The Year We Were Famous (13 page)

If I did write the chapter about the storm, how would I begin? With the storm? With our argument before the storm? My teacher had convinced me that I wasn't a natural-born writer, but the only way to get better was to practice. I scooted back on the ledge, took out my journal, and began to write.

When Ma woke, she stood and saluted, as if we had just completed a successful mission. "You can't let fear of dying keep you from living the life you want," she said.

Was that bravado for my benefit, or hers?

"I intend to keep my guardian angel busy," she said.

As I put my writing away, I said, "Your angel must have a whole flock of apprentices to keep up with you, Ma."

Still perched on our ledge, we doctored each other's barked knuckles and I flexed my fingers until I regained enough dexterity to retie my rope to my satchel. A length of rope, given to us by a lonesome stationmaster. Had he any idea that it would save Ma's life three months later? I had already forgotten his name among the list of more than fifty people we had stayed with so far.

While I was fussing with my rope handle, Ma kneeled to fumble in her bag and unfold the oilskin she kept wrapped around her letter from Mayor Belt,
cartes de visite,
and copies of our picture. "These papers are why I needed you to save the bag," she said. "Thanks for saving me, too," she said with a smile that quickly faded as she turned serious. "If something did happen to me—if I couldn't go on for any reason—would you continue on your own?" She stressed the word
any.

"But I promised Pa..." My voice quavered. I didn't want to think—not for an instant—of having to leave Ma behind someplace and going on.

Ma thrust her papers toward me. "Maybe you should carry these."

I kept my hands at my side. "If we can both survive flood and lightning, highwaymen, lava fields, and snowstorms in the Blues, we can both make it through anything. We'll be celebrating my birthday in New York."

Ma grasped one of my hands and gently raised it toward the papers in her other hand. She nudged the papers against my closed fist, like a cat wanting her chin scratched. When I opened my hand, Ma slipped the oilskin pouch into it. I was now the keeper of the papers. Did Ma think I had a better chance of surviving this trip, or was it her way of admitting that I was as important as she was to the success of this walk?

Ma finger-combed her hair and twisted it into a tidy knot. When she threw back her shoulders and raised her chin, she could have been the model for a statue glorifying indomitable American womanhood. "At least one of us has to make it to New York, so men can't say women are too frail for such a venture, or quit too easily. I have no patience for people who accept whatever life gives them without a fight," she said. "'God's will,' they say. Well, I say, 'With God, all things are possible.' The worst is behind us. Once we get to the plains, it's just a flat walk in the field to New York."

L
AST NIGHT
we camped along the Laramie River with the Arapaho. Taking pity on us for our lack of survival skills, two of the women showed us how to roast sego lily bulbs and dry grasshoppers and crickets in the sun. Once the crickets and 'hoppers were ground fine as flour and mixed with seeds, I just held my breath and swallowed my share. Hunger is the best sauce, they say. I'd have to describe them to Johnny and Arthur in my next letter. This morning we traded pictures of ourselves for beaded hair ornaments, which I will save for Ida and Bertha.

Our canteens were empty, but I learned in the most stomach and gut-wrenching way not to drink alkali water. American womanhood was about to shrivel to empty husks and float away like thistledown.

Dry as I was, my curiosity was still healthy enough to investigate a glint of something shiny at the end of one of the railroad ties twenty or so feet ahead. I picked up two bottles of clear, pure water and stomped down on a bit of paper that had been under the bottles before it could blow off to Kansas.

"Water!" I croaked, waving the bottles like flags. Since our pastor at home used grape juice for communion, I had never tasted wine, but I was sure no wine or magic elixir could have tasted sweeter than that water. I closed my eyes to savor the taste, and carefully recapped the bottle.

While Ma drank, I picked up and read the paper I had trapped under my foot: "For the walking ladies." I looked around for chimney smoke or any other signs of a house, but there was nothing. We were in the middle of nowhere, and water had miraculously appeared. Ma would have claimed special delivery from one of her guardian angels, but I knew there had to be an earthly deliverer out there somewhere.

Twenty minutes later, we passed two gandy dancers pumping their cart along the track, with their mallets and burlap bag of supplies. I raised a bottle and shouted, "Was it you?" They did not stop, but waved shyly back. I blew them a kiss.

More bottles and canning jars of water appeared every five or ten miles for the next month. There must have been an organized campaign to keep us alive, with telegraphers sending word of our progress, letting railway workers and townspeople know when we were expected through. Sometimes the bottles were still cool, even when we saw no one. Other times we'd see a shy child or farm wife standing back from the track, shading her eyes with one hand and waving as we passed. We left our bottles at the next station we passed through, and assumed they somehow got back to their owners. I did not believe in Ma's guardian angels, but I had plenty of proof of the kindness of strangers.

I smiled as I read Ma's fourth report to Miss Waterson. For the first time it read from Helga
and Clara
Estby.

To: Miss A. J. Waterson, 95 William Street,
New York City, New York

From: Helga and Clara Estby

Monthly Report #4: Greeley, Colorado

Miles covered, August 5—September 3: 335

Notes: Survived flash flood.

The reporter would have been more interested in us if we had discovered another gold deposit, but perked up at Ma's account of my shooting a man in Oregon and our camp out with Indians. As we left the newspaper office, the reporter gave Ma a free copy of a pamphlet they'd printed on Colorado mining. Remembering how Ma had tried to send Pa to Colorado to find us a mine two years ago, I was sure she'd read that pamphlet from first word to last.

At the post office, she sat and read her pamphlet while I stood in line at the general delivery window. Would there be a letter from Salt Lake City? As the clerk left the counter to look for our mail, I watched the second hand on the wall clock make one circuit, two circuits, three. At last the clerk returned with a stack of letters, which I flipped through with trembling fingers. A letter from Pa, from Ida and Bertha, from Olaf, from Miss Waterson, and yes! Mr. Doré!

As I walked slowly back toward Ma's bench, I studied his envelope. A drop of brown liquid had smeared the word
Colorado
in the address. I smelled the envelope but couldn't tell if it was coffee or tea. I didn't know him well enough to guess. Had he written it at the office, or from home? I realized I didn't even know where
home
was for him. Did he have a room in a boarding house, or still live with his parents—or was he already married with a home of his own?

Still clutching his letter, I sat next to Ma on the bench while she opened the letter from Pa. She scanned the letter, gasped, and handed it to me.

The letter—in Norwegian, of course—covered only half a page.

Dear Helga,

Olaf has been sent to the sanatorium with the diphtheria. We made it safely through harvest, but prices were not good. I miss you, Mrs. Estby. I hope you and Clara are safe and can come home soon.

Your husband,
Ole

P.S. I am too old to be looking for another wife, so take care of yourself.

Love, O.E.

"I lost baby Ole, then Henry, and now I may lose Olaf!"

"But Olaf sent a letter, too, so he can't be dying." I shuffled through the stack and checked the postmark; Olaf had mailed his letter over a week after Pa's, and addressed it in a strong hand.

As Ma ripped open his letter, I said, "Diphtheria is more dangerous for little ones than young men." I put one arm around her shoulder. "He'll be fine soon. I know it." I lied. I didn't know it at all. Oh, why were we so far from home when our family needed us?

Ma's voice was hoarse at first, but grew clearer as she continued to read.

Sacred Heart Sanatorium

Dear Ma and Clara,

As I'm sure Pa and Ida have told you, I am recuperating from diphtheria in the sanatorium here in Spokane. The food is boring and the days are boring, too.

At least I waited to get sick until after the wheat was in. It threatened rain the week of harvest, so everyone worked clear through moonlight every night. I don't think anyone slept more than four hours a night for a week. After all that work we'll still have to borrow money for next year's seed again.

Clara, you will be amazed to hear I have read two books, cover to cover, this month!

Your loving son (and brother),
Olaf

Ma refolded the letters from Pa and Olaf and slipped them in her pocket. She was dry-eyed now, but her shoulders drooped. We were always a year behind, no matter how hard everyone worked.

I read Ida's letter aloud.

Dear Clara,

Olaf said he was so bored having to stay in bed in the sanatorium that he would write letters to everyone, and you know how he hates to write. I haven't been allowed to see him yet, but the receptionist let me drop off a plate of potato lefse and a jar of Pa's pickled herring. Tell Ma not to worry about Olaf. He's so tough it's hard to imagine anything short of a ton of bricks knocking him down for long.

Don't let Olaf tell you he was the only one who worked hard at harvest. Bertha and I just about died in the kitchen keeping everyone fed. I swear each man in the crew could eat a pan of biscuits and a whole plum pie by himself.

Tilda's wedding was beautiful! Everyone brought in
flowers from their gardens and we set them out in vases all across the front of the church. And her dress—her mother made it with white silk and Brussels lace appliqué.

I know Ma is worried about losing the farm, but Olaf will be carpentering in Spokane as soon as he gets out of Sacred Heart, and I know I could get a job as a shop girl in Spokane. I guess what I'm saying is, don't risk your neck on Ma's scheme to save the farm. With Pa, Olaf, and you and me all earning money in town, we could have a nice apartment. It wouldn't be the slums that Ma keeps threatening us with. I miss you. I'd rather have you and Ma home safely than all the money in New York.

Love, Ida

I passed the letter from Ida on to Ma to read, and while she was occupied with that, I read the letter from Salt Lake City.

August 20, 1896

Dear Miss Estby,

I couldn't help smiling as I pictured your mother curling hair for an entire band of Ute Indians. Our newspaper editor said it wasn't his policy to publish personal essays, but don't give up writing. With interest high in the vanishing old West, someone will want your pieces.

My news will hardly be as interesting as yours, but I will take your giving me your itinerary as leave to continue correspondence.

Most sincerely,
Charles Doré

P.S. One advantage of a black bicycle is that it is easy to find matching paint to fill in scratches. C.D.

P.P.S. f your mother had accepted the three Indian horses in trade for you, you would certainly have something more to write about, but I confess I am relieved that she decided she valued your company more than the three horses. Besides, you are worth at least four horses. C.D.

Not even the Salt Lake City newspaper wanted my story! Mr. Doré was probably just saving my feelings to say the paper didn't publish personal essays. Oh,
uff da.

Disappointment constricted my chest, hurt my throat, and gave me a headache behind the eyes. The writing on the letter blurred as I tried one last time to find some good news in it. He did say I was worth at least four horses.

I looked up as Ma finished the letter from Miss Waterson. Judging from her expression as she handed it to me to read, Miss Waterson had not written with good news, either.

Dear Mrs. Estby,

Our contract allowed extensions of time for unpreventable delays such as illness. Getting lost is not an unpreventable delay but simple carelessness. Your walk is supposed to be a demonstration of women's intelligence and resourcefulness; so in the future, pack sufficient water and learn to use a compass properly.

I am not entirely unsympathetic, however. Although I will not grant an extension of time for the three days you were lost,
I will allow two days' extension for the time you were recovering from sunstroke.

Sincerely,
Miss A. J. Waterson

S
OMETIME
between midnight and dawn, Ma nudged my shoulder and whispered, "Get up, Clara. We need to get an early start to Cripple Creek."

"
Uff da,
" I moaned. The bed creaked as I rolled over and snuggled more deeply into the covers. Then what Ma had said hit me and I bolted upright and forced my eyes open. "Cripple Creek?" I croaked. "That's the wrong direction."

"Remember when I wanted Pa to go to Cripple Creek? He wouldn't go, but this is our second chance."