A Deceptive Homecoming (4 page)

“Yes, I wouldn't have known him.”

Mr. Boone held open the door for a woman with two empty baskets in her hands. “I must get back to my work, Hattie, but it was great to see you.”

“And you, Mr. Boone.”

Wouldn't have known him,
I'd said without thinking. As I returned Mr. Boone's wave before he disappeared inside his store, I immediately recalled my thoughts yesterday at the funeral.
Could there be any doubt?

A
fter my encounter with Mr. Boone, I strolled down Edmond Street, passed the elaborate limestone City Hall and its market, dodging vendors and customers bargaining with each other over the colorful fruit and vegetables in stalls lining the sidewalks, passed the new electric powerhouse, with its assortment of poles and wires, and headed toward the river. I lifted my skirts and carefully navigated the railroad tracks that ran alongside. After a bit of looking, I found a grassy spot on the muddy embankment and sat down. The riverside, completely deforested and eroded with only weeds to hold back the mud, was nothing like the idyllic Cliff Walk I'd hiked in Newport. And the water was dirty brown.

There was nothing aesthetically pleasing about it, but it was the river of my childhood. I lingered there, watching as a steamboat pushed back from the dock, its twin chimneys spewing black soot into the air. A dozen ring-billed gulls squawked, squealed, and flapped furiously high above the churning water. I pulled up some Kentucky bluegrass and tossed it, hoping, in vain, that it would catch in the wind and fall into the river. Instead, it blew back toward me.

I gazed downriver to the iron bridge. Spanning hundreds of feet across, it was St. Joseph's only connection to Kansas. I'll never forget the day the bridge opened. To commemorate the occasion, there had been a parade that stretched for six miles, the longest parade in the city's history. After growing tired and sore from waving my flag and craning my neck to see all the wagons, dignitaries, and marching bands, my father let me sit on his shoulders. That night everyone in the city poured back into the streets where the parade had passed, and danced beneath the light of Japanese lanterns. Now it was just an ordinary day on the river.

After several minutes, a train entered the center of the span from the Kansas side. Within seconds, it rumbled across the bridge, blocking my view of the foot and horse traffic crossing on the side lanes. The ground trembled beneath me as another train approached from the north. I held on to my hat as it whisked by. I read CB&Q as it passed, heading toward the depot.

What am I waiting for?
I wondered.

I stood, brushing soot from my shirt and grass from my skirt, and headed back across the tracks. I strolled by the Tootle Opera House, a large, imposing square building that covered a quarter of the city block on the corner of Fifth and Francis streets. The five-story building was constructed of red brick, ornamented with fine-cut limestone in front, and embellished with ornamental cornices. I'd never been inside, but I'd heard it described as “truly magnificent.” When I was small, I'd accompany my mother on her errands. Regardless of where our shopping would take us, we would inevitably walk past the Opera House, my mother hoping to catch a bit of music reaching the street as the musicians practiced inside. It was quiet now.

What was that?
I thought.

I headed toward Felix Street when a sudden chill ran down my spine. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to find someone walking too close behind me. No one was there. But hadn't I heard footsteps? Directly across the street, a man in denim overalls and a navy blue cap stood in front of a tailor's shop, his back to me. With one hand holding a pail of soapy water and a rubber scraper in the other, he was obviously preoccupied with washing the windows. A young woman walked toward me with a jilting gait that sent her fluted brimmed straw hat flopping down over her brow with every other step. A group of talkative nuns carried woven baskets full of produce halfway down the block. I'd been completely at ease by the river a few minutes ago. Why was I suddenly jittery?

“What's the matter with you?” I said, berating myself out loud.

I brushed some more soot off my sleeve, straightened my hat, and continued down Fourth to Felix.
The White Way,
as it was known, was, even in my youth, one of the busiest commercial streets in all of St. Joseph. My father had chosen well when he bought his shop there. I turned the corner and stopped. A man, with the broad brim of his Panama hat pulled down over his eyes, muttered something as he barely avoided walking into the back of me. I didn't care. I ignored his grumbles as he stepped around me.

From where I stood, the triangular State Savings Bank towered over the traffic of pedestrians, while buggies and wagons with their numerous horses all vied for a space to hitch. One team and wagon was parked in the middle of the street. Being without a driver, it forced others to drive down the wrong side of the street. On the north side, a row of attached limestone and brick buildings, individualized with awnings or lack thereof, differed in cornice ornamentation, glass storefronts, and signs. All but one building was three stories; I headed straight for the two-story building at 405 Felix Street.

I hesitated outside, gazing up at the second-story windows, trying to picture the parlor they belonged to. I imagined my mother in her rocking chair next to the window, darning socks, shucking peas for dinner, or playing her fiddle, while I did my schoolwork sprawled out on the carpet floor. My father smoked his pipe and read his newspapers across the room in his armchair.

Home,
I thought.

And then I stared at the shop door. The storefront was as much home as the rooms above it. This was where my father reigned as one of the most profitable hat merchants in St. Joseph. This was where, after my mother died, we'd sit together at a little table in the back room and pick at whatever the housekeeper had cooked for us. This was where, hiding behind the counter pretending to do my homework, I'd learned the values my father cherished: quality of service, quality of product, loyalty and friendship. This was where I'd listen to my father debate with fellow fanatics the various abilities of baseball players or the decisions of the ball clubs' managers and owners. I didn't know until I was twelve years old that there were other sports besides baseball.

Everything about our life together was embodied in this two-story building. And it looked exactly the same as I remembered it: the green-and-white-striped awnings, the whitewashed pilasters around the recessed doorway, the metal step with the maker's mark, H
OERMAN
B
ROS.
M
ANUFACTURING
C
O.
W
ASHINGTON,
KS, slightly worn down from thousands of feet treading on it, and even the sign, D
AVISH'S
F
INE
H
ATS FOR
M
EN,
painted in bright gold letters across the top of the storefront window. And wasn't that Mr. Minier coming out of the shop? One of my father's most loyal customers had aged considerably since I'd seen him last, but he was sporting the latest in men's haberdashery.

I took a deep breath, straightened my hat, and reached for the door handle. The same familiar bell rang as I entered. I was immediately brought back to my youth by the smell of silk, felt, and furniture polish.

And then I stopped, frozen in the doorway. Like the exterior, the interior of the store hadn't changed either, except for the hats displayed on the various stands throughout the room. The oak hat stands, the glass counters, the brass lamps, and the chandelier were all as my father had left them. The same Persian rug my father bought from a wholesaler months before he died lay in the middle of the room. Tears filled my eyes when I discovered that even the hash marks my father had used to measure my growth on the back of the tall mirror hadn't been painted over. It was as if my father had stepped out of the room for a moment. I was overwhelmed with memories of my life with him and my loss.