Ruffling Society

by Kay Moser

  One of the Fort Worth teachers met her at the door. “Ah, you’re here, Sarah. We have challenged the Brownwood teachers to a badminton match. We’re counting on you to join the team—”

  “Has the mail come?”

  “The mail? Yes, I think so. But what about the match?” she called after Sarah as she hurried past on her way to the post office window.

  She placed her hands on the sill. “I’m Miss Novak.”

  The postman leaned out the window and grinned at her. “I guess I know that by now, miss. You been telling me every day since you got here.”

  Sarah ignored his too obvious interest. “Do you have a letter for me?”

  “Novak … Novak …” The postman repeated her name as he thumbed through a box labeled with a capital N. “Ah, here’s one. Yes indeed.” He held it up, and Sarah felt her chest constrict. The envelope was bordered in black, the stationery of a widow.

  “From Riverford, Texas. Where’s that?”

  Sarah snatched the letter. From Christine, but what about Victoria? “Is there another?”

  “What you in such a hurry for? Expecting something from your sweetheart?”

  Sarah refused to strike up a conversation. “Is there another letter for me?” She studied the letter in her hand, noting that it had been posted July first, the same day she had written Christine and Hayden about the Boulder Sanitarium.

  The postman reluctantly turned his attention back to the N box. “No, no, don’t see any more. Will I see you later today?”

  Sarah turned away.

  “Well, a man can hope, can’t he? After all, you’re gonna be answering that letter,” he called after her.

  Sarah hurried out of the dining hall, seeking a quiet place to read her first news from Riverford, hoping with all her heart that Christine had sent her good news of Victoria’s health. A quick scan of the letter disappointed her. The only reference to Victoria was one, non-revelatory sentence: “Victoria sends her love and asks me to tell you that she will write to you soon.”

  Sarah skipped lunch and sat under an apple tree, praying. Oh Lord, I just feel in my heart that Victoria is really sick and that You made me aware of the sanitarium here in Boulder for a reason. I know I’m being impatient, Lord, but oh! I pray Christine and Hayden received my letters today. Please … somehow … help Victoria!

  That afternoon, while most of the camp’s residents took advantage of the two-hour, enforced quiet time to nap, Sarah found a shady spot and wrote letters home. She recounted the events of the opening-day ceremonies in a letter to Victoria and asked her to share her comments with Hayden, Christine, and Lee. She wrote her mother a more intimate letter, expressing her excitement, her occasional homesickness, and her worries about Victoria. Next, her thoughts turned to Lee.

  I really need to write him, but what do I say? In her mind’s eye she visualized his face. So handsome. His eyes, so full of love. The way he smiles. Sarah’s heart ached. Oh, I miss him! I didn’t think I would, but I do. But what do I write about? It’s not fair to give him false hope …

  In the end she wrote about the beauty of the mountains, about her quiet times up on the mesa. She tried to make him see what she was seeing, but she stopped short of saying she wanted him to be there with her.

  CHAPTER 25

  The next day still brought no letter from Victoria, and Sarah’s anxiety increased. She had managed to keep her negative thoughts at bay all morning as she attended classes, but when the postman could offer her no letter at noon, she succumbed to silent worry. The encampment quieted during the early afternoon, but, too keyed up to rest, Sarah walked the grounds. After she left the residential tents behind, she heard the faint but alluring notes of a piano in the distance. She followed the sound until it led her to the auditorium, and she slipped inside and seated herself close to the stage.

  Sarah’s worries lifted, and a happy smile blossomed on her face when she realized that Madame Natalya Makarova was practicing. The lady’s sophistication and talent had awed Sarah from the moment the musician took control of the all-male orchestra at the opening day ceremonies. To Sarah’s delight, when Madame had agreed to teach the music appreciation class, it had grown so large it had to meet in the auditorium. How fortunate Sarah felt to have an opportunity to listen to such a talented musician practice! Her heart beating faster, Sarah settled onto one of the benches to the side of the stage.

  Madame seemed to attack the piano keys, rushing at them, her fingers moving like lightning strikes. Often she stopped to repeat phrases over and over until her fingers would go where they must. Occasionally, she jerked her fingers from the keys and wrote on the score. For the most part, however, she played long passages without hesitation, sweeping Sarah up into the music. Memories of watching Christine practice filled her mind. Such blessed hours … my introduction to beauty for beauty’s sake alone.

  Sarah heard a different sound from that of the piano. When she realized it was the sound of her own crying, she rose with haste and slipped toward the exit.

  “Just a moment,” Madame Makarova called from the edge of the stage. “I want to speak to you.”

  Sarah flushed with embarrassment as she reluctantly turned back. “I’m terribly sorry.” Her voice echoed in the vast hall, and she felt like a misbehaving child as she looked up at the pianist. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just needed … I mean, I wanted ...”

  Madame Makarova flicked her hand in the air, and just as in class, she possessed an inexplicable ability to command attention with that simple gesture. “You haven’t disturbed me, I assure you. A concert pianist is accustomed to being listened to and watched, even when practicing. Many piano students learn from watching another’s technique. Do you play? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Oh no! I never had the opportunity to study music, but I love it, especially the piano. In fact, I’m a student in your music appreciation class. Of course, it’s so large, you wouldn’t have noticed me.” Sarah felt herself growing hotter. For heaven’s sake, stop babbling.

  Madame Markarova’s brow furrowed, and she tapped her foot on the stage floor as she stared down at Sarah.

  Sarah’s heart began to race. “I’m sorry … I’ll go now.”

  “You are wrong,” Madame Markarova said as she walked toward the steps, her boots producing staccato sounds on the wood. “I have noticed you in class. You are most attentive.” She descended to stand at Sarah’s level. “But now, I see, you are upset.”

  Sarah heard the words as a judgment and felt condemned. She swallowed hard, trying to choke back rising, pressing tears. Her head pounded. Dizziness washed over her, and she reached for the edge of a bench to steady herself. Just as she felt the hard wood under her hand, she heard the swish of a skirt. Strong hands took hold of her shoulders and held her.

  “Sit!”

  Sarah obeyed the command, then raised her hands to cradle her face.

  “It is best to cry those tears; otherwise they will cripple you. I know about these things.” Sarah felt one of her hands being pulled from her face and a piece of cloth being pressed into it. “I shall wait. Cry!”

  Sarah sobbed into the handkerchief, condemning herself with each heave of sound. Madame Markarova waited in silence, making no move toward Sarah. When Sarah finally pulled the cloth down from her eyes, she found the woman sitting ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap.

  “I am so sorry—”

  “No, do not be.” Madame Markarova turned toward her, astonishing Sarah with the softness of compassion in her dark eyes. “It is necessary to allow yourself to feel what you feel, but you must learn to use your feelings to make you stronger, more creative.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Life will defeat you if it can. You must not allow it to do so. Tears have their purpose; you must use them to your advantage. You must use them to release the pain life inflicts. You will be stronger. You will win.”

  “What am I trying to win?”

  “Control of
yourself so you can create, of course.”

  “I am not an artist like you—”

  “Nonsense! Every human being is an artist given the task of creating a life, of taking the talents God has given, and delivering them to the world. Since you are here at this encampment, I can only assume you are a teacher.”

  “Yes.”

  “And where do you teach?”

  “I just graduated from Travis College in Texas. I will begin teaching this fall … but I will not teach the classics … only elementary school.”

  Madame Markarova jerked her head back and looked down her nose at Sarah. “For this you are crying?”

  “Oh no! I’m sorry about that, but I … I’m crying because … I’m so worried about my friend, my mentor. About Victoria. You see, she’s been sick, and I haven’t heard from her. She must be worse. No one is telling me anything in their letters. I came to listen to you practice, hoping your music would comfort me as the music of my other friend, Christine, does. She’s a pianist like you.”

  “But clearly you are not comforted by my music.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I should be …” She looked into Madame Markarova’s eyes. “Your music has sadness in it, and I’m reminded that Christine just lost her husband. He died suddenly. She turns to her piano for consolation. Her music has become so sad.”

  “You have a good heart, Sarah Novak.”

  Sarah gasped. “You know my name!”

  For the first time Madame Markarova smiled. “Of course I do. What teacher would not learn the name of a student who sits in the middle of the first row, her beautiful face so open, so eager, as she drinks in every word the teacher says?” Madame Markarova laughed. “I thought it was my absurd pontification, my so-called wisdom that mesmerized you so, but now I see the truth. You are accustomed to the company of a musician, and you miss her.”

  “Yes. I do miss Christine’s playing … and her gentle ways too. She is such a caring friend to—” Sarah’s thoughts of Christine led her mind back to Victoria. She fought against the stinging tears forming in her eyes. “Oh! I am petrified Victoria will die,” she blurted.

  “There!” Madame Markarova exclaimed. “You have said it. This is good. You have said it, and now you can face it. Now you can triumph.”

  “Triumph? Over what?”

  “Your fears. They are holding you back. They reduce you to worry and tears when you should be acting. What have you done to help your sick friend, Victoria?”

  “I sent information about the Boulder Sanitarium to Christine and to Victoria’s husband.”

  “You believe this can be a solution for her illness?”

  Sarah nodded. “I do. Her doctor says she must get out of the heat of Texas. And if there is anything else wrong with her, the doctors here are more experienced, and they have more tools available to them.”

  “The springs are very beneficial here. I know from experience.” Madame Markarova fell silent and began tapping her chin with her forefinger.

  Sarah allowed her eyes to travel around the open-sided auditorium as she steadied her breathing. To her left she saw the towering mountains, their giant rocks etched against the vivid blue sky. How Victoria would love to paint those! Her eyes moved to the stage, to the grand piano. Christine should, could, be playing that piano. She could play for a larger audience than she’s ever had. Then her gaze swept to her right. Far below the auditorium in the valley, a cluster of trees partially hid the roofs of the buildings that made up the town. Sarah wondered which roof belonged to the sanitarium.

  “You have seen my son.” Madame Markarova’s words startled Sarah out of her reverie.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you have. You were kind enough to speak to him after class.” She turned to Sarah. “He is the little boy with the braces on his legs, the boy who walks with crutches.”

  Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “We came to this country when I was a girl. My father was a pianist, and a cousin of his had come earlier and found New York to be a good place for a young, talented violinist. He had built a career, married, and was raising a family. My father wanted more for his own family than Russia could offer. His cousin’s letters about the freedom and opportunity of this country lured him to come. We made the long journey, my mother, father, sister, and I. Days and days on the train, then weeks on the ship. I was twelve, and I cried and cried. I did not want to leave Russia; I did not want to leave my grandparents or my teacher, but my father’s cousin was right. New York was good to us. My father established a studio and taught many students. He, of course, found me good teachers. In time, I married the son of my father’s cousin, a violinist. We had Fedor. Finally I was happy. I had my son, my husband, and my piano. Who could want more?”

  “But things did not stay that way?”

  “No. Change is inevitable. Sometimes it is good change, although it may not seem so at first. Leaving Russia was that way. Sometimes change is bad, or at least it seems so while one is living through it.”

  “And bad change came?”

  “My husband developed a lung disease, and the doctors said he must leave New York or he would never heal. The air of the Rocky Mountains was known to cure many lung ailments, so we came to Colorado. Every year, as soon as the concert season finished back east, we boarded the train and made the long journey.” Madame Markarova turned and looked at Sarah. “I confess, I liked it here. We lived a simpler life, so free. Always we had a tiny house close to a sanitarium where my husband could take the waters. I could walk in the mountains and pick bouquets of wild flowers. I began to compose …”

  Sarah held her breath, apprehension growing in her, waiting for the next words which she was sure would tell of another change.

  Madame Markarova jerked herself up straight. “Two years ago when Fedor was eight, we boarded the train for another carefree summer in Colorado, but it was not to be. The train derailed shortly before we reached Denver. My husband was killed. My son’s legs were crushed, his skull fractured. The doctors told me he would not live, and if he did, he would be paralyzed and imbecilic.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Madame Markarova faced Sarah. “So am I. But I refused to lose everything. I absolutely refused. I told the doctors; I told God. I said, ‘No! I will not lose my son. I will not! He will grow up to be a great violinist like his father. I will make this happen.’”

  “And you are making this happen.”

  “I am.”

  “Were you angry with God?”

  “Why should I blame God because some greedy men did not build the train tracks well?”

  “Some people would have quit believing in God.”

  Madame shook her head. “If you only believe in God when things go well, you don’t really believe in God. It is when things go badly, that is when you learn who God is. That is when you learn about His power, His love.”

  “It is so hard to understand why God allows bad things to happen.”

  “Hmmph! Who could believe in a God so small I can understand Him. Such a tiny God would give me no confidence. My God is bigger than I can even imagine.”

  “So you act. Rather than question, you act?”

  “Exactly. My son wears braces, but he walks. With the violin, he is a genius. More so than his father.” Madame stood. “I must practice now. Then I will go get my son and listen to him practice.” She pulled Sarah to her feet. “What will you do, Sarah?”

  Sarah stood taller and lifting her chin, nodded. “I shall act too. I shall study. I have sent the information about the sanitarium to Texas. That is the one way I had of helping Victoria. Now, I will believe my God is big.”

  “Good!” Madame Makarova turned and hurried down the aisle to the stage. After she had mounted the steps, she called back, “I want to meet your Victoria when she arrives.”

  Sarah felt a wide smile break out on her face. “Yes,” she answered. “When she arrives.”

  CHAPTER 26

 
“But you can’t go downtown, Miz Christine,” Nancy insisted. “It’s goin’ on eleven o’clock, and it’s hot as blazes out there in the sun, and ’sides, you’s supposed to be in mournin’. What’s people gonna say?”

  Christine tucked the letter from Sarah, which she had just read, into her reticule. “Please do as I say, Nancy. Have Davy hitch up the buggy and prepare to drive me to town.”

  “Can’t be nothing so important you gotta—”

  Christine decided against the use of further words; instead, she waved Nancy away and watched as the servant shrugged her shoulders and slouched off. She’s trying to protect me, just as she always does, but this is just too important. I have to act!

  When Christine arrived outside Hodges Store, she hurried inside to escape the sun. The clerks and customers stopped what they were doing and stared at her in her black dress and widow’s veil, which covered her face and fell to her waist. She ignored them, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and went straight to Hayden’s office. Since his secretary was not at her desk, Christine moved toward the inner office door and raised her hand to knock, but she stopped when she heard angry voices within.

  “You gotta face facts, Hodges!” Christine recognized the angry voice of Tom Lynch, a wealthy member of the bank’s board of directors who had frequently opposed Richard’s decisions. “Mr. Murdock’s making a fine offer for the bank. Riverford is growing, and a lot of us stand to make more money from that growth.”

  “What Mr. Lynch is saying is correct,” an unfamiliar voice affirmed. “A banking consortium like mine can infuse a lot more capital into this town, Mr. Hodges. Now, we stand ready to—”

  “Your banking consortium is not local, Mr. Murdock,” Hayden responded. “It’s not even Texan. I have no reason to believe that a St. Louis banking consortium cares about the people of this town or the farmers.”

  Tom Lynch exploded. “I’m telling you, Hodges, that Logan boy can’t keep the bank profitable, and General Gibbes is too old to run it. Who cares what he did in the War; don’t make no difference to us now. He ain’t nothing but a half-dead statue from the past with his insistence on so-called honor. He’s a ridiculous—”