Three Rivers Rising (3 page)

“Your name means rock,” I say.
Peter studies each one
and smiles. “I never thought of that
as a good thing,
but these are great.
Why didn’t I ever notice before?
Hey, this one’s nearly green.”
We dive for rocks,
collecting them in the hem of my skirts
draped over a low branch.

Later, when I arrive for dinner
still damp,
everyone turns
toward the sound,
a young girl
clattering like river rocks.

I suppose I have always had that effect,
the fur of the cat rubbed wrong.
Mrs. Godwin wiggles her ear
by its diamond festoon
and returns to
tink-tink-tinking
her orange pekoe.
Only the surly little dog
seems to understand
that my music is not his imagination.
He licks my silty ankles
and nips my dripping petticoats,
snarling,
tugging,
smelling frogs, perhaps,
until his mistress scolds him back to her lap.

Mother pales
and whispers through a strained smile,
“I do not know how to make clear to you children
the necessity of proper decorum …
oh, I’m fairly swooning in this heat.
When will your father ever arrive from Pittsburgh?”
Estrella hands over her fan,
which distracts Mother from her chatter—
she fans herself
and watches the other diners.

Estrella turns to me
and smiles warmly,
truly looks at me.
She winks
and pours steaming tea
in my cup,
ceremoniously,
as if I were a queen.

Sundown.
A breeze off the lake
finds its way to me
through the open windows
of the dining room.
Hot tea notwithstanding,
I am covered in gooseflesh.
Mother stutters in protest
as I excuse myself,
no more than two bites
into the main course.

Turning the corner
onto the landing,
I plow into a dark coat and starched collar,
knocking the hat off a gentleman’s head.
He grabs my arm as I stumble back down a stair,
safe,
but his black bowler
bumps down
step
after
step.

I recognize Father’s colleague, Mr. Grayson—
younger,
richer,
the word “tycoon”
always following his name in the papers.
I stammer an apology.
“Miss Celestia?” Grayson appraises
my dampened state
head to toe
for far too long. “A bit late in the day
for swimming,
wouldn’t you say?”

Aunt Mimsy, Mother’s sharp-witted sister,
says he has ruined girls
in New York and Milan.
She calls him “silver-tongued
and handsome as the devil.”
She says he stinks of new money.
This always makes me wonder
how much newer
his could be
than ours.

I move out of his grasp
and his gaze
to hurry down the hall.
Is it laughter I hear
before he whistles his way down the stairs
twirling that silly walking stick?

East Conemaugh

Maura

He’s a good man, Joseph.
I watch him while he snores,
with his thatch of copper-red hair
and thick freckled arms.
He’s given me three babies now
and me not through my seventeenth year.
I keep them quiet with rag toys
when he’s asleep,
though he’s good-natured enough
with their mischief,
hoisting them on his shoulders and jigging.

He rises and drinks his coffee scalding like lead,
like the hot metal they use to make the rails he rides.

It must be in his veins,
coursing through
the way
he brings the big engine down
the Conemaugh line.

His embrace lifts my feet off the ground.
He chucks my chin like the children’s
but his kiss is only for a wife.

He turns and waves.
I lean into the door frame.

How can a house full of babies feel empty?
My heart keeps time
with the mantel clock
until I hear that train whistle again.
He pulls an extra blast as they near the station
and I know it is just for me,
to tell all the world he loves me,
to tell me he can’t wait to come home.

Pennsylvania Railroad

Kate

Years back they called me Kitty.
Vain as any.
Spent hours plaiting my hair.
Spent pennies on ribbons.
Foolishness.

I had certain talents, though:
fixing up Mum’s pantry,
everything labeled and in reach;
scheduling the family chores
so we didn’t trip each other coming and going.
And the pies!
Those berry pies won Best in Fair since I was big enough
to put my back into the rolling pin.
But that’s all pride,
gone long ago.

Pride of the county,
everyone said,
Kitty will make one heck of a wife someday.
Of all the farm girls, none can beat her.
And Early Becker was one for thinking ahead.

We made plans,
Early and me,
right there
in the schoolyard.
“A girl who can see the natural order of things
is the perfect bride for me.”
Spoken for
and not even in long skirts yet.

He’d thought it all out,
explained
what I was agreeing to:
the crops,
the animals,
changes over how his daddy did things.
He promised he’d never tire of me—
hair and freckles the color of milky tea.
Together, there wasn’t anything could beat us.
And I agreed.

Years later,
a picnic
by the stream.
Doubled back to the springhouse
for cream for the pie.
While I was gone,
must be Early slipped,
the kind of thing we would have laughed about later,
only he hit his head on a rock
and went out cold in the water.
When I got back,
pulled him up on the bank,
didn’t know how to make him breathe,
mostly just screamed.

Wish that day
could be undone.
Lost Early.
Lost Kitty—
replaced her with Kate,
just plain Kate.

After Early’s passing,
the Kate in me took over.
Could not stop myself—
swept and washed and polished
around the farm
until Mum and Daddy could stand it no more.
Could not rest,
and the family clothes could not endure
even one more vigorous scrubbing.

A few necessities packed—
nothing can give a body comfort
when your own life is what torments you—
and now Daddy hitches the team
and drives us to the train.

This need for cleaning and counting and organizing
will better serve me as a nurse in training.

“Don’t wait.” I stare straight ahead at the tracks.
Daddy nods and peers toward the treetops.
“Looks like rain,”
his way of saying
all that a man can’t say,
squinting so his eyes don’t shine.
I gather my things and jump down quickly
so he can go.
He shouldn’t see his only daughter take this step
into an unwelcome destiny,
something to pass the time until death,
until she joins Early.

South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club

Lake Conemaugh

Peter

“There ain’t no future in it,” Papa had said
between coughs
when I brought him a basket of fish
one Sunday. “This girl’s sired
and milk-fed
for the one purpose
of getting herself a rich husband—
like all them society girls.
You mess with that,
her daddy’ll make quick work of you.”
I pretended to square off and throw a few punches.
“Maybe I’ll be found
at the bottom of the lake one day
if they ever drain it.”
Papa didn’t laugh.

He looked at me straight,
his eyes tired. “She pretty?”
“And more,” I said.
“Like your mother, I bet.
The first crocus always found her.
And she could recite whole poems.
Do you remember?”
I said, “Yes,
a little.”
But what I didn’t say
is that I mostly remember
her gentle voice
singing to me
in the darkness.
Not her face,
but the smooth of her hands.

Celestia and I wander too far
looking for arrowheads
and those little white flowers
she weaves into a halo.
We hear the
crack crack
.
I drop to the forest floor,
remembering Papa’s words
about a rich man holding my life cheap
compared to his daughter’s good name.

When I can swallow a breath again: “Hunters.”
Celestia hides, too.
The pine needles are warm.
We hear boots shushing through dried leaves.
Voices become clear.

The first voice: “It has rained
every spring
since time began.”

The second voice: “The caretaker says
the dam was reinforced years ago.”

The third voice: “All I’m saying is,
there are an awful lot of people in that valley.”

“You think too much, Stan.
Why don’t you just relax?
Think about pheasants.”

“Yeah, pheasants, not peasants.”

The one they call Stan is quiet.

Then they are gone and the forest is quiet.

Back in Johnstown
we’re always joking
about the dam breaking
because it never does.
“Do you think he’s right to worry?”

Celestia smoothes my forehead.
“If the dam needed fixing,
they would fix it.
Common sense.”

East Conemaugh

Maura

A quick one-two blast
of Joseph’s whistle
tells me his engine is pulling into the train yard
and he is eager for his dinner.
I stir the big pot of potatoes
and wish for some variety.

The eldest on my hip,
I put the kettle on for tea.
Joseph’s womenfolk can read the leaves in a teacup
the way farmers can read the skies.
I wish they would come
and read a nice bit of mutton in my future,
but, sure enough, they’ll read another baby.
My body always runs on schedule
just like the trains.

South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club

Lake Conemaugh

Celestia

Setting out on the trail
one afternoon,
who should I pass coming the other way
but my own dear Estrella.
Her step quick,
her eyes bright,
she looks startled to see me. “Celestia, darling …”
I cannot conceal my surprise
at seeing her out walking: “What are you doing
out here all alone?”
She beams and hugs herself. “I thought to take a little turn
about the park since it is such a lovely day,
maybe see the waterfall.
It
is
a splendid day, is it not?”
“The waterfall is the other way.” I point toward the dam
where the spillway creates a picturesque picnic spot.
“No mystery, then, why I did not see it.
Enjoy your swim.” Estrella winks
and moves past me. “See you at dinner.”

I turn to watch her slender frame
traverse the rocks and tree roots
with the same easy grace
as if she were dancing in a candlelit ballroom.
Everything comes so easily to Estrella
, I think,
as I have a million times before.
But the quality I admire most
is her lightness of heart.

“It
is
a splendid day,” I say to the trees,
trying on Estrella’s cheerful tone
as I make my way to Peter.

Well before my intended destination,
I notice a shape moving in the shadows,
one that could only be a man.
Perhaps Peter has changed plans
and come to meet me here.

I am nearly an arm’s reach from the figure
before he makes himself fully visible.
“Splendid day, is it not, Miss Celestia.”
Grayson!
The young tycoon.