“Go forth in peace, for you have followed the good road. Go forth without fear, for He who created you has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother.” -Saint Clare of Assisi
Chapter 1
The rhythm of her rocking body lulled the child to sleep. The night was warm, but Mary’s skin felt like ice so she pulled Alida closer.
They were crouched between two wooden benches on the porch of the small train station in St. Claire, Nebraska. The station was empty and the farm town had gone to sleep. Mary was thankful for the isolation.
Tonight she needed to be alone with her child, savoring each of Alida’s eyelashes, the dimples in her elbows, and the shape of her toes. Mary wanted to watch her walk along the wooden boards of the train station and hear Alida’s laughter when she chased her. Yes, tonight she was grateful to be ignored and forgotten because tonight she had a promise to keep. She shivered and kissed her toddler, a decided dread threading its way along her spine.
They’d started walking in June after Alida’s third birthday and before the stock market crashed. Mary had planned on walking from New Orleans all the way to California. Her dream was to see the ocean before she lost her sight. It would have been a shorter trip to walk to the Atlantic, but when she’d been at the convent school she’d learned the Atlantic was known for its choppy grey water, and Magellan had named the Pacific for being peaceful. A half-blind teenage mother needed an ocean of peace. If nothing else, the trip was a good reason to leave New Orleans and start over just like the Israelites when they’d left Egypt for Canaan.
Mary had been going blind since she was twelve. The nuns had sent her to a doctor when they could no longer ignore her squinting or the times she’d walked into walls and knocked down icons. She’d toppled over the Virgin during Mass one morning, sending her head rolling and the baby Jesus falling out of her arms. The doctors diagnosed her with an eye disease and said the best they could do for her was prescribe strong glasses. They warned she might wake up one morning with no sight at all. Now she was nearly nineteen and still able to make out the shape of her baby’s nose, the blue tint of her eye. She’d defied them all, and would have done so again by reaching the Pacific.
They’d left New Orleans with ten dollars, a bit of food, and too many memories. The money had given out before they’d crossed into Tennessee. Since Alida was small and had better sight, Mary began having her raid chicken coops for eggs and gardens for vegetables to survive. They’d slept under the awnings of businesses that had closed for the evening and the barns of farmers who never knew they were there. She’d lost her eyeglasses in such a barn when they had to scramble out the back door one morning. They’d overslept and had been woken by an old woman’s broom swatting at them in the hay. Without the glasses she wasn’t able to go very far each day, but the truth of the matter was that the glasses wouldn’t have helped much anyway. The white film that covered her brown eyes was turning the world into a gray fog.
As they walked, they heard trains speeding by and longed to be on one and ride it all the way to California. But Mary didn’t have any money left and didn’t dare ride the rails with her poor eyesight and a child. Men offered to help them hop on a train, but she was fearful of men. She couldn’t see their faces well enough to know if they could be trusted.
Instead of using the trains for transportation, the boxcars became a diversion. Mary and Alida would play games as the trains passed, singing songs to the rhythm of the passing wheels. Mary would tell Alida stories about where the trains were going, making up lands where no one was hungry or tired and people bathed in the ocean. Along these roads, Alida would be her mother’s eyes, helping her stay away from the tracks and the speed of the trains.
A week ago they were walking along an old road beside a sea of corn husk green. The warm sun was burning their skin, but its brightness helped Mary see as she tripped along the road that was little more than a path. A gentle breeze blew and she imagined the rustle of the corn stalks sounded the way the ocean would. Alida was holding her hand, singing Jesus Loves Me, her voice tinkling in the breeze like a crystal wind chime. Mary was rejoicing in a moment of pure bliss, content to be nowhere else in the world than homeless and poor with her baby girl in the middle of cornfields. She looked down to catch the glow of her child’s golden head when suddenly it seemed the sun had set. The world around her had turned into night and Mary knew the moment she’d dreaded had dawned. She jerked Alida to her side, feeling down the child’s body so she could pick her up. When she lifted her, they both fell with the motion, Mary unable to control her body in the dark. They sat on the road, its hot sand and stone burning through their thin clothes, and cried.
Mary’s mind raced with fear. She was frozen to the spot where they’d fallen, unable to form an idea of what they should do. They had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, and no money. She’d been hoping to reach a town or farmhouse by nightfall. Hours passed and no one happened upon the road where they lay waiting, Mary’s desperation grew with the cries of her child.
“God,” she cried out in her darkness, “please give me back my sight so I can find safety for my child. I promise, if you do, I’ll give her back to you. Just let me find her safely to a home.”
In her blindness, she was able to shuttle them off the road and into a cornfield, where they fell asleep. When they woke, she knew her prayer had been answered because the first thing Mary saw was the pink curl of her daughter’s ear. The sight of it was a gift, but the clarity of what she saw was breath taking. It was as if her sight had been restored to a strength that enabled her to see the microscopic strands of hair that stood on the edge of Alida’s ear. She could even see down the tunnel of the ear which led to the two small bones where she saw the sound of the wind reverberating. Mary looked to heaven and gave thanks.
Standing, she saw a yellow church rising out of the fields. The sun shone so brightly on the old church it seemed as if the glory of God itself was beckoning to them to come and find rest in his house. She accepted his invitation and walked the beaten path to the church. When they reached the building the door was open but no one was there. Mary gave Alida their last bite of bread while she ignored the gnawing of her own stomach. Once Alida had eaten, they fell asleep again, exhausted from the heat.
They slept through the night, and when Mary woke early morning light streamed through the church windows. Alida was whining that she was hungry and so Mary searched for food. She found crackers and wine in the cabinet under the pulpit. Communion food. Sacred food. She was hesitant to eat it, but a small voice in her head said, “This is my body, broken for you. Take and eat.” She gave some to her child and then ate a few crackers also. She put what was left in her knapsack.
Before they left she knelt at the cross hammered into the pulpit and prayed, “Christ, I will keep my promise. Once I’ve found Alida a place to stay, I will go. Only give me light for this road.” She knew enough peace in that moment to fill the Pacific twice over.
St. Claire was the first town she came to after she’d gone blind on the road, but she’d stopped in farm towns like this before. People in these towns raised corn, pigs, and children. There would be a church on Main Street, and a post office and mercantile right next door. The children of St. Claire would go to school in the one room church when they weren’t working on the farm. Trains would bring news from bigger cities, but rarely any visitors. Neighbors in these towns were family; they helped one another build barns and bring in the harvest. Mary knew in a town like St. Claire Alida would be safe.
Mary walked down Main Street, lined with big maples turning on their colors for the fall. Near the end of the street was the train station. It was a small building that smelled of lumber dust and grease. It housed ticket sales and a telegraph office. A porch wrapped around the building and benches were pushed against the walls. Everything looked as if it could use a new coat of paint. There was an open window on the east side with a ledge where ticket purchases could be made. Mary walked up to the counter and rang the bell to get the manager’s attention.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said as he approached the window. Mary was already looking away from the man, not wanting him to see her eyes. She had grown used to not looking people in the eye.
“Could I get the train schedule, please?”
“What’s that, Miss?”
Mary inched closer to the window, and while looking at her feet, said, “Could you tell me the train schedule?”
“Miss, you’ll have to look at me when you speak.”
She did, and when he saw the white film that covered her eyes, he muttered, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
Quickly, she looked away again and he was shamed by his outburst. She was so young, with a child. The grey of their cheeks told the story of hunger and their tattered clothing was scarce protection from the elements.
He cleared his throat and leaned his head through the window, “Miss, what is it I can help you with?”
“I’d just like to know the train schedule.”
“Ah, yes. Well, the last train leaves St. Claire at 6 o’clock, heading east. The next one pulls through at 6 o’clock tomorrow morning. Now, that one is an express. It doesn’t stop, just pulls right on through on its way west.” She’d been looking at the steel tracks, imagining their coolness, watching the small mirage of vapor as it lifted and evaporated into the day. “Can I get you a ticket, Miss?”
Mary shook her head and began to walk away, but he came after her. “Miss, I need to warn ya that to ride a train without a ticket is illegal and regarded as theft.” Then he bent low to her ear, “And it isn’t safe for a wee child like you’ve got.”
She looked up at him. “I won’t be riding the train, sir.”
He straightened himself and smiled. “Well, then, can I direct you to a boarding house for the night?”
She shook her head again and walked further down the station porch, feeling his eyes following her.
He left for home a couple of hours later and brought her a thick piece of bread covered in saffron butter. “In case you’re hungry,” he said and walked away.
She’d hunkered down for the night, holding Alida close and watching her baby fingers pick up pieces of rock and tiny bugs. As the sun found its place in the western sky, the light of the moon cast an eerie glow through a small split rail fence meant to protect passengers from moving trains. Through the bright shadows she watched her child eat the bread and fall asleep.
Mary reached for her baby’s wrist and felt the gentle thump of her pulse. She could hear Alida’s deep sleeping breath and knew she would sleep for the rest of the night. She spooned herself against Alida, capturing her warmth and drawing courage from her life.
She fell asleep but woke to Alida’s cries. A cool summer night wind was blowing and so she rocked the child. The moon’s silver light stretched along the train tracks, and beckoned her to visit. She slipped Alida out of her arms and stepped over the station fence. Jumping from the station platform and down to the gravel that formed the track bed, she landed on her knees. The rocks embedded themselves in her skin, and the sharp pain took her by surprise. Brushing off the stones, she noticed blood running down her leg. Bringing her hand to her face, she saw the traces of her life smeared there. She tasted the blood and its saltiness caused her stomach to rumble. Standing so close to the steel rails her senses were aroused and her instinct to live rose sharp and sudden from deep within her.
She scrambled back over the fence to where her baby lay sleeping. Her resolve must not be shaken, not by the beat of her child’s heart or the taste of her own blood. She’d found a place of safety for Alida and now she had a promise to keep. St. Claire would gather her in its arms like a farm wife gathers chicks around her legs at feeding time. They would clothe her, school her, and feed her. When she grew up, she would marry and have a farm of her own. Mary knew this without having to be told. She was certain she had found a place to leave her child. When she had traced her fingers along the letters of the town name she felt her Pacific Ocean peace. And now she could whisper the name St. Claire in prayer as she said good-bye.
Mary looked up and studied the sky and couldn’t remember when she’d been able to see the moon so clearly. It was before she’d begun to lose her sight, but when was that? She couldn’t remember anymore. This gift of extreme sight had been a blessing.
She had few hours left before the express would roll through town. She had some things she needed to do before it came. First was the note she’d written. It needed to be pinned to Alida’s dress.
If you are reading this you have found my child. Please take care of her. She is called Alida after my mama. We walked here from New Orleans. I was hoping to see the ocean. Please tell her that her love was better than sight.
-Mary den Hartig
Then she took what remained of the communion bread from her knapsack and knelt at a bench. “Father, forgive me and if it be possible, take this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done.” She ate the cracker and then sipped some of the wine she’d taken from the yellow church. Her last meal was the body and blood of Christ. She hoped it would be enough for her to see Jesus.
Tiger stripes of sunlight glowed in the east, and she knew that the train would be shooting through St. Claire soon. It was time to say good-bye. She pushed herself up from the bench and stood over Alida. The sun could rise so quickly and now it bathed her sleeping form. Her blonde hair glowed and Mary imagined how much more beautiful the child would be after she’d been bathed with water and fed milk and bread for a few weeks. She wanted desperately to see Alida well fed and dressed, but knew that even if she stayed she would never have the pleasure of such a vision. If she stayed, no one would take them in as they would an orphan girl.
Mary traced Alida’s tiny lips with her thumbs and her brow with her fingers. Cupping her child’s face in her hands, she captured the shape of her warmth. She wanted it to be last thing she remembered feeling.
Leaning down she whispered, “You will be safe and you will know peace. That will be your story to tell.”
Then Mary slid her into the deep dark corner of the train station and covered her with her coat. She slipped the knapsack from around her shoulders and laid it at Alida’s feet. Inside were a communion wafer and a school picture taken of Mary when she was sixteen. Shortly after it was taken she’d learned she was pregnant.
She climbed over the fence again and jumped down to the gravel, this time landing on her feet. From the distance came the deep belly rumble of the train and a trace of smoke shaded the sky as she puffed her way toward St. Claire. Mary knelt down to the track and felt the rail shiver in anticipation. She drew a deep breath and faced the east where the sky had suddenly turned turquoise and pink. Climbing onto the track, she stood between the two rails, her heart racing.
With her back to the west, she watched the sun rise in the east. Lord, she whispered, you’ve loved me like you loved Leah with the weak eyes. You gave her children, too, because she was not loved. Thank you.
The train rumbled closer and the horn shook the morning sky, warning whoever stood on the rails to move. But she didn’t move and now the train was too close to stop. The ground was shaking and she could hear the gravel bouncing against the steel. Taking a deep breath, she could feel the train’s smoke filling her lungs. Suddenly, warmth tingled in every part of her body, and she remembered the shape of Alida’s head, and the feel of her small hand. When she lost her sight she was whispering a blessing on the town of St. Claire.