Katerina's Wish (16 page)

Before, when I had refused him, I had thought I'd had a future—that I'd be leaving the coal camp soon. Now, I saw otherwise. I saw the foolishness in believing in anything other than what was real right now. And in the four days the men had been trapped in the mine, I had also learned how fragile my real world could be. I hadn't appreciated what I had, and I had almost lost it. I'd almost lost Mark.

I looked into his pale, sick face, waiting eagerly for my answer. I could not know what the future held for either of us. All I could do was make the most of each moment that I had, whatever or wherever it was. And where it was—where it would always be—was here. But at least it could be with Mark.

“I would be honored,” I said.

THE NEXT WEEK
did not start with dancing. It started with funerals. In all, twenty-seven men had died and countless more were injured in the disaster at the mine, and no family in our community was untouched. The mine closed on Tuesday, and everyone in town crowded into one service or another. There were so many services held in so many different languages that they took place wherever space could be made. Afterward, the wagons full of coffins converged in the hilltop cemetery to the south of the mine. The whole community watched as one after another was lowered into the long row of open graves. Final prayers were said before the first shovelfuls of dirt were thrown onto the pine boxes. Then we united, no matter what our religion or language, in grief for our shared loss.

Mark insisted on going to the funerals, though we all begged him to stay home in bed. He could not walk on his injured foot, and the stitches across his chest made leaning on crutches unbearable. Papa and Karel carried him much of the way, though
they were still pale and wrung out by the ordeal. It took all their strength to get Mark to the hilltop cemetery, and all Mark's strength to stand through the prayers and scriptures read there.

It was past noon when the mourners dispersed from the hill. The mine officials shooed us all away from the graves, telling us to go home and mourn in private. Rumors had spread that union organizers would be at the funerals, so wakes and public gatherings had been forbidden.

Papa and Karel started back down the hill with Mark, struggling to keep their footing on the loose, gravely slope. Fortunately, other men came to their aid, healthy men who had not been trapped underground. Two bachelors took over and carried Mark down the hill and all the way back to his house. Old Jan was beside himself with gratitude for the men and, since they had no families to spend the afternoon with them, he invited them to stay for dinner.

Amid the commotion, it took several minutes for us to realize that Karel had stayed behind to assist Martina from the cemetery. Still snubbed by her mother- and brothers-in-law, she had stood alone at the funeral. She had collapsed, wailing with grief as the first shovelful of dirt was thrown on Charlie's coffin, and Karel had gone to her aid. Now, as they approached down the road, she moved like a sleepwalker, relying on Karel's strong but gentle arm to guide her. As they arrived at the house, Old Jan took one look at her and declared that she would not go home alone either.

Momma looked around at everyone—Mark, propped in a chair, his face tight with pain; the lonely bachelors; the desolate Martina. She squared her shoulders.

“Yes, Jan, you are right. We must all have a meal together. We must keep up our strength and support each other through these times.”

“I'm not hungry,” Martina protested weakly.

“Come now. The living must live,” Momma said.

Old Jan nodded and gently guided Martina to a chair. “Life goes on, my dear. Even at times like these.”

“Trina, go to the store and get us enough meat for a decent stew. We've got potatoes and a few vegetables left from the garden,” Momma said.

“The superintendent forbade gatherings,” Karel reminded us.

Momma made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “This is no gathering. It is family, and a few people who need family. They can't deny us that. Besides, we've no interest in the union. Trina, run along. We must get started.”

I did as she said. Old Jan came along too, insisting that the bachelors had helped his son, so he intended to pay. Mr. Johnson's store was open, but he had no customers, so Mr. Johnson was sitting outside on the porch. I stopped and stared when I saw him. He was leaning back in his chair, a bottle of soda pop in one hand while his other hand scratched a big yellow dog behind the ear. A second dog, equally large, lay at his feet, its tongue lolling out of its mouth in the summer heat. I stood staring until he looked up and saw me. His eyes tracked my gaze to his dogs before returning to my face. Then his lips curled into a slow smile.

“Do you like dogs?” he asked with mock innocence. “These are a special breed. They're
bird
dogs.” His smile widened even more as anger flooded my face with color. “I believe you have pets too, don't you? Tell me, how are your chickens these days?”

I couldn't answer. I was seeing in my mind all that had really happened. It made sense now. Stray dogs couldn't have broken through the gate or done so much damage by themselves, and hungry mongrels wouldn't have left carcasses uneaten. And there had been that bootprint in the garden. I
clamped my mouth shut, unwilling to respond to his taunt. I smiled back, though my insides were boiling, and walked into his store as if nothing was wrong, refusing to let him get the better of me. Mr. Johnson followed. I could feel him still smirking behind me.

Inside the store, Old Jan got busy selecting meat and a few other items. I wasn't sure just what. My head was pounding with anger, and I could barely see.

“Looks like you're having a little party,” Johnson observed as Old Jan counted out his money.

“Only a family supper,” Old Jan said.

Mr. Johnson shot me a suspicious look. “Didn't know she was part of your family.”

I said nothing. I hoped Mr. Johnson would soon forget this encounter. I did not want his hatred of me to harm Old Jan and his sons, especially now that I knew what Mr. Johnson was capable of.

At home I helped my mother prepare a hearty meal and tried to forget the encounter myself. When dinner was ready, we carried it to Old Jan's house, where we ate on the porch, as it was too hot inside. The men had dragged a mattress outside for Mark, and I sat beside him and helped him eat. He had little appetite, but could at least eat some of the gravy from the stew, and a few bites of the chewy meat.

As the afternoon wore on, his color grew worse. His sweaty face looked like a wax doll, with a high flush of pink in his cheeks. I left his side again only when I had to wash the dishes. When I returned, I was more alarmed than ever. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. Flies were crawling on his face and shirt. For a moment I thought he was dead, and I gasped. My gasp awakened him, as well as drawing the attention of the others. He stirred and
brushed at the flies on his face, grimacing with pain as he did so.

“I think it's time you were back in bed, Marek,” Old Jan said.

“And time we went home and gave you some peace and quiet,” Momma added.

Taking her meaning, the two bachelors thanked my mother and Old Jan and set out for their own home. Karel offered his arm to Martina, who stood to leave as well.

“Perhaps Trina might stay long enough to help me get Marek settled,” Old Jan suggested.

Mark protested, insisting that he didn't need help. By the time we got his mattress back on his bed and moved him, however, his jaw was clenched with pain. He leaned heavily on me and hopped the short distance to his bed. Once there, he collapsed, spent. I tucked a pillow under his head.

“Holena told me today that you made a wish for a farm,” he said, managing a brief, teasing smile. “No wonder you've had so much good luck. It's magic!”

I scowled. She had promised to keep it a secret. “I don't feel very lucky.”

“But you are,” he insisted. “You got your little farm—chickens, garden, chicken coop.”

“That wasn't a farm. And anyway, it's all gone now.”

He sighed as I gently tucked his bare feet under the sheets. “Maybe that's my good luck.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“With your chickens and garden, you were too busy for me. Now we are going to the dance.”

I did not reply to that, only busied myself arranging the sheets comfortably around his feet, then helped him out of his shirt. His skin felt warm, and I looked again with concern at his face. Sweat stood out on his brow, but it had been a warm
day, and he had exerted himself. I hoped desperately there was nothing more to it.

“We are going to dance all night,” he murmured, shutting his eyes and settling back comfortably once his shirt was off him. I looked at the bandages on his chest. There were a few dark spots of blood, but not enough to give alarm.

I smoothed his damp hair back off his forehead. “Rest,” I whispered, but needlessly—he was already asleep.

The next day Papa was back at work once again. Old Jan arrived at our house midmorning.

“How is Mark this morning?” I asked. My concern had only grown in the night, but Old Jan did not look worried.

“He is still sleeping,” he said. “He was worn out from yesterday, so I did not wake him for breakfast. Sleep is the best thing for him. I came to see if there is something I might do for the garden.”

I did not want to think about the garden or see the ruined chicken yard, so I stayed inside to help my mother with the mending while Old Jan and my sisters worked outside. Still, I was fidgety and my mind was not on my work. The third time I had to remove a big tangle from my thread, Momma asked me what was the matter.

“If you want to go out to your garden, go on,” she said. “Heaven knows you're not very useful here as you are.”

I dropped my hands to my lap and sighed. “I'm worried about Mark. He felt warm last night when I helped him to bed.”

Momma's needle stopped in midair.

“A fever?”

“I—I don't know. It was a warm day. Maybe he was just worn out, like Old Jan said.”

“There's broth for our lunch on the stove,” Momma said. “Perhaps you should take some and look in on him.” “Old Jan said he's resting.”

“But you won't be easy till you're sure he's all right, and I won't either, now. Go on. If all's well with him, you can come right back.”

I already felt better just to be checking on him myself. I poured some of the broth into a small pan and set off at once up the hill to Mark's house.

Inside, the house was still and quiet. I set the pan of broth on the stove and tiptoed through to the bedroom. The curtain was closed, so the room was dim. Karel was snoring in one corner. In the other corner, Mark lay still on his back in Old Jan's bed, his face turned toward the wall. I stood in the doorway and watched him, his chest rising and falling with each breath. At first, I felt a rush of relief at how peacefully he slept, but as I stood watching, I realized something was wrong. His breaths were not the slow, deep breaths of a restful sleep. They were too quick and shallow.