Carla Kelly (35 page)

The day started with a telephone call from Mr. Otto, humorous enough because she knew he must not have had much opportunity to use such a device. Her hand over the receiver, her eyes merry, Sister Gillespie called her to the phone.

“It's Mr. Otto. He doesn't seem to have much patience with this contraption,” she said. “Here you are, Julia.”

“This is a blasted nuisance,” he told her. “Darling, can you possibly hear me?”

“Loud and clear, sir,” she said, doing everything she could not to catch Sister Gillespie's eye because she knew she would not be able to smother her mirth.

“Don't ever ask me to string a line to the Double Tipi,” he growled.

“Sir! I would never,” she protested. “I'm only going to be there until September 15.”

“Hmm,” was all he said for a long time, although she could hear him breathing into the speaker.

“Mr. Otto?”

“We'll have to make a dash to the station when Sunday School is over.” He stopped talking then, and she could faintly hear Brother Gillespie in the background.

“And Gill … Brother Gillespie has promised that Brother Baker—whoever he is—won't give the closing prayer because he takes forever.”

“So you want me to have my valise packed and brought to the meeting, so we don't have to return to the Gillespies’ house?”

“That's it. You are wise beyond your years.”

Julia laughed. “Of course I am. Good-bye, Mr. Otto.”

“I just hang up this hand thing?”

“Yes. See you in a while.”

She hurried to pack, sorry to have to leave so fast, but grateful Mr. Otto had been kind enough to escort her to Cheyenne this first time. She was certain she could manage by herself from now on, now that she knew how kind the Gillespies were.

She was ready to turn the clasp on her valise when Sister Gillespie, her hair still in rags, came into the room with some books.

“Here you are, my dear. Maybe—James, was it?—would like a book or two with real endings.” She popped them into the valise when Julia opened it. “My boys won't even miss them.”

“He'll be delighted,” Julia said. “You've been so kind to us.”

“Nothing easier. Now you'll have to convince Mr. Otto that he can stay here too the next time you come.”

“Maybe so,” Julia replied, wondering why her face felt a little warm. “He did tell me that this trip was mostly to make sure I could manage by myself.”

Sister Gillespie began to untwist the rags from her hair. “You might just have to pretend that you're not so capable, Sister Darling.”

“I might,” Julia replied.

A half hour later, Brother Gillespie roared up in his Studebaker. “I left Mr. Otto at the hall,” he told Julia as he put her valise on his oldest daughter's lap and told them to crowd together. “There were a few happy sprites who wanted to continue making merry, and Mr. Otto was showing them out.” He grinned at her. “He's better than a bouncer. One look at him, and they couldn't back down the stairs fast enough.”

“His reputation does precede him,” Julia said as Sister Gillespie handed her the baby.

By the time she walked upstairs to the Odd Fellows Hall, located over a pawn shop, the cowboys Brother Gillespie spoke of were long gone. Mr. Otto stood in a group of men who looked about like him—tall, lean, dressed in obviously little-worn suits—talking with them.

“Looks like Mr. Otto has found some friends,” Sister Gillespie whispered to her.

“Do you think they all know each other?” Julia asked, surprised to see her employer so completely at ease.
Obviously I don't need to ever worry about Mr. Otto in any social situation,
she told herself.

“I think everyone in Wyoming knows everyone else,” Sister Gillespie said. “This state amazes me.”

Julia sniffed the air. She saw the spittoons lined up neatly against the back wall and the rough benches just as neat facing forward to a large picture of Custer's Last Stand. But there was the sacrament table, and there was Brother Gillespie, talking to members of his flock. She glanced at the Gillespies’ oldest daughter, her face serious, looking down at her notes and then at her mother for reassurance. Someone had hauled in a small organ. A serene-looking woman handed her baby to another lady and began the prelude music. It was church and nothing but church, despite the setting. Custer was no stained glass window, but Julia could see it didn't matter.

I could look and criticize, but I don't want to,
Julia thought as she sat on the bench next to Sister Gillespie.
Papa would remind me these are my people too, except I don't need reminding. It's so good to be here.

And it was. With a nod to the other men, Mr. Otto sat down beside her. He had even patted on some bay rum this morning, and she sniffed the air appreciatively. Mr. Otto leaned closer.

“You like that better than
eau de corral?”
he whispered, his breath just tickling her ear.

“Almost as good as
eau de sage,”
she whispered back. “Mr. Otto, you look fine in that suit. Maybe you should wear it more often.”

“Darling, I can't think of a single steer it would impress.”

She looked at him sideways, pleased at this side of him. He listened to the prelude music with a half smile. He moved closer to her to accommodate two latecomers.

He leaned toward her again. “What do I do?”

“When the service starts?”

He nodded. “Darling, I've never been to church in my life. Well, except when I got married.”

“You can sing along—I have this hymnbook—and take the bread and water when it's passed, if you want to,” she whispered back.

“They don't mind?”

“About the sacrament? No. Everyone's welcome.”

She knew he wouldn't know the opening hymn, but by the third verse, he was humming along with the same enthusiasm she recognized from “Sweet Evalina.”

After the opening prayer and a few announcements, Brother Gillespie invited a young man to the front to bless his baby. As other men gathered around, Mr. Otto whispered, “What now?”

“There's a baby to bless,” she whispered back. “It usually happens when they're really small.”

“I'll say. That's a little one.”

They were sitting so close she felt him chuckle. Julia looked at him, inquiry in her eyes.

“The baby's father runs the livery stable on First Street,” Mr. Otto whispered. “The man in the circle next to him is a physician and the man next to him is an undertaker. I never knew they were Mormons.”

Then maybe we haven't been doing our job,
Julia thought, struck by his words.
Or maybe discretion is the better part of valor, considering the pastor who was on the receiving end of my gravy boat. I wonder which it is.

She decided it didn't matter. Mr. Otto might know them better than she did, but these were her people, even if the room reeked of cigars and Custer was being ushered into a better world, courtesy of Sioux Indians. Someday there might even be a ward in Cheyenne, although the possibility seemed remote.

The short talks were the usual she had heard from childhood. Face solemn, eyes riveted on the back wall with its row of spittoons, Amanda Gillespie spoke on the Holy Ghost. She was followed by a missionary, who expounded on Section 89 and the Word of Wisdom. They were the same talks she heard every Sunday of her life, but as she glanced at Mr. Otto, she could see how attentive he was, how alert.
Maybe I should look at this through his eyes,
she told herself.
I would probably hear things I hadn't thought of in years.

Before the sacrament, Brother Gillespie chose to have a practice hymn. The lady with the baby went back to the organ, and the chorister opened her hymnbook.

“Redeemer of Israel,” she said, calling out the page number.

Julia knew it by heart, but she turned to the page for Mr. Otto's benefit. As the organist played through the hymn, the hymnbook she shared with Mr. Otto began to shake. Julia looked at him in alarm. His face had drained of color. Gently she took the book from his grasp as the congregation began to sing. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. She leaned against his shoulder.

“Mr. Otto, what's wrong?” she whispered, alarmed.

He grasped her hand and held it as though it was a lifeline. He had a strong grip. His lips were close to her ear as the congregation sang. “Darling … my mother used to hum that tune. I guess she didn't remember the words. Maybe she never knew them. My mother.”

He didn't release her hand through all the verses. Julia hesitated a moment but then put her other hand over his wrist as she listened to the words. She saw in her mind's eye a mother humming to her son what she remembered from her own childhood, changed by tragedy. Julia had to swallow hard against her own tears.

She looked up to see Brother Gillespie eyeing her with some concern. She managed a smile in his direction, with a small shake of her head. By the time the congregation finished the final verse, Mr. Otto was in control of his emotions again. He released her hand. “Sorry,” he whispered.

When the congregation began the sacrament hymn, Mr. Otto tensed again. He relaxed when he didn't know the tune and took the bread when it came his way, after an inquiring look at Julia. She nodded and took her turn, her eyes on Custer, but her heart on Mr. Otto and his curious connection with the people in the Odd Fellows Hall. None of them had an inkling of him beyond his being Mr. Paul Otto, an enigmatic figure and someone to be careful around.
If you only knew him,
she thought as she picked up the small cup of water. She considered the matter. Maybe that statement was true of most people. She looked toward the sacrament table; maybe she needed to know the Savior better.

Children and adults separated for classes, each heading to the opposite corner of the room. It was a far cry from her ward in the Avenues, with lace table coverings and a general air of prosperity, but the subject was familiar, taken from
The Instructor,
which Papa always read cover to cover.
And I could never be bothered,
Julia thought.
It was always something I was going to do.

She listened to the lesson and the discussion that developed, more interested in its effect on Mr. Otto, who sat so still and paid attention with far more conscientious effort than she could ever remember putting forth. He leaned forward on the bench, his back as straight as though he rode his horse, every line of his body alert, as though no one else was in the hall except the instructor. Julia asked herself if there had ever been a time in her life when she had paid that much attention to a Sunday School teacher and felt herself sadly wanting.

True to his word, Brother Gillespie chose a most taciturn member of the congregation to give the closing prayer. After a hug from Sister Gillespie and her children and the promise to return as soon as she could, Julia hurried to the curb. She looked around for Mr. Otto, who stood beside Brother Gillespie, hands in his pockets, head to one side, as relaxed as she had ever seen him. Brother Gillespie motioned for them to get in the automobile.

“It's but a short walk,” Mr. Otto protested. “I don't want to take you away from your congregation.”

“No trouble,” Brother Gillespie insisted. “Would you deny me a chance to puff up my pretensions and show off my Studebaker?”

“Not for the world, sir,” Mr. Otto said as he got in the car. He looked around. “You ready, Darling?”

“Heber, remember the shoebox,” Sister Gillespie said from the sidewalk. “Julia, it's just sandwiches. You know you don't want to eat that greasy train food.”

She nodded, hand on her hat. They made the northbound train with minutes to spare, Mr. Otto handing her up and then spending another few minutes in conversation with the Sunday School superintendent as the conductor tried to hurry him aboard. A brief, down-the-nose glare ended that, but Mr. Otto got the message. A few moments later, he sat down beside her, tossing his Stetson on the seat opposite them.

“I just promised him I'd bring you back in two weeks for the Christmas party,” he told her, selecting a sandwich when she opened the shoebox. “If the weather's good.”

“I don't mean to put you to trouble, Mr. Otto,” she said, choosing a pimento and black olive sandwich.

“No trouble. I'm riding line this coming week. It's Matt's turn the week after, so there's nothing to stop us, unless it's the weather, which I do respect. Do you think they'd mind if we brought James along?”

“They wouldn't mind,” she said softly. “Mr. Otto, what did you think?”

He shook his head and took a bite of his sandwich. He looked at it and frowned. “Darling, she's a fine woman, but you're a better cook.”

“You know I meant Sunday School,” she scolded.

He grinned at her. “I know.” His expression turned serious. “I know,” he said again more slowly. “Hard to say, really. Everyone seems earnest enough.” He turned slightly in the seat to look at her directly. “How do you feel about what everyone was saying?”