Carla Kelly (19 page)

“If that's their choice, what can you do?” Della asked, curious more than embarrassed.

The look he gave her warmed her, because he must have realized her interest was genuine. “I've been here three, almost four years, Della. I'd give almost anything to convince those ladies to let me help in childbirth, but it won't come from me, I fear. Maybe you can gain their confidence.”

“Does no one try?”

“No. Some of the people in the canyon don't even refer to them as white people, which seems odd,” he told her. “I mean, with blond hair and blue eyes, they're whiter than every Welshman I see. But they're different, speak a well-nigh incomprehensible language, and keep to themselves.”

“By choice?” she asked, remembering Aunt Caroline's first look at her, with her black hair, brown eyes, and decidedly un-Nordic nose.

“Hard to say,” he countered.

“No, it's not,” she replied. “Some people don't mind shunning those who are different.”

Maybe she shouldn't have said that with such certainty, because the doctor gazed at her in a measuring way. “At least, that's what I suspect,” she said, wincing at how lame she sounded.

“If you please, give it some thought,” he said, then took the check from the waiter. “I care about everyone in the canyon. Each miner pays me fifty cents a month to provide health care. I'd like to earn my money with the Finns.”

The sun was making its daily descent behind the mountains to the west that rimmed Pleasant Valley as they started toward the canyon. They walked through the little town, past the bank, the other restaurant, and two mercantile establishments. She saw two saloons down side streets and rows of neat little houses.

“You like it here, don't you?” she asked.

He nodded and tucked her arm closer to his side. “I suppose I'll move someday, because not many wives who had a choice would care for the winters here. For now, it suits me.” His voice turned serious again, as it had in the restaurant. “Della, I'm not saying my glorified presence at a Finnish birth would make any difference, but I just want to have the opportunity to help if I'm needed.”

“I'll do what I can,” she said, touched by his concern.

He was kind enough to walk slowly, even though darkness came quickly after the sun went down. He also had no objection to stopping while she gathered her breath. “Promise me it gets easier,” Della said, embarrassed at their snail's pace for her benefit.

“You'll be fine next week, and I'm in no rush tonight.”

They entered the canyon mouth and passed Winter Quarters Saloon, which made the doctor shake his head. “You'd be surprised how much practice I've gotten here, suturing scalps split by liquor bottles.”

“More than mine accidents?”

“Decidedly. These are safe mines, and Bishop Parmley runs them well. How safe were those mines on the Colorado Plateau?” he asked.

She knew he was just making conversation. What did he know about her father? “I suppose they were safe enough,” she said, too shy to say more.

He walked her to Mabli Reese's door and shook his head when she invited him inside. Della held out her hand.

He took her hand in his. “Thanks for a pleasant evening, Della.” He chuckled. “And thanks for not expecting silly small talk.” He didn't release her hand. “If you ever feel like just talking, I always feel like listening. G'night.”

ella thought about what Emil Isgreen said, long after she should have been asleep, wondering if he meant it. As a matter of course now, she traced “Olympia” with her finger in the dark, enjoying the feel of the wood. The room was warmer too. Owen Davis had come back and installed shutters on the inside of the windows, shutters with slats, so she could let in as much or little light as she wanted, and not worry about prying eyes. Della had opened one of the shutters to look at an inside slat. There it was, Angharad's red dragon.

In the morning, she hurried with Mabli through breakfast next door. There was even time for her to French braid her hair again and braid Mabli's hair too. The real fun was watching her landlady preen in front of her mirror, something she didn't think Mabli did too often. She also insisted that Della wear the brooch again on her green dress, which hadn't met with much argument. It did look nice on the polished cotton.

She was prepared for the opening hymn this time, listening with something close to bliss to the first verse of “Hark! The Children Sweetly Sing,” and remembering to sing the chorus. She still couldn't help a look around. Obviously they must have thought every congregation in Utah sounded like theirs.

Rather than a duet during the sacrament, Richard Evans's exquisite tenor was joined by his wife's alto on “How Great the Wisdom and the Love,” with a soprano and bass making up a quartet unmatched anywhere in the Church. Her pleasure at the beauty of their voices was equaled by her realization of just how much she had been looking forward to this all week.

Angharad and Owen Davis sat directly on front of her. He needed a haircut. She looked closer. Maybe he wore it long to cover a blue mark down the back of his neck, which went up his head well into his hair, as far as she could tell. Della leaned closer to Sister Parmley and whispered, “That's a strange birthmark.”

“More like a slice of coal that nearly took his head off,” Sister Parmley whispered back.

Shocked, Della stared at the blue line until little Florence had to nudge her with the sacrament bread again. She calmed herself by concentrating on the sacrament and then fell under the spell of the music, which this time was everyone humming “How Gentle God's Commands.” The final hummed verse grew softer and softer until everyone dropped out, except a lone tenor. Bliss, then utter silence.

She went quietly to class as they all did, children filing out behind their teachers. She watched the children, knowing she would see some of them tomorrow in her classroom. She remembered a lesson on blessings that her favorite teacher had given in Young Ladies Mutual Improvement Association, which made her long to ask Uncle Karl for a blessing before each school year began. She never did.

Emil Isgreen sat next to her in theology class. It looked as though he had beat out Owen Davis to the vacant chair beside her in a dignified rush, well-mannered, but causing others to smile too and put their heads together, before the teacher asked for a volunteer to pray.

“Ooh, gossip, gossip, gossip,” Emil said. “How are you this fair morning, Della dear?”

“Hush,” Della dear said. “You're a distraction.”

They were looking up the first scripture when a boy came into the classroom, glanced around, and handed a folded note to Dr. Isgreen. When the doctor opened it, all discussion stopped. One of the women in the room gasped, and Emil glanced at her, his eyes alert.

He stood up to leave the classroom. Della watched, curious, as other women looked at him, their eyes alert too. It was as though all the air had suddenly been whisked from the room. The men were watching him now, some even tensing to rise, Owen Davis among them.

“Steady, steady,” he said gently. “Did you forget it's Sunday and the mine is closed? It's a broken arm in Finn Town. No worries.” Everyone relaxed.

Before she had time to turn to the scripture, the door opened and another deacon came in. He looked at Della, nodded to her, and crooked his finger. “Bishop wants to see you,” he said in the hallway.

Sister Parmley had whispered something earlier about the bishop issuing church callings during Sunday School.
I hope it's Young Ladies
, Della thought as she knocked on his door and smoothed down her dress.

Bishop Parmley opened the door and ushered her in to the tiny space. “Ready for school?” he asked, when she was seated.

“Willing and able,” she said. “I've visited the homes, and my room is ready.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair. “I tell Brother Bowman this, and I'll tell you too—if you find a student that can't afford a slate, let me know. I always have Clarence Nix order extras for the store.” He smiled at her expression. “Sister Anders, sometimes there are definite advantages to being both bishop and mine superintendent. I like to know what my ward families need, and that goes for all the miners. Every child in this camp is my responsibility.”

“I'll let you know,” she told him.

He steepled his fingers and observed her for a moment, almost as if he was wondering what to say next. Della observed his expression, silently amused.

“I … I really like working in Young Ladies,” she hinted, as the pause went on.

“That's not the call, Sister Anders,” he said finally. “But I have to tell you, the more I think about the one I'm going to issue, the better I like it.” He leaned forward then, looking into her eyes, completely serious. “I'm extending a church call for you to be secretary to the choir.”

Della gasped and sat back. He couldn't be serious. Choirs didn't need secretaries. She drew her lips into a firm line as her amazement turned to irritation and then beyond irritation to something she hated to think was anger. This was a church call from her bishop, after all.

“That's the
only
way he thinks he can get me in the choir!” Della burst out, then put her hand to her mouth, ashamed of herself for speaking that way to her bishop. She felt tears start in her eyes. “I told him I wasn't going to join the choir and he's determined! Oh, Bishop, I'm sorry.”

Quietly he handed her a handkerchief from a little stack beside his chair, but she could see her reaction was troubling him. She wanted to leap up and leave the room.

“Calm, calm! Sister Anders, I asked the heads of organizations about staffing needs, and several responded. Yes, it was Owen Davis who requested you and Richard Evans agreed. I prayed about all the requests and that's the one I couldn't get out of my …” He paused. “I was going to say ‘my mind,’ but I have to tell you, that's the one I couldn't get out of my heart.” Another pause, then finally, “It appears you don't agree.”

“I've never turned down a church calling, bishop, never,” she said a long moment later, when she could talk. “Choirs don't need
secretaries
! Owen Davis is a dirty bird and a bully.”

Bishop Parmley swiveled his chair toward the window and sat there for the longest time while she blew her nose again and looked in the other direction, embarrassed. It sounded like he was clearing his throat.
Oh, Heavenly Father, please don't let him be laughing!
she thought, in misery.
He'll think I am an idiot. No, he already knows I am an idiot
.

“You'll … uh … have to ask the dirty bird why he needs a secretary,” he said finally.

“I wouldn't ask him for the time of day if he had the only watch in Winter Quarters,” she snapped.

He turned around then, but not before she saw the ghost of smile. “Are you turning down this call? Think carefully, Sister Anders.”

Della hesitated. “I don't know what I want to do,” she said finally. “I really don't.”

“There seems to be a little more here than I may have realized,” he said, after another long pause.

“I'm sorry, Bishop,” she whispered. “I was rude.”

“Maybe not.” He leaned toward her across his desk and took her hand. It was a warm grip and a rough one, reminding her where she was and what he did. “Think about it. You don't have to give me an aye or nay right now. Will you think about it?”

Della debated a long moment before she nodded.