accused him, he'd deny it and there'd be a loud yelling match that
wouldn't do me any good. For the first time, I had a clear idea of what
Mom was up against. Being a strong woman was harder than I had
thought. Mom still had more than a month in Charleston; we were about
to run out of grocery money; and my babysitting income wasn't making
up the difference.
I had seen a help-wanted sign in the window of a jewelry store on
McDowell Street called Becker's Jewel Box. I put on a lot of makeup,
my best dress—it was purple, with tiny white dots and a sash that tied in
the back—and a pair of Mom's high heels, since we wore the same size.
Then I walked around the mountain to apply for the job.
I pushed open the door, jangling the bells hanging overhead. Becker's
Jewel Box was a fancy store, the kind of place I never had occasion to go
into, with a humming air conditioner and buzzing fluorescent lights.
Locked glass display cases held rings and necklaces and brooches, and a
few guitars and banjos hung on the pine-board-paneled walls to diversify
the merchandise. Mr. Becker was leaning on the counter with his fingers
interlocked. He had a stomach so big that his thin black belt reminded
me of the equator circling the globe.
I was afraid that Mr. Becker wouldn't give me the job if he knew I was
only thirteen, so I told him I was seventeen. He hired me on the spot for
forty dollars a week, in cash. I was thrilled. It was my first real job.
Babysitting and tutoring and doing other kids' homework and mowing
lawns and redeeming bottles and selling scrap metal didn't count. Forty
dollars a week was serious money. I liked the work. People buying
jewelry were always happy, and even though Welch was a poor town,
Becker's Jewel Box had plenty of customers: older miners buying their
wives a mother's pin, a brooch with a birthstone for each of her children;
teenage couples shopping for engagement rings, the girl giggling with
excitement, the boy acting proud and manly.