Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  “I don’t think you’ll need to worry, Tomasz.”

  He offers a smile with the tight, careful grimace that passes as one, and climbs onto the wagon. I look around and realize Al has already slipped away, and indignation couples with anger. How could he go without at least saying something to me? Or has he changed his mind? Maybe he won’t really go!

  I wonder if Tom has any notion of Al’s plans. Or perhaps Jimmy does, as he has become fast friends with my youngest brother. I stare at the two of them. They do not behave as if they are waiting on Al, but they do not seem worried that he is not here, either. Instead, Jimmy leans down in serious, low, conversation with Walter and Thaddeus, who looks thunderous.

  The reins snap, and the wagon lurches forward. David Fawcett’s rich British accent shouts out to the rest of the Fawcett family who live in Flats Town, and his siblings and elderly parents wave resignedly. Six young boys start to race alongside the wagon, but they’re out of breath before the horse team makes it to the tannery on the west end of town. The handful of men on the wagon boards sway and bounce.

  Along with several other townspeople, Father and I wave heartily, calling out the same words, the same farewells, the same wishes. I almost forget for a moment that Al means to leave with them. It is only when he comes tearing out of a side alley once the wagon is nearly off the street, and onto the prairie itself, that I remember.

  Father goes completely still next to me, his waving hand frozen.

  As Al makes to swing up into the jiggling, bouncing wagon, hands reach down and pull him up in one slick, fluid motion, and then he is there, sitting beside Jimmy and Tom. He is far enough away so I cannot see whether his face is triumphant or frightened. He raises an arm in our direction, and that is what it takes to move Father.

  “Albert! Wojciech! You may not go! Get down now—I forbid it! Może nie udać! You may not go!” The Polish spills from him, an unending stream of anger and cursing, and he takes fast steps toward the wagon’s retreat, though there is not a hope for stopping it now. He gives an angry, anguished, shout, and then seems to remember he has an audience. I want to slide into the dark grey shade of the nearest buildings, as so many people are watching this agonized response. If I could, I’d disappear into Walter’s shadow.

  “Marya!” He rounds on me, his eyes glazed. “Did you be knowing of this?”

  “I … he told me last night.”

  “You are not thinking to tell me?” Father has the presence of mind to lower his voice, though it does not make him any less furious.

  “I—” There were many reasons I found to stay silent last night, not least of which was Al’s trust. Still, I cannot tell an outright lie, even though I would dearly like to keep my bit of complicity quiet. Walter and Thaddeus plod behind us and I don’t like to admit my failures in the hearing of so many—my cooking aside. It is already all too embarrassing.

  “He could have changed his mind when it came to it, Father. And he could have been turned away.”

  “Turned away?” Father’s voice rises again with incredulousness. “There is being no chances he is going to be being turned away. The Army is being bled—is bleeding—men. They’ll be taking all the recruits they are getting!”

  “Father, please. What was I to do?”

  “You’re his big siostra. You are to be asking him to stay behind and help.”

  “But I did. I tried!”

  “Not hard enough, then. If he will not be listening to me, he would be listening to you!”

  “I did ask him not to go—” I clench my hands and swallow the rest of my words, folding my lips over my teeth. I did ask. And I had failed. That part is true.

  “How will you be managing, Marie? Besides all the spring chores and the household, you will be needing to be helping me in the shop. There is being no other way around it now.”

  “But that was the plan from the first. I was to help with the tinkering.”

  “To be tinkering is one thing. You will be having to be starting full orders. Otherwise I won’t be being able to keep up. Marie … Marya … He left! On zostawił mnie! He left me! He is leaving me alone!” Father’s voice drops so low I can hardly hear it, and I want to take his arm, but I do not, for fear my touch will undo him in his grief.

  “How will we be surviving? What will become of us if they do not return or send money? How will we be living? What will we be doing? Oh, my Jozefa. I have failed you! I was to be keeping them safe, away from the Army, and I have failed you! Moja miłość, zawiodłem Cię! My love, I failed you!”

  He repeats this, over and over all the way home, and pushes open the door to the tin shop as if he does not see it. I pause, wondering what I should do, knowing the layers of chores still awaiting, and the list of orders to be filled. I shouldn’t leave Father to it all alone, but I don’t want to sit next to him while he fumes.

  I turn to our blacksmith neighbors, and as I do, Thaddeus disappears into the smithy, his hands bunched in anger and dissatisfaction. Walter watches him go, and then looks to me.

  “Stanisław … So then, do you need anything, Marya?”

  I gulp in air. I do not dare give him the litany of my needs and my fears, unrolling through my mind in ropes.

  “No. No, I think we will be all right, for now.”

  Walter nods once, and goes in, leaving me in the cavernous silence of the yard between the two buildings, listening to the splash of the nearby stream, and wondering what I should do next.

  My head whirls, and I allow myself a moment against the door, where my forehead hits the rough prickle of aging wood. The enormity of what I must do hits my chest, catching the air I breathe. I send a hard reprimand to Al in my mind, berating him his selfishness and his desire to face his fears and yes, to prove his manhood. I compose a note to Jimmy, asking him to be safe and to find his pride in the firing of his gun. And I do desperately wish for Tom to come home once more, full of boasting war stories and countless escapades, if only that it means he is back in Flats Town whole and happy. The money seems secondary to it all in this exact moment.

  I sigh. No one else is going to get the meal on, and I suppose I should see what is on the ledger for tinkering today even though I don’t know if I can concentrate. As I push open the door, I look for Father, but he is only a gray shadow outside the back doorway. He sits outside, staring at the trees on the horizon, listening to the water and likely wishing Mother were here. I wish she were, too.

  But she is gone, and so are the boys, for now. I put another roll into my sleeves and then, as an afterthought, move to the seed box. Today is a good day for hands to be in the earth, and the mindless, numbing, tilling of soil. If I am quick about it, I can get half the garden in, water heated, and bread mixed, all before breakfast.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  19 June 1866

  The bank door is formidable. It matches the fancy trim on Percy Davies’s decorated, cake-like house on the west side of town, and is painted green, though the sand of the prairie has scoured most of it off.

  I’m not sure which is worse: little, snotty-nosed Harold Ofsberger running into the shop a few minutes ago to tell me I’m needed by Percy Davies or actually standing here outside the bank.

  “The door gonna bite you, is it?”

  I swing around and instinctively wrap my arms around my chest. “No.”

  Horeb Harvey smirks up at me from the street and chortles again. “Then go on, you been standing there five minutes, and I have four pennies on you’ll go in within the next two. Trusty Willy Warren’s been counting with his fancy watch.”

  “Get your ass back in, you can’t be forcing your bet to win!” Someone yells from the back window of the Rusty Nail.

  I feel my face drain of color, but then the familiar flood of blood rushes up. “You’ve got a bet that I’ll go in within the next two minutes?”

  “Yup.” Horeb spits and rocks back onto his heels, slinging his thumbs into his belt.

  I spin and plunk down on the stairs o
f the bank, my skirts settling in a haphazard heap around my legs. Horeb’s eyes immediately glue to my exposed ankles and stockings while I scramble to cover them up.

  “Oh, so you’re gonna make me lose on purpose, is it?” His chin goes out, pointy and sharp and grizzled.

  I don’t answer, just drill my eyes into the dark windows of the saloon, where the building angles across the alley people call General Street.

  “Well, no mind. I got to see your whole leg, knee and all, and that was worth it,” Horeb says, and saunters, looselimbed and wobbly, back into the Rusty Nail. The hollers and whoops are inordinately loud when he walks in. I want to run back to our shop.

  Not that it would help. All of the Rusty Nail customers will wander in at some point for repairs. Most of them will stare at my bosom, no matter it’s not extraordinary.

  I wait an extra few minutes just to be sure Horeb will lose his bet, and then walk into the dank, choking, musty bank.

  “Marie Kotlarczyk. Thank you for comin’ in.” Percy Davies stands at once from the dark desk along the back wall, smoothing his rumpled velvet vest before hooking his fingers under it and through his suspenders. “How good of you. Come in and take a seat.”

  The bank teller, a chisel-faced, dark and handsome young man gives an austere nod as I go past. He looks familiar, and then I realize he’s Tom Fawcett, the younger brother of the frontiersman. His stiff manner and brushed suit are a complete opposite of his older sibling.

  I take a seat, settling as best I can into the polished leather of it, and brace my feet against the floorboards. Why is a bank so stuffy? It smells like ink and crumpled paper and old coffee, but mostly I smell my own fear.

  “I need to speak to you. I’d take your father up with this business, but I’ve heard he’s a bit … indisposed.”

  At least Percy is civil about it.

  “Yes. Father’s a bit quiet since the boys left,” I say, hedging and sweating.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear it. But time is marchin’ and I need to keep movin’ before things get too far gone. Have you spoken to your landlord recently?”

  Confusion melts into my bones. “No. Usually that’s Father.”

  Percy nods and braces his hip against the edge of his desk, folding his arms over his stomach and narrowing his eyes.

  “I figured as much. Still. Miss Kotlarczyk. Have you heard of the railroad comin’ through?”

  “There’s been talk, always,” I say.

  “Oh, it’ll happen. I’m makin’ sure of that.” Percy waves a hand briefly. “But I need you to keep payin’ rent to Oddvar Svendsen.”

  My eyebrows squeeze together. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Oh … in case he makes it too expensive. But you need to keep payin’ it no matter what.”

  “I won’t promise.” I don’t like to remind the banker of the loan we still have with him, especially since we have had to take out a bit more to cover our costs at the General.

  “You can,” Percy says comfortably, and sits in his chair. The wood creaks under his bottom and he leans into the spokes. “I’ll be sure of it. If rent goes up, you pay. Oddvar won’t kick you off the property, at least not while he can squeeze every cent from you in rent. Once you stop payin’, he’ll have you leave.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m confused. If he wants the rent, why would he raise it so we can’t afford it?”

  “Because, Miss Kotlarczyk, he has to put off how much the railroad surveyors will pay him.”

  “So let him sell to the damn railroad!”

  Percy’s eyes widen slightly at my curse, but he’s gentlemanly enough to ignore it. “No. He’s not to sell.”

  “Then you buy it.” My words spill out, as blunt as always, no matter it’s obvious I keep poking the only man in town who can run us out. No one is around to silence my lips. “Or the bank. Isn’t that what you did for the Brinkley’s?”

  “I bought the Brinkley farm to be sure the right land is sold to the railroad. Not that it’s your business.”

  My mind whirls, stops, and whirls again. “I’m pretty sure this is my business.”

  Percy sighs and spreads thick, wide, fingers on the rough board of the desk. “If Oddvar can get a decent monthly rent from you, it will eventually be worth more than a single sale to the railroad. So he will keep you on. Otherwise he’s sellin’.”

  “The bank—”

  “The bank can’t take another purchase that big.”

  “Maybe we can buy—”

  “Enough. I’m not givin’ you a loan to purchase your little tract of land on top of the lumber money and rent loans. You won’t buy it. I don’t want him sellin’ it. I want the railroad goin’ through the south end of town where it belongs and not north. So Oddvar can’t be sellin’.”

  His grit pounds into me heavily. I feel numb and want to nod, but it would be dishonest. I’m not happy with being caught in the middle of a land war. In fact, it puts me more on edge than I’ve ever been. I think of the money Tom promised, and stand up.

  “But if we could buy our property, and pay our loans—”

  “You won’t. Not for a while. You’re not buyin’ that place from the Svendsens; I’ve got you locked into two loans already. You keep payin’ rent and tell me if it goes up and I’ll supply the funds till the railroad comes in.”

  “And then?”

  Percy settles deeper into his chair. “Well, I won’t charge you interest on the loan for extra rent, how’s that?”

  I want to run my fingers through my hair and shout with frustration. How can this man be more stubborn than me? Perhaps he isn’t—perhaps he only has more money. I plant my own hands on the desk, inches from his and meet his eyes straight on.

  “It’s a horrible deal. I won’t take it. My Father won’t take it.”

  “It’s what you’re gettin’. I’ll have my railroad where I want it, and if you’re the excuse I can give Oddvar to not sell, that’s enough for me. Thank you for comin’ in, Miss Kotlarczyk.”

  I’m dismissed, but I’m frozen. “Your deal means we never get out from under our debts.”

  “Isn’t that why your brothers left? To make enough money to pay me back?”

  “When they do, we’re buying that damn tract of land.”

  Percy grins slightly and ignores my threat. “I like the spunk in you, young lass.”

  He pulls out some tightly printed papers and clears his throat, but I’m burning inside.

  “I mean it.”

  “I’m sure you do. Good day.”

  Unable to come up with anything else, I walk out and rudely ignore Tom Fawcett’s proper farewell.

  What do I do now?

  How do I even contact this Oddvar Svendsen?

  When will I find the time?

  My days already stretch long. June stretches closer to July, and I am distracted by the constant worry of keeping up with the household chores and the needs of the tinshop. I’m hopeful we might find a woman willing to take on some of the home work, but so far the only help I’ve had is the occasional hour from nosy, chatty Mrs. Andersen. I’m not entirely certain how I will keep at it. These past weeks have me breathless with exhaustion. My only moments of enjoyment are with my flowers. They’re already growing happily for all that they were recently transplanted.

  At least Walter, in his retirement, takes care of the damn chickens, the few pigs, and the one bashful sheep. I’ve given him a bit of our precious cash money for their upkeep. He took it grudgingly, but now at least I feel that I own part of the animals, since the food is shared between households.

  Every week, I go to the Salomons’ hearth to bake bread, and I’m there daily as well as to manage the cooking. Neither Walter nor Thaddeus are as well-disposed to home duties as Jimmy is, so my days split between tinwork and housework.

  Most nights, Walter tries to draw Father out with memories of their old days as apprentices, but that is usually met with silence.

  If I am around when customers come in, I do my best to
sweep away doubts about our shop’s competency. We cannot lose business so soon after arriving in Flats Town, and while some seem to understand, those who do not know us well yet are less kindly. I can hear their comments in my mind, circling and festering.

  A woman, then? You’re strong enough?

  Can you handle the exactness?

  I need my seams perfect. Are you sure you are up to the task? What about your father?

  How long have you been working, then? A month? Two?

  You need a man, young lady.

  Yesterday I tore weeds up around my new roses and cursed under my breath when I recalled the snide remarks old farmer Simon Zalenski gave about Father’s ragged mustache. Every bitter thought about my neighbors crowded my brain, and I knelt by the roses without seeing. It wasn’t until Thaddeus had forcibly pulled me up so I might start dinner that I noticed a thorn plugged into one of my hands, which wept black-red blood after Thaddeus had impatiently ripped it out.

  “Marie!”

  I look around as I walk up small dusty Second Street, surprised someone greets me so familiarly.

  It is Mrs. Andersen, her smile crinkling the hollow places under her cheekbones. I glance at the heavy basket on her sturdy arm, obviously laden with foodstuffs. If I were a tactile woman, I would embrace her in my relief.

  “Mrs. Andersen.”

  “Call me Berit, dear honning honey, there’s no need for ceremony here.” She follows me into the tinshop and glances over at Father, who has not stirred to greet her, nor even acknowledge her arrival.

  “I’ll try.” Her insistence toward casualness falls on my ears and out again. I don’t really care. I need to think about how I will draw out information about my landlord from my newly-taciturn father.

  “You’ve been busy, Marie, so my Grete says.”

  “Oh?”

  “Honning, this may be a growing town that will someday get its own railway station and tracks and even be a city in the Union, but we are still small enough to know everyone’s business.”

  Mrs. Andersen’s eyes rove over the messy shop, and then settle on me. I try to straighten my braids, but it’s no use. They are frizzy from the heat of the coppers and solder and fires. And I’m too tired and worn and exhausted to care.