Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  The little shotgun-style house had only three rooms—a front room, a bedroom, and a kitchen with a bare corner for a table and chairs. Someone, probably Dodds Schlacter, had tacked on a bathroom so small Jesse could sit on the toilet, soak his feet in the tub, and hang his face over the sink to brush his teeth all at the same time. But indoor plumbing was a luxury no matter how cramped the space.

  He took advantage of the plumbing and then headed to his bedroom and shimmied down to his long johns. There’d been a good-sized feather mattress in the barn but no bedframe, so he’d spread the mattress on the floor. He flopped across it and released a sigh. Tomorrow he’d go to Randall’s Emporium and buy the least expensive bedframe in the store. For now, though, sleep beckoned.

  An electric lamp sat on one of the dining room chairs, which he’d had to bring into the bedroom because the kitchen was too small for all six chairs around the table, and the front room was too cluttered with other pieces of furniture. Jesse, yawning, rolled to his side and stretched his hand toward the lamp’s key. A small gold plate attached to the underside of the chair came into his view, and he paused midreach and read the name of the chair’s manufacturer: Rich & Baker.

  He frowned. Where had he heard that name before? He forced his tired brain to think, think. He shook his head, aggravated with himself. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place why. He yawned again. Why worry about it tonight? He’d think about it tomorrow when he was well rested. He snapped off the lamp, sagged onto the mattress, and closed his eyes.

  Behind his closed lids, the Rich & Baker plate glowed as bright as the Bijou’s marquee. There was something important hiding in the recesses of his mind. But what?

  Arthur

  Just as he did for every newcomer to town, Arthur sat at his desk and penned a note of welcome to the new sheriff. He slipped one of the flyers he’d commissioned from the newspaper office into the envelope with the note and carried it out to the floor where the boys were hanging the newest shipment of original oil paintings from street artists in New Orleans. No other furniture store in Kansas carried original oils from out-of-state artists. Maybe he should have included that on his flyer.

  “Here, Leon. Take this over to the sheriff’s office and give him our shtick.”

  Leon made a face. “Aw, Dad, do I hafta? It’s embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing to drum up business?”

  Leon sighed. “Why can’t Leroy do it?”

  “Because I asked you.” Arthur gave his son a little nudge on the shoulder. “Now go. And smile when you deliver it.”

  Leon waved the envelope over his shoulder in farewell as he scuffed out the door.

  Arthur hoped the boy wouldn’t act like a hoodlum in front of the sheriff. Sometimes it seemed Leon was losing common sense instead of gaining it. He grabbed the feather duster from its hook and began the morning dusting routine. A mindless task, one that allowed time for thinking.

  Having the boys offer new residents a welcome to town had been Mabel’s idea. “Folks might shoo away a salesman on their doorstep, but who can resist a charming young boy?” She was right. Every note brought new business into the emporium. Sometimes only a lamp or décor item, other times an entire room of furniture, but always something. But when she’d come up with the idea, Leroy and Leon were only four and seven years old—little, cute with their missing front teeth, and eager to please.

  Ten years later no one could call them “little.” Tall, husky, pimple-faced, they’d long outgrown their cuteness. And their eagerness. Arthur scowled. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent Leon after all.

  The door burst open and Leon trotted across the floor. His face glistened with perspiration. He must have run both ways. “I saw him, Dad, and gave him the welcome. He said thanks, and he’ll be in soon to look at our beds.”

  “You mean a bedroom suite?”

  Leon shook his head. “Nope. Just a bed. He’s got everything else he needs. That place is packed full.” He grabbed the last painting from the crate, unwrapped it, and handed it to Leroy. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same furniture we helped him put in the Shillings’ barn.”

  Arthur dropped the feather duster and pounded over to the boys. “What?”

  Leon jammed both palms in the air. “Don’t get sore at me. I only did what you told me to. Not my fault he’d already got furniture at the mercantile.”

  Arthur balled his hands into fists. Neva Shilling claimed she didn’t intend to sell that furniture, then she’d gone and done it anyway. This was how she repaid him for his kindness? He started for the door.

  “Where you goin’?” Leroy hollered after him.

  Arthur came to a stop. Indeed, where was he going? To berate the woman? To accuse her of stealing sales from him? Did he really want to sabotage his own plan to woo her out of her mercantile?

  He changed course and snatched up the feather duster. “You’ve finished there. Start rearranging the window display now.” Rotating stock—another of Mabel’s ideas—made people think he’d gotten something new.

  The boys exchanged glances, but they went to work without complaint. Frowning, Arthur stood and watched them for a few minutes. They moved the furniture with care, just the way he’d taught them, but they were such big, bumbling bruisers. It was time to discard Mabel’s welcome plan. He scrunched his eyes closed, stifling a groan. The idea stung—as if he were discarding the woman herself.

  “Hey you, get out of here.”

  Leon’s sharp voice pulled Arthur from his ruminating. He opened his eyes and spotted Leon waving both hands at someone outside the window. Arthur strode over. “What are you doing?”

  Leon turned his frown on Arthur. “Trying to make him leave. He’ll scare off business.”

  Arthur looked out the window. The little boy he’d seen walking to school with Belle Shilling stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring in at them. “He doesn’t look so scary to me.”

  “He’s weird, Dad.” Leroy joined them. “I’ve never seen a more peculiar kid. He follows Bud Shilling around with this look on his face that reminds me of a dog waiting for someone to throw him a bone. He gives me the creeps.”

  Arthur examined the boy. Small yet sturdy, with straight dark hair, big brown eyes, and round cheeks. He seemed more cherub than child. Especially when compared to the two overgrown whelps beside him. Arthur snorted. “There’s nothing creepy about that boy. You two are the peculiar ones. Get back to work and leave him be.”

  With muttered grumbles, his sons obeyed.

  Arthur opened the door and stepped outside. Next door, customers scurried into the mercantile with empty hands and staggered out carrying crates. Arthur’s chest went tight. So much business…It’d be a lot harder to convince Mrs. Shilling to let the property go if she was making a good profit. He remained in the shade cast by the striped awning and watched the activity for several seconds. A movement in the corner of his eye pulled his attention away from the mercantile. The little boy held the lamppost with one hand and slowly circled it, his head low.

  Arthur cleared his throat. The child stopped and lifted his face. Arthur smiled. “Good morning. Nice day, isn’t it?” Mid-October, and as warm and dry as early September had been.

  The boy stared at him but didn’t answer.

  “You live next door at the mercantile, am I right?”

  The boy licked his lips, his gaze flicking toward the mercantile and then returning to Arthur. He nodded.

  Arthur, keeping a smile fixed on his face, gave the boy a thorough examination. Not one patch on his britches, shoes nearly scuff-free. He could use a haircut, but otherwise he seemed better cared for than many these days. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Charley. Charley Shilling.”

  So he’d already taken the Shilling name. “Welcome to Buffalo Creek, Charley.”

  Charley lifted his shoulders slightly, bringing the collar of his corduroy jacket up to his ears. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Arthur Randall. I own this furniture
emporium. When you looked through the window, did you see anything you liked?”

  The boy ducked his head. “I dunno.”

  Arthur was beginning to agree with Leon and Leroy about this child’s strangeness. He took two ambling steps in Charley’s direction. “So tell me, Charley, do you have big plans for the day?”

  “I was gonna help people carry their groceries. But everybody’s said the boxes are too big for me.” He mumbled the words toward the ground.

  Arthur cupped Charley’s chin and lifted his face. The boy squinted against the sun. For one brief second, something in his appearance seemed vaguely familiar, but the remembrance scooted away too fast for Arthur to catch it. “Don’t worry. You’ll be big enough to help your ma by and by.”

  “My aunt.”

  Arthur frowned, uncertain he’d heard correctly. “What was that?”

  “My aunt. She’s Aunt Neva. She’s not my ma. My momma’s dead.”

  True sympathy eased through Arthur. “I’m sorry to hear that, son.”

  “My daddy’s dead, too.”

  Arthur put his hand on Charley’s shoulder. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’ve got your aunt Neva.”

  Charley sucked on his lower lip and didn’t answer.

  He stood gazing down at the child. Oddly quiet for a boy, but appealing with those big eyes. Young enough to stir feelings of protectiveness. No one with half a heart would send him scooting if he turned up on a doorstep.

  Arthur gave a jolt. He glanced through his emporium’s window. Leon and Leroy lounged on one of the sofas. He stifled a grunt. He’d deal with them later. Right now, he had something more important to do.

  Curling his hand lightly around the back of Charley’s head, he aimed the boy for the mercantile. “Come along with me, young man. I want to visit with your aunt. I think I have a job that’s just the right size for a boy like you.”

  Neva

  Neva glanced up from figuring Mrs. Wooster’s lengthy order and stifled a groan. Here he came again…That man was making a regular nuisance of himself. But how could she send him away when he tried so hard to be considerate?

  “Mrs. Shilling, good morning.”

  Apparently he didn’t notice the customers in the store. She’d have to make him notice. “Good morning, Mr. Randall. Please give me a minute to finish with Mrs. Wooster, and then I’ll be right with you.”

  His amiable smile remained intact. “Of course.” He tipped his head at Mrs. Wooster. “Please take your time.”

  Neva found it difficult to punch the correct amounts into the cash register keys with Mr. Randall leaning negligently against her counter, whistling softly. But she finished, wrote the total on a slip of paper, and showed it to her customer. “There you are, Maggie. Will that be cash or charge today?”

  “Charge today, but Milton will be in at the end of the month to settle up with you.”

  “All right.” Neva preferred cash, but she wouldn’t chase off a steady customer. She recorded the purchase in the book, then slapped it closed. “Have a good day, Maggie. Bud, please help Mrs. Wooster carry her packages to her car.”

  With Mrs. Wooster on her way, Neva needed to see to Mrs. Roof, but she decided to take care of her neighbor first. Mrs. Roof wasn’t the pushy sort, and Neva preferred to rid the mercantile of her large distraction.

  She slid the charge book under the counter and aimed what she hoped was a convincing smile at her neighbor. “All right, Mr. Randall, what can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I need something from Charley.”

  “Charley?” She finally noticed the boy standing near Mr. Randall, his big brown eyes reflecting as much confusion as she felt.

  “I’d like to hire him.” Mr. Randall propped his wide hand on Charley’s shoulder and beamed at Neva. “I need a messenger—someone to deliver ads to the fine folks of Buffalo Creek. The job pays fifty cents a week. That’s a good salary for a youngster.”

  Neva frowned. Arthur Randall threw his money around like a lasso. “Can’t your boys do the deliveries?”

  The man chuckled, shaking his head. “My boys are too busy working in the emporium to take the time for delivering ads. Now, take Charley here…” He gazed down at the boy with such fondness Neva experienced a stab of guilt she didn’t understand. “He said he isn’t big enough to carry grocery bags. But he’s just the right size to carry a satchel of advertisements, don’t you agree?”

  If she said yes to Mr. Randall’s request, she’d have one more reason to owe the man. The scale was getting far too unbalanced. “I don’t know…”

  He shot her a sharp look. “Are you using him here in the mercantile?”

  Mostly she’d just asked him to stay out from people’s feet since he didn’t want to be upstairs with Belle and his sisters. “Well, no, but—”

  “Then let me put him to work.” He planted his elbow on the counter and leaned in. “You know what they say—idle hands are the devil’s workshop. You wouldn’t want him getting himself into trouble, would you?”

  Heat seared Neva’s face. Warren’s hands were always busy, and he’d still managed to create more trouble than she ever would have imagined. “I—”

  Mr. Randall straightened and placed his hand on Charley’s head, tipping the boy’s face upward. “Look at him, Mrs. Shilling. Can’t you see how much he wants this job?”

  Neva couldn’t deny the hope shining in Charley’s eyes. And if she let him go, she’d be free of the reminder of her husband’s deviltry for a few hours. She sighed. “Charley isn’t familiar with Buffalo Creek. He could get lost wandering around by himself.”

  “Hmm…” The man used his fingers to scrape his mustache down. “Learning the route would familiarize him with his new town. He’d get to know everybody. In no time he’d feel right at home. Wouldn’t that be good for him?”

  If she didn’t give a direct yes or no soon, the persistent man would use up her entire morning. She came out from behind the counter and bent down to address Charley. “Do you want to deliver advertisements for Mr. Randall?”

  Charley nodded.

  “Well, you can’t do it by yourself.” She didn’t intend to speak so sharply, but her tone held a bite anyway. “If Belle is willing to go with you—and that means Cassie and Adeline have to go, too—then you can take the job.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Randall rubbed his palms together. “Run up and fetch the girls, Charley, then come on over to the emporium. I’ll have the satchel ready for you.”

  Charley darted off, wearing the biggest smile Neva had seen since Mr. Caudel brought him to her a week and a half ago. The boy’s delight should please her. But it didn’t.

  Jesse

  He wouldn’t officially wear the sheriff’s badge until Monday, but Jesse decided to spend the weekend pretending it was already pinned to his chest. Might as well become familiar with the town and let the town become familiar with him. He might take a chance on the Saturday special at Betsy Ann’s while he was out. His attempt at pancakes hadn’t gone so well that morning, and he was hungry enough even to eat more of Aunt Sue’s famous chicken and dumplings.

  Buffalo Creek acted a lot more like Beloit on Saturday. Cars and wagons crowded the street. Businesses had their doors propped open with bricks. Every place he passed, with the exception of Betsy Ann’s Café, seemed a beehive of busyness. He stepped through every door, doffed his hat to the ladies and shook the men’s hands, meandered a bit to see what was available, and then set out again.

  He didn’t bother entering Main Street Mercantile, though. His glance through the open windows showed Bud and Mrs. Shilling buzzing around, both looking frazzled. They didn’t need one more person underfoot when the little store was already so crowded. But he’d go by again later, buy a few groceries to fill the shelf in his kitchen. He might also ask Mrs. Shilling for a few simple recipes. Including one for pancakes.

  His stomach growled, and he winced. There was one other place besides Betsy Ann’s for a fellow to grab a bite to eat�
��the Oakes Hotel out on the edge of town. According to Dodds Schlacter, the dining room served up a good meal three times a day, but it was pricey. Twice as much as Betsy Ann charged, and a full mile’s walk from the sheriff’s office.

  He stood on the sidewalk, thinking about the money remaining in his pocket. He’d start drawing his salary on Monday, but he’d only draw a half wage for his first month. As sheriff of Buffalo Creek, he’d earn forty dollars more a month than he had as a deputy in Beloit, but he shouldn’t get too free with his spending. He’d never rented a whole house, paid for utilities, or supplied himself with groceries for an entire month. He could very well use up that extra money real quick. Especially if he spent seventy cents for every meal.

  Jesse sighed. Lousy cooking or not, it made more sense to eat at Betsy Ann’s Café. He set his feet in motion in the direction of the diner. Halfway there he caught sight of a small entourage coming up the sidewalk. Charley, with a leather pouch hanging over his shoulder, led the group. Belle came next, pulling a wooden wagon. Adeline rode in the wagon, and Cassie lagged at the rear.

  Charley’s gaze met Jesse’s, and his face lit. He broke into a trot. “Hi, Mr. Caudel!”

  Jesse smiled at the boy’s flushed face and sweaty hair. “Hi to you.” He flicked the strap on the pouch. “What’cha got there?”

  “I got a job.” Charley dug in the pouch and withdrew a sheet of paper. He shoved it at Jesse. “Here you go, compullments of Randall’s Emporium.”

  Belle eased up alongside Charley, the wagon wheels rattling. “Compli-ments. Remember?”

  Charley offered an embarrassed grin. “Anyway, it’s for you from Mr. Randall.”

  Jesse took the smudged paper. “I thank you, Charley, but I already have one of these. Mr. Randall’s son Leon dropped one by this morning with a note welcoming me to town.” He hadn’t made it by the emporium yet, but he would before closing time. He needed to get that mattress up off the floor before critters took a notion to chew on it, and he hoped Arthur Randall might be able to help him understand why the manufacturer Rich & Baker continued to niggle in the back of his mind.