The next day, Maud gathered her strength and walked to her mother’s garden, behind the house. The towering fence that separated their property from the Crouse home next door was in fact only shoulder height. Beyond it, there was no sign of the old scarecrow that had once frightened her so much. Old Mr. Crouse had died many years ago. Leftover snow was still clumped in the shady corners. Her mother’s lawn was brown, but a smattering of fresh green shoots had emerged.
Maud made her way to the back of the garden. She carried a small spade, which she used to clear away the snow. There, she found the flat rock where she had once buried her pet crow—her childish introduction to death.
Maud opened the silver urn and scattered the ashes over the place where she knew in the spring her mother’s favorite peonies would bloom. She watched the ashes fall upon the cold ground, and brushed away the silvery gray grit that blew onto her black silk crepe de chine. Right now, on this cold March afternoon, she lacked the power to imagine that in June, this same barren patch of ground would bloom forth with the soft white and pink flowers, so heavy, so full of life, that the stalks would bend with the weight of their blossoms. Bees would buzz, butterflies would flit, and giant puffy clouds would float high in the sky. Now it was gray and cold, and that seemed fitting.
By the end of the week, Maud had sorted out and packed the house. When she left, she took just a few items with her. She took the embroidered message of the golden path, as well as a tin can labeled BAUM’S CASTORINE that she’d found in the back shed. And she took a handkerchief she had embroidered for her mother, on which she imagined she could still catch a whiff of Matilda’s favorite homemade salve of dried lavender and mint mixed with Vaseline.
On her last morning, Maud made the rounds of each of the rooms, once full of a family, now populated by ghosts. She thought of her father, quiet and kind, always there with a word of encouragement, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an aggie or tiger marble and tossing it to her with a wink. She pictured Julia—the little mother, always running after Maud with a clean handkerchief or a warm scarf on a cold day. But most of all, Maud saw Mother: nurse and doctor, priest and witch, fighter and patient mender, brilliant mind and kindly heart.
As Maud locked the door behind herself, every home she had lived in since leaving here flashed across her mind: the elegant rooms in Sage College, the tawdry western boardinghouses where she and Frank had happily spent their first married days, their home in Dakota, where frigid winds had rattled the windows and giant hailstones pelted the roof. She thought of Julia’s square of weathered wood perched on the landscape like a bird just alighted and ready to fly away. She thought of the run-down row house on Campbell Park, and of her present home on Humboldt Boulevard, filled with the sounds of boisterous boys and joyful laughter each time Frank came home from the road.
But unlike this house, each of those had a temporary quality. She and Frank had never owned their own family home. As the heavy lock clicked into place, Maud thought of her mother’s instructions for her small inheritance. Mother had been so certain that Maud would know when the time was right to use it, but how would she know? Maud whispered a prayer to her mother, asking her to always stay with her; then she turned her back and walked down the sidewalk, away.
CHAPTER
25
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
1898
As the train rattled into Chicago, air filled with coal smoke hung yellow on the horizon, and the stench of the stockyards seeped through the windows. Still, when she passed the murky effluents of the Chicago River, Maud saw the late afternoon sunlight winking on the tall buildings and caught a glimpse of the crisp blue of Chicago’s Great Lake, and realized she couldn’t wait to get back to Humboldt Boulevard. As she exited the train station, the crowd surged around her, and she spilled out, along with the press of humanity, into the city where she now belonged.
There was something else, too. Something that brought an extra bit of lightness to her step. Maud had realized while she was away that she was most likely with child. Deep in her heart, she imagined that she was nurturing a baby girl—a child to carry on her mother’s legacy.
By the time she made it all the way back to Humboldt Boulevard it was past the boys’ bedtime, so she pushed the front door open quietly and tiptoed inside. To her surprise, she found Frank sitting in an armchair in the parlor, his long legs propped over one arm, a pad of paper balanced on his knees, the stump of his pipe clenched between his teeth, and a pencil in his hand. When he noticed her, he jumped out of his chair, knocking aside the pad of paper and sending it skidding across the floor.
“You’re home, dear heart! I didn’t even hear you come in! Maudie darling, we’ve missed you. Was your trip all right?” He embraced her warmly.
“It’s so good to be home,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “How are the boys?”
“Oh, tip-top. We managed perfectly fine. Everyone made it through without a scratch.”
“Without a scratch?” Maud said, smiling. “Well, that is rather a low bar.”
Maud bent over to pick the pad up off the floor and saw that there were pages filled with his backhand scrawl. Frank reached out hastily, almost snatching it from her. He flipped the pad closed, as if he didn’t want her to see what was written there.
“What is it, Frank?” she asked, now curious.
Frank tucked the pencil behind his ear and grinned in reply. “It’s just the strangest thing. An idea for a story grabbed hold of me while you were gone. I’m writing it down as fast as I can.”
“What’s it about?” Maud said, taking off her coat.
Frank held out the pad so that she was able to read the title.
“It’s called ‘The Emerald City’? Really, Frank?” Maud still blushed at the memory of their ride on the Ferris Wheel. “Is it about us?”
“It’s about the most beautiful place you can imagine. A land of Aahs.”
Maud smiled. “You mean the story about the boys’ block city?”
“Better!” Frank said. “An enchanted kingdom. A land I’ve called Oz. O-Z. Oz.”
Maud put her arms around her husband’s shoulders. “Oz may be beautiful, but I can’t imagine anyplace more beautiful than right here in our very own home.” She placed her hand over her lower belly and looked up at him through her lashes. “And soon we’ll be adding to our blessings.”
“Are we truly expecting another one?” Frank said joyfully.
Maud nodded shyly. “I think so, but it’s early yet.”
“Oh, Maudie,” he said, drawing her close and kissing her long and deep. “This is such happy news! Another child! Perhaps a girl for our dotage.”
Maud blushed with pleasure. “Perhaps.”
* * *
—
IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS, Frank continued his frenzy of writing. She had never seen him so deeply absorbed, so absent. Day after day, Frank sat in the rocking chair in the front parlor, pencil in hand, a pad of lined paper in his lap, scribbling. And most days, he came home from work with pages to add to the pile. He wrote on any scrap of paper he could find: backs of envelopes, bills of sale, the blank flip sides of printed lists from Pitkin & Brooks with the inventory of china neatly printed on the front. At first, Maud tiptoed around him, careful not to disturb him, but soon she realized that he was so absorbed in his work that no amount of surrounding hubbub made the slightest dent in his concentration.
One afternoon, when Maud had been out delivering her finished sewing pieces, she heard what sounded like a riot going on in the parlor. Peering through the doorway, she saw Frank Jr. and Robin, diving and dodging, engaged in a lively game of catch, Harry pounding out “Chopsticks” on the piano, and little Kenneth entranced in running a small metal fire truck back and forth across one of Frank’s long black shoes.
“Children!” Maud said, clapping her hands to get their attention. “Your father is trying to concentrate. And no playing ball in the house. You’re going to break something!” All four boys froze at the sound of their mother’s voice, and even their calico cat looked up languidly from its warm perch in Frank’s lap, but Frank himself didn’t seem to notice her presence. He held his pencil in midair, eyes focused out the window. With his other hand, he absentmindedly stroked the cat. A moment later, he scribbled a few more words, and then blinking, as if he suddenly remembered where he was, he looked up at Maud.
“Oh hello there, dear. Back so soon?”
“Oh, Frank, I’ve been gone all afternoon. How’s the writing going?”
“Splendidly!” he said. “I’ll be done with this story before you know it!”
“But what’s it about?” Maud asked, wonderingly.
“Well, it’s about a girl and her companions, and they’re on the move. It’s hard to explain, Maud, but it’s all in there.”
“What’s all in there?”