A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Finally Quincy lifted his chin. His shoulders straightened some, too, like Willie’s words had given him pride.

  Willie gestured to Miss Millard. “Quincy, this is Miss Laurel Millard. She’s one of the weavers in the Silk Room.”

  Her fine brows pinched, and he wondered if he’d given out personal information again.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tate.” So she called Quincy “mister,” too.

  Quincy made a funny half smile but didn’t say anything. He must’ve still been nervous about talking to Miss Millard. Probably because she was white. Not that Willie could blame him. He’d heard about black men in other places getting themselves lynched for being so bold. But nothing like that would happen in Atlanta. Especially not after the speech Mr. Booker T. Washington gave about blacks and whites coming together for the common good.

  Willie dropped his arm from Quincy’s shoulders. “Are you lookin’ for the trolley, Miss Millard?” He should tell her about the herdic cabs.

  “No, I’m waiting for my—” The sorrel Willie had admired trotted up the opposite end of the tunnel, pulling the fine carriage. She pointed. “That’s my ride now. Please excuse me, Mr. Sharp and Mr. Tate.” She scurried through the tunnel and met the driver outside the carriage. He helped her in, and Willie got a peek at her bright smile before the door closed. Moments later, the carriage rolled out of the gate.

  Quincy sucked in a big breath and let it whoosh out. He must’ve had onions for lunch, because his breath smelled strong of them. “You’s keepin’ some fancy comp’ny, Willie.”

  Willie couldn’t argue about Miss Millard being fancy. Her clothes, the carriage, the way she spoke. She wasn’t working class like him. “I’m not keepin’ company with her. I helped her with somethin’ earlier today, an’ we were only talkin’ to fill time until her driver came.” Saying it made him sadder than he wanted to admit.

  “Wal, she gone now, so c’n we get on home?” Quincy nudged Willie into the tunnel. “The cheese-an’-onion san’wiches I et for lunch got worked slap out o’ me near three hours ago.”

  Willie started up the tunnel, waving his hand in front of his face. “Hoo-ee, Quincy, I hope you’ll bring somethin’ different tomorrow. Your breath’s strong enough to knock a mule off its feet.”

  Quincy laughed, and the smell of onions filled Willie’s nose. “Can’t be that bad.”

  “It is.” They exited the tunnel and crossed Piedmont Avenue. The maple trees lining Fourteenth Street threw shade over them, but there was enough sun coming through the almost bare branches to light their path. “Now I’m glad you didn’t talk any when Miss Millard was with us. You might’ve scared her away.”

  Quincy shot him a sideways look. “An’ that’d trouble you, huh?”

  Willie forced a grin. “You never want to breathe onions on a lady, Quince. It’s bad manners.”

  Quincy nodded, but the knowing gleam in his eyes didn’t clear.

  Willie shook his head. “No need to think that way. Like you said, she’s fancy. Too fancy for me.”

  They reached the intersection where the trolley passed, and they sat on the curb to wait. After a quiet minute or two, Quincy sighed. “Too bad.”

  Willie frowned. “What’s too bad?”

  “That she be too fancy for you. She talk to me. Not talkin’ down to me. Jus’ talkin’.” Quincy tipped his head and looked straight into Willie’s face. “Ain’t no fancy lady done that to me before.”

  The trolley’s clang sent the alert. They stood and dug their stubs from the morning from their pockets. Willie’d forgotten to tell Quincy about the herdics, but he’d do that when they got off the trolley closer to their houses. They took a bench clear in the back. Quincy dozed with his mouth open, sharing his onion breath, but Willie couldn’t stop thinking about what Quincy’d said about Miss Millard.

  Quincy was right about fancy folks—ladies and men—talking to black folks different than they talked to each other. Of course, they talked to Willie different, too. He was white, but he wasn’t fancy. He rubbed his palms on the worn knees of his trousers. Not even close to fancy. But Miss Millard had talked to him…just talked. Maybe scolded a little at first, but she’d softened real quick and been as friendly as could be.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. A fancy lady who didn’t act fancy. Pretty on the outside—any fool could see that—and pretty on the inside, too. His eyes popped open and he stared out the window. Why was a fancy girl like her working at the exposition?

  Laurel

  Before Laurel went to bed, Mama sat her down at the kitchen table and massaged castor oil into the blisters on her fingers. The ministration was pleasant, but the aroma of the oil made Laurel want to gag.

  “Mama, isn’t there something you could use that smells better?” She wrinkled her nose. “If the others get a whiff of this stench on me, they’ll all stay on the opposite side of the room.”

  “We’ll wash your hands well with soap when we’re finished. This should soften things up so calluses don’t form.” Mama glanced up and smiled. “A lady shouldn’t have calluses on her fingers.”

  Laurel sighed and relaxed against the chair’s ladder back. “By the end of the exposition, I will have very unladylike hands, then. Miss Warner wants the loom in operation at least three hours each morning and four in the afternoon. She’d intended for us three girls to trade off, but neither Berta nor Felicia seems terribly inclined to learn to operate it. They’re content readying the cocoons for dyeing and extractin’ the silk.”

  Mama released Laurel’s right hand and reached for her left. She dipped Laurel’s fingers in the bowl of oil and began massaging. “Perhaps their tasks will become monotonous and they’ll change their minds in a few days.”

  Laurel examined her fingers. The places where blisters had formed now looked puckered. It didn’t seem much of an improvement, but she wouldn’t tell Mama so. “Maybe it’s better if they don’t. It’s kind of sad, Mama. In order to harvest the silk from the cocoons, you have to boil them. With the worms still inside.” She shuddered. “I don’t think I could deliberately kill the little creatures. Especially knowing that if they’d been left alone, they would develop into very pretty moths.”

  Mama raised one eyebrow. “Pretty moths?”

  “Oh my, yes. They have both male and female Bombyx mori in jars in the Silk Room.” Laurel laughed. “They’re covered all over in white fuzz, and they have antennae that resemble drooping rabbit ears snipped into fringe.” She held up her little finger and gazed at it in wonder. “The wingspan is no longer than my finger, Mama—barely two inches. They’re like little fairy-tale creatures.”

  Mama laughed, too. “I must visit the Silk Room and see them for myself.”

  “I hope you will. In fact, there are some special days planned—days you might want to spend at the fairgrounds. Eugene intends to bring his children this coming Saturday to hear Governor McKinley from Ohio speak.” Excitement stirred in Laurel’s chest. Miss Warner had promised to close the Silk Room so they could hear the governor’s talk. “They’re calling it Blue and Gray Day, and they intend to honor all war veterans no matter what uniform they wore.”

  Mama’s hands stilled. Tears swam in her eyes. “What a wonderful thing to do. Please tell Eugene I would like to accompany him and the children to celebrate Blue and Gray Day.”

  Laurel placed her hand over her mother’s wrist. “Along one wall in the Auditorium, they’re setting up tables all draped with colored bunting for people to display photographic images of their family members who fought in the War Between the States. You could take the daguerreotype of Papa and place it with the others, if you’d like.”

  How many times when she was a little girl had Laurel gazed upon the oval of silver-plated copper that bore her father’s youthful image? She loved that she had his brown hair and eyes, as well as his narrow chin. Mama said of all the children, she resembled hi
m the most. Yet she knew him the least.

  A knot filled Laurel’s throat. “Will you display Papa’s picture?”

  Mama seemed to stare at something beyond Laurel’s shoulder, a faraway look in her blue eyes. Laurel had witnessed her mother drift off into her thoughts at other times, and although Mama never said so, Laurel always presumed she was remembering moments with Papa. She wouldn’t intrude upon Mama’s reflections now.

  Laurel stood and leaned forward. She brushed a kiss on Mama’s cheek, then went to the little washstand beside the back door and washed the oil from her hands. It took two scrubbings with soap to remove every bit of the sticky residue, and when she returned to the kitchen, Mama’s chair was empty. The bowl and bottle of oil were still on the table, though. So uncharacteristic of Mama to leave the room untidy. Laurel cleaned up the mess, extinguished the lamp, and felt her way to the dark hallway.

  A thin band of light along the floor under Mama’s door let her know Mama hadn’t fallen asleep yet. Laurel moved quietly to the door and leaned close, knuckles raised to knock. But she froze in place when Mama’s broken voice penetrated the thick door and reached Laurel’s ears.

  “Leland…My dear Leland, I miss you so very—” A harsh sob replaced whatever else Mama intended to say, and then the sound of muffled weeping twisted Laurel’s heart into a knot.

  Laurel stood in the hallway, uncertainty holding her captive. Should she go in? Try to comfort Mama? Or should she allow her to mourn in private? Tears stung Laurel’s eyes. How much Mama had loved Papa to still miss him so desperately after fifteen years of separation. She remained at Mama’s door for several more minutes, her heart pounding, tears threatening, fist upraised but still, a prayer for guidance repeating itself through her mind.

  The band of light disappeared. The creak of mattress springs and a lengthy shuddering sigh sounded. Silence fell. Although it was still early—not quite half past eight—Mama had obviously turned in.

  Laurel waited a few more seconds. Then she pressed her fist to her lips and hurriedly tiptoed up the hallway to her room. By the time she’d readied herself for bed, she’d furthered her determination to find a love as deep and enduring as her parents had shared. And not to leave Mama alone. Her spry, healthy mother didn’t need anyone to meet her physical needs, but Mama might wither and die of loneliness if left by herself. As much as Laurel had initially resented her siblings’ demand, she now accepted it without a moment’s angst.

  She knelt beside the bed for her nighttime prayers. Eyes closed, hands clasped, she bowed her head. “Guide me to the one who will love me the way Papa loved Mama, dear God, and let him love my mama, too. Bind us—the three of us—together in doing Your will. Amen.”

  Willie

  Willie wished Pa could come to the fairgrounds today. Blue and Gray Day. Special speeches, special bands, a ceremony to honor attending veterans. All veterans, whether Union or Confederate. At least Pa’s picture would be laid out with the others. He’d found it in the trunk in the corner of Pa’s room, folded inside a bandana and hidden in the pocket of Pa’s old army jacket. Now it was secure in Willie’s pocket.

  Pa hadn’t given him permission to display it, and a tiny finger of guilt poked his conscience. He should’ve asked yesterday evening when he’d said farewell to Pa at the convalescent hospital. Him and Pastor Hines had delivered Pa together, and the preacher paid for the first two weeks of Pa’s care with part of the church’s benevolence fund. Willie hadn’t slept much his first night in the house alone, and it comforted him to carry Pa’s photograph.

  Mrs. Powell, the church lady who’d stayed with Pa yesterday, must’ve spent half the day cooking and baking, because there were three loaves of bread, two cakes—one chocolate and one that smelled like pumpkin—and a cherry pie in the pie safe. The icebox held a plump roasted chicken and a pot of beef stew. He wouldn’t have to eat beans for maybe a week. Everybody’d sure been good to him. It’d feel fine to drop extra in the offering plate when he started collecting his exposition pay.

  “A ten percent tithe for sure,” he said to his full lunch pail, “an’ an offering to boot.” He’d be able to afford it since he wouldn’t need to buy as many groceries.

  He hooked the handle of his lunch pail with his fingers, patted the bulge from Pa’s photograph in his jacket pocket, and tromped to the front door. The sky was still gray, only a touch of pink in the east. Strange to be out when everything was so quiet. Him and Quincy had to leave a half hour earlier to get to the fairgrounds on time by taking a herdic cab, but it was worth it. Thirty cents a week compared to twenty-five cents a day for transport? Easy decision.

  He waited on the porch stoop, squinting up the road where Quincy should come running, and a plaintive mew caught his attention. He dropped to one knee, and Rusty leaped onto the stoop, put his front paws on Willie’s thigh, and bumped his head against Willie’s rib cage.

  Willie chuckled. “Aw, poor guy. You’re missin’ your pal, aren’t you?” He scratched the cat’s chin, but no rumbling purr started. Yep, Rusty was lonely for Pa. Willie sighed. “Me, too. Yep. Me, too.” He gently set the cat on the stoop and removed the cloth cover from his lunch pail. He pulled a little piece of meat from the chicken leg he’d packed for himself and offered it to the cat. “Here you go.”

  Rusty sniffed the meat, then drew back.

  “You want me to put it down?” Willie put the sliver on the stoop and tapped his finger next to it. “C’mon, Rusty. Come get it.”

  Rusty turned his back and began washing his paw.

  Willie choked back a chortle. Stubborn critter. He must only want Pa’s leftovers from under the table. Well, if Rusty didn’t eat the bit of chicken, some other little creature would come along and dispose of it.

  The pound of approaching boots against the ground—Quincy coming—startled Rusty. With a hiss of protest, the cat took off between houses, and Willie stepped from the stoop and met Quincy at the edge of the yard.

  “Thought maybe you’d overslept.”

  “No maybe about it. You thunk right. Got to bed too late las’ night.” Quincy made a face and kept right on going.

  Willie caught up to him. He’d gone to bed later than usual after taking Pa to the hospital. “Why were you up? Somebody sick?”

  “Nah. Had to argue some with Pap ’bout puttin’ his war pi’ture out, an’ then Mam got in on my side, an’ the argufyin’ got plenty noisy an’ long, but lookit here what I got.” He pulled a faded square photograph from his pocket and showed it to Willie. “Pap in his Confed’rate suit. He stood in for his master’s oldest boy, y’know. He say it don’t count ’cause he didn’ sign up by choice an’ he for sho’ didn’ like fightin’ on the side o’ keepin’ slaves. But Mam say he risk his life for somebody else an’ that be what counts.”

  Willie nodded. “I’m on your ma’s side with this one.”

  “Me, too.” Quincy grinned. “Me an’ her slap wore him down, an’ she gimme the pi’ture. What about you? Yo’ pa say you could take his?”

  Willie showed Quincy Pa’s picture in its stamped tin frame. “Let’s put their pictures next to each other since they’re friends, huh?” Pa would like that.

  Quincy’s bright smile faded fast. “Can’t do that, Willie. The organizers, they got sep’rate tables for whites an’ blacks. I know ’cause I helped carry ’em in an’ set ’em up all across one whole wall up next to the stage. Six tables for whites, then a space, then two tables for blacks. Gonna mix the Union an’ Confed’rates, but the white faces’ll be apart from the black ones.” He shrugged. “Don’t change nothin’ ’tween us, though.”

  Willie growled under his breath. “After that fine speech by Booker T. Washington, all his talk about whites and blacks bein’ fingers on one hand, how come they wanna split things up? When they were on the battlefield, they were close enough together.”

  Quincy shrugged again. He held up his hand and splayed his fingers. H
e wriggled them one by one. “Guess the organizers are thinkin’ mostly ’bout fingers an’ not the palm. The fingers, they c’n all work on they own without touchin’ the others. Maybe them in charge o’ the exposition’re wantin’ whites an’ blacks to keep workin’ on they own without touchin’ each other.”

  “You think that’s what Mr. Washington wants, too?”

  Quincy laughed. “I can’t say what he want. He black as me, but he sho’ a fancy ’un. If Bunson get to go to that college in Alabama like he wants, when he comes home with his head full o’ smartness, he might could answer that. But I sho’ can’t.”

  They flagged down a herdic cab and climbed in. Neither talked during the ride to the fairgrounds. Quincy dozed, and Willie stayed quiet and let him. Besides, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Indignation burned in his chest, hot as the flame in his cookstove. The war thirty years ago was supposed to bring freedom. Unity. Brotherhood. Didn’t the Declaration of Independence, penned by this country’s founders, declare that all men were created equal? But they weren’t equal.

  Rich and poor, black and white, educated and unschooled…There were more chasms holding people apart than bridges bringing them together. And he didn’t have any idea how to fix it. Except— Willie jolted and shifted to stare at Quincy’s sleeping face. What had Ma told him when he came home from school upset because some boys threw rotten apples at an old black man riding a mule? He searched his memory for her exact words, and they flooded in, making his nose sting.

  “Set the better example, Willie. Be kind an’ acceptin’. Sometimes all people need is someone to show them another way to be.”

  Back then, even though he hadn’t said as much to Ma, he’d thought it was too simple a solution and too hard to do. One person? How much good could one person do?

  But why couldn’t one person make a difference? After all, God Himself sent one person—His Son—to earth instead of a whole legion of sons. If one person helped one more see things different, and that person showed somebody else, and on and on, pretty soon there’d be lots of people changing for the good.