A Silken Thread Read online

  He searched his memory for other tidbits, but none came to mind. No matter. He had Father’s full attention now, a rarity. He folded his arms over his chest, gazing intently into Father’s eyes. “I cannot imagine a hired employee speaking with greater eloquence about the superiority of the Rochester steam-powered engine than your own son.”

  Sternness remained etched in Father’s features. “Eloquence is one thing, familiarity quite another.”

  “Oh, Harrison.” Mother tsk-tsked, shaking her head. “Give Langdon a chance.”

  Father glared at Mother for a moment, then pointed at Langdon. “Before I agree to allow you to serve as a spokesman at the exposition, I will want to assure myself that you are able to answer questions accurately and confidently.”

  Cockiness easily masqueraded as confidence. But accuracy? He lowered his head and commanded himself not to grimace. He’d rather eat a cupful of worms, the pledge requirement that had changed his mind about joining Phi Delta Theta, Father’s pick of fraternities, than study. But if a few hours of study meant earning a lengthy reprieve from the factory…

  He met his father’s gaze. “Give me until the fourteenth, Father, and then test me. If I am able to answer your questions correctly, will you allow me to go?”

  “If you fail to meet my expectations, will you graciously concede defeat?”

  “Of course.” He could learn material quickly when motivated. Enjoying over three months of free rein at the park grounds was strong motivation. He bounced a grin at his mother and headed for the doorway. “Excuse me, please. I have some reviewing to do.” He’d have to skip the faro game, but he had a bigger bet to win.

  Willie

  Willie trudged up the grassless path carved by hundreds of treks back and forth from the street to the stoop of his little house. Tiredness tugged at him. He’d been working double hard since Mr. Rochester gave him permission to apply for an exposition job. Didn’t want his boss to think he was slacking off because he was hankering for greener pastures ahead. Ten workdays in a row of being first through the door, working through breaks, and staying until everybody else cleared the floor was near about to frazzle him, though.

  But rest was coming. Sunday—the Lord’s day—tomorrow, and next week he’d either be back to normal at the factory or doing a different kind of work. His pulse gave a little double skip. No matter whether he got hired for the exposition or not, he had a treat waiting inside. Today was Saturday…fried-ham-and-eggs day.

  His stomach growled. The cheese sandwiches and raw carrots he’d eaten for lunch had seemed plenty filling at the time, but now emptiness gnawed at his belly. He sure appreciated Mrs. Blaricum putting supper on the table every Saturday night, even if she did put the same thing out week after week. The woman knew how to sear a ham steak and fry an egg all the way through, the same way Ma used to. Willie liked a runny yolk, but he ate his eggs over hard because that’s how Ma had fixed ’em and how Pa liked ’em.

  Even though he was hungry and tired, he paused on the stoop and stuck his hands in his pockets instead of reaching for the doorknob. After all these days of waiting and praying and hoping and wondering, as soon as he stepped into the house he’d know. He wanted an exposition job. Wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything, even more than the painted tin flute he’d begged for at Christmastime when he was six. Pa’d carved him a whistle from a piece of hickory instead. It only played one note, but he’d found joy in making it sing.

  He scrunched his brow and looked at the gray evening sky. Gray. A dull color. A sad color. But a few stringy-looking clouds with pink underbellies interrupted the gray. Pink. Ma’s favorite color. A joyful color.

  His chest pinched. Would he find a touch of joy if he didn’t get a job at the Cotton Exposition? Hurt something awful to see Pa so weak. How would he ever be able to put him in the special hospital without extra money? He’d been taught to believe that God knew best. Even when Ma died of that awful fever, Pa said it was for the best because she wasn’t hurting anymore.

  Willie dug deep down inside himself and pushed words past his dry throat. “I told You I’d accept Your will. And I’ll do it, the same way Pa’s always done. No matter what, come Sunday mornin’, Pa an’ me will be in a church pew. We’ll worship an’ sing—well, I’ll sing while Pa listens—and we’ll praise Your name. ’Cause no matter what job I have, You’ll always be there for Pa an’ me.”

  Saying it all out loud took some weight off his chest. He pulled in a breath, whisked one more glance at the sky, then took hold of the doorknob.

  “Willie! Willie!”

  He jerked around so fast he almost fell off the stoop. His best boyhood friend, Quincy, ran up the street. Quincy’s dark face was shining, and he waved a piece of paper. He panted to a stop at the base of the stoop and jammed the paper at Willie.

  “Lookee here what I got! Notice come today. I been hired for groundskeepin’ at the exposition.” Quincy held the paper toward Willie the way Willie used to show Ma his best essays from school.

  Willie grinned at his pal. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” If Willie got hired, the two of them could ride the trolleys back and forth every day together. Willie’d enjoy that a lot.

  Quincy nodded hard. “I’m happy, too. Me an’ Bunson both put in, but he didn’ get chose.”

  Quincy’s younger brother always tagged after Quincy. The sixteen-year-old was probably plenty disappointed. The same way Willie would be if he didn’t get hired. “That’s too bad.”

  Quincy sighed. “Pap’s some sorry we didn’ both make it. He was countin’ on us bein’ able to buy a new mule right quick since ol’ Rosebud jus’ can’t pull Pap’s junk wagon no mo’. I reckon Pap an’ Bunson’ll hafta keep pullin’ the wagon until I save up enough. Gon’ take longer with only one o’ us at the fairgrounds, but Mam says we gotta thank God for provision.”

  Willie smiled. Quincy’s ma was always finding reasons to thank God, same as Willie’s ma always had. Maybe that’s why they’d been such good friends.

  Quincy shook his head. “Bunson, he’s most sad about not gettin’ hired, ’cause Pap’d vowed to let ’im keep some pocket money. But I promised I’d take him on openin’ day so he can hear the speakers. I can’t hardly wait to hear what Booker T. Washington’s gonna say. Whole family an’ all our neighbors is real excited ’bout Mr. Washington speakin’ to so many folks. Me an’ Bunson’s gonna hafta listen close so we can tell ’em what’n all he says.”

  Willie hoped he’d be there to hear Mr. Washington and all the other speakers for himself. He clapped Quincy on the shoulder. “I’m sure glad you got one of those jobs. It must feel real good to know you’ll be helpin’ your family.”

  “Uh-huh.” Quincy squinted up at Willie, pressing the notice against the front of his striped shirt. “What about you? You get one, too?”

  Willie swallowed. “Dunno yet. I’m hopin’ so.”

  Quincy huffed and backed up two steps, waving the paper. “I can’t wait to find out—Mam’s got victuals on the table an’ tell me not to dawdle. Lemme know after you know. It’d be real nice if we was both hired on.” He turned and trotted off.

  Nervousness rolled through Willie’s middle. As much as he wanted to know, he stayed on the stoop a few more seconds. Your will, God. Whatever it is, I’ll accept Your will. He stepped into the house and called, “Pa? Mrs. Blaricum? I’m home.”

  The woman peeked from around the kitchen doorway. “Supper’s on the table. Your father’s already eating.”

  “Did—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Did a notice get delivered here today?”

  “ ’Bout an hour ago. It’s on the table by the sofa.” She disappeared from view.

  Willie bounded across the floor and snatched up the folded piece of paper. According to Mr. Sterling, only the ones being hired would receive a notice, so the paper itself told him yes. But would he be a groundskeeper like Quincy o
r something else? Biting down on his lower lip, he unfolded the page.

  Mr. William Sharp, report to the Administration Building (at 14th St. entrance, east side of park) at 8:00 a.m. Monday the 16th of September for instructions and training as a security guard for the Cotton States and International Exposition.

  There was more, but he’d read enough. He let out a whoop and threw the paper in the air.

  Mrs. Blaricum bustled from the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

  Willie laughed. “Thanking God, that’s what.”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, He hears just fine without us hollerin’ at Him. Come set yourself down. I’ll fill your plate.”

  Willie tossed his jacket on the worn sofa and skedaddled through the front room to the warm kitchen. A sweet smell reached his nose. A pie was cooling on top of the pantry cupboard. Cherry, if his sniffer worked right. His favorite. He licked his lips. This evening was fixing to be a good one.

  He plopped in a chair, giving Pa a smile. Mrs. Blaricum put a speckled tin plate in front of him. The slab of ham and two fried eggs looked so good his stomach sat up and begged. His fingers itched to grab up his fork and dig in, but first he thanked Mrs. Blaricum. Then he bowed his head and thanked God—quietly this time—for the food and for the new job. He reached for his fork.

  “Headin’ to my place now.” Mrs. Blaricum whipped Ma’s apron from her waist and hung it on the hook by the stove. “When you’ve finished eatin’, come knock on my door. I need a few words with you.”

  Willie stopped the fork tines before they reached the food. She’d never made a request like that before. “Somethin’ wrong?”

  She glanced at Pa, who was giving the chopped pieces of ham on his plate clumsy jabs. “Might be. But we’ll talk after you eat.” She headed out the back door.

  Willie’s appetite escaped. He laid his fork on his plate and touched Pa’s arm. “Will you be all right for a bit? Gonna go see what Mrs. Blaricum needs.”

  Pa gave a jerky nod.

  Willie patted his arm, then followed after Mrs. Blaricum. She was already on her stoop, her hand on the back door’s porcelain knob. Willie called her name, and she paused, frowning.

  “Didn’t I tell you to eat first?”

  Willie stopped next to the stoop. “Yes, ma’am, but I don’t think I’ll be able to swallow a bite until I know what’s on your mind. Did something happen with Pa?” Thank goodness he’d got this new job. The sooner he got Pa into the special hospital, the better it would be.

  Her brow crinkled up, and she sent glances left and right. Then she hung her head. A strand of gray hair fell across her forehead and swayed in the light breeze. “No, no, nothing’s changed with your pa.”

  Willie heaved a sigh so big his breath made a whooshing sound. It couldn’t be something so bad, then.

  “The thing is, I can’t come over and stay with Otto anymore.”

  He’d been wrong. This was terrible. He pressed his gripped hands against his stomach. “Do you need more money? I can pay you more startin’ next week.” Paying her extra would take away from his hospital fund, but somehow he’d make do.

  She shook her head. “It ain’t the money. It’s the time.” Sadness sagged her wrinkled face. “Reckon you remember my youngest girl, Myrtle.”

  “Sure do.” They’d played together when they were little, until she started seeing him as something more than a frog-catching buddy. He’d felt plenty bad about it, but he only liked her as a friend, so he quit meeting her at the pond. She’d married up with a fellow from across town over a year ago. He hadn’t seen her much since.

  “She an’ Lambert had their first baby a couple months back—a little boy, Lambert Jr.” No pride lit the woman’s face, which left Willie unsettled. “Myrtle’s had a hard time bouncin’ back, an’ she needs somebody to look in on her every day, help see to the baby ’n’ all. They don’t have extra money to pay somebody, so naturally they asked if I could help.”

  Mrs. Blaricum held out her hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t turn down my own kin, but unless I give up sittin’ with your pa, the only hours I’ll have to spare are evenin’ hours. I don’t see how that’ll do Myrtle an’ baby Lambert much good.”

  The older woman appeared forlorn in the heavy evening shadows. Willie figured he didn’t look much happier. Worry gnawed at him, but he couldn’t tell her to ignore her own daughter. “I understand.”

  Relief flooded her features. “Thank you, Willie.” She made a tsk-tsk noise. “I am sorry, though. I’m fond of your pa. And you. Always have been. But you know how family comes first. After all, you’ve been keepin’ your pa comp’ny, seein’ to him ever since your ma passed. An’ now with him ailin’…”

  Willie started to tell her that taking care of Pa wasn’t a burden because he loved Pa.

  “If I can’t go over every day, I guess you’ll think on havin’ him put somewhere. Maybe at a poor farm. Or a state asylum.” She nodded, and her gaze drifted someplace beyond Willie, like she’d forgot he was there. “It’ll be better for you, bein’ free to find yourself a girl an’ settle down. Of course, it’s too late to settle with Myrtle, but…”

  Did she think keeping Pa company had kept him from marrying up with her daughter? There wasn’t a good way to ask or a kind way to set her straight, so Willie edged backward. “I’ll figure somethin’ out, ma’am. Don’t worry. You see to Myrtle an’ her baby.”

  She jolted. “What? Oh. Yes, I will. Thank you, Willie. Good night, now.” She hurried inside her house.

  Willie turned and scuffed across the dried grass toward his own back stoop. He couldn’t blame Mrs. Blaricum for wanting to tend to her daughter and grandson. He wasn’t mad at her for leaving him in the lurch. Not even a little bit. But he was plenty worried. He couldn’t take the exposition job—or even return to the factory—unless he found somebody to spend days with Pa.

  Something brushed against his leg. Willie sidestepped and looked down. Rusty, the big old tomcat, leaned in for a second swipe against Willie’s pant leg. He scooped the cat into his arms. “Glad to see you, Rusty. You might as well eat my ham an’ eggs. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  He carried the cat to the house, grateful for the company. He wished Rusty was a person. As much as the old tom liked Pa, he’d be willing to stay every day at the house. But he couldn’t leave Pa with a cat. How would he find someone trustworthy by early Monday morning?

  Laurel

  “Why, Laurel, what a pretty combination of colors.”

  Laurel paused with the shuttle in her hand and smiled at her mother. “Thank you.” She ran her finger along the tightly woven threads of dyed wool. “I wasn’t sure at first how it would look with the red and brown side by side. We usually alternate dark and light colors. But we had extra bales of red and brown, so I decided to experiment.”

  Laurel slid the shuttle through the shed, pulled the weft tight, and pumped the treadle, adding another row to the rug.

  “Making the brown stripes narrower than the red keeps it from being too dark,” Mama said. “Then the brown border keeps the red from overwhelming the brown. Very well balanced.”

  Laurel couldn’t hold back a pleased grin. Mama had been baking while Laurel started a new rug. The scent of fresh bread clung to her apron, and Mama’s praise was even more pleasant than the aroma rising from the cotton cloth. They’d decided when they began selling rugs that they wanted them to be serviceable but also pretty. Laurel didn’t have Mama’s experience, and therefore her rugs weren’t always as pleasing to the eye as the ones Mama designed.

  Mama pinched her chin and seemed to frown at the two-feet-wide partial rug. “You’ve made a great deal of progress on it already, too—nearly twice as far as I’d expect, given the amount of time you’ve spent.” Her gaze shifted to Laurel, and a touch of admonishment colored her expression. “I thought the treadle thuds seemed more rapid than usual. Haste can decrease quality
or damage the loom.”

  Laurel grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to keep myself too occupied to think.”

  Mama tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from Laurel’s braid behind her ear. The tender gesture assured Laurel she’d been forgiven for treating the loom recklessly. “Worrying about the exposition job?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Laurel set the shuttle on the loom’s breast beam, swiveled the stool, and peered up at her mother. “Everyone was to receive their notices today. Mr. Sterling at the bank seemed certain I would be hired since I already know how to work a loom.” She twirled the end of her braid around her finger and hung her head. “But no one’s knocked at the door all day. So I guess…” She sighed.

  “Laurel Adelaide Millard.” Mama cupped Laurel’s chin and lifted her face. “I wanted the exposition job for you as much as you did. Maybe even more. But God knows what is best for you. If He answered our prayer with a no, then He has a reason for it, and we will accept it without a moment of pouting or bemoaning.”

  Shame swept through her. Tears stung. Laurel blinked rapidly.

  Mama’s warm hand glided along Laurel’s cheek, and a sympathetic half smile formed on her face. “Well, perhaps a moment of pouting is all right. After all, God surely understands how disappointment feels.” Then she shook her finger. “But only a moment’s worth. Then you get back to your rug weaving.” She set her head at a determined angle. “And I’ll go back to the kitchen. If we both stay busy, we won’t think about our disappointment.”

  Langdon

  Logs snapped in the small fireplace in Father’s study, sending out an uncomfortable amount of heat. But Langdon remained rooted on the plush carpet in front of the desk and met Father’s stoic gaze. Not once in the twenty minutes since he’d entered the study and begun his presentation about the Rochester steam-powered engines had Father’s expression changed, but he’d stared down poker faces before. An emotionless countenance did not necessarily indicate a lack of feeling beneath the surface.