by Carla Kelly
She could blush and deny and look away, but why? “No, but I also never expected to find myself wanting to hear the story of how you got here,” she said frankly.
“It’s a good one. I also would wager that you have a story too.”
I do, she thought as she shook his hand and promised to see him tomorrow at ten o’clock. I’d rather hear yours, Mr. Weisman.
Chapter 28
L
Finding a place for Angharad after school was simple, thanks to Mrs. Baldwin. After a breathless stop in the carpenter shop where she gave Owen the good news and asked him to find a meaty soup bone—he blinked at that one—Della hurried to catch the three o’clock train that got her to Knightville at half three, as Owen would have said.
“I can’t always guarantee such a quick trip, Mrs. Davis,” the engineer told her.
“Just as long as it eventually gets here,” she said. “I’ll catch the ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“You found employment?”
“Oh, my, yes I did. See you tomorrow.”
She dashed from the platform as the miners on the afternoon shift prepared to board. The men from church tipped their hats to her as she hurried toward the nearby school, where she found Angharad and two other little girls cleaning Mrs. Baldwin’s blackboards and dumping trash.
“I decided to put everyone to work,” Mrs. Baldwin said as Della took the steps two at a time. “Slow down! You’ll have to loosen your corset strings if you rush too fast.”
“I hurried as fast as I could.” She turned to Angharad, who was wiping down the blackboard. “I found a job.”
“Mam! Doing what, pray?”
“I’ll be typing up assay reports for an interesting fellow name of Saul Weisman.” She sat down because Mrs. Baldwin—once a teacher, always in charge—was frowning and pointing to a chair. “Maybe I did run too fast.”
“As you can see, there was no alarm,” Mrs. Baldwin said. “Finish your work, girls, and then you can pick out a book to borrow.” She turned back to Della and leaned closer. “Angharad is such a leader already, and a good student.”
“She is,” Della agreed, her voice low too. “When I took over the class in Winter Quarters last year, the students in grades one through three had been monumentally short-changed by their teacher. I started out with everyone at a grade two level, even the newest students like Angharad, and then challenged them until most were at a grade three by the end of the school year.”
“It shows. Angharad is reading as well as my third graders. Excellent, girls! Go pick out your books and wait outside for Mrs. Davis, will you?”
“I’ll be needing to find someplace where Angharad might go after school until I get home,” Della said. “Do you know of anyone?”
Mrs. Baldwin didn’t hesitate. “Mrs. Tate, who lives three doors to the south of you. Her daughter Minnie is the one with the red hair standing by Angharad. Mrs. Tate’s husband has experienced some ill health and works only part time at the Humbug Mine. If you were to offer her two dollars a week, it would help them.”
“I’ll do it.” She held out her hand to Mrs. Baldwin. “Thank you for not making a face about my wanting to work. My Aunt Caroline …”
She stopped, wondering why Aunt Caroline had even crossed her mind. It felt like a breath of cold air in an otherwise lovely afternoon. “Well, she used to make fun of ladies who had to work.” She couldn’t help her wry expression, or maybe she didn’t try. Mrs. Baldwin seemed like the sort who would understand. “She would probably be appalled at women who want to work, and I do.”
“I don’t make light of working women. I’ll wager you don’t either.” Mrs. Baldwin walked Della to the door. “Besides, your work will help Mrs. Tate. Sometimes the Aunt Carolines of the world don’t think of that, do they?”
No, they don’t, Della thought as she joined the girls on the outside steps. The oldest child peeled off pretty soon to her own house. When redheaded Minnie stopped, Della followed her up the walk for a word with her mother.
The matter was concluded quickly, with Della studiously overlooking the tears in Mrs. Tate’s eyes at the idea of eight extra dollars a month, which told her all she needed to know about hard times here.
“I can drop off eight dollars for the month tomorrow morning, when I take the train to Silver City,” she said. “I always pay ahead.”
“I’d be grateful,” Mrs. Tate said simply and with real dignity. “If you happen to have any ironing that needs doing, I charge a nickel a piece.”
“That would be a great relief for me,” Della replied. “I absolutely hate to iron, and this job means I won’t have time for it. I can drop off four shirts tomorrow. Isn’t it amazing how men can get themselves so wrinkled?”
They laughed together, Della with her fingers crossed behind her back. Owen was neat and did his own ironing. She was going to end that tonight because Mrs. Tate needed whatever nickels came her way. She knew Owen wouldn’t object.
He didn’t. As he brushed her hair after Angharad was asleep, their nightly ritual now, he listened to the whole saga, starting with Mr. Saul Weisman, segueing to Saladin, and then ending with Mrs. Tate.
“She can do my ironing starting tomorrow,” he said. “Take twenty cents out of the kitchen jar.” He kissed the top of her head. “I admit to more curiosity about Saladin.”
She tugged him down on the bed beside her. “Is it a wolf?”
He laughed. “I guess you will find out, think on.”
“You are not reassuring me, Mr. Davis.”
“In that case, how about I cuddle with you?”
“Talk’s cheap.”
“Cuddles aren’t.”
L
In the morning, she dropped off Owen’s shirts and eight dollars and twenty cents with Mrs. Tate. With a meaty soup bone carefully wrapped in brown paper, Della took the train to Silver City after Angharad waved goodbye and good luck from the steps of the Knightville School.
In Silver City, she had to wait a few minutes for the track to clear as a Denver and Rio Grande Western ore car picked up steam and headed toward Salt Lake’s smelters, some eighty miles to the north. All around she heard the noise of money being made, whether from the whine of boards going through the saw in the carpenter shop, the clang of metal on metal in another building, or other ore cars bumping each other like impatient children.
As the caboose passed, she still stood on the boardwalk, thinking of Winter Quarters. She knew Martha Evans was running the Clear Creek boardinghouse now, and Tamris and Winifred Powell were living with Tamris’s sister in Springville. She thought of the men gone and then looked toward the carpenter shop, thinking of a man still hurting and attempting to assuage his grief by working harder for other miners.
And what about you, Della Davis? she asked herself. A wary look at Owen each morning was enough to tell her if she had cried out in her sleep, missing her father as she hadn’t missed him in years. For the umpteenth time since May 1, she wondered if that mine disaster had jogged something loose in her mind. The loss of her father and the death of two other hard rock miners on the Colorado Plateau did not compare to two hundred, did it?
Apparently last night had featured only peaceful sleep. Nothing on Owen’s face indicated she had jerked him from sound sleep with her tears. And here she was, ready to knock on Mr. Weisman’s office door and meet Saladin.
She knocked and entered, looking around quickly and relieved to see only Mr. Weisman, scribbling on a yellow pad.
“Pull up a chair, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Your first challenge is to read this and make sure you can decipher what passes for my handwriting. Out loud, please.”
Amused, she took the strip of paper from him. “ ‘October Twenty, Nineteen Hundred, Dear Mr. Utley, Mammoth Mine.’ ”
She frowned and peered closer wondering if she was about to lose the job she just accepted. He did have dreadful penmanship. Mr. Weisman slid the lamp on his desk closer to her chair. “ ‘Swansea Mine, fourth drift west,
fourth room. Mineral content …’ ”
She read the mineral percentages slowly, glancing at Mr. Weisman for affirmation. “My goodness, there is money to be made here,” she said when she finished, which made Mr. Weisman laugh and throw off about ten years from his appearance. Maybe he wasn’t as old as she thought.
“I don’t even know what this means,” she said, handing back the list.
“You will learn. And even better, you can read it.” He rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a handful of printed sheets. “This will simplify matters. Most analyses can be typed onto these forms. Simple, no?”
She nodded, pleased. She took off her hat and hung it next to her cloth bag containing lunch and a soup bone. She handed the brown parcel to Mr. Weisman. “This is for Saladin, as requested.”
Mr. Weisman took it out and slid his rolling chair back far enough for her to see a black form under the desk where his feet had been.
“Meet Saladin, your body guard and escort, should the two of you agree on that.”
Della started in surprise and looked closer, hoping not to see sharp teeth or hear something growling at her. She saw a benign face gazing back at her. Mr. Weisman’s kneehole desk admitted little light, and Della had no idea how large Saladin was, or even what he was, in the dog world.
“Mr. Weisman, was Saladin under your desk yesterday when I came in?”
“Indeed he was.” He reached down and patted the dog. “You may have wondered why that Help Wanted sign was in my window so long.”
“Owen did mention it had been there ever since he started.”
“And long before.” He handed Della the bone she had brought. “Give him the bone.”
“It’s safe?” she asked, dubious, but sensing that her employment really hinged on Saladin and his likes and dislikes.
“Quite safe. Saladin is somewhat—how shall I put this?—somewhat discerning. If he had declared you persona non grata yesterday, you would have heard him growl and seen him tug on my pant leg. Obviously no such thing happened. Go on. Don’t be afraid.”
Della stooped down and held out the bone. Saladin sniffed at the meat, edged a little closer to her hand, and then delicately took the bone from her. With a sigh that sounded nearly human, Saladin settled down and began to gnaw.
“What breed of dog is he?” she asked.
Mr. Weisman shrugged. “He is my lucky charm, Mrs. Davis. When I abandoned those noisy glass vials in that Prussian forest, snow all around, he bounded out of nowhere.” He blew out his cheeks at the memory. “I thought he was going to eat me, but he stayed by my side all the way to the railroad depot and the train heading to Berlin. Could I leave something so faithful behind?”
“I suppose not, but how did you get Saladin from Europe to here? Aren’t there ship rules?” she asked, curious.
“Would you argue ship’s passage with a hunchback guarded by something this formidable?” Mr. Weisman asked in turn.
“I suppose I would not,” she agreed.
“Did you ever have a pet?”
“Never. My father was a miner in the Molly Bee in Colorado,” she said, kneeling down again for a better look at Saladin. “My mother disappeared when I was born, and Papa could barely keep the two of us fed.”
She sat back on her heels, surprised at the sudden anger in her voice. Saladin looked up and cocked his head. “I mean, you know, times were often hard in the mines.”
“It’s not for the faint,” Mr. Weisman said.
It was time to take her place behind the typewriter and scroll in the printed form. Time to get to work and not wonder why she was talking now about her father, the man she loved and lost so many years ago, with this man she barely knew.
She completed the first form and took it to Mr. Weisman, who had moved slowly and painfully to the next room. She sniffed chemicals and heard the pop of a little fire. Saladin padded along behind her, which might have told her worlds about his intention to protect Mr. Weisman from everyone, even the well-meaning woman who brought him a soup bone.
Mr. Weisman set down the vial, held with tongs, that he had poised over a lump of ore. He read through the form, nodded, and handed it back after signing it.
“That is the business of the day, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Please put it in the Out basket, get the next miserable bit of scribbling from the In basket, and carry on. Glamorous work, yes?”
She laughed and returned to the main room. As she scrolled in another form and prepared to stare at Mr. Weisman’s writing until it became legible, she felt something by her shoe. She looked down and there was Saladin. She patted his head, impressed with the silkiness of his fur. Not sure what to do with dogs, she touched his dangling ears, then gently rubbed the spot on the top of his head where the ears began.
After a minute of this, Saladin snuffled and curled up next to her shoe. “Mr. Weisman?” she called, but softly. “I think I have a friend.”
“Mrs. Davis, you have two friends.”
She smiled at that and returned to her work, content.
Chapter 29
L
Heavy snow came to Tintic in October. The first fire Owen built in the parlor’s stove smelled of dust and something ineffably like the end of summer. Autumn had been leisurely, which meant time to visit a little between the houses and get to know neighbors in ways that didn’t happen at church, because they were all busy there.
As time passed in the lovely company of his wife, Owen felt himself sinking into the pleasant complacency that comes from love, and plenty of it. Amazing how the smallest glance from Della across the table during breakfast was enough to make his heart merry. That she loved him he had no doubt. She scolded him when he needed it, brushed the lint off his coat before he left for early-morning Priesthood meeting on Sundays, and liked to curl up next to him on the sofa as he listened to Angharad read on his other side. It was the rare moment when her hand didn’t inch over to rest on his thigh.
There was nothing he could do when she drew another X on the calendar except put his arm around her shoulder until she took a deep breath and changed the subject.
Granted, her employment seemed to ease her heart by giving her something to do that took her away from home, and neighbors with babies. He knew she would never begrudge other women their bounty with children, but her deep-set, expressive eyes told him worlds about the state of her heart. She wanted a baby, such a simple thing. Wasn’t it?
All personal matters aside, it amused him how quickly she found herself at home in a ramshackle office run by an Austrian hunchback and his equally unusual dog Saladin, a black monster with a feathery tail. Owen admitted to his own qualms, having once or twice stepped back into the carpenter shop when Saladin strolled by on the loose. The beast had a way of curling his lip and growling in a soft, malevolent tone that threatened peril, at the very least.
Owen admitted to terror the first time Della invited him to share lunch with her at Saul Weisman’s office. She gave him one of her exquisitely perfected, down-the-nose looks, sidled close, put her hand inside his shirt and whispered against his skin, “Are you a man or a mouse, my darling?”
Armed with another soup bone, he braved the assayer’s office, his coal miner’s lunch bucket held out in front of him for some puny protection. Saladin had been lying asleep at Della’s feet. When Mr. Weisman invited him to come inside, the dog raised his head and fixed him with a glance remarkably like Della’s.
“Do I drop it and run?” he asked, which made Mr. Weisman laugh.
“Not at all. Della, perhaps you had better stand up and give your husband a kiss. That way Saladin will know he comes in peace.”
Della, is it? Owen thought as his wife patted the monster, stood up, and kissed him. He looked at Saladin, who let out a wuff! consisting mostly of bad breath and put his head back on his paws, monumentally uninterested, now that the female of the pack had established her connection.
After that, he generally ate lunch with Della and Mr. Weisman—who insisted on
being called Saul—and Saladin, who did him the signal honor of heaving himself onto his back and demanding Owen rub his stomach, whether he wanted to or not.
As much as he wished Della could have stayed home and waited for the birth of a child, he had to admit that she sparkled in the work place. He had noticed this in Winter Quarters, where she taught school, and he saw that same energy in Saul’s office. He laughed when she proudly showed off her typing and, to Saul’s amusement, also held up what the Austrian called “Exhibit A,” containing the worst handwriting known to man.
She learned quickly and did her job well, which made Owen both grateful and proud. Because Saul Weisman’s disability made walking uncomfortable, he turned over the delivery of assay reports to Della. Any hesitation Owen might have felt to see her abroad in a town full of miners quickly dissipated the first time he saw her walk with real purpose toward the Swansea mine office, Saladin matching her stride for stride.
She hadn’t bothered with a leash, which meant every man between the assayer’s office and the mine office gave her a wide berth. Some of the more adventuresome sprites tipped a hat her way, or tried to speak, which meant Saladin administered his thoughtful stare. No one troubled Della.
During supper, Della entertained them with Saul’s stories of life in Vienna, Austria, going to university for a year to study medicine and then leaving its storied halls because he ran out of money after his father’s death. “I told him about your dragons, Angharad, and he wants you to draw one for him,” she said.
“Do you think Mr. Weisman needs a dragon?” the child asked.
“Everyone needs a dragon,” Della replied. “He said he would send me home with one of his drawings, if you would draw him a dragon.”
And so Angharad had spent the better part of one evening drawing a Welsh dragon for an Austrian Jew who had learned to assay ore, landed a job in Prussia and found himself in the middle of a pogrom, and came to America—and then Utah, somehow. One dragon turned into two and then three as Della edited the difficult parts of an interesting man’s life for Angharad.