Chapter 12

SPRINGFIELD IS A PATRIOTIC TOWN, AND NEVER IS THAT MORE apparent than on the Fourth of July. Every year, it honors the founding of our nation with orations, gunfire salutes, regattas, and the ringing of church bells. Festivities begin at dawn and last well after dark, and for Springfield’s working class, it is a merry respite from the grind of industry.

I, however, remain hard at work at my own enterprise.

The only sound is the clack of gears as I tinker with my machine at the kitchen table. Not only are Eliza and Uncle Thomas gone, but the entire neighborhood has left for the Independence Day harness races at Hampden Park.

Eliza was visibly disappointed when I declined to join. After all, I’ve made remarkable progress, thanks to my new glasses. At present, not only are the wooden finger and plate folder synchronized with the rest of the machine, but I’ve also added the mechanisms for the second and the third bag folds. I even devised a tiny roller for my wooden finger that prevents the paper from ripping. In short, my machine is capable of folding a square-bottom bag from start to finish.

The problem is that it does not do so consistently.

After a final adjustment, I turn the crank slowly, one revolution every ten seconds. The myriad parts at the folding platform do their tasks harmoniously, and with every revolution, a square-bottom bag comes out of the end. So far, so good.

I double the pace. The machine rattles at the faster speed but continues folding. With bated breath, I silently count as the bags drop out. One … two … three … four … five … six …

CRUNCH.

The feed goes awry, the paper snarling upon the folding platform, and I let go of the crank with a groan. Not again.

I don’t need a closer look to know what’s gone wrong. This scene has repeated so many times, it’s starting to haunt my dreams.

For the mechanisms to do their job, the wooden finger must insert into the paper tube for that crucial first fold. At slow speeds, it goes into the opening easily. But when the speed increases, the paper distorts, collapsing the tube opening. The finger goes over rather than into the tube, and the whole process gets derailed.

I don’t know whether to weep or tear my hair. I’m so close I can practically taste success, but I can’t seem to clear this final obstacle. And clear it I must. After all, a machine that can only reliably fold one bag every ten seconds is useless when a worker produces double that rate.

I smack my cheeks with my palms to rouse myself. I can’t afford to wallow in despair. Today is a rare Saturday off; I need to make the most of it and perfect my machine. Scanning the folding platform, the wooden finger, the snarled feed, I rack my wits for that missing detail that will fix everything.

And I come up with … nothing.

I slump over the tabletop. My reservoir of ideas has dried up. After days of pondering and hundreds of readjustments, my brain’s exhausted.

My body, too, feels tuckered out in the late afternoon heat. Although I’m in my thinnest blouse, the cotton clings uncomfortably, and my bun feels like a sweaty squirrel curling into my neck. I reach for the lemonade Eliza left me this morning and find it warm, the ice long since melted.

Perhaps it’s time for a break.

I stand on the dirt footpath alongside the Connecticut River. A stiff breeze whips the Stars and Stripes streaming from passing boats and riffles the riverbank’s knee-high grass. After the stuffiness of the kitchen, the rising wind is literally a breath of fresh air. And carried upon it is the jaunty beat of a polka.

The dancing’s started. According to the newspaper, a 300-piece brass and reed band is providing dance music at Hampden Park after the harness races. Then, at nightfall, the festivities will conclude with a grand finale of fireworks.

All of Springfield must be gathered at the park by now. Eliza’s probably dancing with some gentleman under Uncle Thomas’s watchful eye. Yet I cannot summon the wherewithal to join them.

The polka on the breeze concludes, and a reel begins. The same tune Daniel and I danced to at the fair. My stomach flips at the memory, and I wonder if I’d feel differently about going to Hampden Park if Daniel was there.

However, I know he’s not even in town because I saw him off at the depot yesterday. For him, the Fourth was a chance to go home, so he joined the swarms of holiday travelers taking the evening train to see family.

I, on the other hand, would rather pretend I don’t have a family right now. I owe Mother a letter but have put it off for days. Partly because of the machine, but mostly because I don’t know how to respond to her latest message.

Not only does Charlie remain unemployed, he also got into a scrap and was tossed into jail while Mother was at market. Fortunately, she had a bit of money saved from Charlie’s enlistment bounty and used it to pay the fine for his release. But now Charlie’s withdrawn further into himself. He’s stopped talking, and Mother’s at her wits’ end.

I wish I could offer comfort, but I’ve none to give. I’ve done all I can, and things haven’t gotten better.

Family needs to support each other, I believe that, but it’s tiring when I never get to lean on them. Mother’s letters only ever contain sad or bad news; I can’t remember when one made me smile. For that reason, I haven’t told her about my bet with Yates because I don’t want to add to her worries.

But even if I can’t unburden myself upon them, I do have friends to lean on.

I touch the bridge of my glasses, recalling what Ida said about the Good Lord giving us friends. Certainly, Ida and Eliza have been a support. Although Uncle Thomas clearly thinks my time would be better spent otherwise, he’s never once complained about the extra noise and clutter from my machine building. And Daniel … I couldn’t have gotten this far without him.

I’m wondering what he’s doing in Newton Lower Falls when a motion flashes at the edge of my vision.

It’s a straw hat, soaring on the wind. It sails towards the river and, instinctively, I chase after it. Hiking up my skirts, I race down the bank and leap, snatching the hat at the water’s edge.

“Nice catch,” hollers a familiar voice.

My stomach clenches. I turn slowly, hoping I’m wrong, but one glance tells me I’m unfortunately right.

Hobbling down the otherwise deserted footpath is Frank. He waves and smiles, but then recognition stops him short. Time freezes as we stare across the grassy slope separating us.

My fingers tighten around the hat brim. The temptation to fling it into the river is overwhelming. However, I am not so uncharitable to do that to a lame man. Telling myself I am the more high-minded person, I march up to Frank.

“Here.” I shove his hat into his hands and flounce off.

“Wait,” he shouts after me. “Aren’t you going to let me thank you?”

I halt. Biting back irritation, I whirl and return to make a show of manners.

The thanks don’t come. He just stares at the hat in his hands, his mouth pressed in a firm line. Impatient, I snap, “If you’re only going to waste my time—”

“Can’t we go back to the way we were?”

The abrupt question takes me aback. Frank looks up, his expression pained. “I hate how it is between us, Mattie. I miss talking with you. I miss being friends.”

I miss it, too. The sudden thought strikes me as traitorous, but it’s true. Daniel and the others are wonderful, but they don’t see machines the way I do. The way Frank and I both do. We shared something special, and if I were honest, I do want it back.

I don’t say that, though. Squelching the yearning in my chest, I cross my arms and frown. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re on the opposite sides of a fight.”

“I know that,” he says quietly. “And I know you have your reasons for fighting. I do, too. But that doesn’t mean I want to be enemies forever. You might not believe this, Mattie, but I don’t want you to hate me. I never have.”

The sincerity in his voice strikes a chord within me. Yet even if we both wanted things the way they once were, we’re too far deep in this war to back out now. As my emotions twist into a complicated knot, I notice a blood-stained bandage around his right palm. “What happened to you?”

“You mean this?” He holds up his hand, and his sleeve falls to reveal that the sloppy wrap goes past his wrist. Smiling wryly, he says, “Let’s just say the only thing worse than a machine that doesn’t work like it’s supposed to is one that bites the hand building it.”

“Amen to that.” The words pop out of their own accord, and the next instant we’re both laughing. As I hold my sides, I realize how wrong it is to be fraternizing, but I can’t help it. The bitter humor underlying Frank’s joke resonates more deeply than Daniel’s cheery encouragement, and I’m again reminded that Frank understands me in a way others can’t.

Our laughter ebbs, and I make up my mind. “Truce?” I say, offering a handshake. “But only for today. And if I smell anything rotten, I’ll throw you and your hat in the river.”

“Done.” Frank plunks his hat on his head and reaches to shake with his left. “Sorry, my right’s a mess.”

“Give me that.” I snatch his bandaged hand, undo the linen strip, and wrap it properly. “It won’t do any good unless it’s done up tight.”

He grunts as I tug the bandage. “Kind of hard to wrap things one-handed.”

It dawns on me that he’s alone this holiday, too. No doubt his friends went to enjoy the festivities while he wrangled with his machine. Like me. As I consider this, he heaves a wistful sigh. “You know, Mattie, if we were working together, that bag machine would be done—”

“Stop.” My tone is sharp. Not because I think he’s wrong, but because I agree. So much so, my heart aches. I recall the evenings making toys in Ida’s kitchen, our conversations about boilers and engines. Under different circumstances, this machine could’ve been a shared joy and success.

But I cannot allow myself to dwell on what could’ve been.

“If you want to keep this truce,” I say, tying the bandage and releasing his hand, “no more talk about the contest.”

Frank regards me a moment, then huffs. “Fine. So tell me why you’re gawking at the river instead of having fun with the crowd.” He jerks his head in the direction of Hampden Park.

His question is blunt, and so is my reply. “Because the crowd wouldn’t be fun for me. Not right now. My brain’s so frazzled, I want to let it be empty for a spell.”

I half expect Frank to tease me for my answer. Instead, his gaze softens. “I can see that.”

“What about you?” I ask, curious now. Hampden Park is only a fifteen-minute walk west of Columbia Paper. But this riverside spot is a long detour south of both the factory and the park.

Shame flits across Frank’s features, and he drops his gaze. Long seconds drag with only the faint strains of the Hampden Park band in our ears. Just as I’m about to give up on an answer, he murmurs, “It’s the fireworks. They’re supposed to be pretty and all, but the war gave me enough explosions to last a lifetime.”

His strained reply is completely unexpected. I’ve only ever thought of fireworks as brilliant displays of beauty. But then I think about poor Charlie and what the flashes and noise might do to his nerves, and I grasp a sense of how Frank feels.

I doubt he wants to dwell on the matter, so I say, “No sense going to something you won’t enjoy, but the fireworks won’t start till dark. You can still dance a couple hours and leave before sundown. “

His mouth twists. “Now you’re just being mean.”

My brow furrows at his rueful tone. “Mean? What are you talking about?”

He turns away, his shoulders hunching. “No girl wants to dance with a cripple.”

The barely audible words leave me thunderstruck. I’ve only ever seen Frank as overflowing with confidence. He hadn’t let his leg or lack of schooling get in the way in the Army or at Columbia Paper, and his wits and spirit have always made up for any shortfalls. As such, it’s perplexing to see Frank perceive himself as afflicted. Because I never have.

“Well, I think you’re wrong,” I say, smacking him on the back.

He starts, but I ignore his aggrieved look and add, “I mean, have you ever even tried asking?”

His face screws up, but then he sheepishly shakes his head.

I blow out my breath in exasperation. Although I recall Frank skulking near the dancing ground at the fair, I never saw him actually dancing. I realize now he lacked the nerve to seek a partner.

“The entirety of womankind isn’t as small-minded as you think, Frank Niebuhr,” I declare. “And if you’re still too much of a coward to ask for a dance, you’ve only yourself to blame for being alone.”

Frank gawks at me. Then his jaw sets. “So would you dance with me if I asked?”

My heart stops, then pounds hard enough to burst. “Why would you ask me?” I blurt.

“Because,” he replies, eyes burning, “I meant it when I said I don’t want you to hate me.”

In the distance, the sprightly jig concludes, and the band strikes up a waltz. As the slow melody swells, Frank bows and extends a hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Mattie Knight?”

I can’t. This was not my intention when I said he shouldn’t hesitate to ask for a dance. But Frank’s dark gaze compels me like a magnet, and before I know it, my hand’s in his.

“Just this once,” I say, struggling to keep a steady tone. “And only because we have a truce.”

He smiles. “Understood.”

Placing his right hand at my waist, he draws me close, and we rock gently in time with the melancholy tune.

Not daring to trust my self-composure, I look fixedly away from him. Yet I’m more aware of Frank than I’ve ever been. The roughness of his calloused fingers, the pressure of his hand on my waist, the firm muscles beneath his linen shirt.

A lump forms in my throat. My dance with Daniel was all joyous exhilaration, but this standing sway with Frank is like lingering in the embrace of a lost dream. Here on the riverbank, away from prying eyes, all our differences seem to fall away. Mr. Yates, our wages, the bet—none of that exists. The only ones left in the world are him and me.

“Mattie.” Frank’s rich baritone murmurs in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. “Thanks for giving my hat back.”

“You’re welcome.” And in that instant, I sincerely mean it.