A Proper Pursuit (32 page)

“I believe that we’re responsible for our own behavior, but the choices you’re talking about come from God. Not a hair can fall from our heads unless it’s His will. The disciples once asked Jesus about a man born blind and wanted to know who had sinned to cause that tragedy. Jesus said that the man had been born blind in order that God would be glorified. And so, whether deaf or blind, I pray that my life would bring Him glory.”

Of the many times I had asked that question, I had never heard an answer quite like Louis’. I decided to ask another one.

“If you had to choose between being rich but disfigured, or poor but handsome, which would you choose?”

“The Bible says, ‘Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me: Lest I be full, and deny thee and say, Who is the Lord? or lest I be poor and steal, and take the name of my God in vain.’ … That’s from Proverbs.”

The moment he mentioned stealing, I thought of Silas McClure. And wealth reminded me of Nelson Kent.

“Is money bad? Should wealthy people give it all away?”

“No, money itself isn’t bad. The Bible says that it’s the
love
of money that’s the root of all evil.”

I nodded, pretending to understand what he was talking about. I had never met anyone who talked about the Bible as much as Louis did. He made me ashamed of my shallowness. So I pretended to understand.

Once again, I thought of Aunt Matt’s contention that every married woman was an actress. I was beginning to think she was right— and also that all the unmarried women, like myself, were continually auditioning to become actresses. Ever since coming to Chicago I seemed to be playacting. I had to smile enigmatically at Aunt Agnes’ parties. I had to pretend not to be bored when I was with Herman Beckett. And now I had to pretend to be nice with Louis Decker. In fact, the only person I had been myself with was Silas McClure— and he was a thief! What did that say about me?

“Do you think it’s possible for people to change?” I asked, still thinking of Silas.

“Not on their own. Only God can transform people. But when the Son sets you free, you are free indeed.”

“What about real criminals? Have you ever known a hardened criminal, such as a thief or a con man, to change his way of life after hearing Mr. Moody preach?”

“Sure, I’ve heard plenty of stories where that’s happened. And of course there’s the example of the thief who was crucified beside Christ. After the thief repented, Jesus told him, ‘Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.’ ”

Talking to Louis Decker was like conversing with Moses or one of the Apostles. I wondered what he had been like before he’d started studying the Bible.

The sound of musical instruments warming up began to drift into the restaurant as we talked—a clarinet, an accordion, a couple of violins, a bass fiddle—and soon a little orchestra began to play outside in the street. The musicians were quite good. Everyone spilled outside to listen and to watch the dancers perform in their colorful, embroidered dresses. As I watched, the same feeling of familiarity that I’d had with the cookies suddenly returned. This dance was somehow familiar to me.

“I’ve heard this music before,” I told Louis. “I can’t recall where.”

“It certainly is lively,” he said, clapping in tune.

For the next dance, the women all produced colorful scarves and waved them joyfully in the air as they whirled in time to the music. That’s when it all came back to me: the bright colors, the dancing, the joy—my mother used to twirl a colorful scarf the same way and sing in another language as we danced around the room together.My heart pounded with excitement as the memory returned. It had been a long time ago. I had been very small. And Mother had been very beautiful.

Later, the band played a slow tune, and tears filled my eyes as the immigrants linked arms to sing along. I had no idea what the words meant, but I know that my mother used to sing the same song to me as a lullaby. She would sit on my bed stroking my hair, singing to me until I fell asleep. A tear rolled down my cheek as the song ended.

“That was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Louis asked. I nodded. I didn’t reveal the real reason for my tears.

By the time the evening ended and people began to leave, many of the smaller children had grown tired and overly excited. I heard a little girl crying, “I don’t want to go,” and I couldn’t blame her. She would have to leave the warm companionship and laughter and music to go home to a bleak tenement building. The child’s mother scooped her up in her arms.

“Come to Mama,
ho-cheech-ka
,” she murmured. For a moment, the street in front of me seemed to tilt. I had to grip Louis’ arm to keep from stumbling as another memory stirred. That was what my mother used to call me. She would hug me as tightly as Aunt Birdie always did and whisper the word tenderly, just as that mother had:
ho-cheech-ka
.

“Are you all right, Violet?”

“No … I mean … I think my mother might have been Bohemian.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She … she left when I was nine years old. I don’t know where she is.”

“I’m sorry.”

I knew I had discovered an important clue to my mother’s past, and like the little girl, I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to stay and talk to these people and see what other memories of my mother might spring to life. But the evening had drawn to a close and everyone was leaving.

I felt too emotional to converse much on the way home, so I listened as Louis and my grandmother talked. She had much more in common with him than I did. They spoke the same language, sprinkled with Bible verses and references to God as if He were an old friend.

“Thank you for a nice evening,” I told Louis at our front door.

“I hope to see you again soon, Violet.”

The moment the door closed, I turned to my grandmother. “May I ask you just one question about my mother?”

“You may ask. I can’t promise I’ll be able to answer it.”

“The songs tonight reminded me of her.” My voice trembled with emotion. “She used to sing tunes like that to me. And then I heard a mother call her child
ho-cheech-ka,
and that was what Mother used to call me. Was she a Bohemian immigrant?”

“I believe that her family might have been from that region of Europe, yes.”

“So she was poor, like those people, before she married my father?”

“I never saw her house, Violet, and I never met her family.”

“Please tell me
something
,” I begged as my tears spilled over. “Anything! What does it matter now, since my parents are divorced and Father is going to marry Maude O’Neill?”

Grandmother saw my tears and hugged me close. Then she led me into the kitchen and sat me down at the table while she fixed a pot of tea.

“Your parents met on the night of the Great Fire, as you know. Your father rescued her.” I wanted to ask how, but I was afraid to interrupt. “Your mother lost everything she owned. Our church in Lockport took in many of the homeless families—and there were so many of them. More than one hundred thousand people here in Chicago lost everything in the fire. Your father brought your mother home to our church in Lockport. When they fell in love and were married, she didn’t return to Chicago. There was nothing to go back for, she said.”

“They really loved each other?”

“Yes, at one time, they really did.”

“What happened?”

Grandmother shook her head. She wouldn’t answer.

“Aunt Birdie keeps telling me that I should marry for love, but that’s what my parents did, and look what happened to them. I need to know why their love ended and why my mother left.”

“Have you asked your father that question?”

“He told me that she hated her life in Lockport, hated being tied down.”

“He would know much more about it than I do.”

“But why was she so unhappy? Please tell me
something
!”

Grandmother reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Violet, I don’t know all the details of your parents’ lives, but I do know there were huge differences between them. And once Angeline married John, she had new expectations placed on her as his wife. He is a prominent man in the community, as you know.”

My grandmother gave my hand a squeeze, then released it. I watched her take a sip of tea and tried to picture my father when he had been young and in love. I couldn’t do it. It was like trying to imagine Herman Beckett as Shakespeare’s Romeo.

My grandmother set her teacup down and said, “Your mother came from Chicago and your father from tiny little Lockport. Maybe she missed the excitement of the city once in a while. Maybe she missed her own family too.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but that doesn’t explain why she left
me
. Didn’t she love
me
?”

Tears filled my eyes again. Grandmother stood and hurried to my side, smoothing back my hair and kissing my forehead. She had tears in her eyes as well.

“She loved you very, very much, Violet Rose. I know that to be true.”

“Then why did she leave me? Do you know why?”

Grandmother bent and drew me into her arms, holding me tightly. “I’m sorry, Violet Rose. You need to ask your father that question.”

Chapter

21

Saturday, July 1, 1893

I
stayed in bed the next morning until long past breakfast. If I kept the pillow over my head to drown out all of the other noises, I could recall the music from the night before and imagine the dancers whirling. I wanted to hang on to the wispy memories of my mother for as long as possible.

It was Saturday, and my grandmother and aunts were at home, but I didn’t want to face any of them. They all had such high hopes for me, which I had encouraged by accompanying them on their various pursuits. But I felt very confused. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. So I remained in bed.

It was close to noon when I heard Aunt Agnes’ silvery voice gilding our front hallway. “
Bonjour
, darlings! How is everyone?”

I made up my mind that I would plead illness rather than endure any social calls with her today. Even so, it was rude of me to remain in bed when she had come to call. I got dressed and went downstairs. All four of the Howell sisters sat in the parlor.

“
Bonjour
, Violet dear. Good news! Nelson simply
raves
about you. His grandmother is
so
pleased. So is his father, by the way. Did you enjoy the concert at the fair the other night? And how was the party afterward?”

I didn’t know what to say. Grandmother seemed to be waiting for my reply too. They would be shocked to learn about the gambling. I was still trying to formulate a response when someone knocked on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Aunt Birdie sang. She fluttered out to the hallway, and a moment later I heard her say, “Why, it’s Johnny!”

I jumped up and hurried to the foyer—and there stood my father on the other side of Aunt Birdie’s embrace.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I came for you,” he replied, as if stating the obvious. “I’m going to accompany you home and help with your trunk.”

“Oh, how nice,” Aunt Birdie said.

“Home?” I shouted, forgetting to be ladylike. “I just got here!”

“Violet, you’ve been here for a month.”

“Today is the first day of July,” Aunt Birdie said helpfully.

“But I’m not ready to go home!”

Father looked perplexed. “You told me that you wanted to see the World’s Columbian Exposition. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but—” “Violet has seen it four times. Isn’t that right, dear?” Aunt Birdie gestured to all the souvenirs I had collected, which for some reason had ended up on the hall table: the Ferris wheel coin from Silas McClure, the picture postcards from Herman Beckett, the silk scarf from Aunt Matt, and the beautiful ivory fan with Columbus’ portrait on it from Nelson Kent.

“Four times?” Father repeated. “Then you should be more than ready to come home.”

“Shall I help you pack?” Aunt Birdie asked.

“I don’t want to go home!” I sounded like one of the petulant children at the settlement house last night.

Aunt Matt marched into the foyer. “Lunch is ready,” she declared. “Let’s sit down and eat like civilized people. It’s nothing fancy, Agnes, only vegetable soup, but you’re welcome to join us.”

“I believe I will,” Agnes said. “John and I need to talk “ We all trooped into the dining room and sat down. Aunt Matt filled our soup bowls and Grandmother prayed. The room felt tense as everyone passed the rolls and butter around the table. I stared at my soup, unable to eat.

“I spoke with Herman Beckett,” my father began. “He holds you in very high regard, Violet, and is eager for your return. Maude says that he is serious about your courtship. She thinks you should marry him.”

“We hardly know each other!”

“That’s why he’s eager for your return, so he can court you in earnest. He seemed very pleased when I told him that I was coming to fetch you this weekend.”

“Maude just wants to marry me off so she’ll be rid of me.”

“That’s very unkind, Violet. Maude has your best interests at heart.”