The Carousel Painter (18 page)

The conversation didn’t take long. Mr. Kaestner had examined two of my sanded horses and declared they needed additional work. “You can finish your painting, but then to the sanding you must return.”

I could sense the carvers had watched the exchange. They couldn’t hear what Mr. Kaestner had said, but I was certain they knew I was being chastised. I longed for another route back to the paint room, but fact was fact. There was no other way. I’d only taken a few steps into the room when one of the men hollered, “Why don’t ya go back where ya come from? We don’t need no more men quittin’ because of you.”

“That’s right! There’s men needin’ these jobs. If something ain’t done soon, you might be the only one workin’ here.”

The second shout came from one of the journeymen, a man who would not easily be replaced. I wanted to shout an angry retort but knew it would only make matters worse. I picked up my pace, hoping to escape further angry remarks. My skirts stirred the stagnant air, and the curled wood shavings that layered the floor danced around my shoes. Not one of the men came to my defense. I hadn’t truly expected any of them to step forward and take up my cause, but I had secretly hoped.

Shoulders slumped, I donned a mantle of rejection and returned to my duties. Reeling from the men’s angry comments, I absently stroked my brush across the reins and applied the dark green paint. Would I ever do anything to suit? If Mr. Tobarth was happy, Mr. Kaestner was unhappy. If Mr. Kaestner was pleased with something I did, Mr. Tobarth found fault with something else. And it had become increasingly obvious the men didn’t plan to accept my presence.

“Stop!” Mr. Tobarth grabbed the brush from my hand and pointed at the freshly painted surface.

I lurched backward, mouth agape. My heartbeat shifted to a frenetic pounding tempo, and I gasped for a breath of air.

“Look at what you’ve done! What did you mix in the paint?”

His thunderous voice boomed in my left ear as I searched for an answer. “I-I nothing . . . j-j-just paint,” I stammered.

Neck arched, Louis appeared out of nowhere and peered over Mr. Tobarth’s shoulder to examine my brushstrokes. “I guess she’s ruined that horse.” He shook his head and gave me a how-could-anyone-be-so-dim-witted look. But behind that look, I saw a gleam in his eyes. A gleam that reflected he was the one responsible for this catastrophe. He turned and strode away, leaving me to fend for myself.

Mr. Tobarth grabbed the bowl of paint from my hand. He leaned so close I expected him to have a dot of green paint on his nose when he lifted his head. One thought of the supervisor with a green nose was all it took for a bubble of laughter to rise in my throat and work its way to my nose, my eyes, and my mouth. The explosion was of unheralded proportion. I did my best to cover my mouth or make it sound like a cough, but one look at Mr. Tobarth was enough to let me know I’d failed. Miserably.

“You findin’ this funny?”

I shook my head and clapped my hand to my mouth while I swallowed another onslaught of giggles. “No. I do this when I’m nervous,” I mumbled from beneath my palm.

Mr. Tobarth’s eyebrows dipped low and forced deep creases into his broad forehead. “Then go ahead and get it over with. We’ll talk once you finish laughin’.” He turned and raked his paint-stained fingers through his thinning hair.

For some unknown reason, his behavior had a calming effect upon me. And although it still took a few moments to regain my composure, my giggling ceased. “I apologize. For both my laughter and the mistake. Please believe me. I didn’t put anything in the paint.”

Mr. Tobarth listened patiently while I explained the mixing process I’d used; then he asked several questions. Afterward he dipped his index finger into the paint and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. “There’s sand in this paint. Someone had to put it in there, and I think I know who that someone is.” He turned on his heel and shouted, “Louis! I want to talk to you.”

Surely another worker wouldn’t intentionally mix sand in my paint and risk the possible ruination of a carousel horse. Would Louis go to such lengths to get me in trouble? Would he be willing to sacrifice the painstaking work of a talented carver? Would he disregard the cost to his employer? I didn’t want to believe he would act in such a manner—so reckless, so irrational, so destructive. Yet someone had tampered with my paints.

My stomach lurched and a wave of nausea assailed me. I stared at the coarse wet paint, wondering what to do. Any attempt to rectify the paint while it was still wet would only cause more problems. I could choose another horse from the rack, but Mr. Tobarth might want me to refrain from further work. I paced back and forth in the narrow space beside the rack of horses. The muffled voices of Mr. Tobarth and Louis drifted across the expanse, but I could understand only an occasional word. A door slammed in the distance, and Mr. Tobarth reappeared.

“We may be able to salvage this without too much work. Once it dries, I’ll see if Bill Robaugh can help us out with some sanding on the reins. Choose another horse and let’s get to work.”

“Did Louis do it?”

Mr. Tobarth grunted. “Yep. He tried to deny it, but I pointed out the sand on his apron where he’d wiped his hands. And I saw him over in your work area when you went into the sanding room earlier. Guess he decided he might as well fess up.”

“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Tobarth. The horse is one of the most beautiful in the rack. I’m certain the wood-carver will be unhappy if he finds out I’ve caused it damage.”

“That’s one of Josef’s horses, and you didn’t cause the damage. Louis is the one responsible.”

“Now that you’ve talked to him, perhaps things will improve and Louis won’t mind painting alongside me.” I could only imagine how difficult it would be to work with Louis in the future. I swiped a sweating palm down the front of my apron. Could things get any worse?

“You ain’t gonna be workin’ with Louis. Can’t afford the likes of him ’round here.”

Mr. Tobarth’s reply echoed through the silent room. I now realized the slamming door had signaled Louis’s departure. My question had been answered. Things could get worse—much, much worse.

When I turned the final corner toward work the following morning, my heart lurched. Twenty-five or thirty men had gathered along the south side of the factory and were staring in my direction. And not in a welcoming manner. Though the morning breeze was cool, perspiration beaded along the outer edge of my bonnet. If I was going to enter the building, I’d have to circle around the men.

Gathering a deep breath, I forced myself to hold my head high. Except for the paint shop, there were men from every area of the factory. And if Louis hadn’t been discharged yesterday, he would have likely been at the forefront. I couldn’t understand why men from the shipping and freight shop or men from the printshop cared about my presence. I’d said no more than good morning to most of them. Why did my presence among them create so much anger?

One of the younger men from the printshop stepped in front of me. “We want you out of the factory. You’re the cause of my friend Louis getting fired yesterday. You made a mess of your work and then blamed him, didn’t ya?”

“N-no. That’s not true at all.” I didn’t know whether to defend myself against the false accusations or turn on my heel and run.

“Don’t make no difference who did what. There’s been nothing but trouble since you walked through the door, and we want you outta here,” another man shouted from among the crowd.

A loud cheer of agreement followed, and a few of the men pumped clenched fists into the air. My stomach clamped in a knot, and the taste of this morning’s rubbery eggs climbed up the back of my throat. The thought of disgorging my breakfast in front of the angry men should have had a sobering effect. Instead, a shrill giggle erupted before I could clamp my hand across my mouth.

A man toward the edge of the crowd dropped his lunch pail and lurched toward me. “You think this is funny? Men out of work over the likes of you?” His fiery words seared my lips like a hot poker.

I attempted a backward step, but fear held me captive. I couldn’t move, not even an inch. My throat constricted and caused an eerie, unwanted lightheadedness to wash over me. It seemed I was watching from afar as the worker poked his finger beneath my nose and continued his angry assault of words. I was afraid I would faint at any moment.

“What is this noise out here?” At the shouted question, the men turned as if they were standing on one of the rotating carousel platforms. “There is work to be done inside, ja?”

Hearing Josef’s voice, I inhaled a much-needed deep breath. The men shuffled toward the entrance, their grumbling whispers hovering overhead like low-hanging thunderclouds. Josef pushed through the crowd and came to my side.

“What did you say to create all this trouble with the men?”

I swallowed a gulp of air. All thoughts of fainting fled from my mind. “What did
I
say? You think
I
started this. Those men were waiting here for me when I arrived at work.” I listed the insults that had been hurled at me without giving Josef an opportunity to interrupt. I didn’t know which was worse—the men accosting me or being required to defend myself to Mr. Kaestner.

“Ja, they think it is your fault that Louis was fired. Makes no difference what he did. They know Louis would still have a job if a woman had not been working in the factory.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re taking their side in this?”

“I am not taking sides. I am telling you what they believe. And what they say is true. If you did not work here, we would not have these problems.”

“But if they’d just let me do my work and forget I’m here, there wouldn’t be a problem, either. Have you thought of that? Don’t they bear any fault?”

He grasped my elbow. “I will see you safely to the paint shop, and then I must talk with the men. I hear too many threats that more workers plan to quit, and some say they are planning a walkout. This kind of talk I must stop. We have too many orders that must be filled.”

He wasn’t going to answer my question. Mr. Kaestner was much more concerned about filling orders than the behavior of his workers. No doubt he hoped to hear me say I would quit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do such a thing. Why was it more important that a man earn a living than a woman? Quitting just didn’t seem right!

CHAPTER
13

May 3, 1890

T
here’d been no further incidents since that day outside the factory. Mr. Kaestner had talked to the men, and Mr. Tobarth told me the workers had begrudgingly agreed to take further complaints directly to Mr. Kaestner. I didn’t know if he’d received more protests since then or even if the men would keep their word. I did know none of the men had made any overtures toward accepting me. With the exception of Mr. Tobarth and Mr. Kaestner, none of them even acknowledged me.

Though I enjoyed painting, the daily rejection had begun to take its toll. I hadn’t gone to visit Augusta since the incident with Louis and wondered if Mr. Galloway had heard I was at the center of yet another mishap.

And although we lived under the same roof, Mr. Kaestner’s presence provided me with little insight. He carefully avoided talk of the factory during mealtime at Mrs. Wilson’s table. And lately he’d been avoiding talking at all—unless Mr. Lundgren or Mrs. Wilson directed a question to him. He didn’t need to worry about me. I wasn’t about to do or say anything to provoke him, especially when Mr. Tobarth was willing to answer my many questions.

Shortly after Louis’s dismissal, Mr. Tobarth and I had taken to working side by side so that our voices didn’t echo every time we spoke to each other. The change had created a more friendly environment—at least in the paint shop.

I mixed a daub of black paint into the dark green I’d placed in the bowl only seconds ago. The process brought Louis to mind. I would once again begin work on the thick reins of the giant horse that had been spoiled by the sand-infused paint. Mr. Robaugh, one of the master carvers, had managed to remove the paint, but in spite of his experienced and careful work, the damage required hours and hours of work. Even then, Mr. Robaugh had been dissatisfied. He’d told Josef the horse couldn’t be restored to its original beauty. The sanding made it impossible to create the same depth and beauty in the carving, but Josef had decided it would be better to save the horse and move it to an inside position.