A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “At least they’re all on groundskeepin’,” Turner said. “They’ve got their place an’ we’ve got ours, so we won’t have to work alongside ’em.”

  Haverman, the fellow sitting across from Willie, dropped his half-eaten sandwich into his lunch pail and flung his checked napkin in on top of it. “You fellas’re gonna have to adjust your thinkin’. Times’re changin’. In some places, colored fellas are being let into universities. Some of ’em are even gettin’ into government.”

  Briggs shook his head. “Not my government.”

  “You’re wrong on that. Openin’ day, we’ll be hearin’ from one o’ the president’s advisors, a Negro man by the name of—”

  Briggs swiped his hand through the air. “I know all about the plans for openin’ day. You all wanna go listen, go ahead, but I won’t be standin’ close enough to hear him.”

  Haverman arched one bushy eyebrow. “You will if you’re assigned a post in the Auditorium.”

  Briggs smirked. “No, I won’t.”

  One of the other men leaned in. “If you don’t do what you’re told, you’ll get fired. You’d really let yourself get fired just to keep from listenin’ to a colored man’s speech?”

  “If I have to sacrifice my principles, then nobody’ll need to fire me. I’ll quit. Ain’t no amount of money big enough to make me stand side by side with them.” Briggs wadded up the square of waxed paper that had held his sandwich and tossed it over his shoulder. He sent a grin around the circle. “Let one of the groundskeepers take care o’ that. They’re gettin’ paid for it.” He stood and sauntered toward the Administration Building, whistling.

  The others—some muttering, some snickering—rose and followed. Willie went last. He passed the crumpled paper. Several of the men had stepped on it, smashing it almost flat. He shot a furtive glance at the men’s backs. Nobody was looking. He stooped over, snatched up the paper, and stuck it in his lunch pail.

  The supervisor had said they’d all be assigned a partner and would patrol in pairs. Willie stared at the flattened wad of paper and prayed he wouldn’t get paired with Briggs. Or he might have to quit.

  Laurel

  At the end of the day, Laurel descended the porch steps with Berta and Felicia. Mr. Salisbury’s landau already waited outside the building, and Eugene was poised beside the carriage door. She waved goodbye to the other girls, who set off in the direction of the footbridge that stretched across Clara Meer, and scampered across the ground to her brother.

  “Hello, Eugene. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “I arrived only a few minutes ago.” He gave her a look that seemed half-worried, half-hopeful. “Did you have a good day?”

  Laurel tipped her head, trying to choose an accurate answer. Berta and Felicia were nice enough. The three of them might become friends over time. Miss Warner was strict, but Laurel sensed she wasn’t unkind. Laurel had enjoyed examining the contents of the jars inside the case, which showed the various phases of a silkworm’s life from egg to worm to cocoon to moth. The elaborate staging inside each jar reminded her of the miniature replicas she and her classmates had constructed of Indian villages or British colonies.

  She shrugged. “I think it was good.”

  Eugene smiled and grazed her shoulder with his fingers. “I’m glad.”

  “There’s a lot to learn, but I think I’ll be able to remember it.”

  “Of course you will.”

  His confidence gave her a happy lift. Such sweet words. Sweeter, even, than the candy he used to bring her. She beamed at him. “Thank you.” Then she laughed lightly. “But tomorrow I’m bringing paper and a pencil so I can write down everything Miss Warner says. I had no idea there was so much to know about silkworms.”

  Eugene had opened the carriage door, but now he closed it with a snap. “Why don’t you tell me about it on the drive home? It might help you to remember it all if you recite it for me.”

  Laurel agreed without a moment’s pause. He assisted her onto the driver’s seat and then climbed up beside her. He took the reins and turned a gentle smile on her.

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  Her mind whirled with all the information she’d received about silkworms—their gestation, the percentage of cocoons harvested, and the percentage allowed to transition into moths to lay eggs for more worms. Where should she start? “Well, silkworms hatch from the eggs of the Bombyx mori moth and begin spinning cocoons after only thirty-two to thirty-eight days—hardly more than a month.” He flicked the reins. The carriage lurched forward, and the horse broke into a steady clip-clop. “The cocoon is formed of a half-mile-long thread called a—”

  Ahead, another carriage and a wagon stacked high with milled boards rolled from between buildings and took position in front of them. The rattle of the lengths of wood bouncing in the back of the wagon combined with the grind and thunk-thunk of several wheels on cobblestone proved too noisy for Laurel to continue without yelling. She held out her hands in a gesture of futility and fell silent.

  From her high seat, she had a better view of the fairgrounds. The buildings were, as she’d noted in the morning, quite elaborate, but some didn’t appear finished. The exposition started the day after tomorrow. Would the construction team be able to complete it all in time? For that matter, would one more day be long enough for her to learn everything about silk making? A shiver trembled through her.

  Eugene bumped her with his elbow. “If you’re chilly, I can stop and let you get inside the carriage.”

  “No, I’m fine.” How silly to holler at each other when they sat side by side. She hoped the lumber-filled wagon would turn off soon. She needed all the practice she could get reciting the facts she would be expected to share with visitors to the Silk Room.

  Willie

  Willie waited for Quincy behind the Administration Building, close to the tunnel archway. He’d changed out of his uniform and into his suit, but he’d put the stiff collar in his jacket pocket instead of around his neck. He hoped Mrs. Hines wouldn’t notice. All the other guards were already gone, and Willie was more glad of that than being free of his collar. When Quincy came, Willie wouldn’t have to worry about Briggs or Turner or one of the others saying something that would stir Quincy’s temper.

  A carriage pulled by a pair of bays passed by, and a wagon loaded down by a pile of lumber rolled out behind it. The swaybacked horses attached to the wagon hung their heads low and they plodded, very different from the high-stepping bays. A second carriage followed the wagon, the same fancy carriage that had forced him and Quincy off the road that morning. The sorrel gelding hitched to the carriage was the prettiest thing Willie’d ever seen.

  His family didn’t have a stable, and they couldn’t have afforded a horse if they did have a place to put it. But if he owned a horse, he’d want one like the sorrel. The animal’s mane bounced against its sleek neck, and sunlight shimmered on its red-brown coat.

  He started to wave to the driver, but then he froze with his hand in midair. The girl he’d seen in the bank—the one who’d twirled a strand of brown hair into a spring around her finger—was sitting beside the driver.

  With a jerk, he raised his hand as high as his head and waved. The driver nodded, and the girl offered a shy smile and a little wave with her fingers. The tunnel swallowed the horse and carriage, hiding the driver and girl from his sight. So she’d gotten hired, too. His heart gave a happy flip. She’d seemed so nervous that day. The same way he’d felt. He was as happy for her as he was for himself, even though he wasn’t sure why she needed a job if her family was wealthy enough to afford a fancy carriage and such a beautiful horse.

  “Hey, Willie!” Quincy panted to a stop next to Willie, his dark face shining with perspiration. “Sorry I took so long. We all got assigned our own tools an’ such, an’ I wanted mine put away neat so’s I could get to ’em quick an’ easy tomorrow mornin’.”

/>   “…they’re lazy. The whole lot of ’em.” Briggs’s sneering comment echoed in Willie’s mind. Would he say such a thing if he’d heard Quincy talk about taking good care of his tools? Willie grimaced. Probably. Men like Briggs had their minds made up and weren’t likely to change, even if the truth looked them in the eye.

  He slung his arm across Quincy’s shoulders. “I didn’t mind waitin’. Got to see some pretty horses.” He also got to see a pretty girl, but for some reason he didn’t want to share that with Quincy. He forced a chuckle and put his feet into motion. “Also saw a couple of nags. Betcha if there was a race, you an’ me could beat those two tired ol’ horses without breakin’ a sweat.”

  Quincy grinned. “Not today I couldn’, after the work I put in.” He breathed a sigh heavy with satisfaction. “I was kinda hopin’ they’d put me on the Negro Buildin’. It ain’t finished yet, an’ it would be mighty fine to have a hand in gettin’ it done an’ ready for visitors. But Supervisor say me an’ a white-haired fella named Cass’ll be takin’ care o’ the area aroun’ the lake. Even get to loan out the rowboats to folks an’ put ’em up at the end o’ the day. Sure like bein’ aroun’ the watuh. Reminds me o’ when we went fishin’ an’ frog catchin’ at the crick down the hill, ’member?”

  Good memories flooded Willie’s mind of him and Quincy bringing strings of speckled trout home, Pa helping them clean them, and Ma frying them up. Hunger struck. For the fish, and for the bygone days. “I remember.”

  Quincy shook his head, wonder blooming on his face. “Ain’t never had a chance to sit in a rowboat, but I might get to ’cause o’ this job. Won’t that be somethin’?”

  “Sure will.” Willie clapped Quincy’s shoulder and dropped his hand to his pocket. “I got this morning’s trolley stubs. Let’s use ’em to get a ride close to home, huh?”

  “That sound good to me. I’s slap wore out.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Hines had supper waiting—ham-and-potato hash and biscuits—when Willie came through the door. As much as he appreciated her kindness, he hoped the other ladies wouldn’t treat him so good. He’d get used to it and have trouble seeing to his and Pa’s meals when the church ladies didn’t come anymore. Of course, if they didn’t fix supper, him and Pa would be eating pretty late in the evening. Maybe it was better if the ladies did the supper cooking.

  While Willie ate, Mrs. Hines told him about Pa’s day, how they’d read the paper together, how she let the cat in to sit on Pa’s lap, and how they made pictures with puzzle blocks because a nurse at the convalescent hospital had said it would be good for Pa to “practice his dexterity.”

  Willie glanced into the front room. Pa was sitting in his chair with his head back and his eyes closed. The man who’d carved detailed animals from a chunk of wood had willingly played with a child’s toy? “Pa…do all right with that?”

  “He had some trouble grippin’ the blocks.” Mrs. Hines sounded cheerful. A lot happier than Willie felt. “It took some time, but we made a tiger’s face. We almost finished a lamb’s face, too, but he seemed tired so we stopped.”

  Tired? Maybe. Pa did wear out quick these days. But Willie suspected sometimes Pa used naps to escape the boring life he now lived.

  “I’ll leave the blocks here for Mrs. Bullard. She’s comin’ tomorrow. Maybe she and Otto will be able to finish the lamb’s face.”

  Willie couldn’t decide if he wanted that or not. He wanted Pa well again. Sure he did. But playing with children’s toys? He stuffed the last bite of biscuit in his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to say what he was thinking. No need to hurt the preacher’s wife’s feelings. She meant well, but making a lamb’s face with blocks wasn’t a very manly thing for Pa to do.

  A sudden thought jarred him. He swallowed the lump of biscuit. “Ma’am? Playin’ with blocks, practicin’ ”—what had she called it?—“dexterity, is that what Pa’ll do at the hospital?”

  “In part.” She picked up his empty plate and fork and carried them to the washbasin. “The nurse also suggested havin’ him string beads, draw lines or shapes with pastels, and turn the pages in a book.”

  Willie stifled a grunt. Was Pa going to a convalescent hospital or a nursery school? How would he keep his dignity if they made him play with toys?

  “The nurse said it’s important to get him usin’ his right hand as much as possible. He said muscles…” Mrs. Hines scowled and tapped her chin. Then she brightened. “Atrophy. That’s the word—atrophy. That means they waste away if they aren’t used. Of course Otto wants to use his left hand because he has better control of it.”

  But not good control. The pieces of chopped ham and potatoes on the table and floor let Willie know Pa had dropped quite a bit of his supper.

  “But the longer he allows his right hand to lie idle, the harder it’ll be for him to regain full use of it again.”

  Willie leaned his elbows on the table and watched her wash and dry his plate and fork. When she put them on the shelf with the other dishes, he cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”

  She returned to the table with a wet dishcloth and swished it over the tabletop. “Yes?”

  He glanced at Pa again. Was he really asleep? Just in case he was playing possum, Willie lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “Do you think stackin’ blocks and stringin’ beads will really help Pa get his right hand workin’ again?”

  “I think it can’t hurt. At least he’ll be usin’ it, and that’s better than not usin’ it, yes?”

  Willie couldn’t come up with an argument. Even more than he missed seeing his pa whittle or swing an ax or stride up the street to the factory every day, he missed hearing his voice. Stringing beads and such wouldn’t help Pa talk again. Would the people at the hospital be able to make his tongue work like it had before?

  Mrs. Hines headed for the front door. “Now, remember, tomorrow Mrs. Bullard’ll be here. The names of the ladies for Wednesday through Saturday are on a piece of paper on top of your pie safe so you’ll be able to tell Otto ahead of time who’s comin’.”

  Willie slid his arm around Pa’s shoulders. His bones poked out where muscle used to be. Willie swallowed a lump of sadness. “Thank you. It sure eases my mind to know there’s folks willin’ to see to Pa when I’m not here.”

  “The people in Estel’s congregation are kindhearted souls. They were glad to help once they knew there was a need.” She paused and stared at Pa for a few seconds, her brow all puckered. “Maybe I’ll talk to Estel about usin’ some of the church’s benevolence funds so you can get Otto into the convalescent hospital right away.”

  “Ma’am, thank you, but—”

  “It’s already been…what? Four months since he fell ill?”

  Willie gulped. “Comin’ up on five.”

  “Then I should say the sooner he begins receivin’ treatment, the better.” She nodded, like she was agreeing with herself about something. “Goodbye, Willie an’ Otto. Enjoy your evenin’.”

  Willie considered going after her, telling her there wasn’t any need to dip into the special emergencies account, but Mrs. Hines was probably eager to get home to her family. She’d been here with Pa close to twelve hours now. He grimaced. He was expecting an awful lot from the ladies at church.

  He sat on the armrest of the chair and patted Pa’s shoulder. “Didja have a good day, Pa?”

  One short nod.

  Willie smiled. “Me, too. Wanna hear about it?”

  Another nod.

  “All right, then. Want I should let Rusty in for a while?”

  A bigger nod.

  Willie laughed. He crossed to the back door. The big tom was waiting, like he knew Willie planned to open the door. He bounded under the table and went to cleaning up the mess. The cat would come to Pa when he’d finished eating, so Willie returned to the sitting room and perched on the edge of the sofa. He told Pa about getting to wear a uniform and how nervous he felt abo
ut carrying a pistol on his hip like a real lawman. He described the buildings at the park and even told him about the horses he’d seen at the end of the day.

  He talked until Pa’s eyelids drooped and his shoulders sagged. Willie helped him to the outhouse and then to bed. As he closed Pa’s door, sadness struck. He’d sure miss his company while he was at the convalescent hospital. Whether Pa was here or at the hospital, Willie wouldn’t get to see him much, what with working the exposition every day except Sunday.

  He scooped Rusty from Pa’s chair and put him out. Then he readied himself for bed, but even though he was tired, he couldn’t sleep. God gave him the job. Preacher Hines even said so. Willie’d been wanting to find a way to get Pa into the convalescent hospital for months, and now he could do it. But he sure didn’t want to pay all that money just for Pa to play with blocks.

  Quincy

  In all his born days, Quincy wouldn’t never have thought he’d get to hear somebody like Booker T. Washington make a speech. But here he was on the exposition’s official opening day, standing at the back of the Auditorium with the other fellows hired for groundskeeping, listening in. Bunson was with him, too, all wide eyed and twitchy, acting like the little ’uns did on Christmas morning. Quincy understood his brother’s excitement. His insides was jumping, and his cheeks hurt from smiling. Probably looked plumb foolish. But he couldn’t help it. This was a good day.

  Why, right after thanking them who put together the exposition, Mr. Washington talked straight to the black folks. The black folks! Praised them for being loyal in service to the whites. Told them how they had better opportunities in commerce and industry here in the South than they would in the North. Quincy couldn’t help peeking at the white side of the audience. Was they listening, too? Mostly they was the ones owning the businesses, so they had the opportunities to give. They needed the nudge to notice the black folks and give ’em the chance for better jobs.