Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve never issued orders to me, Will Bartlett.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “My point exactly. You don’t want anything. There’s a whole world out there, and you’re content to hopscotch between your family’s connections like some latter-day prince and snuggle with your New Haven friends when it gets cold outside. Face it, even if I wanted to marry you, you’re not ready to tame me.”

  “Could if I wanted,” he snapped.

  “Like your brother with those mill girls?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” The growl of a fishing boat returning to the harbor rolled up from the water. The boat, outlined in green and red running lights, cruised downriver past the boathouse.

  Helen exhaled two long tendrils of gray smoke from her nose and picked at her front teeth with her nail. “Okay, then like your father does my mother.”

  “They’ve just managed best they could.”

  She jabbed the cigarette at Will. “Oh please, I’ve seen it.”

  “That was years ago. Hell, my mother had just died.”

  “Jesus, Will, what chauvinistic bastard won’t you defend?”

  “Fatty Arbuckle.” Will crossed his arms, pleased with himself.

  “Oh please, grow up, will you?”

  “Shut up.” He stepped closer to her.

  “What time is it?” She peered around the room. “I should make tracks.”

  What’s it gonna be, Will Bartlett? He extended his arm, blocking her path to the door. “Take off your dress.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Swim with me.”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “So you’re objecting to the temperature, but not my proposition?”

  “My proposition? When did you start talking funny? Just say it. Swim naked with me, Helen. I want to see your boobies, Helen.”

  “Shut up.”

  “And when you have the jump on someone, dear boy, you don’t ask them questions. What did they teach you down there? My six-year-olds would eat you for lunch.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Swim by yourself.” She took a slow drag.

  Will swiped the cigarette from her mouth and flicked it into the empty fireplace.

  “Get me another.”

  He slapped her face.

  Helen rubbed her cheek and rolled her neck. “Finally, some spirit,” she said. “Too bad you went soft after your mother died.”

  He slapped her again, gentler, but hard enough to snap her neck back around a second time. Her cheek burned red with an impression of his hand.

  Helen sucked her two front teeth, then maneuvered her jaw. Her bite was off a few centimeters. “Now, about my dress,” she started. Will sniffled, on the verge of tears. Her eyes narrowed.

  “I’m—”

  “If you apologize, I’ll never speak to you again, Will Bartlett.”

  He wiped his sleeve across his face. “I hate you sometimes.”

  “Good,” she said.

  He grabbed her shoulders, balling the collar of her dress in his hands, stretching the seams.

  “So?” Her nostrils flared. “I can always get another dress.”

  Will ripped the dress in half, a clean split down the middle seam. He jumped back. She was naked underneath.

  Helen smirked. “Eugene suggested this too.”

  Will clutched her face. “I love that man.” He kissed her deeply. She exhaled into his mouth and he swallowed, the silver of warm air filling his chest. He whispered, “I love you.”

  “Finally.”

  He swung his arm under her legs. Helen let loose a holler as he mounted the stairs to his old summer bedroom. On the second stair Will took a deep breath of her soapy skin. By the last step, the tickling of her navel hairs against his neck was secondary to the anticipation of his spine shattering through his pelvis. On the landing, he stumbled down the short hall to his room, turned and rested his bottom on the doorknob an instant, then bumped it open with his hip. The door swung and they twirled inside, Helen kicking it shut with her feet. It was pitch black. He stood for a moment, forgetting where the iron bed was, though it was right before him. He registered a musty odor and the old sail bag in the corner.

  “You okay?” she said, barely above a whisper.

  He grunted and then bent and set her softly on the bed. They both smirked as the bedsprings whined. He exhaled and arched his back; he hoped she couldn’t see his strain. It wasn’t that she was heavy; he was just unfit. He felt for the heavy drape Coggeshall had hung and tied it back and cracked the window. A bluish glow from the single lamppost on the fishing wharf reflected up from the water, outlining her figure on the bed. He stared at the mound of red hair between her legs.

  “I think I drank too much.” she said.

  “Ditto.”

  “It’s a tad cold.” She gathered the bedspread over her body, then wriggled around in the cocoon of fabric before propping up on her elbow to face him. “So?” she said, her tone teasing. “Why’d you rip my dress off ? To show me your room?”

  Please stop talking, he thought. Another joke, and he’d lose his nerve, or vomit sausage salad. He took in the walnut dresser, the tiny closet, and the pine bookcase housing his boyhood summer library of Wild West Weekly and National Geographic. Above it hung a pinwheel of blue, red, and white sailing pennants he’d won on the river. A pressure knotted in his chest had collected below his bladder; it was unlike what he’d experienced at the burlesque shows. It bordered on pain; his stomach felt hot, and there was tightening around the scrotum and anus. And was he panting? Perhaps he was a dog. Helen laid back on the bed, her eyes closed, the mischievous expression returned. Her trail of breadcrumbs had led him to this cliff. It was not how he’d imagined their first time, but the dog within him wagged its tail. He cinched his shoulders and shook, and his suit jacket fell to the floor. Next, he pinched his heels together and wedged first the left, then right loafer off. He fumbled with the eyes and buttons on his white shirt, snapping two loose. He paused, but there was no sound of them striking the floor. As his undershirt passed over his head, he felt a tugging at his waist and then his belt whip around, the tip zipping through the loops like a mouse through a maze; it snapped at the end and took flight, the buckle clanging into the bookcase. Laughing, Helen yanked his pants down and he flipped forward, arms flexed to catch his weight. His left hand landed beside her head, his right fell between her legs. His hand tensed and inched down her leg, but Helen clasped his wrist, pulling it tight between her legs.

  “I like it.” She applied pressure to his arm, guiding his movements against her sex. He was glad to finally have some direction; he spread his fingers wide on the mattress for support. She squirmed and he eased off.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Faster.” He quickened the stroke like gently sanding the hull of his boat and felt her body tense but also loosen at the same time. She grew wet. “Faster.” She clutched his forearm. Air bunched up in her chest. She squeezed tighter.

  He swooped down to kiss her warm neck. He spread his legs and flexed his left arm, making a three-legged stool to support his weight and free his right hand. He drummed his fingers down her velvety skin from her neck to her stomach; between her legs the folds were warm and slick like a skinned red pepper just off the fire. The center swelled against his thumb, and he polished the spot with his index finger. He had never concentrated so hard in his life. And then she released a soft moan and exhaled. I’ve finally pleased her. Helen’s lips parted, moving but emitting no sound. Were all creatures so dumbstruck?

  Helen pulled him onto the bed. She began stroking his penis with her right hand. The tip bounced off her belly.

  He kissed her stomach, and then both her breasts. “All that from my index finger.”

  “Fireworks in the veins,” she sa
id and kissed his forearm. “Closer.” She pulled him forward by the penis and stroked him with both hands.

  “Helen—”

  “Don’t think,” she said. The knot tying his scrotum loosened, his cheeks burned as a honeyed sensation thundered through his wiry limbs. He gasped as a mild spasm seized his calf and thigh muscles. Helen. He came, grunted softly, and collapsed on top of her.

  “Wow.” His whole body quaked.

  “Yeah, sticky wow,” she smirked and wiggled beneath him.

  He felt his heart beating in his neck, the tops of his feet, his fingertips, his penis.

  “We’re glued now,” she said.

  He began to cry. “Finally,” he said, and when he looked up, she was also crying.

  Her mouth settled against his ear, and her lips popped, the sound like a canning jar sealing shut. “I’ve waited for you,” she whispered.

  “Really?” He wiped his eyes on her shoulders. “You seem to know—”

  “I read a lot.” They kissed. “And now I know you waited too.”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “Time for that swim.”

  The sound of tires on the gravel drive outside suddenly filled the house. They perked up.

  “That your next girl?”

  “Shhh,” he said, straddling her. Feet came up the clamshell walk, then a heavy knock at the door.

  “The French call it ménage à trois.”

  “Seriously, shut it.”

  A keychain rattled, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open. A voice called, “Anybody here?”

  “It’s Coggeshall.” Will hung his head. “I forgot to call him.”

  Helen bucked, throwing Will to the floor. “You go.”

  “I go.” He groped for his undershirt, and mopped his chest and crotch. “Don’t breathe.”

  Will threw one arm in his jacket, then the other, yanked up his pants, and did the buttons to cover his damp crotch. At the top landing he exhaled, then called, “Mr. Coggeshall, how are you, sir? I’m just taking a nap before heading back to the city.”

  The two halves of Helen’s dress draped over Coggeshall’s leathery hands. Will descended the steps and took the pieces, thinking of the linen suit he’d buy Helen. “And I’m cleaning up a bit with that old remnant,” he said. “No one wears this calico anymore.”

  Coggeshall stared at the wine glasses. “No one sent word.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You father always sends word so I can get her ready.”

  “Well, I’m not my father,” Will said, walking to the stairs. “I’ll close her up. Sorry to wake you. Good night.”

  no man’s land

  Will leaned against the skeletal wooden scaffolding supporting the Victory Arch and popped a hot nut he’d bought from a peanut vendor at the trolley stop into his mouth. Main Street funneled under the arch, then past a grandstand that had been erected opposite the review platform in front of city hall. Local editorials believed it a patriotic duty to attend the parade, but mill owners kept the looms spinning. The grandstand was half full, mostly with politicians, newspapermen, clergy, and of course the families of soldiers; most of the crowd lined the parade route. Placards proclaimed victory is near. our boys are home. The sky was overcast; rain was expected. A tepid wind came up from the pier, carrying some notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Perhaps it was the Cleveland Mill band. For the first time in a long time, Will had to give it to his father.

  Will exchanged an expectant glance with the man standing beside him, and tipped the nut bag, but the man shook his head. No doubt a nervous father. He’d received a vague letter from the army, too, and was equally excited and scared to see his boy. Will recognized faces from Cleveland. His father had given the operatives the day off. Not even the Bordens had matched that. He spotted his old man moving through the crowd, surely on some welcoming committee. Will crumpled the greasy bag and walked to the grandstand. He spotted Mary Sheehan, Ray, and Fanny waving flags near the top.

  The parade was late. A rumor spread that when the mayor saw so many crippled boys disembark the steamship Pilgrim, he ordered the few floats in the procession emptied to give them a ride, and when the boys demanded the right to march, the route was shortened to a quarter mile.

  Will found a seat in the second row across from the low platform. It was less than a foot high, so the boys didn’t have to take any steps. There were ramps for wheelchairs. The music faded, and the crowd started to rustle.

  “They’re coming!” a voice shouted. Folks craned their necks down Main Street.

  “Where?”

  “False alarm.” Everyone sat back down. Across the street, the city treasurer walked across the empty stage and whispered something to the Durfee High School music director, who stood and raised his baton. An endless medley of wartime favorites began with “When I Get Back to the USA.”

  Will surveyed the crowd, hoping Helen might surprise him instead of covertly moving the last of her belongings out of her mother’s house. He waved his cap before his face. On second thought, he was glad she wasn’t here; Hollister’s homecoming was enough for the family. Will rubbed his index finger under his nose, the smell of her was not yet familiar, and he immediately got hard at the first scent. (A week ago he’d have thought it sour, not sweet and erotic.) He held the finger out, as if admiring a ring. Damn, he thought, the power of this little digit. He smiled as he adjusted the crotch of his suit pants. After Coggeshall had left they took their cleanup swim in the dark water and shared a moldy-smelling towel. He dusted off an old dress of his mother’s for Helen, but she insisted on wearing some of his old dungarees from the hall closet. Walking to the parade, he’d stopped in McWhirr’s to buy Helen a linen suit. The model in the advertisement looked very modern and sporty, leaning her rump on a golf club. He’d had it wrapped and delivered to the house. She’d wear it the next time—the next time . . . perhaps a weekend in New York once Hollister was settled on June Street.

  The music stopped, then started again, louder.

  “Here they are, Fall River. On your feet,” the treasurer announced. “Our Heroes.”

  The grandstand stood as the soldiers swayed and stumbled in an undulating formation up Main Street, wearing their dress blues with red piping. Three drummers led the procession. Behind them came three rows of limber boys with arms in slings or head bandages, then two rows of strapping, quick-stepping boys on crutches. The next few rows walked unaided but were glassy-eyed, not seeming to register the reams of bunting hanging off McWhirr’s or the horde of cheering paperboys and blue-clad bike messengers near the Hotel Melon. Others swayed, their heads swiveling as if they expected an ambush from Touhey’s pharmacy. One row shook uncontrollably, as if noodles had replaced their femurs, a volunteer nurse or nun at their elbows to guide them down the street. A few screamed gibberish that the crowd figured for cheers and gave right back. When the entire regiment of eighty men had passed under the arch, the grandstand roared. A few soldiers cowered. Two near the back began running the opposite direction. Wheelchairs jerked out of formation. Will overheard a journalist nearby say the boys had brought the trench home with them. Another said the British had a name for it—they called it “shell shock.”

  Hollister passed within ten feet of Will, moving slowly with the aid of a cane and a one-armed man at his elbow. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. The gold second lieutenant bar on his hat and collar shone. But his breathing was labored, and his dress uniform was two sizes too large. It hung from his shoulders, pulled down by the weight of the medals pinned to his chest. His skin had the pallor of sea salt, except for the blisters left from the mustard gas, which now resembled large spider bites on his neck and hands. Like many boys, around his neck he carried the cigar and match tin the Red Cross had handed out on the boat from New York.

  Each man had a Purple Heart pinned to his chest. The
severely wounded had oak-leaf clusters pinned to the ribbon, one for every injury. Hollister had one cluster pinned to his, plus the recently established Distinguished Service Cross for his heroism in the field. Many had a cross. One man was missing both feet and walked on his stubs using special shoes and canes; he had no oak-leaf clusters pinned to his medal. Will figured the army didn’t count each foot separately. A few were missing their jaws; others had bandages on every joint. Those in wheelchairs varied from three-limb amputees to men who looked like they could jump out of their chairs and dance. This latter group had no medals at all.

  Helen’s plea echoed in Will’s head—A paycheck. Free medical care—and then the oft-repeated refrain When the money stops coming you die, a Sheehan family favorite. As the more seriously damaged rolled and hobbled past, the parade slowed and the applause tapered. A strained rendition of “I’m Gonna Pin My Medal on the Girl I Left Behind” filled the void. Panic bordering on revulsion swept the grandstand. A woman and her three daughters broke into hysterical sobs as a boy missing both arms walked by in a daze. Who were these deformed strangers imitating their sons? “Like a sack of bruised tomatoes,” a man whispered. “What must losing look like?” another replied. The faces that had delivered papers, scooped ice cream, punched tickets, or shoveled walks were unrecognizable.

  Nine months from now, in early July, when the sun shone again and kitchen gardens grew thick with herbs, residents of Spindle City would sit in this same grandstand beside the completed Victory Arch and screech their hearts’ approval for the real heroes of this “war to end all wars,” and a woman would turn to her middle-aged husband and whisper, “What happened to all those wounded boys?” Then a firework would explode beyond city hall and she’d forget the question, unaware that some of those wounded boys sat a few rows below her, their caps pulled low over their missing ears and cheekbones, wanting more than anything to return to the time when their lives meant something, fighting on the Western Front.

  “There,” a voice called. “He’s fallen.” Beside the wooden scaffolding, where the crowd was three and four deep, a young private had doubled over, one arm on a streetlamp. He clutched his gut; a wet circle darkened his jacket. The crowd bowed backward, and might have fallen into the Taunton River if not for the tight knot of bodies. Then a freckled Irish girl with red, white, and blue ribbons in her hair popped from the throng like a cork from a bottle and handed the doughboy a tiny Stars and Stripes on a stick. She held out an arm, and he stood and twirled the flag at the crowd; the girl smiled; and—perhaps inspired by the music, the crowd, surviving a war—he pulled her close and kissed her. The crowd gasped, but when the girl didn’t recoil but clasped the sides of his head, they cheered; the town had been lonely without their boys. Further on, another soldier stopped and kissed a girl. The roars grew louder. Amid this din, a few soldiers covered their ears and retreated down Main Street.