New York City
Charlie Ashton always enjoyed walking the floor of his father’s factory with him, listening to the owner encourage the workers and comment on their effort. Everyone always seemed so happy and proud to be doing their job. Today was no different, as Mr. Ashton proceeded up and down the rows, patting workers on the back, calling almost every single one of them by name, despite the hundreds of individuals they passed. Charlie wondered how he knew everyone so well, and when he’d asked, his father simply said, “People are important.”
The sounds of the machinery made parts of the factory very noisy, and whenever they would approach some of the more dangerous areas, John would always take Charlie by the hand, even though he was nearly eleven years old—practically a grown man—and his head reached his father’s shoulder. He said he wanted to make sure nothing happened to his right hand man, so Charlie shrugged and took his father’s hand. He pretended like it embarrassed him, but he secretly liked it. He wouldn’t mind staying his father’s little boy for a few more years if he could help it.
There was one spot that Charlie liked best. A catwalk soared above the factory floor, over by the offices, and whenever they were finished walking through the aisles of workers, his father would drop down and sit with his legs dangling over the edge, Charlie at his side. Usually, he had some sort of treat in his pocket—hard candy or peanuts—and they would share as they discussed important business.
Today, as Charlie dropped down next to his father, John pulled a butterscotch out and handed it over. Charlie’s face lit up as he popped the sweet candy into his mouth. His father had one for himself as well, even though Charlie knew he didn’t care for sweets quite as much, and they surveyed their empire.
“Someday, all of this will be yours, Charlie, my boy,” John said, stretching his hands out to span the width of the factory.
“Yes, father,” Charlie replied. He knew all of that, of course. His father had been saying it for years. “I’ll know everyone’s name, too, Father. Just like you.”
“I know you will,” John laughed. “And you will be an excellent leader, inspiring your workers to do their best.”
Charlie nodded. “I’ll never have children working in the factory, either, Father, like some of those other places.”
“Goodness, no,” John shook his head. “You do hear everything, don’t you, Son?”
Charlie smiled. “Yes, Father.” He tried to listen to as much as he could whenever his father talked about his business. He wanted to learn as much as possible.
“You know, Charlie, all of this is possible now because of my dear friend, Henry. Do you remember me talking about him?” John asked, looking off into the distance.
“Yes, Father. I remember. Henry Westmoreland. Your college roommate.”
“That’s right. He helped your mother and I out at a time when we really needed it. If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have the factory, wouldn’t have… anything. Henry Westmoreland saved us, Charlie. He was a good man.” John’s voice faltered a bit, but with a deep breath, he managed, “He was the best man.”
Charlie was confused, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing his father upset before. “Father, did something happen to Mr. Westmoreland?”
There was a pause before John replied, “Yes, Charlie. He passed away. Last year.”
Charlie’s face fell. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Father,” he said. He patted his father on the back, as he had done so many times whenever Charlie was upset. “You must be very sad.”
John looked at Charlie’s hand and then smiled, though Charlie wasn’t quite sure why. “Thank you, Son,” he said. “You really are growing up quickly.”
“Yes, Father,” Charlie repeated, withdrawing his hand and placing it in his lap.
“I was quite sad to hear of Henry’s passing, Son. He wasn’t very old. He had a lot left to accomplish.”
“His family must be very upset,” Charlie offered, imagining how devastated he would be if he lost his father.
John snickered and shook his head before saying, “He has a little girl.”
Charlie’s eyes widened, though he thought he may have heard that bit of information before. “She must be very, very unhappy.”
Nodding, John said, “Yes, I suppose she is.” He sighed and looked out over the work floor again before turning to look at Charlie. “Son, before Henry died, he came to meet with me. He asked me, if something should happen to him, would we be willing to look after his little girl—you and me. I know I didn’t ask you about it, Son, but I thought I knew for sure that your answer would be the same as mine. You’d be willing to look after her someday, wouldn’t you, Charlie?”
“Yes, of course, Father,” Charlie nodded, knowing that whatever his father thought would certainly be best.
“Good, I’m glad to hear that,” John said, finally smiling.
“Do you mean, I’ll have another sister?” Charlie asked, thinking of his sister Grace. She was a bit older than him, and sometimes they argued, but for the most part he liked her just fine most of the time.
“No, Son. I mean, someday, she’ll be your wife.”
Charlie was a bit shocked. He’d never even considered the possibility of having a wife—not now or ever. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair and dropped his father’s gaze for a moment, staring off at the workers below. He saw some women working right alongside their male counterparts. They were strong and capable. His father paid them just the same as he did the men because he said that women were just as valuable. Perhaps this Westmoreland girl would be like them—resilient, skillful.
“Charlie?” his father asked, patting him on the back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Father,” Charlie said, finally looking his father in the eye. “Whatever you think is best, Father.”
“I knew you’d agree,” John said with a smile. “I knew you’d understand. We owe Henry so much, all of us.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Such a bright boy,” he continued. “It’s no wonder your tutors rave about your studies.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Come along, Son,” John said, bringing himself to his feet and pulling his boy up to join him. “Let’s go home and see what’s for supper.”
Charlie nodded in agreement, following his father along the narrow catwalk. “Father,” he called as they approached the stairwell, “what is her name?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” John mumbled, as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t mentioned it. “Mary Margaret,” he answered. “Mary Margaret Westmoreland.”
“Mary Margaret,” Charlie repeated as they began their descent. It sounded like a suitable name for a wife to him. He hoped that she liked butterscotch.