A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mama sighed and lowered the dishes into the water. “In many people’s minds, he did a grave wrong by putting those pictures together.” She swished a rag over a plate, sending up the scent of lye with the steam.

  Laurel’s nose stung, and she rubbed it. “But you don’t think so, do you, Mama?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Laurel sagged with relief.

  “But my family wasn’t as deeply affected by the war and the change of life many were forced to take. Those who had large land holdings and relied on slaves to harvest their crops lost the most. Of course they’d still be bitter even these thirty years later.” She held up the dripping dish.

  Laurel took it and rubbed it dry with a length of toweling. The question she’d wanted to ask Eugene on Blue and Gray Day found its way from her lips. “Would Papa have minded having his daguerreotype next to a black soldier’s picture on the table?”

  Mama paused with her hands in the water. She kept her head down, her brow furrowed and lips pinched into a firm line. Finally she sighed and resumed applying the rag to a plate. “I honestly don’t know. Although his family lived in town and didn’t even have a house servant, Leland was eager to support the Confederate cause, claiming no Yankee should have the right to tell us how to live.”

  A knot formed in Laurel’s throat.

  “But he learned the attitude from his father, whose closest friends owned a plantation outside of Atlanta. Had it not been for his father’s rigid beliefs, Leland might very well have had a different opinion. After the war, when it was clear the South would never return to the way it had been prior to Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, he didn’t speak of it. I think, in a way, he wished to forget the war and the toll it took on our nation.”

  Mama lifted her hand from the water and placed it over Laurel’s arm. “But it doesn’t really matter what your father thought. You don’t have to emulate his ideologies, or even mine, for that matter. You are free to form your own opinions, guided by God’s Word and your tender conscience.”

  She removed her hand and continued washing their dishes, but a wet blotch remained on Laurel’s sleeve. Just as a troubling thought about the papa she hadn’t known remained in the back of her mind.

  Quincy

  Quincy took hold of his half of the long glass case, counted “One, two, three, up,” and lifted. Cass at the other end lifted, too. He swallowed a grunt. Mercy, what’d this thing weigh? His muscles quivered and the veins in his temples started to pound, but he held tight and shuffled backward from the wagon toward the Women’s Building.

  If he’d been a tom turkey, his tail feathers would be spread all out like a fan and he’d be gobbling loud and proud. All ’cause he got picked for extra work. Who would’ve thunk it? The supervisor picked him and Cass to stay around after closing time and wait for dark to fall so they could sneak a big glass case into the Silk Room. Mr. Johnson said he picked them ’cause he could trust them to keep quiet about it. He’d never been picked special for anything before. Quincy didn’t know why toting in a new display case was such a secret, but he vowed not to break his boss’s trust.

  Cass grunted about every six steps or so. But even when they went up the porch stairs, which jarred Quincy something awful, he gritted his teeth and held his grunts inside. Didn’t want Mr. Johnson to think he’d chose wrongly. Quincy’s hands grew slick from sweat, and he gripped the underside of the case so hard his fingers ached worse’n the toothache he’d got when he was six and ate a whole bag of jelly beans. Still, he didn’t let go.

  He inched across the tiled floor of the Women’s Building’s foyer, his heels wanting to slide on the slick tile, taking little baby steps like Sassy did when she’d just woke up from a nap. Moving backward, Quincy couldn’t see where he was going, but Mr. Johnson followed Cass and called out “little bit left” or “little bit right,” and somehow Quincy made it up a hall and through a doorway without bumping a thing.

  Inside the room, the lady who run the Silk Room scuttled out of the way and pointed to a spot in the middle of the floor. Quincy lowered his side of the case as gentle as a butterfly coming to light on Mam’s spirea bushes.

  He let go and went a little dizzy with the sense of floating. He planted his palms on the case’s top and closed his eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass. Only took a few seconds, and then he popped his eyes open and arched his back, same way Cass was. Felt mighty good to stretch.

  Mr. Johnson clapped Cass on the shoulder and nodded in Quincy’s direction. “I got my wagon waitin’ behind the maintenance shack. Come on with me now an’ I’ll drive you boys home.”

  Cass followed the supervisor, but Quincy stayed put. “Nah.”

  “You sure?” Mr. Johnson paused, his face puckered up.

  Quincy nodded. He’d go with Willie, same as he always did.

  The man shrugged. “Suit yourself. C’mon, Cass.” The two of them strode out.

  Quincy grinned at Willie. “You ready?”

  Willie scrunched his face, all sorrowful like. “I’m gonna stay, Quince, an’ help Miss Warner put everything away, then see her home.”

  “Ah.” Quincy rolled his shoulders. A joint popped and he rubbed the spot. “Then I’ll stay an’ help y’all.”

  Miss Warner’s eyebrows pinched. Then she quick turned her back. Quincy stared hard at her. Like a clock’s pendulum, he swung from pride to shame. A red-hot coal formed in his gut. He’d thought she scooted across the floor to get out of the way of the case. But she’d just been…getting away.

  Willie came close, looking real sheepish, and put his hand on Quincy’s arm. “You go on. Me an’ Miss Warner, we’ll get things done all right.”

  The coal burst into flame. Quincy jerked away from his friend and stomped out. He got to the bottom of the porch stairs and then plopped onto the second step. He propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. The cold from the concrete seeped through his worn britches and chilled him, but he didn’t move. The wary look on Miss Warner’s face appeared behind his closed lids.

  She’d looked, then turned around, like he wasn’t even worth seeing.

  She didn’t bother him none, though. Fancy white women—most of ’em wouldn’t look straight at him. He was used to it. But Willie…Willie should ought to know better. He should’ve told that woman Quincy was his friend, was trustworthy. But instead he’d told Quincy to go. Every day they’d come together and they’d gone home together. Until tonight. Because Willie’d let that fancy white woman’s feelings trickle over on him.

  The fire in Quincy’s middle spread until his fingers and toes tingled. He ought to go home. Mam’d be wondering after him by now. But he couldn’t go until he gave Willie what for. Maybe even a clop on the jaw. He bounced up, fists ready, and braced his boot sole on the first riser.

  “You there.”

  The husky voice seemed to blast from nowhere. Quincy spun around, his flesh prickly. Two men in policeman uniforms stood a few yards away. The taller of the pair pointed at Quincy with his billy club. “What’re you doin’?”

  “Nothin’.” Quincy’s answer came out sharp, the mad making his throat tight.

  The two advanced on him. The shorter one eased off to Quincy’s side, and the tall one stopped in front of him, his frown fierce. “That ain’t much of an answer.”

  Quincy swallowed, fear climbing above the coals of anger. “Sorry, suh. Ain’t got no other ’un. ’Cause I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  Quick as Stu snatching the last cookie from a plate, the short one grabbed hold of Quincy’s arm. “If you ain’t doin’ nothin’, it’s only ’cause we caught you before you could do somethin’.”

  Quincy knew better than to try to twist free. The man’s club would come down on his head. But he had to make them understand. “I work here. I tend the grounds aroun’ the lake. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong by bein’ here.”

  The tal
l one grabbed hold of Quincy’s other arm. “Park closed more’n an hour ago.” He looked up at the building, and his eyes went squinty. “Say, this is the buildin’ where somebody broke in an’ tore up one o’ the rooms. You comin’ back to do more mischief?”

  “No, suh!” Quincy clenched his fists and quivered from head to toe. Panic made his ears ring. He looked at one officer and then the other. “I was workin’. Helpin’. I’m s’posed to be here.”

  “Only ones s’posed to be here are that woman workin’ on the Silk Room, the night watchmen, an’ us.” The short one’s fingers bit into Quincy’s arm. He nodded at his partner. “We better take ’im in.”

  “Yep.”

  The two yanked Quincy forward so hard his feet left the ground. He scrambled to regain his footing, twisting like a wild animal caught in a trap. “Please, lemme go! I didn’ do—”

  The taller one raised his billy club. And Quincy didn’t say nothing more.

  Laurel

  When Laurel, followed by Felicia and Berta, entered the Silk Room on Wednesday morning, she stared as openly as she had the day before. Yesterday, carnage had greeted her. Today, it appeared nothing had ever happened. Were it not for the purple-dyed strands of silk threaded in the loom’s heddles, she might have believed she’d imagined the mess.

  Miss Warner rose from her little desk in the corner and crossed to the girls. Her eyes bore dark circles, but she smiled—a warm, welcoming smile very different from the one with which she’d greeted them on previous days. “Good morning. Did you enjoy a good night’s rest?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Berta and Felicia said at the same time.

  Laurel gazed at her supervisor, confused yet pleased by her change in demeanor. “Did you rest well last night?”

  “Surprisingly well, although morning seemed to come far too quickly.” She covered a yawn with her hand. “You girls may need to poke me now and then to keep me awake today.” A short laugh escaped her lips, and the three girls exchanged hesitant smiles.

  Miss Warner strode to the new, intricately carved display case, beckoning the girls with her fingers. “Come and look. I scrunched the length of blue silk and placed the jars just so and succeeded in hiding all the footprints.”

  Berta bent down and pressed her fingertips to the glass, peering up and down the case. “I can’t believe it. I shook out the cloth yesterday. It had at least a dozen bootprints on it.” She grimaced over her shoulder at the others. “It looked like someone stood on one foot and hopped from one end to the other, the way a child would play hopscotch.” She straightened and stepped back, hands on her hips. “I don’t like the way we put those jars together, though. They’re not nearly as nice as the other ones.”

  “You had very little time and limited resources.” Miss Warner slipped her arm around Berta’s shoulders. “The others were fashioned by a professional artist hired by the owners of the silkworm farm. Mr. Collier informed me more have been commissioned and these will eventually be replaced, but they will suit their purpose for now. Especially with you and Felicia providing such accurate commentary about each stage of the silkworm’s life.”

  Berta gawked at Miss Warner, her mouth slightly ajar.

  The older woman gave Berta’s shoulder a pat and then turned to face Laurel and Felicia. “Laurel, are you ready to put the loom to work?”

  Still stunned by their supervisor’s overt friendliness, Laurel managed a jerky nod.

  “Then please take your place. I believe the purple cloth will be even lovelier than the yellow was.”

  Laurel gasped. “Oh! Miss Warner, did the yellow cloth go to the rubbish barrel?”

  The woman moved behind the display case and crossed to the tall cabinet filling the back corner of the room. She opened the door and pulled out the basket in which Laurel had toted yesterday’s picnic lunch. She carried the basket to Laurel and placed it in her arms. “Although the fabric was in tatters, it represented a significant amount of work. I felt you should decide what to do with it.”

  Laurel gazed down at the fabric, which was folded into a neat square. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Miss Warner brushed Laurel’s arm with her fingers. “I hope you don’t mind that Officer Sharp and I partook of the basket’s contents for supper last night when we discovered the sandwiches hadn’t been spoiled by the spilled water.” She laughed, the same soft, almost rusty laugh she’d released earlier. “You wrapped them very well with waxed paper. But even so, we presumed they wouldn’t be nice by morning. I’d be happy to purchase sandwiches for you to share with your gentleman friend today, if you’d like.”

  “That isn’t necessary.” Laurel set the basket on the floor near the loom. “Receiving the cloth is more than enough payment for two sandwiches.”

  “And four pickled eggs.” She raised her eyebrows and held a finger aloft. “You mustn’t forget the pickled eggs.”

  Felicia giggled. Berta started to laugh, sucked in her lips and stifled the sound, but then snorted through her nose, which sent Felicia into gales of laughter. Laurel tried to control herself, but their merriment was contagious. She laughed with them. Miss Warner didn’t join, but she smiled at them and shook her head, the gesture indulgent rather than disapproving.

  At last the laughter faded, and Berta wheezed out a big sigh. “Oh, my. That felt good.” She tipped her head, frowning at Felicia. “What was so funny about pickled eggs?”

  Miss Warner pursed her lips. “Absolutely nothing. But yesterday was a very stressful day, and laughter is good medicine, don’t you agree?”

  “It must be,” Felicia said. “I feel scads better.”

  “Good.” Miss Warner turned and marched to her desk, her frame erect and chin high. “Then let’s prepare to receive visitors.” She slid into her chair but then sent a puzzled look toward the open doorway. “I wonder what’s keeping Officer Sharp.”

  Willie

  Willie rolled over and opened his eyes. Sunlight hit him full in the face. He squeezed his eyes shut and flopped his arm across them. He should’ve pulled his window shade last night. It would’ve kept out the sunlight. Then he jolted. Sunlight? He threw aside the covers and bounded out of bed in one movement. He dashed to the window and peeked out. The sun was full up, all the way above the neighbor’s rooftops. Must be nine o’clock or after.

  Groaning, he scrambled out of his nightshirt and into the clothes he’d dropped at the end of his bed when he got in last night. His bare toes caught in the pant leg, and he hopped in a circle, trying to free himself without falling over. His foot popped through. He grabbed up his shirt and jammed his arms into the sleeves, heading for the back door, where he’d left his boots and socks.

  He screeched out a kitchen chair, sat, and wrestled his socks and boots into place. His pulse pounded like a hammer on a nail. How’d he slept so long? Sure, he’d got in late—well past eleven. But that wasn’t an excuse. He should’ve woke up. Why hadn’t Quincy banged on the door when he wasn’t out front to meet up with him? Maybe he had and Willie’d slept through it, although he couldn’t imagine sleeping through that sound. Since Pa went to the hospital, Willie’d woke up at every coyote howl or limb crack.

  He stood and buttoned up his wrinkled shirt. His fingers shook so bad he had a hard time sticking the buttons through the holes. Maybe Quincy hadn’t come by because he was sick. Or mad. He’d wanted Quincy to stay last night and help in the Silk Room, but Willie could tell Miss Warner was uneasy about it. So he’d sent Quincy on without him. Maybe Quincy was sore about it and decided to go on to work by himself.

  Willie fastened the last button and tucked in his tails, buttoned his trousers, and slipped his suspenders into place. No time for breakfast, to shave, or even to comb his hair. He needed to scat. Not until he was out the door and halfway down the block did another thought slam through his sleep-muddled mind. He’d sent Quincy to find his way home after dark all by himself. Had he come upon some mischi
ef makers? Maybe got roughed up? Willie didn’t like thinking such things, but it could’ve happened. It’d happened before with other black men out at night by themselves. Maybe Quincy hadn’t made it home.

  Willie came to a stop, two worries pulling him in opposite directions. He needed to get to work, but he also needed to make sure his friend was all right. He lifted his face to the sky and moaned out, “Lord? What should I do?”

  No answer boomed from beyond the clouds, but it didn’t matter. He was already late. He’d have to be later, because he needed to ask Quincy’s ma if her oldest son had made it home all right.

  Quincy

  Quincy shook the iron bars that trapped him in the square cement-block room until they rattled. Waited. Shook them some more and then thumped his fists on a crossbeam—wham! wham! wham! That iron, it sang a high hum. Still nobody come running. He gathered up his breath and let loose. “Somebody! Hey! Somebody!”

  Mutters and curses came from men in some of the other cells, but Quincy didn’t pay them no mind. He pressed his face between bars and hollered again. “Hey! Hey!”

  The door at the end of the hallway between the cells popped open, and a scowling man stomped up the concrete floor to Quincy’s cell. He shook his billy club. “You better quiet yourself down.”

  Quincy’d been quiet all the night long, waiting for somebody to get him out of this place. Being quiet hadn’t fixed nothing. So now he’d be noisy. “When you gon’ let me outta here? I done tol’ those p’licemen who brung me in to ask Mr. Johnson at the exposition how come I was at the fairgrounds so late. ’Cause he gon’ tell you I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. Has you ask ’im?”

  The officer snarled, fierce as a rabid dog. “You think we got time to chase down folks just ’cause somebody who got caught doin’ wrong says we should?”