By February, their income had slowed to a trickle. Frank had gone around making inquiries about securing more funds to get him through this slow spot, but the local businessmen had given him discouraging news. There were rumors that Aberdeen’s biggest bank, the Northwestern National Bank—whose half-finished brick structure had so impressed Maud their first day in town—might not be solvent for long. Everyone was jittery. If the bank failed, most of the people in Aberdeen and the surrounding county would be wiped out. Frank’s hopes of finding more investors for his failing newspaper were dashed. The locals’ advice to Frank was candid: leave town.
It was then that Frank, who was normally full of energy, came down with an ague and took to bed, shivering with fevers. A few days later, both boys took sick, and soon the baby was fretful and could no longer sleep through the night. Maud herself began to feel feverish, but she ignored her symptoms, fueling herself on coffee and sugar to save more food for Frank and the boys. Soon, she was lightheaded and exhausted. Standing over the stove, stirring a pot of thin soup with just some flour mixed in to thicken it, she felt woozy. When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the floor with the soup ladle next to her head and Bunting squatting down, crying “Mama,” his eyes wide in fear as he shook her shoulder. The Baum household was in crisis.
In the midst of all this, Maud received a letter from Julia. Times were hard on the homestead. Julia had changed her mind. She wanted to send Magdalena to Aberdeen, after all.
Feverish and exhausted, Maud stared at the letter as if from a great distance. She had begged her sister so many times to send her, and yet now she had barely the strength to take care of her own family. She longed to bring Magdalena home, but Frank was too sick to get out of bed, their pantry was nearly empty, and they had no prospects for how to fill it. The small sum of money Mother had left them—all she could afford—was all gone, and T.C. was still out west, with no immediate plans to return to Aberdeen. What if Maud took the child from Julia only to realize that she could not provide for her? There was no work to be had in Aberdeen. Frank would need to hit the road and look for employment elsewhere—until then, Maud knew, the meager stores in the pantry were not sufficient to tide them over. Still, she’d have to make do somehow.
The next day, her fever abated, leaving her weak and exhausted, but still she held off for a few days, reading and rereading her sister’s letter, tossing and turning at night, barely able to sleep. On the third day, she wrote a letter to her sister and, without showing it to Frank, sent it by afternoon post.
As soon as he was strong enough, Frank took their last few dollars to buy a one-way ticket to Chicago. Their dream—Frank’s dream—that a man could find a place for himself if he just set out and looked for the right place to do it was dead.
And Maud realized the truth: that even after almost a decade of marriage, and three births, her family still had no real place in the world.
* * *
—
A MONTH AFTER FRANK departed for Chicago, he wired that he had found a job and was returning to help them pack up and move with him to the city. He warned Maud that the money to pay for their journey would have to be found by selling off most of their personal possessions. Maud looked around their small home, at their simple furniture and their few wedding gifts, remembering the high hopes she had felt two and a half years earlier when they had arrived here. Those dreams would soon be erased, torn asunder as if a prairie cyclone had come through and blown them all away. But no one could take her memories. She surveyed the comfortable rooms, determined to imprint on her mind the joyful times her family had spent there.
After Frank returned, Maud traveled to Ellendale, switched trains, and debarked at Edgeley. James Carpenter was waiting for her, but she was dismayed to see that Julia had not accompanied him to the station. At least he appeared sober. He greeted her courteously, if a bit distantly. Maud wasn’t sure how much he remembered about their last encounter, although she remembered it all too vividly.
There wasn’t much to the town of Edgeley, just some drab frame buildings, a short main street with a saloon on each end, and a few mean houses scattered around in a haphazard fashion. The road out of town led to their homestead, about eight miles to the west. Julia had few near neighbors, and most of them were German-speaking Hutterites from Bohemia who kept to themselves. At one point, Maud and James came upon a slough of water that reflected the sky with a deep slate color, its surface rippled in the breeze like furrows on a plowed field. A flock of Canada geese bobbed on the surface.
The sun was already falling when they reached the homestead. An unseasonable thaw the previous week had melted the snow, and the ground was boggy and barren-looking. Maud noticed that there were now a few scrawny trees Julia and James had planted for a windbreak, but still the setting was one of total isolation—the house looked as if a strong wind could blow it away.
James did not even come inside—he said he had to return to LaMoure, where he was helping a neighbor plant trees on his claim. The wagon rattled away, leaving Maud with her small valise, standing on the flat, empty plain.
“Auntie M!”
Ten-year-old Magdalena flew around the side of the house, braids whipping behind her, and threw her arms around Maud. She was wearing the blue gingham dress, now too short and so old that the blue checks had almost faded to white. A tear along the hem made it hang unevenly. Matilda’s wool socks were bunched around her ankles, exposing the pale, bluish color of her thin legs.
“Slow down, Dorothy,” Magdalena cried out as she slowed to a walk. Maud looked around but saw no one, not even a doll in Magdalena’s arms. She could still vividly picture the shattered doll, its painted eyes staring blankly from inside the grave.
“Dorothy, mind your manners and say hello to Auntie M. And curtsy if you please.”
After a moment’s confusion, Maud caught on.
“Hello, there, Dorothy,” Maud said, turning to face her niece’s imaginary companion. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And she’s pleased to make yours,” Magdalena said.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Mama’s sick.”
“And who is looking after you?”
“Dorothy is.”
Inside, the tiny house was neat, but the main room was freezing. The fire had gone out. Maud pushed the bedroom door open to a waft of fetid air.
Julia was turned away from her, and as Maud’s eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that her bedding was stained with large crimson splotches.
“Julia?” Maud whispered.
Her sister did not stir.
“Julia!” Maud placed her hand on her sister’s cheek, alarmed to find it cold. She gave her a light shake, followed by a harder one.
Her sister opened her eyes slowly. “Maud?”
On the table next to her bed stood several empty bottles of Godfrey’s Cordial. Next to the bed stood a bucket filled with bloody rags. From the mess emerged the translucent curled-up fingers of a tiny hand.
“Julia, you need a doctor! I’m going to call one at once!”
“Call no one, Maud. If I live, no one must know.”
Maud leaned against the wall of the tiny room to steady herself.
“Julia, Julia…what have you done?”
“A Bohemian woman from the neighboring claim…James said we couldn’t support another mouth to feed…”
“Say no more!” Maud cried out. “Pray, Julia, say no more.”
* * *
—
WHEN MAUD LEFT THE BEDROOM, Magdalena was perched on a wooden chair, her heels on the chair rungs, her expression solemn. She had placed two cups from her miniature china set on the table. “Dorothy and I are having some tea,” she said. “Would you like some?”
A locomotive was rushing full speed through Maud’s head. Her thoughts were garbled, her knees shaking, but she tried to force an expression of calm upon her face so as not to alarm the child, who was looking up at her with large, unblinking eyes.
“Auntie M?”
“Yes, sweet pea?”
“If Mama dies, please don’t leave me alone here. Dorothy is afraid of the wolves.”
Maud turned her face to hide the tears that now flooded her eyes. She squatted down and put her arm around the girl. “I will never leave you alone,” she whispered.
“Or Dorothy, either,” Magdalena whispered. “Promise!”
“Or Dorothy, either,” Maud said. “I promise.”
* * *
—
THE EARLY SPRING NIGHT was moonless, and the heavens were bedecked with a glittering expanse of stars. Alone, Maud wielded the shovel, chipping away at the cold, hard ground. She sweated beneath her dress and wrap. When she paused to rest, her teeth chattered. Her hands were soon raw, her muscles aching.
Wolves howled in the distance. This only gave her more strength, as she was determined to bury what remained deep enough that the wolves wouldn’t dig it up.
The torment from her hands, her neck, and her back engulfed her until the stars spun in the heavens and a faint dawn glow burned in the distant sky. The simple stone that marked baby Jamie’s grave stood watch, taunting Maud not to give up before her work was finished.
At last the hole, though narrow, was as deep as the length of her arm. She upended the bucket and threw a spadeful of dirt on top of it.