Dishonoring Jack

Chapter Nine

"I should never have agreed to be floor supervisor," Jack grumbled as she sifted through the last of the stack of folders Walter Cartwright had left her to review before leaving the factory for the night.

The mirky glow of twilight was falling, and still Jack was at the factory with only a candle to light her way since gas lamps were far too risky with all the explosives in the factory. The factory had a few electric lights, enough to illuminate the women's work, but for the sake of keeping costs down, Cartwright preferred to use natural light instead. That was why huge windows lined each wall--to let sunlight in, as well as warmth and fresh air during the summer months. In the winter, however, the women had to choose between freezing air that could freeze off their fingers or breathing in the toxic fumes from the TNT. Jack would rather freeze, she decided.

"Done!" she declared aloud to herself as she lifted the stack of the folders in her arm, carefully balancing them so she wouldn't trip and have to reorder the many shipment orders she'd reviewed. Her boots echoed on the floor as she walked across the factory floor to the narrow stairs that led to the separate office building, heated by a coal stove and fully insulated for the comfort of Mr. Cartwright, his business associates, and the secretaries he employed.

"Perhaps I should have become a secretary," Jack mumbled under her breath as she jogged up the stairs. When she reached the top, she balanced the stack of papers and turned the doorknob with her elbow.

The office was empty and dark, all of its inhabitants home with their families for the evening, and Jack tripped over a crate as she went. She hopped the rest of the way to the desk and deposited the files, flying out the door and into the early evening.

Only a few thin clouds marred the serene sunset sky, fire and lavender marked in sharp strata. Jack paused for a moment beside her bicycle, discarded behind the women's building, and studied the sky. Her spirit lifted as her gaze traced the panorama around her, and she spun in a slow circle, a satisfied smile creeping across her face.

Oh, hang it all, she thought. I can't be angry when the world has so much beauty to offer. Jack placed one foot on the closest pedal and both hands on the handlebars and swung herself onto the bike, her petticoats fluttering as she began to fly down the road. The artistry of the scenery fueled her weary muscles.

Home loomed before her only a few minutes later, and even Theodore the donkey's corpulent figure looked poetic silhouetted against the majestic sunsight. Jack laughed at the thought and hopped off her bike. As she walked the rest of the way to her house, she spared a glance at the Bookers and wondered for not the first time about Donovan.

How long would he stay here? It had only been a few days since their unexpected meeting and the dinner that had followed, and already that day felt like something of a dream. Jack had spent so long disregarding those who didn't choose to look beyond her outer facade that she had not expected to find a friend is such an unlikely fellow, yet she had. And now she wondered how long he would spend in the town of Irvington. His Model T was still in the Bookers' front yard, so he was still here at least, and they would probably meet again--they were temporary neighbors, after all.

The distressed bleating of a goat interrupted Jack's aimless speculations, and she turned to find her most troublesome barnyard animal, Lawrence, munching on grass in her front yard instead of in the fenced pasture where he belonged.

His eyes were round and rolled back in his head as he bawled, casting mournful eyes towards the four goats still enclosed in the pasture.

"Lawrence, you rascal!" Jack cried, throwing down her bike and her bag with fury. "Not again."

Though Jack loved to garden, she was not much of a farmer when it came to animal husbandry. She loved her livestock too much and they knew it, so they got away with just about everything because she refused to punish them for their misbehavior, much less sell or eat them. And Lawrence was the worst of the lot.