Belinda reached into the rinse tub for another towel. A tiny prickle of gladness teased, knowing Thomas hadn’t written to his family—at least she wasn’t the only one who had been left wondering how he fared. Then guilt struck—she shouldn’t be glad of the Ollenburgers’ worry. She said, “I’m sure he’s just very busy with his new job and his new home.” She didn’t add, and Daphne Severt. It pained her to even think of Thomas with Daphne—and she couldn’t bear to speak the words aloud.
“Busy I understand,” Frau Ollenburger countered, giving the dress a final push down the length of the washboard and then lifting it from the sudsy water. She dipped the gingham dress into the rinse tub as she continued. “But neglectful is unlike Thomas. In all the years he lived in Boston, he never allowed more than a week to pass between letters. His father has lain awake nights, worrying. Not even all of Peter’s reading about Plymouth Rock chickens—a topic with which he has become completely enamored—has removed his concern.”
“Is he still talking about chickens?” Belinda couldn’t help smiling. Imagining the big man’s fascination with the domesticated fowl painted an amusing picture.
“Oh, yes.” Frau Ollenburger glanced up from the washtub, a wry grin on her face. “There have been times in the past weeks that I’ve regretted teaching him to read English. He even wrote to North Carolina for a pamphlet on the care of Plymouth Rocks.” She gestured to their small yard. “Where would I keep chickens?” With a soft laugh, she turned her attention back to the wash. “But at least it has provided somewhat of a distraction for him. As for me, I’m tempted to make a telephone call to Thomas from the bank.”
“Does Thomas have a telephone?” Belinda clipped the last towel to the line, peeking over her shoulder at her neighbor.
Frau Ollenburger gave a dress a twist to dispel extra water, flopped the frock over the line with a quick flick of her wrists, then flung her hands outward. “I don’t know! He might have one. I’m sure it isn’t as uncommon in Boston as it is here.” She pointed her finger at Belinda, as if scolding. “But I know Nadine has one, and if I were to call her, she’d let Thomas know in no uncertain terms how his lack of attention is affecting everyone at home.”
Holding back a giggle, Belinda faced the clothesline. She had never witnessed Frau Ollenburger’s anger before, if one could call the outburst angry. Though stronger than anything she’d previously seen from the woman, the eruption was mild compared to Malinda’s frequent stormy blasts. Belinda didn’t find the woman’s emotional display amusing, but her reference to Nadine Steadman brought a hint of merriment. Based on past letters from Thomas, she knew Frau Ollenburger’s former mother-in-law was a formidable force.
“I’m sure Mrs. Steadman could convince Thomas to write.”
No answer came. Belinda shifted to face her neighbor. The sadness in Frau Ollenburger’s face stirred Belinda’s sympathy. She crossed the rough ground to take her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret.
He’ll write. He’s busy now, carving his own pathway, but it doesn’t mean he never thinks of you.”
Frau Ollenburger captured Belinda in a tight hug. “Thank you, dear one. You always know just the right thing to say.” For a moment she cupped Belinda’s cheeks with her soft hands, smiling. “I won’t fret. But I will continue to pray that our wayward boy finds the time to let his pa know he’s doing well. We’ll all fare better when we know.”
A blush built in Belinda’s face. Did Frau Ollenburger mean to include her when she said our wayward boy, or was the gentle pat on her cheek mere coincidence? The woman dropped her hands and turned to the washtubs.
“Well, let’s empty these tubs in the garden.” With a teasing smirk, she added, “There’s nothing growing that is in need of a drink, but habits are hard to break. I can’t make myself dump water in the alley where it’s wasted on weeds.”
Belinda laughed and caught hold of the handle on the opposite side of the tub. It felt good to work under the early fall sun with Frau Ollenburger. Although she had enough of her own duties to fill her days, she spent as much time as she could with the Ollen-burgers. Their friendship became increasingly important as Malinda slipped further and further into melancholy, reminding Belinda of her mother’s sad journey toward death.
The water sloshed across the empty garden plot, soaking into the rich dirt. Belinda stared at the disappearing pool of sudsy water, wishing it were as easy to toss away troubles and sorrows.
Frau Ollenburger’s concerned voice brought Belinda back to the present. “You look overtired, Belinda. Are you catching a cold?”
“No, ma’am. I’m fine.”
“I probably should have insisted you rest instead of helping me this afternoon. You go on home now. Lie down. Then you and Malinda join us for the dinner meal.”
“Oh, no, I—”
Frau Ollenburger’s firm nod stilled Belinda’s words. “It’s the least I can do for the help you gave me with my washing. Go on now.” She gave Belinda a gentle nudge toward her home. “I’ll see you at dinnertime.”
Belinda obeyed, a part of her rebelling but most of her rejoicing at the opportunity to sit at the Ollenburgers’ table, another opportunity for her to pretend she was a part of their family. Those moments of pretending were the happiest of her days.
“Drivel. Pure drivel!” Father slammed his fist against the table next to his plate. His water glass bounced with the force of the blow.
From the other end of the table, Mother chided, “Harrison, please. We will all suffer indigestion if you don’t calm yourself.”
Daphne exchanged a look with Harry. Father had come home in the worst temper they’d seen in ages. And she knew Harry was as distraught as she over the cause.
“The effrontery of that lad to write his own editorial, in complete opposition to mine.” Father ignored Mother’s mild reprimand and continued in a blustering tone. “Rebutting my words as if we were involved in a written debate! He dared to compare my viewpoint to that of capitalist Russia, as if I were persecuting a particular group of people. Persecution? Bah!”
Daphne cringed when he raised his fist in preparation for another mighty thud.
“Harrison!” At Mother’s high-pitched cry, Father’s fist froze midair. Mother glanced toward the door leading to the servant’s hallway then sent a stern look at her husband. In a whispered tone, she said, “I must insist you lower your voice. Our reputation shall be damaged with talk amongst the servants if you cannot control your emotions.”
Daphne relaxed in her chair. This time Father would listen. He valued his reputation, and they were all aware how servants loved to spread salacious tidbits about their employers. If caught, they could be sent packing, yet they still indulged in story-sharing whenever possible. The more influential the person involved in the gossip, the faster the story spread. Anything involving Father would be choice tittle-tattle.
Father lowered his hand to the table slowly, as if fighting his own muscles. His frown deepened until he resembled an angry bull. Hissing through his teeth, he held himself to a fierce growl that carried only to the ears of those around the table. “The boy’s action borders on insubordination. I will not tolerate defiance among my employees!”
Harry leaned forward. “Father, did Thomas refuse to edit your writings?”
Father stared at Harry, his thick brows so low his eyes squinted. “No. He did an exemplary job in editing, as always, but—”
“How can you call it insubordination when he did what you asked him to do?”
Daphne silently cheered. How she wished she could ask such a question and set Father back in his chair! But if she had made the query, Father wouldn’t be sitting in thoughtful introspection; he’d either wave his hand in dismissal or glower in disapproval.
She replayed Thomas’s good-bye, and relief washed over her. Surely his solemn farewell had been based on a belief he would be discharged the moment he placed his own editorial on Father’s desk. The good-bye had nothing to do with her and everything to do
with Father. If only Father would see that Thomas had done nothing wrong, everything would return to normal. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together and waited for Father to reply.
But only a grunt sounded, followed by Father snatching up his fork and knife and digging into his now-cold dinner. Harry winked at Daphne, and they also turned their attention to their food. When they had been excused, Harry caught her elbow and guided her to the backyard pergola situated well away from the house. He pressed her onto a bench and leaned against the railing, fixing her with a serious look.
“What do you know about the editorial Tom wrote?”
Daphne threw her hands outward in a silent gesture of innocence. “Not a thing! Father mentioning it at dinner is the first I heard of it. But Thomas visited me at headquarters earlier today, quite upset not only with Watson, but with Father, as well.” She didn’t add that his concerns had trickled over onto her. “The fact that he wrote out his opinion of injustice doesn’t surprise me.”
“It surprises me.” Harry released the top button of his shirt and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, affecting a relaxed pose that didn’t match his scowl. “Tom’s never been one to stir up trouble. He was the peacemaker amongst our chums—in fact, we all jeered at him for it. Big enough to beat anyone into submission, but he preferred talking out differences and finding a compromise. He said he was taught to be at peace with all men, inasmuch as was possible.”
Yes, Thomas’s penchant for gentleness was one of his most endearing qualities, in Daphne’s opinion. She had never feared him, despite his large size. Except . . . Her smile faded when she remembered his fierce attack this morning. What immense emotion must have boiled beneath the surface for him to react so strongly.
Harry went on quietly, as if speaking to himself. “Always, there was something different about Tom—a maturity, even when we were young. We’d goad him about being a country boy, call him a hayseed, and even then he’d just smile and say something that disarmed the malicious intent. Yet he always jumped to the defense of anyone else being tormented.”
Suddenly Harry straightened, one hand popping out of his pocket to sock the air. “Why, that’s it! Tom could never abide anyone being left out or mistreated. He told me one time that ‘his people,’ whatever that meant, had suffered oppression because of their religion. Why, this editorial he wrote must be out of his belief that—” Harry stormed out of the pergola, heading in the direction of the carriage house.
Daphne jumped up so fast she felt dizzy. She grabbed a vine-woven post with both hands and leaned forward. “Harry!”
He whirled, his feet still moving as if eager to continue. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Tom—talk some sense into him.”
She released the post and scrambled down the two wooden steps. “I want to accompany you.”
“No.”
“But surely I could—”
“No!” His stern look silenced her protest. “This might turn unpleasant. I plan to be very straightforward with Tom, and likely he’ll be straightforward back. With you in the middle of it, we won’t be able to speak plain, man-to-man. This isn’t a time for sugar-coating. His entire future is at stake.”
“But my future is at stake, too! Please, Harry!” She clasped her hands beneath her chin.
Her brother’s expression softened. He walked toward her and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Don’t worry, Daph. I’ll make sure Tom sticks around for us. He—he’s like a brother to me. My best pal, ever since he walked into biology class and said he couldn’t believe we’d cut up a pig just to look at its innards when the only thing inside a pig that interested him was ham, chops, and sausage.”
They laughed softly together, and Daphne felt closer to her brother than ever before in those moments.
Harry finished in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to lose his friendship.”
Tears filled Daphne’s eyes. “And I don’t want to lose him.” She waved her brother away. “All right. Go alone so you can speak man-to-man. And tell him . . . tell him I love him still.”
21
THOMAS JUMPED AT A SUDDEN SERIES of thuds on his front door. He glanced at the partially completed letter on his desk and decided getting his thoughts down was more important than whatever the person outside needed.
He leaned back over the desk, pen tip against the page. But the pounding came again, more insistent. A voice called, “Tom! Open up or I’ll break the door down!”
Harry. Thomas smacked his pen onto the paper and pushed away from the desk. He stomped to the door, swung it wide, and issued a gruff warning. “If you break the door down, you’ll pay for it.”
Harry charged over the threshold without waiting for an invitation, spun to face Thomas, and started speaking before Thomas could even secure the door. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself sacked?”
“I take it your father told you about the editorial I wrote this afternoon.”
Harry ran his hand through his hair. He shook his head, pacing the floor. “Oh yes, you were the topic at our dinner table. Father was ready to call out a firing squad.” He whirled on Thomas. “What compelled you to do such a foolish thing? You had to know Father would be angry. I’ve never known you to deliberately incite ire. Why now?”
Recalling his conversation with Daphne and the emotional pain that followed, Thomas hesitated before answering. He valued his friendship with Harry, which had been years in the making. It pained him to think he would lose this friend, yet he knew he couldn’t stay silent on the concept of social hierarchy. Not if it meant the deliberate intimidation of an entire race of people.
He answered carefully. “I suppose I never had a reason to incite ire before.”
Harry laughed—a harsh, brittle sound. “You don’t have a reason now.”
“Yes, I do. Wrongs need to be fixed, and it’s a sorry man who refuses to fight for right.”
Harry snorted. “Fight for right . . . Right is subjective, Tom.
Besides, what Watson wants benefits us.”
“Us? Including me?”
“Of course, including you!”
“How am I a part of this ‘us’?”
Harry flung his arms wide, his expression incredulous. “Are you colored? Are you Jewish? No! So this isn’t your battle, Tom.
Father’s editorial had nothing to do with you.”
“Because I’m not colored or Jewish.”
“That’s right.”
Thomas grimaced. He crossed to his secondhand sofa and sat, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. He kept his gaze aimed downward and said, “No. But I’m poor. And that’s just the next step up, isn’t it?”
A soft expletive exploded from Harry as he moved to the chair at the end of the sofa and slumped into the seat. “I don’t think of you as poor.”
Thomas lifted his head to look directly into Harry’s eyes. “You don’t think of me as poor only because I lived with Nadine. But if you’d visited Gaeddert and seen my pa’s house, you would never have chosen me for a friend. Admit it, Harry. Your father’s belief that white men of wealth are superior is your belief, too.”
Red streaked Harry’s cheeks, his gaze darting sideways briefly before returning to Thomas. “That doesn’t matter because you don’t live in Gaeddert anymore. You live in Boston, and you have the opportunity for at least the illusion of wealth if you keep working your way up at the paper. No one would have to know you were brought up on a farm in Kansas.”
Thomas laughed, but the sound held no amusement. “Harry, I’m not ashamed of my upbringing.” The words caused a part of a verse from the book of Romans to flit through Thomas’s mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel . . .”
“I’m not saying you should be ashamed.” Harry straightened in his seat, his tone convincing. “But there’s no reason to boast about it, either. Why give people a reason to look down on you?”
Thomas bolted from his seat. “That’s
just it, Harry. Why should people look down on me because I’m not wealthy? Why does a fancy house and a large bank account make one man better than another? What difference is there in the color of skin? Skin is only this deep!” He pinched his thumb and finger together, indicating a scant difference.
Harry rose, too, his eyes snapping with fury. “I don’t know why it matters, but it does! It always has! And you can’t change it, so why sacrifice your job and your opportunity for high standing in this community over a bunch of—”
Thomas lunged, catching Harry’s shirtfront. “Hold your tongue!”
Harry set his lips in a grim line and glared. For several seconds Thomas held tight, his face only inches from Harry’s, the unspoken disparaging term hanging in the air like a vile stench.
Abruptly, Thomas released his hold and stepped back. He drew a deep breath and released it bit by bit, willing his anger to calm, inwardly reminding himself Harry was his friend. His friend. Not his enemy.
A cloak of tension fell over the room. Harry stood with his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. The heaviness in Thomas’s chest made breathing difficult. Why, Lord? Why did you not let me see? Why did you not keep me from becoming involved in a campaign to elect a man with reprehensible morals?
Pa’s voice, from a day long past, whispered a response to Thomas’s inner torment. “Son, choices a man makes, and not always does he choose the right. This is why we seek daily the Lord’s guidance.”
Belinda’s familiar ending to each of her written communications followed Pa’s admonition: “Every day, I pray God’s will for you.”
Thomas swallowed hard, shame and regret churning his belly. How disappointed his parents would be to know how far off course he’d gone. Despite his pa’s wise counsel and steadfast example, he had chosen this pathway without consulting his heavenly Father. And now he must suffer the consequences.
Where the Heart Leads Page 17