He liked one of Mr. Washington’s phrases—“Cast down your bucket.” He memorized it so he could repeat it to Mam and Pap. And he memorized what it meant. In part, make friends with people of all races. Tremors rattled Quincy’s frame. Wouldn’t it be fine if all the folks in this room did just that? Become friends together the way him and Willie had always been friends? He hoped all those white folks filling the seats on the other side of the room was paying attention.
The speech went on, now talking direct to the whites. Folks all over the Auditorium fanned themselves, and sweat dribbled down Quincy’s temples. He shrugged away the moisture with his shirtsleeve and kept his gaze fixed on Mr. Washington. Seemed like fire blazed in the speaker’s eyes. He stood so tall and proud, raising his arms like the preacher sometimes did during rowdy sermons.
Some of his words—glorify, ornamental gewgaws, magnificent representation—was too fancy for Quincy to grasp, but they sounded so pretty he couldn’t stop listening. Mr. Washington dressed so fine, talked so proud. And everybody listened. Even the white folks. Like they all knowed he was somebody special. Quincy’s chest went tight. How would it feel to have folks look at him the way they watched Mr. Washington, all respectful-like?
“In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress.”
Quincy held up his hand and stared at his callused fingers. He wiggled them one by one and then tightened them together in a fist. He scanned the audience, frowning, thinking hard. Could it be done? Could all these folks here—whites and blacks—work together to make the South strong?
“…let us pray God will come, in a blotting out of sectional differences an’ racial animosities an’ suspicions…”
His heart pounding, Quincy gulped and stared at the speaker.
“This, coupled with our material prosperity, will bring into our beloved South a new heaven an’ a new earth.” Mr. Washington took a step away from the podium. His arms dropped to his sides. He bowed his head. He was done.
Such a stillness fell in the room that it gave Quincy chills. The stillness lasted a little while, maybe for the count of ten, and then folks on the black side of the Auditorium started clapping. The whites on the other side joined in. The applause was loud as thunder, and Quincy smacked his palms together so hard they stung, but he wanted to be part of that noise. It went on and on, white folks and black folks giving honor to the man who’d told them they could be “one as the hand.”
Finally all that clapping came to an end, and folks milled up the aisles for the exit doors. Quincy grabbed Bunson’s arm and pulled him along with the throng. Outside, he tugged Bunson off the walkway and gave his arm a squeeze.
“You gon’ remember good enough to tell Mam an’ Pap what’n all Mr. Washington say?”
Bunson’s dark eyes shone. “I sho’ am. Best speech I ever did hear.”
Quincy chuckled. That was the only speech they’d ever heard. But he couldn’t imagine one being any better. “Head on home, then, an’—”
“Quincy?” Bunson almost danced in place. “You reckon I could someday go to the college in Alabama that Mr. Washington started? I’d like to wear a fancy suit an’ learn to speak fine like him, maybe study on how to keep books an’ get a job in a bank or some big comp’ny.”
Bunson always did like arithmetic. He’d probably be a right good bookkeeper. But where would Mam and Pap find the money to send him to Alabama? They barely had enough to pay for the little ’uns’ shoes and the pencils and such they needed for school. Looking into his brother’s hopeful eyes, Quincy couldn’t find the heart to stomp on his dream.
He clapped Bunson on the shoulder. “You ask Mam an’ Pap ’bout that. I gotta get to work now, so head on home.”
Bunson shot off across the grass. Quincy turned and braced himself to break into a jog, but his body came up short. His eyes beheld a sea of folks spreading out across the grounds. Black folks and white folks, the ladies wearing everything from homespun to bustled suits, white men in top hats and jackets with tails only feet away from black men in trousers and checked shirts. Nobody sneering at somebody else. Nobody shying away from somebody else. Everybody just…walking.
“…a new heaven an’ a new earth.”
Quincy shook his head, wonderment warming him from head to toe. “I reckon I might be seein’ what’n all that’d look like.”
Laurel
Laurel, Felicia, and Berta followed Miss Warner on a weaving path through the crowd. She’d insisted they attend the opening speech, and Laurel was grateful for the opportunity. The exuberant applause echoed in her ears. She wished Mama could have heard the president’s advisor. Mama and Mr. Washington seemed to agree on the importance of education. Laurel’s heart still pounded in excitement, covering the sound of her soles pattering against the cobblestone walkway. She had to trot to keep up with her supervisor, whose stride nearly doubled hers.
Miss Warner glanced over her shoulder. “Hurry, girls. We need to be in the building before visitors begin arriving.”
Berta huffed and muttered, “Then we should’ve left before the speech ended. Look at all these people! They got a head start on us.”
“No fussing, Miss Collinwood.” Miss Warner didn’t slow her pace or glance back. “Save your breath for answering questions.”
Berta aimed a disbelieving look at Laurel and Felicia, but she didn’t say anything. They reached the Women’s Building and clattered up the steps. As Miss Warner had feared, exposition guests were already inside. She ushered the girls past them and into the Silk Room. Three women stood in front of a tapestry, their gazes rapt.
Miss Warner drew the girls to the back side of the glass counter. “Felicia, go welcome our visitors and ask if they’d like to know more about the dyeing process for the colored threads in the tapestries. Berta, remain here to answer questions about the silkworms and silk extraction. Laurel, you know what to do.”
Laurel nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Her experience on Mama’s loom had proved helpful, making learning to weave the silk threads an easy transition. Rather than try to teach Berta and Felicia to use the loom in such a short period of time, Miss Warner chose to give Laurel the responsibility of operating the loom. During quiet times, Laurel would instruct the other girls so they would be able to fill her spot when she took breaks.
She scurried to the loom and seated herself on the bench. Her pulse raced, in part from the brisk walk across the park grounds, but mostly from nervousness. Would she be able to remember all the steps when an audience observed? She positioned her trembling hands in readiness and prayed they would cooperate. Pulling in a deep breath, she picked up the shuttle and began.
Her breath eased out, and a smile pulled at her lips as her hands and feet fell into rhythm. The loom’s gentle melody—the soft thunk-thunk of the treadles, ker-thump of the beater, and whisper-whir of the shuttle—lulled Laurel into a familiar dance. One so familiar she could perform it without conscious thought.
Dimly aware of the activity on the other side of the glass case barrier, she continued weaving the glistening yellow strands she’d threaded through the warp and heddle the day before. The progress seemed painstaking because the silk thread was so fine, but by noon a two-inch length of silk fabric shimmered on the cloth beam. Laurel couldn’t resist stopping and running her fingers lightly over the woven threads. As smooth as ice and soft as down. So different from cotton.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she gave a start. Laughter filled her ear. She looked up into Felicia’s amused face.
“I’m back from my lunch break. Miss Warner says you should take yours now.”
“Oh!” Laurel darted a glance around the room, seeking Miss Warner. Their supervisor was near the door, visiting with a woman who wore a hat overtaken by three enormous ostrich feathers. She heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought you were her, reminding me to keep weav
ing.”
“Not this time.”
Laurel rose from the bench and stretched. “Did you take your lunch to the bench by Clara Meer?” The three of them had enjoyed impromptu picnics by the lake the past two days.
Felicia nodded. “It’s not as peaceful today as it’s been, with so many people wandering around, but it’s still nice to get out of this room for a little bit.” She gave Laurel a nudge. “You better go if you want a break. You need to be back by half past twelve so Berta can take her turn.”
Laurel retrieved her lunch pail and headed outside. She stifled a groan as she descended the steps to the street. Her muscles had stiffened up during her long time of sitting on the stool. She hoped there would be time for her to tutor Berta and Felicia so they could take turns weaving. Her body wasn’t accustomed to operating the loom for such lengthy periods.
A band was playing at the fountain in the center of the square, and a crowd milled on the walkways. Laurel skirted around folks and angled her steps toward Clara Meer. The man-made lake that had been dug for the exposition had the most unique shape—like a sock. Yesterday she and the others had taken their lunch on a bench near the sock’s ankle. By the time she reached the area, she’d used up five minutes of her break but had worked the stiffness from her legs and back. The bench was filled by visitors, but a sloping patch of grass near the bridge beckoned.
She crossed to the spot and sat, then placed her pail in her lap. Mama had packed a fried-egg-on-toast sandwich, an apple, and two applesauce cookies. Her stomach rumbled, but before she lifted anything from the pail, she bowed her head and asked a blessing for the food. She also thanked God for guiding her hands at the loom and requested strength for the remainder of the day.
Her prayer complete, she opened her eyes and reached into the pail, only to discover someone else’s hand in the way. Her gaze collided with that of a boy perhaps seven or eight years old. She released a startled gasp, and he fell backward on his bottom, spilling her pail in the process. His feet flew in the air and he flipped, somersaulting toward the lake.
Laurel lunged for him, but he slipped past her reach. She scrambled up from all fours, hollering, “Help! Help!”
A man galloped past her and caught the boy by one arm. The little fellow’s feet splashed into the water, but the man gave a yank and the boy landed upright on the grass two yards from the lake. Laurel rushed to him and took hold of his shoulders.
“Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?” Grass littered his hair and clothes, but she didn’t see blood anywhere.
He jerked loose and scowled at his wet shoes and stockings exposed by his knee-length knickers. “You made me get wet.”
Laurel’s mouth fell open. “I…made you…”
He squinted up at her. “You scared me.”
Such an impertinent little imp! She plunked her fists on her hips. “You deserve to be scared. What were you doing with your hand in my lunch pail?”
“Wanted to see what you had.” He blinked up at her, as innocent as could be, his thick lashes throwing a shadow on his apple cheeks.
“Rupert? Rupert, where are you?” The worried screech came from behind Laurel and carried over the sound of the band.
The boy made a face. “That’s my ma. I gotta go.” He clambered up the rise, hollering, “Comin’, Ma!”
Laurel stared after him. “Well!” She turned toward her spilled lunch and discovered the man who’d rescued the boy standing not three feet from her. She drew back in surprise. “Oh!”
He grimaced, his expression nearly matching the boy’s when the mother had yelled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I wanted to make sure you were all right. You almost went tumblin’, tryin’ to catch that little scalawag.”
For the first time she noticed he wore the blue trousers, buttoned shirt, and billed cap of a security officer. She also thought he looked vaguely familiar. “Do I know you?”
A bashful smile curved his lips. “No. That is, we haven’t met. But I saw you at the bank when you interviewed for a job here. An’ you waved at me Monday when you were leavin’ in your carriage.”
Of course—the young man who’d been waiting his turn at the bank. She hadn’t realized he was the same one who’d waved to her and Eugene. In her nervousness, she’d hardly looked at him at the bank, and Monday the carriage had rolled past so fast, she only got a glimpse, but she was certain he hadn’t been wearing a uniform then. How stately and gallant he appeared in the neat uniform. Standing this close, she couldn’t help but take note of the friendly sparkle in his blue eyes and the shining strands of his blond hair, almost as yellow as the silk threads on the loom, peeping from beneath the brim of his cap.
She gave a slow nod. “Now I remember.” She extended her hand. “I’m Laurel Millard.”
He swiped his palm down his pant leg before shaking her hand. “Willie Sharp. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Millard.”
“You, too.” She turned and scooped up her lunch pail. Her sandwich and cookies lay in the grass, ruined, but her apple must have rolled into the lake. She picked up each item by turn and dropped them into her pail. She aimed a scowl in the direction the boy had disappeared. “I hope that child is happy. He spoiled my lunch.”
Officer Sharp’s face pinched, but then he brightened. “There’s a food shack right close to the Women’s Building. Called the Creole Kitchen. They sell jambalaya. I had some with shrimp a little while ago, an’ it was real tasty. If you want, I can—”
Laurel backed away, one hand raised. “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”
“—show you where it is.”
She blinked twice. “Sh-show me?”
“Uh-huh.”
Fire seared her face. She’d presumed he meant to purchase her lunch. Something she would never allow a stranger to do. But she could let him walk her to the food shack. He was a security guard, after all. “Um, how much do they charge for a plate?”
“Five cents.”
She had two nickels in the pocket of her dress. For emergencies, Mama had said. Her stomach growled. Perhaps it was only a small emergency, but she believed Mama would understand. She nodded. “Please show me where the Creole Kitchen is located.”
“Lemme tell my partner what I’m doing.” He jogged to the footbridge, where another guard seemed to monitor the activity from the bridge’s highest point. The two spoke briefly, and then Officer Sharp returned. “All right. This way.”
He led her up the rise, tempering his stride to match hers. Pink stained his clean-shaven cheeks. “I’d offer to buy your plate, but I spent most of my pocket money on the trolley this mornin’. They upped the price from five to twenty-five cents.” His forehead furrowed. “That’s gonna eat up a lot o’ my salary.”
Laurel sympathized with him, but she didn’t know what to say, so she offered a sad smile.
“ ’Course, God gave me two good legs. It won’t hurt me to use ’em.”
Two teenage boys darted past, and one of them bumped Laurel’s shoulder. The push sent her sideways a step.
Officer Sharp pulled in a quick breath. “You all right?”
The worry on his face both pleased and embarrassed her. “Yes, no harm done.” She glanced across the park. “I wonder if it will be this busy every day.”
He linked his hands behind his back, and they set off again. “It’s openin’ day. Speeches, parades…All the schools let out, an’ some businesses closed an’ sent their whole staff. I reckon tomorrow’ll be some quieter.”
They eased around a woman cleaning something from a child’s face and then paused so a group of men could pass. When they were able to proceed, Laurel said, “I’m not used to so much activity. This is even noisier than when all my brothers and sisters bring their children over for a family dinner.”
“Big family?”
She laughed. “I’m the youngest of six. All my brothers and sisters are married and hav
e two, three, or four children apiece. It’s quite chaotic when they all come home, but my mama says it’s happy chaos.”
“That’s nice.” But he sounded sad. He pointed ahead. “There’s the food shack—where those folks’re standin’ in line.”
A spicy aroma drifted on the breeze, making her stomach pinch with hunger, but no less than a dozen people already waited to be served. The clock on the tower showed twenty-five past twelve. She wouldn’t be able to purchase a plate, let alone eat, in only five minutes.
She sighed. “Thank you for taking me, but I have to be back in the Silk Room by twelve thirty. I’ll have to skip lunch today.”
He scratched his temple, sending his cap askew. “A person shouldn’t ought to go without eatin’. Will you have another break?”
His concern touched her. “Yes, midafternoon we each get a ten-minute break.” She inched in the direction of the Women’s Building. “I’ll run down and see if I can get a plate then. Thank you again, Officer Sharp.”
She turned to take a step and plowed into a solid chest. The wind left her lungs, but strong hands caught her upper arms and held her erect. When her vision cleared, she was looking into a pair of deep-blue eyes.
Langdon
When he’d told his father being at the exposition would be a good place to encounter women, Langdon hadn’t expected one to fall into his arms. He grinned into the blushing face of a lovely girl. “Hello there.”
She stared at him for the length of two heartbeats and then pulled loose. “I…have to go. Excuse me.” She lifted the skirt of her green-and-white-striped dress a mere inch and darted in the direction of the Women’s Building, as if chased by a cluster of bees. A shimmering brown strand of hair escaped the coil pinned high on her crown and waved goodbye.
Chuckling, Langdon watched her until she disappeared into the crowd. Then he fixed his gaze on the entry to the Women’s Building and, moments later, witnessed her patter up the steps and into the building. Now he knew where to go if he wanted to bump into her again.
A Silken Thread Page 10
