Loving Frank (9 page)

CHAPTER
12

A
fter a week with the Browns, Mamah moved with the children into a boardinghouse run by the organist at Mattie’s church. Their little dormer bedroom in the brick and clapboard house was cramped and had only a sliver of a view of the mountains. She found the place appealing anyway. It was kitty-corner across Pine Street from the Carnegie Library, just three blocks from Mattie’s, and a short hike away from the stores on Pearl Street.

Marie Brigham was a widow, a big-boned, plain woman with a web of red veins that slid down the ridge of her nose and spread like rivulets across her cheeks. She was the classic boardinghouse landlady—a survivor. Mrs. Brigham went about her business with a cheerful matter-of-factness, changing bed linens and cooking breakfast as if she’d chosen to, as if it were not the only trade a widow could ply.

Good black coffee could be had every morning by seven, and most days Mamah and the children were at the kitchen table by then.

“It’s summer that’s the best in Boulder. No question about that.” Marie wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “There’s the annual trip to Ward over the Switzerland Trail.” She winked at John. “The train always stops so you can get out and throw snowballs.”

“Can we do that?” he asked.

“You bet,” Mamah said.

“The circus will be here in a couple of weeks. There’s a summer program over at the school. And Clara Savory’s got story hour going on every day in the library. The kids can practically…”

Marie didn’t finish all her sentences. She reached over the stove burners and lifted an iron pan off a hook, humming a little.

“One thing you got to watch for in Boulder, though,” Marie said a minute later. “Tuberculars is everywhere. They come here for the cool air, but they bring the phthisis with ’em. People in Boulder like to pretend it ain’t a problem. Bad for business, you know. But I warn my guests.” She peeled thick strips of bacon into the pan. “You can catch it on your shoe just walking in their spit.”

John, the worrier, bent over to have a look at his soles.

“That’s why anybody stays here,” Marie said, “has got to leave their shoes on the porch.”

Mamah and the children had fallen into line on that policy. She felt relief to be away from Oak Park, even if she was surrounded by sick people. In the mornings they walked the flagstone sidewalks, exploring the town, watching their step. The bright summer light of Colorado really did feel healthful. She thought of the streets at home, where workmen would be pouring oil about now to keep the dust clouds down, as they did every summer. Boulder’s blue skies made Chicago seem a coal mine by comparison.

She gave herself until July to clear her head. There were plenty of other things to focus on. John came down with a bad sore throat and cold the third week of their visit. His upper lip was rubbed raw from swiping it with a handkerchief.

“I hope I don’t have nose fever,” he said. He was lying on his cot next to the bed she and Martha shared. “If you drink too much sarsaparilla when you have nose fever, you can die.”

Mamah choked back a laugh. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Mrs. Brigham.”

She felt his forehead. “You know, people don’t always say things quite right. Even grown-ups. There’s no such thing as nose fever, sweetheart.”

Mamah vowed to get them out and around other children. They needed more friends than Linden and Anne, Mattie’s kids. A few days later, she enrolled them in the day camp at Mapleton School for a couple of mornings a week. Then she walked across the street to the library and found Clara Savory in a harried state.

“Could you use a volunteer? Maybe I could work on the card catalog?” Mamah asked.

“I would be eternally grateful,” the woman said. “I haven’t a moment for Melvil Dewey.”

Mamah worked at the library two mornings a week after that, spending an hour or two organizing the library’s collection. Sometimes she took over story hour and read to the children to give Clara a break.

In the afternoons, with the children ambling behind her, she headed to Mattie’s. Her steps always slowed as she passed a bungalow on Mapleton. It had window boxes full of orange poppies, and she found herself picturing Martha and John lolling on its wide front steps.

“LOOK IN THE PAPER,”
Mattie said to Mamah one afternoon shortly after they had arrived at her house. She was sitting in a heavy oak and leather chair in the living room. “There’s a whole circus schedule in there today.”

Martha and John ran off in search of Linden and Anne while Mamah collected the newspaper from the kitchen. She had offered to take all the children to the parade and big-top performance the next day. Everyone was wildly pleased by the plan except Mamah, who hadn’t mentioned to anyone that she despised the circus. Well, not the entire circus, just the clowns—all that manufactured merriment. She pitied the elephants, too.

“Mattie, have I mentioned how bad this newspaper is?”

“The
Daily Camera
?”

“Since I got here, they’ve given a front-page column of every issue to Billy Sunday. And they’ve got one of his followers actually writing the column. Seriously. They put a little disclaimer up at the top, but it’s one of his own people giving Billy all this front-page coverage.”

“Oh, I know, it’s awful,” Mattie agreed. “We’re such hayseeds out here.”

“Listen to this headline,” Mamah said incredulously. “‘The dance is a sexual love-feast!’ Now I’ve got to read the thing. Let’s see…seems the Reverend Sunday met a woman at one of his revivals in New Jersey. Oh, it gets good here.

“‘She had hair like a raven’s wing,’ said Reverend Sunday, ‘a Grecian nose and great big, brown eyes, oval face and olive complexion, and long tapering fingers—a girl that anyone would turn to look at a second time, the prettiest girl that I ever saw, except my wife.’”

“He calls his wife ‘Ma.’ Isn’t that sweet?” Mattie interjected.

“Ma Sunday’s no fool.” Mamah laughed. “She travels with him. Makes sure he keeps the old tallywhacker tucked in.”

“She must know he has a weakness for tapered fingers.”

“‘She loved to do it,’” Mamah read on, injecting a lascivious tone. “‘I found her on her knees crying and I said to her: “What is the matter?” She said, “I love to do these things that you preach against.” “You mean adultery?” “Oh, no, no!” “You don’t drink whiskey, do you?” “Oh, no!” “What is the matter, then?” “Well,” she sighed, and said, “I love to dance.” ’”

Mattie laughed helplessly. “You know this isn’t going to end well.”

Mamah’s eyes skimmed down to the bottom of the column. “And sure enough, here it is. Seems she went to a dance, went home with a married fellow whose wife was away, and died in his house because he had spliced together the gas stove’s rubber hose with a garden hose.”

“Not a very bright fella, I’d say.”

“It’s all that ‘Sinners in the hands of an angry God’ business I can’t bear,” Mamah said. “We laugh, but some people read this newspaper and actually believe it.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Hand me that paper.”

Mamah passed the newspaper over to Mattie.

“Two rolls of White Rose toilet paper cost fifteen cents on sale at Crittenden’s. I choose to believe that. Wilson Hardware is having a little puzzle contest just for girls.” Mattie turned a page. “Hmmm…the program at Chautauqua tonight has your name written all over it. They’ll be playing opera songs on the Victrola and showing stereopticon pictures of the singers. Sounds wonderful.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, here we are. ‘Michigan University alumni will swim and feast at Eldorado Springs Saturday. It will be a joint outing of the Rocky Mountain Association and the Woman’s U. of M. Club.’” Mattie put down the paper and looked at Mamah. “There. You have no excuses to mope around.”

“I haven’t been moping, have I?”

“Well, given the circumstances, you could be worse. What I mean is that you’re doing what you’ve always done, darlin’. You ruminate too much. Just go out and do something new. You can leave the children here anytime.”

“All right,” Mamah said. “All right.”

CHAPTER
13

I
n July, Edwin’s letters began to arrive at the boardinghouse. Written on Wagner Electric stationery, they all said the same thing.
I love you. I forgive you. We can overcome anything.

Mattie’s husband Alden arrived home just after the Fourth with fireworks from San Francisco. He held his own independence celebration on July 6, setting off Roman candles and blazing yellow stars that chirped like orioles in the middle of the street. The children hopped up and down on the lawn, squealing while the neighbors cheered wildly. Mamah realized Alden was something of a romantic figure in Boulder, a “dashing” gold miner, if such a type existed.

During the week he was home, Mamah took dinner with him and Mattie. One night when Mattie trundled off to bed early, Alden offered Mamah wine in the den.

“Just a touch,” she said.

Alden talked on, regaling her with stories of the wild characters he’d lived with in Jamestown and other mining camps.

“Colombia!” he shouted after a couple of shots of whiskey. “That’s the next frontier.”

“You mean South America?”

“I do indeed. That’s where a man goes these days if he’s in my line of work.”

“Have you mentioned that to Mattie?”

“Not yet.” He laughed. “She has other things on her mind.”

Mamah could tell he was serious, and it dawned on her that their married life was more difficult than it appeared on the surface.

“ALDEN’S VOICE CARRIES
when he drinks,” Mattie said the next day. “Don’t worry. He won’t run off to Colombia. He couldn’t bear to be away from us that long.”

She looked enormous that morning, her belly swollen into a great mound. “I can’t even see my feet anymore,” she moaned.

“I can see them. They look pregnant.”

“They get that way every time I carry a child.” Mattie sighed. “Do you remember those Port Huron days? We swore we’d be old-maid teachers before we became housewives.”

“We almost managed it. I believe you held out longer than I.”

“Not on purpose. When Alden showed some interest, I nearly conked him on the head and hauled him off like a cavewoman.”

Mamah laughed. “I think Alden did all right for himself.” She thought of her own wedding. “It’s sad my mother never lived to see me get myself down the aisle—it was what she wanted most in the world. At the end, she rued the day she sent Lizzie and Jessie and me off to college, because none of us was married when she began failing.”

“She probably wanted things settled,” Mattie said. “She wanted to know you were all safe. I knew your mother. She was proud of you.”

“Oh, at first I think she was proud. She wanted us to have the chances she never had. But to tell you the truth? I think at the back of her mind, she believed that having cultivated daughters would mean better marriages for all of us. Instead, off we went to work. She was disappointed at the end, no question about it.” Mamah nodded thoughtfully. “She came to think that education had made us unsuited for marriage. And sometimes I think she was right.”

“You’ve grown a bit dark on the subject.”

“Well, in those days I thought the world was on the brink of change. But look at us. It’s 1909. I couldn’t have imagined back then that we wouldn’t have suffrage by now.”

“These things take time.”

“I’m weary of it,” Mamah said. “All the talk revolves around getting the vote. That should go without saying. There’s so much more personal freedom to gain beyond that. Yet women are part of the problem. We plan dinner parties and make flowers out of crepe paper. Too many of us make small lives for ourselves.”

“Does my life look like that to you?”

Mamah was taken aback by the question. “No, Mattie. You do important work in this town. You know what I mean.”

MAMAH DROVE MATTIE
down the hill that afternoon to a fruit stand she liked.

“So, how were the hordes at the library today?” Mattie asked.

“Lively.”

“Clara Savory is divine, isn’t she?”

“She has been, until I let it slip that I have a master’s degree. She cooled a bit after that.”

“Is she intimidated by you?”

“She hasn’t any formal training, you know. I’ve never mentioned that I ran the library in Port Huron, and naturally, I defer to her. But sometimes I’m able to answer questions she can’t, and that makes her uncomfortable. Before I left today, out of the blue, she said to me, ‘I work from eight in the morning until ten at night. And for that I get eight dollars a month. Along with living quarters, which is a room in a boardinghouse.’”

“Hmm.”

“I haven’t spoken a word about my situation. Is it obvious that I’m at loose ends?”

“It doesn’t matter what Clara Savory thinks. It’s what you’re thinking that interests me.” Mattie’s gaze demanded an answer.

“I suppose I’m trying on Boulder. Seeing if it fits.”

“You’re serious about leaving Edwin, aren’t you?”

“I am. But every time I think about starting a life here, I come up against the hard realities.” Mamah found a parking place and turned off the car.

“Let’s imagine the very best of circumstances. Let’s say Edwin agrees to a divorce and, by some miracle, allows me to have the children most of the time. He agrees to allow us to move a thousand miles away, and he even supports us. I am still a marked woman, even in Boulder. The moment I’m no longer a visiting married woman but a divorcée, even my volunteer work will be in jeopardy. No one wants Hester Prynne running the children’s story hour.”

“Oh, you exaggerate. Boulder isn’t that backward.”

Mamah helped Mattie down from the car and held her arm as they walked to the fruit stand. “Or,” Mamah continued, “let’s say that Edwin allows me to keep the children but supports only them, not me. Now, I must work, since my family money would run out in a year, and that’s stretching it. Never mind that I wouldn’t be invited to the teas you attend. As a librarian, what would I make? Ten dollars a month at best? I’ve spent that much on a hat.”

They waded into the crowd at the stand.

“First of all,” Mattie said, “you would make more money than that. Second, you wouldn’t have to be a librarian. And third, you might consider buying cheaper hats.” Mattie leaned toward Mamah. “There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” she whispered. “There’s a woman who heads the German language and literature department over at the U. of C., Mary Rippon. Been there for years. Word is out that she’s retiring.” Mattie set down the basket she’d brought. “I was feeling hesitant to tell you, but if you really want to move here, then you should apply for the job. The timing is miraculous, and there’s no one better qualified than you. Alden and I know the president of the university.” Her words were quick with excitement. “And you’re not divorced, not yet. You could say your husband will be joining you later, and after a while, if it doesn’t get patched up with Edwin, well, it wouldn’t matter anymore. You’d be indispensable by then.”

The two women stared at each other under the canvas of the fruit stand. A murmur filled the space as people picked up melons and tomatoes, traded gossip. Beyond Mattie, Boulder spread out and up into the hills, unfolding its possibilities—all the shops and schools and people and rugged geography waiting to be discovered.

“You should get over there immediately, though,” Mattie said as they returned to the car. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

They drove back up the hill, Mattie staring pensively out the side window, until they pulled into her driveway.

“A woman can make her own way here,” she said. “It’s not easy. There are women all over Boulder who do it every day. Mary Rippon’s job may be one of the finer ones, but it’s still hard work. She hasn’t had much of a personal life.

“For the record, Alden works himself ragged. I don’t think men have things any easier than women out here. Everyone works hard. I can’t recall the last time I made a crepe-paper flower.”

“Oh, Mattie! You know I didn’t mean—”

“It’s just…. Sometimes, Mamah, I think you’ve lived a privileged life since you married Edwin.”

Mamah looked down at her shoes, stung.

Mattie patted her elbow. “Living out here will give anyone perspective.”

THE FOLLOWING WEEK
Mamah bought a dress and jacket on Pearl Street, something that looked appropriate should she manage to get an interview at the university. Mattie had sent off a letter, and they were waiting to hear something. The August heat was stifling as she walked up the hill toward Mapleton carrying the new dress, eager to show it to Mattie. When she arrived at the house, though, the nanny handed her an envelope embossed with Frank’s emblem, a red square, and addressed to her in care of Mrs. Alden Brown. Mamah slipped out onto the porch to read it.

Mamah,

I write with some trepidation, given our last conversation. It counts heavily against me that you haven’t written, yet I believe your feelings for me have not disappeared. Words were left unspoken when we last met, and my hope now is to clear up any misunderstandings.

I’ve been so consumed with untangling myself here that it may appear I haven’t taken into full account your situation and the high standards of your own intellect and spirit. The fact is, I never thought of you as “following” me to Europe. It is not my intent to seduce you into “breaking free.” All along you’ve told me that freedom is not something that can be conferred on you by someone else anyway. It is something you have inside of you, a way you choose to be.

You’ve talked about your longing to find that thing—that gift—which makes your heart sing. If it’s writing, as you have suggested in the past, might you find inspiration to begin that work in Europe? Consider joining me for a month or two, not as a follower, but as a fellow truth-seeker on her own spiritual adventure.

My plan is to stay in Berlin for as long as it takes me to complete folio drawings for Wasmuth and to make sure that the printing is acceptable. I’m guessing that will be anywhere from nine months to a year. I am leaving here and traveling sometime in late September or early October. You know how I feel. I proceed now, intent upon squaring my life with myself, divorce or no.

My fondest hope is that you will come. I shall happily wait until your friend has had her baby so that you might join me.

If you decide not to come, I won’t judge or conclude that you have chosen against freedom. I hold the deepest respect for you.

Please send me some word. I think of you hour to hour.

Frank

Mamah stroked the heavy paper, smelled it. She carried the letter around the rest of the day tucked in her cotton waist.

His voice was in her ear after that. On Friday she walked to the telegraph office and wired Frank a message.

        
MATTIE DUE SEPTEMBER
25
. MBB