Parlor Games (2 page)

We approached Foster’s Dry Goods, and I spied Mr. and Mrs. Foster standing as still as mannequins, gazing out the window. As we drove by, the couple stretched their necks to study us, making no attempt at a greeting.

Gene leaned forward and gripped Paul’s seat. “Look at the Fosters admiring your car.”

Paul trained his eyes straight ahead. “More likely trying to spot our notorious sister.”

“Well, you’re wise to drive this car around town,” I said, intent on nudging Paul back to some measure of civility. “Surely it’s good for business.”

Not that Menominee offers much by way of business. I’ve seen cities all over the world—Chicago, sparkling and booming after the Great Fire; Portland, brash as the Wild West; Shanghai, steeped in trade and mystery; and London, civilized and regal. This town, however, has “bust” written all over it: the sorry storefronts bleached as ashen as driftwood; many of its once-booming lumber mills shuttered; the ice-encrusted shores of Lake Michigan impassable for months on end; and the surrounding forests, once thick with white pine, nearly all logged out. All in all, a rather pitiful place. As for me, I’d rather roast in the Mojave than live in Menominee. The only good thing that comes of being stuck here for this trial is the chance to enjoy my brothers’ company.

We parked beside the courthouse, among a hodgepodge of Tin Lizzies and horse-drawn wagons and carriages. The piebald mare only a few feet away drooped her head as snow collected in splotchy
blankets on her contoured back. At the slamming of our car doors she neither budged nor blinked. The poor thing—what a shame that this trial forced her to endure such numbing cold.

Positioning myself between Paul and Gene, I hooked a hand under each one’s arm, and they escorted me through the front door and up to the second-floor courtroom. Paul opened the door and I stepped forward.

Townspeople had absolutely mobbed the courtroom—to say nothing of the eight to ten newsmen with writing pads at the ready. As we walked in, heads turned and followed us. On the water-stained wood floor, snow melted and puddled around the onlookers’ feet. Coats, gloves, and farmers’ boots gave off wet-wool, stale-dirt, and manure odors. The pungent brew tickled my nose; I swept my wrist under my nostrils to supplant the stench with my Jasmin perfume.

As we marched along, Gene exchanged soft hellos with several people seated on the aisle. Holding my chin up proudly, I smiled and nodded at those who dared to cast their probing gaze my way.

I wasn’t surprised that nearly half the town had shown up for the trial; it’s been the talk of the Upper Peninsula for months now. If I had to live here season after season,
I’d
consider it the highlight of the year, too. Imagine how it’s been these past months: On afternoons when their husbands toiled at the mill or factory, women gathered over their needlework to speculate and gossip about me. That’s not to say the men are uninterested. Oh, no, I can’t walk ten feet in this town without a man’s eyes trailing me—surreptitiously if his wife is on hand, but even if she isn’t, never so boldly as to require a chastening from a sister, the pastor, or whoever might observe him ogling that “swindler May,” as the town’s women have likely christened me. Why, I wasn’t even surprised to hear they’d been rehashing what turned out to be a mistaken pregnancy by hometown boy Robby Jacobsen.

Oh, yes, the womenfolk of Menominee had flocked to the courthouse, and as I stood unfastening my coat at the defendant’s table, I noticed
they
weren’t too proud to stare. Most of the crowd was older—women without children or chores, I imagine—all gussied up in their Sunday best with their hair neatly combed and hats pinned in place. They packed into the rows and chattered away like youngsters on a sleigh ride. The smattering of husbands accompanying
their wives sat hunched over, clutching their hats two-handed, pretending a lack of interest. The fact is, they were all there because this trial is the most exciting thing that’s happened around here since the great train heist of ’93. Well, who can begrudge them the diversion and entertainment my trial offers?

But such a bleak place the courtroom was, with plain, stiff-backed chairs in the jury box and pew benches for onlookers. Bare lightbulbs hung from twisted brown cords and lit the room as bright as new snow. All the sounds around me—the bailiff’s clacking heels, my lawyer and his associate’s whispered exchanges, and the buzz of conversation from the crowd—bounced off the high, unadorned white walls like the bleats of animals shut up in a barn.

I took my seat on the hardwood chair next to my attorney, greeted him, and smoothed the folds of my skirt. Through the tall windows lining the room, only bare, spindly treetops could be glimpsed, as if the architect intended to intimidate with narrow, jail-style windows. Radiators pinged, wafting the tinny scent of melting snow on their waves.

The bailiff announced, “All rise,” and the assembly shuffled to its feet. Judge Flanagan strutted in, his black gown trailing over the bench steps.

And so began my trial. Now, I’ve made a bargain with you, gentle reader, and I intend to keep my end of it. I will tell you my story—all of it—and truthfully, as I’ve never been able to tell anyone before. Then you can decide: Were my actions justified? You, my discerning reader, are the most important juror. You have the advantage of hearing the whole story, straight from the one who lived it. So I say to you now, without hesitation or compunction, hear me out, and then you be the judge.

MY HUMBLE ORIGINS
FROM ILLINOIS TO MICHIGAN—1869–1884

F
or the longest time my mother claimed I was born in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Being French Canadian, she loved all things French. French women, she told me, grasp the importance of appearance and station—they never pass up a chance to impress with looks or feign eminence with the little white lie. And Eau Claire is a lovely name for a town. But I wasn’t actually born there. Not that the place of one’s birth matters much, but I’ve promised to tell the whole story.

I was born in 1869 in the village of Fox River Grove, about forty miles northwest of Chicago. My family moved away before I took my first steps, so I never explored the shores of the Fox River myself. But it was an auspicious place for my birth: It’s become a lovely resort area, with a gorgeous luxury hotel and famous ski jump.

Back in the 1860s, the Ojibwa Indians gathered in Fox River Grove every winter to sell furs and beadwork. My older brother, Paul, told me Papa used to visit their settlement and trade firewater for beaded necklaces and bracelets, which he sold to laborers in the area for gifts to send their wives. That Papa, he was an enterprising sort.

We came to reside in Fox River Grove because a Mr. Opardy had purchased eighty acres on the Fox River and set out to build a vacation estate there. When Papa heard about the big purchase, he hastened to Illinois and offered his services. He told Mr. Opardy that he’d managed a restaurant in Michigan, and Mr. Opardy hired him on the spot to cook for his building crew.

Papa had never actually managed anything before that job, but he always said you’ve got to sell what you’ve got, even if all you’ve got is salesmanship. By the time the cooking job ended, Papa had accumulated
sufficient funds to move our family to Muskegon, Michigan. He secured a contract on a saloon, a simple log-cabin affair on the shores of Muskegon Lake. He named it Dancing Waters, but the locals called it The Watering Hole. Papa loved being by the water and dreamed of sailing up the St. Lawrence and all the way to France to see Paris, which he pronounced “Pa-REE.” Someday, he promised, he would take me there, to see the Seine and a ballet.

What can you say about a child’s life? My parents were strict about school. Papa lectured me dozens of times about how I’d need an education to land a well-to-do husband; he made me promise I’d never settle for some idler who rented a room over a tavern. After dinner each evening, Maman insisted that Paul and I sit at the table to recite from our
McGuffey Reader
while she stoked the stove and scrubbed the dinner plates and pots. I was always ahead of my classmates because of listening to Paul reel off his verb conjugations and multiplication tables. If you ask me, Maman made us recite our lessons as much for herself as for Paul and me—I believe it counted as entertainment for her, since Papa was away for long hours and she spent her days baking, laundering, cooking lye and potash into soap, and filling seamstress orders.

My fondest memories of childhood are the times I spent with Papa, especially my visits to the saloon. Papa always greeted me the same way, bracing his hands on the bar and announcing, “Gentlemen,
chère
Mimi has come to entertain us. Make way.”

The men hugging the bar would take their drinks in hand and ease back. Turning to me, Papa would hold out his arms and say, “Mimi, your admirers await. Come.”

I’d run in under the bar gate—I was little enough not to need to duck—and sprint toward him, striding high so as not to slip on the slick floorboards. He’d catch me in full stride, hoist me over his head, and swing me around. As soon as he plopped me onto the bar, I launched into my pirouettes, holding Papa’s hand as if we were ballet dancers. How I loved the sound of the men clapping and hooting. I don’t believe I’ve gotten the thrill of it out of my bones, even after all these years.

And to think some people claim I hate men. Such nonsense. Papa was the sweetest person I’ve ever known. Maybe if I could find a man who’s as carefree and cheerful as Papa I’d settle down. But, then,
Papa wasn’t much for settling down himself. That’s what made life with him so exciting.

Ah, Papa. I miss him still. What a thrill it would be to recount all my adventures to him: I believe he’d be proud. But when I was fifteen, just as I was growing into a young lady, Papa was shot and killed trying to break up a fight at the tavern.

I vividly recall the night he died. I stole off by myself to the shores of Muskegon Lake. There I sat watching day’s color drain from the scattered birches and jagged-edged firs. Wind sweeping in off the lake lashed the loose strands of my hair against my bare, chilled neck. I blinked back tears as I recalled him once telling me, “You have more gumption and sense than your mother and Paul put together.”

My ears hummed from veiled noises skittering through the forest, as if ghosts stirred among the fallen leaves and floated through the trees. I felt Papa all around me—in the shifting shadows, in the rustle of branches, in the lapping of the lake—and heard his voice: “You have to take care of the family now, Mimi.”

I knew that that was what he expected—and that I would have to be cleverer than he was, for the sake of all of us.

We buried Papa the next day, and by then Maman had attained an icy composure. Right after the burial she ordered all of us, “Pack up your clothes. And anything else you want from this miserable place.”

Our forlorn family—Maman, Paul, little Gene, and I—took the last ferry of the season across Lake Michigan and boarded a train for Menominee.

MY PRELIMINARY EDUCATION
MENOMINEE—1884–1887

B
y the tender age of fifteen, I had set my sights on Chicago: What youngster didn’t dream of strolling its modern streets, shopping at the crossroads of America, and gazing upon the sparkling new buildings that had risen after the Great Fire? But Menominee was as good a place as any in 1884 to acquire an introduction to commerce and society. It had over a dozen lumber mills roaring away and possibly the busiest port on all the northern lakes. Maman had a cousin here then, an ox of a man who supervised at Spies Lumber Company. We stayed with his family for a few months, until we took a home of our own on Ludington Avenue.

I finished high school in Menominee and found the teachers much better than the ones I’d had in Muskegon. One of my teachers, Miss Apple, taught me how to manipulate numbers so I could do calculations in my head. I can illustrate. To determine if a number is divisible by 3, add the digits. If the sum is a multiple of 3, then it is divisible. Or, to add 148 and 302, take 2 away from 302, add it to 148 to make 150, and you quickly arrive at 450. I’ve had innumerable occasions to thank Miss Apple for all those little tricks.