“Kitchen boys had it. Told me one of your guests gave it to them after Tuesday’s party. Sounded unusual is all. I just wanted to make sure it was alright for them to have it.”
“Last Tuesday?” Mr. Barclay blinked. “Who was that? The Southerners? That doesn’t make sense. Southerners don’t give books to colored children. Hand it over.”
He took the book. Mr. Sitwell watched him strain his mind to recall the events of the Tuesday before, the effort making him seem very old. After a while he set it back down on his desk.
“Alright, yes, I do remember. One of those Florida jokers was passing these out like party favors. I forget why. Might have been claiming some relation to the protagonist.”
“Yeah? From Florida?”
“The two I’m after, yes. Had a whole group of them in here, trying to make them feel at home. Got a concern I’m after down there. They’ll be back on Friday. I’m still trying to unload some of this junk. . . .”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. He was aware of Mr. Barclay’s current negotiations, at least so far as they affected the kitchen. After accepting that there was no way to divest himself from the food business without taking a substantial loss, Mr. Barclay had discovered an urgent need to shift production at one of his plants to the South where labor was cheaper. There was a functional plant on the market that Mr. Barclay was interested in purchasing but could not afford to do so until he sold one of his current ones. This meant he was negotiating two deals at once: one with a group of New Englanders he hoped to sell to and the other with a group of Southerners he hoped to buy from. Because of the particular way Mr. Barclay conducted his business, this also meant a lot of entertaining. Mr. Barclay was convinced that contracts were best negotiated on his home turf, preferably after a good meal, and Miss Mamie had been complaining all week about the difficulty of trying to come up with menus for two such divergent palates on the tight budget she’d been allotted for it.
Mr. Sitwell nodded to the book. “You say these Florida men claim some relation to this man on the cover?”
“I don’t know, Sitwell. I don’t listen to all the nonsense coming from the mouths of fools. I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“But the ones you’re dealing with . . . there’s two of them?”
“That’s right. Cousins.”
“They tell you their names?”
“Well, of course, they . . .” Mr. Barclay sighed. “Look here, Sitwell. What is this? Why are you bothering me with all these questions? Are you saying the boys are thieves? You come here to tell me you suspect they stole this book?”
“No, sir. Just the opposite,” Mr. Sitwell said quickly. “I just wanted to make sure that they didn’t get nothing confused somehow. Don’t want them getting into trouble. Thought it best to bring it to you straightaways.”
He watched Mr. Barclay’s eyes glaze over.
“What do you think I do in here, Sitwell? At night, when you see a white man sitting behind a desk? And it’s late and he’s tired and should be in bed sleeping? I’m asking because I’d really like an answer. Do I look busy to you? Because it occurs to me that maybe if a man hasn’t got a hoe or a shovel or a slop bucket in his hand, it doesn’t appear to you that he’s actually working.”
Mr. Sitwell said nothing.
“How long have you been here anyhow?”
“A long time, sir. A very long time.”
“Well, that’s true now, isn’t it?” Mr. Barclay said. “Never mind, Sitwell. You did right coming to me instead of Mamie. Matter of fact, speaking of the boys . . . Why don’t you shut that door for a minute? I have a question for you.”
Mr. Sitwell shut the door and sat down.
“How old are those children, anyway?”
“Mac and Frederick are fourteen. Bart just turned fifteen.”
“And they are doing alright in that kitchen? You and Mamie are pleased with them so far?”
“Extremely pleased,” Mr. Sitwell said. “They are good boys.”
Mr. Barclay nodded. “Something I need to know. Can’t ask Mamie, she’s worse than you with the questions. So maybe you can help.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I want you to tell me, if it came down to it, which one of those boys would you let go first?”
“Sir?”
“It’s a simple question. I’m asking you to make a choice.”
“But why?”
“I have to cut back on household expenses. Things have been hard since the downturn and, as much as I am dedicated to continuing my wife’s charity work, I’ll not endanger the stability of the house to it. And that means one of those boys has got to go.”
Mr. Sitwell shifted in his seat. Had he been inclined to speak his mind he would have reminded his employer that it was only charity so long as one discounted the fact that a grown man asked to do the same work would have demanded more than the two dollars a week the three boys were content to split between themselves.
Instead he said, “Are you sure you need to do that? I mean, I can’t imagine those boys account for a very large expense. If we need to cut back, perhaps there’s something else we might do, something that would have more of an impact on the actual—”
“No. Now, look, I don’t expect you to understand. But I’ve given this a great deal of thought and I simply cannot go on supporting all three of those children. We’ll just have to hope that the time the child has already spent here will have some sort of enduring civilizing effect.”
“Yes, sir. But . . . the boys are so close. They work so well together. How could I possibly pick one?”
“Well, you pick the one you deem the least valuable, of course. That’s usually how such things are done. It’s a simple question, Sitwell. Just answer it.”
“I really can’t say, sir,” Mr. Sitwell said. “I’d need time to think about it.”
“Well, you do that. You think about it. But do it in your own home, understand? Because it’s late and I want you out of mine. You can give me your answer tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Barclay gave the book a push toward the edge of the desk with the tip of his finger. “Take this nonsense with you. Let them keep it, I really don’t care.”
Mr. Sitwell picked up the book and walked out of the man’s study.
When he got back to the kitchen, the boys were hard at work washing pots. Had they simply followed instructions they would have been finished hours before, but by the way they laughed and jostled one another he could tell they’d been telling the truth: they didn’t mind working late. They’d meant what they’d said, had only been trying to be helpful and not disturb Mr. Barclay’s guests. They were good boys.
“Miss Jennie went to put the napkins away,” Frederick said. “Said to tell you she’d be right back.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded.
All at once, without thinking about it or even wanting to, Mr. Sitwell realized that he did know which one he would send away if it ever came down to that: Frederick. Not because he was the least valuable but, on the contrary, because he was the strongest. He’d seen the way Frederick looked out for the other two. The boy was a natural leader, the one of the three who stood the best chance of surviving if he ever were to find himself alone in the world. He was also the only one who could actually read, which would have meant the removal of a powerful distraction for Mac and Bart, and yet might also make him seem more desirable to a potential employer who had not had occasion to take such a consideration into account.