Kesia stepped from the kitchen, holding a package wrapped in paper and tied with twine. She searched the café, her wrinkled face pursed in confusion. “Where’d Carrie go? I got her sandwiches an’ gingerbread here.”
Oliver said, “I’ll take it to her, Kesia. We work the same shift at the factory.”
“That sounds fine.” Kesia plopped the packet into Oliver’s waiting hands. “She’s a right nice young lady. An’ the way she set into her supper, I’m thinkin’ she doesn’t eat proper.” Her wattle jiggled as she lifted her chin high. “But if she comes here again, I’m gonna offer to teach her how to cook a thing or two so she can see to her own needs. Ain’t right bein’ her age an’ not able to fend for herself around a cookstove.” She turned and headed back to her kitchen.
His feet moving slowly, Oliver returned to his stool and sat. Questions cluttered his mind, questions he felt certain Carrie would avoid answering. But he wanted to know. Because if she was all he suspected her of being, he’d take her home and introduce her to his parents as soon as he could end his charade.
Caroline
Caroline reached the boarding hotel, closed herself in the little cubby containing the hotel’s lone telephone, and called Noble. As wonderful as it was to hear his familiar voice—a voice that had calmed her nightmares, patiently delivered lessons, and encouraged her to seek God’s way above all others—she kept the call short. Partly because she had little of a professional nature to share other than she’d been hired. But mostly because Noble knew her well. His investigative skills combined with his deep affection for her would surely detect her confusion concerning Ollie Moore. And she wasn’t ready to talk about the strange attraction she felt toward Ollie. Not even with her beloved mentor.
“Keep your journal, as I know you will,” Noble said, his deep voice more fatherly than authoritative as it crackled through the line, “and call again Saturday evening. Maybe by then you’ll have uncovered some tidbit that will help us learn what happened to Harmon.”
A quick resolution was always the commission’s preference. But Caroline realized a quick resolution meant moving on to the next job. For the first time in the nearly seven years she had posed as a factory worker to explore firsthand the working conditions, she had no burning passion to finish and move on. What odd hold did this place … or its people … have on her?
“Rest well tonight, Caroline.” Noble’s kind blessing warmed her heart.
She hugged the telephone earpiece tight against her head. Although an illusive something held her here, she missed Noble and his sweet wife—the best people she’d ever known. “Thank you, Noble. Greet Annamarie for me, and tell her I’ve found a wonderful little café where I can take my meals.”
A laugh came from the other end of the line. “She still intends to make a decent cook of you someday. But I’ll tell her. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” Caroline placed the earpiece in its cradle and climbed the stairs to her third-floor, one-room apartment, her leg muscles protesting the entire way. She always requested the least ostentatious accommodations, claiming it cut costs, but Noble knew the truth. Why put her in a full-size apartment with a kitchen that wouldn’t be used? She was a terrible cook. But not even Noble knew the reason why she resisted time in a kitchen.
She pushed the memories aside and moved to the little desk in the corner, determined to focus on her purpose for being in Sinclair. She opened her journal and recorded the day’s feeble findings and her expenses. As she wrote “Dinner at Durham’s Café, $1,” she gasped. She’d asked Kesia to make her a lunch, but then, trying to escape Ollie Moore and his question, she’d left without waiting for it.
Recalling the look of elation on Ollie’s face—and it had been elation, not surprise—when he’d accused her of being educated, she closed her eyes and swallowed a mournful moan. His esteem for her had gone up, and she’d gloried in it. But then she’d instinctively told him the truth. She was not educated. At least not in the way he’d inferred. But she was smart enough to know she’d piqued his curiosity, and that could be a problem.
Setting the commission journal aside, she lifted a second one from the desk drawer—her personal journal, which no one except God ever saw. She flipped to a fresh page, dipped her pen, and wrote in her neat, slanting script. Dear God, I find myself drawn to Ollie Moore. I hardly know him, so these feelings make no sense, but they’re real. And I can’t let them continue. The more we’re together, the more I’ll be forced to lie to him, and I don’t want to lie to him. So keep us apart, please.
She paused, her heart pounding. Miss Kesia’s comment about setting her sights on marriage had left her unsettled. She’d never wanted to be beholden to a man, and she’d never met a man who stirred her affections enough to consider breaking her lifelong resolve. Until now. If God honored her request, might she be abandoning a relationship with the only man who possessed the ability to touch her heart? Such an opportunity shouldn’t be squandered. But what other choice did she have? She was here under false pretenses. No man, especially a man as caring and open as Ollie Moore, deserved to be duped.
Placing her pen against the page, she added, I mean it, God. I want us kept as far apart as possible. But even as she blew on the ink to dry it, she realized another lie had just been released.
Caroline
Caroline, her leg muscles aching from yesterday’s long day on her feet, trotted awkwardly toward the loading table as the shift buzzer blared in her ears. The other two toters, Edith and Tessy—middle-aged women who’d worked together for almost a year and had exhibited no desire to draw Caroline into their tightly woven friendship—were already at the tables, reaching for trays. The night shift always left trays filled and waiting so the morning arrivals could immediately begin toting.
The pair exchanged snide looks as Caroline puffed to a halt next to the table. The taller one, Edith, sniffed. “We’ve already carted a full load each.”
Perspiration glistened on Tessy’s lined forehead. Her chin doubled as she lowered her head and glared at Caroline through thick eyebrows. “You came late yesterday, too.”
Yesterday the beggar had slowed her. Today she’d overslept after tossing and turning far into the night. Caroline lifted a stack and offered an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Carrie!”
At the intruding male voice, Edith and Tessy pursed their lips and ambled off, trays in their arms. Caroline inwardly groaned. Hadn’t she spent half the night begging God to separate her from this man? And here he came, pursuing her first thing. She ignored the shout and shuffled after Edith and Tessy.
Ollie fell into step beside her. “Carrie, I brought the sandwiches Kesia made for you.”
She should have known he would volunteer to play delivery boy for the affable Kesia. God, weren’t You listening at all last night? Aware of the disapproving glances being sent her way by the other toters, she ignored Ollie, placed the trays on the transport cart, and then limped toward the loading tables, where more trays waited.
Ollie shoved the paper-wrapped packet at her. “Here. Take this to the lunchroom before you carry another load of candy.”
Her hands closed around the lumpy brown packet, and she stopped in surprise. “It’s cold!” She cradled the package against her middle. Although it was early fall, the vats of boiling chocolate and assorted fillings kept the factory as warm as the steamiest August day. “How can it be cold when it’s so hot in here?”
He grinned. “I have an icebox in my apartment. Keeps things nice and cool.”
She lifted the packet to her cheek. “Oh, it feels delightful.”
A low chuckle rolled from his chest. “Go put it in one of the lunchroom iceboxes. You can hug it again on your break.”
What was she doing? She must look like a ninny! She pushed it back at him. “I can’t take this. I left before paying for it.”
He held his palms up, rejecting the packet. “No worries. I dropped two dimes in the bucket for you.”
“No need.” His wide, friendly grin set her heart flopping in her chest like a banked trout. “Twenty cents was a small price to pay to put Kesia’s mind at ease.” He tipped forward, assuming a conspiratorial air. “She’s worried you don’t eat right. Says she hopes to teach you to cook so you can fend for yourself better.”
Embarrassment washed away on a flood of discomfort. She took a backward step, and the packet of sandwiches fell to the floor. She started to bend down and retrieve it, but a catch in her back jolted her upright once more. Ollie bent over with ease and scooped it up, then extended it toward her. She clutched her little coin purse two-handed, her pulse scampering in frantic beats. The sweet smile in his eyes held her captive.
He held the packet out to her. “Here you are.”
“No.”
“You have to eat. Take it.”
Remembering the delicious meal she’d consumed yesterday evening, her stomach pinched at the thought of rejecting Kesia’s sandwiches. She would accept them on one condition. “Not unless you let me pay for them.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I cannot allow you to pay for my lunch.”
“It was only twenty cents!”
“Which is a significant portion of your pay as a janitor.”
He shook his head, a wry grin playing on the corners of his lips. “You’re a very stubborn woman, Miss Lang.” His lunge for the sandwiches had dislodged his cap, so it settled low on his forehead, giving him a rakish appearance. Oh, but he was irresistible. And he shouldn’t call her stubborn when he so thoroughly exemplified the word. A lesser man would have thrown up his hands in frustration and stormed away, but there he stood, trying to convince her to take those sandwiches so she wouldn’t miss her lunch.
She swallowed a nervous giggle. “I know.”
“Very well.” He shifted the packet to one hand and held his cupped palm to her. “Twenty cents, please.”
She removed two slim dimes from her purse and placed them in his hand. His fingers closed around the coins, brushing her flesh with his fingertips. She jerked back as if stung. “Th-thank you.”
One of the sorters with whom Caroline had sat at yesterday’s lunch break—Stella, as Caroline recalled—bustled by. She sent a stormy glare in their direction, reminding Caroline she’d spent too much time arguing over the sandwiches instead of working.
She snatched the packet from his hands. “I need to get back to work.” She moved to the long table as quickly as her stiff muscles would allow, placed the wrapped sandwiches underneath it, then lifted a stack of trays.
Ollie traipsed along beside her as she headed for the carts. “Tell you what … Since I have an icebox at my apartment and the cheese on those sandwiches should be kept cool—Kesia said so—I’ll store your lunch at my place every night and bring it in the morning for you.”
Caroline knew she should say no. Deliberately meet Ollie every morning? How would she manage to stay focused on her investigation if she started each day gazing into his green-gold eyes? She blew out a huff of aggravation and said, “All right.”
His grin lit the room. Walking backward, he gave a wave. “Great! Bye now, Carrie.”
Caroline plopped the trays onto the cart. Chocolates jiggled, losing a few of their nutmeat sprinkles.
Tessy, who’d just placed her stack of trays on the opposite side of the cart, gasped. “Be careful! If their tops aren’t completely covered, the sorters’ll set them aside. Too much waste, an’ it comes out of our pay!”
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said as the two women shuffled toward the loading tables side by side. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”
“See that you are,” the woman snapped, her dark eyes flashing fire.
Over the course of the next two weeks, Caroline often thought about her promise to be careful. She exercised great care in lifting, carrying, and lowering trays, despite her perpetually aching muscles. None of the chocolates suffered damage due to careless handling. She only wished she could say the same about her heart.
No matter what time she entered Durham’s Café for her supper—early if Letta didn’t have a great deal of homework, later if she did—Ollie was sure to amble in only a few minutes behind her. She began to suspect he hid around the corner, watching for her arrival. She considered taking her meals elsewhere, but she couldn’t bear to abandon Kesia, and she truly enjoyed visiting with her at the end of the day. So she didn’t argue when Kesia gave Ollie two lunches each evening, even though she knew she’d have to meet him in the morning to retrieve one. Those brief minutes each morning were torture as her prayer for God to keep her away from Ollie went unanswered.
At least she was able to begin gathering information for Noble. At lunch—the only time employees had an opportunity to visit without fear of reprimand—she asked dozens of questions. By maintaining a casual air even when the answers stirred anger or frustration, she drew out the other workers’ concerns and complaints. She began purchasing bags of licorice whips, which she distributed to the youngest workers, and with the candor of children, they eagerly responded to her queries while munching on the treats.
But no matter whom she asked—child or adult—about the investigator who’d fallen down the elevator shaft, no one would say more than “That was a dreadful accident.” Caroline had learned to read beneath answers. If people blinked too rapidly, refused to meet her gaze, or fidgeted while answering a question, she presumed they were hiding something. She’d observed none of those suspicious gestures from any of the people who’d spoken about Harmon Bratcher, and she began to wonder if Noble’s concerns were baseless. Perhaps Bratcher’s death was, just as the workers claimed, a dreadful accident.
She said as much to Noble when she made her Saturday night call, and his sigh of disappointment carried clearly through the line.
“Caroline, I wouldn’t have sent you to Sinclair if there weren’t sound reasons for suspecting something more sinister. You know how vocal Harmon had been about changing the entry age for workers. That kind of talk always stirs up trouble in factories, especially ones with a high number of child laborers. I looked over the notes he sent during his time at Dinsmore’s. More than thirty percent of the workers are ages ten to sixteen.”
Caroline had counted the number of children on the floor during her hours but hadn’t realized the percentage was so high. She ached anew at children spending their tender years toiling. “But in the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t uncovered one inkling of evidence that his fall down the shaft wasn’t accidental.”
“Because you’re going by hearsay.” Noble’s fatherly tone turned stiffly professional. “Caroline, you’ve been trained better than that. Asking questions is only part of an investigation. What else have you done to determine the likelihood of an accident?”
To Caroline’s chagrin, she couldn’t offer a reply. Because she’d done nothing. She stood ramrod straight in the little cubby with the receiver to her ear, fully expecting a well-deserved lecture. Instead, she heard Noble’s soft intake of breath, a sign he was thinking.
“Perhaps you’re on the wrong shift. According to the notes Harmon sent, he spent the majority of his time overseeing the night shift. It’s possible you simply need to connect with the right people to determine whether or not the death was the result of faulty equipment or something much less innocent. Find out if there’s a night-shift opening, and take it if there is.”
“What if there isn’t a suitable opening?”
“You may have to stay put until one becomes available.”
Caroline’s emotions seesawed between elation and angst. Oh, to enjoy more time with Letta, Kesia, and—she sucked in a breath, unable to deny it—Ollie. But more time meant greater expense for the commission and more toiling under Hightower’s supervision. Something about the man set her teeth on edge. She pushed aside thoughts o
f Hightower and focused on Noble’s voice crackling through the lines.
“Of course, if you manage to unearth evidence that precludes the necessity of lengthening your stay, we’ll bring you back at once. But we need facts. And make sure you gather lots of notes about the working conditions as well, to complete Harmon’s assignment.”
“Yes, Noble.”
“Caroline,”—his tone changed again, losing its impersonal edge and becoming paternal—“Annamarie and I miss you around here. We’ll be happy to see this issue solved so you can come home.”
Caroline melted into the wooden chair pressed against the wall. “I miss you, too, Noble.” For the hundredth time she pondered the twist of fate that had allowed her parents to birth seven children—none of whom received half the care and attention Kesia offered an alley cat—while Noble and Annamarie were barren. When Noble had carried her, racked with fever and so weak from lack of nourishment she couldn’t even walk, from her roach-infested cellar room to his home where Annamarie nursed her back to health, she’d finally been given a glimpse of what it meant to be loved. She owed this couple her very life.
And look how she repaid them—doing a slipshod investigation and spending her hours mooning over a factory worker instead of focusing on her job. She gripped the receiver with both hands and spoke firmly into the mouthpiece. “I’ll finish Harmon’s report. I’ll learn as much as I can about the elevator and how it works, and I’ll talk to people who worked with him. If something is awry at the Dinsmore factory, I’ll find it.”
Gordon
Gordon rested his palms on the ledge of his private observation window and peered down at the work floor. A satisfied sigh heaved from his lungs. Yesterday afternoon’s lecture about dawdling seemed to have had its desired effect. The workers resembled ants scurrying over a mound of sugar cubes this morning—busy, busy, busy. When Mr. Fulton Dinsmore made his monthly appearance at the end of the week, he’d find nothing amiss. Not while Gordon was in charge.
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 7