The Tombs

by Deborah Schaumberg

  I felt dazed. Rain splattered my eyes. Blood trickled through my fingers. Splayed on the sidewalk, I heard the door of the Tombs crash open. A breeze whipped my hat into the gutter. Thoughts of my mother ripping a hole in her arm so I could escape slapped me to my senses. For her sake, I had to move. Now.

  Ignoring the pain, I tucked my knife into the waistband of my trousers and pushed myself up. I hobbled across the boulevard, dodging horses and trams. The rain soaked my hair and blurred my vision. The cobblestones were slick beneath my feet. Ahead, I saw a dark alleyway between the buildings. I rushed toward it, bumping into pedestrians, ignoring their angry looks. When I rounded the corner, my foot gave out. I fell again, losing precious seconds I needed in order to flee.

  But in the next moment, I felt myself swept up and shoved into a deep, shadowed alcove, my face pressed against the cold stone. My breath caught in my throat as a hand wrapped around my mouth, sealing in my scream.

  Tightening my muscles, I tried to fight, to elbow or kick, but his grip was like a vise. Remembering my knife, I slid my hand slowly toward it. I almost had it when my attacker tilted back my head, exposing my neck. I expected to feel cold steel at my throat, but he leaned forward and, instead, I saw his white teeth flash a smile.

  I looked up into the golden eyes of Khan. He released my face but kept one powerful arm wrapped around my shoulders and the other around my waist. His body, pressing against my back, completely shielded me from view.

  “I’m being chased. We have to run,” I cried, craning my head to look. “They’re coming.”

  “Shhh,” he murmured. “They will not see us.”

  “Khan, these are trained guards.” My heart hammered in my chest. “They have guns.”

  “Trust me, Avery. They will pass us by.”

  And then I heard them. They were splitting up. Some guards ran ahead and some came into the alley. We’re in plain sight! I wriggled, trying to compress myself further against the wall.

  I felt the warmth of Khan’s mouth at my ear. “Be still,” he whispered. “Be as still as the stone.”

  The clicking of boots made my legs go weak. Behind me, I felt a change in Khan’s body. His breathing slowed, became long and deep. He bowed his head, veiling me under the curtain of his ropelike strands, rain dripping off their tips to run down into my blouse. And then I knew what he meant by being as still as stone. It felt like he was melting into the wall and taking me with him. My heart did an erratic dance, but I could no longer feel his, beating against my back. It was as if he had slowed his heart.

  The guards came right past us, their boots scraping the street. One had a club that he tapped rhythmically as he walked. I watched their beaked shadows move slowly along the stone. But they did not stop. They did not even hesitate. Khan was right. They passed by us. It was as if we had disappeared.

  We stayed like that, silently waiting, until the guards were long gone. Then we melted into the crowds and made our way through Manhattan. The rain lightened to a steady drizzle, but it didn’t matter—I was already soaked to the bone.

  Working for a shipbuilder gave Khan use of some of the boats, and when we reached the waterfront, he led me to an old fishing scow with peeling paint and a rusted railing. A tall black steam pipe stuck out of the top of the shedlike wheelhouse. Inside, I found a seat atop a pile of braided ropes that stunk of fish, while Khan lit the boiler. The puttering engine came to life with a puff of smoke. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t wrap my mind around all that’d happened.

  Crossing the East River by ferry was difficult enough, but maneuvering through the river traffic in a boat dwarfed by tall clipper ships with sails higher than buildings, and four-story steamers whose giant paddle wheels churned the water to a foaming froth, was a jarring experience. The bellows and blasts and clanging of bells set me on edge. I flinched at tugboat toots. The bustle of New York Harbor, the busiest port in the world, was worse than the bedlam of Manhattan’s streets.

  Once safely across, Khan and I scurried toward the shop. Even though we were on the other side of the East River, my muscles tensed at every shout or crack of a whip.

  I shared the short but shattering conversation I’d had with my mother. I also told Khan about Dr. Spector, and the incident on the ferry. For some reason, I didn’t mention the Gypsies. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  “I can’t believe you went in there alone.” Khan stopped and stared at me. “Why didn’t you ask me to go with you?”

  “Let’s keep moving,” I said, my boots splashing in the mud. “And I would have, Khan, but they don’t allow black visitors into the Tombs.”

  He puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out. “Right. I should’ve known.”

  When we reached the entrance to the shop, I placed my hand on Khan’s before he turned the knob. “Khan, what was going on in Five Points? I saw you there with a group of boys.”

  “Avery, we are not talking about this now. Not after all you’ve been through. Look at your hands. They’re still bleeding.”

  I opened my mouth to disagree, but the door swung open before I could say more.

  Khan shook my father’s hand. “Thank goodness you’re here, sir. Avery’s hurt. I have to get back to the city.” He said goodbye and disappeared around the corner. I couldn’t help but wonder if my question was the reason he’d slipped away so quickly.

  Inside, my father flipped his sign to Closed and locked the door behind us. Then he went to the windows facing the street and pulled the blinds shut, cutting off the slanted late-afternoon light.

  “Avery, what happened?”

  “I went to see Mother.”

  “What?” My father took a step back, eyes widening. “Sit at the table. Tell me everything.”

  While I spoke, he opened the cupboard and pulled out a metal bowl, a glass, and a bottle of gin. Then he set a pot to boil water. I started with my ride on the ferry and finished with my escape. “It was horrible being in the same room as him, this Dr. Spector,” I whispered.

  I’d never seen Father so angry. The vein at his temple throbbed. “Avery, how could you be foolish enough to go into the Tombs? I’ve told you time and again how dangerous it is. By myself, I didn’t arouse suspicion, but a young girl visiting? They’d suspect it was you.” He poured a shot, downed it, and slammed the glass on the table. “You see this?” He smacked his mechanical leg. Once again he wore the brilliant prosthetic he’d built for himself. Hidden between the multitude of gears and gauges was a long-nosed gun. “This is for the first crow that lays a hand on you. But I can’t protect you if you go waltzing into their nest. And now that they know we didn’t leave the area, we’ll have to be extra vigilant. Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was afraid. I thought I was going crazy. I’m having visions. I wanted to talk to Mother as soon as possible. And . . . and I wanted you to get that job.”

  “Bloody hell, child.” He placed a towel under my hands. “What am I to do with you? Come on, let’s clean you up.”

  When I was dry, in baggy trousers and one of Father’s large shirts, I sat back down at the table. I sipped the steaming cup of beef tea, a healing practice my father retained from the Civil War infirmary. In the minutes I’d been gone, he looked as if he’d aged. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he spoke.

  “All these years I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen to you, too. You have to bury this thing, Avery. Pretend nothing is happening to you. Never tell anyone about these visions. Do you understand?” He pulled my chair closer and put his arm around me, sloshing gin onto my back. I didn’t speak, or mention that I’d already told Khan.

  In a deflated voice, he said, “I went for the interview—sober as a judge, I might add. They took one look at me and laughed. They told me a man with a metal leg should not work with electricity.” He started to chuckle, but it turned into a groan, which he stifled with another swig of gin. “Why did I let her do it? This is my fault . . . all my fau
lt.”

  “Let her do what? What’s your fault?”

  “How . . .” He leaned away from me, closing his eyes a moment, then pulled his shoulders back as if bracing himself. “How is she?”

  “You never told me just how bad it is in there for her. You were right, she’s heavily drugged, and she must have hurt her hands because they were bandaged up.” I clenched my jaw. “But now we know she’s not insane, we have to get her out of there.”

  “I always knew. And don’t you think I’ve tried?” He stared down at the bottle clutched in his hands. “I have tried everything.”

  “You knew? All this time? Why didn’t you tell me? You let me believe—”

  “What? And have you think she’s a witch or a freak, as people said? You showed no sign of having these visions, Avery. I did what I thought best for you.”

  I blew out my breath. He was right, there was a time I had thought of her that way. “Pop, I have so many questions. Can’t you tell me more about the visions? We should go to the Gypsies, as Mother said.” His blue eyes were the hue I imagined the oceans of warmer climes to be, clear and light, so unlike the dark water surrounding Manhattan Island, the angry waves that I’d crossed to escape the crows and Dr. Spector.

  But those beautiful eyes hardened at the mention of the Gypsies. “No. You will not go anywhere near that camp.”

  “But maybe they—”

  “That’s final, Avery.” He stood up, swaying. “Pretend these visions do not exist or they will get you into trouble. And as I told you, stay far away from the Tombs and the Gypsy camp.”

  I bowed my head, knowing I’d angered him.

  As he stomped off, he mumbled, “You have no idea what those Gypsies are capable of.”

  Chapter Ten

  Secret Note

  On Monday morning, as I dressed for work, there was a knock at the front door. For a moment I panicked—the crows? Gripping my knife, I lifted a window slat just enough to see out. Then I let out my breath; it was a Union veteran in full regalia, as if he’d worn the same clothing since the war. I unlocked the door and let him in.

  Father came over, and I heard him say, “Up and about early, eh, Mr. Cranford?”

  Maybe my father was right. Maybe the soldiers were the only ones who could find the shop, but we couldn’t hide inside all day.

  I could dawdle no longer; I had to get to work. I kissed Father goodbye.

  “Be careful,” he said. It was the most he’d spoken to me since our conversation two days earlier. All day Sunday he’d been tight-lipped, refusing to say anything more about the Gypsies or explain his comment.

  I grabbed my felt hat on the way out, sad that I’d lost my father’s slouch hat in the city. The walk to work set me on edge, my heightened awareness making me feel twitchy and frayed. I took the shortest route to the Works, certainly not passing St. Ann’s. I doubted I’d ever go by there again. And I checked behind me every few moments to ensure that I wasn’t being followed. By the time I arrived at the factory, I was a bundle of nerves. At least once I was inside, the crows couldn’t find me. They wouldn’t think to look in there.

  Once again I gazed up at the two helmets left on the wall. Oscar wouldn’t need his for a while. I felt a lump in my throat. Maybe that was the way of it. Maybe the Works would burn us up and spit us out, one by one.

  As I headed to my station, I heard snippets of conversation about the explosion. Some men pointed at me. I looked at my feet to avoid their eyes, but I did hear someone say that Mr. Malice was back from the hospital.

  A blast from Bessie sounded. The monstrous mill shuddered to life, fires stoked, iron lined up like food in a trough. Steam built up. I squeezed my fists. “You need us,” I said under my breath. “Without us, you’d decay into a rusty relic.”

  There was a tap on my shoulder. “Who you talking to, Ave?” Leo must’ve walked in right after me.

  “Huh? Oh, no one. Myself.” I laughed, shaking my head. “You scared me, though. I thought maybe you were him.” I lifted my chin toward the perch above our heads. “Have you seen him?”

  “No, but we’re keeping our heads low just in case,” he said. “Heard he was all bandaged up. Ave, are you okay?” He noticed my hands wrapped in gauze.

  “I’m fine, Leo.” I put my helmet on and smiled at him. “I better get to work.”

  At my workbench, I organized my tools. Battery connected to carbon arc welding gun; flux tin open and within reach; helmet and gloves secured. I checked my previous welds for root cracks or bead holes. Welding, to me, was an art. Go too fast and the bead is brittle, too slow and it slags over the metal. I became so focused when I worked, sometimes I’d look up to see men on all sides leaving for the day.

  I checked the first tab on the pile. Tabs were red cards with instructions from various sections of the factory. Runners dropped them into bins according to the size of the job. They were once organized by due date, but everyone wanted theirs done immediately; it was impossible to satisfy the demand. Now, we did large orders first. Small ones had to wait.

  Since we were so close to the navy yard, much of our work came from there. I lifted a circular portal window. Its steel frame required welded hinges. I laid the parts out, lowered my goggles, and flared up my torch. I held the filler rod at a precise angle as I drew my gun across the metal, sparks flying into bright orange arcs before fizzling out. When I finished, I inspected the work. Perfect. No seaman would experience leaks from this porthole.

  I was about to move on to the next tab when the second foreman, a man I’d never spoken to before, ran up to me. He was tall, with lean, wiry muscles, and might have been good-looking if it weren’t for the years the mill had put on him. I’d heard he was a fair boss, respected by the machinists’ division he headed.

  “Miss Avery.” He removed his cap and pushed the matted hair off his forehead. “Heard what happened on Friday. Me and the men, well, we wanted to say we’re sorry about your friend.” He smiled, crinkling the leathery skin around his eyes. “How’s he doing?”

  I was astounded. Two years and never a word until now! I raised my goggles. “Mr. Matteo, sir, thank you for asking.” Behind him, I could see Tony, Geeno, and Leo watching. “I don’t know how he is, but I think Mr. Malice may have broken his legs.”

  Mr. Matteo squeezed his fists. I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. This was the face of a man who’d seen terrible things and had buried them deep inside. “Well, tell him we’re pulling for him.”

  “I certainly will,” I said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mr. Matteo pulled an envelope, smudged with black fingerprints, out of his pocket. He handed it to me. “From Mr. Malice.” Then he slipped a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “And this is from my guys. For Oscar,” he said, pressing it into my hand before he tramped off.

  An uneasy feeling settled over me. I stared at the dirty envelope. This was it. I was getting fired. I won’t open it. I stuffed it in my pocket. I peeked into the folded note. Inside was a ten-dollar greenback. Two weeks’ salary! I’d have to get it to Oscar. If his legs were broken, he’d be missing lots of work. I braved a look at the perch. I was employed only so long as the note in that envelope remained unread.

  When the lunch whistle sounded, Tony came over to get me.

  “Come on, Avery, take a break and eat, will ya?” He held a lunch sack in his fist. “I saw Scarface roaming the stations. Has he said anything to you?” Tony scowled.

  “No, but he watches me. Like he’s expecting me to cause another explosion.”

  As we navigated through the machinery of the work area, some of the men eating lunch at their stations glanced up at me. One nodded, another gave me a half salute, one a quick smile. Word must have gotten around about my altercation with Mr. Malice. These tough men who hated having women and children in the workplace were acknowledging me for the first time. Warmth swelled inside me. For the moment at least, I’d earned their respect.

  Leo and Geeno were waiting for us by the door.
Leo pointed at my foot. “Are you sure you’re all right, Ave? You’re limping.”

  “It’s nothing. Us weld rats are tough, right?” I chuckled. I’d wrapped my foot with linen and laced my work boots tight to keep the swelling down.

  Geeno nodded, giving me one of his precious smiles.

  We stopped by the recently installed drinking fountain, taking turns sipping water from a metal cup that hung from a chain on the side. Wealthy people and temperance activists donated water fountains for poverty-stricken areas of the city in hopes of discouraging alcohol consumption. Ours, with a stone back and basin, had the word BOGGS cut into the top.

  Leo pointed up at it. “What does it say?”

  “Boggs—I’ve seen him in the papers,” Tony said. “Some rich bloke who says he wants to help us ‘less fortunate’ saps.”

  “Well, I ain’t complaining.” Leo smacked his lips and swung the cup on its chain.

  I stole another glance at the perch. “I’m sure Mr. Malice is thrilled, too, given how he’s always forbidding the men to drink alcohol on the job.”

  A workman approached us. “Come on, move along. This isn’t a social watering hole.” I’d noticed him before, ushering men back to work. No doubt Mr. Malice was afraid we’d take too many water breaks now.

  We usually ate lunch on the docks behind the factory. I sat, dangling my legs over the choppy waters of the East River. Nearby, a row of wooden tables was already full of workers. We weren’t allowed to sit with them.

  “Here,” I said, handing the envelope to Tony. “It’s from Mr. Malice. You read it.” Tony was the only one on our crew, besides myself, who knew how to read.

  The boys gathered around, as anxious as I to find out what the note said. Tony slid his pocketknife along the edge and pulled out a slip of paper. He read, speaking quietly so the men behind us would not hear.

  Miss Avery,

  An inspector from the Brooklyn Gas Light Company is to verify the factory does not have any gas leaks that could have caused the explosion. For your sake, I hope you are not in some way responsible. But seeing as you chose to stick your nose where it does not belong, you may have Oscar’s tabs on top of your own.