If There Is...

As I watched out the train window, I was amazed at how uncivilized a city could be in 1893 as this Dallas seemed to be at first glance. I say city, but I am not sure it qualified because I had spent the past decade living in Boston, a real city so sophisticated and so full of life and color. Most of the men on this train were wearing guns on their hips and/or carrying rifles of various kinds. I even noticed several of the ladies with their own versions of firearms. I did have a revolver with me, but I thought I was over-reacting. This backwards frontier land made my cultured British stomach turn. What was I getting into? How could I let this Fong gentleman convince me to leave my safe home and come here?

As the train slowed for the approach to the H&TC Depot, I looked down at the worn picture of my lovely wife, Claire, and four year daughter, Sabrina, that I carried with me everywhere in my breast pocket next to my pocket watch, part of the inheritance from dear old Mr. Morgan, my favorite teacher from Adams Grammar School so many years ago. A strong ache pulled at my heart as the conductor yelled out, "H&TC Depot, Dallas. Prepare to disembark." Pulled back into the moment, I gathered my belongings and walked to the exit.

As I looked out on the platform, I foolishly expected Mr. Fong himself to greet me. Instead, a small Asian man was bouncing up and down holding a sign reading "Sebastian Livingston" in a strong blocked letter design. Being British, I was instantly irritated at the excitable little fellow who was to gather me and my belongings. I slowly and deliberately raised my hand to indicate I was the chap he was so eager to find. He ran, yes actually ran, over to me. As he bowed several swift times, his long braid flying everywhere, he shouted, "Mr. Fong sent me to get you. Please to follow!"

Again, I was questioning my decision to abandon my life for this nightmare. Going home to England would have been preferred over this and that was not a choice I would even discuss.

The little rabbit of a man had my luggage in his wagon before I could even blink. He guided me over to where I was to sit as if I were royalty. He quickly leapt to the driver's position and whipped the horse into a fast pace, startling innocent bystanders all around as dust flew.

Having survived the ride to the boarding house that I was to now call home for the time being, I was escorted to the door to meet Mrs. Sweeny, a plump, difficult woman who seemed even more irritated with the little chap than I was. "Henry," she scowled at him, "You bring his bags around back and up to room 4 while I take Mr. Livingston in and introduce him. Next time don't drive that damn horse wagon up to my home as if it is on fire or there will be hell to pay!"

I stood, startled at a woman using such language. I had only heard the lowest of women dirty up their mouths with such filth. She however, did not seem to be of a low standing or ill repute, but she did seem very comfortable abusing her words in front of a stranger such as myself.

I was shown around the house, introduced to the other guest and given a rigid set of rules and then offered a cup of tea because, as she almost spat out, "You know being British and all that not appreciatin' a good glass of whisky." While I do enjoy a bit of spirit now and then, tea is my preference but I felt as if I had just been insulted in the lowest of ways. It was the third time in such an hour that I regretted being here.

I accepted what she allowed to pass for as a cup of tea and was quietly drinking it when "Henry" came bursting into the parlor. "Mr. Livingston, I have carried stuff to room. My name is Henry if you need me. That is not my real name, but my real name is long Malaysian name no one can pronounce so Mr. Fong calls me Henry. I am his favorite slave and been assigned to take care of you. He would like to see you first thing in the morning at the new store. I will be by after breakfast to take you over. You need anything else tonight?"

"No." was all that came out and then I collected my manners back and added, "Thank you." He vanished before the last syllable was out of my mouth. After finishing my frontier version of tea, I gathered my coat and brief case and walked up to room 4.

As indicated my belongings were in the room, very neatly stacked. I had to admit to myself, and no one else, for a fast little rabbit, Henry was neat and accurate. I walked over to the mirror and basin. Mrs. Sweeny had provided warm water to wash up with. She also was surprising. She did seem to have the intent to be understanding and kind but lacked any elegance a woman running a boarding house should have.

I splashed the warm water on my very tired face and hands. As I stood to dry them off, I caught a glimpse of myself in the less than well made mirror. My dark sandy hair was starting to show more grey than a 35 year old man should have. These last five years had been difficult. I think it was the poor lighting, but there also seem to be dark circles developing under my eyes. The woman who sold me my train ticket yesterday had complimented me on my brown eyes, but now I think she was just trying to be polite because I look like a worn out sock. Even my wife had always told me she liked the fact that I was attractive without being flashy like so many American's tended to be.

It was kind of a running joke with us. I married her ten years ago after arriving in Boston from London to make a new start. I met her as she worked at the dress shop next to the Haberdashery I was working in. Fine gentlemen prefer to purchase their ties and hats and such near stores where beautiful women shop, so they were often located in such pairs. She and I would exchange words each morning when we arrived to open up. One day after I gave her my usual sincere good morning, she complimented me on being genuine and not flashy, and then she smiled that pretty smile that won my heart. Two weeks later she was my bride. With that sweet memory, I pulled out the picture of her and Sabrina, said good night and set to getting to bed.

After a greasy breakfast, far too large to finish, I was met by Henry at the front door. He walked me down the street to a store front with a huge, stylish sign reading, "Coming Soon, Fong's Haberdashery for Men of Good Taste." Seriously out of place in this frontier town, this sign turned out to be more accurate as I entered the store. Already, the interior was designed with imported rugs and fashionable wall hangings. The walls and counters were created of handmade, expensive wood craftsmanship. I could smell cedar so he must have already created a cedar closet for the more discriminating items. For one moment, I forgot the wild west outside and felt civilization flow over my soul.

Henry grabbed my coat and disappeared so fast I did not see where he went. As I looked around, I noticed a stair case leading up to a door labeled "Private" which I assumed would be my new office. There were several doors down stairs leading to, I was sure, the cedar closet, storage and dressing rooms. I did not know what to think about the wall hanging above the register, though. It was decorate with birds and trees and a small stream all in an Asian style. It had been handmade of tiny stitching on an alabaster cloth. It said:

If there is righteousness in the heart, there is beauty in the soul.

If there is beauty in the soul, there is harmony in the home.

If there is harmony in the home, there is order in the nation.

If there is order in the nation, there is peace in the world.

-Lao Tzu from the Tao Te Ching

I suppose it was Mr. Fong's way of providing culture to this backwards frontier but a gentleman does not want to be preached to when purchasing fine cloths; he wishes to be left alone. Henry was instantly beside me with a cup that smelled of Earl Grey tea, real Earl Grey. "Mr. Fong had this imported for you. He wants you happy so you make him lots of money.

"I see you admiring my handy work. Mr. Fong asked me to make something important for your shop, so I made that."

This little rabbit could create such a refined work of art? I turned back to it to find some flaws and amateur craftsmanship, but upon a second glance, it was flawless and really beautiful. Claire would have made a real fuss over it. How did this little Malaysian chap manage to produce something that must have taken patience and concentration?

I felt the need to say something, but not ready to give a true compliment to the rabbit. "Well, Henry, it will add a flavor to the store. Do you know when we can expect Mr. Fong?" As the words floated in the air for just two seconds, the door opened and in came the Chinaman who was responsible for my nightmare new life.

The rotund, short man came bounding in straight up to me and grabbed my hand. He had obviously gone to fine schools in Europe by his manner and did not have a Chinese accent but more of an American one. In a gregarious voice he bellowed, "Mr. Livingston, I hope you had a fine trip down from Boston. I am ready to get this exceptional store opened. I hear that the ladies boutique across the street is opening in three weeks. You how important that is. You have four. I have ordered the inventory you requested. The cabinets are almost completed. The workmen will be in tomorrow to get your instructions. Henry will do whatever you need.

"I know he is a bother, but he will surprise you. He exceeded my expectations with the tapestry you are admiring. You just have to keep an eye on him to keep him in line."

Without even stopping to let me offer my appreciation for the opportunity to join his little nightmare, he continued, "You so impressed me in Boston. I didn't get to this position in life by making impulsive decisions; actually I got here because I am the great grandson of a man who did unspeakable things to accumulate wealth in China, but we all have our burdens to bear. I began with luck, but my instincts have carried me to expanding that wealth and power. I intend to make Dallas the Boston of the west. I heard a rumor that in ten years Neiman Marcus will be bringing their business out here. I want to already have a well established presence here before they even come out to purchase the first bit of land. I want to be the cultural KING here. You are going to help me make that happen.

"I have overheard many men talk about spending more time out here in Texas if they only had some of the comforts of back east. I have already broken ground to build a real hotel. I had to agree to build it on the other side of town to keep Sweeny happy, but she is a driving force in this town, even though she comes across as a less than a cultured lady. She was born and raised here in Texas, and has an understanding of these, what did you call them when we met in Boston, 'frontier people.'"

With that he took a breath and sat in a chair. After a moment of silence that seemed to almost pain him, he started up again, "I noticed that scar on your right wrist. How did you get it?"

He may understand Americans, but not the British. A British gentleman would never pry into the personal life of a business associate. However, despite my offence, I decided this little tidbit would not reveal anything too personal and would build a rapport with my new boss. "When I was 12, my oldest brother and I were rough housing during my school holiday and he accidently threw me against the kitchen door and my hand broke through the glass. I received stitches. My brother spent the rest of his Christmas holiday doing odd jobs around town to pay for a new window."

Instead of being bored as I would have expected, the Chinaman laughed out loud at the story. "Sounds like you got the better end of that deal!" With that he picked up his large personality and started to head for the door. "Livingston, you are the asset here. You have the somber charm we will need to draw the high class gentleman out of their shells as they come here to do business. We need them to find that "back east" element they are looking for. Some discreetly go down the street to Miss Lucy's, but most of them want to find a bit of Boston or London here to reassure them that the west will develop and grow their investment seeds into full trees of money.

"I need that flavor of British snobbery and undertone you bring with you. Mr. Thomas at that refined store I found you in, assured me that you were his choice to move up to store manager in a year when he retired and could handle all the business side of building up this store." He paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts on what he would say next. "However, it is that deep look of needing something else in your eyes that drew me to you. You seem to be ready for something more. Good day." With that he exited the store.

What was there to see in my eye but a simple man who had been taught fine taste. A memory came to my mind as this thought passed through. One boy each year from Newport, Shropsire in England was lucky enough to be given a full scholarship from the local eccentric to Adams Grammar School. My essay that year must have touched the old man's heart for I was chosen. My darling parents were from families who once were minor courtiers, but with war and such lost their titles and wealth.

For generations, the blood was still touched by nobility but the hands and legs were burdened with labor. My three oldest brothers worked the small farm with my father. My mother ran the small home. The forth brother was very fragile in his health and grew up mostly helping my mother. When he was of age, he took to being a baker's apprentice instead of working the farm. The family all thought he was odd and it was better for him in town.

My mother had taught all the boys to read and write and a bit of arithmetic, but even though I was the youngest, I alone took to it like butter to a scone. She saw a spark of the old generations of nobility in me and had me write the essay for a chance to go to school and rebuild the family to a better standing. I had spent two years doing farm work when I wrote the letter that brought acceptance to Adams. The school was run by "The Master and Four Wardens of the Fraternity of the Art or Mystery of Haberdashers of the City of London." While in school, I spent my final summer assigned working for Francis Cook, a haberdasher and the great grandson of James Cook, the explorer, who was also rumored to be a haberdasher. Mr. Cook retained me in his employ until I was 25 when my future was changed by the death of Mr. Morgan.

For a month, I guided and directed Henry and a few others to preparing this as the finest establishment in the west. I would take a stroll each afternoon up and down the streets of Dallas to know how best to develop the store. I would send Henry off on a long list of errands so that I could do my investigation without interruption and distraction.

The first thing I learned was that Dallas was not as rustic as all the stories of towns in the west would lend you to think. My own opinions were tainted by reading. One of the many things Claire and I had in common was that we would rather take a walk along the beach than be trapped reading a dusty old book. However, a few years back I found myself waiting for a train to Charleston that was delayed and the gentleman next to me offered me a magazine to read. The boredom overwhelmed me so I finally picked it up.

The first story described a town called Tombstone with an arrogant sheriff who thought it was his sole job to bring justice to the lawless town. I can't see it would make much difference. You know someone would eventually come shoot him down and all would be back to the chaos of incivility. The next story rambled on about some farmer who bought a bride from back east who he eventually fell in love with only for her to leave him to go back east. There were more, but mostly they all had to do with horses, fights, guns and dust, lots of dust.

I suppose I was prejudice against Dallas from stories like that and the tall tales customers in Boston would tell me. One had been attacked by Indians and almost did not survive. A different one saw a man shot down in the middle of the day for looking wrong at another man's wife. Good God, what barbarism the west must be was all I had on my mind as I thought of Dallas before getting to know her.

However, Dallas did proved to be something different. Some of the streets were even bricked like Boston. In the weeks I had been walking around, I never once saw anyone shot or even a fight from a saloon tumble out into the street. Many of the merchants worked very hard to create a modicum of modern services and products. I did enter a number of stores, though, that smelled of farm. I still remember the smells from my childhood, even though that was three lifetimes ago.

The opening of the dress shop across the street came and went with much excitement from the females in town. I did not notice Mrs. Sweeny making a visit, but I don't think she owned a nice dress, nor would she wear one. The most excited person, though, was Henry. Mr. Fong was in a place called Austin. It was my understanding he was investing in a newspaper there and some other financial opportunities. In his absence, Henry was even more giddy than usual. He stood at the window all day commenting on the excitement across the street. He seemed to develop a crush on each new lady that entered and exited the store. To his credit, every time I needed him, he dropped his gawking and tended to my task. I kept his work load low that day as a reward for all of his hard work during the last few weeks.

His energy level, to my surprise, seemed to double a week later when our store opened. I expected a limited number of customers the first day, but we had a very high flow of traffic. I had managed to get a reasonable amount of ads out in the usual ways, but word of mouth in Dallas was more valuable than any poster at the train station, quiet unlike Boston where no one talks to other people. Several of the customers also seemed to be from out of town. I was even pleased to see several former customers from Boston over the week referred to me by Mr. Fong.

I could continue sharing the tedious details of the store, but the story lies elsewhere. Let it be enough to say that the store was destined to grow with great success.

That Friday brought the most unusual customer of all, my eldest brother, Jack from England. It had been a decade since I had seen Jack in London before I left for America. We had remained in touch by the correspondence I kept with my sweet mother. She dedicated herself to writing once a month even if there was no news just to keep the connection, and I was expected to respond in a timely manner.

I had no fore knowledge that he was coming and almost didn't recognize him when he walked up to my office door, uninvited. I saw the shadow of a man standing there and started to order, "Sir this is a private office and you must," but was interrupted by the subtle familiar cough sound that made me look up from the ledgers.

"Not even your brother is allowed?" Jack jested as he looked all proud.

I got up quickly and walked over to shake his hand with a, "Jack, what are you doing here? Mother did not write to me you would be coming. Where are Lorna and the children?"

He seemed very excited and had a hard time getting the words out. "They are at the boarding house. They were very tired from the trip. We left just after Mother's last letter which was fine because I wanted to surprise you. You look good Sebastian, very good. This Texas life seems to agree with you. We have much to discuss. Can you leave?"

Twenty minutes later I found myself back at Mrs. Sweeny's with my sister-in-law and her three children that I had never met. Jack and Lorna spent some time talking over each other telling me that they had saved up enough money to buy a small business in San Francisco. The gold rush had created a land of wonder and they were going to try to claim a small place of it to be their future.

Lorna paused for a moment, reached over and took my hand, "Sebastian, we hoped that you might join us out there after you were finished opening this store of yours. We could use your experience and talents. Mostly we would love to have you there so we could have more family around us. No one else will leave England. Too set in their ways I suppose."

At this time Mrs. Sweeny came in with cake and coffee for everyone and plopped herself in the middle of it all. She had discreetly been listening at the doorway from the kitchen. "What a great idear there Mr. Livingston. You should let them go and get things set up and then join them. Then your wife and daughter will only have to move once. They can just meet you in California." Her big grin gave the impression she had just solved a big problem; however she had just created an even larger one as Jack and Lorna looked shocked at each other.

After giving me a very puzzled look, Jack leaned in to her, and in a deep and somber voice, informed her, "Mrs. Sweeny, Claire and Sabrina died five years ago in a house fire. Didn't Sebastian tell you?" The thick silence could be felt by even the children who simply sat not knowing why all the grownups were so quiet and tense. I had not seen Mrs. Sweeny speechless until this moment. The delightful surprise had just turned into a dark eclipse of grief. I slowly stood up and left the boarding house and began to walk. I must have been gone for much longer than I expected because the entire household, except Jack, had gone to bed. He was sitting on the porch waiting for me.

I was not a man to raise my voice or give into anger. I controlled my emotions, in the fashion of a proper gentleman. I tried to just walk past without speaking, but Jack rose and blocked the door. "How the hell could you not tell anyone? Really, no one? Do you think that by not speaking the words it would make it not true.

"Good Lord, Sebastian, we only knew because of the article you sent Mother. Is that why you finally left Boston? You thought a new place would give you the ability to live a fantasy that they were alive, back there waiting for you?"

Controlling the desire to explode, I turned to him for just a moment, "Mind your own damn business. You don't know anything." These words spilled out in a whisper, but loud enough for him to hear.

"You are my business; you're my brother. Mr. Morgan dies and you use the money he left you to leave your family and cross an ocean because your lost your mentor. Your own family dies and you go even further away. You looked so content today at the store that I thought you were healing and building a new life. But instead you are just hiding from it. Please Sebastian, please. Come with us and let us help you live again!" I would not have believed it if I had not seen it. My tough farmer brother had tears building in his eyes. But he had violated my life by exposing my privacy to these people because word always spreads here faster than a wild fire on the plains.

No longer able to control the beast inside, I yelled, "Jack, just go. I won't let you run my life. I am fine! You don't understand and never will." With that I walked past him and to my room.

I awoke early and skipped breakfast as I quickly made my way to the store. Henry greeted me with the news that Mr. Fong would be arriving that afternoon to see the progress we had made. I softly ordered, "Please do not disturb me until he arrives. I will be working in my office." Henry's surprised glance followed me as I worked my way to the office above.

Upon his arrival, Mr. Fong was so pleased at the progress that he insisted I attend his family's Thanksgiving meal in a few weeks to celebrate. I must have accepted in the fog of misery surrounding me, because two days later Henry arrived with a formal written invitation from Mrs. Fong. I was instructed to arrive with a bottle of wine and a good appetite. I put it on my desk as I simply sat, pained by the immediate departure of Jack and his family leaving under such unpleasant circumstances, pained by the fact that my private anguish was now floating around town with all the new friendly acquaintances I had made. I never lied to anyone, but I did wear my wedding ring and I suppose I was, on occasion, seen appreciating the photo I kept in my pocket. I was mostly pained by the ripping of the scab from my heart that kept the unending torment of loss from leaking into my every waking moment.

For five years in Boston, I had hidden in the haberdashery, where I could subconsciously pretend that Claire and Sabrina would be waiting for me when I arrived home, what had been home but was now a room at a much more elegant boarding house than Mrs. Sweeny's. The neighbors to the house that had burned and killed my family were close to Claire. She was a dynamic and tender hearted woman who made friends easily. I should not have been surprised at the number of people who attended the funeral. One of the widows across the street arranged the entire thing because I became unable to function. She even brought me a copy of the newspaper story about the fire to send back to England to my family.

Claire would have been pleased at the wake that the old widow threw because she would have struggled to put on such a feast. Claire was not much of a cook, actually not much at all, but she made up for it in an unending optimism that was contagious. We would often have burnt meatloaf or undercooked pasta but the taste of the meal would be forgotten by Claire's focus on a giggling Sabrina or some new silly or exciting story of something in the neighborhood. The widow made sure that plenty of food was prepared, all of which was perfectly made to honor my departed lovely wife and precious daughter. She filled her house with people who adored Claire and Sabrina. I sat in a corner away from everyone, the same way I had ended up spent all of the last five years.

I opened the store with three employees and had to add two more by Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving brought another unusual event, one I could not have expected. I arrived with my bottle of wine and was seated at the head of the table opposite Mr. Fong. Even thought it was Thanksgiving, the meal was Chinese with a large goose dish instead of a turkey. His five younger daughters were all in pretty American dresses. His wife was dressed in a traditional kimono for the mistress of the house. His eldest daughter, 17 years old, came out in a very festive kimono and fancy head piece. Although I did not understand the conversation between the women folk because it was in Chinese, it sounded very exciting to them.

After the meal, Mr. Fong (I was never given a first name, but would have not used it anyway) escorted me to their lavish garden for a cigar. I stood there wishing I had followed my original thought to stay home, but felt an obligation for the sake of my business relationship to attend. With his next words, though, I wanted to crawl under one of the rocks in the garden. "Mr. Livingston. It has come to my attention that you are a widower. I was unaware of this. This is prime opportunity. I have been so busy the last year with business, that I have neglected the task of finding my eldest daughter a husband and it is beyond an acceptable time. My wife heard from Mrs. Sweeny that you were available, and she suggested that you would be a good match. I would like to negotiate her dowry if you are interested." Shocked, completely shocked, I could not even look at him. I puffed on the cigar while I searched for words.

Finally they came. In a tone reserved for using in such a delicate moment, I verbally tip toed, "With all respect to your generosity," I began, "I am but a widower not long and am not ready to take on a bride. I mean you no dishonor, but will humbly have to decline your offer." I took another very long puff on the expensive cigar and waited while pretending to admire his wife's gardener's work on the flowers before us. He stood enjoying his own cigar, remaining silent much longer than I would have thought was possible for a man as verbose he.

Finally, he blew out a long chain of smoke and slapped me on the back. "Very well, Mr. Livingston. I do admire a man who can speak his peace. I ask only one favor. Please stay and chat with me for a bit. Mrs. Fong has her heart set on you. My daughter would like to return to China and marry the very wealthy young man who made me an offer a few weeks ago in Austin at a business meeting. I must save face with the wife and pretend to try to talk you into this, but will now be forever in favor with my daughter." With that, he stood for a half hour and spoke on a variety of unassociated topics while I simply tried to catch my breath from such a shock.

For the next four weeks, the store kept me very busy. Mrs. Sweeny seemed put out with me for not taking the offer of a young Chinese bride so close to the problem with Jack. However, that seemed the only major fallout that was obvious from my brother's betrayal. Many times I would get a look of pity from the people I passed on the street between the store and Mrs. Sweeny's. Pity is the worst response of all. I didn't need anyone feeling sorry for me, hence another reason to keep my private life private. I spent all my time in only these two locations to once more try to bury myself from the sorrow that was again stabbing me each time I stopped for a moment undistracted. Mr. Fong came in twice before Christmas and both times showed his usual jovial self to me; I believe he was even pleased at the way things had worked out with his daughter. She was taking a train to San Francisco and sailing to Beijing immediately after Christmas to join her soon to be husband.

The day before Christmas two things happened. First, the post arrived with a letter from my mother. Her letter caused me much grief because she was broken hearted at the fallout between Jack and myself. She gently suggested that I should join them. I spent some time replying to her letter. I reminded her that Jack and I had always worked things out as children and we would somehow work this out. I also told her I had an obligation with the new business here. Much work was to be done and I was needed.

As I finished the letter and had Henry take it to the post office, located in the large general store down the street, Mr. Fong came in with a large smile and an envelope in his hand. "Mr. Livingston, Merry Christmas. You know I am a Buddhist, but Christmas brings out such a festive mood in me. I wanted to bring a gift to you in appreciation for the success we are having. Just last week, one of my long term associates from New York City came up to me when I was in Austin and told me he was going to expand his business to include Dallas.

"It seemed to him that this little town of ours had really grabbed his attention. His biggest compliment was that he was looking for a special hat to wear to the Governor's ball, and you special ordered it for him. He told me he felt like he was on 5th Avenue. Well done!

"So as hard as this is for me, here are the papers for Henry. I have many slaves in many cities, but he has been my most reliable one. My great-grandfather took his great-grandparents from Malaysia and their family has been working for my family ever since. Henry will serve you well. He seems very happy serving you so I am also thinking of it as a present for him." With that little speech, he handed me the envelope and wished me Merry Christmas one more time as he blew back out into the wintery day.

Again, I stood shocked. I am no prude, but I just had never thought to own a slave. This Chinaman surprised me more and more. I would have enjoyed a tie or horse and buggy, but a person? I am not sure how long I stood there as people in the store buzzed around, but finally I was dragged out of my shock by no other than Henry. "Mr. Livingston, it is closing time. You want me start locking up?"

"Henry, I would like you to lock up and then see me in my office. I have some good news for you."

With a curious look to me, he turned in his usual rabbit style, moved quickly and effectively to get the store closed up. I sat waiting in my office, looking at the envelope. I could not work on the ledgers because I was so discombobulated over the strange gift I had been given.

Henry quietly came in and sat in the chair across waiting for me to talk. "Henry, Mr. Fong came by a little while ago. He did a strange thing and has given you to me as a present."

"Oh Mr. Livingston, that is not strange. It is common among his kind of people. I am glad to belong to you, though, because you are a kind man."

"Here is the thing, Henry. I am not comfortable owning someone. So now it is my turn to give you something. Here are the papers he gave to me. You are a free man. I hope you will choose to stay and work for me, but it is now your choice." As I passed him the papers, he could hardly control his joy. He bounced up, shook my hand, started bowing over and over again, with that long braid flying everywhere and finally just disappeared.

The next day I spent my sixth Christmas without Claire and Sabrina, in my room staring at their picture. Mrs. Sweeny had tried to force me to come down and join her festive meal, but I wanted to wallow in my misery. Nothing could be worse. I should enjoy this banquet of pain all alone.

Monday morning came and I was pleased to see Henry in his usual spot preparing for the day's customers. I went to my office and began to work on the ledgers. Time crawled along like an ant with a heavy load. I was relieved when, just before lunch, Henry knocked on my door with a telegram. It had been such a quiet day and the books were feeling very dull to me, any distraction was welcomed, until I opened the telegram.

Mr. Livingston stop

You are listed as the contact for a Jack Livingston stop

I regret to inform you that his entire family was killed in an Indian raid just outside of San Francisco stop

Most of their belongings were taken but we do have a few that were salvaged stop

Will be sending those to you in the next few weeks stop

signed Colonel Franklin Belmont of the California Army office stop

I had to read four times to understand what it said. It was not possible. I laid the paper down on my desk and felt something happening deep inside of me. Rage. I felt it creep up my body until it reached my right hand and grabbed the banker's lamp that sat on my desk. I watched in disbelieve as my hand threw it across the room allowing it freedom as it flew out of the window. As the rage that had been stored up for five years joined the new batch, they united in force to get my left hand involved to throw over my desk. Some of it also slithered up to my throat and I heard a voice that sounded like mine scream, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

It was not until after I collapsed on the floor, that I noticed Henry standing there. A rabbit could not fix this problem. Too much loss. Too much pain. Henry helped me up to my chair, handed me a glass with whiskey in it and in his soft voice commanded, "Mr. Livingston, you need drink!" I was not in a position to fight him so I did drink. After two more glasses of Texas whiskey, I did not remember anything until the next day.

I woke up, my head pounding. I could not remember getting home or getting to bed. After cleaning up, I went down stairs. Henry and Mrs. Sweeny were sitting and talking over breakfast. Both stopped the moment they saw me. Mrs. Sweeny, not surprisingly, was the first to speak, "So Mr. Livingston, how are you fellin' this morning? I understand you had a rough afternoon yesterday. I have breakfast ready and Henry is here to take you work." Her tone was unintentionally condescending, as if she were talking to a small child.

I took a very deep breath and said, "Mrs. Sweeny, thank you but I am not hungry now. Henry, please go and open the store. I will be tending to other matters today."

Henry's usually bright eyes were tarnished with concern as he spoke, "Sir, I got you office fixed right up. You want me go with you to tend to matters?" He seemed truly concerned about me.

"No Henry, I need to sort things out. I will come by the store at the end of the day to check on things. Thank you." With that I took my leave.

I walked to a small park nearby that had a pond full of ducks during spring and summer. Now, in the middle of winter, it had no discernible life, like my own personal world. I sat and watched the little waves on the surface of the water. I felt the wind building. It was possible a storm was working its way to Dallas. I pulled out the cherished picture and stared at it. Two such beautiful creatures taken from me. How is that fair? And now Jack's entire family. I almost envied him. At least he would never know the anguish of not having his family with him. A great wave of pain flowed over me so hard I had to close my eyes and take a deep breath. As it passed, so did a large gust of wind that ripped the sacred picture out of my hand. The wind had the strength of Hercules driving the picture so rapidly away that I could do nothing but watch as the paper was tossed into the middle of the pond, waves drowning it.

Now all hope was truly gone.

I continued to sit in self pity the entire day being assaulted by intermittent rain. Remembering my promise, I finally dragged myself up and started back to the store. Henry was pleased to see me, although my appearance did not please him.

He followed me to my office and sat across from me waiting for me to allow him to talk. Even now that he was free, he still behaved as a slave.

Finally I looked up and gave him the nod indicating it was all right to speak. "Mr. Livingston, I have story to tell. When I was very young, sickness took my parents from me and my sister. I cried so hard because I missed them. She was older and told me that they were with God so we should be happy for their blessing. She told me to fill the hurt in me with joy for life and joy for God. She told me much pain would come in life, but how we reacted to that pain is the measure of who we are.

"I heard her voice again in my head when she died several years later in an accident. I was then a young man, but still cried for her, as I heard her telling me to fill my life with joy and God. Every day I get up and hear that. I look every day to find the joy and find God. Both are here, Mr. Livingston. You just have to look."

With that, he stood, bowed and left to finish closing the store. I sat. I sat for a long time. How could there be joy here? And God, well how could He let all this happen? I sat until I heard Henry usher out the last of the employees and close the door. The whisky bottle from yesterday was still on my desk, so I took the bottle and this time didn't bother with a glass. I went downstairs and found myself staring at the damn wall hanging I had marveled over the first day. After a tremendous share of whisky, I found that I was mesmerized for a very long time. Then I could hear Henry's voice in my head telling his story. I looked at the first line closely. "If there is righteousness in the heart..." My heart was ice. There was only solitude in it. Was it possible to, could it change my life if, would it matter when, where do you start to, how in the hell does. Then for the first time a thought came to me that should have so long ago. If Claire only knew the miserable man I had become, she would be devastated because she always faced life like Henry, looking for the joy. I threw the bottle at the wall hanging with such a force that glass and whisky went everywhere.

I then heard the smallest noise behind me and turned to see Henry. My empty heart sunk as I realized he saw me ruin his lovely work of art. However, instead of being upset or hurt, he bounced right up and said, "No worries, Mr. Livingston, I clean it up. We all have ways to work out pain." I had just destroyed unknown hours of his life's work, and he cleans up the mess. How was that right? After a moment of watching him gather up glass, I rolled up my sleeves and helped. It took some time but we finally had the mess cleaned up and took down the wall hanging. I apologized deeply and left for Mrs. Sweeny's.

The next morning I was surprisingly greeted with the wall hanging in its usual place, all cleaned and pressed, and Henry standing there with another telegram and no explanation. He was grinning so big, in the way only a rabbit could. "Mr. Livingston, I just got job to go to Alaska and help with company working to find gold. Would you let me go?"

Again, he was free, but so long he had been a slave, he found it hard to take control and decide for himself. I found myself tempted to tell him no because I had become so dependent on him. But after last night, I felt a need to take control of my own heart and letting him go was important to that end. "Henry, you should go. It will be a whole new life for you, on your own. I just ask that you keep in touch."

Henry stood before me, took a unusually slow bow and whispered with amazing appreciation, "Mr. Livingston, thank you. Now you also need to seek out your own joy and God. If you look hard enough, you will find them." I could see Claire's face in my mind's eye nodding her head as if to tell me it was time to leave my isolation and misery. For the first time in so long I couldn't even remember, I smiled. Then he was gone.

A man of small stature and much wealth walked in just then, and I found myself saying, "Welcome to Fong's Haberdashery. I hope you are enjoying your visit to Dallas. How may I help you."

THE END