The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

I tell everyone I’d like to go to the factory, wondering if it’s the right call, though the relief on Samantha’s face suggests it is. With Grandmary’s permission, Hawkins calls the foreman, who says I can start tomorrow at 7:00. Today, though, is all fun, and Samantha’s determined to fill it with something special, starting with a game she calls Plum Pudding, chalked out in bright squares on the front walkway. It’s just hopscotch by another name, and I’m first to reach the top, though I suspect she let me win.

Hawkins sets up a net in the backyard for lawn tennis next. Playing in a dress on grass takes some getting used to, my skirts tangling around my ankles with every lunge, though Samantha has no trouble at all, diving to return the one ball I manage to get over the net. After two games, we collapse on the porch, breathless and laughing, and when I tell her she’s good, she credits Uncle Gard, hoping he’ll play with her at Piney Point. Then she falls quiet, maybe thinking about tomorrow’s goodbye.

Samantha says, out of nowhere, that I’m kind of lucky, since I’ll surely make plenty of friends at the boardinghouse, she just knows it. Unsure what to say, I tell her that no matter how many new friends I make, none will mean as much as she does.

The next morning, Hawkins and I take a bumpy horse-drawn cab across town, the wheels jolting over every rut in the road. In my apron pocket, I find a ribbon-tied note from Samantha wishing me luck, and I swallow a lump in my throat. Minutes later, I’m standing before the heavyset, gray-haired foreman, who looks me over and rattles off the rules, barely audible over the hum of machines beyond.

On time, not a minute late. No breaks until lunch. And hair worn short, a rule that catches my attention right away. Cut my hair? Yes, he says, or it’ll catch in the winding machines, though I can pull it back for today. Relieved, I take out Samantha’s ribbon from my apron pocket and tie it into my hair.

I follow the foreman to the knitting room, noisy with about twenty young workers glancing nervously at him before returning to their tasks. He stops at a blonde-haired girl winding yarn onto a cone, her fingers moving fast as lightning.

Mary, he calls her, and tells her I’ll be her spare hand this week, expected to learn fast. She nods, clearly unthrilled. Once he leaves, I ask what grade she’s in, and whether she knows Samantha Parkington. She checks the door first, then shakes her head: she doesn’t go to school at all. No school, at my own age? I have a dozen more questions, but she cuts me off, we’re not allowed to talk while working, or we don’t get paid. So much for making friends here. I miss Samantha already, and it’s only my first morning.