C
HAPTER
4
E
ven at this early hour, pedestrians crossing the street had to step carefully to avoid the pungent dung piles. Horses and buggies already had to compete for space on the street with men in caps, pushed back high on their foreheads, pulling carts covered with heavy, stained canvas and with electric streetcars, attached to the air by wires, clanging down tracks in the middle of the road. Despite the warm air, smoke from chimneys curled up from all parts of the cityâthe power plants, the forges, and the mills had begun the workday. I'd forgotten why I'd always risen early, not because my profession demanded it of me, but because I was accustomed to it. The city awakened before dawn. And this morning had been no different.
After promising Mrs. Chaplin I'd be ready when the carriage arrived to take me to the lake, I'd returned to my hotel. The St. Charles Hotel was an unassuming three-story brick building with two wings, a central second-story balcony, red-and-white-striped awnings, and a corner entrance, a few steps away from the streetcar tracks on Fifth Street. It was nothing like the Pacific House over on Third and Francis or the Arcadia Hotel in Eureka Springs, but it was respectable, reasonably-priced, and far better than I was once used to.
With the events of the day catching up to me, I'd avoided the dining room and had gone straight to bed. I'd fallen almost immediately to sleep, but after a few hours I tossed and turned as images of rearing horses, caskets, and the scowl on Ginny's gentle face filled my head. Eventually I gave up on getting any more rest. I splashed water on my face, pulled my hair into a bun, and changed into my golden brown bias skirt and my new tan-and-white-striped shirtwaist with excessive sleeves. I pinned my braid straw with the yellow silk bow on my head and went for a stroll to reacquaint myself with the city of my birth.
But things had changed. As I strolled up and down the busy city blocks, the sunrise was often blocked by the towering rows of three-, four-, and even five-story buildings. The changes clashed with memories that I held dear. Some were expected: Some of the streetlamps had been converted from gas to electricity (St. Joseph being one of the earliest adopters of electricity), many of the streets were paved black with asphaltum, unsightly wires and telephone poles forty or fifty feet high were prominent, and the streetcars no longer relied on horses or mules to pull them along the rails laid in the middle of the streets. But there were other, more startling changes as well. City Greenhouse, where my mother bought a bouquet of flowers for every occasion, had occupied the block that was now Smith Park. Not a hint of the massive greenhouses remained. The slopes of the hills east of town were completely covered with houses, both large and small, as far as the eye could see. The ridge north of town, where I once played in overgrown empty lots on Hall Street, was occupied by mansions, smaller but similar to those in Newport, with elaborate stonework, stained-glass windows, expansive lawns, and carriage houses.
No wonder they need so many streetcars,
I thought, as the fifth streetcar in twenty minutes clanged by.
Thousands more people now lived here, many of them rich and prospering, and the city was sprawling in every direction but west. Only the expanse of the Missouri River had kept St. Joseph from spreading in that direction. That it had continued to grow ever since didn't surprise me. When my father arrived just before the War broke out, St. Joseph was one of the most important cities in the country. Serving as the western terminus of the country's railroads, operating as the eastern terminus for the Pony Express mail service, and offering telegraph service to the east, St. Joe was a major staging point for the Oregon-California Trails, a major steamboat hub, and one of the major connections to California and its huge gold reserve.
But it was also growing up: Single-story buildings, though not common in my youth, were now almost nonexistent. Businesses had expanded, been rebuilt, or been forced to move away. For every shop I recognized, there were three others that had different establishments operating or were completely gone. Where a livery once stood, there now towered a four-story dry goods warehouse. Where there was once an undertaker's, there was now an insurance company. Every other shop was a dressmaker, grocer, or saloon. I'd seen drastic change in my youth; in the year I turned eight alone, I saw the demolition of the market house, the start of construction on City Hall, and the end to river ferries when the iron bridge was completed. And yet it was still disorienting to see such change.
Therefore I was thrilled and relieved when I saw H
AMLIN
M
ILLINERY
in bold white letters on a square sign jutting out from a strip of buildings on a once well-known corner. I'd purchased my first hat from Mrs. Hamlin. I'd used my own money, earned from reading every Sunday afternoon to the blind butcher's widow who smelled like cabbage and stale tobacco. The millinery shop wasn't open yet, so I admired a currant red straw with exquisite white egret tips and a decidedly continental military air about it in the window. And then I caught sight of my reflection.
There were dark circles under my eyes, pronounced freckles across my nose, and my long neck was a bit saggy and thin. At the back of my head, a long curl, as usual, had escaped the pins and was trailing down my neck.
It's not just the city that's changed,
I thought.
I shouldn't be surprised that no one treated me the same as before, not Ginny, not even Mrs. Chaplin. I'd changed. I was now either the infamous Hattie Davish, tainted forever by the unfortunate events of the past year, or the woman who worked for Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew. I'd hoped to be recognized for who I was, but that was foolish of me. What I'd seen and done in the past ten years had molded me into a person even I wouldn't recognize if I'd passed myself on the street.
What would my parents think?
I wondered.
I tucked the loose strand of hair under my hat before adjusting my head below the hat in the display, blurring its image with that of the hat on my head. I smiled at my reflection and liked the woman who smiled back. A shopkeeper emerged to rearrange the window display, catching me admiring my image. She smiled, but I stepped back, feeling silly, and hastily turned away. But the moment of confidence and self-approval hadn't completely dissipated.
They would be proud,
I thought, as I spied the new models of Remington typewriters in Wyckoff, Seamans & Benedict's window a few doors down. E
VERYTHING FOR THE
T
YPEWRITER,
a sign in their window declared.
Yes, my parents would be pleased to know how successful I'd become. But what of my less agreeable traits: my impatience, my newly acquired readiness to lie or hide the truth, and my curiosity bordering on nosiness? Would they overlook those and recognize my need to do whatever was required to keep my position? Would they recognize me if they saw me on the street? To my shock and delight, I got an immediate answer.
“Hattie? Little Hattie Davish?” a voice called, interrupting my speculation. I turned to see that I'd passed Boone & Bro. grocers. Unlike many of the businesses I'd passed this morning, it hadn't changed a bit. And neither had the man smiling broadly at me from the shop doorway, wiping his hands on a white apron.
“Could that possibly be Mary Margaret McAnich's daughter before me?”
“Good morning, Mr. Boone,” I said, returning his smile.
Mr. Boone had owned and operated Boone & Bro. grocers since before I was born. He'd opened the store with his brother, Jacob, hence the name, but soon after Jacob Boone joined the Pony Express. When that ended, he headed west. As long as I could remember Mr. Boone had a full head of white hair, even in his youth. Now in his middle fifties, it was more appropriate but gave to my eye the sense of agelessness.
“You're looking well,” I said, approaching him.
“It is you! I barely recognized you!”
“I visited your store every other day for almost seventeen years, Mr. Boone. How could you say such a thing?”
In fact, not only had I been a loyal customer, it was well-known that Mr. Boone had been my mother's suitor before my father arrived in St. Joseph. There had been an unspoken agreement between them to marry. “Poor Rufus Boone,” my mother used to say. “From the moment I met your father, he didn't have a chance.”
But oddly, Mr. Boone, as far as I could tell, harbored no ill feelings toward anyone in my family, though he insisted on using my mother's maiden name. Instead, he treated my mother and then me as special customers, always finding us the freshest blackberries (my mother's favorite) or holding aside a pound of hazelnuts when a shipment came in. Granted my father never once stepped foot in the store, out of courtesy or out of fear of what Mr. Boone might do, I never knew. But either way, I'd always regarded Mr. Boone as a friend of the family.
“But that's when you were a little girl. Now look at youâa grown woman!”
“I was seventeen the last time you saw me.” I laughed. “Hardly a little girl.”
“A fine lady, I should say.” He nodded his head with approval. “Your mother would be proud.”
“Thank you, Mr. Boone. I'd like to think so.”
“Oh, she would. She would.” He reached out his long, broad arms. “Not too old or too fine to give your old friend a hug, are you?” I shook my head and happily let him wrap his strong arms around me. He pulled me close and tight, almost choking the breath out of me before holding me out at arm's length. “Still as skinny as a rail, I see. But you look good. Something must agree with you. Is it working for the rich ladies or finding them dead in their trunks?”
I cringed as yet again someone mentioned a piece of my past I'd rather forget. He, on the other hand, laughed wholeheartedly at his tactless jest, letting go of me and holding on to his belly trying to contain himself. Finally, he noticed the expression on my face.
“I'm sorry, Hattie. I couldn't resist. I've followed your escapades in the paper. You're quite famous around here, did you know?”
“Yes, I'm beginning to realize that.” First the mourners' reaction at the funeral and then the students from the school and now Mr. Boone. I'd misjudged how my misadventures would be perceived by those who knew me.
“What's it to be, then? Mrs.?” I cringed again. “Who's the lucky man that benefited from the biggest mistake my boy ever made?”
“I'm still Miss Davish, Mr. Boone.” I smiled, trying to take the sting out of admitting I was in danger of becoming an old maid.
“What? How can that be?”
“How is Mrs. Boone?” I asked, changing the subject. Despite his unrequited love for my mother, Mr. Boone did eventually marry.
“Mrs. Boone is well. And . . . since you're both still unattached, you might be interested to know . . .”
His hesitation could only mean one thing. He was about to relate some news of his son, Nathan, someone else I knew well as a child. Nathan was a well-known Christian name in Daniel Boone's family. The irony was that Mr. Rufus Boone wasn't related in any way to the famous frontiersman. Mr. Boone had named his son Nathan because it would “be good for business.”
“That Nate performed for Queen Victoria last week?” My reply was slightly more sarcastic than I intended, but then again Mr. Boone's jest at my expense still stung.
“No, actually he played at the World's Fair last week. Nate hasn't played for Her Majesty yet, but he has played for several presidents. Did you know he played at President Harrison's inaugural ball?”
“No, I didn't.”
And I don't care,
I wanted to add but didn't.
“Yes, he's been to the White House many times, but that's not what I was going to say. No, what I wanted to tell you was that you've timed your visit right. Nate's due home any day. We haven't seen him since he started that tour of Europe. Now isn't that a coincidence?” He winked at me. And then he frowned. “Are you all right, Hattie? You've suddenly gone quite pale.”
I was speechless. What was the likelihood that Nate Boone and I would both be in St. Joe at the same time? Could it be a lamentable coincidence or was there more to it? I'd wrongly assumed Ginny had sent me the funeral announcement for her father in the mail. Then who did? Could Nate have lured me all this way because he knew he'd be here as well? Would he stoop to playing such a nasty trick? But to what purpose: to gloat, to try to win me back, to apologize? None of it made sense. I hadn't heard one word from him in almost ten years. Why now?
Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six
. . . I counted in my head as I unclenched my fists.
“Hattie?” Mr. Boone's face was full of concern.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Boone. I'm fine. I was marveling at the amazing coincidence.”
“Yes, it is amazing. We'll have to have you over for dinner once Nate gets home. You don't still eat like a bird, do you?”
“I appreciate the invitation, but I came for a funeral and I don't anticipate being in town long. My employer expects me back in Newport by the end of the week.” It was a complete lie and yet I hadn't hesitated.
Definitely one of the ways I'd changed that neither of my parents would approve of, I thought. And yet I didn't regret saying it. I'd no intention of crossing paths with Mr. Nathan Boone and yet I didn't want to hurt the feelings of his dear father.
“Well, maybe next time then. Did you come for the Hayward funeral?”
“Yes, Virginia Hayward was my closest friend at Mrs. Chaplin's school.”
“I don't know the family, but it was in the
Gazette.
Terrible way to die.” He scrunched his nose and grimaced. “To be trampled by a horse. A customer came in this morning saying he was disfigured.”