Ever Faithful

by Karen Barnett

  Her father shook his head. “I know. But jobs are scarce everywhere. Hardly anyone has money to waste on visiting fancy hotels. Those who are still making the trip are keeping a tight grip on their pocketbooks. Why rent a room when you can pitch a tent?”

  Elsie bit her lower lip, even as the selfish thoughts bubbled up like the park’s gurgling mud pots. “Who will they keep on?”

  “A few pillow punchers and porters here at Mammoth, probably. We still need some folks to take care of the campground and the day lodge. But they probably won’t see very many work hours.”

  “And the rest of the park?”

  “The Lake Hotel and Roosevelt Lodge will stay closed, but the Old Faithful Inn and the Canyon Hotel will open on schedule. They’ll shuffle some of the best savages to those two.”

  Elsie lifted her eyes and gazed out over the lines of cabins to the stately hotel in the distance. Closed? Would Mary and Rose both have jobs? Hal, Bernie, and all the others? The past few summers had been filled with their adventures and laughter. A lump settled in her throat. “I guess school will have to wait.” She hated to be selfish when so many people were living hand to mouth, but she’d postponed her dream several times already. Most students started college at eighteen, not twenty-two.

  Father took the paper back and folded it. “Not necessarily. I know you don’t like me interfering, but I’ve spoken to a few people. There might be one other option for you, if you’re willing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Put in for a transfer to the Canyon Hotel.”

  The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, with its pine forests and roaring waterfalls, was several hours away from Mammoth. “But Mama needs me here.”

  “Hear me out.” His blue eyes locked on her. “I can take care of your mother. And if you do this, you might actually have the money you need by the end of this summer.”

  The world began to spin. “How?”

  “They’re building a second CCC camp in Canyon. We’ll have four in all. President Roosevelt wants the recruits to have every opportunity to better themselves—maybe even earn a high school diploma.”

  “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”

  He laid a hand on her arm. “Elsie, those fellas are going to need a teacher.”

  Brooklyn, New York

  “What have you done now?” Nate kept his voice low as he tightened his fingers around his kid brother’s collar and glanced down the rain-darkened Brooklyn alley. A cop stood at the entrance, blocking their path to the street. At fourteen Charlie already had two instances of shoplifting on his record. One more and they might send the youngster off to the reformatory. “How many times have I told you to keep your hands in your own pockets and out of other people’s?”

  “I was hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry.” Nate gave him a quick shake and released him. The truth of the statement stewed in his own gut. If he’d been able to find work, maybe the boy wouldn’t be forced to snitch a bite here and there to fill his empty gullet.

  Their father wasn’t much help. Staggering home once or twice a month, the former cop rarely met their eyes—just plunked a few coins on the table before disappearing again.

  If only Sherman had lived.

  His life had become a Sears and Roebuck catalog of if onlys. He glared at Charlie and reached for the boy’s pockets. “What did you take?”

  The kid twisted away from Nate’s probing. “None of your business.”

  “You’re making it my business—keeping you out of reform school.” A jolt of pain burst through Nate’s hand, as if he’d been bitten by a rat. He yanked his fingers from his brother’s pocket, light from the lone streetlamp glinting off the shard of glass jammed in his skin. “What’s this?”

  “Had to go out a window.”

  “Looks more like you went through one.” Blood slid down Nate’s knuckle. The officer was moving toward them. “Give it to me. Whatever you took, give it to me.”

  The boy scowled and jammed a small, paper-wrapped package into Nate’s hand.

  Hopefully not worth much. He shoved Charlie back toward the garbage cans. “Get out of sight. If you get taken in again—”

  “Ma’ll kill me.”

  “No, she’ll kill me. You’re my responsibility.” The words burned in his throat. How many times had Sherman said that to him in years past? It had been second nature to the eldest son. Nate had never expected the mantle to fall to him. He wasn’t worthy of it, a fact his father reminded him of every chance he got.

  Charlie crept back, disappearing into the shadows like an alley cat. Nate noted that his brother seemed a little too practiced at making himself scarce.

  An icy wind swept the chilled rain against Nate’s face as he stared at the package, his blood smeared on the brown wrapping. Words spilled across the paper. It didn’t matter how much he squinted; the letters refused to take shape in his mind. Given a few minutes, maybe he could sort out a few of them. He considered dumping the parcel into one of the trash cans behind him, but what would that teach his baby brother? Nate stuffed the bundle into his pocket. The kid could return it tomorrow. Would that be enough of a lesson?

  “Who’s back there?” The policeman advanced, a baton in one hand, light in the other. “What are you doing?”

  The light blinded Nate as he curled his bloody fingers and held them close to his chest. “Bird-watching.” Glib responses slipped from his tongue a little too easily these days.

  The man stepped closer. “Nate? Nate Webber?”

  The familiar voice sent a wash of warmth through him. “Yeah.” He tipped his flat cap to shield his eyes from the glare, trying to make out the face. “Murray?”

  “Never thought I’d run into you here. I’m tailing a cat burglar. A break-in. Seen anyone?”

  A break-in? Nate kept his focus steady, fighting the urge to glance behind him. “Out here?”

  The circle of light trailed over his open jacket, lingering on his chest. “Is that blood?”

  “A scrape.” He pulled the jacket closed. Still needed to fix those buttons. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Murray walked closer, his face appearing out of the darkness. Sherm’s friend had always been a baby face, even though he had a good five or six years on Nate. The low light highlighted his round cheeks. His gaze held Nate in place. “How are things at home? Your…ma?”

  The emotion in the man’s voice cut worse than the glass. “You know how it is.”

  The officer’s gaze dropped. “I…I do.”

  A second policeman thundered into the alley. “Murray, you got ’em?”

  Murray turned his attention to Nate, his eyes pleading. “Tell me you’re not involved with this, Nate. I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t stand giving your mom more bad news.”

  Nate’s skin turned cold, the package weighing his pocket. He took an involuntary step back. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Murray’s partner sidled up to him, billy club drawn. “Empty your pockets.”

  “Why? You need a dime?” A lump grew in his throat. What had Charlie gotten into? “Come on, we’ve all got empty pockets these days.”

  The man gripped Nate’s fraying lapel, shoving him back against the brick building. “Say another word and I’ll drop you, genius.”

  “Hey, take it easy.” Murray laid a hand on his colleague’s arm. “He’s Sherm’s brother. Unlikely he’d be knocking over jewelry stores.”

  The world seemed to tilt under Nate’s feet. “No. You’ve made a—” The sight of Charlie’s wide eyes peering out from between the metal trash cans stole his breath. A jewelry store? His heart sank to his shoes. Charlie was their mother’s last hope—the family’s, really—because no one expected much from Nate. He’d left school at ten. The best he could hope for was menial jobs at the dockyards or sl
aughterhouses, but lately he couldn’t even get that kind of work. At least Charlie can read and write. And he’d do so much more, if Nate had any say in the matter.

  But Charlie would accomplish nothing if he got sent up the river.

  Trying to ignore the wooden club wedged against his chest, Nate thrust his hand into his jacket and drew out the package. Directing his eyes back to the two men standing in front of him, he swallowed. “I think this might be what you’re looking for.”

  * * *

  Police Chief O’Sullivan tapped meaty fingers on his mahogany desk. “Webber, I don’t buy what you’re trying to sell me. I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms. You wouldn’t take a peppermint out of the candy bowl at the department St. Patrick’s Day party without asking your pa first.”

  Because I’d get smacked up the side of the head. Sherman or Charlie could get away with those sorts of antics, but not Nate. Probably his father’s attempt to make something, anything, out of his hopeless middle son.

  O’Sullivan tipped his head down to stare over his wire-edged glasses. “And now I’m supposed to believe you’re doing smash-and-grabs at jewelry stores?”

  Nate tucked his feet under the chair to hide the holes in the soles of his shoes. Shouldn’t he be in lockup? His family’s legacy was the only reason he sat here in comfort. Sherm—saving him again, from beyond the grave. The idea prickled like so many needles. “Yes sir. Times are…tough.”

  “Don’t I know it. And your family got the short end of the nightstick—in more ways than one.” O’Sullivan picked up the blood-stained package. “But if this isn’t the definition of red handed, I don’t know what is.”

  Nate thrust his fingers, wrapped in Murray’s handkerchief, deeper into his lap. At least he’d worked the glass free. He scrambled for a lighthearted answer, only to realize the commissioner hadn’t actually asked his opinion. Silence might be the best option.

  The man dumped the contents of the package across the green desk blotter—two necklaces and a ring.

  Bile surged up Nate’s throat. His younger sibling was on a crash course with disaster and determined to take the family with him.

  “Kirschbaum Jewelry.” O’Sullivan read the label on the paper. “Jewish. Is that why?”

  Mr. Kirschbaum. The sweet old gentleman on the next block? Nate’s jaw dropped. “No! No sir.” At least, he didn’t think so. Charlie wouldn’t be into such foolishness, would he? “Just an impulse. Needed the money.”

  The older man sighed, shoving the gold chain around with the nib of his pen. “I worked with your father for years; you know that.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And your brother, when he first joined the station.”

  As if Sherm had served for eons, rather than four short months. Gunned down in the street his first year as a cop. Nate managed a nod, his throat thick.

  “Tell me what’s really going on, Nate. Was it your old man?” Deep bags drooped below O’Sullivan’s eyes. Perhaps he’d never gotten over drumming his friend from the force. Not that he’d had much choice.

  “No.” His father was a hard man and a drunk, but he wouldn’t break a toothpick if it was against the law.

  “Things that bad at home? What were you planning to do—pawn the stuff? Or are you working for someone else?”

  Working? The mockery of the word nearly made him laugh. He set his jaw. Best to keep his mouth shut. Isn’t that what hardened criminals did?

  The commissioner stood and paced in front of the window. “Do you think I’m stupid, Webber? That I don’t know what’s really going on here?” He turned, drilling Nate with the type of glare that could glue the most nefarious crook to his chair. “I didn’t get where I am by being dumb.”

  “Never thought you were.”

  “Shut it. I’m talking.” The man’s voice barked, all familial camaraderie vanishing from his demeanor.

  Nate turned his attention to the floor. He’d grown up with the bluster; police bravado wouldn’t cower him. It had long since lost its power.

  “You’re here because Charlie’s a coward.” He jabbed a finger toward Nate’s face. “Your family has been splintering since the day Sherm fell. I thought I lost one man that day. Didn’t realize I was burying an entire family. Your old man turned to the bottle. Your mother never leaves the house. That younger brother of yours—”

  “Charlie’s not—”

  “No talking.” O’Sullivan pounded the desk with his closed fist, finally making Nate jump. “Charlie’s a coward. At fourteen he’s feeding his own foolish impulses. I will not let him take the last good man from this family.”

  Exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Charlie’s the only one with a future.

  “That’s why I’m putting you on the first train out of here.” O’Sullivan slammed into his seat and drew out a sheet of paper.

  Nate sat forward, his heart thrumming. “You’re—you’re what?”

  “You’re volunteering for this new Civilian Conservation Corps. It’ll give you a chance to make something of yourself. It’s made to order for a man like you—eighteen to twenty-five, unemployed, no criminal record.”

  With the last bit, Commissioner O’Sullivan retrieved the stained brown paper from the jewelers and crumpled it into a ball. He lobbed it into the corner wastebasket.

  Nate choked. “That’s evidence.”

  “It’s garbage, and we both know it. If you’re so determined to lose your freedom, at least you’re going to do it at the federal government’s expense.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is this Civilian—”

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  A flood of heat rushed through him. “Too busy with War and Peace. No time left for the daily rag.”

  The commissioner shot him a long look over his glasses. “You got nothing but time, Webber. But I’m not letting you do hard time for something stupid like this. The Civilian Conservation Corps is Roosevelt’s answer to unemployment and idleness. He’s hiring men to work on public lands for six-month stints—a year if you do well. You’re applying. Hopefully it will bring some peace to your poor mother.”

  My mother. Charlie. Eva. Little Lucy. “I can’t leave them. They need me.”

  “Maybe this will be the incentive Charlie needs to step up. Be the man of the house.”

  “He’s fourteen.”

  “And how old were you?” His pen scratched on the paper as he began to write. “It’s not about age; it’s about doing what’s right. You won’t teach him that by going to prison. You’ll teach him by being a man.” O’Sullivan huffed. “And if I have to haul the boy in here and scare him a little, I’ll do it. But I won’t abide you taking the fall for him.”

  “I’m the only one who can.”

  O’Sullivan paused his writing. “If you think yourself so expendable, then you should have no problem with this. At the very least, you’ll be earning a paycheck.”

  The statement stilled Nate’s arguments. “How much?”

  “Thirty a month is what they’re saying. Twenty-five of it automatically goes to your family. I’ll have a chat with Abe Kirschbaum. I don’t think he’ll object once the merchandise is returned and the window repaired at no cost to him.”

  Nate sat back in the chair, the air leaking from his lungs. A paycheck. He hadn’t seen one in months. The money was minimal, but…“Where would I be working? Doing what?”

  “Wherever they send you, and whatever they tell you. Like the army. I figure they’ll throw a shovel at you. A little ditch digging never hurt anyone.” O’Sullivan slapped the paper in front of Nate. “Unless you’d rather recant your confession and let me bring Charlie in to face his crimes. Because if you get sent off to the Welfare Penitentiary, who’ll step in the next time he gets itchy fingers?”

  Nate stared at the document on the
desk, the words swimming on the page.

  “I’ve filled out your application. I know you’re a mite”—O’Sullivan paused and clucked his tongue—“slow.”

  Dumb. He might as well say it. Nate closed his fingers around the fountain pen. As dumb as this whole idea. Nate scanned the paper until he found the empty line at the bottom. He drew a long breath and let it out between his lips as he inked his name. He could do that much at least. But signing his life away when he couldn’t even read the terms? Something about that seemed wrong.

  Elsie followed Mary through the small railroad depot in Gardiner, Montana, just outside the park’s northern boundary, tucking her bag of canned goods under her elbow. “You said we were only going to the grocery. Why are we here?”

  Her friend grabbed her hand and tugged her behind a stack of wooden crates. “Don’t you want a peek? The CCC recruits are arriving in a few minutes. Tell me you’re not curious.”

  Curious, yes. But probably not for the same reason Mary was. Her father’s flash of inspiration still sent a quiver through her stomach. She tried to imagine a classroom filled with grown men rather than children—destitute young men from around the country with varying backgrounds and skill levels.

  A hum of conversations grew louder, and Mary peeked around the boxes. “They’re already here!”

  “Good, this will be a short stop, then. I need to get back to record eruption statistics.”

  “You and your geyser watching.” Mary sniffed. “Who cares what time they go off? This is so much more exciting.”

  “I care. You’ve had your fun, Mary. Let’s go.”

  “But you haven’t seen them yet.” She kept her cheek glued to the coarse wooden crate but groped with her free arm until it encountered Elsie’s elbow. “Come, look. They’re in uniform.”

  “Uniform?” She stepped to Mary’s side, trying to peer around her shoulder.

  The old army uniforms hung from the men’s frames as though they were mere boys dressed in their fathers’ clothing. The gaunt cheeks and oversized clothing did little to imbue this crowd with promise, though there were many smiles and laughs being shared as the fellows jostled each other on the platform. They may have been dressed as soldiers, but they sure didn’t act like them.