Adam glanced in the direction Jack was looking. He saw the gray building again, much closer now, with its large smokestacks still blowing out great clouds of smoke.
“What is that place?”
Jack snorted, though not unkindly. “You don’t know what that is? You really aren’t from around here, are you? That’s the candle factory—the so-called jewel of Candlewick. Candlewick’s Candles Corporation.”
So Candlewick was the name of the town. Adam cracked a smile at the unusual name. He made a mental note to look up the town once he got home. He had no idea where he was on a map, but he couldn’t risk giving himself away by asking Jack for specifics.
Instead, he asked, “Why is it the jewel of Candlewick?”
“Well, the whole town is crazy about candles,” Jack said. “That’s how we make our living. My dad even named me after that nursery rhyme about candles. The one that goes,
“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,
Jack jump over the candlestick.”
“Is that why you have a candlestick on your desk?” Adam asked.
Jack laughed and said, “Good one,” even though Adam hadn’t been joking.
“You can’t find candles like the ones made here anywhere else in the world,” continued Jack. “Everyone in town works there. It makes a ton of money, so people think the factory’s the jewel of Candlewick. But it’s not, not really, since most of that money ends up going to the Gold Mold.”
“What’s the Gold Mold?”
“Not what—who,” corrected Jack. “The Gold Mold is the owner of Candlewick’s Candles. Richest and nastiest guy in town. He overworks everyone and yells at them all the time. He even keeps part of the money he’s supposed to pay them.”
“That sounds awful.”
Jack nodded. “He wears this stupid gold pendulum around his neck wherever he goes, like he needs to flaunt how much money he has with dumb jewelry. That’s why I call him the Gold Mold. Shiny on the outside, full of mold and ugly stuff on the inside. Well, maybe some actual gold on the inside. Did you know he eats gold flakes with his dinner?”
Adam grimaced. He knew lots of bakeries in New York that used gold to give their pastries extra sparkle, but to him, eating gold seemed about as appealing as eating paint or toilet paper, not to mention an extravagant waste.
“He’s the meanest, greediest man there ever was.” Jack frowned. “This was before I was born, but when he first took over the factory, he found out his little sister had been giving away candles to poor kids to sell. They had a big fight about it. People say he was always jealous of his sister—she aimed to be successful without relying on the family business, and that made them rivals, I guess.”
Something about this story sounded awfully familiar to Adam. “What happened next?”
“His sister made desserts—sweets and chocolates and stuff. A few years later, he bought up all the sweet shops in town, to prove he was good at things other than candles. But he wasn’t. Once he became the shops’ new owner, he sold the candy at five hundred times their original price. Now no one can afford it. I only get candy when I go to New York City with my dad.”
“What does the Gold Mold do with all the unsold candy?”
“He eats it all! His own son doesn’t even get any. Although,” Jack said with a shrug, “I’ve never met the Gold Mold’s son in person. People say he’s sort of a recluse.” He clasped his hands and glanced down the street again.
Even though Adam knew it was none of his business, he asked timidly, “Why doesn’t your dad and everyone else find another job if the Gold Mold is so awful?”
Jack scrunched his eyebrows under his aviator helmet. “I don’t know. My dad says he wants to leave Candlewick, but he never does. It’s like he suddenly forgets about the things the Gold Mold does. Like one day, he accidentally did an order wrong and got smacked by the Gold Mold’s cane. My dad had a huge bruise on his arm. He swore he was quitting that night. But when the next day came, he couldn’t even remember how he got the bruise. He didn’t believe me when I told him.”
Adam suggested quietly that a bad memory was likely at play there. But Jack shook his head.
“My dad’s as sharp as they come,” he argued. “He’s brilliant—look at all the model planes we’ve built. Anyway, this is one of the only jobs around, and there aren’t many options for veterans like him. My grandpa wasn’t happy when he found out my dad was working at Candlewick’s Candles. Said he could forgive but never forget what the owners did. Grandpa was a bit of an odd duck, but he told me the best stories. He never approved of the factory—”
A loud whistle pierced the air. Jack bolted upright and craned his neck to look out the window.
“Shift’s over,” he said nervously. “My dad’ll be home soon. Do you think…” He glanced at Adam. “Could you stay with me just a bit longer? Just until my dad comes back for sure?”
“Sure, okay.”
Adam understood. He used to wait for his parents to come home too when he was little. He’d count down the days on the calendar. Five more days until they finished delivering medical supplies here; four more days until they returned from building houses there; three more days, two until they were done exploring the mountains of Switzerland.
The last countdown had been two hours, forty-three minutes. Then had come the untimely accident.
Adam waited silently alongside Jack, who watched the street with the intensity of a hawk. After a while, figures slowly appeared at the slope of the hill. Adults in crinkled shirts and grubby khakis shuffled up the street, their faces vacant and drained. Each adult continued walking past and paid no attention to the two boys. A few cars drove past, old-style vehicles that Uncle Henry would’ve called
