The Carousel Painter (24 page)

The following day at lunchtime, Mr. Tobarth accompanied me outside. I was pleased the women weren’t across the street today. I hadn’t yet figured out their schedule. One day they were out in force, and the next none of them appeared.

“I read the book of Acts,” I said.

“What did you think?” He removed an apple from his lunch pail and rubbed it on his pant leg. I didn’t think his pants were all that clean, but the apple had a nice shine when he finished. He crunched his teeth into the fleshy fruit and chewed with gusto.

“It was . . .” I hesitated, uncertain how to express myself. “It made me think quite a bit.”

Mr. Tobarth took another bite of his apple and waited.

“Paul was a very good man, and he suffered a lot, but after reading some of what he says, I’ve decided it’s much harder to live a Christian life than I thought.”

“Now, that’s a fact. Becoming a Christian—that’s the simple part. We can reach out and take the gift of eternal life that we’ve been offered, but tryin’ to live right and follow the example we’ve been given—that’s not so easy. Once we become believers, we need to offer our best—can’t do no more than that. You keep readin’ what else Paul has to say.” He continued to gnaw on the apple and then tossed the core into the trash.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more of what Paul had to say, especially if it was about suffering. But I did agree to continue reading. Mr. Tobarth said Paul had a lot of good instruction for Christians. I hadn’t been looking for more rules to follow—I wasn’t even sure I could do justice to the ones I’d read so far.

He stood up, his signal it was time to return to work. “Ain’t none of us perfect, but bein’ a Christian means you always try to do the right thing, no matter what. An’ ask God to help you.”

That sounded like quite an order, but if my life continued on its current path, I’d have plenty of opportunity to put some of the teachings into practice. Or at least I could try.

I did my best to sort out my thoughts throughout the afternoon, but mostly I wanted to tell Gunter he wasn’t using the proper colors that I’d envisioned for the white horse. While I had come to accept the red he’d decided upon for the roses, I was having difficulty with his remaining choices. He’d used bright primary colors of yellow and blue for the blanket and garland. And he’d used emerald green for the leaves and stems instead of forest green. To make matters worse, he hadn’t properly shaded the leaves. They would have looked much better with hints of umber and dark brown. What was he thinking?

By day’s end, it had taken all the restraint I could muster to hold my tongue. As I walked by the rack of carousel horses, I took an extra moment to study the proud white jumper and lamented what could have been. Fortunately, Gunter had walked toward the front door a few minutes earlier. Otherwise, I fear my discipline would have vanished.

“He has a lot of talent with a paintbrush, don’t he?”

I spun around and nearly fell into the rack. Mr. Tobarth was eyeing Gunter’s horse with obvious admiration. What should I say? Both Mr. Tobarth and Josef thought Gunter an excellent painter. Choosing my words carefully, I said, “His techniques and choice of colors are different from mine, but I’m certain he will prove an excellent addition to the factory.”

“Yep. I’m sure glad to have his help.”

Not wanting to discuss Gunter or his painting any further, I took extra time cleaning my brushes. Mr. Tobarth finally removed his work apron and retrieved his hat. He waved in my direction, bid me goodnight, and strode toward the door. Once he’d departed, I moved with greater speed and soon was on my way home.

I’d gone only a short distance when I heard Josef call my name. I turned to see him racing toward me. Moments later, he came to a panting halt beside me. “I thought you had walked home with Gunter.”

Why he thought I’d be walking with Gunter, I didn’t know. “He left about fifteen minutes ago. I needed to clean my brushes.”

He settled into an easy stride, yet he wrung his hands together like a frightened schoolboy. After several stammering attempts, he tried again. “Has . . . um . . . do you . . . are you . . . the community picnic, did Gunter ask you?”

His question confused me. It took a moment for me to unscramble what he’d said. “Oh!” I said when I finally understood. “You want to know if Gunter asked me to attend the picnic on Sunday.” I shook my head. “No, he hasn’t.” I didn’t add that I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation.

Josef’s shoulders relaxed as he exhaled a low whistle from between his pursed lips. “Then would you be my, could I be your— To the picnic, would you go with me?”

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I, too, exhaled a whoosh of air. Mrs. Wilson had mentioned the community picnic shortly after I’d moved into the boardinghouse, but I hadn’t paid much attention. If she was alone this evening, I’d gather the details. “I’d be pleased to attend with you.”

“Ja? You will?”

“Of course.” Why did he seem so surprised? I’d already told him I wasn’t attending with Gunter. Maybe he thought I had plans to go to the Galloways’ for the weekend. Or did he think I was planning to attend with Mr. Tobarth? The idea made me giggle.

His brows dipped and his smile disappeared. “What is funny?” he asked.

It was apparent he thought I was laughing at him. “I was thinking about something else. About Mr. Tobarth,” I quickly added.

“What about Mr. Tobarth is funny?”

“I was just thinking about him attending the picnic.” Before he could say anything, I continued. “He thinks Gunter’s choices of paints for your giant jumper are excellent. Have you seen it?”

Tiny lines deepened across his forehead. “The horse?”

I sighed. “Yes. Have you seen it since he began working on it?”

“Nein.” His brow remained furrowed, and he shook his head. “A good job, he will do. Gunter is a fine craftsman, very skilled.”

“But the colors are wrong,” I said. “They should be what I decided.”

He stopped midstep and tipped his head to one side. “You became the boss when I wasn’t looking?”

“No, of course not. I don’t mean to be forward, but I had an exceptional palette planned for that horse. He has used bold, bright colors.”

Josef seemed to be studying me as we continued toward home. “And what did you want?”

I immediately detailed my plans for him. He listened and nodded while I told him the colors and shading I would have preferred.

“Pretty, those colors would have been.” My heart swelled with pride until he said, “But pretty Gunter’s colors are, too. Ja?”

Mumbling my agreement, I did my best to hide my disappointment. I had hoped to win him to my side, but removing Gunter’s bright red roses or yellow garland would be out of the question. I don’t know what I had hoped to accomplish. Maybe Mr. Tobarth was right about me and my pride. Maybe I just wanted Josef to agree with me in order to boost my own ego.

“For you, I will carve another big jumper that only you will paint, ja?”

“Or maybe you will carve one of the animals I sketched, and I can paint it?” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. I’d managed to dim the sparkle I’d seen in his eyes only moments ago. Why couldn’t I be content with what he had offered? “But another jumper would be good, too,” I said, grasping his arm.

“Ja. We will see.”

From the bow of his head and the dejected tone, I knew my words had stung. His carefree mood had disappeared as quickly as sunshine on a cloudy day. My stomach did a quick flip-flop. “Tell me about the picnic,” I urged, giving his arm a slight squeeze.

He did his best to sound jovial while he described the affair, but when we climbed the stairs and entered the boardinghouse, his earlier lightheartedness had not returned, and my stomach hadn’t settled, either. I hoped he would forgive me, but I wasn’t certain if an apology would make things better or worse—so I decided against broaching the subject further. Maybe I would apologize tomorrow, or maybe at the picnic, or maybe not at all.

Mrs. Wilson explained that the picnic was an annual affair at Collinsford Park and had been going on for the last fifteen years or so. Most folks in the community would attend. The festivities included games, a picnic, and boat rides for those who cared to spend a few extra coins and enjoy a ride on the lake.

The older woman had been pleased to share information about the picnic, but when I mentioned that I would be preparing the picnic lunch for Josef and me, I sensed my hastily spoken words had hurt her. “I only wanted to save you the extra work,” I said, hoping she would understand. “I’d be glad to prepare food for you and Mr. Lundgren, too.”

My explanation hadn’t been entirely truthful, but I couldn’t tell her I preferred my own cooking. That would be downright cruel. When I’d weighed the effects of being completely honest against stretching the truth, stretching had won. I hoped Jesus would understand, because I didn’t see any way to handle the situation with complete honesty. Each evening I’d continued to read more of Paul’s letters to the churches, and I was becoming more and more convinced I couldn’t do all those things he spoke about that made people good Christians.

Mrs. Wilson patted my shoulder. “We’ll work together on our lunches. That way we can learn from each other. What do you think?”

Relief flooded over me, and I bobbed my head in agreement. “Yes, that would be great fun.” Her warm smile was enough to convince me that all had been forgiven.

On Saturday evening Mrs. Wilson and I worked together on our preparations for the picnic that would take place after church the next day. By the time we completed the task, I was more than ready for bed. I did my best to read from the Bible, but my eyes wouldn’t stay open long enough for me to complete more than a verse or two before they drooped shut. I finally closed the Bible, uttered a brief prayer, and crawled between the sheets.

The following morning I was pleased when the preacher said he was going to talk about joy. However, when he used Paul and Silas as examples, my personal joy took a downward plunge. I’d read about the two of them and how they’d prayed and sung hymns in jail. I doubted whether God would send an earthquake to shake down the walls of my jail cell. And if He did, I doubted I’d be like Paul and Silas and just sit there. I think I’d be so happy to have the walls fall in that I’d run as if the devil were hot on my heels.

When the sermon ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. I hoped the preacher would move on to some other book of the Bible next week. After the benediction was finally given, I was only too happy to hurry out the church doors.

Folks didn’t stick around to visit. Everyone was in a hurry to get home, change clothes, gather up their baskets of food, and join the fun. The day was perfect—warm with just a slight breeze. On the way home, we walked past several houses with flowering lilac bushes. Their sweet perfume reminded me of my mother, and I wished I could pick a few of the blooms and take them home with me.

“Come along, Carrie. We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to be on time for the streetcar.” Mrs. Wilson had turned and was waving me forward with a feverish zeal.

I wanted to argue that it would take only a few minutes to complete our preparations. We’d finished most everything before we’d departed for church. But arguing would only use up the precious time Mrs. Wilson hoped to save. Besides, Josef was tugging me along, so I had little choice.

As I’d predicted, we completed our tasks in record time and were some of the first to arrive at the park. Mrs. Wilson scuttled toward the pavilion to reserve space at one of the tables, and picnic basket in tow, Mr. Lundgren followed behind. I followed Mr. Lundgren, and Josef followed behind me. We must have looked like dutiful sheep following our shepherd.

The older woman stopped only briefly before locating the table she wanted. She pointed with her right hand and waved us forward with her left. “Right here,” she said. “This is where we’ll have our lunch.” Josef placed our picnic basket alongside the one carried by Mr. Lundgren, and Mrs. Wilson gave a firm nod. “This is a good spot. We’ll be in the shade.”

“I brought a blanket and thought it would be nice to eat under a tree near the water,” I said. “But we’ll leave our basket here for now.”