A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

“You are.”

  “An’ what’s sub-stanch-uh-ated?”

  More titters from the jury box. The judge sighed. “Substantiated means ‘proven.’ We would need to hear from the original source to validate—er, prove—the statements are true.”

  The man perked up. “Well, that’s easy enough, Judge. ’Cause the ’riginal source is here.”

  Chills attacked Langdon’s scalp. He slunk lower.

  The judge pointed to the defense table. “Are you referring to the young man sitting there?”

  “Nuh-uh.” Welch stretched up tall and looked to the back of the room. “He’s sittin’ there in the rear.” He waved to Langdon. “Howdy.” He grinned at the judge. “That’s the fellow.”

  Every person in the room, Father included, turned and gaped at Langdon. His frame went hot, then cold, then hot again. Everything within him screamed Escape! Escape! But his muscles had turned to stone. He couldn’t move.

  The judge dismissed the witness, then aimed his imperious finger at Langdon. “Come here, young man.”

  Langdon unfolded himself from the pew. He tipped his head sharply left and right, popping his neck, and then moved forward. His feet were so heavy he might have been dragging blocks of concrete. It seemed a thousand accusing eyes bored into him as he made his way to the front of the courtroom. He stopped in front of the judge’s bench.

  “Swear him in,” the judge said.

  The clerk held out a Bible, and Langdon placed his sweaty palm on the warm worn leather. “Do you swear to the tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  Langdon swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Take the witness seat.”

  Langdon averted his gaze and sat stiffly on the wooden chair. He gripped his trembling knees.

  Mr. Brownley leaned on the railing in front of the witness box. “For the record, please state your name.”

  “Rochester. Langdon Rochester.”

  “Mr. Rochester, we have heard testimony that you brought an envelope containing the amount of ninety dollars to the Atlanta Hospital for Convalescents and gave it to Mr. Welch”—Welch waved again from his seat next to Father—“with instructions to apply the money to Mr. Sharp’s account. Is this correct?”

  His knees hurt where his fingers dug in. He tried loosening his grip, but his fingers refused to cooperate. “Yes, sir.”

  “There was a message written on the envelope. Did you write the message?”

  Langdon gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

  “Did you write the message at Willie Sharp’s direction?”

  Langdon closed his eyes.

  “You’re intelligent, Langdon. Perhaps the most intelligent person I’ve ever known.”

  If he said yes, Willie would go to jail. Father would believe he’d made a mistake in trusting the young man.

  “Did you use it to benefit anyone other than yourself?”

  If he said yes, he would discredit Willie in front of his pa, his supervisor, and Laurel. In front of Father.

  “Mr. Rochester, did you write the message at Willie Sharp’s direction?”

  He opened his eyes and met Mr. Brownley’s expectant gaze. “I…uh…”

  “You, Langdon, could learn a great deal from Willie Sharp about what it means to be a man.”

  An image of Father’s face at the dining room table—his disappointment, his disillusionment, his raw desire for his son to be a better man—flashed in Langdon’s memory.

  “You, Langdon, could learn a great deal from Willie Sharp about what it means to be a man.”

  Langdon knew what Willie would do. Willie would tell the truth. He gathered his courage and rasped out, “No.”

  The attorney stood upright. His brow furrowed. He glanced toward Willie’s table and then pinned a frown on Langdon. “Was the money inside the envelope given to you by Willie Sharp?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “From my own personal account.”

  Eyes wide, the lawyer gawked at him for several seconds. Then he shook his head the way a hound dislodged a burr. “Let me understand…You took money from your own account, placed it in an envelope, signed Willie Sharp’s name to a note on the envelope, and handed it to the convalescent hospital’s representative, all without Willie Sharp’s knowledge?”

  Langdon’s hands went limp and slid from his knees. His spine went limp, too. He slumped low, completely defeated. “Yes.”

  Mr. Scott stood and turned a triumphant look on the judge. “Your Honor, on the basis of this new testimony, I suggest that there is insufficient evidence to find Willie Sharp guilty of stealing pay envelopes from exposition employees, and I ask that all charges be dropped.”

  The judge picked up his gavel. “In light of Mr. Rochester’s admission, I agree. Jury, thank you for your service. You are excused.” He banged the gavel. “Case dismissed.”

  Miss Warner, Laurel, and the other girls from the Silk Room released cries of joy. Willie’s minister grabbed Willie in a hug, and then Willie darted to his father and crouched before him. The beaming smile, so full of love and pride, on the frail man’s face brought a sting of tears to Langdon’s eyes. The raucous celebration continued, rubbing salt in a wound.

  Langdon rose wearily from the chair. He didn’t want to look at his father. He didn’t want to see disappointment, disillusionment. Disgust. But something inside him forced his gaze in his father’s direction.

  Their eyes met. Father left the gallery and slowly crossed the courtroom floor, his eyes never wavering from his son’s face. Langdon stepped out of the witness box and onto the floor as Father reached him. Father stretched out his hand and placed it on Langdon’s shoulder.

  “Son, you set out to do wrong, but in the end you did the right thing by telling the truth. A man takes responsibility for his actions, and you did that today. I’m proud of you.”

  Langdon’s chin quivered. Tears burned behind his nose. He clasped his Father’s wrist. “Thanks, Pa.”

  Laurel

  Laurel placed the last white linen napkin on the dining room table, then stepped back and admired her handiwork. Four silver candlesticks marched in a straight row down the center of the table, the candles’ flames casting dots of light on the silver rims of the china plates and making the length of purple silk serving as a tablecloth shimmer. No cut flowers from a florist shop filled the vases between the candlesticks, but the dark-green sprigs with their tiny white flowers cut from Mama’s Christmas box shrub added a lovely scent to the room.

  She ran her finger along the rim of the closest plate, smiling. Only on special occasions—Christmas, Easter, birthdays, and anniversaries—did Mama take her wedding china from the cupboard. Allowing Laurel to use the set for this December Sunday evening told Laurel that she deemed the gathering special. It certainly was to Laurel.

  Was it possible the exposition would come to a close in only another two weeks? In some ways, the months had flown, and at the same time, it seemed as though she’d lived years in the short span. She’d learned so much. About silkworms. About loyalty. About what really mattered. She slowly rounded the table, adjusting a piece of silverware at this setting, turning a glass at another.

  When she was satisfied the table was as perfect as it could be, she entered the kitchen. The scents of ham, cloves, fresh-baked bread, and savory vegetables mingled together in the most heady aroma. Laurel’s mouth watered. Mama was bent over in front of the open oven, reaching inside.

  Laurel darted over. “Here, let me help.”

  Together they lifted the large roasting pan and set it on top of the stove. Mama wiped perspiration from her forehead. She surveyed the little table in the middle of the kitchen, seeming to take inventory. “That’s everything. All we need now is”—a knock at the door interrupted, and Mama smiled—“the guests.” She flicked her fing
ers at Laurel. “Go let them in. I’ll bring the food to the table.”

  Laurel scampered through the dining room and parlor to the front door and swung it wide, a smile ready. “Welcome! Please come in.”

  Miss Warner entered first, followed by Berta and Felicia. Then Quincy Tate stepped over the threshold, slipping off his hat and pressing it against his blue vest. Last came Willie and his father, with the elder man holding on to his son’s arm.

  Laurel closed the door behind them and directed them to leave their cloaks and hats on the coat tree. She stood aside and listened to them banter with one another, vying for a hook on the rack. She couldn’t stop smiling. In the past weeks she’d come to love these people—all of them—as a second family. Having them together around her dinner table was almost too good to be true.

  Mama poked her head from the dining room. “Dinner is ready.”

  Quincy tossed his hat on the top of the tree. “Then le’s eat.”

  Laughing, they filed past the loom and through the wide dining room doorway. Mama stood at the head of the table. She gestured to the foot. “Mr. Sharp, please take the end. Willie, I’m sure you’ll want to sit next to your father. Quincy, would you like to sit across from Willie? Ladies, please choose an open chair.”

  Berta and Felicia took the two chairs next to Quincy. Miss Warner crossed to the chair next to Willie, but then she cast a knowing grin at Laurel and scooted over a seat, leaving the middle chair open. Her cheeks heating, Laurel scurried to the chair next to Willie. The place she’d hoped to be.

  Mama looked to the opposite end of the table. “Gentlemen, would one of you like to ask the blessing?”

  Quincy nodded. “I will, ma’am.” They bowed their heads. “Lord, bless this food an’ the hands that prepared it. Bless this comp’ny an’ keep us on Yo’ path. Amen.”

  Mama passed the platter of ham, the bowls of roasted carrots, mashed turnips, and applesauce, and the basket of bread. While they ate, conversation flowed, but Laurel contributed little. She’d had countless lunches with Willie and the others from the Silk Room and had even enjoyed a few private picnics near Clara Meer with Willie, but being in her home, at her own dinner table, with his elbow occasionally bumping hers, candles flickering, her mother and his father in attendance, lent an intimacy that left her a little flustered, a little giddy, and unexplainably tongue tied.

  When they’d finished, Mama suggested everyone retire to the parlor for coffee and cookies.

  Miss Warner laid her napkin on the table. “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Millard, but please allow me to clear the table for you.”

  “We can help, too,” Berta said.

  Willie cleared his throat. “Why don’t y’all go enjoy coffee an’ cookies. Me an’ Laurel can take care o’ the dishes.” He turned a shy yet hopeful look on her. “That is, if Laurel doesn’t mind…”

  Mama made a funny sound, like a giggle under water, and rose. “Thank you, Willie. I appreciate your offer. Miss Warner, Mr. Sharp, everyone, please make yourselves comfortable and I’ll bring the tray to the parlor.”

  Quincy escorted Mr. Sharp, and the girls and Miss Warner followed them from the room. Moments later, Mama bustled through with the tray holding the coffeepot, cups, and plate of oatmeal-pecan cookies. Before Mama entered the parlor, she peeked back at Laurel and winked. Heat flared on Laurel’s face, and she leaned over to blow out a candle, hoping no one noticed the blush surely staining her cheeks.

  Since Willie had suggested they clear the table together, she expected him to speak to her, but he didn’t. She circled the table, stacking the plates, and he followed her, gathering up the silverware. She glanced at him, and she caught him glancing at her, and although she was more aware of his presence than she’d ever been of anyone before, she didn’t speak a word. Nor did he.

  He trailed her to the kitchen and stood aside while she placed the stack of plates on the dry sink. She gestured to the washbasin, and he dropped the handfuls of cutlery. The heavy silverware clattered against the pan and they both jumped. A nervous giggle built in her throat. Why were they playing this cat-and-mouse game? They’d become so comfortable with each other over the past months that tiptoeing around each other in silence now seemed silly.

  She turned to face him. “Willie, I—”

  “Laurel,” he said at the same time, and they both stopped.

  The giggle escaped and he grinned. She tipped her head. “May I speak?”

  He shook his head.

  She offered a puzzled frown. “No?”

  “No.” He took a step closer. “I want you to listen. Because if I don’t say what I wanna say, I might lose my nerve.”

  Her stomach fluttered like fingers playing a trill. “A-all right.”

  His hands curled around her upper arms and slid downward until he caught her hands. He held them loosely and seemed to glue his gaze to their joined hands. “Laurel, what Quincy prayed—you know, the Lord keepin’ us on His path—is what I’ve been prayin’ for more’n a month now. An’ every time I pray those words, I picture a path wide enough for two to walk side by side. I’m one o’ the people walkin’ on the path, an’ I keep hopin’ ”—he raised his head and looked directly into her eyes—“that you’re the other one.”

  The flutters lifted up into her chest, the tinkling notes creating a melody of joy.

  “ ’Cause I’ve grown to love you. But”—he glanced around the kitchen—“I can’t offer you a nice house like this. I’ll be goin’ back to the factory once the exposition closes, an’ that job doesn’t pay enough for lots o’ extras like fancy dresses or a fine carriage. The only thing I can give you is all my love…every day…for as long as I live.” A sheen clouded his blue eyes. “If that’s not enough for you, I’ll understand.”

  The flutter of emotion whirling through her chest worked its way to her throat and emerged in a strangled sob.

  His hands tightened on hers. “I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t a very good proposal. Not like you read about in books. I—”

  She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, making his image swim, and she blinked hard so she wouldn’t lose sight of his dear, honest, precious face. “What you said was better than any book. And what you offered is more than enough.”

  A smile quivered on his lips. “It is?”

  “It is. And”—she inched closer, drawing up their joined hands beneath her chin—“I promise the same to you.”

  The smile became one of pure hosanna. He lifted her chin with their joined hands and leaned down. She closed her eyes in sweet anticipation, and then his warm lips met hers with a gentle pressure, a tender brush, an airy sigh, and he straightened.

  He lowered their hands. “There’s one other thing, though. My pa…He’s doin’ real good, gettin’ stronger every day, but it’ll be a while before I can leave ’im on his own. I’m all he’s got, so I hafta be there for him. So even though I’d marry you tomorrow, I gotta wait. Are”—he gulped—“you willin’?”

  She pressed her lips to his knuckles, then raised his hands to her cheek. “Willie, I will wait for however long it takes. Because being in your presence makes my heart sing. You’re the one God chose for me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, her cheek on his shoulder, his chin on her hair. She could have remained there forever, trapped in the wonder of his embrace, but his father, her mother, and their friends were waiting.

  She slipped free and captured his hand. She smiled. “Come on. Let’s go tell our folks. Let them be happy for us, too.”

  He linked his fingers with hers, and they rounded the corner side by side while a sweet melody played through her heart.

  Readers Guide

  Laurel’s siblings expected her to stay home and “take care of Mama.” Why wasn’t this a fair expectation? If you were Laurel, how would you have responded?

  Willie lived a simple life an
d was content being “just” a factory worker. Should he have had higher aspirations? Why or why not? Laurel claimed that “those who strive for more and more seem to always be dissatisfied.” Do you agree or disagree with her statement? Why? How can we know if we’re meant to be content or to strive for more?

  Langdon decided that if he couldn’t please his father, he would live to please himself. Was this a good plan? Why or why not? How do you react to those with whom you never measure up?

  Quincy struggled with controlling his temper. What was the true root of his anger—other people’s opinions of him or his opinion of himself? What makes you think this?

  Willie’s partner told him, “Just ’cause you believe somethin’ doesn’t mean you have to tell everybody about it.” Do you agree with Ted Dunning? Why or why not? If you were Willie, what would you have said in reply?

  Miss Warner held a grudge against all African Americans after her fiancé was killed by a black man. Why was her reaction inappropriate? How would you have advised her?

  Quincy’s mam told him he had a choice—be a slave to God or a slave to sin. Do you agree with her? Why or why not? What does it mean to be a slave to sin? A slave to God?

  When presented with the opportunity to tell a lie and discredit Willie, Langdon chose to tell the truth. Why do you think he changed his mind about lying? How would the story have gone differently if Langdon had lied instead?

  Where do you see evidence of racism in your community? What can you do to help end it?

  Acknowledgments

  To Mom and Daddy—thank you for teaching me about Jesus’s love by the way you live your lives.

  To Don, my daughters, and my grandkiddos—I’m so glad you’re mine.

  To Patti Jo—every time I wrote a line of dialogue, I ran it past your voice in my head. Thank you for the guidance!

  To my Sunday school and Lit & Latte ladies—your prayers avail much. Bless you!