Courting Carrie in Wonderland

by Carla Kelly

  Another turn in the path and she gazed with open-mouthed amazement at the fairest sight in Wonderland. Other visitors stood by the low wooden barrier, their Kodaks trained on the gorgeous, sumptuous feast of color and light, depth and sparkle.

  Why do you bother to look down into a camera? she thought, entranced. What is the use of a black and white image? Trust your minds, silly people.

  Mrs. LaMarque stood at the barrier with the others, staring in silence. “What are you thinking?” Carrie whispered, knowing her voice would never be heard over the rumble of the waterfall.

  She smiled inside as another tourist raised his voice and held up the Haynes Guidebook, shouting to read to his companion.

  Be quiet, Carrie thought. Enjoy this sight like no other.

  With all the other savages who worked in the park, she had seen countless postcards of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, as sketched first by Thomas Moran, then painted at leisure in his studio. Like all savages, she knew the basic facts to tell visitors at Willow Park, who already anticipated the sight reserved for the last day of their five-day tour. She knew the Lower Falls was some one hundred feet from side to side, making it far less in width than Niagara Falls. Even knowing the water funneled through the narrow space with boisterous abandon had not prepared her for the drop of three hundred feet. The thunder and roar stunned her.

  She stepped back, wanting a bit of puny distance, and felt her hand suddenly clasped in Ram’s hand. He had removed his gauntlets and she sighed with the pleasure of his skin against hers.

  “I’ve seen this for years, but I never get over it. And look at the color of the canyon walls. No wonder it’s called Yellowstone.”

  He whispered directly into her ear in order to be heard. She closed her eyes when his lips touched her ear, knowing deep inside that even if she visited this spot over and over in the coming years, this moment would be forever burned on her heart.

  So much for her plans to be serene and calm and completely artificial in the face of his departure, which she knew was only minutes from now. Carrie circled his waist with her free arm and leaned her head against his chest. She thought of a sermon heard years ago in the First Presbyterian Church, that sanctuary to her in Bozeman, when Reverend Gillespie spoke of needing eyes that see and ears that hear. Those eyes that saw took in the yellow, gold, pink, and faint green of steep canyon walls and lodged them firmly in her heart, admittedly an odd anatomical juxtaposition. Through the noise of falling water, her ears that heard caught the faint, steady beat of Ramsay Stiles’s kind heart as she leaned against his chest. And wouldn’t you know, that sound found its way into her heart too.

  She stood close to the man she adored who was soon to walk out of her life, hopefully without a backward glance, because that would undo her. After minutes of silence, he tugged her hand and started her toward the path up to the waiting carriage and Xerxes.

  They walked together in silence. She should never have looked at his face as they came to stand beside his horse. Such a thin face, such a worn expression, as silent tears trickled down his cheeks.

  Then it was good-bye, his hands firm on her shoulders, looking her right in her brimming eyes. He pulled her close. “I wasn’t going to do this,” he whispered.

  “Shut up and kiss me,” she whispered back.

  He kissed her and she clung to him, as she tried to press her hands through his back and into his heart. If he never kissed her again, she knew she would never forget this kiss. Her ears roared, but not from the sound of falling water. She felt his gilt buttons against her breast and she tried to memorize every second that sped past.

  He released her first, his hands on her shoulders again and not around her back. “Write me. I thought I didn’t want that, but I do.”

  She nodded, and took several deep breaths until she grew light-headed. “Where will you be sent?”

  “Probably to Fort Leavenworth,” he told her. “It’ll be hard labor for a few years and constant humiliation. Everyone will want to pick on the sergeant major who disobeyed orders because he had mush for brains and cared about wolves.”

  “Do you think you will be allowed visitors?” she asked.

  “I imagine. The army isn’t entirely heartless,” he replied, and she heard all the bitterness.

  “I’ll graduate next spring. I’ll move to Fort Leavenworth. I will find employment and I will visit you,” she told him.

  “I know there is a good man majoring in civil engineering at U-Dub who is interested in you. I’d rather you got on with your life,” he said.

  She couldn’t help a watery smile. “That’s what I will be doing, Ram. And I will see you again.”

  She kissed his wet cheek quickly and then turned and ran back down the path toward Yellowstone’s second greatest miracle. The first was the man she left behind.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Carrie spent the day at the Lower Falls, sitting with Mrs. LaMarque in the picnic area, then walking with her to the wooden barrier to gaze in silent wonder. They watched the light change as the earth moved through its orbit. Carrie remembered a class in art appreciation during her prep school days at Montana Ag, when the instructor showed them chromolithographs of Rouen Cathedral, as painted various times during the day by Claude Monet. You should come here and paint, Monsieur Monet, she thought.

  The give of light and shadow in the canyon reminded her of the timelessness of the hand of God. It in no way diminished her own trials, but she saw them in a different light, the light of the canyon. No matter what happened, she knew she could be strong too. She knew she could endure.

  She cried when she couldn’t help herself, walking alone down a quiet path away from the waterfall. By the end of the day, she did not feel at peace, but she felt calm. Because her only remedy for anything in her life was hard work, she longed to get back to the Wylie Camp at Willow Park.

  Both of the ladies slept from exhaustion that night at Canyon Hotel. They left after an early breakfast, fortified with box lunches, and under the careful and sympathetic eye of their driver.

  Carrie wanted to fulfill one of Ramsay’s wishes and insisted upon a detour to the nearby construction site of the bridge over the upper falls of the Yellowstone River, where Captain Chittenden worked. She did not know him beyond that one evening spent in Major Pitcher’s parlor, but she knew in her heart she needed to make a good report to Ramsay Stiles, when she wrote him that first letter in distant Fort Clark, Texas.

  Captain Chittenden met them at the stone abutment of the bridge that would soon arch over the Yellowstone River. He wore muddy corduroy trousers, knee high boots, and a sweater with the elbows worn out. Despite his dishevelment, the dignity of the man came through. Carrie held out her hand. He looked at his hands.

  “D’you mind a little grit?” he asked.

  “Not if dishpan hands don’t bother you,” she said as they shook hands. She looked beyond him where the workers were building a wooden frame around the steel girders that formed the core of the bridge with its graceful arch. “I don’t know how you do what you do, sir.”

  “I could say the same to you,” he told her, his expression changing from welcoming to serious. “Be of good courage, Miss McKay.”

  He still held her hand. He squeezed it and then released it to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. LaMarque as though he greeted visitors in his own parlor back at Fort Yellowstone.

  She made herself smile, forcing back any emotion to hamper the incredible awe she felt at the work of this genius engineer. No wonder Ram spoke so highly of the man.

  When she felt in control, she turned back and joined his orbit as he held the sketch of what was to come, once the cement was poured into the framework and allowed to set.

  He gestured her closer. “I have to tell you: Ramsay twitted me about insisting on bells, whistles, and a marching band, when an ordinary bridge would do,” he said in great good humor. “I told him the Yellowstone River deserved my best. He agreed with no more argument.”

>   She listened as he described the cement pour to come. “It’ll be in August at the full moon,” he explained, this engineer by training with a poet’s heart. “Canyon Hotel is loaning us a bank of electric lights. We’ll work in continuous shifts until the job is done.”

  “How long will that take?” Carrie asked.

  “Probably four days and nights. I worked the numbers. I’ll pull in other workers from the corkscrew road toward Cody.” He chuckled. “We’ll have a grand old time.”

  “It fairly takes my breath away,” she told him.

  He touched her sleeve. “Come back and see it before you leave for school, Carrie. I’ll give you a photograph to send to Ramsay.”

  Why did her eyes fill with tears at the mere mention of his name? She took the handkerchief Mrs. LaMarque gave her and dabbed her eyes. “I will, Captain,” she told him. “Thank you for what I suspect you are trying to do for him.”

  “Many of us are trying,” he said. He studied her a moment, as an engineer would. “Ramsay has already lost heart. Don’t you lose heart, and that’s an order.”

  Twelve long hours later as dusk poured its shadows onto Mammoth’s magnificent terraces, Dave Lassiter pulled his tired team to a stop in front of the National Hotel. He and Carrie helped their exhausted passenger from the carriage, and a team of bellhops sprang into action, the desk clerk running along beside him, assuring the socialite of every comfort.

  While the others waited in their hotel room’s parlor, Carrie helped her friend into bed and promised her tea and biscuits. Mrs. LaMarque nodded. When Carrie turned to go, she took Carrie’s hand.

  “In my purse I have an envelope for Mr. Lassiter,” she said and closed her eyes, as though a mere sentence overpowered the drive that Carrie knew was weakening and would continue to weaken as Parkinson’s palsy took its toll.

  After tipping the bellhops, reassuring the night clerk that all was well, and asking for refreshments from room service, she did as Mrs. LaMarque said and handed Dave an envelope with his name on it in tiny, spiderlike handwriting.

  “I’ve been paid by the transportation company for my service,” he protested.

  “Apparently Mrs. LaMarque didn’t think it was enough,” Carrie said. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t argue the matter.”

  “Yup, we know the lady, don’t we?” Dave grinned at her and accepted the envelope. “I’ll be by at nine in the morning. The tracks are through to Gardiner, so we’ll try out the new depot. You coming too, Carrie?”

  “Most certainly,” she said. “I’ll have her ready to go. On behalf of Sergeant Major Stiles and me, thank you, Dave.”

  A shadow crossed his normally cheerful face. “Sarge finally told me what was going on. I can write a letter on his behalf too,” he promised. “I’m no great shakes at putting pencil to paper, but it can’t hurt.” He scratched his head. “Trouble is, I don’t think anyone pays much attention to us little people.”

  “I know, but we try. Thanks, Dave.”

  Once she downed her tea and nibbled at a macaroon, Mrs. LaMarque made Carrie sing, glaring at her when she said she couldn’t. “You told me you wanted some help with projection,” she said.

  Carrie nodded and sang “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” with the speed of a funeral dirge.

  Mrs. LaMarque flicked thumb and forefinger against Carrie’s head. “Like. You. Mean. It,” she ordered.

  Carrie sang again as her employer, friend, and now-mentor pressed against her diaphragm and gave her basic instruction. She sang it over and over until Mrs. LaMarque was either satisfied or tired.

  “Just remember—deep breaths from down below,” Mrs. LaMarque. “My word, you have worn me out.”

  Carrie sat beside the sleeping woman all night, dozing and then watching her charge, wondering where Ramsay was right now, wishing he weren’t alone to face what had to be a dreadful, humiliating experience, all because he loved wolves and had a soft heart.

  As morning came, she washed her face and brushed her hair, arranging it into another tidy bun. By tomorrow she would be wearing her one braid down her back again, dressed in her shapeless cotton work dress with the big apron. Too bad she could not move backward in time to early summer and do things differently.

  But would you, Carrie? she asked herself. She doubted it.

  Before they left the suite in the National Hotel, Mrs. LaMarque insisted that she hurry down to the laundry and borrow a tape measure. By the time she came upstairs, tape in hand, Mrs. LaMarque had collared one of the maids to write down Carrie’s measurements as the former toast of Broadway and widow of a Wall Street tycoon measured her.

  “Shush now, Carrie,” Mrs. LaMarque said as the tape went around Carrie’s chest. “Thirty-six bosom,” she commanded. “Write that down, miss. Every woman needs a good traveling dress. You’re going to graduate next year and make a name for yourself. Potential employers expect their staff to look elegant. And no braid down your back!”

  Carrie laughed and raised her arms again for the waist measurement.

  Neither of them said much as the faithful team, guided by Dave Lassiter, made its way down from Mammoth’s heights to scruffy little Gardiner. The arch wasn’t complete, but a crew was setting the stones in place. Ramsay had told her about President Roosevelt’s visit, with all of the troops on parade with shiny boots and well-buffed brass buttons. Others had told her how he stood in front of the president when a rowdy drunk waving a pistol approached the speaker’s stand.

  You can’t help but be a hero, Ram, she thought, then turned her attention to Mrs. LaMarque, because she was a safer subject. Mrs. LaMarque was looking at the bleak landscape, windblown and full of sagebrush.

  “It doesn’t look like much here,” she commented and then took Carrie’s hand. “Wonderland begins at the Terraces, doesn’t it?”

  “When the arch is done, it will begin right here,” Carrie contradicted. “Captain Chittenden said the words ‘For the benefit and enjoyment of the people,’ will be set in stone. I like that.”

  “I do too,” Mrs. LaMarque said. “The big people and the little people like us, eh, my dear?”

  Carrie nodded, too full to speak. She wanted to beg Mrs. LaMarque not to leave, which would have been childish. When her dear friend departed and Dave Lassiter returned to his usual duties, there would be no one besides her who would remember the trip that began in discord and ended in an aching kind of sweetness. She, Carrie McKay, would be the only one left in Wonderland who knew how people could change, given the right setting and the inclination.

  The depot was built solidly of logs that improbably still smelled freshly cut and sawed. Mrs. LaMarque stood on the platform and watched Dave carry her alligator bags into the sleeper car and then help two porters in impeccable uniforms trundle her steamer trunk into the baggage car. Mrs. LaMarque tipped them, Dave blew her an impudent kiss good-bye, and then she and Carrie stood alone.

  “I don’t know what to say, except thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me a day at Tom Moran’s masterpiece,” she said finally. “I also enjoyed Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”

  They laughed together. “Tell the Great Trostini to work on his magic tricks,” Mrs. LaMarque said. Her eyes filled with tears and she gathered Carrie close. “Don’t worry too much about your sergeant major,” she said. “There are probably more people than you know who are concerned about his welfare.”

  “I will do my best to keep breathing and hoping,” Carrie said. “May I write you?”

  “You had better!” Mrs. LaMarque reached into her purse. “I wrote my address on this envelope. You’ll find what I owe you inside.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. LaMarque,” Carrie said and kissed her cheek. “It’s a big help.”

  “A kiss is not sufficient,” the lady said as she embraced Carrie, holding her close.

  The conductor walked by, cleared his throat and hollered, “Board! Board!”

  “You don’t need to shout in my ear, young man,” Mrs. LaMarque said in her best stage voice, th
e one that in earlier days had smacked the back wall of Broadway’s finest music halls and theatres. “Give me a hand up and don’t be so noisy!”

  Carrie stood on the platform, watching as the thoroughly cowed conductor helped Mrs. LaMarque to her seat. “Don’t change a single thing, Louise,” she whispered and waved as the train left the depot, bound for Livingston, then Bozeman, and then east to New York City and Washington. Carrie hoped to remember every detail of her time with that remarkable, brittle, witty, exasperating woman.

  She looked down at the envelope in her hand, happy to see the Washington, D.C., address, where the woman who had modeled for art students and sung in saloons now held teas and dinners as a respected widow with money to burn, and unspoken love for an artist of some renown. What a life.

  The envelope felt too heavy for a mere fifty dollars. Her heart in her mouth, Carrie opened the sealed envelope. “What have you done, Louise LaMarque?” she murmured as she counted two hundred and fifty dollars.

  Head up, she marched to a quiet corner of the depot and cried, thinking how smooth her path would be this year at school with such generosity, plus the fifty dollars Ramsay had extracted from Mrs. LaMarque, plus whatever she earned this summer. She wouldn’t have to work at all. Since she was going to be a woman of leisure at Montana Ag, she could talk her department head into letting her take another typewriting class from the secretarial arts department. She would graduate and find a good job near Fort Leavenworth. She could work and wait as well as any woman.

  If Mrs. LaMarque did as she promised, Carrie could look forward to a tailored traveling suit, something all successful women needed.

  Carrie dried her eyes and raised her chin. “I am a successful woman.”