Mrs. Mike Read online

  Mrs. Mike

  Benedict and Nancy Freedman

  To Nana

  Copyright © 1947, 1975, 2002

  ISBN 0-425-18323-8

  To the Readers of Mrs. Mike:

  This is a love letter, written to say Thank You to three generations of readers who treasured the book, wrote to us, and kept Mrs. Mike in print all these years. You told us how it affected your lives and what it meant to you. Now it's our turn to tell you that your loyalty resulted in an Internet miracle—this new edition of Mrs. Mike, and the writing of a sequel.

  Log on to Amazon.com, search "Mrs. Mike," and see for yourself. These are the e-mail outpourings of affection that moved— not mountains—but the Freedmans. We read your comments and felt you calling us to another effort.

  At the time of Mrs. Mike's original publication, it was a main selection of the Literary Guild®, serialized in the Atlantic Monthly, condensed in Reader's Digest, appeared on the New York Times bestseller list, and translated into twenty-seven languages. In that halcyon year we were besieged by publishers eager to do a sequel. We hadn't much use for sequels. It stands to reason, we thought, that the choicest material goes into the original. We did not consider the idea.

  So what happened?

  Half a century happened. We became parents, traveled, quested, wrote, taught, became grandparents—lived a life. And as writers we stored up a fresh fund of experiences that demanded a new book.

  We began. The computer keys flew under our fingers; we couldn't get it down fast enough. The Search for Joyful, published in February 2002 in hardcover by Berkley, is the story of Kathy, daughter of Mrs. Mike's "more than sister." Written in the style of Mrs. Mike, the new book presents a young woman making a life for herself and finding love in the face of prejudice, discouragement, and war.

  This new edition of Mrs. Mike, and the sequel to come, are dedicated to you, the readers who kept Katherine Mary Flannigan alive in your hearts. You reached out to us—we reach out to you.

  Benedict and Nancy Freedman

  One

  The worst winter in fifty years, the old Scotsman had told me. I'd only been around for sixteen, but it was the worst I'd seen, and I was willing to take his word for the other thirty-four.

  On the north side of the train the windows were plastered with snow, and on the south side great clouds of snow were whipped along by a sixty-mile gale. There was snow on top of the train and snow under the train, and all the snow there was left in the world in front of the train, which was why we were stopped.

  "They're sending us snowplows from Regina, no doubt," the old Scotsman said.

  I looked out the window, but it was no snowplow I could see, nor the road to Regina, nor even the coach in front of us, but only whirling, boiling, rushing gray-white snow.

  "You'll be telling your children you were in the blizzard of 1907," the old man chuckled. "I was speaking to the conductor a while back. It's forty below and dropping. No, we'll not be in Regina this week." He opened his book and began to read.

  We'd left Montreal March 5, eighteen days before, eighteen days spent mostly in pulling the engine out of drifts and scraping ice off the wheels.

  It was because of my pleurisy I was being sent to Uncle John, who lived in Calgary, Alberta. Up till 1905 Alberta had been part of the Great Northwest Territory, and it gave me a real thrill to go to a place that had been officially civilized for only two years.

  My mother had her doubts about letting me go into such a wilderness. We looked it up on a map of North America, and Alberta seemed awfully empty. Our part of the country, which was Boston, was covered with winding black lines meaning roads, and barbed-wire lines meaning railroads, and circles of all sizes meaning cities and towns. It was so crowded with these proofs of civilization that there was no room for the names, which were stuck out in the Atlantic Ocean. In Alberta there was none of this reassuring confusion. A couple of thin blue rivers, a couple of crooked lakes, and the map maker was through. My mother found the circle that was Calgary and carefully compared it with the circles of Massachusetts.

  "A fine black dot it is, but not to be mentioned in the same breath with Boston," she said. Boston was a very distinctive city on our map, being a large dot with a ring around it. "And you'll bear in mind, Katherine Mary," she added, "that's as far north as I want you to go. Don't be letting your uncle take you up into this." She waved in the general direction of Mackenzie and the North Pole. "My own mother lived and died in the house where she was born, and all the traveling she did was to the oatfield and back."

  We both sat and wondered at the size of the world until she folded it up and put it in the bureau drawer.

  However, the doctors said the cold dry climate of Alberta would be good for my lungs, and Uncle John said it was a long, long time since he had seen one of his kin, and so at last my mother gave in and let me go.

  She put me on the train in Boston, and for the twentieth time I promised I'd dress warm and keep dry and not go out into the night where there were bears.

  "Now, there's a lot of snow up in those north places," Mother cautioned me, "and you'll always remember to wear your woolen socks. And when there's a cold wind blowing, on with your shawl and button up."

  "Yes, Mother," I said. She kissed me, smiled and cried, and the train pulled out. Now here I was in one of those "north places" and the old Scotsman was calling to me from across the aisle.

  One of the trainmen had wiped off the frost from his window. The Scotsman pointed, and there against the stock fence along the right of way were hundreds of cows and steers, blown across the prairies by that icy gale and packed densely along the fence, frozen and dead.

  There was frost all over the window, except in the corner where I'd scratched a clear space to look out, and except for KATHERINE MARY O'FALLON printed underneath, and except for where I'd drawn Juno's ears. Just then the train gave a jerk and started slowing down, making twice as much noise as when it went fast. They always do, and I can't figure out why.

  I'd put Juno in the big lunch basket Mother'd given me. I had to keep him in there during the day because dogs were supposed to be kept in the baggage car and there was a mean porter on this train. Juno was the worry of my life. He had broken a strand of wicker, and I was always in terror that he'd stick that black nose of his out the hole.

  The train was just about stopped now. I thought maybe it was another snowplow come to clear off the tracks, so I looked out. There wasn't much to see; snow on top of everything and not too many trees. There was a red silo and a house, and I was glad I didn't live there.

  The basket with Juno in it started moving around in a very unbasketlike way. It finally fell off the seat and started rolling toward the aisle. I grabbed it back fast, opened the lid, and gave Juno a couple of slaps on the nose. This Juno wasn't like Mother's Juno; he was only a puppy and couldn't be expected to be as wise and smart yet. All our dogs were named Juno, and they were mostly cocker and black. The Irish Juno who had come to America with us had been red. I didn't remember that one because I was only two then. The first Juno I remember was the white and brown one, the one that howled when Uncle Martin played the violin. Uncle had his violin and his bagpipe (the Irish kind) from Denny Lannon, the great storyteller, whose great-grandniece I am. Mother used to say that Denny Lannon had a song and a story for every day in the week, and two for Sunday.

  There I was thinking of Mother. And I mustn't. Otherwise how could I keep going through this white world of pale sky and frozen earth?

  The wheels started again—the wheels that took me away from the three-story brick house and Uncle Martin's new sign saying in gold letters that we let rooms. But the room on the third floor Mother never let to
anyone. It was the prettiest room in the house, always full of flowers. It was kept for someone down on his luck who would need a pretty room and flowers to cheer him up. Many a down-and-out actor had lived there, once a janitor out of work, and once a lady who took in sewing but couldn't do much any more because her eyes were bad.

  I felt sorry for the lady whose eyes were bad, so sorry that I began to cry. I wasn't crying for her exactly, but for all the sadness in the world. And because right now, if I were home, I'd be feeding Pete, Mother's canary. But I wasn't home and someone else was feeding him, Mary Ellen or Anna Frances.

  I blew my nose because I was determined to stop crying, but that didn't stop it. So I opened Mother's cookies. I'd been saving them for an emergency, and they were pretty stale. I ate them and cried some more because they were my favorite kind, small and brown and lumpy with bits of chocolate. I made that kind, too, only not so well. Mother said I didn't mix the dough thick enough. Anyway I sat there and ate cookies and cried. After a while the cookies were all gone, and there had been two dozen of them, so I knew I'd been crying a long time.

  "Regina! Regina!" Sure enough, we'd come to a town, a big one with yards and houses coming right down near the track, dogs and people and a little boy standing waving at the train. The little boy had so many clothes on and the top jacket was stretched so tight it looked as if it would split if he kept waving. I wanted to cry about the little boy too, but I couldn't. He was too fat to be hungry and had on too many clothes to be poor.

  We stopped, and I followed the people who were getting off to

  walk around and stretch their legs. It was awfully cold and I'd forgotten to put my sweater on under my coat. Mother never let me go out in such cold weather for fear it would make my pleurisy worse. I hoped it wouldn't. I was afraid I'd be sick when I got to Uncle John's. I stared at the postcards on display, hoping that the scenes of sunsets and mountains and oceans would cheer me up. But I kept thinking of Mother and wondering if I'd ever be home again. The postcards blurred, and so did the station of Regina as I ran along it to the train, which was smoking and almost ready to go. I climbed on the nearest coach and walked through to mine.

  My berth had been made up, and I didn't see Juno's basket. I climbed in and searched frantically, looking into the most impossible places, under the pillows and behind the curtain. I ran down the car. I ran back and, throwing myself on my stomach, peered under the berth. There was the basket, tucked away next to my valise, but even as I pulled it out, I knew it was empty.

  The wheels began to turn, and an awful feeling stabbed into me that maybe he was under them. I began a frantic search under seats, between bags, and around legs. A gray-haired man stopped me. "If you're looking for a black cocker spaniel, the porter has him. Carried him down that way." I started running. He was still talking, but I couldn't wait. Maybe they'd put him off. Maybe he was out there on the track, wandering lost around the station. The wheels chugged faster and faster.

  I was at the end of the coach and pulling at the heavy door when I stopped. On the other side, the frightening covered part where the cars join, was Juno. He was sitting up on his hind legs because the mean porter was holding little bits of meat for him. I looked hard at the porter, and anyone could see that he wasn't mean, but only sad and thin.

  I'd been sad and thin all day, too. But now I was only thin.

  They called me early, but I was already awake. This was the day we'd be getting in, and I had a lot to do. First I got out the red plaid dress I'd been saving. I was sorry now I hadn't worn it

  because it was all in little lines that wouldn't fall out. It had been thirty days in that suitcase.

  I combed Juno and then gathered up my clothes and took them into the ladies' room. I thought I looked very well in my new dress, even if it was wrinkled. People with red hair as a rule look awful in red, but my hair has enough brown in it to be called auburn. I tried to put it up in the figure eight my mother wore low on her neck. It was harder to do than I expected because my hair is curly and wouldn't cooperate. But when I had it up I looked at least eighteen. Too bad I had to spoil it by putting a ribbon on. That was the way Uncle John was to recognize me, by the big blue ribbon in my hair.

  When I got the bow tied there was still a couple of yards of ribbon left over. Back to my berth for my scissors, and then back to the ladies' room where they had the mirror. And all the time it was getting later. I tried the bow on one side and then on the other, on the front and on the back. Wherever I put it, it looked queer with my hair up. And it was so big.

  People began coming in to dress. I was fascinated by a very fat woman dressing inside her nightgown. She had her hands underneath and pulled everything up from the bottom.

  It was getting crowded near the looking glass, and the ladies began pushing. I had to decide where to put the ribbon. I fastened it on the right side and started back to my berth. The Scotsman shook my hands, both of them. "It's been a fine trip. I hope you meet your uncle all right. It's been a pleasure knowing you, Miss O'Fallon."

  I said good-bye to him and felt sad, the way you feel when you've shared something with someone whom you'll never see in this world again. When I got back to my seat, I tied a piece of the leftover ribbon on Juno. By now everyone on the train knew I had him, so there was no use keeping him in the basket. The train began to slow down. The windows were frosted over again so I couldn't see, but I knew it was Calgary.

  Uncle John, Uncle John ... I tried to fix the name with a body. Tall and dark, a lean face, Mother had said. What if he wasn't

  there? What would I do? What if he was there and didn't recognize me, and went away? What if he didn't really want me to come? What if he didn't like me?

  The train was stopping. I grabbed Juno and put him in the basket. What would I say to him? What would we talk about? Should I call him Uncle John, or Uncle, or ... ? Would he really be here? I couldn't believe it—John Kennedy, my mother's brother.

  And just supposing he was here, would he know me? I put my hand up to the ribbon; it was still there. But he might not have received Mother's letter about the blue ribbon. Some people said I looked like my mother. I hoped he'd recognize me. I took a mirror out of my purse and changed the ribbon to the left side.

  Ten minutes later I was standing on the platform, and a tall, dark, lean gentleman with eyes just like my mother's was smiling and saying, "Katherine Mary?"

  Right then and there I put my arms around him and kissed him. Then I looked at him again. "I hope you're my uncle John," I said.

  "Yes, I'm your uncle John." Then he looked at me hard. "Just like your mother." He kept looking at me. "Is it the custom," he asked slowly, "for young women in Boston, America, to wear two hair bows on their one head?"

  "I added the second hair bow at the last minute because, Uncle, I didn't know which way you'd be coming from."

  Uncle John had a big coon coat for me. I put it on right over my other coat, and it felt good. I climbed into the cutter, sat on a buffalo robe, and had another thrown over my knees. The buffalo robes excited Juno. He took a corner of one in his mouth and rocked back and forth, growling way down in his throat.

  We started up. All Uncle did was pick up the reins, but those horses knew. It was like flying. We started up the snow on every side, and the wind blew a challenge. Juno was completely subdued and lay against me with his nose under my arm.

  I snuggled into the furs and took a couple of quick looks at

  Uncle John. He was dressed in a coon coat too and fur mittens. And a fur cap pulled down over his ears.

  "What kind of fur is that?" I pointed to the mittens.

  "Beaver."

  I could see Uncle John wasn't much of a one for talking. "And the cap too?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  Well, that subject seemed to be exhausted. I was about to settle back and look at things when Uncle surprised me. "How did you leave your mother, Kathy?"

  "Mother's fine," I said. "She sends you
her love."

  Uncle John nodded his head and grunted. I tried to figure out what feeling that expressed, but I couldn't. So after a while I gave up and just watched the town go by. Once I saw a street lighter reaching up with his long pole and making a light.

  "And your sisters?"

  The words startled me, coming out of the dusk and the silence with no other words behind them for two or three miles. Then I realized that two or three miles between words in this vast country was equivalent to a pause my mother would have filled with, "And who will have another biscuit?"

  "And Frances and Mary Ellen are very well. Anna Frances poses for magazine covers. Mary Ellen is engaged. And I tap dance. ..." I paused, but not for any two or three miles, just long enough to think if there were any more accomplishments we possessed as a family. There weren't. I glanced around for another subject. It was getting dark and pressing all around us were the silhouettes of buildings. "Calgary's a big city, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Uncle said, "mighty big."

  That was that. I tried another tack. "How far is it to your ranch?"

  "Two days."

  I nodded and leaned over the edge of the cutter to feel the wind in my face. We turned a corner and went down a hill, and Uncle finished his sentence, ". . . . but we aren't going there now."

  "We aren't?"

  "Well, no."

  I waited patiently for him to go on. But I was about ready for another question when he spoke again. "We're stopping to see a woman."

  This was interesting because Uncle John was a bachelor. "Who?" I asked.

  "Name's Mrs. Neilson. Margaret Neilson."

  The "Mrs." spoiled it. Except maybe she was a widow. I was still thinking about this possibility when we stopped. I shut Juno up in his basket and ran after Uncle John.

  "Now remember, Katherine Mary, she just got out." Uncle John said this in a strange tone, as though he meant to say something else.

  "Out of what?" I asked.

  We walked up on the porch and Uncle rang the bell. "That's what we call it, Kathy. Coming out. It means out of the north country."