Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  How long is it since he has had time to sit down and read a proper book? The only reading he does is to the children before bed. They don’t like the Bible and he is sick of Potawatomie myths. He pulls out a tome at random. Another one on the Potawatomies, but at least it’s not myths. This one is A History of the Potawatomie Tribes in the Great Lakes. His mother probably used it in class. She has inscribed her name on the flyleaf. He flicks through the pages before replacing it on the shelf. On the board above the bookshelves, where she pinned notable essays or letters from some of her pupils, he happens to see one phrase in a curious letter from a student asking “Teacher Wright” whether, in the course of her long life, she has had any “snakes in the long grass.” The expression has been underlined, in ink, presumably by his mother. She would do things like that, whenever she came across something she liked. The gist of the letter seems to be that the pupil wants to know whether it is true, as she has been told, that all older people have some “bad secrets.” She goes on: “Is it true that in every old life there are snakes in the long grass?”

  For a moment, he simply stares at the words. He can even hear his mother saying them aloud, asking him the question directly.

  He sinks down into her old armchair and folds his arms.

  We now know Kitty has a snake in the long grass. What about you, John?

  * * *

  He wonders how long Kitty has been carrying on. Months? Years? While she was still bearing the children? Could it have been going on ever since their wedding? Has this … this Southerner been a frequent visitor at Blakeley when Kitty takes her three-month annual trips there? Do the children know him? Or do the two of them meet somewhere else? He wonders whether there have been clues that he has failed to notice and he thinks back to the few times when she has seemed embarrassed about something. He ponders what he should do now.

  Above all, he decides, there must be no scandal. The children can never know. Nor can anyone else in Chicago. He realizes it is her deception that hurts most, not the knowledge that she has actually made love with this Southern soldier. Their physical entanglement leaves him unmoved. He has not slept with Kitty since before Maria was born. Does he demand that she tell him everything? Would she? Is it better not to know? And even if he does ban her from ever communicating with this man again, would she abide by that? What if she challenges him? It is not inconceivable that she would go on the offensive. Has he ever betrayed her with another woman? If she asked, would he tell the truth?

  * * *

  He wakes up in the middle of the night still seated in his mother’s chair, cold and stiff, and at first he cannot think where he is. Moonlight is streaming into the room and words are repeating themselves in his head.

  In every old life there are snakes in the long grass.

  He stands up, lights a candle, takes the blanket off the ironing table and wraps it around himself before returning to the chair. He realizes he has been dreaming of Aureka Atkins again. At times when his confidence is low, that shame comes back to haunt him. Is it always thus, that when business is bad he is forced to look into the gaping hole at the center of his life?

  It occurs to him that his mother must, in her way, have helped him paper over it. With her gone, the hole is back, more profound and empty than ever. The fact is that his own heart remains a mystery to him. He ruined the one true chance he ever had. That is why, at the age of forty-one, he still yearns for love.

  As he sits in the silent room, haunted by the benevolent spirit of his mother, his other problems begin to resurface. The cash squeeze, the failed land sales, the debts. And what happens to the Automaton sales if those drying kilns do not work? His mind bestirs itself, as it often does when he cannot sleep. And gradually, while thinking about the problem of those kilns, his mood begins to change. He knows, deep down, that whatever Dai Jenkins says, they will probably never work properly. He should therefore make a virtue out of necessity. His mind, in a spirit of liberation, seeks all manner of different and unusual ways in which to confront the problem. And that is how an idea comes to him, one of those transformative ideas that seems obvious only once it has been had.

  He stands up and paces around the room. Let dawn come quickly, he thinks. In the morning, I shall tell Kitty I have forgiven her and nothing more is to be said about it. She is to break off communication forever with her Southern lover. She must never see him again. In the morning—he can feel his heartbeat begin to race—in the morning, I shall announce new plans for branch offices around the country where Automatons can be assembled with local supplies of timber and where repairs can be made. They will be in Dayton, Baltimore and Harrisburg. It will mean transportation costs are reduced, parts can be bought locally, the backlog in the factory will be cleared and, on top of that, a local presence always increases customer confidence which, in turn, increases sales. By doing this, he will have wrong-footed Mr. McCormick again.

  And, while walking back and forth, another idea comes to him that is so daring and brilliant it seems Heaven-sent. He has to sit down again and catch his breath. The Lord doth truly work in ways mysterious. That must be why, only last week, he happened to hear her name mentioned. A few moments later, he mutters aloud: “It may be a small town, but it makes commercial sense. Yes, I am decided. I will open a fourth branch office in Rochester. And that is where I shall travel first.”

  It would not look planned. And if nothing comes of it (a voice of reason warns that nothing will), what harm will have been done? He feels giddy at the prospect—albeit only a faint prospect—of bringing succor to his wounded heart, even as he saves the Automaton.

  He begins to make a mental list of the people he must contact. There will be an enormous number of meetings, but it can and must be done at once so that this season’s sales are saved. He goes East at once. In fact, he will leave so early in the morning, there will be no time to see Kitty in person.

  He takes the candle to his mother’s desk. Before he begins to write, he pauses to pass his hands across the gnarled surface, thinking back, once more overwhelmed by memories. Melancholy and nostalgia make him uncomfortable. He has always considered them to be signs of weakness. If there is one mantra he has always preached, it is that one’s gaze should always be on the future. There is no point in looking back. And yet, at the moment, he seems to be doing little else. Perhaps this is what happens as you get older.

  Is not this very room, by his order, frozen in the past? And does not this desk mock his “don’t look back” mantra too? Was it not here where they sat down to eat as a family when he was a boy? Was it not here where he studied Greek and Latin? Was it not here where his mother prepared her lessons and read her Bible? He is not sure what to make of the feelings evoked by these reminiscences, but he cannot pretend they do not exist.

  He picks up his mother’s pen and begins to write. He has little idea of time passing. But when he comes to the end of his letter to Kitty, the candle is no longer needed. Daylight is seeping into the room. He pushes back the chair and looks up at the portrait of his father. He wonders what Deacon Wright would have done in his position, before deciding he would never have become involved with Kitty in the first place. His mother, he thinks as he looks down at the pages in front of him, would have approved of the letter he has written. About time, she might say.

  1856

  A VISITOR FROM LONG AGO

  Rochester,

  NY March 20, 1856

  My dear F____,

  You must wonder at my silence since arriving back in Rochester with little Robert. He is a sweet child, perhaps the sweetest of them all, though I grant that may be the clouded judgment of a mother inclined to dote on her youngest, especially when he is in poor health. The truth is that I am equally blessed by all my children. But I am glad to say the boy is making a good recovery, and though I greatly miss my husband and my duties in Green Bay, I have no doubt that to come here was the correct decision.

  The reason I have taken so long to write is because I hav
e wished to compose myself first. I do not know whether I am more angry or saddened by what I have to tell you, nor whether my judgment in this matter too is clouded, after a manner of speaking. I have received a visitor from long ago. Nobody likes to be reminded of painful chapters in their past, as was I last week. I have been left feeling upset and irritable.

  Perhaps you can divine of whom I speak? There was no warning. Nor do I know how he discovered my whereabouts, but you can imagine my surprise when my sister announced a visitor was come to see me, by the name of Mr. John Wright. I have since calculated that we had not set eyes on each other for twenty-one years, not since that time the reverend was raising funds for missionary work in China and I was offering for sale a watch that Mr. W had given me. Just as Mr. W arrived on that occasion without warning, so too he was suddenly at my sister’s door in Rochester, asking to see me.

  It surprised me, to see how little he had changed. He seemed to have aged much less than he should have done, though I reminded myself that he is some years younger than I (seven or eight?), which must put him only just past forty. Yes, he has more girth and wrinkles, but his hair remains thick and curly, and he has the same boyish smile, head slightly tilted to one side, and his eyes are still a remarkably brilliant blue.

  In the beginning, I was almost persuaded he was telling the truth when he put this visit down to a series of coincidences. He was in Rochester on business, my name happened to be mentioned, so he thought it an opportunity to become reacquainted. Was he often in Rochester on business? I asked. His answer was less than direct. He was looking, he said, for someone to be a distributor in these parts for a machine that rakes wheat. I don’t believe he is the kind of man to tell blatant falsehoods, but he always did have a way of imparting only what he wanted you to hear. On further inquiry, it emerged that this was his first visit to Rochester, and when I asked why he had chosen this town in particular, and which person it was who had mentioned my name, he became embarrassed.

  Despite this, I cannot say I was displeased to see him. For me, those unfortunate indiscretions that occurred when we were young and untested is water under the bridge. True, they have always served as an important reminder of my frailty, but I hope I have long since learned from my mistakes.

  My sister served coffee and biscuits. Mr. W drank his coffee quickly and kept refilling his cup until the pot was empty. His news, at first, sounded bright. Married for ten years, he is the father of three children, of whom he is evidently fond and proud. It was no surprise to hear he has his finger in a lot of pies. He is involved in a variety of businesses, from wool to railroads, but his main interest still appears to be property speculation. He was keen to stress, though, that he also does many things for what he calls the “public good.” For example, he founded the Prairie Farmer, a newspaper that brings advice and news to all those living in rural areas. And he has devoted much time and money, he says, to the establishment of Normal schools. Recently, he has established a “Scientific University.” The list went on.

  Mostly, though, he wanted to tell me about his new machine—the Atkins Automaton—which he manufactures in a factory in Chicago. This Automaton, in a way I don’t understand, reaps wheat and then collects it into bundles. He claims it represents a revolution in American farming. I confess his energy and enthusiasm for the project made me smile. He was always like that. “And you will never believe it,” he said, meaning that I would have to, “but the Automaton was invented by a bedridden genius.” He added: “God moves in mysterious ways.”

  He does indeed, I agreed.

  “And Reverend Porter?” he asked at last.

  A strange look crossed his face when I reported that the reverend was busy and well. It was fleeting, and he recovered himself quickly, but I had noticed. The point, dear F____, is that I detected in that look a hint of disappointment. He was greatly surprised to hear that our Lord has blessed me with no less than nine children, of whom eight are alive and well. In fact, he paid a compliment as to my appearance after so much childbearing that I blush to remember. And when I told him I had given birth to Robert only four years ago, at the age of forty-four, he was amazed. After a moment’s reflection, he began to laugh. Had he not always said the registrar’s pen must have slipped when recording my date of birth?

  Strangely, I do remember him saying that. I responded by remarking on his own shortage of gray hair, which seemed suspicious to me, and I wondered whether he had a good macassar oil to recommend. Our conversation proceeded for some minutes more in this surprisingly easy and familiar manner.

  I asked whether he had any news about our mutual acquaintances from those days. He knew that Mr. Mark Beaubien, who managed the Sauganash Hotel (which is no more) has removed to Kankakee with his family, but he had no information about our old friend Mrs. Eulalie. I often think about her, and wonder what became of her, and whether she was ever reunited with her son. Do you remember all the letters we shared about her? I still don’t think she unburdened herself of all she should have done. Maybe, if she had, we could have avoided that terrifying incident during the Indians’ Dance of Departure. I pray that she may have found the Lord.

  “In the end, she left that picture behind,” Mr. W said of Mrs. Eulalie. “You remember the one? Of the old mansion? I have it hanging in my office.”

  If Mr. W had stood up at this point to leave, and if I had not inquired about the health of his mother, it is probable the unpleasantness that was to come would never have happened, and there would have been no need to disturb the memories I had preserved of a charming and articulate young Mr. W who would surely, one day, find his true calling in life.

  But he did not stand up, and I did ask after his mother. She had passed on after suffering from a bout of pneumonia, he said, two years before, at which news I expressed my sorrow for I remember her as a pious lady of strong character, and an enthusiastic supporter of Normal schools. He said he missed her greatly. And then, after a brief pause, he added in a different tone of voice, “She never did think well of Kitty.” Kitty is the name of his wife.

  I tried to move the topic of conversation elsewhere for it was quite improper of him to raise a matter of such intimacy in front of me. But to no avail. He insisted on talking about her.

  In brief, the story he told was as follows. The lady he married was born the daughter of a big plantation owner in Jefferson County. But she was raised in Virginia by her aunt, Mrs. Jane Washington. Mrs. Washington had inherited the Washington family’s Mount Vernon Estate in Fairfax County, and this was where Kitty spent her formative years, meeting any number of notables, not least because it was customary for the President and cabinet to dine there at least once a year. She was, we can conclude, quite a catch for Mr. W and considerably above his station in life.

  Mr. W and his wife became only modestly acquainted, he said, before their marriage and it was not long before what he called his “mistake” became apparent. “From the very beginning she showed me little affection,” he complained, “and I have now found out why.”

  He had recently discovered (by accident, he claimed) correspondence that showed his wife was in love with a Southern gentleman in the United States Army. This gentleman was not a recent acquaintance. He had been suitor to Kitty immediately prior to her marriage to Mr. W. Mrs. Washington, though, disapproved of him, not least because he had a weakness for liquor. She forbade the match unless he abstained from alcohol for a period of one year. Allegedly, his resolve held until the very last night before they were due to marry. The wedding was duly canceled. On the day of Kitty’s marriage to Mr. W, this brokenhearted soldier-lover shot himself. But he was only wounded. It is this same gentleman with whom Mr. W’s wife is allegedly in love.

  I interrupted. Though I was tempted to point out that his wife’s story of her Southern beau sounded too melodramatic to be true, I held my tongue. Instead, I expressed sympathy for his circumstances before pointing out, politely but firmly, that his marriage was no business of mine and I wished to h
ear no more about it. I stood up in a way that indicated his visit was at an end.

  He did not, though, budge from his seat. His earlier mood had been cheerful enough, as I have indicated. It was now considerably altered. He sat hunched over, wringing his hands, and I sensed he was trying to find the courage to say something intensely personal. Some people change so little, I thought. It was behavior that reminded me of his awkward younger self, who was as confident a man as you could meet until it came to matters of the heart. I assure you, though, I had no desire to hear whatever secret it was that he was struggling to impart.

  “There is nothing between Kitty and myself.”

  “Mr. Wright, I implore you not to speak to me of such matters.”

  “Don’t you see?” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the floor.

  Only now did I have a terrible premonition as to what he might want to say.

  “My mother was right. She said she had met only one woman in my life who…”

  “Stop this, Mr. Wright,” I insisted.

  I opened the door to the parlor and indicated he should leave.

  He rose reluctantly and with immense languor. “My wife’s story is much embellished in her imagination,” he admitted. “I made inquiries about her lover. He never abstained from drinking. No suicide was ever attempted. He is still alive and still in the army and”—he paused—“I suspect they have continued a liaison throughout her marriage to me. Nor do I believe anything will stop them now.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Wright?”

  There was a pause. And then there was the truth I did not want to hear. He swept at the air with his hands, as though swatting a large, slow fly, a distraught expression on his face. That look transformed him. The happy father of three and the successful man of affairs was replaced by a lost and confused soul, consumed by regrets.