by John Jakes
Suddenly, though, he saw what he was doing. The same thing Eleanor had done. He was placing the blame everywhere but upon the shoulders of the one person to whom it rightly belonged. Gideon Kent.
Time passed while he pondered his alternatives. Carter was beyond help, Eleanor almost so. But Will. Now that was another matter entirely.
He threw Marat’s treatise on the floor and hurried out of the office. He would apologize to his son. Try to smother his own frustrations and make amends. Try to substitute fatherly affection and reason for the anger of an exhausted, spent man—
It was too late. Will’s closet had been emptied. He was nowhere to be found.
vi
At two in the morning, there was a brief shower. Then the sky cleared. The moon shone. Gideon stared out the window of his bedroom, ostensibly speaking to Julia in the darkness behind him, but in truth speaking mostly to himself.
“What’s happened to him? Ridiculous question. He’s caught the fever of the age. The fever for wealth. The fever for position—”
Despairing, he leaned on the sill and shook his head. Then he turned to face the darkened room, a bent silhouette against the moon.
“What’s wrong with the people in this country, Julia? Are we nothing but a nation of self-indulgent snobs whose only concerns are the size of a house and the cost of the furnishings? Have we gotten so greedy and indolent, we’re satisfied to stand for nothing except a bank balance while we’re alive—amount to nothing but an estate when we’re dead? Did old Philip go to the Concord bridge solely to secure the right to have a family pedigree approved by some simpering eunuch? By God I don’t think so. But I see precious little evidence to support my point of view. In fact, my views have alienated my daughter, and now they’ve driven my son away.”
“Gideon—” she began from the shadows where she lay.
“He’s gone, Julia. Gone to that worthless crowd.”
For the first time that day, he cried.
vii
After a moment, Julia whispered, “Gideon, come to bed.”
She held him in her arms for a quarter of an hour, listening to him score himself for Eleanor’s disaffection and Will’s sudden departure. He no longer held them responsible for the disintegration of the family. And though he didn’t retract a word of what he’d said about the country or the Pennels, he couldn’t hold others responsible either. The blame, he said, was his alone.
Finally he was silent, motionless. She kept him close, his chest crushing the thin night dress against her right breast, her right arm curved around him so that she could stroke his temple gently.
In a flat voice, he asked, “Do you suppose we’ll ever see him again?”
“He’s a man. We’ve been guilty of forgetting that.”
“I know. He said so. But do you think—?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, dearest. He’s a grown man. It’s entirely up to him.”
“Then the answer’s no. He’s gone for good.” Her silence was devastating agreement.
Book Six
THE EDUCATION OF WILL KENT
CHAPTER I
THE BEND
i
“CHE COSA? NON HO SENTITO ciò che hai detto.”
The speaker was an old Italian with a black clay pipe and the wheezy voice of someone suffering a lung disorder. He was the fourth person Will had asked for directions. The old man didn’t understand Will any better than the others had. He made that clear by raising his hands, his shoulders, and his eyebrows in a gesture of bewilderment.
The din on Mulberry Street this Saturday afternoon was incredible. Men, women, and youngsters packed the sidewalks, bargaining or socializing. Other people leaned out the windows of the four- and five-story tenements lining both sides of the street. Will had stopped on the west side of Mulberry, at the point where it made a slight change of direction—the bend for which the neighborhood was named.
Two ragged boys scrambled after pennies they’d been pitching on the sidewalk. One penny had landed near the valise Will had put down. In the act of retrieving the coin, one of the boys made a grab for the valise. Will kicked it six inches to the right, just out of the boy’s reach. The urchins ran off, laughing. The old man laughed too.
Will didn’t find much to laugh about. He was soaked with sweat and worn out from the all-night train trip. The pitiless August sunlight was giving him a headache. He felt terrible about the circumstances of his departure from Beacon Street.
A permanent separation from his family had been inevitable—a long time coming, but inevitable. That was the conclusion he’d reached during his sleepless night on the local from Boston. The last hope of a good relationship had been destroyed when Gideon resorted to innuendoes about Laura’s character in order to discourage his interest.
Still, the parting hurt.
Now, on top of everything, this old man couldn’t or wouldn’t help him.
Will had his coat slung over his shoulder and his vest open, but even so, he was obviously dressed too well for the neighborhood. The quality and newness of his clothing would have branded him an outsider even if his language hadn’t.
The old man started to turn away. “Wait,” Will said. “Surely somebody around here has heard of Bayard Court.”
He showed the old man the note Drew had sent several weeks ago. Unfortunately Will’s friend had provided no directions, merely an address. “Bayard Court,” he repeated, emphasizing each word. “Number four and a half. Bayard—Court.”
“Oh, è quello ciò che vuoi?” the man said with dawning comprehension. Then Will heard an accented version of something familiar: “Bay-ard Court—?”
“Yes. That’s it.” Will nodded several times.
Slowly, the old man pivoted until he was facing north. Then Will was again forced to wait while the man acknowledged a friend—a younger man pushing a two-wheeled cart along the sidewalk. On the cart sat one of the barrels which could be seen on the curbstones at half-block intervals, overflowing with ashes and cinders. The barrel on the cart was empty, and a pert little girl in a ragged dress was balanced precariously on the front rim. She was obviously enjoying the ride.
The old man beamed. “Buona giornata a te, Pasqual. E buona giornata al tuo bellissima bambino.”
“Buona giornata, Chiro.” The younger man indicated Will. “Chi è il tuo amico pallido?”
That too was incomprehensible, but not the suspicion with which it was said. In answer to the question, the old man shrugged in an expressive way. The young father gave Will another suspicious stare, then went on.
“Bay-ard Court?” the old man repeated at last.
“Yes, that’s what I want. Where do I find it?”
The old man pointed north to the next intersection and rattled off directions, which he supplemented with gestures. Will gathered that he was supposed to proceed to the corner, turn left, then right again. Precisely how far he went before he made the right turn, it was impossible to say. But at least he had a start.
He thanked the old man, who simply stared until he picked up his valise and moved on. Other people watched him too. Only a few smiled. He felt more and more uncomfortable with every step he took.
ii
The Mulberry Street Bend was just a few blocks from the New York Union and the solid, relatively uncluttered commercial area surrounding City Hall Park. The Bend, by contrast, was a colorful neighborhood, but a crowded and abysmally poor one. A slum.
Drew had written that the neighborhood population was chiefly Italian with some Irish sprinkled in. Most of the Italians were recent arrivals. They eked out a subsistence by picking rags, or by working at the municipal dumps where garbage was loaded onto scows for disposal at sea.
Years ago, Italian newcomers had begun to gravitate toward the dumps for reasons no one could adequately explain. It wasn’t an elegant way to earn a living, but a few of the more unscrupulous had discovered ways to make it pay, and pay handsomely. Today, those men were powerful. They were addres
sed by the respectful title padrone. They controlled the dumps. With one hand they bribed municipal officials in order to maintain their exclusive rights to do all the work and all the hiring. With the other they held out jobs to their fellow Italians.
The padrones employed the immigrants but paid them a pittance, and in addition deducted a weekly percentage— only fair, they said, since they had generously extended themselves and taken a chance on inexperienced workers. To the trusting newcomer, the padrones were benefactors. To those less naïve they were merely businessmen doing business in the American way. It was a sad introduction to the new homeland, Drew said.
The whole of Mulberry Street for several blocks had turned into an outdoor market this sultry Saturday afternoon. On the curbstone to Will’s right sat women ranging in age from thirteen to ninety. Their heads were wrapped in red or yellow bandannas. Their tongues were busy with the day’s gossip. Beyond them, in the street, was a row of pushcarts. A similar row ran along the far curb, which was equally crowded with women.
The two lines of carts in the street were supplemented by two more on the sidewalks near the buildings. Displayed on the carts Will saw sticks of stove kindling; cabbages and carrots blackened by mold; long loaves of bread already stale and crumbly; big fish with phosphorescent scales; thick, bloody-looking sausages; small mountains of snails.
Behind the sidewalk pushcarts were grubby shops which advertised themselves in Italian and English as banks, steamship agencies, or employment bureaus. Each shop and cart had its gilded religious plaque or its painted plaster image of a benevolent-looking saint. Most of the saints cast their eyes up to heaven, no doubt because their earthly surroundings were so grim.
Will passed a pushcart from which a toothless old woman was offering what appeared to be secondhand stockings and undergarments. Beyond the pushcart, a couple of rough dark-eyed men sat talking on a crumbling cement stoop. They noticed Will. Their interest increased when they saw the obviously expensive gold watch chain hanging between the pockets of his open vest.
The interest of the two men didn’t strike Will as precisely innocent. One squinted at him through the blue smoke of a cheroot; he was younger than his companion, and wearing a derby. He grinned at Will and pointed to the gold chain.
“Ehi, amico. Porti una bella catena d’oro. Hai un bell’orologio appeso alla fine?”
Will kept walking. When he’d gone about six steps beyond the stoop, the two men exchanged sly looks, stood up and fell in step behind him.
iii
His neck prickled. He didn’t turn but he knew they were following him. He worked his way through the crowd, the pounding in his head growing worse.
He wasn’t overly surprised at the unwelcome attention he was receiving. Drew had written that a certain few in every one of New York’s many racial and ethnic groups were totally unwilling to better themselves by honest means. Hence every slum had its gangs. There were Irish gangs on the West Side; Chinese gangs on Mott Street; Negro gangs in enclaves along Seventh and Eighth Avenues; Greek gangs, Polish gangs, Bohemian gangs—even a gang in the small Arabian community down near the Battery. The gangs preyed on outsiders who ventured in and, when there were no outsiders, on their own neighbors. The slums guaranteed every man the opportunity to become embittered and desperate, Drew had said in one particularly caustic letter.
Will passed a saloon. From its open doorway came lusty singing, and laughter. Two elderly men stood still as statues in the entrance, smoking those ubiquitous clay pipes. The men’s eyes slid from Will’s face to a spot somewhere behind him. Then the men glanced at one another. Those small signs told Will the two roughnecks were still stalking him.
Ahead, the sidewalk was drenched with spray from an open hydrant. A crowd of small boys frolicked and splashed. Will walked right through the spray, not minding the soaking he got. The water felt cool on his aching head.
A genial, mustached man in a fine, thigh-length coat of black alpaca leaned against the front of a shop identified as a bank. The man was peeling notes from a thick bundle. He handed the money to an eager customer who babbled thanks in Italian. Both banker and customer noticed the men following Will. The banker reacted with cynical amusement; the customer’s look was one of pity.
On both sides of Mulberry Street, tilted telephone and telegraph poles angled toward the hot August sky. The lower sections of the poles bore marks of frequent battering by wheeled vehicles. Wagons stood hub to hub between the pushcarts. Just across the street, a hearse had its rear doors open to receive two children’s coffins of unpainted wood, each carried by men in dark suits.
Will tried to listen for footsteps behind him. The noise made it difficult. Preoccupied, he stumbled against the outstretched arm of a butcher skinning a kid. The dead animal hung from a metal hook on a kind of gallows attached to the butcher’s cart.
The butcher’s hairy forearm was wet with blood. The blood spattered Will’s vest when the two collided. Will apologized in English, the butcher in Italian. Then the butcher looked over Will’s shoulder, blinked and bobbed his head—a clear warning of pursuit. Will nodded his thanks, then walked on to the corner—the intersection of Mulberry and Bayard Streets, according to a sign.
To his left along Bayard Street, tenements faced one another across a thoroughfare even more crowded and noisy than Mulberry. Portions of the cross street lay in heavy shadow. If he went on, he’d have to pass through those dark sections. He decided that would be foolish with the two men still on his trail. He had a better chance of dealing with them here in the sunlight.
Heart beating fast, he rounded the corner, stopped and dropped his valise. With his foot he pushed it into the shade near the building. His head was pounding as he turned to confront the pursuers.
CHAPTER II
UNEXPECTED HELP
i
THE TWO MEN WERE taken by surprise when they rounded the corner and discovered Will standing there. But they recovered quickly enough, swaggering up to him while passersby hurried around without a second look. One stout man did perceive that something was wrong, but his thin-lipped wife refused to let him stop.
The two roughnecks closed in on Will from either side. The one on his right, the older of the two, reached for Will’s vest and started to finger the material. Will jerked his fist up and batted the hand aside.
The younger man instantly reached under his soiled shirt and produced a clasp knife. He opened the knife one-handed, without so much as a downward glance.
“Hey, my friend—” The young Italian’s English was heavily accented but clear. Beneath the brim of his derby, his eyes glittered. “That’s no way to treat my pal. You come wandering into the Bend in your fancy suit, you have to pay visitor’s tax.”
The other man guffawed. “That’s good, ’Sep. Visitor’s tax. That’s rich.”
“Get the hell away from me,” Will said. The men weren’t impressed. “Sure, sure,” said the older one. “Soon as we collect that visitor’s tax—huh, ’Sep?”
The young man in the derby grinned, nodded, and put the point of his knife against Will’s vest. “We’ll take the tax or we’ll take your gizzard. In your case the tax is this good-looking chain”—he flicked the knife upward, touching the gold links—“and whatever’s on the end. Hand it over and you can go along.”
Will didn’t move. The knife moved lazily away from the gold chain and rose to a spot just below his collar. The point was perhaps half an inch from his throat.
“Did you hear what I said, friend? We want the tax and we want it now.”
The young man’s other hand shot toward the chain. Will jerked backward, ramming his fist at the young man’s face.
The young man was quick and agile. He easily sidestepped the punch. His companion swore and grabbed for Will, but he too missed as Will ducked away from the slashing knife. It whispered past his left side. The point raked the brick wall and left a trail of sparks.
Will slammed his left fist against the young man’s outstretched
arm, driving it against the wall. He yelled and dropped the knife. Will bashed the older man’s throat with his elbow. He was desperate—and enraged at being robbed in broad daylight. On the corner, a small crowd had gathered to watch. No one moved to help him.
“Ti sistemerò io, bastardo!” the young man snarled as he crouched to retrieve his knife. Will kicked it out of his reach, at the same time using both hands to hold off the other thief.
The young man groped for the knife. Over his bent back Will saw the crowd stir. Suddenly a woman bellowed, “You mean to say you’ll stand by and let those two loafers attack a visitor to our neighborhood? Feccia indolente! ”
The crowd parted as she shoved through, a stout, dark-haired woman with a baby bouncing on her sizable bosom. The baby rode in a kind of sling hanging from her neck.
The woman ran up behind Will’s assailants. Folding both arms to shield her howling infant, she lifted her right knee. “Get out of here, lowlife!” She rammed her knee into the buttocks of the young man groping for the knife.
The man’s derby fell off. He crashed headfirst into the brick wall.
“Preziosissimo sangue di Gesù il Salvatore!” The young man clutched his scalp. His fingers came away red. “You’ve killed me, woman.”
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. Her English was only slightly better than his. “But I will if you don’t take yourself out of my sight. I know who you are, Giuseppe Corso. I know your mother, your poor abused wife, and half your kin from Naples. I see them all at Sunday mass. But I never see you because you’re busy swilling wine and congratulating yourself on your manhood after robbing some helpless stranger.”
Protecting the yelling baby with her left arm, she used her other hand to shove the young man’s shoulder. “But you never commit a crime alone, do you? You prefer two or three against one. By yourself it would be too chancy.”