A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Then did somebody let my mam an’ pap know where I is? They gon’ worry theyselves sick ’cause I didn’ come home.” Mad as he was at Willie and the fool officers, he was even madder about his folks being scared. “I tol’ that p’liceman where I live, tol’ him to tell my folks. He at least do that?”

  “Two officers went to your house last night. Your folks know you’ve been arrested for trespassin’. All they have to do is come an’ pay five dollars an’ you can be let go until your court hearin’. But they ain’t brung in five dollars yet.”

  Quincy slammed his palm on the bar. Pain shot all the way up his arm. Wincing, he cradled his hand against his ribs. “ ’Course they ain’t brung five dollars. We don’t got money like that jus’ sittin’ aroun’. Who you think we is, the Rockefellers?”

  All up and down the hallway, other men started popping up at the bars to their cells. Some of ’em laughed. Some more of ’em taunted. Some taunted Quincy, and some taunted the policeman.

  “Don’t get smart with me, boy.” The officer’s fuzzy eyebrows went down and his voice growled low. He bounced his billy club. “You keep givin’ me trouble an’ I’ll come in there an’ teach you better.” He whirled and waved the club at the other men. “All o’ you, settle down unless you wanna feel this upside your head.”

  The others mumbled and backed away. The policeman faced Quincy again. “ ’Less your folks come in with bail money, you’re gonna stay here until the judge can hear your case. So you might as well sit down an’ shut up.” He strutted off. The iron door slammed behind him.

  Quincy lurched away from the wall of iron bars and threw himself on the smelly, lumpy cot. His hand hurt like fury. His chest burned. He hadn’t hardly slept a wink last night, worrying so much about Mam. His family didn’t have no five dollars to spare. He didn’t know nobody with that kind of money.

  He buried his face in the stained pillow and groaned. He didn’t do one single thing wrong, but no judge would take his word over a white policeman’s. He wasn’t never getting out of here.

  Willie

  “So I’m askin’ to take Mr. Johnson to the jail. He can tell the police chief that Quincy wasn’t trespassin’ on the exposition grounds last night.” Willie finally ran out of words. He stayed on his feet in front of Mr. Felton’s desk, praying his boss’d let him help Quincy. Mrs. Tate’s anguished wails—“He’s gon’ rot in that jail!”—still rang in his ears. Pained him something awful to see her so upset.

  Mr. Felton leaned back in his chair, making the springs squeak, and fixed a frown on Willie. “I can excuse you for bein’ late this mornin’. Miss Warner told me how you stayed an’ helped her until past ten o’clock, then saw her home safe. That was gentlemanly of you. Those hours last night make up for the ones you missed this mornin’. But goin’ to the jail…I don’t know about excusin’ you for that. Not durin’ workin’ hours.”

  Willie swallowed a protest and chose his words careful. “The reason I should go is ’cause I can tell the officers how Quincy was with me up until he left. I can be his…” What was the right word? “His witness. An’ Mr. Johnson can tell ’em Quincy’s been workin’ here. Between the two of us, we oughta be able to get him out of the jail an’ home again, where he belongs.”

  Mr. Felton frowned and rocked in his chair.

  Willie hung his head. “It’s my fault he got arrested. He wanted to stay an’ help last night, then go with me when I left, but I said no, go on home. If I’d let him stay, if he’d been with me, the officers wouldn’t’ve took him.”

  Mr. Felton sat up so quick the chair popped. “It could’ve happened anyway. Might be you both’d been arrested. There’s too many young men—black an’ white both—roamin’ the streets at night, no jobs, lookin’ for trouble. The officers was doin’ their job. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “A fellow could say the same thing about Quincy.” Willie said it so quiet he wasn’t sure if he’d spoke it out loud or only thought it.

  A flicker of anger in his boss’s eyes let Willie know the words had come out. “Listen, Sharp, durin’ the war there was some folks we called Negro sympathizers. They took the side o’ blacks over their own, looked out for ’em more’n their own. They wasn’t respected by most Southerners.” His boss talked quiet, too, but his tone was hard. So hard Willie wanted to cringe. “Do you want folks to respect you?”

  To Pa—and Ma, too—respectable was high on what they wanted Willie to be. They wanted him to be proud of himself and to do the right things so people could trust him. They told him over and over, “Remember who you are and whose you are.” They wanted him to represent their family well, but mostly they wanted him to represent God well. He wished Pa was here now to help him know how to answer Mr. Felton.

  Finally he sighed. “Yessir, of course I wanna be respected.”

  “Then stop worryin’. Do the job you’ve been hired to do.” Mr. Felton pointed to the door. “Go on.”

  Willie hesitated. “Can…can I least let Mr. Johnson know where Quincy is? So he doesn’t think bad of him?”

  Mr. Felton snorted. “Gettin’ himself arrested doesn’t look too good, but all right. If it’ll ease your conscience, tell Johnson where his missin’ worker’s at. Then it’s up to him if he wants to try to get him out or not.”

  Willie left the office. His feet dragged, weighted by guilt for the choice he’d made last night, by the pain Mr. and Mrs. Tate were suffering, by worry about his friend. Quincy’d be plenty worked up. Would he do something foolish and get himself clubbed? If what Mrs. Tate said came true and Quincy ended up jailed for the rest of his days, Willie wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

  “Lord, don’t let him get hurt in there. Please.” He whispered the prayer, but he wanted to shout it. To make sure it carried past the noise of the exposition and reached God’s ears.

  He found Quincy’s supervisor in the maintenance shack and told him why Quincy hadn’t shown up for work. Mr. Johnson listened and even seemed concerned, but when Willie asked if he’d go to the jail and explain things to the officers, he shook his head.

  “I can’t do that. Not now.”

  Willie stifled a groan. “Why? Not to be quarrelsome, sir, but seems like you’d want to help him since he was here doin’ what you asked him to do last night.”

  The gray-haired man made a sour face. “I got nearly three dozen men to manage. It’s a sad fact, but some of ’em aren’t dependable. If I’m not watchin’ ’em, they don’t do what they’re paid to do. So I got to think about what’s most important—the whole group or the one.”

  Seemed to Willie that the shepherd went hunting the one out of a hundred. Mr. Johnson probably didn’t consider himself the workers’ shepherd, though. Willie blew out a breath. “What about after work? Would you go then? Let the officers know Quincy wasn’t trespassin’ since he’s hired on here?”

  Mr. Johnson clamped his hand over Willie’s shoulder. “After work I’ll go an’ see what I can do. Good enough?”

  It wasn’t good enough. Not nearly good enough. But Willie’d done all he could. Except for one thing. “I’ll come by here at the end o’ the day an’ go with you.” He prayed Quincy would last that long without creating a ruckus.

  Langdon

  Although he’d intended to avoid Laurel for an entire day, which would certainly make her worry she’d spoiled her chance for a courtship with him, by midmorning on Wednesday Langdon had changed his mind. By her own admission she was easily pleased. What if, in her feminine, foolish mind, she chose someone else? Say, Willie Sharp? He shouldn’t give her the opportunity to set her sights elsewhere. Not until he knew for sure whether he wanted her to fulfill the condition his mother had given.

  He snatched a handful of informational flyers from the corner of the table and flapped them at Stevens. “I haven’t handed any of these around yet this week. Since it’s been fairly quiet in here, I’ll try to send some visi
tors our way.”

  The older man gave a nod of approval, and Langdon set out, whapping his thigh with the papers as he went. No band played in the square today, but there was still plenty of music. Several of the smaller exhibits along the terrace utilized traditional instruments to lure visitors to their displays. Between the German Village’s tubas, the Chinese Village’s odd flutes and stringed lap harp, and the Indian Village’s drums and recorder-type whistles, his ears suffered an onslaught of disharmonious melodies.

  Above the various tunes rang hammers pounding on nails. A team of workers swarmed the California State Building. He curled his lip in disdain. Such poor planning. Why hadn’t the construction been completed before the exposition was opened to the public? Crews were still working on several buildings. Between the unfinished structures, the small crowds on all but special days such as Blue and Gray Day, and the much-lauded but nonfunctioning fountain in the man-made lake, Langdon sometimes wondered if his father had invested unwisely when purchasing booth space. Would foreign or out-of-state business owners truly flock to the Cotton States and International Exposition and, as Mother predicted, purchase one of the Rochester steam-powered engines? Langdon would bet against it if given the opportunity. But the exposition did offer him an escape from the drudgery of the factory, so he kept his doubts to himself.

  He meandered through the square, pressing flyers into the hands of all the gentlemen he encountered, even if they didn’t seem particularly interested. He reached the Women’s Building as the tower’s clock hands showed straight-up twelve. Positioning himself a few feet from the steps, he assumed a somber countenance and waited. In less than a minute, the door opened and Laurel stepped out. She reached the edge of the porch, and her gaze met his. She seemed to freeze in place. Color flooded her cheeks.

  Langdon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile, although it took great effort not to. How guilty she looked standing there with a little lunch pail held at her waist and her face sporting the rosy blush. After a few seconds, he took one small pace forward, and she pattered down the steps and ran directly to him.

  “Mr. Rochester, I am so very sorry for missing our picnic yesterday.” Her brown eyes took on a sheen. Unshed tears? “I hope you purchased a lunch for yourself and didn’t go hungry.”

  He crunched his brows. She’d apologized very sweetly, but what was her explanation for lunching with others? “I waited by our reserved boat until well past one, certain you would honor your promise to meet me. But you didn’t come, and by then my time away from the booth was spent and I had to return to work. So, yes, I did suffer hunger throughout the afternoon.”

  His feigned hurt had the desired effect. How pitiful she looked wringing her hands on the pail’s handle and blinking back tears. Easily pleased and also easily manipulated. What a gem.

  “Miss Millard, as much as it pains me to say this, you betrayed my trust yesterday. A simple apology can’t erase that.” He allowed her several seconds to consider the grave harm she’d done, and then he sighed. “Perhaps if I understood why you chose to disregard our arranged picnic…”

  She angled her gaze away from him and twirled a loose strand of hair.

  Langdon shifted sideways a few inches and put himself in her view. “Miss Millard?”

  Her brown irises slid to the corners of her eyes and peered sadly at him. “I…was working.”

  “All through the lunch break?”

  She bit her lip. She blinked three times—a sure sign of nervousness.

  He leaned in. “You had no lunch, either?”

  “Yes, I ate. In the Silk Room.”

  She’d been truthful. Good for her. If she’d fibbed, no matter how pretty or easily manipulated she was, he would move on to another girl. He wouldn’t marry someone guileful. “Then I truly do not understand. If you had time to take a lunch in the Silk Room, surely you had time to meet me. Yet you didn’t.” He placed his hand on his chest. “Miss Millard, if you’ve decided you don’t want to spend time with me, then—”

  “No!” She brought up her hand and almost touched his arm. “I do want time with you. I…I savor our minutes together. I am sorry about yesterday, so please give me the opportunity to make it up to you. I’ll bring a picnic lunch for us tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the lake.”

  Langdon gazed down at her for several seconds. He waited in silence while she wrapped the strand of hair around her finger so tightly the tip of her finger turned scarlet. Then he sighed. “All right. I can forgive one lapse of judgment. I will meet you tomorrow.”

  Relief flooded her features. She untangled the hair from her finger and grasped the handle on her lunch pail as if it were the rope preventing her from plunging off a cliff.

  “But when we meet, I will expect an explanation. I need to know why you ate in the Silk Room…and with whom.”

  She lowered her head.

  He slipped his finger under her chin and lifted her face. “Will you tell me?” Oh, those big eyes of hers. She held a secret. Would she divulge it to him?

  “Yes. Yes, I will explain…tomorrow.”

  “Good girl.” He pointed to her pail with his stack of paper. “Eat your lunch now. I have work to do. We’ll chat tomorrow.” He turned and strode toward the square, chuckling to himself. He needn’t look any further for the future Mrs. Rochester. This girl would suit his purposes perfectly.

  Laurel

  After speaking with Langdon and seeing for herself how much her absence yesterday pained him, Laurel had no appetite. She returned to the Silk Room and trudged past Officer Sharp, who stood sentry at the door, to the loom. Weaving would provide a fine distraction from her gloomy thoughts.

  Few visitors came to the room, leaving Berta and Felicia free to observe Laurel at the loom. Miss Warner encouraged them to watch carefully and learn to add rows to the silk fabric. If someone came in while Laurel was on break and wanted to see the loom in action, the other girls should be able to give a demonstration.

  Laurel slowed her movements, explaining each of the steps as she performed them. She discovered that tossing the shuttle through the shed, pulling the beater, pumping the treadles, and pulling the beater again was simpler to do than to explain. She stumbled over her words. Mama had trained to be a schoolteacher before she married Papa, but apparently Laurel hadn’t inherited her mother’s ability to instruct. Or perhaps her exchange with Langdon had left her too upset to think clearly.

  A worry rolled in the back of her mind. She’d willingly tell him with whom she’d eaten lunch yesterday. Why should she hide that she’d eaten with her supervisor, her coworkers, and Officer Sharp? But how would she explain why she hadn’t left the room without divulging information Miss Warner had told them must be kept secret?

  She pulled the beater to tighten the last row, pushed it back into its resting position, and stood. “All right, Berta, your turn.”

  Berta held up her hands and drew back. “I’ll make a mess of it.”

  Laurel laughed. “No, you won’t. I’m right here. I’ll stop you from making a mess.”

  Her eyes wide, Berta slipped onto the stool. Her hands trembled, but she picked up the shuttle and gave it a little push through the shed. She looked at Laurel. “Pull it tight?”

  Laurel nodded. “But not too tight. Snug enough to avoid a loop at the end, but not so snug it pulls the fabric inward.”

  Berta let out a high-pitched, nervous giggle and gave the thread a little tug.

  Laurel smiled. “Perfect.”

  Miss Warner left her desk, and Officer Sharp followed her to the counter. They leaned on the opposite side and watched Berta pull the beam forward in one smooth, deliberate movement. Then she reached for the shuttle.

  “Nuh-uh.” Officer Sharp pointed. “You gotta pump those things with your feet first. Right?”

  Laurel raised her brows. “That’s right.” Had he been watching her instead of watching for possible vandals
?

  His forehead pinched. “Why is that?”

  She sent him a puzzled look. “Why is what?”

  “Why do you push those…those…” He gestured.

  “The treadles?”

  “If that’s the floor things, yes. The treadles. Why do you pump ’em?”

  He seemed so intrigued it tickled her. Her brothers had never shown any interest in Mama’s loom. In fact, Alfred often complained about the money Mama spent to buy it. He didn’t mind that Mama made money selling rugs, though.

  She sought a simple answer to the officer’s question. “Well, when you pump the treadle, it raises and lowers the harness.”

  He drew back. “Huh?”

  “Um…it opens and closes the shed.”

  He stared at her, open mouthed.

  She held out her hands and shrugged. “It separates the warps.”

  He scratched his jaw, which, Laurel noticed for the first time, bore blond stubble. “Maybe it’s better if you do it instead of talkin’ about it.”

  Miss Warner laughed and shook her head at Officer Sharp. “Oh, Willie, you are a card.”

  Laurel swallowed a gasp. Had their proper supervisor done something as improper as addressing the security guard by his given name?

  Miss Warner turned her warm smile on the girls. “This young man has a delightful sense of humor. I was so weary and burdened yesterday, but he lightened my mood considerably with his positive presence. And then he took the time to see me safely to my apartment before retiring to his own home last night.” She smiled at him the way Mama smiled at her grandbabies. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and consideration, Willie.”

  The guard blushed pink. He ducked his head, as bashful as Laurel had ever seen anyone. “Thank you, ma’am, but it wasn’t so much. Just doin’ my job.”

  Miss Warner’s expression sobered. “Willie, may I share your father’s situation with the girls? I believe they would be happy to pray for him.”