1929
M.L. Gardner
Copyright M.L. Gardner 2008
Published at Smashwords
The characters and events in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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With special thanks to Monica
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Reading the series in order:
1929 Book One-Jonathan’s Cross
Elizabeth’s Heart Book Two
1930 Book-Three Aryl’s Divide
Drifter Book Four
M.L. Gardner Works in Progress include:
Purgatory Cove Book Five
1931 Book Six-Caleb’s Err
Simon’s Watch Book Seven
Reclaiming Katie
Other books by M.L. Gardner:
A Homespun Christmas
Simply, Mine
Short Stories from 1929
A note to the reader:
Generally historical fiction is defined as: “the genre of literature, film, etc., comprising narratives that take place in the past and are characterized chiefly by an imaginative reconstruction of historical events and personages.”
While 1929 is set within a real era in American history, I have taken creative liberties in this imaginative reconstruction with some details of daily life. Not to detract from the hardship of the day or the tenacity of the people, but to enhance a scene or better develop a character.
Prologue
Is ea, is cuimhin liom go maith é
Yes, I remember it well.
June 1972
“Wake up, lazy-bones.” With the chess board tucked under her arm, Maura walked into the room with a slow, tired gait. She tapped the bedpost as she passed.
Jonathan stirred, grunted, opened his eyes a crack and closed them again.
“I didn't think you were coming today,” he said, struggling in vain to sit up straight.
“I wasn't planning on it, but Ian kicked me out fer the afternoon.” She set the chess board at the foot of the bed. “Apparently, I'm bein' a bother.” Her eyes crinkled with her mischievous grin. She got a good grip around Jonathan's chest and brought him out of his sharp slump to the right.
“You? A bother? I can't imagine,” Jonathan said with heavy sarcasm. Maura picked a pillow off the floor and wedged it under Jonathan's right arm; lame and lifeless.
“Besides, I wanted to see how yer settling in here,” she said as she worked.
“I'm a bother,” he said, not entirely joking.
“Ye know yer son doesn’t see ye as a bother,” she said and sat on the side of the bed, placing the chess board on Jonathan's thighs. She opened a richly engraved drawer and began pulling pieces out. She raised her eyebrows as she held up a marbled piece and a red piece.
“I don't care.” Jonathan's left side shrugged. Maura chose marble for him and set up the pieces.
“He has his own family now.”
“Aye. But yer his father. He doesn’t mind ye livin' with him one bit,” she assured. “Can I get ye somethin' to drink before Mr. Caleb gets here to lose another game o’ chess?” she asked as she made her way to the door.
“Scotch,” he said, eyes closed, resting his head against the wooden headboard. She returned a moment later with a tall glass of lemonade and set it on the bedside table.
“That doesn't look like Scotch.” He gave an indignant huff as she opened the bedroom window to let in a cool, refreshing breeze.
“Have ye no faith in me after all these forty-odd years, Mr. Jonathan?” She pulled a flask from her dress pocket, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to him. He took a deep drink and paused with eyes closed to enjoy it. He took another before handing it back. He let out something between a sigh and a growl before opening his eyes.
“Have ye been able to talk to him then?”
“I tried,” he said. “He isn't listening.” He rolled his head toward the window. The summer sun drenched the ornate chair and hardwood floor below it.
“Give it time, Mr. Jonathan. Keep tellin' him yer life's lessons and one day, he'll see his way to them,” she said while fishing a rag from the lower drawer of a bureau.
“What are you doing?” he asked, craning his neck. She straightened, smoothing down her hair, mostly gray with a few remaining threads of red throughout.
“I'm cleanin'. Since I'm here and all.” She began to dust knickknacks and picture frames, talking as she went of memories that each piece stirred. She held a deep shadow box, admiring the flag inside which was surrounded by medals and awards. She had made the box herself; a memorial for one of Jonathan's sons, who had died in World War Two. Maura went slowly across the chest of drawers, smiling at each framed picture as she wiped off dust only she could see.
“When was this taken?” she asked, holding one out for him to see.
“That was on a trip we all took to Europe, before–” The door swung open and hit the wall with a thud. Jonathan's son, Robert pushed a small but heavy desk into the room.
“Hello, Maura,” he said. “Here's the desk, Dad. And I found that old typewriter in the attic. It's really dusty―” Maura held up her dusting rag in an offer to clean it.
“I don’t know why you won't just let me buy you a new one,” he grumbled as he pushed the desk against the wall. Jonathan said something under his breath as Robert left the room. He returned shortly with the promised typewriter. A thick layer of dust completely obscured the letters on the keys. Maura gravitated toward it and set to work.
“I picked up that other stuff you wanted, too, Dad.” He ducked out and back in with a large bag, pulling out boxes of paper, ribbons, and pens.
“Thank you, Robert.”
He patted his father’s dead right arm and gave a wave to Maura as he left.
“He's a good boy and the spittin' image of ye, Mr. Jonathan,” she said. He nodded in agreement but still held a look of worry.
“An’ he’s smart,” she added. “Keep talkin' to him. He'll listen.” Jonathan gazed out the window looking past the yard and fence, to a place only he could see.
“I don't know if I have enough time,” he said. She slowly turned to him, her face first concerned, then fierce.
“Fer the love of God, Mr. Jonathan! You've had a stroke, but yer far from yer death bed! I won't hear ye talkin' like that!”
He rolled his eyes, full of love for her and the scolding, and smiled. He knew there was no point in arguing. She spun back around with a huff.
“Would you do something for me, Maura?”
“An' what would that be?” she asked, cleaning the typewriter keys viciously.
“There's a box under my bed. Will you pull it out for me?”
She tossed the rag down on the desk and turned to the bed.
“What is all this anyway?” she asked, pulling one thick book after another out of the box and stacking them by his legs.
“My journals.”
“Taking a stroll down memory lane, are we?”
“No. You are,” he said. She looked at him curiously.
“I don't need yer memory books, I've a memory sharp as a tack.”
“Exactly,” he said with a smile.
“Exactly what?”
“That's exactly why I need you to do this.”
Maura's eyes flashed and she set her jaw, growing irritated. “Do what, Mr. Jonathan, would ye just spit it out already? I've no time fer games.”
“I want you to take these journals, add to it what you remember, talk to the others, and write them
out.”
“Write them out . . . like a book?”
“Yes. A book. For my children.” He looked down at his useless right arm. “I can't anymore. I was going to, but I never got around to it.”
“Well.” She looked down at the stack of old journals and took a step back. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin!”
“Begin anywhere you want. There are so many stories to tell,” he said, smiling fondly. “And you were there. I know you remember.”
She ran her hand over a dusty journal.
“Is ea, is cuimhin liom go maith é,” she whispered. She looked down at the books and paper set around his legs. “How can I possibly put everything we've done and seen and been through in one book?!”
“Then write as many as it takes,” he said and laid his head back. She studied his face, deciding.
“Please, Maura?”
“Don't try to be charmin’,” she snapped. “Ye still think ye can get yer way with those eyes o’ yers, don't ye?”
He grinned. For a moment he looked very much like the young man she remembered from a lifetime ago.
“All right. I'll do it for ye, Mr. Jonathan,” she said softly. “But first, I need to clean that old thing.” She went back to the typewriter and began distractedly cleaning it.
“Thank you, Maura.”
“What on earth do ye want me to call it?” she asked. He didn’t answer. She turned to look at him and followed his eyes, fixed on the straw cross above his bedroom door.
Black Tuesday 1929
5pm
Jonathan still hadn’t found the courage to go home. He finished another Scotch and held his head in his hand, his broad shoulders slouched. He pushed the empty shot glass away and ran his fingers through his dark hair, sighing deeply.
“Looks like you’ve had one helluva day,” the barmaid said with a sympathetic look as she refilled three glasses. “Least you can drink easy for now. All the cops are busy with the riots and the jumpers. Not likely to get raided today.”
Jonathan’s eyes flickered up and he nodded, barely hearing her. He pulled a bill out of his wallet and tossed it on the table.
“Leave the bottle.” He was by no means done. He didn’t have the words worked out just right in his head, but he would stay here with his Scotch until he did. He stared blankly, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. So many people that day were wiped out; riches to rags in a matter of hours, and he was one of them. How could I have lost everything? He grimaced, unable to wrap his mind around it. A wave of desperate panic washed over him when he thought of Ava. He dreaded her reaction and wondered briefly if she would leave as some wives tended to do when their comfortable lifestyles disappeared. He glanced to his left and right at his best friends and business partners who were sitting with similar shell-shocked expressions.
The brokerage firm he owned had suffered devastating losses since the slide began in September. Even as each trading day worsened, the collective thought was that it could not get much worse. The firm had continued to operate as a functioning brokerage, until today. Those who refused to recognize that the ten year binge of prosperity was coming to a climactic and explosive end, rode the purge to the very bottom. What remained of his firm had been decimated in a matter of hours.
Everything he had ever worked for was gone.
Aryl Sullivan and Caleb Jenkins had joined the firm to learn the nuances of the financial world. They were impressed with the wealth Jonathan had amassed, and each had a good reason to take him up on his offer to bring them on. He took them in, taught them well, and the three quickly gained the reputation of being some of the most powerful players on Wall Street. They worked hard and achieved a ridiculously comfortable life in an alarmingly short amount of time.
The three men had grown up together in a little town on the coast of Massachusetts and had been friends for as long as any of them could remember. Jonathan had been the first to leave, drawn to the fast-paced business world of New York City. The next time his friends heard from him, he was making money hand over fist as a broker and owner of his own firm.
Aryl came from a lineage of lobstermen. He worked during his late teens and early twenties for his uncle who owned a small fleet of lobster boats. He liked it well enough and never really gathered much of a plan for his life, quite happy to go along with whatever adventure life presented. He would work long enough to make what money he needed to travel and explore for a few months then return to Rockport to work with his uncle. His fate had been determined by a combination of impeccable timing; Jonathan’s invitation to New York and his falling in love with Claire. If not for that timing, he would most likely be involved with neither one today.
Caleb grew up an only child on his parents’ farm. When he was twenty, his grandfather suffered a stroke and Caleb ran the adjoining farm entirely on his own. In gratitude, his grandfather willed him the estate when he passed. Caleb sold the farm and took his time traveling south to discover what each state had to offer. He was still intent on farming but needed a change of scenery. He hadn’t made up his mind which state he liked best until he met Arianna. From that moment on, the only place he wanted to be was with her. It wasn’t long before fate led them north as well.
Jonathan rested his head on his forearm, his other hand still gripping the glass. No matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, he knew he was responsible for their losses as he involuntarily relived the events of the day.
That morning all three had arrived at the office early. Not one of them slept much the night before. Truth be told, they hadn’t slept well for weeks. The markets had gone from wild fluctuations the past month to spiraling out of control in the last week.
Glancing up at the clock, Jonathan paced his office in the moments before the opening bell. Today would make or break him and he knew it. He had guessed one of two things would happen. Either investors would start a frenzy of buying dirt-cheap stocks that would hopefully cause an amazing rally similar to the previous Thursday, or the massive sell off would continue and God only knew what would happen then. One of his best analysts sat at the ticker, anxious and alert, waiting for the numbers. At opening bell, the tape started streaming out as Jonathan, Aryl, and Caleb gathered around the desk. The analyst began yelling almost immediately. From the second it opened, the markets plummeted. Jonathan paced and anxiously waited for the rally. He could feel it coming, but Caleb and Aryl were nervous.
“Let’s get out, Jon. It’s not gonna stop,” Caleb pleaded.
“It will. Trust me, it will,” Jonathan insisted as he paced. Eventually, he began to lose faith that a rally was coming as his firm was quickly filling with panicked clients who demanded what was left of their money. He finally gave the order to sell everything and move into cash and gold. His interns worked furiously on the telephones and telegraph.
A fellow broker, tie loose and jacket hanging off one of his shoulders, staggered into the office. Sweat covered his blood-red face as he screamed the news like a town crier, “It’s lagging! It’s lagging!”
The sell orders were coming in so fast that the ticker couldn’t keep up. The global purging had caused an undetermined delay. When Jonathan had finally given the order to sell, it was at numbers that were completely inaccurate in real time. He grabbed his coat and ran. Aryl and Caleb followed close behind.
Full-blown panic had ensued in the streets. Hundreds of people crowded the entrance of the Exchange. Panic caused bank runs that resulted in the sudden failure of some of the largest banks in existence. Police struggled to control the crowds and keep the peace. As Jonathan ran, something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A figure was free falling from an adjacent building. The friends pushed through the crowds, inching toward the Exchange.
As he yelled out instructions when they reached the trading floor, Aryl and Caleb struggled to hear him over the roar of the frenzied crowd. Fear and panic reigned inside the Exchange. There was complete chaos as hundreds of men ran from pit to pit to s
cream orders. Sweat-drenched and red-faced men grabbed handfuls of their hair, clutched their chests and a few collapsed to the floor. Frantic brokers too preoccupied with certain doom to care about their colleagues simply jumped over them. The lower the numbers sank, the louder they screamed. As if they could push the numbers back up by will and volume. The whole world was selling; no one was buying. When the bell rang, a sea of heads collectively turned to see what the closing numbers were. Silence fell as the ticker tapes were still catching up; the numbers kept sinking. It was over. The floor erupted in desperate cries, screams of agony and men running in every direction.
Jonathan stood motionless amidst the chaos, staring blankly, and then slowly sank to his knees.
They took the keys to his cars and office building immediately, informing him that everything he owned was now under bank lien. He didn’t remember leaving the Exchange, didn’t remember how long they had walked, and didn’t recognize the pair of sad suits they followed into the speakeasy. He wasn’t even sure how long they had been there.
He lifted his head and looked around. Aryl stared at his empty glass with no expression, and Caleb rested his head on his folded arms. There were many men in suits. No respectable businessman needed to be in a place like this unless he was hiding. A lot of them held their heads in their hands with the same looks of disbelief and horror. A grown man sat unashamedly crying in the corner. They were all there for the same reason. They represented the casualties of this day; their possessions to be auctioned, their homes to be sold, their bank accounts to be seized, their jobs literally vanished. They were now among the poorest in New York City, and they had to go home and tell their families. They were all desperately trying to figure out exactly how to do that.
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