The Hour I First Believed

by Wally Lamb

  Moze shook his head. “Man, that’s fucked up with a capital F. Hey, before I forget, that folder yonder? Janis left it for you.” I glanced over at the legal-sized manila file folder on the counter. “Stuff she found in one of those boxes upstairs. She’s got some questions. Wants you to take a look at it.”

  “Yeah, well, like you said before, first things first. Mind if I grab another one of your beers?”

  He shook his head, finished the rest of his. “As long as you’re up.”

  Standing at the fridge with my back to him, I tried to make the next sound as casual as possible. “So is Janis going down there with you?”

  It wasn’t until I turned and faced him that he responded. “No, she’s not. Why you asking?”

  “No reason,” I said. I handed him his beer. Watched him watch me as he uncapped it and took a sip. I could feel the pace of my heartbeat pick up.

  “She says she’s working against that conference deadline and can’t spare the time.” He placed his beer bottle on the table. “She’s living and breathing those ancestors of yours.”

  “Better her than me,” I said. “All that moldy old stuff. Well, don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her while you’re away.”

  He cocked his head. “That right? You figure she needs taking care of?”

  It felt like something had just shifted gears—that we’d gone from two buddies having a couple of beers to something else, something vaguely hostile. Why was he smirking?

  “No, check that,” I said. “She’s a grown woman, right?”

  “Right.”

  I wanted out of there. Wanted to get away from that fucking smirk of his. “Well, I guess I’ll get out of these teacher clothes. I’ll look for that cat carrier. Thanks for the beers.”

  “Not a problem,” he said.

  In my bedroom, I changed into a sweatshirt and jeans. A few kisses, that was all it had been. By mutual agreement. Had she said something to him? Laughed about kissing the old fool landlord whose archives she was “living and breathing”? Kissing a guy who was old enough to be her father?…I thought about what Maureen had said: how that guard had smirked while she was “searching” her friend, Camille. That was when people smirked, wasn’t it? When they had the upper hand?

  When I reentered the kitchen a few minutes later, he was gone, thank God. I rinsed out the beer bottles, put them in the recycling tub by the door.

  That folder Janis had left for me caught my eye. The note she’d paper-clipped to the front read, “Caelum—Found these today. Lydia is mentioned in a few of the articles but who are Ethel and Mary Agnes Dank? And what’s with this sexist old beer ad? The Rheingold ‘girls’?? Thank God feminism came along! Love, Janis.”

  Inside the folder were several old news clippings: “Sentence Woman for Immorality”…“Local Woman Among Boston Fire Victims”…“Girl, 17, Attempts Suicide Over Thwarted Love of Boy, 14”…

  When I looked from the clippings to the kitchen door, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Someone was standing there, looking in at me. I rose and started toward the door, recognizing who it was: Lolly’s not-so-handy handyman. “Hey, Ulysses,” I said. “What’s up? Come on in.”

  He was nervous, shaky as hell. He was three weeks sober, he said. He’d gone back to AA and was working the steps. He needed to apologize.

  For what? I asked.

  For having betrayed my trust, he said—crashing here at the farmhouse when all I’d wanted him to do was check in every few days and feed Lolly’s cat. He was sorry, too, that he’d tried to take on those teenage punks who’d been trespassing down at the apple house. He should have picked up the phone and called the cops. Let them handle it. “I was cocked and I wasn’t thinking straight,” he said.

  Water under the bridge, I assured him. I was just glad those twerps hadn’t hurt him. Why didn’t he have a seat?

  He nodded. “So how’s Nancy doing?” As if on cue, Lolly’s cat sauntered into the kitchen and sidled up to him. “Hey, here’s my girl!” he said. She jumped onto his lap and nuzzled his chest, apparently as happy to see him as he was to see her.

  “You want a cup of coffee?” I asked.

  He glanced over at the empty beer bottles. “Nah, I’m all set. Thanks. You know something? You look like your dad. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t true. Lolly’d said plenty of times that I resembled my father, but I’d never seen it. Had never appreciated the comparison, either.

  “Me and him were buddies growing up, you know. Grammar school, high school. Went down and enlisted right after graduation, the both of us.”

  I nodded. “And Jerry Martineau’s dad, too,” I said.

  “That’s right. Then the three of us got shipped over to Korea.”

  And came home screwed up, I thought. Mr. Martineau held it together for years, then put a shotgun to his head. You and Daddy became lushes. What I said was, “Well, Ulysses, as far as your AA steps, consider yourself forgiven.”

  “Aw right,” he said. “That’s good of you. Your aunt was always good to me, too, you know. Always helped me out, no matter how bad I screwed up.”

  “She helped me out from time to time, too,” I said.

  He nodded, teared up a little. “That day I found her wandering out in the yard? When she had her stroke? Jesus, what a heartbreaker that was.”

  “I’m just grateful you came by and got her to the hospital,” I said. And I was grateful to him, too, but he’d already gotten his forgiveness and he wasn’t going to be offered a beer no matter how many times he glanced over at those empties. I stood, took a few steps toward the door. “So. Congrats on your sobriety. Keep up the good work, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said. He took the hint. Scooted Nancy Tucker off his lap and got up from his chair. I was just closing the door behind him when he stopped and turned back to face me. “Oh, Jesus Christ, I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you something. I was wondering if maybe you had any work for me to do around here. You wouldn’t have to pay me much. Just a little something under the table to keep me in smokes, more or less.”

  Smokes and booze, I figured. “You know, Ulysses, money’s pretty tight right now, to tell you the truth.”

  “Yeah, okay. No problem then…. But what I was thinking was maybe I could take down the apple house for you. Kinda dangerous leaving it half-collapsed like that. If those fuckin’ kids come sneaking back and the rest of the roof falls down on them, they could sue your ass, right?”

  I nodded. “But like I said, I just don’t have a whole lot of capital right now. I’d help you out if I could, but…”

  “Yeah, okay then. Don’t worry about it. I was just thinking I could pull the boards down, stack ’em up, get the nails out. Builders pay good money for salvage, you know. And then, after the building was down, you probably wouldn’t want a concrete slab just sitting there, so maybe I could take a sledgehammer to it, bust it up and wheelbarrow it the hell out of there for you. You wouldn’t even know that fuckin’ apple house had been there.”

  I shook my head. “But I tell you what. You stay on the straight and narrow and come see me next spring. April, let’s say. First of April. Come back and see me then. And if you’ve stayed sober, and if my finances have improved a little, maybe we can work something out then. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. He thrust his hand out and we shook on the deal.

  Watching him trudge up Bride Lake Road, I was reminded of that Sunday afternoon long ago, when I’d stood there watching my father retreat from the farmhouse, Grandpa Quirk’s whiskey bottle in hand, after Daddy’d fought with Mother and broken Lydia’s soup tureen in the scuffle. After he’d gone, Mother had sat there at this same kitchen table, flush-faced and defeated. Then she’d hugged me and accused me of not hugging her back.

  I’d denied it, I remember, though it was true. “I do hug you back.”

  “No, you don’t. You never do.”

  “I do, too.”

  I opened the folder of cl
ippings Janis had left and read.

  Three Rivers Evening Record,

  October 13, 1935

  SENTENCE WOMAN FOR IMMORALITY

  Mrs. Adolph (Ethel) Dank, 28, formerly of 113 Green Street, this city, was sentenced to the State Farm for Women for a term of 90 days by Judge Micah J. Benson in town court today following her guilty plea to charges of lascivious carriage, intoxication, and breach of the peace. Mrs. Dank admitted to having no lodging place since leaving her home recently. She told the court that she and her husband are estranged.

  Ethel Dank was taken into custody by Police Lieutenant David F. O’Connor early yesterday morning after she was found in the company of two navy sailors at the White Birch Motor Court on Rural Route 3. Lieut. O’Connor stated he responded to a complaint by motel officials that Mrs. Dank, clad only in her undergarments, was causing a disturbance by banging on the door of the sailors’ rented room and pleading to be let back inside, apparently after an altercation. Lieut. O’Connor reported that, by the time he arrived to investigate, the defendant had been readmitted to the room and was subdued. She was bruised about the face, legs, and neck but refused treatment at William T. Curtis Memorial Hospital.

  The servicemen involved in the incident told Lieut. O’Connor they had been on a spree following their return from a period of overseas duty and had met Mrs. Dank at the Silver Slipper, a local tavern. The defendant had been imbibing and dancing with both white and Negro clientele, according to the sailors.

  Lieut. O’Connor said he did not bring charges against the two servicemen involved because Mrs. Dank had been soliciting male company and because he was satisfied the sailors were sufficiently ashamed of their actions. “I’m certain these young men have learned their lesson,” the officer told Judge Benson.

  Upon being sentenced to a six month term, Mrs. Dank pleaded for a lesser confinement, stating that her imprisonment would represent a hardship for her daughter, who is seven. Judge Benson told Mrs. Dank her actions demonstrated she was an unfit mother and the child was probably better served by her absence than by her presence. He then agreed to reduce her sentence by half, to 90 days, provided she leaves the area upon her release. In sentencing Ethel Dank, the judge charged her to use her time at the state farm to express remorse to her husband and others and to restore herself to womanly virtue. “The word ‘penitentiary’ derives from the word ‘penitent,’” Judge Benson told Mrs. Dank. “I would advise you to contemplate that.”

  Three Rivers Evening Record,

  December 23, 1935

  STATE FARM FUGITIVE HELD FOR HIGH COURT

  A young woman who escaped from the State Farm for Women at Three Rivers a few days ago, stealing articles from the institution and a nearby farmhouse, has been bound over from the Stonington Borough justice court to the superior court. Ethel Dank, 29, was apprehended by local police in a wooded area of Bride Lake Farm, which borders the state facility. She had been at large for about six hours before her capture.

  Mrs. Dank was brought before the Stonington court on the complaint of Mrs. Lydia P. Quirk, superintendent of the State Farm for Women, who described the fugitive as being “a bad apple” who was the source of continuous trouble there. The value of the articles the police said Mrs. Dank admitted stealing was placed in excess of $50 by Superintendent Quirk. These items included articles of clothing, food, and toys from the institution’s nursery. From the neighboring farm, the escapee stole a child’s music box, a necklace, and a number of silver dollars. Bride Lake Farm is owned and operated by Superintendent Quirk and her son, Alden Quirk, Jr.

  Mrs. Dank told police she escaped because she could not bear to be separated from her child during the Christmas season. She is the mother of a seven-year-old girl.

  Pending arraignment at the next criminal session of the superior court, Mrs. Dank was committed to the county jail in default of bonds of $500 each.

  And these had been the “good old days,” right? I shook my head. Whoever this Ethel Dank was, my guess was that her chief offense had been “dancing with both white and Negro clientele.” And that she’d obviously taken the hit for those two unnamed sailors after they’d brought her to that motel, liquored her up, and, most likely, raped her. Blame the victim: probably business as usual back then. Well, now, too, except not this blatant. In sentencing Ethel to six months in the pokey—releasing her “to the custody of State Farm Superintendent Lydia P. Quirk”—the judge had advised her to use her time to “restore herself to womanly virtue.” I had to smile at that one. You’d swear that some of the women walking around over at the jail these days were men. Shaved heads, bulked-up bodies. Strutting like roosters in the hen house….

  Was the “nearby farmhouse” Ethel had broken into after her big escape this place? Had she been “bad apple” enough to commit a b & e at the home of the prison matron? Ballsy enough to sneak upstairs and do some last-minute Christmas shopping for the daughter that the judge had said would be better off without her? Big mistake, Ethel, if you ripped off Superintendent Quirk, no matter how progressive her practices were. Maureen had said more than once that prison was hardest of all on the women who were separated from their kids. It was a whole different era now, but I guess that hadn’t changed.

  Time Magazine, December 1, 1942

  CATASTROPHE: BOSTON’S WORST

  Holy Cross had just beaten Boston College. Downtown Boston was full of men and women eager to celebrate or console. Many of them wound up at Cocoanut Grove night club. They stood crowded around the dimly lighted downstairs bar and filled the tables around the dance floor upstairs. With them mingled the usual Saturday night crowd: soldiers and sailors, a wedding party, a few boys being sent off to Army camps. Motion picture cowboy star Buck Jones was there with an entourage, too. Jones was in Boston on a combination war bond selling tour and promotional junket for Monogram Films, producers of The Rough Riders, a Western series.

  At 10 o’clock Bridegroom John O’Neil, who had planned to take his bride to their new apartment at the stroke of the hour, lingered on a little longer. The floor show was about to start. Through the big revolving doors, couples moved in and out.

  At the downstairs bar, a 16-year-old busboy stood on a bench to replace a light bulb that a prankish customer had removed. He lit a match. It touched one of the artificial palm trees that gave the Cocoanut Grove its atmosphere. A few flames shot up. A girl named Joyce Spector sauntered toward the checkroom because she was worried about her new fur coat.

  Before Joyce Spector reached the cloakroom, the Cocoanut Grove was a screeching shambles. The fire quickly ate away the palm tree, raced along silk draperies, was sucked upstairs through the stairway, and leaped along ceiling and wall. The silk hangings, turned to balloons of flame, fell on tables and floor.

  Men and women fought their way toward the revolving door; the push of bodies jammed it. Nearby was another door; it was locked tight. There were other exits, but few Cocoanut Grove patrons knew about them. The lights went out. There was nothing to see now except flames, smoke, and the weird moving torches that were men and women with clothing and hair afire.

  The 800 Cocoanut Grove patrons pushed and shoved, fell and were trampled. Joyce Spector was knocked under a table, crawled on hands and knees, and somehow was pushed through an open doorway into the street. A chorus boy herded a dozen people downstairs into a refrigerator. A few men and women crawled out windows; a few escaped by knocking out a glass brick wall. But most of them, including Bridegroom John O’Neil and Motion Picture Star Buck Jones, were trapped.

  Firemen who broke down the revolving door found it blocked by bodies of the dead, six deep. They tried to pull a man through a side window; his legs were held tight by the mass of struggling people behind him. In an hour, the fire was out and firemen began untangling the piles of bodies. One hard-bitten fireman went into hysterics when he picked up a body and a foot came off in his hand. They found a bartender still standing behind his bar, a girl dead in a telephone booth, a nickel clutched betwee
n her thumb and finger.

  At hospitals and improvised morgues which turned into charnel houses for the night, 484 dead were counted. One Boston newspaper ran a two-word banner headline: BUSBOY BLAMED, but the busboy had not put up the Cocoanut Grove’s tinderbox decorations, nor was he responsible for the fact that Boston’s laws do not require nightcubs to have fireproof fixtures, sprinkler systems, or exit markers.

  Three Rivers Evening Record,

  Tuesday, December 1, 1942

  LOCAL WOMAN AMONG NIGHTCLUB FIRE VICTIMS—

  Former Three Rivers Resident Was Hollywood Actress in Buck Jones Entourage—

  Husband, Daughter Identify Remains—

  Jones Succumbs to Injuries, Becomes 481st To Die

  Mrs. Ethel S. Dank, 35, formerly of Three Rivers and more recently of Van Nuys, California, has been identified as one of more than 480 victims who perished in Boston’s Cocoanut Grove fire Saturday evening. Positive identification of Mrs. Dank’s body was made late Sunday by her husband and daughter, Mr. Adolph P. Dank, 58, of 113 Green St., this city, and Miss Mary Agnes Dank, 14, of the Three Rivers County Home for Girls. Father and daughter were among hundreds of loved ones who stood for hours in long lines outside the Park Square garage on Sunday, awaiting their turn to view the dead. The garage, located across the street from the scene of the disastrous blaze at 17 Piedmont Street in the city’s Back Bay section, had been emptied of automobiles and converted to a temporary morgue.

  A ‘House of Ghouls’

  “There were rows and rows of bodies, hundreds of bodies,” Adolph Dank said, describing the grim task of identification that awaited family members as they entered the garage. “You’d pass by each, shake your head, and move on. It was a house of ghouls.” Many of the deceased were burned beyond recognition, except by a ring or necklace or other non-perishable item, according to Deputy Coroner John W. Troyer. Other victims, Troyer said, were untouched by the blaze, indicating that the cause of death was suffocation from smoke inhalation or ingestion of poisonous gas.