The Carousel Painter (5 page)
The carriage jolted to a stop in front of a sprawling two-story frame structure. Nothing fancy like the buildings downtown, but even with the doors closed against the surprisingly cold April winds, I sensed something exciting awaited inside. Strange, yet it seemed carousel horses had created a link between my deceased father and Mr. Galloway. In that moment I liked Mr. Galloway all the more.
My heartbeat perceptibly quickened when we entered the building. The smell of wood and paint drifted toward me like a welcome embrace, and I strained to see what lay beyond the wall blocking my view. Before I could capture a glimpse, Mr. Galloway herded us into an adjacent room. The small space was filled with a straight-backed chair and a large paint-stained desk. Dust covered the windowsills as well as all the other spaces not covered with books or papers. Augusta pulled her skirt close, and the two of us stood near the office door while Mr. Galloway shuffled through the disarray.
A stocky man with a thick black mustache and heavy eyebrows stepped to the door. “Anything I can help you with, Mr. Galloway?”
Augusta’s father pressed his palms on top of the desk. Elbows locked, he leaned forward and met the man’s steady gaze. “The contracts? Better yet, where is Josef?”
The worker balled his fingers into a fist and pointed his extended thumb over one shoulder. “He went to the train station to check on the wood shipment. They delivered yellow pine, of all things. Josef wanted to see if the orders had been mixed up at the train station and someone else got the basswood.”
Mr. Galloway pushed himself upright and continued shuffling the paper work. “I suppose this will throw us even further behind with our orders. Am I right, Ed?”
The man twisted one end of his mustache between his thumb and index finger. “Unless Josef locates the wood, that’s probably the way of things.”
“Ah, here’s what I’m looking for,” Mr. Galloway said, more to himself than to any of us. He folded the thin stack into thirds and tucked the papers into a pocket of his suit jacket. “Come along, ladies. You’re going to be stuck with me as your tour guide, but we can’t remain long. Since Josef isn’t here, I want to return to my office and complete some unfinished tasks.” Mr. Galloway looked at the sturdy worker. “Tell Josef I’ll stop to see him on my way home this evening.”
The man nodded. “I’ll be sure and do that. And I can show the ladies around, if you like.”
“Thanks, Ed, but I’m sure you have work that requires your expert attention.” Once the worker headed down the hallway, Mr. Galloway edged around the desk and motioned us toward the door. “If you ladies are ready, we’ll begin our tour.”
Augusta lifted her nose in the air and sniffed. “What is that awful odor?”
“I think that’s the glue you smell,” her father replied.
My excitement mounted and I came alongside Mr. Galloway. “They create the carousel animals in pieces and then glue them together?”
He gave an appreciative nod. “You’re beginning to understand. The head and neck are carved from a large piece of wood by one of the master carvers.” He pointed toward a pile of legs and tails surrounding one of the worktables. “The legs and tails are carved separately by journeymen carvers. The apprentices form the body by gluing pieces of lumber into a big box with a hole in the center.” He pointed to pieces of wood held by the metal clamps. “The glue must be perfectly dry before the pieces can be sanded and readied for carving of the body. When all of the pieces of the animal have been carved, they’re assembled with wooden dowels and more of that hot glue that caused Augusta to wrinkle her nose.” Mr. Galloway grinned at his daughter. “Once the horse is assembled, the master carver adjusts the neck and mane to the body with some final carving techniques.”
“I don’t know why the glue stinks. Are you certain it isn’t something else?” Augusta asked.
Her father chuckled. “The glue is made from animal hides. We have to keep it heated at all times or it won’t secure the wood. After a while you don’t notice the smell.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. Do you, Carrie?”
“Hmm? What did you say?”
Augusta gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’re daydreaming again.”
“No, it’s just that there’s so much to see. I don’t want to miss anything.”
The room was alive with the sounds of men’s voices, the thuds of mallets striking wood, and the clank of metal clamps being lifted to hold the pieces of wood in place. Men wearing heavy canvas aprons stood at large workbenches fashioned from heavy planks held aloft by thick slanted legs. It appeared the tables had been proportioned at varying heights depending on the size of each man. They were carving on the large chunks of glued-together wood, shaping horses’ heads or bodies. Tails, both carved and horsehair, rested on benches across the room. Heads in varying degrees of completion sat on the floor awaiting the carver’s finishing touches.
Carving tools of every shape and size hung in individual racks beside each carver’s station. Sunlight danced off the gleaming blades.
I hurried forward and came alongside Mr. Galloway. “Carving requires many more tools than I expected.”
He stopped and waved me toward one of the older men. “This is Mr. DiVito, one of our master carvers. “Miss Brouwer was admiring your carving tools, Gus.”
The older man gave a curt nod. “Is not all I have.” He pointed to a wooden tool chest beneath his bench. “All mine—nearly one hundred. Took me a lot of years to buy them. A workman is only as good as the tools he owns.”
I nodded and smiled at him. I’d heard my father say the same about his paintbrushes.
Observing the various stages, from simple pieces of poplar and basswood to beautifully embellished horses, amazed me. With each strike of a mallet, the steel-bladed chisels and gouges cut into the wood, defining or intensifying the features. The workers glanced away from their work only long enough to nod at Mr. Galloway.
I grasped Mr. Galloway’s sleeve as we approached a giraffe that was nearing completion. “What a magnificent animal. Such beauty.”
“He’s our first. Josef’s design.” There was a hint of pride in Mr. Galloway’s voice. “Children will beg to ride on that giraffe, but I want to make sure this first one is just right. We need the painting to be as perfect as Josef’s carving.”
I stretched my neck, hoping to capture a glimpse of the painters at work. “Where do you paint the horses? I don’t see any signs of painting.”
“Ah, we do all the painting in a large room at the rear of the building. We don’t want wood shavings or dust in the same room where we have wet paint. We’d end up with ruined finishes.” He grasped his watch chain and removed the pocket watch from his vest. “I believe we’re going to have to call our tour to halt, ladies. We can return another day if you’d like, so you can see the rest of the factory.” His lips lifted into a crooked smile, and he wrapped Augusta’s shoulder in a fatherly hug. “I can guess what
your
answer will be.”
Augusta laughed along with him. An unexpected pang of jealousy attacked me, and for a moment I wanted to jump between them and share her father’s affection. We’d neared the door when one of the workers called out to Mr. Galloway. He was waving a paper in his hand. He raced toward us and came to an abrupt halt directly in front of us.
“Josef said to give you this if you stopped by, but nobody told me you were here.”
“Thank you, Franklin. I’m glad you caught me. We were just leaving.”
Franklin thrust the folded note at Mr. Galloway. “I doubt you’ll be pleased with the news.” Without further comment, he performed a perfect about-face and marched off.
I didn’t know which I wanted to do more: remain and tour the paint shop or hear the letter’s mysterious content. I didn’t do either—at least not then.
W
hen we sat down to supper that evening, it appeared as if Mr. and Mrs. Galloway had exchanged personalities. In an animated and convivial manner, Mrs. Galloway entertained us with news of the friends she’d visited in Fair Oaks earlier in the day, while Mr. Galloway remained silent and downcast.
Once the platters and bowls had circled the table, Mrs. Galloway tapped her finger on the edge of the table. “Did you hear what I said, Howard?”
He looked up from his plate and blinked his eyes in rapid succession. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.” The moment he made the admission, his neck disappeared beneath his shirt collar like a turtle retreating into its shell.
Given his wife’s usual temperament, I understood the desire to become invisible. But tonight it seemed nothing would annoy Mrs. Galloway. Even in light of her husband’s admission, her spirits soared. “I said that Laura Wentworth has agreed to host our housewarming party if our house isn’t completed in time. Although it would be highly unusual to host a housewarming at someone else’s home, it gives me an excellent option, since the invitations have already gone out.”
Augusta picked up a roll and broke off a tiny piece. With painstaking care, she buttered the portion. “But won’t the guests go to the wrong house?” She popped the piece of bread into her mouth.
If my foot would have reached far enough, I would have kicked Augusta beneath the table. The question would likely send Mrs. Galloway into her typical querulous state. I held my breath and waited for the response.
“We’ve already decided upon a solution. Since their home is only a short distance away, I’ll have Thomas stand at the end of our driveway and direct the guests to the Wentworths’ home.” She placed her open palm across her heart. “Leave it to Laura to come up with a brilliant solution. Isn’t it perfect?”
I kept my eyes trained on Augusta to make certain she joined in as I bobbed my head. If she showed any sign of disagreement, I would slide down in my chair until I could land a well-placed kick on her shin. Fortunately, Augusta nodded her agreement.
“A wonderful idea, Mother. Who knows—you and Mrs. Wentworth may set a new precedent for future housewarming parties in Fair Oaks.”
Mrs. Galloway preened at the possibility. “You may be right, Augusta. What do you think, Howard?”
“Whatever you decide is fine, my dear.”
Mrs. Galloway’s lips tightened. “What is wrong with you this evening, Howard? Are you ill? You haven’t touched your supper.”
“I’m fine.” As if to disprove his wife’s observation, Mr. Galloway took a bite of his green beans.
“You are
not
fine. Something is wrong.” She pinned her husband with an impatient stare. “I want to know what is bothering you.”
Mr. Galloway leaned heavily into his chair. “The day has been difficult. Each time I think I’m making progress with the carousel factory, I’m besieged with another problem.”
“Such as?” Mrs. Galloway raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“We’re behind schedule. I hired an additional carver two months ago thinking my problems would be solved, but since his arrival, our orders have continued to mount. Word has spread, and it seems everyone wants our horses.”
Mrs. Galloway cut a piece of roasted chicken. “I would think you’d be pleased.”
“I am, but it creates even more of a backlog. Today I discovered we’d received a shipment of pine. We can’t use soft wood. We’ll lose additional days while we wait on the shipment of basswood.” Mr. Galloway patted the pocket where he’d placed the letter earlier in the afternoon. “Then I received a resignation from my finest painter. He’s returning to Germany to be with his ailing parents.” He sighed. “I understand his need to go home, but . . .”
Mrs. Galloway brightened, probably pleased that the bad news had nothing to do with her new house in Fair Oaks. “I’m certain you’ll be back on schedule before the end of the week.”
Mr. Galloway sighed and speared another green bean while Mrs. Galloway prattled on and on about plans for the housewarming party and how happy she’d be once they moved to Fair Oaks. It was as though her husband hadn’t aired his difficulties. When she finally took a bite of dessert, I seized my opportunity. “I believe I can help you with one of your problems, Mr. Galloway.”
From the weary look on his face, I could see he’d prefer peace and quiet, but I couldn’t oblige. I might not have another chance to propose my idea—at least not in these surroundings. In order to meet with success, I would need Mrs. Galloway. The fact that I wanted Augusta’s mother as an ally nearly sent me into a fit of giggles, but I pinched my arm until pain replaced any urge to laugh.
When her husband didn’t respond, Mrs. Galloway scooted forward on her chair. “How could
you
help solve a business problem?”
I was being put in my place, and for a moment I wanted to retaliate. But if I was to win this battle, I would need Mrs. Galloway. “I would like you to employ me to paint your carousel horses.”
Mrs. Galloway held two fingers against her mouth as if contemplating her husband’s response. Her eyes glistened with expectation. In that moment I knew she’d become an unwitting ally.
“That’s the most ridiculous suggestion I’ve ever heard!” Cheeks flushed, Augusta slapped her linen napkin onto the table.
I’d expected such a reaction from Mr. Galloway, but not from my friend. Earlier in the afternoon we had spoken of my need to find a job and move elsewhere. She’d even acknowledged her mother wasn’t keen on my presence in their home. Though I hadn’t mentioned working at the carousel factory, Augusta had agreed to help me seek work. Now, with a possibility in the offing, I had witnessed her startling betrayal.
