I am the vine, ye are the branches. He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing.
Quillan felt the truth of it. For all the years he’d fought God, there was little to show. A moderate fortune made by the sweat of his labor and blind luck. A few friends, but also enemies. And Carina. Carina had seen his flaws, suffered the worst he had to give, but loved him still. That was a wonder he could scarcely comprehend. But it sustained him as he committed the first ten verses of the fifteenth chapter to memory, then closed the book and went to sleep.
The next morning he went out. The first order of business was employment. The hotel clerk had suggested the imposing store on the northeast corner of the plaza, so he headed that way, assessing the building he approached. It had an attractive Victorian front complete with cupola and porch and looked nothing like the adobe barracks the man assured him it had been.
His view was blocked abruptly by Flavio and Nicolo, emerging from a narrow gap between two buildings. At the sight of him, they stopped talking and moving. Pausing his stride, Quillan stepped to his right. They stepped the same way, confused or contrary he couldn’t tell. Quillan moved to his left as a third man came up a little behind them. Three to one. Not good odds if they meant to get ugly.
Quillan hesitated then stepped off the sidewalk and went around, not as much of an issue as it would have been in Crystal with the streets clogged with people and either rushing mud or choking dust. Quillan returned to the walkway near enough to hear the smug guffaws. If that was the worst Flavio could do, Quillan had dealt with it every day in primary school. He found a man unlocking the doors of the store.
“Good morning.” The man spoke pleasantly enough.
“Good morning. My name’s Quillan. I’m looking for employment.”
The man turned the knob and pocketed his keys. “Solomon Schocken. What are you looking to do?”
“Well, if you’re Mr. Schocken, the clerk at the Union Hotel said you had several interests I might consider. I have a freight wagon and team of four.”
Schocken opened the door and admitted him. “This is my store.”
Quillan looked about, noting the orderly, well-stocked shelves and tables. “Successful enterprise by the looks of it.”
That obviously pleased him, but Schocken wasn’t puffed up. “I have several such.”
Quillan cocked his head. “I’m versatile.”
Schocken appraised him, seemingly undaunted by whatever the DiGratias had found offensive. But Quillan had fit easily with working men, businessmen, even those like Horace Tabor who had come into better times. It was only personal acceptance he seemed to fend off without trying.
Schocken said, “I could take you on in the store. I’ve been looking to save myself some hours. But that seems a waste of your wagon and team. I’ve not much need for that sort of hauling here, with the railroad passing directly before as it does. Of course there’d be occasional transportation of furniture and such. But I’ve another enterprise you might consider.”
Quillan waited while Schocken removed his coat and tied on an apron. “A basalt quarry. You might have seen it on your way in. We supply cobbles for San Francisco, Petaluma, San Jose. Quite an operation. I need wagons to haul the stones down Schocken Hill to the depot here at the plaza.”
Quillan pictured it. Not so different from hauling ore, though he’d eschewed that out of preference. “What do you blast with?”
“What blasting we do is with nitro sticks. Dynamite. Safer than powder and far more stable.”
“Until it freezes.” At Schocken’s surprise, Quillan added, “I’ve had some experience there. Hauled for the Leadville mines. Those white crystals of frozen nitro are no picnic.”
Schocken reassessed him. “True. But we’re not contending with mountain climes. Still, your experience would be helpful. What do you say?”
Quillan considered the offer. It could serve to get him established.
Schocken pulled open the window shades. “I’ve got a good crew. Mainly Italians. I import them.”
Italians. That should prove interesting. And now his pluck quickened. “All right. Do you have anything for the evenings?”
Schocken turned with the feather duster he’d lifted from the corner socket. “The evenings?”
“I don’t like much slack time.”
For a moment Schocken seemed without an answer, then said, “How about stocking the shelves here at the store?”
Quillan looked around again. The store was long and filled with groceries and provisions, furnishings, dry goods, and yard goods. He saw racks of clothing, boots, and shoes. Shallow crates held cutlery, tin ware, and hardware. That should just about keep him busy enough to stave off the ache for his wife. At least until he figured out what to do about that. “Okay.”
“You’re an enterprising one. I admire that.”
“When do I start?”
Schocken tapped the duster against his palm. “As soon as my clerk arrives, we’ll go out to the quarry. Mr. Marconi is the foreman. He’ll direct you from there.”
Quillan nodded. “I’ll set up my team.” He went out and surveyed the plaza. The narrow gauge tracks ran along Vallejo Street on the corner of which sat Schocken’s store. The cross street alongside the store was named easily enough First Street East.
Across the plaza, he saw two other general merchandise stores, a hardware store, and a couple blacksmiths and bakeries—one named Union like the hotel and livery; it wasn’t hard to tell where the sympathies of these folks lay. There was a meat market, druggist, and stationer. He also counted several Chinese stores around the plaza. They included two laundries, three restaurants, a grocery, and one establishment that said simply Chinese Store and listed fireworks for sale. Sonoma was like any another town except for its pleasing layout around the square and what seemed regular quadrants flanking that. Very neat, though the pressed dirt streets were none too clean. Was there no provision for waste?
As he stood catching his bearings, a diminutive Chinese man stepped from the grocery and started down the street calling, “Fluit, cabbagie, ladish, splouts. Allie same plice.”
Quillan’s ear twisted around the pronunciation as the man in a shiny dresslike getup pushed his small wheeled cart past.
“Fushie and slimps. Vely flesh. Allie flesh. Allie same plice.” The little man looked at him, then passed by, no doubt pegging him for a stranger not likely to buy. The man’s braided hair reached almost to the street. Quillan was duly impressed.