One
Like a ghost—floating, lingering, shadowing my every move—Father’s words haunted me as I rushed down the street, breathing in the fetid, smoky air. The August morning was hot and sticky, and my dress clung to me like Father’s hateful tone.
“You’re just as stubborn. And your silly art…where will it get you, Laurel?”
Last night he had been on another rampage, reeking of whiskey, slurring his words as he ranted. I sat stiffly on the embroidered armchair, my gaze locked on the gas lamp’s globe.
“That damned red hair and freckled face…so much like her.”
Who in the world was her? If I’d asked, he would have slapped me. He’d done it before.
Reaching the corner, I hopped on the waiting horse-drawn streetcar and gripped the metal pole. We passed brick townhouses, one after another, all the same, until my vision blurred.
Father had never been affectionate, not like he was with Emily. He rarely complimented me, except when I played the piano at church on Christmas Eve. He saved his praise for Sampson and Elvin, and for Emily, whose pretty blue eyes and blond hair reminded us all of an angel.
When the streetcar stopped outside the mill, I barreled across the cobblestones, knocking elbows with the other workers heading to their respective positions. The mill was one of the multitudes of Philadelphia textile plants dotting the Delaware River, employing natives and immigrants alike.
Finally at my loom, surrounded by dozens of other women, young and old alike, all of us sweating in the dank mill, I forced Father’s cruelty from my mind and daydreamed of the oil landscape I was creating in my art class. It needed something—perhaps a few birds frolicking above the tree lush with ripe peaches, or a touch of burnt sienna or dark umber on the trunk. I wasn’t sure. Keeping the hillside, with its rambling stream and field smattered with daisies, fresh in my mind quelled the monotony of guiding newly spun yarn from a thick wooden spool onto a loom, and erased Father from my thoughts.
If only I could sit under that tree and breathe in the fresh summer breeze. The incessant rhythm of the loom—a-click-a-clack-a-click-a-clack—thrummed through the factory, a deafening sound that left my ears ringing. By the end of the day, it would be difficult to hear Mr. Ferretti explain a brush stroke or a shading technique.
Though work was monotonous and left my shoulders aching, my spirits were high. When the steam whistle blew, my ten-hour shift would end. I’d go to my sanctuary, the Philadelphia School of Design for Women, the place that gave me the greatest joy. Tonight was my oil painting class which was my favorite, but equally stimulating was the lithography class on Wednesday and Friday’s wood carving, which was the most challenging. In seven months, I would complete my degree and take up work designing textiles. That would spell the end of my ear-ringing shifts at the factory.
Three short, shrill whistles announced our midday break and the cumbersome looms decelerated to a stop, leaving the cavernous warehouse quiet for the first time in hours. I rushed toward the outhouses, hoping to get ahead of the line so that I had more time to consume the sandwich Mother had packed for me that morning. On my way out the door, my shoulders brushed and bumped against other women with the same intention.
“Will ye be joining me today, Laurel?”
Cillian O’Brien’s rich tenor voice shouted over the din. I turned to find the lanky, dark-haired Irishman forcing his way through the crowd to catch up to me.
“Would I sit with anyone else?” I replied with a laugh.
“Of course not. What was I thinking, eh?”
He wrapped his bony arm around my shoulder, pulling me through the scrum, and deposited me behind Sally O’Leary, who was waiting at the first wood-clad privy. Rancid odors from the outhouses hung heavy in the sweltering heat.
“I’ll save ye a seat, eh?”
“Why don’t ye save me a seat, ye mangy maggot?” Sally reached out and pinched his arm.
“I’ll do that for ye, milady.” Cillian tipped his hat, sketched a deep bow, and rushed away, narrowly escaping the spray of gravel Sally kicked up with her boot.
“That’s a squirrely one, I’ll tell ye. Best be leaving him alone. Not who ye want to take home to yer da.”
“Cillian is my friend. There’s no need to introduce him to my father.”
“A pretty lass like you should be looking for a husband, am I right?”
“Please, Sally. Not again.”
“You know I’m speaking the truth.” She swung her blockish body around to face forward and nodded knowingly over her shoulder.
I had heard her opinions more than once as we stood at the outhouse or worked side by side at the looms. I had no intention of getting married. My sights were set on a career in design, and a husband and babies did not figure into that future. No matter how many times I argued, she insisted Cillian’s interest in me extended beyond friendship. Only Cillian and I seemed to recognize the fact that our relationship was purely platonic. We were kindred spirits, with dreams beyond the humdrum of factory life.
I found Cillian sitting in the shade at the end of the bench, hunched over a slice of lamb and a bit of bread, chatting amicably with the workers across from him.
“Ah, there ye be. Sit yer bones next to mine.”
“That sounded positively morbid.”
“I didn’t say yer dead bones, lass.”
“Thank heavens.” I gathered a fistful of calico and lifted my boot over the bench, sitting astride the seat before raising my other leg, as ladylike as possible, to the other side.
“So did you complete yer bonny painting?”
“How do you know it’s bonny?”
“You showed me, don’t ye recall?”
“Oh, yes.” I had forgotten that I showed him the pencil sketch I’d done before transferring the scene to canvas. “Well, if you thought that was nice, you would be very impressed with the state it’s in now. I have to add a few touches before I’m finished.”
“And will I get to see this fine work?”
“Perhaps, if it’s chosen for the art exhibit.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Perhaps I’ll show you anyway.”
I nudged my elbow into his ribs and received a blushing smile in return. Though our gazes locked and his smile lingered, I knew Sally was wrong. Cillian and I had a kind of familial friendship—trusting, supportive, jovial. Besides, there was one thing Sally was right about—my father would never allow me to marry an Irishman “right off the boat”—as he referred to recent immigrants to the Philadelphia harbor. My father was proud of his Scots-Irish roots, mysterious as they were, and believed the best course for peace in this diverse city was for people to live among and marry their own kind. Thankfully, I didn’t plan to marry—to my own kind or not. I had bigger dreams to fulfill first.
“So how is your invention coming? The…what do you call it?”
“The Brew Maker. It will cut beer production time in half.” He chuckled as he ripped a hunk of bread with his teeth. “Never again will there be a shortage of beer.”
“So this machine will brew a good stout, and faster?” Across from us, Billy Cramer burst forth with a hearty laugh, bringing the rest of the men nearby into his rousing guffaw. “I think you best come up with something else there, O’Brien, if you hope to get out of this place.”
With a shake of his head, Cillian’s shoulders curled forward and his ears burned red. He had so many ideas for contraptions and gadgets to make our lives easier. “We’re on the cusp of a scientific revolution,” he had said to me when he first told me of his inventions. He had come to America four years ago to make something of himself, and I for one would be the last person to squelch his dreams.
“Don’t listen to him, Cillian,” I whispered against his ear, picking up the scent of the oil he used to lubricate the automated handlooms. “Someday they’ll buy a good stout brewed with a Brew Maker and wish they had invested in your company.”
“From yer lips to God’s ears, eh?”
Three quick whistles announced the end of our midday break. Knowing that in a few hours I would be on my way to school, I was anxious to get through the day.
At five o’clock, my hands ached from feeding yarn all day, and my brief break to eat a sandwich of cold meat and dry bread left me hungry. But the weariness was forgotten once I was out on the street, rushing toward the streetcar that would take me to the city center. Emily had promised to remind Father of my class and that I would return home by eight o’clock. For the past three years, he had grumbled in protest that I was wasting my time on a fool’s errand.
“A lady’s place is in the home, taking care of her husband and children, not scurrying after a career fit for suffragettes and old maids.” This was his usual protest. Then he would point to my sister, quietly embroidering in the corner. “You don’t see Emily running around the city, doing Lord knows what. She’s learning a practical trade—sewing. I suggest you do the same.”
I continued through the waning light and thick fumes from the factory smokestacks, working my way to the streetcar. It did no good to think of Father’s hatred. There was nothing to be done about it, and it only put me in a foul mood.
“Laurel, wait up, please.” Cillian jogged beside me, taking the cloth satchel holding my paints and brushes from my hand. “Did ye not hear me, lass? I’ve been callin’ to ye like a squawkin’ bird.”
“That was you? I thought it was the nightingale singing to me from that tree, across the way in the square.”
“So funny are ye? Maybe ye should join the troupe playin’ at the theatre in town.”
“Maybe I shall.” I laughed at Cillian and looped my arm through his, memories of Father’s rage forgotten.
“Ye know ye shouldn’t walk alone at night.”
“Yes, big brother, but you’ll notice it’s still daylight and I’m certainly not alone.” We were surrounded by dozens of other mill workers rushing home. I chuckled as I tucked in tighter to Cillian. “I’m sorry, but I wanted to get ahead of the crowd.”
“You’re always in a rush, aren’t ye now, lass?”
“I can’t help it. You know how much I love my classes.”
“Aye, I do.”
We walked along the uneven sidewalk, the sound of several languages punctuating the throng. As we passed the glass factory, a group of Italian men sitting on the loading dock called out as we passed.
“Those buggers have no respect,” Cillian mumbled as he glared at the men with their tanned skin and shiny black hair. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”
“How do you know what they were saying? Do you understand Italian?”
“Well, I don’t need to know Italian to understand that what they’re sayin’ is wrong.” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, bumped and jostled by the people coming from behind, and pointed at the Italian men. They rattled off a string of words I was sure were obscenities while waving their arms at Cillian. I slipped my hand through his elbow and gave him a tug.
“Come now, let’s not get in a fight this evening. You realize you’re outnumbered.”
“Well then…” He let me draw him away from the angry threats and shaking fists. “‘Tisn’t right, that’s all I’m sayin’, lass.”
“Yes, Cillian, my dear, ‘tis not right.” Huddled against the crowd, we cackled at his bravado and hurried on our way.
The pair of horses came to a halt, stopping the streetcar a block from the school, and I leapt off amid a rush of people scrambling onboard to take my place. I was but a yard from the heavy oak door of the design school when I happened upon Mr. Ferretti.
“Good evening, Miss Whitman.” His hanging jowls jiggled like a laughing walrus and his bushy eyebrows arched as if surprised.
“Good evening, Mr. Ferretti. Do you think this heat will ever let up?”
“By winter perhaps?”
“I surely hope we won’t have to wait that long.”
He cupped my elbow in his hand and guided me through the doors and up two flights of stairs to our classroom.
“You know, Miss Whitman, I’m quite taken with your landscape. Such lovely lines and excellent shading.”
He led me across the room to my peach orchard, braced between the tension bars of the easel, awaiting my return. I was sure he could hear the beating of my heart, its rhythm not unlike the clacking of a loom. His ample chin rested between his thick fingers as he studied the colorful scene of a perfect spring day.
“Have you considered expanding your painting? Sort of a triptych? Wouldn’t it be lovely to carry this further on either side, stretching the scene over two more canvases?”
“You mean paint what is happening to the left and the right of the peach tree?”
“Yes. It would make a most impressive display at the spring exhibition.”
I was sure my thumping heart would explode from my chest at the mention of the spring art show. I’d had a few smaller pieces in past shows, but this canvas, over four feet wide, was already impressive in size.
“So, two more of the same width?”
“Yes, my dear. Perhaps a grist mill with a field of clover over here.” He flicked his meaty hand to the left. “And a flock of sheep dotting the hillside over there.” His hand tossed to the right and he turned to look at me with his bushy brows once again lifted high. “It would be the first thing our guests see as they enter the gallery space. What do you think of this idea?”
“Mr. Ferretti, I’m—I don’t…”
“Surely, my dear, you wouldn’t turn down this opportunity to create the central showpiece at this year’s exhibition?”
“Oh, no, sir. I would be honored. I’m just not sure how I’ll find the time, since I work six days a week at the mill and I have my other classes to consider.”
“Good. Well, with that settled, I’m sure you will find a way.” He patted my shoulder as if he had not heard anything I said and toddled off to the front of the room, where he began calling roll. I laid my hands against my burning cheeks, aware they must be assuming a strident shade of red.
Each year, a graduating student was chosen to create the piece of work displayed on the coveted central wall inside the entrance to the main gallery. This work was considered the masterpiece, the one against which all others paled, and I had just been given this incredible accolade. All I’d ever wanted was to learn and grow as an artist, never imagining such a distinction would be given to me. As I arranged my brushes on the small table beside my canvas, I conjured ways to tell my parents. My mother would be proud and beam with joy, but I would need to tread carefully with my father. The best I could hope from him, if announced at the right moment, was a lukewarm reception.
“Absolutely not. Isn’t it enough you’re out three nights a week, missing the family meal, not getting enough sleep? No, not one more night. Not one!” My father’s baritone boomed against the plaster walls of the parlor, where my mother sat on the cane-back chair with her hands folded in her lap. Father paced a groove in the carpet. He hadn’t been drinking when I arrived home but had been singing along with Emily as she played the piano. “I’ve been more than patient with your folly, learning to paint pretty pictures and draw horses with charcoal. For what? How, may I ask, will this help you find a husband and raise children?”
“Father—”
“And don’t spout that propaganda that you can contribute to your family’s coffers by earning money as a designer.” He spat out the word as if it were poison on his tongue. “We both know you have about as much chance of being a designer as I have of becoming the police chief of Philadelphia.” It hadn’t seemed possible that he could shout any louder, but his voice managed to reach a volume every home along Frankford Avenue could hear.
“Please, Father—”
“You heard me, Laurel Rose. Not another word.”
“Now dear, you have to admit it is quite an honor to—” He cut off my mother’s meager attempt to defend me with a wave of his hand.
“Enough, Susan. I’ve heard enough.”
“But dear…” My mother rose from her chair and took a timid step toward my father, her birdlike hand quivering in the air. “Laurel has worked very hard and this is a great achievement. Elvin escorts her home from her classes each evening. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind two or three more nights. Just until she finishes the other two canvases.”
“It’s quite alright, Mother. I can find my way home.”
“Walking the streets alone like a common harlot, mingling with the riffraff of the city? I should say not.” Father’s loud protest should have cracked the plaster walls.
“Calvin,” my mother spoke at a soft, pleading tone. “Our daughter—both daughters—are fine young ladies who should never be called such foul words. Please apologize to Laurel.”
My father bellowed an audible breath and thumped his fist against his thigh. Mother was the only one who could calm him, if this state could be called calm. At best, his voice stepped back an octave and his language improved, but the underlying emotion—the thick, roiling rage—swirled like a dark, stormy sea around us.
“You know how I feel about this,” he spouted between clenched teeth, turning toward my mother with his back to me. “She’s just…so willful. Don’t you see?”
“Dear,” Mother said as she placed her hands on his broad shoulders and turned him around to face me. “Since Elvin brings her home on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, we will ask Sampson to do the same on the other evenings until she is finished. He is old enough now and would enjoy receiving a few coins for the errand.”
Father puffed up like a bullfrog, drawing in a deep breath. “Fine. Sampson can walk you home. But—” his thick forefinger came within an inch of my nose “—you, young lady, will pay him for the courtesy, the same as you do Elvin. You may have received free admission to that God-forsaken establishment, but you will pay for the inconvenience to your brothers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will give your mother another ten cents a week and eat all of what she saves for your dinner when you get home.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you will attend worship both Sunday morning and evening. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. Get out of my sight.” With a wave of his hand, I was dismissed to the bedroom I shared with Emily. As I mounted the stairs, I thought it had gone much better than I had imagined. Though it would leave me little from my meager earnings, the extra money paid to Sampson and my mother would be worth it. Father had only compared me to a prostitute and had but once mentioned finding a husband. Yes, indeed, it had gone much better than expected.
