Carla Kelly (25 page)

“What was that song?” she asked him.

“A welcome. “And now
nos da
, good night.” He turned away to join the others.

“
Nos da
,” she said softly into the night.

The next morning, Della opened the front door to see purple thistle, yellow flowers she couldn't identify, and white straw flowers tied together in a bundle with red yarn. It was wrapped in a Finnish newspaper, so she looked up the canyon toward Finn Town, a smile on her face. She hurried to put them in water, then grabbed up the package of pictures and hurried to the Wasatch Store.

Della gave the package to Clarence Nix to mail for her, and he whistled to see it addressed to Samuel Auerbach, care of Auerbach's Department Store.

“You certainly know all the right people,” he said to her.

“Very few,” she assured him.

“Oh, let's see,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Karl Anders, Jesse Knight himself, and now
the
Mr. Auerbach?”

All Della could do was shake her head and hurry on, determined not to even approach being late, not with Miss Clayson probably still on the warpath. Let Clarence think what he wanted; everyone else already did.

Miss Clayson must have declared a weird sort of truce, Della decided by the end of the day. It was probably too much to think she regretted her outburst, but the principal was her usual surly self, without yesterday's added vitriol.

Still, there was something vaguely disturbing in the air, familiar to her because she had a sixth sense about trouble, ingrained in her from life with Aunt Caroline. Her students were not as exuberant as yesterday and there was no mistaking the way they seemed to make themselves small against the wall as Miss Clayson welcomed them into the school building.

Once they had negotiated the perils of the front hall, her students settled into their classroom with relief equal to her own, because she knew it was their refuge too. Every eye went to the bouquet of wildflowers she had brought along.

“A bird told me this was from one of our Finnish classmates,” Della announced. “Tell me, Pekka Aho, how do I saw ‘thank you’ in your language?”

Pekka looked around. “It's not allowed.”

“It is in my room,” Della said, her voice firm.

“Kiitos,” he replied, his voice equally firm.

“Kiitos,” she repeated, then took a small yellow flower from the bouquet and angled it into her curly hair.

After school, Miss Clayson walked by her classroom several times but made no move to enter. Della corrected papers, one eye on the door, until she could have chewed nails with her disgust at herself for being so fearful. Wearily, she returned her attention to the work in front of her, dreading nine months of this.

“Ready to go?”

Della looked up a few minutes later to see Israel standing in her door. Bless his heart, he was going to escort her out of the building.

They walked down the front steps together, Israel with his coat slung over his shoulder. He looked around and breathed deeply.

“Ah! The fragrance of coal and sulfur,” he said, which made her laugh softly. “Or maybe it's fire and brimstone coming from the belly of the school, where the imps of the underworld reside.”

“That's coming a little strong,” she scolded.

“I know. Did I tell you that my Blanche worked here two years ago? This is where we met.”

“Then why …”

“… isn't she still here? Miss Clayson just doesn't seem to want anyone to be happy. Sad, but there you are. It bothered me to watch her try to intimidate Blanche, as though daring her to teach these lovely children with her whole heart. Something burned that woman somewhere. Wish I knew what.” He turned to face her. “Keep teaching with your whole heart. We owe it to them, and you owe it to yourself.”

Della thought about his words that evening as she set out the latest newspapers in the library. She had brought her flowers to the library, unwilling to let them languish at school while they wilted. Better to get another few hours of use out of them. Using the window as a mirror, she put another yellow flower in her hair.

Dr. Isgreen commented on her flowers when he stopped in, still carrying his medical bag.

“Putting on airs, Miss Anders?” he teased.

“Of course! Two wildflowers that are nameless and homeless,” she replied. “I am radical.”

“What I would like you to be is my dinner guest this Saturday evening again. I mentioned it earlier. Any thoughts on the matter, or must I dine forgotten and alone?”

There it was again. “I can't this Saturday,” Della said. “I am going on a long hike and will probably be sunburned and unfit for company when I return.”
I'm not really putting you off
, she thought.
Just sparing you from bad news
.

The doctor took her refusal in stride. “I'll just to ask you again next Saturday.” He tapped her desk. “You can congratulate Joe Padfield on Sunday. He's now the father of another son.”

“I shall, Emil,” she said gently.

“Was it something I said?” he asked, his voice equally gentle.

“It's hard to explain,” she whispered.

“Find someone to explain it to,” he said, and she heard nothing but infinite patience. “It could even be me. I'm known in some circles as a good listener. G'night, Della.”

She knew it could have been worse. She sat at her desk, wondering where her usual patrons were. She went to the window, looked down, and felt her heart miss a beat. A group of men and some women had gathered below. Clarence Nix had joined them. He just shrugged and up they came, orderly and quiet, but with something more in their eyes.

The women looked at her. She tried to interpret their expression as she thought over her day and the awful day before. Surely they didn't think she was the author of that bit of nastiness, brought on by her principal.

“No, I …” she said, then stopped as they came closer. She backed up until she was pressed against her desk. Suddenly it was too much, and she put her hands up to protect herself. In another moment, she had covered her eyes, twelve again and afraid.

“Wait a moment. Stand back, please. You're frightening her, and you don't mean to.”

Owen stood there, moving them back. Della opened her eyes, startled now to see concern on those faces that had looked … she wasn't sure how they had looked. Maybe it was her imagination; there were too many of them.

He said a few quiet words in Welsh, and the women took hold of their husbands and tugged them back. He turned around, and she flinched from habit.

“Calm now,” he said, speaking as soft as Dr. Isgreen had spoken. “We're your friends here, and we've just heard something that made us fair angry at your principal. Please, Della, we're your friends.”

With a sob, she went to the other side of her desk and sat down hard, then leaned her forehead on her hands. She heard a few more quiet words in Welsh, then English, and the room was silent. Annie Jones knelt beside her, her hand gentle on her back. She handed her a handkerchief, and Della took it with shaking hands.

“Bishop's here too,” she whispered to Della. “Oh, my dear, what did you bear for us?”

Della pressed the handkerchief to her eyes and forced herself to breathe slower until her dizziness passed.

Anne began to caress her back. “My son was afraid to say anything, but he told my Levi tonight. What Gwilym heard from Mr. Bowman's room was too many unkind words directed at you. That's what we
don't
like, as God is our strength.”

Della raised her head from the desk. Maybe if she looked only at Annie, the rest of them would disappear. But there was Owen, looking at her with so much concern. She turned all her attention to Annie Jones, who had given her bread.

“All I did was ask your little ones to draw me a picture of something they did this summer.”

“I know,” Annie said.

“She doesn't understand miners, does she?” Della asked. “And when your children say ‘aye, miss’ to me, she thinks it keeps them Welsh, or English. I think she means well, but she doesn't understand miners. I do, actually. My father was a miner. He died in a mine.”

Della put her head down again. She didn't want an audience for such childish behavior, she who was supposed to be dignified and professional and their children's teacher. What must they be thinking?

She swallowed and set her lips in a tight line, demanding order from a heart that could barely beat. In another moment she was in control. It might last long enough for her to get back to Mabli's house and her little refuge with all the dragons. She glanced at the clock through blurred vision.

“I should have stayed in Salt Lake,” she whispered to Annie, and maybe to Owen too, because she looked at him next.

“No, miss. We need you here, think on,” he said with the ghost of a smile. He leaned closer, his words for her alone, and Annie backed away, understanding. “I know you better now. I could smite myself for bullying you.”

His face was close enough to hers to sniff the odor of coal and sulfur, but she was getting used to that. “You didn't mean to,” she whispered.

“I never will again, miss.”

She smiled this time, not much of a smile. “Thank you. That's all I need to know.”

He stood up, apparently satisfied. Annie touched her shoulder. “Do you want us to say anything to Miss Clayson? Strength in numbers.”

Della shook her head. “It's my fight. She didn't say anything today, so she might be regretting what happened. I will teach the way I know best. If at any time
you
are not satisfied, tell me.” She managed a shaky laugh. “Just one at a time, though.”

That seemed to satisfy the parents. They looked at each other. Some nodded good night to her and left the library. Others made themselves comfortable at the newspaper table. Annie plucked another yellow flower and tucked it in Della's hair. She whispered in Della's ear. “Myfanwy is desperate for curly black hair. I don't know what to do!” She kissed Della's cheek and left with Levi.

Soon it was just Bishop Parmley standing there with Owen. He came closer. “I'm quite willing to rescind that call, Sister Anders.”

“No, sir. I promised I would think about it, and I will.”

“I can also say something to Miss Clayson. She has to listen to me.”

“It's my battle.”

“No, actually, it's the battle of every immigrant. Just say the word.” The bishop touched his finger to his forehead in salute and left.

“Going hiking on Saturday still?” Owen asked.

She nodded. “I don't need any company.”

“You're so certain, miss?”

I'm not really
, she thought.
What I am is confused, and I don't need an audience for that
.

“Aye, mister.”

She wished his eyes weren't so kind, but they were, pools of brown with real depth.

“That's ‘aye, dirty bird,’ ” he reminded her.

“Don't tempt me.
Nos da
, dirty bird.”

Della watched him leave. “You're short for a dragon,” she murmured too low for him to hear. She turned her attention to the sheet of paper in front of her, where she had written,
Dear Uncle Jesse and Aunt Amanda
. She picked up her fountain pen, pleased to see that she was not trembling now.
Let me tell you about my interesting students,
she wrote.

ella heard thunder Friday night after the Frenchman and the German walked her home, but the storm blew over. Saturday came cool and fair, perfect hiking weather. Breakfast was soon on the boardinghouse tables—platters of sausage smelling strongly of sage, hash made from yesterday's beef and potatoes, and canned peaches.