The Widow Lowry ran this abomination like a sadistic jailer. She was a large, powerful-looking woman in her late forties who, though considerably overweight, carried it well. She used her size to physically intimidate her workers.
“She looks like she ate all the food her employees couldn’t afford to buy,” Mary had remarked to Kate one day after work.
“Did you hear about her husband?” Kate had shot back, reciting workplace lore. “He was so afraid of her he killed himself rather than ask for a divorce.”
Rumors abounded. If you polled the employees, they would swear when the Widow Lowry shot out of her mother’s womb the doctor was so scared he fainted.
The Widow Lowry made it her business to regularly patrol the floor, checking to see if anyone was wasting her money, her mere presence enough to make her workers quiver. She would stroll through the aisles, inspecting the work and invariably stopping at some poor soul to humiliate her. On this particular day, she stopped at a thirteen-year-old girl who sat in front of Mary.
She stood over her and glowered, making the girl so nervous she kept sticking herself with the needle. She then grabbed the hat on which the girl was working.
“You call this even stitching?!”
The girl was too terrified to answer. The Widow Lowry tore the hat apart and held it up for everyone to see.
“I’m deducting this from her pay! I won’t tolerate shoddy work!”
The girl was reduced to tears, which only fed the Widow Lowry’s disdain.
“What are you waiting for? Get another piece, you idiot!”
The girl ran to get one as the Widow Lowry glared at the workers, establishing her dominance. All the ladies cowered, with one notable exception—Mary.
The Widow Lowry had been watching Mary for some time and was sure she needed an attitude correction. So far, Mary had been smart enough not to show any defiance. She did her work and kept quiet. But the Widow Lowry abhorred indifference. If it spread, it could become insolence, and then where would she be?
“Do you have something to say, Miss Handley?”
Mary kept working and didn’t say a word. This woman wasn’t going to get her to say or do anything she didn’t want to say or do. She had dealt with bullies all her life, and the fact that the Widow Lowry was a woman didn’t make her any different.
“Come on, Miss Handley, we’re all friends here.” She gestured, indicating the whole room. “Everyone would love to hear what you have to say.” But Mary remained silent.
“Don’t for one moment think I don’t know what’s going on here,” the Widow Lowry opined, putting on her wisest look. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
Mary glanced at Kate, who sat next to her. Kate saw what her friend was thinking and frowned, shaking her head as if to say, “Don’t do it.” But Mary knew a simple negative response would not satisfy the Widow Lowry. She had made her hostility public and in order to save face, she was not going to stop until Mary cowered before her.
“No,” Mary said, then looked directly at the Widow Lowry. “I don’t think I’m better than you. I know I am. We are all better than you.”
Gasps ran through the room faster than a rabbit trying to avoid becoming dinner. The Widow Lowry did a slow burn before totally imploding. A string of invectives burst from her mouth. Not all of them were intelligible, but the word “fired” popped up often enough. That was a problem, but Mary was fairly certain she could find a job in another sweatshop in a reasonable amount of time. Well, fairly reasonable, she thought, and possibly in one less oppressive than the Lowry Hat Factory. One would be hard-pressed to find one worse.
Mary looked at Kate, who shook her head in disbelief. Mary shrugged and walked toward the exit, smiling. She felt very good about what she had just done. After all, if you didn’t call a pig a pig, it might never know it was one.
When Mary reached the door, her smile faded. She remembered she was having dinner that night with her parents.
6
Although both Mary and Sean had moved out, Friday night dinner at the Handleys’ was still mandatory. If not with an iron fist, Elizabeth ruled her family with an iron tongue, her verbal lashings being more painful and leaving longer-lasting scars than any physical beating. To be fair, Elizabeth truly believed she knew what was best and was trying to steer her children in the right direction when they veered off course. Unfortunately, instead of a stiff wind to right the ship, she often used a hurricane.
The Handley home was a small wood-framed house in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn, which was filled with Irish immigrants in similar houses. Not far from the waterfront, the house, to put it kindly, was cramped. It had two tiny bedrooms and a backyard barely big enough for a pair of swings. When the children had gotten older, Sean slept in the living room. Their one luxury, an indoor toilet, would have been unaffordable if Colonel Julius W. Adams hadn’t successfully made Brooklyn a test case to improve sewage systems.
Jeffrey Handley had worked in the same butcher shop for twenty-five years. The owner appreciated Jeffrey and was as generous as he could be with him. That meant that Jeffrey brought home enough money to very modestly house, feed, and clothe his family, along with an occasional bonus of a nice piece of meat. Every unexpected bill was a major headache, but Jeffrey felt blessed. After all, he had done well enough for his family to avoid “Young Dublin,” a section of Brooklyn where poor Irish immigrants lived in makeshift shanties. This positive attitude carried over to his family. He was supportive of both his children. Jeffrey found a light touch got better results when Elizabeth was being overly critical. In an imperfect world filled with imperfect relationships, Jeffrey and Elizabeth counterbalanced each other nicely and were, oddly, a good match.
Mary knew if her mother got wind of her being fired before Mary told her, she’d be harder on her. So before dinner, she informed Elizabeth and got the response she had expected: a look of disappointment. One fact remained resolute. No matter how well or poorly Mary felt about herself, her mother invariably made her feel worse.
The dining room was strangely quiet except for the sound of the ladle as Elizabeth doled out the stew she had made. Mary braced herself, knowing her mother was bound to start in on her. As the stew was passed out, Mary looked at her bowl and found it sparse.
“Could I please have more potatoes, Mother?”
“Mary dear, maybe you should be easin’ up on the potatoes.”
Elizabeth was obsessed with appearances. A woman needed to be slender and a man needed to stand up straight in order to make the proper impressions. Since they were young, she had hammered into her children that they were lacking in these areas, even if they weren’t. These subjects had become sore points with both children, but they also were Elizabeth’s answer to all problems. In Mary’s case, “slender” meant attractive enough to get a good husband. As absurd as it might have seemed that anyone could think Mary overweight, Elizabeth reasoned that she was not married because men found her physically lacking. It was a deep-seated belief to which Elizabeth clung as a way of explaining what she couldn’t fathom: a daughter who aspired to the incomprehensible.
Jeffrey immediately jumped in, assuming his role as peacekeeper.
“The girl’s skin and bones, Elizabeth.”
“It’s wise to err on the side of caution,” she responded.
“A few more potatoes might be wise for all of us.” He nodded to Elizabeth, meaning her. “I hear they take the edge off.”
Mary and Sean looked at each other, amused, but a sharp look from Elizabeth put an abrupt end to their enjoyment. Jeffrey did accomplish his goal though. Elizabeth ladled out more potatoes to Mary. He winked at Mary, and she smiled.
“Sean, how’s work, dear?” Elizabeth asked.
“I prevented a stabbing today in front of Chief Campbell. He was impressed.”
Perturbed that he had conveniently left out her role in what had happened, Mary glared at Sean. A positive mention might have helped her get off th
e chopping block. But Sean ignored her.
“Excellent, son. I’m proud of you,” exclaimed Elizabeth, then tilted her head toward Mary. “At least one of my children is tryin’ to make a future for himself.”
“I don’t have a lot of options,” Mary chimed in. “You’re well aware of that.”
“Options, is it? Sarah McNish married a professional man. She has two children and one on the way. Have you no interest in betterin’ yourself?”
“Not as someone’s possession. I’ll advance on my own terms.”
“As an unemployed sweatshop worker? Time to start renegotiatin’ those terms.” Elizabeth was the one person who had no problem trading barbs with Mary. Mary rose.
“Your mother’s just upset,” Jeffrey interjected. “Sit down, finish your dinner.”
“Sorry, Father,” Mary said, then faced Elizabeth, echoing her words. “But I’ve been taught it’s wise to err on the side of caution.”
She then left. Jeffrey knew he couldn’t stop her. Disappointed, he turned toward Elizabeth, who shrugged as if she’d had nothing to do with it.
Enjoying this interplay, Sean chuckled. Both parents immediately stared daggers at him. His smile instantly disappeared as he buried himself in his stew.
It had been ten hours since the meeting at Pearl Street Station with Morgan and the encounter with Tesla, but Edison paid little attention to time. He had actually been up thirty-six hours straight. This was nothing unusual. He was a driven man who lamented that there were only twenty-four hours in a day. As he and Batchelor examined a blueprint on the desk in his office, he sipped Vin Mariani. Vin Mariani was the most popular wine in the United States, due mostly to an important ingredient: cocaine. Cocaine was considered a wonder drug, hailed by such luminaries as Queen Victoria, Pope Leo XIII, Robert Louis Stevenson…and Thomas Edison.
Edison wholeheartedly endorsed the drug, proclaiming it helped him endure long nights of work, clearing the cobwebs when his mind was fuzzy. He was often quoted as saying, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” It might be said that a significant percentage of that perspiration was aided by cocaine.
“You look dreadful, Tom,” Batchelor commented. “When did you last sleep?”
“Sleep? I can’t shut my mind down,” Edison replied, referring to the multiple projects they had going at all times. “We’re climbing mountains, Batch, mountains.”
As Edison poured himself some more wine, there was a knock at the door. They both turned as Goodrich tentatively entered.
“Sorry to bother you, but it’s seven o’clock, sir…my last day.”
“Oh, right, right.” Edison had been so wrapped up in his work he had genuinely forgotten. Although Goodrich had been with him for years, he was a mere bookkeeper and could easily be replaced.
“I’ve enjoyed working with you,” Goodrich said as he stepped forward to shake their hands. Edison and Batchelor obliged. It couldn’t be over soon enough for them.
“Take care of those warehouses, Goodrich,” Edison said.
“They’re boardinghouses, sir.”
“Yes, well, good luck.”
Both men thought they were done, but on his way out, Goodrich paused.
“Sir, earlier, with Mr. Tesla—”
“Yes, awful business. Sorry about that.”
“Like Mr. Tesla said, I was there. You did promise him the money.”
He had their attention now. Edison stared at Goodrich, sizing him up.
“Hmm, looks like you took our little chat about taking a stand quite seriously.”
“I always take you seriously, sir, and I know you’ll do the proper thing.” Goodrich smiled and took his leave. Edison stared after him.
Batchelor could read his thoughts. “It’s Goodrich, Tom. He has no backbone.”
“But apparently he’s acquired a conscience. Make sure it doesn’t become troublesome.”
Though Edison and Batchelor were close, Edison was Batchelor’s boss and he did whatever Edison said, no matter how distasteful it might be to him.
Mary had been walking for some time. She was so mad she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. Her mother was the only person who could trigger that behavior, and she did it well. She looked around and noticed she was probably a mile or two from her parents’ house, somewhere near the docks in a run-down area occupied by mostly abandoned, dilapidated buildings. The streets were empty and ominous looking.
The one open establishment was a bar with a tilted sign that read MCGINTY’S TAVERN. Bright lights and loud voices wafted out into the night air as a piano blasted a lively tune. Respectable women didn’t populate places like McGinty’s, but Mary didn’t care. She was angry, her feet hurt, and she wanted a drink.
McGinty’s Tavern was a tough waterfront hangout that reeked of cigar smoke and booze. The men were mostly rough-and-tumble types who worked with their hands or not at all. The few women there were prostitutes trying to earn their evening’s pay. Mary entered and marched up to the bartender.
“An ale, please,” she announced too loudly, her desire to make clear her right to be there getting the better of her. It didn’t matter. A woman like Mary entering an establishment like McGinty’s was a rare enough event that most had already taken notice.
An exception to the crowd was a man halfway down the bar. He was a charming thirty-four-year-old Southerner, nursing his bourbon, who appeared to be a cross between a gentleman farmer and a riverboat gambler. He was neither. Charles Pemberton was his name, and he had a lost air about him. In better, more confident times, his smile was contagious. Catching Mary’s eye, Charles summoned his most positive look, lifted his glass to her, and nodded. Mary frowned, then took a gulp of her ale. She turned and found herself facing a powerful-looking man who towered over her.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty one, girlie. You can call me Burt.”
“Though I’m sure I’ll be utterly smitten by your charm and pithy repartee, Burt,” Mary replied, “I’m just here for a drink.”
She started to go around him, but the man’s massive frame blocked her. Burt clearly thought that any woman in McGinty’s was fair game. He had just happened to pick the one who was not, and he was too drunk to notice it.
“You won’t sleep tonight, knowin’ you got me riled up and then deserted me.”
“Not when I know tight undergarments or a stiff breeze can perform the same task,” Mary retorted, thinking it would dispatch him. It was a miscalculation.
Burt’s disposition was much more fragile than his body. As Mary walked away, he raised his hand to smack her down, only to find it being grabbed by Charles.
“Didn’t your mother teach you never to hit girls?” Charles asked.
His plan to be the hero then took a drastic turn for the worse. Burt came across his body with his other fist and landed a crushing blow to his chin, which propelled Charles into one customer, then another, and finally to the floor. Burt turned back to Mary, but Charles was determined. Still groggy, he stumbled to his feet, grabbed a stool, and smashed it over Burt’s head. Burt dropped to the floor with a loud thud.
“Are you all right?” Mary said as she approached Charles.
“I’ve been hit harder,” Charles said, feeling his chin, still somewhat dazed. “I think.”
“Pity it was unnecessary. I’m well versed in several arts of self-defense, including jujitsu, and thus more than capable of defending myself.”
“Then I’m more than honored to make your acquaintance. Charles Pemberton.” He nodded, introducing himself.
“Poor boy. Nowadays it seems like every Tom, Dick, and Harry is called Charles.”
“My cousins are Tom, Dick, and Harry, so I’m afraid my parents had no choice.”
Mary laughed. She found Charles handsome, bright, witty, but also suddenly in danger. She hastily shoved him aside. Fortuitously, the speed of her kick to a charging Burt’s crotch landed at the point where the combination of the two forces was the mo
st devastating. Burt froze, stunned at his pain, then crumpled to his knees. Mary clasped her hands and whacked him in the face, sending Burt down and out. The bar erupted in raucous cheers. To celebrate, Mary downed her ale in one gulp.
“I must take up jujitsu,” Charles said, impressed by Mary’s achievement.
“That’s not jujitsu. That’s good ol’-fashioned Brooklyn street fighting. The name’s Mary Handley. Welcome to Brooklyn, Charles.”
They shook hands. There couldn’t have been a more perfect exit, so Mary left. He watched her go, thinking she was much more than the one-night stand he had envisioned.
In a much quieter tavern in another part of Brooklyn, Charles Goodrich entered, anxiously looking around. Goodrich soon spotted whom he was searching for and hurried toward a secluded booth where Nikola Tesla was patiently sitting by himself.
“I hope you had no trouble finding this place, Mr. Tesla,” Goodrich said. “Sorry you had to come to Brooklyn, but it’s best to be discreet.”
“No problem at all,” said Tesla. “Please sit.” And Goodrich joined him.
Outside the tavern, spying on them through the window, was a large and powerful man by the name of Samuel. Samuel had orders to follow Goodrich to make sure he did nothing untoward. His employer had given him the discretion to act if need be, and this meeting seemed odd to him. He would wait. He might need to take action.
In a cheap boardinghouse room with two small beds and a rickety desk, John Pemberton was seated, judiciously poring over some papers, when Charles Pemberton entered. A bearded man in his fifties, Pemberton rose to greet his son.
“Ah, the prodigal son back from a night of carousing.” He noticed the bruise on Charles’s face. “What’s this?”
“A mark of gallantry. I interceded on behalf of a damsel in distress.”
“A damsel who didn’t succumb to your charms, or you wouldn’t be home.”
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