by Deeanne Gist
He let them do the other end, then taught them how to tie a figure eight knot. “Once you learn this one, you can use it for more complicated knots.”
Before they all had a chance to practice it, Mrs. Sloop rang the bell. The children jumped, dropped everything, and hurried to do her bidding.
“Night, mister!” they hollered.
Watching them go, he realized they didn’t even know his name, nor he theirs.
CHAPTER
Twenty-six
Cool temperatures reminded Mack that Christmas wouldn’t be too long in coming. The sharp, heavy smell of coal fires from chimneys throughout town mingled with the wood fires from the orphanage.
Mack handed out fly swatters and empty jelly jars to the boys in the yard. “Now I want you to go all through the building and kill as many flies as you can, then put them in your jar. Whoever kills the most by the end of the week will get a licorice stick.”
Thus armed, the boys charged inside to fulfill their mission, Artie in the lead. Mack hadn’t known what to expect from the teener who shared a room with Homer and had been locked in the basement, but never did he imagine the boy’s zest for life. He had a bent for practical jokes and often acted as the Pied Piper for the rest of the crew, leading them into all kinds of mischief.
Though his face was youthful, his arms and legs had outgrown the rest of him. He’d be as tall as Mack in a few more years. What had endeared him to Mack the most, though, was the youth’s dogged determination to take Homer under his wing. Unfortunately, the thing which never failed to draw Homer out was the participation in a bit of tomfoolery.
Mack had followed their sound of laughter one afternoon only to find the two of them sitting in the washroom spitting at the ceiling. Artie was quite proficient and could make his spittle stick to the ceiling. But when Homer tried, he ended up with a mess all over his face and shoulders. One look at Homer’s sparkling eyes, though, and the scolding on Mack’s lips died a sudden death.
Another time, Mack had been repairing the roof when he saw Artie creep into the yard below the schoolroom’s window, smear strawberry jam on his face and chest, then lie down as if he’d just been shot on a battlefield and had the blood to prove it.
As Mack had prepared to holler down and ask him what the blazes he was doing, pandemonium broke out in the schoolroom. “Mrs. Sloop! Mrs. Sloop!” Homer had hollered. “Artie’s done jumped out the winder!”
Chuckling at the memory and marveling at how far Homer had come, Mack listened to the cries of victory inside as the boys hit their buzzing targets. The back door opened and little Becca, a thin ten-year-old with dull red braids and freckles, shuffled toward the outhouse.
His smile faded. The boys might find themselves the recipients of a swat or two during the course of a day, but the girls silently suffered Sloop’s fists. Never when Mack was around. Only in the after-work hours. It was Artie who’d confirmed Mack’s suspicion.
“You two are awfully subdued this morning,” Mack had told the boy yesterday as he pumped water for the pail he and Becca were filling.
“Sloop was prowling last night.”
“Prowling? What do you mean?”
“Show Mr. Danver yer knee, Becca.”
Setting down her pail, Becca hitched up her hem and pulled down her ragged stocking to reveal a swollen and severely bruised knee.
Artie tightened his lips. “She gots lots more, don’t ya?”
Drawing up her stocking without the least show of modesty, she nodded, picked up her pail, and finished filling it with water.
The sound of a carriage pulled Mack back into the present. Glancing down the street, he saw the Vanderbilt landau making its way up the hill, Earl in the driver’s seat. Its top had been folded down, making no allowance for the nip in the air.
Chest tightening, Mack scanned the interior of the vehicle for Tillie but could only see Mr. Vanderbilt. A moment more and it was clear the owner of Biltmore was traveling alone.
Earl pulled into the packed-dirt yard, then jumped down to open the door for his master.
Mack had rarely seen Vanderbilt up close and had never spoken to him. He was a tall, thin, unassuming man with ordinary hair and ordinary features. He wore a simple clay worsted coat. If it hadn’t been for the landau, no one would ever suspect he was worth millions.
Vanderbilt smiled and offered Mack a hand. “Danver. Good to see you.”
Mack clasped it. “Sir.”
“My wife was sorely disappointed to lose you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Vanderbilt ran his gaze over the property. “I hear you’ve been hard at it. The place is really coming along.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He gave him a sideways glance. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into coming back?”
“I’m needed here, sir.”
“Of course you are.” He tugged his gloves on more tightly. “The reason I came by is Mrs. Vanderbilt asked me to see if you would still carve the wooden animals she was hoping to give the Reese boys at Christmas.”
Mack nodded. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve made a few already, but it will be a while before I finish them all.”
“Excellent, excellent. I brought you some tools, just to make sure you had everything you needed.”
Earl removed a box from the landau.
Releasing its latch, Vanderbilt lifted the lid. “Since I had Earl with me, I was able to find a knife that would fit your hand.”
Fit his hand? He’d bought a knife specifically for Mack? He glanced at his brother, then the box. Inside was not only a knife, but five different blades, a sharpening block, a strop, a set of palm chisels, and an assortment of gouges, rasps, and sanding sticks.
He picked up the knife. Its walnut handle was well balanced and comfortable. Never had he used one so fine. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of these and be sure to return everything when I’m done.”
“No need for that. It would just sit on some shelf collecting dust. Besides, I thought you might want to teach the boys here how to whittle.”
Mack blinked. “I imagine I could.”
“And so you should.” He again assessed the newly replaced windows and repaired roof, then clapped Mack on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re doing. And if you take time to share your knowledge with the boys, it’ll give them much more than a skill. It’ll give them hope.”
Mack stared at him, somewhat abashed to realize it hadn’t occurred to him to tutor the boys. Yet there was so much he could teach them. Not just whittling and knot tying, but how to use a hammer. How to dovetail wood. How to clean a chimney. Repair a fence. The possibilities were endless.
Closing the lid, Vanderbilt handed him the box. “Just send the bill to me for the toys and we’ll square up.”
“These tools are payment plenty, sir.”
“The tools are a gift, Danver. You send that bill when – ”
The front door burst open, then slammed behind Homer. “Lookit, Mr. Danver! Lookit here!”
He raced toward them, fly swatter in one hand, jar in another. “Look how many I done killed already!”
Mack steadied the boy with a hand on the shoulder. “Say hello to Mr. Vanderbilt, Homer.”
The boy glanced up at Vanderbilt, then eased into Mack’s side a bit. “How do, sir.” When he saw Earl, his eyes widened. “Mr. Danver,” he whispered, tugging on Mack’s jacket. “That feller done stole yer looks.”
“This is my twin brother.”
Homer stared at Earl as if he were the two-headed man at a circus act.
“What have you got there, young man?” Vanderbilt asked, drawing the boy’s attention.
Homer’s excitement over the contest made him forget his shyness. He held up his jar, littered with a layer of dead flies. “Mr. Danver’s havin’ a Swat That Fly contest. Whoever kills the most gets a licorice stick! Want me to get ya a swatter and jar so you can have a chance?”
Before Vanderbilt could answer, the d
oor opened and Sloop hurried out. “Homer Nash, get to your lessons.”
Starting, the boy hid the swatter and jar behind his back. “Yes, sir.”
He made a wide circle around Sloop, then raced inside.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m so sorry you were kept waiting. I didn’t know you were coming.” Sloop scowled at Mack. “See to your business, Danver.”
He gave a nod, then turned to Vanderbilt. “Thank you again, sir.”
“Any time. Just let me know if you need anything else. Paint, perhaps? Would you like some paint?”
“That would finish them off nicely, sir.”
“Consider it done.”
Sloop adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “Actually, Mr. Vanderbilt, I handle all the acquisitions.”
Vanderbilt held out a hand to the director. “Good to see you, Sloop. I came to ask Danver if he would do a little side job for me. I hope that is acceptable to you?”
“Certainly, certainly.” He waved a hand toward the orphanage. “Do you have time for a drink?”
After a slight hesitation, Vanderbilt accompanied Sloop inside.
“Swat That Fly?” Earl asked, as soon as the door had closed behind them.
“It’s as bad as a biblical plague in there. Blomberg over at the emporium donated the swatters and the licorice stick.”
Earl surveyed the yard and building. “How’re you liking it here?”
“I’m going crazy, Earl.”
“Already? You’ve not even been back in town a month.”
Removing his hat, Mack tunneled a hand through his hair. “I know, but I’m feeling hemmed in anyway, wishing I was back on the mountain. Biltmore was bad enough, but at least it was out in open country. But here . . .” He looked at the vacant buildings crowding the street and the gray smoke hovering like a cloud over town. “It’s enough to drive a man to Bedlam.”
“So quit. Go home. There’s nothing to stop you. Ora Lou has a job, so she can take care of herself now.”
Mack sighed. “I know, but it feels almost irresponsible to leave these kids here with Sloop. And the missus is just as bad, if not worse.”
“They’re just orphans.”
Mack tightened his jaw. “So are we.”
“And we’re doing just fine.”
“Just fine?” Mack huffed. “We pawned off our flesh and blood to neighbors we hardly know and never see. How is that just fine?”
Earl cocked his head. “What’s the matter with you?”
Mack again scanned the buildings on the street, cursing civilization and man’s desire to make his mark. What was wrong with looking out your window and seeing nothing but God’s green earth?
“I’m feeling guilty about Ikey, Otis, and John-John,” Mack said finally. “But at least they’re still on the mountain with individual families. They’ll do for the time being. But these kids?” He waved a hand toward the orphanage. “I’m finding I can’t simply walk off and leave them.”
“You’re just one person, Mack. You can’t take on the whole world.”
Mack turned a steady gaze onto his brother. “No, but I can take on one orphanage.”
Tillie pulled her jacket tighter about her, though it wasn’t the chill in the air that had her shivering. It was the prospect of seeing Mack. She’d been sent to town on errands, one of which was to take him paints for the wooden toys he was carving. If Earl had been driving, she would’ve had him deliver the paints.
But Charlie, the coachman who’d broken his arm, had healed. Today’s jaunt to Asheville was his first trip since returning to duty and the cold air had made his bones ache. The man was in so much pain, he insisted on staying in the driver’s seat, forcing her to enter the orphanage unescorted.
The closer she drew, the more anxious she became. She wanted to see Mack. Had missed him more than she thought possible. Yet nothing had changed. She wasn’t going to quit her job, or marry him.
Regardless of what he’d said, the things she did served the greater good. She didn’t owe him or anyone else justifications for her decision.
Squeals of laughter drew her attention to the side yard of the orphanage. The children were lined up beside a merry-go-round of sorts.
A tall pole had been sunk into the ground. A large wagon wheel lay secured on top, like an umbrella. Attached to the wheel’s rim were ropes of varying lengths. The children took hold of the ropes and ran around the pole, causing the wheel to rotate. Before long the wheel turned so fast, the ropes lifted them clean off their feet, swinging them in the air.
She scanned the crowd and spotted Homer, but not Mack.
The yard was immaculate. The building in good repair. The windows set to rights. The roof held spots of bright new shingles.
She veered toward the children. None wore coats. A few of the boys were barefoot. She stopped next to a young girl standing at the end of the line. Her cheeks were sunken. Her red braids lackluster.
“Excuse me.”
The girl looked up, then edged closer to the boy beside her.
He glanced over his shoulder at Tillie. “Who’re you?”
“I’m looking for the useful man. Do you know where I might find him?”
“Mr. Danver?” he asked. “He’s in the shed.”
She started to ask where that was when she spotted Homer again. Smiling, she caught up to him. “Hello. Remember me?”
A wide smile crossed his face. “You came. I didn’t think ya would.”
He looked wonderful, though she could still see a bit of melancholy in his eyes. Squatting down, she took his hand. “I came the very next Sunday, but Mrs. Sloop said you were napping and wouldn’t be up until dark.”
“Napping?” He shook his head. “Nobody naps round here. Not even on Sundays.”
“You don’t?” So Mack was right. “What about the babies?”
“Ain’t no babies here. Mrs. Sloop don’t allow ’em. Says they’re too much trouble.” He tilted his head. “How come you didn’t come see me all them other Sundays?”
She swallowed. “I only get every other Sunday off, and lately I’ve had a lot of extra work and wasn’t able to make it to town.”
Mack’s prediction about the lack of freedom she would have as lady’s maid rang in her head. She pushed it aside. Things would settle down after Christmas.
“I see you have a new merry-go-round,” she said.
“Yep. Mr. Danver let us help him build it. We used a bunch o’ stuff he collected from the yard. But he only had one rope and wouldn’t let us use it.”
The group at the swings lifted into the air, shrieking with delight.
“Where did you get the ropes, then?” she asked.
“From the graveyard. They had some old ones they used fer lowerin’ the pine boxes with, but they don’t need ’em no more on account as they always have to have new ones. Folks don’t like it if they drop the dead people into the holes. They want ’em lowered real slow-like.”
She bit her cheek. “I imagine they do. Where’s Mr.
Danver?”
“In the shed round back.”
The wheel slowed to a stop, the children let go of the ropes, and the next bunch rushed in.
“That’s me!” Homer said. “Gotta go.”
She watched for a moment until his little legs lifted off the ground, his grin wide, revealing a missing lower tooth.
Waving good-bye, she headed to the backyard.
The newly constructed shed was not much bigger than a side-by-side outhouse. The door stood open, soft lantern light glowing within.
She caught sight of Mack polishing something small with a rag. A rush of feelings ran through her, not the least of which was her reaction to the final kiss they’d shared.
Gathering herself together, she stepped up to the entryway.
“Hello.”
He swung around, flinging whatever it was he’d been polishing across the room and bumping his hip into the edge of the table. It teetered, then settled back onto its feet.
&nb
sp; The two of them stood, he inside, she at the threshold, doing no more than absorbing the sight of the other. His skin had taken on a golden hue only hours in the sun could cause. His hair needed cutting. His shirt, ironing.
She lifted the bag in her hand. “I brought you some paint and an assortment of brushes.”
He made no move to take them.
She stepped inside and set them on the table, the glass bottles clinking. “The place looks nice. You’ve been busy.”
Still he said nothing, so she allowed her gaze to wander the shed, noting how everything had a proper place. A rake with a few prongs missing. A shovel with a rusted spade. A coiled rope with backspliced ends.
Her eyes returned to his big brown ones.
“Homer says you helped them build that merry-go-round out there,” she said.
Snapping out of his daze, he glanced toward the front yard as if he could see through the walls. “Yeah. I’ve, um, I’ve shown them how to do a lot of things, actually.”
“Have you?” She smiled. “They must love that.”
“The boys do, but the girls . . .” A pained expression crossed his face. “I’m of no help at all to the girls.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Sloop sees to them.”
“She doesn’t.” He tossed the cloth on the table. “You’d think she’d have them cook and clean and sew and all that stuff. But they don’t do any of those things. They just do lesson after lesson, spend hours on their knees saying prayers and memorizing their Bibles, then start all over again the next day.”
“Then who cooks and sews and cleans for them?”
“Nobody.”
She frowned. “They have to eat, Mack.”
“Well, yes, of course. There’s an old gal who comes in and cooks and the girls do scullery for her. But nobody cleans their bedding or darns or any of that stuff.”
The filth she’d glimpsed before flashed through her mind. She pictured Homer’s room without so much as a pitcher or washbasin. “How’s Ora Lou? Have you seen her?”
“I’ve seen her, and she’s fine.” His lips thinned. “I can’t say the same for Irene, though. Whatever Sloop’s doing to her and the other girls, he does it when I’m gone at night.”