Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  I confess that if Mr. W were to request my hand again, I shall not know what to do. More importantly, I do not yet know what the good Lord wants me to do.

  I must finish here. The other lodgers are stirring, and it is time to prepare myself for the new school day. You know how much I would value, as always, your thoughts on my little quandary.

  Your sister-in-Christ,

  Eliza Chappell

  * * *

  Chicago

  October 24, 1834

  My dear F____,

  Thank you for your sound advice. I have been avoiding routes close to The Prairie Store. I even bought this notepaper elsewhere, though I confess that purchase felt akin to a betrayal. You will be glad to hear that, as you advised, the twin forces of time and absence do seem to be exercising a calming influence over me.

  As regards the Lane Theological Seminary’s Debate, I appreciate your keeping me informed on the issue. Like you, I have no time for the perverted notion promoted by the colonizers, viz. that the issue of slavery can be solved at a stroke by shipping off America’s Negroes, most of whom were born and bred here, to Liberia. The next time I bump into Mr. W, I shall demand to know whether he is one of those that favors the “Liberian option.”

  To divert both myself and you—O most patient and understanding of correspondents—I want to speak of someone else I have met …

  One crisp, cold Saturday morning, Eliza set out for Wolf Point. There was a strong breeze, the path was muddy and the surf on the Lake was splashing onshore in foamy hoops. The Sauganash Hotel’s bright blue shutters and smoking chimney were welcoming enough, but they could not entirely quell the sense of remoteness afforded by its isolation. This was where the traders and fur trappers were said to have congregated in the early days, when there was no village to speak of. The hotel had never attracted neighbors and the location still lived up to its name. At night, the wolves howled. Reverend Porter had been attempting, without success, to bring the word of the Lord to one of the Sauganash’s residents. When Eliza suggested she try her luck in his place, the offer was swiftly accepted.

  Mark Beaubien, the landlord, ran a house in which gambling and drunkenness were condoned, but Eliza did not share the reverend’s disapproval of him. Despite his rough habits and liking for revelry, Mr. Beaubien seemed to be a man with a big heart. As Mr. Wright had put it, anyone able to play the fiddle like a maestro was surely allowed a few flaws. Today, as she went inside, he greeted her with a cheerful mock bow and asked after the school.

  “I am hoping some of the young Beaubiens will appear one day soon,” she said.

  He assured her they would and insisted she drink a freshly brewed coffee with him to ward off the cold. “With a drop of whiskey, p’raps, for sweetener?”

  “Mr. Beaubien, you are incorrigible. Thank you, but no.”

  Eliza took the seat he offered and looked around. A couple of men stood near the hearth, cracking walnuts and tossing the shells into the fire. A huddle of children, lost in their own world, were playing a game in the far corner. The air might be smoky and soured by old ale, the timber walls might be covered in too many animal skins for her taste, but she decided that the hotel, in the absence of a rowdy clientele, was a comfortable enough place.

  While they sipped coffee, she told him why she was there. She saw no point in skirting the issue. “I understand Mrs. Eulalie, as she likes to be called, has rejected the Lord. I hope to change her mind.” She did not add that she also hoped Mrs. Eulalie would find her an easier confidante than the reverend. “Reverend Porter suspects she might be a little touched.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Mr. Beaubien’s laugh seemed to bounce back off the ceiling. “That lady,” he said, serious again, “’as seen a lot more trouble than you or me, Miss Chappell. We must remember this.” When she asked him to explain, he shook his head. He always, he said, kept his confidences. “And, I tell you another thing. Mrs. Eulalie make the best Indian cures I ever seen. ’Ow she know, this is a mystery.” To demonstrate the point, he exercised a shoulder. “Come ’ere one week ago, and you don’t see this moving.”

  * * *

  Eliza knocked, entered and was invited to take a seat. The room was small but had been decorated to feel light and cheerful. The bed cover was bright; there was a vase of cut flowers on the sill. Arranged on a small table against the wall were jars containing the Indian remedies.

  Eliza’s first impression was of a handsome lady, well attired, about forty years of age, with a sallow complexion, presumably the residue of mixed blood. Her hair was fair and plentiful, worn “à la giraffe” with an old-fashioned earlock curl. An antique Indian-style necklace hung at her neck. At first, she seemed to mistake Eliza for a customer. Indeed, Mrs. Eulalie’s gray eyes observed her with an intensity that she found unsettling. It was not unlike a doctor’s examination, without the instruments. Removing the Bible from her bag, she explained that she had come in place of Reverend Porter.

  “I won’t be needing no Bible talk, Miss Chappell. Not today, not never.”

  Rebuffed, Eliza contrived to move the conversation elsewhere. By the time she left, an hour or so later, it had been agreed that she could call again. Eliza felt that Mrs. Eulalie had taken a liking to her. For her part, she was intrigued.

  On the next visit, Eliza made more inquiries about her family. After Mrs. Eulalie had spoken fondly about her grandfather, she asked about her father.

  “If he’s still alive, he’ll probably be liquoring himself someplace. And my mother, because you’ll be asking about her next, she passed on when I was still a young pup, after the Banishment.” Banishment, she said, was when her family left Chicago. “I was birthed here, Miss Chappell.”

  Surely, Eliza pointed out, there would have been nobody in Chicago in those days but the Potawatomies?

  Mrs. Eulalie shrugged, as if it were of no matter whether she believed her or not. “The house is still there. It ain’t moved nowhere.”

  “I would love to see it. Perhaps we could go together?”

  She shook her head. “I never going back. But you can probably get invited for one of the parties. I was birthed, Miss Chappell, in the house ’cross the river from the Fort.”

  “But the only house there is Mr. Kinzie’s.”

  “That’s right. My grandfather built it.”

  … I am baffled as to why she would make such an assertion. Until then, our conversation had been stilted—she is not the most willing of communicators—but there was nothing unusual in what she actually said. On the surface, dear F____, little had struck me as untoward, though it might be considered odd for a widow to travel to Chicago in middle age from St. Charles, Missouri, to practice Indian medicine. But did I, too, not come here on my own? In Chicago, are we not all from somewhere else?

  An appropriate word for her predominant mood is “dolefulness.” The source is difficult to divine but perhaps derives from too much introspection. Perhaps. Might the brightness of her surroundings be an attempt to counter her despondency? Have you come across such examples before? You are the most astute observer of human behavior I know. How interested I would be to hear your impressions about Mrs. Eulalie, from what I have told you thus far.

  Your sister-in-Christ,

  Eliza Chappell

  * * *

  Chicago

  November 5, 1834

  My dear F____,

  I do not know where to start. Let me try to relate what happened today in as straightforward a way as possible, and we shall see where that takes us.

  It began with a note being delivered at school, requesting my attendance at an address on Clark Street. As soon as I had released my little angels from their books—I am pleased to say their company now includes a Beaubien and two Potawatomie boys—I set off across town. Today, we saw the first signs of winter. I had to fight a cold, stiff wind off the Lake, keeping my head down and my back bent. You have never seen so many new buildings going up at such a rapid pace. People today were crawling over the
se half-finished structures like ants, sawing and hammering away in a fog of sawdust, trying to get roofs up before the snow begins to fall. Many of the latest arrivals, I hear, have come from very far away, Germany and Sweden in particular. In fact, I heard my first Swedish spoken today. In its intonation and rhythm, it reminded me of a plodding cart horse. Probably, Swedes are common as muck in Boston but all foreigners—as opposed to Easterners—are still something of a novelty for us.

  On a gray day like this, Chicago looks its most makeshift and miserable, more like a white man’s version of an Indian camp than a real town. The balloon frame house style used here, that Mr. W espouses so fervently, is not well suited to winter, as I am learning to my cost in my own lodgings. Some houses have been knocked together in such a hurry, they are already splitting and leaning sideways. Only a few of the better streets are provided with boardwalks, most stores don’t have proper signs or lamps, the stench from the open drains can be overwhelming, there is the constant hazard of fresh horse manure and now that the winter is imminent wild dogs, hunting for scraps, have begun to roam the streets in packs. One has to watch for mud and potholes, and always remain alert to the reckless approach of a wagon that seems to consider every creature on two legs either invisible or expendable. You can imagine, then, the effect on the spirits when one has to walk on streets of this rudimentary nature. Nothing has been built to last.

  I thought of you, dear F____, as I made my way downtown this afternoon, envious of how you could choose, whenever you felt like it, to step outside and stroll along Boston’s Main Street full of solid brick houses, with their glass windows and roofs of slate, pausing perhaps to look into the cheerfully decorated shop windows that will soon be full of Christmas fare. Indeed, writing that sentence down reminds me how terribly far we have to go in Chicago.

  I knew the address to which I had been directed on Clark Street was close to Revd Porter’s church but imagine my alarm when I discovered it was the shack immediately next door, its front yard notorious as a den for drinking and gaming. Revd Porter has often condemned this hovel from his pulpit, calling it a repository for “drunken brawls and a gaming hell.”

  Could this be the correct address? Nobody seemed to be about, except the driver of a cart that was stuck. He swore and kicked at the offending wheel.

  Forgive me, my dear F____, I fear I do not have the energy tonight to tell you what was about to transpire. Indeed, I still do not know whether I should be pleased or appalled by what happened. I shall write again tomorrow. Perhaps, by then, my thoughts will have resolved themselves.

  Your sister-in-Christ,

  Eliza Chappell

  1834

  DRUNKEN ON LOVE

  JOHN STEPPED PAST the overturned bench in the yard and arrived at the front door of the two-room frame house that occupied the lot next to the First Presbyterian Church on Clark Street. It was a cold, windy November afternoon. The rutted street was full of caked mud. He worked free the wedge that held the door shut, and tried to push it open. The hinges were so stiff that in the end he had to use his shoulder. The former occupant, as well as serving liquor, had been a hog butcher. The place reeked of dead meat. Once inside, he pushed back the shutters, took a deep breath and looked out. Someone would build soon enough on the vacant lot in front, on Dearborn Street, and that would provide a buffer against the wind off the Lake. At the horizon, a low sky merged with the churned gray of the water. Removing his gloves, he rubbed his hands together to bring feeling back to his fingers.

  A cart drawn by a pair of oxen was creaking past. A few yards on, a wheel caught, the cart came to a halt, tipped to one side, and the mishap was soon being reported to the world by its driver in a stream of ripe curses. At least the wind was blowing them away from the church.

  John turned and went into the dark back room, a handkerchief over his nose. The place was filthy. Rotten floorboards creaked underfoot. Bits and pieces of equipment were scattered across the floor, evidence that someone had left in a hurry. Three or four meat hooks dangled from a beam. The chimney had leaked. A single upright chair stood lopsided, on three legs.

  He should have waited for a day of milder weather. The rooms should have been given a good airing. The floors should have been swept and scrubbed. There ought to have been a vase of flowers. Yes, he should have waited and prepared properly for the occasion. But patience, virtue though it might be, had never been his. Any moment now, and she would be here.

  He hastened toward the back shutters to let some fresh air in. Tripping over an abandoned meat hook, he was flung forward. He lay for a moment on the floor, recovering his breath. If you don’t slow down, John, he could imagine his mother saying, you’ll do yourself an injury. Luckily, not much damage was done. He was still in one piece. While inspecting the unsightly tear in his breeches, he became aware of another presence in the room.

  Miss Chappell stood in the doorway, wrapped up, her scarf over her nose and mouth.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Welcome, Miss Chappell.”

  She greeted him. “So this is the place you meant,” she said, removing the scarf for a moment to wrinkle her nose very prettily. “But why? And please tell me, Mr. Wright, what is the abominable smell?”

  John tried to push some shape back into his hat. “I believe,” he said, “that the odor can be traced back to the activities of the previous occupant.”

  “He was a butcher?”

  “Mr. Hezekiah Weed was indeed a butcher, and not a very honest one.”

  He followed Miss Chappell as she retreated toward the relative fresh air of the front room, where she stood to one side of the open shutter. The cart was still stuck in the street, its owner still swearing. John leaned out the window and demanded that the man mind his language, that he was outside a church, that there were ladies present.

  “I shall be out in a moment,” he said, “to see if I can help you.”

  “Then we’ll stay quiet as a church mouse, sir,” said the man. He slapped the flank of one of the oxen. “’Ear that, you big critter? The nice gent’man’s goin’ to get you outta trouble.”

  Miss Chappell frowned. John hastened to explain what had happened. Mr. Weed was discovered to have bought some diseased carcasses at a bargain price and dressed up the rotten meat in herbs to hide the smell. He put the meat on sale. Three people were dangerously ill, and others were suffering from bouts of violent sweating and stomach cramps and the flux.

  “Mr. Weed vanished overnight. He apparently got word that a lynch mob was about to pay him a visit.” John smoothed down his coat. “On his departure, I purchased the property.”

  Miss Chappell studied him with suspicion. “And you asked me to come here this afternoon so I could congratulate you on your latest speculation?”

  “Not exactly, Miss Chappell.”

  At which point, there was another interruption from the carter. He had his elbows on the sill and was peering inside. His face was unshaven, his teeth few. He pinched his nose. “Gawd, wot a stink! And g’day to you, miss, tho’ it ain’t one,” he said, tipping his hat. “You comin’ or not, then, Mr. Gent’man Samar’tan? Or you one of them that’s all talk and no action?”

  John told him, politely but firmly, to wait by the cart and he would be out in a moment. He had not planned to break the news in such circumstances, but there was no point in waiting. “I wanted,” he told Miss Chappell, “to show you your new schoolhouse.”

  * * *

  It was two long weeks before John saw her again. He asked Mr. Joseph Meeker, his carpenter, to accompany him. Together, they waited for her to emerge from her classroom. She greeted them graciously and, for once, John let Mr. Meeker do most of the talking. Mr. Meeker described how he planned to repair and extend the shack, with an office at the back for Miss Chappell and the schoolroom to the side. John asked her whether she had any recommendations of her own because it would, after all, be her school. Miss Chappell flushed when he put it like that. He suspected she remained skeptical that such a w
reck could be transformed in the way Mr. Meeker had described. She did, though, ask that the front room be equipped with shelves around the walls, so that it could become the library. John took that little intervention as a good sign.

  Over the next few days, when the weather was reasonable, he would hurry across to Clark Street, after closing The Prairie Store for the afternoon, and work at cleaning the premises. He wanted every inch to be scrubbed clean, with all traces of the former activity eradicated, before Mr. Meeker began his work. One day, Miss Chappell not only visited to see what progress had been made but also, to his delight, offered to help him. They opened all the shutters and let the little frame house breathe. Armed with mops and buckets, they began to remove the noxious smells and unsightly stains.

  Miss Chappell came, too, on the days that followed. The work gave them an opportunity to talk about all kinds of things—Miss Chappell never shied away from difficult topics—and John found time would pass in a flash. On the final afternoon before Mr. Meeker was due to start work, John lit a candle and placed it on a table that was intended to become Miss Chappell’s desk. He asked her to pray with him and they kneeled together a little awkwardly, side by side, as John asked for God’s blessing on their enterprise.

  The candle guttered, flickering shadows against the plank walls. When they had said “amen,” and before either of them had risen from their knees, John said something else.

  “I wanted you to know, Miss Chappell, that I have today signed papers before an attorney, donating this property in its entirety to our neighbor, the First Presbyterian Church.”