The Carousel Painter (29 page)

He smiled and a slight gleam reflected in his eyes. “Would be more excitement if you wait and see.”

My enthusiasm waned. “Wait and see? I get to approve the final plans, don’t I? They’re my drawings, after all.”

The sparkle vanished from his eyes, and his smile disappeared. I hadn’t meant for my words to sound harsh, but I’d obviously insulted him.

“There again the pride comes, ja? Mr. Galloway puts me in charge of his carousel factory, but you cannot trust me for this?”

I’d wounded him—of that there was no doubt. But they were my drawings, and I wanted the animals to be perfect. The eyes and mouths needed to be exactly right, and the bodies should be sleek and reflect motion—not staid or tired. I wanted my carousel animals to be ones that would enthuse children—ones like the beautiful white horse that had excited me when I was a little girl.

“Is it wrong to want perfection? When you carve, you strive for perfection. Does that make you proud, or does it make you an excellent craftsman?”

His brow furrowed slightly. He appeared to be considering what I’d said. I waited, wanting to give him as much time as necessary to weigh my response.

“You are right. A man—or a woman—needs to do the best work possible. This, the Bible tells us, ja?”

Why was he asking me? He possessed Bible knowledge. I was a veritable newcomer to daily Bible reading and prayer. But I nodded. Jesus surely approved of hard work and diligence. He’d certainly exhibited those qualities to a greater degree than any mortal.

“Then what I have done, you can see. But construction and carving I know, so you do not get the final word.” He looked deep into my eyes. “You agree?”

Either way, I wouldn’t have complete control, so I might as well agree. At least I would see what he’d accomplished thus far. “I agree. Where are the drawings?”

“I will get them. They are in my room.” He glanced toward the sky. “The sun is going down. We will look at them on the dining room table.”

I followed him indoors and sat down at the table. I should have known my presence there would evoke questions from Mrs. Wilson. She peeked around the corner from the kitchen. “We’ve already eaten supper, Carrie. Have you forgotten so soon?”

I giggled at the question. “No. I’m waiting for Josef to bring some drawings downstairs.”

That was all it took for Mr. Lundgren to join in the conversation. Soon they were both seated with their folded hands resting on the table. Josef’s gaze settled on me as he came to an abrupt halt in the doorway.

“We all are going to look?”

I shrugged. “I believe so.”

His smile radiated warmth, and in one fleeting moment, I decided he was the kind of man who would make a good husband. I touched a hand to my cheek and could feel heat emanate like a smoldering fire.
What brought that idea to mind?
Certainly he was a fine and talented man. Mr. Tobarth had convinced me of that shortly after I’d arrived at the factory. But I hadn’t spent my life dreaming of love and marriage. Why was I thinking about Josef Kaestner in such a manner? I silently warned myself to erase such thoughts. Papa said marriage could smother dreams, and I wasn’t prepared to extinguish mine.

“Your cheeks are flushed, Carrie. Are you feeling unwell?” Mrs. Wilson’s brow knit in concern.

As though on cue, both of the men turned and stared. The fire reignited, and I could feel beads of perspiration prickling my scalp; soon they’d trickle down my forehead and cheeks.

I picked up a piece of paper and fanned with ferocity. “I’m fine— just a little warm.”

Josef reached across and touched my hand. “Be careful! That is one of the sketches.”

Startled, I released the piece of paper and watched it flutter to the table. Mrs. Wilson retrieved the sheet and gave it an admiring glance before pushing it toward Mr. Lundgren. “Look, Henry. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I stretched my neck to gain a view and had to agree that Josef’s changes appeared excellent. Mrs. Wilson slid the paper across the table. I nodded in agreement and smiled. “It
is
excellent.”

“Is sometimes gut to let another person have control, ja?”

“Sometimes,” I said, my voice as thin as the piece of paper. I wasn’t about to totally commit to the concept. Who knew what he would do with my drawings if I agreed.

His chest puffed a hairsbreadth. If I hadn’t been watching for his reaction, I would never have noticed. Did he think I was releasing all control over my drawings to him? I couldn’t let that happen. Scooting to the edge of my chair, I said, “It is also good to continue contributing to your work once it’s begun.”

“Ja. And we will begin with this one as soon as our orders for the current carousel have been completed next week.” He withdrew a drawing and handed it to me. “I have already enlarged it. What do you think?”

The magnificent lion I’d drawn looked back at me with gleaming eyes, his mouth open wide to reveal the huge teeth and powerful jaws from my original sketch. Visions of Daniel in a lion-filled den surrounded by the ferocious creatures suddenly appeared before me. I clutched the paper tight between my fingers and swallowed hard.

“Do not press so hard. Your fingers will make a hole in the paper.” Josef’s voice was warm and gentle. “You like it?”

“It is beautiful, but I wonder if we should do one of the other animals first. Perhaps the zebra.”

“Zebra? Nein.” Josef shook his head. “This is the one Mr. Galloway wants first.”

“It will be grand. I’m sure of it,” I said, nodding my approval.

I told myself that by the time the lion was carved and painted, my problems with Tyson, the necklace, and Detective Lawton should be resolved. Then the lion wouldn’t matter. Or would it? Would the image of a lion forever be a reminder of Daniel’s faithfulness, and would it compel me to follow his example? I should never have sketched that lion!

At noon on Tuesday I took my lunch outdoors and settled in my regular place beneath the tree. At first I thought I might be fortunate two days in a row. The women hadn’t appeared on Monday, and they weren’t present when I first walked outside. But I’d barely begun to eat when a group appeared. It was the same women who’d approached me the first day. They stood across the street staring at me, and my discomfort increased with each bite of food.

I gulped down the final bite of my jam sandwich and shoved the apple back into my lunch pail. I’d eat it later. Going back to work early would be more enjoyable than enduring angry stares. I picked up my sketch pad, but before I’d gathered all my belongings, the women and two children crossed the street and marched in my direction.

My pulse quickened. I glanced toward the rear entrance to the building and attempted to gauge the distance. Could I outrun them? The thought disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and panic seized me in a stranglehold. My breathing turned shallow; my heartbeat reverberating in my ears like a pounding drum.

The woman who had spoken to me on the first day approached while the others remained near the street. “Why you still work here?”

My mouth felt as dry as dust. Though I tried, not one word escaped my lips. The woman appeared to take my silence as a challenge and grabbed my arm. Before I could offer resistance, she yanked me over to where the other women stood near the edge of the street. One of the children clung to her mother’s skirt and peered at me with downcast lips and widened eyes. The other, a young boy of two or three, hunkered down to pet a stray cat.

Fear clutched me in a terrifying embrace. I wanted to scream for help but couldn’t form a sound. Instead, I remained firmly planted, unable to move a muscle or speak a word while the women hurled questions and insults. Their eyes were filled with undeniable hatred. Unable to bear their looks, I tore my gaze from the old woman and focused on the little boy gently stroking the cat.

He seemed unaware of the tumult that swirled above him like a gathering thunderstorm. Without warning, the cat lunged forward and raced into the street. Arms outstretched, the boy ran after the furry animal and into the path of a lumber wagon. The women’s angry shouts hung on the afternoon breeze as I broke through their ranks and sped toward the boy. Grabbing him around the waist, I hoisted him from the ground and pulled him close to my chest.

My skirts caught between my legs, and we fell to the street. I heard the rip of fabric as I frantically rolled to my side, barely escaping the wagon wheels. The boy shrieked in my ear as I hugged him close. “You’re all right,” I wheezed.

“Kitty,” he cried, wrestling to free himself.

I couldn’t be certain, but he appeared to be unscathed. Before I could check him for wounds, the women and wagon driver surrounded me. Once assured neither the boy nor I had come to any harm, the driver shook his head. “You ain’t much of a mother, lettin’ the boy run out in the street like that.” He jerked around and headed off to his wagon.

The boy’s mother gathered him into her arms and fluctuated between kissing his tear-stained cheeks and rebuking his bad behavior. The child appeared totally confused.

The old woman grasped my arm and spoke to me. I couldn’t understand a word she said, but her eyes had softened, and the words were gently spoken. One of the other women stepped near. “She is thanking you for to save the boy’s life.” She pointed to the boy. “Her grandson.”

I nodded to the old woman. “You are welcome.”

The women began talking among themselves, and finally the one who had taken on the role of interpreter turned to me. “We want to say we are sorry for the way we treat you, but we worry our men will—” She pointed to her eye. “They see you are pretty. They will think you make better wife than us.” When I didn’t immediately respond, she grasped my hand. “We worry when women come to work in factory. Is not a good thing if our husbands are around other women all day long.”

“Your husbands aren’t working near me. I work in the paint shop and rarely see them. I give you my word, I have no interest in any of them. Please believe me.”

The older woman waited while the interpretation was given and then gave a firm nod and spoke to the other woman.

“Grandmother Nina says that since you have saved the boy’s life and you give us your word, we will trust you. She will speak to the other women and say to stay away.”

“Tell her I said thank you very much. I won’t betray her trust.” I’d barely completed my thank-you when the old woman grasped my shoulders and planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. Then she spit on the ground beside us.

I flinched and attempted a sideways step, but she held fast to my shoulders. She pointed at my lips and then toward the ground. “You!” she commanded.

Stunned, I looked at the other woman. “She wants me to spit?”

“It will seal your pact,” she said. Though I was aghast at the thought, I didn’t want to do anything that might shatter our tenuous agreement. Closing my eyes, I puckered my lips and spit.

CHAPTER
20

A
s Josef predicted, the carousel we’d been working on had been completed and was prepared for shipment on Saturday morning. “Now I can begin the lion,” he announced with great excitement at supper that evening. I think he expected to see me exhibit more fervor, but it was Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren who became his primary enthusiasts.

“I can only imagine how thrilled you must be to think of painting the lion, Carrie.” Mrs. Wilson turned toward Josef. “She does get to paint it, doesn’t she?”

“Ja, of course. Unless she wants Mr. Tobarth to assist her.” His reply was muffled by a mouthful of creamed peas.

“I prefer to paint it myself, but I won’t hesitate to ask Mr. Tobarth for his advice.” I glanced toward the grandfather clock sitting in the far corner of the hall—a wedding gift from Mr. Wilson’s mother. That’s what Mrs. Wilson had told me during my first week at the boardinghouse. Removing the napkin from my lap, I placed it on the table and pushed away. “If I’m going to be ready in time for the concert, I’d better go upstairs.”

Josef’s eyes crinkled with his broad smile. “Ja, you want to look as gut as the man who walks beside you.”

Mrs. Wilson giggled and waved her napkin at Josef. “She’s going to look beautiful. No one at the concert will give you a second glance once they get a look at Carrington in her finery.”