Finding Dorothy

by Elizabeth Letts

  Maud held tight to the tree branch just over Frank’s head. How could she possibly have found herself up in a tree, hair all in a muss, white blouse streaked with tree sap, just as Frank Baum arrived? Desperate to think of a solution, she determined to hide silently there, hoping that he would knock on the door and enter the Gage house so that she could escape the tree, slip into the house through the back door, and pull herself together. For a moment, she held steady while Frank stroked the kitten and murmured softly, but she felt her hands tiring. Slowly, she loosened her grip and tried to adjust her position, but no sooner had she done so than Frank, hearing the rustling leaves, looked up and spotted her.

  “Well, hello there, Miss Gage! Will you be the next creature to fall from the sky? I’ve already received this precious kitten.”

  The jig being up, Maud climbed down from her perch. A moment later, she stood face-to-face with Frank.

  “The kitten was stuck,” Maud said.

  Frank beamed. “A kitten rescue! Well done, well done.”

  “But I’m all a mess!” Maud blurted out in spite of herself.

  Frank only smiled and reached out to brush a few leaves from her hair.

  Smoothing her skirt and patting down her hair, Maud showed Frank up the front steps and ushered him through the door. The wayward kitten was now contentedly asleep in Frank’s arms. Standing in the foyer as they entered, frowning, her mother looked Maud up and down, taking in her state of disarray.

  “Good heavens,” Matilda said. “What happened to your clothes?”

  “Mrs. Gage. What a delight to see you again!” Frank interrupted, extending his right hand in greeting while continuing to cradle the now-purring kitten with the other. “Do you suppose you might have a bit of milk for this poor puss?”

  Matilda was trying to keep a stern face, but she had a soft spot for all furry creatures. She opened her mouth as if to say something critical, then shut it again, and led Frank into the kitchen. There she unlatched the icebox and poured out a generous saucer of cream.

  “I think she likes you,” Maud whispered to Frank as they headed back to the parlor, leaving Matilda in the kitchen fussing over her newfound pet.

  “The kitten?” Frank smiled. “I thought she was quite forward, leaping into my arms like that.” He winked.

  “No!” Maud whispered. “Mother! She’s trying to dislike you, but she just can’t help herself.”

  After that first visit, Frank began to make a weekly buggy trip from his home in Chittenango, eight miles away, to Fayetteville. Mother made no further protest, but Maud feared that this was more because Matilda was occupied with her work than because she’d altered her overall opinion on the matter. The kitten slept in a basket at Matilda’s feet in her study while she worked. Her mother had grown quite fond of her foundling pet. Maud could only hope she would have as much affection for Frank. But as much as Maud looked forward to seeing him, often their conversations felt stilted and awkward. Frank was charming and affable, always ready with an amusing tale, but neither of them could relax knowing that Mother was always seated within earshot. Maud understood how deeply her mother concentrated on her writing, but it was still hard to believe that she didn’t occasionally eavesdrop.

  One afternoon in early August, Frank and Maud were seated in the front parlor and Mother was working in her study, so close that the feverish scritch-scratch of her fountain pen was audible, punctuated now and again by pauses while she stopped for reflection. Each time the sound of writing stopped, Frank stopped, too, cocking his ear, and would not speak again until he could tell that Matilda’s writing was once again under way. Maud noticed his affliction with bemusement until, unable to resist the impulse, she raised her voice and said loudly, “Why, I do believe that the house is afire—we’d best get out!” Frank looked around the quiet parlor, the grate empty in midsummer.

  “What on earth, Maud?”

  Instead of answering, she jumped up, grabbed Frank by the hand, and pulled him out the front door, shutting it loudly behind them.

  Once outside, Maud started to giggle as she watched a mystified expression cross Frank’s face.

  “There is clearly no fire. Do you wish to explain what you are doing, Miss Gage?”

  Maud kept giggling and pointed at the window where her mother’s head, bent intently over her writing, was visible. “Just as I suspected! Mother has not budged from her writing desk. You see? Not even a cry that the house is on fire would disturb Mother from her work. We could do almost anything and she would never notice!”

  “Well, in that case, let’s go for a ride!”

  Maud looked at him—a wicked smile on her face.

  “Hurry up, then. I’ll bring round the horses,” he said encouragingly.

  Maud hesitated, but just for a moment. “Let’s go!” she whispered. “But we can’t stay out too long. Mother always breaks for tea around four.”

  Moments later, Maud was seated next to Frank in a jarring buggy headed west, out of town. At first, Maud worried that people would see them—Maud alone, unchaperoned, in a buggy with a man—but then she thought, Well, really, what difference does it make? She was the coed, the Cornell girl, the suffragist’s daughter. Wasn’t this exactly the kind of behavior her closed-minded neighbors would expect? Maud was certain that if any gossip came Matilda’s way, she would staunchly defend her daughter, as a matter of principle. But as it happened, in the quiet midday torpor, houses were shut up tight with the blinds drawn, and they encountered no one in the street as they clattered swiftly out of town.

  For the first few minutes, Frank wouldn’t tell her where he was heading, but soon they were bouncing along a wooden road, its planks rattling under the buggy’s wheels, until they had entered the nearby town of Mattydale. Just outside of town, on the crest of a high hill, was a large brick house, fronted by an ornate wrought-iron gate. It was prettily situated among formal gardens. Frank pulled up in front of the house, descended from their buggy to tie up the horses, then helped Maud down.

  “This is where I grew up—our home, Rose Lawn. I wanted you to see it.”

  Paths traced around the garden, bordered by a profusion of pink, red, and yellow roses that delicately scented the air. He pushed open the iron gate, and once inside, Maud could see that the elegant garden was neglected, the house shuttered, paint peeling from its shiny black shutters and sturdy front door.

  Maud looked at him, wondering.

  “When my father and oldest brother died, my mother couldn’t keep it up anymore. She decided to sell it. It was once the grandest estate in these parts, but by the time she sold it, it wasn’t worth much. The man who bought it lives in New York City and has never set foot on the property, as far as I know.” Maud heard an unfamiliar note of melancholy enter his voice.

  “That must be hard!” she said.

  A momentary frown crossed Frank’s face, though it soon passed. “But today, it is ours!” he said.

  She linked her arm through his, and they walked up a leaf-littered path toward the crest of the hill. Dried leaves also littered the wide front porch.

  Frank led her behind the big house, where the view took in a shallow valley, dotted with gracious oaks and maple trees, an apple orchard, and a stream meandering at the far end of a pasture. Turning around, Frank pointed up to a pair of windows on the south end of the second story. “That was my room,” he said.

  “What a lovely view you must have had.”

  “I used to imagine that I was a prince and that these were my realms,” Frank said. “Every piece of this place had an imaginary name, and the whole of it was a kingdom. I called it Roselandia…”

  “Realms,” Maud said, teasing. “That is quite a big imagination for a small boy.”

  “Too big,” Frank said. “It was quite distracting.”

  They continued to stroll around the estate’s large, overgrown
grounds. Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, and to Maud it seemed that the air had an electric tinge, though she was unsure if what she sensed was the result of a storm being imminent or simply that the gravity of what she had done was beginning to sink in. She was alone with a man, with no one else around as far as the eye could see. In the sultry air, Maud could feel perspiration forming at the nape of her neck and on her upper lip. Frank led her up another path; it meandered across a meadow and brought them to a spot under the spreading branches of a stand of pines, where a small marble bench had been placed in the shade, overlooking the fields and the distant stream. He bowed low to Maud. “My captive princess, please sit down.”

  “Oh, so I’m a captive, am I?” Maud said, arching her eyebrows to show that she believed no such thing, and yet, she was a captive in a sense. If she wanted to flee, there would be nowhere for her to go. But she felt no desire to leave. Instead, here, beside Frank, seemed like the safest place in the world. She took a seat on the bench, and Frank sat down beside her.

  “When I was a child,” Frank said, “I was often alone, and I amused myself by making up stories—the grounds of our house seemed a world apart.” He pointed out some of the special places he remembered from his imaginary world: the apple orchard where trees could reach down and grab with their branches, a shabby outbuilding that was the dwelling of a magical woodsman. Maud marveled as she listened, amazed at his vivid imagination.

  His father had sent him away to school when he was twelve, he explained, but he’d lasted barely a year before he begged to return home, lonely for his imaginary world and its population.

  Maud listened sympathetically. Since she was so much younger than her elder sister, her own childhood had often been lonely.

  “So, now you see what drew me to the theater,” Frank said. “It’s the closest I can come to creating my very own world.”

  “For me,” Maud said, “books are like that. I’ve never visited a Scottish moor, and yet I believe that I could step out onto one and feel quite at home.”

  Frank beamed at Maud. “So would you like to write one someday?”

  “No,” Maud said decisively. “There’s no appeal in that for me. I grew up watching Mother’s head bent over a writing tablet—so absentminded and absorbed. I like to enjoy what’s happening right now, in the moment—like this moment,” she added, looking into Frank’s gray eyes for a second, but then quickly looking away. He was gazing at her, and she felt an unfamiliar swooping sensation, suddenly acutely aware, once again, that they were alone. “Though I so appreciate that there are those who have the writing bent.”

  Frank smiled, and Maud noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled up, his pink lips parting to reveal even white teeth. “So, you don’t find me odd and strange, with so many particularities of the imaginary sort crowding up my mind?”

  “Oh, no, Frank, I do find you odd and strange—” Maud stopped abruptly, embarrassed that she had said such a thing aloud. “I mean, you are strange in a good way—you seem unlike other men. Which is not a bad thing, as other young men have not given me cause to admire them much!”

  “And you are utterly unlike other women,” Frank said, now looking at her earnestly and leaning in closer, so close that Maud could feel the heat of his breath on her face. She looked up, and his soft lips met hers—for a moment she was flying through space, the world as she knew it tilting and tipping and disappearing, replaced by a white-hot light.

  When the kiss ended, it took a moment for Maud to come back to earth. As she settled, she had a sinking feeling, and her cheeks grew hot. She liked this man, truly she did, and now what had she done? Jumping up from the bench, she retreated several feet away from him, avoiding his gaze, wondering how she had managed to let all this happen, fearful of what would come next.

  Every young gentleman she had fancied had turned out the same—a disappointment. They might say, she reflected, that they wanted a modern young woman, an educated woman, a woman with spirit, but in the end, they all seemed to accept a world in which they retained all of the freedoms—to travel where they wanted, to associate with whom they pleased—while voicing no regret whatsoever at the constrained nature of a young woman’s life. They might pretend to embrace the principles of equality, but not when asked to put them into practice. Now she had not only hopped into a buggy alone with Frank, she had consented to his kiss—and what a kiss it had been, one she wouldn’t mind repeating—and yet, she was convinced that she could spend a lifetime looking for a man who would accept her the way she was, who was looking not for a potted plant but a person with her own voice and spirit and vision.

  She had dared to hope that Frank could be such a person—now, suddenly, she feared it was time to find out that she was wrong. It was one thing to go out with him unchaperoned, but Maud knew the grave consequences of being perceived as having loose morals. One of her friends at Cornell had been found talking to a male student in one of the side parlors in Sage, the two of them alone, with no chaperone present, and she had faced such censure that she had been forced to leave school. None of the girls had dared voice support for her, except in whispers, and later Maud had overheard the girl’s former beau talking of his ex-sweetheart in the most cruel and denigrating terms. He had not been forced to leave school—only the girl. So unfair! And yet, every young woman understood the rules. Now Maud had been reckless. And she feared that she was about to discover that Frank was no different from other men.

  Maud voiced none of these jumbled thoughts aloud, but after a few minutes of silence, she turned and stared mutely at Frank, waiting to see something, some change in his demeanor. His eyes remained steady on hers, unwavering, gentle, kind.

  “We’d best get back,” Maud said in a rush. “Before anyone notices I’m missing. You know I shouldn’t have come out here with you?”

  Frank’s expression was serious, hard to read, and he said nothing.

  “But I did it because I wanted to. I make up my own mind about things.”

  She looked at him quizzically, trying not to focus on his lips, which now monopolized her attention. “Mother always told me to be myself,” she said, tipping up her chin, her eyes now flashing, challenging him to contradict her. “And this is who I am.”

  Just then, a bright flash of lightning crackled, swiftly followed by a rumble of thunder. A hard rain started pouring down. Making no response to her torrent of words, Frank grasped Maud’s hand and they ran down the hill, pushing through the squeaky wrought-iron gate and clambering back into the cab. Frank hurriedly snapped up the rain cover, and they trotted back toward Fayetteville. The downpour made so much noise on the canvas top that they scarcely exchanged a word. When they arrived in front of the house, Maud could see her mother’s head, still bent over her writing. She did not appear to have moved since they left.

  Frank helped Maud down from the buggy, bowed low, and clasped her hand for a long moment, as if he were reluctant to let go. He made a hurried excuse about needing to head home before the roads flooded, then sprang back into his buggy and was gone. He did not even see her to the door.

  When Maud entered the silent parlor, Mother poked her head through the door and said, “Oh, you’ve been so quiet I entirely forgot you were here! Has Mr. Baum gone?” Maud could see the edge of her own reflection in the hall mirror, drops of moisture clinging to the tendrils of her hair, her clothing soggy, but Mother did not appear to notice.

  “Yes,” Maud said, her voice glum. “He’s gone.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were agonizing—a confusing mixture of distress and joy. Giddily she reimagined the kiss—a sensation so sweet that she’d never before been able to imagine its full flavor. But each recall was swiftly followed by remorse as she remembered how cavalier she had been—consenting to ride alone with him, allowing his caress—and wondered what he now thought about her. She read in his has
ty departure an indication that he would most likely shun her now, but then she remembered the way he’d lingered over their last hand clasp, as if he had been reluctant to go. By the week’s end, Maud had convinced herself: he would turn out to be just like other men, interested in Maud only as long as her free spirit was not revealed, no longer interested now that he’d understood what she was really like. And yet, in spite of all that, she had no regrets.

  But the following Sunday, Frank’s jaunty knock sounded on the door at the usual hour, and this time, he invited both Maud and Julia to go for a ride. The following Sunday, he arrived with a home-baked cherry pie and enticed Mother to join them in the parlor, where he actually got her laughing with his stories. After their secret jaunt and stolen kiss, his manner toward Maud had certainly not grown colder. And for her own part, Maud found that her longing to see him had only grown stronger, the days between his visits dragging past. She had begun to count with dread the number of Sundays between now and the day she would have to return to Cornell. Frank never raised the subject of her imminent departure; nor did she, unwilling to even touch upon the painful prospect of their upcoming separation.

  One Sunday in the middle of August, just two weeks before her fall semester was to start, Frank began telling Maud a long, complicated story about one of the actors, who had gotten into a scrape and ended up fleeing his boardinghouse in nothing but his underwear. The story bordered on inappropriate, but Maud was listening without blushing when out of the blue, he leaned in very close, appeared to pause to monitor the sound of her mother’s active pen, and whispered to Maud, “We’re going to be married. Don’t say no, as I will simply protest until you accept.”

  “I’ll do as I please,” Maud snapped, almost as a reflex.