The Carousel Painter

by Judith Miller

  Mr. Lundgren pushed his hat back on his head. “Just like a woman.”

  Josef glanced over Mr. Lundgren’s shoulder and grinned at me. “Ja, just like a woman.”

  Shortly after we arrived at work on Monday morning, I could sense Josef’s concern. Even from across the vast expanse of the paint shop, I could tell something was amiss. He remained at a distance, where he wouldn’t be detected by the visiting strangers, yet I could see him watching their every move. His attention shifted back and forth, skimming faces among the group.

  Who were these men and why had he been excluded? I wondered. Lifting my paints, I moved to the leopard’s head.

  “Who are they?” I hissed at Mr. Tobarth.

  He lifted one shoulder and just as quickly dropped it back in place. “Don’t know, but they’re sure lookin’ things over.”

  I considered the gathering of men Mr. Galloway had escorted to the rear of the paint shop. They were talking in hushed tones. “None of them are men you knew in Philadelphia, are they?”

  Mr. Tobarth’s lips curled in a lopsided grin. “None of the fellows I knew dressed like that.”

  “What about the owners? I’ll bet they did.” I dipped my paint into a mixture of pale pink I was using to shade the cat’s large tongue.

  After one tentative step that brought him farther into the paint shop, Josef took another step, then squared his shoulders. Holding a paper in one hand, he walked up to Mr. Tobarth with an assured stride. He didn’t look toward the men who had gathered around Mr. Galloway in a semicircle. Drawing near, he stooped down between the two of us and pointed to the blank piece of paper while he talked.

  “Those men, I think they are here to purchase the factory,” he said.

  “How is that possible? You own part of the factory. Besides, Mr. Galloway isn’t interested in selling this place. Augusta would have told me if he had such a plan.”

  “When did you last talk to her?” Mr. Tobarth tapped the wooden tip of his paintbrush against one of his front teeth while he waited for my reply.

  “I haven’t heard from her since she left a month ago, but I’m certain she would have written and told me.”

  “If she knows,” Mr. Tobarth said. “Her father has been in Collins-ford more than he’s been with his family out at that summer place. She probably don’t have any idea what he’s doin’ with his business. Long as she has a new dress to wear to the next party, I don’t think she’d care what’s happenin’ here.”

  Pointing my paintbrush in Mr. Tobarth’s direction, I said, “I think I know Augusta better than the two of you. She does care and she would tell me.” I was tempted to emphasize my point by daubing a dot of pink paint on the tip of his broad nose, but the visitors had dispersed and were moving in our direction.

  Josef made a great show of folding the paper and striding off toward his office at the front of the building. Soon Mr. Galloway and the group came closer. I wanted to throw a sheet over my leopard so they couldn’t see it before it was completed and part of a working carousel. Apparently Mr. Galloway didn’t share my concern that someone might steal our ideas, for he pointed out the leopard, as well as the elephant, a mountain sheep, and several partially painted horses positioned in the drying rack. What was he thinking?

  Mr. Tobarth remained focused upon his work, looking neither right nor left. Two of the men directed questions to him, but none came my way. In fact, the men stared at me as though I were one of the carousel animals on display—much as Mrs. Galloway had stared at me the first day I’d arrived in Collinsford.

  When we departed for the boardinghouse after work, Josef quizzed me at length. He’d discovered very little useful information from Mr. Tobarth. I told him the men had inquired about the length of time it took Mr. Tobarth to paint the carousel animals, his choice of painting techniques, and how many years he’d worked at the factory. Other than that, they’d remained aloof while they circled around for several minutes to watch him paint.

  “And they said nothing about buying the factory?”

  He’d already asked that same question three times, and each time I gave the same reply. Finally I sighed and came to a halt in the middle of the brick sidewalk. “Do you think I would tell you a lie about such a thing?”

  “I hope you would not lie to me about anything. But my concern is great. Not a word did Mr. Galloway say to me before he left the factory with those men.” He motioned me to begin walking. “You do not think that is strange?”

  “I don’t think you should worry. It will do no good.”

  “This is true, but it is difficult.”

  I nodded. I knew exactly how difficult. For far too long, I’d been worrying about Mrs. Galloway’s jewelry. It had been nearly impossible to cease fretting, but it hadn’t done me one smidgen of good. And it wouldn’t help Josef, either.

  “Why don’t we work on the new drawings this evening?” If I could keep Josef busy, maybe he wouldn’t worry.

  “We are working too much. After supper we should go to the park instead.”

  I didn’t argue. The park sounded much more inviting.

  I didn’t see Mr. Galloway arrive at the factory the next morning, but around nine-thirty Gus Werner, one of the carvers, came to the paint shop and nudged Mr. Tobarth. “Mr. Galloway just left the factory, and Josef wants to see you in the office.” Gus still hadn’t accepted me as an equal, and he didn’t meet my gaze, but he cocked his head toward the front of the factory, “He wants to see you, too, Miss Brouwer.” He stepped toward our paints. “I’ll see to your brushes.”

  Standing up, Mr. Tobarth grunted his approval. I clipped along at a near run in order to keep up with his long-legged stride across the paint room and up to the front of the factory. The minute we entered Josef’s office, I knew something was amiss. Josef’s leg was jiggling so fast he could have churned cream into butter. He gestured for us to enter the room and pointed for Mr. Tobarth to close the door.

  “Sit down, sit down!” He swatted toward the chairs, and the two of us dropped quickly into place.

  Josef’s behavior disturbed me, but I waited in silence. Apparently Mr. Tobarth sensed a need to remain silent, too, for he sat there as though he’d been struck dumb.

  “Mr. Galloway says those men who were here yesterday are very impressed with our new designs.” Josef leaned across the desk, his eyes dark and brooding.

  Confusion muddled my brain. Wasn’t that a good thing? We’d been working at a feverish pace to design something that would bring in more orders and distinguish our factory from those in Philadelphia and Brooklyn. I waited for Mr. Tobarth’s response. I did my best to force something from the older man: I cleared my throat, moved my leg close, and poked his shoe. I even jabbed my elbow into his side. He sat there like a lump on a log until I could no longer keep my mouth shut.

  “Isn’t that what we hoped for?” My voice was paper thin.

  Josef leaned across the paper-strewn desk and looked at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses. “They didn’t place one order—not one. They aren’t interested in purchasing our carousels.”

  A lump the size of a grapefruit formed in my stomach. “But they looked excited when they saw the drawings and the animals.”

  “That much I already know.” Josef shoved the clutter into his desk and slammed the drawer. If only this problem could be so easily eradicated.

  “Didn’t Mr. Galloway say anything to you?”

  Josef leaned forward and rested his forehead in his palms. “No. When I approached him, he said he would talk to me later. There is something more to this.”

  Mr. Tobarth scooted to the edge of his chair. “Maybe he needs money and figures the easiest way is to sell your designs and then have the two of you come up with something different for us to make.”

  I jerked to attention. “They aren’t his designs. They are ours—mine and Josef’s. How can he sell them?”

  “You work for him, and I figure that makes ’em his. He probably feels the same way.” />
  Josef’s complexion had turned the shade of the milk paint used to prime the horses. “You think that is it, Henry? He plans to sell our designs?”

  “I’m only makin’ a guess, Josef. Who can know what those rich businessmen are thinkin’.” He looked over his shoulder toward the paint shop. “We can talk ’bout this later. Right now, there’s work that needs to be done.”

  Josef nodded. “Ja. But who can say for how long.”

  The ominous tone of his voice matched his downcast features. There would be much to discuss this evening.

  CHAPTER

  23

  For the remainder of the week, Josef ’s worrisome mood prevailed. His downcast disposition even continued throughout the weekend. Nothing I said or did helped. Sunday’s sermon taught about casting your cares upon Jesus, a topic I thought particularly appropriate to the problem. Unfortunately, the message had no positive effect upon Josef. By Monday morning, I was pleased to return to the paint shop, where I wouldn’t be faced with his discouraged demeanor and negative comments.

  The day progressed without incident, and for that I was grateful. No men in business suits paraded through the factory to see our work or look at drawings and designs. Mr. Galloway made no further appearances at the factory. It seemed as though all had returned to normal. It was as though the incidents of the previous week had never occurred. Except when I looked at Josef’s face.

  At day’s end he stood at the factory door, as glum as when we’d entered. I strolled toward him, my lunch pail in one hand and my sketch pad secure beneath my arm. I forced a smile. The muscles in his face didn’t move a sixteenth of an inch. I couldn’t even detect a slight twitch.

  The heavy wood door had been wedged open, and the summer breeze greeted me with more enthusiasm than Josef’s sullen features. I inhaled a deep breath, determined to lift his spirits. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful evening.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and listened to the silence between us.

  “I said, it looks like it’s going—”

  “Ja. I heard what you said.”

  He grabbed his lunch pail from where it had been resting on the floor and strode out of the building as though he couldn’t get away fast enough. Usually I had to go to his office and force him away from his desk, but not today.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the open door. “Who is going to lock the building?” Securing the building had always been Josef’s job, unless he was away. Then Mr. Tobarth took charge.

  “Henry will see to it,” he said.

  “Mr. Tobarth is in charge of the factory now?”

  “Nein.” He coupled his curt response with an annoyed look that let me know he didn’t want to discuss the factory, and I wondered if Mr. Galloway had made an appearance sometime during the day. He could have come and gone, and we would have never seen him back in the paint shop. Yet I didn’t want to ask. It would only create more discord.

  I stopped beside the entrance. “Mr. Tobarth has already left through the rear door.”

  Josef grunted and kicked the piece of wood from beneath the door. He waited until it slammed shut and shoved a key into the lock. “There! It is locked.”

  I remained beside the closed door and stared at him, completely dumbfounded by his behavior. When he finally looked at me, I tugged on my earlobe. I hoped the act would lighten his mood, but my attempt fell as flat as one of Mrs. Wilson’s banana cakes.

  As we neared the boardinghouse, Josef’s lips tightened into a thin line. He lifted his nose in the air. “Mrs. Wilson has burned the cabbage again. This, I do not need.”

  There was no doubt he’d correctly assessed the situation. Even at the front sidewalk, there was no denying the odor. “She didn’t do it on purpose, Josef. And you must admit, she’s been doing much better over the past weeks.”

  “She should not take in boarders if she cannot cook.”

  I grasped his shirtsleeve and looked deep into his eyes. “You need to spend some time with the Lord, Josef Kaestner. You had no trouble telling me how I should depend upon God for everything when I faced difficulties. But now that you face a problem of your own, you become angry and mean-spirited.”

  The anger in his eyes softened for a moment but soon returned. I dropped my hold on his arm, turned on my heel, and hurried inside. I didn’t want to hear his excuses. Mrs. Wilson’s cooking hadn’t changed. He had.

  The screen door banged behind me, and I heard a pot drop in the kitchen. Maybe it was the cabbage—at least that might make Josef happy. “Is that you, Carrie?” Mrs. Wilson sounded far too happy. I decided it must have been an empty pan that fell on the floor.

  “Yes. Do you need some help in the kitchen?”

  “I can always use help with my cooking,” she said, chuckling. “But that’s not why I called to you.” She walked down the hallway, wiping her hands on the corner of her apron. “You received a letter today, and I thought you’d want to read it before supper.” She stepped into the parlor, picked up the envelope, and handed it to me. I could see the curiosity in her eyes as her gaze trailed the envelope from my hand and into my skirt pocket. “Aren’t you excited to see what it says?”

  After handing her my lunch pail, I patted my pocket and headed toward the stairs. “It will keep for a few more minutes.”

  Before she could say anything more, Josef entered the front door, handed her his lunch pail, and circled around me on his way upstairs. “Good afternoon, Josef. Supper in half an hour,” she called after him. He grunted in return. “That young man is in a foul mood for sure.” Mrs. Wilson clucked her tongue. “And me with burned cabbage to serve him. I doubt that’s going to help.”

  I grinned and continued up the steps. The burned cabbage wouldn’t help, but I doubted that even a perfect meal and fine dessert would do much to improve Josef’s mood. I stopped at the bathroom, washed up, and then continued down the hall to my bedroom. I’d left the windows open that morning and was thankful it hadn’t rained. I was also thankful for the breeze that helped cool the room. Though I enjoyed the privacy of the third floor, Augusta had been right. The room was quite warm most of the time.

  I sat down by the window, took the letter from my pocket, and removed the thick contents. While living in France, Augusta had written few letters, most of which had consisted of one hastily scribbled page, so to see so many pages in one letter surprised me. There had obviously been much happening in the Thousand Islands. Perhaps Tyson had proposed. Even on this warm afternoon, the thought made me shiver.

  The neatly penned date above the salutation was nearly a month old. She must have begun her letter shortly after their arrival. The first page spoke of the weather and a party the family had attended on their first night. The journey had been quite boring, and she still wished I had come with her. If Josef’s mood didn’t soon improve, I’d likely be wishing the same thing.

  The letter continued on and on, telling of the many parties, but also declaring a growing dissatisfaction with Tyson’s absence. Knowing I could read the letter in detail after supper, I skimmed over the next two pages. From what I gathered between the lines, Tyson had been absent as much as he’d been present. Poor Augusta had counted on flaunting him at all of the parties. She was certain his good looks would make the other young ladies jealous. Though I’d told her over and over that looks were only skin deep, she thought Tyson more than a handsome face. He’d convinced her he possessed a kind and generous nature. And the fact that he’d easily won Mrs. Galloway’s approval seemed to validate Augusta’s view of Tyson.

  When I turned to the next page, I straightened in my chair. Augusta was writing about my father. The preceding pages slipped from my lap as I continued to read. Surely she’d made some mistake.

  The bell at the bottom of the steps clanged to announce supper. I wanted to read the letter again, but there wasn’t time. My heart was racing as I rushed down the steps. Mr. Lundgren gave thanks for our food and had barely finished when Mrs. Wilson arched her brows and tapp
ed my hand. “Anything interesting in your letter?” She passed me the bowl of cabbage, and I handed it to Josef without taking any.

  The older woman didn’t miss the slight. “No cabbage?”

  “Not tonight, Mrs. Wilson. I don’t think it will aid my digestion.” Of that I was certain—burned cabbage wouldn’t aid anyone’s digestion.

  The older woman wrinkled her forehead, and her eyebrows slid into a cascading downward dip. “Oh, dearie me, no. Cabbage and an upset stomach don’t mix—not at all. Josef can have double portions tonight.” She beamed a smile at Josef as though she’d bestowed a special award.

  I slapped my napkin across my mouth before Josef could hear me giggle. Given his sour disposition, I didn’t think he’d look kindly upon my laughter or the fact that I’d managed to avoid eating the cabbage.

  Mrs. Wilson picked up the plate of chops and passed it to me. “Your letter, Carrie. You were going to tell us about your letter from Miss Galloway.”

  “Yes. And there’s some very exciting news, although I wonder whether there’s been some mistake.”

  Her eyes wide, Mrs. Wilson leaned across her plate. “Oh, do tell us,” she begged. “Has Miss Galloway gotten engaged—or perhaps she’s already wed. Is that it?”

  Mr. Lundgren speared a pork chop and dropped it onto his plate. “If you give her a minute, she’s gonna tell us, Minnie.”

  Mrs. Wilson clapped her palm across her mouth and motioned for me to speak.

  “There were some people attending a party in the Thousand Islands who had recently returned from France, where they’d purchased one of my father’s paintings.”

  “Oh, that’s simply delightful, dear.”

  I could see the disappointment in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes. She would have been happier to hear about a wedding announcement. “That’s not all,” I said.

  “Do tell us.” Her enthusiasm had waned, and she was now more interested in carving her piece of meat than hearing about my father’s paintings.