Born of gilded mountains, p.9
Born of Gilded Mountains, page 9
Update: Hired her on. Started her at a quarter an hour, same as what I paid the Jenks kid. She’s not as strong, but it seemed fair. Been here a week now. Strange, she handed her pay right back, wondered if she could just work for trade, needed supplies. Started by grabbing a box of saltines . . . and then went back and got Boston baked beans from the candy aisle.
I’ll catch you if you ever fall, Rusty.
—Marybeth, age 13
April 1948
Kurt wandered in from the storeroom, clipboard in hand. He peered up over his reading glasses, spotting Marybeth where she stacked cans of cranberry sauce. “Payday, mountain girl,” he said.
“She has a name,” Kurt’s brother, Angus, spouted from the postal counter across the room. “Marybeth Spatts, Swickley’s Crossing.” Angus gave her a wink. As the postman, he’d handled her words as much as Rusty had. “Marybeth Spatts?” he’d said her first week. “Rusty’s Marybeth? Swickley’s Crossing?” Her eyes had pricked with tears. Someone on the earth knew her after all . . . and not for the spotlight, but for the scraggly writing of a ten-year-old girl on an envelope.
Mercy returned his wink with a smile as she set an armload of cans on the top shelf. He occupied the northern one-third of the store, while Kurt occupied the southern two-thirds. An incident some years before had caused them to paint a line down the floor that neither of them crossed during business hours, and of which they never spoke.
They shared the same salt-and-pepper hair, but other than that they were as different as night from day. Kurt was tall, efficient, always on the move, and—apropos to his name—curt. Angus was shorter, passed his days greeting people, sitting in a creaky old wooden rolling chair that he launched into action with his feet, sliding this way and that as he stuffed mail into boxes. He always stopped his work to ask after people’s husbands, wives, children, and pets, how their sugar snap peas were faring, or whether the baseball team stood a chance against Ouray or Durango this year. Every now and then, he would stop his rolling short, scramble over to a paper pad, and scribble something down.
“Payday, Miss Spatts,” said Kurt. “What’ll it be this week—money or goods?”
“I brought a list,” she said, pulling it from her apron pocket. “I can gather it up on my break and see if it reconciles?”
Kurt stared. She never could tell what he was thinking. It unsettled her but she held his gaze, refusing to be the first to break. He held out his hand for her list. “I got time,” he said. “You keep facing the cans.”
She nodded, handing him the list, which he promptly started to read aloud in a monotone voice. “Saltines . . . mousetraps . . . cheese . . .” He wrinkled his nose. “You sure you want cheese? Tracy Bascomb brought in a batch, but it’s smelling ripe. Probably fine if you eat it within a day, but if you don’t—well, just don’t.”
“It’s for the mousetraps.”
“Don’t bother with cheese. Something that smelly will scare them off. Use peanut butter. What else you got? Cornmeal, milk, eggs—you gotta get yourself a chicken. Baking powder, salt . . . nutmeg?”
The rattling current of Angus’s chair rolled front and center to his desk. “Nutmeg? Cornmeal? Sounds like you’re fixin’ to make Silas Bright’s corn bread!”
A surge of joy rose at the mention of the man’s name, as if he had been Mercy’s own relative and not a miner she’d never met. “You know it?”
Angus whistled. “Know it? Why, that corn bread warmed us all up come winter, every one of us in this valley. Don’t know who I miss more, Silas or his corn bread.”
“Angus,” Kurt said.
“I’m kidding. You know I’d give anything to see him again. We all would.”
“He sounds like a remarkable man,” Mercy said, eager to keep the Bright family as the topic of conversation. She bit her lip, then asked, “And his daughter . . . Rusty? I gather the apple didn’t fall far from the tree?”
“Ha!” Kurt said. “Remarkable is one word.” He shook his head, but was that a smile pulling on the stoic man’s face? “Miss that girl. The day Angus had to deliver that death notification, so much changed around here. Wish she—”
The bell over the door rang, and in came two young girls with matching blond braids. Something about Kurt’s words tripped around inside Mercy . . . death notification. They punched the wind right out of her. But as she tried to breathe past it, she shook her head. Why—and to whom—would the postman deliver a death notification?
Silas, she knew, had died of a winter sickness several years ago . . . and Rusty’s mother had died when Rusty was just a baby. The very fact of sharing that loss was part of what had bound Mercy and Rusty fast. Rusty’s beau, Sam, had been states away, working for the Civilian Conservation Corps. So who would have been left . . . ?
The questions lined up—how, why, when. Her mind pushed away the scene of anyone having to deliver news of the loss of a soul so vibrant. Death and Rusty just didn’t go together. Even after ten years, Mercy couldn’t reconcile it.
“Jenks girls,” Kurt said. “Here for peppermints or malts?” Kurt, gruff as he was, didn’t seem the type to run a malt counter, but once in a while, and especially when he’d had good fishing that morning and was therefore in a good mood, he’d pull out the malt machine, hand-cranking it with a straight face and a twinkle in his eye.
Today the girls requested the peppermints, and Kurt helped them at the register, saluting them as they dashed back out the door with red-and-white-striped sticks in their hands.
“I was also wondering,” Mercy said, as Kurt returned to packing her order, “do you have any sort of strong tape?” She’d seen something in use recently on the sets, like an adhesive sort of duck cloth. “Something very strong to fix something broken.” Like a side mirror on an old truck she’d lovingly dubbed Big Green.
“You’re wanting that stuff by Revolite,” Kurt said.
Mercy nodded. “Revolite.” She followed him to the end of an aisle that had a few tools, spools of string, bolts. And tape.
“Here you have your cloth tape—mind, it’s a sight cheaper, and you can make a good tape yourself. Just a matter of melting some rosin and rubber together and soaking it.”
Mercy furrowed her brow. “Rubber,” she said. “Do you sell that too?”
Kurt laughed. “I wish. Rubber’s hard to come by out here in the best of times. Add a war shortage on top of that . . .” He shook his head. “Nope. Just find an old bicycle, grab the inner tube, melt it down, you’ll be all set.”
Mercy pictured herself standing over a cauldron like the witches in Macbeth, stirring up a concoction of rubber and rosin and cackling in the air as she lowered the cloth strips into it.
She gulped. “And . . . the tape by Resolute, was it?”
“Revolite. Sure, that’s your other option. They started sending this after the war. Used it on ammo boxes for the soldiers so they could open them quicker. Now they’re using it on everything from patching up soldier gear to sealing up air ducts, of all things.” He chuckled, shaking his head in awe. “Thing of beauty right there. Wish it came in silver so it’d blend in with pipes and such. Maybe someday.” He stared at the object in his hand dreamily, looking downright smitten. It was the most emotion she’d seen play across Kurt’s face yet. “You can do anything with it, mark my words. But it’s a pretty penny, compared to that.” He nodded at the plain roll of cloth.
“I’ll take it,” Mercy said, snatching it up a little too quickly. Kurt’s eyebrows shot up, more in respect than surprise. Her face heated. “Goodness knows there’s plenty to be fixed around Wildwood.” And on certain lumber trucks.
“Smart,” he said. “Get it while you can. Phinneas Trent likes to hoard it, buys it up whenever he’s in here. But you let me know if you need more.” He looked side to side to see if the coast was clear and whispered, “I keep a secret stash in the back.” He winked. And inexplicably Mercy’s heart soared. Had she just cracked the cold, indifferent armor of Kurt Pike?
This tape really was a miracle.
Kurt went to go get a “fresh roll,” as if that was somehow better than the ones on display, and Mercy picked up a broom and started sweeping. Outside on the sidewalk, a woman paused at the door, leaned in close enough to see through it. Upon spotting Angus, she kept walking.
Odd. What could that mean? She couldn’t imagine Angus having an enemy. Or perhaps she’d just had the wrong store. She’d been wearing denim pants, big boots that looked like they knew the mountain well, caked in mud and pine needles. Green blouse, sleeves rolled up in haste. She had the look of a woman who could do things, make things, make things happen. Perhaps she’d meant to find the hardware store instead?
Or maybe she was after the coveted Revolite tape.
“Lunch,” Kurt said, reentering the room and tossing the roll of treasure to Mercy. She clutched it tight. “Be back in an hour.”
“Hey.” Angus stood. “You went first yesterday.”
“So?”
“What do you mean, ‘so’? That means it’s my turn today. We always take turns.”
“Bye.” Kurt grabbed his hat, plopped it on his head, and took a long stride toward the door. Angus launched up from his chair and ran across the room to block the way.
“Line!” Kurt pointed at the line, which Angus was standing on.
“What is it, roast beef day at the diner? You worried Jimmy’s gonna run out before you get yours?”
Kurt’s jaw twitched.
Angus leaned in, jabbing his brother in the chest and narrowing his eyes. “I knew it.” They locked eyes for a split second, then both made a mad dash, tangling up in a scramble at the door. “I’m not getting stuck with Preposterous Pete’s grits for lunch!”
“Well, neither am I!” Kurt elbowed his way past Angus.
“Um—” Mercy stepped closer. The men didn’t see or hear. “Excuse me,” she tried again, louder. To no avail. “Boys!” They both froze, staring at her. “I mean—gentlemen.” She paused, their last words registering. “Wait . . . did you just say ‘Pete’s grits’?”
“Sure, why?”
Mercy laughed. Rusty had actually had the grits renamed? Leave it to her.
She became aware of two very hungry men, doing their best to wait patiently for her to talk. “I just wanted to say that if you’re comfortable with it, I could mind the store and post office while you both go.”
They blinked. First at her, then at each other.
“Roast beef waits for no man,” she said.
“She does know the ropes now,” Angus said.
“Mostly,” Kurt said.
“And she’s right about the beef.”
“Fine. But I’m not sitting with you.”
“Yeah, y’are.” Angus gave a small whoop and out they went, into the sun and the promised land of roast beef.
Not two minutes later, the door jingled again, and in came the green-bloused woman.
“Hello,” Mercy said. “Anything I can help you with?”
The woman stopped, turned reluctantly. The look she gave Mercy said she wasn’t impressed, or perhaps didn’t have time to be bothered. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Mercy—” Drat. She was trying to revert to her true name, but old habits died hard.
“Mercy? In Mercy Peak.”
Mercy bit her tongue, not sure what to say now. She nodded.
“How original.” She pulled in a breath and released it. “Is that why you came here? Your name matched the place?”
Mercy opened her mouth, about to explain it was the reverse—the place had loaned her its name when Wilson P. Wilson insisted she needed something more punchy for the screen.
The girl looked around furtively, forgetting her question. “Kurt and Angus gone for lunch?”
“Yes, but they won’t be gone terribly long. If you need them . . .”
“I’ll be quick.”
She turned swiftly, looking over her shoulder out the window, instead of at the shelf, as she reached for a can and tossed it into her burlap bag. Repeated the process throughout the low aisles and crates, as if this was a well-rehearsed dance. Would Mercy ever know the store this well? Her own legs were dotted with bruises from run-ins with crates and corners of shelves.
Watching enviously the way she breezed through the store like she could do it with her eyes closed, Mercy did a double take. The woman was rounding a corner, looking backward out the window again, unaware that there was a new display in her path.
A display of backward-facing boxes of Golden Flaxe.
“Look out—!” Mercy said.
But it was too late.
The boxes exploded from their circular structure, where they’d been stacked like a very straight Tower of Pisa. When Mercy had been there to film The Italian Escape, she’d spent a long time staring at the leaning tower and trying to picture it straight and sure. Something in its tilting form had reached inside Mercy and pulled out all her compassion until she wished to prop it up.
Stacking its facsimile out of forsaken cereal boxes was no rescue, but it had been a private tribute to it, a note from afar when she had no one else to write to.
And now . . . the tower crumbled. The woman, too, losing her balance as she tried to avoid crushing them—all while fifty versions of Mercy’s heavily made-up face grinned like a breakfast-touting maniac with bright red lipstick. The green-blouse girl lost her balance, arms circling in a last-ditch attempt to stay upright. Mercy grabbed for her, catching her hand but not holding on hard enough as it slipped back out. She went tumbling down on top of three or four boxes, whose corners jabbed awfully, judging by the grimace on her face.
“What in blazing tar—?”
“Are you alright?” Mercy stretched her arm out to help her up, but she turned away.
“I’ll be fine,” she said fiercely—and somehow unconvincingly.
“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Mercy retracted her hand and watched as the girl finally looked at her longer than a second, taking in the green kerchief over Mercy’s dark hair, the flowy dress she wore under the store apron.
“What are you, Cinderella?”
“Pardon?” Mercy’s hand flew to her kerchief, patting it self-consciously.
“You look like you’re dressed half for work, half for a ball.”
One of the boxes spun a slow circle on the hard floor and Mercy stepped in front of the dizzying cardboard slow dance. She was pictured in a blue dress, one heel kicked behind her as she stood near a table, lifting a spoonful of cereal from a bowl to her cherry-red lips. Delectable Golden Flaxe make the most nutritious breakfast! she said in a cheerful speech bubble. One of life’s best pleasures!
Before Mercy could stop her, the girl grabbed the box to get a good look at the thing that had taken her down.
“Today I forded a stream, outsmarted a rattlesnake, guided my pack mule through snowbanks that looked like they’d give way at any second. And this is what takes me down? Golden flack-see.” She read it with the preposterous tone it apparently deserved. “Who ever thought of eating breakfast out of a paper rectangle? Not our most appetizing invention yet as a human race.”
“Well, it does say crunchy on it.” Mercy offered a sheepish smile and tapped a finger on the back of the carton, where it said CRUNCHY AS ALL GET-OUT! “Please, let me help you up,” she said again, extending her arm.
The girl pushed off the ground. “I don’t need help.” Then, as if regretting her bluntness, she offered a slightly more subdued “Thanks anyway.” She snatched two of the crumpled boxes, stuffing them in her bag. “I’ll pay for the destruction,” she said, heaving a sigh. “I can always feed it to my goat if it tastes like cardboard.”
“It’s . . . surprisingly tasty,” Mercy said. “If you enjoy very sweet things.”
The girl mumbled something in return.
“I’ll pay for it,” Mercy said. “And you take as many boxes as you’d like. I’ll—I’ll even unbox them, so you only have to carry the bags home and aren’t bothered with the, um, crunchy corners.”
The girl narrowed her eyes, as if trying to decide if Mercy was trustworthy or just crazy. “You’re funny,” she said dryly.
Mercy quirked a smile. “All of your laughter says as much.”
“Where are you from, anyway? You speak a little . . .” She paused. “Funny.”
“Oh, that—it’s just a habit. A learned accent.”
“From where?” She began stacking boxes, and Mercy helped.
How did one explain the transatlantic accent? Mercy slipped into it by accident sometimes when tensions were high, her acting instincts kicking in. “A little bit of everywhere, I suppose.” That much was true. The girl slid the last three boxes over, and they both stood, silence swimming between them and looking for a place to land.
“Can I help you find anything else?” Mercy asked.
“Maybe I should be asking you that. You seem a little lost yourself.”
She swallowed. She thought she’d been hiding it so well.
The girl shook her head, looking remorseful for the first time. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Words are always popping out of my mouth before I get a chance to smooth them out. It just—it seemed like you were looking for something.” She paused. “Are you . . . new at the store?” As if that answer weren’t obvious.
“Yes,” she said. “But I do know how to run the cash register; Mr. Pike showed me that much. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Mercy rang her up, scribbling notes on the receipt pad and doing calculations, keenly aware that her hands were being studied. The bandages were gone, her skin healed but a curiosity. They were mottled here and there by the dark vestiges of the burns, yet untouched by the calluses that marked those of Mercy Peak women, who worked hard all the year round to survive this rugged place.
“You alright?”
The question took her off guard, and she nodded, words evading her. No one was going to give her a script. She was going to have to learn how to speak for herself here.
“Listen.” The woman set her burlap sack on the floor a moment. “Don’t you fly away. People come here, and sometimes they can’t make it—life’s different in these mountains. It can feel like you’ve disappeared.”
