Katerina's Wish (3 page)

It was late afternoon when we folded the last shirt and sent Aneshka off with the last pile. Momma poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the back of the stove and slumped into a chair at the table. She mopped her brow with her sleeve.

“It'll be time to be getting your papa's supper soon,” she said. She nodded toward the tobacco can on the shelf behind the stove. “I need you to run to the store, Trina. Take the money from the washing.”

I took the can down from the shelf, my heart sinking. Momma often sent me on this chore, since I had learned enough English to speak with the storekeeper, Mr. Johnson. I didn't mind the chore so much, but I hated the idea of spending the money we had just worked so hard to earn. We would never save money at this rate.

“Shouldn't we save some for new dresses?” I asked.

Momma shook her head. “Shame on you, Trina. Think of your papa. Think of how hard he works! He needs a few good meals a week.”

That was true enough, but I left a little in the money can anyway, hoping I had enough. If I didn't, I would just have to put it on credit. Mr. Johnson kept a ledger book under his counter for such occasions, and was happy to let us use it if we needed to.

I was glad to be outside at last. I was grateful for the breeze that dried the sweat along my hairline. The street we lived on— in fact, the whole camp—ran in rows of drab houses up a hill, with the mine at the top. At the bottom stood the only fine buildings in the town, a few two-story houses with picket fences and neat yards for the mine officials, a school, and a community
meeting house that served as Saturday night dance hall and Sunday morning church. The largest building in the group, a long, low building with a covered porch, housed the store and company offices.

I had never been in those offices, but I came to the store at least once a week. It was jammed with an assortment of goods, from buckets and brooms to coffee, flour, and fresh meat two days each week. As I approached, I noticed a team of horses and a wagon tied up at the rail beside the steps. The front door was open and I could hear voices inside, but it wasn't until I had stepped through the doorway that I realized the voices were raised in anger.

I paused uncertainly. Mr. Johnson was behind his counter, and facing him from my side was a tall, dark-haired man I didn't recognize. He was holding a piece of paper under Mr. Johnson's nose. Beside him on the floor were two wooden crates. A third crate was open on the counter.

“But you ordered them!” the dark-haired stranger was saying. He had an Italian accent, but his English was better than my own. He gave the paper a little shake. “It says so right here on the invoice. Twenty crates. Right here on the invoice.”

“That's not my invoice,” Mr. Johnson said without looking at it.

“It's your company. It came from the head office in Pueblo, like always.”

Mr. Johnson pushed the paper away from his face impatiently. “Well, I didn't order them, I can't sell them, and I won't take them!”

The man with the invoice clenched his free hand. I backed out of the doorway, afraid a fight was about to start. My movement caught Mr. Johnson's eye.

“Now, look, you're scaring my customers,” he said. He turned his gaze to me and smiled. “Come in, missy, and tell me what I can do for you.”

Both men's eyes were on me then, and I felt foolish as I stepped forward into the store once again. I swallowed hard and spoke, just wanting to get my purchase and get out before their argument resumed. “I need a pound of coffee and four chops, if they aren't too much.”

Mr. Johnson turned back to the other man. “‘If they aren't too much.' You see what I'm dealing with here? Miserly Greeks and tight-fisted Irishmen, all day long.”

Anger warmed my cheeks, but I held my tongue. The Italian man was still looking my way. His mouth turned downward into a frown under his bushy mustache. “She's just a kid, Johnson.”

Mr. Johnson was wrapping the chops in paper. “Yeah, well, kid or not, they won't buy that lot around here, so you might as well haul it back out to your wagon.”

The Italian's frown deepened, and he turned back toward Mr. Johnson. But before he could say anything, Mr. Johnson slapped the chops onto the counter beside a tin of coffee and looked back at me, still rooted beside the doorway.

“Well, come on, missy. You can't very well pay for these from over there, can you? Torentino here won't bite.”

I hurried to the counter, pulling the handful of coins from my pocket. “How much?”

“Seventy cents for the coffee and two fifty for the chops.” He gave a sudden, insincere smile and reached into the open crate on the counter. “Say, missy, how about a special treat for your family, huh? A nickel a can.”

I looked at the can. Across the top it read
EMPSON'S FANCY.
Below that was a picture of ripe, purple plums on a branch. It
would have been a treat, he was right. I thought briefly about Aneshka and her love of plum dumplings, but I only had enough money for the coffee and meat. “No, thank you, sir,” I said, and handed him the money for my order.

“Don't you like plums, miss?” Mr. Torentino said.

“Yes, sir, but I have no more money.”

“You can put them on credit on your father's account,” Mr. Johnson said, reaching under the counter for his credit ledger.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

Mr. Johnson tossed the can of plums back into the crate. “You see, Torentino? I can't sell them, and I won't take them. Send them back. Tell the head office they made a mistake.”

“I can't send them back; I'll lose too much money. The order—”

“Damn the order—get those crates out of my store!” Mr. Johnson said.

More uncomfortable than ever, I scooped up my packages and hurried for the door. Behind me I heard the scrape of the crates being picked up and the heavy step of Mr. Torentino as he lugged them toward the door. Though I longed to escape, he was coming behind me, so I held the door for him. He carried the crates out onto the porch and set them down.

“Thank you, miss,” he said. “Do you buy all your food from Johnson?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “There's nowhere else to buy it.”

Mr. Torentino glanced over my shoulder, back through the open doorway toward Mr. Johnson's counter. “And he's getting plenty fat off you folks at those prices. Send back all twenty crates! We'll see about that!”

He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. I tried to go around his crates and down the stairs, but he called out to me, plenty loud enough for Mr. Johnson to hear him.

“Hold up there a minute, miss.”

I paused.

“You say you like plums, and I'd guess you got a family from that package of chops.”

I nodded, edging a little closer to the steps. I could see Mr. Johnson watching suspiciously through the open door.

“Here,” Mr. Torentino said. He took a can from the top crate and held it out to me. I shook my head.

“Take it, it's free. Here, take a couple more, too.”

“Free?” I said. I couldn't believe it—it had to be a trick.

“If he won't take them, I have to do something with them. Take these for free and tell everyone you see that I'll be selling the rest for a penny a can.”

“Hey!” Mr. Johnson yelled from inside the store. “Hey, you can't do that!”

Mr. Torentino put the three cans in my arms and grinned. “You'd best run along now.”

I was happy to oblige. I went down the stairs two at a time. Behind me I heard Mr. Johnson burst out onto the porch, shouting at Mr. Torentino.

I kept my head down and ran! I was panting by the time I burst into the kitchen. Momma looked up in alarm, but her expression shifted quickly to annoyance when she saw me cradling the cans of plums.

“Trina! We don't have money for such things!” she scolded. As soon as I could catch my breath, the whole story tumbled out of me.

“He said he'd be selling them for a penny a can, if Mr. Johnson hasn't run him off yet.”

“A penny a can!” Momma exclaimed. “That's cheaper than anything else we can eat. Do you have any change left?”

“I left a little in the money can,” I said. Momma reached for the can and got out the dime still there.

“Go back and get as many cans as you can carry. Aneshka, you can start mixing the dough. We'll have plum dumplings tonight after all.”

Aneshka gave a little hop of delight and giggled. “Trina must have seen a magic carp in the washwater while she was daydreaming yesterday, Momma.”

That's when I remembered my dream. It flooded back into my mind with brilliant clarity: Aneshka wishing for plum dumplings at the pool by the tree. And here they were, exactly as she had said, all the plum dumplings she could eat. The first wish. But it had only been a dream, I was sure of that. This was only a coincidence.

“Come on, Trina, don't just stand there,” Momma prodded. “Go back and get more before they are all sold. Take Holena with you; she can help you carry.”

I set out for the store again, Holena's hand in mine and the money in my pocket, and I pushed the dream out of my mind. As I passed neighbors and houses with their doors open, I called out Mr. Torentino's offer. Soon word was spreading and other women were hurrying down the hill with us. I was glad for their company, in case Mr. Johnson was still there, still shouting.

At my side, Holena trotted to keep up. “Did you really see a magic carp in the washwater, Trina?” she asked. “Really?”

“Of course not,” I said. I was annoyed that Aneshka had made such a joke in front of Holena. And I was annoyed that it felt true, even though I was too old to believe it.

“But Aneshka got her dumplings,” Holena said. “Do you think I will get my hair ribbons, too?” Her eyes were round and shining with hope. I hated telling her that her hope was for
nothing, but how could I tell her otherwise? I turned my eyes back to the dusty road ahead of us.

“We had better hurry or there won't be any plums left for us,” I said. I felt her hand slacken in mine and knew she was disappointed, but I didn't look at her. I just kept walking.

Mr. Torentino had moved his wagon across the street from Mr. Johnson's store. Though the storekeeper was standing on his porch, glaring at the growing crowd of women around the wagon, there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. Mr. Torentino was in the back of the wagon, prying open crates and handing the cans to the women who were holding money up to him. I tried to blend into the crowd, but Mr. Torentino noticed me.

“Well done, girl!” he called out over the heads of the gathering women. “Well done! And will you have more?”

“Yes, sir,” I said and held up my dime. He took it and handed down ten cans of plums, which I cradled in my apron as I worked my way out of the crowd. I could not help noticing Mr. Johnson watching with narrowed eyes. He hadn't missed Mr. Torentino's words, I was sure of it.

“Papa will be surprised, won't he?” Holena said.

“He will,” I agreed. Despite Mr. Johnson, I couldn't help smiling to myself. Plum dumplings! We hadn't had such a treat since arriving in America.

“You know what, Holena?”

“What?”

“We should make it a special night for Momma, too.”

Holena's eyes glowed at the thought. “How?”

I thought for a moment, not sure how, but then I saw a patch of dandelions blooming alongside the road. “Flowers for the table?” I suggested.

Holena's smile nearly split her face. All the way home, she
skipped along the edge of the road and picked dandelions. They were only weeds, but they were bright and cheerful clenched in her little fist. When we got home, we put them in a can of water and onto the table while Momma's back was turned. When she saw them, she smiled—the first smile I could remember seeing on her face in a long time.

We busied ourselves in the kitchen, full of anticipation and excitement as we swept and washed and set the table with great care. Momma disappeared into the bedroom and came back holding a tablecloth, embroidered on the corners with flowers. She only brought it out on Christmas and Easter, so we were all surprised when she spread it on the table. She saw us watching and gave a little shrug.

“The Lord knows we have few enough things to celebrate here. We'd best use it while we can.” She turned back to the stove, but I had seen the smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. I felt a pang, almost like homesickness. She had been quick to celebrate when I was little, but not since we had left Bohemia.

My thoughts were interrupted by the whistle at the mine. The shift was changing and Papa would be on the way home soon. I hurried to straighten the silverware Aneshka had laid on the table.

Papa always washed off the coal dust and dirt in a tub at the back door. It wasn't until he was drying his face that he stopped and sniffed the air.

“What is that smell?” he asked with a smile.

Holena tried to tell him, but Aneshka shushed her.

“It's supposed to be a surprise,” she insisted.

Papa smiled at them both. “She doesn't have to tell me a thing, Aneshka,” Papa said. “I know plum dumplings when I smell them. But how? Did your wish come true after all?”

“So it would seem,” Momma said from the doorway behind me. “Now come inside. Supper's all ready.”

Supper that night felt like a grand affair, although the food was much the same as always—gristly meat, boiled potatoes, and bread spread with salted lard. But the tablecloth, the flowers, and the plates of plum dumplings made it festive. I recounted for Papa all that had happened at the store. When I told him of Mr. Torentino's selling from his wagon while Mr. Johnson glared at him from the porch, he laughed.

“Serves the swindler right,” Papa said.

Momma looked stricken. “Hush, Tomas! Don't say such things!”