Katerina's Wish (22 page)

ANESHKA WENT
into a fit when she saw the copper band on my finger, then refused to talk to me for the rest of the evening. I didn't care. Mark had decided to look for work in town, so it was my last evening with him for a while. I was just as glad to have Aneshka leaving us alone. Her silence didn't last, however. In the morning, I woke to her glaring at me.

“What about the pickles, Trina?” she said accusingly. “What about them?”

“You're planning to marry Mark, but you promised to finish the pickles with us.”

“I'm promised to Mark is all. Momma and Old Jan have agreed on the match, so it's none of your business.”

“What about the wish?” she demanded.

I groaned and flopped onto my back, shielding my eyes with my arm. “Why did you tell her, Holena? It was supposed to be a secret.”

“She was sad,” Holena whispered from my other side. “I thought if she knew, she wouldn't be so sad.”

“Well, it was my wish, so it's mine to do with as I please, isn't it? Maybe Mark is going to get a job on a farm and take me there,” I said.

“But the farm was supposed to be for all of us,” Aneshka said.

I got out of bed, angry now. We were all disappointed; it didn't help to have Aneshka always bringing it up and accusing me with it. “Well, it didn't work out that way, did it? What am I supposed to do about it?”

“You're supposed to make it work out!” Aneshka screamed, throwing her pillow at me.

“What is going on?” Momma said, looking in from the kitchen. “Aneshka, pick that up.”

“It's not fair!” Aneshka said, tears now welling from her eyes. “Trina's going to leave us here and go somewhere nice with Mark, and she promised she wouldn't. She promised—”

“Hush, Aneshka!” Momma's words were firm, but she sat down on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around the girl, who was fighting back angry sobs. “Trina's growing up, that's all. Things change when you grow up. Marek will probably get another job at the mine in no time, and we will all be here together, just like before.”

Momma had meant her words as comfort, but they were not. I wished that I was still young enough to be able to pour out my disappointment as Aneshka did, in sobs and rages and thrown pillows. Instead, I said good-bye to Mark an hour later and, as the week progressed, I had only chores to distract me from my loneliness and my broken dreams.

Aneshka was still sulking on Monday when Mr. Torentino was to return with my jars, so I asked Martina to help me retrieve them. I couldn't carry them all myself, and I didn't want to listen to any more of Aneshka's scolding. We skirted around the store so we could meet Mr. Torentino where I did not think Mr. Johnson could see us, then we sat down to wait.

“Why did you arrange this, rather than just buying the jars from Mr. Johnson?” Martina asked as we watched for the wagon.

“You remember how Mr. Johnson doesn't like me much,” I said, and told her the story.

“You mean, you're getting the jars for eighty-five cents a dozen? The same price he charges in town?”

“I think so.”

“Do you think he'd sell me boots at his town rates, too?” Martina asked. “Karel's boots have worn through, and we gave Charlie's boots to Mark.”

“You could ask,” I said.

The wagon came into view, climbing the dirt road to the mine, kicking up a cloud of dust into the dry summer air. Our wait wasn't over, however, because Mr. Torentino wanted to conduct his business at the store first. We watched from a short distance away as Mr. Torentino carried crates into the store, then carried some of the same crates back out. When he returned to us, he was angry.

“That man,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward the store, “is a robber baron!”

I did not know what that meant, but I could tell Mr. Torentino shared my view of the storekeeper, so I agreed with a nod. “Did you bring the jars?”

“I've got them right here.” He climbed over the seat and into the bed of the wagon. He handed the crates down to me one at
a time, and I thanked him. Martina nudged me with her elbow.

“Mr. Torentino, Martina is newly married and her husband needs new boots, but she can't afford them at Mr. Johnson's store. Could she buy them from you, like I did the jars?”

Mr. Torentino's eyebrows raised. “Well, I hadn't thought to do this more than once, but I do sell boots.” He told Martina what he had, and she was soon paying him and thanking him.

“Karel will be so pleased!” she said as we walked back toward home. “I am going to surprise him with the boots when they come!” Her face glowed with the idea, and I felt a pang of envy. I was missing Mark.

Finally the next Saturday afternoon I saw him returning up the street toward our house. Though his shoulders still sagged, his gait was stronger and more even than it had been when he had left almost two weeks before. I rushed to him and threw my arms around him, right in the middle of the street. He hugged me back and told me he was happy to see me, but there was no enthusiasm in the greeting. I pulled back and looked him in the eye. “What's the matter?” I asked.

He sighed heavily. “I couldn't find work. Too many other coal miners are looking for jobs too. No one wants a cripple like me.”

“You're not a cripple, Mark! You're walking much better than when you left.”

“I should be, after all the useless miles I've walked looking for work. I'm sorry, Trina. I didn't want to disappoint you.”

“The mine will be hiring again come fall, and you'll be better by then,” I said, trying to sound hopeful. Trying not to let my disappointment show.

“But what about our plans? Our dreams?” He brushed his fingers tenderly along my cheek.

His plans had never been my dreams, but I couldn't tell him that. I shrugged. “My momma says dreams just make you unhappy, that to be happy, you have to appreciate the things you have. When I thought I had lost you, I saw she was right.”

“She's not right!” came an angry shout from behind me. It was Aneshka. I hadn't known she had followed me out into the street to greet Mark. Now her hands were firmly planted on her hips and she was glaring at us both. “You can't give up on the farm, Trina! It's not fair!”

I was fuming mad at her for eavesdropping, but Mark tousled her hair.

“You're right, Aneshka. We won't give up,” Mark said. “We'll get those chickens back, and the garden, too. Maybe even buy some goats. We have time yet.”

“That's not a farm, and Trina knows it!” Aneshka said.

“Stop it, Aneshka,” I said. “Mark only just got home. Stop being so selfish.”

Aneshka thrust out her bottom lip in a pout, but I ignored her and turned to Mark.

“Go greet your papa and bring him back to our house. Karel and Martina, as well,” I said, squeezing Mark with the arm I still had wrapped around his waist. “We will have a welcomehome feast for you!”

Momma and I prepared supper, and everyone was there, but we weren't very cheerful. Our money was already stretched thin, and Mark still without work was bad news for us all.

“I'll keep asking every day at the mine,” Mark said. “Sooner or later they will have something for me.”

Old Jan looked at his son and shook his head. “It's no wonder you couldn't find work in town. Look at those trousers—you've
got patches on your patches, and your elbow's coming through your shirt. You're too poor to get a job.”

I could see Old Jan's point. How could Mark convince folks in town that he was a hard worker when he looked like a ragged beggar? That thought stayed with me that night, along with the general sense of desperation that had run through the whole evening. There had to be something we could do.

“Is it true that Mark didn't get a job because of his trousers?” Holena asked from beside me in the bed.

I hesitated. “I don't know. Maybe partly.”

“That nice man could get him new trousers, I bet,” she said.

Aneshka reached across me and gave her a little push. “We don't want Mark to get a job, remember?” she hissed. “We want Trina to get us a farm like she's supposed to.”

“I wish I'd never told you about her wish,” Holena murmured. Silently I agreed.

Momma hushed us from her bed across the room and our conversation ended, but I thought about what Holena had said. Mr. Torentino had been willing to bring jars and boots; why not new pants for Mark? Then again, Mark didn't have the money for them, not even at Mr. Torentino's prices. But what if Old Jan was right? What if Mark could get a job—a better job, in town, if he had new clothes and looked a little neater? I could patch the elbows of his shirt so the patches would barely show.

By the next morning I had hit upon an idea. I walked to church with Mark and explained it to him. We could catch fish after church and sell them to our neighbors. I was sure there were plenty of folks around camp who would buy fresh fish from us. We could make enough money to buy him new trousers and he could try again to find work in town.

He shook his head. “It wasn't my pants, Trina. It was my limp, my lack of education, and my foreign accent.”

“But you need money. We could still sell fish, even if you don't want new trousers. Can we at least try?” I asked.

Mark smiled. “Why not? We can take a picnic. And if we can't sell the fish, we can always eat them.”

The plan worked better than I had expected, though it angered Aneshka. She glared at me the whole time I was packing the picnic, and I could still feel her eyes boring into my back as I set out with Mark to go fishing. It was a pleasant afternoon, and the fish were biting. Soon we had two long strings of trout. It was late afternoon when we returned to the coal camp, and all through town, parents were relaxing on their porches while their children played in the streets.

“How do we sell them?” I asked Mark.

He grinned at me. “That's easy enough.” He cleared his throat and called out, “Fish! Fresh fish! Caught today, nice and fresh!”

I had to laugh. He sounded exactly like the hawkers in the village square on market day back in Bohemia. In no time at all we had a crowd of women around us. We hadn't discussed a price, but it didn't matter. The women seemed to know what was fair and were eagerly pressing their payment into Mark's hand to ensure that they got the fish before others beat them to it. In no time the fish were all gone, and Mark had three dollars and seventy-five cents, nearly as much as he got for a day of work in the mine. It was almost entirely in scrip, only good at the company store, but his family owed so much there, they could certainly use it.

“We should have thought of this sooner,” Mark said as he counted his money. “If I can make this much money fishing
each day, we just might get by until the mine's hiring again.”

“Maybe you shouldn't go back to the mine. Maybe you should become a fisherman,” I suggested.

He shook his head. “I don't think there are enough fish in that creek to keep this up. But maybe I could keep it up for a few months. It's good to have something like this to fall back on.”

I couldn't help thinking sadly about my chickens and garden. They had been my hope for a bit extra to fall back on. I pushed away the sadness and tried to feel joy for Mark's success. Maybe eventually he'd get paid in real money instead of scrip, and I could still talk him into buying new trousers and looking for work again. I would at least ask Mr. Torentino if he'd be willing to do me one more favor.

The next afternoon, Martina was busy, so I was alone as I waited for Mr. Torentino. Once again, I met him a short distance from the store, where Mr. Johnson wouldn't see me. Once again, I saw Mr. Torentino's disgruntled expression as he left the store and came in my direction. He smiled, however, when he saw me at the side of the road and pulled the horses to a stop.

“Where is your friend?” he asked.

“She couldn't come, but I can take the boots to her,” I said. He nodded and handed me a sturdy new pair of work boots.