The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [132]
“Did you?”
“We go to concerts now. Mother enjoys them. We heard Rubinstein play.”
“I love the concerts,” Mama said, entering with food she set on the dining room table. She straightened the lace doily in the center. “They remind me of the concert halls when we were in New York and—”
“Now, Mother,” Bill warned. He wagged his finger. “None of that.”
“We don’t need to hear about New York,” Ida agreed, dragging the name out as though it was scum. Ida cast a frowning glance at me. So the rule still stood: no talking of anything related to our journey, our time of perseverance, of pain and disappointment. Mama wasn’t to draw nurture from that journey in front of them, not even as she faced the death of yet another son.
“Bill’s quite good on the violin,” Mama said skipping over her chastisement. “Here, fresh sandbakkels. Sit, all of you.” We did. “Tell us about what you’ve done, Clara. Did I hear fur trapping? Goodness, what a job that would be.”
I told them of my work at Merchants, my flirtation with designs, my association with Franklin. I didn’t mention his last name. “And I continue to care for and live with my two friends.” Ida fidgeted on her chair at the mention of them. I watched Mama’s face. “They stood with me through the drought and when some of my business ventures turned sour.”
“You had misfortune?” Mama asked.
“Despite all that money they gave you?” Ida said.
“Trials come to everyone,” I said. “Whether you have money or not.”
My mother nodded. “It does. And love and faith see us through.”
“That’s from your book, Grandma,” Thelma said.
She is writing her book.
“The book you like me to read to you,” Mama said as I held my breath. “Yes, I read that one to all my children. Your father loved that book too.” Her eyes teared again.
“I considered fur ranching,” I continued. “I went to Finland and Norway to see their operations.”
“I heard there’s a farm south of here trying to raise mink and fox,” Billy said. “A wild scheme, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t know,” I said. So someone else had taken on the mantle.
I was grateful to be speaking of safe things while grief settled on each person’s shoulders. I wished I could find words to keep their hearts from breaking further, but I didn’t know what to say.
“Norway,” Agnes said. “Arthur always said he wanted to go there one day.”
Maybe mundane things give way to deeper healing. “We visited Grandfather’s grave, in Grue,” I said. My mother jerked her head up. “Yes. And walked at the Hauge farm. It’s pretty there. Parts of this state remind me of Norway, with its towering trees and streams and mountain peaks. We stayed in Oslo. The river … So deep and winding right through town, just like here.”
“I was Thelma’s age when I left there,” Mama said. She looked at Thelma. “My mother remarried, but not before she sent me to an English-speaking school. That was so wise of her, and I know they sacrificed to pay for it.” She looked thoughtful. “It’s funny, but I never felt at home in Michigan or Minnesota. Cyclones, prairie fires. But there’s something comforting about Mica Creek and Spokane. Now that you say it, I do see the resemblance to Norway. Maybe our feet find the way along our ancestors’ paths without our even knowing. It’s good to walk them now and then.”
Ida opened her mouth as though to protest the very word walk, looked confused, didn’t speak.
“I was glad I went there,” I said. “I find I like to travel. Maybe we could go there together one day.”
“Clara …” Ida’s voice held warning. Vigilant, that was how I’d describe my sister, vigilant in holding resentment close as a fur coat. But she must have decided that not all travel discussion could be silenced because she didn’t stop me as I continued.
“I traveled to Montreal, Paris, London, even Greece. And then I spent a little time in Minneapolis and Manistee, Michigan, too.”
My mother’s hand shook a little, and the ice clinked in the glass as she brought it to her lips.
“What’s in Michigan to see?” Lillian