The Year We Were Famous

by Carole Estby Dagg

  Ma told Major McKinley he could make his place in history by supporting a constitutional amendment giving the vote to women, and I got out the Mayor Belt letter she'd been collecting signatures on so she could add McKinley's autograph.

  As you may have guessed, the enclosed crocheted slippers are from the hand of the next first lady. Ma and I could not imagine putting our rough feet into such dainty, be-ribboned creations, so we are sending the slippers home so you two can be "ladies" instead.

  I miss you both, and hope to see you all by Christmas.

  Love, Clara

  Dear Mr. Doré,

  You may report that after crossing all of Indiana and over half of Ohio in two weeks, the two women walkers met President-Elect McKinley and his wife at their home in Canton, Ohio, on November 29. I am sorry to disappoint you in your prediction that I could become a freelance reporter. When I came into the presence of the next president of the United States, the details of my readings on tariffs fled my mind and I asked but the most simple-minded questions. In fact, we talked more about our trip than his plans for this country. I shall have to think of another occupation, for Nellie Bly has no competition in me.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Clara Estby

  P.S. Did your mysterious venture have its intended "salutary outcome"?

  P.P.S. You may tell Miss Ernestine Fleming that I will be happy to visit her class if we pass through Salt Lake City on our way home. C.E.

  Of course I had no doubt that I could convince Ma to take a route far north or south of Salt Lake City on the way home. There was no reason to waste a train trip home going over the same ground we had covered on foot.

  To: Miss A. J. Waterson, 95 William Street,

  New York City, New York

  From: Helga and Clara Estby

  Monthly report # 7: Ambridge, Pennsylvania

  Miles covered, November 5–December 5: 492

  Notes: We called on President-Elect McKinley at his home in Canton.

  CHAPTER 25

  A LATE BIRTHDAY

  December 6, 1896–Day 215 Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  MA WAS as worried about my brother Olaf as she was about making it to New York by December 16. She was sure he had died in the sanatorium without her. He never would have contracted diphtheria if she and I had been home to help with harvest and he hadn't worked so hard. She shouldn't have named him Olaf; that name was too close to baby Ole, and he had died young so Olaf was going to die young, too. It was my fault; why hadn't I talked her out of this trip? It wasn't her fault; if the railroads and the banks didn't take advantage of hard-working farmers, we would not be about to lose the farm. It was her fault; if she hadn't insisted Pa build a house right away with borrowed money, we would not have been in debt. It was Pa's fault; if he had not hurt his back he could have earned more money carpentering last winter and we could have paid a little something on the taxes and mortgage.

  Since we shared a bed or pallet every night, when she didn't sleep, I didn't, either. She poked me awake at two a.m., three-thirty a.m., and five a.m. to repeat her litany of fears for Olaf's health and blame for our circumstances. For three nights I was patient, but my ankle still throbbed and I was desperate for sleep. The fourth time she nudged me awake last night I shoved her back. "Just stop it," I hissed.

  Worry and lack of rest had put black circles under Ma's eyes, and her lower lip trembled. How could I be so unsympathetic? I brushed the back of my hand across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Ma, I'm sorry. I'm just so tired." We both had to stay strong just a few more days. Then, as winners or losers, we could both give in to exhaustion and go to bed for a month if we needed it. At least this trip would be over.

  Ma stared at me glassy-eyed, slack-mouthed. I touched her shoulder gently. "I'm sure Olaf is fine, we'll win the bet, and you'll be on the front page of the New York World." She did not respond.

  I helped settle her under the covers and she closed her eyes, but I don't think she slept. I didn't, either, for a while, but the next time I opened my eyes it was six-thirty. Ma was already dressed and sitting quietly on the foot of the bed, holding Pa's watch, staring at the hands as they counted out the hours and minutes to our deadline.

  At the Pittsburgh post office, Ma sent home another batch of journal notes and we picked up three letters from home and a thick envelope from Salt Lake City. I wanted to open it immediately to see if there was news about Mr. Doré's secret project, but Ma tugged on my elbow. "Let's check in at the newspaper and read our letters later, in private," she said.

  The reporter at the Pittsburgh Gazette must have noticed the circles under Ma's eyes, so after a brief interview, he excused himself for a telephone call and came back with good news. "It's all arranged," he said. "You can spend the night at one of the nicest hotels in town. I said you'd be willing to talk to some of the guests after you've had a chance to rest, but I'm sure they won't keep you long."

  Ma nodded a weak assent. Thinking of a hot bath and a warm bed, I gathered energy for a grateful grin.

  As we entered our hotel room, I dropped my bag, sank to the floor, and leaned against the mahogany dresser as I waited to hear what was in Ma's letters. She sat on the bed and opened Pa's letter first. As she read it, color dotted each cheek. A smile spread from her mouth to her eyes as she looked up. "Olaf is home."

  I remembered to breathe. "I knew he'd be fine." I opened the letter from Ida and Bertha first, saving Mr. Doré's letter for last. I unlaced my boots and propped my feet up on my satchel as I read. Ida's P.S. was provoking, but she had not meant it to be: "Happy 18 th Birthday, Clara! What did you do to celebrate?" My answer, had she been here to talk to, would have been "nothing."

  Ma extracted news from her letter from the boys. They closed with the words, "We love you, Ma. Come home soon." She held up the last page so I could see Billy's wobbly B at the bottom.

  Olaf was alive and her children still loved her. That was all Ma needed to restore her spirits. She hooked the curling iron over the chimney of the gas lantern to heat and took off her shirtwaist before washing her face and arms in the basin under the mirror.

  I carefully slit the envelope from Mr. Doré and pulled out the first sheet on which he had written "Happy 19th Birthday!" He had drawn a clumsy garland of daisies around the message. Nineteen? If he had found out when my birthday was, why didn't he get my age right?

  The second enclosure was an oblong slip of blue paper. The first line was a blank with my name filled in with elegant copperplate handwriting. To: Miss Clara Estby. The second line had pinprick holes in the shape of the number five. It was a check from Chase National Bank. "Five dollars!" I yelped. I felt Ma's eyes on me as I read the attached letters. The first was typed on the engraved letterhead of Street and Smith, Publishers.

  Dear Miss Estby:

  We are pleased to inform you that we have accepted your story, "Our Wilderness Salon"for publication in the January 3, 1897, issue of the Log Cabin Library. We encourage you to think of us when you have another piece to submit.

  Sincerely,

  Francis Shubael Smith

  Dear Miss Estby,

  As you will see from the enclosures, my secret deed at last had the desired result. I submitted the article first to Beadle Press, which publishes those dime novels your brothers probably read, but they never answered. Luckily, I sent them a copy I had typed in duplicate, so I still had your original and the carbon, which I sent on to Street and Smith. Let this be a lesson: Don't give up too soon. I had eleven rejections on one of my stories before it was published.

  When the editors asked for information about you, I realized I didn't know anything about you except that you were an adventurous, intelligent young woman of pleasing appearance who was born in Minnesota. With that lead, I thought I could at least find out for them how old you were, so I wired the Minnesota Vital Statistics Bureau. I not only found out that you were born in 1877, but that your first check as a writer might arrive in time for your birthday.

  I trust tha
t your journey has been smooth and swift, and my greetings reach Pittsburgh in time.

  Sincerely,

  Charles Doré

  P.S. Congratulations! I remember what a thrill it was to have my first article published.

  I stood and waved the check and Mr. Doré's letter like flags. "I'm published!" I held the check and letter against my heart. I was not just Helga and Ole Estby's daughter. I was Clara Estby, author, and esteemed correspondent of Mr. Charles Doré, of the Salt Lake City Deseret Evening News. I kissed his signature.

  "Olaf is well, you've published a story, and we have a grand room tonight. This will be a day to remember," Ma said. "You might want to check a mirror before we go downstairs, though. You have a smudge of ink on your mouth."

  I touched my lips with my fingertips and all but swooned as I thought of Charles's hand, which had held the pen that held the ink that was on my lips. Of course I only thought of Mr. Doré as a friend—I was just grateful to him for finding a publisher for me. I felt no ill will toward Miss Fleming. She was lucky to have Mr. Doré, but what was a beau compared to the thrill of a career?

  I crawled up on the bed to show Ma the check and the letters. "The five dollars is for my article about the time we camped with the Ute Indians and you showed them how to use your curling iron."

  "When did you send that in?"

  "I didn't—at least not to the publisher. I sent it to Mr. Doré for his newspaper and he sent it on to Street and Smith."

  Ma picked up the check. "You could use another pair of shoes," she said.

  I was not thinking about my thin soles then. "Ma, that's not all. Mr. Doré found out when my birthday was. The Minnesota records department had my day right, but they made a mistake on the year I was born. Mr. Doré thinks I'm nineteen, not eighteen."

  Tears filmed Ma's eyes as she stared at Charles's birthday greeting.

  "Oh, Ma, I don't mind that you forgot my birthday. You walked me clear across the country to meet the next president of the United States. That was the best present you could have given me." I started to hug her, but she shrank back.

  She covered her face with her hands. "Newspapermen and their facts."

  CHAPTER 26

  MA'S REVELATION

  December 6, 1896–Day 215 Pittsburgh, Pennsylavia

  I SHIFTED sideways so I could see Ma's face. "What facts?"

  The mattress jiggled as I crawled opposite her and sat tailor fashion, ready to listen. "If it's something about me, don't I have a right to know?" The only thing Mr. Doré had found out, assuming he was right, was the year I was born, and why should that cause such distress?

  Oh, du er dum, du! I blushed. Maybe—I caught my breath just to think it—Ma had had to marry Pa, and didn't want anyone in Mica Creek to know she'd had a hurry-up wedding.

  "Ma," I said, "I think I understand. Pa must have had more sweet talk in him than anybody knew, to talk you into rushing things." I smiled a worldly, woman-to-woman smile.

  "No, Clara, you don't understand at all." Ma looked down at her lap and swallowed. Then she lifted her head. "Ole is not your father. Your father—your natural father—is Patrick O'Keeffe."

  "O'Keeffe! How can someone I've never heard of be my father?" My voice rose to a decidedly un-worldly-wise squeak as I unfolded my legs and slid off the bed.

  Ma sighed. "You've lived on a farm; I shouldn't have to explain that."

  "I don't mean that part ... I mean ... I guess..." The walls of the room started to shift back and forth, like the pendulum on a clock; even when I closed my eyes I felt like the room was rocking and I had to hang on to the bedpost to keep from falling.

  Ma pulled away from the headboard and sat stiffly. "Patrick ... Patrick was a young man back in Michigan. The man I loved before Ole."

  The horrified look on my face prompted Ma to explain. She put one hand to her heart, as if covering a scarlet A beginning to sprout like Hester Prynne's on her shirtwaist. "He wasn't just any boy ... We were going to get married when he finished college."

  "So why didn't you get married?"

  "We would have, if his mother hadn't come down with consumption. Her doctor suggested she move to the mountains to clear her lungs. His father was dead, so Patrick planned to help her through the summer and he'd see me again before he went back to college. In July, I realized I was pregnant."

  Heat radiated from my chest to my cheeks. I clung tighter to the bedpost. "My mother pregnant and no husband. I laugh to think about all your Sunday school advice. 'Don't go out walking alone with Erick; don't let him kiss you until you're engaged...' Didn't your mother give you the same advice? The rules never seem to apply to you, do they? You do whatever you want and excuse yourself with the thought that your love, your need to save the farm, your motives, are so pure, your needs so much stronger than any ordinary mortal's that whatever you do is justified." By now my cheeks felt fiery, my chest heaved, and my throat was sore from taming a shout down to a hoarse whisper.

  I tried to work up steam for another rant, but it was hard to keep up momentum when Ma just sat there, immobile and expressionless. "If Pa hadn't been willing to marry you, everyone would say I was a b—" I couldn't say the word, not out loud. "Say something!" I picked up a pillow from the bed and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the window.

  "I wouldn't undo anything I've done in my life. Even Patrick, if it meant there wouldn't be a Clara." She smiled gently.

  "Why should I listen to anything you say—ever again?"

  Ma massaged her temples, then let her arms drop limply to her sides. "Clara, who is better qualified than a woman who has had to live with the consequences..."

  I roiled up again. "So that's what I am? A consequence of your bad judgment?"

  "Oh, Clara, no..." Her face softened as she slipped off the bed and took both my hands. I tried to jerk my hands from her, but she would not let go.

  "Clara, I know this must be hard for you, but let me finish. You and my other children are the best part of my life. What I meant by consequences was that I haven't seen my own parents since they sent me away with Ole. And as you know, those years in the soddy were not what I had been raised to expect for my life."

  My hands were still tense in Ma's, but I did not interrupt.

  "I gave up any hope of marrying Patrick to make sure you had a name and a home. I made a mistake, but I did my best to make it right for you. You mope and dither about what you should do with your life. I wish to heaven I'd still had as many choices at nineteen as you do now. You have no children, no husband to tie you to one place. You can stand on your own feet and go anywhere you want to." She waited for me to say something, but I just stood there with my mouth pressed shut.

  I wanted to know—and didn't want to know—the details of how I ended up Clara Estby instead of Clara O'Keeffe. "So you were pregnant. What did you do?"

  Ma looked away. "I wrote to Patrick. I didn't have a real address for him, just general delivery for the town in Colorado he thought they'd be moving to, but maybe they settled someplace else. When a month went by without a reply, I finally got the courage to tell my mother. She promised she'd think of something, and she did. A month later my mother had me married off to Ole, who worked for my stepfather. Ole had admired me, but without a farm or a business of his own, he never would have presumed to ask for me until then, when I desperately needed a husband. This was his chance to rescue me, you see? He gave his word that he would treat you as his own child. And he has been a good father to you, hasn't he?"

  I was numb. "You've lied to me all my life ... about Pa, even how old I was."

  "I wasn't sure you were mature enough to understand. And I was right, wasn't I? I shouldn't have told you."

  "But then I wouldn't have wondered why I was so different from Ida and all the others."

  "Everybody's different. Ida is a happy gadabout and Bertha is a quiet, musical one—who knows where that came from—and it isn't because they're not full sisters; they're just their own people. You
don't need the excuse of a different father to be a different person."

  "Maybe ... Oh, I don't know."

  "Sit down and I'll brush out your hair. That used to soothe you when you were little."

  Ma's face relaxed in recollection as her eyes followed a path from my hair to my eyes, nose, mouth, chin. "Your rounded cheeks and chin are his; your eyes are dotted with several colors, like his. I always thought you had his hair, too."

  "Brushing my hair isn't going to make me forget that I just found out that Pa is not my pa, my father ran off to Colorado instead of marrying you, I didn't know how old I was, and my name should have been O'Keeffe—O'Keeffe? Is that Irish? I'm not even Norwegian. I don't know what's true and what's not anymore."

  My eyes widened as my memory latched on what Ma had said a few minutes ago. "Colorado! You said Patrick went to Colorado. That's the real reason you wanted to spend more time there, isn't it? You thought if we tromped through those mountains and talked to enough people you'd run across someone who knew where he was."

  Ma sighed. "I heard..." She stopped and cleared her throat. "I heard he did come back to Michigan for me. I imagined how Patrick must have felt; his mother just recently buried, then coming back and finding out his faithless bride-to-be had already married someone else and moved to Minnesota. I wrote a letter to explain ... I couldn't bear to have him think I hadn't loved him ... I tore it up." For a moment Ma's face went blank; then she shook her head as if to shake unhappy memories away.

  "Interviewers are waiting, Clara," she said briskly. She reached toward me, but I jerked my shoulder away.

  Hearing how Ma had suffered blunted my anger, but I still wasn't up to a room of strangers. "Just go. I need time to myself," I said.