Carla Kelly (11 page)

“As a matter of fact, it was a mining engineer,” Parmley said. “He came here from Grand Junction to draw up plans to install another fanway for Number Four. When he left, he took the teacher with him. Rumor has it that she just slid a note under Miss Clayson's door and took off.”

“I'm not sure I can blame her,” Della said. “I wanted to take off running myself!”

“Thanks to that elopement, Miss Clayson spent most of last school year with substitutes from Spanish Fork and Springville, none of whom wanted to be here.” He rustled the newspaper and exchanged a look with his wife. “Sister Anders, you're probably not homely enough for her! Maybe I should assure Miss Clayson that no mining engineers are expected this year.”

“That is no answer, Thomas,” Mary Ann said crisply.

“Maybe not. We already know she doesn't care much for Mormons.” He seemed to fish for the right thing to say. “I'll admit some of us are wondering why an Anders chose to come here. Maybe she is too.”

“Bishop, I wanted to be here, and it really doesn't involve my uncle,” she told him.
Tell him what he's too polite to ask
, she thought. She opened her mouth to confess, then one of the Parmley children came downstairs to complain about the baby's crying, and the moment was gone.

Mary was already asleep and curled up into a tidy package when Della said her prayers and slipped between the sheets. The sound of the child's gentle breath soothed her as she lay awake, wondering about Miss Clayson. Mentally, she ticked off her list:
I won't run off with a mining engineer; I'm far from being too pretty for Winter Quarters school; I can't help being a Mormon; and yes, I am an Anders, but that's only on sufferance, even though none of you know it yet
.

She sighed and made herself comfortable, moving a little closer to Mary because the child was warm and the nip of autumn was already in the night air. Maybe southern Arizona next year would be a good idea, after all. Maybe it was far enough from the Anders name.

She had learned long ago to make herself think of one good thing before she closed her eyes. Papa had told her once if she did that, it would be her first cheerful thought in the morning. The little game had carried her through a multitude of slights and bruises, starting with the shock of his death in the Molly Bee, and her solitary train ride from Colorado, with the Anderses’ address pinned to her cutdown black coat. Maybe it was too early to abandon that little custom.

Mentally she rehearsed her delight at seeing all those hand-carved letters and the pegged board with
Della Olympia Anders
, which would be waiting for her on Monday morning when she opened the door to her classroom. Her smile widened. Owen Davis had called Olympia a name for a goddess. A Welsh coal miner black from hard work had defended her from a gargoyle, and he had made her laugh. She had forgotten what it was like to know someone who protected her.

unday began the way Della thought real Sundays should be—chaotic with some fun mixed in. Aunt Caroline would never have agreed.

After Mary Ann Parmley, her hair still in rags, ushered her brood downstairs, Della dressed in peace, listening to the tumult below in the dining room.
This is what a family ought to sound like, Aunt Caroline,
she thought as she tightened her corset.

Mary, the dramatic one, clasped both hands to her heart when Della made her dining room appearance. “Mama, I will be utterly
devastated
if I do not have a dress that color some day,” she declared, which earned her a stare down the nose from her mother.

“I expect you'll have a prettier one,” Della said, pleased. She held out her arms for three-year-old Florence, she of the mutinous expression and with one shoe on. Sitting Florence on her lap, Della pulled on the other shoe, which had somehow ended up next to the pitcher of milk.

The bishop left for priesthood meeting while Della brushed Florence's hair. Della looked out the window to see a whole troop of soberly dressed men in suits and hats, walking toward the meetinghouse.

“They clean up well, don't they?” Mary Ann asked as she handed Della a brooch to center on the lace fall on the front of her dress. “Of course, the first time
I
saw the bishop, he was black from the pit, so I suppose it doesn't matter.”

The two women laughed together, Della flattered to be included in such a candid observation.

With her curls as subdued as she could manage, Della took Florence by the hand and followed the older children to the meetinghouse. Sister Parmley brought up the rear with William in her arms.

Although there was the usual nervous I'm-the-stranger feeling in the pit of her stomach, Della felt herself relax as she went inside the meetinghouse. The little glances in her direction were kind, and she thanked the Parmleys in her heart for sharing their home with her. If the glances her way were any indication, the Parmleys’ wholehearted endorsement of her communicated itself to everyone in Winter Quarters, with Miss Clayson being the possible exception.

She wasn't entirely without acquaintances in the congregation. Dr. Emil Isgreen smiled at her from the stand, so he must be a member of the Sunday School superintendency. Della spotted Owen Davis and Angharad sitting near the front, close to what looked like a family of stair-step children. To her pleasure, Angharad turned around and gave her a little wave. Della sat down with the Parmleys, Florence on her lap.

Della looked around, not surprised at the lack of an organ; only the wealthiest wards in Salt Lake City were so blessed. It would probably take a modest little ward like the Pleasant Valley Ward right up to the Millennium to hold enough bake sales to buy one. She noticed the piano was closed and no one sat on the bench.

Sister Parmley must have caught the trajectory of Della's gaze. She leaned over Joseph and whispered, “It needs a piano tuner in the worst way, and they're hard to come by here.”

“That must make singing difficult,” Della whispered.
This should be interesting
, she thought, wondering if everyone in the congregation was just going to pick a random note to start on. She decided Uncle Jesse had been teasing her about joining the Winter Quarters choir, which, with no piano, must need more help than even one reasonably competent contralto could furnish. She clasped her hands around Florence's middle and waited for the superintendent, probably that stern-looking man, to rise and begin.

The stern look vanished as he rose. “ ’Tis the hour, my dears,” he began, in the loveliest Scottish brogue this side of the Atlantic Ocean. He gestured to the congregation. “Give us a good round note, Brother Evans.”

This will be catastrophe
, Della thought, amused.

She had seldom been so wrong. A pure tenor note sounded from what seemed to be the row the Davises were sitting on, to be followed by an equally lovely soprano, then alto and bass from other corners of the room. After the four notes resonated, the music director pointed to a small boy seated behind the row of deacons and gave the downbeat.

Della held her breath as the sweetest sound filled the small chapel, the sound of one child singing: “ ‘Never be late to the Sunday School class, come with your bright sunny faces; cheering your teachers and pleasing your God— Always be found in your places.’ ”

Her jaw dropped when only the adults sang the chorus in perfect harmony, singing to their children grouped around them: “ ‘Never be late, never be late; children, remember the warning: Try to be there, always be there, promptly at ten in the morning.’ ”

“My word,” Della murmured, enchanted. Owen Davis had turned slightly to face his little daughter, as though he sang the chorus only to her. He kissed her forehead when he finished, and Della felt her heart turn over.

As she listened, delighted, the next verse was sung by the little boy and a girl slightly older harmonizing, with the adults on the chorus again. Everyone sang the last two verses and the chorus, ending as perfectly on tune as when they started. Della had been too amazed to sing.

These people don't need an organ or a piano
, she thought.

“Don't you know the words?” Joseph whispered to her.

“I just forgot to sing.”

She nearly laughed out loud at the wry look the boy gave her. “I'll do better on the next song,” she promised him.

After the prayer, Della glanced at Mary Ann Parmley, who was looking at her with a smile. “Do they need a piano?” the bishop's wife whispered. Della shook her head.

The usual business of Sunday School followed—the roll call of teachers, and then the reading of the minutes. The short talks mirrored the ones in her Salt Lake City ward: one terrified child, followed by an only slightly braver boy who came up from the deacons’ row. When he finished, the Sunday School superintendent said simply, “The sacrament, my dears.”

Della closed her eyes as the elder at the sacrament table prayed. She decided he must be Welsh, because each sentence became a question, in that lilting way she was coming to savor. When both men handed the trays of sacramental bread to the deacons, she watched as Owen Davis and the man seated next to him rose and walked to the front.
Now what is this
, she thought, interested, as the boys began to pass the bread down the rows.

With no evidence of either man sounding a starting note, they began to sing softly in harmony, “Come Unto Jesus.”

Good heavens
, Della thought, stunned by the beauty of their voices. She had never heard anything so lovely in her life. As she listened, amazed, Joseph had to bump her arm to remind her to take the bread and pass it on.

As he sang, Owen Davis suddenly looked at her and grinned so broadly that some on the front row turned around to see who he was targeting. Della slowly slid lower in the pew, her face red. She couldn't think of a time she had been so neatly trussed up by a practical joke. And he had thought to warn her about the choir! She felt her shoulders start to shake as she clamped her lips tight together and tried to remember this was the sacrament and she ought to think of Jesus.

When they finished singing, the deacons walked to the sacrament table again and the other elder, his hands raised, prayed over the goblets of water. Della listened as the two men softly sang in perfect harmony. This time, she let the beauty of the hymn carry her into that peaceful place where her mind and heart were on the Savior and not on the joke Owen Davis had played on her. She closed her eyes in contentment.

When she opened her eyes, the song was over and the men returned to their seats, the taller man's hand on Owen's shoulder. Della looked around. No one else in the congregation seemed to realize what magnificent singing they had just heard.
I'm the fool
, she told herself.
They're used to this every Sunday
.

The superintendent rose again, then looked at Bishop Parmley. “Our dear bishop has some business before we adjourn to class,” he said.

Bishop Parmley gazed at his congregation, his eyes warm. He looked at Della and gestured to her.

“Stand up, Sister Anders. Let us see you.”

She did as he said, too shy to look around now, then sat down again, Florence still clutched in her arms.

“This kind lady has come to teach your children,” Bishop Parmley said. He sighed, which made Della think that maybe Mary had inherited her dramatic flair from her father. “And you all know what happened to the wee house promised to her. Whoosh! Up in smoke.”