Mercy Road Read online

  At the back of the hotel, the room Maman and I would share must have once housed servants before, but the hotel owners had made improvements for us. Some inexpensive artwork hung on the walls, the windows gleamed, and the furnishings consisted of an iron bed, a good mattress, some small tables, and one chair. A worn rug patterned with pink cabbage roses covered the floor.

  Maman sat on the edge of the bed and said, “Well . . .”

  I sat down next to her. “Yes . . .” Though always close, we had never shared a room, much less a bed.

  She sighed. “I do hope it won’t be long.”

  “That reminds me.” I pressed my hands onto my knees and stood. “I must prepare for tomorrow. It’s about time to call upon some people.”

  “Oh, Arlene,” Maman said. Her strength waxed and waned, and I never knew what mood she would evidence. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you. I know you made a joke about nabbing a husband, but I’ve always pictured you giving in and marrying someday. After you’ve worked in this town, however, like . . . like . . .” She knew what she wanted to say but searched to find a softer word.

  “Common folk?”

  She nodded but looked ashamed of herself. A kind person, she nevertheless sometimes fell victim to the beliefs of her generation and society, one that often divided and classified people. She gathered herself and went on. “Once you’ve worked in this town, no real gentleman will want you.”

  I almost laughed as I walked to the window, where I threw open the curtains. I placed my palms against the sun-warmed glass. “Let me worry about that.”

  “You won’t worry about that. You’ll ruin your youth and looks by worrying about money instead.”

  The next day I walked through town to inquire about available positions. I called on Papa’s friends and business associates. Inside his office, Mr. Patterson spoke tersely with concern. “I thought you weren’t going to tell anyone about your . . . situation,” he said. “I’ve already heard people on the street gossiping about it.”

  “And what am I to say? That I’m seeking employment and living in a room in town with my mother because I think it will be fun?”

  He shook his head.

  For days I talked to managers at the stores and hotels and to our friends, all to no avail. Instead of receiving support, I experienced something like a shunning. Almost a shaming. Then again, some people believed others’ bad luck could rub off on them. Maybe I now trailed tragedy behind me like the train of a soiled gown.

  I missed Papa so much I felt hungry all the time, but when food was put in front of me, I could scarcely touch it. Before then, I hadn’t fully conceived of the idea of death; I hadn’t wanted to believe that it walked the path of our lives at our side and could so suddenly take away anyone, even a person most precious to us.

  Next, I inquired at the telephone company, and for the first time, a manager ushered me inside and granted me a real interview. But after talking for a while, he informed me he had no current openings. Once he’d shown me to the exit, I stood back on the street letting yet another disappointment sink in. Someone ran up behind me.

  “Arlene, Arlene, wait up,” she called out and stopped me. One of the operators, but I didn’t know her. “Are you looking for work?”

  Then I recognized her. Bethany Masters. We’d gone to high school together but had never known each other well. As Maman would’ve put it, we traveled in different circles. But I remembered her because in our small class, she and I were the only redheads.

  I answered, “Yes, I am.”

  Breathless from running, she said, “Look, you won’t find anything in this town. Even lots of men are out there seeking work. I landed this job two years ago in a stroke of luck. Once we get on, we don’t quit unless we get married. But they’re looking for women factory workers in Cincinnati. They pay a lot more up there.”

  My shoulders sank. “Cincinnati?”

  “Yes, it’s a distance, but you’d get to live in the city and get away from all . . . this,” she said and blinked. Her eyes, bright and utterly clear, told me exactly what she meant. Even she had heard about my father.

  On the streets earlier that day, I’d come quietly upon a group of gentlemen and overheard, “Who knew he didn’t have sense when it came to money?” Those words like broken glass against my skin. Sometimes fates simply changed, but people would forever blame him.

  Another man said, “Those poor women and that boy. They’ll never recover.”

  Back in the moment, I told Bethany, “You’re right. I’ve found nothing in town. So perhaps I can work in Lexington and ride the Interurban every day back and forth.”

  “You won’t find much in Lexington, either. You’ll make a lot more money faster if you head up to Cincinnati. Lots of us working girls want to go, but most of us can’t.”

  I mulled it over for a moment. If I made the kind of money paid in a city, then I could perhaps have a real shot at rebuilding. And if I left, Maman would have the room at the Fordham to herself, Luc could take care of himself on the farm, and I could make our dream happen faster. Too bad, though; I couldn’t go that far away from Maman and Luc after all that had happened.

  Besides, I’d never left home and had considered it only once before, when the US entered the war almost a year before. I’d mentioned volunteering for the Red Cross to my parents, even though it would’ve hurt my heart to go away, even temporarily. But my father rather adamantly shook his head. Papa had also forbidden Luc to even think about joining up, citing his age, but plenty of boys were lying about their age to get into the army.

  But as more days went by and then a week and then another, during which the people who did the hiring turned me down in place after place, both in Paris and Lexington, the idea of Cincinnati returned to me. One afternoon I took a walk to clear my head before having to tell Maman that I’d failed to get a job yet again.

  When I reached a place to view Stoner Creek, I gazed down at the rushing water. Due to spring rains, the creek ran muddied and mad, but powerful. I’d always had a penchant for moving water—rivers, streams, waterfalls, and creeks. Never stagnant, they always flowed onward to other places. Like a horse at a full gallop, the flow was smooth and lovely, strong and unstoppable.

  Three days later, the time had come for me to go. Now I had to tell Maman and Luc.

  Chapter Five

  CINCINNATI, OHIO

  APRIL 1918

  Exactly one month after Papa’s death, I embarked on the first leg of my journey. I boarded a steam locomotive on the Louisville and Nashville Railroad in Paris that would pass through Cynthiana, Falmouth, and smaller town stations on its way to Cincinnati. So far, I’d spent $2.10.

  As I walked the aisle of the carriage, my thoughts drifted to my conversation with Maman during which we’d talked about this plan. A resigned look on her face, she’d said, “You have to go now; I see that.”

  The life insurance money had finally come, but I used most of it to pay off the funeral home. I’d given the rest to Maman for the room. After selling the Chevrolet, I gave all the money, minus ten dollars, to Luc. Olive had given me some more clothes, shoes, hats, and an overcoat. She also loaned me a traveling satchel. I took the ten dollars with me.

  Before I left, Maman had handed me something. A photo of Papa with someone I knew—a much younger Mr. Edwards, my father’s friend who had taken us in after the fire. Maman said, “He came by earlier today after he located it in his things. It was taken almost twenty years ago, when you were but a toddler.”

  In the slightly faded and yellowed photo, my father and Mr. Edwards faced the camera and stood with their arms draped across each other’s shoulders. They both wore big smiles, and in the background, one could see a racetrack.

  “The Edwardses’ horse had just placed in the Derby. Mr. Edwards knows we have no photos of your papa . . . I want you to take this with you.”

  Still entranced by the photo, I hadn’t yet registered what she’d said. Papa so young, so happy, so ha
ndsome, so lovely. And his smile! Finally I looked up at Maman. “No, you must keep it. This treasure should stay with you.”

  “I insist,” Maman said. “Take it, please. Your father would’ve wanted that. After all, Luc and I have each other, but you’re going onward alone.”

  Grateful beyond words, I nodded and then placed the photo in my traveling satchel. As I mulled over the things I still had to do, I felt Maman looking at me in a strange way.

  When I met her eyes, she said, “I can see that you’re worried. But you’ll learn. You’ll adjust. Just remember why you’ve gone away, and always remember to set your own sails; otherwise it won’t be your journey. And it will be your journey, my dear, one that I hope eventually brings you back to us.”

  I said, “Of course I’ll come back.”

  “Come to think of it, you already know how to set your own sails.”

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “Look at you. You’re doing it.”

  When I’d told Luc I planned to leave to find work, he cried. What a terrible thing to witness—a young man weeping despite all he’d been taught about male conduct. Now came the real end of innocence, the dissolution of all we’d ever known, and, cruelly, so much of what we also loved.

  I had looked away so he could have his moment. “I’ll take enough for train fare and a boarding room until I get a paycheck. I’ll write as soon as I have a place, and then you and Maman must keep in touch. Write me anytime, and let me know how you and the horses are doing.”

  When Luc had calmed, he blew his nose into a handkerchief. Sticking to the business side of things on purpose, I supposed, he’d asked, “How am I to stand Chicory without you?”

  “You’ll have to hire help. Every week or so, I’ll send money. I’ll send money as soon as I can.”

  Now as I left it all behind, I wanted more than anything to bolt and run back for safety. Until I remembered that I was my mother’s hope and my brother’s keeper, and my father would’ve expected no less of me. And so I took a seat.

  The train was nearly full, making me wonder why others were traveling on this day. A cluster of children who smelled warmly of milk sat in the rows in front of me, overseen by a matron wearing a ribboned and netted hat who kept them in control. Other than a few couples, the other travelers looked like businessmen in their suits. One man wore evening attire complete with a tie pin and a smartly buttoned vest. He held a bouquet of red roses, and on occasion their scent drifted my way.

  My breath made a dewy circle on the window glass as I gazed beyond it. The journey took half the day, and each time the train clacked across another bridge or huffed up and over another hill, my former life fell farther behind me. Others on the train looked relaxed and maybe even bored, whereas I couldn’t stop doing sums in my head and wondering where I would sleep that night.

  The evening before, I’d saddled Chicory, hiked up my skirt, and ridden that beautiful animal, allowing him to do as he pleased. He galloped for a little while, then cantered, and finally paused to tear at some new spring grass emerging in the pasture. With only stars as our ceiling overhead, I buried my head in his mane, wrapped my arms around his neck, and felt him breathe. I had no idea when I would return. I had no idea when I would ride again.

  Most of the terrain I saw from the carriage felt familiar until we reached the Ohio River. Thereafter my gaze went adrift in that vast waterway. Whitecaps curled along the surface the way I imagined they did in the ocean. Even barges below felt so small. I’d never seen so much water before, had never been to the ocean or the Great Lakes, and it moved me. It seemed like a signal that my luck would soon change.

  The station in Cincinnati was called the Pennsylvania Depot, and for a moment I feared that I’d arrived in the wrong state. But as I stepped away from the depot into bright sunlight, I saw a newsboy selling copies of the Cincinnati Enquirer, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The sun warmed me, and all the people bustling about gave me a small burst of unexpected energy. Some good daylight hours still lay ahead, and my instincts told me to search for a job first, then find an inexpensive room later on.

  So I parted with some of my dear coins, bought a copy of the paper, and soon spotted what I had hoped to find—several ads calling for women workers. Before I left home, Mr. Patterson had advised me to look for industrial work, as it would most likely pay the best. One ad called for women workers in a machine shop. It paid eleven dollars a week to start, more than I had expected. The factory was located in Oakley, however, a place I’d never heard of.

  Carrying my small case of clothing, I began walking down the street. I found the heart of the city a dense jungle of stone, brick, and concrete; it was as if I’d staggered into a maze. Dozens of buildings, all of them at least four stories tall and a great number of them taller, and so many automobiles in one place, sharing the roads with clacking electric streetcars. People walked briskly about on the sidewalks, hopped in rumbling taxis, and ducked into stores and restaurants as if on important missions. They evoked ease and purpose, and I envied them; they knew where they were going.

  A man on the street told me Oakley lay on the outskirts of the city, and I would have to take a streetcar to reach the factory. The prospect of figuring out the streetcar system was daunting, and I worried I’d never find a place to stay if I ventured so far. So I went back to the newspaper, where another ad caught my eye.

  It called for French-speaking female drivers. I had no idea what kind of company would seek French-speaking female drivers and why, but curiosity drove me to ask a woman on the street for directions. She told me how to get to the address, only a few blocks away. I brushed down my overcoat with my hands and started walking in that direction, telling myself to do this, that I could be brave, but I felt like a sparrow fallen from her safe little nest into the vast unknown world of the ground below.

  When I reached a nondescript office building and found the suite, a note taped to the etched-glass window in the door caught my attention. It read Applicants please return tomorrow at noon for an interview.

  I considered taking the streetcar to Oakley but didn’t want to spend the money. I filled out an application at Cincinnati Bell, but a secretary told me it might take a week or more before they could set up an interview and testing. I didn’t have time for what sounded like a lengthy application process; I needed to start making money now. Then I began to worry where I would stay the night. Checking the paper again, I found rooms to let—“near streetcars and factories,” the ad read. Back rooms went for $3 or $3.50 a week. Front rooms for $4 or $4.50, depending on size.

  Already the numbers came together in my head. A three-dollar-a-week room would cost me over twelve dollars a month. But I had to stay somewhere. After asking for directions again, I walked to the boardinghouse, a drab and forlorn-looking three-story building constructed of brown brick with faded red awnings. I took the three-dollar-a-week room in the back. Looking out at my view, I could see only concrete, bricks and mortar, and wood-framed glass windows. The bed squeaked and the mattress was lumpy. The landlady had promised good steam heat in the winter, but the room felt drafty. I had my own sink and toilet but would have to share a bath down the hallway. Even so, I told myself it would do.

  I remembered my old room on the farm with its tall windows, canopy bed, paintings of horses on the walls, and photos of Tornado and Chicory on my bedside table, and a clotting sensation entered the back of my throat, until I swallowed it away.

  How would I get by until I had a job and a paycheck in hand? Once a day I could eat bread, tinned sardines, or soup. I could walk everywhere. If I ran out of money, I could sell my gold baby locket—I’d hate to have to do that, but I would do it.

  I propped the photo of Papa and Mr. Edwards against the lamp on the table, then watched a line of ants climb the wall near the window and listened to street sounds that traveled all the way to the back of the boardinghouse. I told myself I wasn’t alone, I had a plan, and I would succeed here. But in less than one da
y, I’d already spent too much money. Just five dollars remained.

  I wished I could tell Maman and Luc about my first day in the city. Maman would sit closely at my side and brush out my hair, and Luc would hang on to every word, a curious interest in his eyes. They both loved to hear me talk and tell stories. But these thoughts brought on such an aching loneliness inside, I had to push them away.

  I stepped back downstairs and told my landlady, a matronly woman who wore her hair in a bun enclosed with a net and on her face a dour expression, that I had come to the city looking for work. She almost recoiled. “I assumed you already had a job; else I might not have rented you the room.”

  “I’ll get one soon,” I quickly said. “Probably tomorrow.”

  She shook her head ever so slightly but noticeably. “What kind of work are you looking for?”

  “Factory or secretarial work, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” she asked. “Have you ever worked in a factory or an office?”

  “N-no, not yet.”

  She shook her head again. “Good luck to you. You’re probably going to need it. Sure, some of the factories are looking for women, but probably not your type of young woman.”

  I thanked her, for what I didn’t know. And then, hoping she hadn’t seen how stinging her words left me, I strode through the front door and began to walk the street. What had I expected? So determined to make money, I hadn’t really contemplated how it might feel to live in a big city where I knew no one and I had no connections to help me land a job.

  The sun at my back sinking between buildings and the dusk coming on, I noticed small groups of women walking together, laughing, smiling, some arm in arm as they reached the streetcars and boarded. I imagined most of them suburban gals—probably heading home, back to mothers and fathers, younger siblings, cats and dogs. I imagined the smells emanating from their mothers’ kitchens and their fathers’ pipes, the sounds of younger children laughing or slamming the door as they ran outside.