Three Rivers Rising (9 page)

Every day the mailman on the corner.
Every day the envelope with the small scratchy lettering.
Every day bliss in my hand.

One day in March the letters stop.

One letter that had no trouble getting through:

Daughter:

Your mother and I have arranged for a suitable match—
A suitable match!
—and plans will progress immediately upon your return
.
First, your coming-out cotillion:
time is of the essence, so
we may not wait for the social season
,
but instead will proceed with
a small, tasteful
coming-out party
hosted by your aunt
.
Then expect a proper engagement with announcements
and a ball in honor of your betrothed
to be given by your mother and me
as soon as propriety permits—
Oh, dread! Who can it be?
I skip ahead through all the parts
about persevering in my studies
and how “delicate” my health has been
since that “sudden brief fever”
at the club last year.
I try not to revisit
the long night in the carriage,
my inexplicably quick recovery,
and the interminable weeks confined to bed anyway.
You will be under strict supervision this summer
.
Cavorting with unseemly acquaintances
,
thus jeopardizing your health
and your good standing in society
,
will not be tolerated
.
Mother will escort you to meals
and one hour of bathing in the lake daily …
etc
.
etc
.
etc
.
Oh, by the way, the chap is Andrew Forrester—
That dullard!
Your mother says he looks quite dashing in his jodhpurs
.
He has been all over the world big-game hunting, you know—
I know. I know!
He cannot help but remind one,
seemingly with every breath.
Always posing
with his dusty stuffed animal heads.
Reliving some tiresome story
of stalking through the jungle,
or stalking through the savannah …
always ending with
POW!
and pretending to shoot something.
—Forresters are an impeccable family. Could not ask for better
.
And they are equally pleased with the alignment
.
I
know
you will do right by this family!

And
I know
that he wants me married off quickly—
in the event that Estrella’s secret gets out,
I will already be “settled.”
Mere suspicion can be damaging enough,
and no one in society
would consider aligning
with a family disgraced.

In the crosshairs of an arranged marriage,
I continue to write to Peter every day,
hoping his feelings have not changed.
But
I
have changed:
I already knew he was the one for me,
but now,
in this silence …
I realize I cannot endure
a life without his love.

Wild with imaginings,
I spend my last days in Switzerland
gripping the balusters of my balcony,
searching the gray sky for answers.
Is he thinking of me?
Does he feel the same as before?

Not knowing
is actually worse
than bad news.
Not knowing
has shaken me,
until all other fear
falls loose.

PRE-SUMMER SEASON
1889

En Route to the Allegheny Mountains

Celestia

Father comes alone
to fetch me at the harbor.
He hands me
my embroidered bag,
which Mother has filled
with a few summer things
and a lavender note saying
that we will all be together soon.
Not all! Not Estrella
—I clench my teeth
and crumple the lie in my fist—
and not her baby
.

Of course Estrella cannot write
to tell us about the child—
or if she did, Father would burn the letters
privately, secretly,
as our society dictates—
but I pray that
both are alive and well.
Will I ever know?

We take the train directly to South Fork
without first going home to Pittsburgh.
A bit ahead of the resort season,
we will wait there alone
for Mother—and other club members—
to join us.

“We are going to have a quiet summer, young lady.”
Father, holding a big black umbrella,
hands me into the carriage at South Fork station.
“None of that nonsense like last year.”
“Yes, Father,” I shout over the din of rain.
He climbs in and shuts the door,
whisking rain off his sleeves.
“I should have had that boy fired.
I sent word last month, but they assure me
he is no longer in their employ.”
“Oh?” I try not to look too interested.
The whip cracks;
the carriage jolts forward.

Father turns his attention back to his papers,
but quickly succumbs
to the rocking motion
and nods off.
I remove a passel of envelopes
from the lining of my jacket.

My fingers instinctively find my favorite
letter from Peter
and I read it again,
even though I can recite every word.

Dear Celestia
,

Remember my favorite fishing hole?
That’s where I first saw you
.
It’s all covered with snow now
,
but I pretend you’re there
,
reading a book in the sun
,
and you can hear me
.
I tell you everything
,
starting with how much I miss you…
.

The incessant rain on the roof
of the carriage
is deafening.
The threat of a wheel loosening
or sticking in mud,
or a washout on the road
prevents sleep from coming.
We creep toward Lake Conemaugh.

I long for the featherbed,
a hot bath poured with steaming kettles,
and perhaps a game hen or quail
with early potatoes and fennel.
But the season has not yet begun
and most staff are not in residence.
What could be my last night
of luxury
will likely include
a musty room in need of airing,
a bowl of tepid water,
and a dusty biscuit with salt pork.

Father snores
through the interminable racket.
He does not suspect that tomorrow
I will risk losing him
and the comfortable life I know.

Tomorrow I set off to find Peter.

South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club

Lake Conemaugh

Celestia

We arrive well past midnight.
Givens waits with an umbrella
to escort us through the mud
to the clubhouse.
Father offers to carry me across
to save my new shoes—
kidskin,
soft as gloves,
with beadwork
and satin ribbon,
fresh from Paris.

I consider these shoes
and what kind of life
they would carry a girl into.
A chateau or villa
with gardens
in the summer, and
in winter
a house in town
with parties
and a deep soft chair
by the fire,
with walls and walls of books,
children snuggling in and
demanding bedtime stories,
tea in fine china cups.
A perfectly lovely life
in many ways,
but I cannot conjure up the man
who fits in that picture—
husband,
father for those children,
reader by the fire….

I would rather have no husband
than the wrong husband.

I pull on my overshoes
and splash my own way
to the steps.

When Givens and his crew bring up the bags,
I corner the young stable hand.
He says that Peter received word from the valley
that he was needed
at home.

I sneak down to the pantry
for whatever I can stash in my pockets.
I have a little money in my purse.

I look in on my father sleeping
and say a silent goodbye.
Perhaps I will be back before dinnertime,
before Father even notices I am gone,
if Peter has truly cast me aside.
But then, perhaps
it is goodbye forever.

Johnstown

Peter

So tired.
The stove’s gone out again
and the ceiling’s dripping in one corner.
I can’t seem to raise myself.

When will this hell of rain end?
I haven’t seen the stars in so long.

Conemaugh Valley

Celestia

In Peter’s world
I will not have carriages,
so I walk.

Instantly drenched
and cold
in the predawn fog,
I am relieved to reach South Fork,
where South Fork Creek meets the Little Conemaugh,
and board the train.

The sky is white
and the rivers reflect it,
surging over their banks
and through the woods,
trees black and shining wet.

On any day,
just before dawn,
the world is black and white
like a photograph
and the colors come gradually.
But today they never come.

I feel entirely unreal—
like this colorless world
must be the view through a stereopticon,
and I have gone to live in its images.
When I close my eyes,
and open them again,
I will surely be snug and dry
in my bed by the window,
watching the mist lift off Lake Conemaugh,
safe in the embrace of my family,
not this specter
without form
or mass.