"Why do you have one?" Miriam decided turn around was fair play.

“I wish!” answered the plain Wigfall girl “The fellers around here are all stupid, though; they all go to the saloon and moon over…” she dropped her voice to a whisper, lest she offend the ears of the dummies in the window “…whores…” she looked around the empty store to make sure no one else heard the word “… but they won’t give respectable girls like you and me a second look.”

"Oh, gosh. My father would never step into any such saloon," Miriam declared, however she was beginning to suspect this girl was not necessarily telling her the truth. First her brother is evil and going to hell. Now all the men in Kalispell are stupid. And falling all over themselves for one whore. Was this Kalispell or Sodom and Gomarrah? But it was not like Miriam to contradict the other girl. Miriam was the exact opposite of confrontational.

“If one of them handsome gentleman walked through that door right now, I’d give him a kiss for nothing! Maybe three or four!” Jemima sighed.

That seemed rather wanton? thought Miriam but again kept silent.

"What's your ideal man?" Jemima then asked.

"Well....I do not know. I never gave it any thought, it's too early in my life," Miriam was not quite leveling with her work mate there. Like any girl she wanted a happy marriage with a faithful partner but she was also old enough by now to be a realist and quite aware many marriages fell quite short of that ideal.

"Well....I do not know. I never gave it any thought, it's too early in my life," Miriam was not quite leveling with her work mate there. Like any girl she wanted a happy marriage with a faithful partner but she was also old enough by now to be a realist and quite aware many marriages fell quite short of that ideal.

“How old’re you?” frowned Jemima, peering at the girl. She looked old enough to her.

“I started liking boys when I was thirteen.” She announced “And ever since then I only been kissed by one. And he didn’t mean it. I’ve been waiting five long years for a real man to come and sweep me off my feet, and I’ve decided that if what you want in life don’t come and find you, then you’ve gotta go out and find it for yourself.”

“Problem working here is: the only fellers that ever come in here are with women already. Married men with their daughters; husbands with their wives; boys with their sweethearts.” She looked like she wanted to heap up said daughters, wives and sweethearts and push them into Lost Lake. “There’s only a dance here once in a blue moon, best bet’s getting invited to a wedding … or a funeral. Plenty of nice fellers at funerals.” she drooled.

“How old’re you?” frowned Jemima, peering at the girl.

"I am sixteen," Miriam informed the other girl.

That started up the other girl on another rant of sorts how she apparently had no luck with boys. Miriam wasn't surprised given Jemima's looks and surly mood. The girl concluded with the strange assertion funerals were the best way to meet boys. Seriously? At such a sad occasion? Miriam was starting to glance at the clock on the wall and hope her employer was not going to be gone long. This 'get to know you' conversation was not going well at all.

"Well.....I wish you luck then on your .....quest," Miriam settled for, she almost said 'hunt'.

"I am sixteen," Miriam informed the other girl.

Plenty old enough, in Jemima’s book. Plenty old enough to be a rival if any bachelors did, for some reason, come into the store. She considered the girl narrow eyed. She knew her brother kept a ranked list of women he admired in Kalispell, she’d found it once and written ‘Granny Miggins’ at the top of it for a joke. She wondered where Miriam might slot into that list, probably somewhere near the bottom, if at all. Those at the top of the list seemed to be blonde, blue eyed and more classically 'pretty' than the swarthy Jewess standing next to her: there also seemed to be some correlation between high rank and chest size. Disgusting! But informative.

"Well.....I wish you luck then on your .....quest," Miriam settled for, she almost said 'hunt'.

“Huh! I give up on ‘luck’ a long time ago.” Huffed Jemima “I aim to make my own luck nowadays.” She said.

“Oh, and Church. Church is a good place to meet fellers, and you can sit and stare at ‘em without being bothered. But I go to the Spiritualist Church, nothing doing there. I might have to turn Methodist.” She announced. By gum, she might even consider Catholicism if it got her a decent man.

“What church you go to?” she asked Miriam.

“Huh! I give up on ‘luck’ a long time ago.” Huffed Jemima “I aim to make my own luck nowadays.”

"Well then.....I suppose....I mean I hope it will all work out for you then," Miriam glanced around wondering how she could get out of this conversation. Hopefully it would not be like this every day.

Jemima also believed church was a great place to meet boys, men, whatever it did not seem she was picky. More interestingly she mentioned she belonged to some 'Spiritualist' church. That was a brand new one to Miriam but then she didn't honestly know much about the various Christian sects?

“What church you go to?” Jemima suddenly asked Miriam.

"Oh....well you see...none really. My family is not Christian, we are Jewish so if there were a synagogue in town we would probably go to that. There were many Jews in New York City but I am doubtful many are around here," she shrugged.

It was usually Jemima Wigfall who appalled other people: either with her ghastly interests, her less than subtle attempts to spark with any poor man that came into her orbit, or just her general looks and demeanour. But the boot was now firmly on the other foot; the girl standing next to her was a JEW?!! Nothing could have been more horrifying to the hard-line Christian and White Woman. The Jews had murdered Jesus, and furthermore were rumoured to be dirty, avaricious, and cruel to babies. They ranked only marginally above gypsies in Jemima’s book, and actually under the lazy blacks and mucky Mexicans some of whom visited or lived in Kalispell. Canadians and Europeans she could just about tolerate, as long as they weren’t Catholics. Even Southerners like Arabella were suspicious, not just because of the war, but because most of them had a drop of black blood in them somewhere along the line.

Her face remained as emotionless as ever, but she played the oldest trick in the book, moving to the shelves at the back of the counter to fetch something and on her return, standing noticeably further away from Miriam than she had been before. She didn’t even look at the new girl again, only staring impatiently at the door and muttering “What’s taking him so long” to herself. She was icily polite to Miriam for the next few days, and might have remained so but for two factors: one was Arabella, who amazingly enough, spoke some sense into her about the matter; and the second was an incident a couple of weeks later that brought the two of them, Miriam and Jemima, a deeper understanding of each other.

The End