A Dream to Follow (17 page)

“You don’t have to make a decision now.” Annabelle covered her daughter’s hand with her own. “For all you know, your interests will change, and—”

“No, Mother, don’t keep hoping that way. You raised me to think for myself and to care for others. I
will
become a doctor. It’s just how and when that is not yet clear.”

Annabelle sank back in her chair. “What if they won’t let you into medical school?”

“Then I’ll find another way. But I
will
find a way.”
And, Mother, there is a way, just perhaps not the easiest
.

Her mother’s sigh spoke only of disappointment, but not of giving up. Elizabeth felt like sighing herself. While her mother was not vociferous with her disapproval, Elizabeth felt it keenly. Glances, sniffs, and sighs could communicate a wealth of opinion. Changing the subject was always a good line of defense.

“Have you gotten the tickets yet for the Chicago fair?”

“Yes, they came yesterday. I have both our train and hotel reservations also. We leave on July first. Your father will come to join us for the fourth. I’ve heard rumors that the Fourth of July celebration will be a stupendous spectacle. I cannot wait to see the French Pavilion. Parlez-vous Français?”

“Of course, and it might be a good chance to practice my French.”

“And German and Italian.” Hands in the air, Annabelle sketched an all-encompassing gesture.

“Not that I’m that fluent in the latter two.”

“Your father speaks excellent German, as you well know. Ask him to help you.”

“Actually he wants me to help him down at the paper. With all the time I’ve put in helping Dr. Gaskin, I’m behind in the accounts again.” Elizabeth laid her napkin on the table and pushed her chair back. “I better get on down there and see what I can do.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Don’t hold supper for me. I’ll be home late.”

“Remember that the Audisons are coming for supper tomorrow night. They are bringing a cousin along.”

“Male or female?”

Her mother’s slight flinch answered.

“Never mind. I shall be here, but I am not looking for a marriage partner.”

“I know, dear.” But had Elizabeth been looking in a mirror, she would have recognized that the stubborn tilt of her mother’s chin nearly matched her own.

The stroll down to the newspaper office took her past yards with honeysuckle-sweetened air, two pinafored girls laughing and playing fetch with a dog, and a gnome of a man calling hello from a rocking chair on his front porch. Having lived in Northfield all her life and having walked this route almost daily, she knew and greeted them all.

The bell tinkled over the door when she pushed it open and stepped into her world of newsprint. A thudding printing press released the bite of ink into the air, and her father was uttering some rather uncomplimentary words to the aging equipment. He needed one of the new printing presses she’d seen advertised in a catalogue, but since she did his accounts, she knew he could not afford one. She took her place at the front desk, opened the account book, and began filling out invoices.

She didn’t realize the presses had stopped until her father laid a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m going home for supper. You want to walk with me?”

“No, thanks.” She smiled up at him. “You better wash first.”

“Ink on my face?”

“Umm.” Her glance perused his shirt. “Didn’t you wear your apron?”

“Of course.” He looked down at the inkblot on his linen shirt. “I need one that covers me head to foot.” His sigh told her they both knew what he would hear when he walked in the door at home. “So are you ashamed to be seen walking your old man home?”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I need the time to get your accounts in order so you can buy that new press you need so badly.” She motioned to the books in front of her. “If you kept these in the same good shape that you do that monster back there . . .”

“That monster is what keeps us in business. Most people get around to paying me sooner or later.”

“Usually when they want to place another ad.” She sent a look ripe with rebuke. “Some haven’t paid since the last time I billed them. Like Flanagan’s Market.”

“Ol’ Mike’s going through a hard spell since his wife died. He’ll get around to paying me when he can.”

“What about the creamery?”

Her father shrugged.

“And Asplund’s Smithy?”

“Are they behind too?” He peered over her shoulder, shaking his head. “I didn’t mind carrying old Oscar, but that young whippersnapper . . . Send ’em a bill and add on a hefty charge for being late again.” Her father stomped across the room to the hat rack by the front door. “I’ll remind Mother to keep your supper warm.” He huffed once more before the bell announced his departure.

It was quiet but for the cleaning noises coming from the pressroom, and Elizabeth settled back into her job. The stack of invoices grew with the passing minutes, accompanied by sighs as she found some accounts seriously in arrears. After she finally closed the book, she took a stack of envelopes and began addressing them, folding the papers to insert in the envelopes before sealing. With each one she thought to the recipient, alternately praying for them or uttering imprecations upon their heads. How could so many take advantage of her father’s good heart?

“Are you leaving, then?” She looked up to see Hans leaning his elbows on the counter and staring at her, hound-dog eyes sorrowful as ever.

“No. I’m waiting for you.”

“Why would you do that? I told you—”

He raised his hands as if to fend off blows. “I know, but your father told me to wait and walk you home. He don’t want nothing happening to you.”

As if you would be any help in an attack of any kind
. She snorted and jerked her head briefly in disdain.

“Now don’t go gettin’ all het up. I do what your Pa says, or I lose my job.”

“Like when you—”

“You said you would forget all about that,” Hans broke in.

“I know.” Elizabeth felt her high horse stumble. He was right. She wasn’t being fair. Her father was the one she should be after, not poor Hans. Muttering more to herself than to him, she shut the books and straightened the desk. All the while she could feel his gaze following her every motion. She fumbled and dropped the big ledger, sending papers flying every which direction. “Now look what you did!”

“Now, Miss Elizabeth, I didn’t even go near to you . . .”

She clamped her lower lip between her teeth and counted to ten. “I know that.”
Why am I being so hard on him? What’s the matter with me?
She picked up the book, shoved it in place between three others and slammed a hunk of granite as a paperweight on the stack of haphazard papers. She’d straighten it all tomorrow when she didn’t have an audience.

“Here.” She thrust the stack of envelopes into his hand and crossed to turn off the gaslight. Glancing around the room in the glow from the streetlight, she pushed a chair back in place and let him hold the door for her.

“Ain’t you going to lock it?”

Elizabeth gave him a questioning look. “Since when?”

“Since that money was gone the other day.”

“What money was gone?”

“Five dollars from the cashbox.” The look in his bony face clearly stated his wish that he’d never brought this up.

“And who does my father think might have taken it?”

“Don’t know. He just said to lock the door from here on out.”

Why in heaven’s name didn’t he tell us? Or tell me at least?
But she knew the answer. Her father couldn’t bear to face the censure from her mother, who frequently admonished him to stop being so trusting. Like some of the accounts that she’d read were paid in full. She knew of one debt for sure that he’d forgiven because of a tragedy of some kind. He’d so often said, just like the doc, that a bill hanging over someone’s head was like the French guillotine about to fall at any second. A man could hardly hold his head up under the weight of it. If the debt was forgiven, her father believed that the man could build his business better, and the next time he would pay promptly or not run an ad.

They’d reached the post office by this time, and she waited while Hans leaped the steps three at a time and shoved open the heavy brasstrimmed door to slide the letters into the mail slot. She sniffed the breeze, catching remnants of a fried chicken dinner, the night-blooming nicotiana, and freshly turned rich garden dirt. Her ears hurt from half listening to Hans’s rambling tale by the time they reached her gate.

“Thank you for walking me home.” She pushed the gate open and slipped inside. “I will tell Father that you did your duty nobly.”

“Good night, miss.” Hans touched the brim of his porkpie hat and, shoving his hands into his pockets, headed off, whistling a tune just enough off-key to set her teeth on edge.

Elizabeth greeted her parents, then headed straight for the piano. For the next hour the notes spread like a balm over her spirit, soothing the ache in her heart that she didn’t understand.

The young man who accompanied his relatives to the Rogerses’ house the next night made her teeth itch again. Sitting across from him, Elizabeth felt like kicking him under the table, if her foot could only reach that far. If he smiled once more at her in that condescending way, she’d slump down in her chair far enough to ensure that her foot connected with his shin, no matter what her mother would have to say later.

“Surely you’ve been to see the art exhibit at the World’s Columbian Exposition.”

That did it. Elizabeth dropped her napkin onto the table and pushed back her chair. “Excuse me, please, I have a headache.”
And an ache in my back. Just let me out of here
.

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.”

My right foot, you are. You don’t know what sorry even means
. Refusing to look at her mother, Elizabeth turned and sailed out of the dining room and up the stairs to her bedroom. When she thought about it, she really did have a headache—one compounded by the look on her mother’s face when she introduced her only daughter to the insufferable, pompous donkey down there. If that was what wealth brought, she wanted none of it.

Once in bed, guilt stole in on the breeze and hung in the air, taunting her.
You could have been polite a few more hours. You know your mother considers him a fine catch
.

A rumbling purr told her Jehoshaphat had nudged open her door. He leaped up on her bed to knead his head under her hand.

Elizabeth flipped over on her side, the better to pet her cat. She grabbed a picture of the bones of the hand from the table by her bed and, starting at the fingertips, began naming them. Distal phalanges, middle phalanges, proximal phalanges, and metacarpals Soon the rhythm of Jehoshaphat’s purring lulled her to sleep.

A pounding on the front door below her window woke her some time later.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Help me. Please help me!” The pounding on the front door sounded as urgent as the cries for help.

Elizabeth leaned out her window into the moonlit night. “What do you need?”

“My baby, he . . . he ain’t . . . he ain’t . . .”

“You need to get the doctor.”

“He must be out on a call. He don’t answer the door.”

And Dr. Johanson is clear across town
. Elizabeth considered the options. “Where do you live?”

“Out beyond the college. Can you come? You helped deliver my boy.”

“What is it?” Elizabeth’s father asked from right behind her.

“The man’s son . . .” She leaned back out the window and made out the man’s face in the moonlight. “I remember where your place is. You go on and see if Dr. Johanson can come. You know where he lives?”

“Yes. But you’ll come right now?”

“I’ll take you out there.” Phillip Rogers spoke over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

Elizabeth called out the window again. “You go on. We’ll be at your place as soon as we can get there.” She pulled her head back in and dashed for her armoire, pulling her nightdress over her head as she went. Dressed in seconds, she bundled her hair into a snood when she reached the bottom of the stairs. Her black bag, a gift from Dr. Gaskin, sat by the door. Taking her instructions from the doc, she kept the bag packed with emergency bandages, salves, sutures, and supplies necessary for birthing. As she climbed into her father’s buggy, she remembered she hadn’t learned what happened to the little boy.