Pa flopped into the seat, releasing a sigh. He gave Willie one of his half smiles, and Willie patted his curled right hand.
“Lemme get these dishes washed, and then we’ll read the paper together.”
Pa’s gaze shifted to the floor underneath the table. His head stayed still, but his eyes slid back and forth from the beans to Willie.
Willie laughed. “All right, I’ll let ol’ Rusty in so he can take care o’ your mess.”
Pa made some soft huffing noises—his means of chuckling.
Willie didn’t even have to call for the cat. As soon as he opened the back door, the big orange tom sauntered in, fluffy tail straight up and its tip flicking back and forth. He brushed against Willie’s pant leg on the way to the table, and by the time Willie’d finished their few dishes, the floor was as clean as if Ma had taken a scrub brush to it.
“All right, you, outside now.” Willie reached for Rusty, but the cat darted for the sitting room. With a leap that made Willie think of a mountain lion bounding onto a boulder, Rusty flew through the air and landed on the back of Pa’s chair. He hunkered low, gold eyes gleaming, his tail swishing like the pendulum on a clock. The tail brushed Pa’s ear with every sweep.
Willie shook his head, crossing the floor slow so he wouldn’t startle the cat into hopping onto Pa’s head. “Now, Rusty, you know you’re not s’posed to stay in here. Mr. Rochester would raise Cain for sure if he knew we had an animal in the house. You gotta go out.”
A sigh heaved from Pa’s parted lips. The disappointment in his father’s sagging face brought Willie up short. Pa wanted the old cat’s company. He had so few pleasures these days. Would it hurt to let Rusty stay for a while? The rent had been collected, so they didn’t have to worry about being caught with a cat in the house.
Willie rubbed his stubbly chin with his knuckles. “Well…how ’bout I put him out after we’ve read the paper. Would that be better?”
A short nod and half smile gave the answer.
“All right, then.” Willie sat on the faded sofa and picked up the newest Atlanta Constitution he’d bought from the dirty-faced boy who always positioned himself outside the factory on paydays. He perused the pages, looking for something Pa might find interesting. He read a story about an electric generator at Niagara Falls producing power. Electric power instead of steam, like came from the engines he helped put together at the factory.
Willie glanced at the tarnished brass lamp next to the sofa. What would it be like to have lamps that came on with a twist of a key instead of needing oil, a wick, and a match? Such things existed, but they cost dear. And a person had to live in a house with electric lines run to it. He doubted he’d ever be able to afford a luxury like an electric lamp, but it was fine to think about.
He shared some local news articles, and in between paragraphs, he glanced at Pa. By the middle of the third article, Pa’s eyelids were drooping. Willie set the paper aside and helped his father to the outhouse.
Some of the fellows from the factory thought Willie ought to take Pa to one of the poorhouses. “Why waste your life takin’ care o’ somebody who can’t do nothin’ for himself or for you?” they asked. He didn’t understand their kind of thinking. If you loved somebody, you did what needed doing. He loved Pa, so he’d take care of him, and that was that.
After he’d settled Pa in his bed, he lifted Rusty from the back of the chair. The cat dug in his claws, but Willie gave a little tug and Rusty melted into his arms. Willie chuckled. Carrying the cat was like carrying a hairy bag of sand. “You’re fatter’n a tick on a hound dog, you big ol’ brute. Pa should’ve named you Goliath.” He set the cat outside and watched it hop-skip over the sparse grass for the hollowed space under the toolshed. Willie called good night, then closed and locked the door.
He headed for the lamp by the sofa, intending to turn down the wick, but since he hadn’t done a lick of work worth mentioning on this Labor Day, he wasn’t tired enough for bed. So he flopped onto the sofa and reached for the paper again. Ma always said that not being in a classroom wasn’t an excuse to quit learning. So Willie grabbed every chance he got to read. He had a lot fewer chances since Pa fell sick, but tonight the house was quiet and Pa was tucked in.
He read every article on the front page, then turned it over. Most of the second page was taken up with information about the upcoming Cotton States and International Exposition. There’d already been an exposition in Atlanta, back in 1881 at Oglethorpe Park. Willie’d only been eight or nine at the time, but he remembered Pa and Ma talking about it and wishing they could go.
This one looked to be bigger than the last, with brand-new buildings going up for exhibits and six states contributing displays. Willie used his finger to underline the words as he read, excitement quivering through him at the mention of speeches and bands and visits by celebrities, including Buffalo Bill Cody. Wouldn’t it be something to see Buffalo Bill? Pa would smile for a week if he got to see the marksman in action.
Willie’s spirits fell. Even though the exposition was scheduled to last more than three months, he probably wouldn’t get to see even one day of it. Not while working at the factory six days a week. And he sure wouldn’t be able to take Pa. Pa could shuffle short distances, but all over the park grounds? Nope, and he was too big for Willie to carry. If only Pa could go to one of the special hospitals where he’d get stronger again. Then if Atlanta hosted another exposition, they’d be able to go together.
He started to close the paper, but a small box at the bottom of the page caught his eye. He angled the page toward the light and read slowly.
HIRING laborers, security guards, silk weavers, and custodians to work grounds for duration of exposition (Sept. 18–Dec. 31). Monthly salaries range $54–$65.
Willie stared at the dollar amounts, his heart thudding like a bass drum. Even if he took one of the lowest-paying jobs, he’d be able to set aside ten or twelve dollars a month—money he could put toward a hospital stay. He read on.
Apply to Mr. Grover Sterling at First National Bank, Atlanta, Mondays through Saturdays, Sept. 3–12, between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m.
Willie rubbed his knuckles against his chin, thinking hard. If Mrs. Blaricum agreed to stay late tomorrow or on Wednesday, he could hurry to the bank after work and put in an application with Mr. Sterling. If he got hired, he’d have to quit his factory job, though. He’d counted the days until he turned fourteen, old enough to put in to work at the big factory that’d been rebuilt after Sherman came through and burned any business that might benefit the Confederacy. He loved his job. Loved putting parts together—almost like playing with pieces of a giant puzzle. Loved seeing steam blow from the whistle when all the parts went together right. Could he really give it up?
And if he quit, would Mr. Rochester make him and Pa move out of factory housing? Harrison Rochester was a fair man. Willie’d worked for him now going on eight years, and Pa had worked for him more than twelve years before that. Mr. Rochester had always treated them good. He might let them stay if they kept up the rent and nobody else needed the house. But the exposition would last just a little over three months. Should he quit at the factory when he might not be able to hire back on when the event was done?
He looked again at the possible salaries. Dollar signs seemed to dance across the page. He closed his eyes and turned his focus to his heavenly Father. “God, I’ve been prayin’ for some way to get Pa better. If this is the way, then will You let me get hired? But if it’s not what You want, have Mr. Rochester or Mr. Sterling tell me no. I’ll accept whatever You decide. But, God?” He licked his dry lips. “If You tell me no about the exposition, please at least say yes about Pa gettin’ better some other way. He…he’s a good man. He deserves to get better, don’t You reckon?”
Laurel
The soft feather mattress and rumpled sheets beneath her offered a cozy nest. Only a hint of light from the gas lamp on the street corner sneaked pas
t her lace curtains. The quiet, dove-gray shadowed room created an ideal place for reflection. Laurel drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs.
Resting her cheek on her knee, she thought back over the day. She’d spent all of it, from breakfast time to bedtime, observing Mama. According to Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language, one of Mama’s most prized possessions, dotage was defined as “feebleness or imbecility of understanding or mind, particularly in old age.” How could her siblings believe such a thing about Mama?
Oh, threads of silver had nearly overtaken her once dark hair, and her face bore lines that spoke of years of smiles and frowns, but Mama was not feeble of mind or body. Alfred and the others expected Laurel to stay with her all the way through her dotage. Since Mama hadn’t even entered it yet, they were speaking of years and years—perhaps decades and decades.
Her stomach hurt. How she loved Mama, the only parent she’d known. Of course she wanted to do what was best for her mother. She wanted to please her siblings, too. But did all that have to mean giving up her life? She didn’t want to become an old maid like the church organist, Miss Sophoria Dewey, who hadn’t smiled in at least six years. Mama said it was because Miss Dewey was bitter about being alone. Did loneliness turn one embittered? Laurel didn’t want to experience it for herself. Nor did she want to leave Mama alone to become embittered or forlorn.
Her bedroom door eased open, and she straightened her legs, leaning into the pile of feather pillows propped against the tall walnut headboard. Mama peeked in, and when her gaze met Laurel’s, a soft smile graced her face. “Oh, good, you’re still awake. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Laurel scooted over a few inches and patted the edge of her mattress.
Mama crossed the floor, her cotton nightgown and wrap skimming the carpet and making it seem she glided instead of walked. Such a beautiful, graceful woman was Adelia Smith Millard, even now. Dotage? Nowhere near her dotage.
She sat in the spot Laurel had patted and placed her hand on Laurel’s gown-covered knee. “You’ve been so quiet today, dear one. Are you feelin’ unwell?”
The ache in her middle had nothing to do with sickness, so Laurel shook her head. “Not at all, Mama. I’m sorry if I concerned you. I’ve only been…lost in thought.”
“Would you like to talk about it? I’m willing to listen.”
Laurel aimed her gaze at the lace-covered window, searching for a way to speak truthfully without divulging the ultimatum her siblings had given her. Although they hadn’t sworn her to secrecy, she knew that they would not want her to tell Mama what they’d said. Otherwise they wouldn’t have come during her Sunday nap.
She sighed and looked into her mother’s attentive face. “About my future, I suppose.”
A sweet smile curved Mama’s lips. “Ah. My youngest girl is no longer a little girl. Of course she’s contemplating the future…and perhaps future beaux?”
Laurel shrugged, grinning sheepishly.
Mama squeezed Laurel’s knee. “Patrick Brinkley is a nice-lookin’ young man, and he was raised in the church. I wouldn’t oppose him courting you, if that’s what you want.”
Laurel linked her hands on top of her head and huffed a noisy breath. “You’re right that he’s nice lookin’.” Although not strikingly handsome. “And I’m sure he has faith.” He and his family attended church every Sunday, but she had seen him dozing during at least one sermon. “But…” She gazed into her mother’s blue eyes, an errant thought tripping through her brain. What if she married someone who was willing to let Mama live with them? Someone who had enough wealth to support a wife, children, and a mother-in-law? Would her siblings then accuse her of shirking her duty?
“Laurel?”
She’d left Mama waiting too long. She dropped her hands to her lap and forced a smile. “I’m not sure I want to be courted by Patrick Brinkley. I want to know what…who…else is available.” She cringed. “Is that awful?”
Mama laughed. “No, my darling girl, there’s nothing wrong with exploring. Why, I entertained visits from three different young men before I chose your father.”
Laurel gave a little jolt of surprise. “You did?”
“I did.”
Laurel tilted her head, trying to imagine her quiet, gentle, always-proper mother as a young girl entertaining a host of beaux. The image refused to form.
Mama’s expression turned pensive, as if she’d drifted away somewhere inside herself. “And when I met your papa and I discovered that bein’ in his presence made my heart sing, then I knew I would never look at anyone except him for as long as I lived.”
Laurel gave another start. Mayme and Raymond blamed her for scaring away Mama’s only prospective beau after Papa’s death, but had she just been the excuse Mama used to keep from replacing Papa? Her pulse pounded with the desire to ask, but before the question found its way from her dry throat, Mama took one of Laurel’s hands between her warm, smooth palms.
“If you’d like to explore, I won’t interfere or try to shame you. I only ask that you don’t play the coquette.” A frown pinched Mama’s brow. “Men might seem tough and unemotional, but they can be hurt as easily as anyone else. There’s never any reason to toy with a man’s affection.”
Laurel sat straight up. “I would never play such a hurtful game.”
Mama squeezed Laurel’s hand. “I’m glad to hear it. Some of the very pretty girls—and you are very pretty—use flirtation as a means of seeing how many hearts they can lure in and then toss aside, finding pleasure in the power they hold over someone else’s feelings. But it’s a dangerous game, one that can lead to regret and a ruined reputation. Even more important, I believe it grieves the Lord. The Bible advises us to treat others the way we want to be treated. I can’t imagine anyone enjoying havin’ their heart trampled for someone else’s amusement.”
Perhaps her siblings needed to take the biblical advice to heart. Had they considered Laurel’s feelings at all before demanding she care single-handedly for Mama? But then, they hadn’t said single-handedly, had they? Which meant she could pursue a husband…as long as she chose someone who was willing to accept Mama, too.
“You’ve fallen quiet again.” Mama’s soft singsong voice cut into Laurel’s musings. “Where have your thoughts taken you now, dear one?”
Laurel took a firm grip on Mama’s hands. “If I were to—as you put it—explore, where would I find these men? I already know all the young men near my age at church and in our neighborhood. None of them, other than Patrick Brinkley, have shown any interest in me.”
Mama released a little gasp, and then a sly grin dimpled her cheek. “I have an idea.” She rose and pointed at Laurel. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.” She lifted the hem of her gown and hurried toward the door on bare feet.
“Mama?” Laurel leaned forward, confused and curious at the same time. “What are you doing?”
Mama sent a bright smile over her shoulder. “I’m getting the newspaper. I saw somethin’ earlier, and I think it might be exactly what you need.”
Willie
Willie sat on a straight-back chair outside a six-paneled office door, waiting his turn to interview with Mr. Sterling. When he’d arrived after work, four others were already lined up in the hallway—a man old enough to have deep lines carved into his forehead, two men closer to Willie’s age, and a pretty young lady who kept wrapping and unwrapping a strand of brown hair around her finger. One at a time, the two younger fellows had entered the office and come out again. Now the girl was in there, most likely applying to be a silk weaver. He couldn’t imagine someone so dainty and timid looking hiring on as a security guard or custodian.
Only one more ahead of him, and then it’d be Willie’s turn. Seemed like at least a dozen frogs were jumping around in his stomach, and he considered pacing up and down the hallway, the same way the other man was doing. He compared his workman’s trousers
and shirt to the man’s dark-gray three-piece suit, and he grimaced. Should he have gone home and gussied up in his church clothes? He’d look like a bum, coming in after the well-dressed fellow. At least he’d been sent with Mr. Rochester’s blessing.
“Willie,” his boss had said when Willie approached him yesterday during the lunch break and asked permission to apply for an exposition job, “your father was a faithful employee and you’ve been one, too. I’m proud of you for trying so hard to take good care of Otto. You interview, and if you’re hired, you and I will work things out about your job here.”
Willie’d been surprised to find the young man who’d collected rent on Monday in Mr. Rochester’s office. Mr. Rochester introduced the man as his son, Langdon. The younger Rochester sat with his arms crossed and didn’t say a thing the whole time Willie was in there, but he spoke plenty with his eyes. Willie suspected if the younger Rochester had been the one making the decision, Willie wouldn’t be applying for an exposition job. But Mr. Rochester had obliged him, and Willie was grateful.
The office door opened, and the young woman stepped out. Willie jolted to his feet, the way his pa’d taught him to do when a lady was present. She glanced at him, and he gave a little nod of greeting. He couldn’t doff his cap because he wasn’t wearing it, but his hand automatically drifted to his forehead.
She bobbed her chin, her pale cheeks flushing pink. Then she scurried across the floor to the man in the gray suit. “All done.” Her voice wheezed out on a sigh.
“Good. Let’s get you home.” He stuck out his elbow, and the girl took hold.
So the man wasn’t applying for a job. He was escorting the girl. Willie nearly sagged in relief. He wouldn’t have to worry about having his clothes compared to the other man’s. The pair walked quickly up the hallway, the brown strand of hair the girl’d been twirling floating over her shoulder like a kite’s tail.
A Silken Thread Page 3
