The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [37]
“Not always,” Mama said. “You have to have things to dream about.”
“This dream is a nightmare.”
We’d paid in advance for a week at No. 6 Rivington Street, Manhattan, so we had a bed to sleep in for a few nights while we tried to figure out what to do. The futility of the last months weighed like a stone on my chest as I stared at the water stains on the ceiling. My life had been defined by money: working for enough of it, saving for college, then using it instead for family needs. Neither Olaf nor I would be able to go on to the new state university at Pullman. The last months of my life on this trip, we’d earned money for the next pair of shoes, a warmer hat. Money. One night I even dreamed about it, old coins rolling away through the grates that covered holes in the streets of New York. Then I tumbled into one myself.
“We need to go to the charity house and request money for the train ticket,” I repeated to Mama the next evening. We’d washed dishes in a sweaty restaurant and earned enough for a meal. We’d taken the tea leaves with us, reusing them for the cups that now steamed in our hands.
“I know I could convince the sponsors to make at least a partial payment. I’ve conversed with the president-elect, yet I can’t talk to the sponsors? If only I could meet them.”
“We simply need enough to get us home.”
“We’ll look for cleaning work, or laundry or sewing.” She brightened. “I’ll write articles. Perhaps one of the reporters knows of a publisher who might be interested in portions of our story.” She set the cup down. “Clara, that’s it! We’ll write a book about the journey. I’ve sent hundreds of pages home to your father, and we can add to it from memory.”
“He’s not my father,” I said, not sure why I needed to make the distinction. Maybe I wanted Mama to start living the truth of everything, including who I really was. “Did you ask him to keep what you sent?” I added before she could protest what I’d said about Papa.
“Of course he’s kept them. We’ll go back to the sponsors and ask if the money might still be available if I write a book. We could share proceeds from the sales. That should sweeten the pot for them.”
“They’ll want you to pay them,” I said. “Writing a book for money is just like the scheme that got us here in the first place. It’s almost as risky a wager as what we already made.”
Mama raised one eyebrow in protest. “At least writing won’t require a new pair of shoes.” She sat beside me on the bed. “I know you’re discouraged, Clara, but things could be worse. We mustn’t let the darkness overwhelm us. Think of Jonah’s whale. Think of that sunflower. Keep your eyes toward light.” She spread her hand across the air as though declaiming. She’s making a presentation. “There’s no sense in dwelling on the negative. Our minds have to think of something; it may as well be something good. ‘Occupy,’ Scripture tells us. Multiply what God gives you. That’s what we’ll do.”
“I guess I could try to sketch a few places. The trestle. That will be memorable … for what happened afterward.”
“That your fears didn’t materialize?”
“It’s when I learned about my. That I’m not an Estby,” I said. “How could you forget that?” I chewed at my nails.
“I would have thought the lava rocks were more memorable. We nearly died there,” Mama said. She stood up. “You can draw whatever you like, Clara. We’ll get the sponsors to bring you back by train so you can carry the manuscript to New York. It’ll be grand. You’ll continue the adventure. Later this summer. It’ll work, it will! We just have to convince them! You can start now.”
“I don’t have any paper.”
“Clara. There will always be obstacles. It’s your duty to overcome them in service to another. Go to the market; ask for a sheet of butcher paper. Draw on that. We’ll take it as a sample for the editor. We’ll do this, Clara. First thing tomorrow.”
I let her hope fill my empty stomach.
“Remember when I read to you?”
It was the middle of the night, but neither of us slept well in the narrow bed. The sounds of mice or rats scratched in the