Finding Dorothy

by Elizabeth Letts

  That night was the debut of Matches. After sunset, the heat hardly abated, and inside, the theater was a hot box. The house was only half full, and the laughs were sparse. Some of the people walked out in the middle of the first act, but Maud assured Frank that it was only due to the temperature. Back in their hotel room later, Frank continued to fret about the poor reception.

  “Did you think people liked it?”

  “Oh yes,” Maud said. “It was splendid. Everyone loved it!”

  “We’re going to take it on the road, maybe all the way back to Broadway!”

  Maud knew it was time to tell him the truth. In spite of following Matilda’s instructions with the lacquered box to the letter, every morning for the past month, she had awoken queasy and could scarcely nibble at her food. She reached out and pulled his hands into hers, rubbing her thumbs across their bony ridges, but not meeting his eyes.

  Releasing one hand from her grasp, he tipped her chin up gently with his thumb. “What is it, darling?”

  “We’re going to have a child.”

  She watched as his face drained of color, then turned bright red, and he flung his arms around her, almost knocking her over.

  “Are you sure? Are you quite sure?” Frank leapt out of his chair.

  “I’m sure.”

  “This is the happiest day of my life!”

  “We will have another mouth to feed.”

  “And feed him we shall!” Frank said. “Fresh oranges and marbled cuts of meat, seven-layer cakes and pumpkin puddings—”

  Maud put her hand over her mouth as she felt her stomach heave. “Please, no more,” she whispered.

  “All right then,” Frank said, putting one arm around Maud and gently easing her to sit on the edge of the bed. “Our child shall have milk toast and chamomile tea….Is that better?” he asked worriedly.

  Maud smiled weakly. “A cup of tea would be nice,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  THE SKY WAS LOW and close, and a heavy rain poured down outside the train station in Dayton, Ohio. The train had disgorged them into an empty street where not a single cabby and pair awaited.

  Maud had already let out her traveling dress three times, and still it felt tight across her midsection. She was shivering from the cold and faint with hunger—she’d had nothing to eat but a cup of tea and stale cake at the depot in Columbus. A problem on the tracks had delayed their train for several hours. They had expected to arrive before sunset; now it was close to midnight, and the street outside the depot was deserted and dark. The rest of the troupe had stayed behind to pack up the sets and would meet them the following day. Frank held a folded newspaper over their heads to shelter them from the rain, but the paper was already sodden, and the cold rain was soaking through her cloth coat and running down the back of her neck.

  “Go back and wait inside the depot,” Frank said. “I’ll walk up the street a bit and see if I can find a place to lodge.”

  “No, darling, I’ll come with you.” She had noticed the collection of drunks and ne’er-do-wells clustered on the benches inside. She preferred that they stick together. The streetlights had already been extinguished, and there was no obvious clue which way to turn—Frank looked up and down the street before he picked a direction, seemingly at random, and headed that way, carrying their two suitcases, at a fast clip. Maud held up her skirts, but her feet were soon soaked through. Her back ached from sitting so long in the train, and her bladder was so full she knew she needed to find a water closet soon.

  “Well, here it is!” Frank said, in a tone of utter delight. Maud saw that he was pointing to a theater marquee; the sign said, MAJESTIC THEATER.

  Though it was dark, Maud could make out the letters. She saw the name of an acting troupe and a play spelled out, and it was not their own.

  “Let’s duck inside,” Frank said. “Someone will be able to tell us where to find lodgings.”

  The front doors were bolted shut, so they passed into a back alley, where a black cat startled Maud as it leapt out from behind a stack of wooden crates. The narrow way was putrid with the scent of rotting garbage and effluent, and there was no way to avoid the puddles. Bile rose up in her throat.

  Now, thoroughly soaked, she stood beside Frank, shivering, feeling the life inside her kicking up a fuss, as if to say, Get out of this cold rain!

  Frank tried the stage door. Finding it locked, he first knocked, then rapped loudly, then finally located the string that allowed him to pull the bell. After a long time, the sound of locks turning was audible and the door opened a crack before the chain stopped it from swinging farther. The pale face of a wizened old man peered through the gap, his face illuminated by the light of a single candle.

  “Whatcha want?”

  “Please, kind sir,” Frank said, his voice friendly, “can you open up so that we can conduct this conversation out of the rain?”

  “State your business,” he said. “I’m not opening the door to no vagrants, no matter if cats and dogs is raining down from the heavens. This here is a cutthroat environ, and I prefer to keep my throat uncut.”

  “Oh no, dear sir, we are not throat cutters, we are actors! I’m Frank Baum, and this is my wife, Maud. We are here for our run of Matches, but our train was delayed and we arrived at the train station so late that all of the hacks were departed. If you’ll just let us inside for a moment, we’ll explain ourselves further.”

  “Matches,” the man said suspiciously. “That’s the one that wasn’t selling tickets. Your run was canceled. Did you get the letter? You’d best get back on that train. We’ve got nothing for you here.”

  “Open the door and let us in,” Maud said. “I am the manager, and I need to speak to the theater director. We will sit here until morning if necessary.” Maud spoke confidently, hiding the tremor in her voice.

  “Skedaddle!” the man said. “You’re not wanted here!” With that, the door clicked shut in their faces, and Frank and Maud found themselves alone again in the dark alley.

  “Oh!” Maud cried out. She felt something under her skirt, wrapping itself around her leg. She jumped, flinging her sodden skirts up and down, and the black cat emerged from under her petticoat and sped off down the alley, disappearing from sight.

  Frank wrapped his arms around her for a brief second before picking up the suitcases and leading the way back out of the fetid alley, onto the wet, lonely street.

  For the next three days, Maud shivered with fever, tossing and turning in gray sheets, inside a run-down boardinghouse a few blocks past the theater. Frank left her side only twice: once to confirm that the show had indeed been canceled, and the next time to bring in a doctor. The doctor offered only a foul-smelling purple patent medicine, but she was unable to swallow it. He advised her to rest until she felt better, then went on his way.

  Frank brought her tea and soup, and though she had no appetite, she tried to choke it down for the baby’s sake. She dozed on and off, forgetting her surroundings, and each time she awakened to the sight of the one soot-caked window and the peeling floral wallpaper covered with water stains. She held a clean embroidered handkerchief over her mouth to keep away the stench of faded cigar smoke and tried to imagine that she was home, at the house in Fayetteville, in a clean bed with ironed sheets, and that Mother was periodically coming into the room, laying a cool hand on her forehead. But each time she fell asleep, she had terrible nightmares of being cast adrift on a stormy sea, holding a lifeless baby in her arms, and in some of the dreams, she could see her own dead body, lying blue and pale in a puddle of blood, and she would awake with her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Each time this happened, she saw Frank sitting beside her, gently offering her a sip of cool water.

  On the fourth morning, she awoke to find the fever gone. They took all of their belongings from the horrible lodging house and settled themselves in a te
a shop, where Maud, her appetite restored, ate enough for three men.

  “More sugar in your tea? Let me butter your bread. Do have a bite of this egg and the strawberry jam…” Frank had a pucker of worry between his eyebrows as he fussed over her.

  “Frank! Enough!” Maud snapped. “I am perfectly able to feed myself. I’m feeling better.”

  Frank’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “I was just so worried,” he said. “I am dreadfully sorry that you got caught in the rain.”

  “It’s not your fault, Frank. These things happen.”

  He took both of her smaller hands in his, rubbing one finger distractedly along the tip of her left index finger, which was callused and pricked from mending costumes.

  “You needn’t worry,” Maud said, slipping her hands from his grasp, then giving his hands a squeeze. “I wired ahead to our next stop. Our run is confirmed. There’s no possibility we’ll face the same situation again.”

  “Maud,” Frank said, reaching out and tilting her head up with the tip of his finger. “Look at me, please. We can’t keep traveling. I’m no nursemaid, and I’ll be frantic every time you catch a draft.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m with child, not ill. I’m as sturdy as a horse.”

  “Sturdy as a horse,” Frank said. “Normally, yes, but these last few days…” He spread his hands helplessly before her.

  “Besides,” Maud continued, ignoring his comment, “we’re booked solid for the next month. You know as well as I do that we can’t back out of our commitments. At best, we’ll have to pay them back, and at worst—they’ll never have us back again. The name of the Baum Theatre Company will be ruined.”

  “I said nothing about backing out of our commitments,” Frank said. He stroked his moustache and swallowed hard. “The company will tour without us.”

  “But you’re the lead actor,” Maud said.

  “And so I was. But now, we have other responsibilities.”

  Maud saw a light cloud, like a thin mist of fog, cross her beloved’s expression and settle around his eyes. “The troupe will still be here. We’ll rejoin it later.”

  Maud dug into her satchel and consulted a small notebook filled with neat lines of script. “You know we are already booked in Vermilion, Parma, Mentor, Ashtabula, and Erie,” Maud said. “We need those ticket sales to pay off our debts.”

  Frank reached out and brushed his finger along the curve of her cheek. “You are a stern taskmaster, my darling. But I insist that after we finish the run in Erie, we’ll head north to be closer to home. Surely we can find a suitable rental in Syracuse.”

  “We’ll see,” Maud said, sensing that she might lose this battle. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  By the time they got to Erie, even Maud’s deft needlework couldn’t find a way to let out her clothes, and every day when she unlaced her boots, she saw creases in her skin where her ankles had swelled. Frank had begun to talk cheerfully about returning to Syracuse for the winter. He wanted to send the troupe on without them, promising Maud that the two of them would do nothing but clip coupons and live in the lap of luxury on their proceeds. But in the end, it wasn’t his words that persuaded her. She added up the figures and saw that the troupe wasn’t making enough—not to support them in Syracuse, nor to support them on the road. So Maud agreed to Frank’s proposal. The troupe would head south toward Clarion and Brookville to finish out their last two engagements, then continue on to the Baum Theatre in Richburg, New York, where they would pack away the sets and costumes and go their separate ways. Maud and Frank said their goodbyes and boarded the Lackawanna toward Syracuse.

  As the train headed east, Maud sat next to the window, the swaying motion of the compartment helping to soothe her sadness. She looked out over the fields and woodlands, now showing the faded browns and yellows of late November. Their train car was empty except for a single man who had pulled his overcoat up over his face and gone to sleep. The dim late autumn light was melancholic. She felt as if the world had cleared out and stilled, leaving a void between the ending of one thing and the beginning of something else.

  She snuggled down next to Frank, laying her head on his shoulder. “We won’t make this the end, will we, Frank? We won’t become one of those dull old couples who trade stories of the few adventuresome days of their youth while sitting dumb as doorposts in front of a fire, knees wrapped in blankets, mouths full of old stories?”

  “Dear Maudie,” Frank said. “Why ever would you think such a thing?”

  “You know I’ve come to love it as much as you do—it’s just that the numbers don’t add up. For the last six months we weren’t breaking even. I’m not sure how to make that change.”

  Frank let her remark pass without responding. Maud knew that he didn’t have a head for numbers. He had an optimistic streak that included a firm belief that pennies would fall from heaven, in the nick of time, to save the day.

  “Frank?”

  “We’ll return to the theater the moment our little girl is born. We’ll have her playing Shakespeare before she can walk. I’m picturing her dressed as Ariel, with flowers threaded through her hair.”

  “Our girl?” Maud said, grinning impishly. “And what makes you so sure?”

  Frank smiled. “I’m just convinced that the mighty spirit of the Gage women will certainly prevail.”

  Boy or girl, right now it was kicking Maud in the ribs. She sucked in her breath and shifted on the bench. Her gloom over their goodbyes had passed. She wasn’t sure what the future would hold, but at least they would face it as a family.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN MAUD’S LABOR PAINS set in, one day in early December, she looked around her trim and tidy home. Her linens were starched and ironed; her layette was neatly folded and smelled sweetly of lavender sachet. Chicken stew simmered on the back of the cookstove, a neat supply of kindling and firewood was stacked by the fireplace, and fire burned in the grate. Out the window, gentle flakes of snow drifted down from a white sky. Turning from the window, she surveyed the order and harmony she had created in their small rented home in Syracuse. As she felt a band of pressure tightening across her belly, and her breath sucked in, then steadied and slowed, she knew it was time, and she prepared to face it well.

  Eight hours later, a healthy baby boy, Frank Joslyn Baum, was born.

  * * *

  —

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE, FRANK, Maud, and little Frank, affectionately known as Bunting, stood near the large evergreen festooned with candles and red ribbons in the parlor of her mother’s home in Fayetteville. Maud’s color was high as she shared hugs and kisses with friends and relatives who had come from far and near. But there was a melancholy tinge in the big old house. It would be her first Christmas without Papa, who had succumbed to his fevers earlier that year.

  T.C. had arrived from Aberdeen, Dakota Territory, bringing tales of business opportunities in the recently founded western railroad hub. But Julia and her husband could not afford to make an eastern visit this year.

  When Maud noticed that her mother and Frank were deep in conversation, she worked her way across the crowded room to see what they were talking about.

  “And what kind of work do you plan to do now?” Matilda was asking.

  “I haven’t quite decided,” Frank said. “I have an interest in a great many things—so many that it can be hard to pin myself down. I’ve always liked publishing, and the breeding of fancy poultry, and, of course, the theater…and…” Frank was meandering through this speech in a way that Maud found quite charming, but she could see the corners of her mother’s mouth drawing in.

  Frank and Maud were still nursing a plan to return to the theater, only without ready cash to mount another production, they’d had to leave the exact date up in the air. All of the assets of the company were stored in the Baum Theatre—the sets, the scripts, the costumes—
but the theater itself was shuttered for now and was unlikely to open again. Frank’s father had built it during the oil boom, when men with money in their pockets had crowded the town of Richburg, New York. Once those heady days passed, there weren’t enough townspeople left to support a theater. Nowadays it was serving only as a warehouse for their deferred dreams.

  In truth, it was clear that Frank needed to find another line of work to sustain them, at least for now. Loyally, Maud believed that he would be successful in whatever he tried, but she also did her best to steer him in a practical direction.

  She laid a hand on Frank’s arm, gave him an encouraging smile, and then interrupted him: “Frank is taking up the family enterprise. The Baum family oil business. He is working with his elder brother Benjamin.”

  Matilda smiled approvingly. “Wonderful! I had hoped you’d soon tire of that acting business. This sounds like an excellent prospect.”

  “Baum’s Castorine,” Frank said affably. “A perfect greaser for buggies, wagons, carts…”

  “Sounds perfectly sensible,” Matilda said. “Everyone needs axle grease. My husband always said that it’s wise to center your business around things that people can’t do without.”

  “Of course, we’re not finished with the theater,” Frank said. “As soon as we can get up another company, we plan to take it back on the road.”

  * * *

  —

  MAUD WAS IN THE KITCHEN, chopping carrots, when she heard Frank at the piano, plinking out a sprightly melody. She had sent him to put Bunting down for his nap a few minutes ago. Was he going to put the baby to bed only to wake him up again?

  “Baby Bunting, pudding pie, take a flight, across the sky…” Frank’s light tenor floated through the kitchen door.

  Maud peeked out into the parlor and saw that Frank was holding the baby with one arm and using Bunting’s feet to tap out the melody with the other.

  “Frank!” Maud laughed at the comical sight.