Father comes alone
to fetch me at the harbor.
He hands me
my embroidered bag,
which Mother has filled
with a few summer things
and a lavender note saying
that we will all be together soon.
Not all! Not Estrella—I clench my teeth
and crumple the lie in my fist—
and not her baby.
Of course Estrella cannot write
to tell us about the child—
or if she did, Father would burn the letters
privately, secretly,
as our society dictates—
but I pray that
both are alive and well.
Will I ever know?
We take the train directly to South Fork
without first going home to Pittsburgh.
A bit ahead of the resort season,
we will wait there alone
for Mother—and other club members—
to join us.
“We are going to have a quiet summer, young lady.”
Father, holding a big black umbrella,
hands me into the carriage at South Fork station.
“None of that nonsense like last year.”
“Yes, Father,” I shout over the din of rain.
He climbs in and shuts the door,
whisking rain off his sleeves.
“I should have had that boy fired.
I sent word last month, but they assure me
he is no longer in their employ.”
“Oh?” I try not to look too interested.
The whip cracks;
the carriage jolts forward.
Father turns his attention back to his papers,
but quickly succumbs
to the rocking motion
and nods off.
I remove a passel of envelopes
from the lining of my jacket.
My fingers instinctively find my favorite
letter from Peter
and I read it again,
even though I can recite every word.
Dear Celestia,
Remember my favorite fishing hole?
That’s where I first saw you.
It’s all covered with snow now,
but I pretend you’re there,
reading a book in the sun,
and you can hear me.
I tell you everything,
starting with how much I miss you….
The incessant rain on the roof
of the carriage
is deafening.
The threat of a wheel loosening
or sticking in mud,
or a washout on the road
prevents sleep from coming.
We creep toward Lake Conemaugh.
I long for the featherbed,
a hot bath poured with steaming kettles,
and perhaps a game hen or quail
with early potatoes and fennel.
But the season has not yet begun
and most staff are not in residence.
What could be my last night
of luxury
will likely include
a musty room in need of airing,
a bowl of tepid water,
and a dusty biscuit with salt pork.
Father snores
through the interminable racket.
He does not suspect that tomorrow
I will risk losing him
and the comfortable life I know.
Tomorrow I set off to find Peter.