Searching for Joy

by Linda Baten Johnson

The boys’ pride blossomed since they were part of this important work, and after pushing, prodding, and rolling, they managed to get the man on the quilt.

  “Boys, you’ll need to clear a path before you move him.” Joan turned to Ingrid. “Where do you want him?”

  Ingrid threw up her hands and began to laugh. “Anywhere but my house. I thought his visit would be a short one.”

  “Let’s put him in front of the sofa,” Joan said. “Or wherever he ends up when you and the boys get tired of dragging him.”

  “Mom, can we play drag the man when we get home?” Al asked.

  “Maybe. We’ll see how you do with Ingrid’s man,” Joan said.

  “I didn’t think Ingrid had a man.” Four-year-old Billy looked at Ingrid.

  “I don’t. You three men are more than enough for me.” She tousled the hair of each of the boys. “Ready to try and pull him? He’s heavy.”

  “But we’re strong.” Al stood a little taller, showed his brothers where they should hold the quilt, and told them to step each time he counted.

  Their burden slid easily over the floors without any rugs or furniture to interfere, and soon Caleb was resting in the middle of the living room.

  “We should wash his face,” Ingrid said. “I meant to do that last night, but fell asleep. Some cold water might rouse him.”

  Joan pointed to the clock. “The boys and I will do it. You don’t want to be late on the rounds, especially at Mrs. Milton’s. She’s looking for a reason to go with Rosa who works cheaper.”

  “You’re right. I need to keep my clients until I leave. I think I have enough money to make the journey sewed into the lining of my pocketbook.” Ingrid stacked the ironed linens and clothing in the basket, careful not to wrinkle any of them and placed a few sewing pieces on top.

  Ingrid slipped into her worn cloth coat, picked up the basket, and slung a bag over her shoulder for the dirty laundry she’d collect. She had a long walk to get to her customers, and she wanted to question people about her guest on her way home.

  Ingrid wrinkled her nose at the stench from the meat packing area. The smell never went away, just ebbed and flowed with the winds. She was glad she didn’t have to work inside one of the processing plants. Living outside was bad enough.

  She pinched her nostrils together and breathed through her mouth, while she rehashed her daydreams about the life awaiting her in Joy. The best part of her new life would be the smells, or rather the absence of the pervasive disgusting odor which blanketed Packingtown.

  If she had the money, she would purchase fares for Albert, Joan, and their boys, so they could enjoy the fresh air of the country and not worry about the horrors which happened every day on the meat deconstruction line. Ingrid remembered walks in a park, tree branches waving to her, and bright, gay flowers sharing their fragrant scents. Joan and Albert’s boys could not.

  The noon whistle spurred her to pick up her pace. She wanted to get back in time to chat with neighbors about her guest, to find out if anyone was missing a handsome husband or son. Her heart quickened. She hoped he would be a son, not a husband.

  She remembered Joan’s suggestion about keeping him for herself. The corners of her lips lifted as she pictured his face.

  After delivering the freshly-ironed laundry, she stopped at the Lutheran Church, then walked up and down two blocks in either direction from Mulberry. She stopped at each flat on the street. The answer was always the same. No one had heard of Caleb Finsson or knew of anyone answering his description. Ingrid’s last stop was St. Mary’s Church on the corner. The priest knew everyone in the parish—catholic, protestant, and the unchurched. He was her last hope, and he offered no answers.

  Ingrid blew out a breath, watching its frosty vapors. Caleb Finsson hadn’t fallen from the sky. The two men from the plant deposited him on Ingrid’s doorstep. His work card showed the Mulberry Street address, his name, and the shift and hours he worked. Before she got to her house, little Billy stopped her, saying his mom needed to talk.

  Ingrid put the basket and the bag of soiled laundry on the Pardnik’s porch and went inside. “Billy said you needed to see me. The men warned me about the medicine from the doctor. I must have given him too much. Has Mr. Finsson been awake?”

  “Off and on. We left your place about an hour ago. He got tired of having the kids try to drag him through the house,” Joan said. “Did you have any luck?”

  “No one has heard of him. I stopped at the churches and went door to door.” Ingrid lifted the lid on the bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce and inhaled the fragrance of basil, oregano, garlic and onion. “Nice to walk into a kitchen with such savory smells. Blocks out the stink of the processing plants.”

  “There’s another mystery about Caleb Finsson.” Joan rubbed her back. “He looks like he’s been beaten. He has bruises on his arms, ribs, even his back.”

  Ingrid dropped the lid back on the simmering pot. “He does?”

  Joan nodded. “I wasn’t prying, but after I washed his face and neck, I decided to wash his hands and forearms, clean the area close to the bandage. That’s when I noticed the first of the black and blue marks.”

  Ingrid leaned against the wall. “Maybe he got in a fight.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The marks didn’t look like a brawl.” Joan wiped her hands on her apron. “He looked like he’d taken a beating.”

  “Men who brought him said he was a pleasant fellow,” Ingrid said.

  “Those bruises tell me he’s not popular with everyone. You don’t need trouble on your doorstep. Thought you should know.” Joan stirred the sauce. “I’ll give you some of this for your dinner.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Finsson is sure to be hungry. Don’t think he had anything to eat since last night.” Ingrid accepted the dish.

  The boys followed Ingrid into her unit. Al teetered with the weight of the bag of dirty laundry, while he bragged to both women that it wasn’t heavy at all. The two younger boys each took a handle of the laundry basket, and Ingrid carried Joan’s sauce. Ingrid put a finger to her lips, and they tiptoed into the living room.

  Caleb sat with his back against the sofa, knees pulled toward his chest, the injured hand across his knees. He mustered a smile. “You boys aren’t going to drag me around again, are you?”

  Their eyes lit up with pleasure at the idea.

  Ingrid shook her head at the boys’ expectant faces. “Thanks for your help, boys, but your mom said for you to go right back home. Dinner is waiting.”

  “Bye, Caleb.”

  “Bye, Caleb.”

  “Bye, Caleb.”

  Ingrid closed the door behind the three boys. “I used to be their favorite person, now I don’t even rate a good-bye.”

  “I’ve been listening for you.” His stomach rumbled to show he was ready for dinner.

  “I stopped to make inquiries about you,” Ingrid offered a hand to help him stand.

  “Better get up myself. I’m too heavy for a little wisp of a girl like you.” When he stood, he was a good foot taller than she was. “How’d you get me out here?”

  “I just threw you over my shoulder and carried you. I’m stronger than I look.” Ingrid grinned.

  “Remind me not to arm wrestle you.” He took a tentative step. “If you don’t mind, I’ll rest my hand on your shoulder.”

  In the kitchen, Ingrid pulled out a chair for her guest. “Boiling spaghetti won’t take long. You can butter us some bread while you wait.”

  After she set the plates of spaghetti covered with steaming sauce at the table, Caleb strained to his feet to hold the chair for her.

  “I wouldn’t object if you offered a prayer,” Caleb bowed his head.

  Surprised at the way he phrased the request, but pleased he had asked, Ingrid reached over to hold his hand, just as she had always done with her husband.

  She felt the strength in his grasp as she began. “Father, we thank you for the blessings of friends and family and for this man who was sent here. We ask for your tou
ch of healing on his wounds and for his reunion with his loved ones. Amen.”

  “Lovely prayer, Mrs. Larkin. Thank you.”

  Ingrid nodded acknowledgement, and offered him the bread plate. “I’m glad you’re awake. When I was out, I tried to find someone in the area who knew you, and I wasn’t successful.”

  “Maybe you didn’t describe me properly,” Caleb said. “Did you ask if they knew a strikingly handsome, aristocratic gentleman who dressed in fancy clothes and carried a gold-handled cane?”

  Ingrid rested her chin on her hand as if deep in thought. “Hmm. I did forget to mention the gold-handled cane.”

  “There you have it. That’s the reason your inquiry wasn’t successful.” Caleb added a little salt to the spaghetti. “Joan’s got some fine boys.”

  “They’re hoping for a little girl, but my guess is that this child will be boy number four. Hope the baby arrives before I leave.”

  Caleb rolled his glass of water between his palms. “Would you like a little girl some day?”

  “Jack and I weren’t blessed with children.”

  “Were you crying for the children you didn’t have this morning?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “I don’t know what got into me. My chest felt like a river breaking loose after being frozen. I cried for Jack, my parents, my aunt, leaving my friends, leaving Joan’s family and not getting to watch her babies grow into men.”

  “You’ve had a tough life,” Caleb said.

  “No. Mine’s been easy. When Jack died, I didn’t have youngsters to feed. I’m healthy and strong and I’ve been able to get work. They’re hiring women to work in the packing plant now, but I didn’t want to apply.”

  “You deserve a better life.”

  “And I’ll have it when I move. Now, are you really Caleb Finsson?”

  “I am.”

  “Then why did you put a fake address on your card?” Ingrid looked into his eyes, hoping to discern the truth.

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “You haven’t answered my questions,” Ingrid said.

  “I know.” His eyes danced with merriment, and he gave all his attention to his dwindling plate of spaghetti.

  “Someone’s probably looking for you.” Ingrid tried to reopen the topic.

  “Probably.”

  Ingrid touched his hand as she would have done with one of Joan’s distracted youngsters. She felt an unexpected tingle and jerked her hand back.

  He chuckled. “I don’t bite, especially after being fed.”

  “I just wondered if, well, if your wife might be the one looking for you.”

  “Doubt it. Last I heard, I didn’t have one of those.” His golden brown eyes turned serious. “Oh, has my stay tarnished you reputation?”

  “Caleb, you’ve misunderstood.”

  “I didn’t think about the gossip my stay might generate. I’ll leave tomorrow, but I’ll be back to settle the account for my lodging and food.” His touch on her cheek was as gentle as a summer breeze.

  Ingrid yearned to lean into his touch, but instead held up a hand. “No need to pay. We all help each other during troubled times.”

  “I will reimburse you. I’ll sleep in the living room.” Caleb hobbled from the room without another word.

  * * *

  With Ingrid still asleep, Caleb prepared to leave before the clock struck three. The memory of her sweet face burdened with the anxiety and worries she’d confessed to him last evening about her uncertain future and her concerns for the workers haunted him.

  He folded the quilts, rearranged furniture in the living room and kitchen as he remembered the placement of her things on his first night here. Laundry tubs and scrub boards sat in the corner by the back door, and next to the threadbare sofa, her sewing basket with a christening gown on top. The embroidery and tiny stitches were as lovely and delicate as the person who created them.

  One side or the other would come for him, to this address--her address. He couldn’t risk an encounter with either faction here on Mulberry Street. Surely her innocence would protect her from even the most hardened brawlers representing one of the opposing sides. They wouldn’t harm her, but they might destroy what meager possessions she had.

  He regretted his flippant decision to list her address on the work card. He’d selected 34-A Mulberry because his research told him a widow lived there. He thought it was an omen that 34 was also his age, and he chose Mulberry Street because it led straight to the workers’ gate.

  He never expected to need to use the address, and he never expected a widow to be as beautiful and young as Ingrid. His cavalier mistake might endanger the generous woman and her good neighbors as well. He hoped the newspaper stories he’d write based on his short stay here would create a change for her and others in her situation. Maybe God had been at work when he chose a fictitious address as part of his fake identity.

  Caleb peeked both ways down the street from behind the front room window. No one moved about at this time in the morning. He’d make it to the other side of town and his own comfortable lodging before the early shift workers in the packing plant stirred. Caleb turned up the collar of his jacket before facing the icy drizzle and thought about the luxury of a soak in a warm bath, sleep in a comfortable feather bed, and then a full breakfast with eggs, meat, breads, and jams. A pot of steaming rich dark coffee would be on the tray as well.

  He glanced around one last time, reminiscing how her lovely face transformed the shabby surroundings to an elegant environment. His first breath of the chilly morning air caused Caleb to grab his side. He winced with pain. The last beating did more damage than the previous two. Caleb hurried through the darkened streets, burdened with the knowledge the families he’d just met might never experience the comforts he enjoyed each day.

  Time to call an end to the subterfuge. The sensational exposure of the meat packing industry would dominate the front page and earn the most important newspaper in Chicago additional sales, maybe for weeks. He might even write a book. On this side of town, the store windows gleamed and decorations proclaiming the season abounded.

  Chapter 4

  The portly doorman with Harold stitched on his uniform beamed. “So Danny Dangerous has returned. Looking pretty scruffy, sir.”

  “Part of my disguise.” Caleb held up his bandaged hand and glanced across the lobby at all the presents arranged under the large tree. “Harold, my celebrity adventures almost cost me my life this time. Hope my boss Grantham will promote me to a desk.”

  “Don’t count on it. ‘Danny Dangerous’s Adventures’ sell lots of newspapers.”

  “Grantham’s had other reporters do the Danny Dangerous articles,” Caleb said.

  “But not as well. You get to the grit and dirt, keep the readers eager for more. Shall I send up breakfast, sir?”

  “Please. And send a lad to Grantham at the newspaper to say I’ve finished my assignment. But wait until after daybreak, when the paper has gone to press. I need time to get my facts organized. And ask him to send a doctor.”

  “Will do. Always wonder if I’ll see you again when you go off on one of these assignments. You’re the excitement in my life, the missus, too.”

  Caleb went inside the building and into the cage where the sleepy elevator operator roused and gave Caleb a groggy good morning before pushing the button for the sixth floor.

  The doctor and Malcolm, a fellow newspaper man, arrived after Caleb’s bath and breakfast. Caleb pointed Malcolm to the papers on the desk.

  The doctor poked, prodded, then wrapped Caleb’s ribs and replaced the bandaging on the injured hand. “You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

  “I didn’t do this to myself.’ Caleb laughed. “You should see the other guy.”

  “I’m sure he looks fine.” The doctor closed his medical bag and put on his topcoat. “You’d never reveal your true identity. I’ll tell Grantham. I like you, Caleb. Think about giving these assignments up. They’re too dangerous, even for Danny Dangerous.�
�

  After the doctor left, Malcolm licked the end of a pencil. “Grantham’s chomping on his cigar and shouting orders about your latest scoop. He sent me over to write the copy as you tell the story.”

  “I want to be fair, put in stories from both sides,” Caleb said.

  Malcolm snorted. “Grantham doesn’t want fair. He wants circulation, the most provocative bit you have. Start with your accident on the line and being sent from the plant without so much as a ‘how do you do.’”

  “But it wasn’t an accident.” Caleb held up his newly-bandaged hand and then touched his ribs and flinched. “My ‘injuries’ were a warning to stop with the unionization work.”

  “Makes your story better. I read your notes while Doc worked on you. Did the line boss really put another man in your spot before they wrapped your hand? That’s great for your story.”

  “And he informed the men who took me to my home address that they wouldn’t get paid for the whole shift.” Caleb looked out the window toward the meat packing area. “Hope I didn’t cost them their jobs.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Malcolm urged.

  “I gathered stories from both sides, and I have a new angle I’d like to feature. I want to be fair.”

  Malcolm cleared his throat. “Danny Dangerous never worries about being fair. He exposes the greed and corruption of the city.”

  “I’m not Danny Dangerous,” Caleb insisted. “I’m Caleb Finsson, and I might be developing a bit of a conscience.”

  “A conscience? That won’t make Grantham happy.” Malcolm tapped the pencil on the paper. “Let’s get started. You’re due in the office at eleven, and the man will expect some shocking copy deserving of a banner headline on the front page.”

  Caleb arranged his notes on the desk and started dictating to Malcolm, whose hand flew across the page, keeping up with Caleb’s words. After an hour, Caleb stood and stretched his arms high above his head, and rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet.

  “Spit it out,” Malcolm said.

  “I’m worried about the lady on Mulberry.” Caleb touched his tender ribs again.