The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [62]
“Does it matter?”
“From these women you work for,” Mama said.
“Yes.”
“They would loan money to a girl such as you? Why would they do that?”
“Maybe because they see promise in me,” I said. “I’m not a girl any longer. Twenty-five in November.”
“What do you do that they give you such money? Betre tom pung enn rangt skaffa pengar,” he added.
“Better an empty purse than wrongly got money?” I repeated in English. “It’s not ill-gotten gain, Ole. In fact, it’s a just reward for work accomplished. ‘A woman doesn’t have to be shy about asking for what she wants nor bow too low in gratitude for what she rightfully deserves,’ ” I quoted.
He snorted. “Suffragette talk.”
“Yes, it is, but it’s the truth.”
“These women you work for are suffragettes.”
“I am too,” Mama said.
“None of that,” my stepfather cautioned. “None of that now.”
Mama lowered her eyes and looked away as though struck.
“They’re businesswomen. They’ve earned their money through wise investment and business decisions. I’m learning from them.”
“And you want to give me their money.”
“Give to the family some of my money,” I said. My heart pounded. “It’s mama’s money too. A portion of what we were to earn by making our walk to New York.”
“Fandem! Those women are—”
“Not of the devil,” I said. “They’re good people, and they know we deserve payment for our incredible journey.”
He leaned out around Mama, who sat between us. He lifted his hand as though to strike me, his eyes wild with outrage. I shrank back, held gloved fingers to my face. He had never struck me, nor anyone in the family that I knew of.
“Ole,” Mama said. She tugged on his arm, pulled it down. “Let her talk.”
“That … walk, that walk is not a subject allowed in my presence,” he shouted at her.
“But I am in your presence, and it is my right to speak what matters to me,” I said. “I offer you a way out, a way to save your family from the humiliation of foreclosure, from financial ruin. Money rightfully earned! Accept it. Don’t let your pride keep you from doing what is right for your family, for your wife. Let her speak of an accomplishment. Let her know she helped keep the farm you both worked so hard for, we all worked so hard for.”
“What do you know of swallowing pride?” His eyes glared at me, my mother between us. The horses stomped, aware of his intensity. His hands were in fists. I thought he might snap the reins and jolt them forward just to keep me silent. “Years ago I swallow my pride for your mother, for what John Doré did to her, tossing her aside. How does she repay me? She names you for his mother! I do nothing about this. I accept. I let her go, with you, on that stupid walk.”
John Doré? This is my father?
“Ole, please. She didn’t know—”
“I do for her because I … love her.” He choked, didn’t say Mama’s name. “I … accept because I care for her. New York.” He spit the words. “I allow her to come back after she disobeys me, has left behind me and her children. She takes John Doré’s child with her. I let this happen because I love her. But no more!”
“You don’t love my mother anymore?” I shook. “After all she’s done for you?”
“No more doing what she wants!”
Grief like a train whistle coursed through his voice.
“No more going back on what I say. No one talks about that. walk. No one who wants to be in this family takes money related to it. No one. I have spoken. That is enough.”
“But the farm?” Mama said. She grabbed his sleeve. “We could save the farm.”
“I do not want your dirty money.” He seethed. “I do not want people with dirty money to have any say in my life. No more. None.”
“And me either, I guess?” I said.
“You either if it is through that dirty money.”
“Ole, please.” He shook off her hand.
“I will provide for my family. Not those women, not you, Clara, nor you, my wife. It is over.”
“Mama—”
“It. Is. Finished.” Spittle had gathered around the corners of his mouth. His eyes blazed like a minister preaching that hellfire was imminent.
I looked at my mother, caught between us. “It’s the one thing I can do for you,” I said. “The one thing that