Searching for Joy

by Linda Baten Johnson

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t do my research.” Caleb touched his forefingers and rotated his thumbs, forward, then backward. “When I found the records that said a widow woman lived there, I never expected a lady like Ingrid. She’s young and beautiful.”

  “You’ve never let a woman get in the way of a story.”

  “But she is the story, the story I want to tell. Her husband died working on the line. Now she takes in laundry and does sewing to survive, and the owners are kicking her out of the company housing.”

  “Company rentals are for the employees. She’s one person living in a place made for a family.”

  “What’s to become of her?” Caleb watched the snowflakes swirling outside the window.

  “She’ll survive.”

  Caleb turned, annoyed by Malcolm’s brusque dismissal of Ingrid’s plight. “She deserves more than survival. She deserves joy.”

  “Listen to you. Grantham will transfer you to the sob-sister beat if you keep this up. ‘She deserves joy.’ You’re Danny Dangerous.”

  “I’m not sure I am,” Caleb said.

  “You better be sure, or we’ll both be out of a job. I like to eat, and my kids like to eat. You and me, we need a roof over our heads.”

  “Ingrid, and her neighbors, Joan and Albert, want the same thing, a roof over their heads and food on the table.” Caleb glared at the man he’d worked with for the past two years.

  “Then let them work for it.” Malcolm wagged his finger at Caleb.

  “They do work, probably harder than you and I have ever worked. We have it nice, and they scrape to get by. I’m going to write their story, too.”

  “Why bother? That piece will never see the streets.” Malcolm pulled out his pocket watch. “If we keep Grantham waiting, he’ll assign that sneaky Larry Alford the next Danny Dangerous assignment. Larry’s been conniving behind your back. He’s not a friend, Caleb.”

  “Never thought he was. Will you back me up on the family hardship story of the plant workers?”

  “I know who butters my bread.” Malcolm smiled.

  Caleb wanted to trust Malcolm to support him, but he wasn’t sure he could. His answer could be interpreted two ways. He shrugged. Caleb knew he deserved no loyalty. He’d not been a man people could count on in the past. Caleb always fought for the story, regardless of the cost. Spending time with Ingrid made him want to be a better man, but it might be too late for him.

  Chapter 5

  She sensed Caleb’s absence before she confirmed it. He’d folded the quilts neatly and moved the furniture to where it had been before the boys dragged him through the house. Ingrid searched for a note and found none. He left without saying any good-bye.

  Ingrid placed a hand on her chest. The room and her heart suffered the lack of his presence. She’d allowed hope to take root, imagined a future with a possibility of love.

  She grabbed the broom and began sweeping. She didn’t cry over spilled milk or a disappearing man. Water, drawn from the nearby pump, needed to be heated for washing clothes, the layette for the Gilbert baby needed to be sewn, the irons needed to be heated, and breakfast needed to be prepared. Tasks she’d done each day stretched before her like a never-ending cloud of darkness.

  She remembered her husband telling her the precision of the line, how the hanging forms came at a steady beat, never giving a man the chance to wipe his nose. She now understood how anxious and frustrated he must have been working on the meat packing plant’s deconstruction line.

  Ingrid wanted to leave Chicago. Now. She’d confessed her dream to Caleb, and he’d walked out without a word. She’d considered him a friend. Maybe he thought she was looking for him to provide her way out. She’d never know. But speaking the words aloud to him last night made her believe in the hope of a brighter future. She’d considered his leaving a betrayal, but it wasn’t. Their conversation had renewed her dream.

  She should make a plan. No, she should act, not plan. Ingrid moved with precision to organize the chores. After she finished the sweeping, selected the sewing, and waited for the laundry water to boil, she ate her meager breakfast.

  Joan tapped twice and opened the door. Glancing around the room, she raised an eyebrow. “Is he gone?” Joan accepted the cup Ingrid held out for her.

  “Without a word or a note.” Ingrid laced her fingers around the cup, warming her hands.

  The two friends allowed the silence to cover them like a warm quilt.

  Joan sipped. “I thought he was a good man.”

  Ingrid returned the pot to the stove. “I thought so, too. Finding him gone surprised me, disappointed me. We talked, now that I think about it, I talked and he listened. But he asked questions, encouraged me to tell him about my life.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” Joan asked.

  “No. Said he would, but I don’t think so. Why would he?”

  “Because you’re beautiful and kind, and he’s not dumb.” Joan teased.

  Ingrid put her face in her hands. “I’m not usually a foolish woman.”

  “Wanting love is never foolish.” Joan touched her friend’s shoulder.

  Ingrid shrugged. “I had my love. Jack and I were happy, but I always wanted more. I wanted him to have a better job, us to have a better home, wanted to live in a different place. Why couldn’t I treasure what we shared?”

  “Don’t think about the past.” Joan stood and placed both hands on Ingrid’s shoulders. “It’s normal to want good things for the ones you love.”

  Ingrid stood and refilled the cups. “Before she died, my mother said much the same. Said she wanted something better for me. My aunt and uncle kept going when my parents stopped in Chicago. They headed for Mercer County, western part of Illinois, planned to be farmers. Guess that’s where I’ll end up.”

  “You should leave Chicago, even though it will break my heart when you leave. You must go. This section of the city ages us all too fast.” Joan held up her gnarled fingers, which showed more work and wear than they should have for a young woman.

  “Water’s boiling.” Ingrid turned to grab a stool and a washboard from the corner next to the back door when there was a rap at the door.

  “Ingrid? Joan in there?” Albert called.

  “Door’s unlocked and tea’s ready.” Ingrid retrieved an extra cup from the cupboard.

  “I wanted to talk to Caleb.” He stopped.

  “Gone, this morning, before I made the tea.” Ingrid sighed.

  Albert took the cup Ingrid offered. “Wanted to tell him to get the payment for the missing fingers. Gossip is that layoffs are coming, before Christmas. Might even close the plant for a couple of weeks. Don’t know what we’ll do.”

  Ingrid nudged Albert toward the kitchen chair with the better caning. “You’ve been there a long time. If they let people go, you won’t be on the list.”

  “Never know.” Albert blew on the tea before he sipped. “I wanted Ingrid’s man to get down there quick. Once they start laying people off, they won’t pay for accidents.”

  “Said he’d be back within the week, but since he left without a word, I don’t think he meant it.” Ingrid pictured his sincere face, the tone of his voice, then pushed the memory aside.

  Albert blew out a long breath. “You could get it for him. The company isn’t always generous. Finsson deserves the money for the loss of his fingers. Take his time card, say you’re picking it up for him.”

  “You do it, Albert.” Ingrid removed Caleb Finsson’s work card from the utensil drawer. “You know the people at the plant.”

  Albert shook his head. “They won’t give it to me. Too many dishonest men tried that trick. But they’d give it to a woman, a wife.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “I’m a woman, but I’m not a wife.”

  “Think on it, Ingrid.” Joan spoke up for the first time since her husband had entered the room. “You’d be saving it for him. If Albert’s right and they do shut down, Caleb will never get the money he deserves.”<
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  Ingrid placed Caleb’s work card on Joan’s side of the kitchen table. “What would Pastor Mears say?”

  “I think he’d say you should do it. Caleb told you he’d be back,” Joan said.

  Albert rubbed the back of his neck. “Your man’s a puzzle, Ingrid. I’ve asked around the plant. No one seems to know this Caleb Finsson. Usually find someone who knows someone who knows a fellow. But he was definitely brought to you by plant workers. ”

  Joan slid the card toward Ingrid. “If you don’t get the money the poor man deserves, he’ll never see a penny.”

  Albert nodded. “Do it, Ingrid. Too many men have lost their fingers, hands. And you never received anything when your husband died.”

  Ingrid traced the letters of Caleb Finsson’s name. “You’re sure there’s not another way?”

  “Has to be a woman,” Albert said firmly.

  “I won’t lie.” Ingrid lifted her chin.

  “Just present the card and say you’re picking up the compensation for Caleb Finsson of 34 Mulberry.” Albert placed his cup back on the counter. “I better get back to the kids.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Joan placed her arm around her husband’s waist. “Ingrid, if Finsson never comes back, you should keep the payment as the recompense you never received as a widow.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” Ingrid said. “But if the company approves a payment for Caleb, he should receive it.”

  “Go this morning.” Albert paused before closing the door.

  Ingrid looked at the tub of wash water she’d started. She had plenty of chores to complete before the sun went down. If she started the scrubbing and then the ironing, she might never make it to the meatpacking office. Laundry could wait.

  She freshened her hair, put on a hat, and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked frightened to herself. Would the people in the office see her fear? Could she be hauled away to jail for attempting to obtain money merited by Mr. Finsson?

  The paper felt hot in her hand when she picked it up, but she slipped it into her purse and glanced around her home one last time.

  Settle down. She told herself. You’re not doing anything wrong. You will just hand them the card. You don’t have to say a word.

  Her advice to herself didn’t calm her nerves. She bit her bottom lip and breathed in and out with her eyes closed, picturing Caleb’s pleased face when he saw the damages award.

  Ingrid squared her shoulders and prepared for her walk to the plant. She had to go before she lost her nerve. She believed Caleb was an honest man, a man who deserved the compensation due him.

  Chapter 6

  Grantham’s round body was topped by a round head which featured round spectacles that did not obscure his intense brown eyes. “Your apartment doorman said you showed up at your place a little before four this morning. Why didn’t you come in?”

  “I needed time.” Caleb pointed to his ribs. “Your reporter, Danny Dangerous, almost didn’t survive. Took a beating on this assignment, a real beating. Some goons broke up the union organization meeting. I don’t know what happened to the other three who were with me.”

  Grantham waved his fingers as if brushing away a pesky fly. “I know. The doctor reported to me. What have you got?”

  Malcolm stepped in front of Caleb. “Great stuff. We can do a whole series about the risks the union organizers faced knowing that the meeting would be raided by hooligans representing the owners.”

  “Caleb?” Grantham turned to his star reporter who seemed to be surprised by Malcolm taking the initiative.

  “Yes. I have plenty of material. I only took a beating and lost a couple of fingers. They severed the little one at the first joint, my ring finger at the second, just like cutting up a chicken. Maimed man can’t return to the line.”

  “If I could change the past, I would.” Grantham stubbed out the cigar in the full ashtray.

  “I would, too. I try not to pity myself. This assignment showed me men who suffered far more than I did, men devoted to helping fellow workers.”

  “But you’re not a worker. You could have stopped them by telling them about your assignment,” Grantham said.

  “Then I probably wouldn’t have survived. When someone is identified as a union leader, he is terminated immediately. One man mysteriously disappeared, left a wife and five children with no way to survive. That man’s loved ones were tossed out on the street the same day he disappeared. The family angle should be the focus of my stories.” Caleb waited for Grantham to polish his eyeglasses.

  “Don’t think so. A punch and counterpunch between labor and management sells more copies than a family on the street.”

  Malcolm nodded vigorously. “I agree. Here are the notes I wrote this morning.”

  “Which I dictated.” Caleb glared at Malcolm, who feigned innocence.

  “And which I will edit as soon as you two stop bickering like school boys and hand the copy over to me.” Grantham held out his hand for Caleb’s papers which Malcolm passed to the editor. “How many days of stories do you have here?”

  “Ten,” Caleb and Malcolm answered simultaneously.

  “At least you agree on that.” Grantham rifled through the sheets. “This is all from the workers’ side. You have enough for equal coverage from the owners when they come yelping ‘unfair’?”

  “Yes, sir. Two months ago, I applied for a position as a plant foreman, in Malcolm’s name.” Caleb raised his eyebrows at Malcolm.

  “You used my name?” Malcolm placed his hands on his hips.

  Caleb grinned. “Never knew you had an extra job, did you, Malcolm? I worked the job for several weeks, then left because of a family emergency.”

  “Did your family emergency have anything to do with your wife?” Grantham, eyes blazing, slapped down the competition’s front page where Ingrid Larken’s startled face, captured by a photographer, stared at the reader. “What’s going on, Finsson?”

  Caleb grabbed the paper and quickly scanned the contents of the story. The copy said Ingrid, who posed as his wife, requested remuneration for Caleb’s loss of fingers, and was now in jail for fraud. Her hearing was set for 9:00 on Friday.

  “I need to see her,” Caleb said.

  Grantham placed a firm hand on his reporter’s shoulder. “I need an explanation. The paper spent a lot of money on setting you up for these assignments, and you blow the possibility of the story of the century out of the water for a pretty face.”

  Caleb shook his head. “She’s part of the story, a good story. Look at her. The public, your readers, will love her fragility, her situation, her beauty. They’ll be sympathetic with her plight. That face will sell you more newspapers than any union and owner squabble.”

  Grantham harrumphed. “So you were thinking of the paper when you suggested she pretend to be your wife.”

  “I didn’t suggest anything to her,” Caleb insisted.

  Malcolm moved between Caleb and Grantham, clearly aligning himself with the boss. “Makes her even more unscrupulous, a conniving money-chaser.”

  “That’s not true. She’ll have an explanation.” Caleb pointed to Ingrid’s photograph.

  “The way I see it, a couple of things could happen, both bad. If you try to contact her, you’ll expose your identity as Danny Dangerous, this paper’s crack investigator.” Grantham pushed Caleb toward a chair. “The other paper runs with that story, and you lose your credibility as a reporter. Leave it. She’s good-looking. Judge won’t give her a severe sentence.”

  Malcolm punched the reporter’s shoulder playfully. “What do you think of your pretty widow now? She was trying to get your money, for herself.”

  “She wouldn’t.” Caleb sank into the chair.

  Malcolm shrugged. “You said she was being evicted. Guess she wanted some moving money, money that didn’t belong to her.”

  “She planned to go to her uncle’s place and she said she had the money to pay for her trip—money she earned scrubbing other people’s dirty l
aundry and from her sewing business.” Caleb stood and began to pace. “I have to see her.”

  “You can’t see her. If you do, our rival paper will exploit your affair with this woman to get a story. They’ll splash your shoddy ‘bedroom’ reporting all over the front page. Your stories will be worthless because your reputation will be worthless.” Grantham turned the newspaper over so Ingrid’s face was not visible.

  “But she isn’t that type of woman. We can’t allow her to be cast in that light,” Caleb said.

  “Why do you care? She’s a nobody, a name we picked from a list.” Malcolm moved closer to Grantham.

  The paper’s editor wagged a finger at Caleb. “This is a big city, Finsson, but don’t cross me on this one. I can salvage these stories, as long as you keep your association with this woman a secret.”

  “There was no association!” Caleb realized his hands were balled into fists, which increased the ache to his injury. His pain intensified his need to defend his gentle protector. “Ingrid’s an honest, kind, hard-working widow who was gracious enough to take in a stranger and care for him.”

  “And she tried to steal his compensation allowance from the meat-packing company,” Malcom added.

  “I need some air.” Caleb strode toward the door.

  “Stay away from her. You’re the most talented young writer I’ve ever had, and I love you like a son, but if you make the wrong decision, you’re done with this paper, and any other paper in the city!” Grantham moved from Caleb’s path and watched the talented young man stride out of the office.

  * * *

  The scent of onions and peppers frying on the grill mixed with the burnt smell of coffee left on the burner too long assailed him when he entered. Caleb spread the paper he’d purchased from the newsie outside the diner on the back table and nodded to the waitress when she pointed to the coffee urn.

  He traced the shape of Ingrid’s face featured in the upper right hand story and gently touched the grainy lips in the photograph. Out of habit, Caleb pulled a small note pad from his jacket pocket. Grantham was right about Ingrid’s chance for a light sentence or even an acquittal. People of Chicago loved a good story, especially one involving a beautiful woman.