The Carousel Painter

by Judith Miller

  Josef placed his palms on the desk and pushed himself up from the chair. Wariness shadowed his eyes as he walked Mr. Galloway to the door. I, too, stepped toward the exit, but Josef motioned me to remain, saying, “We need to discuss the changes in your work duties.”

  I didn’t miss the edge in his voice but was thankful I’d soon be doing something other than sanding. Josef stepped out of the room with Mr. Galloway. I hoped the men would begin to respect me once they saw I was qualified to paint the horses or perhaps one of the beautiful scenes that decorated the crown of the carousel.

  Josef’s gait was slow and determined when he returned to the office a few moments later. He gathered my drawings and bounced the edges on top of the stained wooden desk. I wanted to hurdle across the expanse and retrieve them, but I maintained my distance and kept my attention fixed upon the drawings—prepared to leap into action should they slip from his hands. They didn’t.

  Using two fingers, Mr. Kaestner drew open the lower desk drawer and dropped the pages inside. I could no longer contain myself and leaned forward when he pushed the drawer back into place.

  He looked up and met my eyes. “They will be safe in the desk, Miss Brouwer.”

  “I’d prefer to keep them with me. I can put them with my sketch pad in the other room.”

  “They will not do us much good in there, ja? If I am to fix your drawings into workable designs, I’ll need them available when I find some time for the extra work.”

  I shrunk back. His emphasis upon the added duties had come through loud and clear. “I’ll be glad to help in any way possible,” I offered.

  “Enough you have done already, Miss Brouwer.” He stood and strode out of the room. I hurried behind him, still wiping away the flecks of primer that speckled my face and hair. I managed to hold my head high even though several of the men in the carving shop glared at me as we passed by. Soon they’d understand my employment had more to do with my talent than the fact that I was acquainted with the factory owner’s daughter.

  He waved me onward. “I’ll tell Mr. Tobarth he can show you how to stipple the horses, but first I must stop at the roundhouse.”

  I remained close on his heels and followed him inside the circular room where numerous men were busy assembling the crown of a carousel. I took up a position beside the stack of sandbags used to add rider weight to the beautiful carousel horses during the testing process. Mr. Tobarth had explained that each new carousel must be assembled and operated with the added weight before it could be declared fit for shipment to the new owner.

  The shipping crates were assembled in a small room off the roundhouse, and from the frenzied hammering and shouts, I guessed the men had fallen behind schedule. An older man with a drooping mustache that matched his downturned eyes stopped as he neared me. “This is all your fault. Why don’t you get out of here and go find yerself a husband! If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be short of help.” Each venomous word struck home, and I longed to run from the room.

  “Get those crates moved to the other side of the room,” Josef shouted as he approached. He waved me forward. “Come along.”

  When we arrived in the paint room, Josef pointed to the far wall. “Stay there while I speak to Mr. Tobarth.”

  I would have preferred to be present for the conversation between the two men, but I didn’t press the point. Standing in the appointed spot, I watched the animated conversation. Mr. Tobarth pointed first in one direction and then another. Like molten wax, the supervisor’s facial expressions transformed in slow motion. Josef, however, remained unflappable. Throughout the conversation, his arms remained folded across his chest, his legs positioned in a firm military stance.

  Finally, Mr. Kaestner signaled for me to join them. Pasting on what I hoped was a smile, I trod the distance while the two men stared at me. Discomfort inched up my spine.

  The smile didn’t evoke a response from either of them. Neither appeared happy. Josef was the first to make a move. He dropped his arms from their folded position and pointed to a row of horses. “Mr. Tobarth says he wants you to learn the fancy painting.”

  I could barely believe what I’d heard. “No stippling?” I asked, just to be certain I hadn’t misunderstood.

  Mr. Tobarth shook his head. “Gus can take care of the stippling, and we can use solid-colored horses while we’re runnin’ behind. Right now, I need help with the finish work. You said you know how to paint, so I say we let you prove it.” He glanced toward Mr. Kaestner. “I hope my trust in you ain’t been misplaced, Miss Brouwer.”

  So that’s why they’d been arguing. Mr. Kaestner wanted to keep me on the dappling or solid painting, while Mr. Tobarth wanted me doing finish work. The thought that I would be painting detail work was the best news I’d had since I’d been hired. “I believe you’ll be pleased with the decision, Mr. Tobarth.”

  Josef turned and walked away, but not before shooting me a you’d-better-be-right look that curbed my enthusiasm.

  Mr. Tobarth pointed toward a box of paintbrushes. “You can use those brushes,” he said. “And don’t let Josef get you down. He never likes to lose a battle—’specially when he thinks he’s right.” He walked me toward a beautiful brown horse with tan dappling. “You can get started on this fine fellow.” He patted the horse on the rump. “You’re gonna have to do above average work to impress Josef, so don’t rush. He don’t approve shoddy workmanship, and neither do I.”

  “What happens if my work is found lacking?” I didn’t expect such a thing to happen but thought it best to know the consequences in advance.

  “You’ll have to request a sand-down. Then you’ll start over. If the animal’s features are weakened too much during the sand-down, you’ll have to toss it in the heap.”

  “Heap?”

  Mr. Tobarth pointed to a small pile of wood stacked in the far corner. “Takes too much of a carver’s time to try to recapture what once was perfection. Takes less time to just start over. ’Course you’ll make no friends among the carvers if they discover one of their horses in that heap. And believe me, they keep an eye on that woodpile.”

  The thought of ruining any of the animals stirred my fears. The men already disliked me. How would they behave if I ruined one of their horses? I walked around the animal, contemplating exactly what I wanted to do and what colors would be best. The face of a court jester had been carved behind the cantle, and I knew I would have great fun painting him. I ran my hand along the smooth wood, my fingers dipping into the intricately carved crevices that created the horse’s flowing mane. A garland of perfect roses and leaves draped downward across the body in perfect symmetry. “Who carved this horse?”

  “Mr. Kaestner—one of his new designs. You’ll need two to three days for each color to dry and harden. Paint as much as possible on each horse before movin’ to the next one in the rack. You can use as many colors as you like, but be sure one color is dry before you touch it with another. If not, the colors will bleed and you’ll have a mess.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I dared not ruin this one. Tilting my shoulders back, I glanced down the row of horses. Given the number of horses that awaited paint, I’d probably end up working on a horse from every one of the carvers. Gathering my courage, I donned my apron, picked up a paintbrush, and gave a firm nod. First, I’d need to decide exactly what colors I wanted to use and where I wanted to begin. I walked around the horse and considered my choices. I’d begin with the center of the roses and use the same color on the jester’s hat—or perhaps I should begin by shading the nostrils and eyes. Tapping the wooden tip of the paintbrush against my cheek, I considered several options for the blanket and saddle. They would need to contrast perfectly, and I’d need to layer the shading, which would take several different colors.

  Startled by a loud gravelly sound, I dropped the paintbrush and swiveled around to see Mr. Tobarth watching me. He cleared his throat again and pointed to the horse. “I said you shouldn’t rush, Miss Brouwer, but I didn’t mean
you could spend the remainder of the day decidin’ on your colors and technique. The woodworkers have given you beautifully carved outlines. I’d think with your artist trainin’, you could add the paint without so much thought.”

  “Yes, of course.” I could feel the heat rising into my cheeks. “I think I’m going to begin with the roses.”

  “Don’t think—just paint.”

  By the end of the day, several of my horses had been moved to the drying rack. They would require a great deal more work before they would be ready for the final sealants. Still, I was pleased with what I’d done and thought my technique as good as any I’d seen on the other horses. Of course, Mr. Tobarth could boast that he’d done more than double the amount of my work. But he’d been doing this much longer. One day I’d be able to keep up with him. And one day I’d set myself apart and use my creativity rather than simply paint what the carvers had designed.

  Josef arrived in time for supper, and I longed to hear what he would say about my accomplishments. By the time he was eating his dessert, I was still waiting. He’d visited with Mrs. Wilson about the spring weather and the flowers she was planning for her garden, and he had asked Mr. Lundgren about work at the glass factory and even requested a set of fresh towels from Mrs. Wilson for the next morning, but he hadn’t said one word to me. Not a word!

  Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I cleared my throat and smiled at Mrs. Wilson. “I began a new job at the factory today.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Wilson’s eyebrows wiggled and gyrated like two arched plumes. “Did you hear what she said, Ralph? Carrie’s got a new job at the factory. Do tell us about it.”

  Mr. Lundgren mumbled his agreement around a bite of dry pound cake. I did my best to remain focused upon Mrs. Wilson or Mr. Lundgren, but my eyes betrayed me and flitted toward Josef. His features were as taut as the strings on Mr. Lundgren’s guitar. I immediately regretted my decision, but there was no turning back. Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren were waiting to hear my report.

  With somewhat dampened enthusiasm, I explained how I’d painted roses and saddles and blankets, and the court jester’s hat, of course. Mrs. Wilson asked lots of questions, and my spirits soon were on the rise.

  “Mr. Tobarth even asked me to add the stripes and final shading to one of the horses he’d been working on for the past two weeks.” Pride swelled in my chest as I completed the account. After folding my hands in my lap, I leaned back in my chair and reveled in a feeling of triumph. In retrospect, it had been a very good day.

  “And what did you think of our Carrie’s accomplishments, Josef?” Mrs. Wilson beamed like a proud parent.

  Josef pushed his dessert plate away and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “The work, it was passable.” He gave one bob of his head. “Ja. Most of the work our Carrie completes is passable.”

  My elation vanished. Passable? Had I heard him correctly? Good sense argued with anger. Anger won and I challenged his comment. “You thought my work merely passable?”

  “You will get better with practice.” He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin and dropped it alongside his plate.

  I took a deep breath before replying, careful to keep a controlled tone. “Exactly what was wrong with my work?”

  “On canvas you were accustomed to painting whatever you desired. Now you must learn to follow the craftsman’s vision. Most carvers are pleased to see a painter make fancy their horses with some added decoration. But first you should learn the basic techniques.” He placed the napkin beside his plate. “And your striping isn’t well defined. Mr. Tobarth tells me you refused his suggestion to use a maulstick.”

  It seemed Josef had scrutinized all of the work I’d completed. Did he want me to fail, or did he check all new painters with such diligence? I decided I’d try to elicit the information from Mr. Tobarth the next morning, but I’d need to be careful in my approach.

  “What’s a maulstick?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “And why didn’t you want to use it, Carrie?”

  “It’s a long stick with a knob on the end that you can use to steady your hand when painting lines and such,” I said, pulling myself back to the present. “I was confident my striping would be straight and steady without using the stick.”

  “And what did you think when you had finished?” Josef leaned his shoulders forward and looked me in the eye.

  The hairs along the back of my neck bristled. Josef wanted me to declare my work hadn’t been perfect. Though I had observed a slight waviness in my striping, everything inside me railed against admitting the truth. I feared he would use such an admission against me. Fingers crossed beneath the table, I said, “My opinion remained the same.”

  “Ach!” He slapped his hand through the air. “You are not willing to admit you failed.”

  “I didn’t fail. I still have much to learn, but Mr. Tobarth said I did a fine job.”

  “He said you did a fine job for your first day—that is not the same as a fine job, Miss Brouwer.” Josef pushed away from the table and stood. “Your striping will need to be touched up. More time lost. I am going back to work, Mrs. Wilson.”

  Before I could further argue my case, he turned and stalked off.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The following day I waited until I was certain my conversation wouldn’t be overheard. The men ignored me, yet listening ears and whispering lips seemed to repeat everything I said. When I spotted Mr. Tobarth painting the trim lines on one of the horses, I decided the time was right and tiptoed to his side.

  “Mr. Kaestner tells me the painting I completed yesterday was only passable and that the striping will need to be repainted.”

  Mr. Tobarth loaded the tip of his brush with a unique shade of blue, one he’d mixed himself. With one long stroke, he laid down perfectly straight lines and then created triangles along the breastplate of a medium-sized jumper—my favorite of the carousel horses thus far.

  “You did a fine job, Miss Brouwer.” He lifted his brush, reloaded it with paint, and continued striping. “It was your first day. I didn’t ’spect it would look perfect.”

  I shifted my weight to gain a better view of his technique. “But have you received perfection from the men on their first days?”

  “You askin’ ’bout the men who’ve been hired to do paint design or them that’s apprenticed first?” He had crouched low to align his strokes while he continued along the front of the breastplate.

  “The ones hired to paint design,” I said, careful to keep my voice low.

  The familiar scent of paint fumes filled my nostrils. I hunched forward to hear his response because I didn’t want Louis, the other painter, to overhear our conversation. I hadn’t failed to notice his furtive movement along a nearby rack of horses. No doubt he’d be reporting everything he heard to the other men. I wondered if he’d been eavesdropping before leaving work yesterday. Had he heard Josef and Mr. Tobarth evaluate my painting? If so, the men had probably already heard, already discussed, already taken pleasure in knowing my work had been deemed merely passable.

  “Your straight-line work isn’t up to par.”

  His brief assessment startled me back to the present.

  “You’ll get better. Especially if you use a maulstick,” he said.

  “But you don’t use one.”

  “I been doin’ this for thirty years. I used a stick when I first started. Ain’t no shame in using a tool if it helps you do a better job.” He pointed the tip of his brush toward the other room. “The carvers use any tool that helps them create the best-lookin’ animal. Painters need to do the same. If we’re gonna outshine those Philadelphia and New York factories, we got to be willin’ to push our pride aside.”

  Pride? Is that what Mr. Tobarth thought? That I’m an arrogant woman, unwilling to accept direction? Warmth climbed up my neck and spread across my cheeks. I didn’t want to admit he was right, but my refusal to use the maulstick told another story—at least to Mr. Tobarth.

  He pushed up fr
om his stooped position and stretched his neck. “If you ain’t got no questions, Louis, you can begin workin’ on the horse at the end of the second rack. We ain’t got time to be wandering around doin’ nothin’.”

  “What’s she workin’ on?” Louis called out.

  “Unless Mr. Kaestner told you to take over as supervisor of the paint shop, it ain’t none of your business what she’s doin’. Now move that horse and get to work.”

  A silent cheer reverberated deep inside my chest and worked its way up my throat. Quickly slapping my palm tight against my lips, I managed to smother the cheer into a throaty cough. I’d learned this particular technique due to my bouts of unexpected giggles throughout the years. My method had come in handy on a number of occasions, though it did have one disadvantage: I often received forceful yet well-intentioned slaps on the back. I’d borne my share of bruises after such episodes.

  Mr. Tobarth added a daub of navy blue to the azure and mixed the two colors with his brush. “You think you might want to use a maulstick today?” He glanced up while he continued to stir the bristles in the paint.

  “Yes, but I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about Mr. Kaestner.”

  His lips curved in a lopsided grin. “If you got questions about Josef, why don’t you ask him? You live at the same boardinghouse.”

  I leaned close to his ear. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  Mr. Tobarth chuckled. “You think he knows you well enough to decide somethin’ like that? You ain’t been around long enough for that.”

  “Some people make immediate judgments.” I leaned in just a bit. “Don’t you think?”

  He shrugged. “I s’pose. But not Josef. He’s a solid kind of fella. Takes things slow and steady—studies ’em out. Does the same with people.” With practiced ease, Mr. Tobarth drew his brush across the horse and formed a perfect line.