by Lynn Austin
“Business is slowing down in many industries, not just ours,” he began. “More and more of our orders are being cancelled. Customers are reluctant to spend money in this economy. The loan you signed for yesterday will tide us over for a while, but if business doesn’t improve, we won’t be able to make any payments on it. We may have to lay off some of our workers.”
“But they’ll need money for food and for a roof over their heads. What will those poor people do?”
“I don’t know.”
Bebe pressed her fist against her stomach to ease the pain. “The newspapers speak about labor unrest and even riots in other cities because of unemployment. I don’t want that to happen here.”
“Neither do I.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I believe we might be able to ward off some of the labor unrest if you and I spoke honestly with our workers. They respect you, Mrs. Garner, because of the way you helped them during the cholera outbreak. And they know that my family was once just as poor as theirs.”
“That’s a good idea. And maybe I could speak with some of the local charities and churches and women’s clubs. If I could convince all these groups to coordinate their efforts during the financial crisis, they would be able to provide for more families. Do you think your sister Mary might help me?”
He looked away. “I can’t speak for my sister.”
“Listen, I know I treated her very badly. I tried to explain everything to her in my letters—I hope she read them. Horatio didn’t approve of our friendship, but he promised he would stay sober if I became more involved with his mother’s social circle. . . . As you can see, he hasn’t kept his promise.”
“I’ll talk to Mary.”
They spent the morning outlining what they would tell their workers and labor leaders, then gathered them together for a meeting shortly before the whistle blew at the end of the day.
They had agreed that MacLeod would speak first. “We will do our best not to cut jobs or hours,” he explained. “But we can’t increase wages or pay any overtime until this crisis is over. Please work with us. We’re trying to keep the factory doors open and keep all of you employed.”
“We’ll also try to provide the practical help that your families need,” Bebe told them when it was her turn. “Please feel free to come to me whenever you need help. Every one of you should have a decent place to live, and none of you should ever have to go hungry.”
Bebe spent the next few days meeting with church leaders and women’s clubs in an effort to get them to work together. Mary MacLeod went with her, volunteering to serve as coordinator for the combined charities. The work distracted Bebe from her problems with Horatio and with their finances, but by the end of the week, Bebe was able to leave everything in Mary’s hands and return to the tannery. The responsibility frightened her. She felt much more capable running a charity than running a business, and she sat behind Horatio’s desk wondering where to begin. She was paging through the ledger books and trying to make sense of them when the foreman knocked on the office door.
“Come in, Mr. MacLeod.”
“You’re back,” he said. She could tell by his somber expression that he was not happy about it.
“Listen, I can see that you’re uncomfortable with the idea of having a woman in charge of the tannery, and I want you to know that I’m not happy about this arrangement, either. Horatio should be here, not me. But he isn’t, and so we’ll simply have to make the best of it. Now, kindly sit down and explain these ledger books to me.”
MacLeod picked up a chair and dragged it behind the desk beside hers, drawing out the action as if to display his reluctance. But he spent the rest of the morning going over the books with her and answering her questions. When Bebe finally thought she grasped the bigger picture, she sat back with a sigh.
“If I understand what you’re saying, there really is nothing we can do about the orders that have been cancelled. But I believe we would be wise to start searching for new markets. There are more uses for leather than simply for shoes. Couldn’t we offer to create new leather products along with sole leather in order to win new customers? And if we shaved off our profits and sold our leather for a cheaper price, wouldn’t that win more business for us, too?”
“I suggested that we do all of those things, but your husband disagreed with me.”
“Well, I agree with you, Mr. MacLeod. I would like you to explain some of the ideas you have for finding these new markets.”
He sat back in his chair and studied her. “May I ask how you know all of this, Mrs. Garner?”
Bebe’s temper flared. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m sorry. I meant it as a compliment, and it came out wrong.
It’s just that you seem to know how to run a business, and I wondered how you learned.”
She shrugged. “It seems like common sense to me . . . and I read the newspaper. Listen, I don’t think we need to be so formal. I would like to call you Neal—and please call me Beatrice.”
“If you wish.”
They worked together all the following week, outlining ideas, forming a plan, delegating duties. When Friday came and the payroll was due, Neal came into her office again. “I hate to mention this, but the five-year anniversary of Mr. Garner’s death is next week. I will be working without a contract after that. I know your husband planned to fire me, and—”
“And you know that I can’t run this place without you.” The thought of losing Neal brought the burning pain to Bebe’s stomach again. “I’ll speak with Mr. Garner’s attorney and have him extend your contract for you.”
“Without your husband knowing about it? It won’t be valid. The attorney will know very well that Mr. Garner didn’t sign it.”
“Let me worry about that. Kindly tell me the name of Mr. Garner’s attorney.”
“William Harris. His office is on Central Avenue.”
Bebe went to see him that afternoon and felt even more out of her element than she had when sitting behind Horatio’s desk. Legal affairs were a man’s domain, not a woman’s, and Mr. Harris greeted her with suspicion after his clerk ushered her into his office. He was old enough to be Horatio’s father, with a full head of yellowing white hair and a stern expression on his wrinkled face.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Garner?”
She lifted her chin, reminding herself that the attorney worked for her. She had seen his name in the ledger books for doing legal work for the tannery. “I understand that the contract for Mr. MacLeod’s services as foreman is about to expire. I would like you to draw up a new one for him.”
His white eyebrows met in the middle as he pierced Bebe with hawkish eyes. “I don’t know why you’re attending to this business in place of your husband, Mrs. Garner, but I’m quite certain that Horatio did not wish to extend Neal MacLeod’s contract.”
“He changed his mind.”
“And he sent you here? I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner, but I don’t believe you. Can you prove to me that you’re authorized to act for Horatio?”
Bebe drew a deep breath. She had proven years ago that she could do men’s work, and she knew that she could do Horatio’s work, too. She kept her head high and her voice level, trying not to be intimidated by Mr. Harris’s gaze or his office full of leather-bound books and framed diplomas. She wondered if her mother had felt this way when she faced the gun-wielding bounty hunters on that long-ago day.
“No, sir. I can’t prove that I’m authorized. But I’m going to be honest with you in the hope that it will convince you to help me.” She paused until the pain in her stomach eased a bit. “The truth is that my husband has been drinking very heavily for the past few weeks. He is in no condition to run the tannery or make wise decisions. If Mr. MacLeod doesn’t continue to work as our foreman, we’ll lose everything. But in order for him to work, he needs another contract. Once Horatio sobers up, he can hire or fire whomever he chooses, but in the meantime I have a daughter to support and I don’t want to lose our home or our
livelihood because of my husband’s moral failures. Is that clear enough?”
The attorney looked away while Bebe wiped her tears. When he turned to her again, his eyes had lost their hawkish gleam. “I’m very sorry about your situation, Mrs. Garner. I know that you never would have divulged such personal information unless it was absolutely necessary.”
She drew a deep breath. “Will you help me?”
Mr. Harris hesitated, propping his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers. His lips pursed as if he was carefully considering his response. “What I’m about to tell you,” he finally said, “is very confidential. Please understand that I will deny I ever told it to you. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Harris paused again, staring at the littered desktop as if trying to decide where to begin. Bebe couldn’t imagine what he was about to reveal.
“I was your father-in-law’s legal counsel before he died. He told me all about Horatio’s weaknesses, so what you’ve just told me isn’t news to me. Mr. Garner asked me to put a provision in his will to keep Neal MacLeod on as manager for five years after his death in order to make certain that Horatio had time to remain sober and learn the business. But there was another reason why he made MacLeod his foreman.” He paused, looking her in the eye. “Neal MacLeod is Mr. Garner’s illegitimate son. Mary MacLeod is his illegitimate daughter.”
Bebe heard the words, but it took a moment for her to comprehend them. The lawyer waited, aware that he had shocked her. She suddenly recalled that Mary MacLeod had attended Mr. Garner’s funeral with her brother, and it finally made sense to her.
“Mr. Garner supported the MacLeods while he was alive,” Mr. Harris continued, “and he wanted to ensure that they were taken care of after his death. However, he didn’t want his wife and son to know the truth. If he had made provision for the MacLeods in his will, the truth would have become obvious.”
“His wife doesn’t know?”
Mr. Harris shook his head. “As far as I know, she does not.”
“Does Horatio know?”
“Not until recently,” he said with a sigh. “He came to see me for the same reason that you’ve come—because five years have elapsed since his father’s death, and Horatio was determined to be rid of MacLeod. I asked him about the financial situation at the tannery, and he admitted that the business was in trouble. Before he died, Mr. Garner instructed me to tell Horatio the truth if his mismanagement ever threatened the business—or if he continued to drink. I felt I had no choice but to tell Horatio. The news shocked him, to say the least.”
Bebe couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. Added to the tannery’s financial woes, the shock of this revelation would have given Horatio more than enough reasons to start drinking again.
“I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you,” the lawyer said.
“It-it’s not your fault . . . Thank you for telling me.”
Poor Horatio. What a terrible blow he must have suffered. He had harbored jealousy toward Neal MacLeod for a long time, but to discover the truth about his father’s indiscretions, along with the reason for his favoritism toward his “other” son—it must have been more than Horatio could bear. How could Bebe let him know she sympathized without telling him how she had learned the truth?
But deciding what to say to Horatio would have to wait until later. Bebe quickly turned her thoughts back to Neal’s contract. “In light of what you’ve told me, Mr. Harris, you certainly must agree that Neal MacLeod should continue as foreman.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “Yes, I know it would be what Mr.
Garner would want. I’ll draw up a contract that will remain in force until your husband is able to take charge again.”
When Bebe returned to the tannery, it seemed like a different place to her. She had never felt much affection for her father-in-law, but now that she knew his secret sins and the mess they had created, she felt only hatred toward him. She saw Neal working at his desk on the tannery floor and wondered why she had never noticed before that his hair was the same color as Horatio’s—and their father’s. He looked up as Bebe approached.
“Is something wrong?”
“Please come upstairs to my office, Neal.”
She heard him following her up the steps and closing the door behind them. She hung her hat and wrap on the coat-tree, then drew a deep breath as she turned to him.
“How long have you known the truth?”
It took a moment before Neal seemed to realize what she was asking. He sank down in the chair in front of her desk, and Bebe sat down, as well.
“All my life,” he said quietly. “Mr. Garner . . . my father . . . met my mother when she worked here at the tannery. She said that Mr. Garner’s wife didn’t . . . I-I mean . . . he said he didn’t love his wife. He had married her because it was the socially acceptable thing to do. I was born six months after your husband was. My sister arrived a year and a half later.”
He paused, staring down at one of the ledger books as if he were the one who needed to be ashamed. “I would like to believe that our father loved us in his own way. He visited us once in a while. He took me to his fishing cabin a few times. When I was old enough to work, he gave me a job at the tannery. When the war started I enlisted right away. Afterward, we often talked about my experiences. My father never said much, but I knew he was proud of me.”
Bebe’s heart ached for Horatio. He had never felt that assurance from his father. “And did you love him?” she asked.
“Not always. There were times when I resented him. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t leave his wife and marry my mother, or at least acknowledge her and her children. But he did provide for us. He bought the house where we live and deeded it to me before he died. And he made me his foreman.”
“You’re his son, Neal,” she said softly, still trying to comprehend it. “That’s all the more reason why you must continue working here. The tannery can’t run without you. The attorney agreed with me and is drawing up a temporary contract.”
She saw him smile for the first time.
CHAPTER
18
Grandma Bebe was right in the middle of her story when a farm wagon with a team of horses approached us from the opposite direction. On board were a farmer and his two burly sons. The wagon bed held a dozen crates of wet, squawking chickens.
“Need help, ladies?” the farmer called to us from the other side of the mud bog.
Grandma lowered her window. “Yes! We would be very grateful for your help. Thank you.”
The men climbed down and unhitched the horses, then harnessed them to our rear bumper. With the horses pulling from behind and the farmer’s two sons pushing from the front, they managed to heave our car backward out of the mud.
“Where are you headed?” the farmer asked after Grandma thanked him profusely.
“We’re on our way from Roseton to Harrisburg.”
“Well, ma’am, I suggest you turn right around again and go home,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve just come from that direction and the road gets much worse a little farther along. We were going to deliver these chickens, but we’ve had to turn around ourselves.”
I knew how brave Grandma Bebe was. She would never retreat.
“Thanks for the advice,” she said with a smile. “As soon as I get this car turned around, I believe we will heed it.”
“No, please . . .” I begged. “Don’t listen to him.” But Grandma started up the engine, and after executing a perfect three-point turn, we headed home to Roseton.
“We could have made it to Harrisburg,” I grumbled, slouching in my seat. “What do they know?”
“There is no shame in changing direction, Harriet. In fact, once you’ve seen the warning signs, it’s always wise to turn around.”
“You could easily get us there, I know you could. You ran a tannery all by yourself. A little mud is nothing.”
Grandma glanced at me in alarm. “I don’t know where you ever got the idea that I�
��m invincible, Harriet. And as for managing the tannery . . . well, things didn’t turn out very well for me, in the end. . . .”
Bebe realized on her way to work one morning that a year had passed since she first went to work at the tannery in her husband’s place. She had been reminded of the fact after hearing Mrs. Garner making plans to place flowers on her husband’s grave to mark the sixth anniversary of his death. How could so much time have passed so swiftly? And how could Horatio have remained a drunkard for an entire year? Bebe had stopped pleading with him long ago, becoming accustomed to rising early every morning and going to work in his place. She wondered if Neal MacLeod realized how long it had been.
“Come up to my office,” she told him as she passed his desk.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Bebe enjoyed working with Neal. He had a gentle smile and a quiet strength that enabled him to remain calm in any crisis. Working alongside him reminded her of the war years when she and her brother Franklin had labored together, sharing the chores, becoming friends. Over the past several months, she and Neal had found new customers and gradually improved their sales. None of their workers had been laid off. The fiery pain in her stomach was gone.
Bebe removed her hat and shawl and hung them on the coat-tree, remembering how angry and resentful she had felt a year ago on her first day there. She stood by the window in her office, looking down on the tannery yard and outbuildings, and realized that she knew exactly what each one was for: the drying shed and bark shed, the buildings for the soaking vats and the steam generator, the warehouse to store all the hides that arrived by rail from the slaughterhouses. And as she looked out at the rainy September afternoon, Bebe realized that her anger was gone, too. She no longer cared if Horatio drank all day. Her life had a purpose, just as it had when she’d helped with the cholera outbreak.
She heard someone tap on the door and turned to see Neal filling the doorframe. He was holding a ledger book. “You wanted to see me?”