18
1889
By May 1889, Maud was certain she was expecting another child, and as if the entire world wanted to follow suit, the last of the snow melted, leaving behind muddy shoes, daffodils outside her doorway, and a riot of prairie flowers blooming in the grasslands. The Christmas sales at Baum’s Bazaar had been a disappointment but not a fatal one—the store was still generating just enough income to keep them afloat.
After being cooped up inside with the children all winter, Maud loved being out-of-doors again. In the afternoon, when her chores were finished, she wandered along the lane until it petered out, and gathered bunches of bluebells, delicate white yarrow, and purple prairie fleabane. She took the house apart, beating every rug, mattress, and pillow, scrubbing every lintel and baseboard until the house gleamed and smelled of floor wax and Fairbank’s Gold Dust Washing Powder.
When Frank came home from downtown in the evenings, he regarded their sparkling home with bemusement, asking if she could not spend the afternoons with her feet up, but Maud was convinced, no matter what any doctor might tell her, that she had best stay strong, take long walks, and breathe fresh air, as only her strength would get her through the danger she faced in childbirth. If she sat still too long, her mind and hands idle, she had flashes of fear: What would happen to her children if she did not live through this lying-in?
One night, as they lay in bed, Frank’s hands cupped around her swelling belly, she whispered to him:
“If I don’t live, please find someone else, Frank. And be sure to choose someone kind.”
“You mustn’t say such things,” Frank said. “Nothing will happen to you. You are strong.”
Maud gripped his hands hard and whispered fiercely: “No, promise me right now, Frank Baum. I can’t bear the thought of my children growing up without a mother.”
“Maud, no!”
“Say it!” Maud said. “Say it now! And don’t choose pretty—choose kind!”
Maud lay perfectly still, listening to the sound of Frank’s measured breathing.
“I can’t do it, Maud. I fear that it might bring us cursed luck. It’s not natural.”
Maud sat up, threw back the covers, and walked to the window.
“You’ll say it now, or I’ll not sleep in this bed again until you do.”
Frank sighed and sat up, his long, skinny legs, in woolen underwear, illuminated by the moonlight shining in the window.
“Come back to bed, darling, please. I will honor your wish. Just don’t make me repeat such a thing aloud.”
“Frank, you’re superstitious, aren’t you?” Maud said. “Just shake my hand and tell me that you swear. It will set my mind so much at ease.”
Maud came back and sat down on the bed next to him. Frank put out his hand, and he solemnly shook her hand as he said, “I solemnly swear that I will abide by your wishes.” Maud flung both arms around him, and the pair sat in an unmoving embrace until Maud realized that Frank was crying—his silent tears had drenched her shoulder.
Gently, she wiped away his tears.
“Courage, dear,” Maud said.
“I love you, darling,” Frank said, his voice clotted.
She squeezed his hand and looked up into his gentle eyes. “It’s worth it,” she said.
“I have faith in you,” Frank replied.
A DRY SPRING HAD started to cause chatter among the Dakotans about the fearful possibility of a damaged wheat crop, but as May ended with little rain Frank continued to feel bullish about the prospects for Baum’s Bazaar. Maud could not fail to notice how very differently he conceived of his business than anything her father had ever done at the Gage General Store. Her father’s motto had always been to make sure that you have what folks are looking for—and not much more; it was important to keep a tight watch on the books, as every penny could be the difference between failure and profit. Frank’s idea was different. More modern, he insisted. He brought the razzle-dazzle of the former theater man, with the lollapalooza of a man who had once written advertisements to entice people to buy his axle grease.
“You see, Maud dear,” Frank said, feet up on the footstool, a cigar stuck in his mouth, one night after their supper, “people don’t know what they want. You have to show them. Don’t expect people to just walk into your shop and know exactly what they’re looking for—no sirree. You’ve got to prime the pump—you create the desire, and once people want something, they’ll stop at nothing to get it.”
Maud was tatting a lace handkerchief. She needed to keep count in her head as she listened, so she let Frank talk on without paying him too much mind. Maud enjoyed a happy Frank—his enthusiasm was infectious, buoying her past her worries; he always had one foot already into some sparkling, imaginary future. The particular future that had enamored him of late was America’s game. Baseball.
“Bats, balls, uniforms,” Frank said. “Ticket sales. Why, the Hub City Nine will need to be fitted out, and can you imagine how many small boys all over town will drag their mothers and fathers into the store to buy official Spalding balls for them? That’s what I’m saying, Maud. They didn’t even know how much they missed America’s game—but they’re going to know soon. We’re going to remind them.”
Maud kept counting under her breath as she weaved the tiny stitches. She smiled and nodded.
“But the Hub City Nine is more than just baseball—it’s civic pride, it’s something to put our town on the map. When the vote goes up for statehood, and we get to choose our capital, do you reckon Huron and Pierre will be able to compete with Aberdeen? I don’t think so. By the time our team wins the Dakota Territory Championship, it will seem like only common sense that the capital of the new state of Dakota will have to be located right here—Hub City, home of the Hub City Nine. And when Aberdeen is as big as Chicago, we can triple, maybe even quadruple the size of our store—we won’t even have to mind it anymore, we’ll have a full-time staff of paid clerks. Won’t it be something? We’ll leave it to the boys—oh, and our little girl of course,” Frank added, looking toward Maud’s belly with a smile.
Maud placed her hand over her stomach and frowned a bit. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Frank dear.”
ABERDEEN’S BASEBALL DIAMOND SAT between the edge of the town and the railroad tracks. From the bleachers, you could see over the fence and to the great expanse of bright grassland beyond. On the roof of the Ives House Hotel, about a half block behind the fence line, a crowd of people had gathered—young boys with their legs dangling off the roof and old men who had brought along their own wooden chairs. Frank frowned up at the gaggle on the roof.
“Hard to make a living if half the folks in Aberdeen won’t buy a ten-cent ticket,” he said, but there was no real malice in his voice.
When the nine men ran out onto the field, a shout of joy went up from the gathered people—those inside the baseball field and those up on the roof.
“Those uniforms are terrific,” Bunting said, craning forward on his seat and shading his eyes with his hand. Maud had to admit that the uniforms, in gray and maroon, with each player’s name and number and the words HUB CITY NINE embroidered on them, were a sight to behold. Frank had not only set up the team, he had fronted the money for the uniforms and all the equipment, expecting to earn back the cost from ticket sales. Maud felt a familiar twinge of worry as she saw the half-filled stands and the crowds of people peering through the slats in the fence, but today was opening day, and all of Aberdeen appeared to be in attendance—ticket holders or not. Maybe Frank was right about baseball.
Maud had filled a basket with fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and lemon cake. The morning sickness that had been plaguing her had at last abated, and the entire afternoon seemed enchanted. Frank held Maud’s hand and talked excitedly about how the Hub City Nine was going to play for the territorial title and win at the state fair. The sunny weather held for most of the afternoon, but during the ninth inning, a cold wind picked up and black clouds, which had appeared distant on the horizon, now scudded in, casting the ball field in shadows.
“Oh, I think it’s going to rain,” Maud said, quickly packing up their basket and pulling on the boys’ woolen jerseys. Sure enough, a few fat raindrops splashed their faces, but in a moment the black clouds sailed past, and the sky was a tranquil blue again.
“What a relief!” Maud said. “I thought we were in for a downpour.”
“I guess you’re not a farmer, ma’am!” A fellow seated on the bleachers in front of her turned around and looked at Maud with a frown. “It’s past Independence Day. We’re already way behind on the spring rain—I’ve got my wheat crop in. We need it.”
Maud was gathering her wits to respond—and it would have been sharply—but Frank jumped to her defense. “No need to speak that way to the lady. We’re all hoping for rain as much as the next person.” Frank reached into his front pocket and pulled out his card: L. FRANK BAUM, PROPRIETOR, BAUM’S BAZAAR.
“Frank Baum,” Frank said, extending his hand in a friendly manner. He pumped the farmer’s callused hand in greeting while clasping his left hand around the man’s arm. “You’re right as right,” he said. “Right as rain, you might say!” Frank was smiling broadly. “And I’m sure that those rain clouds that just blew past will come back and stick around.”
“I ’preciate you saying that,” the fellow said, a touch more warmly than he had spoken to Maud. “We’re already far behind in rainfall right now. If we go another week, the first crop will be stunted.”
Maud only half-listened to Frank’s optimistic predictions about the weather. She considered it a personal failing that she couldn’t muster very much interest in farming. There was a capriciousness in it that went monumentally at odds with everything Maud cherished: order, predictability, and calm. But here in Dakota, it seemed as if God himself had designed a way to torture people. Blizzards so sudden and severe that a body could get lost on his own property, hailstones the size of hen’s eggs, a relentless sun beating down upon you and not a spot of shade in which to escape it, rains so heavy that a flash flood could carry you away—and the most dreaded of all, the tornadoes, with their ungodly black funnel clouds.
Personally, she had been enjoying the long streak of sunny days without rain. Maud tuned out the men’s chatter and turned her attention back to packing up their day’s belongings. She folded up their blankets, dusting off the crumbs, tucked the rest of the jar of strawberry preserves back in the basket, wrapped a clean linen cloth around the half loaf of bread, and returned her attention to the game, which was now at the bottom of the ninth inning.
Frank was promising the farmer that rain was imminent, as if Frank Baum controlled the weather himself.
“I’ll tell you what,” Frank said. “I’m so sure it’s going to rain, I’ll make you a wager. If it hasn’t rained by next Sunday, you can step right into Baum’s Bazaar and I’ll give you a dollar’s worth of merchandise on credit. You can pay me back out of your fine harvest next fall.”
“Frank, I—” Maud tried to interrupt Frank before he shook on this crazy promise, but it was too late. The farmer, now smiling broadly, was pumping Frank’s proffered hand.
“Mr. Baum, you have got yourself a deal.”
After the man had turned his attention back to the game, Maud whispered to Frank: “Darling, do you think that is such a good idea?” Already, not five minutes had passed since those few raindrops had spattered down, and the sky was a blue as bright as a piece of china, with not a single cloud in sight.
“Don’t worry, Maud. The almanacs are certain on the point that we’ll have rain early this week. Those rain clouds were just the harbinger. Farmers do get themselves all in a tizzy about rain, understandable, but you know as well as I do that this climate suits the wheat crop perfectly. We’ve had three straight years of bumper crops. ‘Rain follows the plow,’ as they say. And you know what? Even if, for some reason, I’m wrong, and it doesn’t rain, that fellow will come into Baum’s Bazaar to collect, and I’ll have created something much more valuable than the dollar I spent. I’ll have created a customer! For that one dollar, I’ll probably sell him another ten dollars to boot!” Frank, so impassioned about what he was saying, had raised his voice, and the farmer turned around again with a smirk on his face and said, “Nope, betcha won’t!”
Frank just smiled sunnily and tipped his hat, and just at that moment, a Hub City Niner hit the ball with a crisp thwack and the ball sailed up into the bright blue sky and then clear over the ball field fence. The crowd jumped to their feet, crying out in delight as the player jogged around the bases, capturing the game for Aberdeen’s home team.
As they walked home from the ball field, little Robin grew tired, and Frank hoisted him up onto his shoulders. As they strolled along together, Maud was struck by how their little family felt peaceful, as if they belonged here in Aberdeen. To cap it all off, for the first time, Maud sensed a glimmer of movement, just tingling bubbles tickling her under her navel. She said nothing, but a small smile lit up her face. It was the end of a beautiful day.
A week later, on Sunday, it had not yet rained.
A BASEBALL CRANK. That’s what Frank had turned into. As the secretary and chief booster of the Hub City Nine, he threw his efforts into promoting his team. It certainly lent an air of gaiety to Aberdeen, which, as a dry July turned into a parched August, was otherwise teetering on the brink of a bad year. The ticket sales at the first game had exceeded one thousand, and all of the town’s newspapers could talk of little else. For the team’s first out-of-town trip, Frank organized a marching band, and more than five hundred townspeople accompanied the players as they boarded the special train that would carry them to their next match in the neighboring town of Webster.
At home, Frank and the boys seemed to breathe the game. Bunting and Robin spent all their time playing catch with a genuine Spalding ball that Frank had brought home from the store for them (replacing the first two, which the boys had lost in the tall prairie grass). Maud was only passingly interested in the ins and outs of baseball, and she gently remonstrated with Frank when she thought he was taking too much time away from the store—worried that he was focused on too many things at once.
But Maud was relieved in one way. Frank’s baseball fascination kept him occupied and out of the house—she’d seen no more of the melancholy fear related to her upcoming parturition. Maud had learned to live, for the most part, with the shadowy fear of childbirth that was every woman’s lot. She managed to keep it distant and boiled down to the essence of a pinpoint, barely perceptible in her field of vision, although with the slightest encouragement, her fear could swell, billowing up like a menacing black cloud settling over her home, her life, her future.
To lose a child, as Julia had, was a terrible thing, but nothing haunted a woman like the bright faces of her children. Their gentle, obdurate patience when she combed a tangle from their hair or helped them put on their nightdresses. Trust. Children believed that their mother would rise and set as reliably as the sun, having no idea that danger lurked nearby, that each subsequent child might try to snatch away his mother’s life as he made his way into the world. These were the terrified thoughts that could occupy Maud’s mind if she let them. So, she didn’t think. She cooked and cleaned and washed and scrubbed and tatted and mended and took long walks and visited with the neighbors and brewed tea and said her prayers. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, Maud prayed under her breath as she worked. She found the bubbly glimmers of life as intoxicating as ever. And yet, the shadow remained.
AS AUGUST WORE ON, the weather continued hot and dry. Clouds would mass only to depart without rain, leaving a big blue empty sky. The pleasant warmth of early summer had turned to torpor. Grass dried up. The afternoon winds carried a fine gray dust that crept into every corner. Not a drop of rain fell.
Now, anywhere you went in Aberdeen, drought was all anyone could talk about. The economy of Dakota was based on the price of wheat, and already where there should have been acres of lush growing fields, there were expanses of shriveled brown stalks. Everyone seemed to have an idea of what to do about it, from raising funds to creating artesian wells to seeding the clouds—a good idea, if anyone could invent a way to do it—but for the time being, they all watched anxiously. Maud had quickly learned what Dakotans already knew: as the farmers went, so went the towns. And if the townsfolk were suffering, then the farmers were hurting hard. Maud worried how Julia was faring. She wrote to her sister constantly but received few letters in return, and those few had a somber tone that did nothing to ease her concerns. Finally, Maud broached the question that had been plaguing her since baby Jamie’s death. Had Julia reconsidered? Would she send Magdalena to Aberdeen?
A week later, Maud received a brief reply.
My dearest Maud,
Thank you for your kind offer to let Magdalena live with you. I’m afraid that I must decline. In light of your delicate condition, I fear that she should grow too attached to you only to suffer a loss. I keep you in my prayers daily, Maudie dear, and hope that you will pass safely through the shadowy vale. God speed.
Your loving sister, Julia
Maud’s hand trembled violently as she beheld the letter. She crumpled it and threw it into the fire. A moment later, Frank came into the parlor.
He rushed up to Maud. “Darling? What is it? You are so pale! You looked like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Maud said nothing. She stared into the fire, watching the paper curl, spark, and burn until the black ashes floated up the flue.
I’ve seen a ghost, Maud thought, and it is mine.