A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Laurel dashed to her. “I have a beau. And he wants to speak with you. On President’s Day. At the exposition. You’ll say yes, won’t you?”

  Mama blinked several times, her expression blank. “Yes to what?”

  “To his request to court me! Mama, aren’t you listening?” Laurel drew her to the table and pressed her into a chair. She paced in circles around the table. “Langdon Rochester wishes to court me. Can you imagine living in his grand house? You’ll never have to stand at the stove dropping dumplings into broth ever again, because the cook will make all the meals, and servants will see to the washing and mending, and you needn’t worry about selling rugs, because you won’t need to purchase a single thing for yourself. Alfred and the boys can keep all their pay, so they’ll benefit, too.”

  She stopped and beamed at her mother.

  Mama pinched her chin and stared at Laurel.

  Laurel waited several seconds, but Mama didn’t speak. Laurel rushed to the table and sat across from her mother. “Well? Aren’t you pleased?”

  “I’m not altogether certain.” She rose, crossed to the stove, and lifted a corner of the lid. Steam poured out. When it cleared, she peeked inside, then closed the lid. She returned to the table. “I heard everything you said, but it doesn’t make a great deal of sense to me. How does Langdon Rochester wanting to court you mean I will never make dumplings again?”

  Laurel laughed. Of course Mama wouldn’t understand, because she hadn’t been privy to the conversation with Alfred, Nell, and the others. In her excitement, Laurel had forgotten. Now, with all the plans falling into place, she could explain. “Mama, I love you very much, and so do Alfred, Nell, Eugene, Raymond, and Mayme. We all love you.”

  “Yes, dear, I know. I love all of you, too.”

  “Because we love you, we want you to be cared for. So when I marry Langdon and move into his family’s estate, you will come, too.”

  “No, I won’t.” Mama stood and went to the stove. Using her apron to protect her hands, she slid the pot to the corner of the stove, away from the heat source, and removed the lid. “Please fetch the bowls and I’ll dish this up.”

  Laurel ignored the request for bowls and crossed to her mother. “What do you mean, no, you won’t? You have to. You can’t stay here by yourself. You’ll wither up from loneliness.”

  Mama laughed.

  Shocked, Laurel took a step backward.

  At once, the laughter stilled. Mama drew near and cupped Laurel’s cheek with her warm palm. “Dear one, forgive me. I know you mean well, and I love you for worrying over me. But have you not considered that I might enjoy having a little time to myself?”

  Laurel tipped her head. “What do you mean?”

  Mama fetched the bowls and dished servings of stew and dumplings, talking all the while. “I married your papa when I was very young, so I moved directly from my parents’ house into one with your father. Less than two years later, Alfred was born, and then Nell, Eugene, Raymond, and Mayme followed.” She carried the bowls to the table and gestured for Laurel to sit. “Of course you already know that I had other babies after Mayme, but they went straight from my womb to heaven.”

  Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes, and Laurel automatically put her hand over Mama’s.

  Mama smiled and blinked several times. “Then, most unexpectedly, you came along, what your papa called a sweet spring rain after a long drought. And we had a baby in the house again.” She turned her hand palm up and grasped Laurel’s hand. “Raising you children has brought me much joy, and I love you more than words can express, but I’ve had children underfoot for nearly forty years—two-thirds of my life. Do I not deserve a few years of solitude?”

  Laurel gaped at her mother. “You mean you want to be left alone?”

  “Oh, not completely.” Mama plucked two spoons from the small crock in the center of the table and handed one to Laurel. “I love having visits from my children and grandchildren. Seeing the whole family on Sunday at church is a special blessing. But—and it has nothing to do with wanting to get away from you, Laurel—I have enjoyed these quiet days to myself when you’re at the exposition and I can see to my own needs, read or stitch or weave right through lunchtime if I take a mind to.”

  “And it hasn’t been…lonely?” Laurel held her breath, half-afraid of the answer.

  “It’s been peaceful.”

  Laurel’s breath escaped, making the steam rising from her bowl dance into little swirls. “But Alfred and Nell and…and the others said I should stay with you. Should take care of you. That it was my duty.”

  Mama pursed her lips. “Well, I shall address that with Alfred and Nell and the others, but let me assure you, Laurel, your duty is to follow the plan God has for your life. You can’t haul me around with you like an old travel trunk because your siblings say you must. You have a mind and a heart of your own. Search them. Discover your God-ordained pathway, and then follow it. That’s what I want for you.”

  Laurel’s chest ached, but she couldn’t determine if it was relief, sadness, or happiness causing the reaction. “But what of you, Mama? When you enter your dotage and you need someone and none of us are here, then what?”

  “There’s no sense in worrying about tomorrow. If and when the day comes that I’m unable to care for myself in my own home, we will make a plan then. All right?”

  Laurel twirled her hair and bit her lip. “And you’ll be the one to tell Alfred and Nell?”

  Mama laughed again. “Didn’t I already say so? Now, let’s pray so we can eat before our dumplings grow cold.”

  Langdon

  Every evening since the first day of the exposition, Father had requested a report of the day’s events. Thanks to Clyde Allday’s careful records, Langdon was able to recount the number of visitors, their state of origin, and how many requested purchasing information. He gave his account for Saturday over dessert. He saved the most interesting piece of information for last.

  “Oh, and at day’s end, Willie Sharp was taken into custody by a pair of police officers on a charge of theft.”

  “He was what?” Father dropped his fork. It hit the edge of the china dish and bounced onto the floor, scattering lemon cake crumbs.

  Mother gasped. “Harrison, did it chip the plate?”

  The dining room servant, Martha, hurried over. She peeked over Father’s shoulder. “No, ma’am, plate’s jus’ fine.”

  Father shoved the plate and its half-eaten wedge of cake aside. “Take this.”

  Martha scooped the fork from the floor, grabbed the plate, and disappeared behind the swinging doors leading to the butler’s pantry.

  The moment the family was alone, Father thumped his fist on the table. “Repeat what you said.”

  Langdon repeated his statement.

  Father shook his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  Langdon took another bite of the tangy cake. “But it’s true. The officers said they found the stolen money packets with his other property at the exposition.”

  Father glared at him. “I wasn’t being facetious. I genuinely mean I will not believe Willie Sharp would do such a thing.”

  Would everyone defend that man? Langdon clanked his fork onto his plate, earning a second gasp from his mother. “Why is it so hard to believe? He’s dirt poor. His father’s in the hospital for who knows how long, and he needs money to pay the bill. He had easy access to the money. It seems very obvious to me.”

  “It seems obvious to you because you are looking at the circumstance instead of the individual.”

  Langdon’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Willie’s father, Otto, was the most honest, dependable employee I ever had.”

  Langdon released a little huff. “That doesn’t mean the son is dependable. Some sons aren’t anything like their fathers.”

  Father grimaced. “Yes, we know.”

 
Fury rolled through Langdon’s chest. “What are you insinuating?”

  “Must I say it out loud?”

  Mother lifted her teacup and held it to her lips. “Please, Harrison, do not engage in an argument at the table. It gives me indigestion.”

  Were it not for Mother’s request, Langdon would start a ruckus the likes of which would keep the household servants’ tongues wagging for weeks. He’d never measure up to his father’s expectations. He’d known it for years. But to have Father put a common laborer’s son above his own son went beyond anything Langdon had imagined.

  He leaned toward his father, blinking against an intense sting in his eyes. “How can you be so sure Willie didn’t take the money? Desperation can lead someone to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do.” Like marry a girl he didn’t love so he could give his mother the grandchild she longed to coddle.

  “That’s true of most men, but Otto and Willie Sharp aren’t like most men. They are both God-fearing, honest men. There has to be a mistake.” Father tossed his napkin aside and rose. “Langdon, ring the bell for the driver. I’m going to the courthouse jail.”

  Mother sat forward. “Oh, Harrison, you can’t go tonight. It’s already past eight. They won’t let you in at this hour.”

  Father sank back into the chair. “You’re right. And tomorrow is Sunday. I won’t be able to check on the boy until Monday at the earliest.” He put his head in his hand and moaned. “It pains me to think of him locked in a jail cell, alone and despondent.”

  Langdon slung his arm over the back of the chair. “I’m not sure you’d be this upset if it were I stuck in a jail cell over a weekend.” Bitterness colored his tone.

  Father reared up and pointed at Langdon. “I would go to your defense as well because I am your father, but I will be very honest with you. I have more faith in Willie’s innocence than I would in yours if you were accused of a similar offense. He has never given me a reason to question his integrity.”

  Heat exploded in Langdon’s face. He braced both palms against his chest. “And I have?”

  Father’s eyes spit fire. “Must I truly answer that? You’re intelligent, Langdon. Perhaps the most intelligent person I’ve ever known. You were reading—reading!—before you reached your fourth birthday. You could cipher two-digit sums in your head by the age of six. So bright. So full of potential. But so lazy.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead, as if struck by an intense pain. “I pushed and I prodded and I did everything I could conceive to force you to utilize the brain God gave you. And how did you use it?”

  He lowered his hands to the table and fixed Langdon with such an expression of betrayal Langdon had to look away. “You used it to find ways to avoid study. You used it to manipulate people into giving in to your selfishness. Did you use it for good? Did you use it to benefit anyone other than yourself? No. No.”

  His voice broke, and Langdon shifted against his own will and met his father’s gaze. The disappointment and sorrow etched into Father’s features flayed Langdon worse than lashes from a strap. He swallowed. “Father, I—”

  Father stood abruptly, nearly toppling his chair. He set his chin at a hard angle. “You, Langdon, could learn a great deal from Willie Sharp about what it means to be a man.” He strode out.

  Mother flicked a glance at Langdon, her forehead crinkled in worry, and hurried after Father. So she’d abandoned him, too.

  Langdon sat gritting his teeth, more hurt than he could ever remember being. If he was, as Father proclaimed, the most intelligent person he knew, what could Langdon learn from an ill-bred, uneducated factory worker? How could Father compare him to Willie Sharp…and find him lacking?

  The swinging door creaked open. Martha peeked in. “You min’ I come in an’ clear the table, Mistuh Langdon?”

  He waved his hand. “Do what you need to do.” He stormed to the parlor and stood at the front window, hands deep in his pockets, scowling at the lace curtain and the dark yard beyond it. He couldn’t let someone like Willie Sharp get the upper hand. If Sharp was innocent, as Father believed, he’d be out of jail and back on the pedestal Father had erected.

  Envy burned in Langdon’s chest. If anyone should be elevated in Father’s eyes, it should be his own son. But how to place himself above the factory worker? If Sharp were proved guilty, then Father would change his mind about him. And, by default, he would view his son with greater esteem. A plan took shape. A plan so cunning it was destined to succeed.

  Langdon bolted to the back door and rang the bell to signal for the carriage. He hadn’t won his father’s approval with good grades, athletic prowess, or business acumen, but he had one remaining ace up his sleeve. He would play it wisely.

  Willie

  Willie paced from one side of his cell to the other. Three slow strides east, turn, three slow strides west. Back and forth. Stirring dust. There wasn’t anything else to do except lie on the lumpy cot and try not to breathe in the awful smells locked in the cot, blanket, and pillow. Quincy was right. This place did stink.

  If they found him guilty of taking the money from Miss Warner’s desk drawer, how long would he have to stay here? Two years? Three? Willie’s stomach churned. Partly from the flavorless, greasy gravy over potatoes they’d given him for breakfast. Partly from fear. He’d only been in the jail two nights and he wanted to climb the walls and howl. How would he last for years?

  Angry voices exploded from the other side of the iron door at the end of the hall. Willie took a step north and peeked as best he could to the door. He strained, trying to hear what the scuffle was about, and he thought he heard somebody blast his name. Were they already talking about taking him to court? He’d like to clean up some first. The baggy striped shirt and pants they’d given him when he came in hadn’t looked too clean when he got them. After two nights of sleeping in them and wearing them the day in between, they were a wrinkled mess. He didn’t have a razor, so his face was all scruffy. A judge would take one look at him and find him guilty based on appearance alone.

  The door clanged open and Mr. Rochester charged up the hall. “Willie? Willie, where are you?” He paused at each cell and scowled at the bars. One of the other prisoners said, “I’ll be Willie if it means you’ll get me out,” and Mr. Rochester ordered the man to shut up.

  Willie was near the end—four cells down. He stuck his hand through the bars and waved. “Over here, Mr. Rochester.”

  The factory owner double-stepped to Willie, his arms swinging and his mustached face set in a mask of worry. He clasped Willie’s dirty hand. “Are you all right?”

  Willie was as far from all right as he’d been the day Pa suffered the attack of apoplexy, but he nodded. “Mr. Rochester, I want you to know—I didn’t take the money.”

  “I believe you.”

  Nothing he could’ve said would have pleased Willie more. “Do you reckon you can make the officers who arrested me believe it? I’d sure like to get out o’ here.”

  Mr. Rochester grimaced. “That won’t be possible until your trial. According to the district judge, you’ll face him one week from today.”

  Willie nearly groaned. A full week more in here?

  “I will hire a lawyer for you, and I’ll be in court as a character witness. We’ll do everything we can to prove your innocence.”

  Willie gulped. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  “You’ll repay me by returning to the factory and working hard, as you’ve always done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, what can I provide to make your stay here more pleasant? Soap? Shaving items?” He glanced up and down Willie’s length. “Clothing?”

  Willie rubbed his scratchy jaw. “I don’t wanna trouble you any more’n I already have.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll put together a box and have it sent over this afternoon.”

  “Well, then…” Maybe he shouldn’t take advantage.r />
  “What do you need, Willie?”

  Willie forced the request past the knot in his throat. “I’d sure like to have a Bible in here.”

  His boss reached through the bars and squeezed Willie’s shoulder. “Of course.” He poked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  There was one more thing. An important thing. Willie swallowed and curled his fingers around the bars. “Sir, could you talk to my preacher? Preacher Hines at Hillcrest Chapel. Let him know where I am. ’Cause I was stuck in here, I didn’t get to church yesterday, an’ I didn’t go see my pa. They’ll both be worried somethin’ awful. It’s not good for Pa to get upset. Maybe Preacher Hines can find a gentle way to tell him what happened.”

  “I will certainly send a message to your preacher.” Mr. Rochester gripped Willie’s wrist. “If need be, I’ll visit the convalescent hospital and speak to Otto myself. Don’t worry. We’ll get this situation righted. You have my word.”

  Laurel

  Miss Warner charged into the Silk Room, her face red and her breath puffing like a raging bull. She stormed to her desk, sat, slapped a sheet of paper in front of her, and uncapped her inkpot, muttering under her breath.

  Laurel exchanged worried looks with Berta and Felicia. Their supervisor had gone to the Administration Building to inquire after Willie Sharp. All of them had been surprised when he didn’t come to the Silk Room that morning. Seeing Miss Warner’s fury, Laurel was afraid to ask what she’d discovered.

  “Miss Warner?” Berta, always the boldest of the three girls, approached the woman’s desk. “Is Officer Sharp ill?”

  “No.” She dipped her pen and scribbled on the page with a loud and angry scritch-scritch.

  “Oh.” Berta glanced over her shoulder, shrugged, and faced their supervisor again. “Then where is he?”

  “In jail.”

  “What!” Felicia and Laurel squeaked the word at the same time. Laurel would have been less surprised if Miss Warner had declared he’d joined the circus. Laurel left the loom, Felicia abandoned the counter, and they joined Berta in front of Miss Warner’s desk. Felicia said, “But why? What did he do?”