Chapter 3 - Dorothy’s Mud Pie
The unexpected blast did not trap anyone.
That was the good news.
The bad news was that six support timbers in Section Four had shifted, one tunnel wall had cracked, and a foreman named Silas Crowley insisted all of it was ordinary.
“Mountain moves,” Crowley told the gathering outside the mine office. “That’s why we timber it.”
Caleb Wade stood among the workers.
“Mountain doesn’t usually move before the powder goes off.”
Crowley’s eyes hardened.
“You telling me my blasting crew can’t keep time?”
“I’m telling you something blew.”
Silence spread.
Mine manager Horace Vale stepped onto the office porch.
Vale was a thickset man with a silver watch chain stretched across an expensive vest.
He had arrived in Copper Jack only six months earlier.
The mine had increased production almost immediately.
So had the accidents.
“Everybody back to work,” Vale said.
Owen Pritchard called from the crowd.
“Section Four safe?”
“Inspected.”
“By who?”
Crowley answered.
“Me.”
Owen muttered something in Welsh.
The men laughed.
But not comfortably.
Dorothy watched from across the road.
She understood kitchens better than mines.
But she understood one thing common to both.
When people in charge began answering simple questions angrily, the truth was usually expensive.
By noon, work resumed.
By one, Copper Jack returned to pretending nothing had happened.
Dorothy returned to her flour.
Over the next ten days, she became a small nuisance to people who preferred predictable failures.
Her shed beside Ortega’s livery became busy before sunrise.
She sold coffee.
Then biscuits.
Then breakfast.
Miguel Ortega offered eggs from his sister’s farm.
A butcher sold Dorothy beef ends at a reduced price.
She turned them into hash.
Owen brought three miners one morning.
The next day there were nine.
By the end of the second week, men were standing outside holding tin plates.
Bellamy watched them from his mercantile.
Tom Rusk continued calling the place Mud Pie.
But Tom had started eating there.
He simply pretended that was unrelated.
“Two biscuits,” he said one morning.
Dorothy placed one on his plate.
“I said two.”
“You called me Mud Pie.”
Tom stared.
“You charging extra for insults now?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One biscuit.”
Owen nearly fell off the bench laughing.
Tom took out a coin.
“What if I apologize?”
“You can have gravy.”
Tom studied her.
“Sorry.”
Dorothy added gravy.
“You don’t mean it.”
“No.”
“But you said it nicely.”
Caleb laughed into his coffee.
Business improved.
So did Dorothy’s methods.
She never used flour from the sacks that had been submerged.
Most of that she mixed into nonfood paste or discarded when it soured.
The partially damaged sacks required patience.
She cut away anything damp.
Anything with unusual odor.
Anything uncertain.
Only untouched interior flour went into her clean bins.
Even then, she used the flour first in heavily baked travel biscuits rather than delicate pastries.
Dorothy’s goal was not to prove damaged flour was magically good.
Her goal was to recognize what had actually been damaged.
The distinction seemed obvious to her.
It seemed revolutionary to everyone else.
One afternoon Bellamy returned.
“Thirty-five.”
Dorothy kept peeling potatoes.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Menu.”
He sighed.
“You control it.”
“Suppliers?”
“We discuss them.”
“Waste?”
“What about it?”
“I control kitchen waste.”
Bellamy looked suspicious.
“You planning to serve garbage?”
“No. I’m planning to stop throwing away food because it’s ugly.”
Bellamy rubbed his forehead.
“Fine.”
“Hours?”
“Breakfast through supper.”
“I need Sunday afternoon.”
“This is a mining town.”
“Even miners chew differently on Sunday.”
Bellamy glared.
Dorothy continued peeling.
“Room?”
“Back upstairs.”
“Window?”
“Yes.”
“Does it open?”
“Usually.”
Dorothy set down the knife.
“Then we have an agreement.”
Bellamy looked relieved.
“You start Monday.”
“I start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Exactly. I want to clean.”
Bellamy stared at her.
“You enjoy making things difficult.”
“No.”
Dorothy looked around her small shed.
“I enjoy making them mine.”
The kitchen behind Bellamy Mercantile had one enormous stove, two preparation tables, a pantry, a dish sink fed by hand pump, and enough accumulated grease to preserve a wagon axle until the next century.
Dorothy spent Sunday scrubbing.
Caleb arrived with a hammer.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing that shelf.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Because I’m tired of watching it lean.”
Dorothy studied him.
“Tom send you?”
“Tom thinks manual labor causes premature death.”
“That explains his personality.”
Caleb repaired the shelf.
Then another.
At sunset, Dorothy made coffee.
They sat outside behind the mercantile.
Copper Jack Mountain darkened against a violet sky.
Caleb looked toward the mine.
“You heard about Section Four?”
“Only rumors.”
“Crowley moved us back in.”
“Safe?”
Caleb was silent too long.
Dorothy sipped her coffee.
“That means no.”
“Means I don’t know.”
“What does your gut say?”
“My gut says timber shouldn’t creak when nobody’s touching it.”
“Then why go underground?”
Caleb looked at her.
“Same reason you went back into kitchens after men treated you poorly.”
Dorothy waited.
“Because what you know how to do still has value, even if fools are in charge.”
She considered that.
“Fair.”
Caleb traced the rim of his cup.
“You ever married?”
Dorothy almost laughed.
“That subtle where you come from?”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“Curious.”
“Once engaged.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted a wife who could cook.”
“Seems appropriate.”
“He did not want a wife who expected to be paid for cooking for everyone else.”
Caleb winced.
“Ah.”
“He married a woman whose father owned three hundred acres.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It was extremely romantic for his bank account.”
Caleb smiled.
“What about you?”
“Never married.”
“Why?”
“Most women have standards.”
Dorothy laughed.
It surprised both of them.
Across town, the evening whistle sounded.
Caleb stood.
“Early shift.”
Dorothy gathered the cups.
“Mr. Wade.”
He paused.
“If the mine feels wrong…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let pride make the decision.”
His smile faded.
“I won’t.”
But the following morning brought a different problem.
Bellamy received a freight notice.
He read it twice.
Then called Dorothy into the store.
“Snow took the high road.”
“In September?”
“Early storm.”
“How long?”
“Could reopen tomorrow. Could be ten days.”
Dorothy looked toward the shelves.
“Your flour?”
“Enough for maybe twelve days at usual sales.”
“Beans?”
“Three weeks.”
“Coffee?”
“Ten days.”
“Salt?”
“Plenty.”
“Lard?”
Bellamy hesitated.
Dorothy saw the answer.
“Eight days?”
“Maybe.”
She turned toward the kitchen.
Bellamy followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing the menu.”
“To what?”
“Things that use less flour and less fat.”
“What about customers?”
“They’ll complain.”
“And?”
“They’ll complain while eating.”
Bellamy watched her reorganize the pantry.
“You really think the road could stay closed?”
“I think assuming it won’t is how towns run out of food.”
By nightfall, snow had begun falling on the mountain.
Not enough to reach Copper Jack.
Enough to whiten the high road.
Dorothy stood behind the mercantile and watched the clouds thicken.
Then she heard it again.
Not a blast.
A deep sound beneath the earth.
A groan.
Caleb heard it too.
He had just crossed the street.
Their eyes met.
“What was that?” Dorothy asked.
Caleb looked toward the mine.
For the first time, she saw fear on his face.
“That,” he said, “wasn’t powder.”
May you like
And beneath Copper Jack Mountain, ninety feet down, a timber cracked.
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