Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 4

  Caroline could no longer resist offering sympathy. “Is it that bad?”

  The girl nodded. “I wanna go home, get some breakfast.” She clutched her stomach. “But soon as I do, Pa’ll take the strap to me ’cause I didn’t get that job. He says gatherin’ rags ain’t enough to earn my keep. I gotta bring in more. An’ if I can’t pay in money, I’ll pay with my hide. Dinsmore’s was my last hope.”

  Caroline didn’t know how to respond. Her parents hadn’t loved her or they wouldn’t have sold her, but they’d never struck her. Letta’s father was far worse than her own. She fiddled with the well-filled little purse in her pocket. “Did he expect you to bring money home today?”

  “No. Just the promise of it. But without a job I don’t got no promise to give.” Letta cringed, folding into herself. “But he’ll keep his promise. I can count on that.”

  How could she send this girl home to a furious man bent on beating her? Noble had sent her to the Dinsmore factory to investigate a death, but in her heart she’d come to this town to help children. She’d be the worst kind of hypocrite if she simply walked away from Letta. Her fuzzy brain tried to think … Think … She gasped. “Letta! I have an idea!”

  Caroline

  As Caroline raised her hand to knock on the unpainted door of Letta’s home, she prayed the warped, rotting porch boards would support her weight long enough to have a talk with the girl’s father. She stood as still as possible, but even so, moans and creaks rose from beneath her feet.

  Letta stood so close, her warm, rapid breaths stirred the fine hairs on the back of Caroline’s neck. The child crossed her arms over her middle and hugged herself, trembling from scruffy braids to scuffed toes. The girl’s obvious nervousness did nothing to offer Caroline confidence that Mr. Holcomb would approve her scheme. But she still had to try. So she tapped. Waited. No response.

  Letta whispered, “Pa sleeps days since he works nights at the train yard. Might hafta bang a little harder if you wanna rouse him.”

  Caroline considered this new piece of information. “Maybe I should speak to your mother instead.”

  The girl squirmed. “Don’t rightly know where Ma is. She, uh, kinda took off about a year ago. We ain’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Pa’s been specially irascible since she left.”

  A sleepy man would be grouchy and less likely to be reasonable. Perhaps she should visit this evening after both she and Mr. Holcomb had enjoyed a good rest. She started to ask Letta when would be a better time to speak to the man, but Letta reached past her and gave the door three solid thumps with her fist. Then she darted behind Caroline.

  “Who’s out there?” The raspy voice came from somewhere deep inside the house.

  Caroline leaned close to the door and hollered back. “My name is Carrie Lang, Mr. Holcomb. I’d like to speak to you, please.”

  Feet pounded on the floor inside the house, and the door wrenched open. Mr. Holcomb glowered from the other side of the doorjamb. Suspenders dangled at his knees, and the open neck of his long johns exposed a thick thatch of graying, coarse hair. “Whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’.”

  Caroline forced herself to look directly into his whisker-dotted face. “I’m not selling a thing, Mr. Holcomb. I’m here to purchase something from you.”

  He snorted. “Whaddaya think I got worth sellin’?”

  Caroline gathered the remainder of her spunk and stated boldly, “Letta’s time.”

  His bushy eyebrows descended into a sharp V. “Letta?” He looked left and right. “Where is that girl?”

  Letta eased from her hiding spot behind Caroline. “I’m here, Pa.”

  Caroline ceased to exist as the father and daughter launched into a rapid exchange.

  “You get that job like I told you?”

  “N-no, Pa.”

  “Why not?”

  “Man said toters hafta have strength. Said I didn’t have enough.”

  “An’ you just let him say it? Didn’t do nothin’ to prove him wrong?”

  “He wouldn’t let me, Pa! Honest! He just told me to git on home an’ tell you to pay better attention to the qua … qualifications next time.”

  Fury emanated from the man. Letta scuttled behind Caroline once more, and Caroline took advantage of the momentary lapse in the conversation to speak her piece. “Mr. Holcomb, if you’ll allow me one minute of your time, I’ll tell you how Letta can earn four dollars a week.”

  The man’s attention shifted from his daughter to Caroline so quickly he nearly staggered. “Four dollars?” He barked out the amount, surprise lighting his face. But then he scowled. “You ain’t got nothin’ shady in mind, do ya? Burbank next-door might let his girls work the brothels durin’ the night, but no daughter o’ mine’s gonna—”

  Caroline raised both palms, staving off his words. “I assure you, sir, my idea is far from shady.” Clasping her hands in a prayerful position, she hurried on. “Letta tells me she hasn’t had the opportunity to attend school. I believe receiving an education would be very beneficial to her, so I am offering to pay her four dollars a week to go to school and do the lessons.”

  He cocked his head, disbelief breaking across his grizzled face. “Where you gonna get four dollars a week to give her?”

  The Labor Commission paid her so she had no need for the money from the factory. But why tell him so? “Never mind that. Just know I’ll pay Letta four dollars a week to attend school.” She aimed one finger at the man. “But she’ll have to prove to me she’s learning. I’ll want to see her assignments each week, complete with markings from the teacher, and I will quiz her on the lessons. She’ll earn that money.”

  The man scratched his head, his lips forming a sly smirk. “If she goes, my boys’ll probably think they can wile away their days sittin’ at a desk instead of goin’ out rat catchin’ an’ tin collectin’. That means losin’ their eight bits a week.”

  A dollar was a small price to pay if the boys could attend school, too, but Caroline wouldn’t be manipulated into a bartering match. “Letta can share her lessons with her brothers. She’ll be their teacher.” A fanciful idea flooded Caroline’s mind. In spite of her weary state, she smiled. “Maybe she’ll grow up to teach a whole class full of youngsters someday. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”

  Letta beamed at Caroline, then turned her eager face in her father’s direction.

  The man snorted again. “Can’t imagine any kin o’ mine bein’ smart enough to be a teacher.”

  The girl wilted.

  Caroline’s parents would have said the same thing about her, but look at what she’d become, all because Noble had taught her to lean into God’s strength. She placed her arm around Letta’s thin shoulders, silently vowing to give this child the same encouragement she’d received from Noble. “You can’t know what Letta could achieve unless she’s given an opportunity to show you. So, Mr. Holcomb, will you accept my offer? Four dollars a week …” She dangled the carrot, watching his face for signs of softening.

  He scratched his cheek, his dirty nails rasping over the coarse whiskers. Finally he blew out a breath and shook his head. “All right. She can go.”

  Caroline held back a happy squeal.

  “Leastways ’til somethin’ better comes along,” he added on a sour note. “Now lemme sleep.” He slammed the door in Caroline’s face, leaving her alone on the porch with an ecstatic girl.

  Letta grabbed Caroline’s hands, dancing in place. The floorboards moaned in protest. “You did it, Miss Lang! I never would’ve thought he’d say yes, but you did it!”

  Caroline squeezed the girl’s hands and offered a bright smile, but then she forced a serious look. “Remember what I told your father about you proving to me you’re learning before I will give you the money. You have to earn those four dollars, Letta, by paying attention and finishing your lessons. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her smile bright. “I understand. An’ I’ll do it, miss. You’ll see.”

  Caroline ste
ered the girl off the creaky porch. “Come with me now so you’ll know where I live. I’ll expect you to come by every day when I get off work so I can look at your assignment.”

  Letta scurried along beside Caroline, wringing her hands. “If I have trouble, will you help me some? Reckon school’ll be plenty hard, an’ I’m a little scared about how it’s gonna go.”

  “I’ll help you,” Caroline said, hoping she could keep the promise. She might be in Sinclair for months or maybe only for weeks. So many things depended on how quickly she uncovered the cause of poor Harmon Bratcher’s demise. For a moment she questioned the wisdom of getting Letta’s hopes so high. She caught Letta’s hand and forced her to stop. “But, Letta, I want you to remember something very important. Your best help in every part of life comes from God. If you ask Him to help you, He will. Every time.”

  “God will help me,” Letta recited with a solemn nod, her eyes round. “Yes’m. I’ll remember you said so.”

  “Good.” Caroline set her feet in motion, but instead of turning toward the boarding hotel, she aimed herself to town. She had a purchase to make—something to offer as a reward to Letta for starting school. If the girl was going to learn to lean on God’s strength, she’d need to study God’s very own book. Caroline hoped the general merchandise store carried Bibles.

  Oliver

  Oliver tinkered with the hinges on the entry door to the factory floor. Tap, tap, tap on the pin with a ball-peen hammer. Push, pull, push, pull on the door while staring at the brass plate. Scowl. Shake his head. Tap, tap, tap again. Did he look convincing? His first week he’d felt every bit an inept clod each time he retrieved a tool from his belt, uncertain whether he should use one intended to pound, pinch, or poke. Who could have known that assuming the role of janitor would prove so taxing? But his education hadn’t prepared him for menial labor.

  Workers filed past. Men in overalls or trousers and chambray shirts, tin lunchpails in hand and caps tugged low over sleepy eyes. Women with aprons covering their dresses and ruffled mobcaps framing their faces. Children with drooping eyes and dragging heels. In turn, they paused to jam their cards into the punch slot just inside the door and then slip them into the little holder marked with their names. Most acknowledged him with a wave or smile, the occasional “Morning, Ollie” from the fellows and “Good morning, Mr. Moore” from the youngsters and the ladies. He responded to each in kind, calling the names of those he could recall and substituting “sir,” “miss,” and “kiddo” for those he couldn’t.

  He continued to mess with those hinges as if fixing them was the most important task on his list of duties. But it was as much a ruse as his carefully chosen working-man’s attire. The hinges were fine. Didn’t even squeak. But what other excuse could he use to loiter near the time clock until Miss Carrie Lang arrived? In three more minutes the shift bell would clang, and he’d have to leave this post whether he wanted to or not. He hoped she arrived on time. Hightower wouldn’t hesitate to deliver a tongue-lashing in front of the other workers if she dared punch in even a few seconds past six o’clock.

  Oliver dropped to one knee and shifted his attention to the locking mechanism. The first thing he intended to do after Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory transferred into his hands was to sit down with Hightower and have a long talk about leading without lording. Father had always been satisfied with Hightower’s service, but over the past weeks Oliver had decided the factory manager had a lot to learn.

  Three more workers hustled past—two men and a lad of perhaps twelve years. Oliver stifled a groan of frustration. Where was Miss Lang? She’d seemed so eager to get started when he’d given her a quick tour of the factory floor yesterday. He was delighted to add her to the Dinsmore “family,” as Father preferred to call their employees. Her concern about being accused of stealing chocolates hinted at her honesty. Her attentiveness as he explained the time clock, the lunch procedure, and the break schedule showed a true interest in doing things right. He had no doubt she’d be a diligent worker.

  He inserted the tip of the screwdriver into the slot of one screwhead on the latch plate, loosened it, then retightened it while he kept one eye on the back alley, hoping to see Miss Lang approach. The tool slipped from his hand, bounced twice, and rolled against the doorjamb. Releasing a disgruntled huff, he snatched it up. Worry nibbled around the edges of his mind. Had she decided not to work here after all? He glanced at the time clock. If she arrived even one minute past six, she’d be written up as a late arrival. She was almost out of time. His hands began to sweat.

  Settling back on one heel, he pondered why he cared so much. He hardly knew her, and she was only one of nearly two hundred workers. Yet something about her had touched him. He mulled over the scene in the upstairs landing yesterday—the pair of women carrying trays in a competition to win the privilege of performing the task in exchange for roughly sixty-six cents a day—and he uncovered the reason. Her tender heart. It had hurt her, genuinely hurt her, to see the other woman lose.

  The patter of running feet on hard-packed earth reached his ears. He leaped up, the tools in his belt clanking together, and stepped aside as Miss Lang dashed past, dark curls bouncing on her apple cheeks. Card in hand, she whammed it into the machine and pressed the lever. Oliver peeked over her shoulder as she pulled the card free. Black, smudged numbers proclaimed 6:00 a.m. on the top of the card. She’d made it! He slipped the screwdriver into the leather pouch and stepped up beside her.

  She swept a small hand across her brow, pushing one springy coil aside. It dangled beguilingly along her temple. “I feared I’d be late.”

  He followed her as she moved to the card rack and slipped hers into place. He waited for her to offer an excuse—an alarm that failed to ring, a trolley car blocking her pathway—but she offered none. He continued to trail her, double-stepping to keep up, as she turned and headed for the candy-making center.

  A dimple flashed in her cheek as she sent a quick grin in his direction. “I hoped I would see you.”

  Father would berate him if he knew how much her statement pleased him. “Oh?”

  “I wanted to return your handkerchief.” She whisked it from the pocket of her swirling skirt and held it out to him. “I laundered it last night. Well, I washed it in my sink with a little lye soap. I didn’t have an iron, so it’s rather rumpled. But no chocolate stains, see?”

  He held it to the light and pretended to examine it, but truthfully he was admiring the tawny freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. “I see.” He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “I trust that you—” He nearly slapped his forehead. Her sweet, mellifluous voice, devoid of the common slang of the other workers, encouraged him to drop his guard and speak like the educated man he was. But he didn’t dare. He rubbed the end of his nose, pretending to fight off a sneeze, then said, “So … didja enjoy those chocolates?”

  She laughed, a delicate trickle of merriment that broadened his smile. “I didn’t eat a one. I gave the pocketful to some children who were playing in the street and the handkerchief’s contents to a girl named Letta to share with her brothers.”

  Another example of her tender heart. “That was right kind of you, Carrie.”

  She shrugged and didn’t reply. When they reached the candy-making area, stacks of trays, no doubt filled by the previous shift’s workers, waited for transport. “It looks like I’d better get to work. Thank you again for sharing the vanilla creams. The children were delighted to receive them.”

  He should leave, but he wasn’t ready to go. He searched for a reason to continue talking with her, and he realized she hadn’t carried in a dinner bucket. “You didn’t bring your lunch.”

  An odd smile quirked her lips. Her shoulders rose in a tiny shrug—the right one slightly higher than the left. “I suppose one day without lunch won’t hurt me.” She lifted the top three trays from the nearest stack and turned.

  He found himself blocking her pathway. “Join me.”

&nbs
p; Her eyebrows shot up.

  He shrugged, imitating her gesture by raising his right shoulder nearly to his earlobe. “I have plenty, and I’d like to share. Meet me in the break room at eleven.” He held his breath. Would she see him as too forward? He sweetened the invitation. “Ham and cheese sandwiches, deviled eggs, and strawberry tarts. With cream.”

  “Oh my …”

  He hid a grin. She still hadn’t agreed, but he needed to let her get to work before Hightower spotted them chatting. He inched backward, allowing her to ease past. He called to her as she walked away, “Eleven o’clock. I’ll be waiting.”

  A single bob of her mobcap sent his pulse stuttering into happy hiccups. He spun, a grin stretching his cheeks, and came face to face with Gordon Hightower. The man’s scowl chased away Oliver’s elation.

  “Moore, I’d like a word with you.”

  Gordon

  Gordon watched Carrie Lang’s dangling apron ties bounce against the full gathers of her skirt as she scurried away. She didn’t flout her figure the way some women did, exaggerating the swing of her hips. But her natural sway was enticing enough.

  The sound of someone clearing his throat pulled Gordon’s focus from Miss Lang’s delightful curves. Ollie Moore stood staring at him, his lips set in a near scowl and his narrowed eyes seeming to look beneath Gordon’s exterior to the thoughts roiling in his brain. Gordon adjusted the lapels of his jacket, lifting his chin in a manner used to cow the lesser workers. Moore didn’t flinch.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” Moore spoke genially, but his eyes continued to glint like steel.

  Gordon gritted his teeth. How he’d love to remove Ollie Moore from the employment books. Every other worker in this factory kowtowed to him. But this one—this one wore arrogance like a shield. He’d disliked Moore the moment he’d entered Gordon’s office, his hat in his hand but his shoulders set bold and square as if his being hired was a right rather than a privilege. Gordon had wanted to refuse to hire the man, but the owner, Fulton Dinsmore, had specifically recommended Moore—his first time to intrude upon Gordon’s hiring process. Consequently, he didn’t dare ax Moore. But he could make the worker’s life so difficult he chose to find another place to work. Then old man Dinsmore couldn’t hold Gordon accountable.