The door opened. A well-dressed man in suit and derby emerged. I pressed back deeper into shadow. The man stepped toward the boys, who looked up, ready to flee. They were glued in place by a purse jingling in the man’s palm, restraining them better than if he’d held a gun.
“Come on over here, boys,” he said, holding the purse up. “Who wants to earn a fifty-cent piece?”
They glanced around as if unsure, but I knew what they were thinking. That much money could buy a pound of mutton chop and a dozen eggs.
“I am a doctor. We are testing citizens for a rare psychological condition,” he continued. “It only takes a moment. Doesn’t hurt at all.”
The tallest of the bunch strode over. “I’ll do it,” he said.
The man pocketed the purse and reached into the coach, pulling out a metal contraption. He fitted it onto the boy’s head. The rest gathered close to watch. I couldn’t tell what it did, but after a moment the man told the boy he was done and removed it.
“Where’s my coin?” The boy held out his hand.
“You’ll get it. After all of you are tested.”
The boy pushed one of the others forward. “Come on, do it,” he said. “Don’t be a chicken. I didn’t even feel it.”
They lined up. One by one, the man tested them, saying nothing. When he was finished, he put the machine away. I heard him talking to someone concealed within the darkness of the coach. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Worked just like you said it would.” Then he counted out seven coins from his purse.
But there were eight boys.
He threw his arm in the air, tossing the coins away from him. “Thank you very much, boys. Here you go!”
The coins rolled over the cobblestones. The boys, whooping and hollering, clambered over each other to find them in the dark. They did not see the man grip the arm of one of the boys, or hear him mutter roughly, “You’re coming with us.”
“No! I won’t!” The boy kicked and thrashed. His hat fell off his tight curly hair.
I was about to yell out when two more men jumped from the coach. The boy went rigid, as did I. The men wore black-beaked leather masks with round lenses fitted into the eyeholes, like morbid crows, like the men who took my mother.
Some of the boys looked up then, and the tall one yelled, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” As he spoke, he pulled a knife from his belt.
The doctor turned toward him. “Your friend has a condition that requires hospitalization. Here’s his money.” He tossed another coin at the tall boy. “He won’t be needing it.”
While he spoke, the men in masks seized the boy, lifting him by his arms. Coming to his senses, the boy opened his mouth as if to scream, but one of the guards clamped a hand over it and shoved him into the coach. The doctor climbed in after them, and the driver whipped the horses. With a jolt, the coach surged forward. The boys jumped back, eyes wide. The tall one bent down, furtively pocketing the extra coin, while the others stared after the coach, terror written across their faces.
On the side of the coach, the curtain slid back. A head poked though the open window to glance back at the boys. The face was illuminated by the coach’s lantern. My breath caught in my throat. Something began to creep inside me, a mashing of imaginings and memories. I felt disoriented, dizzy, the same feeling I got when waking from a dream and not knowing what was real.
It’s him. It was the man outside my window when I was young, his white skin and straggly hair unmistakable. The man from my nightmares.
Chapter Five
Absinthe
I couldn’t sleep. His face was engraved on the inside of my eyelids, and a cold numbness cloaked me like a sticky, invisible veil. I shivered in my bed, staring at the door.
After the coach left, I’d run home, thoughts spinning around and around my brain. The man with the white face was with the men in crow masks. Does that mean he also works at the Tombs?
The inner workings of the Tombs were a mystery to me. My father had been inside. He’d visited my mother exactly six times, and each time I’d pleaded with him to take me along. He’d always refused, saying it was too dangerous for me. And where was he now? I’d likely caused an explosion, for goodness’ sake. Whatever was happening to me was more hazardous than going into a hospital to see my mother, even one as vile as the Tombs.
I must go see her, I resolved. She’s the only one who can explain these visions to me. This time I would not take no for an answer. I will make him take me tomorrow, and if he refuses, I will go myself. I had no work tomorrow and, unfortunately, neither did he.
My muscles tensed at a scraping sound outside. The door to the shop banged open. I leapt up, snatching my knife. A figure stumbled in, a string of curses giving away his identity as he collided with the furniture. He rummaged around the cupboards, looking for something—his pipe, no doubt. I let out my breath. Through clenched teeth, I said, “It’s on the sideboard,” even though I did not want to help him.
“Oh, hello, love,” he slurred. “Wash you doing up?”
“You must be joking,” I said.
The curtain screening my bed was pinned up from corner to corner, creating a diagonal slice of moonlight on the floor. The shop clocks ticked and twanged like dogs wagging their tails, as if they were happy to see him. I felt like telling them all to hush up.
“Joke? Hmm, I did hear a funny one—”
“Pop! Where were you?” I yelled. “I went to Sweeney’s looking for you. You’re drunk and I need to talk to you—it’s important!” I thought he’d be worried about the accident at the ironworks, that he’d be worried about me. Instead, I’d spent the night wondering where he was.
“Whoa, whoa.” He waved his hands about. “Jush give me second.”
“Pop, please tell me you didn’t spend all our money.” I crossed my fingers.
“Nah, we got plenty . . . we got each other.” I saw his dark silhouette, arms outstretched toward me, and knew he was smiling. It softened my resolve to be mad at him. I knew why he did it. I knew the anger and helplessness that burned inside him. On top of that, tonight was his and Mother’s wedding anniversary. I knew all that, but it was no excuse to get stinking drunk.
A match flared in the darkness, then the even, puffing flicker of a pipe. Sweet, dark, caramel-cherry smoke slithered by my nostrils. Another match and the kerosene lamp sparked to life. He looked terrible, hat askew, hair sticking out. When we used to go out, ladies acted frivolously around him. It wasn’t just his handsome face; it was his boyish charm. How I hated to see him this way. His bright blue eyes were watery. His rugged face, so dashing, battle scars and all, now seemed worn and weary.
He sat hard onto the sofa, awkwardly trying to remove his prosthetic leg. I noticed he was wearing the one the government had issued him after the war, not the one he’d made himself. This one was a primitive three-section chunk of metal that never fit him correctly, creating sores on his thigh stump. His own design was a multi-geared mechanical work of art.
“I thought you didn’t use that one anymore.” I put down my knife and went to help him. I should’ve let him struggle.
He leaned back and spun his hat through the air, somehow landing it perfectly on top of his tallest clock. “Thank you, sweets. Jush wait till you see my other one.” He hiccuped. “I’m making some modifications.”
Kneeling in front of him, I undid the leather straps. The leg clanged to the floor.
“Pop, I saw something tonight . . . something terrible.” I closed my eyes, recalling the awful scene. That poor little boy. If they had discovered my hiding place, it could just as easily have been me. My father took my hand, listening intently as I continued. “I saw a black metal coach pull up to a group of boys. A doctor said he wanted to test them. When he finished, two men in crow masks jumped out and grabbed one of the boys. They took him.”
“No! A young boy?” His blue eyes opened wide.
“There was someone else in the coach—horrible looking. I’ve seen his face bef
ore. I . . . I thought it was a nightmare, but it must have been real. I remember him looking up at the window of our old house. I think I was no more than six. . . .” I took a deep breath, trailing off. Maybe smacking my head had loosened something in my brain.
“You’re safe now, Avery. Come here.” He pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. His voice sobered momentarily. “If they are trolling the streets, we must be careful.”
My shoulders shuddered. Next to him on the sofa, I let myself relax into his strong embrace. “Yes,” I whispered. “But who is he? If he’s the same man I saw when I was little, then he must have watched Mother for years before she was taken.”
“I wish I knew,” Father said. “Never seen him at the hospital.”
“Pop, they were testing for a . . . a psychological condition. What do you think they meant? Do you think the boy they carried off is like Mother?”
He leaned back, closing his eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”
His breath grew heavy. He was falling asleep fully dressed. I smelled the alcohol on his breath, like anise and camphor.
“You said you gave up absinthe, Pop.” The green liquid made him absolutely dysfunctional. “I know it’s your and Mother’s annivers—”
His eyes opened a slit. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, patting my cheek. “Lesh not talk about your mother anymore. Lesh talk about you. How’s my sweet Avery? Every day you look more like her, you know.”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about her?”
“No.” He turned away, but not before I saw his eyes well up. “I don’t.”
I stood and helped him off with his frock coat and single boot, as my mind went back to another anniversary.
I was ten years old. My father told us to don our finest clothing. I actually wore a dress, even though I hated dresses. I could hardly move in them, let alone run. I didn’t understand why girls were forced to wear them, although my mother looked beautiful in her long gray gown, touring hat tied under her chin. And Father was positively dapper in a tweed suit and derby.
“Pop, do you remember when we went to Philadelphia for the Centennial Expo?” I asked, as I hung his coat by the door.
“Hmm, 1876, your first time on an airship,” he mumbled.
My father had booked passage on the sleekest airship I’d ever seen, the SS Hollister. We rode to Philadelphia in style. It was the most magical day of my life. A thirteen-acre building of glass and steel, Machinery Hall, trembled when the towering Corliss steam engine on display was fired up, its thirty-foot flywheel spinning with ease. We saw things we never thought possible, like Alexander Graham Bell’s telephonic device, which allowed conversation with someone far, far away; the Otis Brothers steam elevator lift; the forty-two-foot-tall arm of the forthcoming Statue of Liberty; and a slice of a fifteen-inch-diameter cable that John Roebling said would support a sixteen-hundred-foot suspension bridge, the longest in the world. I laughed. “Remember how we refused to believe a bridge could span from here to Manhattan Island?”
“I shtill don’t believe it.” He smiled. “By jiminy, I haven’t thought of that in years. Remember the food? We ate ourselves sick.”
My mouth watered at the thought of the fat German sausages, of steaming Turkish lamb stew and drippy caramel apples. Both of us quieted as the smells and sounds of the day washed through our memories.
On the ride home, Father had made us a promise, a promise I stupidly believed. He swore he would one day build his own airship and we would explore the world together, a family adventure.
“Avery, I’m sorry about . . .” He shook his head slowly. “About everything. You deserve better.”
It was another moment of clarity in his drunken stupor. Now I was the one with teary eyes. I felt sorry, too. Sometimes I felt like I was the adult and he, the child. But I loved him that way. And before she was taken, so had Mother. He’d never been one to worry about money for coal or food. He was content to tinker away, making exquisite clocks for people far and wide. He told me that before the Civil War, he’d even been commissioned to design a clock for the Central Park Menagerie. It would’ve been marvelous. He’d built a model. Different animals popped out each hour of the day, waltzed around, and then climbed a ladder to a hatch above the twelve.
The war put an end to all that magic. The little metal animals danced in the shop until dust choked their gears and rust hardened their movement, the unfortunate zebra forever stuck with his rear end poking out of the hatch.
For some reason, I got it in my head that it was a countdown. As each of my father’s clocks broke down, he and my mother moved further away from me. He’d clearly lost the will to maintain them, or was he intentionally letting them go, as he’d been forced to do with my mother? I bit my lip. He’s lost hope. I had to make things right before the rest of the clocks stopped ticking forever. I looked around the shop. Twelve left.
Once again I recalled the young boy taken by the white-faced man. There was something sinister going on at the Tombs, something involving others besides my mother. But what?
“Pop, wake up. I want to ask you something about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? That reminds me.” He looked up at me, raising his eyebrows. “I have an interview tomorrow.” He tapped his thumb on his chest and smiled. “At the brand-new Pearl Street Station. They’re hiring men to run wire under the city. How d’you like that? Electrification comes to the masses.”
“What? That’s wonderful, Pop!” I smiled and clapped my hands. “I’m sure they’ll want a man of your talents. But you need to get some sleep so you’ll be fresh in the morning.”
I’d heard tell of Thomas Edison’s new project. There was an article in the New York Times when the power station opened last month. Edison supplied ninety or so customers in Manhattan’s busy First District, including the Times headquarters, with electrical illumination. Soon he planned to add hundreds more. This was our chance. If Father could get a job there, we’d have a regular income.
My father’s eyes closed, and his head slumped forward. The request I’d been waiting to discuss with him jammed up inside me. He could not take me to the Tombs tomorrow. He needed this job.
But I could not wait another day to see my mother. There were no visiting hours on Sunday, and if I asked for time off after what had happened at the Works, I’d get fired for sure. I had to talk to her about these visions before I caused another explosion. It had to be tomorrow.
I lifted Father’s good leg and covered him with a wool blanket. Then I carried the lamp to my bedchamber, unhooked the curtain, and extinguished the flame. As I settled back onto my bed, the sound of his snoring oddly comforting, I thought about how often I used to spy on my mother. Until today, I’d forgotten about the times I’d hidden under the sofa in hopes of seeing her late-night guests. More memories drifted in. I recalled a woman who’d lost her baby, a dying old man, a couple with marital conflicts . . . the list went on. Each time, whether they came filled with anger or despair, they’d left happier, more content.
My mother seemed to have been helping people. And yet, it must have been the cause of her fragile mental condition, her hysteria . . . her madness. A cold quiver shook my shoulders. I needed to know what was really going on.
I wished I could ask Khan to accompany me. But it was not possible. Unbeknownst to my father, I’d followed him to the Tombs twice before I’d started working every day, so I knew there was a sign affixed to the door. Both times, Father had ripped it down and tossed it into the street. After he’d gone inside, I’d picked it up. In bold letters it read “White Visitors Only.”
No, I would have to go to the Tombs alone.
Chapter Six
The Ferry
Just when the smooth rocking motion of the ferry began to lull me to sleep, we hit a wave and my head bumped against the rail. We were already a good distance from the Fulton Street terminal on our way to Manhattan, on my way to the Tombs. I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers and fiddled with the trinke
ts of my necklace hidden under my shirt. Am I truly going through with this? I had to. I had no other choice.
I’d told my father I was going to work. He’d barely noticed when I left, busy as he was getting dressed for his interview. The absinthe must have taken its toll; he’d gulped down a raw egg mixed with bitters for breakfast. But it was nice to see him in a suit again.
I tilted my head back, inhaling the salty breeze. The partial skeleton of the new Brooklyn Bridge loomed overhead, dark filigree against a milk-white sky. I squinted up at the structure. Impossibly tall stone towers disappeared into the clouds. Roebling’s steel cables were strung between them, mooring Manhattan Island to Long Island. Each side of the suspended carriageway was desperately reaching toward the middle, like the arms of some monstrous but delicate beast. Amid the cry of seagulls I heard the continuous clanging of metal and the ceaseless grinding of machinery.
When a dark fleck streaked across the sky, I wondered if it was Seraphine chasing gulls. She was never far. I guessed my friend Alexander was up there somewhere, too. Eighteen men on the construction teams had died already; I prayed for his safety.
The ferry jumped and quivered its way across the East River, billowing black smoke behind it. The passengers rode standing room only, crowded together for the crossing. Finely clad men and women jostled against sooty chimney sweeps, construction workers, and farmers lugging potato sacks or squawking chickens in rattan cages for the Saturday markets.
The steady chug of the steam engine soothed my nerves. No one noticed me, dressed as I was in boys’ britches and hat. I hid my blouse and corset under one of Father’s wool aeronaut officer jackets stripped of its shoulder brass and insignia. I mapped out the route to the Tombs in my head, going over the turns once more.
Just then a commotion started up among the passengers. Loud, angry voices rose above the drone of the engines. I twisted around to see.
A man in a top hat with a bushy mustache argued with a young stable hand, who yelled back at him while trying to calm the anxious horse at his side. The boy’s voice softened when he turned from the man back to the horse.
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