The Carousel Painter (12 page)
Instead of taking time to unlace and take off my shoes, I removed an old piece of newspaper from one of the wardrobe drawers and spread it at the foot of the bed. Careful to keep my shoes on the paper, I eased against the pillow.
I remember thinking the mattress was quite comfortable, but that was the last thing I recalled before being startled awake by rapping at my door. “Miss Brouwer. You in there, Miss Brouwer? We’re waiting supper on you.”
Trying to clear my foggy brain, I forced myself upright. A man was shouting my name. I forced my caked lips apart. “I’m in here.” I croaked the response through a sleep-filtered haze. Outside, darkness had descended.
“Miss Brouwer? The pork chops are getting cold. You coming?”
Pork chops. I was at the boardinghouse. “I’ll be right there,” I called to the unknown man on the other side of the door. I heard muffled footsteps retreat down the hallway. I couldn’t take time to check my appearance. No telling how long the others had been waiting.
Patting my hair, I rushed down the stairs. The smell of fried pork and sauerkraut assailed me as I hurried along the hallway and entered the dining room. Struck dumb, I stood inside the doorframe with my mouth gaping open and my thoughts spinning like a whirlpool. My breath caught in my throat.
“Good evening, Miss Brouwer.”
The man didn’t appear surprised by my entrance, though he didn’t appear pleased, either. I nodded. “Good evening, Mr. Kaestner.” I wanted to run screaming from the room. Of all the boardinghouses in The Bottoms, why was Mr. Kaestner renting a room in this one? Surely with his position as manager of the factory, he could afford finer accommodations. Before I could take stock of the situation, Mrs. Wilson waved me into the chair opposite Mr. Kaestner.
The older woman took obvious pleasure in introducing me to Ralph Lundgren. Not only was he a fellow boarder, but Mr. Lundgren had been responsible for awakening me from my nap. He was also credited with helping Thomas lug my trunks up the two flights of stairs. I thanked him profusely for his acts of kindness; he waved off my words of appreciation as a shade of beet red stole across his cheeks. I’d obviously embarrassed the kind man.
Mr. Lundgren had an unruly head of brown hair and ears that were far too large for his head. In his favor, he had kind brown eyes and a pleasant smile that he generally directed at Mrs. Wilson.
“And you already know Josef, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I murmured. “I apologize for delaying supper.”
Mrs. Wilson dropped into her chair with a thud. “Don’t you worry one little bit, Carrie—may I call you that? Seems more friendly.” She didn’t wait for my answer but continued on. “This isn’t like those boardinghouses where there’s ten or fifteen folks. We’re like a small family, aren’t we, Ralph?” Though she didn’t give him an opportunity to respond, I had already figured out that Mr. Lundgren would agree with anything Mrs. Wilson said. “Why don’t you say the prayer tonight, Ralph.”
I bowed my head, but I only partially closed my eyes so I could peek across the table at Mr. Kaestner. Ever so slightly, I tipped my head upward and raised my eyelids until his face came into full view. His intense brown eyes were riveted on me. What was he doing with his eyes open? I slammed my eyelids shut and tilted my head forward until my nose nearly touched my plate.
After the prayer I was careful not to look in Mr. Kaestner’s direction. I was successful until the pork chops, fried potatoes, and sauerkraut had circled the table. It had been no small task cutting a bite of meat from the pork chop, but I finally managed. I’d just begun to chew when Mrs. Wilson asked about my day.
“Tell me all about it,” she said. “I’ve never been inside the carousel factory, although I certainly enjoy riding the lovely horses. Or at least I used to when I was a little younger and somewhat slimmer.”
“You could ride on one of the chariots,” Mr. Lundgren said. “Do you make those beautiful chariots at the factory, Miss Brouwer?”
I didn’t know why he was asking me. Mr. Kaestner was far more qualified to answer questions about the factory. Mumbling around the piece of pork chop in my mouth, I offered an affirmative response. I chewed and chewed, but the piece of meat wouldn’t disappear.
“We’ve gone and interrupted. I promise we won’t cut in again.” Mrs. Wilson held an index finger to her pursed lips and directed an admonishing look at Mr. Lundgren.
Hoping no one would notice, I clasped my napkin to my lips and expelled the rubbery piece of meat inside. One glimpse at Mr. Kaestner’s face revealed he’d figured out exactly what I’d done. I felt like a student caught cheating on an examination. Heat spread through my chest, crawled up my neck, and exploded across my cheeks. I lowered my eyes as quickly as I’d raised them, my embarrassment complete.
Mrs. Wilson touched my arm. “We’re waiting, my dear.”
I offered a quick recapitulation of the day’s events, leaving out the part about being shunned by the men and the fact that I’d been hired without Mr. Kaestner’s approval. “My work was quite different from what I’ve experienced in the past, but I believe I’m going to be quite happy at the factory.” I stole a look at Mr. Kaestner, but his face was a blank canvas, void of all expression. What a relief it would be if I could pick up a brush and paint a smile on his lips and dot a gleam in his eyes.
Mrs. Wilson stabbed her fork into the mound of sauerkraut. “What do you think, Josef? Did Carrie do a good job today? I’d think you’d be relieved to have another painter in the shop.” She pointed the tines of her fork toward him. “Why don’t you look pleased?”
“Another painter, he quit this afternoon. I traded one painter with a year of training for a woman with no experience at all. I am told the work Miss Brouwer completed today was acceptable. But slower than the men, she is.”
His critical tone caught me by surprise. Was it my fault if another worker decided to quit? A fire ignited deep in my belly. Perhaps indigestion played some part in the burning sensation, but Mr. Kaestner’s snappish remark was doubtless the primary culprit.
“You seem to be implying it is my fault the painter quit.” I pushed the words through clenched teeth.
He dug his fork into a lump of fried potatoes and balanced several broken pieces on his utensil before he looked up. “Ja, you
are
the reason, Miss Brouwer. With a woman, he refused to work.”
Mr. Kaestner’s words collided with my fear. If he fired me, how could I survive? The burning sensation exploded like fireworks. An intense heat scorched the back of my throat, and I grabbed for my glass of water. I swallowed a large gulp, but it didn’t douse the fire. I couldn’t decide what would be worse: facing angry-eyed men each day or not having a job.
Mrs. Wilson’s cheery inquisition had come to an immediate halt, and the room was now as silent as a tomb.
Finally Mr. Lundgren tapped his finger on the edge of the table. “I say if a woman can do the work, why shouldn’t she? I wouldn’t mind having a few women working alongside me over at the glass factory. I get tired of looking at scraggly bearded men all day long.” His chuckle rang a little hollow, but he was doing his best to smooth the waters. “Maybe I should make a suggestion to my boss, Mr. Gottlieb.”
Mr. Kaestner gave him a sidelong glance. “Mr. Gottlieb might think different, but women—ach! Problems they can cause.”
Mr. Lundgren shrugged. “So can men, just a different kind. Good managers learn how to handle all kinds of people, particularly them that’s got good skills.”
I bit back my anger at Mr. Kaestner, grateful Mr. Lundgren had come to the defense of womankind.
Mr. Kaestner’s right eyebrow twitched. “So you are thinking it is because of me this painter quit today?”
“I’d say it is nobody’s fault, but the least the fella coulda done was give Miss Brouwer a chance to prove herself. He probably wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. Men that fly off the handle can always find something or someone to make ’em angry. Right?”
I crunched a mouthful of undercooked potato. The grinding echoed in my ears while I waited for Mr. Kaestner’s answer.
“For the other men, I cannot speak.”
“But you can speak for women!” The stinging retort was out of my mouth before I could clamp my jaw.
He reeled back as though I’d landed a blow, but he didn’t respond. I chased a piece of potato around my plate, stabbed it with my fork, and popped it into my mouth.
“Thank you for the food, Mrs. Wilson. I must return to the factory this night. If you will excuse me, ja?” Mr. Kaestner pushed away from the table.
“I have pie for dessert,” she said.
He patted his stomach and offered a faint smile. “Too full, I am.”
Obviously, Mr. Kaestner had a problem telling the truth. He’d eaten less than half of the food on his plate, and I was sure he couldn’t possibly be full. I wanted to confront him, but I refrained. Such talk might lead to words that would hurt Mrs. Wilson’s feelings. Besides, who could say what turn the conversation would take? He might say more about the additional problem I’d created at the factory.
“We can wait to have dessert until you return,” Mrs. Wilson said.
“Nein. I will be late. I promised Henry I would dapple two of the horses.”
“You paint, Mr. Kaestner?”
His left eyebrow cocked, and I knew he’d detected my surprise. He stood and pushed his chair under the table. “I was hired as an apprentice when I went first to work in a carousel factory. We had to learn many jobs, even if it was a carver we wanted to be. I did what I was told because we needed food for the table. I carried wood. I sanded. I primed. I dappled—everything but the fancy painting like—”
“It’s good someone gave you an opportunity to learn all those skills,” I said.
He turned and walked off. There was no indication he’d heard the plea in my voice. I doubted whether anything I could say would change Mr. Kaestner’s attitude. He didn’t want me in the factory.
When I heard the slam of the front door and was certain Mr. Kaestner had departed, I leaned toward Mrs. Wilson. “I’m surprised Mr. Kaestner doesn’t live in a fine house or take rooms in one of the lovely hotels in Collinsford. Strange that a man in his position would live among the workers, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Wilson wiped the corner of her mouth with her cloth napkin. “When Josef first arrived, I asked him the very same question.” She tapped her finger to the side of her head. “Curious how we think alike.” She giggled.
“And what did he tell you?”
“He said he would be saving his money for investment.”
“Investment in what?”
“I didn’t figure it was any of my business. I was glad he wanted to take a room with me. I’ve been even more pleased that he decided to remain. Josef is a good boarder, and saving money is a good thing.”
“Yes. Indeed it is.” I forced down a small piece of the apple pie. Like the potatoes, the apples were undercooked. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go upstairs.”
Mrs. Wilson nodded. “Of course. You have all that unpacking to take care of. I’d be happy to help you once I finish the dishes.”
“I wouldn’t think of it. You have more than enough to keep you busy for the evening.” I scooted away from the table and bid Mr. Lundgren and Mrs. Wilson a good evening.
Inside my bedroom I stared at the trunks and decided I’d remove only the items I would need over the next few days. No need to unpack everything. I’d likely be leaving as soon as Mr. Kaestner convinced Mr. Galloway the presence of a woman was far too great a liability.
T
he next days passed without further incident. None of the other employees quit, but no experienced painters had applied for the vacated position, either. Each night, Mr. Kaestner and Mr. Tobarth worked late in an attempt to meet the demands. Though I expressed my willingness to join them, Mr. Kaestner always turned down my offer. I don’t think Mr. Tobarth agreed with the decision, but he didn’t argue.
Mr. Lundgren had finished giving thanks for our meal on Friday evening when Mrs. Wilson pulled a note from her apron pocket and passed it across the tureen of lumpy gravy. “Mr. Galloway’s carriage driver brought this for you, Carrie. He said he’d stop by tomorrow morning for your response.” Mrs. Wilson’s clear blue eyes remained riveted on the sealed envelope.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.” I placed it on the table beside my plate.
“We can wait until you’ve read it,” the older woman said.
Her voice exuded such anticipation that I couldn’t deny her. I slid my finger beneath the seal and withdrew the note. “It’s an invitation to supper after work on Saturday evening and to church on Sunday morning. Augusta has invited me to visit the zoo with her on Sunday afternoon.”
“Oh, isn’t that nice. Will you spend the night at the Galloways’?”
I nodded and replaced the note inside the envelope. “Your Sunday should prove less taxing with one less to cook for.”
“Two less,” Mr. Kaestner said. “I will be working Sunday afternoon and evening. If you will pack me a lunch, to work I will take it.”
Mrs. Wilson’s eyes clouded. “You’re going to work on the Lord’s Day? Oh, I don’t think that’s a wise idea, Josef. We all need a day of worship and rest. I think you should reconsider.”
