Searching for Joy Read online

  SEARCHING FOR JOY

  By

  Linda Baten Johnson

  Copyright 2015

  Written by: Linda Baten Johnson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Chicago’s Packingtown area, 1900

  The banging on the door startled Ingrid, and a spot of red marked the white chemise she’d been stitching. She pressed her thumb against the pricked finger and moved the curtain to see which neighbor would receive bad news this night. But the men stood outside her unit.

  “Open up.” The pounding continued.

  Ingrid hesitated before unlocking the tenement door. Usually one of her neighbors responded to middle of the night visitors. This time, units B, C, and D remained shut, closed to prevent trouble from the packing plant invading their homes. Chicago’s new deconstruction line technique, where each worker sliced out a specific cut of meat, garnered higher production, but more accidents.

  Ingrid Larkin gathered her shawl around her shoulders to shield against the night’s cold and opened the door only wide enough to see the trio outside. Streetlights in the Packingtown section of Chicago were still a promise, so the men’s faces were only illuminated by lamplight coming from Ingrid’s unit. The groan of a slumped man with arms draped over the shoulders of two supporting companions testified he still lived.

  Ingrid saw the pain etched on the injured man’s face and turned to the man who appeared to be in charge. “Who are you looking for?”

  “The Finsson place.”

  “You’ve got the wrong address. I don’t know anyone by the name of Finsson, and I’ve lived here five years.” Ingrid poked her head outside and glanced up and down the street.

  Doors remained closed, but she knew faces watched the scene, relieved the damaged man wasn’t one of their family members. Ingrid wanted to go back inside, forget these men had come here in the middle of the night.

  The speaker, a burly man wearing a meat cutter’s apron, pulled a card from his pocket and shoved it at Ingrid. “According to this identification, his name is Caleb Finsson and his address is 34-A Mulberry.”

  She stepped from the sanctuary of her home to examine the card and the man’s face. “This is 34 Mulberry Street, but I don’t know him.”

  “He probably got the number mixed up. You can contact his family in the morning.” The man nodded to his companion and they began half-walking, half-pulling the man they supported toward to Ingrid’s partially opened door.

  “Wait. Why should I be responsible for him?” Ingrid lifted her chin.

  “Because this is where we were told to take him. Miss, we’re just a couple of working guys who got picked to haul him home. You know how they are at the plant. They’ll dock our pay if we don’t get back." The two men on either side of the groggy man struggled to support their unwanted burden.

  The man in the middle, his face etched with pain, opened his eyes slightly. “Just for tonight?”

  The plea, coupled with the anguish in his face tugged at Ingrid’s heart. She remembered the night men like these had brought her Jack home. To honor the memory of her husband, she couldn’t turn this man away. She closed her eyes and sighed her agreement.

  “He’s talking, you heard him.” The spokesman’s voice sounded more confident as they allowed Ingrid to lead them inside. “You don’t have to worry about him dying on you.”

  “Just for one tonight,” Ingrid said firmly. “Put him in the bed.”

  “What will your husband say?”

  “He won’t say anything. I’m a widow.” Ingrid walked through the living room to the single bedroom, lit the lamp, and threw back the covers. “Meatpacking plant took my husband three years ago.”

  “Sorry.” The silent helper doffed his hat. “You’re kind to take this man in.”

  The two eased him on the bed, but left his feet hanging off the side. They unlaced his boots and set them under the bed before putting his feet between the covers, treating him with a gentleness reserved for sleeping infants.

  The larger man whispered to Ingrid after they got him settled in bed. “Pleasant fellow. Real shame.”

  “What happened to him?” Ingrid feared she knew the answer, having seen the bloody cloth around his left hand.

  “Didn’t get his whole hand, just a couple of fingers. Doc burned the nubs to stop the bleeding.” He reached in his pocket and pressed a vial into Ingrid’s hand. “Doc says just a drop or two for pain. Not too much, or he’ll wake up in heaven.”

  The two men hurried away before facing further questions or risking her change of heart.

  “Better an injured man than a dead one,” Ingrid muttered to herself.

  “Agreed.”

  “Excuse me?” Ingrid sank into the rocking chair next to the bed.

  “Rather be injured than dead. Sorry for the trouble.” The words seemed all the man in the bed could muster.

  Before his eyelids fluttered closed, she noticed the tawny color of his eyes, kind and intelligent eyes, but heavy with a doctor’s sedative. Soon, his regular breathing indicated he’d fallen to sleep, but she hesitated to leave him. The man’s broad clean-shaven face showed creases of discomfort even when at rest, and she wanted to be close at hand if he needed more of the pain medicine.

  He filled her bed from top to bottom and more than half side-to-side. Ingrid wondered if he had a slender, petite wife who waited and worried about him. She guessed him to be in his early thirties, about her age, and he was a fine-looking man. Ingrid knew she would have remembered him if she had seen him in the neighborhood. He was the type of man people noticed. She wanted to make herself some tea, clean his face, and think about how to find his family. Instead, she leaned her head against the back of the rocker and fell asleep.

  When Ingrid heard a light tap on the door, she noticed the faint light of a new day had crept into her tiny dwelling place.

  “Ingrid, it’s Joan. Let me in.”

  Her neighbor handed a loaf of warm bread wrapped in a towel to Ingrid and pushed past her into the bedroom. “We saw you take an injured man into your place last night. How is he?”

  “He slept all night. He lost part of two fingers, not the whole hand.”

  “My Albert said we shouldn’t open our door. We have too many mouths to feed as it is.” Joan Pardnik patted the rounded mound under her apron, indicating one more to come.

  “You recognize him?” Ingrid rubbed the back of her neck, and looked from the face of the snoring man to her neighbor.

  “No. He’s a handsome man, and he looks good in your bed. Maybe you should keep him.” Joan elbowed her friend in the ribs.

  Ingrid laughed. “I won’t be doing that.”

  “He could keep you warm at night.” Joan wrapped her arms around herself and raised her eyebrows.

  Ingrid wagged her finger and pointed to Joan’s pregnant shape. “I see where ‘keeping warm’ got you—three little ones and another on the way. Got time for a cup of tea?”

  Joan nodded. “Sure do. Left my family sleeping. Got up early to bake so the place would be warm for them.”

  A snort and some soft moans caused Ingrid to look at her guest. “They won’t take him back at the plant, will they?”

  “Probably not. He might get a stipend. I think there’s a scale of payments. So much if the line kills you, so much for losing an arm. Different amount for a hand. Don’t know what a couple of fingers would be worth.”

  “I didn’t get anything when my Jack died.” Ingrid heated the kettle. “Lucky for me that I was young and healthy. I s
urvived on laundry and sewing. Older widows don’t have the eyes for fine stitching.”

  “Or strong enough backs for scrubbing laundry,” Joan added.

  “I’m not complaining, but I’m glad to be getting out of here. Wish I could pack you, Albert, and your youngsters in my valise.”

  “I’ll miss you. Never had a better friend.”

  Ingrid poured the tea, savoring the scent and the company of a good friend. “We won’t discuss my leaving until the day before I go.”

  “And you have to find a home for this stranger occupying your bed,” Joan said.

  “I’ll start looking today. I can stop by both churches after I deliver my laundry and my sewing.”

  “You’ll be rewarded for your kindness.” Joan placed her cup and Ingrid’s in the sink. “Try to think about the happiness you’ll find in your new home. I predict you’ll have a wonderful Christmas with your uncle in western Illinois. After all, he lives in Joy.” Joan kissed Ingrid on the cheek and let herself out the door.

  After her neighbor left, Ingrid returned to the rocker in her bedroom, her fingers resting lightly on the side of her face. Her eyes filled with tears, then gave way to wrenching sobs she struggled to control. She hadn’t had a kiss from anyone since the day of her husband’s funeral. She hadn’t realized she needed one. Her heart ached with an emptiness she’d denied for too long. Once started, the tears flowed freely, like a broken water main.

  The springs on the bed creaked, and Ingrid saw concern in Caleb Finsson’s eyes. She held a hand in front of her face and squeezed her lips together, struggling to regain her composure. She took a handkerchief from the night table, dabbed her eyes and then blew her nose.

  “I wish you wouldn’t cry.” Caleb’s voice was deep and melodic.

  “I don’t cry. I never cry.” Ingrid sucked in a deep breath and began sobbing again.

  “I see. Then something must be wrong with my hearing and my eyesight, too.” Caleb said.

  “I am crying now, but I never cry. I haven’t cried since Jack died.” Ingrid breathed in and out, calming herself. “I feel very foolish. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure you have a reason.” He stretched his good hand toward her. “I’ll help if I can. I should do something to repay you for taking me into your home.”

  “Not necessary. Everything hit me. I’m being turned out next week, right before Christmas. We used to have such wonderful holidays when Jack and my parents were alive. The rooms would smell of roasted chicken and baked apples, and we’d invite the neighbors for carol singing. My father played the violin for the singing, and Mother would read the Christmas story from Luke. Then we’d all go to church together.”

  “You’ll always have the memories,” Caleb said

  “I was feeling sorry for myself. I’ll never have those times again. My parents both died of influenza, and Jack’s gone. This is company housing and is for employees only. Guess they finally realized Jack died three years ago.”

  “Do you have somewhere to go?” Caleb leaned up on one elbow.

  “I thought I could make myself useful by offering to keep house for my uncle. He’s my only relative, my mother’s brother, a corn farmer in Joy, Illinois. He sends a card each Christmas.”

  “Joy?” Caleb smiled.

  “In Mercer County. He’s a good man. He and my aunt kept moving when my parents settled in Chicago.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  “I hope so. This all happened so suddenly, I’ll be on his doorstep before I can get a message to him. I’ve always liked him, but this place has been my home as an adult. Jack and I came here as newlyweds. Our best friends, Joan and Albert, live next door. I have my church, my customers. I’m leaving everything I know.”

  Chapter 2

  “You can come back for visits.” Caleb regretted the words. He knew that probably wouldn’t happen, not for someone from this section of Packingtown.

  Ingrid shrugged. “You’re probably ready for breakfast. I don’t keep coffee. Is tea okay?”

  “I like tea better than coffee.”

  “My neighbor brought us freshly-baked bread,” Ingrid said.

  Caleb rolled to his other side and winced when he attempted to put weight on his bandaged hand. He managed to stand, but staggered when he tried to walk.

  Ingrid placed her hand around his waist to steady him. “I’ll help you.”

  “If I fall, I might squash you. Last night, I thought I might have died and gone to heaven. Always pictured angels looking like you—beautiful, fragile, with a halo of blond hair and blue eyes—but able to fly. I should check your back, make certain you don’t have feathered wings.” They’d almost made it to the kitchen when he stopped. “Do I know you?”

  Ingrid shook her head. “No. And I don’t know you. I’m Ingrid Larkin. The men who brought you said your name is Caleb Finsson, and that you live at 34 Mulberry Street.”

  “Sounds right,” Caleb said.

  “The name might be right, but the address is wrong. I live at 34 Mulberry.”

  “But only for a few more days. Then you’ll be living in Joy.” He turned loose of her shoulder and leaned against the doorframe. “I can manage from here.”

  He viewed her kitchen with a practiced eye. The cupboards had cloths over them instead of doors. The counter tops had nicks and chips. The pattern on the oilcloth covering the small table was so faded you couldn’t tell what the design had been. Both the ladder-back chairs wobbled because of uneven legs, and the red one had frayed caning on the seat. He saw a flush rise to her face and realized he’d been staring at her surroundings.

  “Your place must be nicer.” She turned to pour the tea.

  “Just a place to sleep when I’m not working,” Caleb said. “How’d you get to Chicago? To Packingtown?”

  “Same way everyone gets here. My parents came from Germany with a dream for a better life in America. We lived in New York until they saved up enough money to pursue another dream, Chicago. They wouldn’t let me speak German, insisted I be a proper American.”

  “Did they speak English?” He stared into her lovely eyes, which showed the sorrow of hardships.

  “A little. My father was a hard worker. He managed to keep a job, but at a low wage. People arrive every day, immigrants willing to work hard, and willing to work for less money. For some new Americans, things get worse instead of better.”

  He watched her look at the plates and select the only plate without chips for the sliced bread. Although he was ravenous, he took only half a piece and buttered it sparingly.

  “Would a union help?” Caleb looked at her lovely face as he phrased the question and was surprised by the despair it caused.

  “What do you think? We all came to America searching for joy, a better life, and now all hope is gone. A union would be great. A fair wage would be wonderful, but those favoring unions lose their jobs or disappear. Look at you. They won’t take you back. What will you do?” Her eyes swam with tears.

  Caleb’s conscience stung him. Her sympathetic nature grieved for his plight, or what she saw as his plight. He studied his tea. He would be able to do what he’d always done, and maybe his work could make a difference in her life, in the lives of others.

  “I forgot your medicine.” Ingrid jumped to her feet. “The men said just a few drops.”

  “I need to check for your wings again. You got back to the kitchen pretty quickly.” Caleb said when she returned with his medicine. He watched her administer a couple of drops to his tea. “Let’s forget the plant and all the problems involved. What is your favorite Christmas memory?”

  Ingrid stared into her cup. “There are so many. Don’t we all work at making Christmas special for others? I guess that’s the secret. We all try to make others happy during the holy season. We forget our own cares when we try to make someone else happy.”

  “Did you make someone happy?”

  “My parents. One Christmas I memorized all of the second chapter of Luke.
After my mother read it in German, I recited it in English. That’s a memory I’ll always treasure.”

  The delight of that memory suffused her face with a beautiful glow.

  “And you?”

  “I didn’t do anything as special as you, but I did give my brother my whittling knife. He always asked to play with it, but I didn’t let him. Giving it to him for Christmas was my mother’s idea, but I got the credit. He was so excited and happy, I wished I’d thought of it.”

  “More tea?” Ingrid asked.

  “Let me get it.” When Caleb stood, the room seemed to spin. He staggered a few steps before his knees gave way. “Ingrid? Ingrid!”

  Darkness and silence.

  Chapter 3

  “Don’t you die in this house,” Ingrid said to the unmoving man half in the hall, half in the kitchen. She watched his breathing to confirm he was alive, then ran next door.

  “Is Albert home?” Ingrid called as she opened the Pardnik’s door without knocking or saying a hello.

  “No. He went to the plant to check on the man you have sleeping in your bed.”

  “He’s not in my bed anymore,” Ingrid said. “He’s in the middle of the floor. I think he knocked himself out when he fell.”

  “Come on, kids. Ingrid needs our help.”

  Three boys, a stair-step difference in their height, raced to Ingrid’s house, ready for an adventure.

  “I think we can pull him into the living room, if we get a quilt under him.” Ingrid rolled up the sleeves on her shirt.

  Al, as six-year-old Albert, Junior was known, grabbed a quilt from the side of the sofa, eager to begin. “What should I do?”

  “I’ll push him over to his side and you children tuck the quilt in as far as you can. Then I’ll push him the other way. I don’t want your mother helping, or her baby might make an early appearance.”

  “We’re strong.” Al included his younger brothers, aged four and two, and instructed them how to proceed.