The Carousel Painter (34 page)
F
or the remainder of the week, Josef ’s worrisome mood prevailed. His downcast disposition even continued throughout the weekend. Nothing I said or did helped. Sunday’s sermon taught about casting your cares upon Jesus, a topic I thought particularly appropriate to the problem. Unfortunately, the message had no positive effect upon Josef. By Monday morning, I was pleased to return to the paint shop, where I wouldn’t be faced with his discouraged demeanor and negative comments.
The day progressed without incident, and for that I was grateful. No men in business suits paraded through the factory to see our work or look at drawings and designs. Mr. Galloway made no further appearances at the factory. It seemed as though all had returned to normal. It was as though the incidents of the previous week had never occurred. Except when I looked at Josef’s face.
At day’s end he stood at the factory door, as glum as when we’d entered. I strolled toward him, my lunch pail in one hand and my sketch pad secure beneath my arm. I forced a smile. The muscles in his face didn’t move a sixteenth of an inch. I couldn’t even detect a slight twitch.
The heavy wood door had been wedged open, and the summer breeze greeted me with more enthusiasm than Josef’s sullen features. I inhaled a deep breath, determined to lift his spirits. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful evening.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and listened to the silence between us.
“I said, it looks like it’s going—”
“Ja. I heard what you said.”
He grabbed his lunch pail from where it had been resting on the floor and strode out of the building as though he couldn’t get away fast enough. Usually I had to go to his office and force him away from his desk, but not today.
I glanced over my shoulder at the open door. “Who is going to lock the building?” Securing the building had always been Josef’s job, unless he was away. Then Mr. Tobarth took charge.
“Henry will see to it,” he said.
“Mr. Tobarth is in charge of the factory now?”
“Nein.” He coupled his curt response with an annoyed look that let me know he didn’t want to discuss the factory, and I wondered if Mr. Galloway had made an appearance sometime during the day. He could have come and gone, and we would have never seen him back in the paint shop. Yet I didn’t want to ask. It would only create more discord.
I stopped beside the entrance. “Mr. Tobarth has already left through the rear door.”
Josef grunted and kicked the piece of wood from beneath the door. He waited until it slammed shut and shoved a key into the lock. “There! It is locked.”
I remained beside the closed door and stared at him, completely dumbfounded by his behavior. When he finally looked at me, I tugged on my earlobe. I hoped the act would lighten his mood, but my attempt fell as flat as one of Mrs. Wilson’s banana cakes.
As we neared the boardinghouse, Josef’s lips tightened into a thin line. He lifted his nose in the air. “Mrs. Wilson has burned the cabbage again. This, I do not need.”
There was no doubt he’d correctly assessed the situation. Even at the front sidewalk, there was no denying the odor. “She didn’t do it on purpose, Josef. And you must admit, she’s been doing much better over the past weeks.”
“She should not take in boarders if she cannot cook.”
I grasped his shirtsleeve and looked deep into his eyes. “You need to spend some time with the Lord, Josef Kaestner. You had no trouble telling
me
how I should depend upon God for everything when I faced difficulties. But now that
you
face a problem of your own, you become angry and mean-spirited.”
The anger in his eyes softened for a moment but soon returned. I dropped my hold on his arm, turned on my heel, and hurried inside. I didn’t want to hear his excuses. Mrs. Wilson’s cooking hadn’t changed. He had.
The screen door banged behind me, and I heard a pot drop in the kitchen. Maybe it was the cabbage—at least that might make Josef happy. “Is that you, Carrie?” Mrs. Wilson sounded far too happy. I decided it must have been an empty pan that fell on the floor.
“Yes. Do you need some help in the kitchen?”
“I can always use help with my cooking,” she said, chuckling. “But that’s not why I called to you.” She walked down the hallway, wiping her hands on the corner of her apron. “You received a letter today, and I thought you’d want to read it before supper.” She stepped into the parlor, picked up the envelope, and handed it to me. I could see the curiosity in her eyes as her gaze trailed the envelope from my hand and into my skirt pocket. “Aren’t you excited to see what it says?”
After handing her my lunch pail, I patted my pocket and headed toward the stairs. “It will keep for a few more minutes.”
Before she could say anything more, Josef entered the front door, handed her his lunch pail, and circled around me on his way upstairs. “Good afternoon, Josef. Supper in half an hour,” she called after him. He grunted in return. “That young man is in a foul mood for sure.” Mrs. Wilson clucked her tongue. “And me with burned cabbage to serve him. I doubt that’s going to help.”
I grinned and continued up the steps. The burned cabbage wouldn’t help, but I doubted that even a perfect meal and fine dessert would do much to improve Josef’s mood. I stopped at the bathroom, washed up, and then continued down the hall to my bedroom. I’d left the windows open that morning and was thankful it hadn’t rained. I was also thankful for the breeze that helped cool the room. Though I enjoyed the privacy of the third floor, Augusta had been right. The room was quite warm most of the time.
I sat down by the window, took the letter from my pocket, and removed the thick contents. While living in France, Augusta had written few letters, most of which had consisted of one hastily scribbled page, so to see so many pages in one letter surprised me. There had obviously been much happening in the Thousand Islands. Perhaps Tyson had proposed. Even on this warm afternoon, the thought made me shiver.
The neatly penned date above the salutation was nearly a month old. She must have begun her letter shortly after their arrival. The first page spoke of the weather and a party the family had attended on their first night. The journey had been quite boring, and she still wished I had come with her. If Josef’s mood didn’t soon improve, I’d likely be wishing the same thing.
The letter continued on and on, telling of the many parties, but also declaring a growing dissatisfaction with Tyson’s absence. Knowing I could read the letter in detail after supper, I skimmed over the next two pages. From what I gathered between the lines, Tyson had been absent as much as he’d been present. Poor Augusta had counted on flaunting him at all of the parties. She was certain his good looks would make the other young ladies jealous. Though I’d told her over and over that looks were only skin deep, she thought Tyson more than a handsome face. He’d convinced her he possessed a kind and generous nature. And the fact that he’d easily won Mrs. Galloway’s approval seemed to validate Augusta’s view of Tyson.
When I turned to the next page, I straightened in my chair. Augusta was writing about my father. The preceding pages slipped from my lap as I continued to read. Surely she’d made some mistake.
The bell at the bottom of the steps clanged to announce supper. I wanted to read the letter again, but there wasn’t time. My heart was racing as I rushed down the steps. Mr. Lundgren gave thanks for our food and had barely finished when Mrs. Wilson arched her brows and tapped my hand. “Anything interesting in your letter?” She passed me the bowl of cabbage, and I handed it to Josef without taking any.
The older woman didn’t miss the slight. “No cabbage?”
“Not tonight, Mrs. Wilson. I don’t think it will aid my digestion.” Of that I was certain—burned cabbage wouldn’t aid anyone’s digestion.
The older woman wrinkled her forehead, and her eyebrows slid into a cascading downward dip. “Oh, dearie me, no. Cabbage and an upset stomach don’t mix—not at all. Josef can have double portions tonight.” She beamed a smile at Josef as though she’d bestowed a special award.
I slapped my napkin across my mouth before Josef could hear me giggle. Given his sour disposition, I didn’t think he’d look kindly upon my laughter or the fact that I’d managed to avoid eating the cabbage.
Mrs. Wilson picked up the plate of chops and passed it to me. “Your letter, Carrie. You were going to tell us about your letter from Miss Galloway.”
“Yes. And there’s some very exciting news, although I wonder whether there’s been some mistake.”
Her eyes wide, Mrs. Wilson leaned across her plate. “Oh, do tell us,” she begged. “Has Miss Galloway gotten engaged—or perhaps she’s already wed. Is that it?”
Mr. Lundgren speared a pork chop and dropped it onto his plate. “If you give her a minute, she’s gonna tell us, Minnie.”
Mrs. Wilson clapped her palm across her mouth and motioned for me to speak.
“There were some people attending a party in the Thousand Islands who had recently returned from France, where they’d purchased one of my father’s paintings.”
“Oh, that’s simply delightful, dear.”
I could see the disappointment in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes. She would have been happier to hear about a wedding announcement. “That’s not all,” I said.
“Do tell us.” Her enthusiasm had waned, and she was now more interested in carving her piece of meat than hearing about my father’s paintings.
“Augusta’s letter said that my father’s paintings have recently received great acclaim and are fetching high prices. She said people are scouring the shops looking to invest in them.”
Once again the older woman perked to attention. “You’ll be wealthy, Carrie. Why, that
is
wonderful news. You’ll be able to do all the things you—”
“Other than the carousel picture hanging in my bedroom, I own only two of my father’s paintings. Father sold most of the others to pay expenses. And as I recall, none of those canvases sold for much.” The thought of how little still confounded me, for I had always known my father was a talented artist.
Mr. Lundgren looked across the table at me, his expression thoughtful and kind. “Hearing all this still makes you proud, don’t it?”
I bobbed my head. “Of course—very proud. But I wish it would have happened before his death. So much of his time was spent giving art lessons to untalented students.” I shrugged my shoulders. “But that was what put food on our table.”
“But if your father hadn’t been giving untalented students those art lessons, we would never have met you. And that would have been a terrible loss.” Mrs. Wilson patted her heart. “Maybe one day your paintings will be worth a great deal of money, too. When that happens, I can say that you lived in my boardinghouse as a young woman.” Mrs. Wilson straightened her shoulders as though I’d gained special stature in the art world.
“I think there are already those who are willing to pay for her drawings,” Josef said. The tablecloth fluttered and the floorboards bounced, synchronized to the jiggling of Josef’s leg.
“Do tell!” Mrs. Wilson’s mouth dropped open, and she stared at Josef, waiting to hear the news.
I spread a spoonful of applesauce atop my pork chop, hoping to give the dry piece of meat a little moisture—and a little flavor. “Josef is worrying overmuch. He thinks some businessmen are interested in purchasing my sketches of carousel animals.” I turned my attention back to Josef. “And those may be my drawings, but they are designs we developed together.”
“What
are
the two of you talking about?”
Mrs. Wilson was clearly confused and clearly eager to hear the details. Josef pushed away from the table, his food half eaten. “Carrie will tell you. I think I’ll go upstairs. My digestion, it isn’t very gut this evening, either.”
D
uring our walk to work the following morning, Josef apologized for his behavior the previous evening. “You are right that my worry will not change things. No matter what happens, God is in charge. This, I must remember. He will see us through these problems.”
My heart warmed at his use of the word
us
rather than
me
. Knowing Josef considered me a friend and an ally would make the blow easier if and when it came. And though I hadn’t expressed my innermost thoughts to him, there was little doubt something was afoot regarding the factory.
We’d departed earlier than usual that morning so that Josef would have time to go through his paper work in case Mr. Galloway arrived without warning. “I want everything in order so he can find no fault with my work,” he’d said.
I’d agreed to come along and help, but I hadn’t expected to leave quite so early. Had it been wintertime, we would have been walking to work in the pitch-darkness. I couldn’t imagine Josef had permitted any of his duties to fall very far behind. But I didn’t argue.
When we neared the front door, Josef removed the key from his pocket and grabbed the heavy lock with his right hand. The handle disengaged, and the door creaked open before he’d even slipped the key into the lock. His eyebrows shot up on his forehead. “The door is open!” He leaned forward and examined the lock. “This has been pried open. Look.”
