He’d also inform Father of some other things he’d observed since arriving on third shift—workers lighting hand-rolled cigarettes in the boiler room, younger workers sleeping for hours between machines when they should be working, two men who’d staggered in half-drunk the past three nights. The night foreman didn’t seem concerned about any of these breaches of conduct. In fact, Oliver was certain he’d glimpsed the man removing coins from the pocket of one of the sleeping workers. Father should be informed of such goings-on.
Carrie reached into the little leather pouch dangling from her waist and removed another tack. He watched as she pinched one between her thumb and forefinger, positioned it just so, and then gave it a few gentle taps with the hammer to hold it in place. With it secure she pulled her hand free and raised the hammer high. Whack! Whack! Two solid blows drove the tack into the soft wood.
Oliver bent down to pluck unused tacks from the collection of grit on the floor, stifling a chuckle. The other craters sported bandages from accidentally pounding their fingers rather than the tacks. If they’d take a lesson from Carrie, they’d suffer fewer injuries. He should have Hightower instruct the foreman on the proper handling of tools.
His observation of Carrie had revealed more than Father had expected. When he telephoned Father tomorrow morning, he’d be able to report more reasons to commend her than to criticize her, and a rush of satisfaction filled him at the realization. Odd how his feelings tumbled haphazardly where she was concerned. Did he admire her or resent her? Did he want to protect her or protect himself from her?
The break buzzer blared, and everyone put down their tools or set aside their carts and moved in a jostling stream toward the break room. Carrie melded into the center of the throng, and Oliver stayed at the rear, his head low in case she turned around and spotted him. Even with his chin whiskers and low-tugged hat, he was fairly certain she’d recognize him if their eyes met.
At least a part of him hoped she would.
She glanced over her shoulder, and he instinctively dropped into a squat, pretending to fuss with the rawhide string on his right boot. He waited several seconds to make sure she’d turned her gaze forward, and then he pushed upright. He followed the last of the stragglers into the break room and eased his way to the corner, snagging his Kesia-packed lunch tin as he went. Head angled with his profile to the room, he scanned the tables with the corner of his eye. It wouldn’t do to sit in her line of vision.
He inspected every corner of the room once and then again. But he spotted no mobcap with spiraling bronze curls escaping the ruffled brim. A frown pulled his brows together. Where was she?
Caroline
Caroline crept along the wide hallway. Her footsteps echoed against the concrete floor, an ominous sound. The hiss and clank of boilers faded behind her as she moved determinedly toward the service elevator. After weeks of waiting she finally had the chance to examine the workings of the elevator. As she eased toward the pine-planked platform suspended by ropes, cables, and gears, she removed the pencil and pad of paper from her pocket. She didn’t claim to be an engineer, but she was a fair artist. Noble could share her sketches with someone who possessed engineering skills, and perhaps they could determine whether a severed rope or faulty gear contributed to Bratcher’s accident.
She stopped a few feet away from the elevator, an uneasy chill creeping up her spine. A man had lost his life near this very spot. She felt as though she walked on sacred ground. And suddenly she longed for someone to stand alongside her.
Lord, help me find the truth so Noble’s concerns can be put to rest and Harmon Bratcher’s family will find peace.
The prayer offered a breath of comfort that settled her skittering pulse. No other workers were near, but she wasn’t alone. God was with her. Tiptoeing, she approached the elevator and pushed aside the lattice-style gate. The hinges moaned in protest, and Caroline cringed. Would someone hear? Holding her breath, she froze in place and peered up the hallway. She counted several seconds, cold sweat breaking out across her back. But no one came.
She quietly released her breath and stepped onto the platform. Sturdy one-inch-thick boards, secured snugly with wide iron bands, supported her weight but creaked as the bed swayed from side to side. The motion, although very slight, made her dizzy. She sucked in slow breaths and winged a prayer heavenward, willing her nerves to calm. The tactic worked. Thank You, Lord.
Standing as still as possible, she propped the pad of paper against her palm and began a meticulous sketch of the elevator’s chain-lift system. Since the elevator was only a platform confined by a shaft rather than a solid box, she could see the ropes that looped from an overhead exposed beam and snaked through iron rings soldered to square side posts. Tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth, she did her best to replicate the workings, but the sawtooth length of iron attached to the wall outside the elevator proved tricky. She paused, squinting at the jagged piece of rust-splotched iron. She touched the tip of her pencil to the page again, determined to draw it as realistically as her limited abilities allowed.
“What are you doing?”
The deep-throated question seemed to come from nowhere. Caroline released a squawk, her entire body jolting in surprise. A black line of lead marred her carefully crafted drawing. As she gazed in dismay at the paper, a man stepped onto the elevator beside her. The bed jerked, and Caroline reached out to grasp something to keep herself upright. To her chagrin, she caught his corduroy sleeve. Lifting her embarrassed gaze from his arm to his eyes—his unusually pale green eyes—she gave another start. Ollie Moore?
“What are you doing here?”
They spoke simultaneously, voicing identical queries, although his voice emerged low, with an undercurrent of suspicion, while hers reflected confusion.
Caroline yanked her hand free of his sleeve and glared into his whiskered face. Whiskers? When had he grown whiskers? “What are you doing here? You don’t work night shift.”
One side of his lips quirked into a sardonic smirk. “I do now. And as janitor, I have a reason to be in the service hallway. But craters only ready boxes for shipping. They don’t haul them to the loading dock. So what are you doing here?” His gaze dropped to the pad in her hand, and a scowl creased his brow beneath the short brim of a brown suede hat. “What’s this?”
Caroline stuffed the pad into her pocket and hurried out of the elevator. “Nothing.”
A hand curled around her upper arm, forcing her to face him. “Don’t lie to me, Carrie.” Anger glittered in his eyes—something new. When combined with the scraggly growth of dark blond whiskers and battered cap, he seemed a stranger.
She wrenched her arm free. “It’s just a drawing.”
“Of what?” He snapped the simple inquiry.
She longed to escape. How could she have been so careless as to allow him to sneak up on her this way? And how could she answer without lying? She detested this part of her job. No matter how hard she tried, mistruths never rolled glibly from her tongue.
Licking her dry lips, she stammered, “Of the elevator. It … it intrigues me.” She’d spoken truthfully. She prayed he wouldn’t question the reason for her interest.
“Why?”
Caroline stifled a moan. Wouldn’t God answer any of her prayers concerning Ollie Moore? “Because it does!” She affected irritation, hoping to put him off. “And I’m on my break, so I can use the time as I desire. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to—”
The buzzer blared, signaling the end of lunch break.
Caroline shook her head, throwing her hands outward. “Now I don’t have time to finish. Thank you very much, Ollie!” She spun and charged up the hallway toward her work station.
Ollie pounded along beside her, his face set in an angry scowl. “Would you slow down for one minute so I can talk to you?”
She lifted her nose and sniffed. “We have nothing to discuss.”
He sniffed, too—a teasing sound—and continued to walk alongside her, his stri
de matching hers. “If you’re really curious about the elevator, I could show you the blueprint. The drawing is very detailed.”
She came to a halt, spinning to face him. Not even those scraggly whiskers could hide his rugged handsomeness. She made herself focus on business. “You have a blueprint?”
He shrugged. “Sure. There’re copies of it in the janitor’s closet. The people who installed it left them so whoever worked here could understand the elevator’s operation. In case repairs were ever needed.”
If she could secure a blueprint to send to Noble, it would be much better than anything she could draw. “I would like to see it. Very much.” Despite her effort to rein in her eagerness, her voice bubbled out. She regretted the mistake when Ollie snatched the battered hat from his head and fixed her with a penetrating look.
“I’ll show it to you on one condition. Tell me why it’s so important to you.”
Oliver
“That’s blackmail.”
Oliver gave a short laugh. “Don’t be dramatic, Carrie.”
With a withering glare, she turned and stomped up the hallway, each step an angry outburst.
He fell into step beside her, trying not to grin at her display of ire. The red flush in her apple cheeks couldn’t quite cover the freckles. Corkscrew curls escaped her cap and bounced against her slender neck. She pumped her arms, her lips set in a beguiling pout. Sometimes she was entirely too cute.
When they reached the work floor, Carrie returned directly to her station, where crates bearing stamped jewel-toned tins of Dinsmore’s World-Famous Creams awaited their cushioning layer of straw and protective lids. Her hammer lay on the edge of one crate, and she yanked it up, then turned to face him, holding the tool the way a brave on the warpath might wield his hatchet.
Oliver instinctively took one step backward.
“You must be the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, but I’ll meet your condition.” She spoke through clenched teeth as if the words pained her.
Oliver swallowed a laugh and nodded in acknowledgment.
“However, I cannot talk with you now. I have work to do.”
Had he really survived three days of not looking directly into her enchanting face? Perhaps it was only the essence of chocolate in the air, but it seemed sweetness emanated from her. If he kissed her full lips, would she taste as luscious as she appeared? He folded his arms over his chest, glowering at her to hide his yearnings. “How ’bout when our shift ends?”
She lowered the hammer against her leg, the weight of the head pressing her skirt flat. “I can’t take the time. I need to wake Lank and Lesley, feed them a cold breakfast—Kesia keeps me supplied with biscuits and cheese—and then visit Letta. She is still staying at the hospital with her father.”
Oliver gave himself a mental kick. How could he have forgotten about the children’s father. “He … survived?”
She hung her head, a sigh heaving her shoulders. “As of yesterday evening, he was still alive, but things are grim. The doctor fears the infection was too far reaching. They don’t offer much hope.”
He started to reach for Carrie’s hand but stopped short of actually touching her. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
She met his gaze. Her eyes held a sheen of unshed tears, heightening the brown of her irises. “You could pray for him and the children.”
Oliver recalled his promise to Letta to pray for her father. But he hadn’t done so. Guilt smote him, and he inched backward. “Yes. Of course. Well …” He cleared his throat, gesturing weakly toward the mop bucket in the corner. “I’d better go clean the break room. We … we can take a look at that blueprint tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” she said, a weak smile playing on the corners of her mouth. “It’s Sunday. The factory will be closed.”
He could let her in on Sunday. He had a key. But he wouldn’t tell her so. “Monday, then.”
She nodded and returned to securing lids on crates as if he no longer existed.
Oliver retrieved the bucket and mop and ambled toward the break room, his slow gait a contrast to his galloping thoughts. What would happen to the Holcomb children if their father died? Would they go to an orphanage? Would Carrie keep them? Deep inside he wanted to do as Carrie and Letta had asked—he wanted to pray. But how? His studies had given him a broad vocabulary and the ability to use it, but he was even less competent at talking to God than he was at mopping.
Alone in the break room, he plopped the bucket on the floor, wrapped his hands around the mop’s smooth hickory handle, and stifled a moan. Images of Letta’s and Carrie’s faces, both sad and seeking, flashed in his memory. They’d asked him to pray. He’d agreed to pray. So now he must find the means of keeping his promise. He jammed the strings of the mop into the bucket, sloshing water over the edges. It ran like a stream toward his feet and pooled around the sole of his boots. He lifted a foot and shook it, sending droplets in an arc across the floor. Each drop caught the light from the gas lamps and reflected like a miniature rainbow.
He seemed to recall a minister proclaiming the rainbow was a sign of God’s promise never to flood the earth again. He smiled as realization struck. Tomorrow was Sunday. Churches would be open. People who regularly attended church, such as Kesia and Carrie, knew how to pray. Tomorrow, instead of sleeping all morning, he would go to church. And he would learn how to pray.
The aching burden lifted. He put the mop to work, a smile on his face. He’d be able to keep his promise after all.
Caroline
Caroline slipped her arm around Letta’s shoulders and held tight. Letta slumped on her half of the bench in the hospital administrator’s office, her head low and her hands clamped in tight fists in her lap. Although her pale face indicated distress, she made no sound and sat so still Caroline wondered if she even drew air into her lungs.
If only the girl would cry. Rant. Question. Caroline could comfort or assure her, but Letta’s silent, emotionless reaction to the news that her father had passed away left Caroline helpless and afraid. Had something within Letta died, too, when her pa left this earth?
The administrator, Mr. Stafford, sat stiffly behind his desk, his expression stoic. “The body is in the hospital morgue. I assume, given the man’s lack of affiliation with any of the local churches, you needn’t worry about planning a service.”
Beneath Caroline’s arm Letta shuddered. Caroline gave her a few pats while sending the man on the opposite side of the desk a steely glare. Must he be so cold? “I’m sure his children will be comforted by having at least a short service, Mr. Stafford. They have an aunt in Baldwin City—their father’s sister. I’ll contact her by telegram and allow her and the children to decide what is appropriate.”
The man pursed his lips as if irritated by her interruption. He continued in the same bland tone. “We’ll arrange transport to the burial site once you’ve secured a plot. Please don’t dally in making those arrangements, Miss Lang, as we don’t have proper … er, storage facilities here.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do my best, but I doubt I’ll be able to arrange anything today. It is Sunday, and.” Caroline gulped. Such a dismal way to spend the Lord’s day! “I … I’ll need to wait for the children’s aunt to arrive in Sinclair.”
Mr. Stafford rose and peered down his nose at Caroline. “Very well. I’ll expect to see you Monday. Early, preferably.”
Caroline struggled to her feet, drawing Letta with her. “As I said, I’ll do my best.” She turned Letta toward the door.
“Miss Lang?”
Caroline looked at the administrator. For the first time his indifference melted a bit. She rewarded the change with a quavery smile. “Yes?”
“Please accept the hospital’s condolences on your loss. I assure you, all effort was made to save Mr. Holcomb’s life.”
Caroline considered asking if the effort had preceded or followed the unknown benefactor’s promise to fund the man’s stay. But she decided her question would be hurtful to Letta. So s
he gave a nod and ushered the silent girl out the door. Lank and Lesley waited outside in the hallway, and they dashed to Letta.
Lesley threw his arms around his sister’s waist, looking up in disbelief. “One o’ the nurses said Pa died an’ is gone to heaven. Is it true?”
Letta, her arms dangling at her sides, made no effort to embrace her little brother. She stared unseeingly up the hallway as if in a trance.
Lesley shifted his attention to Caroline. “Is Pa dead, Miss Carrie?”
Caroline propped her hands on her knees and looked directly into Lesley’s freckled face. “Yes, Lesley. Your pa is dead.”
The little boy’s nose crinkled in confusion. “So he ain’t comin’ home again?”
Could an eight-year-old comprehend the meaning of death? Slowly Caroline shook her head. She brushed Lesley’s tousled hair from his eyes. “No, sweetheart. His body died, and his spirit went … away.” She looked at Lank, who stood behind Lesley with his arms crossed tightly over his skinny chest, his face set in a scowl. “He won’t be able to come home ever again.”
“Oh.” Lesley stuck out his lips for a moment, as if thinking hard. “Then he won’t be callin’ Lank a imbecile or takin’ the strap to us no more, huh?”
The boy’s blithe words pierced Caroline. Had he no pleasant memories of his father? “No. He certainly won’t.” But neither would he be there to see to the children’s needs, provide them with guidance, or watch them grow into adults. Caroline swallowed a lump of sorrow for all the family had lost.
She straightened and held her hands toward the boys. Lesley caught hold, but Lank scooted to the other side of Letta, as far from Caroline’s hand as he could go and still be close to his siblings. The boy’s behavior stung, but she wouldn’t hold his detachment against him any more than she would blame Letta for escaping somewhere inside herself to avoid her emotions. The children might not know the words to express themselves, but she read deep anguish, fear, and confusion on their young faces.
Echoes of Mercy: A Novel Page 13