American Progress Page 7

  “Mr. President, I’d like you to meet Maureen Stevenson and Mark Bowman.”

  As if in a daze, Maureen reached for his outstretched hand.

  CHAPTER 8

  Easter Traditions

  Let me shake the hand that shook the hand of President Roosevelt,” Uncle Albert said to Maureen before Sunday dinner. The Stevensons had gone to the Bowmans’ home straight after church and were in the front parlor awaiting the call to eat.

  Maureen laughed as Mark’s father grabbed her hand. He always wore a smile, and she had liked him the first time she’d met him.

  “Did you shake Mark’s hand, too?”

  “Over and over,” he said with a laugh. “That boy still can’t calm down.”

  “My heart’s still beating double-time, too,” Maureen said. She had a hard time comprehending that she had actually met the president. Even more startling had been the revelation that Mrs. Hoag knew the man. That story about her sitting on the front porch of his ranch house was true. The president had mentioned their time in Dakota. Did that mean her other stories about famous people were also true?

  “That Mrs. Hoag is quite a lady,” Uncle Albert said.

  “She said she’d sent a telegram to President Roosevelt telling him that we would be at the parade right at that spot,” Maureen said. “He must have been looking for us.”

  “Imagine that,” Mother said. “Mrs. Hoag was very kind to include Maureen and Mark. I knew she was a civic-minded woman, but recently I asked the ladies on my committee a few questions about her.”

  She leaned toward Uncle Albert as if confiding in him. “I learned she and her husband were instrumental in getting the new library, the art gallery, and the natural science museum all in that building on Hennepin Avenue. She was a great patron of the arts; and from what Maureen tells me about her worldwide collections, she’s still very interested in the fine arts.”

  “I’m glad Mark and Maureen are getting her out of that house. Mark’s full of her driving that electric,” Uncle Albert said.

  “Everything is ready,” Aunt Annie announced, and the two families made their way into the dining room.

  Mark’s brother and sisters, his parents, Maureen, and her new parents crowded around the table, and Uncle Albert asked the blessing, remembering that today they celebrated Palm Sunday and Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. After the final amen, which was echoed around the table, there was no shortage of conversation. Calvin told Mark that his old bicycle looked better than it ever had, and Eva and Annette were kind as could be to Maureen. After dinner the older ones talked among themselves, leaving Mark and Maureen and Sophie to play croquet outside in the spring sunshine.

  All too soon, it was time for the Stevensons to go home, and Maureen waved at her extended family as Father drove them home in his automobile.

  Back in her own room, Maureen picked up the picture of her mama. “It’s Palm Sunday, Mama. I guess we won’t have your Easter cake this year. And we didn’t have Mothering Sunday last week. I didn’t give Mother a present. It would seem wrong, somehow, her not being Irish.”

  Tears blurred her vision as she looked at Mama’s smiling face. “I have a new family now, but things are so different. Why do things keep changing so? I do what Mother says. I pray for things to be easier, but some days I feel a great weight on my heart, and I miss you so.” Maureen gave into the feeling of despair and cried in the loneliness of her room. Then she dried her tears and went back downstairs to be with Mother and Father.

  It rained on Monday, and the students stayed indoors during the noon break. Mark had told everyone he saw that he had shaken the hand of President Roosevelt, and students stood in line to shake the very hand that had touched the president. Some of the girls made their way over to Maureen, but Sarah led those who thought it was silly to think there was some remnant of the president on her hand after two days.

  “Unless she hasn’t washed her hand,” Sarah said, and the other girls in her little group snickered.

  Maureen did her best to ignore them. Why was Sarah out to make fun of her? She couldn’t figure out a reason.

  On Tuesday after school, Mark charged into Mrs. Hoag’s secret staircase, holding the lantern in front of him.

  “Maureen! Come here.” His voice was muffled since he’d just shut the secret entrance door, but Maureen heard him. She pushed open the panel in the Oriental Room and looked inside. Mark hadn’t started up the steps.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Look!” He pointed to the first step. “Here’s a footprint. Somebody’s been here.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here.” He held the lantern so the light fell on the step. “It’s only half a footprint.”

  “It just looks like mud to me,” she said. “Is it from your boots?”

  “No,” he said, although Maureen saw some mud clinging to his left boot. “It’s dried mud. Somebody else has used this staircase. And he used it last night after the rain. I’ll bet it was the thief.”

  “Or Mrs. Hoag. Or her housekeeper,” Maureen suggested.

  Mark held the lantern up high, but there was only the one partial print.

  Mrs. Hoag said she’d not been on the stairs and that Bertha didn’t even know about the secret staircase.

  “Let’s check again for missing items,” Mark said. They hurried to the Western Room and compared the art with the catalog. Nothing had been replaced by inferior artwork.

  Maureen walked over by the windows and looked down toward the creek. On the near side of the creek, where the bank formed a short bluff and the creek came closest to the house, a figure crouched and appeared to be pounding something. As if he felt someone staring at him, he stood and looked up through the bare limbs of the trees toward the house. Maureen stepped away from the windows. Surely it was just a boy like Mark who liked playing by the creek.

  Maureen slipped over by the paintings and leaned against the wall.

  “Nothing’s missing,” Mrs. Hoag said. “Let’s get on to the African Room. We have a lot of work to do in there.”

  Maureen pushed away from the wall and felt it move behind her.

  “Mark! Mrs. Hoag!” She was almost too frightened to turn around, but she forced herself to look back. There was an opening, just a sliver. Was there another secret staircase here that Mrs. Hoag hadn’t mentioned?

  Mark ran over to the spot. The small, movable panel wasn’t a foot wide. He pushed the door all the way and stuck his head inside the space. “It’s a room.” It was actually the size of a small closet, about two yards square.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Hoag said. “I didn’t know it was there!”

  Mark slid the door shut, then tried to reopen it but couldn’t.

  Maureen showed them how she had pushed off from the wall with her left hand. It took a few minutes to position herself in the same way so that she found the spring-loaded spot that made the door open.

  “Hmm. This house holds many secrets,” Mrs. Hoag said. “Franklin never mentioned this place. I wonder if he knew.”

  Mrs. Hoag tried it, and they opened and shut the door that hid the secret closet.

  “I wonder if there are other hidden spaces,” Maureen said.

  She and Mark inched their way along the two walls of paintings but found no other area that would give under pressure. When she ended up by the wall of windows, Maureen glanced outside and noted that the figure was no longer by the creek. But was there something red in the place where the person had stood—or was she seeing things? She decided to look at that spot after they finished their work.

  They checked over the French Room and found nothing amiss then got to work on the odd relics in the African Room. This room was taking forever to catalog. Mrs. Hoag was explaining another of those pieces with many skulls stuck together when a sharp cry from below stopped her in midsentence.

  “Bertha!” Mrs. Hoag exclaimed. “Children, run and see what’s wrong.”

  Maureen and Mark flew downstai
rs, while Mrs. Hoag followed at a more sedate pace.

  Maureen found the servant in the kitchen holding a bloody towel to her hand. She had never met Bertha before, but she wasn’t surprised to see an older woman who couldn’t be too many years younger than Mrs. Hoag.

  “Where are you hurt?” Maureen cried and rushed to Bertha’s side and grabbed the towel. The sight of Bertha’s cut forefinger and thumb made her stomach lurch, and she wasn’t sure what she should do to help.

  “Get another towel and a chair.” Mrs. Hoag had arrived and took charge. “What happened, Bertha?”

  Mark moved a chair to the counter, and Bertha sank into it and held her hand over the sink. Blood oozed from her cuts.

  “I was cutting the fruit when the knife slipped,” Bertha said. “Trying to cut too many at a time, and I pushed too hard.”

  Mrs. Hoag held another towel over the cuts. “Once we stop the bleeding, we will dress it. Maureen, there’s gauze and ointment in the bathroom through there.”

  Maureen scurried away and found the medical supplies. When she returned, she stood out of the way while Mrs. Hoag held the towel on Bertha’s wounds. Maureen glanced away from the bloody sight and gazed at the center counter in the large kitchen that held almonds and sultanas, currants and raisins.

  “Are you making simnel cake?” she asked with hope in her heart.

  “Now what kind of Irish woman would I be without a simnel cake at Easter?” Mrs. Hoag asked.

  “I used to help Mama with the chopping,” Maureen said wistfully.

  Mrs. Hoag looked hard at Maureen then gave her attention to her servant. She removed the bloody towel and replaced it with a fresh one. “The bleeding has slowed,” she said. “Mark, run upstairs and close up the African Room so Ruthie can’t get in there. Maureen, would you mind chopping the fruit?”

  Maureen quickly grabbed the sharp knife and started to work.

  “Go easy, now. We don’t want two cooks with cuts,” Mrs. Hoag said. “Why don’t you call Nadine and see if you can stay here for dinner and help finish the cake?”

  Maureen couldn’t reach the phone fast enough to place the call.

  Her words tumbled out when her mother answered. “May I please stay and help Mrs. Hoag with her simnel cake? She makes one every year just like Mama did. And Bertha cut her fingers, and she needs me to chop fruit.”

  “Slow down, Maureen,” Mother said. “Is this the Easter cake?”

  “Yes.” Maureen held her breath while her mother considered her request.

  “I think it’s fine that you help Mrs. Hoag,” Mother said. “When do you think you’ll be home?”

  They worked out the details, and then Maureen turned her attention to chopping. “Are the almonds ground up for the marzipan?” she asked a white-faced Bertha, who was holding still while Mrs. Hoag bandaged her fingers.

  “Over by the stove,” Bertha said.

  Maureen smiled. Mama always warmed them before she added the egg white and kneaded the mixture to ice the cake and made a firm paste for the marzipan eggs that would decorate the top.

  Mrs. Hoag helped Bertha to her room, and then she returned to the kitchen.

  “Mark, do you want to help us with the cake?” she asked.

  He looked unsure.

  “This is an Irish tradition,” Maureen explained with a big smile. “Mama said that her mama before her made simnel cake and her mama before her and on and on forever. Now I get to do it, too, even though I’m adopted in America.”

  “Do you have another knife?” he asked.

  While Mrs. Hoag made the buttery batter, Maureen and Mark chopped the dried fruits. Soon the cake was ready for the oven. While it baked, they made the marzipan out of the ground almonds, sugar, and egg whites.

  “Mark, you can shape the eggs out of this stiffer mixture,” Mrs. Hoag said, then added another egg white to the almond paste that she and Maureen kneaded.

  “Do you serve it with warm apricot jam?” Maureen asked.

  “Never have,” Mrs. Hoag said. “That’s the thing about traditions. We can each put our own touches to them. We used peach preserves in the Cooney home. That was my name before I married Franklin. Lillian Cooney.”

  “Are there any Cooneys left in Ireland?” Maureen asked.

  “Oh, yes. I have a brother and several nieces and nephews in the old country. I saw them a few years ago when Franklin and I went to Europe.”

  “Are they all fine?” Maureen asked, remembering her plan to discover if Mrs. Hoag had any insane relatives like Carrie Nation did. Talk at school about Mrs. Hoag being crazy had lessened now that she’d proven she actually knew President Roosevelt, but still it would be good to learn more about her.

  Mrs. Hoag had an odd look on her face. “My relatives are fine. All healthy as far as I know. I’ve neglected my family in the last couple of years. I’m sure they’ve changed since I last saw them.”

  “I imagine they’re making a simnel cake, too,” Maureen said.

  Mrs. Hoag smiled. “Yes. They would be doing this and letting it age a wee bit before Easter Sunday. And they are going on with their normal lives.”

  Her hands stilled in the marzipan mixture, and she looked solemnly at Maureen. “A long time ago I learned that the only permanent thing in life is change. In my grief at losing my husband, I forgot that. You should learn this at an early age, Maureen. You can accept change, and that includes losing loved ones, and get on with the life that God has given you, or you can fight change and be unhappy.”

  Maureen looked inside herself for the truth before she spoke. “I am trying very hard to change and be happy. But today what makes me happy is going back to the old ways and making the Easter cake.”

  “I wasn’t meaning that we have to give up things that remind us of our loved ones. All we have left of them are memories.” Mrs. Hoag moved beside Maureen and hugged her. “You don’t need me telling you what is the natural way of life. You’re a smart lass, you are.”

  Maureen hugged the old woman and glanced across at Mark. He looked bemused, as if he didn’t understand their conversation.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Birds

  Maureen got caught up in the Easter preparations at home, went skating with Mark on the Saturday afternoon after Easter, and attended a temperance march with Mother, and another full week passed before she remembered standing by the third-floor windows and seeing the figure down by the creek. It came back to her as she and Mark headed toward Mrs. Hoag’s for their afternoon work and she saw some boys walking by the creek.

  “How could I have forgotten?” she asked herself out loud.

  “What?” Mark asked.

  She explained about her earlier sighting. They made a detour from their regular route on the street from school to the mansion, parked their bicycles, and walked on the high side of the creek as it meandered toward Mrs. Hoag’s home. The boys had already moved on, so Maureen searched for the exact spot where she had seen the figure.

  “Not here, because we can’t see the roof yet. I was looking down and saw him with something red.” She trudged up a slight rise where the creek bank became a short bluff. Looking upward, she kept going until she could see the corner windows of the third-floor ballroom, and she nearly stumbled over an iron stake stuck in the ground.

  “Here’s the spot!”

  “I don’t see anything red,” Mark said.

  “I don’t either, but it’s been almost three weeks. Something or someone could have taken it.” She studied the trampled brown ankle-high grass that last summer had stood much taller. Underneath, the ground was showing signs of new green now that May was around the corner. “It could be buried under this old growth.”

  “We’ll have to come back later and look,” Mark said, “or Mrs. Hoag will wonder where we are.”

  “I guess you’re right. But I did see something.”

  “We don’t work tomorrow after school. We can come search then,” Mark said, and Maureen agreed that was a good plan.


  They hurried toward the street, where it was easier to walk, and turned up the drive to Mrs. Hoag’s house.

  Maureen gasped and stopped stone still. A dead bird lay in her path.

  “Poor thing,” she said. “I wonder what happened to it.”

  “I’ll get a shovel and bury it,” Mark said in a manly voice. “That’s what my father did once when a bird died in our yard. Go on in the house, Maureen, and tell Mrs. Hoag. I’ll see if there’s a shovel in that shed.”

  Maureen nodded and took a few more steps when she saw another dead bird off to her right.

  “Oh no. Oh no,” she repeated when she saw two more. They looked around and found five more dead birds, including one on the wide front porch.

  “What’s happened?” Mark asked. “Mrs. Hoag doesn’t have a cat.”

  “We’re going to need two shovels,” Maureen said. “I’ll go tell Mrs. Hoag; then we’ll give them a proper burial.”

  Mark started around the house toward the shed in the backyard while Maureen knocked on the door.

  Mark screamed, and Maureen jumped off the porch and ran to his side. She screamed, too.

  “I can’t believe this!” Mark yelled.

  The backyard was covered with dead birds! There must have been a hundred of them. “Maureen! Mark!” Mrs. Hoag called from the front porch.

  Maureen rushed back to the porch. “They’re all dead!” she shouted and grabbed Mrs. Hoag’s hand and led her to where Mark stood.

  “Oh my. Oh my.” Mrs. Hoag had tears in her eyes. “Are they all dead?” she finally asked. “How could this happen?”

  Maureen had no answer, and they stood looking for the longest time at the carnage in the backyard. It was eerie, seeing all those dead birds covering the ground. The bird feeders, like soldiers, stood guard over the birds.

  “What could have caused this?” Mark asked.

  “They got sick,” Maureen said. It was the first thing that crossed her mind. That was what had happened to her mama. At first Mama had thought she had eaten something that had disagreed with her, but she got sicker and sicker, and within a few days she had died. “Or they ate something that disagreed with them.”