FIFTEEN
A Business Decision
Failed?” Mama said. She actually sounded like it was a surprise, yet she repeated the World editor’s words. “We’ve failed?”
“You’re ten days past the adjusted date,” he said. He tapped a pencil on his desk, didn’t look right at us.
“Because they didn’t account for my daughter’s ankle sprain, which is ridiculous. We made it within ten days, for heaven’s sake. The press across the country touted our walk and the reform dresses. That’s what they wanted. The time we had to stop and work to earn the money we needed to support ourselves equaled two months. We’re here, with proof.” She showed him the signatures. “We demonstrated a woman’s stamina.”
“But not on time,” he repeated. “Not on time.”
“Come along, Mama,” I said taking her elbow. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“But—”
“We’ll write about your arrival,” the editor said. “Maybe you can sell more photographs and get speaking engagements, though during the holidays it’s difficult to draw a crowd. I …” He fiddled in his pocket, took out his wallet. He put a five-dollar bill on the desk, slid it toward us.
“We don’t need your money,” Mama said then, standing. “We certainly won’t take charity. We earned that ten thousand dollars. If I could please talk—”
“Mama,” I urged, “take it.”
“The truth is, a couple of the sponsors are out of the country,” the editor said. “And those who are here don’t feel they can make any adjustments without the vote of everyone. I’ll make certain they see these signatures,” he added.
“When might they all be here?” I asked.
“Oh, not until the summer,” the editor said.
“The summer,” Mama whispered. “We have to be home before then.”
“I’m sorry.” He pushed the bill closer to Mama.
I snatched it up.
“Do you suppose they’re having lingonberry sauce and sour cream pudding at home?” I said. We’d rented a room at a Manhattan hotel. “Or maybe lefse and lutefisk. Or the almond cookies that Bertha makes. And do you think Ida could make the julekaga?”
“Not the bread, but the other. I’m sure she could do that,” Mama said. She pored over the newspaper clippings. In the two days since we’d arrived, there’d been several articles about our walking “success” and our business “failure.” Letters to the editors supported us receiving the award, but that had little merit. The sponsors didn’t.
I hated being right. I did.
“I wish we were there with them,” I said. Thoughts of family made me wonder about my father again, whoever and wherever he might be. I thought of Ole too, how he must have taken the news that the wire service sent to the Spokane papers too.
The Estbys would spend Christmas Eve together around the fire. They’d probably exchange few presents with money so tight, but they’d have the pleasure of each other. They’d play games and maybe reread letters sent by Mama and me. I’d written postcards addressed to Lillian, but the newsy ones came from Mama.
My brothers and sisters … No, half brothers and sisters. That’s how I would need to think of them now. I was not only a year older on this trip; my family had changed too. I’d lost them as full brothers and sisters. Any children my natural father might have would be only half to me too.
I was all alone.
“We have to go back to the newspaper offices,” Mama said, standing. “Bring all of these clippings to verify where we were and that we accomplished this goal. If we hadn’t had to work to make expenses—why, a cat could have made the journey if it didn’t have to beat rugs for a meal.”
“And if I hadn’t sprained my ankle or gotten sick so much.”
“The time is less significant than that we did it. Walking all the way but for one little wagon ride near Walla Walla and the electric car in Pennsylvania, both allowed. They were free. It’s scandalous that they’d withhold the money because of a few days’ time. It’s not right.”
“But those were the conditions,” I said. “Maybe they never intended to pay, thinking it so unlikely we’d succeed.”
“Don’t talk dumb,” Mama said. She stuffed notes and photographs in the grip, put her purse inside along with my curling iron, all our goods.
“We don’t know how safe the hotel is,” Mama said. “We take everything with us. We’ll go back. Get the editor to wire the sponsors, wherever they are. The New York Times even ran a story this morning, Clara. They love the signatures we gathered. Come along. We need to return and finish this contract so we can buy train tickets and go home.”
She was wasting our time talking to the editor. Maybe after January she could make some presentations and we’d collect enough for the journey. One had to face facts; Mama wouldn’t.
“We need to find a charitable society who might be willing to fund our train ticket home,” I said.
“What, beg? Never. That’s immoral.”
“It’s simply accepting money,” I said. “It’s no different from Papa receiving union payments for his injury.”
“It’s every bit different from that.” I thought I saw fear in her eyes, maybe for the first time on this entire trip except in the lava craters. “He earned that pension, as we earned our walk. We do not beg, Clara. An Estby does not beg. We will find a way to complete the contract and get home.”
“We have to cut our losses,” I said.
“Where do you hear such talk?”
“At the Stapletons’, the Rutters’ before that. It’s business, Mama.”
“How can you be so cold, Clara?”
“Cold? I’m not cold at all. These are the facts, Mama. We made a contract; we didn’t keep it. It’s no different from what will happen if you can’t make the mortgage payment.”
She slapped my face then, the sting shaped like her fingers staying with me even as I added through stinging tears, “It’s business, Mama. We misjudged our sponsors and our abilities, and we failed. I want to get home however we can.” She stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if my words or her action distressed her more. “It’s the day after Christmas, Mama. The editor may not be in. He may be spending time with his family. Like I wish we were.”
“You can come with me or stay,” she said.
Against my better judgment, I followed her, wishing later that I’d stayed right where I was. And yet I told myself, wrongly, it couldn’t get worse.