Carla Kelly (40 page)

James brightened at this news. “You know about Christmas?”

“I know about Christmas,” Doc assured him. A shadow passed over his face. “I had a little boy like you once, and we knew Christmas.” He took James on his lap. “Julia has to leave tomorrow morning, and I'll ride with her to Gun Barrel and come right back. Matt is here, and he'll stay in the house. Maybe if Julia has time, she can finish those Christmas cookies she mixed this morning.”

“I can do that,” she said, grateful to Doc for giving her something else to do, something else to hold off the awful moment when she would be on the train with nothing to think about except Iris. She leaned against Doc again, relieved that he was there. “I need my mother. I have to be home.”

Bless his heart, Doc sat in the kitchen with her and James as she made cookies, the buttery kind she made with a cookie press. He sat there, ready to take her hand and just hold it, when she faltered. Matt distracted James with work in the stable. At some point, they switched places as the sky grew dark and Doc had chores. No one left her alone as she baked cookies, bread, and then fixed dinner—silent, for the most part—her heart and mind on her family.

She thought of Mr. Otto too, knowing that he had been alone when he left the Double Tipi, alone to buy a train ticket in Cheyenne for Chicago, alone to sit on the train as she would be tomorrow. Alone when dark came and there was no comfort.

She packed a valise after she read to James and sang “Redeemer of Israel” to him. The tune kept revolving in her tired brain as she packed. Finally, she sat on her bed and closed her eyes in sorrow.

“‘Redeemer of Israel, our only delight, on whom for a blessing we call, Our shadow by day, and our pillar by night, our king, our deliverer, our all,’ “she said, the words coming out strangled and weary. Mr. Otto shouldn't think she knew nothing about the Bible. She remembered quite clearly the children of Israel, as contrary as they were on so many occasions, being led by a shadow and comforted by that pillar of fire by night.
I need that, too, Father,
she thought.
Comfort me. Comfort Mr. Otto. Oh, please, if you're not too busy.

Maybe it wasn't even a prayer. Maybe it was just a desperate plea from someone of little consequence, in the greater scheme of things, wishing she were in Salt Lake City right now and not separated from her parents by a whole state. Maybe they were at the meetinghouse now, greeting mournful friends and family in a viewing. Iris's husband was surely there too.

She felt her throat tighten, remembering the huge smile on her brother-in-law's face when he returned with his young bride to the house last fall—was it only last fall?—after their wedding in the Salt Lake Temple. She thought of Mr. Otto's red-rimmed eyes and how he had not wanted to look at her. At least she was going toward people who loved her and needed her. She had no idea what her boss was facing alone. If the grim look on his face had been any indication, it was nothing remotely pleasant.

As she sat on her bed, trying to stifle her tears, Julia suddenly remembered another verse of “Redeemer of Israel.” The words seemed to scroll, unbidden, through her brain. She said them aloud, her voice soft.

“‘Restore, my dear Savior, the light of thy face; thy soul-cheering comfort impart; and let the sweet longing for thy holy place bring hope to my desolate heart.’ ”

“‘Hope to my desolate heart,’ ” she whispered again.

She felt anything but hopeful, but as she sat there, hardly breathing, she felt a curious calm replace the misery that had been hers ever since Doc had asked her so quietly to come into the parlor.

Nothing happened, not at first, not until she felt her eyes grow heavy. She fought it, thinking of everything she had to do before they left tomorrow morning at first light: notes to leave, food to organize. Maybe she could send a telegram to her parents and maybe one to the Gillespies. At least she had finished the sweater she had been knitting for James. She had too much to do to sleep.

And then none of it seemed to matter. She sighed and closed her eyes. She opened them long enough to look at the Book of Mormon by her pillow. She had read every night since Mr. Otto had left, but she was too full of sorrow now. Still dressed, she pulled back the covers and put the book on her pillow, resting her cheek against the familiar leather grain, willing morning to come quickly.

he trip to Salt Lake City was a merciful blur: the silent ride with Doc to Gun Barrel; the train to Cheyenne, where the overcast sky fit her mood; the relief of seeing the Gillespies at the depot.

Brother and Sister Gillespie were waiting at the depot when the Cheyenne & Northern hissed to a stop, steam pouring out and hanging there in the cold air. She reached for Sister Gillespie, sobbing out what had happened. Brother Gillespie's arms went around her too as they stood on the platform, people all around them, curious but intent on their own business.

Sister Gillespie sat with her in the back seat as her husband drove the few blocks to the Union Pacific Depot. She stopped him before he got to the ticket window. “I … I bought this last fall, kind of as insurance, in case I hated the Double Tipi,” she said, holding out the ticket that she had tucked in the valise and forgotten about in the last few months.

“I'd feel better if you had a sleeping car,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

“I don't think I'll sleep,” she said, holding tighter to Sister Gillespie's hand.

“You might surprise yourself,” he told her as he handed over her old ticket and replaced it with a Pullman sleeper ticket.

“I didn't have time to stop at the bank in Gun Barrel, but I—”

“Pay me when you return,” he said. “And don't argue with your Sunday School superintendent.”

For the first time in her life, she wasn't shy about asking for a blessing. The weight of Brother Gillespie's hands on her head reminded her acutely how sorely she missed the priesthood at the Double Tipi. His words were a balm to her soul.

They walked her to the train afterwards, but before she climbed aboard, Brother Gillespie put his hands on her shoulders and stooped a little to look in her eyes. “Sister Darling, I know how much you need comfort from your parents.”

“I long for it,” she said.

He shook his head. “My dear, this time you will need to comfort them.”

“But—”

“No matter how much you hurt, and I know you do, please think of them first.”

She was halfway across Wyoming and tossing and turning in a sleeping compartment before the weight of what Brother Gillespie said started to penetrate her sorrow. She rejected it at first, wanting only to crawl into her mother's lap as she had done when she was a child and had sustained some hurt, real or imaginary. And there would be Papa, ready to console her over the loss of her only sister.

She stared at the ceiling, not comforted by the train's rhythmic sound and movement. It did not soothe her this time. Wearily, she picked up the Book of Mormon, wondering where those special verses were that Mama always found, to make everything right.

She found herself going back to earlier chapters in Second Nephi, reading and rereading that chapter her father called “Nephi's Psalm.” Funny how she used to think Nephi was such an annoying prude, driving his older brothers to distraction with his moralizing and his preaching. But here he was, admitting to faults, pouring out his heart to a God he knew cared about him and was listening as he unburdened his soul.

Oh, God, I don't know how it's going to be not to have Iris around to write to, to visit, to talk to whenever I pick up the telephone,
she thought. The reality was exquisite anguish, and the pain so great that she was helpless against it until she read Nephi's psalm again, looking again and again at the same verse because it took away the sharp edge of her grief: “Nevertheless, I know in whom I have trusted.”

I don't know all I should, but I hope that's true,
Julia thought, reading the little phrase over and over until the raw pain seemed to subside. The ache was there but not overwhelming her now.

She read on, reading, backing up, reading more, until she came to verse 33, which she knew, no matter how strange and selfish it made her, that Nephi had put there just for her: “Wilt thou make my path straight before me!” She read no further because everything she needed was there.

The porter woke her in time to dress and get off in Ogden to catch the Short Line to Salt Lake. The winter sun wasn't over the mountains yet, but the car was lamp-lit as she looked again at Nephi's Psalm, glad he understood that God would give liberally to him, if he asked not amiss.
If he did that for Nephi, he will do it for me,
she decided as the train pulled into the depot.

Tears welled in her eyes as she saw her father standing on the platform, scanning each window until he saw her face. She swallowed her own tears because he began to cry when he saw her. She had never seen her father cry before, and it was a terrible sight, almost as awful as the sound of Mr. Otto crying in the kitchen after she went to bed that night. Was it only a week ago? It seemed more like an eternity.

She willed herself to stay calm, thinking of Nephi and the many days he must have done exactly the same thing because people on whom he probably wanted to depend on were depending on him. It was a reality as stark as a seismic shift, and she understood what she had to do as surely as Nephi must have.

As the train came to a halt, Julia ran her hand over the Book of Mormon and put it in the valise. When she began her trip in Gun Barrel, the only thing on her mind was throwing herself into her parents’ arms and sobbing her heart out. Something had happened between Gun Barrel and Salt Lake. She wasn't totally sure how she felt about it, but she knew when she stepped off the train, things would be different. For a fleeting moment, she wished with all her heart that Mr. Otto was there to help her. He was so sure of himself, so unflappable.