It’ll be grand. You’ll continue the adventure. Later this summer. It’ll work, it will! We just have to convince them! You can start now.”

  “I don’t have any paper.”

  “Clara. There will always be obstacles. It’s your duty to overcome them in service to another. Go to the market; ask for a sheet of butcher paper. Draw on that. We’ll take it as a sample for the editor. We’ll do this, Clara. First thing tomorrow.”

  I let her hope fill my empty stomach.

  “Remember when I read to you?”

  It was the middle of the night, but neither of us slept well in the narrow bed. The sounds of mice or rats scratched in the walls. A cold wind rattled t
he window.

  “Yes, Mama,” I said.

  “I read The Lamplighter, maybe Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I loved that book.”

  “Our stomachs would be full, and you’d bring dried apples out to make up a perfect pie and whipped cream for the topping.”

  “Yes, yes.” She silenced my talk of food. “Those stories, they were about persevering, Clara. Keeping on despite the sorrow. Justice. Family. It’s all about doing what we must for family.”

  “Yes, Mama, I know.”

  She stroked my arm. I pulled away.

  The World editor agreed to confer with the sponsors in New York about our latest idea, and while we waited on their reply, we worked. At night, Mama wrote an article. It was in response to a letter to the editor in the New York Times about labor issues and mining. “It’ll show that I can write,” she told me when I raised an eyebrow at how she spent her time. “I might get invitations to speak,” she pointed out. “Raise our own funds. Maybe they’ll pay me.”

  Another of her fantasies.

  The Times didn’t use her piece, but it appeared instead in a Norwegian paper. There was no payment and we received no invitations. Then Mama sent a letter (she had to ask a stranger for a stamp) to the woman in Spokane who had helped initially make contact with the sponsors. Mama asked if she could intervene on our behalf, especially since we’d been robbed and now had no money to return home, though we’d accomplished all that had been asked. “I told her but for the sprained ankle, we’d have made it and that we hoped to write a book now.”

  Mama asked her to telegraph her response, which the woman did. She had no influence, she said, and told us she didn’t want to jeopardize whatever negotiations we might yet work out by sending money.