Whisper Hollow (6 page)

Alta sighed and plunged her hands into the sourdough. She pushed it forward with the heel of her hand, then folded the flattened edges toward the middle and pressed them down. Push, fold, press. Push, fold, press.

Marek sighed back at her. “He’s not bad-looking. He works hard. He’s quiet, like you. I know he ain’t seeing anybody else because he’s been taking some ribbing about being twenty and not having a steady girl.”

She stopped and looked at her sixteen-year-old brother, younger than she by only a year and two days, and far more adventurous. He’d started underground after school to save money to go to college. “Why are you working so hard to set me up with Walter Pulaski? You’ve only mentioned him about a
hundred times in the past two weeks. I don’t need you playing Cupid for me.”

Marek reached over to pinch the dough. Then he grabbed a bit of flour and tossed it on the counter between her hands. He dusted his hands together and shoved them back into his trouser pockets. Alta absorbed this addition of flour into the dough without comment. They understood each other well.

“If I don’t, who will?” he asked. “Listen, you know Cyryl and Kasper are close to leaving home — I heard Kas say the other night he was thinking about asking for Juliet’s hand, and you know it’s only time before Cyryl asks for Margaret’s. Then it’s only gonna be Daddy and me until I get out of here, and I know how to cook as well as you. So what I’m sayin’ is, you’ve been taking care of us since Mama died, and if you don’t pick your head up out of the washbasin pretty soon, you’re gonna miss your chance to make a family of your own.”

“I have a family.”

“Alta, cut it out. You know what I mean. I’m not saying do something wild like run off to New York, which I know you wouldn’t do even if that old hag Maggie ever did invite you, I’m just saying find someone who’ll take care of you for a change,” he said. “You’re not getting any younger.”

Alta narrowed her eyes at him even while a smile played at her lips, and she grabbed a fistful of sourdough and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and he caught it and staggered back, feigning the force of it. “Ah, you got me!” he said.

“Hardly,” she said. She opened her hand and waited for him to return the weapon, then she worked it back into the thickening mass. Push, fold, press. “Oh fine,” she said. “I’ll go to the stupid bazaar and meet Walter.”

“Atta girl.”

“But then you have to promise to leave me alone. If I don’t like him, then just leave me be about it, hear?

“Yessum.” Then he dipped his finger into the canister of flour and drew a white line underneath one of her eyes. “Go get your war paint on, we gotta leave in an hour.”

That afternoon was the eighteenth annual St. Michael’s bazaar, which was always held on the second Saturday in September. Women brought their canned and baked goods to sell at the Country Kitchen; crocheted afghans, baby blankets, handmade furniture, and rosaries went on sale at the Craft Booth. All the proceeds went to pay for repairs to the church and, this year, a new ambry, the case that contains and displays the holy oils.

When Alta and Marek crossed the bridge over New Creek and walked up the turning-leaf path into Whisper Hollow, they found a crowd gathered in the level clearing that separated St. Michael’s from the cemetery. Children played carnival games, and parents and older adults visited over plates of kielbasa and sauerkraut and rolls as dense as baseballs. A few parishioners walked around selling twenty-five-cent raffle tickets to win the “Mystery Nine Patch” quilt sewn by quilting bee volunteers.

With one hand in his pocket, Marek shielded his eyes with the other and scanned the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

Alta stood next to him, a small basket of baked goods looped over one arm. “What’s he look like, exactly?”

“You ever heard Daddy describe a pillar of coal in a cut-out room?”

Alta shook her head.

“Big, strong, squared-off. Mostly quiet.”

“Sounds dashing.”

“He’s better-looking than coal, for sure. But maybe not exactly dashing.”

Alta shot him a look.

“Listen, a pillar’s what’s left after we mine out a room full of coal. It’s what holds up the mountain after it’s been hollowed out. Same could be said about old Walter.” Then he tipped his head toward the arc of afternoon sun. “What do you know,” he said, raising his hand. “There he is now. Hey, Walter!”

Alta sighed, but at the same time felt a kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight inside her belly. She’d never had a steady beau. She’d never even been kissed. The closest she’d come was when the pimple-faced cousin of their next-door neighbor, who was a year younger and a foot shorter, had walked her home every day after school. That was two springs ago. She didn’t feel a thing toward him but pity, yet she’d still allowed him the pleasure of her company for those fifteen minutes each day, since he enjoyed it so much. Thankfully, his family moved to Kentucky as soon as school was out for the summer.

Walter made his way toward them, leaning his bulk forward and moving steadily through the crowd as though hauling his own body, like a train of coal-filled cars. His arms and legs were long; his torso, stout. He was exactly as Marek had described, big and strong and square. And even from a distance, with his chin out and his eyes down, he looked quiet.

When he stood before them, Walter nodded and extended his hand toward Marek. “Good to see you,” he said in a voice that didn’t match his bulk. Alta shifted very slightly forward to hear.

“Walter, I’d like to introduce my sister, Alta.”

Walter nodded at her and started to extend his hand, and then, hesitating, pulled it back entirely. “How d’you do,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Alta said, and looked into her basket as the butterflies settled back down.

Marek laughed out loud. “Now that’s done with.” He reached out for the basket. “Alta, I’ll take that basket over to
the ladies at the Country Kitchen and give them your regards. Why don’t the two of you go for a walk, get to know each other a little bit?”

Walter smiled and Alta met his gaze. He had a nice smile, she thought. His eyes were a very nice brown. She smiled back and then turned to Marek to hand off the basket. Marek winked at her and she rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

Alta and Walter stood still, watching Marek walk away, swinging the basket in a manner that suggested he knew they were watching. They waited for him to turn around and wave or shoo them onto their walk, but he didn’t. Finally, Walter turned to Alta and said, “Well?”

“Shall we?”

“Yes.”

And they set off together down a path. Walter asked her polite questions about herself, the answers to which he no doubt already knew: how old she was, how many siblings, how she enjoyed passing her spare time. He said kind things about Marek, her elder brothers, and her father, whom he’d met underground. He didn’t mention her mother. In turn, she asked about him.

He’d turned twenty that June, an only child and half-orphaned at age three after his mother died giving birth to stillborn twin boys. He worked as an electrician for Blackstone, and he liked to spend quiet mornings hunting or building furniture with felled wood that he found in the Hollow. He liked to read but wasn’t very fast at it, so he favored the
Charleston Sentinel
over books. He spoke clearly but softly, and much of what she gleaned came not from what he said, but from what he didn’t.

They meandered around the church grounds and circled the happenings of the bazaar while they talked, until they finally ended up by the edge of the cemetery that had been set up for games.

“Win your gal a grab bag!” called Mr. Adler, the parishioner volunteer. “Twenty-five cents buys you three tries to win her something special! There’s some with chewing gum, or soaps, or trout flies, and a few got some fancy items you’d sure be lucky to win!”

Walter looked at Alta and she shrugged, smiling and embarrassed at — but also intrigued by — the idea of her being his “gal.” Walter seemed shy about it, too, but ready for the challenge. He dug into his trouser pockets for a quarter.

Six rows of six brown paper sacks had been arranged, each sack tied with twine. The idea was to take a fishing pole and try to catch one of the sacks by one of the tiny bow loops. It was harder than it looked. The loops were pulled small, and the hook was so light that it would take aim and patience and a lull in the autumn breeze to catch one. Walter took the wooden stick and surveyed the thirty-six identical bags. Alta wondered what he was thinking when he chose the one that was in the fourth column, third row from the right. He suspended the hook above the bag, eyebrows knitted in concentration, and lowered it. He missed.

“That’s one!” Mr. Adler teased. “You got two more.”

Walter lifted the hook and took a breath. He dipped it down, faster this time, and then pulled up, thinking he’d hooked it.

“That’s two!”

Walter glanced at Alta. She nodded with what she hoped looked like encouragement. He tried again.

As though it were a canary down a shaft, Walter lowered the hook, steady, watchful. He was just about to connect when a sudden breeze blew the hook away. There was a collective groan among the three of them. Mr. Adler glanced around, checking to see if anyone else was watching, then winked. “That there was an act of God; you’da got it that time. Go on, take one last turn. No charge.”

Walter shook his head. “Thank you but no.” His shoulders reminded her of some sort of large animal, a gorilla maybe. Or an ox. Alta gave a polite thanks-anyway smile to both of the men and shifted her weight as if leaving, assuming Walter would do the same. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew another quarter. “I’ll try again, but I want to pay for it,” he said.

Mr. Adler took it and held it aloft like the Host and nodded, pumping it as he did so. “A good man,” he said. Then he turned to her and nodded again, one eye narrowed. “That’s a good man you got there. You hang on to that one, hear?”

Alta blushed and looked down. She glanced at Walter across her shoulder, and saw that he, too, was blushing, and fighting a tiny smile. Once again, he poised the hook above the chosen bag and waited until the breeze had passed and the line had stilled. All of them watched, wanting him to catch it, wanting to escape the disappointment and embarrassment of another failed attempt, even though the prize was no more than a simple paper bag filled with next to nothing. But it was more than that, too, and all of them knew it.

He lowered the hook to the loop and waited — he seemed to Alta a patient sort of man — and, in that stillness, he outlasted the lusty wind that blew in and threatened to steal his prize. He angled his wrist, and the point slipped into the loop of twine, and he pulled it up carefully, testing the heft of the reward. When the loop held and the bag began to rise, they all sighed through broad smiles, as though the miners had all made it safely upground after a shift or the baby had started breathing again or they had enough money at the end of the month for something special. Walter unhooked the bag and held it out to Alta, who accepted it demurely. “Thank you,” she said, and held it to her chest. It weighed very little.

“Well, ain’t you gonna open it up? See what your fella got for you? It could be a soap, but it might be one of those fancy ones the ladies packed up.” Mr. Adler leaned in and winked. “I heard tell one of them’s even got a diamond ring! Now, it’s not a real one, o’ course. But even still, could be something to get you started in that direction.” He winked again. “Go on, open it up.”

Alta held the bag close. She wouldn’t mind at all if it were nothing more than a chunk of good-smelling soap, but she knew better. It felt like a feather in her hand. A diamond ring, on the other hand, even a plastic one, might give Walter an idea she wasn’t sure she was prepared to entertain. But what kind of beggar was she to be so choosy? She wasn’t anything like her beautiful and worldly aunt Maggie. She should be grateful that anyone would show an interest in her. And Walter seemed nice enough. She looked at him before she untied the twine, and was surprised to see eagerness in his expression. His eyes were bright and held hers, direct and unflinching, for the first time since Marek had introduced them. She hadn’t stopped to wonder until that moment what he might have been thinking about her all this time. If he liked her or if he didn’t. By the look in his eyes, she thought there was a strong chance he did.

She smiled at the thought, but the butterflies remained peacefully at rest inside her belly. Untying the bag, she peered in.

Her eyes grew wide, but she immediately forced them back to neutral. At the bottom of the brown sack was nothing less than a plastic diamond in a plastic gold setting. It was oversized, likely from the gumball machine at the Company Store, nothing she would ever actually wear, even if it had been real. She swallowed and smiled and rolled the bag down, making out as if it were heavier than it really was.

“Soap,” she said, her voice bright.

“Aw, now that’s a darn shame,” Mr. Adler said.

“No, no. Soap is great. Soap is perfect,” she said, and turned to Walter. “Thank you. For winning it for me.”

Walter’s smile faded. “You’re welcome,” he said, and handed Mr. Adler back the fishing pole.

“Want to give it another go?” Mr. Adler’s eyebrows lifted like a salesman’s. “Try for that diamond ring to give your gal?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “She seems happy with the soap for now.”

“Next time then,” he said.

“Next time.” Walter nodded and then turned toward Alta. “Want to go see what’s for sale in the Country Kitchen?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said, holding the bag in the hand farther away from Walter.

Walter nodded and they began walking, he matching his ambling pace to her long, sturdy one and trying to add more weight to the memory of that fragile sack when he’d hooked it off the ground.

Today was Myrthen Bergmann’s nineteenth birthday. A day that other girls her age would celebrate with a cake, perhaps a new dress, or a special meal with her family or her husband, if she were already married, as many nineteen-year-olds in Verra were. But Myrthen no longer celebrated her birthdays. She no longer considered such blithe happiness an appropriate indulgence. Instead, she mourned.