Page 16 of Ellen Found
I am afrad. It’s a blitzerd. Did I spell that right? I thot the snow was gone. We all did. My father has been gon to long. Ellen wipes my tears when I cry. She cries latter, when no one noes. When Da comes hom, I will tell him I let Ellen reed his jurnal. I wunder if he will be angree.
ON THE FIRST morning she didn’t wear her coat, Ellen knew it was time to plant Charles Penrose’s gift of seeds on Plato’s grave.
A look around suggested the coming of summer. Soon leaves would bud out, revealing that impossible green heralding spring and early summer. Already the chipmunks chattered at her.
The snow was gone from Plato’s mound. Humming to herself, she made four little furrows and carefully spaced the seeds, leaving a few seeds in the envelope in case Charles wanted some after all.
“Lots of critters around soon,” she told Plato as she patted his grave. “I doubt you could have caught them, but I know you would have tried.”
She stood there, hands together, then turned toward the northwest as a sudden gust of what felt suspiciously like winter ruffled her skirt and showed off her ankles. The next blast brought wet and heavy snow with it. She ran inside and slammed the door behind her.
For three days snow fell without pause, the wind blowing it into monstrous drifts. The ropes between the inn and temporary housing went up again. Men shrugged and muttered about, “Mother Nature’s dirty tricks,” and, “That’s Wyoming for you.”
Temperatures dropped to negative numbers. Ellen didn’t think Sergeant Reeves and his men would leave the confines of their quarters, but he came through the storm that fourth day, looking grim about the mouth. While she made breakfast biscuits and worried, he handed her a message .
“Before the telephone line went down, this came from headquarters. Mr. Penrose sent it to the YP transport barn five days ago. I don’t know, Ellen.”
She made herself read it. “‘Arrived Bozeman. Tell freight wagon to wait for me. C. Penrose.’” She looked at Dan. “He’s probably still at Fort Yellowstone, then?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
Dan shook his head. “Not according to the adjutant who read this to me. They started out three days ago. He said Mr. Penrose was eager to get back here. ‘I have something for Miss Found,’ he told the adjutant.”
She turned away and banged the biscuit dough around. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. “I am fine,” she said through clenched teeth. He left without a word.
She was far from fine. She thought of the many places where a misstep of a horse or wrong command from the driver could send team and wagon down into disaster. Please let them be past Golden Gate , she prayed. That’s the worst spot .
The men ate breakfast with their usual relish. As she refilled coffee cups, she heard conversations about summer jobs and work for the lucky ones hired to build a YP transportation barn in Gardiner, designed by Mr. Reamer as well. With an ache, she knew the transportation company was missing a wagon and driver. Better not to think about it.
How did such things happen? By the noon meal, everyone knew about the missing wagon, along with a driver and Mr. Penrose. Gwen heard it. She ran to Ellen as she sliced meat and cheese. She clung to Ellen’s dress.
“I’ll finish up here,” Mrs. Quincy said. “Take her to your room.”
Ellen picked up the child and retreated to her sanctuary, bright now with the addition of a rug like the ones in the guest rooms. Only yesterday, the carpenters applauded when Mr. Wilson proudly attached the iron numbers 1-1- 0 to a door. She heard him say, “Wait’ll Mr. Penrose sees this! He was hoping we’d finish off 105 before he came back.”
She held Gwen and crooned to her, telling her not to worry, that her father was a careful man and he would show up soon. When Gwen slept, it was Ellen’s turn to weep .
The snow stopped a day later, but the wind blew even harder from the north and west, testing the windows, trying to get inside. “We built this inn to last,” Mr. Wilson told her that night after a silent dinner. He assured her that carpenters and soldiers would turn into road crews and start out from both ends when the wind stopped.
Gwen worked quietly beside her, not leaving her side. When the dishes were done, she took Gwen’s hand and walked her into the wonderful lobby. Someone had lit a fire in one of the hearths. She looked up to see the iron clock Mr. Colfitt had fashioned, ticking away the hours, untroubled by grief or fear, marking time as they waited and worried.
Mr. Reamer left the electric candlesticks on. They sent their cheery glow into the darkness as if to say, “We’re here. We’re your beacon.” Ellen sat on a wicker chair in the step-down area before the fireplace, Gwen nestled in her lap.
“Could you do something for me?” Gwen asked Mr. Wilson when he and Mrs. Quincy joined them, hand in hand.
“Anything,” the one-eyed carpenter said .
“Could you please get my da’s journal from our house?” Gwen was a polite child. “And... and... could you get his flannel nightshirt? I like the way it smells.”
Mrs. Quincy turned her head away. Ellen stared at the flames.
Mr. Wilson returned, snow-covered, with the journal tucked inside his overcoat, along with the nightshirt. With a sigh that made Ellen bite her lip, Gwen tucked the flannel shirt close and handed Ellen the journal. “Maybe you could read some of this to me.”
Ellen nodded. “I will,” she said softly, “but not right now. Let’s cuddle instead.”
“I understand,” the child said, sounding astoundingly mature.
They cuddled all night, Gwen in tears until she wore herself out, her cheek resting on Charles’s nightshirt. When Ellen was certain she slept, she took the journal and a blanket to her armchair and started to read.
Much of the journal was a laconic affair. Some entries only mentioned difficulties in getting quality lumber in Cheyenne, where they lived at the time. Of Gwen’s birth he wrote, Is it possible to love someone more? And to love someone you’ve only just met? I am proof of that . My girls.
The journal grew even more spare during the time she supposed that Clare Penrose was dying. The hardest entry was the most brief : What will I do?
Ellen understood . What will I do? she wanted to ask the universe at large. There had certainly been no amazing pronouncements, no fervent declarations of anything between the two of them. She had no claim on Charles Penrose beyond that one long look he gave her when he handed her the envelope of seeds Clare had been unable to plant, and that one frank conversation neither of them mentioned again.
She ruffled through the journal to more recent days and stopped, head bowed, as Charles answered her question. It was the entry from Christmas Eve. I want to give her something. Will she think me a fool if it is Clare’s seeds? Will it say what I’m trying to say and haven’t the words yet? Can I- or may I - love her too?
It was a question for the ages. Her eyes closed in weariness and defeat. All she ever wanted to do was escape the Mercury Street Café. She hadn’t planned to fall in love, not when she was simply trying to survive. But there he was, and she wanted more; she wanted him.
She glanced at the bed where Gwen slept. “In the morning I will tell you that whatever happens, you will not be alone,” she whispered. “You are mine. We’ll manage together.”
She picked up a pencil and poised it over the page. She dated her entry April 16, 1904, and wrote in his journal, Yes, you can love me. I won’t forget Plato, but I want another cat .
It looked supremely stupid. How could anyone compare an alley cat to a person? She nearly erased it, then decided to leave it there for a day or two. She could erase it later and no one would know.
She went back to her bed and tucked a portion of the nightshirt under her head. It did smell like Charles—a man’s scent also fragrant with oil from wood and varnish.
Her shoulders relaxed and she slept. The wind roared on.