How to Find Your Way in the Dark

by Derek B. Miller

  “Is that really what you think?” Abe asked Nate. His voice was little more than a whisper.

  “That’s exactly what I think. And you’re looking at the proof. Everyone came over here as immigrants—us, the Irish, the Italians, the Polish, the Chinese, for heaven’s sake, and we got labeled and we had to shed some baggage and learn how things are done.”

  “By assimilating. Cowering. Begging.”

  “Adapting,” Nate said. “Isn’t that what they’re teaching in your biology class, Mirabelle? Adaptation? You adapt. You’re wonderful at it. You’re going places, and I see it.”

  Mirabelle said nothing.

  Nate was still upbeat and wanted to share the feeling. “I think we should all take a trip after I get the job. Rent a car. I read that the Boston Symphony Orchestra has started playing a new concert hall called Tanglewood. It’s not far from where Uncle Joe and I grew up. Maybe we can drive up there and listen.”

  “Classical music?” Mirabelle asked, with a hint of alarm.

  “It’s culture, Mirabelle. We’re moving up. Don’t you see? Adaptation. And half the musicians are probably Jews,” Nate added for Abe’s benefit. “What do you say, Sheldon? Would that be OK? To go so soon?”

  Sheldon didn’t answer. Instead, he asked if he could be excused from the table.

  Nate frowned. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t feel good.” It was partly true. Sheldon was starting to sweat.

  Nate thought he understood. “Maybe we can go someplace else. Also, you don’t have to go to Mr. Henkler’s funeral, Sheldon. People won’t notice your absence, and we were just at a cemetery with your father. It’s only natural you’d feel this way.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Nate.”

  “Yes, you’re excused.”

  Sheldon picked up his breakfast plate and glass, and dropped them off by the sink for Mirabelle to clean. He didn’t turn around to look at anyone as he made for his bedroom.

  * * *

  The Underwood No. 5 typewriter was a skeletal machine where all the gears and levers and parts were exposed to the elements. Above the letters, in steel, was a quarter-moon of hammers packed together and arranged like the hull of a tiny ship. Press the key and a hammer rose on an arm that for a moment looked impossibly long before the ribbon rose to meet it, and then the hammer smacked through the ink and left behind an imprint on the white page; a scar in the form of a letter—letters that became words, words that begot sentences, each one a whisper that might have left an echo. This is what Sheldon wanted to find out.

  He sat there. There was no paper on the rubber scroll now. Leaning forward, Sheldon looked at it and squinted. Could he make out even a single word there that was the same as the words in the newspaper? Did Abe write that letter in this very room and slide it under Mr. Stone’s door? If he did, did that necessarily mean he killed Mr. Henkler? Maybe he found Mr. Henkler and, thinking fast, swapped out the real letter for this one that helped Uncle Nate.

  Which was crazy and didn’t solve the mystery of the missing .45 automatic. But was it crazier than Abe murdering Mr. Henkler?

  The rubber cylinder didn’t give away any secrets so Sheldon looked in the garbage bin for drafts but there were none. He then looked at the ribbon and wondered if the ribbon had a memory of the letters pressed into it, but he saw it was made of cloth or fabric and was black through and through. The hammers had made an impression but left no mark: a perfect crime.

  Sheldon stood up and paced around the room.

  The stacks of newspapers on the dresser. The fights on the street. The pawn shop. All that talk about Jews and gangs and Europe. Being rude to Mr. Henkler when they went to visit him. Had it been leading up to this?

  Sheldon wanted to know the truth and he also didn’t want to know.

  He sat on the edge of his bed for more than a minute before he stood and walked over to Abe’s dresser.

  He opened the drawer below the newspapers.

  The revolver was missing.

  Graduation

  ABE GRADUATED FROM HIGH SCHOOL eight months later in June on a day so clear and blue that Sheldon felt as though a slate were being wiped clean; and even Uncle Nate felt that a new beginning had arrived.

  Mirabelle wore a bright-yellow shirtwaist summer dress with white polka dots and crepe-soled saddle shoes of white and black. Seventeen on December 8, she looked like an adult and a movie star. Her mother’s clothing strengthened the illusion. Her face was a matronly calm.

  Sheldon sat in the bleachers looking down on the green football field filled with graduating seniors wearing red caps and gowns. Nate was on his left and Mirabelle on his right. It was a Wednesday, and Nate had taken the day off. He wore a chalk-stripe blue suit and solid tie but had forgone a hat. With a smile on his face, he bit the end of his pipe and looked down at the field.

  “Before they’re handed the diploma,” Nate said to Sheldon, “the tassel on the mortarboard is on the right side. Once they’re handed their diplomas, they move it to the left to show they’re high school graduates.” He was smiling constantly.

  For Nate, the past was now behind them. His son had pulled through a difficult year of moodiness and inexplicable silences, and yet he had focused intensely on his studies, and now he was on his way into the adult world and the workforce. Three children, raised on his own for the better part of a year. Yes, it had become easier after hiring a housekeeper once he was promoted into Mr. Henkler’s job. That had relieved the pressure on him and Mirabelle, who had had to take on the woman’s role. But it still hadn’t been easy; children have their needs and their trials, and their outbursts, and without Lucy there to take the burden or calm him down, it had all required a superhuman effort on his part.

  The marching band was taking to the field behind the seniors. They struck up a Glenn Miller tune.

  “Oh, there he is!” Nate said. Sheldon followed Nate’s finger and tried to tell one red gown from the next.

  As nice as the weather was, Sheldon suspected that sitting there was boring for Mirabelle. He asked her if she wished she was graduating too, but she said no.

  “What are you thinking about, then?” he asked.

  “This. All of this.”

  “All of what?”

  “I didn’t think he’d make it,” she said quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Abe. Graduation. I didn’t think he’d make it.”

  “Why not?”

  Mirabelle looked from Sheldon to her father, but he was paying them no attention. He was lighting his pipe for a second time and crossing his legs comfortably as he watched the band.

  “You know what I mean,” Mirabelle whispered.

  * * *

  They had never discussed it. Never intimated or suggested what might have happened. But after the storm passed and Mr. Henkler was buried, their previous and coordinated agenda to wreak havoc on Hartford had been wordlessly shelved; they all shared a sense that it had already gone too far. Mirabelle didn’t press for any more heists; the search for Joseph’s killer was quietly ended; and Sheldon’s private dream of growing up to become an international jewel thief—one who cracked safes and scaled buildings in a black suit and then unfolded black velvet cloths full of sapphires and emeralds and rubies that caught the light of the moon and turned everything into chance and possibility through alchemy—evaporated as effortlessly as a late-morning dream. Abe started disappearing at night and not telling them where he was. When he returned, he conscientiously completed his homework, read the newspapers cover to cover, listened to one of the bands on the radio, and then went to sleep. Sheldon and Mirabelle both knew something under the earth had shifted. Nate, however, evidently considered the children as being on their best behavior and happily attributed this to his guidance and care. He too spent the evenings out. In time, so did Mirabelle.

  Sheldon turned to the books downstairs and the velvet sofa beside the fireplace that no one used. Mark Twain and Dashiell Hammett and Rex Stout a
nd J. R. R. Tolkien took Sheldon far away from Hartford, his memories, and all his suspicions.

  The only person Sheldon had told about any of this was Lenny. And he’d told Lenny only by letter. He knew perfectly well that if one of his letters fell into enemy hands the world would immediately explode, but Sheldon had already scoped out the typewriter and knew it told no tales on its own. The only two rules he needed were:

  Never leave an unfinished letter in the typewriter

  Never throw away a letter with spelling or typing mistakes because someone might find it

  He could have handwritten them. Something about typing the letters, though, made him feel more adult. Like he was working at a newspaper or spy bureau and he was drafting communiques that were sent off over the wire to change the course of the war. Lenny Bernstein was his man behind enemy lines. The letters would be attached to the pigeons Mirabelle had described to him—like the one her biology teacher had sent up to Boston before the storm and had, by some miracle, arrived there before the hurricane, which had given the teacher on the other end time to talk to the principal about the “bad storm coming” note he’d received—and who then made a few calls south for confirmation—at which point they moved all the kids into the gymnasium away from the windows that, only two hours later, shattered. No one was harmed. Herman the pigeon was declared a hero.

  Herman didn’t know why, but he ate very well that night.

  Sheldon was a very bad typist and made a lot of mistakes. And while—yes—each letter was a world-saving missive from headquarters, that didn’t mean he wanted to bother correcting each error by hand with a pencil. After all, it was only Lenny, and he had been instructed to burn or eat Sheldon’s missives.

  Lenny didn’t know what to make of Sheldon’s letters at first. They contained stories about a pawn shop burglary and Mirabelle’s panties, shotgun blasts and murders, gangsters and politicians. With this kind of subject matter and all the misspellings and smudges and crossed-out words, Lenny had to wonder if Sheldon was OK in the head.

  In his first letter back to Sheldon—not long after the storm—Lenny had asked if maybe Sheldon had fallen down or possibly taken up boxing.

  I mean, up until now, you’ve been telling me how great Abe is and how he looks out for you other than getting you shot at and things like that, and how if he wasn’t around and it was only your uncle and Mirabelle how weird things would be. Now you’re writing to me and telling me that you think he shot some guy, wrote a suicide letter for him, got your uncle promoted, and rather than going straight to jail or hell or whatever, he’s just hanging around finishing up his senior year by doubling down on math. It just keeps getting kinda nuts to me, that’s all. Then again, I can’t really imagine you boxing either. Can you even box at 12? I know you’re gonna be 13 in September, but that wouldn’t account for the brain damage now, would it?

  Around here, I think Mickey the horse died. Mr. O’Neill has a new Buick, or at least it’s new for him, and I haven’t seen that horse anywhere so either he’s retired or dead or food.

  I did what you asked. I broke into your shack out in the forest and got those two rifles. I wrapped them up in a blanket and brought them home the back way, the one that goes over the old stone wall that you said was made by the Romans but now I know you’re full of shit because Miss Simmons told me the Romans were never out here. She said it was probably the early settlers who made walls to divide up their lands and such things like that. Anyway, who cares.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with two guns in a blanket. The hard part has been trying to explain to my mom where the blanket is. How does a blanket go missing, she wants to know. And I’m thinking—she’s got a point. How does a blanket go missing? Now, as it happens, I know the answer but it’s not one I want to share, is it?

  You ever heard of the Catskills? Some mountains and hotels and things in New York. Not too far from here. You can bus it. My dad came back from Springfield and said a lot of the Jews from New York are going there in the summers now and they got everything. They got swimming pools and golf and tennis and fishing and all this stuff, and now people who have it hard down in the city are starting to go up there to beat the heat and eat themselves silly at these buffets. He said that the Jews who came over in the 1900s and 1920s came with nothing and they don’t get food like that, so to them it’s like the American dream or something and they get drunk on it. He says maybe we can go there next summer. The high rollers pay fifty-five bucks for a week and that’s for the room and three meals a day and all the shows. He says this is pretty damn expensive compared to the other places, but it’s supposed to be one of the best hotels on earth, so that’s why.

  This winter he wants me and my sister to dress up like elves when we sell the Christmas trees and we’re none too pleased about it because it’ll feel stupid. He says it’ll add to the festive spirit and everyone loves kids dressed like elves. I asked if this wasn’t a little weird, us being Jewish and all. He said Mary was Jewish, Joseph was Jewish, Jesus was Jewish, and all twelve apostles were Jewish. He said what’s weird is the gentiles buying evergreens to celebrate a Jew born in a desert. You think they had trees like this in the Holy Land? he says to me. Whoever thought of selling evergreens to gentiles was a fuckin’ genius, he says. I said you’re selling them, and that made him smile. So . . . I’m gonna be an elf.

  I don’t think I’ve ever written this much in my life. I’m gonna go rest my hand.

  OK, I’m back. It’s tomorrow now. Well, I guess it’s today again technically, but it’s yesterday’s tomorrow, which is good enough. My hand isn’t all cramped up, that’s the key to the thing.

  Wouldn’t it be great if you could come to the Catskills with us sometime? I think it would be great. My dad says they have these comedians up there. Like Jack Benny and George Burns and Danny Kaye and these guys. He says they’ll make your sides split open. He makes that sound good so we’ll see. If it’s any good, I’ll tell you. Maybe there’s something in it for us. I can tell a joke. Maybe that’s how I break into the big time.

  Lenny

  The graduation ceremony ended with the mortarboards flying high.

  Nate urged Mirabelle and Sheldon to follow him down the bleachers, where they met up with Abe. Nate grabbed his son’s arm, pumping it up and down as though Abe had just solved the Riddle of the Sphinx. Abe accepted this with grace, but he didn’t look elated like the other graduates around him.

  “I’m so proud of you, Abe,” Nate said. “After everything that happened in the last few years. I wasn’t sure . . . but you really came out on top.”

  An hour later, the sky an even deeper shade of blue, the Corbin family with Sheldon in tow passed through the open doors of the Brubeck Club. Hats were taken, a jacket provided to Sheldon with the sleeves rolled up, and a black man with white hair and a slight stoop led them into a dining hall where Roy Fowler—another department head at Colt—met Nate and welcomed him.

  Behind Fowler was a banquet hall full of the kind of people Nate admired and wanted to be like. They were wealthy and stylish. They moved with a grace that came from belonging, a pride of ownership over a world of their inheritance and making. The men’s suits were tailored, and the women wore the latest fashions bought off the racks at G. Fox & Co. or else copied from the daily pattern in the Hartford Courant.

  “Welcome, Nate. It’s good you made it,” Mr. Fowler said, as he held out a thick paw for Nate to grasp.

  Sheldon looked around him and smelled the unfamiliar foods. The colors were fantastic. His mother would have loved it here. This was high society; this was the kind of place where photographers wandered around taking pictures of people who would end up in the Society and Personal News section that Abe always threw in the garbage.

  His father, Sheldon knew, would have stood with his hands in his pockets watching the patrons as if they were so many beasts around a carcass. He would have considered it all a cheap drama. Sheldon didn’t have Joseph’s knowingness, but he did
think that the people here looked more like peacocks than rulers of the universe.

  All that was philosophy. The earthly truth was that the food smelled really, really good and Sheldon wanted to sit down and stuff his face. Unfortunately, Mr. Fowler wanted to have words with him first, which slowed Sheldon down.

  “And who are you, young man?” Mr. Fowler asked.

  “Sheldon Horowitz.”

  “And how did you come to be here today?”

  Sheldon turned and looked back at the door as the obvious answer, but that didn’t seem to be it; the guy was looking for something else. “Abe’s my cousin. I was invited.”

  “Of course you are. Bet you’ve never been to a club like this before.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Of course not. Come in, come in.”

  Mirabelle walked with Nate to a large round table near tall windows framed by yellow curtains. Abe and Sheldon followed. Abe was sullen and Sheldon didn’t know why. The food was going to be great and he had just graduated. It didn’t make any sense. At the table, Sheldon sat between his cousins and across from a girl Abe’s age named Dorothy, who had also graduated. She must have been a year older than Mirabelle, but she looked shy and her head hung, which made her look younger and smaller. Sheldon thought she looked nice. Mirabelle sat with her back straight and hands folded on her lap. She turned to Sheldon and whispered, “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “All the fancy. All the people who have blue blood.”

  “People don’t have blue blood. They have red blood.”

  “Nope. It’s blue.”

  “Red,” said Sheldon.

  “You’ll see.”