May 9, 1891
In all his thirty-one years, Zenus Dane had never expected to see seven inches of rainfall during a six-hour period.
He trudged through the flooded floor of the textile mill he was able to inspect since the fire marshal had declared it safe. Still, the water reached the third metal clasp of his vulcanized rubber boots, a product he wished he had invented, but was thankful Charles Goodyear did. Although, at the moment, he felt more nauseated than thankful. Through the hole in the roof, the morning sun revealed the full extent of the destruction caused by Friday after- noon’s deluge setting a record for one-day rainfall in Philadelphia.
April was the month for deluges. Not May.
His mouth sour over the damage, Zenus looked to his foreman at the other end of the mill. The man didn’t have to speak for Zenus to know he shared his grim thoughts.
Zenus stopped at the loom farthest from the collapsed roof. A floral cotton print lay half-woven in the machine. Unlike the bolts of textiles in the storage room, the print was as dry as his gabardine suit. It was also water-stained on the bottom portion of the roll. As he had with the other machines, he examined the loom’s frame, the crankshaft, tight-and-loose pulleys, picker stick, shuttle, and race plate. All damp. Oxidation here, too, on the bolts where the floodwater reached its highest level. The looms hadn’t even had a month of usage, and now rust?
As if his flooded warehouse of raw cotton bales wasn’t a torturous enough loss.
A fitting why God? moment if there ever was one.
Zenus whipped his newsboy’s cap off his head, ran his hands through his hair, then put the cap back on. Living by faith could be hazardous.
With a shake of his head, he released a breath.
No sense bemoaning fate. Count it all joy—it was the only con- tingency he had. And he would count it all joy that he’d fallen into this trial, because the testing of his faith was producing patience in him. He didn’t consider himself an impatient man. His well-planned schedules allotted time for the unexpected and diversions; they resulted in maximum efficiency. Everything would work out, in time. Optimism: the first necessary ingredient for success. Don’t lament the obstacles was the second. A few days were all he needed to solve this setback.
He could—no, he would—do it.
After a slap to the loom beam, Zenus stood. “Cousin Zenus!”
He looked across the mill’s vast floor to the entrance. His ten-year-old goddaughter Aimee stood with her father, waving frantically, while wearing her perpetual smile. The parts of her blue dress not stuck in her rubber boots grazed the surface of the floodwater.
He waved back with a silly expression, knowing it’d make her giggle.
And she did.
“Morning,” his cousin Sean Gallagher called out, his voice echo- ing in the practically empty mill.
Sean said something to the fire marshal then touched Aimee’s head. The fire marshal, nodding, motioned Sean to enter. As they did, he resumed pointing to the second-story rafters and speaking to three other firemen, likely, about the hole in the flat roof.
Sean gripped Aimee’s hand. He slogged forward with the pants of his gray suit tucked inside his own pair of shin-high galoshes, his arm and Aimee’s a pendulum between them, their legs creating ripples in the water.
“I should’ve insisted you buy flood insurance,” Sean said. Zenus’s lips twitched with amusement. Typical of Sean to cut to the should’ve. “Buying flood insurance wasn’t logical. When was the last time this part of Philly flooded?”
Sean gave a yeah-you’re-right shrug as he waded through the water.
“I’m sorry about your mill,” Aimee said in almost a whisper.
“It’ll be all right, sweetheart.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Did Noah have flood insurance?”
She shook her head, her dark corkscrew curls swaying. “Did he survive?”
She nodded.
“Then things will work out for me as well.”
“Sometimes your optimism annoys me.” Sean stopped with Aimee one loom from where Zenus was. He rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced about the mill, his blue eyes even lighter in the morning sun. “You’ll need a new roof before production can resume. Insurance will cover it. Unfortunately, it won’t cover dam- age caused by rising water.”
Zenus motioned to the looms around the mill floor. “Is any of this fabric covered by insurance because the damage was caused by the collapsed roof brought on by an act of God, not by flooding?”
“Yes, but”—Sean removed folded papers from his suit coat’s inner pocket—“let me see what your policy says.”
Zenus blinked, stunned his cousin actually remembered to bring the policy. Details, Sean never forgot. Items—always. If the man ever married again, his wife would have to accept Sean would remember their anniversary, but wouldn’t remember to get a gift. Or if he did remember to buy a gift, he would leave it at his law office or in the cab or at the café where he always had a coffee after leaving work.
Good man. Honorable. Just forgetful.
“What isn’t excluded,” Sean said, “is included, so it’s covered. But from what I can tell, none of the fabric on the looms looks damaged.”
Aimee ran her hands across the orange-and-brown plaid, one of his new textile designs. “It’s not wet.”
“Because it dried overnight.” Zenus trudged to the loom where Sean and Aimee were. He looked to his cousin. “Even if the textiles don’t have stains, I have to declare they were exposed to water and sell them at a drastic discount, which means no profit. I lost all the raw cotton bales in the warehouse, too.”
Sean repocketed the policy. “You’ll get insurance money to help you equal out. Why are you shaking your head?”
Zenus leaned back against the loom. “I have forty-seven bolts in the storage room”—Aimee touched his hand, and his fingers immediately curled around hers—“all damaged or partially damaged by the flooding.”
“How much fabric is it?”
“A hundred yards per bolt. Each bolt, fifty-four inches wide.” Sean opened his mouth then paused, clearly thinking, running
numbers through his head. “Were those bolts already paid for?” “Almost all. They were scheduled for cutting and delivery this
Monday. Forty-five days of weaving will go to fulfilling those orders.” Zenus loosened his tie. “Insurance money will go to repairing the roof and making my loan payment. I have enough left in savings to make payroll for a month.”
“Maybe this is God’s way of telling you to sell the business and do something different.”
1
May 9, 1891
In all his thirty-one years, Zenus Dane had never expected to see
seven inches of rainfall during a six-hour period.
He trudged through the flooded floor of the textile mill he was able to inspect since the fire marshal had declared it safe. Still, the water reached the third metal clasp of his vulcanized rubber boots, a product he wished he had invented, but was thankful Charles Goodyear did. Although, at the moment, he felt more nauseated than thankful. Through the hole in the roof, the morning sun revealed the full extent of the destruction caused by Friday after- noon’s deluge setting a record for one-day rainfall in Philadelphia.
April was the month for deluges. Not May.
His mouth sour over the damage, Zenus looked to his foreman at the other end of the mill. The man didn’t have to speak for Zenus to know he shared his grim thoughts.
Zenus stopped at the loom farthest from the collapsed roof. A floral cotton print lay half-woven in the machine. Unlike the bolts of textiles in the storage room, the print was as dry as his gabardine suit. It was also water-stained on the bottom portion of the roll. As he had with the other machines, he examined the loom’s frame, the crankshaft, tight-and-loose pulleys, picker stick, shuttle, and race plate. All damp. Oxidation here, too, on the bolts where the
floodwater reached its highest level. The looms hadn’t even had a month of usage, and now rust?
As if his flooded warehouse of raw cotton bales wasn’t a tortur- ous enough loss.
A fitting why God? moment if there ever was one.
Zenus whipped his newsboy’s cap off his head, ran his hands through his hair, then put the cap back on. Living by faith could be hazardous.
With a shake of his head, he released a breath.
No sense bemoaning fate. Count it all joy—it was the only con- tingency he had. And he would count it all joy that he’d fallen into this trial, because the testing of his faith was producing patience in him. He didn’t consider himself an impatient man. His well- planned schedules allotted time for the unexpected and diversions; they resulted in maximum efficiency. Everything would work out, in time. Optimism: the first necessary ingredient for success. Don’t lament the obstacles was the second. A few days were all he needed to solve this setback.
He could—no, he would—do it.
After a slap to the loom beam, Zenus stood. “Cousin Zenus!”
He looked across the mill’s vast floor to the entrance. His ten- year-old goddaughter Aimee stood with her father, waving franti- cally, while wearing her perpetual smile. The parts of her blue dress not stuck in her rubber boots grazed the surface of the floodwater.
He waved back with a silly expression, knowing it’d make her giggle.
And she did.
“Morning,” his cousin Sean Gallagher called out, his voice echo- ing in the practically empty mill.
Sean said something to the fire marshal then touched Aimee’s head. The fire marshal, nodding, motioned Sean to enter. As they did, he resumed pointing to the second-story rafters and speaking to three other firemen, likely, about the hole in the flat roof.
Sean gripped Aimee’s hand. He slogged forward with the pants of his gray suit tucked inside his own pair of shin-high galoshes,
his arm and Aimee’s a pendulum between them, their legs creating ripples in the water.
“I should’ve insisted you buy flood insurance,” Sean said. Zenus’s lips twitched with amusement. Typical of Sean to cut to
the should’ve. “Buying flood insurance wasn’t logical. When was the last time this part of Philly flooded?”
Sean gave a yeah-you’re-right shrug as he waded through the water.
“I’m sorry about your mill,” Aimee said in almost a whisper.
“It’ll be all right, sweetheart.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Did
Noah have flood insurance?”
She shook her head, her dark corkscrew curls swaying. “Did he survive?”
She nodded.
“Then things will work out for me as well.”
“Sometimes your optimism annoys me.” Sean stopped with Aimee one loom from where Zenus was. He rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced about the mill, his blue eyes even lighter in the morning sun. “You’ll need a new roof before production can resume. Insurance will cover it. Unfortunately, it won’t cover dam- age caused by rising water.”
Zenus motioned to the looms around the mill floor. “Is any of this fabric covered by insurance because the damage was caused by the collapsed roof brought on by an act of God, not by flooding?”
“Yes, but” —Sean removed folded papers from his suit coat’s inner pocket—“let me see what your policy says.”
Zenus blinked, stunned his cousin actually remembered to bring the policy. Details, Sean never forgot. Items—always. If the man ever married again, his wife would have to accept Sean would remember their anniversary, but wouldn’t remember to get a gift. Or if he did remember to buy a gift, he would leave it at his law office or in the cab or at the café where he always had a coffee after leaving work.
Good man. Honorable. Just forgetful.
“What isn’t excluded,” Sean said, “is included, so it’s covered. But from what I can tell, none of the fabric on the looms looks damaged.”
Aimee ran her hands across the orange-and-brown plaid, one of his new textile designs. “It’s not wet.”
“Because it dried overnight.” Zenus trudged to the loom where Sean and Aimee were. He looked to his cousin. “Even if the textiles don’t have stains, I have to declare they were exposed to water and sell them at a drastic discount, which means no profit. I lost all the raw cotton bales in the warehouse, too.”
Sean repocketed the policy. “You’ll get insurance money to help you equal out. Why are you shaking your head?”
Zenus leaned back against the loom. “I have forty-seven bolts in the storage room”—Aimee touched his hand, and his fingers imme- diately curled around hers—“all damaged or partially damaged by the flooding.”
“How much fabric is it?”
“A hundred yards per bolt. Each bolt, fifty-four inches wide.” Sean opened his mouth then paused, clearly thinking, running
numbers through his head. “Were those bolts already paid for?” “Almost all. They were scheduled for cutting and delivery this
Monday. Forty-five days of weaving will go to fulfilling those orders.” Zenus loosened his tie. “Insurance money will go to repair- ing the roof and making my loan payment. I have enough left in savings to make payroll for a month.”
“Maybe this is God’s way of telling you to sell the business and do something different.”
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