“Yes, but it doesn’t seem right that good people should suffer, does it?”
“Nope. But this here’s what the preacher calls a fallen world. When Adam and Eve sinned, evil came into the world. Kinda turned things upside down and makes it hard for us to understand when good people get hurt. But the devil’s out there prowlin’ around, doing his best to cause pain and confusion.”
“Still, it’s hard to accept that good people can be accused and punished for something they didn’t do.”
He stood and carefully painted a glint in his horse’s eye, then turned and looked at me. “You talkin’ ’bout yourself or just in general?” With the stroke of his paintbrush, the animal had taken on a personality of its own. It looked kind and gentle. Like the carousel horse I’d ridden when I was a little girl.
“Both,” I said. “Do you think if people pray, God turns things around?”
“If you’re askin’ do I think prayer works, the answer is yes. But if you’re askin’ do I think God always give us the answer we want, the answer is no. We’re not supposed to understand everything that happens in this world, but one day it will all be clear to us.”
“I see,” I muttered, but didn’t really see. I wanted Mr. Tobarth to tell me God would answer my prayers in the way I had asked. I wanted to know the real thief would be found. I wanted to know I wouldn’t go to jail. Maybe all the bad things in my life would be made clear when I died, but I didn’t want to wait that long—and I wasn’t ready to die, either!
For now, I needed to concentrate on my painting, but I determined to give the matter of answered prayer more thought while I ate my lunch. I continued painting in earnest and was surprised when the buzzer sounded. I gathered my lunch pail and sketch pad, just in case I found myself unable to concentrate on prayer or God, and headed outside. Ignoring the bench, I settled beneath a big old tree. After spreading the cloth napkin across my paint-splotched apron, I took a bite of my sandwich. Did other people have problems concentrating on God? Did their minds wander when they attempted to pray? Surely I wasn’t the only one. Then again, maybe I was. If I’d grown up spending time in prayer, maybe I wouldn’t find it so difficult to focus my thoughts on God. If I could concentrate on my painting, surely I could train my thoughts to remain upon God in the same manner.
I hadn’t heard the shuffle of feet or noticed the women approach until they were standing directly in front of me. There were four of them in all—strangers. Two held young children by the hand, while one was much older with withered skin. She’d covered her gray hair with a multicolored scarf that had been knotted beneath her chin. She waved a thin knobby finger at me and shouted something in a language I didn’t understand.
Instinctively I reared back. Splinters of rough tree bark bit into my shoulders, but I remained plastered against the sturdy trunk. Hoping to dispel what was obviously some misunderstanding, I forced a feeble smile. The women glared in return. My gesture of friendliness had only made matters worse. The older woman took another step toward me with a menacing glint in her eye.
Perhaps if I spoke to them in a kind manner, it would help. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” My palms turned moist, and I could feel beads of perspiration forming across my upper lip. Who were these women, and what did they want? “May I help you?”
The middle-aged woman grasped the old woman by the arm and shook her head. The old woman touched her fingers to her lips, then pointed at me. The younger of the two nodded. “We want you should stay away from our husbands. Only one kind of woman wants to work with the men.” Her words bore a heavy accent, but there was no doubt to their meaning. The three other women nodded their approval of the message, though I doubted the old lady understood what had been said.
“I am a good person. I need work to buy food.”
“Bah!” The middle-aged woman curled her lip and flung a dismissive wave in my direction. “We speak for the wives. We want you to leave this place.”
The hunched old woman muttered and spit on the ground. I thought it must have been a curse, and I wanted to tell her I didn’t need any more trouble in my life, but the look in her eyes was enough to seal my lips. I didn’t even breathe until all of them were out of sight. Only then did I toss the napkin into my pail and push to my feet.
My hands quivered as I wiped my damp palms down the front of my work apron. So much for my time of meditation and prayer.
Mrs. Wilson was aflutter when I returned home from work on the following Saturday. She stood outside, a floral apron tied around her thick waist while she paced the length of the porch. By the time I neared the front steps, she was wringing her hands together.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Wilson?” I knew it was a silly question, but I hoped my bright smile and even tone would soothe her. Cupping her palm, she waved me forward as though she could scoop me up the stairs and onto the porch. I hurried my step. “Tell me what’s happened,” I said.
“A policeman was here,” she whispered. “He said he was a detective. He was asking questions about you.”
I sighed and dropped onto one of the porch chairs. I didn’t need further trouble. Two more times during the week, wives, mothers, and children of the workers had stood across the street and stared at me during my lunchtime. Now the detective had come calling. And he certainly hadn’t wasted much time. Would my difficulties never end?
“Are you in trouble, Carrie? He wouldn’t tell me anything, just kept asking questions.”
Lifting my nose in the air, I sniffed and jumped up from the chair. “Something’s on fire, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Oh, dear me, I put a chicken on to fry and forgot all about it when I came out on the porch to watch for you.”
Smoke filled the hallway, but as it turned out, the only damage was to the chicken. I flapped a dish towel at the billowing smoke while Mrs. Wilson did her best to remove the charred crust and salvage some of the meat, to no avail. That night, supper consisted of potatoes and creamed peas. Neither Mr. Lundgren nor Josef complained. I think they were thankful the potatoes were lump free. It had taken more instruction than I’d expected to teach the woman how to make a decent white sauce for the peas and properly mash potatoes, but she’d mastered both. At least for tonight.
After the dishes had been washed and I was alone with Mrs. Wilson in the kitchen, I quizzed her about the detective and what questions he’d asked. They’d been much the same as he’d asked me, and I decided he was simply attempting to catch me in a lie.
Of course Mrs. Wilson expected an explanation. I did my best to give her a brief account, but one question led to another. By the time we’d finished our talk, it was nearly bedtime. “I trust you won’t say anything about this to the others?”
She patted my arm. “You can trust me, Carrie. The question is, can you trust that Tyson Farnsworth?”
“I don’t think so, but Augusta thinks he’s almost perfect. I haven’t been able to convince her otherwise.”
Before Mrs. Wilson could question me further, I hurried upstairs and prepared for bed. I tried to pray, but I didn’t know exactly what to say. I finally ended up with a jumble of words that made little sense. I told God I was sure He already knew my problems, and I’d appreciate it if He would grace me with a solution that eliminated any prospect of jail. Sleep came quickly, but my dreams were filled with frightening episodes that included a trial at which Tyson Farnsworth was the judge. He sentenced me to fifty years in jail. I awakened myself shouting, “I’m not guilty!”
I was thankful my third-floor bedroom prevented my cries from carrying to the lower floors. If the others heard, none of them mentioned it at breakfast. The usual Sunday breakfast had been prepared—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and burned toast. There was little conversation during the meal, but all four of us were dressed in our Sunday best.
Once the meal was completed and the dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen, Mrs. Wilson removed her apron and pinned her hat in place. After a glance in the hall mirror, she gave an affirmative nod. “I believe we’
re ready for church.” She grasped Mr. Lundgren’s arm and motioned to Josef. “You can escort Carrie.”
I don’t know who was more surprised, Josef or me. And I don’t know whose features took on more color. Josef’s cheeks turned a deep crimson shade, and I felt as though a fire had been kindled in each of mine. However, Josef didn’t hesitate before offering his arm. Fingers trembling, I took hold and was surprised by the strength I could feel beneath the navy blue sleeve of his jacket. Strange that holding his arm created a feeling of safety. We walked the short distance to church with Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren in the lead—as though we’d been doing this for years.
“Your painting, it is improving,” Josef said after we crossed the street.
“It is?” His words were a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, and my heart thumped an extra beat. I’d been longing for someone’s approval, especially since the incident at the Galloways’.
“Ja. You are learning gut from Mr. Tobarth.” Strands of thick brown hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed them back in place with an impatient grunt. “Another painter was hired yesterday. Monday, he begins to work with you and Henry.”
“Oh, that is good news.”
He bobbed his head. “Ja. He has worked in Philadelphia like Henry and me. He is an old friend and a gut worker. Lucky we are to get him.”
“Does he know about me?” My heart hammered in my chest, but I wanted to know what to expect on Monday morning.
“For sure I told him we had a lady working in the paint shop. He wanted to know if you were pretty.” A laugh rumbled deep in his chest.
With a sidelong glance, I asked, “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him ja, you are pretty, but he is to keep his eyes on the horses and not on you. Also I told him you are looking for a rich husband.” He shook his head. “Rich, he is not.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. He’d made that remark as casually as if he’d said the sky was blue. I dug in my heels and skidded to a halt.
“Something is wrong?”
“Yes, something is wrong! How could you say such a thing about me?”
“Is the truth, isn’t it? You are all the time going with the Galloways to those fancy parties. Is to find you a husband, ja?”
I dropped my hold on his arm and firmly planted a fist on each hip. “That is so far from the truth that it makes me want to laugh. I don’t like going to those silly parties, and I am not looking for a husband.”
Pointing to the church, he said, “We will be late. I don’t like to be late for church.” He bent his elbow and glanced at my fist. “We will go now?”
I took hold of his arm and marched alongside, hoping my thumping feet would let him know just how much he’d annoyed me. How had he come to such a conclusion? And he didn’t even give a proper response when I said I wasn’t looking for a husband.
I walked a short distance farther before I repeated, “I am not looking for a husband.” For some reason I wanted him to acknowledge I was content with my status as a single woman.
He remained silent until we were walking up the front steps of the church. “It is time for us to be thinking about God, ja?”
My insides churned. He was avoiding my question because he didn’t believe me—I was sure of it! We sat down in the pew as if we belonged together. I wondered what Mr. Tobarth would think if he saw us. And what if some of the other workers and their wives saw us? What would they think? The wives would probably be pleased. If Josef were my beau, they’d no longer consider me a threat, and maybe they’d cease their intrusions during my lunch break. On the other hand, the men might dislike me even more if they thought Josef had taken a romantic interest in me.
I peeked at him from beneath the brim of my straw hat. His head was bowed, and his lips were moving ever so slightly. I wasn’t sure if he was praying, but his eyes were closed. This must be one of those times when he thought about God.
I bowed my head and decided I should do the same. I tried to focus on God, but my thoughts flittered like a restless bird bounding from branch to branch. The organist hit a sour note, and I thought about how I wished I could play the piano; I thought about Josef’s soft brown eyes and why they suddenly seemed to look deep inside me; I thought about why he assumed I wanted to get married; I thought about everything but God.
When the organist finally struck a loud chord that signaled the service would soon begin, Josef lifted his head, and I followed his lead. What had he prayed about? Or had his thoughts wandered like my own? Not likely. Mr. Tobarth had said Josef was a devout believer. Unlike me, Josef probably had no trouble keeping his focus upon the Almighty.
Although I hadn’t managed to remain focused during the early portion of the service, I did sit up and take note during the sermon. The preacher spoke about Stephen and how he’d been wrongly accused. I thought of Tyson and the blame he’d been casting on me. It gave me little assurance when I heard the preacher say that Stephen had been stoned to death. Maybe I would end up in jail!
“A gut sermon the preacher gave us today,” Josef said as we departed the church.
“Not so good for Stephen,” I said.
Josef extended his elbow. I attempted to disguise my awkward feelings and grabbed hold. “Maybe not so gut for Stephen, but it teaches us a lesson that we must be willing to hold fast to our beliefs.”
“I’m not so sure. Stephen was telling the truth, but God allowed those men to stone him to death. If you’re telling the truth and you ask God for protection, don’t you think He should answer your prayer?”
Josef leaned down and picked up a scrap of paper that had blown across the churchyard. “Maybe God doesn’t give us what we are wanting, but I think our prayers, they are always answered.” He crumpled the paper and shoved it into his pocket. “Sometimes we must suffer.”
I didn’t like his answer. It was much the same as what Mr. Tobarth had told me. I wanted Josef to agree with me. Even more, I wanted God to remove Tyson Farnsworth from my life. And beyond that, I wanted God to make sure I didn’t go to jail. Maybe I didn’t have the strength to be a Christian. I couldn’t summon the slightest desire to suffer.
Before I could question Josef further, Mrs. Wilson scuttled to my side. Her feather-bedecked hat was much too large for her head, but it made her all the more endearing. “I’ve a surprise for the two of you,” she said.
I held my breath and waited. Though she meant well, sometimes Mrs. Wilson’s surprises turned out to be more of a curse than a blessing.
“What kind of surprise?” Josef asked.
“We’re all going on a picnic together. I have a lunch ready back at the house.” She waggled her finger. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and it will only be better if we’re outdoors with good food.”
Josef grinned at Mrs. Wilson. “Such a kind offer. How can I refuse?”
I noticed Josef didn’t mention the food portion of Mrs. Wilson’s invitation. I agreed to attend. Not because I expected a fine feast, but because I hoped to further explore God’s method for answering prayer requests. And because I wanted to learn more about Josef. The curt behavior I’d experienced at the factory had disappeared. I wondered if my initial impression of him had been mistaken. Perhaps he wasn’t as sullen and unfriendly as I’d suspected. Or perhaps this was his Sunday behavior.
Before we left the house, I picked up my sketch pad and tucked it into a bag with the Bible my mother had given me—just in case an opportunity arose to discover those much hoped for answers about prayer and suffering.
Mrs. Wilson had arranged the afternoon and took great pleasure in directing our activities until we’d completed our picnic lunch. She was packing the leftovers when Josef pointed to my sketch pad. “You are drawing more carousel animals?”
I withdrew the tablet and flipped back the cover. He looked at the drawing and then at me. I couldn’t tell for sure what he thought. “Very gut, this is.”
His words warmed me like a we
lcoming fire on a cold winter day. I hadn’t expected him to think much of the drawing. When I’d been hired at the carousel factory, he had been unimpressed with my previous art training. And this sketch was a portrait of my mother. A simple picture that I’d begun to draw in the evenings because my memory of her features had begun to fade. I wondered how it was possible that such a thing could happen. She had given me life, nurtured and loved me, yet my mind played tricks on me when my pencil touched paper. To forget what she looked like seemed unfaithful.
Josef tapped the page. “This is someone you know?”
My voice hitched in my throat. “M-my mother,” I said. “She’s dead.”
Josef removed the sketch pad from my hands and examined the picture more closely. “Your mother, she was very beautiful.” Lifting his head, he studied me until I squirmed under his scrutiny. “You have the same eyes as your mother.” He touched his finger to his chin. “And the same chin, too, I think. A picture of someone you love is nice to have. My mother, she is dead, too.” A hint of sadness hung in the air.
“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked.
“No, but I have gut memories of her. She liked to laugh. Fun we had in our house when she was there.” His eyes had taken on a glassy, faraway look.
I remained silent, watching and understanding; he had returned to one of those happy times he’d mentioned, one of those times when his mother was alive. His features had softened, and the hint of a smile played on his lips. There was a gentleness about him I’d not previously noticed. Then again, we’d never been alone or talked so intimately.
Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren had strolled across the park toward a small pond, where children were skipping rocks and one or two were making valiant attempts to catch a fish with their poorly fashioned fishing poles. They weren’t having much luck, but they didn’t seem to mind. Their laughter rippled across the expanse that divided us and pulled Josef back to the present.
“To be young and untroubled is a gift we don’t appreciate until it’s gone,” I said.
The Carousel Painter Page 16
