Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Mr. Starkey, I’m sorry to arrive so near your closing time, but I couldn’t leave the mercantile until the children were home from school.”

  “Why, that’s no problem, Mrs. Shilling. And let me tell you now that you’re here, I was sure sorry to learn about Warren’s passing. He was a good man, and I considered him a friend.”

  Jesse shook his head. That Shilling was one smooth character, winning the affections of two women and two entire communities. He’d not had any direct dealings with Shilling, but after he’d passed on, not a soul in Beloit said an unkind word about him. Now it was the same here in Buffalo Creek. It was enough to make a man wonder if he could ever really know a person, deep down.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Shilling’s voice wavered just a bit, and Jesse envisioned her holding tight to the awful truth while probably wishing she could degrade her dead husband at the top of her lungs. “I have three lengthy telegrams to send to companies in Kansas City, and then a short one I wish to send to every newspaper in Mitchell County.”

  Jesse paced, listening to the off-beat clicks of the telegraph. His nails were clean, and the clicks were still going. He pocketed his knife and moved to the edge of the sidewalk, pretending to take stock of the town, still waiting.

  “There now, Mrs. Shilling, they’ve all been sent. When I get the receipt notices you requested from the vendors, I’ll have my boy take them straight over to the mercantile.”

  Jesse eased closer to the door to catch Mrs. Shilling’s response. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “No problem at all. I’m glad to help. And if there’s anything else I can do for you—anything at all—you just ask, all right?”

  “Actually, Mr. Starkey, I do have need for someone to retrieve the stock I ordered from the railroad station in Beloit and bring it to Buffalo Creek. We had a wagon, as you know, but according to the sheriff’s official who brought word of Warren’s death, the wagon was sold to cover a debt. Do you know someone nearby who owns a large wagon or farm truck who might be willing to drive to Beloit once a month for my shipments?”

  “Right offhand, I can’t think of anyone, but I tell you what…”

  Feet pounded on the floorboards. Jesse couldn’t resist peeking through the screen and spotted Starkey coming out from behind his counter. The wiry man caught Mrs. Shilling by the elbow and guided her to a large wooden board on the post office side of the building.

  “You write out a little notice of what you need, and I’ll pin it right up here. Everybody in Buffalo Creek drops by at least once a week to retrieve their mail. If there’s someone in town who’d take on a job like that, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Starkey. I’ll bring in a notice tomorrow.”

  Jesse leaped back when she headed for the door. The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, he called her name.

  She jolted and turned a wide-eyed look on him. “You’re still here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I confess I eavesdropped.”

  Her brows descended into a V.

  “Listening in to find out if you’d decided to contact an orphans’ home somewhere.”

  Now her lips pressed into a firm line.

  “ ’Cause if you were, I was going to volunteer to deliver the children.” He shrugged. “It’d be better if somebody they already knew did the deed, don’t you think?”

  Her expression softened a bit. “I appreciate your concern for Charley and the girls, but as I’ve already told you, I’m keeping them with me. So you don’t need to worry.” She turned to leave.

  He reached out and brushed her elbow with his fingertips. “Wait.”

  Very slowly she faced him again. The brim of her little hat cast a crooked shadow across her forehead, but the late-afternoon sun fully lit her hazel eyes, bringing out flecks of gold and green. “What is it?”

  If he was going to be sheriff of Buffalo Creek, he’d need to meet the needs of the people, whatever those needs might be. Even transporting goods. “Well, Mrs. Shilling, I think I have a solution to your problem.” He tipped his head to the side and grinned. “Would ya trust the new sheriff of Buffalo Creek to pick up your stock from Beloit?”

  Arthur

  Arthur pushed the succulent pieces of pot roast around on his plate. Although the aroma tantalized him, he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite. Not with the huge lump of fury filling the back of his throat. Who would have suspected sweet-natured Neva Shilling to become so surly and disagreeable? To point her finger at the door and demand he leave? To make him feel small and insignificant and even miserly?

  He’d always known Shilling was stubborn. The man held to that mercantile the way a drowning man clung to a flotation device. But he’d expected Mrs. Shilling to be reasonable. Every time he recalled the way she’d sent him scuttling out the door like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, his humiliation and aggravation grew.

  “Maybe I asked too soon.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until both of the boys stopped eating and stared at him.

  “What was that, Dad?” Leroy stabbed a chunk of roasted potato and jammed it in his mouth.

  “Nothing.” Arthur lifted his glass and took a long draw of the buttermilk. The liquid did nothing to cool the frustration stirring within him. He needed to think about something else. He drew on his standard weekday query. “How was school today?”

  “Kinda sad, really.” Leon put down his fork for a moment. “Miss Neff told us Bud and Belle’s father died. Did you know that, Dad?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” He chopped a small bit of meat free of the thick slice, pierced it with his fork, then used it to draw curlicues in his gravy. “Very sad.”

  “It’s kinda strange, don’t you think, that they buried him in Beloit? I mean, our ma died in Beloit at the hospital, but we still buried her right here in Buffalo Creek.” Leon took a bite of the roast and then spoke around the lump. “Why do you think they did that?”

  “Maybe he died of something catching.” Leroy used his fork as a pointer and jabbed it in his brother’s direction. “Remember that drifter who came through last year—the one they found laid out cold under the water tower? As soon as the doc said he’d passed of diphtheria, the town councilmen buried him real quick instead of trying to send him back to his own town. They didn’t want to risk spreading the sickness.”

  Leon turned to Arthur. “Did Mr. Shilling die of diphtheria?”

  Arthur finally put the bite in his mouth. The meat was cold, the gravy starting to congeal. He made himself chew and swallow before answering. “What did Miss Neff tell you?”

  “Only that he died. And then some kids who go to the same church as Bud and Belle said their preacher said he was buried in Beloit. But they’re gonna have a service here later this week.” Leon shrugged. “Don’t know how you can have a service without a grave or a body to put in it. Will you go to the service, Dad?”

  After the way he’d been treated earlier by the man’s widow, Arthur didn’t have much desire to attend a service honoring Shilling. But as a neighboring businessman, his presence would be expected. He nodded.

  Leroy’s face lit. “Think they’ll close down school for the day? If they do, Leon and I could go trap some gophers. Bounty’s up to thirty cents a pelt.”

  Arthur scowled at his son. “If they close down school for the service, you’ll go to the service.”

  “Aw, Dad…”

  “And something else, Leroy.” Arthur thumped his fist on the table, making the boys’ milk cups bounce. “Leave gopher hunting to the youngsters who have need of the bounty money. You and Leon receive an allowance.”

  Defiance flickered across Leroy’s face, but he pursed his lips and stayed quiet. Wise boy.

  Leon gazed at Arthur in genuine confusion. “There’s enough gophers for all the boys in town to catch a sack full every day and twice on Sunday. Why shouldn’t Leon and me get in on it—earn a little extra spending money?”

  Arthur turned his glare on the younger
boy. “I’ll tell you why. It’s embarrassing when the two of you go traipsing into the sheriff’s office with a sack full of little corpses. Poor folks take advantage of the vermin bounties.” He’d trapped his share of coyotes for the pelts. The smell of the dead animals—the stench of poverty—lingered in his memory. He examined his palms, assuring himself no speck of coal dust appeared in the creases. He jammed his clean hands in the air. “We aren’t poor folks.”

  The boy scrunched his lips into a scowl. “Jeepers, Dad.”

  “And no more of that slang language either.” Arthur rose and flung his napkin onto his plate. “Speaking slang only makes a man sound ignorant. If you can’t think of more appropriate words to express yourself, then open the dictionary and study.” He strode from the dining room.

  Leon’s whisper followed him. “What’s bugging him, Leroy?”

  “Dunno. Better stay out of his way tonight.”

  “Don’t worry. I will!”

  Stifling a growl, Arthur entered the kitchen. Mrs. Lafferty looked up from the work counter, where she was kneading a mound of dough. Her expressionless face gave no indication that she’d overheard their conversation. But that didn’t mean anything. He’d never met anyone as poker-faced and tongue-tied as this woman. He swallowed a snort. Mrs. Shilling could take a few lessons from Mrs. Lafferty.

  “I’m going up to my study. I don’t intend to come back down until breakfast tomorrow. Please lock the back door behind you when you leave.” He waited for her nod of acknowledgment and then he pounded up the back staircase.

  He kicked off his shoes and slid his feet into the leather slippers waiting just inside the door of the room originally intended to serve as a maid’s quarters. The smooth soles whispered against the uncovered floorboards as he moved to the overstuffed chair lurking in one corner. A small table with a lamp stood beside the chair, and after plopping onto the soft cushion, Arthur clicked the scrolled brass lamp key to On. Yellow light flooded the space. Not that there was much to see.

  A 1918 calendar—a Randall’s Emporium calendar given to guests at his grand opening—hung from a tack, the only embellishment in the entire room. Mabel had never entered this room, claiming it cold and depressing. And that was part of the reason Arthur liked it. It was his space. His alone space.

  He picked up the newspaper resting on the edge of the table right where Mrs. Lafferty had been instructed to leave it. He read every article from page 1 to page 4, scowling at some, shaking his head at others. At least with summer behind them, reporters had stopped writing about the drought. Such a weary topic. And what could anyone do about it? Nothing. Man had no control over whether it rained or not. A waste of newsprint, to Arthur’s way of thinking.

  The only article he read with real interest concerned the upcoming presidential election. His lips tugged upward into a grin. Wouldn’t it be something if their very own Governor Landon landed in the White House? Of course, the odds were against it, knowing how the farmers in the Midwest supported Roosevelt. But Arthur enjoyed a few minutes of considering the celebration if good ol’ Alf Landon actually won.

  Arthur reached the last page and located his emporium advertisement. Sliding his finger along the print, he ascertained that all words were spelled correctly. The special of the week—PAY CASH! PAY HALF!—stood out in bold block print, just as he’d requested, with On specially selected items in small print underneath. No one had come in today with the ad in hand, ready to deal, but since most people read the paper in the evening rather than the morning, he expected to see more activity tomorrow. And if he didn’t, he wouldn’t use that ploy to entice customers again. There were many other ways of bringing people into his emporium.

  Lowering the paper to his lap, he aimed his gaze at the yellowing calendar. Sometimes it was hard to believe he’d owned the emporium for eighteen years. Other times it seemed as though it should be longer. He chuckled, recalling how un-emporium-like the store had been when he and Mabel opened the doors for the first time. But he’d been wise enough to buy a building four times the size needed for his humble stock, purchased with the settlement money paid to every family member who lost a loved one in the mine collapse. He and Mabel had planned to grow the business every year, and they’d done it. Yes sir, they surely had. And now an important celebration awaited in the not-too-distant future.

  January 1, 1938, would mark the twenty-year anniversary of the store’s opening.

  They hadn’t celebrated the ten-year anniversary. Mabel fell ill for the first time just before Christmas in ’27, and it hadn’t seemed right to celebrate. Especially considering how involved she’d always been in the store. She loved teasing him by saying, “You’re a driven man, Arthur Randall, and it’s me who steers you.”

  He always blustered at her, but underneath he knew it was true. Her suggestions for organizing the show floor into room blocks, letting the customers envision how the pieces could be arranged in their own homes, gave the emporium an edge over the warehouse-type display he’d planned. Granted, he couldn’t fit nearly as many pieces into the store her way, but it hadn’t mattered. The store had flourished, partly due to the appealing arrangements and partly because of the vivacious hostess who greeted customers at the door and made them feel at home.

  Oh, how he missed his wife…

  He closed his eyes and sighed, willing the remembrances to flee his mind so he could concentrate on the future. Mabel was gone, but Leroy and Leon were with him. By the twentieth anniversary, he wanted the emporium expansion complete. He wanted to change the name from Randall’s Emporium to Randall & Sons Emporium. His boys wouldn’t need to leave their home town to carve a good life, the way Arthur had. They’d have their good life right here in Buffalo Creek. But he didn’t have a lot of time left.

  Leroy would graduate next May and Leon three years after him. Why, in five or ten years he could have a couple of daughters-in-law and even a grandchild. Wouldn’t that be something? He stroked his mustache with one finger, smiling, imagining. He hoped the first grandbaby was a girl. He wouldn’t mind having a little girl toddling after him, calling him Grandpap. But for the store to support all of them, he needed that expansion.

  Smacking the newspaper onto the table, he bolted out of the chair and paced the small room. Wide-planked boards absorbed the fall of his feet, and he kept his head low to prevent clunking his forehead on the sloped ceiling. Back and forth he plodded, thoughts railing. His pride still stung from Mrs. Shilling’s adverse reaction to his more-than-fair bid. Much to his perplexity, money obviously didn’t entice her. Maybe he should bluntly and forcefully spell out all the difficulties of running a business single-handedly. No, given the backbone she’d exhibited today, she wouldn’t respond well to strong-arm tactics either. So what should he do?

  He came to an abrupt stop. Releasing a sharp huff of laughter, he shook his head. He’d been a widower for so long he’d completely forgotten what moved women. Females were emotional beings, susceptible to emotional manipulation. How had he coaxed Mabel out of a sour or melancholy mood? Not by scolding or threatening or even handing her a handful of cash. She responded to tenderness—whispered compliments, kind gestures, unexpected favors. She became putty in his hands when he nursed her feminine spirit. If it worked with Mabel, didn’t it then stand to reason it would be effective with Neva Shilling as well?

  He opened the little drawer on the table and withdrew a pad of paper and pencil. He slipped back into the chair, braced the pad on his knee, and wrote in bold letters across the top: Ways to Woo the Widow. He chuckled. If Mrs. Lafferty saw the heading, she would assume he was interested in matrimony. And so what? She wouldn’t tell anyone, so his secret was safe.

  He knew what he wanted, and he would get it in time for the emporium’s twenty-year anniversary.

  Neva

  Neva found a place on the cellar shelves for every item friends and church members delivered during the day. At first she’d been uncertain about accepting the casseroles and hams and home-cann
ed goods. So many people were struggling these days—should she take food meant for their families? But Lois Savage advised her to view the offerings in a different way.

  “Please don’t say no,” the younger woman had said, holding out a quart jar of applesauce and a basket of home-baked bread. “You’ll rob me of the opportunity to bless you.”

  When put into that perspective, Neva’s guilt vanished and only appreciation remained.

  Now, holding aloft the lantern, she scanned the variety of items and battled tears. Thanks to the town’s generosity, she and the children needn’t worry about meals for at least two weeks—a true blessing. Much more so than the offer from Mr. Randall to take the mercantile off her hands. What had he been thinking? Hadn’t Warren told him no more than a dozen times in the past fifteen years? Now, more than ever, she needed the mercantile to provide for Bud and Belle.

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment, regret striking. She’d blatantly used Mr. Randall as a mark for her frustration. Discourtesy didn’t rest well on her conscience. Her dear foster mother, Christina Jonnson, had encouraged the children at the asylum to treat others the way they wanted to be treated. Neva wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of such a tart diatribe as the one she delivered to Mr. Randall. But at the same time she was proud of herself for responding so staunchly. Maybe Arthur Randall would understand the mercantile was not up for sale. Not at any price.

  She aimed the lantern’s glow for the dirt stairs and climbed upward. Moonlight bathed the yard, providing enough light that she felt safe extinguishing the lamp. She turned the knob, shrinking the wick.

  “Ma’am?”

  The voice startled her so badly she nearly dropped the flickering lamp. She whirled around and held the tin lamp like a shield in front of her. Two shabbily dressed men with whiskered faces and uncombed hair stood a few feet away. The taller of the pair bobbed his head toward the cellar opening.