“I probably should have insisted you rest instead of helping me this afternoon. You go on home now. Lie down. Then you and Malinda join us for the dinner meal.”
“Oh, no, I
—
”
Frau
Ollenburger’s firm nod stilled Belinda’s words. “It’s the least I can do for the help you gave me with my washing. Go on now.” She gave Belinda a gentle nudge toward her home. “I’ll see you at dinnertime.”
Belinda obeyed, a part of her rebelling but most of her rejoicing at the opportunity to sit at the Ollenburgers’ table, another opportunity for her to pretend she was a part of their family. Those moments of pretending were the happiest of her days.
“Drivel. Pure drivel!” Father slammed his fist against the table next to his plate. His water glass bounced with the force of the blow.
From the other end of the table, Mother chided, “Harrison, please. We will all suffer indigestion if you don’t calm yourself.”
Daphne exchanged a look with Harry. Father had come home in the worst temper they’d seen in ages. And she knew Harry was as distraught as she over the cause.
“The effrontery of that lad to write his own editorial, in complete opposition to mine.” Father ignored Mother’s mild reprimand and continued in a blustering tone. “Rebutting my words as if we were involved in a written debate! He dared to compare my viewpoint to that of capitalist Russia, as if I were persecuting a particular group of people. Persecution? Bah!”
Daphne cringed when he raised his fist in preparation for another mighty thud.
“Harrison!” At Mother’s high-pitched cry, Father’s fist froze midair. Mother glanced toward the door leading to the servant’s hallway then sent a stern look at her husband. In a whispered tone, she said, “I must insist you lower your voice. Our reputation shall be damaged with talk amongst the servants if you cannot control your emotions.”
Daphne relaxed in her chair. This time Father would listen. He valued his reputation, and they were all aware how servants loved to spread salacious tidbits about their employers. If caught, they could be sent packing, yet they still indulged in story-sharing whenever possible. The more influential the person involved in the gossip, the faster the story spread. Anything involving Father would be choice tittle-tattle.
Father lowered his hand to the table slowly, as if fighting his own muscles. His frown deepened until he resembled an angry bull. Hissing through his teeth, he held himself to a fierce growl that carried only to the ears of those around the table. “The boy’s action borders on insubordination. I will not tolerate defiance among my employees!”
Harry leaned forward. “Father, did Thomas refuse to edit your writings?”
Father stared at Harry, his thick brows so low his eyes squinted. “No. He did an exemplary job in editing, as always, but—”
“How can you call it insubordination when he did what you asked him to do?”
Daphne silently cheered. How she wished she could ask such a question and set Father back in his chair! But if she had made the query, Father wouldn’t be sitting in thoughtful introspection; he’d either wave his hand in dismissal or glower in disapproval.
She replayed Thomas’s good-bye, and relief washed over her. Surely his solemn farewell had been based on a belief he would be discharged the moment he placed his own editorial on Father’s desk. The good-bye had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Father. If only Father would see that Thomas had done nothing wrong, everything would return to normal. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together and waited for Father to reply.
But only a grunt sounded, followed by Father snatching up his fork and knife and digging into his now-cold dinner. Harry winked at Daphne, and they also turned their attention to their food. When they had been excused, Harry caught her elbow and guided her to the backyard pergola situated well away from the house. He pressed her onto a bench and leaned against the railing, fixing her with a serious look.
“What do you know about the editorial Tom wrote?”
Daphne threw her hands outward in a silent gesture of innocence. “Not a thing! Father mentioning it at dinner is the first I heard of it. But Thomas visited me at headquarters earlier today, quite upset not only with Watson, but with Father, as well.” She didn’t add that his concerns had trickled over onto her. “The fact that he wrote out his opinion of injustice doesn’t surprise me.”
“It surprises me.” Harry released the top button of his shirt and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, affecting a relaxed pose that didn’t match his scowl. “Tom’s never been one to stir up trouble. He was the peacemaker amongst our chums—in fact, we all jeered at him for it. Big enough to beat anyone into submission, but he preferred talking out differences and finding a compromise. He said he was taught to be at peace with all men, inasmuch as was possible.”
Yes, Thomas’s penchant for gentleness was one of his most endearing qualities, in Daphne’s opinion. She had never feared him, despite his large size. Except . . . Her smile faded when she remembered his fierce attack this morning. What immense emotion must have boiled beneath the surface for him to react so strongly.
Harry went on quietly, as if speaking to himself. “Always, there was something different about Tom—a maturity, even when we were young. We’d goad him about being a country boy, call him a hayseed, and even then he’d just smile and say something that disarmed the malicious intent. Yet he always jumped to the defense of anyone else being tormented.”
Suddenly Harry straightened, one hand popping out of his pocket to sock the air. “Why, that’s it! Tom could never abide anyone being left out or mistreated. He told me one time that ‘his people,’ whatever that meant, had suffered oppression because of their religion. Why, this editorial he wrote must be out of his belief that—” Harry stormed out of the pergola, heading in the direction of the carriage house.
Daphne jumped up so fast she felt dizzy. She grabbed a vine-woven post with both hands and leaned forward. “Harry!”
He whirled, his feet still moving as if eager to continue. “What?”
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Tom—talk some sense into him.”
She released the post and scrambled down the two wooden steps. “I want to accompany you.”
“No.”
“But surely I could—”
“No!” His stern look silenced her protest. “This might turn unpleasant. I plan to be very straightforward with Tom, and likely he’ll be straightforward back. With you in the middle of it, we won’t be able to speak plain, man-to-man. This isn’t a time for sugar-coating. His entire future is at stake.”
“But my future is at stake, too! Please, Harry!” She clasped her hands beneath her chin.
Her brother’s expression softened. He walked toward her and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “Don’t worry, Daph. I’ll make sure Tom sticks around for us. He—he’s like a brother to me. My best pal, ever since he walked into biology class and said he couldn’t believe we’d cut up a pig just to look at its innards when the only thing inside a pig that interested him was ham, chops, and sausage.”
They laughed softly together, and Daphne felt closer to her brother than ever before in those moments.
Harry finished in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to lose his friendship.”
Tears filled Daphne’s eyes. “And I don’t want to lose
him
.” She waved her brother away. “All right. Go alone so you can speak man-to-man. And tell him . . . tell him I love him still.”
T
HOMAS
JUMPED AT A SUDDEN SERIES
of thuds on his front door. He glanced at the partially completed letter on his desk and decided getting his thoughts down was more important than whatever the person outside needed.
He leaned back over the desk, pen tip against the page. But the pounding came again, more insistent. A voice called, “Tom! Open up or I’ll break the door down!”
Harry.
Thomas smacked his pen onto the paper and pushed away from the desk. He stomped to the door, swung it wide, and issued a gruff warning. “If you break the door down, you’ll pay for it.”
Harry charged over the threshold without waiting for an invitation, spun to face Thomas, and started speaking before Thomas could even secure the door. “What are you trying to do? Get yourself sacked?”
“I take it your father told you about the editorial I wrote this afternoon.”
Harry ran his hand through his hair. He shook his head, pacing the floor. “Oh yes, you were the topic at our dinner table. Father was ready to call out a firing squad.” He whirled on Thomas. “What compelled you to do such a foolish thing? You had to know Father would be angry. I’ve never known you to deliberately incite ire. Why now?”
Recalling his conversation with Daphne and the emotional pain that followed, Thomas hesitated before answering. He valued his friendship with Harry, which had been years in the making. It pained him to think he would lose this friend, yet he knew he couldn’t stay silent on the concept of social hierarchy. Not if it meant the deliberate intimidation of an entire race of people.
He answered carefully. “I suppose I never had a reason to incite ire before.”
Harry laughed—a harsh, brittle sound. “You don’t have a reason now.”
“Yes, I do. Wrongs need to be fixed, and it’s a sorry man who refuses to fight for right.”
Harry snorted. “Fight for right . . . Right is subjective, Tom.
Besides, what Watson wants benefits us.”
“Us? Including me?”
“Of course, including you!”
“How am I a part of this ‘us’?”
Harry flung his arms wide, his expression incredulous. “Are you colored? Are you Jewish? No! So this isn’t your battle, Tom.
Father’s editorial had nothing to do with you.”
“Because I’m not colored or Jewish.”
“That’s right.”
Thomas grimaced. He crossed to his secondhand sofa and sat, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. He kept his gaze aimed downward and said, “No. But I’m poor. And that’s just the next step up, isn’t it?”
A soft expletive exploded from Harry as he moved to the chair at the end of the sofa and slumped into the seat. “I don’t think of you as poor.”
Thomas lifted his head to look directly into Harry’s eyes. “You don’t think of me as poor only because I lived with Nadine. But if you’d visited Gaeddert and seen my pa’s house, you would never have chosen me for a friend. Admit it, Harry. Your father’s belief that white men of wealth are superior is your belief, too.”
Red streaked Harry’s cheeks, his gaze darting sideways briefly before returning to Thomas. “That doesn’t matter because you don’t live in Gaeddert anymore. You live in Boston, and you have the opportunity for at least the illusion of wealth if you keep working your way up at the paper. No one would have to know you were brought up on a farm in Kansas.”
Thomas laughed, but the sound held no amusement. “Harry, I’m not ashamed of my upbringing.” The words caused a part of a verse from the book of Romans to flit through Thomas’s mind:
“I am not ashamed of the gospel . . .”
“I’m not saying you should be ashamed.” Harry straightened in his seat, his tone convincing. “But there’s no reason to boast about it, either. Why give people a reason to look down on you?”
Thomas bolted from his seat. “That’s just it, Harry. Why should people look down on me because I’m not wealthy? Why does a fancy house and a large bank account make one man better than another? What difference is there in the color of skin? Skin is only this deep!” He pinched his thumb and finger together, indicating a scant difference.
Harry rose, too, his eyes snapping with fury. “I don’t know why it matters, but it does! It always has! And you can’t change it, so why sacrifice your job and your opportunity for high standing in this community over a bunch of—”
Thomas lunged, catching Harry’s shirtfront. “Hold your tongue!”
Harry set his lips in a grim line and glared. For several seconds Thomas held tight, his face only inches from Harry’s, the unspoken disparaging term hanging in the air like a vile stench.
Abruptly, Thomas released his hold and stepped back. He drew a deep breath and released it bit by bit, willing his anger to calm, inwardly reminding himself Harry was his friend. His
friend
. Not his enemy.
A cloak of tension fell over the room. Harry stood with his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched. The heaviness in Thomas’s chest made breathing difficult.
Why, Lord? Why did you not let me see? Why did you not keep me from becoming involved in a campaign to elect a man with reprehensible morals?
Pa’s voice, from a day long past, whispered a response to Thomas’s inner torment.
“Son, choices a man makes, and not always does he choose the right. This is why we seek daily the Lord’s guidance.”
Belinda’s familiar ending to each of her written communications followed Pa’s admonition:
“Every day, I pray God’s will for you.”
Thomas swallowed hard, shame and regret churning his belly. How disappointed his parents would be to know how far off course he’d gone. Despite his pa’s wise counsel and steadfast example, he had chosen this pathway without consulting his heavenly Father. And now he must suffer the consequences.
At last Harry cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Tom, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve championed the downtrodden. I never completely understood it, yet at the same time, it seemed an admirable quality.” His chin jutted forward. “But you’d be a fool to let your personal feelings cost you the opportunity my father gave you. Apologize to him. He can be arrogant, but underneath he’s a reasonable man. You have worked hard and proven to be an excellent copy editor—I’ve heard him say so. Given your past efforts, he’ll forgive your lapse in judgment and allow your employment to continue.”
Thomas squared his shoulders. “I’m more concerned about seeking forgiveness from
my
Father, and His opinion is the one that matters most.”
Harry frowned, clearly confused.
“I will speak to your father,” Thomas promised, ushering Harry toward the door, “on Monday, first thing.”