Page 40 of The Harvey Girls

Thirty

When Charlotte wasn’t working at El Tovar, she was working her way through the limited library in the dorm parlor.

She even read Winnie-the-Pooh and found it surprisingly philosophical for a children’s book.

She admired the characters’ devotion to each other despite their differences in temperament, species, and food preferences.

But as hard as she tried to keep busy, she often found herself alone with her thoughts.

One morning on her day off, Charlotte woke in a funk, and she didn’t know why.

She was concerned for Billie and her father’s health, of course, but this felt more personal.

Perhaps she was nearing her time of the month, which sometimes served to make her think dark thoughts about humanity in general and herself in particular.

But she’d just dealt with all that two weeks ago.

She felt at a loss. As if something important had gone missing.

Maybe I’ll buy myself a little trinket at the Hopi House and have a chat with Ruth , she thought, trying to muster some reason to rise from bed. It was then that she remembered the blanket she’d picked out at the Cameron Trading Post. She’d never given Will the money for it.

She felt a sting of shame—how thoughtless of her to say she would pay for it, ask that it be laid aside for her, and then not keep her word. But she also felt the blood thrumming a little harder in her chest at the thought of having a perfectly good reason to search out Will.

She hadn’t seen him since that night a couple of weeks ago when she’d insisted that they would only be friends.

It hadn’t occurred to her that he would cut off all contact between them.

Perhaps she’d been too plainspoken. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted it as a complete lack of interest on her part.

Which, if she were honest, was not the case. Not even a little.

Face washed and wearing her new dress, a dusty rose poplin with buttons at the waist and a tiered skirt, Charlotte and her eight dollars went in search of Will.

She’d ordered the dress from Sears a couple of weeks ago when the weather turned warm.

She had only three dresses: two were a weighty serge material and one was wool.

She’d left St. Louis so quickly, stuffing whatever clothing she could fit into the monogrammed suitcase, with little thought to the future and rising temperatures.

In truth, she hadn’t been sure if she’d be alive in April, much less June.

Will was standing with one foot on the running board of a Harvey Car, reading a newspaper.

The line of vehicles stretched along the road by the train station, and other drivers were smoking or talking in small groups as they waited to be called up to the hotel to collect riders.

As she approached, she saw him glance up from his reading and go still at the sight of her.

Then he tucked the newspaper under his arm and nodded as she walked toward him.

“Hello, Charlotte.”

“Hello, Will. How are you?”

“I’m just fine. How are you?”

How was she? She was terrible. Lonely and cranky and sick of reading.

She’d missed him, she realized. She’d missed the sight of him with his kind face and direct gaze.

That gaze was trained on her now, but not in a way that made her skin prickle with fear as it had when they’d first met.

Anonymity had been her greatest desire when she’d set off on this desperate journey as a Harvey Girl.

Will made her feel noticed in a way that ought to be terrifying but wasn’t.

“To be honest,” she said, “I feel a bit guilty.”

The brows rose above his dark eyes, and she could see she’d piqued his interest. “Oh?”

“I said I would give you the money for that blanket, and I forgot all about it.”

“Oh, yes. John asked me about that. I told him to hold on to it a while longer, and if you didn’t… well, if I didn’t see you, I’d buy it myself.”

She liked the thought of it, Will having her blanket. Perhaps sleeping under it. Perhaps thinking of her.

“That was considerate of you, but I should have kept my word.” She thrust the dollar bills out toward him. “I’d like to rectify that now, if you’re still willing to make the purchase for me.”

He looked at the money, then at her, then at the car, then back up at her. “Are you working today?”

“No, it’s my day off.”

“Would you like to come along and buy it yourself? I only have two passengers.”

Charlotte stood mute before him, the seconds ticking by as he waited for her response.

It had never occurred to her that she might go, too, spending the better part of a day with him.

Her highest hope when she had tugged on that new dress this morning was that she’d be able to find him and have a small conversation about a blanket she barely remembered.

He stood as still as granite as he waited for her to decide how she wanted to spend her day. How strange to be in the company of a man who allowed her the complete freedom to choose her own path.

“Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

The couple they picked up in front of El Tovar were college professors—both of them!

Charlotte judged them to be in their midforties; they introduced themselves as Dr. and Mrs. Randolf.

“You’re a doctor, too, dear,” murmured the man, who had a bushy gray mustache. “You mustn’t shy from that.”

“I’m quite proud of it, actually,” she replied, hazel eyes twinkling. “However, on vacation, I prefer not to think of all the lecturing and paper grading I’ll have to do in the fall.”

He chuckled and patted her hand. “Ah, sounds quite freeing. Maybe I’ll join you, and we’ll go incognito this summer.”

Will introduced himself, and then he said, “This is Charlotte Turner. She’s a Harvey Girl here, and she’s quite knowledgeable about the Grand Canyon, so I asked her to join us and contribute to our tour.”

“Wonderful!” said Mrs. Randolf. “How nice to have not one but two guides.”

As the couple climbed into the car and situated themselves in the middle bench seat, Charlotte glared at Will. “What have you done?” she whispered. “I don’t know anything!”

“I needed a reason for you to be here. Just tell them what I told you when we went a couple of weeks ago.”

“I don’t remember—”

“Sure you do.”

Charlotte got in beside him and racked her brain. There was that story about the pregnant woman hiding in the canyon… She shook her head. This was not nearly enough material for an eight-hour excursion!

But there was all that time she’d spent with George Wharton James and his florid prose.

As it happened there were three of his books in the dorm library: The Grand Canyon of Arizona: How to See It , of course, but there had also been The Indians of the Painted Desert Region: Hopis, Navahoes, Wallapais, Havasupais and What the White Race May Learn from the Indian.

Charlotte doubted that the two professors would be terribly interested in the latter two. Tourists generally seemed to find it inconvenient and distasteful that anyone else might have a claim to the canyon. But she had to make do with the information she had.

“As you may know,” she began, “the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway completed the track to the rim of the Grand Canyon in 1901. El Tovar was built by the Fred Harvey Company in 1905 for a quarter of a million dollars. But there were people here before the tourists came. There were miners and adventurers. And there were Indians.”

George Wharton James had quite a bit to say about the tribes with which he’d become familiar.

He’d apparently spent a good deal of time with them, was able to converse in their languages, went to their ceremonies, and traveled with them.

Vehement about how profoundly they had been abused by missionaries, the US government, and whites in general, his words were striking:

“In our treatment of the Indian we have been liars, thieves, corrupters of the morals of their women, debauchers of their maidens, degraders of their young manhood, perjurers, and murderers.”

While he made clear in the first sentences of his book that there were things about Indians he did not admire—mainly that they smoked, wore dirty clothes, and enjoyed coarse humor—he’d written twenty-four chapters about the aspects of tribal life that “Americans” would do well to emulate.

He was particularly taken with the Indians’ ethos of hard work without complaint, frankness and truthfulness, and the manner in which they educated their children.

In this last category, James included the teaching of sex education for adolescents.

Charlotte had been taken aback by this at first. She herself had received no such information from her mother and barely knew what to expect on her wedding night.

Upon further consideration, however (and she’d found herself thinking about it quite a bit), it would have been helpful— very helpful—to have had some prior knowledge of the details.

Simeon certainly could have used some instruction as well.

As it was, there was a bit of fumbling and confusion.

After that, the goal was quickly accomplished, thank goodness.

“There are a number of tribes who’ve made their homes in and around the Grand Canyon from time immemorial,” Charlotte now told the couple. “The Havasupai, the Hualapai, the Hopi, and the Navajo, to name a few.”

She told them about the excellent gardening and basket-making skills of the Havasupai; the remarkable horsemanship of the Navajos; and how Hopi women built their multi-floor homes with minimal help from the men.

“The three-story Hopi House across from the hotel is actually a replica of a building in the Hopi village of Oraibi,” she said. “Built by women.”

“You have quite extensive knowledge on this subject,” said Dr. Randolf. “I’d be interested to know how you came by it.”

“I’ve read books,” said Charlotte. “And I’ve become acquainted with one of the Indians at the Hopi House. Her name is Ruth. I like to go in and chat with her from time to time.”

The professor addressed Will. “I can certainly see why you brought Miss Turner along. This trip is delightfully informative!”

When they arrived at Cameron, they all got out of the car and took a moment to stretch after the bumpy ride.

As the men began to walk across the dirt parking lot toward the trading post, Mrs. Randolf put a hand on Charlotte’s arm.

“Please forgive me in advance for any offense I might inadvertently give, my dear, but I find you quite well-spoken for a waitress. Where were you educated? You’re from Boston, I take it,” said the older woman.

“I hear those soft r ’s in your speech. My mother was from Boston before heading west with my father. ”

“Yes, Boston,” Charlotte said.

“And I suspect you are not a product of the public schools.” The woman held up her palm.

“Not that I have anything against public education. I teach at a public university, after all. However, your vocabulary, diction, and use of syntax are quite impressive. I’m a professor of English, so I notice these things. ”

Simeon would be so proud , Charlotte thought ruefully. “I did attend college for two years,” she admitted, “but I wasn’t able to complete my course of studies.”

“Ah, what a shame. This is so often the case for young women. Families tend to prioritize the education of their sons over their daughters.”

“Yes, they do.” This hadn’t been true for Charlotte, of course, but if the Crowninshields hadn’t had the money to send both of their children (as well as half the high school graduates of Boston) to college, they certainly would have prioritized her older brother, Oliver, over her.

As they reached the door of the trading post, which Will held open for them, Mrs. Randolf said, “I hope you’ll find a way to finish up those last two years and graduate. You have a sharp mind and a wonderful curiosity about the world. You could accomplish great things.”

The Randolfs were understandably agog at all that the trading post had on offer.

“Please let us know if we can help you with a purchase,” said Will (as if Charlotte would have two words to contribute on that subject).

But the couple was content to wander admiringly amid the piles of rugs and blankets, the racks of jewelry and pottery, and the walls hung with baskets.

“College?” asked Will as they headed across the large room.

He’d evidently overheard the tail end of the conversation with Mrs. Randolf, so there was no use denying it. “Yes.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“No.”

“Because?”

She stopped and turned toward him, intending to tell him to mind his own business. But instead she said, “Because I was foolish and trusted the wrong person.”

“Bad advice?”

Oh, if it had only been advice. “Bad everything.”

Will’s expression didn’t appear to change at all, but suddenly she felt a silent fury come over him, and instinctively she put a hand up to her chest. He glanced down at that hand and then back up to meet her wary gaze. “He’s the one who hurt you.”

Charlotte tried to present a confidence she did not feel. “I lived to tell the tale.”

“My mother almost didn’t.”

She understood now how he’d known not to intrude or frighten her, how protective he’d been about that bully on the dance floor. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Your father?”

Will nodded. “He was a charming brute. I spent my earliest years trying to protect her. He was thrown from a horse and broke his neck before he could do her in, thank God.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.” He took a breath and let it out slowly, as if needing to remind himself that it was in the past. “Where is he now?” he asked. They both knew who he meant.

“St. Louis, I think.”

“I want you to know that I’m a friend. You can call on me.”

She smiled. He really was so kind. “I’m sure I won’t need to.”

“It’s there for you all the same.”