Willie thumped Quincy on the shoulder with the heel of his hand. “Made it, didn’t we?”
Quincy, still winded from his run, didn’t answer. He dug in his pocket for his nickel.
Willie shook his head. “Lemme get it today. You can pay tomorrow.”
Quincy pocketed the coin and followed Willie to the paused streetcar. The huffing steam engine rattled the car. Back when mules pulled the streetcars, there wasn’t none of this shaking. Quincy grabbed the tarnished brass handrail and climbed aboard, grimacing at the vibration under his worn soles.
Willie dropped his dime in the tin cup and picked up two stubs, and they moved between the seats clear to the back. Willie could’ve took a bench closer to the front, but he shared a rear bench with Quincy. A few folks sent sour looks their way, but Willie didn’t seem to notice, so Quincy pretended not to. But a fire raged in his belly.
The streetcar rocked and bounced its way along the route, stopping every block to let some folks off and others on. Willie kept checking the windup pocket watch he carried. The third time he pulled it out, Quincy peeked at it, too. The hands showed seven thirty-two. They was supposed to be at the fairgrounds in their appointed buildings by eight for instruction and training. Sweat tickled the back of his neck and sneaked down his temples. He swiped it away and stared out the window, inwardly pleading for the streetcar to get them to the fairgrounds on time.
Willie’s watch showed seven fifty-one when the streetcar stopped where Fourteenth Street met Piedmont Avenue. Willie leaped off the back landing, and Quincy jumped down behind him. Then Quincy stood and stared. Was his eyes playing tricks? Where only grass had been the last time he’d been in this area, a tall building that reminded him of the castle drawings in a dime novel about King Arthur rose up in front of him.
He squeezed Willie’s arm. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?”
Willie nodded. “It’s something, isn’t it?” He gave Quincy a little push. “Get on inside.”
Quincy’s legs took to quivering the way they’d done when he was a youngster and he’d riled his pappy. But somehow he scuffed forward alongside Willie through an arched tunnel big enough for two carriages to pass side by side. On the other side of the tunnel, he stopped again. His mouth fell open.
“Hoo-ee…” Willie sounded plain awed. “Look at it.”
Quincy shifted his gaze left and right, taking in buildings fancy and plain, paved roadways, and what looked like a queen’s flower garden smack in the middle of it all. Shaking his head, he blew out a breath and laughed. “Don’t hardly know what kinda groundskeepin’ I gon’ be doin’. The ground’s all filled up!” It’d be a pleasure working on these grounds, everything looked so clean and new. Better, even, than the parts of town built over after ol’ General Sherman’s troops put a torch to buildings.
“Passage, please.”
The polite call came from behind him. Willie grabbed Quincy’s arm and pulled him to the edge of the paved roadway. A fancy carriage rolled past. The driver tipped his hat, and Quincy gave him a nod in reply.
Quincy whistled through his teeth and nudged Willie. “That’s some carriage, ain’t it? All glossy on the sides, an’ that bonnet’s gotta be real leather.”
“Pretty fancy.” Willie stared after the carriage. “Rich folks can afford such things.”
Rich folks…Quincy’d be coming in contact with lots of rich folks here at the exposition. Rich folks, like ones who’d kept his mam and pap working in fields, not letting them learn to read or write, clear up until they was the same age as him now. The hot feeling he always got in his stomach when his temper was getting ready to flare hit hard. He gritted his teeth and told the feeling to scat. He wanted this job. He needed it. Pap an’ Bunson couldn’t be pulling that wagon forever.
Willie turned around and frowned at the castle. “This is where I’m supposed to go—the Administration Building. Where’re you supposed to be?”
“The maint’nance shack. My note say behind the Gov’ment Buildin’ on the north side o’ the grounds.” Now that he’d seen how big the place was, he’d best skedaddle. He started trotting backward, waving his lunch pail. “Bye, Willie. Meetcha here when we’s all done today.”
Quincy darted up the wide paved path. The soles of his boots slapped the ground, and the hard rock under his feet jarred him, but he didn’t slow even when he had to weave around some men in suits nicer than Willie’s. The men went on talking like they didn’t even see him running by. More rich folks, probably.
A fist gripped his belly. Good thing Mam was praying. Good thing Willie was here. ’Cause even though he was supposed to love all other people the way God loved ’em, Quincy didn’t hold much liking for rich folks like the ones who’d kept his mam and pap picking cotton till their fingers bled.
Laurel
With her fingers curled over the window sash, Laurel watched out the opening as the carriage rolled past several newly built structures. Fancy buildings. Impressive buildings. The clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone sounded loud in the otherwise quiet morning, but not loud enough to drown out the pound of her pulse in her temples. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so nervous.
The carriage stopped, and Laurel gaped at the row of two-story-high pillars holding up the porch roof of a monstrous building that seemed to be covered in unpainted plaster. Several statues stood guard on top of the structure, and Laurel got the eerie feeling they were staring down at her.
The carriage door popped open, and she released a little squawk of surprise. Eugene gave her a puzzled look and held out his hand. With a self-conscious giggle, she grabbed hold. When her feet touched the ground, she knew she should let go, but she gripped his hand even harder. “W-will you walk me into the Women’s Building?”
Sympathy glowed in his brown eyes, but he shook his head. “If you’re old enough to take this job, you’re old enough to walk yourself in.”
Where was the brother who wouldn’t let her walk across her own lawn to her front porch a couple of weeks ago? For that matter, where was the girl who’d wanted to walk across her lawn alone? She swallowed and slowly loosened her hold on his hand. “You’re right.” She clenched her hands at her waist. “I can take myself in.” And she would, as soon as her pulse stopped galloping and she was able to draw a full breath.
Eugene gave her a pat on her shoulder. “I’ll return at six o’clock for you.”
Six o’clock. Ten hours here on her own. Her chest fluttered.
“I’ll pull right up here to the building this evening to fetch you, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to come so close after the exposition is open to visitors. They might limit carriages to attendees.”
She gulped. That meant she would have to walk through the crowds all the way to the gate to meet the carriage. Why hadn’t she considered the crowds before applying for this job? She’d never liked being in places with lots of people. Especially people she didn’t know. Mama said she’d been a friendly toddler but was taken to shyness after Papa died, yet Laurel couldn’t recall ever being anything but nervous in groups. She wished she could remember. Then she’d know how to act now.
Eugene gazed at her, a worried scowl on his face. “Laurel, are you going in?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” She spoke staunchly, hoping her feet would choose to cooperate.
“Take your lunch pail.”
Mama had packed a chicken sandwich, two pickles, and an oatmeal-pecan cookie, all of which had sounded so good half an hour ago. But now? Laurel was certain she wouldn’t be able to hold down a bite. She pressed her hands more firmly against her jumping stomach. “Why don’t you take it and enjoy it? As a thank-you for carrying me here.”
Eugene chuckled, shaking his head the indulgent way he often reacted to his children’s antics. “By lunchtime you will have settled in and will be hungry. Take it with you.” He reached into the carriage and picked up the pail fr
om the seat. He pressed the bent wire handle into her palm, and her fingers automatically closed around it. “Now, go on in before the clock chimes eight.” He pointed to a huge round clock on the tower in front of the Fine Arts Building.
Laurel gasped. The hands showed only one minute before eight. She couldn’t be late—not on the very first day. “Goodbye, Eugene. I’ll see you this evening.” She clambered up the stairs and darted for the double doors.
The first chime tolled in unison with the click of the door latch behind her. She’d made it. She sighed in relief and scurried to the middle of a room shaped like an octagon, then stopped and looked right and left. This area seemed to be a lobby, much like a hotel lobby, with beautiful pictures gracing the walls, potted plants standing proudly in corners, and groupings of chairs offering places to sit. Unlike at a hotel lobby, though, there wasn’t a desk clerk. What should she do next?
Twin staircases with polished spindles curved upward on both sides, and several short hallways branched away from the main room. She twirled a loose strand of hair and bit the corner of her lower lip. Why hadn’t the notice indicated where the Silk Room was located? Laurel turned a slow circle, peering up each hallway by turn. When her gaze reached the fourth one, she gave a start. A tall dark-haired woman in a solid-gray dress stood framed in the opening. Were it not for her pale complexion and the cream-colored cameo pinned at her throat, she would have completely blended into the shadows.
“Miss Millard?” The woman’s tone was as severe as her appearance.
Laurel gulped and nodded.
“Please follow me.” She turned and disappeared from view.
Laurel followed on trembling legs. When she crossed the threshold of the doorway at the end of the hallway, the woman was already in the center of a large rectangular room. A brass chandelier with four light bulbs aimed downward hung from the ceiling above her head. The bulbs weren’t lit, but a row of windows across the back of the room allowed in morning sunlight and illuminated the space as sufficiently as a dozen oil lamps.
Laurel’s feet slowed of their own volition, and she let her gaze drift around the room where she would spend much of the next several months. Fairly large, cheerful, with walls painted yellow and beautiful tapestries hanging from gold tasseled ropes at each end. A pleasant space.
The woman crossed behind a long glass case that stretched across the west side, dividing the room not quite in half. She beckoned with her fingers. Laurel walked the length of the case, squinting at the large jars arranged inside on a bed of blue satin. Or was the fabric silk? With the sun bouncing off the glass, Laurel couldn’t determine what was inside the jars, but it must be important to be housed in such a beautiful case on the sheeny, rich-colored fabric bed.
Behind the glass case, a huge loom filled half of the space. On the other half, a row of three chairs sat tucked beneath a tapestry of butterflies fluttering around a stem of salvia. Two of the chairs were already occupied by a pair of unsmiling girls who appeared close to Laurel’s age. They’d been so quiet she hadn’t realized they were there.
She offered each of them a shy smile as she placed her lunch pail on the floor and perched on the remaining chair. They glanced at her, but neither spoke or smiled in reply. Laurel folded her hands in her lap, the way the others were sitting. The same way she often sat when Alfred or Nell was speaking. The comparison did little to calm her jangled nerves.
The gray-dressed woman stood between them and the glass case and linked her hands at her waist. “Now that we are all here, please introduce yourselves.” She nodded to the tall, thin blond-haired girl seated in the first chair.
The girl’s face flushed bright pink. “Felicia Hill.”
“Hello, Felicia.” Laurel spoke without thinking and earned a frown from the dour-faced woman. She shrank back in her chair.
The woman shifted her gaze to the somewhat plump girl with frizzy red hair who was seated in the middle.
“I’m Berta Collinwood.”
The woman turned to Laurel and arched a brow in silent query.
Nervousness made Laurel’s mouth dry. She wished she could request a glass of water. Or maybe some Coca-Cola. Her oldest niece was partial to the fizzy drink. “Laurel Millard.”
“Thank you.” The woman straightened her shoulders and placed her fingertips against the unadorned bodice of her dress. “I am Miss Eloise Beatrice Warner. You may call me Miss Warner.”
Berta and Felicia nodded, and Laurel imitated the action.
Apparently Miss Warner found the reaction pleasing, because a slight smile lifted the corners of her thin lips. “Over the next several weeks, we will become well acquainted, and I am sure we shall get along very well if you follow the simple rules I’ve established for you.”
Miss Warner began listing her expectations. By the sixth rule—Lunch break will last half an hour and will be taken on a rotating schedule—Laurel wished she’d brought a pad of paper and a pencil. How would she remember everything?
The recitation of the “simple” rules continued, and when Miss Warner reached number ten, her expression turned stern. “There will be no fraternizing with guests to the exposition.”
Berta gave a little jerk. “We can’t talk to the people who come in to watch us make the silk?”
Laurel wouldn’t have had the courage to ask the question, but she was very glad Berta had.
“Of course you’ll answer the visitors’ questions. But engaging in idle chitchat or otherwise frivolous conversation is strictly forbidden.” Miss Warner placed her hands on her hips. “You are here to perform a duty, Miss Collinwood. A duty, I might add, for which you are being paid very well. Extraction of silk from the cocoons is a delicate process, and each cocoon is precious. The owners will not tolerate damaged silk or cocoons. Consequently, if you cannot remain focused, you will be dismissed.”
The girls exchanged a quick look, and Laurel read in their eyes the same uncertainty that held her captive. She’d come in the hopes of meeting the young man destined to make her heart sing. How would she know if he was the right one if she had no opportunity to speak with him?
Willie
Willie smoothed his hand down the front of his new security guard uniform as he strode toward a circle of benches near the man-made lake called Clara Meer, where the men had been directed to take their lunch break. His church suit was folded real neat and tucked into a square cubby in the small room in the basement of the Administration Building. His name—William Sharp—was etched on a tiny plate and tacked to the lower edge of his cubby.
All sixteen of the fellows hired for security had their own cubbies where they’d store their lunches each day. Willie liked the setup. At the factory, the workers put their lunches on a table in the break room. Sometimes somebody picked up the wrong pail, and if he liked what was in it better than what he’d brought himself, he ate it instead of finding his own. Willie’d lost more than one dinner because of it. Nobody’d get confused about whose lunch was whose here.
Willie took a spot at the end of one of the benches and opened his pail, eager to taste the roast-beef-and-horseradish sandwiches Mrs. Hines had packed for him. The sun made him squint, but he welcomed the brightness after being cooped up in the windowless room where they’d received instruction all morning.
He glanced around the circle. Out in the sunshine it was easier to make out the men’s faces. It sure looked like every other fellow had more years on him than Willie had. How’d he gotten so lucky to be hired? Young, no real experience, but here he sat. If Pa could talk sentences, he’d say God had made it happen, and Willie would say Pa was right. There wasn’t no other explanation.
“Whaddaya think about them folks from Ohio settin’ up a room for silk makin’?” A fellow named Briggs talked around a bite of his sandwich. “Don’t it seem kinda strange, considerin’ this is a cotton exposition?”
The man beside Willie leaned forward and looked around
him at Briggs. “I reckon it’s no stranger than the California people makin’ orange juice or the barley people makin’ beer.”
Briggs huffed. “Are you dim-witted, Cooley? You don’t use orange juice or beer to make cloth. It ain’t the same.”
Cooley’s jaw muscles bulged. “You’re the dim-witted one if you’re thinkin’ silk’ll take the place of cotton.”
Briggs started to say something else, but laughter blasted from somewhere on the grounds. Deep, throaty laughter. Willie blew out a breath of relief. The laughing interrupted what could’ve turned into a skirmish, and even better, he recognized Quincy’s hearty chuckle in the mix. Willie’d never had any scuffles with Quincy. Their friendship ran too deep to let reasons for scuffles come between them. But Quincy was quick to pull up his fists and defend himself against insults, whether real or imagined. If Quincy was chuckling, he was having a good time.
Briggs jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s the kind o’ ruckus that’ll probably come from the Negro Building when they get it all finished. They hired at least thirty of ’em to scrape horse dung off the streets an’ sweep the buildings an’ so forth.”
A fellow named Turner snorted. “As if it’d take thirty men to keep things up around here. Twenty could’ve done it easy.”
Briggs nudged him. “Had to hire so many ’cause they’re lazy. The whole lot of ’em.”
Willie prickled. He’d heard such talk before. Some people still held grudges about the war, and for reasons he’d never understand, they blamed the ones who’d been emancipated instead of the ones who’d kept people enslaved. Pa was born and raised in the South, and he’d put on a Confederate uniform to please his daddy, but he came from a sharecropping family. Even if he’d been a plantation owner, Pa wouldn’t’ve kept slaves. Pa said Jesus came to break the chains that bound a man, and that included the chains clamped on field workers’ ankles. In Pa’s opinion, one man didn’t have any right to put chains on another man. But there were lots of folks who, even now, didn’t hold with Pa’s opinion.
A Silken Thread Page 8
