by Keli Gwyn
“What you do with so many horses, señor?”
“They’re army mounts. For the cavalry. The army is paying me to break them, and when they’re ready, I ship them to Fort Riley up in Kansas. From there they head to Europe and the war.”
Carlos tugged his weedy moustache. “A shame to send so many fine horses to war.”
It was a shame. Caleb loved horses—loved working with them, caring for them, just being around such noble beasts. To think of animals he’d befriended and come to know heading into the perils of battle sat heavily on his shoulders. And yet, a well-trained mount could save a man’s life. Could save many lives. Officers rode horses, couriers rode horses. Command and communication relied on swift, brave, intelligent mounts, well trained and reliable. Often horses could go where automobiles and cannons could not.
“You going to work alone? That’s a lot of horses to manage by yourself.”
“I have a hired man.” The outline of Needles showed to the northwest. Hired man. At least as much of a hired man as he could afford full time.
Joshua Hualga waited for him on the front porch when Caleb returned to his ranch. A full-blooded Mojave Indian, Joshua, at eighteen, reminded Caleb of a forest white-tail from back home in Vermont—lean and graceful. His big, dark eyes were reminiscent of a deer, too, watchful and shy.
His father, Cairook Hualga, in contrast, reminded Caleb of a black bear, with thick, muscled arms and shoulders. His figure was made even more imposing by the fact that he had followed the ways of the Mojave and tattooed his chin. Black lines scored his jaw, chin, and cheeks like cactus needles, poking upward toward his eyes.
Cairook tilted his big head and scrutinized his son as if the boy were a stranger. “Are you sure this is what you want? He has no experience with horses. He prefers to be indoors reading rather than hunting or growing crops.” Cairook rubbed his finger down his cheek and over his tattoo. “I don’t know what kind of Mojave he hopes to be. He won’t even get his tattoo.”
Joshua said nothing, but his fingers tightened on the porch rail.
“If it doesn’t work out, send him home.” The big man picked up his walking stick from where it leaned against the porch rail and wheeled away. He did not look back at his son.
Joshua’s narrow shoulders sagged, and he tucked his hands into his pants’ pockets.
Caleb slowly made his way up the steps to the porch and sagged into one of the two straight-backed chairs, grateful to get the weight off his aching leg for a moment. He motioned to the other chair.
With a sigh, the boy joined him, easing his lanky frame into the rocker with a fluidity Caleb envied. “Why did you ask me to come here? There are plenty of boys on the reservation who would be better suited to working on your ranch. I don’t know anything about horses.”
“You’re smart, and you can learn. That’s why I wanted to hire you. That, and you want to get off that reservation so badly it’s eating you alive. You’re hungry for something that you can’t find there, and maybe working for me is the first step to finding what it is that you need to fill you up.”
Joshua’s head came up, and his glance collided with Caleb’s. Caleb knew that look of longing, for he’d felt it himself, many times. A desire to be more than he was, to break free of the bonds holding him back and fly as high as his dreams.
“How’d you come to be called Joshua? That’s not a Mojave name.”
“The boarding school gave white names to every student. They allowed us to pick our own from a list. I chose Joshua.”
“For the biblical character? Caleb and Joshua worked pretty well together in the Old Testament, if I remember correctly.”
He shook his head. “For the Joshua tree. A Joshua tree stands alone in the desert. Like me. My tribe is like the brush that grows at the river’s edge, so close their limbs get tangled, unable to grow upright unless they are supported by those around them. And they all look the same, blending one into the other. If one of those bushes grows alone, the wind blows it over and rips it out of the earth, sending it tumbling away. But the Joshua tree stands without help, alone and proud.” The boy’s spine straightened, and his youthful jawline tightened as he spoke.
Caleb caught himself reaching down to rub his lower leg and stopped his hand. He pondered the boy’s analogy, admiring his way with words and identifying with him more than ever. Caleb, too, stood alone like a Joshua tree while the town of Needles grew up entwined and enmeshed like riverbank brush. “That can get pretty lonely, standing by yourself. Sometimes you don’t realize how much you miss things until they’re gone.”
“I am fine alone. I’ve always been alone, even when I am in the middle of my family.”
“You have a big family?”
“I have four younger brothers, all just like my father. Father is proud of them, proud of the way they are like him. I think he does not know what to do with me. We were strangers even before I was sent to the mission school, but since I came home, it is worse. I think he was as relieved when you asked if I could come work for you as I was.”
Caleb crossed his legs, took off his hat, and hooked it over his boot toe. “Dads and sons don’t always see eye to eye, but maybe if you give it some time, things will get better.”
“Did you get along with your father? Did things get better?”
A hollow feeling pressed against Caleb’s breastbone. “I haven’t seen my father in almost ten years. He wasn’t glad to see me then, and he was happy to see me leave.”
“Then I don’t think you are one to give me advice on how to deal with my father.” Sober judgment coated Joshua’s expression.
Caleb forced himself to his feet. “You’re right. When it comes to dealing with parents, I don’t have a leg to stand on.”
Meghan flopped onto the bed and immediately bounced up to check her uniform. She was so tired she’d forgotten she mustn’t muss the dress or apron. As she removed her apron, Natalie slipped into the room and closed the door, leaning back against the white panels and closing her eyes.
“I’m so tired I can’t even think.”
“Me too, and we didn’t even serve any customers yet.” Meghan unbuttoned her black dress and peeled it off, enjoying the relative coolness of the evening air coming through the window. “I had no idea we’d spend so much time polishing. If I never see another piece of silverware or a coffee urn again, it will be too soon.”
Natalie straightened and began preparing for bed, albeit slowly. “But tomorrow we have to get up and do it all over again, and this time we’ll be polishing and cleaning in between serving six different sit-down meals.”
Meghan fought with her shoes. The elastic had all but embedded itself into her ankle, and her toes cried out to be free. “Ah, that feels so good.” She peeled off her stockings and wriggled her toes, crimping them into the rug a few times before padding over to the cool tile.
“How many miles do you think we put on our feet today?” Natalie flipped a nightgown over her head and tugged it into place.
“About a million. Last thing before I came upstairs, Mrs. Gregory told me we have to have the menus memorized before tomorrow.” Picking up the stiff pages from the counterpane, she perused them before giving them to Natalie. She struggled into a nightgown and dunked her washcloth into the basin to cool her face. “We can quiz each other.”
Half an hour later, yawning and with her head full of unfamiliar words like Albondigas soup and Chicken Lucrecio, Meghan turned out the lights and crawled into bed. Tired as she was, the instant her head hit the pillow, her mind snapped awake.
Unfamiliar night sounds filtered through the window. A dog barked, and footsteps sounded in the hall. A moment later their door eased open. Meghan sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “Who is it?”
“Just me. Jennifer. It’s my night to do a bed check. Sorry to disturb you. G’nite, and see you in the morning.”
Bed check. Meghan eased back onto the pillow while Natalie mumbled and turned over in her bed, causing
the springs to creak.
As her mind hopped and skipped from one impression to another, she remembered her mother’s wise words. “If ever you can’t sleep, spend the time praying. Your heart and mind will calm, and you will put your burdens into the hands of the One who cares more for you than anyone else ever could.”
The thought and worry always on her heart and mind these days was her brother, Lars. He must’ve reached France by now. The last word they’d had, before she left home, was a postcard mailed from New York. A postcard printed by the army with general words and places for him to fill in blanks. “The weather here is ______ and I am in good health. I arrived safely and they are feeding us well. I especially like the ______ the mess cooks fix for us.” The army mailed the cards once the troop transport ship reached England. Though the blanks had been filled in by Lars himself, and the postcard was addressed in his own hand, it wasn’t as if it really contained his words and thoughts. If only they would receive a letter from him.
Even now he might be engaged in battle against the Kaiser and the German army. Was he in one of those dreadful trenches? Did he have his gas mask with him? Would she ever see him again?
Realizing her hands had fisted at her sides and her stomach had begun to ache in a familiar way, she forced herself to relax and pray, asking for God’s protection on Lars and all the American and Allied soldiers fighting in this Great War.
And for a fleeting instant, the face of the man who had rescued her today flitted across her mind. How soon before he signed up and headed off to war?
Chapter 3
No, no, no. Every pat of butter must have fork marks. The diner must be assured that his food was handled appropriately. The butter must always be cold enough to hold crisp fork marks.” Mrs. Gregory pursed her lips and showed Meghan how to put butter on a plate The Harvey Way. “Never use your fingers or a knife to put butter on a plate.”
Nothing escaped the head waitress’s scrutiny, and nothing Meghan did seemed to please her. After less than an hour of her tutelage, Meghan had no doubts as to why the busboys called Mrs. Gregory Iron Drawers. And The Harvey Way covered everything from how to sweep the floor to how to fill salt shakers. Meghan’s head swam with all the directions, methods, and instructions coming her way.
“When you take the beverage orders, use the cup code. That way the girl coming behind you will know what the customer wants without you having to tell her. See?” Mrs. Gregory flipped the coffee cup over and rested it in the saucer. “An upturned cup in the saucer means the customer wants coffee. For milk, flip the cup and put it next to the saucer. Iced tea; rest the cup against the saucer.” She went through the three positions for the three variations of hot tea: black, green, or orange pekoe.
Meghan bit her tongue and concentrated, trying to ignore the “in-way-over-her-head” feeling rising up her windpipe every time she relaxed her guard. She would not fail. She would not be sent home. She would not disappoint her papa again. Amen.
“Bread is baked here at the hotel and not sliced until the customer orders it. Every slice must be three-eighths of an inch thick, no more, no less.”
Was she supposed to carry a ruler in her pocket to measure? What would happen if she accidentally served a customer a slice of bread that was a whole half an inch thick? Chaos? Rioting in the streets? Meghan stifled a giggle and kept her face composed.
Girls bustled around them behind the counters preparing for the first customers of the day. The hands on the wall clock climbed relentlessly toward the time when the train was due. Miss Ralston hurried up with a piece of paper and waited until Mrs. Gregory had finished slicing off a perfectly-proportioned piece of bread.
“Mrs. Gregory, here are the numbers.” She handed the paper over, stepped back, shot Meghan a sympathetic glance, and hurried through the doors to the soda fountain.
The head waitress glanced at the page. “Hmm, Miss Thorson, tell the chef we’re expecting fifty-one for the lunchroom and twenty-nine in the dining room.”
Meghan hustled off to the kitchen where pots steamed and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the brick archway that separated the cavernous kitchen from the bakery. High transom-like windows let in sunshine and let hot air escape, and cooks in white shirts, aprons, and trench caps stirred, sliced, and sautéed. The chef, recognizable by his tall, white hat, expertly flipped a skillet of browning potato chunks. The smell of bacon and sausage cooking made her mouth water. Too nervous to eat this morning in the midst of all the chattering, confident Harvey Girls, she’d only nibbled a slice of toast and sipped a glass of milk.
She relayed the message from Mrs. Gregory, and the chef’s friendly smile and nod emboldened her to ask, “Is that a lot of people or about average?”
“Zat is more zan before ze war. Now we have soldiers on nearly every train. And zey have big appetites.” He turned and spoke to one of the cooks in rapid French before returning to his skillet.
Meghan returned to the lunchroom where activity had picked up in anticipation of serving breakfast to eighty passengers in under thirty minutes in order to keep to the train’s schedule.
“Miss Thorson, come here. You have too much to learn to be gawping and standing idle.”
She got a firm grip on her temper and side-stepped a girl carrying an armload of stacked plates. Mrs. Gregory tapped her foot.
“When you are not serving customers, you will be caring for your equipment and your station. Also, the coffee urns. These are the most visible symbol of Harvey hospitality.” Pride swelled her voice. “They must be spotless at all times.” She waved her hand at the immense silver urns anchoring the end of each of the long counters. “I will now show you the proper way to make the coffee.”
Meghan wanted to protest that she’d been making coffee for a long time and how hard could it be, but she bit her tongue and followed in the head waitress’s wake.
“No less than eight ounces of freshly ground—not too fine, mind you—coffee per gallon. The customers will ask what brand we use, so be sure to tell them we use only Chase & Sanborn, and we never reheat and serve old coffee. Every two hours you will empty each urn, rinse them with scalding water, and brew fresh coffee.”
Blinking, Meghan knew her mouth had fallen open. “Every two hours? Isn’t that wasteful? What do you do with the old coffee if you don’t reheat it?”
Mrs. Gregory rolled her eyes. “We are not some border-town cantina or lowbrow slum restaurant. This is a Harvey establishment. Old coffee is thrown away. On the rare occasions when the chef needs cold coffee for a dessert, some of the brew is reserved, but that is the exception rather than the rule.” The head waitress had more starch in her voice than in all the aprons in the room.
“Don’t any of the Harvey hotels practice hooverizing?” In this time of voluntary rationing so every soldier on the Allied front could have the best possible diet, such waste was criminal. How did the hotel handle the Meatless Mondays or Wheatless Wednesdays? If Mrs. Gregory wouldn’t even reheat coffee, Meghan doubted she would serve cornbread squares in place of dinner rolls or rye instead of white bread cut exactly three-eighths of an inch thick.
A drawstring-bag pucker tightened Mrs. Gregory’s lips, and an icy snowdrift invaded her eyes. “Lest you think us unpatriotic, Miss Thorson, perhaps you should get your facts before you judge. The Harvey Company has a contract with the government to serve soldiers on their way to Europe. The military has granted us the concession, and they have approved our menus and practices. The food we serve and the methods we employ are fully in keeping with our agreement with the War Department and have the approval of Herbert Hoover himself as the head of the US Food Administration. We—the company and the staff at this hotel—are very patriotic and fully behind the war effort.”
Meghan wiped the incredulous expression off her face. Mrs. Gregory took a deep breath, the color fading from her cheeks. “My own son has recently enlisted and left for Europe only a week ago.” The cords in her narrow neck stood out as she raised her chin. �
�I’m very proud of him, and as the mother of a soldier, I can assure you, my patriotism is without equal.” She turned, but not before Meghan caught the glimmer of tears.
Well, the old duck did have a heart. Meghan’s conscience chided her. No wonder she was a bit prickly with her son heading off to war that very week. A feeling of kinship swept over Meghan. They both had loved ones fighting for the cause.
A bell sounded near the lobby door. “The train’s been sighted. Places, girls!” All emotion vanished from Mrs. Gregory’s face and voice, and she once again became a martinet, ruling the establishment with her steely will.
Though her head spun from the speed at which she was expected to move, her first customers were so friendly and gracious, Meghan discovered partway through serving her first meal as a HARVEY Girl that she was having the time of her life. She remembered the majority of the menu and even managed to navigate the mysterious cup code with only a couple of mistakes.
Perhaps part of her lightheartedness came from the customers themselves. Every last passenger this morning was dressed in the olive-brown uniform of the US Army. Straight from training camp in central California and headed to Europe. Fresh-faced, young, exuberant, reminding her of her brother.
“Say, I sure wish the train wasn’t leaving so soon. Never expected the scenery to be so nice here in the desert.” A sunburned recruit with white-blond hair held out his coffee cup. “Wouldn’t mind staying around for a while.”
Meghan poured his coffee, holding the handle of the pot in her right hand and using a white towel in her left to support the spout, just as Mrs. Gregory had shown her. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Jenny passed behind her with two steaming plates. “He said it to me, not three minutes ago.”
The sunburn deepened, and Meghan laughed. “Not that it isn’t nice to hear.” As she moved on, his buddies elbowed and kidded him.