A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Next.” The gruff invitation came from inside the office.

  Willie sent up a hopeful prayer, crossed the threshold, and started across the polished oak floor. “Mr. Sterling? I’m—”

  The skinny red-haired man behind the desk pointed to the door. “Close that, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Willie shut the door with a firm click, then moved to the opposite side of the desk and stuck out his hand. “I’m Willie—er, William Sharp, sir.”

  The man gave Willie’s hand a single pump and let go. He lifted a clean sheet of paper from a tray on the corner of his desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Sharp.”

  Willie settled on the chair in front of the desk, cringing when the legs squeaked, and rested his palms on his thighs. He wished his stomach would stop hopping. He hadn’t been this nervous when he applied to work at the factory. Of course, then Pa had already put in a good word for him. This time he was on his own, and Pa’s recovery rested on him getting hired.

  Mr. Sterling squinted toward the grandfather clock lurking in the corner. “Almost six. Is there anyone else waitin’ to interview?”

  Willie shook his head.

  The older man sighed. “Good.” He picked up a pen and dipped the nib in the inkwell. “All right, Mr. Sharp, for what position are you applyin’?”

  Willie rubbed his chin. Stubble poked his knuckles. Why’d his beard have to grow so fast? He wished he’d had time to shave again before coming in. At least the whiskers were blond instead of black. Maybe Mr. Sterling wouldn’t notice. “Well, sir, anything but silk weavin’. I don’t know too much about that.”

  Mr. Sterling’s red brows came down. “But you are experienced in the other areas—general custodial work, groundskeepin’, and patrol?”

  “Custodial—if that means cleanin’—I can do. And groundskeepin’, sure.” Mr. Sterling scratched the pen nib across the page, creating a line of squiggly words Willie couldn’t decipher. “I did both of those things when I first started at the Rochester Steam-Powered Engines factory until I was old enough to work on the engines themselves.”

  The man shot a pointed look across the desk. “You’ve worked at Rochester’s?”

  Willie nodded, and pride puffed his chest. “More’n seven years now.”

  “He purchased a display booth at the exposition.”

  Willie nodded again. Mr. Rochester had mentioned it during their short conversation.

  “Do you have any objection to me contacting him and askin’ his opinion about hiring you?”

  Willie chafed his chin with a knuckle. He couldn’t imagine Mr. Rochester saying anything bad about him. He showed up to work on time and did his best on the job no matter what he was assigned. Must’ve always been good enough because Mr. Rochester had never criticized him or docked his pay. Willie clamped his hand over his knee again and shrugged. “I reckon not.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Sterling scribbled something at the bottom of the page. “What about patrol? Are you proficient with a pistol?”

  Willie swallowed. Would his honesty cost him a job? If so, it’d have to be. He wouldn’t lie. “Well, sir, I’ve never shot a pistol. But I’ve gone deer and turkey huntin’, and I’m a fair aim with a rifle. Generally hit what I point at.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The interviewer wrote a few more words and then set the pen and paper aside. He linked his fingers on the edge of the desk and met Willie’s gaze. “Do you have any questions?”

  Willie searched his mind for something intelligent to ask. “When’ll work start over at the exposition grounds?”

  “Monday the sixteenth—”

  A full twelve days away.

  “—with the gate opened to the public on the eighteenth.” Awe broke across the man’s face. “Grover Cleveland himself will flip the switch to turn on the electric lights in all the buildings, and one of the president’s advisors, Booker T. Washington, is givin’ the first speech of the exposition. The owner of First National Bank declared we’d close our doors and go as a full staff to the opening ceremony. It’s bound to be an exhilaratin’ day.”

  Excitement stirred in Willie’s middle as he thought about seeing buildings lit up. Some of the engines he helped build powered electric lights in some places, but he never got to see it happen.

  “If you’re chosen to be part of the exposition work team, you will receive notification on Saturday the fourteenth. We assume by submittin’ an application that you’re giving your agreement to appear for duty according to the instructions in the notification.”

  “Yes, sir.” Willie nodded hard. “I sure am.”

  Mr. Sterling rounded the desk and guided Willie to the door. “Thank you for comin’ in, young man. And good luck.”

  Laurel

  Eugene drew the carriage horse to a stop at the edge of the street. Laurel had climbed up on the driver’s seat with him, hoping for a chat, but he hadn’t said a word the entire drive from the bank to their family’s house on Fowler Street, leaving her unsettled. She shifted on the leather-covered seat and gave him her brightest smile. “Thank you for taking me to the interview. Please thank Mr. Salisbury for letting you make use of his carriage. I’m not keen on taking the trolleys through the city.”

  Eugene wrapped the reins around the brake handle. “Mr. Salisbury agreed that you shouldn’t take the trolley by yourself.” He met Laurel’s smile with a frown. “If you succeed in securin’ a position as silk weaver, I intend to ask permission to carry you to and from the park grounds each day. He’ll most likely say yes.”

  Alfred and Raymond both worked at Hobbes Security Bank—Alfred as a bookkeeper and Raymond as a clerk—but Mama often said Eugene was the most blessed to drive for such a kindhearted man. Laurel toyed with a loose strand of hair falling along her neck, hope rising in her chest. “Do you think there’s a chance I’ll be hired? Although I’m very adept at weaving spun cotton and wool on Mama’s loom, I’ve never worked with silk thread.”

  Eugene shrugged. “How many girls in Atlanta can claim to be accomplished silk weavers? I reckon your chance is as good as anyone else’s.”

  His dismal tone stirred affection. She placed her hand on his arm. “You don’t need to worry. If I’m hired, I’ll be under the supervision of a woman named Miss Eloise Warner. Mr. Sterling told me she is quite responsible and will keep close watch over her weavers.”

  “Supervised on the park grounds doesn’t mean supervised going to and from. It isn’t decent for you to be traipsing about unescorted. Especially in early morning or late evening when it’s dark.”

  Disappointing Alfred made her quiver in apprehension, but disappointing Eugene—the brother who’d brought her a black licorice whip every Saturday from the time Papa died in an awful stagecoach accident until the year he married Ethel Perry and moved across town—pierced her heart.

  Laurel clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Please don’t scold. Mama’s the one who came up with this idea. She wants me to…” How had Mama phrased it last night at supper? Ah yes. Laurel swept her arms wide, grinning. “Sample new experiences while I’m still young and unencumbered.”

  Eugene pinched his lips so tight his lower lip sneaked beneath his mustache.

  “And think of how helpful the wages will be. Mr. Sterling said each weaver will be paid two dollars and forty-five cents a day.” She’d never imagined earning so much money on her own. This year’s Christmas would be brighter than ever because she would be able to purchase toys for the youngest of her nieces and nephews and books or store-bought clothes for the older ones. For the family dinner, she’d choose the biggest goose available in the butcher shop. The thought nearly made her giddy.

  Eugene shot a sharp look at her. “Do you need money? Are you and Mama havin’ to do without? If so, maybe I—”

  She held up both hands. “No, no, you and Alfred and Raymond are already generous enough.” Especially considering they had their own families to support. G
uilt often attacked when Alfred deposited coins collected from his and her other brothers’ pay envelopes into Mama’s keeping, as if she were stealing food from the mouths of her nieces and nephews. “The fabric and rugs we make on the loom bring in an adequate amount of money each month. We aren’t in want.”

  “Then why, Laurel?”

  She examined his serious face. He’d always been kinder and more supportive than her other siblings. Could she trust him with the most pressing reason she wanted to work at the exposition? The bell from the steeple on the big church four blocks north began its seven o’clock toll. Laurel cringed. “It’s late. I should help Mama put supper on the table.”

  Dusk had fallen, but the gaslight on the corner lit the path formed of large, flat stones leading to Laurel’s front porch. She braced her hand on the low rail of the landau’s driver’s seat and stretched her foot toward the wheel hub.

  “Wait. Let me help you.”

  Tears stung. Even though he was unhappy with her, he was still thoughtful. She waited until he hopped down, trotted around the back of the carriage, and assisted her from the seat. She managed a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow. “Time to get you inside and for me to return Mr. Salisbury’s carriage before he thinks I intend to keep it.”

  She stepped free of his light grasp. “It’s fewer than ten yards to the house. I can walk that far by myself.”

  He caught her hand again. “No, I’ll walk you in.”

  She couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. “How is it you and the others trust me to take care of Mama, but you find me incapable of walkin’ thirty feet to my own front porch?”

  His fingers loosened their hold. He looked aside, dismay creasing his features. “Laurel, you…I…”

  She’d meant to tease, not taunt. She cupped her hands around his elbow. “I’m sorry. I was only funning with you.”

  He nodded but didn’t look at her. The lines marching across his forehead seemed deep in the faint glow from the gaslight. “What we asked of you…” He angled his gaze to peer into her eyes. “It isn’t fair. Not to you.”

  Laurel experienced another prick of tears. Grateful ones. His acknowledging the unfairness of her siblings’ expectation lifted her heart in a way she couldn’t explain.

  “But what else to do? None of us have an extra room in our homes for Mama. We can’t afford to hire a live-in caretaker or maid, so…” He hung his head. “I told Alfred and Nell you should have the same chance the rest of us had to marry and start a family, but their minds were made up. Raymond and Mayme won’t fight against them. And that leaves me on my own. I…” He sighed. “I’m not strong enough on my own.”

  “I understand.” She’d been bullied into compliance by Alfred and worn down by Nell countless times. Mama claimed the two felt responsible for everyone since they were the oldest and Papa was gone. Laurel tried to be understanding, but sometimes, such as now, she wished Alfred and Nell would tend to their own families and leave the rest of the Millards to tend to themselves.

  “Come on.” A half grin formed on Eugene’s face, tenderness glowing in his Millard brown eyes. “You need to go in, and I need to get the carriage and horse put away. By now Ethel is probably wonderin’ if I decided to spend the night in the Salisbury stable.”

  Laurel giggled, envisioning her tall brother curled in the hay next to one of the horses in Mr. Salisbury’s monstrous stable. She watched the toes of her shoes peeping from beneath the hem of her best dress as Eugene escorted her to the spindled porch. She expected him to leave her at the door, but he came in and stayed long enough to tell Mama the stew smelled wonderful, give each woman a peck on the cheek, and make a promise to come by on Saturday with pecans his children had gathered from the Salisbury orchard. “The hired harvesters had already come and gone, so Mr. Salisbury said they could keep all they found. They scrounged like little squirrels until they filled their pails.” Pride lit his narrow face. “They could’ve sold the pecans to the grocer, but they chose to share their bounty with Granny.”

  Tears winked in Mama’s eyes. “I’ll reward them with a batch of oatmeal cookies with lots of nuts.” Mama walked Eugene to the door and gave him a goodbye hug. The moment she closed the door behind him, she whirled on Laurel. “Well? Were you hired?”

  Mama’s exuberance so contrasted with Eugene’s concern that a delighted giggle trickled from Laurel’s throat. “I won’t know until the fourteenth. If I receive a notice, then I must report to the exposition grounds on the sixteenth for training in silk extraction and weaving.”

  “Oh.” Mama’s face fell. “Such a long time to wait.”

  Laurel looped arms with her mother, and they sauntered through the parlor toward the kitchen. “Yes, but Mr. Sterling seemed to think I stand a good chance because I already know how to turn thread into fabric.”

  “Then all our work together at the loom has been helpful.” Mama spooned thick vegetable stew from a kettle on the stove into crockery bowls.

  Laurel carried the bowls to the small round table in the center of the toasty kitchen. A basket of crusty rolls and a dish of home-churned butter were already waiting. She liked the quiet, cozy meals, only she and Mama at the little table. But lots of people and the noise around the big table in the dining room was nice, too. She wanted a big dining room, a big table, and lots of children seated around it someday.

  Mama slid into the chair next to Laurel, and she held out her hand. “I’ll ask the blessing, and then I want to hear all about your interview.”

  Langdon

  Langdon, elbow on the table and cheek on his fist, pushed cubes of honeyed sweet potatoes from one side of his plate to the other with the back of his fork’s tines. Only three days of being at the factory from opening to closing, and he was already weary of it. How did Father tolerate following the same routine day after day? The clangs and shouts, the odors of hot steel and grease, the monotony…He inwardly shuddered. Being in charge had lost its appeal. The moment Father handed the keys of ownership into his keeping, he would hire a full-time manager and visit only once or twice a year to be certain the factory hadn’t blown up.

  From the foot and head of the long table, Mother and Father engaged in their typical evening conversation—Mother sharing the details of her most recent philanthropic endeavors and Father outlining his day at the factory. Langdon listened with half an ear, flicking peeks at the clock on the fireplace mantel. When the clock hands showed eight o’clock, the supper hour would reach its end and he would be free to excuse himself. Wednesday evenings his buddies met for faro in Claude Jersey’s father’s smoking parlor, and he intended to get in on the game.

  The minute hand trembled and then clicked forward one increment. Seven fifty-six. Langdon sat up and wadded his napkin in his fist, ready to blot his lips and toss the square of linen over his unfinished dinner the moment the clock began its chime.

  “Whom have you decided to send to the exposition?”

  Mother’s query caught Langdon’s attention. He still couldn’t believe Father had allowed one of his floor workers to apply for an exposition job. Father’s words of praise to the common laborer still chafed, too. What if more workers requested a reprieve from factory work? Would Father grant all of them approval? If so, who would fill their vacated spots in the assembly lines? Surely Father wouldn’t expect Langdon to step in. The assembly men always had grease under their fingernails, and several of them had smashed a finger or two between heavy iron parts. He couldn’t risk having his fingers smashed. He needed them to keep a good grip on a hand of cards.

  “I haven’t quite made up my mind, but I’ve put together a list of possible workers.” Father chewed and swallowed a chunk of potato, wiped his lips, and smiled at Mother. “Think of it—businessmen from as far away as Latin America perusing the exhibits. Why, it’s possible that Rochester Steam-Powered Engines could on
e day operate equipment not only outside our fine state, but in foreign countries as well.”

  “Oh, Harrison, how exciting to contemplate.” Mother briefly pressed her steepled fingers to her chin. “Your hard work deserves such recognition, my dear. I’m so proud of you.”

  Father chuckled. “Now, no overseas companies have ordered an engine. Yet.” A slight scowl marred his brow. “I will need to exercise great care when selecting the representatives for the Rochester Steam-Powered Engines exhibit.”

  Langdon tossed his napkin aside. Why should mere factory employees have the privilege of a months-long lark on the park grounds? “Father, am I”—the clock began to chime, and he raised his voice above the echoing bong-bong—“on your list of possible factory representatives for the exposition?”

  “No.” Father also increased his volume, aiming a frown at the clock. “My list is made up of faithful long-term employees who are fully acquainted with the engine’s operation, men who will be able to answer questions and enthusiastically tout the Rochester engine as superior to other steam-powered engines available.”

  The clock reached its final chime and fell silent, but it still rang in Langdon’s ears. He huffed a sigh. “Who better to encourage others to purchase one of our engines than the very person who will one day own and operate the Rochester Steam-Powered Engines factory?”

  Father’s frown fixed on Langdon. “You’re being presumptuous, considering our recent conversation. Besides, you are no more familiar with the engine’s unique features than any other newly hired worker. I want experienced men at the exposition.” He picked up his fork.

  If Langdon wanted to get in on the first faro game, he needed to leave, but unfairness held him in his seat. “Speaking of presumption, you presume that because I haven’t spent years in the factory, I’m unable to speak positively of the engines. Have you forgotten I grew up in this house? I listened at this very dinner table to your explanations to Mother about the quality of the steel, about our engines’ strength and durability, about the added safety features that make our engines less likely to explode and injure someone.”