Isaac Campbell’s sizable donation to the zoo gave him the ability to visit the grounds nearly anytime he wanted to. Often he came in the evening or at night when only one guard was on duty. With such a well-known name and recognizable face, thanks to his uncanny resemblance to his father—both tall, broad, and with strikingly dark hair and equally dark eyes—coming at night was the easiest way to get to the tree unnoticed.
Besides, animals never inquired after the Campbell shoe company’s affairs. They didn’t bombard him with gossip about their rival company or pretend to know what happened seven years ago between his father and his father’s former business partner. They didn’t ask him his feelings on prohibition, recount memories of the Great War, or whisper about his bachelorhood. Animals were far less meddlesome than people.
Isaac shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered slowly along the stone paths of the zoo, whistling to the tune of “My Little Dream Girl.” The evening air was crisp but not bitterly cold like the winter nights had been. The temperature was comfortable enough that he could stay all night if he wished.
Outside these gates, he was a different man, but in here, he felt free. Liberated from the struggle to prove himself to his father. Here no one knew he was a sought-after bachelor who felt no inkling of desire to date the women who batted their eyes at him. Here he was free to think of the woman behind the letters, or to think of his uncle who’d died in the war and long for days gone by. The buzzing world outside the gates could wait; he was in no hurry to return to it. His mind wandered in whatever direction it chose, carefree as the spring breeze.
The guard, Bill Turner, an old friend, waved as he made his rounds. “That’s a fine tune you’re whistling.”
“It’s playing on the radio all day long. It gets stuck in my head.”
“I thought maybe you were dreaming about a lady.” Bill stopped his march around the zoo. “We had hundreds of folks here today. The warmer weather is filling these grounds.”
“There’s nothing like spring in Buffalo. Makes you want to get out of doors and celebrate.”
“Sure does,” Bill said. “Even Big Frank’s been livelier. I suppose seeing the grass after all these months has him excited. It’s going to be a good spring.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“The war’s been done long enough that folks is smiling again. Times are good—seems everyone is prospering.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s back to being plumb crazy, and I s’pose that’s better than being sad and worried all the time. Time’s healed a lot of wounds.”
Isaac leaned on the railing of the sea lion enclosure. The big male waddled from his rock to the water and slid in, sleek and smooth. The zoo’s electric lights danced across the ripples the sea lion made, giving the scene a majestic feel. Isaac kept his gaze on the animal, watching the sea lion’s acrobatics in the water. “I think you’re right. The war’s reach is fading. It’ll be a good spring.”
“I hear there’s talk of an exhibition at Niagara Falls. Some fool plans to go over in a rubber ball. Read about it in the paper. Should be happening in a few weeks, or maybe it was months, I can’t remember for sure.”
Years ago, Isaac may have aspired to something so reckless as riding over the falls in a barrel. He’d wanted so badly to make his own mark on the world, one not connected to his father or their business. Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He’d stayed home when his friends went off to college, just waiting for his turn to make decisions at the factory, but at twenty-three he found that time still hadn’t come. “I may have to go and watch the exhibition. Sounds more entertaining than spending my days trying to take down the Bradshaw shoe factory.”
Bill’s rumbling laugh earned him a smile from Isaac and a sleepy-eyed look from the nearest animals. “Is your father still giving you . . . interesting assignments?”
“I’d hardly call them interesting.” He kept his tone light despite the angst he felt. If only Bradshaw would close his factory doors, Isaac would be free of him, and then perhaps Isaac’s father would give him real responsibility at the Campbell factory. His hands tightened on the metal railing. “There’s a new supplier of raw goods. Word is he inherited a business from his late father. There’s talk that he’s brilliant and incredibly wealthy—I believe he deals in investments as well, but I don’t really know much about him. It is now my father’s hope that I will befriend the man and get him to work exclusively with Campbell shoes. He’s convinced that this man is the secret to him becoming bigger than Bradshaw and putting Bradshaw out of business for good.”
Isaac’s jaw clenched. He wanted to open new markets or design a useful shoe, but his father was forever telling him to run along as though he hadn’t been learning the business for years. When he begged for responsibility, his father gave him trivial tasks, like befriending a man. But Isaac knew numbers were what ought to sell contracts.
“Someday . . .” He trailed off. All this talk of work left him feeling like an impish child, trying desperately to prove himself. He had everything . . . and yet he always felt something was missing.
“You’re ambitious. I’m sure your father is proud of you.” Bill grinned, his crooked teeth showing. “Might as well enjoy all the time you have. Someday you’ll likely have more work than you’d like. I say, take a woman with you to the falls. Watch the spectacle. Enjoy life—the rest will work itself out.” Bill winked before starting on his rounds again.
Take a woman. Every time Isaac heard those words, his thoughts went to his letter girl. She may not know his name, but she knew him better than anyone else. How many letters had he composed asking to meet her, begging to know her name? But he never left them for her. He tore them up, threw them in the fire, and went on as they had for so many years. Talking about books, the weather, and the happenings of Buffalo. They wrote of dreams and sorrows, fairy tales and hopes. Always careful and cautious, sharing details that filled his mind and heart but never enough clues to put a name or a face with the words. She’d made it a rule from the start: no names. And he’d complied, despite his curiosity.
Once, when they’d first started writing, he tried to catch her leaving a letter. He spent hours in the tree, even clinging to its branches during a rainstorm. But his efforts were fruitless, and after that he decided to embrace their unique friendship and the gift of namelessness.
Why had he never asked her to change her rule? The part of himself that wanted to ask ached to know her completely. But if he did ask to meet her, or for her name, then he would have to decide what to do with her answer. What if he met her and found her unattractive or abrasive? Either possibility was hard to imagine. Still, there was a risk that what they had would end. And if he no longer had the letters to look forward to, he felt certain a void would form in his life that would be impossible to fill. Theirs was something steady, predictable. In the ever-changing landscape of a bustling city, he wanted to keep for himself this one unchanging pillar.
A wolf at the other end of the zoo howled. He turned toward the noise but saw nothing more than dark shadows. The half-moon and a few electric lights offered enough illumination that he could easily make his way through the maze of pathways, but the night still wrapped everything in a blanket of near darkness. He tossed the scraps of jerky he’d brought for the foxes to find later, when they left their den to stretch their weary limbs.
From there to the letter tree, he needed no light at all. He traveled the path now on his long legs, one step after another, until he’d arrived and was reaching inside the maple.
He smiled. She’d written. And soon he was whistling “My Little Dream Girl” again.
* * *
“Your father’s in ill spirits. That man can growl louder than the devil in a thunderstorm.” Mrs. Guskin smirked while she helped freshen the waves in Laura’s hair. “He’s bringing a guest and has told me twice to make sure you’re dressed in the latest fashion and don’t have dirty nails. He mumbled something about you playing in the dirt.”
“He knows I’m not playing in the dirt,” Laura said. “He used to like the flowers in the back before Mother died.”
“He’s a stubborn man, and he’s convinced himself that hating everything that has to do with your mother will somehow make things better.”
“And he calls me foolish.” Laura balked. “Being mad at a dead person never got anyone anywhere.”
Mrs. Guskin’s tight bun gave her a deceptively stern look. “That may be, but it won’t hurt to give your hands a good scrubbing. I believe this dinner has something to do with business, and there’s no reason to rile up your father.”
Everything her father did was about business or social standing. He dressed each morning with the sole purpose of impressing others. He ate at the finest restaurants and even attended speakeasy gatherings at green-door locations, all for the purpose of bettering the Bradshaw shoe brand and ensuring Buffalo—and the whole world, for that matter—knew Bradshaw shoes were superior to Campbell shoes. Even her pet macaw, Tybalt, was the result of his vanity. He’d bought the red bird only because it was exotic and something few others had. He’d bragged about it until he grew annoyed with Tybalt’s sea slang and smell, at which time Laura claimed the bird as her own.
Tybalt’s birdcage was in the far corner of her room where he could see out the window. He was a delightful, albeit stubborn, creature, who had completely stolen her animal-loving heart. He always paraded back and forth across his roost, red feathers puffed and head jutting forward and back.
“Storm’s coming,” he squawked as he pranced, mimicking a sailor she’d come to know in voice only. “Storm’s coming.”
Laura snickered at the words he’d learned to mimic while traveling from South America, but inside she squirmed. It was only old ship talk. She knew that. Yet an eerie chill raced down her spine as though Tybalt’s words somehow carried truth. Could a storm be coming? She longed for change, but not the vile, chaotic sort. What her heart and soul yearned for was change that brought escape from the monotony of her life.
“Perhaps you could tell my father I’ve a headache, and then I would not have to sit through a business dinner at all.” Laura’s eyes connected with Mrs. Guskin’s through the mirror, and a knowing look passed between Mrs. Guskin’s motherly brown eyes and Laura’s younger blue ones. “I promise I’d stay in my room.”
“I know what you’d do. You’d pore over your veterinary books or lose yourself in one of your well-loved fairy tales while missing your mama.”
“If I promised to help you, would that change anything? I’d dust every inch of this floor.”
“Tempting—I do love it when we work together—but I think it best you save your headache for when it is truly needed, don’t you? You’ll only have to sit there until your father pulls out the brandy and insists you leave so they can talk business.”
“I don’t see why I need to be there at all. He’ll simply talk numbers and complain about Campbell and claim the man is stealing his designs. It’s the same thing every time.”
“That may be. But I think it wise to appease him. I don’t blame you, but for now wear the green dress—the color is stunning, and it’s so fashionable. And remember if the dinner drags on that it will end, and your books will be here, hidden under your bed like they always are. And I’ll be here, ready to hear how it went.”
Laura scrunched up her nose. She never felt completely at ease in the green dress, striking as it was. The plunging neckline and fringed skirt left her feeling as though she were pretending to be someone she was not. Why could a man not appreciate her in something more comfortable? But her father cared about appearances, and if he wanted the latest fashion, then the green dress it must be.
The old stubbornness that she was forever burying and trying to ignore fought like a seedling struggling to burst through the soil, only to find itself covered again. She was a grown woman, old enough to decide what to wear and how to fill her day. She did not work at her father’s factory, but in many ways, she felt as though she were his employee. Always subject to his commands and scrutiny. He claimed it was all for her good, that his quest to best Campbell, his tireless work at the factory—all of it—was for her. And his demands on her, likewise, were meant to protect her. But from what? He kept her from the socials, the roller rinks, and the dance halls. The heaviness in her chest increased.
Laura’s eyes went to Tybalt, trapped in his cage, dependent on her. “You wouldn’t survive out there,” she’d told him many times. “The cage is for your safety.” She turned away, hating cages in all their forms. Hating her restless heart, wishing it weren’t there. If she weren’t such a dreamer, perhaps she could be content with her stifling life.
She gritted her teeth and pushed the obstinance back down, knowing that, like Tybalt, she would not survive on her own. The thought made her feel weak and small. With no means of income, few connections, and her father’s commanding voice in her head, so much seemed against her. Her gaze landed on the fairy-tale book and then on Mrs. Guskin. At least Laura was not alone in a tower. For that, she would choose to be thankful. “I’ll wear the green. But only if you promise to listen to me complain about every detail of the night.”
“My ears are already burning to hear how it goes.” Mrs. Guskin pulled the elegant garment from the wardrobe and ran her hand across the black beadwork that crisscrossed the front of the dress. “You’ll look lovely.”
Laura exhaled, resigned to her fate. Soon enough she would be back in her room with her matronly housekeeper, her bird, and her box of letters. Today’s missive had been two pages of nothing and everything all at once. Talk of the theater he’d attended, the baby foxes he’d been able to catch a glimpse of at the zoo, and how he’d stood near the spot where President McKinley was assassinated during the Pan-American Exposition.
I wonder whether you and I ever cross paths when we stroll through the park. Have our eyes met, and we did not know it?
How often had she wondered the very same thing? Whenever a stranger’s eyes lingered on her, she searched her heart for a gentle flutter, something to confirm that the man in front of her was not truly a stranger. She wanted to meet her letter friend, but in all these years he’d never asked, and so her rules from the beginning remained, protecting them both from her father’s sure disapproval. At times she’d been tempted to ask him personal questions, but fear, the ever-present sentinel, stood close, holding her back. Fear whispered doubts and taunted her with the idea of losing her letter friend all because she wanted too much.
“If you’d cut your hair into a bob, it’d look even more modern,” Mrs. Guskin said, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.
“I prefer the faux bob.” She touched the small, tight buns at the nape of her neck, carefully twisted to give her the appearance of a bob without requiring she cut off her dark auburn tresses. “Mama always loved brushing my long hair.”
“You poor girl.” Mrs. Guskin’s thin lips drooped down in the corners. “I remember my own mama brushing my hair when I was a girl.”
“She’s been gone for years,” Laura said, trying to appear unaffected despite the sting of loss that lingered like a bullet embedded in her chest. “I do wonder why she was there that day.” She fidgeted with the hem of her shirtwaist. “I met a man at the zoo today. He said I look like my mother. I suppose that is why she is on my mind.”
“You don’t have to be so brave.” Mrs. Guskin planted a motherly kiss atop Laura’s head. “A woman is allowed to miss her mother every day of the year. She needs no reason for it.”
“That day, she said she was going to go and make things right. I’ve always wondered . . .” Laura closed her eyes, not wanting tears to come now. “I don’t want to keep seeing the accident in my mind. But it is still there.”
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” Mrs. Guskin whispered, a reverence in her tone. “I wish I could wipe it away for you and all the fears that came because of it. You were just a child.”
Laura blinked quickly. “I imagine the old zookeeper knew her from church or some social committee she was on. There was a time when everyone knew her.” She took a slow breath, steadying her voice. “I almost wish he’d not said anything. Mama’s gone, and talking about her won’t bring her back.” A quiver of emotion crept into her voice, betraying her desire to appear nonchalant. “My mother is gone, my father cares only about making thousands of shoes, and I must get ready for dinner.”
“Your father treats you like a pawn in his game of chess. He shouldn’t ignore you so often, nor expect you to always be there at his beck and call.”
“He’s never said he blames me for that day, but—”
“He’d be a fool to blame you.” Mrs. Guskin’s voice was soft yet full of force. In books housekeepers were often docile, present but quiet. Mrs. Guskin broke the mold, and Laura was glad of it. Their gazes met once again in the mirror and held. Mrs. Guskin delivered her next words slowly and with emphasis, her gaze never wavering. “You are not a game piece. And you are not responsible for your father’s choices. Don’t forget that.”
“I’ll do my best,” Laura whispered back, as though her words were a vow.
“The war changed a lot of people. It’s no excuse, but it did.”
“My father didn’t go to war. He made boots for soldiers. They called him a hero because he kept our boys’ feet dry.” She turned her attention away from her mirror. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You matter. All of it matters. But right now, your father expects you.” Mrs. Guskin backed toward the door, giving Laura time to sort out her feelings. Before leaving, she said, “I’ll go and let your father know that you’ll be down shortly. Take a moment if you need it.”
Alone, with only Tybalt, Laura pulled on her green dress, careful to preserve her hair. Then, rather than hurry downstairs, she walked to the window and pushed the curtains aside. It was dark out, and only a few couples still strolled the park. Was her letter-writing man among them?
“Do you suppose he’s feeding the ducks?” she asked her bird. “Or staring off at the sky and wishing I was there with him?”
Tybalt wrapped his beak around the bar of his cage and gnawed at it, paying her little heed.
“He’s probably down there, looking at every window, wondering where I am. Maybe someday he’ll see my window, and he will just know that it’s me in here. He’ll climb up.” She opened the curtains as wide as they would go and then waltzed away from the window. “And we’ll dance, and the rest of the world will disappear. His arms will be large and strong, and I’ll feel completely safe in them. We won’t have to hide anything because we already know each other’s hearts.” She closed her eyes, wishing she knew his face so she could picture him looking at her. “And then he’ll lean in close and kiss me.”
Tybalt flapped his wings, distracting her.
She stopped dancing, the illusion fading. “Do you not think that is what he’d do?”
Tybalt let out one of his ear-piercing screams that had gotten him banished from her father’s presence.
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” she said to Tybalt. “I don’t actually expect him to come climbing up like some lovesick suitor. I know one day the letters will stop. He’ll fall in love and marry, and it will all end. I’ll be left with only a box of words.”
She got a cracker and reached it through the bars of his cage. “It’s been fun, dreaming that one day he’ll fall in love with me. You don’t begrudge me a few daydreams, do you?” Tybalt cocked his head to one side and then the other. “It’s silly, I know. No one falls in love with a person they’ve never seen. And even if we did declare ourselves smitten, Father would find a way to come between us. He’d claim there was a better match out there.” She imitated her father’s deep voice, not matching the timbre as well as Mrs. Guskin had. “Laura, I forbid you from seeing your Pinecone Man and insist you marry a stuffy old businessman.”
She rolled her eyes, a childish act she would never do in front of her father. “Perhaps you and I should sneak off to the jungle together. I think I’d make a fine jungle woman, don’t you?”
A laugh bubbled through her when he nodded his head up and down. There was no friend like Tybalt, no one she’d rather sneak away with.
“A jungle woman would have to be brave.” She tapped her lip. “I will practice my bravery tonight as I endure an entire dinner with Father and his work associate. When I come back, I will tell you how I faced the enemy, never wavering. I might even use some of your favorite sea language when I do.”