AT CHURCH THE NEXT DAY, REVEREND PARSONS PREACHES ON the Apocalypse. While I’ve occasionally imagined reuniting with my father in Heaven, I’ve never thought much about End Times.
But when Fannie sees me in the Fellowship Hall after service, she charges over as if I’ve unleashed all Four Horsemen and the Harlot of Babylon upon Springfield. “Mattie, I heard about your deal with Mr. Yates. What were you thinking?”
I groan into my coffee cup. I knew word would spread through the factory quickly, but I didn’t think Judgment Day would arrive till Monday. The gossips are more industrious than I thought.
Beside me, Eliza tilts her head as she nibbles on her coffeecake. “What are you raving about, Fannie?”
Fannie whirls on her. “I’m talking about the bet she struck with the boss!”
Eliza chokes into a coughing fit. As I slap her on the back, I glare daggers at Fannie. “Not so loud,” I hiss. “Are you trying to get me into trouble?”
While gambling is not listed as a sin in the Good Book, the First Congregational elders deem it a gateway to perdition, and chief among them is Uncle Thomas. Fortunately, he’s whisker-deep in his own coffeecake and oblivious to all else. Thus, I’m spared his disapproval and a lecture about the evils of gambling.
I am not, however, spared Eliza’s dismay. “Mattie, is that true?” she gasps once her throat clears.
“It’s more a proposal than a bet,” I say, wishing I could permanently fasten Fannie’s mouth shut.
Eliza crosses her arms. “Explain this ‘proposal,’ then.”
Huffing in frustration, I say, “Yesterday, I told Mr. Yates it was unfair that the men get paid more than the women. He said it was fair because men are better with machines. So I said I’d prove him wrong by building an improved bag machine.”
Eliza blinks. “An improved bag machine?”
I nod. “You know the square-bottom bags we fold by hand? I’m going to make a machine that makes them from start to finish.”
“That’s not all,” Fannie interjects. “She’s contending against Frank!”
Eliza gives a start. “What does Frank have to do with it?”
Nothing. At least, he wasn’t supposed to.
The original stakes I proposed were equal wages, if I succeeded in making a working machine. However, Mr. Yates added his own condition, one I could not rightly refuse.
“Mr. Yates said I couldn’t claim to be the better mechanic without a fair competition. So he’s having Frank build a machine also, and we’ll contend at the company’s anniversary party in September. The machine that makes the most sellable bags wins, and if I win, Mr. Yates will pay the women same as the men.”
“And if F-Frank wins?” says Eliza, her stutter creeping into her voice.
“I return to being an ordinary hand. But,” I add when Eliza pales to the whiteness of her lace collar, “I do not intend to lose.”
Fannie shakes her head. “You’ve lost your mind. You’ve made a good thing of your mechanic job, and I know your family needs the extra pay. I can’t believe you’re risking it like this.”
I clench my jaw. Mr. Yates clearly thinks I’ll fail. My blood boils remembering his mocking offer to buy my machine, should I win. But I expected my friends to have more faith. Judging from Fannie’s exasperation and Eliza’s disbelief, they also need convincing.
“It’s not a risk,” I say. “I would never have proposed it if I didn’t think I was able.”
“This is different than replacing broken parts,” Fannie protests. “You have to invent something completely new.”
“But Mattie has experience inventing things,” Ida cuts in, striding over with her four-year-old daughter in tow.
Clapping a hand on my shoulder, Ida counters the younger women’s doubt with the conviction of a revivalist preacher. “I’ll have you two know, you stand in the presence of the inventor of the loom-shuttle restraining device,” she declares.
“Restraining device?” echoes Fannie. Eliza’s face screws in incomprehension.
Ida sighs. “Neither of you worked the cotton mills, so I’ll pardon your ignorance. Suffice to say, it is an invention that has protected many a worker from harm. And if Mattie can conceive and create such a device, she’ll surely find a way to fold square-bottom bags by machine.”
Eliza’s eyes glow with newfound respect. Fannie’s frown, however, remains. “What about Frank?” she says.
I shrug. No one knows better than me how quickly he picked things up in the factory. “He’s a smart young man. I suspect he’ll give me a run for my money.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Fannie cries, looking fit to burst a corset stay. “Frank’s sweet on you. Do this, and you’ll lose your only chance at a beau.”
Ida elbows Fannie hard. “Don’t talk about Mattie like she’s a flea-bitten mongrel who can’t find a home.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!”
Suddenly, Eliza seizes my arm. “M-Mattie,” she says, pointing toward the hall entrance with her free hand. “L-look!”
I turn around and nearly drop my coffee. Standing at the threshold in his Sunday best is Frank Niebuhr. He spies us the same instant we see him, and we fall silent as he limps across the crowded space to our corner. “Hello, ladies,” he says, tipping his cap.
Cotton fills my lungs. Although the greeting goes to us all, his eyes lock on me.
“Frank, what a surprise,” Fannie squeaks, smiling nervously. “I thought you attended the Baptist Church.”
“I do,” says Frank, his manner uncharacteristically stiff. “But I dropped in because I hoped to find Mattie here. Mattie, can we talk? In private?”
“Of course.” The words come out automatically. Just as automatically, I follow him out of the Fellowship Hall. My mind, however, is a whirlwind.
I haven’t seen him since Valentine’s Day, and now we’re on opposing sides like Romeo and Juliet. As an employee, Frank’s obliged to follow the boss’s orders, so I’d never hold it against him. However, from his grim expression, I’m worried his heart might’ve gotten the better of his head. Did he refuse Mr. Yates? Did they fight? Is Frank in trouble?
As we exit to clear, crisp skies, I pray that Frank hasn’t been dismissed on account of me. On the other side of the wrought iron fence that separates the church grounds from Court Square, Sam and his friends race across the mud with his new kite. It catches the breeze, soaring skyward, and I wonder if Frank and I can rise above what comes.
He halts at a quiet spot in the church garden. “Mattie,” he says, facing me. “The Captain told me last night what you said to him.”
I steel myself. Whatever comes, we can bear it together.
“Good Lord,” Frank snaps, “are you trying to get yourself sacked? What were you thinking, mouthing off like that?”
Frank’s words hit like a kick to the stomach. “What do you mean, mouthing off?” I gasp.
“Wait …” He backs up a step, consternation invading his features. “Don’t tell me you actually meant everything you said about equal wages.”
“Of course I did,” I blurt. “Why shouldn’t I mean it?”
His bewildered expression hardens to flint. “Because it’s ridiculous,” he says, his low drawl honed razor-sharp. “That’s why.”
My heart shatters. I’d believed Frank would be my knight in shining armor, champion to my cause. Instead, he’s cut from the same cloth as Mr. Yates.
But the shock of heartbreak is almost immediately overshadowed by anger. “You realize,” I snarl, hands fisting, “I was the one to show you the ropes, not the other way around.”
“And I respect your skills, honest I do,” he says with maddening sincerity. “But your skill and our wages are two separate things. It’s just as the Captain says. Men getting higher pay is the natural order of things.”
“How so? Customers don’t pay extra for a paper bag because a man made it.”
As I fling my retort, passersby on the square glance our way. Even Sam and his friends have stopped to gawk. But I’m too furious to care, and that fury surges when Frank says, “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s a man’s responsibility to be the family breadwinner. Everyone knows men work harder to live up to that. That’s why we get more.”
“I am my family’s breadwinner,” I snap. “I work just as hard to support my widow mother and my brother.”
The indignation in Frank’s dark eyes softens to pity. The switch is so unexpected it takes me aback. “The Captain told me about your brother,” he murmurs.
“Then you should understand—”
“What I understand is that your brother’s failing you and your mother.”
It takes all my self-control not to slap him. “Enough,” I say, turning on my heel. “I don’t have to listen to—”
Frank seizes my wrist, forcing me to face him. “You think I don’t know what your brother went through? Well, I do, and a whole lot better than you.”
His grip tightens to a painful degree, but I can’t cry out, much less tear away. Torment contorts his face into one I scarcely recognize, and his tortured gaze paralyzes me as he rasps, “I saw friends shot to bits. I’ve had guts rain on me. I’ve smelled so much gangrene I thought the whole world was rotting. It was hell, Mattie, and not a soldier alive wasn’t crushed by it. Even after we came home, those ghosts followed us back.”
He lets go of my wrist, letting his hand fall to his side. “But you know what? Me and the others, we pulled ourselves together. Oak Creek was ruined, and our families needed us. If we didn’t help, they’d starve.” He turns aside, shoulders sagging. “It wasn’t easy. Not for any of us. Did you know Clem and Luke still feel their missing legs? They say the pain’s so bad sometimes it keeps them from sleeping, even though their legs are long gone. But they’re working with the rest of us because their folks are relying on them.”
Frank looks up at me, condemnation in his eyes. “That’s why I’ve no respect for a man who’ll weigh down his family. I’d sympathize if he was blind or crippled or if he’d just returned from the fighting. But the war’s been over more than two years. If he’s not pulling his share, he’s a deadbeat who cares nothing for you.”
“He does care!” Tears well up, but I blink them back, refusing to let Frank see me cry. “When my father died, Charlie went straight to work. He provided for us until the day he enlisted. I don’t know why he’s not back to himself, but I cannot abandon him.”
Frank’s gaze wavers, then drops. “You’re a good person, Mattie,” he sighs. “I admire that. But a girl’s supposed to rely on her menfolk, not the other way around. It’s not right.”
“I choose to support him,” I say, willing him to understand. “And I’ve been able to with my own hands. If you truly wish to help me, ask Mr. Yates to match our wages.”
His brow darkens. “No.”
“Frank—”
His hand whips up, cutting me off. “Mattie, I didn’t come to argue. I came because this harebrained deal will only hurt you. Now, I talked it over with the Captain, and he’s willing to forget it all and keep you as mechanic if you apologize. So if you want to keep helping your folks, you’d best eat humble pie.”
My jaw drops at the words flying from his tongue. Words that point to one thing. “You think I’ll lose.”
Frank folds his arms. “I never hold back in a contest. You’d be a fool to underestimate me.”
I was fool enough to imagine he’d throw the competition for me. Yet I’m grateful for his declaration. Because it makes clear where we both stand.
“So,” says Frank, “end this now or fight me. Your choice.”
My mouth twists. “Then consider this war.”
I start to flounce off, but halt for a final gauntlet. “One more thing,” I hurl at Frank’s stunned face. “I’ll raise the ante. Beat me, and I’ll not only give up being a mechanic, I’ll bring you coffee. Every morning.”