The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [42]
“We have been in on this story from the beginning,” the editor said. “I did notice that the Times urged financial help for you. And the Sun. They’re such rags,” he sneered. He tapped his pencil.
“Did the sponsors ever respond to the suggestion of a book when we spoke of it earlier?”
“Let me make a phone call,” he said. “Could you wait a moment? I know you’re anxious to leave.”
We waited. Mama tapped her fingers on her lap, looked up at the wall clock. This was what persistence looked like. I was anxious to be on the train, but coming to the World to report on Mr. Depew’s generosity, Mama said, was a small price to pay for the tickets. “And if at the last minute we’re able to pull off financial assistance from the sponsors, then it wouldn’t all be for naught. We gain for Bertha.” Her breath caught. “A small portion of our loss might be redeemed with the book and money.”
“All right,” the editor said, returning. “You write the book. Clara illustrates it. She gets a ride back on the railroad this fall, repeating your trip to make the illustrations authentic, but this time she comes by rail. The book gets published and you get ten thousand dollars, and we split everything else the book might earn.”
Mama reached to clasp my arm. “They changed their minds,” she whispered.
“It appears … they’ve adapted to this new possibility.”
“Is there a contract?” I asked.
“Shush,” Mama said.
“No contract, but I have the sponsors’ word.”
“The sponsors’ word isn’t reliable,” I said.
“Clara, please—”
“They didn’t break the contract,” the editor said, his eyes shining with a hint of condescension. “You did, by not making it here on time. It’ll all be up to you with the book. You don’t get the money until the book is published.”
“And the train ticket for Clara, for illustration purposes?”
“Contact me when the manuscript is finished and you’re ready to retrace your steps to develop illustrations, Miss Estby. I’ll see that things are arranged. By the way, the sponsors aren’t requiring that you walk back home now,” he added. “But the condition of earning your expenses along the way continues, though you may accept the train tickets, given the passing of your child. The sponsors aren’t heartless. I’m authorized to give you the five dollars you started out with to help you depart as soon as possible, under the circumstances.”
Mama nodded. “I thank you, I thank you,” she said. “Isn’t that wonderful, Clara?”
Outrage knotted my stomach. Not heartless. May accept the tickets. How dare they! But I had to think clearly.
“When we arrived here last December, before our robbery, my mother gave you the signatures of all the dignitaries we’d met and who verified our arrival in their towns. We’d like them back.”
“We would?” Mama said.
“You would?” the editor said.
“We’ll need them to help with the writing, and since the original contract was voided—by my sprained ankle—those signatures really do belong to us.”
“Clara—”
“No, no,” the editor said. “She has a point.” He pulled at is earlobe. “I see no harm in that. I’ll get them for you now.”
We left the offices, signatures in hand. “I wouldn’t have thought to ask,” Mama said.
“We’ll ask each one of them to promote the book. We could plan a trip when it comes out, stopping back at all those places. I’m sure the papers in Boise City and Lincoln and Canton would cover it. President McKinley—”
“That’s brilliant, Clara.”
The admiration on her face was almost as satisfying as eating a piece of julekaga.
Mama looked almost peaceful when we boarded the train. We’d decided not to look for a frog for Johnny but to pick one