One Step Enough

by Carla Kelly

  “I haven’t laughed so hard in ages,” the Easterner said. “We’ll pay you a sizeable consulting fee. Think about it, at least. Should we offer him sixty dollars, Mr. Knight?”

  Three months’ rent. “I’ll think about it,” Owen said. Maybe that would hold the man off. Maybe the investor would take a train back East. Maybe full-time employment would suddenly materialize. Maybe he should reconsider Mr. Auerbach’s offer.

  “When can we expect an answer?” the man asked. “Tomorrow? Next week?”

  Owen looked away, knowing how men with money operated. They wanted answers and they wanted to make more money, hang everyone’s feelings, even a tender wife who sometimes woke him up at night saying, “Papa,” in a little girl’s voice. Or a coal miner still prying his best friend’s fingers off a pickaxe every other night or so.

  “I’ll answer when I can,” he said with enough force to silence the investor. “You don’t know what we’ve been through recently. When I can, gentlemen. Excuse me, please. It’s time to walk my girls home.”

  “Girls, is it?” the other Easterner said, after a sly look at Uncle Jesse. “’Pon my word, I thought polygamy was outlawed.”

  “My daughter and my wife,” Owen said, irritated with himself for his conversational blunderings.

  A moment in the kitchen with Mrs. McNulty and Angharad took the edge off his embarrassment, especially when his daughter presented him with another slice of cake with thick frosting and little silver doodads in curlicues.

  “I told Mrs. McNulty that you like white cake better than any other kind,” Angharad said.

  The Knights’ cook handed him the rest of the cake. “It’ll just go bad here,” she said, and she frowned when he started to object. “Don’t tell me that you know more about cooking than I do, Owen Davis! If I say it’ll go bad, it’ll go bad.”

  “I try not to argue with the ladies,” Owen said, backing out of the kitchen, cake in hand. He tapped on the parlor door, and Della looked up, relief in her eyes. She said her goodnights and joined him and Angharad.

  “You have a friend in the kitchen,” Della said as she eyed the cake.

  “Best place to find a friend.”

  The night was cool. When Angharad skipped ahead, Della leaned closer. “You couldn’t have rescued me at a more opportune time.”

  “It was getting a little close in the dining room too,” he admitted, more willing to listen to her than to explain his discomfort, mostly of his own making.

  “You probably won’t believe this, but those two ladies, the wives of those rich men from back East, just about assured me that you would be working underground for Uncle Jesse in the Tintic District,” she said as they strolled along.

  Maybe he waited too long to reply. She stopped. “Of course you told them no such thing. Didn’t you?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Owen Davis, what are you doing?”

  They were passing one of Provo’s little pocket parks, a spot with trees and park benches. City workers must have uprooted the summer flowers that were fading. Only yesterday Angharad had gathered up some of the bewildered things and put them in a vase for the kitchen table.

  Her expression militant, Della sat down on one of the park benches and patted the spot beside her. He knew better than to do anything except sit.

  “It was a bit of an ambush,” he said. “Uncle Jesse and the mining engineer, Steve something …”

  “Henry,” Della said. “His wife, Maryetta, was in the parlor. They’ve been married about six months.”

  That’s right. Mrs. Henry hadn’t much to say during dinner, but he did notice that she had no waist. “She’s in the family way, isn’t she?” he asked, hoping to buy time.

  “Five more months. You’re observant.”

  “He was so solicitous of her. Easy to spot.”

  “They’re living in Knightville,” Della told him. “Uncle Jesse wanted him here specifically to talk to you. Did you?”

  Bless the ladies, Owen thought with appreciation, even as he squirmed. “Stick a handful of ladies in a room, and all truth is revealed,” he teased. “Any idea what her china pattern was when they married?”

  She laughed and flicked the side of his head with thumb and forefinger. “You think you’re so funny, but she said something about cave-ins, and she looked mighty worried.”

  “No, he didn’t talk to me directly, but Uncle Jesse mentioned two cave-ins.” He took a deep breath. “He wants me to go with him to Silver City and give him my opinion.”

  He knew she wasn’t slow. “And you plan to do this by killing a chicken and checking its entrails?” she asked. “Probably at high noon on Main Street there?”

  “He wants me in the mine, Della. You know he does.”

  “You told him no,” she said, but he heard the defeat in her voice.

  He looked her in the eyes and, to his dismay, watched hope slide away. Better face it. “I told him I would think about it. I made no promises.”

  “Owen, no.”

  She started to move away from him. He tightened his grip on her shoulder and held her there. “Don’t pull away from me, Della, not ever.”

  “Then don’t go in a mine again.”

  “He’s offering me sixty dollars to go below and look around. Three month’s rent, Della, and I’m about done with that teardown of the Bullock Hotel. No other prospects at the moment. When’s the librarian returning from Massachusetts?”

  “In three weeks. Owen, no,” she repeated in a quiet voice. “We’ll manage somehow. You know we will.”

  “Very well,” he said. “No.”

  Chapter 20

  L

  Two weeks later, he was on his way to Silver City in the Tintic Mining District, sitting beside a bleak Jesse Knight in his private railcar. Della had seen them off with tears in her eyes. To his relief, only half of those were for him. More were probably for Steve Henry, new husband and prospective father, buried under a ton of rocks in the Banner mine.

  The Banner had been on his mind for two weeks, even before the accident that plunged Maryetta Henry from wife to widow. After work each day, he went to his backyard workshop, first to think and then to draw a timber frame. He knew hard rock mines typically used square sets or wooden boxes—for want of a better term—to shore up all sides of a passageway. This frame would be something in addition to a square set.

  Maybe a hard rock mine like the finicky Banner needed more attention to make it safer. His idea would take more wood, but what was a life worth?

  He didn’t say anything to Della, who had worries of her own. “No one is hiring right now,” she told him one Saturday, after a visit to Provo Cooperative Mercantile Institution. She had plopped down next to him on the front porch.

  “Put your feet up on the railing,” he said, smiling at her. “It always makes me feel better.”

  “Knucklehead. And entertain the neighbors?”

  “You do have lovely legs, Mrs. Davis.”

  “They’re for you alone, you rascal.”

  He had married a thoughtful woman. After a day or two, it became obvious to Owen that Della knew he had something more important than her legs on his mind. Being that thoughtful woman, she knew precisely when to ask him what was on his mind one night.

  “You can’t fool me, you know. You’re thinking of Uncle Jesse’s offer.”

  “Aye, miss,” he said to tease her, but he found he couldn’t joke about the matter. “I think of my friends, gone now. I know there is nothing I could have done to save them.”

  He both felt and heard her sigh.

  “But I have an idea that might save other miners.”

  She was an honest wife. “I went in your workshop yesterday. What are you making?”

  “It’s a … I don’t know any architects’ language. Call it a tiny model. I don’t know what hard rock mines look like inside, but I know mines, and I’ve been listening to Uncle Jesse.”

  “My father thought he knew mines.”

  In
a moment, his chest was damp with her tears. He knew she was thinking of her father’s death in the Molly Bee. Two weeks ago in Tintic, Winter Quarters Canyon back in May, and then Colorado twelve years ago: mining deaths never grew old in the heart and soul, never mind the brain. Still, she had asked. Better bumble ahead.

  “I’m wondering if a more—again, I don’t know the words—more solid structure beyond a mere square set might make it safer, or at least allow better refuge until the miners can be dug out.”

  “How could you get such a structure into a mine? It would be too large.”

  “True. I would build it in units aboveground, then dismantle or partially collapse it some way to go into the mine.”

  She rose up on one elbow and put her face close to his. “No mines for you, Owen. You promised.”

  “It could save lives.”

  And there the matter ended for the night. All the next day as he tore down an old hotel, wondering if his life was destined to take odd jobs from now on, he had a better idea. A quick stop at the hardware store after work and the matter of a penny kept his plan alive.

  Della and Angharad were still at Maeser School, so he cleaned the dust and plaster from his hair and body and hurried to his workshop. He had made his model of balsa wood because it was plentiful and cheap. In a matter of minutes, he had cut out a miniature timber, and then another. Working carefully, he attached the tiny hinges to the wood.

  “There you have it,” he said in quiet triumph. He folded in the balsa logs, hinged now. If he could somehow slant the unit’s roof and reinforce it, possibly the rock and rubble would slide down the side, instead of crash through the square set. He could write a letter to Steve Henry, Uncle Jesse’s mining engineer, and ask about rocks in motion and at rest. Three or four of these units in a row, then regular housing, then more units might give miners a place of refuge when the mountain started to move.

  He wouldn’t know, though, unless he went underground, and that was his frustration, one Della didn’t understand. Why are you doing this? he asked himself, even though he knew the answer. I can save other lives.

  Another week passed, and August turned the corner toward September. Owen knew his wife was a careful spender, her eyes trained to a bargain. PCMI had a special on two gingham dresses. Those, plus her clothes from last year, would be enough for Angharad to start school. His daughter had proudly showed him the four silver dollars she had earned dusting and moving books around that summer, plus one dollar more for what Mr. Holyoke termed her bonus.

  “It feels good to earn money, doesn’t it, Da?” she said, as she watched him fiddling with more balsa units in his workshop.

  “It does, Miss Davis. What sort of plans do you have for your salary?”

  He knew she had been considering the matter when, with no hesitation, she announced, “Once I pay the bishop fifty cents for tithing, I will buy a pair of shoes and maybe stockings and save the rest.” She leaned against Owen. “Mam tells me that Brother Esplin at PCMI said he has shoes just my size.”

  He made himself pay attention to Angharad, who seemed to have more on her mind than shoes. He knew this daughter of his.

  “Da, my new teacher is going to be Miss Wilkins. Mr. Holyoke told me. He asked her if she needed some bulletin board help. I am to help her tomorrow instead of Mam.” She grabbed his arm. “Da, she especially needs someone who can color in the lines and cut evenly. I can!”

  “I’ll wager you will be her best pupil, same as you were Mam’s best,” he said as he put away his tools. “Let’s see if Mam needs some help with dinner.”

  Hand in hand they went in the back door in time to see Della marking an X on the kitchen calendar. Her back to them, she sat down at the table and stared at Miss August carrying a fishing pole.

  His hand went to her shoulder. She sighed and leaned her cheek against his hand. “I’m getting impatient,” she whispered, her eyes on Angharad, heading to her room. “Four months. Shouldn’t I be a little bit in the family way by now?”

  Maybe she could take some joshing. “My experience suggests that no one is a ‘little bit in the family way.’ It’s an all or nothing proposition.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Aye, miss.” His hand went to her neck, so soft. “Patience is a virtue, or so I have been told.”

  “It’s highly overrated.” She kissed his hand on her shoulder and then sniffed. “You smell of plaster. I liked the cedar better.”

  “So did I. What’s for supper?”

  “Beef stew and sliced peaches. No oatcakes yet.”

  He knew she was teasing him in turn, but there was worry in her eyes. What if neither of them could find jobs? Perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t with child right now. Still, he watched her droop as another twenty-eight days rolled around, and it pained his heart.

  If Della was down, Angharad made up for her silence during supper, almost bouncing in her chair, eager to help Miss Wilkins. Owen was happy to let her run on and then dart outside for Kick the Can with the other children.

  “So much energy,” he remarked as he helped Della clear the table. He picked up a dish towel. “Cramps? I can do kitchen duty.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Nothing a hot water bottle can’t cure, when we go to bed. I’ll wash. You dry.”

  And they would have, except for a pounding on their front door.

  “What in the world?” Owen asked as he threw down the dish towel. “Stay here.” He went into the parlor, stunned to see Uncle Jesse staring through the screen door, his face bleak and reminding Owen of every bad moment in May at the Numbers Four and One.

  “What has happened?” he asked, opening the door. “Can I get you …”

  He knew Jesse Knight as a cool man, a calm one, someone used to high stakes and well-earned rewards that he used to benefit others. This was a different Brother Knight, one in the grip of sorrow.

  Uncle Jesse accepted the glass of water Della gave him. She sat on his other side, her hand on his sleeve, but he was looking at Owen. “Steve Henry died in a cave-in today in the Banner,” he said, and then he put his hand over his eyes. “Owen, I need your help. This can’t go on.”

  Della bowed her head. Owen knew what was going through her mind, as sure as if she had stood on the table and shouted it. A young widow, and her expected baby fatherless because of rocks containing silver, gold, and lead. What did that wealth even matter?

  Uncle Jesse was speaking to Della now, pleading with her. “Della, I need Owen to walk that mine with me, measure it, evaluate it, and help me decide what to do.”

  There was a long, long pause. She sat with her head still bowed, looking at neither of them. “Then do it for Mrs. Henry, poor woman,” she said finally. “Don’t do it because you need more money.”

  When she raised her head, Owen knew what he would see. He knew Della’s intense gaze startled Uncle Jesse. The man sat back slightly, as if wanting to distance himself from the light that burned in her eyes.

  “Take Owen, but promise me he will not be underground long. Promise me.”

  “I cannot make you a promise like that, Della,” Uncle Jesse said, his voice equally firm. “Can you compromise?”

  “Don’t ask. I know Owen has been making little models of … of timber units for a mine.” She looked at Owen. “You can’t bring them back.”

  She was right. He could not raise from the grave Richard or David Evans, any of the Farish brothers, the Gatherums, Hunters, and Strangs, or the Davises and Joneses. Barney Dougall, Bishop Parmley’s mining engineer, was gone too, and any number of skilled men in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Frederick Anders, whose Colorado death years ago left a child at the mercy of relatives in Salt Lake City.

  “Can I save others? May I try? I won’t know until I look,” Owen said.

  He couldn’t bear her expression. Even worse than Della’s fierce gaze was the sight of a woman without hope. Worst of all, she was his wife: bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh.

  �
��Do it,” she said, rising from the table. “You won’t rest until you try.” She started for the door and then turned back suddenly and slapped the table with her fist, hard enough to make the saltshaker topple.

  “I love you both,” she said, her words coming out strangled, as though they needed oxygen. “But ask any lady what compromise means; ask Mrs. Henry, in fact, I dare you. She will tell you it means that women lose.”

  Chapter 21

  L

  I’m not used to sprawl like this,” Owen told Uncle Jesse the next morning as they stood on the depot platform at Eureka, largest town the Tintic Mining District. “Canyons are certainly more constricting. I’m also not used to seeing headframes, at least not recently.”

  “Jokers call them gallows,” Uncle Jesse said. “Some of my mines have levels and raises, such as you’re accustomed to from Winter Quarters. Those are called drift mines here. Other have the windlass and hoist.”

  “I’m familiar with hoists from collieries in Wales,” Owen said. “Sure enough there is always a fool every year who sticks his head out on the ride and loses it.”

  “But only once,” Jesse joked, and they laughed, gallows humor from miners.

  Owen stared a long time at the town. The street nearest the depot had the customary cafes, and sure enough, one was a Chinese restaurant with pretensions, titled The Grand Dynasty. Closer to the area where a few forlorn cattle waited in the slaughtering pen, he noticed a row of doors and windows and women wearing less than a man would suspect, considering that the air was still cool.

  So that was Eureka, with another row of saloons, with names like The Golden Nugget, Lil’s, and oddly enough, Buyer Beware. He saw pawnshops for the less fortunate, and more doors and windows with wary-looking women a bit past their prime.

  “This is why I started Knightville,” Uncle Jesse said, correctly interpreting the shake of Owen’s head. “None of this.”

  “You get miners to stay there?” he asked, half joking. A redhead in a barely there camisole and petticoat was giving him the eye.

  “You know I do,” Jesse said. “Many of you British Isles miners followed the siren call of the gospel, thank the Almighty. There is a fair smattering of Methodists in Knightville too. They sing almost as well as you do.”