Andrews’s sewing room. Father appears on the stairs, and I say, “You’re up early.”“I’m off to Buffalo,” he says. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Micking.”My grandfather had worked in Mr. McMicking’s Buffalo tannery as a laborer, also Father as an errand boy. I know the story well—how Mr. McMicking was the first to see Father’s potential, how he convinced Father to attend business college, how he footed the bill. “The tannery owner?” I say.He nods, and I fill with trepidation. Surely Father is not considering a position in the Buffalo tannery where he worked as a boy. He cannot mean for us to restart our lives away from Niagara Falls.“Buffalo?”“A war ought to be good business for a tannery,” he says.“Oh.”“Well, I’m off,” he says, crossing the threshold of the front door. “Wish me luck.”I stand silent, dismayed, as a gush of cold air hits me. Eventually the briskness of the weather sinks in and I make an about-face, heading up the stairs to find a cardigan somber enough for mourning yet warm enough for the day.I pause at Isabel’s wardrobe, fingering the clothes still hanging there, a tailored wool suit Mother made for her trousseau, a sea green chiffon gown.
What do You think about The Day The Falls Stood Still?
