Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(23)

The man put down his polishing tool. “May I assist you?” he asked.

“I have one just like that,” I said, enthused to see another familiar object.

“The apple corer?” he asked, giving it a name.

“Yes,” I said, tapping on the case, “an apple corer. One such as this. I use it to whittle.”

He scraped back his stool as he stood. “Would you like to see it?” he asked.

“No,” I said, stepping back, alarmed that I had misrepresented myself. “I . . . I saw those birds in the window. They are splendid! My grandmother has the same, although hers are smaller. Did you make them here?”

“We did,” he said.

“How did you do it?” I asked, shaking my head in wonder.

“Are you interested in becoming a silversmith?” he asked, peering at me over his glasses.

“Is that what your sign is for? You want someone to help you make silver?”

“One doesn’t make silver, young man, one works with silver. We pour it, we shape it, we hammer it, but we do not make it.”

Though he was direct, there was a kindness to the man, and because of it, I dared ask my next question. “Could I learn how to make birds like that?” I asked, pointing back toward the window display.

“You are seeking employment?” He scanned my clothing and gave a quick look at my affected eye.

“Yes,” I said. “I need to work.”

“And what, sir, do you have for education?” he asked.

“I am good at reading and writing and mathematics. Oh, and I know some Latin.” His close scrutiny made me uncomfortable, and I glanced back at the birds in the window. “And I can carve a true likeness,” I said, quickly withdrawing from my burlap bag two miniature birds and a rabbit I had whittled recently. I placed them on the counter.

“Oh!” he said in surprise. He picked them up and held them to the light to study their silhouette. “These are quite remarkable,” he said, but again he looked at my affected eye. “Does your eye give you trouble when you do close-up work? Does it tire easily?”

“No,” I said, “my eye is good.”

He set the rabbit down on the counter, then positioned the birds on either side of it. He fussed with their placement until he was satisfied, then stepped back to look at them again. “As miniatures, these are quite exceptional,” he repeated.

Quickly, I dug out my sketchbook. “I’m good at drawing birds, but I can draw other things as well.”

He took the small pad from my hand and slowly paged through, then closed it and handed it back to me.

“I didn’t have paint,” I said, “they would be much better—”

He raised his hand to stop me. “You have quite a talent, young man.”

I saw hope. “Could I work here, then?”

“Tell me, where are you from?” he asked.

The question so startled me that my mouth went dry. “I’m from Virginia,” I said, “and I need to work.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, let me put it to you this way. You say you wish employment, and it appears you have a great talent. I believe you could be well suited to this work. Your speech and dress suggest a certain refinement, but the scent of you and the outright dirt on your clothing have me questioning what you are about.”

I looked down at myself. I had always been particular in my clothing and fastidious in my personal grooming, but in these past weeks out in the woods, I had forgotten my careful habits. I reached up and smoothed back my long hair, which had not seen water nor a brush since I had lost my satchel. What had I been thinking, to present myself this way? My face was hot when I turned away, but as I hastened for the exit, he called out, “Young man!”

I stopped to look back, my face burning.

“Cleanliness is what I am after. If you are interested, do as I suggest, then come back to see me before the week is up.”

Wanting only to escape, I nodded, then made a quick exit. Henry caught up to me as I briskly walked ahead. “The man got no work?”

“He said that I was a filthy pig,” I said.

“A pig!” Henry said. “He said you a pig!”

“Well, not in those words. He told me I need to get cleaned up.”

“Then he gives you the job?”

“I’ll never know,” I said.

“Why you never know?”

“Because he insulted me! I’m not going back,” I said.

Henry looked about to make certain that we were alone, then he spoke in a low voice. “Now you thinkin’ like a white boy. How you get ahead like that? You want somethin’, you got to fight for it! That mean you got to get cleaned up and go on back there.”

Furious, I strode on, but as I began to pass by some clothing shops, my fury lessened. I finally stopped in front of one display window that featured a white shirt and a beautifully tailored green velvet dress jacket. The gold lettering on the window read “Gentlemen’s Clothing.”

“Go on in,” Henry encouraged. “Get you some new clothes. You got the money.”

Embarrassed now at my appearance, I was reluctant to enter, but smarting from the silversmith’s insults, I went in, determined to clean myself up. On my exit, I carried a new leather satchel packed with three white cotton shirts, two pairs of dark breeches, a black jacket, some stockings, and a fine pair of black shoes. I also now owned scissors, a hairbrush, and a sandalwood-scented bar of soap.