The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [46]
The woman fingered the small set of binoculars that hung around her neck. “I’d love to hear about your journey. May I?” She motioned that she’d like to sit down and I nodded. I wasn’t sure what Mama would say, but I suspected it would be fine. A stranger interested in our walk would soon be a friend of my mother’s. This stranger would hear the story first from me. Few did.
“I’m O. S. Ammundsen.” She reached out to shake my hand the way a man might. Many women who attended Mama’s lectures did the same. I put my hand out. The woman’s gloved hand gave two strong shakes, the small set of binoculars bouncing on her bodice.
“And you are?”
“I’m Miss Estby, Clara Estby.”
“You’re headed for Spokane?” Miss Ammundsen said.
“Yes. Home at last.”
“That’s my home too, or it may be soon. I’m from Norway. Well, New York most recently. I’ve been visiting my sister in St. Paul.”
“My mother too, a long time ago. Near Oslo. Christiania it’s called now. I forgot.”
“One day they’ll change the name back to Oslo, I suspect,” she said. “Much easier to spell and takes up less space, so more efficient. We Norwegians are obsessed with efficiency.” She laughed.
“My … stepfather, my mother’s husband. He grew up there.”
It was the first time I’d described him as anything other than Papa. Our relationship too would change, I realized. Unveiling secrets opens doors whether we’re ready for what’s on the other side or not.
“So,” Miss Ammundsen said, “tell me about crossing the trestle at Dale.”
I found I could make the woman’s eyes grow large with anxiety then crinkle with laughter at my descriptions of our crossing and how I made light of my fears. I didn’t tell her that I’d learned on that same day about my Michigan birth or my mother’s trials and decisions as a young woman. Instead, I could sense a bit of what Mama enjoyed being up on stage, holding an audience’s interest, though mine was an audience of one. I embellished the feel of the wind, the cry of a hawk flying beneath us as we crossed.
“When I was there,” the woman said, “it was winter and dreadful. We were in a train car, of course. I thought the wind would push us over like a wheat shock, but we survived. I have to say, I haven’t been back since and didn’t leave anything there I have to go back for.”
I laughed. “What takes you to Spokane?” I asked, a question I often overheard at the Stapletons’ while serving at parties.
“Business,” she said. “I prefer to travel for pleasure, but this time it’s business bringing us here.” She didn’t elaborate on the “us.”
“When we left, there wasn’t much building going on in Spokane,” I said. “The city is still coming out of the depression.”
“Often that’s the best time to invest,” she said.
“Maybe the situation has improved while we were gone.” I hoped my stepfather was stronger and could take on construction work again. That would help us stave off the mortgage man.
“What kind of business?” I said.
“Furs,” she said, the word spoken as though filled with magic. She rubbed the binoculars absently. “Wasn’t there a wager attached to your journey?”
I nodded. “But because of my ankle sprain, the sponsors wouldn’t extend our deadline. We arrived ten days past, on December 23, I’m sad to say.”
“Have you considered a legal suit?”
Her words surprised. I couldn’t go into detail with this stranger about the great humiliation, as I’d begun to think of it. We didn’t even know whom to sue. How foolish would that sound? “It was a business risk,” I heard myself say, a phrase spoken by Forest’s father when men discussed their stocks and bonds. “I gained the equivalent of a college degree from the experience, and my mother improved her health. So we achieved something without earning the wager.” I wasn’t sure I believed this, but it sounded wise and Miss Ammundsen nodded her head sagely. Then before I could stop myself I added, “Now the sponsors have offered a new incentive for us: we’ll still receive the award money, but first my mother has to write a book. I’m to