Raymond snorted. “You can’t expect us to ignore those responsibilities.”
“You can’t possibly be that selfish.” Mayme’s voice turned wheedling. “Not after everything you’ve already cost her.”
Laurel looked back and forth from brother to sister so rapidly her head began to swim. She held up both hands and closed her eyes. “Stop. Please…be quiet and let me think.”
“There’s nothing to think about.”
She popped her eyes open and met Alfred’s stern frown.
“We’ve given it much thought, discussed it at length, and all agree this is the best way to ascertain Mama’s needs will be met.”
“But…” Laurel swallowed. What of her needs? Her wants? She’d largely stopped socializing with her girlfriends two years back when they all became so boy besotted it embarrassed her. But since the passage of her eighteenth birthday, she’d often contemplated the joy of becoming a wife and a mother. Why, Mama must be considering Laurel’s future, because she’d allowed Patrick Brinkley to call on her. Twice!
Twirling the strand of hair around her finger again, she looked around the room and examined each of her siblings’ faces by turn. Was there a hint of understanding in at least one pair of Millard coffee-brown eyes? She saw none, although she suspected if Eugene raised his head and met her gaze, she might witness sympathy from him.
She dropped the strand of hair and blinked back tears. “You really want me to give up on having my own family?”
“For a time, yes.” Nell snapped the answer. “It’s only right. You’re the baby. She doted on you. Now it’s her turn to be doted upon.”
“And your turn,” Mayme said, “to be the doter.”
“So that’s settled.” Alfred slapped his knees and stretched to his feet. Nell, Eugene, Raymond, and Mayme also stood and moved to the hall tree. While they retrieved their items, Alfred turned a somber look on Laurel. “I trust you to make sure Mama’s final years are not spent in loneliness and want. You won’t disappoint me, will you?”
Laurel remained seated, her muscles too quivery to support her weight. A part of her rebelled against her siblings’ expectations, but Alfred had never vowed to trust her before. The grown-up big brother she’d always tried—and failed—to please now offered her a chance to redeem herself in his eyes.
The hopeful child residing deep inside her shook its head. “No, Alfred. I won’t.”
Peachtree Street, Atlanta
Langdon Rochester
“Langdon, I am sorely disappointed in you.”
Langdon choked back a snort. When was Father not disappointed in him? He maintained his relaxed position on the sofa—head resting on a tufted pillow, feet crossed on the opposite armrest—but angled his face and followed his father’s progress from the library’s wide doorway to the wingback chairs in front of the cold fireplace. His mind tripped backward through the day’s happenings. Church with his parents, during which he’d stayed awake, followed by an insufferably long lunch, during which he’d engaged Mother in cheerful conversation. He’d even denied himself an afternoon cigar. For what reason had Harrison Faulk Rochester found fault with his son today?
His expression distorting into a grimace, Father held both hands toward Langdon. “Look at you. Twenty-three years old, a university graduate, and you have nothing better to do than lie about reading…reading…” He scowled at the magazine propped against Langdon’s stomach. “What is that you’ve got?”
Langdon turned the Harper’s Weekly cover toward his father. “It’s an older issue—January of ’93—but the article about the International Monetary Conference in Brussels is quite interesting.”
Father huffed. “At least you aren’t filling your brain with drivel.”
Langdon sat up and tossed the magazine aside. Father would have had a conniption if he’d come in while his son was caught up in the serial story about a soldier named Connors. Romantic drivel at its best. Or, as Father would term it, its worst. “If my reading magazines on a Sunday afternoon offends you, Father, I’ll gladly choose a book instead.” He rose and perused one of the twenty-four floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
Father dropped into one of the chairs and slapped the brocaded armrest. “It isn’t your reading on a Sunday afternoon that offends me. Of course Sunday is a day of rest practiced by the religious and nonreligious alike. It’s your lazy attitude the remainder of the week causing my indigestion and your mother’s fretfulness.”
Mother was fretful? Langdon faced his father and folded his arms over his chest. He had shed his suit jacket and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt after the church service. Here it was after four o’clock, and Father still wore every bit of his formal attire, down to the black-and-gray-striped silk tie fashioned in its crisp four-in-hand knot. The collar of his shirt, bound by the tie, bit into his neck and forced the flesh to mushroom above the band of white. So stodgy and stuffy he appeared. Had Father ever been young and blissfully unburdened? Likely not.
Langdon crossed to the second chair and seated himself, taking care to mimic his father’s dignified pose. “I only finished with university two and a half months ago. I wasn’t aware my enjoying a few weeks of relaxation was a source of angst to Mother.” He ran his hand through his hair, sweeping the thick strands away from his forehead. “What would she have me do instead?”
“Grow up.” Father barked the words, then bowed his head and massaged his graying temples with his fingertips.
Langdon gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the chair’s carved handrests. Those weren’t Mother’s words. Gentle Mother never spoke abruptly. And Father never spoke anything but abruptly. As a matter of fact, it seemed the only time Father spoke to him was to deliver reprimands. While living in university housing, Langdon had decided that since he couldn’t please his father, he may as well please himself. But if he truly was causing Mother heartache…
Father fixed Langdon with a weary yet firm look. “I tolerated you repeating several classes, which meant an additional year at the university. At your mother’s insistence, I’ve held my tongue when you’ve come in late night after night, often disheveled and reeking of cigar smoke, and then stayed in bed until noon.” He shook his head, his cheeks mottling crimson. “I admit, I am partially to blame. I allowed your mother to overindulge you because you are our only child. But those days are over. You’re no longer a child to be pampered. You’re a grown man, Langdon. You must behave like one.”
“You’re six years old, Langdon, old enough to buckle your own shoes.”
“You’re nine years old, Langdon, too old to cry over a skinned knee.”
“You’re fifteen years old, Langdon. You will remain at the dinner table and engage in intelligent conversation.”
Expectation after expectation rolled through the back of his mind. He’d learned to buckle his shoes, had learned to control his tears, had learned to contribute to conversation around a dinner table. All without ever receiving a word of praise. He swallowed his resentment and forced a disinterested tone. “What is it you want from me, Father?”
The older man stood and glared down at Langdon. “I want assurance that the company I’ve worked so hard to build will be well cared for into the future.” He drew a deep breath that expanded his midsection and strained the buttons of his vest. “Thus, beginning tomorrow, you will rise at six and accompany me to the factory.”
“But tomorrow is Labor Day.” Although the national holiday recognizing both union and nonunion workers was still relatively new, Father was a stickler for honoring presidential dictates.
Father pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, determination gleamed in his blue-gray irises. “Yes, tomorrow is Labor Day, but I will be in the office in the afternoon so my workers may collect their pay envelopes. Payday was already delayed, given the first of the month has fallen on a Sunday. I won’t ask them to wait another full day.”
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br /> “If you’ll only be there in the afternoon, why must we rise at six?”
“Because you are sorely out of practice at finding your way to the breakfast table, and you need the opportunity to change your sleeping-late habit.” Father sank into his chair. “Beginning tomorrow you will be my apprentice, for lack of a better word, and you will learn every aspect of managing the factory as well as overseeing my rental properties.”
Narrowing his gaze, Langdon leaned back in the chair and cupped his chin with his hand. His studies at the university—engineering, accounting, and business management—had been chosen by Father to prepare him to assume ownership of the factory. Langdon had long known his life’s course, and he’d accepted it, had even anticipated it. Being in charge of nearly a hundred workers? Having them heed his orders the way he’d always heeded Father’s? His chest swelled as he considered the power he would possess.
Of course, he’d hoped for a few more months of holiday before assuming the reins of leadership. But he’d learned to bluff his way through poker games. Playing the dutiful son and dedicated trainee until the time Father released the business into his keeping shouldn’t tax him overmuch. He gave a decisive nod. “Very well.”
Father’s brows pinched. “I’m not finished. Learning to manage my holdings is my expectation of you. Your mother expects something as well. She longs for a grandchild.”
Langdon sat up straight. Father couldn’t mean—
“Having a wife and children dependent upon you has a way of quickly maturing a man. Thus, I require you to court a young woman. By this time next year, you will be married.”
Langdon shot to his feet. He would do most anything for Mother, but saddle him with a wife and squalling babies? Father had gone too far. “And if I choose not to?”
Father shrugged. “I can’t force you. It’s your decision.”
Langdon blew out a relieved breath.
“But I’ve already put a proviso in my will. If you haven’t proven yourself adept at handling the business and settled into family life by September first of next year, your mother’s oldest nephew, Timothy, who has been my faithful floor supervisor for the past three years, will become my heir.”
Workers’ quarters on Factory Street, Atlanta
Willie Sharp
Willie carried two steaming bowls to the scarred square table in the corner of the small kitchen. Pa already waited in his chair, a cloth napkin tied around his neck, and a spoon held awkwardly in his left fist. Even after a full four months, his right-handed father didn’t do too well using his left hand. Willie didn’t mind that Pa scooped up food like a two-year-old, but he hated the napkin hanging across Pa’s chest like a baby’s bib. But if they didn’t use it, Pa would stain up every shirt he owned. Which was worse—having to wear a bib, or always being stained up? He could never decide for sure, and he wouldn’t ask Pa to choose.
He placed one bowl in front of his father and put the other at his spot. “No fatback in the beans tonight. I went by the butcher after I collected my pay, but he wasn’t open. Probably takin’ advantage of Labor Day. I’ll stop there tomorrow on the way home from work and get a pound or two of fatback. And some ham. I know you like ham with your eggs.”
Willie talked to Pa even though Pa couldn’t talk to him. At least not in understandable words. But sitting in silence was worse than doing all the talking. Besides, seemed like Pa enjoyed the sound of Willie’s voice. His eyes always lit up, and most times he nodded or shook his head in response to questions. That was enough encouragement to keep Willie talking.
Willie slid onto his chair and put his hand over Pa’s limp fingers. “Let’s pray, huh?”
Pa’s head bobbed—two short jerks.
Willie bowed his head. “Dear Lord, thank Thee for—”
A firm knock at the door intruded. Probably Mr. Rochester coming to collect the monthly rent, like he always did on payday. Some young fellows from the factory squandered their wages, but Willie always made sure to have the rent ready to hand over. He couldn’t risk losing their home. What would happen to Pa then?
He rose and gave Pa’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Go ahead and eat. God knows we’re thankful. I’ll see to the door an’ be right back.” He strode to the pie safe and picked up the stack of coins he’d set aside. He bounced them on his palm on the way to the door. Two gold half eagles and one Morgan silver dollar—eleven dollars in all, a third of his pay. Another third went to food, then half the remaining third to Mrs. Blaricum, the neighbor lady who looked after Pa while Willie was at the factory. It didn’t leave much, but they got by, probably because Willie faithfully dropped a tenth of his wages into the offering plate every month, the way he’d been taught to.
“God blesses those who honor Him.” Ma’s voice echoed in Willie’s thoughts. He sure missed her. Pa did, too.
He opened the front door. A young man dressed in a three-piece suit and brown bowler waited on the stoop. A salesman, probably, although peddlers didn’t visit the factory-owned neighborhood much. Willie offered a weak smile. “I don’t know what you’re sellin’, mister, but me an’ my pa don’t have extra to buy anything.”
The man scowled. “I’m not peddling wares.” He held up a small notepad and pointed at one of the lines. “Can you read this?”
Heat flamed in Willie’s cheeks. They might not’ve been wealthy, but his folks had sent him to school. All the way through the eighth grade. “Sure I can.”
“Well, then, you can see a name there—Sharp. Is that you?”
Willie nodded.
“And you see the amount right behind it?”
Willie nodded again.
The man jammed the pad into his jacket pocket and looked at Willie. “Well?”
Willie hunched his shoulders. “Well, what?”
The fellow sighed. “Do you have the rent money?”
“Oh! Right here.” He dropped the coins into the man’s outstretched hand.
The man counted them, then clinked them into a leather pouch exactly like the one Mr. Rochester always carried. He turned to leave.
Willie stepped out on the stoop. “Can I ask…” The man looked over his shoulder. “Did Mr. Rochester take sick?” He’d seemed fine three hours ago when Willie received his pay, but sickness could attack a man fairly quick, the way it had Pa.
“Why?”
“ ’Cause he usually collects the rent. Just wondered if somethin’ happened to him.” If so, he’d say a prayer for his boss.
“He’s fine, but I’ll be the one collecting the rent from now on.” The man tugged his bowler a little lower on his forehead. “Or at least for a while.”
“Oh. All right.”
The fellow took a step.
“Somethin’ else.”
This time he turned clear around, glowering.
Willie pointed to the notepad sticking out of the man’s pocket. “Mr. Rochester always has me put a mark behind the payment. Says it’s his way of makin’ sure I get credit for it.”
With a huff, the man yanked the pad out and thrust it at Willie. “Make your mark, then.”
Willie scratched his head. “He always lends me a pencil.”
“For the love of…” The man scrounged in his pocket and pulled out a stubby pencil. “Here.”
Willie carefully wrote “W. S.” behind the amount. Then he returned the pad and pencil to the collector. “Thanks.” The man pocketed both items and strode off, muttering.
Willie closed the door and returned to the table. Pa’s bowl was empty, and beans lay scattered on the table and floor. Willie chuckled. The big orange tabby cat that had taken up residence under their small toolshed shortly before the illness struck Pa would have a good supper if he cleaned up all the beans from the floor. Sometimes Willie suspected Pa dropped food down his front on purpose, just so the scrounging cat would have extra to eat. Pa must’ve gotten quite a bit in his mouth,
too, though. Sauce smears decorated his face.
Willie grabbed the cloth from the washbasin, wrung it out, and used it to gently clean Pa’s lips, chin, and cheeks. Then he straightened and pointed at Pa’s bowl. “You get enough, or do you want more?” He cringed. Pa couldn’t answer a two-halved question. Especially one with opposite answers. “Sorry, Pa. You get enough?”
Pa nodded.
“You sure?”
Pa grunted.
Willie grinned. “All right, I’ll quit pesterin’ you. Just wanna make sure you don’t wake up hungry in the middle of the night.”
The left side of Pa’s mouth lifted into his version of a smile. He shook his head.
“You won’t get up an’ prowl around the kitchen when we’re s’posed to be sleepin’?”
Another shake that rocked his shoulders with it.
Willie unhooked the stained napkin, wadded it up, and set it aside. “You wanna go to your chair?”
Unblinking, Pa stared into Willie’s eyes.
“You wanna stay with me while I eat?”
A nod.
Willie plopped into his chair. “Sounds good. I like havin’ company.” He ate his beans, pausing now and then to ask Pa simple yes-or-no questions. He sure missed the sound of his pa’s deep, rumbling voice. The doctor’d told him the only way to bring Pa back to how he’d been before the attack of apoplexy was to put him in a special hospital where trained folks would work with him every day. Willie didn’t have money to pay for a special hospital. So he relied on prayers. If God could raise Lazarus from the dead, then He could help Pa talk and use his right hand good again. So Willie would keep praying, and he’d keep talking to Pa, and he’d keep reminding Mrs. Blaricum to get him up and walking every hour or so. And he’d hold on to hope.
When he finished eating, he helped Pa to his chair. Ma’d saved her stitching-up-clothes money for a whole year to buy it. The seat cushion had a Pa-sized scoop in its middle, and the woven brown wool was worn down on the armrests, but even if one of the springs came clear through and poked him on the backside, Pa wouldn’t get rid of the chair.
A Silken Thread Page 2