Ollie shrugged. “Somebody has to take care of them, Carrie. They aren’t old enough to be on their own.”
Tears pricked behind Caroline’s eyes. She gazed at the boys, who leaned their elbows on the counter and visited quietly with Kesia. The amiable woman had already extracted a great deal of information from Lesley, including their ages. At eight and ten, they were far too young to be left unattended. But she couldn’t bear the thought of shipping them to a virtual stranger, who might not even want them.
“Or I suppose we could …”
Ollie’s musings caught Caroline’s attention. She looked at him, eager to hear what he might suggest.
Uncertainty pinched his brow. “They’re kind of small, but I wonder if Hightower might find a place for them at the factory.”
Put them to work? Why, it was no better solution than sending them on a train to an unfamiliar city. “No! Absolutely not!”
Ollie closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath as if gathering his patience. Then he fixed her with a pleading look. “Carrie, I know how you feel about kids working, but at least at the factory they’d be off the streets. And they’d have supervision. I would keep an eye on them.”
She glared at him. “No.”
“There’s a room in the basement with some cots—the doctor uses it as a sick bay. They could bunk down there at night. I get all my meals here with Kesia, and they could eat with me.”
Caroline gritted her teeth. “No.”
“It’d only be until their father gets better and can take care of them again.” He released a wry humph. “Not that he’s done such a fine job of it up ’til now, letting them run wild all day. A cot in the basement and regular meals would probably seem like paradise to those two.”
“Not paradise,” Caroline snapped. “Prison.”
Angry furrows formed on Ollie’s brow. “That’s taking it a bit far, don’t you think? The kids who work at the factory have the choice of working or not. No one forces them to work. And they’re paid for their labor.”
“Not enough to compensate for what they sacrifice.” Caroline hissed the words. She waved a hand toward Lesley and Lank. “I won’t argue about your providing them meals from Kesia”—But how could a factory janitor afford to feed the two boys in addition to himself?—“or arranging for them to sleep in the doctor’s sick bay. However, they will not spend their days working. They will attend school, just like their sister, under the supervision of a teacher.”
“And who’ll send them off to school? Who’ll help them with their homework?”
Caroline lifted her chin. “I will.”
“How?”
The simple question left her reeling. How would she manage such a feat while filling a full-time factory job and continuing her investigation? If only she had no need to masquerade as a worker. She could perform her investigation while the children were in school or at night while they slept. Then an idea struck, and she grinned, triumphant. “If I work third shift as a crater, I’ll be free during the day to see to the boys’ and Letta’s needs. As you suggested, they can sleep in the doctor’s infirmary at night while I’m working.”
He shook his head slowly. “It’s commendable that you want to take care of these kids, Carrie, but when will you sleep?”
“While they’re in school. Don’t you see? It’s a perfect situation for the boys.”
A small hand tugged at Caroline’s skirt. Lesley peered up at her, his face scrunched into a worried frown. “You talkin’ about Lank an’ me?”
Ollie crouched down and put his hand on Lesley’s small shoulder. “That’s right. We were talking about how your pa has to stay in the hospital for a while.”
“He gots the mange?”
Ollie drew back, and Caroline stifled a chuckle at his startled look. She touched Lesley’s oily hair. “No, but he is sick. He’s very sick.” She swallowed. If he died, what would become of these children? She wouldn’t be in Sinclair forever. Who would care for them when she went on to her next assignment?
Tears swam in Lesley’s blue eyes. “But I didn’t get to tell him we found lotsa tin today. Can I go to the hospital an’ tell him?”
“Not tonight,” Ollie said, his voice kind. “Tonight you’ll—”
“Tonight you’ll come home with me,” Caroline inserted. “And tomorrow you and Lank will go to school, just like Letta.” She sent Ollie a firm look, daring him to contradict her.
He sighed and pushed to his feet, keeping his hand on Lesley’s shoulder. “That’s right, Lesley. You’ll go to school.”
Caroline smiled, the victory won.
Lank shot off the stool and stomped over. The thus-far silent boy aimed his scowl toward Ollie and growled, “Ain’t guh-guh-guh-goin’ to school. An’ yuh-yuh-you cuh-cuh-can’t make me.”
Oliver
Oliver held his guffaws in until he’d placed two blocks’ distance between himself and Carrie’s boarding hotel. Then he allowed the laughter to roll. What a sight, watching her take charge of those two freckle-faced urchins, who fought like tigers to avoid being dunked in a tub of water. But she’d won. By gum, she’d won. And he wagered a spit-shined Lank and Lesley would be sitting behind a school desk by the end of the week. What a corker she was.
His amusement died, however, as he approached the hospital. He’d promised Carrie he would check on Letta and Mr. Holcomb before turning in. How he’d managed to tangle himself in these children’s lives, he didn’t know. Father and Mother had often requested his assistance in putting together boxes for the poor at Christmastime, and he’d delivered his fair share of meals to shut-ins as part of his parents’ philanthropic endeavors, but he’d always performed the deeds out of obligation rather than from a real desire to serve. Now that he’d met the Holcomb children—had seen not only their need but Carrie’s deep concern for them—he couldn’t turn back. He’d do whatever he could to help.
When he entered the hospital, he found Letta hunkered on a long, padded bench pressed against the wall just inside the doors. Her red-splotched face and watery eyes stirred his sympathy. Such a huge burden this young girl carried. His childhood had been idyllic—parties, travel, the best schooling, his every need met promptly, and most of his wants provided as well. Some things in life were far from fair. But at least he could ease a few of Letta’s worries by assuring her Lank and Lesley were being cared for while their father recuperated. He refused to consider what would happen to the children if Mr. Holcomb didn’t recover. He hitched the legs of his britches and sat beside the girl.
She cast a doleful look in his direction. “Nurse chased me outta Pa’s room. Said I was in the way.” Fresh tears pooled in the girl’s eyes. “I oughta go home, see to Lank an’ Lesley, but I’m scared to leave. Just in case Pa needs me.”
If Carrie were here, she’d place her arm around Letta’s shoulders and offer comfort. But for him to do such a thing would be highly improper. And uncomfortable. Instead, Oliver offered the girl a warm, encouraging smile. “Don’t concern yourself about your brothers. They’re spending the night with Carrie.” He was gratified by her weak sigh of relief. He added, “There’s room for you, too, if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”
The girl shook her head. “Nah. If the boys’re fine, I’ll just stay here.” She patted the seat. “It’s as soft as my pallet at home. An’ this way I’m close if somethin’ hap-happens with Pa.” Her chin trembled, and she blinked rapidly, but she held the tears at bay.
“You’re a brave girl, Letta,” Oliver said. He meant it, too. No wonder Carrie liked Letta so much. They were a lot alike.
“I don’t feel brave.” Letta leaned her head against the wall, and her eyes slid shut. “I’m worryin’ about how we’re gonna pay the bills for the hospital. I reckon it’ll cost dear, ’specially since Pa’s gonna have that operation. Some man pestered me about givin’ him money before they’ll try to fix his belly. Pa’s got my goin’-to-school dollars hid someplace, but—”
Oliver frowne
d. “Going-to-school dollars?”
Letta nodded, a brief smile lighting her thin face. “Uh-huh. Miss Carrie gives her factory wages over to Pa so he’ll let me go to school. Otherwise he’d set me to workin’.” The smile fell. “But I ain’t sure where he tucked ’em away. He don’t tell me nothin’. Not since Ma cleared out his money jar an’ took off like she done.”
Oliver shook his head, certain he’d misunderstood. “Carrie gives her wages to your father? She pays him, what—a dollar?”
“No, sir. She gives him what I’d earn if I was a toter.”
Oliver stared in disbelief at the child. “She gives him the entire amount?”
“She sure does.” Letta sat up and aimed a look of wonderment at Oliver. “Me goin’ to school was awful important to her. Never met anybody so set on book learnin’.”
The information sat like a boulder in Oliver’s stomach. How could Carrie afford to give away every penny she earned? She’d denied being educated, and he suspected she’d deny being affluent if he asked. But how else could she afford to offer her earnings to Letta? He recalled the silver dollar in Kesia’s payment bucket, and the boulder of uncertainty grew.
Letta released a sigh. “But I promised the man I’d search the place an’ bring him somethin’ soon as I could.” She stared blankly at the opposite wall as if drifting away somewhere. “ ’Course, that means I gotta go to the house instead o’ stayin’ here …”
Oliver set aside his musings about Carrie for the moment. He couldn’t fix the greater burdens of Letta’s life, but he could ease one portion. He said, “I’ll talk to the financial administrator. You stay here where you’ll be close to your father.”
A crooked smile appeared on her face, offering a thank-you. After several long seconds of silence, she turned her head and gazed steadily into Oliver’s eyes. “Mr. Moore, do you think Pa’s gonna die?”
Without conscious thought he placed his hand gently over Letta’s where it lay fisted against the rumpled skirt of her dress. Offering the comfort felt good. Better than he would have imagined. “Letta, your father is very, very ill. Many people who’ve suffered a burst appendix die from the infection.”
The girl sucked in her lower lip and nodded—a slow, jerky bob of her head.
“But not all of them die. Some of them get better. And that’s what we’ll hope for.”
“An’ pray for?”
Letta’s simple question set Oliver back. Pray? He believed there was a God in heaven. He knew what it meant to pray. From his earliest memories he’d attended church with his parents at least three times a year and had listened to prayers uttered by the minister from the pulpit. Father offered a blessing over meals when guests visited their home. But had he ever engaged in a deliberate conversation with God?
He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, Letta. Of course we’ll … pray.”
A huge sigh lifted Letta’s skinny shoulders. “Miss Carrie says God’s always listening an’ that He answers when we pray. I figure if lots of us are askin’ Him to make Pa well, then He’ll be more likely to say yes.” Tears flooded her eyes again, and one spilled downward past her quavery smile. “Thank you, Mr. Moore.”
Oliver nodded, but inwardly he quaked. Had he just agreed to do something for which he was not equipped?
Gordon
Gordon sat at his desk and glanced at his observation window. All morning long the sounds rising from the factory floor spoke of busyness, of industriousness, of organized chaos—a familiar melody he always found comforting. Although there was no cause for concern, he contemplated putting on his suit coat—his dictatorial armor—and peeking out to assure himself his expectations were being met. Instead, he forced his attention back to the checklist laid out on his desk top. Such a lengthy list to accomplish in preparation for Fulton Dinsmore’s upcoming visit. And most of it he had to do himself.
He growled under his breath, rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows, and tapped the tip of his pencil against one line, frowning. Ordinarily he enjoyed delegating. Watching the workers hustle to follow his commands gave him a sense of power even if he was just the manager and not the owner. But for the boss’s visits, he couldn’t delegate. Wouldn’t delegate. He couldn’t risk any mistakes. Too much was at stake.
A brisk tap at the door interrupted his focus. Now what? He barked, “Come in.” His irritation melted, however, when Miss Carrie Lang stepped into his office. A welcome diversion. He rose, setting his checklist aside. “Ah, Miss Lang.” He allowed his gaze to sweep from the top of her white mobcap to the toes of her brown boots peeping from the hem of her full dark-blue skirt. Such a fetching figure she presented. It took all the strength he possessed to stay on his side of the desk. “What brings you to my office on your lunch break?”
A second person stepped through the doorway, sweeping his hat from his head as he entered. Gordon’s smile of welcome turned into a frown of displeasure. What was Moore doing here?
Miss Lang gestured toward Moore. “We needed to speak with you about the third-shift crating position, as well as ask an important favor.”
Gordon flicked a glance across both faces. Serious. Determined. Not a hint of hesitation to be found. Their apparent ease in his presence—no humble bowing of heads, no nervous wringing of hands—rankled. He started to order them out of his office. He had his own work to do. But letting them state their purpose and then denying their request would put them in their rightful place.
He banged one fist on his desk top. “Well, get on with it, then. I don’t have all day.”
Moore nodded to Miss Lang as if giving her permission to speak first. She clasped her hands primly behind her back and lifted her chin, facing Gordon with a confidence he found both admirable and irritating. “I’d like to apply for one of the crating positions. If possible, I would like to start tonight.”
Gordon gawked at her. “Tonight?” He rounded the desk and leaned on its corner, folding his arms over his brocade vest. “Even if I gave you the position, you wouldn’t be able to start tonight. You’d need some sleep.”
“I would leave now, sleep this afternoon, and come back at ten this evening.”
My, but she had nerve! Gordon snorted. “So you’d be irresponsible enough to leave your post midshift for the sole purpose of taking a nap?” He injected as much sarcasm as possible into his voice, but the woman didn’t cringe.
She sent a brief look in Moore’s direction, the corners of her mouth twitching into a secretive smile. “Actually, Mr. Moore is willing to take over the task of toting trays until you’re able to hire another toter.”
Gordon’s chest went hot, disbelief mingling with disgust. How dare the two of them realign his roster without consulting him? “Mr. Moore has his own duties. Duties, I might add, he frequently bumbles. Considering his lack of skills, he’s lucky I let him keep his position as janitor. Given his ineptitude with a mop and scrub brush, why should I trust him to carry trays of confections?” He wanted to peek at that insufferable Moore and witness how his arrows of insult had pierced the man, but he determinedly kept his focus on the woman.
Miss Lang said, “Mr. Moore is stronger than the women, so he could tote four or five trays at a time, as opposed to our three. Therefore he would accomplish the same amount of work in less time. Then he’d still have hours available to see to his other duties.”
Gordon raised one brow. “You seem to have it all worked out to your satisfaction.” He shifted his gaze to Moore. “I suppose you’re in full agreement with this arrangement, Moore?”
The man shoved his cap into the pocket of his britches and ran his hand through his hair. If Gordon’s gibes had bothered him, he gave no evidence of it. “I told Carr—Miss Lang—I was willing to step in and help. Getting the third-shift position is important to her.”
Gordon glared at Miss Lang, who responded with a calm he couldn’t comprehend. “Why?”
Standing tall and confidently before him, she spoke evenly. “I’ve recently taken on the responsibi
lity of caring for three children whose father is very ill and is in the hospital. Working nights would allow me to see them off to school, sleep while they’re away, then feed them supper before coming to work.”
Moore moved a little closer to Miss Lang as if forming a united front. “Miss Lang’s new responsibility leads us to the favor we want to ask.”
The use of the word we rang like an alarm in Gordon’s mind. Apprehensive yet curious, he stiffly waved a hand in invitation.
“The children are young—too young to be left alone in an apartment all night. There are several cots in the lower level room set aside for a sick bay. But as you know, it’s hardly ever used for that purpose. Miss Lang and I hoped you might—”
Gordon leaped up. “No, no, no.”
For the first time Miss Lang’s shoulders wilted. She held out her hands in entreaty. “But—”
“No.” He leaned toward her, nearly touching his nose to hers, and spoke through clenched teeth. “I will not have some ragtag street urchins taking up residence in my—” He caught himself and quickly amended, “in this factory.”
Defensiveness flashed in the woman’s eyes. “They are not ragtag street urchins. They are well-behaved children facing a difficult situation with their only parent unable to provide them care. Where is your Christian compassion, Mr. Hightower?”
He settled back on his desk, continuing to fix Miss Lang with his fierce glare. “I’m a businessman, Miss Lang, not a preacher or even a social do-gooder. I needn’t concern myself about extending compassion to the downtrodden.” Who’d ever extended compassion to him? Even Fulton Dinsmore, his supposed benefactor, hadn’t pulled him from that orphanage to make him a son but to put him to work in his factory. He’d vowed way back then to be the one in charge someday, and he hadn’t won his position of leadership by being compassionate. “My only job is to make sure this factory runs smoothly, which it cannot do if there are unsupervised children spending hours beneath its roof.”
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 10
