Carla Kelly (46 page)

The silence seemed louder than the roar of the tipple. Uncle Karl clapped his hands together, which made Aunt Caroline jump. “Excellent! We're having a dinner here tomorrow night. Just a few businessmen. I think they will be diverted to hear what life is actually like in a coal camp.”

“Diverted,” Aunt Caroline said. “Will we have room at table for two more people?”

“It'll be the driest dinner in the history of this house,” Cousin Cressy said. “Mama, I'll happily relinquish my place.”

“Me too,” Cousin Ellen chimed in, then spoke in that wheedling voice Della remembered so well. It had gotten Ellen blended perfumes and kid gloves and was probably going to get her Vassar now. “Besides, Mama,
our
friends are going caroling to the less fortunate that night.” An Aunt Caroline in training, Ellen smiled at Della. “You know, cousin, those people you used to teach on the west side.”

“Yes, I know. My lovely, kind students,” the new Della replied, which startled Ellen, who hadn't expected a comment at all. “I plan to visit a few of them tomorrow. I'll let them know about the treat that's in store.”

Ellen frowned. Cressy took the lead, mumbling something about a headache, and Ellen was happy to follow her out the door.

“You can certainly entertain our guests tomorrow night with stories about the coal miners,” Aunt Caroline said, staring after her daughters as if she wished to follow them.

“I really don't think we can
entertain
anyone with something as ordinary as mining,” Della said. “I'm certain Miss Clayson and I will be happy to talk about our students. Thank you for the invitation.” Della glanced at her principal and saw all the danger in her bland expression. “As for me, and perhaps Miss Clayson, I'm tired after traveling. Would you mind if we, uh …”

“Not at all,” Aunt Caroline said in her best company voice. “We breakfast at nine during the holidays, but you'll probably want to be on your little errands much sooner. Good night.”

“Calm, calm, Miss Clayson,” Della murmured as they left the parlor and went toward the backstairs. “I honestly thought she would be more polite, since you are a visitor.”

She glanced at Miss Clayson. The principal's lips were drawn into a line tighter than the time last fall when Georgie Pugh brought a raw skunk skin for the seventh grade's Display and Discuss.

At the turn of the first flight, Miss Clayson must have felt she was out of earshot. She stood still. “Della, you may call me Lavinia anywhere now except during school hours. How on earth did you ever survive this house?”

“I kept out of sight and raised myself. And there was Mrs. Mabry,” she replied simply. “When I get home, I might thrash Owen Davis for encouraging me to do this.” She looked up the stairs. “One more flight. We're not quite under the eaves, but the beds are soft. Cool off, Lavinia. This is your room.”

Della switched on the electric light in her old room. With a sigh, she heaved the suitcase onto her bed and unpacked. Tucked among her extra petticoat and drawers was the carved
Anders
, surrounded by thistles and leeks. It almost seemed a shame to waste it on the Anders mansion. No telling where Aunt Caroline would put the lovely carving.

She held the sign and traced it with her finger, feeling suddenly alone and among strangers. She had felt this way when she came to the house twelve years ago, and she felt that way now.

She found Angharad's carved box. She pulled off the top, remembering where she had put Owen's envelope. Starved and lonely, she looked at the words,
Open if you think you need it
, and opened it.

With a sigh of relief, she shook out a silk kerchief with a red dragon. The square was white on top, bright green below, and the dragon with upraised claw roared in the middle. At the bottom was the word
Cymru
. “Wales,” she said. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Mabry was happy to serve French toast at seven in the morning and offer advice. “Wear your best dresses tonight at the dinner, dearies.”

“Who on earth is coming?” Della asked, holding out her plate for more French toast.

“You are a bottomless pit,” Mrs. Mabry scolded, but loaded on another thick slice. “My goodness, who
isn't
coming? Some of your uncle's lawyer cronies, probably a typhoon or two …”

“Tycoon,” Lavinia Clayson murmured, ever the teacher.

“Everyone kisses everyone else and says stuff they don't mean,” Mr. Mabry said. “It happens every year.”

They arrived at Auerbach's Department store at eight thirty. “Lavinia, look at that,” Della said, her eyes on the largest display window. Although no observer of Christmas, Mr. Auerbach never spared any pains in creating the best nativity scene in the city, and the 1899 rendition was no exception.

Her mouth open like a child, Della admired the background scene, a star shimmering directly overhead. The rays cast a warm glow on date palms and sheep grazing on a hillside, with silhouetted shepherds leaning on their crooks, alert. In the distance, three camels and their riders approached.

Silent, they went to the next window and the next, charmed with elves in a Christmas workshop in one window, and desperate to own the lovely dresses set against a red velvet background in another window.

They went inside, and Della took the elevator to the third floor. She started down the familiar hall and stopped, her hand to her mouth. “He really framed them,” she whispered to Lavinia. Silent, she walked past Bryn Lloyd standing beside his father in Number Four; Max Muhlstein drawing water from Winter Quarters Creek; Gladys Hood and her mother scrubbing the bare back of Brother Andrew Hood, crammed into a tin tub and turning from black to white; Angharad and Owen Davis, carving boxes; and little Mary Parmley helping Sister Parmley make raspberry jam.

She kept walking. “Oh my.” Mr. Auerbach had even framed the long sheet of butcher paper the class had sent when they went to the depot to wave good-bye to Mrs. Aho, Pekka, and Reet. And there she was, curls practically bouncing in the wind, waving good-bye too.

“Lavinia, we have the best job in the world,” she whispered. There was no reply; Miss Clayson was having her own struggle.

Mr. Auerbach's secretary motioned them to chairs, then went into the office behind her. In a moment she came out followed by Samuel Auerbach.

“Ladies, ladies!” he boomed. “You like my art gallery, do you? It's the best in town. ZCMI doesn't even come close.”

“Mr. Auerbach, you're a prince,” Della told him, which made him chuckle. “This is my principal, Miss Clayson.”

He gave a courtly, Old World bow, which made Miss Clayson blush, then ushered them into his office. “Sit, sit. Tell me about your canyon,” he said in his rapid-fire way, which meant conversation and laughter until Mr. Auerbach's secretary cleared her throat in the doorway and reminded him of his nine thirty appointment.

“Duty calls,” he told them. With a flourish, he handed each of them a voucher, good for a total of fifty dollars in his store. “Something nice for my children,” he said. “Happy holidays!”

Outside his office, Della and Miss Clayson stared at each other and their vouchers. Before they could say anything, Mr. Auerbach opened his door.

“Della dear, there is more magic paper for you in Menswear—and a job this summer, no?—and all the crayons you need in Stationery. Miss Clayson, you're a lucky woman to employ her in your school.” He thought a moment. “I'll be at your Uncle Karl's house tonight. Save me a seat.”

“What should we get for the school?” Della asked, when they reached the main floor.

“You heard him: Something nice for his children,” Lavinia said with no hesitation.

They spent the next hour buying books, journals, indoor play equipment for winter, and one new table for each classroom. The clerk in Shipping assured Della he could get it all to Scofield shortly after Christmas, and Mr. Auerbach had said the shipping was free. The remaining two dollars bought enough chalk for two years. They gathered up the promised Rainbow Colors and practically staggered under cardboard from Menswear. This meant another trip to Shipping and then a collapse in the ladies room.

“My feet hurt,” Lavinia said.

“Too bad. The shipping clerk told me where to find Mrs. Aho.”

“I'm not budging for ten minutes.”

It was Miss Clayson's principal voice, so Della didn't argue. “That's fine. I have to pay another visit to Menswear. I'll be back here in fifteen minutes.”

The fifteen minutes turned into twenty minutes, because selecting four shirts for Owen with a Christmas crowd meant standing in line, wondering at the wisdom of her purchases. She knew she had the right size, since she had sold these very shirts last summer and was a good judge of shirts. Three shirts were white, of course, but she couldn't resist a blue and white pinstripe that Della knew would please Angharad.

When she finally reached the register, Mr. Whaley presided, looking more frazzled than a mother with triplets.

“I could use you back here,” he declared.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Whaley.”

“Buying shirts for a gentleman? Miss Anders, my congratulations.”

He rang up her purchases while she tried to think of ways to explain four men's shirts. There wasn't time to explain that Owen Davis was overpaid for carving boxes and he needed a good shirt or two for next summer's Eisteddfod, but would probably never buy them on his own, because fathers were like that.

“It's a long and complicated story. I'm doing this for a friend.”

Mr. Whaley wasn't about to let her off so easily. “ ‘Long and complicated’? If I had time, I would tease you!” He handed her the shirts and wished her Merry Christmas.

Miss Clayson was ready when she came back. They went downstairs to other offices and found Kristina Aho, blonde hair in a tidy pompadour and trim in a dark skirt and blue shirtwaist, standing at a drafting table. She ran toward them, her arms open wide.

“I miss you all, but I have a good job,” Kristina said, dab-bing at her eyes. “Pekka comes by after school to sweep out Mr. Auerbach's office and empty the trash cans on the third floor. Reet stays with my landlady and her children during the day, and there is a Lutheran Church down the street.” She took their hands in hers. “Come by on Christmas. Pekka will want to say hello.” Her eyes grew wistful. “When he gets homesick for his friends and his teacher, he goes to the third floor and looks at your pictures on magic paper. What can I say? I owe you a debt I can never repay, Miss Anders.”

“It's paid in full, if you are happy.”

She hugged Della. “
Hyvää joulua
. It's a happier Christmas than we would have thought. I hope you have a wonderful 1900.”

ousin Cressy proved to be monumentally wrong about the dinner that night. It may have begun as the driest dinner in the history of the Anderses’ house, but it ended as the one no one ever forgot.

“Should I do this?” Della asked herself several times as she dressed in the dark green wool whose finest previous occasion was sacrament meeting in the Pleasant Valley Ward. As usual, there was nothing she could do about her hair. For courage, she pinned Remy Ducotel's wheat sheaf brooch to her lace collar and touched Owen's dragon kerchief for good luck before she knocked on Lavinia Clayson's door.

She wore her usual black dress, but Della admired the way her principal seemed to
will
herself taller. “We'll pull through this, but I wish you would come to Boise.”