Authors: Michelle Woodward
Martha laughed and swatted him playfully. “You should’ve. It would have been a much better start than knocking me over.” Her smile faded, and her eyes grew serious. “But Eddie…are you sure? I’m so happy if you are, but I don’t want you to change your mind in a week. I need you to tell me why you’re sure.”
Eddie nodded, grasping for the right words. “It’s a feeling,” he said after a moment. “It’s like you said before, everything has a solution. You taught me a new way of seeing, and it just changed everything. My heart’s been so black all this time, I thought it was rotten…but it just needed a new coat of paint.”
Martha grinned. “My, that’s beautiful. Are you writing your vows as we speak, Mr. Poet?”
Eddie laughed and kissed her again, but she broke away early.
“Before I forget,” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to say…you taught me something, too. When I got here, I was expecting some mess of a man that I’d need to fix or nurse back to health. But you’re already so strong…” she shook her head, her eyes full of wonder. “You’re adding color to my life, Eddie James. You painted
my
heart, too.”
Eddie’s lips were sore by the time they got to breakfast, and by the end of the day, his cheeks hurt from smiling. He wrote a letter to his uncle, picturing the look of joy and simultaneous disbelief that would overtake him when he read the news. They joined Evan and Cheryl for dinner that evening, and Eddie’s heart melted when he saw how sweetly Martha interacted with the children. Evan was watching him through the night, and before they left, he pulled Eddie aside.
“She’s really something, huh?” Evan asked, nudging Eddie conspiratorially. “You look like a new man! Better color, eyes not as puffy…you even look like you’ve been eating better. You guys gonna have kids?”
Eddie looked at Martha as she said goodbye to the babies, who were already wailing for her return. “Maybe,” he said, smiling broadly as she stood and walked toward him. He thought about what she’d said---
you painted my heart, too.
Eddie thought he would die if it were true; Martha’s beauty was so pure and lovely, he knew he had no part in it. But he liked that she insisted that he did. She was a work of art, and he was just starting to appreciate her masterstrokes. Eddie knew he was lucky to even be in her presence. She grinned at him and took his hand as the left. The colors of the sunset in front of him reminded him of her hair, and he wondered if he could replicate it with a brush. She saw his far-away look and smiled.
“What are you thinking about?” she teased.
Eddie smiled and squeezed her hand as he answered. “My muse.”
THE END
Had you told me I’d lift up stakes and move to Chase, California, I’d have called you a plain fool. Such a notion as distant, transcontinental travel has never appealed to me, to be quite honest. My neighbors have often commented on my homebody nature to my father while doing business.
“How is your Minnie, today, Joseph?” A customer might have asked my father not so long ago, while placing his order for flour, molasses, and other sundries.
I carry in my mind a warm picture of my beloved father in his long, shopkeeper’s apron standing behind his counter, unhurriedly putting the order together. There is never cause for hurry in the company of old friends and with good conversation at the ready, he was fond of saying. “Same as ever, I should imagine. Buried in her books, disinterested in the wider world.” They might then share a laugh and afterwards speak of much more interesting matters of the world within Brooklyn, assess the economy, or comment on the progress on the building of the Panama Canal. All topics were of interest at Wilson’s Dry Goods, and if I were lucky enough to be part of the conversation, father would tolerate my views in instances in which other men would expect women to be seen and not heard.
I loved him for his kind heart and open mind. I miss him every day.
I will confess, with some small degree of shame, that the idea that I prefer confinement within my own four walls would have been a far too accurate image of your narrator. I have, until now, lived much of my life in my own imagination. It had never been my expectation that adventure would find me, nor that I would do more than marry, attend church, raise children, and die an old woman in Long Island like so many generations before me.
I often felt that father and mother wished me to live beyond the confines of our rooms. Two of their four children set out to fight for the great cause of our time; one came back after the Union had been saved. My sister, Ida, died tragically young and within days of my mother being carried off by consumption.
It was in the summer of 1879 that my father died peacefully in his sleep, leaving only my brother James and his young wife Anna Belle for me to live with. I fear that my nature has never been compatible with my elder brother’s. It was after a particularly heated debate some weeks after my father’s funeral that Anna Belle took me aside for a discreet conversation.
“Minnie, James loves you. You do know this?”
“I suppose. He has an uncommon way of expressing such love!” I was still quite red in the face after our row. His insinuations against the writings and character of Mr. Thoreau had quite unnerved me, as well he knows the author to be a personal hero of mine.
She sat me down at the small kitchen table in the family home, an intimate setting for private discussions, away from the much grander dining table in the adjacent room. My brother had taken to his heels following our conversation, no doubt to walk off his own upset through numerous laps around our block.
“Listen,” Annabelle said softly, holding a magazine in her hand. “I don’t wish you to think me too bold in what I say, but it strikes me that this arrangement will only result in heartache for you both. Living in the shadow of your father in this house has soured both your temperaments. I wanted you to know that I am talking to James about selling the house. I’d like for us to move closer to my parents in Indiana.”
This came as quite a surprise to me, I can tell you, and I recall my eyes flying wide open at the suggestion. “Oh! But the business? What will come of it? And… and… I don’t know anything about Indiana. I don’t know if I’d be comfortable there.”
She looked pained and sighed. “You are welcome to join us, of course. You are family, and you have no one else here, so we will not abandon you to the world. But, dear,” and here she took both my hands in hers. “You are pretty and young. Will you not make some effort towards meeting with suitors?”
I will confess to you, reader, that I had made no such effort. The men of Brooklyn are of a good nature, have decent upbringings, and are not uncomely to look upon. However, I had hoped to maintain my independence for a few more years. At 22, I felt that I was far too young for marriage. Though it is, to be certain, fine for many a young woman even younger than I was, I could not see it suiting my character well. And there is another matter that I hesitate to mention.
I don’t consider myself homely, but I am, and there is no kind way to say this, extraordinarily tall. It is a fact that when I stand, I tower over the vast majority of men of my Brooklyn. For that reason alone, I have seen far less interest cast in my direction than a girl could hope for. It can be rather demoralizing.
“Are you familiar with this magazine?” She passed to me a volume of
Ladies’ Monthly Chronicle.
I admitted to her that though I had seen it, I had never pursued its contents. She directed me to the back.
“Here you may find many good gentlemen correspondents eager to meet a woman if pure heart and suitable character. My own friend Myrna Highgate took to corresponding with a man who had sought his fortune in Colorado. They have a pleasant life, with many children and all the bounty that country has to offer.”
It was the “many children” that gave me cause. No doubt I spoke stiffly when I took up the magazine and assured her I would give it thought. In truth, I did not for a good week afterwards. But curiosity got the better of me and soon I did find I was in conversation with a man by the name of Eli W. Pierce. Even after enough time had elapsed that I felt comfortable attempting a new life in his promised haven of California, I could not suspect that we would find love while coming so close to dying in each other’s arms.
---
My Dearest Minnie,
My heart fairly races to know that soon you will be on your way to be with me. It’s my greatest wish that you should be happy and safe here by my side as soon as possible.
There is much I look forward to acquainting you with in Chase. We are situated on the banks of a gentle river aptly named the Feather a tributary of the Sacramento, that great northern, winding ribbon of water in the center of our broad valley. We have a fair view of mountains within this basin, a panorama I hope you will come to love.
These are settled lands, though you may have heard otherwise. As we have discussed, I came here with my father and his brothers who sought their fortunes in the waning years of the rush. I have seen much change to these lands in that time. Instead of growing their wealth through mining, the families instead helped pioneer Chase, and in this way we have become the respectable family of the town. I think you’ll be pleased by the sophistication to be found in even such a small town as this.
I’ll not go on and on with this letter. It is enough to know that I will see you soon. I hope that you are delighted in meeting me as I have been by the photograph and locket you have sent ahead.
Yours,
Elias
I looked over the letter once more time before carefully tucking it away in my bag. The ship lurched suddenly, causing me and the other passengers below decks to gasp in fear. I heard them shifting in their seats, and worrying to one another.
“Have you ever seen such a storm!” I was seated next to a woman dressed all in pink and black named Ida Beaumont. She was looking most distressed. The poor young thing had been looking exceptionally green in tint since the
Samuel B. Thompson
had picked her up in New Orleans. I had also struggled with the stomach upset initially, but somewhere off the Carolinas I became much more comfortable.
“It is to be remembered.” I remarked.
“To be remembered, should we survive it.” She responded, miserably. At this, I clucked my tongue disapprovingly.
“We must be made of sterner stuff, Ida! Where we go, the pioneers are putting down their stakes, turning the rough land into fields and orchards. It’ll be fine. Put your faith in that.” I didn’t entirely believe my own words, but I suspected we’d be all right. I had chanced to pass a sailor on my way to the sitting rooms, and he looked as carefree during the worst of it as a child at play. I imagine the time to worry in such situations is when the expert is in clear fear for his life.
I had hoped that perhaps my friend would find her constitution by the time we reached the Canal, but it was not to be. For my part, I marveled at the astonishing feat of engineering, a testament to man’s ingenuity even in the malarial climes. Fortunately for a few of my passengers, I had secured a good supply of quinine prior to our journey. Though it was never my intent, I made a small profit in selling of much of this medicine to those who could afford the purchase and insisted upon reimbursing me, as I did not become ill. I was not entirely industrious, as a few who could not afford full reimbursement were given my medicines for free. At any rate Ida’s sickness seemed to be entirely of the sea-going variety.
We were struck by yet another massive blast from the fierce waves, and a few of our companions tumbled to the carpet. I allowed Ida to brace against me and held her so she wouldn’t end up in a heap with the others.
I found that despite the terrors of the sea and the rumor that we risked being dashed upon the rocks of the Baja Peninsula, I was surprised to find I was having the time of my life. Never before had I or any member of my family ventured so far south or west on the globe! Whatever the life ahead had in store for me- and I did presume I’d arrive, my companions grim words notwithstanding- providence had given me the chance to see the world in a way so few had done, or perhaps ever would again. I knew it would be without propriety to do so, but I excused myself and made my way along the wildly sloping hallways to a stairwell I knew of. It would lead to the deck, and I felt a sudden desire to take in the air.
It wasn’t possible to step a foot on deck, no matter my efforts, but I was able to lift my head and body above the deck itself and look out. The scene was one of the most astonishing that I have ever laid eyes upon. As we pitched and were tossed about in the storm, I could just make out the shape of the Mexican shoreline through ropes of lashing rain. I was soaked through the moment I had ascended the stairs, and I could just make out a lone sailor not far from my post, trying his best to reach the stern. He was gripping the railing with a steely strength, not unlike my own efforts to maintain my place on the stairwell. Above us, the sky was the grey of iron, and with each up and down upon the water, I thought I knew somewhat what Odysseus felt on his return to Ithaca. I do not fancy myself a heroine in the mold of Diana. But I do know what it feels like to be held captive by the sea, and that it is to give one’s future over to nature and the uncontrollable wilds.
---
We docked in San Francisco, happy, whole, and very much alive. Not so much as an adventurous sailor had fallen overboard.
I bade farewell to Ida and we made agreement to stay in touch. I asked that she visit me at her earliest opportunity, and she agreed. At the arrangement of my fiancé, I had expectation of a hotel room for the night. The next morning, I took my leave of Ida, who had expectations of meeting her own fiancé in that same city on the bay that evening. I will not tell you all the tales of my continuing voyage to Chase. We crossed the Bay by a much smaller boat, took a train to Sacramento, and from there departed for a lengthy overland rail journey to the former gold fields of the north.
The further north we travelled, the smaller the villages and towns we encountered, until such time as I was obliged to depart the train and secure a carriage for the final stretch. Some of these communities I would call mere hamlets with no more than a scattering of wooden homes to indicate life. When we reached Chase in the early hours of dusk, I had no great expectations for civilization. I was not disappointed in that thought.
It was with a weary heart that I appraised my surroundings as my dusty boots left the wagon’s step. I had seen my share of dime-store novels and Wild West adventure tales sold in Brooklyn. The tired, dark wood buildings bore all of these trappings amidst the shortgrass expanse before me. It was true that a winding little river could be spied to my south, and it meandered far and way to its presumed source in the nearby snowcaps. For natural beauty, I could not have asked for more beyond the borders of the village, in particular as the sun began to set in the west.