Broken Heart Chain
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Dakota’s home was a small frame house at the end of a dirt road. It was an old place, and it had been empty for years. The grass that grew on its roof looked long and yellowed in the gray sky. A sign hung by the mailbox said: “No Trespassing.”
She drove to a vacant lot across the street from her parent’s house; there she turned off the engine and got out. Dakota walked past an abandoned barn with no horses inside, a chicken coop covered with dead chickens, then crossed over a wooden bridge spanning a creek.
Her mother lived alone now since her father died last year, but he’d once owned a farm here that had grown into prosperous dairy business.
She reached the side door and knocked gently three times before pushing the door open. A blast of cold air met her face, bringing the smells of stale tobacco smoke and dust. She stepped inside and saw her mother sitting on the sofa near an old wood stove with logs burning brightly inside it. The house was dimly lit through a large window facing the front yard; it wasn’t yet noon.
“You’re back,” Marge said when she glanced up from her sewing project. “I didn’t expect you until tonight.”
“Didn’t get much sleep. I’m going to take my lunch upstairs.” She carried her bag toward the staircase, which creaked under her weight as she climbed to the second floor.
The stairs were narrow, and Dakota wondered if this was how they came to own so many children. As a girl, she had dreamed of being a teacher like her mother. But after her first year of teaching school, Dakota realized she couldn’t stand being around all those little ones day after day.
She quit in less than a month, moved to a bigger city where she became a secretary, then married a traveling salesman. It didn’t work out; she divorced him after five years of marriage. Now she worked for a bank.
As she reached her mother’s bedroom door, Dakota paused. There was a new smell in the room that hadn’t been present when she left early yesterday morning—the scent of flowers. She pushed open the door and walked closer to see what the fragrance was coming from.
The bedside table was set with a bouquet of daisies surrounded by vases holding other bright flowers. Dakota stood next to her mother’s bed; she looked down at Marge, who lay sleeping peacefully. Then she bent over and kissed her mother on her forehead.
“How are things going?” she whispered.
“Well enough.” Marge smiled and lifted one hand. “Don’t wake me. I need to rest.”
“Okay.” The smell of fresh-cut hay still clung to the sheets. Dakota knew her mother hadn’t made the bed herself; she was too busy working to do household chores.
Marge slept soundly, snoring lightly. Dakota took a deep breath and went downstairs and into the kitchen. The sun was now well above the horizon, and a ray of light fell through the open door of the back door. A white cat sat on the porch; she watched it for several minutes until it disappeared down a nearby alleyway.
She opened the refrigerator, found the orange juice, and drank some before putting on an old pair of overalls with a hole in one knee. In the backyard behind the house, she saw an apple tree and plucked a dozen red apples from its branches before placing them in her canvas bag.
Then she headed toward the barn. A few yards away, she heard faint cries coming from a pen with two horses inside; she recognized them instantly as hers. They weren’t happy about having their breakfast interrupted; they kicked and stamped the ground with their hooves, whinnied loudly, and threw themselves against the fence, trying to reach her.
Dakota ignored them and continued walking toward the gate of the pasture. When she passed the pen again, both horses looked up at her, watching her as she walked by. She felt bad leaving them, but she had to be somewhere else, and they wouldn’t leave her alone while they waited for her return.
“It’ll only take a minute, and I’ll come right back.” Dakota reached out and petted each horse on its muzzle before entering the barn.
The stables were warm and smelled like an animal waste. She found the saddles hanging neatly on a rack by the entrance and placed the bags of apples on top of saddle panniers attached to one of the stalls. Next, she filled buckets with water from an old well and carried them into the paddock that held the horses. The sun had risen higher; soon it would be time for them to graze outside.
When she finished feeding them, she wiped their lips with a cloth dipped in cool water, then rubbed the animals’ necks with it, making sure they had a clean coat to protect them from flies and insects. Dakota checked on each of them, patting them on the shoulder before closing the gate behind her.
On her way back toward the house, she stopped and gazed out across the plains that stretched in every direction. The land was empty except for small clusters of scrub grasses and scattered clumps of sagebrush along the horizon.
After returning to the main house, Dakota put her bags on the table near the front window. Marge was just finishing cooking pancakes for breakfast. “I’m hungry,” Dakota said before her mother could say anything else. “Can I have one?”
Her mother gave her a quick smile and shook her head. “No. You already ate.”
Dakota shrugged and went into the parlor and picked up a book that lay there; it was about a dog called Rover. She read the story aloud, stopping occasionally to ask questions or make comments. After eating, Marge told Dakota she wanted her to stay close this morning so she could keep an eye on her. Dakota didn’t object. Her mother had never liked leaving her alone for even a moment.
They spent the day together, doing chores and running errands around town. At lunchtime, they drove to the nearest town, five miles away, and ate at a local restaurant. Dakota ordered a hamburger and fries; Marge asked for a sandwich and fruit salad.
The cook brought them to their table; she paid him and handed over two dollars, telling her she would return later in the week to pay off her tab.
Back at home after lunch, Marge pulled three books out of her closet. “Here’s a new one.” She placed them on the table in the dining room. “This is the best seller of all time. Read it and you’ll understand why.”
“What?” Dakota took the thick, brown hardback book from her. It looked like it was bound in leather.
“You’ll see.” Marge grinned and sipped her iced tea.
She started reading from the beginning of the book:
“In the early twentieth century, a wealthy businessman named Henry Jekyll owned a castle-like mansion that sat high atop a hill overlooking a valley far below. He built his dream home using materials he mined himself in the hills; stone, granite, and marble were all part of it.
The interior walls of his house were lined with beautiful murals depicting scenes from Shakespearean plays. The ceiling was made from wooden beams covered with gold leaf and painted in intricate designs.”
Dakota closed the book and looked up at her mother. “That’s not the way my father described the man who lived there.”
Marge shrugged. “Well, we don’t know everything, do we? Maybe your father embellished a bit when he talked about his childhood.”
She returned to her book and finished the chapter she was reading, then continued on to another one that seemed to relate to her husband’s past, and finally turned the page to a section titled “The Strange History Of A Man Called Jekyll And Hyde.”
“Henry Jekyll had many interests and hobbies besides building his own mansion. Some were harmless while others were quite peculiar. In the early 1900s, Jekyll became fascinated with the occult and spent much of his time experimenting in his laboratory.
The only person allowed into his lab was his assistant, Dr. Henry Jones. Jekyll’s interest in alchemy grew stronger, and eventually, he began to dabble in black magic. His experiments included summoning spirits from the underworld, which he believed he could control.
But it wasn’t long before he lost his grip on reality. Jekyll was convinced that he possessed magical powers that allowed him to travel between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He thought he could bring back the souls of the recently departed—the ones with unfinished business.”
“Did he?” Dakota asked.
“No,” Marge replied as she closed the book and set it aside. “But he did believe he could.”
“So what happened?”
“He killed himself,” Marge said quietly.
***
On Sunday afternoon, Marge drove Dakota and Lyle out to a small community about twenty miles away where they met a group of people who gathered there every other week to hold a service at the local cemetery.
This group was different than most church groups in that it consisted mostly of older members; some of them had been coming to these gatherings for decades. They sang old hymns and listened intently as the minister spoke from a podium.
It reminded Dakota of the old days at Mount Pisgah, but she was glad it was nothing like the religious services she had attended as a child. It left too much room for doubt and uncertainty.
At last, Marge told Dakota she needed to go back to the ranch. When Marge got back to the main house, Dakota was sitting by the window looking down at the horse paddock. “Are you sad I won’t be here tomorrow?” Marge asked.
Dakota nodded and smiled as tears filled her eyes. “I’m happy that you found this place. But I wish I didn’t have to leave. I really liked this little town.”
Marge kissed her daughter on the forehead. “It isn’t so bad. We can come back again. There are lots of places to visit in the West.”
Dakota hugged her mother. “Thanks, Mom. For showing me something I never knew existed.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now, let’s get ready to head for the city. Time’s running short.”
***
When they drove through the gates of the hotel at dusk, Marge couldn’t help being shocked at how quickly life changed. The streets were bustling with tourists and street vendors selling souvenirs. Marge parked near the front entrance and hurried inside to check-in.
She and Dakota entered the lobby and headed straight for the elevator, and rode it all the way to the top floor. Once there, Marge showed Dakota their two adjoining rooms, which both looked out over the busy streets of San Francisco.
“This is where you’ll sleep,” Marge said as she pulled out the bedding and put it on the twin beds. Then she took out an extra pillow from her bag.
“What’s this?” Dakota asked, holding up a small box that had been wrapped in red velvet paper. “A gift?”
“Open it,” Marge replied, grinning.
Dakota opened the box, and her mouth fell open as she stared at a silver ring with tiny jewels embedded in it.
“Wow!” she whispered. “Where did you find this?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen anything like it,” Marge laughed as she slipped it onto Dakota’s finger.
Dakota smiled as she admired the ring. “I don’t think I ever did see anything like it before.” She held the ring close to the light and examined every detail. “It must belong to someone special because it’s not even real diamonds.”
Marge chuckled as she walked across the room and sat next to her daughter. “Someone very important in my life gave it to me years ago. That’s all I can say about that.”
As they talked, Dakota felt her heart begin to pound, and she suddenly realized that Marge would be gone in the morning. And now there was another reason why she wouldn’t want to go back to Mount Pisgah: the thought of losing her mom made her feel guilty.
“Why do I always make things so hard on myself?” she muttered as Marge brushed her fingers against Dakota’s cheek.
“You’re thinking again?” Marge teased.
“Yes,” Dakota replied. “I hate the fact that I’m so dependent on you. You’re not just my mother; you’re my best friend—and I shouldn’t ask any more than that from you.”
“You don’t need to apologize, honey, because it isn’t your fault.”
Dakota turned to face Marge. “You know, I wish I could talk to you like I did when we lived together at Mount Pisgah. Then I’d understand everything you wanted to tell me.”
“That’s one thing you’ll never do here in San Francisco, or anywhere else, for that matter,” Marge said firmly.
***
The following day, Marge went into San Francisco while Dakota returned to the hotel and spent the afternoon exploring the city on foot. As the afternoon passed, Marge became increasingly anxious. Why hadn’t Dakota called? It was almost suppertime; if she wasn’t around by then, Marge would have to assume that something had happened and return home immediately.
After supper, Marge walked toward the front desk and saw Dakota sitting by the window, staring out at the busy street below. She waved and went inside the office. “How’s the view?”
Dakota turned away from the window and stared at Marge. “I love it.”
Marge smiled and sat down. “Do you think you’ll be able to handle living in the city?”
Dakota shook her head no. “Not really. Everything moves too fast.” She paused, then said, “But I think it will be fun to learn to cope with the hustle and bustle of a big city.”
“Good. If you need any help, just yell.”
“Thanks,” Dakota replied as she reached for her hand. “For showing me these things and for everything else you’ve done. It means a lot.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Marge replied as she gently squeezed Dakota’s hand. “You should only thank God for putting you in my life.”
“Oh, you mean God?” Dakota asked as her brow furrowed in confusion. “Then I guess I’d better start praying to Him.”
They remained silent for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Suddenly, Marge broke the silence. “Well, I guess that’s enough time for one day,” she said. “Let’s get ready for bed.”
“All right,” Dakota agreed, and the two women rose to leave the office.
“Did you have fun today?” Marge asked as she followed her daughter upstairs.
“Very much so,” Dakota answered as she led Marge to her room. “And I learned that San Francisco has more to offer than I imagined.”
“So does Mount Pisgah,” Marge said as they entered Dakota’s room.
“I suppose I’ll have to find some other interesting things to fill my time, or I won’t be able to stand being here anymore.”
“Good idea,” Marge replied.
When Marge turned around, Dakota had already disappeared into her bedroom. Marge waited until she heard Dakota come out of the bathroom, and then she knocked softly on the door and opened it a crack. “Ready for bed?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dakota replied.
“I brought you something,” Marge said as she handed Dakota an envelope.
Dakota took the letter, but instead of reading it she placed it on the nightstand and lay down on her side facing Marge.
“What’s going on?” Marge asked as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers over them both.
“Nothing,” Dakota whispered as she turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.
“Come on, Dakota,” Marge coaxed. “It isn’t fair if I don’t know what’s bothering you.”
“Can we read it together?”
“Sure.” Marge reached across Dakota and picked up the letter. She started to turn to page one and found Dakota’s hand covering hers. “Are you sure this is all right?”
Dakota nodded yes, and Marge turned to page one.
“‘Dear Dakota, I want you to remember that you’re still young. Don’t grow up too fast and try to be someone you’re not.’ That’s a quote from one of our favorite authors. It reminds me every now and then that we each have our own paths to follow.”
“Why did you bring this?” Dakota asked as she looked at the letter.
“Because I know that someday, somewhere along the line, you’ll need to hear these words again.” Marge reached across Dakota again and took hold of her hand. “Now, let’s go to sleep so tomorrow’s another beautiful day in San Francisco.”
They held hands and drifted off to sleep.
***
“This isn’t funny,” Marge said through gritted teeth as she pushed Dakota’s arm aside and tried to open the door.
“Sorry, Mom,” Dakota apologized, her voice sounding hollow from a long absence. “But I couldn’t stay away from San Francisco for long.”
Marge smiled. “That’s fine,” she said, relieved that her daughter had returned safely and without harm.
The door swung open, and Marge stepped outside into the bright morning sun. A few people passed by and gave Marge a friendly greeting. Some even stopped and spoke with Dakota.
“We missed you yesterday,” a man called out as he passed by.
“Thank you,” Dakota replied, but Marge could tell the reply was rehearsed and fake.
Marge sighed. “I’m sure she’s tired after traveling,” she told the man as he left. Then she turned to face Dakota. “You should have stayed home yesterday,” she reprimanded her daughter. “You were supposed to be in Mount Pisgah, attending services.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing,” Marge interrupted. “You were here, and that meant more to your mother than anything.”
“No, no,” Dakota replied. “She would have understood why I was missing church on Sunday.”
“Would she have understood that you went sightseeing in town and spent most of the day at Fisherman’s Wharf?”
“Mom,” Dakota protested. “There’s nothing wrong with having some fun.”
“Nothing’s wrong with having some fun,” Marge agreed. “But I’d rather you spend a couple of hours exploring San Francisco, enjoying its unique attractions, and learning about the history of the place than spending it riding cable cars and visiting tourist traps.
You’ve had enough of those kinds of activities for the summer, and now that school’s almost out for summer vacation, I think you should spend most of your free time resting—or at least trying to.”
“Resting? Resting!” Dakota exclaimed as she shook her head from side to side and threw her arms wide open. “How can you ask me to rest when there are so many wonderful things to see?”
“You’ve been on a train ride, taken cable car rides, visited Fisherman’s Wharf, seen Chinatown and Golden Gate Park, walked past Alcatraz and Fisherman’s Wharf, toured the city, shopped in Union Square—”
“That last part was a bust,” Dakota added, but Marge could tell that her daughter wasn’t upset over losing money.
“So what are you saying?” Dakota asked, but before Marge could answer, Dakota turned to walk down the street, following a small stream of tourists who seemed oblivious to their surroundings.
“Wait up, Dakota, before you get too far ahead of me,” Marge called out after her daughter.
“Just a little farther, Mom,” Dakota replied as she quickened her step. “Then I’ll turn around.”
Marge followed Dakota to the edge of Fisherman’s Wharf, where they stood watching a group of street performers entertains passersby.
A woman dressed in black sang and played guitar; a young man in an old-fashioned sailor suit and red neckerchief juggled knives and swords while juggling fireballs, bottles filled with water, and a metal cup filled with sand.
A young lady wore a long black dress with white lace sleeves and danced gracefully, turning in slow circles to music that came from hidden speakers set into the brick walls surrounding them.
As Marge watched the performers, a feeling of guilt washed over her. For the first time since Dakota arrived in San Francisco, Marge felt guilty about something. She thought back to all the times she lectured her daughter, telling her not to take the easy way out. Now that Dakota had traveled the world and experienced other cultures, she should have listened to her mother’s advice.
Dakota turned toward Marge and smiled. The two women held hands as they continued to watch the show.
“Is anything wrong?” Dakota whispered, obviously worried.
“No, no,” Marge replied gently. “I’m just a bit tired today. It’s been a long trip and a busy week.”
“Busy?” Dakota asked, surprised.
“Yes, busy,” Marge said. “And it looks like we’ll have one more busy day tomorrow before this trip ends.”
Dakota looked at Marge with concern written on her face, but Marge didn’t share the rest of her thoughts. “It will be fine,” she told her daughter. “I have everything under control. Don’t worry.”
“You sound so sure,” Dakota replied. “What if this doesn’t work out?”
“This plan has worked before, and it will again.” Marge squeezed Dakota’s hand reassuringly and then turned away from the performers to look at the bay.
“Look, you can see the sea lions,” Dakota pointed out, and Marge turned her attention to the water where dozens of seals rested on top of the wharf or floated in the middle of the water. “Do they really eat fish by barking at them?” Dakota asked, fascinated.
“They do,” Marge said. “The seals hunt for salmon and mackerel in the waters around Fisherman’s Wharf. They usually catch their meals by jumping in the water and chasing after their prey.”
“Can I try that?” Dakota asked. “Maybe I can jump in and grab a fish.”
“Not unless you want to get arrested,” Marge replied dryly.
Dakota laughed. “I wouldn’t mind getting arrested if it meant I got to see a seal swimming right next to me.”
“If you were ever to meet a real seal, it would scare you,” Marge said. “Don’t let these performers’ costumes fool you. If you come across a real seal, don’t go near him. Seals attack people without warning and won’t hesitate to sink their teeth into your flesh. So stay back—or else.”
“Or else?” Dakota repeated with a chuckle.
“Oh, nothing serious, but maybe it might give you nightmares tonight,” Marge answered. “Now, it’s time for us to go shopping. We still have much to do.”
***
After leaving Fisherman’s Wharf, Marge took Dakota through Nob Hill and China Town before heading for North Beach, once known as Little Italy, where Italian immigrants settled in the late 1800s and early 1900s.
Little did Marge know how much history she would learn as they toured the city during their last few hours together.
“This is the oldest building in San Francisco,” Marge told Dakota as they walked by the Painted Ladies, four identical Victorian houses built in 1873, which sat on five acres of land. “They served as the residence and law office of the judge in the case that established California’s court system.”
“Wow,” Dakota said, impressed with the colorful architecture and lush green trees lining the streets. She had never seen such a pretty place before, with so many tall buildings and wide streets packed with cars, pedestrians, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles, and street vendors selling hot pretzels and roasted chestnuts.
“This area was the first part of San Francisco to be developed,” Marge explained as she pointed at a large brown sign above an ornate doorway that read “San Francisco Police Court.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Dakota said. “That’s where criminals used to be tried and sentenced. You could say the police court gave birth to our legal system.”
“It certainly did,” Marge said. “We are lucky to have such a grand courthouse to honor those who fought hard to establish America as a free nation. But I wonder what happened to Judge Matthew Hennessey, the man whose law firm stood here, and all the judges who came afterward?”
“Who knows?” Dakota shrugged. “Maybe someone stole their bones and hid them in some secret room somewhere.”
“Perhaps,” Marge mused. “Let’s keep moving.”
Marge took Dakota to Pier 39, where she bought three dozen roses. “These are for Uncle Jack,” Marge told Dakota as she handed the flowers to the vendor.
“Uncle Jack?” Dakota repeated.
“He loves fresh flowers,” Marge explained. “They remind him of home.”
“But why three dozen?” Dakota asked. “Aren’t two enough?”
“Three are for his friends in prison,” Marge answered. “The other two are for Uncle Jack’s wife.”
“His wife?” Dakota was shocked.
“Yes, she’s not well, and Uncle Jack is very worried about her health,” Marge continued. “So he wants to bring her these flowers today. Maybe she will feel better seeing the beautiful blooms and remember how much her husband loved her when they were married.”
Dakota didn’t reply to Marge’s explanation. Instead, she stared at the long line of flower carts set up along Fisherman’s Wharf.
“We’ll take one each,” Marge told the vendor. “Two red roses and three pink ones.”
She paid the money, put the bouquet in a basket, and then followed Dakota past restaurants that sold seafood delicacies like crab legs, oysters, shrimp, and crawfish; bakeries that sold pies made from sourdough bread and doughnuts fried until golden brown; and jewelry stores, souvenir shops, and clothing boutiques that catered to tourists, all of whom stopped to gaze out over the bay at sailboats, schooners, catamarans, and pleasure craft.
The waterfront was bustling with life and activity, a far cry from the quiet and desolate landscape Dakota had grown accustomed to these past few weeks.
As they strolled by Pier 39, Marge showed Dakota some of San Francisco’s most famous sites:
Ghirardelli Square, with its rows of chocolate shops; the Golden Gate Bridge, which connected San Francisco to Marin County; the Transamerica Pyramid, a skyscraper that was the tallest building in the city at the time of its construction; and Twin Peaks, a hill overlooking the city that offered a view of the entire Bay Area.
“You can see the whole city from there,” Marge informed Dakota. “And look, there’s Alcatraz Island in the distance.”
Alcatraz? Dakota turned around to find Marge pointing out the island in the middle of the bay. A small white lighthouse marked the rocky shoreline and sent a warning signal to ships entering San Francisco Harbor. And in the midst of the water was a dark and forbidding fortress with thick walls of brick and granite that stretched out into the sea and seemed to defy the wind and weather.
Dakota knew nothing about this fortification, but she wondered if anyone could escape Alcatraz.
“What’s inside?” Marge asked.
“I don’t know,” Dakota replied, still mesmerized by the sight.
“Well,” Marge said, “the warden of the prison lived there and ran the state’s only maximum security penitentiary. It opened in 1934 as a federal prison for dangerous criminals. But it closed down in 1963 after a series of riots and escapes.”
“Why did it close?” Dakota asked, confused. “It must be nice having your own fort.”
“I’m sure it was at one time,” Marge said. “But prisoners kept escaping and killing guards. In fact, four men attempted to break out of Alcatraz last year, and one of them died. We need to move on. It’s lunchtime now.”
They headed back toward the cable car stop, and Marge bought two lunches—one for Dakota, and one for herself. “Eat fast,” she told Dakota as she sat on a wooden bench and pulled off her gloves to eat. “We’re taking you home soon.”
After they ate, Marge took Dakota across the street to visit the famous Cliff House Hotel, where they toured the lobby and dining rooms and saw a number of paintings, sculptures, and stained glass windows. They also looked at photos of celebrities who frequented the hotel and listened to recorded interviews with guests who remembered staying here decades ago.
One guest recalled a party at the hotel with President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, while another talked about an encounter with Charlie Chaplin on the elevator.
When they reached the gift shop, Marge bought Dakota a souvenir mug with the name Cliff House printed in gold letters beneath a picture of a huge green bay with blue waters below. Dakota picked up a small book written by a writer named Robert Louis Stevenson who wrote Treasure Island and Kidnapped.
He lived and worked at the Cliff House for three months, so many of his works were inspired by this place. Dakota thought it was strange that a man would spend so much of his time writing about pirates and buried treasures since he was obviously a real pirate himself.
After a quick ride back on the cable car, Dakota stood alone at the end of their block. She turned to leave when Marge called out to her, but Dakota just walked away and ignored the woman’s request.
Marge sighed. “You’d rather be here than with me, wouldn’t you?”
Dakota stopped walking and glared at Marge. “How do you figure that?”
“Just answer my question,” Marge replied. “The sooner we get started, the sooner I can show you how wrong you are.”
“Wrong about what?”
“That being here is better than being home.” Marge pointed out a group of women wearing colorful aprons and hair nets behind the restaurant counter. “Look over there.”
Dakota followed Marge’s gesture and realized the cooks had no customers waiting for food at the moment. “So what?”
“Let me ask you this, then: How long has it been since you cooked anything for yourself?”
“Huh?”
“Come on. How long have you spent in restaurants? At least once every day, right? Meals prepared by someone else—that’s all you’ve ever eaten since you were old enough to stand in a kitchen. Well, let me tell you something, Miss Longknife.”
Marge stepped closer to Dakota, lowered her voice, and spoke in a low, husky tone that made Dakota shiver. “There is no such thing as eating your way through life.”
The End