Page 9 of Ellen Found

Ellen Found is resilient, but such loss! I have only a glimmer of how sad she is. What can I do?

SHE WOKE UP mere minutes later, clawing and scratching to hang on to Gwen, who was clasped tight in her father’s arms. Corporal Reeves held her in a sitting position as Mrs. Quincy, her face white and her eyes huge, dabbed at her back with a dishcloth.

Lanterns and men filled the space close to the stairs, and it was light enough for her to really see the bear. Just an ordinary bear, but a big one, a bear looking for one last meal before the long winter’s sleep.

Ellen looked harder against the distant wall. She sobbed when she saw the ridiculously small bundle of fur and bones that had taken on a behemoth in the Old Faithful Inn lobby. “Please, someone get Plato. Please.”

One of the privates followed her shaking finger. He knelt, then called to another soldier, who went into the dining room and returned with a dish towel. Carefully he wrapped it around the little body and carried Plato to Ellen, who held out her arms.

“He’s still alive,” the private said. “Not for long.”

Time, merciful time, stood still long enough for her to cradle the demon cat of Butte and smooth down his torn and bleeding fur. “Plato, you should’ve run the other way,” she whispered to her friend, her only friend ever. She had helped him out of his pain in the alley, and he returned the favor moments ago by distracting a monster many times his size and saving two lives. “You thought you were a mountain lion, little buddy,” she said. “And here we were at last, with enough food to eat and a safe place to sleep.”

Mr. Penrose made a little sound when she said that, or maybe it was Corporal Reeves .

She wept over her dying cat, smoothing his fur. Plato put a delicate paw on her wrist finally, as if to say, “That’ll do, my lady friend. I’m all right now. You’re here.” To her stunned amazement, he started to purr and then he died. She marveled that such a small body could hold something as enormous as death, then fainted.

Ellen woke in her own room, wearing her flannel nightgown with most of the flannel gone, her left shoulder throbbing and wrapped in a bandage. His face a study in agony, Charles Penrose sat on her bed, his daughter asleep in his arms but crying out at intervals.

From habit, Ellen looked toward her feet, but there was no Plato, only his wool square. Charles’s eyes must have followed hers. “I wrapped him in a towel,” he said, his voice strained. “I have a carved wooden box in my quarters. I will bury him in a good place.”

“Please put in Gwen’s wool square,” she said. “He liked to sleep on it.”

“I will.”

He didn’t leave, not even when Mrs. Quincy came into her room with something sweet and chocolatey, something Ellen saw the children in the Copper King house drink, but which she was not allowed. She took a sip and another, knowing that Plato would have liked it, too. She took tiny solace remembering that for dinner that night, there had been plenty of stewed tomatoes and bread chunks, something Plato loved.

“My shoulder?” she asked, not sure who would answer and not wanting to think that Mr. Penrose had to get her out of the tattered dress. Her back felt on fire.

“There was one deep scratch.”

“Who fixed my shoulder?”

“The one-eyed man, name of Fred Wilson, and Mrs. Quincy helped. He’s a good carpenter and maybe a better taxidermist. Miss Found, you have a neat row of stitches as nice as anything I’ve ever seen. He does good work.”

She shook her head at that and felt an absurd urge to smile, maybe even laugh. Charles watched her. “Ellen, he said it was the best row of stiches he ever put in anything.” He patted her hand, and she realized he was holding it. “He said you were museum quality.”

She laughed, just a small laugh, a tentative one, the sort of laugh that maybe a person tries out who is wondering why she is even alive. She looked at the sleeping child in her father’s arms. “You hold her tight tonight,” she said, not meaning to sound so adamant. “For as long as she needs you.” Who will hold me? remained unspoken. Her only friend was gone.

“I had better leave,” Charles said.

“Where is ...” She couldn’t even say his name.

“Plato’s in the room where we hang meat,” Mrs. Quincy said.

“I’ll do what you want and bury him tomorrow,” Charles told her. “I know a good place.” He walked to the door, his arms tight around Gwen, and stood there a long moment. “I am truly in your debt.” He tried to say more but shook his head instead and left.

Mrs. Quincy stood by her bed, the torn dress over her arm. “Mrs. Child is going to be so disappointed in me,” Ellen said. “I wish I had been wearing my old dress.”

Her eyes intense, her boss plumped down on the bed. “Ellen Found, Mrs. Child is going to be so relieved—as we are—that you had a champion defending you! Don’t you dare worry about your dress. I can sew the tear, and you’ll wear it again.”

And not think about Plato? she asked herself. She nodded, feeling the tug of gravity on her eyelids. Was it even possible to sleep after the terror of this evening? She knew when she closed her eyes, maybe every time she closed her eyes, she would see that enormous bear rising on its hind legs. Maybe she would feel its hot breath on her neck as she struggled to make herself small under the stairs and keep Gwen covered with her body. Or maybe she would just sleep, which was what happened.

More than once, though, she woke in tears during the night, feeling for Plato, who liked to migrate north from her feet to curl up next to her shoulder in cold weather. She thought she heard him purr, which sent her back to tears and then to sleep.

Through it all, she was aware that Mrs. Quincy never left her, but sat on the floor beside her bed, her hand on Ellen’s good arm. She even hummed once, a tune Ellen had heard one night passing a honky-tonk on Mercury Street. “Sweetest little fella, everybody knows ...” She wiped Ellen’s eyes when she cried and said, “Shh, shh, shh,” softly.

Morning came as it always did. Ellen was aware that Mrs. Quincy had left, and she heard low voices, then the rattling of wood into the Majestics. Breakfast was going to come as it always did, no matter how dead Plato was or how her shoulder ached. She reminded herself that she was earning thirty dollars a month and sat up.

Her entire body ached, from the tousled hair on her head to her toenails. She moved her arm tentatively, pleased to discover that she could even move it. It pained her greatly, so what did a little more exertion matter? There was a table to set and biscuits to mix, and no one else was earning thirty dollars a month to do her chores.

She decided not to look at the foot of her bed, because it was empty. She didn’t know Charles Penrose well, but she was certain he would do what he said for Plato, then search every inch of those half-finished rooms down each hall on the first floor with extra-strong boards and longer nails to keep out bears seeking warmth for the winter ahead .

Ellen groaned and slid out of bed, going to her knees because she had no strength. This would never do. She hauled herself up and sat on her bed until the room stopped whirling. Through grit she didn’t know she possessed, she pulled on a petticoat and her best old dress, not wishing to wear the remaining checked shirtwaist and brown skirt and stain it with her blood.

Reaching up to brush her hair was more than she could manage, so she smoothed the ends down with her fingers and tied a shoestring around it. She opened the door and stared into the kitchen, where Mrs. Quincy was making biscuits. A glance beyond into the dining room showed the usual tablecloths on two tables and bowls and spoons, everything in place.

Charles Penrose brought out the coffee mugs and set them around as she watched. He smiled at her. “Mrs. Quincy doesn’t trust me with biscuits, and she figured I wouldn’t harm anything if I set the tables.” He nodded toward two other men. “I have help.”

As she leaned against the kitchen door, he came around the table and put an arm around her waist, guiding her to a table. “Mrs. Quincy told me that you wouldn’t lie still. I didn’t think you would either, but you can sit down and watch us this morning.”

Knowing better than to spar with someone whom she didn’t think would appreciate an argument, Ellen did as he said. She gasped when she heard a scraping sound from the lobby, and his hand went to her good shoulder. “No fears! They’re setting up the hydraulic lift closer to the fireplace to finish the roof.” His voice turned serious, hard, even. “Right now we’re going through all the rooms. When we find where this bear came in, we’ll batten it down and nail the door shut until spring.”

“Where ...” She couldn’t say his name.

“You know that little overhang of windows by the kitchen’s back door? It was a great place, secluded too, because we know Plato. He won’t be crowded there.”

She nodded.

“I put Gwen’s wool square in my box like you wanted, and I wrapped him in another towel.” He took a deep breath. “I did one thing more. I wanted to pet him just once, and I did.”

He seemed to gather himself together, doing his own reliving of last night’s terror. “Gwen told me to tell you not to worry. He’ll be warm.”

Ellen covered her face with her hands until the moment passed. “Where is Gwen? You shouldn’t leave her alone.”

“I didn’t. Corporal Reeves is in my room. I’ll bring Gwen here when she wakes up.” He gave her that appraising look she was already familiar with. “We would all feel better if you would lie down.”

“That wouldn’t earn me my thirty dollars a month,” she replied, touched at his concern.

The appraising look turned into something more intense. She felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder. “You have gone above and beyond earning your thirty dollars this month,” he assured her. “I can never put a price on what you did last night.”

“I would do it again.”

“I know you would.” Over her protest—a feeble one—he picked her up and carried her into her room, setting her down on her bed. He looked around and found her hairbrush. He brushed her hair, gentle strokes that soothed her more than anything else possibly could. How did he know?

He seemed to sense her question. “When Clare became agitated about something or other, this always seemed to help.” He said it apologetically.

“It does,” she said. “No one’s ever done this, but it does.”

Her eyes closed as she felt herself relax, well aware that in her short lifetime of constantly doing for others, someone—out of kindness or gratitude for his daughter’s life, or maybe even because he missed doing this for his wife—was doing something solely for her.

In a few minutes she heard the carpenters, mechanics, and men who fed the hungry generators troop inside for breakfast. She tried to move, to do her job.

“No,” Charles said softly. He tied her neat hair back with the shoestring, swung her feet onto the bed, removed her shoes, and covered her with a blanket. “Sleep now.”

Before she opened her eyes later, she sensed the presence of someone in the room. For a moment, she hoped it was Charles Penrose.

Mrs. Quincy sat there with a dress across her lap. She stroked the fabric gently, smoothing out wrinkles, and brushing away some speck that Ellen couldn’t see. She patted the dress as if someone wore it, then looked up. “Here.”

Ellen raised herself on her good arm. Mrs. Quincy helped her sit up, then draped the dress across Ellen’s lap. “I took in the hem, so it should fit. She was taller.”

Ellen admired the pretty thing, with eyelet lace at the sleeves and a ruffle around the bottom. It was a dress from an earlier time, but not so distant that she hadn’t mooned over something like it in a Monkey Ward catalog. “Where did ...”

“I had a daughter once,” the cook said, then left the room quietly.

Ellen stared after her, then touched the dress. What if I get it dirty working in a kitchen? warred with, She wants me to have this . She cares.

Ellen stared at the ceiling as a great realization settled in. I doubt there is anyone here who has not suffered a loss , she thought. I doubt I am the only child of dubious parentage here. Others are poor, too . Mr. Penrose’s wife is dead. One-Eyed Wilson has only one eye, for goodness’ sake .

She thought about Plato, dead after a heroic attempt to protect her, because that’s what friends did. She lay there and took a quiet census in her heart.

Corporal Reeves shot the bear. One-Eyed Wilson stitched her shoulder together. Gwen gave Plato a wool square. Mrs. Quincy hemmed her daughter’s dress for her. Charles Penrose brushed her hair.

She closed her eyes, thinking through the fear, the pain, the sorrow, and dared to imagine that maybe, just maybe, she had more friends than she knew. What to do with this startling revelation?

I must be a friend , she told herself. It begins now.