Carla Kelly (17 page)

The main floor of the school was empty. Della glanced in her classroom, half hoping to see a new note for her on the alphabet peg board, but there was nothing. Miss Clayson had tacked a one-word message to the newel post: “Downstairs.” They obeyed, Israel leading her into the gymnasium where Miss Clayson waited, tapping a sheaf of papers against her arm, her lips in a tight line.

“I'm relieved you could tear yourself away from Provo, Mr. Bowman,” she said by way of a greeting.

“Wasn't easy, ma'am,” he replied cheerfully. “I am now engaged to Blanche Bent.”

“I suppose this means we'll have even less of your attention this school year.”

“Not at all, Miss Clayson,” Israel replied. “I know my job.” He said it with just enough crispness in his words to make Della look at him anxiously, hoping Miss Clayson wouldn't pounce.

She didn't, to Della's surprise. She made a mental note:
Learn to stand up to bullies
.

After a long and deliberate stare at Israel Bowman, Miss Clayson turned to Della, cleared her throat, and began. “We begin school at eight thirty every morning, Miss Anders, and conclude at three o'clock. I will remind you both that children are to eat their lunch here in the gymnasium. No mess will be tolerated. Many go home for lunch, but the students most distant from school—mostly the Finnish children— will eat here. You will supervise them, of course. During bad weather they may play in the basement. Everyone is outside during good weather, of which there is precious little in the winter.”

She handed Della and Israel the papers in her hands. “Here are the tentative student rosters. Mr. Bowman, we will go through your roll first.”

Della looked at her own roll while Miss Clayson took her colleague through every student from the fourth to sixth grades, discussing more felonies and misdemeanors, to her ears, than successes. Israel Bowman's face was a study in impassive blandness. She wondered if he was even listening. Then Miss Clayson cleared her throat and glared at Della.

“Miss Anders, you will pay close attention to what I tell you about your second and third grade students. Your first graders are, of course, a clean slate because they are new to us. It will be up to you to mold them into good students and American citizens.”

Her words sounded like grim duty. Miss Clayson looked down the list, frowning, then jabbed her finger at the paper, her eyes ever narrower. “Billy Evans! You will find him exasperating because he refuses to read. Miss Forsyth had no success. After she … left us, I tried, and then a host of district substitutes.”

“Does he need spectacles?”

Miss Clayson sighed, and Della could tell she was frustrated.
You do care,
she thought.

“No, his eyes and hearing are excellent. He's a smart child.” She tapped the paper again. “I expect him to read this year, make no mistake.”

And so it went, twenty-five boys and girls in her classroom, and one Finnish bride. Tomorrow she would find out what they already knew and build her lessons. There would be successes and failures, but that was education. Some students would learn better than others. If this class bore any resemblance to her Westside School classes, she would learn from them too.

Della wasn't sure what she would learn from the library that evening, or if anyone would even show up. She rushed through supper preparation with Mabli, then worked up her nerve to stand in front of the men at the long tables and announce that the library would be open that evening from seven to nine. She laughed when they applauded.

When she arrived early at the Wasatch Store that evening, Clarence Nix was waiting. He led her to the top floor and opened the library. She sniffed. No one had used the library in months, if the stale air was any indication. At least she smelled no mildew. Clarence showed her what to do and said he'd be downstairs in the store if she needed him.

When he left, Della opened the windows and lighted all the kerosene lamps. She took down the big signs that Miss Clayson must have put up, more threats than mere admonitions that the patrons wash their hands. Della only had one sign, and she put it over the space above the entrance.

“ ‘Through
this
portal pass readers,’ ” she read out loud.
No more threats
, she thought.

She arranged newspapers that had been accumulating since Miss Clayson drove away the patrons and sat in an empty library filled with clean books but no readers. The old newspapers went in a stack by the door with another sign: “Take these for your own use.” The most recent ones were given pride of place on the narrow table that ran half the length of the room. There were German papers,
The Scotsman
from Edinburgh; newspapers that must have been Welsh, because she recognized Cardiff and Merthyr Tydfil; papers from Belgium, Paris, Rome, and England.

She went around the room, impressed with the shelved books. Someone must have been especially fond of Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson because they were well-represented. She ran her fingers along the titles and pulled out
Treasure Island
, remembering how she had begun reading it at the Molly Bee that month before Papa died. She took the book back her desk and sat down, ready to begin again.

Seven o'clock came, and she sighed with relief to hear people climbing the stairs. She recognized two of the men from the boardinghouse, all cleaned up and looking surprisingly shy for men who seemed so rough when they came into the dining room. They both laughed when they read her sign over the door, came in, and went immediately to the newspapers, one to a German paper, the other to a French one.

By eight o'clock, the room was pleasantly full, men sitting at the table with the newspapers and others browsing the bookshelves and checking out volumes to take home. If there had been more comfortable chairs, she thought some would have stayed to read.

Some wives came with their husbands. They introduced themselves to her and mentioned their children, whose names she had seen on her roll that morning. They gravitated toward the women's magazines, heads together, pointing out the fashions. Della dug out old copies of
Ladies’ Home Journal
and
McCall's Magazine,
wishing there were more. Tomorrow, if she had time, she would renew subscriptions with her own money.

Shortly after eight, Owen and Angharad arrived. The child brightened to see her, to Della's delight, and let go of her father's hand. Della knelt with her by the low shelf that held the few children's books.

“Da likes to read the newspaper,” Angharad whispered. “Is this my library voice? Da told me.”

“Your library voice is excellent,” Della whispered back. In a moment, Angharad had a picture book and was sitting on her father's lap while he read the Merthyr Tydfil newspaper.

Della sat back, satisfied, watching the patrons and listening to the rustle of newspaper. She decided that with her six dollars a month from running the library, she could easily subscribe to more magazines and newspapers. There should be more children's books too.

“Sister Anders, you're woolgathering. I was about to set myself on fire to get your attention.”

She looked up in surprise to see Dr. Isgreen standing before her desk.

“I suppose I am,” she whispered, clasping her hands on the desk. “No matches, please. Check out a book; check out two!”

He sat down in the chair beside the desk. “My principal aim this evening is to invite you to dinner Saturday night at one of Scofield's finest restaurants.”

“I didn't know there were any,” she whispered back.

“There are if your expectations are low. Interested?”

She was and told him so, then wagged her finger at him. “Only if I don't have to ride the flatbed.”

The doctor put his hand to his chest as if she had struck him a mortal blow. “I blame Israel for that one.”

“You would!”

Eyes lively, he put his finger to his lips. “Softly! No flatbed. Wear sturdy shoes and we'll walk. Six o'clock all right, barring any emergencies that trump everything?” He leaned closer. “That's always the caveat about physicians.”

She nodded. “Barring any emergencies. I could walk to the hospital and save you a long haul up the canyon.”

He agreed. “That's not too gentlemanly of me, but it will be a time-saver. I
will
walk you all the way home.”

“You'd better,” she said, wondering where her courage came from to be so flippant. She couldn't remember her last invitation from a gentleman.

He bowed, and she hoped the other patrons were busy reading. “I am reassured. At least you didn't call me a dirty bird, like poor old Owen over there,” he whispered. “He's still laughing about that.” He gave her a wink. “See you Saturday at six.”

Della bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud again. She turned her attention to her actual patrons as Dr. Isgreen made his genial way from the library, stopping to chat with friends. When she looked up again it was after nine o'clock. The women and children had left, and Owen was folding the newspaper. As she watched, Angharad whispered in her father's ear, and he nodded. She came to Della's desk.

“Please, could you pick out a book? Da said he'll read it to me. I can just read small words.”

“I will be happy to, Angharad,” Della replied. “I think I know just the book.”

She looked under Kipling, found
The Jungle Book
, and handed it to the little girl. “This is one of my favorites. You can get your father to read you a story every night.”

Angharad looked through the book and nodded, handing it back for a stamped due date. “Any scary stories?” Owen asked.

“A tiger named Shere Khan, and a boy raised by wolves,” Della told him, relieved to see the twinkle back in his eyes. Maybe he wasn't so bothered about her refusal to join the choir.

“Usually scary stories mean Angharad has to share my bed.”

“Da! You're the one who gets scared!” Angharad teased.

“Then why are you the one who wants to sleep with me?”

“To keep you safe,” she said with a perfectly straight face.

Della held her breath with the loveliness of their familiar banter, remembering her own father. “My father used to read to me too.”

“You didn't have a mother?” Angharad asked. “I've heard that mothers read to children too.”

“So have I,” she replied, not looking at Owen. “I didn't have a mother either.”

“It's not fair,” she said as Della handed her the book.

“Probably not, but you have a good father, even if he is persistent.”

“Is that a good thing?” the child asked as Owen turned away to laugh.

“Sometimes,” Della said. “I'll see you Sunday.”

Owen ushered his daughter toward the door, then turned around to look at Della. He tipped an imaginary hat to her. Satisfied, Della circled the room, straightening books and arranging newspapers, newest first. The other readers took the hint and left. She had extinguished most of the lamps when Clarence Nix came into the library. He looked around, approval in his eyes.

“I counted them,” he told her. “Don't laugh; it's what clerks do. Thirty-five people this evening, and it's just the first night. Good job, Miss Anders. Any horrible black fingerprints?”

“None that I can see, except on the newspapers, and that might be newsprint. Clarence, if I give you money, could you subscribe to more ladies’ magazines and the
Saturday
Evening Post
?”

“I think the company is good for a few subscriptions. Save your spondulicks, even if you Anderses are plush.”

There it was again. Best to ignore it. She handed him her list. “Thanks, Clarence.”

Della went down the stairs and out into a cool night. Two men stood in the shadows, and she stopped, wary. Maybe Clarence wouldn't mind escorting her, if she waited.

She held her breath when both men stepped toward her, then let it out in relief. They were the two men from the boardinghouse who had been her first library patrons.

One of them tipped a real hat. “
Mademoiselle
Anders, you probably shouldn't walk alone. The saloon's closing soon, and we can't vouch for
them
.”

One on each side of her, the Frenchman and the German walked her home, carrying on respectable conversation, unlike what she sometimes heard in the dining hall. She doubted her cousins touring Europe had half such gallant escorts.

Later, her scriptures read, she lay peacefully in bed, thinking of more books Clarence might be cajoled into ordering. She closed her eyes finally, thinking that Owen Davis needed a haircut, even if winter was coming.