My Heart Remembers (5 page)

P
ART
T
WO

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Maelle

Dunbar, Louisiana

December, 1902

Y
ou there, boy!” Melle “Mike” Watts retained her casual pose—elbow propped on top of the camera case, right leg bent with the toe of her boot pressed into the dirt—and waited for the boy she’d called to pause in his scurrying journey toward the weighing shed. His dirty bare feet stirred dust as he stumbled to a stop. He turned, the full buckets in his hands swaying with his movements. Squinting, he sent her a puzzled look. He couldn’t be more than eight years old.

“You talkin’ to me?”

Maelle nodded in reply.

“Gotta get these weighed.” An air of importance underscored his statement. The child attempted to heft the buckets, but his scrawny elbows splayed outward with no discernible lift to the galvanized steel.

“Want to stand there long enough to get your picture taken?”

Maelle had learned over the years that children, regardless of their station in life, couldn’t refuse the opportunity to pose in front of her camera.

The boy licked his lips, his wary eyes darting toward the line of shucking sheds where a flurry of voices and clanking of buckets could be heard. “Will it take long?”

Maelle quickly stepped behind the camera and wrapped her hand around the bulb. “As long as it takes to make a smile.”

Immediately the boy curved his lips into more of a grimace than a smile. Maelle pressed the bulb, and the child jumped at the
pop
, but he held his pose until she said, “That’s it! Thanks.”

He scuffled forward a few steps, his expression curious. “Do I get to see it?”

Maelle grinned over the top of the wood case. “It’ll take me a day to process it. Will you be here tomorrow?”

The boy nodded, his grimy hair bobbing. “Always work here. Ever’ day.”

The blithe statement made Maelle’s heart ache. The child obviously had no idea tomorrow was Christmas. “I’ll bring your photograph by tomorrow, then.”

“Thanks!” He turned to hurry off.

“What’s your name?” Maelle called to his retreating back.

He didn’t even pause. “Georgie!”

“See you tomorrow, Georgie.”

A bob of his shaggy head gave acknowledgment, and Maelle packed up her camera. She wanted to stick around the oyster shucking dock and take a few more pictures, but she’d learned over the years brief stops were best. She’d created many a photograph at mills and docks and factories, and she always feared the little workers would suffer the bosses’ wrath if she overstayed her welcome. So despite her desire to capture a few more barefooted, dirty children wielding knives too large for their hands or carrying buckets too heavy for their skinny shoulders, she carefully loaded her camera into the back of the wagon and headed toward town. She’d return tomorrow and give Georgie his photograph.

Maelle stopped at the first hotel she encountered—a rather rundown two-story building facing the town. If it weren’t for Georgie’s photograph, she’d keep driving until she reached one of the larger cities and something more . . . welcoming. The only night she offered herself the luxury of a hotel was Christmas Eve, keeping with the tradition established by Richard, and she hated to waste her night of extravagance in a place like this one.

But getting that photograph to Georgie—undoubtedly his only Christmas gift—would make it worthwhile.

She tethered Samson and gave the horse a loving neck rub before picking up her carpetbag and camera box and entering the hotel. To her relief, the interior was cheerier than the outside, the floral wall coverings, thick carpets, and velvet-upholstered furniture providing a touch of elegance. Perhaps the humid weather had aged the wooden structure, she surmised. Behind a tall, paneled desk, a man in a black suit smiled and said, “Welcome to Hartling Hotel, sir.”

“Thank you.” Maelle dropped the carpetbag but bent over to place the camera box with care on the floor beside the bag. Her long braid swung over her shoulder as she leaned forward, and she observed the clerk’s face flood with red. “I’d like a room with a private bath, if possible.”

“Of . . . of course, m-miss.”

The stuttering had no effect on Maelle. She’d grown accustomed to people’s reaction to her masculine mode of dress. She signed the guestbook—
Mike Watts
—tucked the key into the pocket of her shirt, and picked up her belongings. Before turning away from the desk, however, she asked the question she always asked: “Do you know of any Gallaghers in town? Mattie or Molly?”

The clerk frowned, tapping his chin with a narrow finger. “Gallagher . . . I don’t believe so.” His brows quirked. “Kin o’ yours?”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate. “Thank you.” She strode away from the desk. A porter met her at the bottom of the stairs and offered to take her bags, but she shook her head. She was capable of carrying her own items, and she wouldn’t relinquish her camera to anyone.

Jerking her chin toward the front doors, she said, “If you’d have someone see to my horse—out front, the wagon has Watts Photography painted on its side—I’d be obliged.” The porter bustled off.

In Room 106, she placed the camera box in the corner farthest from the window, then moved toward the bed. Her boots clumped against the wood floor, creating a hollow thud. A louder thud sounded when she dropped the carpetbag. Seated on the edge of the creaky mattress, she tugged off the boots but left her thick wool socks in place. Opening the battered carpetbag, she rummaged for her nightshirt. She thought she detected a slight essence of bay rum caught in the fabric of the bag, bringing with it the bittersweet memory of her surrogate uncle.

Maelle’s eyes drifted shut. He’d been gone almost nine years now, and she still missed him. In many ways, he’d been less than ideal. His penchant for visiting saloons, his gruff tone when speaking, and his expectation for perfection were sometimes difficult to abide. But she’d grown to love him.

An unwilling chuckle built in her chest as she remembered her third Christmas with him. As had become their custom, he’d rented a hotel room for Christmas Eve night.

The hotel was a fancy one, with a view of the Gulf of Mexico and a private bathing room right off the bedroom. Uncle Richard had told her to bathe before bed. She’d eagerly filled the elongated tin tub with steaming water straight from a brass spigot and climbed in.

The once-a-year comfort of hot water up to her armpits had lulled her to sleep, but she’d startled awake when Richard pounded on the door and then stepped in. Shocked by the unexpected intrusion, she’d leapt to her feet, slipped on the slick bottom, and then fell backward with a splash that displaced half the water in the tub. Richard had discovered her secret.

She could still see his look of open-mouthed surprise and hear his hoarse yelp, “Mike? You—you’re a
girl
?” The word
girl
had exploded like a curse word, and she’d hunkered in the tub, quivering with fear. He’d spun, presenting his back. His neck glowed bright red, the way it did when he was very, very angry. She’d stared at the thin band of exposed crimson skin between his shirt collar and thick hair. Her tightly held breath made her chest ache. It seemed hours passed before he finally stomped toward the doorway.

Her stiff fingers clutched the rolled tin lip of the tub. “W-what’re you goin’ to do?” she asked.

He came to a halt, his face aimed away from her. Her heart pounded as she waited to hear him say he was throwing her out or taking her to an orphanage.

“Gettin’ a second room for you for tonight. And tomorrow I’ll put up some kind of privacy barrier in the wagon. Clean up the water on the floor before it leaks to the room below.” The slam of the bathroom door ended their conversation.

And Maelle had melted into the remaining tepid water with a sigh of relief. Despite the harsh tone, his message had let her know he was keeping her, girl or not. She knew why—he’d spent three years training her, trusting her, molding her to take over the photography business. Even at the tender age of twelve, she’d known it wasn’t affection that made him keep her, but a need for her services as apprentice and assistant.

It wasn’t until five years later that she discovered he’d grown to love her. His death had proved it.

A series of hard knocks on the hotel room door jerked her from her reverie. She jumped up and crossed the floor with a wide stride. Swinging the door open, she discovered the hotel clerk in the hallway.

“Sorry to bother you . . . miss.” His gaze drifted briefly down the length of her wool trousers, then bounced up again, his cheeks stained pink. “If you’re interested, the First Baptist Church is having a Christmas Eve service. It’s for the whole community.

There’ll be singing, and the preacher’ll speak, and then we’ll have cookies and hot apple cider. It’s always a real good service.”

Maelle’s heart twisted with desire. Uncle Richard had spent Sundays sleeping off his Saturday evening binge, which had left her to her own devices. So she’d visited churches, searching faces, always hoping for a glimpse of Mattie or Molly. And in a little church in Spring Arbor, Michigan, Maelle had met someone who would never be taken away from her. Since then, her reason for church attendance had become two-fold. She still sought her brother and sister, but she also sought to grow in her knowledge of Jesus.

“Where is the church?” she asked.

“Seventh Street.” The man gestured. “You go west on Cyprus Street, then turn north on Seventh. You can’t miss it. Church has a real nice steeple and cross, and there will be candles burning in the windows.” He paused, his attention once more jerking from her britches to her eyes. “We all . . . uh . . . put on our Sunday best for this particular service.” His glowing face rivaled the bulb dangling from a twisted cord overhead.

Maelle’s lips quirked. “Thanks for your kind invitation, but I’ve got a photograph to develop. Good night.” She closed the door on his repentant expression and headed directly for the private bath to enjoy a leisurely soak.

Later, listening to the crunch of wagon wheels rolling past the hotel, Maelle regretted her hasty decision. She sighed, rubbing a soft cloth over the finished image of Georgie standing proudly on shell-scattered ground with buckets dangling from his dirty hands. Loneliness smacked hard. Maybe she should get dressed and go to church, after all. But then, remembering the clerk’s comment about “Sunday best,” she shook her head, causing her still-damp tumbling curls to spill across her shoulders.

She set the photograph aside, gathered the errant waves of her waist-length hair, and deftly formed a loose braid. As she braided, her gaze drifted to the carpetbag and she envisioned the contents. For a woman, “Sunday best” meant a dress. There were no dresses in her bag. There was one dress in the wagon— wrapped in tissue and resting in the bottom of a wooden box beneath her bunk—but she’d never put it on. Not again.

Maelle awakened Christmas morning with a dream hovering on the fringes of her mind. A familiar dream, one in which she, Mattie, and Molly played together in the New York flat while Da watched from his chair, his chuckle rumbling in response to their antics, and Ma stirred a pot on the little stove in the corner. She smiled, allowing the images to linger for as long as they would remain, until finally—like smoke drifting from Da’s corncob pipe—they faded away into nothingness.

Ignoring the lonely wrench of her heart, she threw back the light covers and stood, stretching. A glance out the window told her it was still early, the sun a rosy glow on the horizon, but she surmised little Georgie and his fellow shuckers were already at work. She would pack everything and head out from Dunbar after she delivered the photograph. “Maybe I’ll head north— toward Missouri,” she told her image in the mirror as she splashed her face with cold water to wash the sleep away.

Every year since his death, she had continued Richard’s yearly travel course that led across the United States, visiting states during times when the climate was mild and conducive to life in a box wagon. Missouri had never been a winter destination, so why even consider it?

With a sigh, Maelle spoke the reason out loud. “Because Missouri calls to me.”

It didn’t matter how many years had passed. It didn’t matter that Richard told her she was mooning for something that could never be. It didn’t matter how many times she’d spotted a head of auburn hair and felt a leap of hope only to have it crushed with the realization that she’d made a mistake. The last time she’d seen Mattie and Molly had been in Missouri. And revisiting the state offered a sense of homecoming that nothing else could.

It had occurred to her after Richard’s death that she could travel to Missouri any time she wanted. But Richard had lectured her severely on the importance of keeping the camera from excessive heat or cold. Maintaining a working camera held great importance. Not only was it her livelihood, it was her inheritance from Richard. No matter how hard the tug of Missouri, she would protect her equipment.

Grabbing her shirt, which she had draped over the back of a chair, she announced, “Missouri will still be there in the spring, and with people out on the streets instead of holed up in houses, I’m more likely to spot Mattie or Molly in a crowd.”

Just speaking the names of her younger siblings brought a stab of pain, but she pushed it aside as she’d learned to do. A familiar prayer formed in her heart.
Lord, be with me brother and sister. Be bringin’ them back to me again
.

Dressed in her usual trousers and flannel shirt, topped by a light tan jacket, Maelle gathered up her belongings and headed for the stairs. Less than half an hour later she had her horse hitched to the wagon and held the reins, ready to guide Samson toward the oyster shucking company. Once more the desire to head to Missouri pressed at her, and her fingers twitched on the reins.

“I could wrap the camera in quilts,” she muttered to herself, “and keep it protected from the cold that way . . .” But then another of Richard’s admonitions played through her head:
“Folks’re less likely to want a picture made when they’re uncomfortable.And who’s comfortable when it’s too hot or too cold?”