Lucinda's Solution Read online

  At breakfast the next morning, my mother was disconcerted to hear of my father’s plan.

  “Lucinda is still a little girl,” she said. “She does not belong in a lumber yard.”

  “She is shrewd and practical,” answered Father. “I need to disseminate the practice of conducting a successful business. For all our sakes.”

  “She cannot work among all those coarse men,” argued my mother. “And she will be trampled by the wagons that constantly come and go. No one will even see such a tiny thing.”

  Which I was not. I was the third tallest girl in my class. Only the Olmstead twins were taller and they were older than I by ten months.

  “I will be careful of her innocence and feminine weakness. She will work in the office. She will be my assistant.”

  And he winked at me. My father. My father winked at me.

  Amelia at that point prepared herself to cry. It looked to be genuine, so distraught was she at my father’s unprecedented display of affection towards me. It almost made the thought of spending the next forty years working for my father seem appealing. I had passed the night in abject regret of having brought the idea to my father in the first place. I’d meant for him to worry about his death in order to require Martin’s services, not mine. And in the long dark sleepless night, I saw how my father’s technique of destroying me by calling me homely and unpleasant had made me more vulnerable to the flattery that accompanied the disparagement.

  Catherine chimed in. “Your assistant! How grand!”

  My father sipped his coffee and looked magnanimous. “Yes, Lucinda will be an invaluable assistant.”

  “And what is the rate of pay for such an invaluable assistant?” Catherine asked.

  Oh, my father may have outmaneuvered me, but Catherine was the final winner of the game.

  Father looked stricken. Of course, he had not intended to pay me. But now he was obliged to do so or admit that I would not be of help.

  “I’ve given that considerable thought,” he said, although I could certainly see the calculations he was quickly running in his head. “Most of my workers are paid fifty cents an hour. But as an apprentice, and a female apprentice at that, I think it would be more than fair to start at twelve cents an hour.” Father nodded, agreeing with himself. “More than fair.”

  I couldn’t really disagree. I had no idea what folks earned. I was rich when I had a nickel. I looked at my mother and Catherine. They didn’t look shocked one way or the other.

  “How much do I have to work? I still want to go to school.”

  “Of course you will stay in school. We have years to teach you the business. But no shirking either. You will have great responsibilities. You leave school at 3:30, correct?” He did not wait for me to answer. “It should take no longer than twenty minutes to walk from school to the lumberyard. So I will expect you at 3:50 every day. You can come home with me at 6:30. Except Friday. You may have Friday afternoon off. And then on Saturdays, we can go to work together at 6:00, but you can go home at noon.”

  I could not do the math in my head the way Father could, but I recognized that this would be over one dollar a week. My mother instantly realized the same thing.

  “A child cannot have that kind of money!” She looked at my unhappy face. “Even a responsible girl like Lucinda,” she added.

  “I’ll save it!” I said, proving to her that I was indeed a responsible girl. “I’ll save it and go to college.”

  Now it was Father’s turn to reveal a horrified face. “Now, now, Lucinda. Very few women go to college. It isn’t appropriate.”

  “But some do!” I said. “Helen Keller went to college, and she’s blind and deaf. Harriet Beecher Stowe went to college - at her sister Catharine’s school. And I have a sister Catherine, even though it’s spelled a little different. It was meant to be!”

  “Differently,” said Father.

  “What would you study in school?” asked Catherine.

  I knew what I wanted to study, though it wouldn’t suit Father any. But it was a long way off anyway. I didn’t even want Father’s job, but now I had to have it. It was just a matter of pride and defiance, and according to Father, I had an abundance of both. So I gave an answer that would not meet resistance from either of my parents.

  “I would train to be a teacher,” I said. “That is a suitable position for an unmarried lady.”

  “Unmarried?” said my mother. “Why ever do you think that?”

  I handed the butter to Amelia. “I just have to be realistic,” I said. “I’m no beauty.”

  “Nonsense!” said Catherine. “Why Martin said this weekend that you are quite striking. Individuality should be prized.”

  “Like having your eyes a bit too close together?” I asked.

  “Your eyes are not too close together,” my mother said. “They are just the perfect distance for you.”

  “They are practically touching,” I said. “They would probably actually touch if it wasn’t for the beak I have in the middle of my face.”

  “You have an elegant nose,” said Catherine. “And intelligence in your eyes and brows. And perfect lips that someday some boy will greatly admire.”

  “No one would want to kiss you,” said Amelia.

  “I would kiss you,” said Malcolm. I almost did kiss him at that moment, if it weren’t for the jam spread evenly across his cheeks.

  “Enough nonsense,” declared Mother. “You will all marry and give me pretty grandchildren. And perhaps you will go to college one day, Lucinda. We will save for it with your generous salary from Father. You can keep ten cents each week from what you earn, and the rest goes into the bank. And you must have Mondays free as well as Fridays. I will not have you relinquishing your piano lessons.”

  And so it was settled. I had a job.

  CHAPTER 4

  It wasn’t so bad.

  I made the trek to the Lumber Yard right from school on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

  The first day Sister Michael ran after me for heading in a direction not home. I explained that I would be working for my father three days a week. She told me I needed a note from my parents that would allow me to walk anyplace but home. I never even realized the sisters watched us, but then again, I wasn’t surprised either. Those nuns watched how we placed our boots in the cloakroom. They knew what aisle our family chose for Sunday Mass. They knew if we made the slightest pencil mark in the books that had been used in the school for the past century. (Truly. I had a history book that mentioned the recent end to the “War Of The Rebellion” and it was as pristine as it had been under President Grant.)

  I explained to Sister Michael that my father had only allowed me twenty minutes to walk more than a mile-and-a-half and I could not even stop to discuss a permission slip. Sister Michael knew my father. She gave me a little push in the right direction and said, “Hurry.” I heard her holler as I trotted away.

  “Bring your permission note tomorrow!”

  My father showed me around the place that first day. He was proud of all his bins and stacks and nails. He was nearly as proud of me when he introduced me to his employees. I did not quite get the same glow of loving ownership that the roofing shingles received, but I would say I did get considerably more than the tarpaper.

  Everyone was very polite. Some of the men doffed their caps, but most just touched their fingers to their caps and kept on working. There was no way they would take an extra second to be polite when it meant they would have to stop working in front of my father. He seemed appreciative that they could say “How do you do?” and continue to throw the sorted wood into the right cubbyhole.

  Jack O’Hara was the man who worked the customers. Jolly Jack, he was called by everyone. Father told me later that one always needed someone with the common touch to ensure that the customers come b
ack.

  “I don’t deceive myself,” he confided. “I don’t have it. But you can always hire it. However,” and he lowered his voice further, “you need to watch those personable types very carefully. A soft heart sometimes gets in the way of making a fair profit. But I have a prize with Jolly Jack. As honest as he is friendly. So I pay him well. And I have his three sons working too. I’m hoping that one will be like Jack, and keep the public happy and his hand out of the till. You must watch all three and tell me which one might replace Jolly Jack. You have to prepare, you know. The Irish, with their high color and their penchant for drink - they often die young.”

  I nodded seriously. Jolly Jack did have rosy cheeks and a big belly. He was about Father’s age. He could die at any moment.

  I also learned that although my father was well-known for paying fair wages, he was judicious as to how his employees were paid. The fellows with the strong backs were paid the least. “You can always get another set of muscles,” Father said. Of course, the combination of brains and brawn put workers into a different category. The men who could think and make decisions were rewarded. But those were kept to a minimum. It was dangerous to have the men out in the yard second-guessing you. “A few smart ones who can see how to stack the lumber efficiently, and keep the men from killing themselves. That’s all you need. And those rabble-rousers who would stir up discontent - well, I steer them over to Patterson’s,” he added with a chuckle.

  Then there were those who could handle a team and could be counted on to make accurate deliveries. And the ones who had good reading and arithmetic skills, who could plan schedules or add up orders in their heads. Their wages were good, and they sometimes received a little extra in their pay packet.

  “The rules of the Yard are simple: come to work every day on time, work hard, and don’t steal. Don’t drink either - not on the job, anyway. And you’d be surprised how many folks want a nip in the morning. I’m lax on the coarse language though. I’d like to fire every person who took the Lord’s name in vain, but then I’d be here alone.” He laughed again. This amazed me. Two laughs in one conversation. I had not heard so much in one week. “I might even have to fire you,” he said, “from what Amelia tells me about your salty tongue!” At this I laughed too, but my father did not laugh this time.

  “On this I am serious, Lucinda. Your mother and I will be gravely disappointed if you pick up bad habits here. There is much to learn, but not all of it is good.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Jolly Jack’s three sons appeared to me to be from separate mothers. The oldest, Samuel, was gaunt and stern. He worked the delivery schedules and calculated wages. He’d put the cash in little envelopes, and demanded that the empty packets be returned within three days for re-use. Father loved him for his frugalness. But the other workers detested him.

  The middle son was Richard. He was strong and tanned from the sun. He took much pride in displaying his arm muscles. He removed his shirt as soon as the temperature rose above freezing. He was well aware of his handsomeness, and flirted with me, although he knew I was the boss’s daughter and only twelve. Or perhaps because I was the boss’s daughter and only twelve. What a coup it would be to become son-in-law to Benedict Lumber.

  I had heard (and asked Catherine to explain, but she would not) that Richard had children but no wife. Without a clear idea what this exactly meant, I was given to understand that this was not a good thing, and that perhaps Richard was not bound for heaven.

  The youngest of Jolly Jack’s boys was Peter. He was sixteen. He had Irish-red hair and more freckles than stars in the sky. He wore thick glasses - “My mum thought I was as blind as a bat, but Dad said no way… he never leaves a crumb on his plate.” Peter drove one of the delivery wagons. It appeared the horses competed for his love, which he doled out as if they were his own offspring.

  “This is my Zeke,” he said as he introduced me to a big black horse with a prominent sway to his back and yellow hooves. “Isn’t he a prince? And this bay, this is Carthage, who is older than all the wood in the forest, but still strong and fit.” And I regarded the old tailless and almost toothless wreck.

  “Don’t tell your papa, but I let them stop every day at the meadow by the river. Just a few minutes. There’s some fine clover there, and it puts them in good humor for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Peter also brought carrots for his team, and I had the impression that he did so because the carrots were beneficial to their eyesight - he usually ate a few himself. “Just taking care,” he said. He also indicated, just in case I thought he was cheating my father by taking ten minutes to pamper the horses every day, that carrots were expensive.

  “Maybe you could grow some yourself,” I suggested.

  “Oh, a garden! Wouldn’t that be sweet? That’s what I’m going to do when I am out on my own. Have a big garden with all sorts of fine vegetables. And fruit trees. I give apples to these fellows in the fall. I can get the bruised ones cheap.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Since I was fourteen. But I didn’t get to drive the wagon until I was fifteen. Best year of my life.”

  “So far,” I added.

  Our conversations never went on longer than a few sentences. Peter was diligent about not shirking on the job (except for the meadow break, and I wondered what he did in those ten-minute respites he gave the animals). And of course I was careful that my father did not see me talking to any of the men for long. But he did ask me to size up the O’Hara boys, and so I considered this part of my responsibilities.

  I managed during one short talk with Peter to ask him about his plans for the future.

  “Well, just like you said… to have a garden.”

  “But what job do you see yourself doing?”

  “This one for sure. Me and my horses.”

  “What about seeing to customers, like your father?”

  “Ah nope. Can’t read.”

  I was appalled. A man of sixteen who cannot read? But perhaps it was just his poor eyesight, and not any lack of learning. I didn’t quite know how to ask this, however.

  I hoped that Father did not ask which of Jolly Jack’s sons he should groom for Jack’s expected demise. One stingy and unpleasant, one burly and destined for hell, and one with a kind heart who couldn’t read a bill of sale. Maybe I could encourage Jolly Jack to give up the drink.

  As far as my own duties went, watching the O’Hara boys was just a small part. Father taught me inventory and ordering. I went to the bins and counted shingles, nails, and other supplies every day. From those numbers I made a chart, and determined over the course of two months, what the average usage was, and so calculated when we would need to order more and how much to order.

  My father was delighted by this, as my charts and projections turned out to agree with his own ordering schedule. By delighted, I mean that he said, “You did not put us out of business this week, Lucinda.”

  He instructed me as to seasonality. If one ordered as much in the Fall as we had done in Spring, we would be spending our cash for product that would sit on the shelf. “You cannot eat shingles, Lucinda. So you must forecast properly.” And he gave me huge old ledgers of the previous ten years, which I was to study and chart the ebb and flow of the lumber business. He was to test me on this by October. If I passed (or rather, as Father put it, did not fail too wretchedly), then I would start on the prestigious coal business.

  “Aha,” I said. “Without studying I would say that coal transactions go up when the lumber transactions go down!”

  “You must not be so full of yourself, Lucinda,” he said. But he pulled from his pocket a butterscotch candy, which I am sure had been originally intended for Amelia.

  CHAPTER 6

  I managed to keep up with my schoolwork (Mama’s first priority) and my piano lessons (Mama’s second priority) as well
as learning the lumber trade (Father’s only priority). My own priority was to spend every other available minute with Catherine before I lost her to Connecticut.

  It was to be a grand wedding. This surprised me as I had expected Father to be loathed to fund such extravagance.

  But as arrangements advanced, Father grew more and more magnanimous. He indulged Catherine more than I had ever seen him do. He had shown such steadfast disapproval of Catherine’s so-called flippancy over the last several years, but suddenly seemed to have a change of heart. He was determined that she should have the best dress in all of Massachusetts as well as a fine lace veil, and a trousseau that would rival those New York City society brides who embarked on a European Tour as honeymoon. It became my mother’s role to be the rational decision maker. And in my Father’s increasingly pleasant mood, he also took great pride in Mother’s level-headedness.

  I heard at the lumber yard that Mary Patterson, the daughter of Father’s rival, Randolph Patterson, had eloped to New York City with an Italian. Whether this scandal affected my father’s generosity I cannot say.

  Catherine wanted everything and nothing. She took great pleasure in the attention and the extravagance. She danced around the house wearing her laundry-day clothes and her magnificent veil. But on the other hand, if my mother pronounced that there would be only two tiers to the wedding cake and not four, Catherine would say, “That sounds perfect.”

  For the truth was that Catherine only wanted Martin. All the accompaniments were a joy, but superfluous.

  “We are going to have such a sweet life,” she told me as we prepared for bed just a few days before the wedding. “You should see the quaint little apartment we have rented in New Haven. We’re going to be just like in ‘The Gift of The Magi’ - except without me having to cut my hair, of course. Because we tell each other everything. Martin’s so intelligent, and he even believes that I am intelligent too.”