The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [112]
Honour thy father and thy mother came to mind. Maybe that held a promise too. I decided to send a birthday card to my mother. I’d never done that. It was May, and she’d be forty-seven. Love might be more about giving even when nothing was given in return. She could decide on her own if I was worth replying to.
The Fourth of July celebrations saw Louise and me cheering at the races for our favorite horse, though we never bet a dime. Indians camped for the event in the coulee chanted into moonlight while hot breezes flirted with curtains. I checked on Louise before settling in myself for the night. Sometimes as she slept I’d hear the sounds of her snores and be comforted by them.
At the Presbyterian church on Sundays, Olea nodded recognition, then turned away to go back to her home. But she didn’t join the Lutheran Danes, so I read hope when I saw her each Sunday.
“We should invite her for dinner,” Louise said.
“She doesn’t want to be with us,” I told her.
“That doesn’t matter. We want to be with her. All she can do is say no, and we’re strong enough to live through that, aren’t we?”
We were, but Olea had chosen to go away; Olea should choose to come back.
The real estate agent I’d had my property-buying fling with contacted me about a small rental house I might want to invest in. I looked at the figures, thought it through, and told him to buy it. The rents would make the payments. Over time, he told me of two or three others, and I invested. The home values increased; I kept the rents low to help young families in Spokane. It was better than fur ranching and, as the drought came, better than wheat farming too.
When Louise began having trouble tying her apron strings with hands that she said “acted like sticks,” I sewed an apron for her that went on over her head. It covered both the front and back of her dress, with no ties but big pockets.
“It’s a perfect design, Clara,” she told me. “You should make several for the Ladies Aid Society bazaar. We’re raising money for the Turkish refugees.”
It was something I could do, and the satisfaction of making useful things to give away surprised me. I came to cherish our slow and steady life, with just a hint of sadness for the empty chair beside the extra place setting that Louise always put out for Olea. The three of us were like a tree struck by lightning. We gaped at an open wound and yet lived on as though it wasn’t even there, though all the world could see.
In February 1908, Franklin surprised us. The drayage firm delivered wood and coal to our door, and Franklin arrived from the train seated beside the driver. He hugged me close when I greeted him, offering the same affection toward Louise.
“I’m inviting Olea,” Louise said. “She’ll be pleased to see Franklin.”
Olea accepted our invitation for dinner while Franklin visited, and it felt like old times with Franklin regaling us about his trips and Olea and Louise blushing to his attention. Louise invited Olea for Easter dinner and again at Christmas. Our family might be fractured, but every now and then it reformed itself into something warm and substantial, just like a carefully crafted fur coat that is split open then re-sewn to make it lie so perfectly.
Following one of our Franklin dinners, in 1909, after he’d escorted Olea home and Louise had retired for the night, Franklin said, “Louise doesn’t look well.” We discussed her swollen ankles and the perpetual rosy blotches on her face. “She nodded off several times during dinner,” he said.
“It’s my cooking,” I said. “I’ve never really gotten the hang of it.”
He laughed. “Neither of you is starving. In fact, you look quite perfect. I’ll bet the motor coat still fits.”
“It does.” I winced as I stepped to pick up the dessert plates.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s just my foot,” I said. “A bunion, the doctor says. I favor the ankle I sprained all those years ago.”
“Let me,” he said. He rose and took the dishes and put them