The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [58]
“Did you ever meet her?” I asked.
“Oh, goodness no. We’ve met the Roosevelts, and of course there was that terrible loss he had in ’84 with both his mother and wife dying on the same day. So tragic. But that’s as close to fame as I’ve come.”
“I met President McKinley and his wife,” I ventured. I’d not talked of the journey in the months I’d been with them. A twinge of guilt caused me to pause, but there was no reason not to speak of it to these women. Speaking of the story couldn’t hurt Mama from here.
“Yes, and Mary Bryan, I believe. And the governors of Idaho and Ohio,” Louise said. “You met so many people on that trip.”
I frowned. Had all of those names been mentioned in the newspaper accounts, if she’d even read them? And would Louise have remembered that? It was so long ago.
“Louise,” Olea cautioned.
“Did I tell you that when we met on the train?” I asked Olea.
The two women were silent, looked at each other.
“It was in the papers,” Olea said.
“That’s it. I read those names in the papers,” Louise agreed. She blinked rapidly, a habit I’d noticed came paired with some distress.
“But only the Minneapolis papers covered some signatures by name,” I said. Had they been in my room, looking at my packet? Impossible—the packet was still at the farm, hidden behind the flour mill cabinet in the kitchen. “I’m sure of it.”
“That must be where we saw it then, before we left for Spokane,” Louise said. “Would you like a cookie? I baked extra today.” She continued to blink as she handed me the Spode plate piled with sweets.
I took one, but it didn’t answer what discomforted in the conversation.
TWENTY-FIVE
A New Walk
Ida’s letter arrived in March of 1901 saying our parents had received the final statement from the mortgage holder, and the loan had been called in. They either had to pay the full amount or our property would be foreclosed and sold. Mama and Ole planned to auction off as much as they could, hoping to keep the land and start again. I felt a clutch in my chest. After all this time, it was coming to pass. I didn’t know whether to feel great sadness for Mama or to secretly share Olaf’s sentiments about letting go of the cow’s tail.
The auction was set for March 28. The sale of cattle and hogs might produce enough to meet the back taxes, but I couldn’t imagine the family would have money left over to keep the land. Selling cows and horses meant even if Mama and Ole raised the payment, they’d have nothing left to farm with.
“If there is any way you could borrow the money from your rich employers, that would be a small thing you could do for this family after all that’s happened,” Ida wrote. “We only need one thousand dollars.” She didn’t even tell me how everyone was.
Ask my employers for that kind of money? I didn’t see how. Still, if I could pay off the mortgage, perhaps then my stepfather might let Mama at last write about the story, for herself if for no one else. I was sure the sponsors no longer looked for the manuscript. That bridge had been blown apart.
But I didn’t want to jeopardize my relationship with my employers. Though I knew of their investments and bank accounts, I was not free to ask for money I knew they had. That would violate a rule that Blair Business College professors spoke of. “The relationship between employer and employee has barriers that must not be crossed.” I’d almost crossed it that one evening by suggesting we were three women living together like a family.
But I thought of Mama, how she had sacrificed for that farm, how much she’d risked. I had to risk too. I would ask for a loan to save the farm. I would find a way to keep it all strictly business.
“Of course we can talk,” Louise said. We’d been shopping—Louise loved that activity—and I wore new clothes that the women had insisted I let them buy for me, telling me that I represented them now and must look the part of a successful associate furrier.