A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Miss Warner swished dust from her skirt. Willie pulled a few cobwebs from her hair. She did the same for him. Then she smiled the weakest, sorriest excuse for a smile he’d ever seen.

  He gave her a smile he hoped was some brighter. “Ready to go?”

  She nodded.

  They didn’t talk the whole way across the grounds to the Women’s Building. Willie glanced over his shoulder a good dozen times, expecting to see Turner charging after him. But they made it inside safely. Miss Warner pulled a key ring from the little pouch that always dangled from her wrist and aimed one key at the lock. Then she jerked back and frowned at Willie.

  “Did you not lock the door last night, as I instructed?”

  Willie pushed his thoughts backward. Miss Millard had been with him, but he recalled turning the key before talking to her. “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “Well, this door isn’t latched.”

  Chills attacked him. He put out his arm and moved in front of her. “Stay here.” If the room was all tore up again, he didn’t want her to see it. He eased the door open a few inches, his pulse thumping like the tom-toms in the Indian Village, and peeked inside. Nothing lying on the floor. He pushed it a little farther. None of the furniture’d been overturned. He flattened the door against the wall and stepped inside. All the curtains and tapestries still hung where they were supposed to. The room was as neat and tidy as the girls had left it last night.

  Not until that moment did he realize he’d been holding his breath. The air whooshed out of him. He bent forward and put his hands on his knees, relief making his muscles weak. “It’s fine. Come on in.”

  Miss Warner entered the room, looking all around. She put her palm on her throat and eased out a long sigh. “Thank goodness. Perhaps you didn’t pull the door snugly enough into the frame and the latch simply didn’t catch.”

  Shame hit him. He’d thought sure he’d closed that door, but he must’ve been distracted by Miss Millard. He wouldn’t let that happen again. “I’m sure sorry, ma’am.”

  She patted his back. “Obviously there’s no harm done, so you needn’t worry. My Thaddeus used to say, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I suppose this is a good example of the statement.” Her frame jerked, and her chin quivered. She grabbed one of Willie’s hands. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it feels to say his name out loud. I’ve kept him hidden away in my heart, refusing to speak of him because it hurt so much to know he would never come back to me.”

  Willie squeezed her hand. “I am real sorry for what you lost, ma’am. An’ I’m sorry I reminded you of it when I talked about Quincy.”

  She shook her head, holding up one palm. “No, it is I who should be sorry. I took my anger out on you and your friend, and neither of you deserved it.” Her lips curved up into a smile. One that even lit her hazel eyes. “I also need to thank you. Had you not spoken in defense of your friend, I wouldn’t have spoken of my dear Thaddeus. A man like him, so honorable and faithful, should not be kept hidden away as if he never existed.”

  Her eyes got watery, and one tear found its way past her smile. “After you left yesterday evening, I took Thaddeus’s tintype—the one in which he is wearing his uniform and looking so proud and handsome—from the bottom of my trunk and placed it on the mantel. I shall gaze upon his face each day and remember the love we shared.”

  Willie was glad he’d put a handkerchief in his pocket, because he needed it. He blew his nose and found his voice. “I’m happy for you, ma’am.”

  “As am I.” She took a big breath and her tears dried up. She moved to her desk, talking as she went. “It’s good to see that the girls carried out their responsibilities before retiring yesterday evening. They really are good girls, and I feel a bit guilty for neglecting to give them their—” She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the desk.

  Willie bolted to her, expecting to find a dead rat or maybe a snake curled up. All he saw was the middle desk drawer slid out a few inches. Had whatever’d scared her gone to the back of the drawer? A mouse would do that. Or a scorpion.

  “What’s in there, ma’am? You step aside an’ I’ll take care of it.”

  She grabbed his arm. “There’s nothing there. That’s what is wrong. The girls’ pay envelopes…They’re missing.”

  Laurel

  Over lunch, Laurel told Langdon about the stolen pay envelopes. He’d chosen the Hotel Aragon’s restaurant on top of the Minerals and Forestry Building, and she ordered french onion soup because she’d so enjoyed it at his house, but she had a hard time eating. She couldn’t even make herself appreciate the view, she felt so badly about Miss Warner’s distress.

  “She said she would do her utmost to replace our lost wages, even if it means taking some from her envelope each month and sharing it with us until every penny is repaid, but I don’t want to take her money. It isn’t her fault the envelopes were stolen.”

  Langdon dabbed his lips with his napkin. He flopped the linen square over his knee and dipped another spoonful of clam chowder. “Not to be unkind, but it is her fault.”

  Laurel’s jaw dropped. “She couldn’t know the envelopes weren’t safe in her desk drawer.”

  He huffed and lowered his spoon to the table. “Laurel, while I find your spiritedness somewhat refreshing, you really must learn not to contradict me.”

  She tipped her head, repeating their last two comments in her memory. Hadn’t he contradicted her? The rollicking polka being played by a band in the German Village just south of the restaurant vibrated the wooden building and made it hard to think clearly. “I only meant to express my opinion. I don’t wish to be contradictory.”

  His smile returned. “Of course you don’t, so you’re forgiven.” He patted the back of her hand and lifted his spoon again. “In answer to your question, it is her responsibility to secure the Silk Room each evening. She ignored that duty and left the room open to thieves.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  He gave her a look of displeasure.

  A nervous giggle built in the back of her throat. She swallowed a bit of broth to chase it down. “I meant to say, she asked Officer Sharp to lock the door. And he did. I know because I watched him do it.”

  Langdon’s expression turned cunning. He took a spoonful, swallowed, applied his napkin, and dipped the spoon in the bowl, all without lifting his gaze from her face. “He has a key to the room?”

  Had she not just said so? “Yes.”

  “Then he could reenter it.”

  Laurel slapped her spoon onto the table so hard her bowl bounced. “He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “How do you know?”

  Officer Sharp wouldn’t steal. She knew he wouldn’t, but she couldn’t explain why she knew. She pressed her lips together and stared into her soup bowl.

  He leaned forward and slipped his hand over hers. His thumb stroked her first knuckle back and forth. She lifted her gaze to him. His eyelids, with their thick fringe of lashes, lowered. “Dear Laurel…dear sweet, trusting, innocent Laurel…may I ask another question?”

  His tender tone, the gentle caress of his thumb, and his contented-cat expression enticed her to offer a shaky nod.

  “Did Officer Sharp know the envelopes were left in the drawer last night?”

  Cold washed from her scalp to her toes, as if someone had dipped her upside down in an icy pond. Felicia’s comment, “She left before she gave us our pay envelopes,” whispered through her memory. Officer Sharp had surely heard her. He’d been standing less than two feet away. She jerked her hand free.

  A knowing smile tipped up the corners of Langdon’s lips. “So he did know.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he took them.” The band had stopped playing, and her comment blared as loudly as had the tuba’s oompah-pah. Heat filled her face, awareness that she’d attracted the attention of every diner on the rooftop. Mama would be ashamed of her for shouting at a
dining companion. She deserved the admonition in Langdon’s stern expression.

  She hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Look at me.” He cleared his throat. “Will you please look at me, Laurel?”

  She met his ocean-blue eyes, which now seemed as stormy as a wind-stirred sea.

  “You’ve been keeping company with me, have even visited my home, which I interpreted as interest in pursuing a relationship with me. Am I incorrect?”

  She worked loose a strand of hair behind her ear and tangled it around her finger. “No. I…” Should she be so bold? “I’m interested.”

  “Then I find myself puzzled. I’ve told you at least two times that I resent your friendship with Willie Sharp. Yet here you are, defending him.” He tossed his napkin over his half-empty bowl and then stacked two silver dollars next to his water glass.

  She stared at the coins. The soup was only thirty cents a bowl and the water free of charge. Yet he casually paid more than triple the amount owed.

  Langdon linked his hands and rested his wrists on the edge of the table. “You really must make a decision. If you want to continue being in my company, then I expect you to honor my request and keep your distance from Sharp. But if you prefer his company over mine, despite his crass ways and limited means—I cannot fathom how he will ever be able to provide well for a family—then I shall gracefully retreat and leave you to your preference. Now…” He rounded the table and offered his arm. “It is nearly twelve thirty. I will escort you to the Silk Room. Come along.”

  She stood and slipped her fingers through the bend of his arm.

  Langdon

  Langdon escorted Laurel to the Women’s Building. He’d said everything he believed needed saying before they left the restaurant. Father tended to reiterate a point until Langdon wanted to put his fingers in his ears, so he didn’t speak a word the entire distance between the restaurant and her workplace. Besides, there were other ways of eliminating barriers between himself and what he wanted.

  At the base of the concrete stairs, he stopped and gave her a stiff smile. “I’ll leave you here. It is, after all, only a few more steps to the Silk Room, and you’ve made it clear there is adequate supervision inside the building.”

  She turned her face aside and bit the corner of her lip.

  He lifted her limp hand and stopped just short of placing a kiss on its back. “Good day, Laurel.” He headed in the direction of the Georgia Manufacturers Building.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around. The patter of footsteps met his ears, and then a small hand touched his arm. He looked into her repentant face. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I’m very sorry we quarreled.”

  He feigned remorse. “As am I.”

  “But I wish you would understand. Officer Sharp is not in competition for my affection. He works in the Silk Room. I can’t ignore him. It would be impolite.”

  Had he known she was such a stubborn little thing, he might have selected another girl. But the genuine penitence and the hint of desperation in her expression and tone proved too convenient to overlook. She was young and a bit hardheaded. He choked back a laugh. What was he thinking? More than a bit. But she could be taught to control her tongue.

  He put his finger under her chin and tipped her face upward. “Miss Millard, you do what you believe is best, but I urge you to exercise caution. Do not place your faith in someone who might not be as trustworthy as you deem him to be.”

  “Y-yes, Langdon.”

  He grazed her jaw with his knuckle as he lowered his hand. He started to slip his hand into his pocket, but then he pretended to remember something and snapped his fingers. “Ah, I’m glad you caught up to me. I meant to tell you that I won’t be meeting you for breaks or lunch for the next several days.”

  “But why?”

  Oh, how her disappointment pleased him. “Clyde Allday, one of the other gentlemen who works in the Rochester booth, is taking a week to visit his grandchildren. In Chattahoochee Hills.” The improvised story flowed more easily than the truth would. “So I will be filling his responsibilities. Thus, I will see you only in passing until President’s Day.”

  Her brown eyes widened. “But the exposition’s President’s Day isn’t until the twenty-third. That’s more than a week.”

  “Now, now, it isn’t easy for me, either, to suffer so many days without gazing upon your sweet face. But think…” He caught the strand of hair falling in a little wave across her shoulder and twirled it around his finger the way she so often did when nervous or uncertain. “When we do see each other again, it will be a grand reunion. What did the poet Bayly write? ‘Absence makes…’ ”

  “ ‘…the heart grow fonder.’ ”

  He knew she’d be able to complete the phrase. He unwrapped the silky strand from his finger and brushed her cheek with his thumb. “I know it shall for me. Now hurry to the Silk Room. You’re late.” He remained in place and watched her scamper up the steps and across the porch. At the door, she sent a quick look over her shoulder. He waved and she went inside.

  Langdon slid his hand into his pocket. Certainly there were times she vexed him, but it could prove enjoyable to spar with her from time to time. After a dispute came reconciliation. If given a full week to consider her foolishness, she’d certainly be ready for reconciliation. Ah, he would teach her so many pleasant means of reconciling…

  Chuckling, he turned and took a step and nearly bumped into the black man who tended the rowboats. Langdon jerked to a stop. “Watch where you’re going.”

  The man stopped, too. “I sorry, suh. I didn’ know you was fixin’ to move in front o’ me.”

  Langdon raised his eyebrows. “Are you mocking me?”

  “Not tryin’ to, suh.”

  “And you’re not trying to make amends, either.” He appraised the man up and down, deliberately scornful. “Look at you, with mud on your knees and some kind of slime all over your hands. If you’d transferred any of that muck onto my clothes, you would have paid to have them cleaned. Or replaced.”

  “I be mo’ careful from now on.” His words seemed apologetic, but the sullen glimmer in his eyes stirred Langdon’s ire.

  Langdon leaned in close. So close he spotted his own reflection in the man’s pupils. So close the odor of sweat and mildew and, of all the strange aromas, onions filled his nostrils. “See that you do.” He glared into the man’s dark eyes for several seconds before straightening, adjusting his lapels, and stepping around him.

  Quincy

  He’d meant to go to the maintenance building, wash up at the pump, and go buy himself a bowl of rice, shrimp, and stewed tomatoes at the Negro Building. How many times’d he breathed in the good smell coming from the brass kettle on the stove outside the building and swallowed the spit pooling under his tongue? He’d brung a extra nickel so he could buy lunch instead of carrying it from home, the way he’d done every day up until now. But Quincy wasn’t hungry no more. Langdon Rochester done stole the hungry right out of him. If he wasn’t gonna eat, no sense in washing. He’d only get dirty again.

  He hid his smeary hands in his pockets and plodded back to the lake. Why’d Rochester have to take a mind to move just when Quincy was passing by? Quincy’d been there first, but rich white men was always right in they own eyes, no matter if it was true or not. And that Rochester, he didn’t never see hisself as wrong. Quincy bristled, remembering how the man had eyeballed him, all squinty, with disgust oozing outta him.

  The rowboat he’d left bottom side up beside the lake still had a goodly amount of stringy green slime on it. Where’d that stuff come from, anyway? He’d scrub it off, and the very next week, it’d be there again. It sure was unsightly, so when it creeped up high enough to show, he flipped the rowboats and scrubbed ’em clean. That Rochester fellow rode the boats more’n any other one person on the whole grounds, but did he appreciate Quincy
making the rowboats clean? No. All he do is fuss about getting his fancy clothes messy.

  Bet Rochester woulda said “excuse me” if Quincy’d been wearing the blue-pinchecked suit instead of his ratty work clothes. He couldn’t hardly wait for his suit and vest and bow tie to come from the catalog store. He’d wear it to the exposition and search out Langdon Rochester. He’d walk right across the man’s path on purpose and hear his “excuse me.” Then he’d go home and tell Mam, “See, what’s on the outside do make things different.”

  Quincy smiled, thinking of it. But sitting here grinning wouldn’t get the boat clean. He swished the grimy rag in the water until most of the green washed off. Then he put it to use again, rubbing so hard his arm muscles burned. Maybe he should forget about Rochester. Who cared what a high-and-mighty white man think, anyway? Mam’d scold again, probably louder this time, if she knew he’d come close to letting loose with his temper. Only thing stopped him was not wanting to be owned by something.

  He paused and crinkled his brow. Mam’d declared she was still a slave. His stomach went trembly as he recalled how her face’d been all dreamy and somber at the same time. It sure didn’t make sense to Quincy. Her and Pap, they’d been set free by the Emancipation Proclamation. That was the first thing Pap wanted to read when he learned his letters and how to turn ’em into words. Pap could say whole parts of the proclamation from memory. It meant that much to know he wasn’t owned no more by a white master.

  Mam had told Quincy to think, and he’d thunk. A lot. Especially on what she said about being owned. He searched his memory and recalled her words.

  “If you’s owned, you a slave. Ever’body who’s born got two choices—be owned by God or be owned by sin.”

  Seemed like there should oughta be a third choice—not be owned by nothing except hisself. That’s the one he’d choose.

  “Tate! You, Tate!”

  He sat up straight and searched for the caller. The man who worked the leg part of the sock-shaped lake was hollering from the bridge. Quincy cupped his hands beside his mouth and bellowed, “What is it, Cass?”