The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [30]
“Now skedaddle,” Mama said. “Perhaps learn to avoid attacking women.” She had her revolver out now. “You’ll walk before us into Denver, and we’ll drop you off at the police station or maybe the governor’s mansion when we get His Honor Mr. McIntire’s signature.”
But as we approached the rail house, we lost our robber when he dodged behind a rail car. I was too tired to chase after him; Mama didn’t either.
“You did well to scare him, Clara, and you’ll notice I didn’t shoot him. It would have delayed us. And for the record, it was your quick thinking and our teamwork that caught him,” Mama said. “Not any well-laid plan.”
In Denver, Mama was granted her speaking engagement. She spoke at a large hall filled with big-hatted women, a few wearing reform dresses like the ones we wore, but most dressed in long skirts with light summer jackets for the late-afternoon heat. Feathers shifted with round fans bearing advertisements for products like Coca-Cola and politicians like William Jennings Bryan. At the auditorium door, I sold pictures of us, which kept us out of the laundry houses to earn our next dollars. It also kept me out of the limelight, something I truly wanted to avoid.
Mama looked magnificent on that stage, burgundy curtains behind her. She told her stories of the mines, of crossing the trestle, and included the latest adventure with the would-be robber. She wove in local stories such as the upcoming elections and chastised Colorado women, who had given up their right to vote a few years ago, urging them to get it back. She acted out the events and made people laugh and cheer and applaud. I’d never seen this side of her. I was nothing like her, nothing. She was magnificent.
She ended by speaking of our family, how she was walking not just to prove a woman’s strength but to keep her family together, acting out in her way what every woman in America did by cooking, cleaning, taking in wash, putting in gardens, canning peaches and pears—all the little things that go unnoticed, she said, but were critical for life, for family. All for family.
Women had tears in their eyes and I did too. She hadn’t mentioned the money, and I was glad of that. And proud of her performing. I liked how happy she looked.
“My family is my compass,” she said, “giving me direction, telling me how to find my way home.”
A man in the back yelled out, “Your husband should have kept that compass for himself and kept you home with it!”
A murmur rose from the women and the few other men as necks craned to see who had spoken. My mother’s face grew pink.
“Only a strong man would not be threatened by a strong wife,” I said loud enough for my mother to hear from the stage.
“My daughter,” my mother said, and the crowd began to applaud, drowning out the heckler’s retort.
We walked back to our hotel, each of us in thought.
“Clara?”
“Yes, Mama?”
“Oh, never mind. Just Clara.” She held my hand, swinging it as though we were children playing. “I’m so glad you came with me on this journey. Every good adventure deserves to be shared. Aren’t you a little bit pleased we’ve come this far?”
“I guess,” I said and realized I meant it. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel put-upon. I felt hopeful.
Coming down the steps the next morning from our hotel room, which had been provided by one of the suffragettes of Denver, I stumbled and fell. Pain seared through my ankle like an ice pick pierced into bone.
“You didn’t break it, did you?” Mama asked. She squatted down.
“No.” I gasped, taking in the sharp stabs that radiated all around my right foot.
“Let’s get you into the room and take that shoe off,” Mama said. “I’ll get ice to keep the swelling down.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I just—”
“Not your fault. I think I see a loose carpet tack. It tripped you up. I’ll have words with the management.”
“No, I—”
“Let’s get you up on the bed.” She helped me