My Father's World

by Michael Phillips

  This brought a rousing laugh from the small group.

  We finally reached the door of the Gold Nugget, pulled up, and all piled out. There were a few men standing around there, too, and Uncle Nick sauntered over and began talking to them.

  After a few moments, I heard, “Let Drum take ’em. He’s a religious sort of feller. Come on with us.”

  Pa walked over, far from cowed by their remarks, and turned a dark glance toward the men. He didn’t say a word, but they seemed to understand and shrank back quickly. He took firm hold of Uncle Nick’s arm, whispered something in his ear, and without further conversation Uncle Nick turned away and walked with us up the wooden steps. The other children bounded in. But I couldn’t help hesitating. Pa started in too, then he turned back toward me.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I answered. “It’s just that I ain’t never been in a saloon before.”

  A faint smile flickered across his face. Then he quickly turned serious. “I’m sorry there ain’t no real church for you, Corrie,” he said. I could tell he meant it.

  “Do you suppose having church in a saloon is all right with God?”

  “How in blazes am I supposed to know, girl?” he said, then put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me inside.

  Twenty or thirty people were seated in chairs that had been placed in rows in front of the bar—mostly men, but probably six or seven ladies. There weren’t any other children.

  I saw Mr. Ashton and Mr. Weber from the freight company, and Mr. Bosely from the General Store. Mr. Rafferty the constable, was also there, and Mr. Singleton the newspaper man, and even Mr. Royce. The rest of the crowd were miners and a few farmers. Mrs. Gianini sat with one of the farmer’s wives. Mrs. Parrish played the piano, and it would have been fine playing too if it hadn’t been for the tinny-sounding, old saloon instrument.

  The biggest surprise of all was to see Alkali Jones there. I guess I hadn’t really expected to see him at all. But there he was—standing just inside the swinging doors, leaning against the saloon’s back wall, waiting for Pa.

  “Hey, Drum,” he called out in a loud whisper, “I thought ya’d never get here, an’ leave me standin’ here playin’ the fool. Hee, hee.”

  I don’t know if I’d have even recognized him if it weren’t for his laugh!

  He wore a brown broadcloth suit that looked as out of place on him as his brilliantined hair and beard. Slicked down, the old miner looked like a wet cat whose fur had suddenly been soaked, leaving nothing but skin and bones.

  “Quiet, ya old coot!” whispered Pa right back as we walked toward the back row. But Mr. Jones paid him no heed.

  “Why, I ain’t worn a stitch o’ these duds since. . . .” He rubbed his slick beard. “Lemme see . . . since my brother Ezekiel’s weddin’ back in Arkansas.”

  “Didn’t you wear it last time you went to church?” asked Tad innocently, not realizing he was supposed to whisper.

  Several heads turned toward us, and I could feel poor Pa’s embarrassment at being caught in such a situation, helped none by Alkali Jones’ high-pitched chuckling over Tad’s question.

  Finally we sat down, much to Pa’s and Uncle Nick’s relief.

  Mr. Rafferty introduced everyone to the Rev. Avery Rutledge. He was not an old man, like I imagined most preachers were supposed to be. He was probably Pa’s age, or a year or two younger.

  He was handsome in a rather stiff and severe way, a bit on the pale side, tall and slim with shoulders that slumped slightly forward. He surely wasn’t robust and muscular like Uncle Nick, but his dark brown eyes beneath the wire-rimmed spectacles were keen and forceful. When he spoke, his voice showed just a hint of nervousness. But he made up for that by speaking a little louder than I thought he needed to, and the preacher-tone of his voice gave it a commanding sound. I doubted he’d be much good in a fist fight, but one word in that voice would probably be enough to discourage most foes. As he stood in front of us, however, his eyes flitted about from face to face, and that detracted a mite from his otherwise forceful appearance.

  Mr. Rutledge handed out papers with hymns written on them. We got off to a good start with his leading, and Mrs. Parrish playing “O, for a Thousand Tongues.” The piano was louder than all the voices put together, but the voices you could hear were mostly of the women. Even the few gravelly sounds from the motley-looking group of miners—some in monotone, some wandering about in search of the right key, and others like Uncle Nick, who just tried not to be conspicuous—were something priceless to hear and see. I found myself almost forgetting we were sitting in a drinking house!

  During the third verse, just as we got to the words “’tis music in the sinner’s ears,” all at once there came a commotion at the saloon door behind us, and three or four men came clamoring in.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” one of them said.

  “What’s become o’ this here town?” railed another.

  “Can’t a feller git a decent drink no more?”

  “The bar’s closed,” someone called out. I think it was Mr. Bosely.

  “Well, we want a bottle o’ whiskey! Where’s Jasper?”

  “I’m here,” called out a man standing against the far wall. I hadn’t noticed him before. “But the man’s right,” he added, though he didn’t sound too happy about it. “The bar’s closed for an hour.”

  Mrs. Parrish gave up trying to keep playing the hymn. Finally, Mr. Rutledge spoke up, leveling his gaze toward the intruders.

  “Despite the fact that this is a saloon,” he said, “we are conducting a worship service, and there will be no whiskey served. But you are welcome to join us.”

  “So you’re the preacher man who thinks he can take our saloon away!”

  “Hey, Joe, this I gotta see. Maybe we should stay.”

  “Yeah. If Matthews can sit through the man’s rantin’, I suppose our whiskey’ll wait an hour.”

  I could feel Uncle Nick squirm under the words. He fidgeted in his seat and half turned around toward them. I think he was getting set to shout some wise-crack back at them, when Pa gave him a sudden poke in the ribs with his elbow to shut him up.

  The men took several of the empty seats, their hard-soled boots echoing on the oak floor of the Gold Nugget, while Mrs. Parrish resumed the hymn, playing as loudly as she dared in order to drown out the ongoing ruckus coming from the back row.

  By the time we’d sung two more verses, things had settled down again. Mrs. Parrish played right into “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and Mr. Rutledge led us in all the verses of that hymn, too. By the time it was done, he’d got his composure back enough from the interruption to start his preaching.

  He just started right in, without a word of introduction, and carried on with one of the loudest most hair-raising sermons I ever heard. He sounded very sure of everything he said, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d already preached the same sermon several times before. Every word sounded like he was reading it. But I knew he wasn’t, because he had no papers in front of him. I guess he’d memorized it, like the readings we had learned in the school back in Bridgeville.

  “And so, my friends,” he said as he neared what I hoped was the end of his sermon, “I admonish you again to turn aside from any evil which encumbers you, and to run with godliness the race of life. Only by laying down the evil of our sinful past will we escape the wrath of God, which is as sure as our own corrupt nature, which was born in iniquity. Repent, I say, and enter into the glory of—”

  All at once, without warning, a voice spoke out from the congregation:

  “Now, I been sittin’ here listenin’, Preacher,” the man said, “an’ what I’d like t’ know is what ya think men like us oughta do in a place like this?”

  Noticeably flustered, a look passed over Rev. Rutledge’s face I hadn’t seen the whole morning. It was a look, well . . . almost of fear. But it passed from his eyes in an instant, and he quickly struggled to get his sermon back on
track.

  “I . . . er . . . as I was saying,” he went on, clearing his throat nervously, “I would have all men, myself included, turn aside from any and all evils. The wrath of God will come like a thief in the night, and we must—”

  “Are you sayin’ we’re a lot o’ evil sinners?” called out another.

  Not to be thrown off again, Mr. Rutledge took this interruption more in stride, and proceeded to shake the very rafters of the saloon with his voice. “Yes, my friends,” he answered loudly. “A lot of sinners we all are and you are all included in that! Yes, there is sin in every man’s heart, and in the saloons of Miracle Springs! But God will not be mocked! He will—”

  “Come on, Reverend! Ye’re not gonna tell us we gotta give up our poker an’ our whiskey?”

  “The Lord will exact godliness—” began the preacher in reply, but the men who were now set to disrupt him didn’t let him finish.

  “Ah, them religious words may be all right for folks back East where you come from, Reverend. But out here things is different. We ain’t got nuthin’ to do but have a little fun now an’ then. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  Murmurings and a few calls and whistles erupted from around the room.

  In vain Mr. Rutledge tried to speak again, but by now no one would let him.

  Mrs. Parrish stood. “Please . . . please . . . you must—”

  But her voice was drowned out in boos and catcalls, mostly from the back of the room where the fellow called Joe still sat with his friends. We all sat for a few more awkward moments, wondering what was going to happen. All at once I felt movement in the seat next to me, and before I realized it, Pa was on his feet.

  “Let the man finish!” he thundered, and in an instant the room was still. “This man came a long way to preach to us,” he continued. “Now I say we heed what the lady was tryin’ to say, and let him do it!”

  He took his seat; I think more surprised than anyone else at what he had done.

  Rev. Rutledge mumbled some words of thanks, and quickly finished his sermon, but without ever quite regaining the emotion and fervor of before. I think he was glad to have the service over with, and he didn’t stay around much afterwards to chat.

  Pa didn’t say anything as we filed outside, only led us back to the wagon with a sour expression on his face. I wanted to see Mrs. Parrish, but we were off and on our way back to the cabin before I even had a chance to look for her.

  On the way home I thanked Pa for taking us. But he only grunted in reply.

  Chapter 29

  A Surprise

  As December settled in, the days moved quickly, and I realized once more what a different spot we were in than back home. We hadn’t had snow yet, though it got real cold and frosty at times. But when I strained my eyes toward the high Sierras I could catch glimpses of the expanse of white on their peaks. Back in New York we may have had more snow, but we sure didn’t have mountains like that.

  I wondered what Christmas would be like without Ma.

  One thing for sure, it wouldn’t be easy. Holidays were family times, and now, even with things gradually getting better with Pa, it was still pretty mixed up. A holiday like Christmas needs a ma to make it special. It would probably be the most difficult for Zack and me, because we would remember how it used to be back home. I didn’t want to start crying in front of Pa. I didn’t want to make him think I was sad. He didn’t need anything else to worry about, and he was trying hard to do the best he could.

  All month I wondered what he would do about the holiday, although I didn’t want to say anything. But on the 17th we got an invitation from Mrs. Parrish to join her for Christmas dinner. She rode all the way out from town in her rig to deliver it to us personally. She included all seven of our Hollister-Belle clan, and said she hoped we’d all be able to come.

  I got my crying done in bed when I was falling asleep on Christmas Eve, so on Christmas Day I tried my best to make it a special day for the kids. Uncle Nick and Pa got up and went out to the mine, just like any other day. The girls and I fixed breakfast, and they came in as usual about an hour later to eat.

  I had made some small presents for everyone—dresses for Emily and Becky’s dolls out of an old dress that didn’t fit Becky anymore, and neck scarves for Tad, Zack, Uncle Nick, and Pa. After we were finished eating I gave them out, feeling a little awkward when I handed Pa his. It seemed so small.

  “Merry Christmas, Pa,” I said.

  He looked surprised as he took it from me. “What?” he said in confusion, “Is this Christmas?”

  “Yes, Pa,” piped up Becky. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

  “Well tan my hide, girl!” he said scooping Becky off the ground, “now that you mention it, there is something mighty familiar-sounding about this date.”

  He set her down, then sat on a stool and began deliberately scratching his head with one finger. “Hmmm. . . .” he muttered. The three younger kids were watching him with wide eyes, incredulous that he had forgotten Christmas. But I thought I detected a hint of mischief in his eye, and it wasn’t long before I knew I was right.

  “Nick,” he said, looking over to Uncle Nick, “did you hear what these kids are telling me . . . that this is Christmas?”

  “I heard it, but I don’t believe it,” he replied.

  “Yes, it is, Uncle Nick,” said Tad excitedly. “It is—I promise!”

  “He promises, Nick,” said Pa real seriously. “Could you and me have lost track somehow?”

  “Ain’t likely,” said Uncle Nick.

  Pa scratched his head again. “Well,” he said at last, “there’s only one way to find out for sure.”

  “What’s that, Pa?” said Tad, taking the bait.

  “Well—I reckon we’ll have to find out if ol’ St. Nick’s been here.”

  “And he don’t mean me!” said Uncle Nick.

  “But you know,” added Pa, “that a heap of things is different in California.” He looked at Tad with a very serious expression. “By the time Santa Claus gets to California, he’s plumb tuckered out and anxious to get home. So he don’t fool with chimneys and stockings and tiptoein’ around trying to stay outta people’s way.”

  “He doesn’t?” said Tad, amazed.

  By this time, Uncle Nick was having a hard time not breaking into a laugh. But he kept his reaction to a smile.

  “What does he do?” asked Emily, who had been listening intently, not quite sure what to believe, but letting her curiosity finally get the best of her.

  “Well, blamed if he don’t just drop off his packages any ol’ place he can, usually off someplace where folks ain’t likely to hear him. Hmmm,” he said, stroking his beard, “I wonder if there’s any place like that around here?”

  “How about the mine cave?” suggested Uncle Nick.

  “Nah—I don’t think he’d use a place that ain’t safe for kids. Probably someplace a mite closer to the cabin.”

  “The tool shed!” shouted Becky.

  “Yeah!” yelled Tad. They both looked at Pa.

  He returned an innocently questioning look, as if to say, Who knows? It just might be. Then he said, “I suppose it’s worth a look.”

  Like a shot, Tad and Becky were out the door, followed by Emily. Zack and I were a little excited by now too and we sort of half-ran out after them. Uncle Nick and Pa came along too, but they walked.

  By the time we got to the shed, which wasn’t more than twenty yards from the cabin, already shouts and calls were coming from inside. Tad burst out as we approached.

  “Santa’s been here Pa!” he shouted. “There’s presents and everything!”

  “Well if that don’t beat all!” said Pa, glancing around at Uncle Nick. “Ya hear that, Nick? These kids is right—it is Christmas!”

  Tad reached up and grabbed Pa’s hand, and excitedly led him inside the shed. Emily and Becky were already distributing the brightly-colored wrapped packages.

  “There’s only five, Pa,” said Emily apologetically. />
  “Oh . . . well . . . that’s another thing about California,” he said, stooping down to her. “Out West, Santa’s only got enough presents left for kids.”

  Satisfied, Emily turned back to the flurry of activity in the small shed. They were big packages too, but not heavy. The younger ones weren’t waiting to be told what to do. They were already eagerly ripping into the pretty paper. I looked over at Pa kind of sheepishly.

  “Well go to it, girl,” he said. “It’s got your name on it, don’t it?”

  Finally, I let my little-girl enthusiasm go. I sat down on a log and lit into my package. In a few seconds, I was taking the lid off the box, and reaching inside to lift out the prettiest hat I had ever seen. It had a wide straw brim, and was decorated with pink and blue ribbons which tied in the back and hung down several inches. It was so beautiful! I’d never had such a lovely bonnet in my life.

  I looked up to see the others trying on hats of their own. Becky’s and Emily’s were beautiful too, with lace and tiny flowers. Of us all, I think Zack was proudest of his, though he was careful not to show his true pleasure. Very deliberately, he placed the tan leather hat on his head, its brim curled up just slightly—exactly like Pa’s and Uncle Nick’s. And even little Tad wore a smaller version of the same western hat.

  Then all of a sudden, as if the thought had occurred to each at the same instant, the four younger ones tore out of the shed for the house in search of a mirror. I was the last to rise.

  Uncle Nick had run off after the kids, but Pa was still standing there waiting for me. I looked up at him, and there was a look in his eyes I’ll never forget—a look of pride, like he was feeling genuine pleasure at our happiness. I couldn’t help it—even though I had resolved not to, I felt my eyes filling with tears.

  “Thank you, Pa,” I said quietly, looking deeply into his eyes.

  “Don’t mention it, girl,” he replied. “That’s what Christmas—and fathers—are all about.”

  He placed an arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze, then we began walking slowly toward the cabin together.