Wini and the King of Someplace - 6. VI. Part 3 – Chapter 2: A Confessional Stroll Down to the River

VI. Part 3 – Spring/Summer 1913

Chapter 2: A Confessional Stroll Down to the River

 

 

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1913

Monday, June 30th

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Famous-on-the-Meramec, near Eureka, Mo.

 

Dear Diary,

 

Well, I made it. The train ride from Union Station on the Frisco Line was twenty-six miles as the crow flies. The urban stand of steel mills and automobile factories, with their forest of belching smokestacks, gradually gave way to ever smaller warehouses, then working-class abodes, and finally trees and fields. Soon a bend in the tracks took us deep into the woods and into the picture-perfect community of Webster Groves. My travel companions told me this town was the first 'suburb' in the nation, having been settled in the early 1850s as close enough to downtown to commute by train, but far enough from city noise and grime to make it 'healthy.'

After our stop here, the train moved rather slower. The terrain came right up to the track bed – cliff faces on one side and wide-open vistas of the Meramec River far below us on the other. We ambled along, taking broad curves and passing over fords and creek beds on any number of black-timbered trestles. It was so quiet; when the train rounded some bends, the river surface sparkled in natural sequins, and tranquility seemed to settle in my heart.

My fellow Famousites were in a holiday mood. More than one of them inquired if I had packed lightly. I had indeed, mainly due to the circumstances of living out of a hotel room already, but then again I had also brought a tube of drawings.

We turned inland and small towns rolled by, after we stopped at each. Eventually, the animation of my fellow recreation-seekers jumping up, fetching bags from the luggage racks and shutting away sweaters, books, and uneaten sandwiches still in their wax paper, told me we were near.

"Next one, Miss Barrett!" my coworker from the office informed me. I stood and collected my valise and cardboard container.

Slowly, the train stopped and a flow of cheery Famousites exited.

Once on the platform, the engine whistle blew a farewell, and I looked around. A fifty-foot-long wooden shelter, rather like a cross between an enormous feed shed and a tiny Swiss chalet, had FAMOUS in raised letters on its side. After the caboose cleared this station, the sunlit embankment on the far side appeared to my eyes swaying gently in summer color – tangerine-hued daylilies were in full bloom. They climbed the angled slope from the margin of the stony right-of-way to the living wall of forest high above. The color only parted to allow the path from the resort to come down to the tracks.

Here two teams of horses reared tack-laden heads as if to welcome us.

The crowd streamed across the rail line and deposited their baggage on a small farm cart headed by two bay-colored mares before going over the grass and climbing aboard a much larger pony wagon of sorts, one powered by four handsome Clydesdales.

Now my excitement was growing. The previous times I had simply walked the mile and a half to and from the station, but for this weeklong holiday we were bound to arrive in bucolic splendor.

The clippity-clop along the gravel road was again so peaceful. Several times my eyes drifted skywards and became pierced by delicate shards of sunlight through the moving leaves. All was well with me, except perhaps I could have done with a good lunch.

The wagons pulled around to the open area which formed the resort's informal square. From here paths led off to every grouping of outbuildings, the Dance Pavilion, shelter for the tennis courts, Billiards Hall, barns and stables, and of course, the various cabins and lodges.

We disembarked and I was lucky enough to be accommodated in The Clubhouse this time.

I hefted my valise, hiked my linen skirt to ankle-height, and made my way to this pivotal feature of The Farm, right at the heart of the square. From this side the structure resembled a three-hundred-foot long, two-story-high house. The entire ground floor was deeply sheltered by a wraparound porch. Rustic columns, along with 'X' bracing below the handrails, were all done in hand-hewed logs with the bark still in place. The second story windows, with flapping curtains and shades rolled up, looked inviting and cheery between the shingled walls. The same shake tiles carried up to the hipped roof at a shallow, summertime angle.

As I mounted the porch steps, I suddenly remembered the view. The wide double doors were standing fully open, and the central hallway carried my sight through the heart of the building and out the other side. On the river side the building was three stories high and the veranda was twelve feet off the ground. Below it, terraced lawns were held back by fieldstone walls and offered about five hundred feet of grassy play area before trails narrowed and meandered to the river's edge, about a quarter-mile and thee hundred feet lower than The Clubhouse. The verandas on the Meramec side provided some of the best views any resort-goer could dare to dream of.

"Ah, Miss Barrett!"

Startled, as I could barely see in the nether-light caused by moving abruptly from sharp sun to indoor darkness, it took me a moment to recognize who was speaking: Mr. McIntire.

I barely prevented myself from blurting out a holiday-mood-moment of crushing upset. 'What are you doing here' would have indeed perturbed the man.

Instead of saying anything, I watched him guide the young woman at his side to step forward with him.

"Miss Barrett, this is my wife Constance. Dear, this is Miss Winifred Barrett, our Integration Consultant from Pittsburgh."

"Ah, Mrs. McIntire. How do you do?"

I shuffled my bag and extended a hand.

The tall, dark-haired woman glanced at it in a way that reminded me I had been traveling most of the morning; I suppose it was a bit dusty.

"Fine, thank you." She attempted an appallingly halfhearted grin, and gripped my hand with two fingers before wiggling it briefly. Despite this lackluster engagement of physical contact, or perhaps because of it, I could only keep my attention on the unpleasant scowl on her face.

'What a fine pair,' I thought to myself with a brief glance at her Mister.

"Bauer is with us too, Miss Barrett."

McIntire's bright statement knocked me out of my reverie, and my eyes followed his hand gesture.

Arnold Bauer stood on the river-side veranda with his back to us. He was attired in a new linen suit with short pants, and had one foot propped up on an 'X' brace. He was leaning forward and apparently staring out at the Meramec and trees.

Mr. McIntire continued, "We were just stepping out, to stroll down to the water's edge for our first look, as neither my wife nor the boy have been here before. Isn't that right, Constance?"

The woman was anything but demure. "Yes, dear."

In any event, Mr. McIntire looked pleased with himself.

"Well then, I won't keep you." I hinted with a smile, "Perhaps we can dine together this evening."

Constance was already threading her arm through her man's and leading him away. "Perhaps," she said with oily ease.

Mr. McIntire raised the straw hat in his hand to tip it at me, then both turned backs and walked away.

I watched for a moment longer and felt my heart surge. McIntire patted the boy's back while saying something, and Bauer craned his neck to find me. He grinned and waved, which I returned, but when he motioned to come say hello properly, Constance McIntire turned the lad's shoulders roughly and started marching their little troupe towards the steps leading to the river path.

A short time later, I was standing in my room and had unpacked. I wandered to my window, which likewise peered down to the shimmering water, and sighed. All my appetite had gone.

I went to my bed, fell upon it, and cried myself into a fitful nap.

 

≈ • ≈ • ≈

 

By the time dinner was over, a chorus of crickets had arisen to sing the twilight a lullaby.

The social rooms of The Clubhouse were abuzz with merrymakers as I strolled through them. The parlour, with its sofas and armchairs, and its massive stone fireplace aglow with hickory logs, hosted quiet conversations. Small tables by screened windows to the porch were occupied by chessboards and gentlemen at play.

The lounge next door had several card tables set up, and this is where I saw Mr. and Mrs. McIntire playing bridge with another married couple.

Following my instincts, I exited the door from this room onto the veranda.

The night was warm and the breeze delightful.

I found him sitting alone on the top step at the side of the structure. Noisy carousing from the young men having fun in the distant Billiards Hall wafted up to us.

"May I join you?"

"Of course," Bauer said.

I sat on the step next to him.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss Barrett. I ain't never seen anything like it."

At first his statement set me back, but then…. "You've never spent time in the country, have you?"

"No, miss. It's wonderful here."

"I agree, and look at you!" I flicked his lapel. "Fine linen suit, looking remarkably dapper and like a gentleman of leisure."

He laughed.

"Mrs. McIntire picked this out for me. It's all right, but I feel silly wearing these short pants."

"I know you do, Bauer."

Slowly the intelligence that Constance had shown Bauer a kindness sank into my heart. Maybe that woman was softening to the boy; maybe my half-baked notions…were slipping away.

"Miss Barrett?"

"Yes."

"How are preparations for the new store going?"

"Good, Bauer. So far so good."

"That's a relief. I can't wait to see it all. Mr. McIntire talks about the Tunnelway, and tells me that's where I'll be spending most of my time."

"He does?"

"Yeah. Says I'll be down there running errands between the store and the warehouse. But I won't mind."

I decided a good-natured distraction was called for; a quiz for him on which line we had taken to get here. "Well, my little railroad enthusiast, how did you like your journey on the…the…?"

"The Saint Louis and San Francisco Railroad, miss?

"Yes, that's the one." He had made me smile with my whole heart. He's such bright little scamp.

"It was wonderful! So much to see."

"Yes, I thought it was beautiful too."

Our conversation was interrupted briefly by loud victory hoots from the Billiards Hall. Just beyond it was the large one-story guesthouse for the younger, unmarried men of Famous-Barr. The Hayloft, as it was known, could reputedly sleep forty city bachelors with country ease and comfort.

Refocusing my attention, I realized this must have been the south side of The Clubhouse where Bauer and I were seated. Flanking the porch steps were the faintly scented buds of daylilies. Their subtle aroma surrounded us and made me consider how short is the life of one of their kind. They have just one day in the sun, and this evening the brave-hued little fellows who had made my heart gladder only hours ago were now shut closed, never to open again, but still managed to send out their last sweetness to us anyway. Next to them, the buds that will blossom tomorrow are tightly sprung and anxious, counting the moments for warmth and the chance to stretch and live out their full potential.

However, for the moment, a state of either vibrant equilibrium or dull stasis reigned; I did not pretend to know which.

My glance from my companion must have been too long, for he turned concerned eyes up to me.

I shook off my thoughts with remembrance of work matters.

"You know, Bauer, one of my pre-move-in tasks is to stage all the finished departments and work with the photographer to document each one. It's a lot of work, and I think I will need an assistant on the days we shoot."

The boy looked a total blank.

"You, Bauer. I want you to help me."

"Me, miss?"

"You are perfect. You have an interest in photography, and seem to love it too."

I had to halt. The overwhelmingly happy and excited sparkle in Bauer's eyes stopped me cold.

"I will help you, Miss Barrett. You can count on me." A cloud passed atop his features. "But what about Mr. McIntire?"

"I will talk to him; leave it to me. As long as you want to do it…."

He nodded.

"Then I will tell him I need you and he'll say yes."

Naturally, I didn't tell the boy McIntire would say yes even if the answer were 'No!' The backing I have from Messrs. May and Salomon would see to that.

 

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1913

Wednesday, July 2nd

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Famous-on-the-Meramec, near Eureka, Mo.

 

Dear Diary,

 

Very sensibly so, breakfast was served buffet style. The morning was warm, and the still breezes and insistent whiff of hay riding on them promised a hot afternoon of sunshine and splashing Famousites in the river.

I collected my portion of scrambled eggs, a bran muffin, and dab of sweet cream butter – made in the property's dairy – and scanned the dining room.

Able to seat about one hundred fifty people, now less than twenty-five were scattered about. I wondered if the head of store security was among them; I had to show and get his sign-off on the architect's reworked jail cell. As a virtual ocean liner of commerce, FB needed a brig as well. Shoplifters beware.

While I was looking to see who I could see for business reasons, I stepped out to the screened-in eating porch. The air here was delightful, and birdsong greeted me.

Stretching along one narrow side of The Clubhouse, another fifty guests could be seated here; now only a few groups sat at scattered tables.

Damn.

Too late. They saw me. Worse yet, the man compounded the impossibility of me sailing past them by rising.

"Ah, Mr. McIntire – Mrs. McIntire – good morning," I was forced to cheep.

"Good morning, Miss Barrett," he said, looking warily at his wife.

I felt a smile rise. "May I join you?"

A questioning glance to the Missus confirmed to McIntire that I was not welcomed.

Thus, I pulled out a chair and ensconced myself, thorn-like in her side.

While I undid my napkin and silverware, I bantered witlessly. "Beautiful day, is it not, Mrs. McIntire?"

"Delightful."

I split my bran muffin and smeared one half unctuously with butter. "Any particular plans for today?"

Mr. McIntire sat. "Some of the boys in The Hayloft are planning a special rig for the Fourth. I'll be helping them this afternoon."

A suddenly horrified thought struck me. "You haven’t housed Bauer with those 'boys,' have you?" The Hayloft was like a college dormitory, and there's no telling how much trouble they could cause for an eight-year-old amongst them.

"No, Miss Barrett," Constance said. "He's sleeping with us, on a rollaway bed." She seemed surprised at the vehemence of my interest.

There was a glass preserves jar in the center of the table. I drew it to me. Avoiding the woman's eyes, I took off the linen doily protecting the conserves from flies and spread a fair chunk of strawberry jelly on my muffin. "Well, that's good. He is still rather young, you know, despite his maturity."

I re-covered the jam pot and took a bite at last. Delicious, but the expression on Mrs. McIntire's face was closer to sour grapes.

I disliked this woman; she was shallow, dull, devoid of humor, and worst of all, had her Mister wrapped around her little finger.

Mrs. McIntire made a display of setting her eating utensils noisily on the rim of her plate.

While I sampled my eggs, she leaned towards me.

"Out of friendly curiosity, Miss Barrett, do you ever mind your life being unfulfilled?"

I set my fork down, swallowed and dabbed my mouth with my napkin. The tone of condescending pity in Constance's voice raised anger in me.

I rebuffed her calmly, as if having to explain a simple thing to an even simpler child, "I have my career, Mrs. McIntire."

She scoffed, thrusting her spine back on her seat. "I worked too, but a woman's real job begins when she sets up a house and makes it a warm and inviting home for children."

A complex emotional reaction arose within me. I collected my wits for a moment, glancing at Mr. McIntire and finding some unexpected encouragement there. "My hope," I said without vindictiveness, "is that career women of the future won't have to make homemaking 'a job' if they don't want to. Let's imagine a time when marriage is not an automatic I quit from a career they find fulfilling too."

Mrs. McIntire acted vaporous, like the melodramatic heroine of a moving picture show.

"John, dear," she sighed, rising to her feet and making him stand as well. "I've come over all queer again." Her hand drifted to her midsection. "I think I'd better lie down."

"Yes, dear."

"Is that…." She paused, apparently rethinking her word choice of 'idiot.' "Is that boy out of our room?"

"Yes, Constance dear. I saw him collecting a fishing pole and bait, so I expect we won't see him till lunch."

She held my eyes; maybe she expected me to stand as well. Instead, I resumed eating my too-long neglected muffin.

"Well good," she huffed. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

I gave a brief wave with my soiled jam knife.

Chewing contentedly, I watched her clear the room. Suddenly Mr. McIntire sighed, and I felt sorry for him. His escaped breath was one of resigned exasperation.

"Since I'm standing, Miss Barrett, may I get two cups of coffee for us?"

I nodded with open enthusiasm.

By the time it took him to return with a small tray rattling convivially with coffee service for two, I had finished my eggs and muffin.

The pleasant breeze did much to restore the lightness of the space after Constance's departure.

I stirred in a lump of sugar. "Mr. McIntire, these last six weeks before the store opening will be frantic to say the least. In the final fortnight preceding the ribbon cutting ceremony I will need an assistant to help the photographer and myself with last moment arrangements. I told Bauer he could do it. Do you foresee any problems arising due to a professional furlough of the lad to me?"

"No, Miss Barrett." He took out a pocket calendar and notebook. "Weeks of August 25th and September 1st?"

"Yes, that's right."

He made a note complacently; I could see the man had a lot on his mind.

 

≈ • ≈ • ≈

 

Like the pony cart ride that had brought me from the Famous station to The Clubhouse, dappled sunlight through leaves filtered down to my eyes. After our coffee, Mr. McIntire and I had a pleasant conversation about the preparations for the Saint Charles Street shipping facilities, and now we were strolling the shaded path down to the river's edge.

"I have a feeling, Mr. McIntire, you sense as I do that Arnold Bauer is bright despite his learning difficulties."

The man was silent; a few pools of light and shadow overtook and retreated away from us along the path. He was clearly lost in thought, and some degree of anguish contorted the corner of is mouth.

The silence was something akin to what I imagine a priest in a confessional hears.

I pressed on with my original topic. "My mother is a retired school teacher. She knows all about 'slow boys' and how to bring them along at their own pace. It's called dyslexia, Mr. McIntire, it's – "

"I know he's far from dumb, Miss Barrett." His interruption had none of the expected ill temper I've seen from him in the past.

We continued on in shadowy silence for a minute or two, and then a bend in the footpath opened up our sightline straight to the water. Drenched in sunlight and animated all around by bright points of reflected light in the riffles, Bauer stood in his shirtsleeves within the shallows casting his reel.

It took me a moment to realize Mr. McIntire had stopped walking. He was transfixed, simply staring at the boy.

"Are you all right?" I asked, slowing my own pace to a halt.

He blinked at me like he had just remembered I existed.

In a quiet, unadorned voice, he said, "He's – he's my nephew, Miss Barrett."

I swallowed a lump and took a step back to him.

The man continued with a commingled look of regret and nausea. "In the months after the World's Fair, this city had quite a wave of babies being delivered. Many of the newborns were to unwed mothers and became wards of the state. I knew my sister's child was placed at Saint Joseph's Orphanage, and I knew they gave him the name of Arnold Bauer, so I kept an eye on him, thinking…one day – "

He halted abruptly, placing his hands in his pockets.

"One day, what, Mr. McIntire?"

I dreaded his answer.

"That one day when my sister was married and settled – which she is now, but not to Bauer's father – she'd 'adopt' him and raise him. She'd be ready then. But, the truth is, Miss Barrett, my sister does not want anything to do with the boy."

"Oh, Mr. McIntire."

"Well, then my thinking changed. If not her, then…."

"Maybe you?"

"Yes, maybe me. It all happened so quickly – my engagement and notice from Saint Jo's that Bauer was taken from class and about to be reclassified as 'feebleminded,' so I had to act before I was ready."

"Oh, Mr. McIntire, you did the right thing."

"So you know? You know what feebleminded means? He'd be sent to Arsenal Street."

"Arsenal Street?"

"The State Hospital, miss. The insane asylum, and I couldn't let the boy be institutionalized. He doesn’t deserve that."

I placed a reassuring hand on his lower arm. "You did the right thing, bringing him to the store. You did the correct and noble thing."

"So, there's my confession, Miss Barrett. Truth is, the more time I spend with Arnold Bauer, the more I like him. But – "

"But, your wife – "

"My wife is coming around. She…she has her doubts about 'hard cases,' but I'm working on her. I expect by the end of this stay, she'll be ready to bring the boy into our house." He suddenly pulled out and glanced at his watch. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Barrett, I have to get to the stables and book a horse riding lesson for Bauer. Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. McIntire."

My eyes followed his form trailing back along the shade-patched course, but I knew my true interest lay on the bright side. I turned and watched the golden-haired orphan child cast a line far out into the river.

 

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1913

Saturday, July 5th

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Famous-on-the-Meramec, near Eureka, Mo.

 

Dear Diary,

 

Midmorning on my last full day in the country found me at a picturesque spot.

The resort's excursion boat is called the Sarah Jane, and seats about a dozen people as she motors along the river. After the whistle blew and she pulled away, I noticed a solitary figure rooted at the end of the dock.

A few minutes later I was sitting next to Bauer, our naked toes and ankles dipping into the Meramec as we cast quiet glances across the surface of the water. All was calm; the shimmers of timeless days, seasons and years captured in the endlessness of a single moment.

The blonde waif was without his cap, and I again wished he'd allow his hair to grow out. The workman's bob he sported lent a too-serious air to the boy's appearance.

"It was quite a show last night, wasn't it, Bauer?"

His sidelong glance up to me caught a sunbeam and made him squint. "It was."

I pointed. "Just around the bend there."

Part of The Farm's riverfront included a high and dry sandbar. Set in a gentle bend, it made for a commodious beach.

"The fireworks, Bauer, have you ever seen anything like them?"

"No, miss."

"Sparkles in both the sky and water – I didn’t know anything could be so beautiful."

"He might not tell you himself, but Mr. McIntire sure worked hard on the display. He rolled up his sleeves and pitched right in."

"The last moment when the frame came to life was awe-inspiring."

As tribute to the Fourth of July, and our pending move into the largest commercial building in the world, the 'boys' of Famous had rigged a billboard-sized rack with smaller slats. On this a network of long-lasting sparklers had been fused together, and when stood up and tripped as part of the finale, the outline of our future home lit up in stunning detail, right down to the pennant flying at the top corner, twenty-one stories high. After a minute or two, a message in living flame spread across the bottom: "Three cheers for David May!"

"I hope they got pictures of it, Bauer."

"I'm sure they did, miss. It's historic."

He chuckled all of a sudden.

"What is it?"

"Oh, I was just thinking you were lucky not to be near Mrs. McIntire during the fireworks."

"Why's that?"

"With every loud shell going off, she'd clutch at Mr. McIntire and pretend she was going to faint. She wanted to pull him away early – and spoil our fun – but he insisted she stop acting so dramatic."

I muttered: "Well, bully for him…."

"What's that?"

"I said: Very interesting."

"Yes. She doesn't seem to know how to have a good time, Miss Barrett."

"No, not like we do."

His boyish features turned mischievous. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course, Bauer."

"How old are you?"

"I just turned thirty. In fact it was on April 8th."

"I'm sorry I missed it, miss."

I tried to laugh. "At thirty, I'm afraid it's official. I'm an old maid, but mercifully few dare to suggest it to my face."

"You're not old."

"I'm not?"

"No, you are the perfect age. You have what you want, and you can do and go where you please. Perfect age."

"I guess you are right on those accounts. Thank you, Bauer, for cheering me up."

"My pleasure."

It was my turn to turn playful. I kicked a toe-full of gleaming water towards his face. "Now you. Tell me when's your birthday."

"It's on October 29th, miss. You haven't missed it. I'm not used to celebrating them anyhow."

"But what about gifts, a cake?"

"'Cause there's so many of us, Saint Jo's has one cake for all the birthdays happening that month." An impish grin to match the best of Buster Brown's crept over his quivering lips. "But we don't get any presents there."

"Thank you, young Master Bauer. I will make a note of it: no presents."

This time he kicked water in my direction, and orange vitality and sparkle of daylilies lining the river's sunny banks flashed in my eye for a moment.

He asked plainly: "Do you miss home?"

"I only have my mother and my brother's son with whom I am close. Thomas, my nephew, is in college now and moved away. This July he and his close friend are in Europe: Spain, Portugal and perhaps Italy. So my days of being a doting aunt are numbered."

It looked like the lad had another question on his mind, but it went unasked.

His serious turn of mood put me in mind of a nagging inquiry. I asked very slowly, "Bauer, do you think you could be happy staying with Mrs. and Mr. McIntire, now that you have shared a room with them for a few days?"

"I don't know." He was contemplative. "I try to stay out of her way; I try to say nothing to upset her; but it seems I always do something wrong, or say something to make her roll her eyes. I don’t think she likes me, Miss Barrett."

I felt like weeping. I hoped it did not show in my voice. "That's too bad, Bauer."

"Don't cry, miss. I don't mind her reaction to me – honest I don’t. It's how most people treat me, so I'm used to it."

"Oh, Bauer…." Tears streamed down my face. "You're such a good boy. You deserve so much better."

He tried to make me stop with humor. "But the worst thing about Mr. McIntire's missus is how she's always latching onto my ears, folding them back and saying 'Did you clean behind here?' 'Yes, ma'am,' I tell her, but she's never satisfied. Who's gonna be looking behind my ears anyway? I mean, besides her!"

His efforts succeeded. My tears flew from me in a bout of laughter, and eventually I collected myself enough to ask him a simple question. "Bauer, if you don’t mind very much, I'd like to hug you."

He blinked in surprise, but saw it would mean a great deal to me. He stood and walked into my arms.

Truth was, I did not want to let him go.

       

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