To Walk In Sunshine

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-58660-630-1

  © 2002 by Sally Laity. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Randy Hamblin.

  One

  Wyoming Valley, Pennsylvania, Summer 1925

  The clip-clop of the old workhorses’ hooves and the crunch of wagon wheels over the dusty road meandering alongside Back Mountain echoed off stone walls that stretched along either side. Behind the cloth flaps of the wagon, hanging pots and tools clinked and rattled together in a distinctive rhythm so familiar to Rosalind Gilbran they lulled her into a daze.

  A sudden jolt tossed her against Grandfather Azar on the hard seat beside her. That and the warmth of the June sun on his sleeve revived her, and she straightened, blinking to stay alert.

  “One stop more, and we will go home,” he commented in his gruff voice, a grin broadening his silvering mustache. “I have hunger enough to eat bear.”

  “A bear,” she corrected gently, smiling at the twinkle in his brown-black eyes. He rarely spoke in their mother tongue anymore, so determined was he to fit in here in America. He and Grandmother had made great strides in mastering the English language in the dozen years since they’d emigrated from Lebanon. But Rosalind had to wonder how many more years it would take before the inhabitants of Wyoming Valley would accept her people.

  Grandfather offered a friendly wave to an open motorcar chugging toward them from the opposite direction, but the fashionably dressed man and woman in the vehicle merely stared, then averted their eyes as they drove by.

  Rosa raised her chin and concentrated on the delicate pink of the mountain laurel adorning nearby rises and rocky outcroppings. For a few moments, she imagined that the wagon was navigating through the mountainous land of Lebanon, whose famed cedar trees were used by King Solomon in the building of his wondrous temple.

  Because her family immigrated to America when she was a young child, she barely remembered their homeland. But during her travels with her peddler grandfather, he often pointed out this feature or that in the lush countryside that reminded him of the Old Country. She pressed each scene in the scrapbook of her mind, surmising that Lebanon must be the most beautiful place on earth. There, at least, an olive complexion, dark eyes, and colorful clothing would not be an oddity to passersby.

  Ahead, a narrow lane jutted off to the right, and Grandfather guided the team onto it. The supplies in back clanged in loud protest as the rickety wagon lurched over washboardlike ruts in the trail.

  Not far off the main road, a tidy wood-frame home nestled in a clearing, its white paint bright against the variegated greens of the trees so abundant in northeastern Pennsylvania. Fat hens pecked the ground within a chicken wire pen enclosing one of the smaller outbuildings, and a nearby garden sported an assortment of vegetables growing nearly as high as the rose bushes alongside the house.

  A pair of big gray dogs loped toward the approaching wagon, while a trio of young children on the porch stopped their play and looked up. Just then, a woman emerged from the side door, drying her hands on the apron covering her housedress.

  “Who is it, Mama?” one of the youngsters hollered. He and his siblings sidled up to the banister, the threesome so close in age that their heads resembled stair steps.

  “The peddler. You kids just keep your distance.”

  “Hello, Neighbor,” Grandfather called good-naturedly as he drew the horses to a stop and hopped down. Immediately he threw open the cloth sides of the traveling store, allowing easy viewing of the goods available. Meanwhile, the family pets sniffed around him and the metal-rimmed wheels.

  The woman gave a polite nod, but the guarded look in her light blue eyes eased only after she glimpsed Rosa.

  “Good day, Madam,” Rosa said pleasantly. The dogs didn’t appear threatening, so she climbed down, adjusting the gathers of her maroon skirt. Moving nearer to Grandfather, she checked the display of needles, pins, ribbons, and laces, then tugged a particularly pretty scarf into prominence before stepping aside. The sun made the glorious colors even brighter than those of the floral-printed babushka she’d tied over her curls and secured behind her ears earlier that day.

  She glanced at the children and found them perched almost motionless where they were but intensely curious. She smiled at them and received a shy smile in return.

  “We bring new pots today,” Grandfather said. “Sharp knives and scissors, good needles for sewing. Brooms and buckets. Books for reading and elixirs for coughs. Come. See.”

  After a slight hesitation, the woman acquiesced, taking her time in a slow perusal of the wagon’s wares before selecting a packet of needles, some stockings, and an egg beater. “I’ll have to go inside for the money.” She hastened away, stray hairs from the loose blond bun at her neck stirring on the breeze. Within moments she returned with the correct amount needed.

  Grandfather dropped the coins into his drawstring leather bag and tipped his head. “We thank you, Missus. Is anything we can bring for next time?”

  She regarded him for a few seconds. “A new strainer, perhaps. Mine’s all but worn out.”

  He nodded. “Will bring many strainers with us. For you to choose.” With that, he closed the flaps once more, and he and Rosalind climbed aboard.

  When they pulled out onto the main road again, Rosa just had to ask, “Doesn’t it bother you, Grandfather, that no one likes us in America? Even people we’ve seen dozens of times do not welcome us as they do others.”

  He gave an indifferent shrug. “To God we are all the same. In time, maybe here, too.” He paused and a low chuckle rumbled through him. “They like me more when I have you with me, my Rosa. That is one thing I learn quick. With pretty little granddaughter in wagon, people think maybe I not so bad.”

  She couldn’t help smiling, recalling how young she’d been when she first started accompanying him on his rounds. Since her mama had succumbed to a fever on the voyage to the United States and her father died two years later after being kicked in the head by a horse, most of Rosa’s memories centered around the maternal grandparents who raised her. Settling back against the seat, she tucked an arm through her grandfather’s, knowing he would soon relate stories about life back in Baskinta, as he so often did on their way through the towns, villages, and farms they frequented on a regular basis.

  At last their camp on Larksville Mountain came into sight, perched on a rolling clearing rimmed on three sides by thick forests. Rosa couldn’t help but sigh. After the many neat farms she and Grandfather had passed, the tiny settlement seemed little more than a hodgepodge of forlorn shacks, dingy tents, house wagons, dreary sheds, and chicken pens. Here and there, on clotheslines suspended between trees, someone’s wash flapped in the breeze. Instead of having a sense of permanence about it, the whole camp looked as if they could pick up and leave at a moment’s notice should some inhospitable official ask the lot of them to move on. It happened often enough. Admittedly, many of the inhabitants lived here only temporarily, hoarding whatever wages they earned until they could open a business and become established elsewhere. Rosalind had a few grand dreams of her own. Someday, she told herself, she would live in a real house. Surely that wasn’t too much to expect out of life.

 
; A multitude of sounds drifted toward them as they approached camp. The bleating of sheep and lowing of cattle drifted on the wind. Blended together from inside the camp itself came laughter from children at play, barking dogs, music from violins and accordions, and voices—male and female—from people busy with afternoon chores. Rosa had to concede, life on the mountain was rarely quiet.

  As they entered the encampment, a swarthy, wiry-haired man carving a flute outside the first shack paused and looked up. The bright red neckerchief tied loosely about the neck of his collarless shirt made his narrow face appear longer than it was, especially with the dark, five o’clock shadow from the undergrowth of beard on his cheeks. “Greetings, Abraham.” His near-black eyes shifted slightly. “Rosalind.”

  She did not miss the slight curl of Nicholas Habib’s mouth when his attention centered on her, nor the too-knowing gleam in his eye. Seven years older than she, he made no secret of the fact he wanted to wed—wed her, to be exact—as a replacement for his first wife. No one knew the cause of the woman’s unfortunate death. Clinging to the knowledge that her grandparents still needed her, Rosa had convinced them to turn Nicholas’s offers down.

  Pigheaded as the man was, however, no one expected him to give up, even with other eligible young women of marriageable age available among their people.

  Schooling her expression to maintain calm, Rosa gave what could barely be termed a nod as they went by.

  Moments later they reached their simple cabin. Built of unpainted wood and situated on the higher end of the camp, it overlooked some of the other dwellings. With the supper hour approaching, delectable smells came from open windows and permeated the air. Rosalind knew Grandmother Azar would be making Sheikh El Mighshi, baked eggplant stuffed with lamb, and just thinking of the tasty dish made her mouth water. The fresh berries Rosa had gathered yesterday would end the meal.

  Grandfather guided the team around back to the shed, then climbed down and immediately began unhitching the horses.

  Before Rosalind could climb out, she heard approaching footsteps and a familiar smiling face appeared before her. Strong arms reached to help.

  “Hello, Cousin,” Philip Rihany said. At seventeen, scarcely less than a year younger than Rosa, Philip’s close-cropped curly hair, boyish features, and charming smile gave him incredible appeal. His once-skinny frame had taken on some manly contours, thanks to his job at Mr. Serhan’s warehouse in the nearby city of Wilkes-Barre; solid muscles bulged in his upper arms as Rosa leaned into his hands. “A good day, was it?” he asked.

  “A good one. Grandfather made many sales.”

  Ebony eyes sparkling, he gave an appreciative nod. Then a grin tweaked the corners of his lips, and he tipped his head toward Nick’s place. “Still got his cap set for you, eh?”

  Rosa groaned. “He is the last man I would choose to marry. I fear that hot temper, and any wife of his would be treated the same cruel way I have seen him treat animals when no one else is watching. Of course, in front of my grandparents and the other families in camp, he pretends to be kind and gentle.”

  Philip shrugged. “Yes, I have seen that, too. But it is not always up to us to make the choice, you know. We must trust our elders to know best.”

  The reminder, even though made lightly, dampened Rosa’s spirits, but she straightened to her full height. “Perhaps. But this is America. Things are different here.”

  “I hope they are, Cousin. For you, at least.” He reached into a trouser pocket and withdrew a silver bangle bracelet, which he placed into her hand. “I thought you might like this. I bought it from Mr. Serhan.”

  “Why, thank you. It is lovely. But you should not be spending your money on me.” Nevertheless, Rosa smiled and slid it over her wrist, then admired it from arm’s length, liking the way it glistened against her olive skin.

  “Who else would I spend it on?”

  “Maybe one of the girls who worships the ground you walk on,” she said, counting them off on her fingers, “like Farah, perhaps, or Kamila, or. . .”

  A broad smile revealed Philip’s strong, even teeth, and he laughed. “With so many, how could a man choose?” He accompanied her around to the front of the house, then headed for his own dwelling next door.

  Rosalind watched after him until he went inside. More than just her relative, handsome, curly-haired Philip was her very best friend. And one of these days, she would be sad to lose his attentions to someone else. She opened the door of her grandparents’ weathered, four-room cabin and entered.

  Not for the first time, she appreciated that what the rustic abode lacked as far as beauty on the outside, it more than made up for inside. Granted, it was a bit cramped, with the kitchen and living room sharing the front half and drapery panels dividing the back into two bedrooms. But red calico curtains at the windows and multihued rag rugs scattered about the floor added cheer, and colorful cushions complemented the horsehair sofa and chairs, promising comfort. An inviting glow from the oil lamps gilded the dark pine table and chair backs, lighting upon her grandmother’s endless supply of hanging herbs and the labeled jars on the shelves below them.

  “I heard you coming,” Grandmother Azar said, removing the baked eggplant from the oven. Turning, she carried it to the table and set it on a quilted pad in the middle, where a bowl of buttered potatoes, a plate of sliced bread, and a pot of strong coffee already waited. Then she put aside the towels she’d used to protect her hands from the hot pan. “We can eat as soon as your grandfather comes in from tending the horses.” Brushing her hands down her half apron, she smiled, plumping out cheeks rosy from the temperature of the room.

  “That is good. We are starving.” Rosalind returned the smile as she went to wash her hands in the basin on the sideboard. “Everything smells wonderful.”

  The door opened just then, and Grandfather entered, stomping the dust from his boots on the braided mat. “I am home, my Eva.”

  “So I see,” she said as he crossed the room to hug her and kiss her button nose.

  Enjoying the ritual played out a thousand times before, Rosalind looked from one guardian to the other. Short and plump like the salt and pepper shakers on the table, the pair went together equally as well, with hair nearly identical shades of gray and the same twinkling sable eyes. Rosa hoped the day would never come when one of them would depart this life and leave the other behind.

  “Well, then, Woman,” he boomed good-naturedly, “let’s eat.”

  ❧

  The dreary sky turned the thriving town of Edwardsville a dozen shades of gray, a somber palette broken only by the deep green of the wide variety of trees climbing the rolling hills. Numerous coal companies conducted their operations here and in bordering towns. And always in the vicinity of the collieries, culm banks—black waste heaps of clay, crumbled rock, and slate—grew by the day. Near some of those culm banks, oily-black brackish ponds emitted the smell of sulfur. Wisps of acrid white smoke rose from the banks in places, eerie evidence of fires raging deep within—fires that burned on and on, even through days of drenching rain. At night, the culm banks glowed a dull red.

  Feeling every bit as dismal as the surroundings, miner Kenneth Roberts trudged the downward slope leading home from the Hudson Coal Company colliery, clutching his two weeks’ pay, or the meager remains of it, in his coal-blackened fist. Miners contracted with the coal company to remove clean coal at a certain price per coal buggy, and the company then deducted the cost of the equipment used to accomplish that job—and the earnings of the fellow laborer, or butty, who worked with them, from the miners’ wages. Added to those expenses, Ken’s family often had to purchase groceries “on the book” at the neighborhood store. He often wondered if he would ever pay off the debt his late father had left behind, especially now that the demand for coal was beginning to decline.

  Many European immigrants in need of steady work had been lured to northeastern Pennsylvania’s growing anthracite industry. Ken’s father was only one out of multitudes who signed
on to blast and chip hard coal from its seams far below the earth. All of them expected to make a decent living. Few did. If cave-ins and constant accidents didn’t claim lives, the disease known as black lung took a huge toll among the miners. But once a man owed his soul to the coal company and the “pluck me” store, he had little means to go elsewhere. Ken had to struggle against the bitter conviction that after scrimping and saving to cross the ocean for a better life, his family was no better off than before they left. In fact, in some ways they were worse off.

  He started down his street, a dirt road bracketed by plain company houses positioned fairly close to one another and separated by narrow side yards. Each had a small swatch of grass in front, overlooked by a porch, and a sizeable backyard. Some had a few brave flowers either planted along the base or in clay pots on the porch steps. But all had weathered clapboard siding blackened by the ever-present coal dust. Reaching the next to the last one in the row, Ken went around back, wiped his work boots on the doormat and went inside.

  “Hi, Son,” his mother said. Slight of build and dressed as always in a crisp, patterned housedress and her faded brown hair pinned in a neat roll, she stood at the counter slicing fresh bread. “We just drew water in the tub. Soon as you wash up and change, supper will be on the table.”

  “Thanks.” On his way across the worn linoleum to the cellar door, Ken placed his unopened pay envelope beside her, then clomped down the steps to the bathroom to bathe, pointless though it seemed. Even after a quick shower in the shiftin’ shack—the gathering point for each shift—at the end of his workday, he could never scrub himself completely clean. After eight hours of chipping and hacking at coal hundreds of feet below the earth’s surface, black grime clogged every pore in his body. Even when he wasn’t even near the breaker, he could still smell coal dust with each breath he took. Only on the days when he hiked into the woods and breathed nature’s clean, crisp air for a few hours could he forget for awhile that he was a miner.