A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Quincy put the basket on the table, then headed to the cupboard and fetched plates. “Preacher ask you to stay? You get yo’self in trouble durin’ the service?”

  Willie shook his head at his friend’s teasing grin. “I gave up causin’ trouble in services when I was six. Ma made sure it wasn’t worth my time to get into mischief there.” His ma had been a mild-mannered lady, generally quiet and gentle. Unless she thought Willie’d been disrespectful or disobedient. Then she wielded a switch. She hadn’t needed to actually use it more than half a dozen times. Willie’d never been keen on displeasing his ma. And not because he was scared of the switch. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint her. He didn’t want to disappoint her now by not doing the best he could for Pa.

  “Then whatcha need with ’im?”

  Willie counted three plates at the table. “Guess I’ll tell you after we all eat.”

  Willie said grace. Then they partook of Willie’s beans and the fried chicken and biscuits from Quincy’s basket. It might not’ve been a roasted goose, but it all tasted good, and by the time they were done, Willie’s stomach was achingly full. He opened the back door, and as usual ol’ Rusty came running. The cat went straight to the food scraps under the table and set to cleaning them up, the tip of his bushy tail twitching and his purr rumbling.

  Willie helped Pa to his bed. Walking to church and back made him slap wore out worse than a full day at the factory used to. If Pa got help at the convalescent hospital, would he be able to work again? He’d always been so busy—gardening with Ma, carving wooden horses and dogs and baby rattles for neighborhood kids, lending a hand wherever it was needed. The only time he’d sat was to eat or read the paper. Now he couldn’t do much more than sit. He wasn’t able to say so, but he had to be frustrated with his uncooperative body. Willie wanted Pa whole again. For Pa’s sake, not Willie’s.

  Willie draped the quilt over Pa. “Have a good rest, now.”

  Pa’s gaze went back and forth from the doorway to Willie. “Aaaa…Aaaa…”

  Willie frowned. “What is it you want, Pa?” He searched his mind for things starting with the letter a. “Apple cider?” They still had some left in the jug. “An antacid?” Maybe he’d ate too much.

  Pa shook his head. He made petting motions with his left hand.

  Ah. So a wasn’t the starting letter. “When he’s done eatin’, I’ll bring Rusty in to you.”

  Pa rewarded Willie with one of his lopsided smiles. Then he closed his eyes. He was already snoring softly when Willie carried the cat into the room, but Willie put Rusty on the bed anyway. The yellow tom walked back and forth across the rumpled covers and then curled into a ball next to Pa’s hip and closed his gold eyes. His purr matched Pa’s snore for volume.

  Chuckling, Willie returned to the kitchen.

  Quincy still sat at the table with the dirty plates. “Get your pa settled?”

  Willie nodded. He carried the plates and spoons to the dry sink and left them in the washbasin. He’d wash them later, after Quincy’d gone home. He sat in his chair and crossed his arms on the table. “Tell your ma thanks for the food. I know Pa gets tired of eating beans or scrambled eggs, but that’s about as much as I know how to make.”

  “Mam worries about you’n Otto. Said if she didn’t have Port, Stu, an’ Sassy all underfoot ever’ day, she’d come by to cook an’ clean.”

  Willie couldn’t imagine having eleven brothers and sisters, the way Quincy did. He used to envy Quincy, but now, with Ma gone and Pa so sick, he was glad God didn’t see fit to give his folks a houseful of youngsters. He wouldn’t be able to take care of Pa and all of them, too. “That’s nice of her, but she doesn’t need to worry about us. We’re doin’ all right.”

  Quincy’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Part o’ the reason Mam sent me by is to find out why you didn’ come say if you got a exposition job.”

  Willie groaned. “Quincy, I’m sorry. Right after I found out I got a job—”

  “You did?” Quincy sat straight up, his smile wide. He smacked Willie on the shoulder. “Good! Now you an’ me c’n—”

  “Hold up. Lemme finish.” He hated stomping on Quincy’s joy, but there wasn’t any sense in getting him all excited. Not yet. “I got a notice sayin’ I’d been chosen for security guard, but right afterward, Mrs. Blaricum told me she couldn’t stay days with Pa anymore. An’ you know I can’t leave him alone. Not all day.”

  Quincy slumped low in his chair. “What you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I stayed an’ talked to the preacher. He’s gonna come by later an’ talk to me some more.” He remembered something Preacher Hines said, and a hint of happiness struck. “He said he didn’t think God would let me get hired if I wasn’t supposed to take the job.”

  A grin crept up Quincy’s cheeks. “Then why’re we sittin’ here all glum an’ gloomy? You got the job. You gonna get to do it.” He shrugged. “I’d ruther you was doin’ groundskeepin’, same as me, but I’m mostly glad we’ll be goin’ ovuh togethuh. Mam, she was some worried ’bout me goin’ by myself, what with the unsettledness between white an’ black folk.”

  Willie couldn’t understand why so many people had trouble looking past the color of somebody else’s skin. He and Quincy had never cared that Quincy’s hair was tight coils of coal black and Willie’s was straight and the color of straw. Their families didn’t care, either. Pa and Ma considered the Tates good friends, and Ruger and Zenia Tate felt the same way about Willie’s folks. People needed to be more like God, who looked on folks’ hearts, like He did with the shepherd boy David in First Samuel. Every one of the Tates had a good heart. Even Quincy, who sometimes let his temper get the best of him.

  Willie brushed crumbs from the table to the floor, wishing he could get rid of bigotry so easy. “Well, that’s part of what the exposition is s’posed to do—settle things.” It’d be fine to be involved in bringing an end to the unrest the War Between the States hadn’t managed to erase.

  Quincy pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “I reckon I oughta get on home. Mam’ll be lookin’ for me to help Bunson with choppin’ wood into tomorrow’s stove kindlin’. She go through firewood the way Stu an’ Sassy go through molasses cookies. Them two was born with sweet tooths.”

  Willie stood, too, and handed Quincy the empty basket. “If you can wrestle some molasses cookies away from the twins, put ’em in here an’ bring ’em over.”

  Quincy laughed. They turned toward the front door, and at the same time someone knocked on it. Quincy jolted. “Betcha that’s the preacher, comin’ like he said he would.”

  “Uh-huh.” Willie gnawed at a piece of dry skin on his lip. “S’pose God’s already told him who can take care of Pa?”

  “Ain’t gonna know ’less you ask ’im.”

  Willie broke out in a sweat—mostly from eagerness, and a little from nervousness. God didn’t always answer yes. Pa still being sickly and weak proved it. But Willie needed a yes, and quick. What would he do if the preacher didn’t have any more ideas than Willie had?

  Quincy nudged him. “Go on. Can’t leave a preacher standin’ on yo’ stoop. Let ’im in.” He inched in the direction of the back door. “I’ll head on home. Come tell me later what he say. I’ll tell Mam an’ Pap what you’s needin’, an’ they’ll be prayin’.” He slipped out.

  Willie pulled in a breath and marched to the front door. He swung it wide. Preacher Hines waited on the other side of the threshold. His wife stood beside him.

  The preacher removed his hat. “Willie, can we come in?”

  Uncertain, Willie looked from one to the other. Besides Mrs. Blaricum, who didn’t count because she was a helper instead of a guest, a woman hadn’t visited since the day of Ma’s funeral. All he could think about was the dirty dishes in the basin and the crumbs under the table. “Um…”

  “We have some news to share.”

  Willie cou
ldn’t tell by the man’s expression or voice if it was good news or bad. He wouldn’t know until he let them in. He moved out of the way. “Yes. Come on in, Preacher Hines, Mrs. Hines.” What would Ma say to guests? “Please have a seat.”

  Laurel

  The loom in the corner of the Millards’ parlor sat idle. Sunday, Mama said, was the day of rest. Mama was, at this very minute, taking her customary nap. Ordinarily Laurel read while Mama napped, but she couldn’t sit still. Too much excitement quivered through her. So she removed the cover from the loom, perched on the stool, and added rows to the rug she’d begun the day before.

  She operated the loom without conscious thought, the actions as natural as breathing—shuttle through the shed, pull the beater, pump-pump on the treadles, send the shuttle through again, repeat. While she worked, she thought about the plans Mama and Eugene had made during lunch for transporting Laurel to and from the fairgrounds each day. Riding in the comfort of Mr. Salisbury’s fine carriage every morning and evening would be a treat in itself. The leather seat cradled her against any bump in the road, and the fold-up sides and top prevented the wind from tousling her hair. Why, she’d feel like a princess being carried to a ball each day! Would she ever have imagined such adventure?

  Before Eugene and his family left for their own little cottage on the edge of the Salisbury property, she had thanked her brother profusely, but he hadn’t so much as smiled in reply. It gave her no pleasure to worry him, but his somber countenance could not rob her of joy. Not even Nell’s stern frown or Alfred’s disapproving glare, tossed at her in tandem upon her late arrival to service that morning, had squashed her happy mood. If she came away from the fairgrounds each day smiling and unharmed, eventually Eugene would see there was no need to fret. Maybe she’d find a vendor and buy a licorice whip for him each payday. That should sweeten him up.

  A giggle found its way from her throat, adding a lilting melody to the percussion of the loom’s thumps and thuds. She paused and scanned the rows she’d added to the rug. The vertical stripes were perfectly aligned, the thread tension even. With a nod of satisfaction, she put the loom to work again, keeping a slow, steady rhythm, unwilling to awaken Mama or earn a scolding for carelessness.

  Would the loom at the fairgrounds be as easy to operate as Mama’s thirty-year-old floor loom? Silk must be far different than the bulky cotton and wool she and Mama used. What if her familiarity with this old loom made it difficult for her to learn how to thread and weave the silken strands on a different kind of loom?

  Worry nibbled at her. But she gave the beater a firm yank, and the dull thunk sent the unwelcome emotion scuttling from her thoughts.

  God had given her this job. Mama had approved it. All would be well.

  Quincy

  Real early Monday morning, even before the sun was full up, Quincy tromped across the dewy grass. His grin stretched his freshly shaved cheeks. Willie’d be going with him to the exposition after all.

  Preacher Hines had sure fixed things up fine, finding church ladies who’d come stay with Mr. Sharp while Willie was working. The preacher even promised to get things arranged at the convalescent hospital so Mr. Sharp could move in there soon as Willie got his first pay envelope from the exposition.

  Mam had sung praises for an hour after Willie come and shared the good news with all of Quincy’s family. The white folks took care of their own almost as good as black folks did, Mam said. And that was saying something, ’cause them in his neighborhood never left a need untended. Mam always said there be three things in life he could depend on—his heavenly Father, his family, and his neighbors. Sure made Quincy happy to know all that was true for Willie, too.

  Quincy stepped up on the Sharps’ stoop and tapped his knuckles on the door. The door popped open right away, and Willie come out, all dressed up in his church clothes.

  “Mornin,’ Quincy. Ready to go?”

  Quincy reared back and looked him up and down. “Hoo-ee, you all spit shined an’ fancy. How come you’s wearin’ yo’ go-to-meetin’ suit?”

  Willie shrugged and pulled at his shirt collar. “Mrs. Hines said I ought to. To make a good impression.”

  Quincy glanced at his patched britches and Pap’s blue-striped hand-me-down shirt. Should he run home and change quick into something nicer? He didn’t own no suit like Willie was wearing, but he had one pair of trousers and a shirt he saved for Sunday, so they didn’t have no holes or patches. He scratched his cheek, worrying. If he started work this first day, he’d likely get dirty. Didn’t matter he was twenty years old. Mam’d have his hide if he mussed his best clothes. He’d best stay in what he’d put on.

  He stepped to the ground. “Miz Hines…She who seein’ to yo’ pa today?”

  “Yep.” Willie gave a little hop off the stoop, the way he and Quincy used to hop off felled logs by the creek when they was no taller’n Pap’s waist. Sure looked funny, him doing that in his good suit. “She packed me a lunch, too.”

  “That be right nice.”

  “Yep.” Willie peeked over his shoulder, like he feared somebody was listening in, and then leaned close to Quincy’s ear. “That’s mostly why I didn’t argue about puttin’ on my Sunday duds. Didn’t wanna hurt her feelings.” He straightened, poking his finger under his collar again. “We best get goin’. Don’t wanna be late our first day.”

  Swinging their lunch pails, they loped across the yard and headed up the street. After only one block, Quincy’s underarms started to prickle. Sun wasn’t hardly peeking past the treetops and already the air was sticky. Might be they’d get some rain today. Good thing he was wearing work clothes. Wouldn’t hurt them none to get wet. But Willie, he’d ruin his suit if he got caught in the rain.

  He nudged Willie with his elbow. “I got a nickel in my pocket. If you got one, too, we c’n ketch a streetcar, ride in style to the fairgrounds. Atlanta Railway Comp’ny’s got a line goin’ right by Piedmont Park now.”

  Willie grinned. “I brought a dime so I could pay for the streetcar for both of us. We’ll be plumb tuckered if we walk the whole way.”

  Quincy chuckled. “Good thinkin’.”

  Funny how him and Willie was so different on the outside but so alike on the inside. Mam said they should’ve been brothers, the way they liked the same things and got into so much mischief together. ’Course, all that mischief making was years back, when they was young and foolish. Willie hadn’t piddled in foolishness for some years now. Six, at least. Since his ma passed on, for sure. Willie didn’t have time for foolishness these days. Not with taking care of his pa.

  Mam said Willie was earning jewels in his crown. Quincy doubted Willie cared much about jewels. He just wanted his pa to get better. And who could blame him? Mam and Pap was praying for Mr. Sharp and Willie, and they’d keep praying until Mr. Sharp was up walking and talking and back to hisself again, even if they had to pray until doomsday.

  The sun creeped up above the rooftops, and morning shadows stretched like they was working the kinks out of tired muscles. Quincy’s and Willie’s shadows slid side by side over the dirt road. Quincy stared at the pair of long dark shapes. Wasn’t it something how shadows was all the same color? How would it be if folks only saw other folks’ shadows and not their real selves? Everybody looking the same on the outside would make a heap of difference. Probably more folks’d end up being friends, the way him and Willie’d always been friends.

  Quincy heaved out a sigh. Mam said the Good Lord done made people in all shapes, sizes, and colors so’s the world would have variety, and she claimed He loved all them people the same. Still and all, Quincy wondered if God loved the white folks a little better. Sure seemed like things went easier for most whites than blacks.

  He’d pondered it out loud one time when he was thirteen or fourteen, and Mam had sat him down and made him read John 3:16 seventy-seven times in a row, each time saying the whosoever a little louder until he was plumb shouting at
the end. Then she’d told him, real firm but with her eyes all tear-shiny like she was trying not to cry, “Son, we can’t be puttin’ God’s feelin’s on people. Always gon’ be people who is hateful to ya. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout that. But God—He loves you deep. Don’t you fo’get it.” Next day, his voice was hoarse. He didn’t never say something like that again. But he couldn’t help wondering.

  Mam and Pap put great stock in what God’s Book said. Mam liked John 3:16 real good—said it gave her comfort. And Pap liked reciting John 13:35. Pap told all his youngsters, if a person loved God—and every one of his children was expected to love God—then he was naturally supposed to love others.

  Quincy scratched his cheek where the razor had nipped him. Some folks was easier to love than others, and that was a fact. Pap had warned him that being at the fairgrounds every day, he’d likely come across some who’d be hard to love. But Mam was praying for him. And Willie’d be there in case Quincy needed somebody to talk him down. Between Mam’s powerful prayers and Willie being close by, he’d be able to hold his temper if somebody got ugly.

  He turned to Willie, ready to tell him how glad he was to be going together. He caught Willie pulling at his collar with one finger and making an awful face. Quincy burst out laughing. “You wishin’ you’d left that collar at home?”

  Willie bounced a sheepish grin at Quincy. “I’m not wearing it tomorrow, that’s for sure.” A streetcar bell’s clang carried from a few blocks away. Willie broke into a trot. “Hurry. See if we can catch it.”

  Quincy rolled his eyes. The new steam-powered dummies pulled the streetcars faster’n a man could walk. He wanted to say so, but Willie was already a half block ahead. So he raced after him, the two of them pounding up the road like they’d used to run for the swimming hole. They reached the corner right before the streetcar did.