by D. J. Butler
“I’m looking for any information you can give me on two names. They might be old angel names, I think.”
“Angels?” Mahonri pressed.
“Or something like that.”
Mahonri hesitated. “I don’t expect I should hope you need this information to teach Sunday School.”
“I don’t want to tell you why I want the information,” Hiram said. “And you don’t really want to know.”
“I don’t want to know,” Mahonri agreed. “But I do want to know that you and Michael are safe.”
“We’re safe,” Hiram said, probably too quickly. “Except I’m not so sure I’m safe from Michael. He’s as aggressive and sarcastic as ever, and no closer to finding faith. And now he’s taken to cussing.”
“Maybe he’ll find God through cussing,” Mahonri said. “He wouldn’t be the first, and I believe that’s the traditional route for Catholics. What are the names?”
Hiram gave him the names Mahoun and Samael, spelling them both out. He then told Mahonri that the easiest way to contact him back was to send a telegram to Buford’s Boarding House.
“I’ll get back to you,” Mahonri said, and hung up.
Hiram contacted the operator again.
“Denver two, twelve oh seven,” he said when the operator came on the line, and then he waited.
“I heard that!” Mrs. Buford called from the other room. “Another five cents, Mr. Woolley, if not ten!”
Hiram called back, “Yes, ma’am.”
A few seconds later, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Law office of James Nichols, esquire.”
“I need to speak to James Nichols.”
“Is it about an existing matter?”
Existing matter? “I’m not a client.”
“If you could just give me a few details as what the nature of the matter is, I’ll know how to direct your call.”
Hiram felt that privacy was being invaded, his or maybe Mary McGill’s. “Please direct the call to James Nichols.”
“Please tell me the nature of the matter, sir.” The woman’s voice had become frosty.
The nature of the matter? What was the nature of the matter? Hiram was exhausted. A mine was closed, two brothers were fighting over which direction to take the mine, and stirring up ethnic tensions in the process. A union organizer was being held for a bogus crime, a pride-ridden railroad magnate wanted to use Hiram as his messenger boy, and a beloved shopkeeper appeared to be summoning or planning on summoning demons, for a purpose Hiram couldn’t imagine.
What was the nature of the matter?
“Sir?” the woman’s voice shook him back to the present.
Hiram cleared his throat. “I need to talk to Five-Cent Jimmy. It isn’t for me, it’s for Mary McGill. And Gil said Five-Cent Jimmy would never let her down.”
“I see,” the woman said. “You should have said that in the first place.”
“I was trying,” Hiram offered weakly, but the click on the other end of the line told him he’d already been transferred.
“Jimmy,” came a man’s voice.
“Gil told me that Five-Cent—”
“Yeah, I heard that. What’s happened to Gil?”
Hiram told the story as he understood it.
“Sorry, did you say that she’s being held by the city police? City of Helper, Utah?”
“Yes.”
“And was she arrested in the city? Of Helper, Utah? Jeebus, what kind of name is that?”
“It comes from the railroad locomotives,” Hiram said.
“What?”
“No,” Hiram said. “She was arrested in one of the mining camps. They’re outside the city.”
“Okay,” the union lawyer said. “So this is a pretty basic jurisdiction problem. Cops behaving badly, think they can get away with it because they’re in a small town. They won’t know what hit ’em.”
“That sounds good,” Hiram said.
“Tell Gil to sit tight, I’ll be there late tonight with the writ. First thing tomorrow, she’ll be out, I guarantee it. And if they move her before that, give me a call again, will you?”
Hiram nodded, and then realized that Five-Cent Jimmy wouldn’t hear the nod. “I will.”
Jimmy hung up.
Mrs. Buford marched up with bacon grease flecks dotting the front of her robe. “That was two phone calls.”
Hiram dug into his pocket, and produced a second coin for Mrs. Buford. He left her room and the woman slammed the door. When her turned to climb the hotel stairs, he was facing Michael.
Who was in his dirty socks.
Hiram froze. The book full of demons’ signs and names felt very heavy in his coat pocket, as did the two metal lamens he’d taken from Gus’s basement workroom.
“I’m disappointed,” his son said.
“What do you mean?”
“When I discovered you’d accidentally walked off wearing my boots, I hoped you had at least gone to get pastries or something. You can understand my disappointment at learning that all you’re doing is making a telephone call.”
“Mary McGill’s attorney,” Hiram said. Had Michael heard his conversation with Mahonri, too?
“Yeah, I heard the whole thing. The door was open. You know, many men get awkward when talking to a girl. Leave it to you to get all mumble-mouthed when talking to a girl’s lawyer.”
“I was telling you yesterday, I’m not a ladies’ man.”
“On the other hand,” Michael said, “for once, you can’t ask if I’m wearing my boots. Because you’re wearing them.”
“Sorry.” Hiram retreated to a couch in the parlor, relieved that Michael hadn’t mentioned Mahonri, Mahoun, or Samael. He sat and began unlacing the Harvesters.
“You have to remember that my feet are bigger than yours. That means that I can’t wear your shoes.”
Hiram stood and handed Michael his boots. “Now I can tell you to put your boots on. There are people I want to see in town. Eliza Kimball, for one.”
“After we get some pastries?” Michael took a seat and put on the boots. The moment the right boot was laced up, Hiram felt easier.
“Pastries would be good,” Hiram said. “Bacon would be better.” He turned to the exit.
“Pap,” Michael said.
“Yes?”
“Your boots are still up in the room.”
Hiram grinned, blushing. Good, he’d retrieve his boots as well as the Oremus lamen he’d hid behind the mirror in their room. He wanted all the protection he could get.
Chapter Sixteen
After breakfast, Hiram and Michael knocked on Eliza Kimball’s door in the Hotel Utah.
She opened it and stared. Hiram, caught off guard by the long, withering look, could only stand and endure it. Eliza had intense brown eyes sunk deep into a face that was smooth and youthful, other than faint crow’s feet and a maze of wrinkles around her small mouth. She once might have had Ammon’s coal-black hair, but now it was flecked with gray, tied back in a bun. Her dress and her small hat were both black.
Hiram had known actual nuns in France, but, on the score of severity, Eliza Kimball outnunned them all.
“So you’re the Mormons who’ve been causing trouble.”
Michael let out a noisy breath. “One Mormon, and one believer in science. Raised by Mormons, though.”
Eliza stood unmoving in the open doorway. “I saw you two at the mine, and I confess that I was curious. Now that I’ve had a better look…good day.”
Hiram found his mind blank.
“We have a letter you should see, Mrs. Kimball,” Michael said.
God bless Michael.
“Miss Kimball.” The woman corrected like a nun, too. She shifted her stare to Michael. “You’re a bold young man, telling me what I ought to do. I can’t have two men in my room alone. My standing in this part of the world is already so very uncertain.”
“We could talk in the lobby,” Michael suggested. “But I’m not sure you would want anyone listening in on
our conversation, seeing as it involves financial matters.”
Eliza tried to smile, but her mouth got stuck halfway. “Calling my bluff.”
She stepped aside and waved them in.
“Thank you, Miss Kimball,” Hiram said.
The sheets on the bed were tucked in tight and the bedspread arranged perfectly. The room had just enough space for the desk and a wash basin squeezed against one wall. The wallpaper matched the lobby’s, gold swirls on brown. Standing against one wall was a large rectangular object wrapped in brown paper.
Like maybe a framed painting.
The place had a vaguely feminine odor, rose water perhaps, but mostly it smelled of the central heater’s dust.
“You can sit on the bed,” Eliza said to Michael. “And your father can take the chair.”
“I’d feel better standing.” Hiram removed his hat and ran his fingers across his scalp. “In the presence of a lady.”
“I’d feel better if you did what I told you.”
Hiram sat. He ached all over.
Michael sat, and Eliza closed the door.
“The letter,” Eliza reminded them.
Hiram blushed, then gave it to her.
“Letter opener. There’s one on the desk.” Hiram swiveled and presented her the brass blade. She flicked open the envelope, saw the letter’s heading, and threw it back at Hiram. The envelope struck his chest and fell to the floor.
“Tell Naaman Rettig the answer is no, from me, from my brothers, and from my deceased father. And even if my father’s shade were in the D and RGW’s pocket, we would not agree to throw our land to those vultures.” She brandished the letter opener with white knuckles.
Hiram bent to pick up the envelope.
“You didn’t even read it,” Michael said. “What if Rettig offered you a million dollars?”
Eliza pointed the letter opener at him. “My father made that very mistake, choosing money over happiness. The mine, always the mine. Do you know what we did before he decided to sell his soul for coal?”
“Ranching,” Hiram muttered.
Eliza snorted.
“You know, there are still cattle up in that canyon today,” Michael said.
Eliza glared at Hiram like a hawk at a rabbit. “My earliest memories are of feeding chickens and milking goats with my mother, and riding horses into town, when Helper was nothing but a post office and a general store. Now the place reeks of debauchery, and the cliff above cringes.”
“That’s not a cringe.” Michael smiled. “It’s a bit of Cretaceous sandstone leftover from an eroding edge of the Wasatch Plateau.”
Eliza’s piercing gaze flashed with anger. “Young man, you need to learn your place.”
Michael’s smile turned wicked. “Would that place be on the reservation?”
Eliza hissed. “You should show your elders more respect.”
“Please forgive us our rough manners.” Hiram stepped in. “We’re just farmers, and a little uncivilized in our ways. Miss Kimball, the men at the mine need work. I make it, what, three hundred men? Maybe as many as a thousand people? The mine has to be reopened. Surely, you can see—”
Eliza cut him off. “See what? See that the mine has caused my family nothing but trouble? It broke up our family, killed Samuel’s mother, and drove everyone away. The unrest of 1903 ruined my father’s soul. He had been a gentle person who loved feeding horses from his hand, and he became a tyrant who would hold a man’s children over his head to deny him three cents a ton. And as much as a struggle as it is to discipline the children of Connecticut, they never force each other into starvation.”
“Why return?” Hiram asked. “To rebuild the family ranch?”
“To set things right.” Eliza stood tall above them, her spine straight as a flagpole. “To give my brothers a third option. Samuel wants to dig a new shaft because he’s scared of bogeymen, and Ammon is maniacal that the east seam will be the richest yet.”
“You want cows,” Michael offered.
Eliza nodded. “And peace.”
“I’m not sure Samuel’s wrong about the bogeymen,” Hiram murmured. He instantly regretted it.
“You can’t be serious,” Michael said. “Either of you.”
Hiram winced.
He found himself fingering his Saturn ring and looking at the wrapped rectangle. It must be a painting. He remembered the pinks and oranges of Samuel’s desert landscape hanging over Ammon’s mantel, the same images that had returned to Hiram in dream.
“I am serious,” Eliza said. “And you and your father have nothing to say about any of this. Your part in this is not clear at all.”
“We came to bring the miners food,” Hiram said. “Only a couple of days’ worth, it turns out.”
“I heard that.” Eliza’s dark eyes glittered. “And yet now you seem to be a pawn of the railroad.”
“The beets we brought won’t do a thing if we don’t address the real issue,” Michael said.
“And ham,” Hiram murmured. “And beans and flour.”
“We have to get the mine back open,” Michael continued. “You might need a dozen hands to ranch, but there are hundreds of men in the camp who need work. To eat.”
“That is none of my concern.” Eliza lightly stuck the point of the letter opener into her palm.
Hiram cleared his throat. “Is that one of Samuel’s paintings?”
“It is.”
Hiram couldn’t stomach the cruelty of her gaze, and he let his eyes drop. “Can I see it?”
“Art aficionado?”
Hiram shrugged.
“What’s your name, child?” she asked Michael.
“Michael. But I’m seventeen years old, so if I can’t call you ‘Mrs.’ I think you can’t call me ‘child.’”
Eliza nodded. “That’s fair.”
“And my father is Hiram. He’s single. And good with farm animals.”
Hiram choked.
“Michael, will you help me with the painting?” the woman asked.
Michael stood and held the frame upright. Eliza sliced open the top and peeled away the paper to reveal a painting that was dementedly framed. Warped wood painted the color of rust met at irregular angles to form a rectangle that was approximate at best, and spangled with black feathers. The nails themselves were corroded and bent, and a line of staples ran up along one side of the frame like a suture, holding nothing together.
Eliza stood to the side and gestured at the painting. “My brother is obsessed with Apostate Canyon, and the rocks and caves there. He’s working as a WPA artist, now, because of his obvious talent.”
It was a companion piece to the painting in the Kimball parlor, with the same array of colors. The shape of the cliffs portrayed in pink and orange bothered Hiram, causing something beneath the surface of his mind to itch.
This painting too had pictographs on the canyon walls, but there were no flies. Hiram saw figures of men, surrounded by beasts with antlers. But they didn’t look quite right.
Some of the antlered beasts had only two legs.
A chill trickled down his back and the hairs on his arms stood up. Maybe Samuel had harried them in their camp. His madness could be the result of some dark league, some magic that had shattered his mind. But why would he bother Hiram? Were Samuel and Samael in league? Was it stupid to find a connection in the similarity of those names?
And then Hiram recognized the lines of the ridge. He pulled the hand-copied sign of Mahoun or Samael from his pocket and held it up in front of the painting. He compared the rough sketch to the line of the cliff in the painting…
They matched perfectly.
“Are you an artist, Mr. Woolley? Or a critic? Have you been rendered dumb by my brother’s gift?”
“I visited Ammon in the red house,” Hiram said. “There’s a painting like this above the mantel. Your brother paints good, I’ll give him that.”
“Paints well,” Eliza corrected, just as Hiram was realizing his mistake.
�
��Come on, Pap,” Michael put in. “You have to get your grammar right. We’re in the presence of higher education here.”
Eliza scorched him with her eyes. “If you speak well, young man, society might overlook the color of your skin.”
Hiram winced.
Michael chuckled slowly, a sound like the purr of a mountain lion. “I’m sure that if I spoke with your impeccable style, the bigots of the Earth would overlook my melanin.”
“Melanin?” Eliza frowned.
Michael jerked two thumbs at his own chest. “Melanin! This boy reads Popular Science. Yes, prejudice would be a thing of the past if only we recipients of ethnic disdain would make use of our adverbs more correctly. Or is that correcter? Correctlier?”
Eliza, stared for several seconds, her mouth open. Then she cleared her throat and let the painting relax against the wall. “Our business is at an end. You will return to Rettig and let him know our ranch is not for sale. And I’ll wish you both a good day.”
Hiram and Michael stood. Eliza stepped into the corner, giving them an exit.
Michael nodded. “We don’t work for Rettig, Miss Kimball. All we really want is to get the mine back open. Thank you.” He left the room.
Hiram hesitated in the doorway. “Miss Kimball, I apologize. Sometimes his passion exceeds his self-restraint. I’ve tried to…give him guidance.”
“You should try harder,” Eliza said coldly.
“I will.” Hiram swallowed. “But I was wondering about a stone on the mantel in your family home. A plain brown stone with a line of quartz through the middle. Not very pretty, but it was right there, in the parlor, as if it was important. What can you tell me about that?”
“A stone?” Eliza’s voice was cool.
“Yes, ma’am, a stone. Maybe it was your father’s, or maybe it’s Ammon’s, but I thought it was striking that such a plain rock should sit in such a place of honor.”
Hiram felt keen discomfort, locking eyes with the woman.
Eliza blinked first. And nodded. “Samuel talked about a stone. Father mailed it to him, apparently just before he disappeared. Maybe it was something Father found in the mine, a memento for his son. How that stone would come to be on Ammon’s mantel, I can’t imagine. As far as I know, in any case, it’s just a rock.”