Carla Kelly (14 page)

“Thank you. I just want enough to tide me over,” Della whispered back, wondering why they were whispering.

She looked around and figured out why. Seated behind the counter, his head on his chest, was an older gentleman, sound asleep.

“Bishop Parmley made Mr. Nix put David Lloyd in the store to wait on us, because he had nowhere to go once his lungs went bad,” Annie whispered. “We're as quiet as church mice until we need his help.”

Della nodded and tiptoed through the rows of shelves, all neat and well-arranged. The prices looked higher than similar goods sold in Salt Lake City. Maybe the Pleasant Valley Coal Company added the price of haulage to their goods.
No wonder Angharad eats a lot of oatcakes
, Della thought. It wouldn't take long for a miner to rack up a bill he'd spend all winter working off.

Annie Jones needed something from the butcher shop, so she tiptoed to the sleeping man and touched his shoulder, speaking to him softly in Welsh. He woke up and went behind the meat counter to help her.

“Miss Anders? Can I be of service?”

She turned around to see the man who had caught her hat so handily when Israel Bowman flung it off the flatbed. “Let's see …”

“Clarence Nix,” he reminded her. “I'm the store manager. I'm in charge of the coupon books the miners use. I could set you up with one too, if you'd rather pay monthly.”

“I think not,” she said. “I'm just going to get some cheese, bread, and meat, and … and any apples, if you have them.”

“We do. Let me help you.”

The salami looked good, so she asked for a pound of that and a pound of cheese. She glanced over at Annie Jones's basket. She noticed Annie's much smaller parcel of cheese and no meat, and she was probably feeding a family.
I hope we have a long, cold winter with snow to the rafters, so everyone in Utah needs a lot of coal
, Della thought. She walked to another shelf where she thought she saw some bread and stood there, eyeing the less-than-promising selection.

“I baked oat bread this morning,” Annie said. “Let me give you a loaf of that. This stuff tastes like sawdust.”

“I couldn't possibly do that. You have a family to feed,” Della said quickly. To her dismay, Annie's face fell.
I just made her feel poor
, Della thought.
Now what? Oh, please, Lord
.

It was the simplest prayer and it was answered quickly. Maybe Heavenly Father liked that Sunday singing as much as she did, because she knew what to do.

“Let's do this, Sister Jones. I'm getting some apples. I'll trade you some of those for a loaf of bread. Is it a deal?”

Aunt Caroline would cringe at such slang, but Della didn't care. Annie Jones's pride was on the line.

The woman's eyes brightened. “It's a deal, as you say. Come home with me.”

She walked with Annie Jones up the canyon, only asking to stop once while she gathered her breath. “Please tell me I'll get used to this soon,” she gasped. Annie wasn't even breathing heavily.

“You will! We all went through this.”

The house was a repeat of all the shacks she had seen, but Della stopped and looked over the door frame, recognizing the elaborately carved name.

“Does Brother Davis carve everyone's name over doorways?” she asked as Annie opened the door.

“If we want him to,” the woman replied. “He'll probably carve your name if you ask.”

She followed her hostess inside to another tiny room just as neat as Mabli Reese's and through to the kitchen, where two girls were washing bread pans. Della breathed deep of the fragrance of freshly baked bread, counting eight loaves on the table.

“It's my week's baking,” Annie said, and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

“If I take a loaf, will you come up short?” Della asked.

“We never come up short. Every woman in this canyon makes an extra loaf,” Annie said. “You never know when a friend will drop by. It's the Welsh way.”

It was simply said, so proud and kind. One more flimsy thread binding Della to her own relatives tore away.

Annie took a loaf and wrapped it in waxed paper, and Della took six apples from her stash, noticing how the little girls’ eyes lighted up. She added another apple. “For a friend who drops by,” Della murmured and accepted the bread in exchange. It was still warm.

“One moment.” Annie turned to her cupboard and took out a small box, pouring a handful of salt into a square of waxed paper. She twisted it tight and handed it to the younger of the two girls. She put her hand on the child's shoulder and whispered to her.

“This is Myfanwy. She is just turned six, so you will be her teacher. There now,” Annie said and gave her daughter a gentle push.

Too shy to look up, Myfanwy handed Della the salt, dipped a little curtsy, and said something in Welsh. She stepped back and turned her face into her mother's apron.

“She bids you welcome to the canyon. Bread and salt.”

“Thank you, Myfanwy. I'll sprinkle a little salt on my apples,” Della said, managing to talk around the boulder in her throat. “Thank you, Sister Jones. I know I got the better deal.”

“Oh, no,” Annie gently contradicted. “We did, the day you decided to teach here.”

“You don't even know me.”

“I believe we do. God bless you today and all days.”

hese
people are going to amaze me every day I live here
, Della thought as she left the Joneses’ house.

She was passing the powerhouse when someone called her name. She turned around to see Clarence Nix waving at her, so she waited, glad enough to have an excuse to stop for a breath.

Incongruous in his white shirt and bow tie, he passed a group of miners, dusty black, who waved to him. He glanced her way but stopped to chat for a moment, obviously in tune with the friendliness of the miners.

He joined her a moment later, ready to apologize; she could tell by the look on his face. She put out her hand to stop him.

“I'm already learning to slow down and chat,” she told him, which made him nod. “And if they aren't all related, they at least know each other!”

“You're definitely getting it,” he replied with a laugh. “Let me be a company man—time is money to Americans— and tell you straight up what I want.”

They were passing the timber yard, so he gestured for her to sit on the bench so warm in the sun. “It's this, Miss Anders,” he said when she was seated. “Mr. Parmley suggested it, and I agree. We have a small library upstairs at the Wasatch Store. It's nothing grand—just books for adults, some for children, and newspapers from foreign places.”

“That's nice to know,” Della said. “Do you let people check out the books?”

“We do. This little canyon has an amazing number of avid readers.”

Just because they are miners doesn't mean they are stupid
, Della thought but had the wisdom not to say it. One of her happiest memories of her father was sitting on his lap while he read out loud to her. Sometimes it was the newspaper, sometimes a mine report or even a ladies’ magazine—whatever was handy. “I understand that,” she said.

“The library is open from seven to nine, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Or at least, it should be.”

“What do you mean?”

Clarence gave her an appraising look, as if wondering how to broach the subject. “It's like this, Miss Anders: The lower grade elementary teacher took on the task, and that's where …” He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting Miss Clayson in all her fury to materialize. “… where she met the mining engineer.”

“Oh, dear,” Della said, amused.

“Miss Clayson took over the library when Miss Forsyth eloped, and by the end of the school year, not a single miner came to the library.”

Della leaned closer. “She frightened them way?”

“She put up signs everywhere, warning them to wash their hands so they wouldn't get the books dirty.”

“That's not unreasonable,” Della pointed out.

“Not at all, but then she made them wash up in a basin by the door while she watched, and then show her their hands.” Clarence sighed. “Miss Anders, these are grown men, not children! I thought their hands were plenty clean, but not Miss Clayson.”

He looked down at his own hands, which had ink spots. “She probably would have thrown
me
out. She humiliated them,” he said simply.

“Sad. Do you want me to keep the library open on those evenings?”

“I really do. The store will pay you fifty cents for each night you are there.” He shrugged. “I know that's awfully small potatoes to an Anders—maybe it's even a joke—but that's the offer.”

There it was again.
They think I'm someone I'm not, and I don't want to fool these good people
, she thought, dismayed. Maybe she could change the subject or drop it entirely. “I'd enjoy doing this, Mr…. Clarence. I wanted to take a librarian's course at the University of Utah, but tuition for a teaching certificate fit my budget better.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew should never have said that.

Clarence stared at her. “But you're an Anders!
Aren't
you?”

Della nodded, even more dissatisfied with herself, because she really wanted to say “sort of,” and that would never do. “I … I had to economize.” She tried to turn the matter into a joke. “That's how rich people hang onto their money, or … or so my uncle says.” She could have cringed at the mystified look in Clarence Nix's eyes as she made a total hash of the matter. Better just to stand up and end it. “I'd be happy to take the library,” she told him. She leaped to her feet and glanced down at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist. “Oh, the time! I must get to Mabli Reese's house. Good day, Clarence. I'll be at the library Wednesday night,” she finished in a rush.

“That's all I want,” he said, and there was no denying the bewilderment in his voice, mixed with what she hoped wasn't frost, but probably was.

Stupid, stupid, stupid
, she berated herself as walked.
He thinks I'm a snob and too good for Winter Quarters
.
Please, please don't let him say anything to Mrs. Perkins! Everyone in Pleasant Valley will know.

Her vision blurred as she hurried up the wagon road where it branched away from the tracks. Clarence Nix had no idea that an extra six dollars a month was a real wind-fall. Since the room was only six dollars a month and there probably wasn't much place to spend her salary up here, she could save most of it and plan for a warmer climate next year. Maybe Indonesia would be far enough.

Agitated, she stopped to breathe. As she stood there looking toward the tipple and the coal in the chute, she felt her common sense return from wherever it had fled. “All anyone wants is a good teacher, Della, you nitwit,” she murmured. “Why does it matter?”

She started walking slowly as she realized it mattered very much because she was already coming to like these people.
I wish I knew what to do
, she thought.

She paused outside Mabli Reese's door for only a moment, because the woman had left her a note.
Next door in the boardinghouse. Come see me and use the side door,
she read.