The Child Lives On
Chapter Seventeen
Ogden Brockmeyer's my name, fine clothing's my game. A confirmed bachelor, I'm set in my ways, which makes the following all the more extraordinary.
On a day like any other day, a little girl walked into my store. "Sir," she said, "will you buy this scarf?"
Taking the scarf from her hand, I looked it over. It was of surprisingly fine quality.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Cassandra."
"Did you knit this?"
"Yes, sir. I did."
"Did you really?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll give you ten dollars for it."
"Ten dollars?"
"It's a fair price, I believe."
"I'll say it is."
She ran out of the shop with ten dollars. I sold the scarf for twenty.
The next day, she brought in another, and we made the same deal. The third day, I gave her a job. However, it didn't take long to see that she didn't know a stitch from a hole in the ground.
"You didn't really knit these scarves, did you?" I asked.
"No, sir." she said.
"Who did?"
"I'm not telling."
She ran out of the shop, and that was the last I saw of her.
Somebody knitted those beautiful scarves, and I was going to find out who it was. Cassandra, or whatever her name was, told me, at some point, I don't remember when, that she was living in the orphanage, so that's where I went. The matron in charge couldn't give me a definitive answer. "Many of our girls knit," she said.
"Like this?" I asked, holding up the scarf that I brought with me.
"I really couldn't say."
"Is there any way to find out?"
"Come with me."
The building was sturdy and solid, and painted in bland institutional colors without adornments. Large communal dorms separated the boys from the girls. A recreational area was located in the rear. In one of the rooms, a dozen or so girls were knitting. When the matron and I entered, I held up the scarf. "Did one of you girls knit this?" I asked.
A cacophony of voices shouted, "I did! I did!"
"If you don't mind, I will examine your work."
One by one, I examined the knitting, and saw only amateur and inferior workmanship, until I came upon the smallest and quietest girl in the room. I knew at a glance I had found her. "Did you knit this?" I asked, holding up the scarf.
"Oui, Monsieur," she said.
"She's lying!" cried the other girls.
"Hush!" said the matron, finally asserting some authority.
"Will you come with me?" I said to the girl. "I would like to speak with you alone."
She gathered up her knitting and hopped out of her chair. When I reached out to take her hand, she shied away from me.
"She won't let a man touch her," said the matron.
"Timid?" I asked.
"More than that, I think.
As we left the room, cries of, "She's lying! Don't listen to her!" followed us down the hall.
We seated ourselves in the matron's office. Before climbing into her chair, the child pushed it as far away from me as possible. "Emily," said the matron, "this is Mr. Brockmeyer."
"A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Brockmeyer," said Emily.
"Mr. Brockmeyer is the owner of Brockmeyer's Fine Clothing."
"Owner and manager," I said.
"You wish to speak with me?" asked Emily.
"Yes, I do, my dear. I would like you to come work for me."
"Work for you?"
"Your scarves are of very fine quality."
"Merci."
"Can you knit anything else?"
"Oui, of course. I can knit whatever you desire."
"Wonderful."
"Will I be paid?"
"Of course."
"What is the rate?"
Impressed by her forthrightness, I laid out my plan.
She raised her eyebrows. "A very fine offer, Monsieur."
"Will you take it?"
"Oui, Monsieur, I will."
"Wonderful. Now I have another offer."
This is when a snap decision changed my life forever. Having been a smaller than average child, I was familiar with bullying. The scene in the knitting room had really stuck in my craw.
"Another offer?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "I would like to offer you a home."
"Where?"
"In my home, of course."
"Are you married, Monsieur?"
"No."
"Would it be safe and proper for me to reside with you?"
Rubbing my chin, I thought it over carefully. "You bring up a very fine point, my dear, a very fine point indeed. I tell you what, I'll hire a governess to watch over you. What do you say?"
"This governess, will she carry a pistol?"
A pistol? "I hardly think that would be necessary."
"You never know, Monsieur."
What is she afraid of? "My dear, I will do everything in my power to insure your protection."
"Madame," she said to the matron, "do you know this man?"
"Only by reputation," said the matron, "but I assure you, we won't hand you over to just anybody. Enquiries will be made. Inspections will be done."
And so, the process began. I didn't take her home that day, which was just as well; a room had to be prepared and a governess hired. I did, however, take her to my place of business, and introduced her to the tailors, seamstresses and clerks, and showed-off the workshop, warehouse and store. The matron accompanied us.
Out in front of the orphanage, as we approached my brand new Seldon Runabout, Emily stopped and stared. "Monsieur," she said, "I have never ridden in a horseless carriage."
"Nor I," said the matron.
"Is it safe?"
"Don't worry," I said. "It's pulled, or in this case, pushed, by a different kind of horse."
"A different kind of horse?"
"A mechanical horse."
"Where are its legs?"
"It has wheels instead of legs, and an engine, frame and drive-train instead of organs, bones and muscles."
"What will they think of next?"
While the matron helped Emily into the motor-car, and climbed in after her, I cranked the engine. When the engine turned over, they covered their ears. "You'll get used to the noise," I said, as I took my seat behind the wheel.
"Eh?" they said at the same time.
Though we were only traveling about twenty miles an hour through the city, Emily's bright green eyes sparkled with excitement. Turning to me, she shouted, "This is really quite exhilarating, Monsieur. The horses are frisky today."
"Yes," I said with a laugh. "The horses are frisky today."
It seemed to me, we were establishing a rapport.
Little did I know what changes were in store when I brought the child into my home. Only my study and bedroom were spared the onslaught of flowers, lace and what not, which spread throughout the house like wildfire. To be fair, permission was requested and granted. A French accent, sparkling green eyes, and a sweet dimpled smile are potent weapons when wielded by an adorable little girl with auburn curls.
The redecorated house was only the beginning. Imagine my surprise when I discovered fresh fruits and vegetables on the dinner table. Fruits and vegetables? My word! Meat and potatoes was good enough for my father and was certainly good enough for me. And yet, Emily just had to say, "Will you not have a small portion of spinach with your steak, Monsieur Ogden?" and to please her, I would nibble a few nasty leaves. Since then, she has coaxed more vegetables into me than I ever thought possible. Again, it would take a stronger man than I to withstand the power of those dimples.
With thoughts of enriching her education, I bought a 'McGuffey Reader', and offered to read it to her. She went to the bookshelf, pulled out 'The Three Musketeers' and brought it to me. "Monsieur Ogden," she said, "would you read this instead?"
"My dear," I said, "this is far too advanced."
"Is it? I was certain it would be easy for you."
"No, my dear. I meant it was too advanced for you."
"But I have already read this book in its original language."
Incredulous, I asked her to read it aloud to me, which she did in a most lively and entertaining way. Needless to say, I was astonished. She must be a prodigy, I was thinking.
Money can't buy affection, I know, but it can help to show that you care. With that in mind, I purchased a Yorkshire terrier and a special hand-made dolly, which Emily named Jacques and Clara respectively. When I saw how much she appreciated the gifts, I was pleased. She never went anywhere without them. In the shop, Jacques would sit at her feet, content to be near his mistress. He became a great favorite with the staff, and didn't lack for pats on the head and treats. The dolly was given a special place on her work-table, and was treated with the utmost care and respect. More than once, when she didn't know I was listening, she'd clutch the dolly to her chest and whisper, with tears in her eyes, "Clara, Clara, I miss you most of all."
Which leads us to another concern:
If she had one fault, it was this: She had a hard time distinguishing between fantasy and reality. Many an evening, she would tell tall-tales of witch hunts, angry mobs, aristocrats in London, peasants in France, ocean voyages, madhouses, murder mysteries, and the like, as if she were a witness to them all. Concerned, I consulted Margie, her governess.
"Mr. B.," said Margie, "it's not unusual for a child to have a wild imagination."
"Perhaps it's my upbringing," I said. "You see, my father discouraged that sort of thing."
"And you were taught to be practical, weren't you?"
"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"Of course not, and she will learn as she grows. Have a little patience, Mr. B. She's still a child."
My patience was tested on another front as well. Though we were on friendly terms, Emily kept her distance at all times. Whenever I came too close, she would scamper away like a scared little rabbit, hiding behind Margie's skirts. It was giving me a complex. I wondered, Am I really that scary? This was a problem which needed to be addressed. In my opinion, to have a happy home, mutual trust was necessary. Again, I consulted Margie.
"Give her time, Mr. B.," she said. "She has suffered something traumatic in her past."
"At the orphanage?" I asked.
"I don't think so. She's not afraid of women or children."
"Just men."
"Yes, just men."
"Has she told you anything at all?"
"No, she hasn't. I've asked her, but she refuses to even acknowledge its existence. Whatever it is, she's locked it up and thrown away the key."
"Do you have any suggestions?"
"Give her time, that's all."
"Very well. I'll give her all the time she needs."
So I waited, and bit my tongue. The situation continued for close to a year, and my concern only grew. Then one day, when least expected, like a miracle, it happened. Emily, Margie and I were shopping downtown, as we often did. Normally, Emily would walk on the other side of Margie; but this time, while we were waiting to cross the main thoroughfare, Emily stepped between us and slipped her tiny hand into mine. Startled, I looked down at her. She was gazing off into the distance, like nothing unusual had happened. Margie was grinning ear to ear. A happy feeling came over me, and I couldn't help but laugh.
"What?" said Emily, looking from one of us to the other. "Did something happen?"
"My dear," I said, "let's celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Life, my dear. Let's celebrate life."
And we immediately set out for the ice cream shop.
So if you know a bachelor set in his ways, don't think him a lost cause. He might just be waiting for a reason to change.