A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  His face still glowed pink, and he wouldn’t look at any of them. “I reckon it’s all right.”

  Berta turned sideways on the stool, and she, Laurel, and Felicia gave Miss Warner the same attention they offered when she delivered instructions.

  “Willie’s father suffered an attack of apoplexy several months ago. Up until recently, Willie has been his sole caretaker.”

  Laurel flicked a look at Officer Sharp—at Willie. The stubble on his chin and cheeks gave evidence of manhood, but he didn’t seem much older than her. Such a responsibility he carried. He must love his father very much. The way she loved Mama.

  “The position here at the exposition has given him the financial freedom to have his father placed into the convalescent hospital. I ask each of you to pray for Willie’s father to experience a full recovery, and also pray for Willie.” She slid her arm across his shoulders and gave him several pats. “With his mother gone on to glory, he’s quite lonely.”

  “And pray he isn’t discharged.”

  The others, including Willie, gaped at Laurel. Miss Warner placed her hands on her hips. “Why on earth would Willie be given a discharge from his position here?”

  Laurel hadn’t meant to blurt the thought that tripped through her brain. She couldn’t shame him by sharing how the man in the Auditorium had berated him. The other girls or Miss Warner might feel the same way the angry man did about mixing blacks and whites together. Her face heated, and she fanned herself with both hands. “I only meant it’s very important for his father to remain at the hospital. If it’s the exposition pay keeping him there, then we want Will—Officer Sharp—to continue working here until the very end.”

  “Ah. Very well.” Miss Warner relaxed her pose. “Yes, that’s a fine idea.”

  Laurel offered him an apologetic smile, and he returned it with a slight nod. A silent thank-you glowed in his blue eyes. Laurel found it difficult to look away. How much she’d learned about him from Miss Warner in only a few minutes. Their commonalities—both having lost a parent, both being responsible for the surviving parent—gave her a feeling of kinship with him. He, too, seemed transfixed, his gaze unwavering.

  A pair of middle-aged women and a toddler boy entered the room, and Willie lurched toward the door. Laurel replaced Berta at the loom, and Miss Warner invited the visitors to examine the diorama jars.

  “Felicia, would you like to explain the life cycle of the silkworm to our guests?”

  Laurel listened to Felicia’s memorized monologue while she worked. Between pulls on the beater or pushes on the treadle, she sent glances at Officer Sharp. And for reasons she couldn’t understand, no matter how closely she examined herself, she was suddenly reluctant to tell Langdon that Willie Sharp had been with her during lunch yesterday.

  Quincy

  Quincy stared at the tiny window way up high on the wall. The sunlight was near faded away. That meant the whole day’d gone by and nobody’d come for him. A couple other fellows had got let go. He’d watched them march past his cell, grinning all smug because somebody had five dollars to pay their bail.

  A cramp attacked his middle. A hunger pang. The plate they’d brung him for lunch sat on the edge of his cot. He hadn’t touched the scoop of beans dotted with chunks of fat and gristle. He couldn’t make himself eat something that looked so awful. He’d considered eating the square of mealy corn bread. There wasn’t no sorghum to pour on it like he would at home, but least it didn’t have gristle in it. Then the fellow in the cell next to his said he found a little worm in his corn bread. So Quincy’d tossed his bread on top of the beans. He’d vowed he wouldn’t never be hungry enough to put wormy corn bread in his mouth.

  That’s what he’d thunk at noontime. Now with evening coming on, he stared at those dried, crusty beans and broken chunks of hard corn bread. If he swallowed them down, would they stay down? The rumble in his belly was sure demanding something.

  The click of the lock echoed against the cement walls. Somebody was coming. Bringing them a decent supper? He bounded up and took two steps. Didn’t need more than two steps to make it to the wall of iron bars. He pressed his face to the cold metal, trying to see if whoever was coming pushed a squeaky cart with plates on it, like they’d done for lunch. No squeaky cart holding plates of food, but something better. Willie and Mr. Johnson came up the hallway with one of the officers. Quincy almost yelled a hallelujah.

  Willie got to him first and reached through and took his hand. “You all right, Quince?”

  Quincy looked Willie up and down. Rumpled clothes. Little yellow whiskers poking out all over his cheeks and chin. Hair standing on end. “Good as you, I reckon. You come to bail me out?”

  Mr. Johnson stepped up close to Willie. “No need for bail, Tate. I told the chief what you were doin’ on the exposition grounds, an’ he’s droppin’ the trespassin’ charge.”

  This time Quincy didn’t hold back. “Hallelujah!” The policeman stuck a key in the lock on the cell door and turned it. He bolted through the opening. “Let’s get out o’ here.”

  Out on the sidewalk, he sucked in a big breath of humid air. Then he laughed. “Sure am glad you foun’ out where I was. Thank you, Mr. Johnson, for gettin’ me out. Thank you, too, Willie.”

  Mr. Johnson took a couple of backward steps. “Get yourself home safe now, you hear?”

  “Yes, suh. I will.”

  “An’ don’t be late to work tomorrow. You got some makin’ up to do for missin’ today.”

  “Yes, suh!”

  Mr. Johnson set off up the street, and Willie squeezed Quincy’s upper arm. “I couldn’t hardly believe it this mornin’ when your ma told me you’d been took in.”

  A funny feeling struck Quincy. “You talk to Mam this mornin’?”

  Willie nodded. “When you didn’t come meet me for work, I got worried you might be sick or hurt, so I went to your house to check on you. That’s when I found out.”

  “This mornin’.” Anger started boiling in Quincy’s gut. More powerful than the hunger already in there. “An’ you didn’ come ’splain to them first thing? You left me sittin’ in there all day? I ain’t never had a mo’ mis’able day’n this ’un, stuck in that li’l room, smellin’ the stink from all the fellas who stay in there before me. Spent all last night an’ the whole day thinkin’ I wouldn’ never get out.”

  “I’m sorry, Quince.” Willie still had hold of Quincy’s arm. He squeezed it again, but Quincy jerked loose.

  “You can’t be feelin’ any sorrier’n I been, knowin’ I didn’ do nothin’ to get took in for.” Everything that happened yesterday evening—the policemen nabbing him and all that come before—rolled through his mind. He snorted. “An’ don’t be thinkin’ I don’t know why you wouldn’ lemme stay an’ help last night. I seen how that prissy white lady look at me an’ Cass when we carry in the big case. She take our help but she watch us, all distrustful like.”

  Quincy tapped Willie in the middle of his chest with his finger. “She trust you fine, though, an’ you know me real good. You coulda said, ‘Quincy here’s my friend. You don’t hafta worry none ’bout him.’ Then she prob’ly woulda said, ‘That jus’ fine, Officer Sharp. He can stay an’ help.’ But you didn’ say nothin’. You jus’ send me on. An’ then you wait the whole livelong day to come get me.”

  Willie stood there, mouth turned down all sad. He didn’t say Quincy was right, that he could’ve done things different, but Quincy didn’t need to hear it said to know it was true.

  Quincy flipped his hand and turned away. “It ain’t dark yet. I don’t need you takin’ me home.” He took two steps, then turned back. “An’ don’t be worryin’ ’bout me come mornin’, neither. I’ll take myself to work from now on. Not like you an’ me’re togethuh on the fairgrounds no how, you in yo’ uniform an’ me grubbin’ in the dirt.”

  All of a sudden Willie seemed to wake up. He stomped up close to Quincy. “The
only reason I didn’t come here first thing in the mornin’ is because Mr. Felton wouldn’t let me. I asked him. I tried. But he said I couldn’t or—”

  Quincy cocked his head. “Or what?”

  Willie kicked at the sidewalk and kept his head down.

  “He say he fire you if you go?” Quincy would feel kindlier if Willie got threatened. Willie needed the job same as Quincy did. Maybe more. Quincy might could understand if Willie had to choose between helping his friend or helping his pa.

  Willie growled in his throat. “Never mind what he said. It doesn’t matter.” He looked at Quincy again. “You’re right. I should’ve told Miss Warner she could trust you. I made a mistake. I’m sorry. But like you said, I know you, an’ you know me. We been friends our whole lives, Quince. You really wanna hold on to your mad an’ not be friends anymore?”

  Quincy stood for a long time, staring hard at Willie, his heart pounding like one of them big drums from the band at the fairgrounds. He couldn’t remember a time when him and Willie wasn’t friends. He’d thought for sure they’d be friends until they was old and gray headed. But what Willie’d done, letting that white lady think he wasn’t worthy of staying and lending a hand…He bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood.

  “Stayin’ mad…is that what you want, Quincy?”

  Quincy sucked a breath through his nose, making his nostrils flare. “What I want is to feel like we’s friends. Like I matter to you. The way I used to. But I don’t. An’ I’m thinkin’ I never will again.” He turned and stamped off before Willie could see tears popping into his eyes.

  Willie

  Willie stared at Quincy’s retreating back. He should follow him. Make sure he got home all right. Quincy’s clenched fists and stiff shoulders would tell everybody who crossed his path that he was toting a mighty rage. Could be someone would needle him, make him let all the mad out. Quincy could end up in a jail cell again. But his feet didn’t move.

  “…you didn’ say nothin’.” The accusation stung. Mostly because it was right. Why hadn’t he told Miss Warner she could trust Quincy? If he had it to do over, he’d speak up, tell her how he and Quince’d been friends their whole lives and he was a decent fellow. If he ran after Quincy and promised to do better next time, would his friend forgive him?

  “Quincy’d probably tell me to go away anyhow.” Crushed his heart to think of his good friend not wanting him around, but Quincy didn’t think straight when he was all caught up in being angry. When Quincy’s mad wore out, he’d change his mind. Until then, hard as it would be, Willie’d stay away from him. But there was somebody Willie wanted to see. He needed his pa something fierce.

  Preacher Hines visited Pa almost every evening, since Willie could only go on Sundays. The preacher’d said the hospital let in visitors from four in the afternoon until eight at night. It wasn’t quite seven yet. Could he make it to the hospital in time to at least look in on Pa, maybe unburden himself? Pa couldn’t talk out loud, but he could still think clear. Which meant he could pray. Willie needed his pa’s prayers.

  He glanced up and down the street, trying to get his bearings. He’d never been in this part of Atlanta because he’d never needed to go to the jailhouse. Mr. Johnson had led the way, so Willie hadn’t paid close attention, but it seemed like they’d taken the Piedmont and Magnolia trolley lines to get here. The Georgia line would carry him to where Pa was. He fingered the ticket stub in his pocket. Might as well get his full twenty-five cents’ worth. He took off for the closest trolley stop.

  His pocket watch showed ten ’til eight when Willie opened the doors to the convalescent hospital. He wrinkled his nose. Quincy’d spoke of the jail’s stink. Was it worse than all the smells in this hospital? The people were nice. Willie’d set aside his worries about how they’d see to Pa. But he wished they could do something to make it smell less like an outhouse dipped in lye soap.

  Willie followed the winding hallways to Pa’s room, the last one on the first floor. The door stood open, so Willie went on in without knocking. Pa’s bed was at the far end of the row of iron beds, in front of the windows. The other patients were lying flat, but Pa sat propped up in bed by three plump pillows. An older lady as plump as one of the pillows stood close by with her back to the door. She wore a blue apron and matching scarf over her hair, so she wasn’t a visitor but a hospital worker. She was laughing. Laughing at Pa? Willie hurried over to see, then drew back in surprise.

  Flopped on Pa’s lap like he owned the whole bed was a huge fluffy orange cat. Willie’s mouth fell open. “Rusty?”

  The woman gave a start. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Willie.”

  She looked at him the way someone might look at a bank robber. Kind of the way Miss Warner had looked at Quincy last night. “Willie who?”

  “Willie Sharp.” He pointed to Pa. “I’m his son.”

  Pa’s face lit up with a big half smile. He stretched his left hand to Willie, and Willie took hold.

  The woman’s scowl faded. “Oh. I’m Mrs. Bonebreaker.”

  Willie swallowed a chortle. What a funny name for someone who worked in a hospital. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too. Now, what did you say when you came in?”

  “Rusty. That’s what Pa named this big ol’ brute.” Willie stroked the cat from the top of his head to the middle of his back. Rusty rolled sideways, exposing his furry white belly. Willie laughed and gave it a rub, too. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Well, up until this minute, I thought he was a stray.” She ran her fingers through the cat’s thick coat. “He showed up at the kitchen door three or four days ago, yowlin’ worse’n a whole pack of cats. The cook felt sorry for him an’ put out a little dish of scraps, but this scoundrel darted inside, through the kitchen, an’ up the hallway. Three workers went after him. You should’ve seen the chase!”

  Willie grinned, imagining it.

  “He slid into this room, jumped up on Mr. Sharp’s bed, an’ gave everybody such a glare they were afraid to touch him.” Her expression went tender. “Except for your pa here. The way he took to the cat…Mr. Sharp’s a hard worker. Tries to do everything we ask of him. But since this fellow”—she scratched Rusty’s ears, and the cat closed his eyes and purred—“showed up, your pa’s been a lot happier. The doctor said bein’ in good spirits will help him mend, so even though we’ve never let an animal in before, Doc Blake declared the cat part o’ your pa’s therapy.”

  A knot formed in Willie’s throat. He tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t budge. He talked around it, his voice coming out gruff. “Ma’am, we live north of the reservoir, a good eight miles from here. I can’t think how Rusty found his way all by himself.”

  “Has your pa had him for a long time?”

  “No. He meowed at our back door shortly before Pa took sick. He’s stuck around ever since.” Willie shrugged. “Well, up until just after Pa came here. I figured he’d wandered in an’ now he’d wandered on, an’ I felt pretty sad about it.” He gazed at the purring cat, and his vision blurred. He sniffed and blinked before the tears fell down his cheeks and embarrassed him. “But he must’ve gone lookin’ for Pa.”

  “I’m glad he found him.” The woman patted Pa’s arm. “So is Mr. Sharp, I think, yes?”

  Pa nodded. “Caaaa…Ruuu-eeee…”

  Willie’s jaw dropped. “Pa! Did you say cat? An’ Rusty?”

  “He sure did.” The woman beamed as bright as if she was personally responsible for Pa’s words. “Isn’t he doin’ good? He lost his consonants when he had the attack. It’s pretty hard to have a conversation with somebody when you only use vowels.”

  Willie wasn’t sure what she meant, but she seemed so happy about it he nodded anyway.

  “So the nurses’ve been workin’ on gettin’ his consonants. All the letters that come from the back of your tongue—c, g, h, k, and r—he can do now. We’re all so proud of him. H
e only started saying the kuh sound yesterday. I think he’s been wantin’ to say cat.”

  Pa nodded again, smiling big. “Caaa. Caaa.” He put his right hand on top of Rusty’s head and slid it across the cat’s neck. One slow, clumsy pet. But he’d done it all by himself.

  Tears blinded Willie again. He swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re doin’ good, Pa. You’re doin’ so good.” He coughed out a half laugh, half sob. “I’m startin’ to think angels sent that cat to Pa.”

  Willie’d meant to joke, but Mrs. Bonebreaker nodded real slow and serious. “You could be right. You said the cat came to your house right before your pa had his attack. As soon as your pa came here, the cat came huntin’ him.” She turned her wide-eyed gaze on Rusty. “He might even be an angel cat.” She shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly. “He’s an unusual one, that’s for sure. An’ now”—she scooped Rusty from the bed—“visitin’ time is done, so I’ll put him out in the little house one o’ the cook’s helpers made for him. It’s only a potato crate with some old torn towels stuffed in the bottom, but he seems to like it.”

  A crate with towels in it was better than a hole under a garden shed. Willie might put a bed like that together for Rusty when Pa came home.

  “And you, young man, need to leave, too.”

  Willie shook his head. “But I didn’t get to—”

  “If you want your pa to get better, he needs his rest. I let you stay a little over since you come in so late, but now I gotta make you leave. Sleep is real important for healin’.”

  As much as Willie wanted to talk to Pa, to unload these worries, he wouldn’t do anything to keep him from getting better. He kissed Pa goodbye and followed the woman out of the room.

  She shifted Rusty to one arm, struggling some because the cat wriggled, and closed the door. “Good night, young man.” She hurried off, wrestling with Rusty.

  Willie scuffed up the hallway, head low and hands shoved in his pockets.He left the hospital. The air smelled better, so he breathed deep, the way Quincy had outside the jail. Willie’s heart hurt as he recalled Quincy’s fury. He could come back on Sunday with Preacher Hines, same as he’d done last Sunday and the Sunday before, but Sunday was still days away. Three more full days of carrying his worries all by himself.