Wednesday's Child

By Tina Rae Boyer

As Miriam Martin stood at her father's graveside, she recalled the complex story of her parents' marriage. Her mother's family migrated from the Mid-West in 1887 on the expanded line of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroad from Kansas City to San Diego. Miriam's grandfather was looking to find the "golden fruits, the gardens of this sunset land." It was there in San Diego County, on a windy summer day on the beach, that her mother, Suzanna, met her father, Victor. She was 13. He was 20. By the time Suzanna was 14, they had been secretly married. Suzanna still lived at home, meeting Victor on weekends. Miriam couldn't help but smile as she recalled the story she had been told about how the secret was revealed. But she also knew that the happiness her parents had at the beginning was short-lived. Victor, a pharmacist, and his family had the only pharmacy in San Diego, and he was a prominent citizen of the city. Yet all his education and charm could not overcome his alcoholism, and Miriam (called Merry by her beloved father) was caught in the middle of her parents' stormy relationship. Miriam's story unfolds against the backdrop of California's earliest days, when most residents lived a rural life. And when "the town of San Diego reeked of newness, with its crude dirt streets and sparsely placed wooden buildings. Strange trees called palms flanked the roadway." Yet it was growing day by day as Easterners and Mid-Westerners made their way to Southern California's sunny shores.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888321720

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Wednesday's Child

Tina Rae Boyer

ISBN 979-8-88832-171-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-172-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Tina Rae Boyer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Part 2

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Prologue

A soft breeze stirred the blades of grass and carried on it the fragrance of the flowers around the casket. I was glad that it had not rained today, but somehow the glorious sunshine seemed inappropriate for such a time.

My father lay in that casket. I had watched as the men lowered it by ropes into the oblong hole. The earth had the dank odor and darkened hue of death about it. Suddenly, I pictured the furrowed rows of Grandpop's garden on the farm near Oceanside.

My grandfather, Mr. Carl Ballard, never liked Papa. I guess it was because of all the misery he had caused his daughter.

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter One

Suzanna Marie Ballard was only thirteen when she met Victor Martin. He was twenty and already working in his father's drugstore. The day of their introduction had been a scorching summer one. The heat waves shimmered above the sand, and the beach was almost too hot for bare feet.

Suzi, as she was called by everyone, had finished hanging out the wash and called to her mother, Martha, through the open window, Goin' to the beach.

She scampered up the banked railroad siding under spreading eucalyptus trees, walked gingerly over a splintery railroad tie, and scrambled up a sloping hill that shone with the color of yellow-gold poppies and delicate buttercups. The path was worn smooth by many footsteps but still pocked with thick clumps of stubborn brown grass. She flew over the downslope path and skidded to the sandy beach, hopping from one foot to the other to stand the heat.

At thirteen, she was torn between the innocence of her girlhood and the overwhelming magnetism of womanhood. Her ankle-length calico dress skimmed an emerging figure, while the wind whipped the skirt around thin childlike ankles. She had made an attempt at catching her long thick curls into a chignon, but the shoreline wind had already pulled it into a wild fringe around her face and neck. Framed by dark lashes, her eyes were a vivid blue, but her brothers swore they turned violet when her quick temper flared.

Suzanna succumbed to the child in her and pulled her skirt above her knees to rush across the sand and into the frothy waves. The water clung to her ankles and feet in cooling astringency and refreshed her whole body. She danced among the bubbles, leaping catlike over each wave.

Soon her skirts were heavy with wetness, but enchantment with the sea enthralled her so that she did not notice. Arms outspread, she whirled in the shallow water, closing her eyes and singing a line from a merry sea chanty she had learned at school.

No more I'll go a roamin' from you, fair maid…

The boys heard her raucous tune as it blew toward them on the ocean breezes. The three young gentlemen, as they preferred to be called, ambled along the beach in measured steps, each with his hands in his pockets, each inclined slightly backward as though mimicking one another. Their shoes spit up sand as they walked talking idly of girls and summer's heat and sharing the latest bawdy jokes.

Suzanna's older brothers Gerald and James were almost images of each other. So alike were they, in fact, that even though they were separated by two years, the little farming community thought of them as twins. The sunny days of summer had darkened their skin to a tealike shade and shot golden streaks through their brown hair. Both were tall and lean, well-muscled by the years of farm labor.

At ages nineteen and seventeen, they were ready to meet the world, but unsure where to meet it. Victor, the dark-haired stranger who walked between them, was also lean but thicker of chest and shorter in stature than the twins. He lifted gray-green eyes toward the singing and smiled when he saw Suzanna's gracefully swirling figure.

Who might that be? he inquired of his laughing friends.

Looks like Suzi, our sister. She's a mite peculiar, I'm afraid, replied Gerald.

What in tarnation is she doing? James's embarrassment leant even more color to his browned cheeks.

Dancin' and singin', it would seem. Victor chuckled, focusing more closely on her.

Sings terrible, don't she? James's grimace indicated that his comment was not a question but a statement of fact.

Not so bad. Gaily, at least, Victor responded good-naturedly.

A joyful noise, with the emphasis on the noise, I'd say, Gerald observed, and the three of them laughed together as they drew closer to the girl.

Suzanna did not sense their approach. The sea's clamoring waves, and her own singing obliterated all other sounds. Victor had also lost track of the world around him, only half hearing the brothers' conversation.

He was enchanted by the elfin creature who danced with the sea. Her waist was no more than two hands wide, and her dark hair fluttered around her face like a lacy bonnet. Soon he was close enough to see her thick eyelashes and notice her upturned nose.

Like an angel, he thought as James put a finger to his lips and signaled for them to stop. Slowly, they crept to within a few feet of her.

James cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, Hey, Suzi! Stop that racket, why don't ya?

She flinched at the sound and stopped singing, but continued to hold out her arms and spin in the surf. Oh, clam up and mind your own…

She opened her eyes and saw the stranger, who was smiling broadly into her face. Victor watched as those violet eyes widened, those elfin feet flattened to the wet sand, and those delicate hands smoothed down soaking skirts.

This, sweet sister, is Victor Martin, James said, laughing at her shocked expression. Victor, meet my darling sister, Suzanna.

Pleased to meet you, Suzanna, Victor said, offering his large hand.

Hello, she said uncertainly, taking his warm hand and dropping her eyes at his gaze.

His friend's obvious attraction to his sister made Gerald feel strangely protective of her. After all, anyone can see that she's still a little girl. Women don't dance alone on the beach, for Pete's sake.

Suzi is just thirteen, Vic, Gerald said. Not finished with school yet.

Suzi stomped her foot. I am so. I graduated eighth grade in June.

James shouted to be heard above the wind and waves. Victor here works in his father's drugstore in San Diego! You know, his dad is old Doc Martin at Martin's Drugstore. He's been away at pharmacology school. Just got back yesterday.

Oh, she said, her eyelids lowered, their lashes fluttering on her sunburned cheeks. Well… The surf crashed in the uncomfortable silence. Um… I'd better see if Mama needs my help.

She lifted her skirt slightly and began to run toward the path. As she ran, she called over her shoulder, Nice to meet you, Victor Martin. Then she disappeared beyond the ridge.

Victor felt as though a pall of silence now hung over the beach, as if her departure had taken the very essence of movement out of the waves. He slid his big hand over his forehead, tugging at the swatch of hair that had fallen there. She's only a girl. An angel of a little girl.

Suzanna rushed through the kitchen door, letting it bang behind her, and hurtled past her mother and up the stairs. On her way to her little room, she passed the big one her three brothers shared and the airy one at the head of the stairs that was her mother and father's. What had once been a large closet was now the cozy alcove she occupied next to her parents' room.

Her father had cut a big window into its sloping wall, and her mother had made red-and-brown calico curtains trimmed with ruffles and lace edging. A red-and-gray braided wool rug made a warm oval on the shiny wooden floor. Her small pine-framed bed was covered with a red-and-white quilt that she and her mother had labored over for many months. A polished pine dresser topped with a crudely fashioned mirror took up the third wall of her hideaway and shelves, a bright still life print, and a small rocker occupied the fourth one.

Suzi pulled off her wet dress and petticoats and hung them out the window to dry. Standing in her pantaloons and camisole, she pulled all the pins out of her thick hair and began to brush it fiercely. When it was shiny and smooth, she carefully braided it and circled the braids upon her head. Then she scrubbed her face and hands with a rough cloth, splashing the water from her basin to rinse.

Oh, why don't these curls ever stay tucked in? she said to herself as she attempted to smooth them away from her flushed face. Then she pulled a clean dress—a pale-blue one with tiny white flowers—from her closet and patiently fastened the small pearly buttons all up and down the bodice. After whisking sand from her legs and feet with her fingers, she wriggled into her black stockings and high-buttoned shoes, ignoring the dampness still clinging to her undergarments. Then she took another look in the mirror.

Oh, why must I look like such a child? She stood on her tiptoes to see more of herself. It seemed she'd never get breasts, although she knew that for the past months, she had been maturing rapidly. She had been experiencing the curse, as her mother called it, for several months now and was quietly proud of this proof of her womanhood.

Running her hands over her rounding bosom down to her small waist, she smiled ruefully at her reflection in the mirror. Then she walked slowly down the stairs, picked an apron from the set of hooks on the kitchen wall, and began to assist her mother with dinner preparations.

It didn't surprise Suzi, but it did please her when Victor came in to the dinner table with her brothers that evening. The boys devoured their meal, as always, while their guest attempted dignity and politely answered all the questions her parents fired at him.

Yep, I enjoyed bein' back in Wisconsin for college.

It certainly is a good school. It'd be fine for little Merle here to attend when he's ready.

Merle, only six years old, squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. College? he wailed. Ain't goin' ta college. I hate schoo—

Quiet, Merle. Their mother gave him the look.

Yep, winters was mighty cold. Had nine foot of snow one winter. I reckon I was just spoiled by these California winters.

Yep, looks good for the drugstore. San Diego's a growin' town. And medicine and pharmacology are the fields of the future—of the soon-to-be twentieth century!

During all this proper conversation, Victor stole discreet glances at Suzanna. Her eyes intercepted and accepted them shyly, but all she said was Pass the potatoes and I'll get more butter.

After dinner, her mother got Merle ready for bed while Suzi cleaned up the kitchen. The men smoked on the porch and watched the waning sun. Over the clatter of dishes, Suzi strained to hear the men's voices, hoping to catch just a snatch of a sentence Victor spoke just to savor the sound of his voice.

How broad and straight he is and how wonderfully his black hair sets off his pale eyes. Are they gray or green? Whatever the color, they are mysterious, somehow happy and sad at the same time. She longed to know their secrets.

When the last dish was put away, the girl threw her apron on its hook, patted her hair, and pinched her cheeks. Holding her head high, she walked toward the front door.

Suzanna, called her mother, who had joined her in the kitchen.

Yes, Mama. Her shoulders sagged as she turned toward her mother.

Put on your wrap, dear. It's chilly outside in that ocean air.

But, Mama. The look on her mother's face demanded compliance, so the girl stomped up the stairs to her room. She returned in record time, gasping for air, she wrapped the snowy knit shawl around her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she stepped down the last stair to head toward the door. Her gaze found Victor looking at her from the entry. He grinned and her legs liquefied.

Miss Ballard, he said, meeting her at the stair and taking her hand. May I ask you a question?

Why…yes. She steadied herself by grasping the stair rail with her free hand.

Would you consent to accompany me to the Fourth of July dance at the Miller ranch? He looked into her face with a merry expression. I've already secured permission from your parents and now just need yours. Will you go with me?

Why…um…yes. She softened her voice to conceal her excitement.

Good. Very good. His smile set his face aglow. I'll be here at five o'clock sharp. The ladies are to pack box lunches. I understand that your whole family is goin'. It should be quite an affair. I hear that there'll be fireworks and all.

Even the knowledge that her family would be there couldn't dampen her spirits. She suspected that she wouldn't have been given permission to accompany Victor if they hadn't been going. She went to bed that night with a soaring heart, dreaming of a dark broad-chested stranger with laughing gray—or were they green—eyes.

* * * * *

The heat wave continued through the next three days. Saturday afternoon was busy at the beach, with dozens of what her father called scant-clad bodies dotting the sandy shoreline. Suzanna, finding a little coolness in the shade of a eucalyptus tree, watched from the ridge.

Think I'll skip the water today, she told herself, leaning her head against the tree's rough trunk. Too crowded down there. I've got my chore to do anyway.

Braving the afternoon sun, she picked up two water buckets and put them in a child's wooden wagon. Its wheels clattering over the hardpacked earth, the wagon bounced over the sloping hillside toward the well. What grass there was felt brittle and prickly under Suzi's bare feet. She parked the wagon at the edge of a dirt-walled canyon and carried one of the buckets into it.

The walls were about as tall as she was, and the cooler air and damp soil inside felt good. Walking to a clump of bushes surrounding the well's pump, she placed the bucket under the spout. As she pumped the handle, first trickles, then spurts of water plopped into the battered container. When it was full, she struggled with it up the canyon path, put it in the wagon, and carried the other bucket down. Her mind wandered to the dinner table two days before and to Victor's sly glances.

Suddenly, the sound of splashing water brought her attention back to the present and her overflowing bucket. Suzanna bent down to it and used the overflow to splash cool liquid on her face, her feet, and her forearms, sighing as she did so. She put the second bucket in the wagon and began to a dash for home, the sloshing water making damp spots all along the dusty path. Her feet, shiny-clean moments before, were soon earth-stained.

I'll get first chance in the tub tonight, and I'll scrub especially hard. Tomorrow's the day! She began to dance a jig to the fanciful melody that filled her head, causing even more of her load to spill.

Suzanna Marie. Her mother's stern voice interrupted the dance, and Suzi looked up to see her standing on the back porch, squinting in the sunlight. You sloshed out a good half of it, child.

The older woman quickly made her way down the porch and jerked a bucket out of the wagon. As she did this, she looked up into a cloudless sky.

What we need now is a good Indiana thunderstorm. Her mother shielded her eyes with her free hand. But all we get in this wasteland is the heat, never the rain.

Suzi, glad that her mother's ire focused on the weather and not on her, carried the remaining bucket into the kitchen and poured it into the big pot on the stove.

It had been more than two years since their move, but her mother still refused to like Southern California. The golden state! Carl had read in the paper one icy Midwestern day. Better than the gardens of Hesperides! Of course, no one knew who Hesperides was, but his gardens must be wonderful for the ads had gone on to say that this new country was the utopia of the Pacific.

Carl began to send for literature and to talk to neighbors who knew someone who had been out west. After the spring deluge of '85, he read of the opening of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe's line from Kansas City to San Diego, and he began to dream of the golden fruits, the gardens of this sunset land.

Suzanna's mother blithely tended her roses and gloried in the amber fall, but knowing her husband well, she started sorting her china and her silver. After the cruel, raw winter of '86, even her mother felt ready to enjoy this subtropical paradise. However, plans had to be delayed as they sold possessions and saved pennies to collect the ticket cost of 125 dollars per person.

Suzi still remembered that March day in 1887 when her father unrolled his evening paper.

Marthie! he hollered to the kitchen, Marthie, pack your bags. We're going to California.

The front page article told the story. The railroads and land developers were engaged in a giant price war. A. T. and S. tickets to the west coast had been reduced to one dollar each. That spring, the Ballard family joined forty thousand easterners and Midwesterners on the long train ride to San Diego.

There were all kinds of people on the train—well-to-do and poor folk, merchants and bankers, professionals and farmers, elderly and invalid men and women, large families and small ones. Some of the wooden compartments had berths for sleeping, but most simply had seats that folded into beds.

There was a wood-burning stove at the rear of the car on which a pot of hot coffee always sat next to another pot of boiling water for cleaning diapers. In spite of the close quarters, it was quite a merry trip, with a violinist and singer provided by the railroad to entertain the passengers daily. Often someone would read a poem or tell an exciting story.

Each day, the train would stop twice, at first at roadside stations for meals, but farther west, merely to enable the passengers to take a stroll. Once, Suzanna had seen buffalo grazing on the flat endless prairies, and another time, she had gazed breathlessly at scorching sands surrounded by russet cliffs and plunging canyons. She was amazed at the absence of trees or green bushes and fascinated by the cactus with their tuberous and thorny stems and branches.

On a clear Sunday morning, the engine puffed over soaring mountain ranges. The passenger car windows were etched with frost and icy to the touch. As she peered through them, Suzi felt like a bird floating on crystal skies over snow-capped peaks and pine-crowded valleys. Never had a church service meant more to her than the one the line's clergyman led that day.

The family had begun the trip with a large basket loaded with her mother's good cooking, feasting on crispy chicken, fragrant homemade bread and rolls, tart and crisp early Indiana apples, and spicy, chewy molasses cookies. When the last crumb was eaten, they had to buy food at stops along the way.

The children loved the store-bought food at first, but after the five days and nights it took to reach the station in San Diego, all were longing for a hot home-cooked meal. Yet even their stomachs were forgotten on that final day as they crowded by the window watching the station come into view. Excitement widened their eyes as the chugging engine slowed to a stop. It was the end of the line—they had reached their new home.

* * * * *

The town of San Diego reeked of newness, with its crude dirt streets and sparsely placed wooden buildings. Strange trees called palms flanked the roadway, and Suzi drew back fearfully from their prickly leaves and sticky-looking bark. Carl and the boys lugged the heavy trunks containing their possessions onto a buckboard wagon.

When it was fully loaded, everyone scrambled onto its seat or on top of its cargo, and the driver urged the horses over the rutted streets. They lurched along to a rooming house just a field's distance from the ocean. Though they couldn't see it, the children heard the water's rhythmic serenade, even over the bustle of the busy street.

Dropping their burdens on the porch of the big gray building, they ran across the grassy field to the shore. For a few moments, each child stood motionless, breathing in short gasps as the breeze-filled air assaulted their faces.

So this is the ocean. James inhaled the salty odor of it and tasted its tang on his tongue. Undulating waves spread their foaming crests on the sand, and the youngsters were all filled with both fear and delight.

Six-year-old Merle was the first to pull off his shoes and socks and run into the surf. Suzi followed, and soon all four were laughing and splashing one another, getting their Midwestern-wool clothes and their Midwestern skins soaking wet. Ordinarily, her mother would have been scolding them for such behavior, but on this day, she just stood leaning on her husband with tears in her smiling eyes.

Later, as they dried off at the rooming house, they met Mr. and Mrs. Schultz, who had come all the way from Germany to occupy a farm that the railroad had sold them while they were still in the old country. There also was a Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert from Chicago, who were awaiting the job promised to Mr. Gilbert by the A. T. and S. Line.

On their second day, the families ventured out together to a land auction just outside the city limits. Their wagons pulled into a primitive town—just a hotel and a few streets with cement sidewalks—amid the noise of a brass band and a bevy of circus performers in colorful costumes. Flags flew at various points, marking off what were called subdivisions. They were all served a lunch of thick fresh bread, sliced cold beef, tangy dill