Kelly's Chance (5 page)

Herman nuzzled Kelly’s shoulder, and she turned to face her mule friends.
If God really loves me, then why doesn’t He change Papa’s heart?

***

Mike had been busier than usual the last couple days, and that was good. It kept him from thinking too much about Kelly McGregor. How soon would she and her family stop at his store again? Could he manage to sell any of her drawings before they came? Was Kelly the least bit interested in him? All these thoughts tumbled around in Mike’s head whenever he had a free moment to look at Kelly’s artwork, which he’d displayed on one wall of the store. The young woman had been gifted with a talent so great that even a simple, homemade charcoal drawing looked like an intricate work of art. At least Mike thought it did. He just hoped some of his customers would agree and decide to buy one of Kelly’s pictures.

As Mike wiped off the glass on the candy counter, where little children had left fingerprint smudges, a vision of Kelly came to mind. With her long, dark hair hanging freely down her back, and those huge brown eyes reminding him of a baby deer, she was sure easy to look at. Nothing like Betsy Nelson, the preacher’s daughter, who had a birdlike nose, squinty gray blue eyes, and a prim-and-proper bun for her dingy blond hair.

Kelly’s personality seemed different, too. She wasn’t pushy and opinionated, the way Betsy was. Kelly, though a bit shy, seemed to have a zest for life that showed itself in her drawings. She was a hard worker, too—trudging up and down the towpath six days a week, from sunup to sunset. Mike was well aware of the way the canal boatmen pushed to get their loads picked up and delivered. The responsibility put upon the mule drivers was heavy, yet it was often delegated to women and children.

I wonder if Amos McGregor appreciates his daughter and pays her well enough.
Mike doubted it, seeing the way the man barked orders at Kelly. And why, if she was paid a decent wage, would Kelly be using crude sticks of charcoal instead of store-bought paints or pencils, not to mention her homemade tablet?

Mike’s thoughts were halted when the front door of his store opened and banged shut.

“Good morning, Mike Cooper,” Preacher Nelson said as he sauntered into the room.

“Mornin’,” Mike answered with a smile and a nod.

“How’s business?”

“Been kind of busy the last couple of days. Now that the weather’s warmed and the canal is full of water again, the boatmen are back in full swing.”

The preacher raked his long fingers through the ends of his curly, dark hair. His gray blue eyes were small and beady, like his daughter’s. “You still keeping the same hours?” the man questioned.

Mike nodded. “Yep ... Monday to Saturday, nine o’clock in the morning till six at night.”

Hiram Nelson smiled, revealing a prominent dimple in his clean-shaven chin. “Sure glad to hear you’re still closing the store on Sundays.”

Mike moved over to the wooden counter where he waited on customers. “Sunday’s a day of rest.”

“That’s how God wants it, but there’s sure a lot of folks who think otherwise.”

Not knowing what else to say, Mike merely shrugged. “Anything I can help you with, Reverend Nelson?”

The older man leaned on the edge of the counter. “Actually, there is.”

“What are you in need of?”

“You.”

“Me?”

The preacher’s head bobbed up and down. “This Friday’s my daughter’s twenty-sixth birthday, and I thought it would be nice for Betsy if someone her age joined us for supper.” He chuckled. “She sees enough of her old papa, and since her mama died a few years ago, Betsy’s been kind of lonely.”

Mike was tempted to remind the preacher that his daughter was two years older than he but decided not to mention their age difference—or the fact that most women Betsy’s age were already married and raising a family. “Isn’t there someone from your church you could invite?” he asked.

Pastor Nelson’s face turned slightly red. “It’s you Betsy thought of when she said she’d like to have a guest on her birthday.” He tapped the edge of the counter.

Mike wasn’t sure how to respond. Was it possible that Betsy Nelson was romantically interested in him? If so, he had to figure out a way to discourage her.

“So, what do you say, son? Will you come to supper on Friday evening?”

Remembering that the Nelsons’ home was next to the church and several miles away, Mike knew he would have to close the store early in order to make it in time for supper. This would be the excuse he needed to decline the invitation. Besides, what if the McGregors came by while he was gone? He didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see Kelly again.

“I–I’m afraid I can’t make it,” Mike said.

The preacher pursed his lips. “Why not? You got other plans?”

Mike shook his head. “Not exactly, but I’d have to close the store early.”

Reverend Nelson held up his hand. “No need for that, son. We’ll have a late supper. How’s seven o’clock sound?”

“Well, I—”

“I won’t take no for an answer, so you may as well say you’ll come. Betsy would be impossible to live with if I came home and told her you’d turned down my invitation.”

Mike didn’t want to hurt Betsy’s feelings, and the thought of eating someone else’s cooking did have some appeal. “Okay,” he finally conceded. “Tell Betsy I’ll be there.”

***

Kelly hummed to herself as she kicked the stones beneath her feet. They had made it to Easton by six o’clock last night, and after they dropped off their load of coal and ate supper, she’d had a few hours to spend in her room, working on her drawings.

Now they were heading back to Mauch Chunk for another load. By five or six o’clock they should be passing Mike Cooper’s store. Kelly hoped she could talk Papa into stopping, for she had three more drawings she wanted to give Mike. One was of a canal boat going through the locks, another of an elderly boatman standing at the bow of his boat playing a fiddle, and the third was of the skyline of Easton, with its many tall buildings.

Kelly was pretty sure her pictures were well done, although she knew they could have been better if they’d been drawn on better paper, in color instead of black and white.

She stopped humming.
Someday I hope to have enough money to buy all kinds of paints and fancy paper.
Even as the words popped into her mind, Kelly wondered if they could ever come true. Unless Papa changed his mind about paying her wages, she might never earn any money of her own. Maybe her dream of owning an art gallery wasn’t possible.

“At least I can keep on drawing,” she mumbled. “Nobody can take that away from me.”

Kelly’s stomach rumbled, reminding her it was almost noon. Since they had no load, they would be stopping to eat soon. If Papa was hurrying to get to Easton with a boatload of coal, Kelly might be forced to eat a hunk of bread or some fruit and keep on walking. Today, Mama was fixing a pot of vegetable and bean soup. Kelly could smell the delicious aroma as it wafted across the space between the boat and towpath.

A short while later, Kelly was on board the boat, sitting at the small wooden table. A bowl of steaming soup had been placed in front of her, a chunk of rye bread to her left, and her drawing pad was on the right. She’d decided to sketch a bit while her soup cooled.

Kelly had just picked up her piece of charcoal to begin drawing when Papa sat down across from her. “You ain’t got time to dawdle. Get your lunch eaten and go tend to the mules.”

Tears stung Kelly’s eyes. She should be used to the way her dad shot orders, but his harsh tone and angry scowl always upset her.

“My soup’s too hot to eat yet,” she said. “I thought I might get some drawin’ done while I wait for it to cool.”

Papa snorted. “Humph! Fiddlin’ with a dirty stick of charcoal is a waste of time!” He grabbed the loaf of bread from the wooden bowl in the center of the table and tore off a piece. Then he dipped the bread into his bowl of soup and popped it into his mouth.

Kelly wasn’t sure how she should respond to his grumbling, so she leaned over and blew on her soup instead of saying anything.

Mama, who was dishing up her own bowl of soup at the stove, spoke up. “I don’t see what harm there’d be in the girl drawin’ while her soup cools, Amos.”

Papa slammed his fist down on the table so hard Kelly’s piece of bread flew up and landed on the floor. “If I want your opinion, Dorrie, I’ll ask for it!”

Kelly gulped. She hated it when Papa yelled at Mama. It wasn’t right, but she didn’t know what she could do about it. Only God could change Papa’s heart, and she was growing weary of praying for such.

“Well, what are ya sittin’ there lollygaggin’ for?” Papa bellowed. “Start eatin’, or I’m gonna pitch your writing tablet into the stove.”

Kelly grabbed her spoon. No way could she let her dad carry through with his threat. She’d eat all her soup in a hurry, even if she burned her tongue in the process.

Awhile later, she was back on the towpath. She’d given the mules some oats in their feedbags, and they were munching away as they plodded dutifully along. Kelly knew they were making good time, and they’d probably pass Mike Cooper’s sometime early this evening. She’d hoped to ask Papa about stopping by the store, but he’d been so cross during lunch, she’d lost her nerve.

Besides, what reason would she give for stopping? She sure couldn’t tell her dad she wanted to make a few more drawings so Mike could try to sell them. Papa had made it clear the way he felt about Kelly wasting time on her artwork. If she told him her plans, Papa might make good on his threat and pitch her tablet into the stove.

“If he ever does that, I’ll make another one or find some old pieces of cardboard to draw on,” Kelly fumed.

A young boy about eight years old crossed Kelly’s path. He carried a fishing pole in one hand and a metal bucket in the other. The child stopped on the path and looked at Kelly as though she was daft. Had he overhead her talking to herself?

Kelly stopped walking. “Goin’ fishin’?”
What a dumb question. Of course he’s goin’ fishin’. Why else would he be carryin’ a pole?

The freckle-faced, red-haired lad offered Kelly a huge grin, revealing a missing front tooth. “Thought I’d try to catch myself a few catfish. They was bitin’ real good yesterday afternoon.”

“You live around here?” Kelly questioned.

“Yep. Up the canal a ways.”

Kelly’s forehead wrinkled. She didn’t remember seeing the boy before, and she wondered why he wasn’t in school. The youngster’s overalls were torn and dirty, and when Kelly glanced down at his bare feet, she shuddered. It was too cold yet to be going without shoes. Maybe the child was so poor his folks couldn’t afford to buy him any decent footwear.

“My pap’s workin’ up at Mauch Chunk, loadin’ coal,” the boy said before Kelly could voice any questions.

“But I thought you said you lived nearby.”

He nodded. “For the last couple months we’ve been livin’ in an old shanty halfway up the canal.” He frowned. “Don’t see Pap much these days.”

“Do you live with your mother?” Kelly asked.

The boy offered her another toothless grin. “Me, Ma, and little Ted. He’s my baby brother. Pap was outa work for a spell, but things will be better now that he’s got a job loadin’ dirty coal.”

Kelly’s heart went out to the young child, since she could relate to being poor. Of course, Papa had always worked, and they’d never done without the basic necessities. Still, she had no money of her own.

“Kelly McGregor, why have you stopped?”

Kelly whirled around at the sound of her dad’s angry-sounding voice. He was leaning over the side of the boat, shaking his fist at her.

“Sorry, Papa,” she hollered back. “Nice chattin’ with you,” Kelly said to the child. “Hope you catch plenty of fish today.” She gave the boy a quick wave and started off.

As Kelly led her mules down the rutted path, she found herself envying the freckle-faced boy with the holes in his britches. At least he wasn’t being forced to work all day.

***

Mike pulled a pocket watch from his pant’s pocket. It was almost six o’clock. He needed to close up the store and head on over to the preacher’s place for supper. All day long he’d hoped the McGregors would stop by, but they hadn’t, and he’d seen no sign of their boat. Of course, they could have gone by without him seeing, as there were many times throughout the day when he’d been busy with customers. As tempting as it had been, Mike knew he couldn’t stand at the window all day and watch for Amos McGregor’s canal boat. He had a store to run, and that took precedence over daydreaming about Kelly or watching for her dad’s boat to come around the bend.

Mike put the Closed sign in the store window and grabbed his jacket from a wall peg near the door. He was almost ready to leave when he remembered that tonight was Betsy’s birthday and he should take her a gift.

He glanced around the store, looking for something appropriate. Mike noticed the stack of Bibles he had displayed on a shelf near the front of his store. He’d given plenty of them away, but he guessed Betsy, being a preacher’s daughter, probably had at least one Bible in her possession.

As he continued to survey his goods, Mike’s gaze came to rest on Kelly’s drawings, tacked up on one wall. What better gift than something made by one of the locals? He chose the picture that showed two children fishing along the canal. He thought Betsy would like it. This would be Kelly’s first sale, and he would give her the money she had coming as soon as he saw her again.

Since it was a pleasant spring evening with no sign of rain, Mike decided to walk to the Nelsons’ rather than ride his horse or hitch up the buggy. He scanned the canal, looking for any sign of the McGregors’ boat, but the only movement on the water was a pair of mallard ducks.

Mike filled his lungs with fresh air as he trudged off toward Walnutport. Sometime later, he arrived at the Nelsons’ front door.

Betsy greeted him, looking prim and proper in a crisp white blouse and long blue skirt. Her hair was pulled into its usual tight bun at the back of her head.