The Hosanna Shout

by R. R. Irvine

  The priest fingered the scarred side of his face. “Garth’s sure to be at the picnic. You can meet him for yourselves there.”

  “Would he welcome outsiders?”

  Balic smiled. “Both sides will be there. Company men and those of us who want to stay on here where we spent our lives and where we have memories.”

  “Which side is Garth Tempest on?”

  “He says he’s for the town, but Kennecott has offered him good money for that souvenir shop of his, more than he’d ever get selling off his stock a piece at a time. At least that’s what I hear. Of course, Garth’s a relative newcomer. He only moved here a couple of years ago, so his roots are somewhere else.”

  “We need a more personal assessment,” Martin said.

  “I’ll introduce you to him at the picnic. After that, my advice is to keep quiet and listen to what he has to say. I could be wrong, you know. He doesn’t have to be a company man, or even the man he seems to be. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Some of my older parishioners will need help getting to the picnic.”

  “What do you make of that?” Traveler said once the priest was out of sight.

  “I don’t think he likes Garth Tempest,” Martin said. “I also think we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone. When I was researching the Chester Building at the Historical Society, I was told that their photo expert, Wayne Pinock, would be here at the high school today. He’s been in town for the last three days, staying with the mayor, taking photographs, and interviewing people on videotape for an oral history of Bingham Canyon.”

  22

  BINGHAM HIGH, three stories of bleak brick augmented by square metal casement windows, looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a school. Like everything else in the canyon, the building backed up against the hillside. Cribbing, made of telephone-pole-size logs, rose steeply behind it to keep the slag dumps stable. The grounds surrounding the school were made of badly cracked asphalt showing waist-high weeds in the wider gaps.

  The smelter haze, held close to the earth by an oppressive noonday sun, made Traveler’s eyes water. There was no green anywhere, no playing field as such, only a neighboring lot where scorched weeds had been mown recently. Picnic tables, divided into two equal but separate clusters, one posted CITYHOOD, the other KENNECOTT, took up one end of the lot. The other end, about the size of two basketball courts, had red, white, and blue balloons tethered to lanes of sawhorses that appeared to have been set aside for some kind of children’s game. Between the lanes, a few men were lazily tossing a football back and forth. Nearby, children clustered around a clown shaping balloons into animals, half a dozen of which—dachshunds mostly—already floated from strings above their heads.

  A refreshment stand built of two-by-fours covered with red, white, and blue crepe paper stood between the table groupings. Next to the stand, a wooden stage, no more than eight feet square, had been constructed of raw lumber and was equipped with portable speaker and microphone.

  Traveler and Martin arrived fifteen minutes early, hoping to collar Balic and hold him to his promise of an introduction to Garth Tempest, but the whole town seemed to be there ahead of them, a hundred people at least, maybe more. They appeared to be equally divided between the two sets of tables. Only the children moved back and forth freely, constantly crossing between the political lines.

  “Don’t sit anywhere until we locate the Tempests,” Martin said. “We don’t want to pick the wrong side.”

  “You look for Father Balic,” Traveler said. “I’ll find the mayor’s wife. We know which side she and her husband are on. Be sure to call me Mo, not Moroni.”

  “Mo and Martin, what a team!”

  Traveler headed for the refreshment stand since it seemed to lie on neutral ground. Directly in front of it, two lines had been formed, one for beer that was being served from aluminum kegs, the other for soft drinks, both courtesy of Kennecott Copper according to discreet notices stapled to the crepe paper. A hand-lettered sign attached crookedly to a nearby tree stated that lemons for lemonade had been donated by Tuttle’s Grocery.

  When Traveler asked for lemonade he was told that the fruit had been handed out yesterday, so each family could make and sweeten its own batch. He settled for a can of root beer and began wandering around, drawing stares but no overt approaches.

  When he found Ida Odegaard she was having her picture taken seated beside Father Balic on folding chairs in the neutral zone. As soon as the priest saw Traveler, he shook his head slightly and mouthed, “Not here yet.”

  The photographer adjusted a tripod while Martin whispered in his ear. A dozen or so men stood off to one side as if waiting their turn. Four of them wore white shirts, red bow ties, and suspenders to match.

  At Traveler’s approach, Martin backed off far enough to say, “This is Wayne Pinock from the Historical Society.”

  Pinock, a squat, bearded man with horn-rim glasses perched on the top of his head, acknowledged the introduction with a wave of his hand but didn’t take his eye from the viewfinder.

  “If we could have the mayor now,” he said, repositioning his camera a quarter turn so that the high school building would show in the background, “I think future generations will thank us for the effort.”

  Mrs. Odegaard put her glasses on to look for her husband but spotted Traveler and made a face.

  “To look at him, you wouldn’t know he was my son, would you?” Martin told her.

  She glanced from one Traveler to the other, then shook her head.

  “I tried giving him coffee to stunt his growth,” Martin said, “but it didn’t work.”

  Smiling broadly, a heavyset balding man, one of those in red bow tie and suspenders, stepped forward to shake Traveler’s hand. “I’m Almon Odegaard, the mayor.” He mopped his sweating brow while looking Traveler up and down. “We could use you on our team.”

  “The man’s waiting to take your picture,” his wife said.

  “Company men on one side and my team, made up of good Binghamites all, on the other,” the mayor added before taking his place beside Father Balic. “You may be our best chance to beat them.”

  “No ringers,” one of the other men said.

  The mayor winked. “Anyone at the picnic can play.”

  “Play what?” Martin asked.

  “A friendly game of touch football. Father Balic has agreed to referee. Isn’t that right, Papa Joe?”

  The priest nodded.

  “I’m out of shape,” Traveler said.

  “You don’t look it,” the mayor said.

  Pinock signaled for silence. “Smile.”

  The mayor obliged.

  For the next few minutes, Pinock took a series of photographs, taking careful left-to-right notes as he posed various groups, including the mayor, city council members, businessmen, and prominent citizens. Throughout, Ida Odegaard stayed with the photographer, identifying prospective subjects and making certain the man from the Historical Society had their names spelled correctly.

  The moment Pinock finished, the mayor, trailed by his wife and Father Balic, disappeared into the crowd, shaking hands as he went. The sound of cheers grew intense, punctuated by occasional boos.

  As soon as the crowd of onlookers began dissipating, Martin collared Pinock. “This man has been here all week, Mo, recording for posterity.”

  “I should have been here sooner,” Pinock said. “The town’s practically dead already. Another couple of weeks and I’d have been out of luck.”

  “You think Kennecott’s going to win, then?” Martin said.

  Pinock wiped sweat from his eyes before repositioning his glasses from the top of his head to his nose. “Look around you. Would you rather live in one of these shacks or a nice ranch-style house down in the valley?”

  The photographer dug his foot into the dusty soil. “Besides, we’re literally standing on a fortune. A mountain range full of copper ore. So no matter what, the mining’s going to continue. I’m not saying the vote might not go against
the company, but in the end it won’t make much difference.”

  “I’m not a great one for change,” Traveler said.

  “He inherited that from me,” Martin added. “That’s why we want your help with the Chester Building.”

  “I got the message you left at the Historical Society. Only then you were using the name Traveler. A few minutes ago I heard you call yourself Mr. Martin.”

  Pinock picked up his tripod, with the camera still attached, and carried it to the nearest empty picnic table. Traveler scooped up the man’s equipment case and followed, as did Martin, carrying the brown-bag lunch Emma Dugan had supplied.

  “Before the day’s over, I’ll be taking a shot of every table,” Pinock said. “That ought to get us a record of just about everybody left in town.”

  “We can explain about the name,” Traveler said.

  Pinock concentrated on adjusting the leveling bubble built into his tripod. When he had it centered he stepped back and said, “I’m listening.”

  Traveler handed him a business card and explained that he and his father were conducting a discreet investigation in Bingham, which was true as far as it went.

  “God knows why I believe you, but I do,” Pinock said as soon as Traveler finished speaking. “As for the Chester Building, if it were up to me, I’d like to see it preserved as a landmark, but I know a losing cause when I see one. So does the Historical Society.”

  “That settles it,” Martin said. “We’re definitely up against the church. Which means we back off too, Mo.”

  “I’m going to preserve it on film, if that’s any consolation. If everything goes as scheduled here in the canyon, I’m planning to get to the Chester Building in the next few days. Don’t worry, though. Even if I get held up here for a while, the powers that be have promised me the Chester won’t come down until I get a chance to shoot it.”

  “Our office is there,” Martin said. “We don’t like the idea of moving.”

  Pinock shrugged. “In order to be a landmark, it has to be listed on the official register or have some kind of historical significance. Remember the shopping center they were building down by the train station last year? When they started digging, they found an unrecorded pioneer cemetery. Now it’s a state park.”

  “The Chester Building has Brigham Young on the ceiling,” Martin said.

  “The old mural, you mean. I’ve seen a lot of those fall to the wrecker’s ball.”

  “They say Thomas Hart Benton painted it.”

  Pinock bent over his camera to look through the viewfinder at the picnic table, which now had children sitting on it, waiting for their photo to be taken. “Even if there’s provenance, which I doubt, it wouldn’t be enough to save the place. The fact is, that’s why I do my job, recording history for future generations, because there’s no profit in the status quo.”

  “What would a Thomas Hart Benton that size be worth?” Traveler asked.

  Stepping back from his camera, Pinock lowered his glasses into place and stared at Traveler. “It’s always possible that a painting could raise the price of the building so high they’d back off condemning it. I think that’s what you’re really asking. The trouble is, the church—and I’m not saying they have any vested interest there—is the richest in this country.”

  “Would you be willing to help us save the Chester Building?” Martin said.

  “I record history, I don’t make it. But I’ll do one thing for you. When I get back to town, I’ll check some of the old WPA photographs that have been donated to the Society and see if I can spot Thomas Hart Benton.”

  “It used to be the Gustavson Building in the old days,” Martin said.

  “We’ve got his photos, too,” Pinock said, “but even if we could prove Rembrandt painted the mural, I don’t know if it would do much good.”

  He turned his back on Traveler to concentrate on photographing the children.

  “Come on,” Martin said. “Let’s see if we can find ourselves a relative.”

  The crowd had grown; lines at the refreshment stand were ten people deep. The air was filled with dust thick enough to taste. Traveler felt the beginning of a sunburn on the back of his neck.

  Martin, seemingly unaffected by the heat, plunged through the crowd, but it was Traveler who saw the priest first, sitting at a picnic table on the CITYHOOD side. Hannah Tempest was next to him, which meant the rangy, dark-haired man facing her was probably her husband Garth. The children weren’t at the table, which held two wicker hampers, several platters covered with aluminum wrap, and a gallon-size thermos surrounded by paper cups.

  The priest waved the Travelers over.

  “Martins, father and son,” Balic said, “I’d like you to meet Garth Tempest and his wife, Hannah.”

  While the men were shaking hands, Hannah, wearing a housedress similar to the one Traveler had seen before, shifted to her husband’s side of the table, allowing Traveler and Martin to squeeze onto the bench beside the priest.

  “The Martins are doing a little genealogy research,” Balic said. “They tell me they’re looking for Tempests.”

  “I’m the only one here in Bingham,” Tempest said. “As far as I know, we don’t have any Martins in the family.”

  “Kary Tempest,” Martin improvised. “Born in Sanpete County. Dead now, of course.”

  “Never heard of her. We’re not Mormons in my family and don’t search for the dead the way you people do.”

  Martin nodded. “We wanted a last look around Bingham anyway, before it’s too late.” He made a show of scanning the landscape. Only Traveler knew it was Marty his father sought.

  “Bingham’s not much of a town these days,” Tempest said, “but it’s still a shame to think that all this will be eaten up by the mine.”

  “We may beat them yet,” Father Balic said.

  Tempest shook his head. “A man’s business can’t survive without customers, despite what the mayor says. ‘That souvenir shop’s a good investment,’ he tells me last year, so I sink in my savings. ‘History’s on our side,’ he says. ‘They don’t call Bingham Canyon Old Reliable for nothing. While other mining towns have turned into ghosts, the ore here has never run out.’ Well, I haven’t struck it rich. The fact is, I haven’t had so much as a customer inside my shop in a week.”

  “Your investment’s safe enough, what with Kennecott’s offer,” Father Balic said.

  “Most of it will go to pay off the mortgage.”

  Nearby, a cheer went up, followed almost immediately by amplified banjo music, “Camptown Races.”

  “Sing along,” someone shouted.

  A few people joined in, but most, Traveler included, couldn’t remember the words.

  “There’s our mayor now,” Tempest said.

  Traveler swung around on the bench to see Almon Odegaard and three others, the men in white shirts and red suspenders, standing on the makeshift stage with a banjo player. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized that the mayor’s wife had the table directly behind them, where she was setting out plastic utensils and stacks of paper plates on a red, white, and blue paper tablecloth.

  “They call themselves the Bingham Barbers,” Tempest said. “Our mayor thinks that leading a barbershop quartet makes him a historian, ‘a keeper of tradition and lore,’ he calls himself. If you ask me, it’s an excuse for singing dirty songs.”

  Tempest took a deep breath and spoke in a singsong voice. “ ‘She married a Mormon cowboy who understood his game / He knocked her up with a double stroke, now she’s got—’ ”

  “Garth,” Hannah said. “Here come the children, so watch your mouth.”

  Marty, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that had COPPER KEKPSAKE stenciled on it, was carrying a blue dachshund balloon; the older boy and the girl had red balloons shaped like elephants. The three children immediately crowded around the end of the picnic table, staring at the covered food, while Tempest introduced Hannah’s sister, Hattie Snarr, and her husband, Lyman. Hattie had her sister�
��s sun-streaked blond hair, plus her own faceful of freckles, and a smile that made Hannah, like everyone else, reciprocate. By smiling, Hannah erased ten years from her face and made Traveler realize that she was an attractive woman, camouflaged by both housedress and disposition.

  Lyman Snarr had smile wrinkles to match his wife’s. He deepened them to grin at Traveler and say, “You look familiar to me.”

  Before Traveler could answer, the quartet switched to a loud, vigorous rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” halting all conversation and saving Traveler a lie.

  Martin took his eyes off the boy long enough to put his mouth against Traveler’s ear. “He looks just like Claire. Garth’s got the same coloring too, thank God. Hannah was lucky there. Otherwise, she’d never have gotten away with saying the child was his.”

  The music stopped and the mayor moved close to the microphone to make an announcement. “We’re going to halt the entertainment for a while to wet our whistles. After that, we’ll be choosing up sides for a touch football game. As of now, the able-bodied are drafted to help carry a beer keg over to the playing field.”

  Martin’s head moved only a fraction of an inch, but Traveler understood the gesture. Football, even the touch variety, could turn into war when aided and abetted by alcohol and politics.

  “That’s my signal to leave,” the priest said, shaking hands again. “In this heat, I’ve got to stoke up on liquid.” He trotted off toward the refreshment stand.

  Hattie shook her head at his retreating form. “You men and your football. I’d better go find Jesse and make sure he’s brought his first-aid kit.”

  “Jesse’s our oldest son,” Snarr explained as soon as his wife left. “He finished his medical residency at the university hospital last year, on one of those government scholarships. They pay and he agrees to practice for three years in small towns like Bingham.”

  “He’s by Hattie’s first husband,” Tempest put in.

  “I adopted Jesse years ago,” Snarr said. “Right after his father died. As far as I’m concerned he’s my son.”

  Tempest shrugged.

  “Here comes Shaky,” Hannah said.