The Carousel Painter (23 page)

Before we left the house, I picked up my sketch pad and tucked it into a bag with the Bible my mother had given me—just in case an opportunity arose to discover those much hoped for answers about prayer and suffering.

Mrs. Wilson had arranged the afternoon and took great pleasure in directing our activities until we’d completed our picnic lunch. She was packing the leftovers when Josef pointed to my sketch pad. “You are drawing more carousel animals?”

I withdrew the tablet and flipped back the cover. He looked at the drawing and then at me. I couldn’t tell for sure what he thought. “Very gut, this is.”

His words warmed me like a welcoming fire on a cold winter day. I hadn’t expected him to think much of the drawing. When I’d been hired at the carousel factory, he had been unimpressed with my previous art training. And this sketch was a portrait of my mother. A simple picture that I’d begun to draw in the evenings because my memory of her features had begun to fade. I wondered how it was possible that such a thing could happen. She had given me life, nurtured and loved me, yet my mind played tricks on me when my pencil touched paper. To forget what she looked like seemed unfaithful.

Josef tapped the page. “This is someone you know?”

My voice hitched in my throat. “M-my mother,” I said. “She’s dead.”

Josef removed the sketch pad from my hands and examined the picture more closely. “Your mother, she was very beautiful.” Lifting his head, he studied me until I squirmed under his scrutiny. “You have the same eyes as your mother.” He touched his finger to his chin. “And the same chin, too, I think. A picture of someone you love is nice to have. My mother, she is dead, too.” A hint of sadness hung in the air.

“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked.

“No, but I have gut memories of her. She liked to laugh. Fun we had in our house when she was there.” His eyes had taken on a glassy, faraway look.

I remained silent, watching and understanding; he had returned to one of those happy times he’d mentioned, one of those times when his mother was alive. His features had softened, and the hint of a smile played on his lips. There was a gentleness about him I’d not previously noticed. Then again, we’d never been alone or talked so intimately.

Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren had strolled across the park toward a small pond, where children were skipping rocks and one or two were making valiant attempts to catch a fish with their poorly fashioned fishing poles. They weren’t having much luck, but they didn’t seem to mind. Their laughter rippled across the expanse that divided us and pulled Josef back to the present.

“To be young and untroubled is a gift we don’t appreciate until it’s gone,” I said.

His brows furrowed over eyes that shone with concern. “You are troubled much?”

I picked at a blade of grass and finally pulled it from the ground. “I suppose I’m more troubled than ever before in my life.”

An uncomfortable silence spread between us. He likely believed I was referring to problems at the factory. No doubt he wanted to tell me I could relieve my troubles by going to work somewhere else. Little did he know that my problem was much more serious than the muttered insults I endured at work. But I couldn’t share my secret with Josef— not now.

Mr. Lundgren called out for us to join them, and I jumped to my feet. For now, I could withhold my secret. But what if the police detective came to the factory and wanted to question Josef? What would he think of me when he learned I was suspected of being a thief?

CHAPTER
16

O
n Monday morning I received an introduction to the new painter, Gunter Schmitt. All concern over Gunter’s willingness to work alongside a woman evaporated the moment I met him. A shock of sandy hair fell over one eye, and he possessed an air of sophistication. I wasn’t certain if it was the hair over his eye or his self-assured manner. Perhaps a little of each. Instead of hesitating to shake the hand of a woman, he reached out and grasped my hand in a friendly manner. When he didn’t drop his hold, I noticed Josef nudge him in the side. He grinned and released my hand with an effusive apology.

After Josef had given Gunter a tour of the factory, the two of them returned to the paint shop. Josef motioned to the rack of elegantly carved horses awaiting the painter’s brush that would bring them to life. Gunter inspected some of the horses that had been partially painted and were ready for their next application.

Stooping around one of the horses’ heads, he signaled and complimented me on my work. Once again, Josef nudged him, but Gunter laughed and finally chose one of the horses that I had begun. A giant white jumper I had planned to embellish with a pink and white blanket. I had decided upon pink as the primary color for the carved roses, with leaves of deep green and a garland of pale blue highlighted with gold. Pink would make it the perfect choice for any little girl who wanted to ride a carousel horse. I doubted Gunter would use such a color scheme.

Mr. Tobarth set him up to work on his other side. I supposed it was to keep one eye on me and the other on Gunter. I strained forward when he began to prepare his paints. I didn’t see any pastel shades in his mix.

He ran an appreciative hand down the horse’s body. “A fine paint job,” he said.

Mr. Tobarth bobbed his head. “That’s Carrie—Miss Brewer’s work.”

“Brouwer,” I whispered.
Why can’t he remember my name?
Sometimes I thought he knew how much it annoyed me and did it on purpose.

“I mean, that’s Miss Brouwer’s painting—and Josef’s carving,” he added.

Gunter arched his back and rested his elbows across his thighs. “I think you’ll like what I can add to the horse.”

Though I had already pictured the completed horse in my mind, I nodded. No matter how good his work, it wouldn’t be what I had planned. I knew exactly what that horse needed to make it beautiful. Deciding it would be best if I didn’t watch, I concentrated on the flowing blanket draped across my horse’s back. Still, I couldn’t help but occasionally sneak a glance down the line. He’d started with the roses; he was painting them a pale red—not the shade I would have picked, but at least he hadn’t chosen to paint them yellow or white.

When the bell sounded for lunch, I leaned toward Mr. Tobarth. “I have a few church questions for you.”

He arched his brows. “Church questions or questions about the Bible?” he asked as we headed outdoors.

“About the Bible, I guess, but more about God not taking care of the people who believe in Him.”

“Thought we covered that in our earlier conversation.”

I nodded. “We did. But in the sermon on Sunday, the preacher talked about Stephen and . . .”

He touched my arm. “I was there—don’t need a repeat.”

“I don’t understand God’s letting Stephen die. If someone accuses you of something and it’s a lie, why should you be punished?”

His forehead wrinkled for a moment. “Are you talkin’ about Stephen, or is this somethin’ personal?”

I didn’t want to reveal my encounter with the detective, but I didn’t want to lie, either. “Mostly about Stephen. If you can make me understand about him, then it would help me understand when things happen in my life.”

He didn’t look completely convinced. “It’s true God allowed Stephen to die, but He rewarded Stephen even before he died. Didn’t you hear when the preacher said Stephen saw the heavens open up and Jesus was standing at the right hand of God?”

“Um-hum,” I said, still waiting for more. I didn’t doubt that seeing Jesus at the right hand of God was a wonderful thing, but Stephen still died. I couldn’t be certain, but Mr. Tobarth’s eyes looked as if they were filled with pity, because I still didn’t understand.

“Here’s the thing of it, Carrie. After Stephen saw heaven, there ain’t no way he’d want to stay here on earth. Not after seein’ what was waitin’ for him up there.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “I see.” None of what he’d said helped my situation. I removed the ham sandwich from my pail and took a bite.

I was still chewing the overcooked piece of ham when Mr. Tobarth said, “Lots of the saints suffered ’cause of their beliefs. Paul was thrown in jail and suffered somethin’ fierce to defend his faith.”

If Paul had gone to jail and suffered, it didn’t look like I could expect God to save me from a jail cell. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention, and the bite of sandwich stuck in my throat like a wad of cotton. I gulped water from my cup to help push it down. After several swallows, it landed in my stomach like a heavy weight.

Mr. Tobarth nodded toward the women who had taken their position across the street. “From the looks of those women, I’d say they’re mighty unhappy to see you out here. How long has this been goin’ on?”

I shrugged. “Not too long. I told them I wasn’t looking for a husband, but I guess they don’t believe me. They want me to quit.”

“I could try goin’ over and talkin’ to them, if you think that might help.”

“I doubt it would do any good.” I stood, gathered my lunch pail, and headed inside. I considered waving to the women but decided such behavior, even if intended as a friendly gesture, would ignite further anger.

At the end of the day, I found myself walking toward the door with Gunter, and he asked if I was in need of an escort home.

“An escort is right here for her,” Josef said, stepping out of his office. “We live in the same boardinghouse, so is not necessary for you to worry about Carrie’s safety.”

“
Carrie?
I thought she was
Miss Brouwer
.” Gunter slapped Josef on the shoulder. “Then I will walk with you and
Carrie
. Your boardinghouse, it is on the way to where I live.”

Josef grunted. He didn’t appear pleased by Gunter’s decision and walked at my side, forcing Gunter to follow behind. A few weeks ago, his behavior might have angered me, but today I found his desire to protect me reassuring.

After I prepared for bed, I pulled out my mother’s Bible and settled in the chair. I thumbed through the pages until I came to the book of Acts. That’s where Mr. Tobarth told me I could begin to read about Paul and his suffering. The more I read, the more I marveled at the change in Paul and his willingness to suffer for his faith. Like Jesus, he forgave those who persecuted him. I wasn’t sure I was up to such a task, but I prayed and asked God to give me the strength and proper words if the police should believe I was guilty of stealing Mrs. Galloway’s necklace. I also prayed He would give me greater understanding of the Bible, because I didn’t know how anyone could live a Christian life—at least not all the time. I fell asleep reminding myself to ask Mr. Tobarth how people accomplished such a feat.