The Appearance of Annie Van Sinderen

by Katherine Howe

  “Mr. Van Sinderen?” the lackey says again. “They’re calling people to the barges, sir.”

  “Peter, dammit!” Mother says, pulling off her glove and slapping Papa across the face. The force from her blow flops his head over to the other side, but his eyes are glassy and he doesn’t reply.

  Cursing, the lackey wrestles the carriage door open and leans in, thrusting a small container of ammonium salts under Papa’s nose. Mother catches a whiff of it and coughs, shouting, “Be careful where you put that, for God’s sake!”

  Meanwhile, the door on my side of the carriage opens softly, and I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

  “Annie,” Herschel says to me levelly. “It’s time to go.”

  My lover stands before me full of life, and my heart quails at the sight. I push Ed into Beattie’s arms, take Herschel’s proffered hand, and step out of the carriage. I feel as light as a leaf, as though beams of light were shining out of my head.

  “No!” Beattie screams. “Wait!”

  I turn to my struggling family in the carriage, Mother gagging on the ammonia stench as she and the secretary try to rouse the dead weight of my drunken, head-stunned father, Beattie wedged in next to them, her arms full of my bawling little brother. I lean back into the carriage and plant a kiss on Beattie’s cheek.

  “Don’t you worry,” I say with a smile, tucking a hank of her hair behind her ear. “You keep them here. Watch Ed. I’ll be back soon as I can.”

  I’m lying to her. We both know it. Tears start to fill Beattie’s lower lids.

  “Ed?” I say to the sniveling creature cowering on the carriage bench in his new suit. He rubs his eyes and stares at me.

  “Here,” I say, pulling the cameo of Persephone off my finger. It glows faintly in the oncoming night. I bring it to my lips for a fast kiss and then slide it quickly onto my brother’s thumb. “You hold this for me while I’m on the barge. Keep it safe. That’s your job. All right?”

  He looks down at the trinket with fresh interest. “All right,” he acquiesces. “But only ’til you come back.”

  “Fair enough.” I smile. “Now whatever you do, stay here, with Mother and Papa. All right?”

  My siblings nod dumbly, and a strange golden glimmer seems to pass over the scene, the fairy wash of light I saw at the park. Like a leaf showing its underside on a breeze. A subtle change.

  “Annie . . . ,” Beattie starts to say. Her face crumples and she can’t finish.

  “I know. Me, too,” I reply.

  Herschel’s hand is around mine, and it’s time for me to go. I slam the carriage door against my mother’s muffled cry of “Where does she think she’s going?” We take off at a dead run, weaving through the crowd.

  “They’re going to cast off!” Herschel cries. “We have to hurry!”

  The gangplank is thronged with so many people that we’ll never be able to fight our way on. The barge sags low in the water, heavy with bunting and bands and milling people, streamers dropping between the gunwales and the shore. A few rowboats bump up against the hull, full of more people laughing, tossing streamers, a few uninvited young men trying to vault aboard.

  “We can get on from the stern,” I shout to Herschel, pointing.

  He nods, and we dash through the crowd away from the gangplank to the shade of a tree near the end of the Battery, its branches trailing streamers like a weeping willow. We skid to a stop as a rough-looking young man steps forward from the shadows, clutching a weathered leather bag to his chest. The leather has been branded with the pattern of a spindle.

  “That’s Claude,” Herschel explains. “It’s all right. He’s with us.”

  “Here, take it,” the man says, thrusting the bag into Herschel’s arms. He has a thick Creole accent. Another contraband. “You sure you’re ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Herschel says.

  “What she be doing here?” The man gives me a suspicious look, taking in my fancy dress and my prissy curls.

  “It’s okay. I’m in the Brotherhood,” I say, fixing him with my steeliest stare.

  “Okay?” the rough-looking Creole repeats as though he’s never heard the expression before, and I smile to myself.

  Herschel is startled to hear this pledge of revolutionary allegiance from me, but when the suspicious man eyes him for confirmation, he nods, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. “It’s perfect,” Herschel insists to him. “Her father’s in the corporation. She’s kept us apprised of their plans all along.” He peers at me closely, and then adds with a smile, “It’s oll korrect.”

  I grin at him.

  The young man’s suspicion morphs into a begrudging respect, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “All right,” he says. “Remember. Paint the letters big. Big as you possibly can. It’s pointless if no one ashore can see.”

  “Right,” Herschel says, peering into the leather satchel to confirm its contents and then slinging it over his shoulder.

  “Paint?” I echo. “What do you mean, paint?”

  “A slogan of liberation. On the barge,” Herschel says, and the tone of his voice suggests he’s reminding me of something I already know.

  “Wait. We’re not blowing it up?” I ask.

  “Blowing it up?” He laughs. “Of course not! The original Luddites smashed the cotton machines. But if we smash the machines of oppression, they just build more. Our Brotherhood is different. We’re here to change their minds instead. Come on!”

  I’m giddy. We’re not blowing it up! This time is different! Maybe . . . maybe . . . But I can’t let myself think about that now.

  Herschel takes up my hand. My skin flames to life when he touches me, and we go flying across the Battery as fast as our feet can carry us.

  Private police from the Second Ward, retained by the corporation for the evening, have started herding people away from the gangplank, and we sneak unobserved to the stern of the barge where it’s moored not far from the West Battery peninsula. A thick hemp docking line groans under the drag of the barge as revelers mass on the port side to wave to the people on shore. Night is gathering quickly in the shadows of the Battery, and no one observes us as we creep to the dock edge. The stern of the boat bobs about ten feet away.

  “We can shimmy across on the dock line,” Herschel suggests. “Can you do that in a dress?”

  I grin at him through the dark, plant my hands on his cheeks, and kiss him full on the mouth. He’s surprised, his young lips trembling. Then his lips warm under my pressure, and he kisses me back.

  A pop and explosion from a child’s firecracker startles us apart, and I break away from him, taking a few steps back. I hoist my skirts up over my knees, bloomers exposed, take a deep breath, and then I start to run.

  “Gott im Himmel!” I think I hear Herschel exclaim, but it’s too late to stop now. My foot plants hard on the edge of the dock, the light-spangled waves below me, and I jump.

  I vault up as high as I can go into the air, my feet kicking, and then I land on the deck, collapsing in a heap of skirts over my head. Some other young people on the barge applaud and cheer, and a few young men rush over to help me to my feet, slapping me on the back and shaking my hand.

  While they’re congratulating me there’s another thunk and it’s Herschel, sprawled out on the deck on his stomach, one leg in the water, scrabbling his way aboard. They’ve thrown the dock lines off and the barge is slowly starting to make its way into the current. Several young men haul Herschel to safety by the back of his jacket. He’s lost his hat in the leap, and when the young men see his ear curls, they drop his jacket and move away.

  “Jew,” one of them mutters under his breath.

  I rush over to help him to his feet, glaring back at the strangers who’ve vanished into the throng. The music has reached deafening levels, and I can’t get Herschel to hear me over the horns. I ascertain that he’s not h
urt, only winded and hatless.

  As the barge pulls away from shore, I spy my parents’ carriage rolling to a stop at the foot of the gangplank, and my father lurches out of the carriage door with my mother close on his heels. They’re waving their arms and shouting, but I can’t hear them.

  Herschel moves with stealth behind the band in the stern, making sure of the leather bag, until we reach the lee side of the cabin. We’re alone. Most of the corporation crowd has gathered on the larboard side, where they can watch the city lanterns recede into glittering dots along the shore. The barge will pull away from land and swing around into the current in a wide semicircle until the starboard side faces the city, and that’s when the governor on his barge nearby will pour the waters into the harbor, and they’ll light the fireworks.

  We don’t have much time.

  Herschel fumbles the leather bag open and pulls out a couple of cans, some brushes, and a pocketknife. Swearing with effort he struggles to pry the cans open. Finally he gets one done, dips a brush, and sets to work.

  I grab another of the brushes and dip it into the paint, but it’s old and congealed so thick I almost can’t get the brush in.

  “Herschel,” I whisper, tugging at the hem of his coat.

  “What?” he whispers back.

  “It’s too thick. I can’t get enough on my brush,” I say.

  “Add some turpentine,” he says, jerking open the other canister. “That’ll thin it out. Here.” He dumps some bitter-smelling liquid into the paint, sloshes it around inside with the handle of his brush, and sets back to work. Some of the turpentine spills on my dress and slippers, but I don’t pay any attention.

  We work quickly, making the letters as big as we can, covering the entire side of the cabin. Smoke belches from the stacks in the center of the barge, and a long horn sounds as the boat slowly begins to change direction. I feel the wind shift, blowing my skirts out to the side.

  “Should I sign it?” he asks me, smiling his crooked smile.

  I laugh. “Maybe not with your name,” I say.

  Herschel leans down and signs the brotherhood’s name with a flourish, but he gets the spelling wrong.

  “Ludditz?” I ask, teasing him.

  He chucks the paintbrush into the sea and comes over to take me in his arms. “Hey now. I didn’t have a fancy tutor like you,” he says, nuzzling my ear.

  The barge’s wide circle continues, the steam engine groaning under the weight of so many people. We pass through the shimmering white pathway of moonlight stretching across New-York harbor, and Herschel holds me closer to him. I can feel his heart beating in his chest, and the rhythm of mine matches his.

  “After this, when it’s all over, can we go away in your brother’s cart like you said?” I ask, my breath hot on his neck.

  He nods.

  The barge continues its slow, laboring turn, and a distant voice echoes through a speaking tube across the water, announcing that at the conclusion of the drumroll, the governor will pour the combined waters of the Hudson, Ganges, Amazon, Mississippi, Lake Erie, and all the major waterways of the world into the harbor of New-York City, and a new age will be upon us. Rattling snares begin on the governor’s barge a few rods away, and the snares on our corporation barge roll to life, drumming deep in my body, in my veins, in my heart.

  Herschel and I cling together, and in the split second between the drum’s abrupt silence and the distant plash of river water, Herschel whispers, “’Til the wheels fall off.”

  I turn my face up to kiss him, and our mouths find each other as the first firework goes off overhead with a whistle and pop and rain of sparks. One after the other fireworks launch, a row of sparklers sizzles to life along the edge of the gunwale, and in the sudden illumination of every corner of the boat the assembled corporation folk gasp.

  Behind us, on the barge cabin, written in letters as tall as me, is the wet bloodred slogan PROGRESS WITH SLAVERY ISN’T PROGRESS. Underneath is signed UNITED BROTHERHOOD OF LUDDITZ, with a long flourish on the Z.

  The company on board immediately bursts into appalled gasps, tittering among themselves and cries of “What?” and “Who did this?”

  The slow flame of chaos starts to lick through the crowd, as shouts of “But what do they mean?” echo through the night. Onshore the onlookers gasp and start arguing amongst themselves.

  “Annie!” I think I hear my father shout. “Is she aboard? Wait! Annie!”

  Amid the heat thrown off by the gunwale sparklers, the letters of our fresh-painted statement begin to smoke. The turpentine in the paint. It’s flammable. The letters start to bubble.

  But I’m not paying any attention. I’m wrapped up in Herschel’s arms, in the longest, most exquisite kiss I’ve ever imagined. I feel myself enveloped in him, in the perfect warmth of his presence, of his mouth and mine together, his hand gently cupping my cheek.

  “I love you,” I murmur into his neck. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he breathes into the curls over my ears.

  I don’t even notice when the letters in PROGRESS burst into hot blue flame.

  CHAPTER 16

  You gonna to answer that?” Eastlin asks.

  I burrow my head into my pillow with a sullen groan.

  He sighs and I hear him get up and pad over to where my phone sits plugged into its charger, ringing its head off, and probably showing one million missed calls.

  I don’t care.

  “Hello?” Eastlin says. “Uh-huh. No, this is his roommate.”

  A pause.

  “What? Oh, okay.”

  A pause.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Another pause.

  “Hang on a sec. I’ll see if he’s back yet.” Eastlin muffles the phone against his shirt. “Wesley. It’s your dad. Again.”

  Oh. Great. My dad.

  “Tell him I’ll call him back,” I groan.

  “Mr. Auckerman? Yeah, he’s right here. Hang on.”

  Then the phone is in my hands and Eastlin is laughing at me from his twin bed on the other side of the room.

  Asshole.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say into the phone, struggling into a seated position with my hair sticking up.

  “Hey, Sport,” Dad says, causing me to flinch. There never was a guy less sporty than me. “How’s tricks?”

  “Um. Okay, I guess.” My gaze floats up to the ceiling. I wonder how many divots I’ll count before I can end this conversation. I definitely don’t want it to go on longer than twenty divots.

  “That your roommate? He sounds like a good guy.”

  “Yeah.” I eye said roommate, who somehow, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, looks ready to shoot an aftershave commercial. “He’s all right.”

  Eastlin hears this and makes a flex face, Hulk Hogan style. I roll my eyes and try not to audibly laugh.

  “Your mother was telling me that you’ve made some nice friends there,” Dad continues. “I hope we’ll get to meet some of them tomorrow.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  There’s a pause, I guess while Dad waits to see if I’m going to elaborate on this.

  I’m not.

  “Well . . . ,” he falters. “She said you’d met a girl? That true?”

  I flop onto my back on the dorm bed with a fresh groan. Dad, you have no idea.

  Hearing my groan, my father chuckles. “I ever tell you about the waitress I crashed with, back when I was in New York in ’75?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I met her waiting on line at CBGB for tickets to see Television. Oh my God. She was hot.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Let me crash at her pad in the East Village,” he continues. “She used to love it when I . . .”

  “Dad.” I blanch. “God! Her pad? Give me a break.
”

  “Touchy, touchy” he says. “Sorry. So, listen.” He’s going to ask me what time documentary workshop is tomorrow. And he’s going to pretend like there isn’t a bunch of paperwork that I wanted him to sign. He’s either going to pretend he didn’t get it and we’re never going to talk about it again, or he’s calling so he can disappoint me now instead of face-to-face. It’s a classic Steve Auckerman move.

  “What?” I say, unable to keep the challenge out of my voice.

  “Your mother and I are all settled in here at the hotel,” he says. “Not too bad. We used miles.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “What time you say the screening started? Two?”

  I’ve only said that about one million times since he hinted that they were thinking of flying in. So yes, Dad. It’s at two. Still. “Yeah,” I say, editing out all the first part.

  I’m up to fifty-one divots.

  “Terrific. We want to take you and your friends out for a steak after it’s all over. You think maybe you could pick a place? And not a cast of thousands, you know. I work for a living. Just, you know. Two. Three, max.”

  “Sure, Dad,” I say. Seventy-eight divots.

  “Great.” There’s a pause while my father clears his throat, and I hear my mother’s voice say something in the background. “Oh,” Dad says, as if he’s only just remembered something, and Mom didn’t totally just prod him. “And some forms came for you. To the house.”

  Well. Score one for Wes. Dad opened the envelope.

  “And?” I say, daring him to tell it to me straight.

  “Well, the truth is, your mother had some doubts. She doesn’t like the idea of you being so far away.”

  I groan in annoyance. Sure, it’s Mom who doesn’t want me to do it. Way to pass the buck, jerk. It’s not that he’s jealous I get to be the one who’s young and making art in New York instead of him.

  “Great,” I say, making clear how pissed off I am.

  “But then I took her to lunch with your gran. She says hello, by the way.”

  “What?” I say, sitting up on my elbows.

  Eastlin arches his eyebrow at me from across the room.