The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [41]
“Mr. Depew will see you now,” his assistant said. The slender man wearing a tidy suit had kind eyes filled with pity as he showed us into Mr. Depew’s office, then he stepped back and closed the door.
“Please sit,” the railroad president, who was also a lawyer, said. “Would you like tea? I have cakes here.” His oak desk took up a quarter of the massive room. Another glass case displayed what purported to be a “Letter from Shakespeare to His Publisher.”
Mama declined the tea and I did too. I gazed around the room, saw plaques that read “state senator” and a framed diploma from Yale. Another photograph showed Mr. Depew standing in front of a podium. He sported a bow tie like the one he wore now beneath his chubby chin, and I remembered Mama telling me Mr. Depew gave after-dinner speeches as Mama did to raise influence and political supporters.
“I have read with interest your plight, dear lady. Ladies,” Mr. Depew said, nodding to me. He furrowed his brow. We still had no funds to replace my stolen curling iron, and I must have looked the way I felt: pathetic. “I admire the scrappy way you’ve tried to do all you can to save your farm,” he continued, smiling then at Mama. “Your journey for a man would be remarkable; but for two women, I must say it was a truly amazing feat.”
This was the moment when Mama would have waxed eloquently about the escapades, the people we’d encountered, the beauty of the landscapes we’d crossed. She would tell stories that brought gasps to people or made them laugh. My mother the showwoman, raving about the adequacies of women.
But that woman didn’t show up.
Mama sat silent, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes blinking back tears. We had nothing to offer, nothing to trade. What would he ask for? Would he grant us the loan?
I’d have to speak, be the one to beg.
“We’re desperate,” I said. “But we are respectable women who keep their commitments. We will repay you if you grant us a loan. Can you help us?”
“I believe I can,” he said. “The newspaper provided the details of your plight. My offer is to provide you with a pass on my rail line to Chicago. It is not a loan but a gift. You’ll have to make your way from Chicago to Minneapolis; walk, I imagine. But I’ve arranged for a ticket from Minneapolis on to your home in Spokane.” He tugged at his bow tie. “Hopefully you can garner publicity between Chicago and Minneapolis, as you did before.”
“For what purpose?” I asked.
“Oh, to let the world know of your amazing feat. And perhaps of a New Yorker’s assistance in your return home.” He smiled. “One never knows what the future may bring. New York did host the first convention for women’s suffrage, in Seneca Falls, all those years ago. The fairer sex will appreciate a man who supports the remarkable feats of women. Perhaps you’ll come back and help campaign for such a thing.”
“Mange takk. Thank you,” Mama said.
“One more thing,” Mr. Depew concluded. “I would like a signed copy of the book you must write about your journey. It would please so many to hear of your exploits and all you did and saw.”
“You think there’d be interest?” I asked.
“I do. Both in Europe and in these United States. What you did was beyond belief for many, and it’s a story that ought not to be forgotten.”
“First, we must go home,” I said. “Thanks to you, now we can.”
Mr. Depew pulled a bell cord, and the male assistant who had shown us into the room returned with an envelope in his hand. He gave it to the railroad president. “Will you have trouble earning your way between Chicago and Minneapolis?”
“We’ll work and walk,” I said. “It’s only four hundred miles.”
The hopeful Mama reappeared at the news office. “In addition to Mr. Depew’s generosity, I have the first sale for my book,” Mama told the editor of the World after relaying the gift of tickets and thanking him for running the story. “Mr. Depew wants a signed copy. There is interest in this story.” She took a deep breath. “I can write it and promote it too. You’ve seen that. Clara will illustrate. I’ve already