The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [114]
Once or twice a bachelor farmer approached us after church and asked to walk us home. I often let them, fed them, reminded of my brothers. We spoke of crop prices, rainfall, the growing insect problems. The discourse was safe and friendly and didn’t trespass on safe borders; we didn’t talk of any alien doors needing to be opened.
I drew from my reserves to buy winter coal and to pay our taxes that year. I had the pelts I bought from the Warrens and made a little at the sale, but my account books showed more going out for doctors’ bills too. Louise seemed to like the blond physician despite the fact that she claimed he was “one of those Danes.” But in checking the books as I closed out for November 1913, it soon became clear that the pelts, the poor grain yield, and Louise’s small income left from the sale of the furrier business would not be enough to keep us solvent. I had to do something different.
I planned to sell the smaller acreage along the Spokane, the one with the orchard. I wouldn’t get much gain selling this time of year, but people liked to make a purchase close to Christmas to celebrate in a new home. I hoped for that kind of buyer. Selling the rentals was part of my plan too. I asked Olea if she’d look after Louise while I was gone. “It might be a day or two,” I said.
“Of course. If she’ll stay here,” Olea said.
Louise agreed when I assured her it would be a vacation and I’d be back in a flash.
When I finished my legal business, I drove to the city library to read the latest New York Times, which we no longer subscribed to. Wars kept the Balkans busy, the front page announced. I checked the financial section, where extensive commentaries waged about the Sixteenth Amendment and federal income tax becoming law. In New York City, one hundred fifty thousand garment workers went on strike for better working conditions and wages. I wondered if I’d met some of the seamstresses when Franklin and I had been in the city. Not much comfort in the news, I thought.
I put the paper back and picked up the latest city directory. My family was the only Estby listed now, all living on Mallon Avenue, Arthur and Billy as carpenters, Ida as a domestic, and Lillian as a dressmaker. My stepfather’s name was missing. Has he found work out of town? Has the printer made an error? I’d had no return from the cards I’d sent. I flipped to the D section to see if any Dorés appeared: one did. Marion Doré, a carpenters’ union representative. On a lark, I drove to that office. They’d know if Ole worked out of town. Maybe his absence meant I was to try to see my mother without fear of running into him.
“I’m looking for Marion Doré,” I told a chubby-looking man shorter than I.
“Found him,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “I … I’m a Doré. My father was from Manistee, Michigan. I always like to see if I’m related to any Dorés I encounter.”
“Don’t think so. I’m from Minnesota originally.”
“I am too. But my name wasn’t Doré then, it was Estby.”
“We got Estbys here in Spokane,” he said.
“Yes. I wonder if you have an Ole Estby on your rolls. What’s he working on?”
“He a relative?”
“My stepfather,” I said.
He looked on his ledger, his finger running down lists of names. “Well, then I’m sorry for your loss, Miss. Missus.”
“My loss?”
“Earlier this year. Accident while roofing a house. Fell and died. He was a good man. Always paid his dues without complaint. You didn’t know?” I shook my head. “Oh, I forget. You hail from Michigan.”
Maybe they thought I wouldn’t care, but I found I did. Ole was stubborn and had sent me away, but he was also the only father I’d ever known. Why hadn’t my mother contacted me? Without Ole to enforce my separation, she was free to choose. My eyes started to water, and I excused myself from the carpenters’ union office, sat in my car, and cried. Should I go there? Is this an alien door I should open? Should I walk that way? I prayed into the sounds of the Spokane Falls, hoping the thundering water could