Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  Mary tapped her thumb over the long object inside. “I’ll be careful.” She plucked a nickel from her apron pocket and held it out to the boy. “For your trouble.”

  “No thank you, ma’am. The man tipped me triple. He said to give your money to Pete.”

  “Did he, now. And where is this man?”

  “Up the Highlands.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “Older gentleman. Wild beard, curly hair. Spoke kindly of you.”

  Wiggins. “Smelled a bit of booze, did he?”

  The boy hesitated until Mary smiled. “Yes, ma’am. A bit.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Did he have other messages to pass along?”

  “No, ma’am.” The boy pointed. “I’m guessing that’s why he wrote the letter.”

  * * *

  Before Michael could say, “Who’s next?” Helen plopped down on the stool in front of Hollister. Michael searched around for a trailing husband.

  “It’s just me,” Helen sneered. “I’ve got plenty.” She rubbed a five-dollar note between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Extra special service for you.” Michael plucked the bill from her fingers. “You know how this works?”

  “Does he really not remember anything from before the war?”

  “He remembers long enough to transfer what I tell him to the canvas.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “Put this in the portrait.” Helen removed the Colt from the canvas sack at her feet and laid it across her open palms like some sort of offering. “Paint it like this,” she said.

  Michael dropped his hat over the gun. “Let’s not call attention to it.” This was their first gun. They’d had requests for oranges, lobsters, drums, and one frying pan, but never a gun. “I will describe it for him,” Michael said.

  “It’s called the Peacemaker.”

  “Peace to the one still standing.”

  “Just include it.”

  Michael whispered, “He knows guns.” And then shot a nervous smile to the next woman in line.

  “I heard he was good.”

  “You won’t find a better soldier.”

  “I meant at painting.”

  “Oh, he’s top notch.” Michael glanced at Hollister’s glassy eyes. “Guaranteed immortality.”

  “Then I came to right place,” Helen said as she rolled the gun into the folds of her skirt.

  * * *

  Mary sat on the leather couch, opening and closing the translucent arms of Tom’s retractable glass whatchamacallit. United States patent 792,432 lay on the end table beside Joseph’s letter and a tear-soaked handkerchief. It had been so long since she’d had any physical contact with anything to do with her husband. She’d loved his analytical mind. The small invention—one of many created in the company workroom, but now officially recognized—staked claim to a kernel of history and, in a small way, created a sort of immortality for Tom Sheehan. The simplicity of materials, glass and brass; the wizardry of the hinges, sewn together with catgut; and its beauty, the way it caught the light and spilled out color—it was stunning. Mary twirled it between her hands. She had known Tom—the man held no mystery; but for his children, robbed of their father, it was this very mystique that drove their passions. She set the pointer on the end table and looked about the room for a suitable hiding place. For the time being, it would be her memory alone.

  * * *

  “What’s the time?” Hollister asked.

  “Ten minutes since the last time you asked,” Michael snapped. He forced a smile toward the woman seated across from his partner. “Pay attention. You’re almost done.”

  “I want to go.”

  “Finish this one and you’ll make it.”

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “It looks fine.” Michael winked at the woman. “Keep going, then lunch.”

  Hollister set down his brush. “Done.”

  “There’s no background.”

  “Finish later. She can go.”

  Hollister stood up and groped for his cane. Michael lifted the canvas and set it beside the frame of the crazy woman with the gun. She’d said the police would probably come for it. Total loon. Said it would make Hollister famous. One of the thick-armed vets took Hollister’s elbow and escorted him into the park. “Sorry, folks,” Michael called to those waiting in line. “Maestro is off to the toilet. We’ll open again after lunch. Visit the snack truck while you wait.”

  * * *

  George Pierce rose from his seat at the luncheon when the editor of the Labor Standard introduced him to present the humanitarian award. Other honorees sat with gold medals dangling from their necks on red silk ribbons. Pierce knocked the empty chair beside him with his knuckles, and then patted Will’s shoulder as he made his way toward the podium. He knitted his brow as he passed. A messenger sent to Cleveland had returned empty-handed. Wiggins had chased off the boy sent to the house. Mill operatives and their families picnicked in the green outside the white tent; Cleveland workers were handsomely represented. Will recognized the faces of a few overseers. Farther back, he spotted an ashen-faced Mary Sheehan standing beside Dr. Boyle, fatter and more stooped since the last time Will had seen him. Pete slouched against Ray’s thick shoulder. Fanny rode his hip rocking a baby. Tommy stood to the side, hunched over, reading something Will couldn’t make out. Near a back tie-down he spied João Rose fiddling with his hat. No sign of Hollister.

  “It’s a great honor to present Labor’s first lifetime humanitarian award to Joseph Bartlett. Though I’ve only met the man a few times, I know much of his good deeds for the workers of his shop and many others. Sadly”—Pierce pointed to the empty chair on the dais—“Mr. Bartlett couldn’t be here today, but his son Will, just in from New York, will accept the award in his stead. But first, a few words about the man we honor here today.”

  As Will waved to the crowd, Tommy’s neck snapped up. He folded the letter and hustled off, disappearing into the park.

  “I’m sure many of you don’t know that Joseph Bartlett lost half of his pinkie on the job.”

  João pulled his hat tight over his head and peeled off into the sea of Sunday walkers and baby carriages.

  “Crushed by a cotton bale. His father, Otis, made him work in each department before climbing the ranks.”

  Mary whispered something to Dr. Boyle, and he took her arm and led her away.

  “Cleveland’s mill store is famous for its low prices, not to mention, time-and-a-half birthday pay.”

  Where the hell is he? Where are they all going? Pierce shuffled the pages of his script—three to go. Will saw no escape from this old anarchist’s glorified biography of his father.

  * * *

  The ocean breeze propelled Will up Cherry Street. A front had blown in from the west, and the wind carried damp air up from the bay. A light mist coated his shoulders. The neighborhood was quiet, what with the events in full swing, except for three boys tossing a ball in the street. Will recognized Dr. Boyle’s Ford parked on the street. Behind it was a Rose Butter truck. Approaching his father’s house, he spied a pair of legs dangling from the old tree fort in the corner of the lawn. He smiled, thinking some local boys had discovered his old haunt, but closer, he recognized his brother slumped on the platform at the top of the wooden ladder. He stopped on the sidewalk next to the iron gate surrounding the house. Up in the lawn Ray, Fanny, and Pete played croquet. Ray waved his mallet.

  “Hollister, what are you doing? It’s Will. Down here.”

  Hollister peered down between his legs.

  “What are you doing up there?”

  Hollister stared.

  Will jumped on the granite ledge and grabbed the bars of the fence. “Ho
llister, say something.”

  “Dad’s gone,” Hollister called.

  “Where?”

  Hollister straightened up. He pointed toward the house. “Ask them.”

  The front door was unlocked. Light leaked from the study. Will bound in and the conversation stopped. João, Mary, Tommy, and Dr. Boyle froze as if caught in the middle of a burglary.

  “So, where is he?”

  They glanced at one another.

  “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Finally Dr. Boyle said, “Letter for you, on the desk.”

  Beside the envelope sat the remains of a bound Cleveland accounts ledger. Most of the red leather front was charred black. The pages inside, except for the edges, were not burned. Yellowed, but decipherable. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. The bottom of each page was initialed with the letters SC.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Dr. Boyle nodded toward the envelope. “Read the letter.”

  “Aloud,” Tommy snapped.

  Will shot him a look and sat down in his father’s chair. As he read, his chest ticked steadily forward until his head nearly touched the desk. He whispered, “Is this true?” No one answered. Will unbuttoned at his collar; his face flushed. After a beat, he jabbed his middle and index fingers into his eyes and rubbed vigorously. Deep down he had always suspected some nefarious plot had catapulted his father to the front of the line. But party to a murder? His mother’s people must have pulled a string or two. Quickly, his anger turned to melancholy. He pictured young Tom Sheehan, handsome and strong. His father always spoke fondly of the man. But hadn’t Dad acted reluctantly? Wasn’t that worth considering? His intent had been noble—even encouraged by Boss Borden, if the letter was to be believed. Dad had held the truth to his chest to protect everyone: the operatives, Mother, João, even the Sheehans. Without him at the helm of Cleveland, the mill would have followed the association’s whims. But his silence brought a weight too great to carry, Will thought. Perhaps these letters had released the pressure.

  “Where the hell is the bastard?” Tommy shouted.

  “Watch it, mister,” Mary said.

  Will opened the ledger slowly with his index finger. The puzzle piece that had been hiding under the cushions for twenty years. He flipped its pages, skimming Stanton’s scribbled figures, knowing it would take a lot more study. He shut the book and slowly his color returned to normal as a sense of relief came over him. He leaned back, his hands planted firmly on the desk. He looked over the group. What must they think of his father? And yes, where the hell was he?

  The front doorbell rang. Dr. Boyle nodded to Tommy to answer. They heard voices in the vestibule, and then the front door shut. Tommy reentered with Patrick Newton. He was dressed in his purser’s uniform and carried a tweed trench coat over his arm.

  “You all know Patrick,” Tommy said. They all nodded. Patrick gave a short wave. “Tell them what you told me.”

  Patrick’s head dipped down between his shoulders. He started to speak, then stopped, and removed his cap. “Like I said to Tommy here. I worked the Priscilla over and back, you see. Yesterday morning, in New York, one of the maids brings me this coat for the lost and found. Said she fished it out of the salon rubbish. Well, it’s a fine coat for someone in the salon to be wearing. I poke around the pockets, for a name or card or something, and I find this, plain as day.” Patrick held the coat by the shoulders. Stitched in script between the middle seams was the name Joseph Bartlett. “I stowed it and figured to drop it on my walk home today.”

  “Let me see that.” Will raced around the desk and rifled through the pockets. Empty. He slipped the coat on—he was about his father’s size—and crossed his arms. It was his Dad’s all right. He tossed it to Tommy, who turned the pockets out yet again.

  “Did you see him on the trip?”

  “No.”

  “But you could have missed him, right? It’s a big boat.”

  “That’s the funny thing,” Patrick said. “See, I checked the passenger manifest, and he wasn’t listed.”

  “A simple oversight,” Dr. Boyle said.

  Patrick shook his head. “Don’t think so, sir. They’re mighty careful since the Newport fire. Need to account for everyone.”

  “But the coat could have been on board since his last trip?”

  “We clean and sweep after every leg, Dr. Boyle. Had to be the night before last.” Patrick paused. He looked around the room and studied each face. Watching João fiddle with his hat in the alcove between the bookshelves, he said, “You have a break-in or something?”

  “Thank you for dropping it off.” Will patted Patrick’s back. “I’ll be sure to tell my father. Tommy will see you out.”

  As the two turned toward the door, Will said, “One more thing, what’s the water temperature these days?”

  Patrick looked out the window, then to Will. He shrugged, “Oh, with summer just past, around sixty.”

  “Thanks.” Will shut the door behind them.

  “My God,” Mary said. “You think?”

  Tommy returned. Will pointed to Dr. Boyle, leaning over an armchair. “Is it possible?”

  “He could last a few hours, but he’d need someone to pluck him from the water. He wasn’t much of a swimmer.”

  “Fucking coward,” Tommy snarled.

  “Thomas Sheehan!”

  “You watch your mouth,” Will snapped.

  “Save it.” Tommy sucked his teeth. He began to pace the room. The veins in his strawberry eye swelled with each step. “Even if he did jump and wanted to survive, you got to know what you’re doing. Those paddles draft a ton of water.”

  “He’s right,” Dr. Boyle said. “There’s only one reason to jump.”

  “Screw your father,” Tommy said. “Is that burnt ledger for real? Did my father die because of Highlands greed? Because if that’s true, I’m gonna burn down this house.”

  “Calm down, son.” Dr. Boyle touched his shoulder as he passed by.

  “I want the truth.” Tommy whirled, knocking Dr. Boyle into an armchair, and then swiveled round and bull-rushed João into the corner bookcase. He pinned his forearm over João’s throat. “Say something, you idiot. You were there. Did it happen like he said?”

  João remembered the tremendous heat of that night—every footstep, every scream. And the story remained the same. Tragedy has no need for hyperbole. Mr. Bartlett knew this. João nodded his head slowly.

  “Get the hell off of him,” Will shouted.

  “Please, Tommy,” Mary pleaded. She knelt on the carpet. Her hands rose over her head. “Release the poor man.”

  Tommy pounded the books above João’s head with his fist. He grabbed a brown hardcover and flung it across the room, nearly striking his mother.

  Dr. Boyle walked slowly toward Tommy, his palms up. “Nothing good can come of more violence.”

  “Really?” Tommy lurched forward on his toes, and Dr. Boyle recoiled.

  “Good attempted to save bad, and they both lost,” Dr. Boyle said.

  Tommy sneered. “The Bartletts didn’t lose.”

  Will’s fist connected with Tommy’s chin, then continued into his shoulder. Tommy fell to the carpet. Will hovered over him, his arm cocked for another salvo, when João tackled him to the floor.

  “My father suffered his entire life,” Will shouted from his knees. “He wanted none of this.” He glared at João, jumped to his feet, and walked to the window, rubbing his elbow.

  Tommy sat up slowly. His eyes blinking open and shut. His face blanched. Mary knelt at his side but he brushed her away.

  Dr. Boyle stood between the two men, his arms outstretched. “Everyone calm down.”

  Tommy stood. His thin legs wobbled. He grabbed the doorknob and jabbed the air with his finger. “This is not over.” He raised his right knee to step,
then thought better of it. He inhaled then exhaled a large quantity of air. He bounced to test his balance. Satisfied, he opened the door. “Let’s go, Mother.”

  Mary fingered the glass pointer hidden up her sleeve. “I’m staying,” she said.

  “Fine.” Tommy jabbed a finger Will’s direction. “You and me,” he barked. He slammed the study door. A moment later, the front door rattled.

  The room was silent. João retreated to the alcove. Dr. Boyle paced before the hearth.

  Will moved quickly across the room. “Wait a second. João, give me a hand.” Will and João lifted the gun cabinet away from the wall, revealing Joseph’s safe.

  Dr. Boyle whistled.

  “The combination.” Will drummed his fingers across his lips.

  “Nine-thirteen-sixteen,” João said.

  “Shit,” Will whistled. The group stared.

  “He had me memorize it.”

  Will knelt before the safe. The others huddled around.

  “What did he keep in there?” Mary asked.

  “A reserve of cash, company documents. I suppose that burnt ledger. There.” Will cranked the handle and pulled the door. He rattled his arm around inside. “Nothing now.”

  Dr. Boyle knelt down and flung his arm into the safe. “Where’s the cash?”

  “The bank?” Will paced the room. “I haven’t seen inside in a few years.”

  Will nodded at João. “How about you?”

  “Second time here.”

  “Wait a second,” Dr. Boyle said. He swiveled on his knees, a small origami bird resting on his palm.

  “What’s that?” Will said.

  “A paper bird.” Dr. Boyle scratched his chin. “Huh.”

  “Hand it here.” Will plucked it off Dr. Boyle’s palm and whirled it in the air. He smiled.

  “A what?” Mary asked.

  “An albatross,” Will said.

  “Or a gull,” Dr. Boyle said. “Hard to tell. Mary?”

  Mary slumped back on the couch. “Never seen it.”

  Will knelt before her. He felt a sudden tenderness for her. “Please read me the last lines of Father’s letter.”

  She slipped it from her sleeve. Dr. Boyle, still on his knees, removed an envelope from his jacket and unfolded a letter of his own.