Adam breathed easily in the bed across from me, sleeping the sleep of the untroubled. I was awake so long I heard Pete get up before dawn to head into work. For one heart-stopping moment, it sounded like he was going to open the door to our room and check on us. As I heard him walk down the hall and pause before our door, I got ready to spring out of bed and stall him. But his shadow passed and eventually I heard him downstairs, turning on the spigot and making himself some coffee. I realized, exhaling, that he wouldn’t ask for my pay and he wouldn’t find Adam. We were lucky.
Once I was sure he was out of the house, I arose and washed up. I had a lot to do today. I needed to stop by the Academy to see if Lester had any work for me, I had to cash that check and get the money back to Adam, and I had to contact Vincent Briggs.
The first job was simple enough. I headed to the Academy without even grabbing a bite to eat. The day was cooler and grayer than the day before, and I turned up the collar of my jacket against the chill, thrusting my hands into my pockets.
When I got to the Academy, Lester was touching up the paint job we’d finished yesterday. He said he didn’t have anything more for me, a relief since I had other things I had to do.
“You could check around for those announcements, though,” he said as he stood on a ladder by the window.
“What announcements?”
He turned and smiled. “The lying woman who calls herself an ex-nun.”
I’d forgotten about “Sister Lucretia” and the School Question. One trouble had replaced another so quickly I couldn’t keep them all straight. I’d not even looked at telephone poles during my walk to work.
Lester pointed to a pile of papers on the sill. “I found a bunch on my way in.”
“Aw, geez, Lester, nobody believes that stuff.” I was too busy to care about outrageous garbage like that.
“It would be a great help if you could look around for them,” he said. “A bunch of us are taking different sections of the city.”
“I. . . I can’t today. Have to do some things,” I mumbled.
I nodded and headed for the hallway, nearly running into a real sister. She looked startled but quickly stepped out of the way, signaling to a line of uniformed girls to follow her. The girls were of various ages but had one thing in common—all were as thin as rails, and scared-looking. I knew at least some were orphans. You’d have to have a heart of steel not to feel sorry for them—I had my own motherless sorrow to prick those feelings to life. Out of respect, I pulled off my cap, and I watched them pass, the short black-robed nun at the lead coaxing them with kind words. Her voice was accented, and I remembered Lester telling me once that these nuns—the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary—were originally from Montreal. Many of them spoke French. A few were recruited right here in Portland.
After the line passed me, I slid out the back door and headed toward my neighborhood. I spotted a few of the nasty posters and removed them, cramming two or three into my pocket. I felt bad for turning Lester down when he asked for help, so I’d try to remember to keep an eye out for the posters in the days ahead.
My next stop was the Jasluzek store, where I’d cash my check from Gus. I rushed there as soon as he opened and asked him if he’d do me a favor and save me a trip to the bank.
“Sure, son,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously as he opened his cash drawer. “Just sign it over first.” While he counted out the amount, he glanced up at me over the top of the embossed register. Would he ask why I needed the money so fast? I didn’t wait to find out. As soon as he handed me the bills and change, I thanked him and ran off.
Luckily for me, Miller must have had the day off—I didn’t see him at all. Cash in hand, I raced back home, handing over the cash to Adam, at last feeling that I’d actually solved a problem. He sat at the kitchen table eating some of those hardboiled eggs he’d cooked the day before. He looked dirty and sick, and I thought about talking to him about avoiding speakeasies, about how everything would be all right as soon as I got Vincent Briggs on the case.
If I was to step into the role of leader, I had to learn how to say those things—how to prop people up when they were feeling low.
I even thought of saying what Pete had said to me—that being Catholic and Polish didn’t make you bad and it was unfair of folks to think so. But as the words formed in my head, they sounded childish, unconnected to the reality at hand, and I became afraid he’d laugh at me if I tried to give him advice. Why should Adam listen to me when I didn’t know half of what the world had to offer or deny you? After all, I’d always leaned on him for advice, for cheer, for a map of life itself. Instead of a speech, now I just wanted to say I was sorry.
But I said nothing.
I heated up some coffee for us both, and eventually talked to Adam a little bit about where he might be able to stay—if the sawmill wasn’t a good place, I could scout out some abandoned homes. It was a one-sided conversation. He didn’t say much, and when he was finished eating and drinking, he washed up his dishes and headed upstairs without a word. In a few minutes, he returned, standing in the doorway to the kitchen while I, still at the table, stared into the distance.
Light streamed through the front windows of the bungalow, silhouetting his figure before me. He’d combed his hair and changed his clothes, and he carried his belongings in a tidy bundle by his side.
I remembered him looking exactly like that in the Chicago train station when we’d made our way west. I’d been sitting on a bench then, while he’d gone off to find out what train we needed to get on next. I’d waited a long time—so long I’d been afraid he’d lost me. My face had begun to burn with unshed tears as panic crawled up my throat. And then, out of the throng of dark-suited men and black-dressed women, he appeared, standing before me as he stood now, confident and serious.
“I’m heading to the station,” he now said quietly.
“What?”
“I have to get out of here, Carl. You know that.”
Get out of here? I hadn’t thought he’d actually leave town without me. I’d thought he’d hide away somewhere in Portland, in a different neighborhood, until we cleared his name and could leave together.
“But we were both going to go home,” I said. “I just need more money. I need—”
He shook his head. A smile played on his face. “You need a better brother is what you need.”
“Adam, you’ll get better—”
He cut me off with a sharp laugh. “See what I mean? You agree.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant things’ll get better. You’ll see.”
“I can’t wait, Carl.” He looked down. “You’ll do all right without me. You’re doing fine now.”
A thousand thoughts tightened around my throat and chest. They squeezed the happiness out of me, leaving only a vacuum. It didn’t matter what he said. I still counted on him. How could I make it home alone? Anger tripped over sadness and I was afraid, for a fleeting second, that I might cry, just one more sign I wasn’t ready to be on my own. Too often I felt and acted like a kid.
I studied his face, feeling like I had to memorize it. When would I ever see him again? My heart racing, I stood and came around to him.
“How will I get in touch with you?” I asked.
“I’ll send you a letter or something,” he said, walking toward the front door.
“Real soon,” I insisted, walking after him. “Or call the Jasluzek store. He’ll get a message to me.”
“When I can, I will.”
“You can tell me where you’ve gone. I can join you.” If I kept talking, maybe he would stay.
At the front door, he stopped and shrugged a little, which meant he didn’t want to let me down, but he couldn’t say what I wanted to hear. I held out my hand like a gentleman might do. A smile pushed up the corners of his mouth as he gripped my hand tight and shook it.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice unnaturally bright. Touching his cap, he turned and left.
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br /> I watched him run down the street, glancing behind him when he thought he’d heard someone. His head turned and his eyes caught my gaze. A broad smile lit his face and he waved, as if he were heading off to work or school. My throat burned and I bit my lip. “He’s not going away forever,” I whispered to myself. I’d fix it so he could return. I’d fix it so we could both go home together—just as we’d planned. I’d clear his name, then he’d come back, and we could start our journey together. Baltimore was where we’d both been happy. It’s where we’d played in alleys together. Where we’d gone to school and shared stories before falling asleep. Where we’d had a mother who loved us. Maybe if I could get him back there, he’d be the same brother I used to know.
Action was what I needed. When his figure disappeared around a corner, I grabbed my own jacket and cap and hurried downtown. Retracing my steps from the day before, I managed to find the employee entrance to the big Telegram newspaper building. A man in a dark suit, sitting behind a desk by the elevators, asked me what “business” I had there today.
Before I could think enough to be fearful, I blurted out, “I’m here to see Mr. Vincent Briggs,” with all the authority I could muster.
“And your name is. . .?” he asked, peering at me over round glasses.
Here I hesitated, but eventually mumbled, “Carl Matuski.” As he picked up a telephone to call upstairs, the elevator opened and a half-dozen people jammed in. In such a situation, would Adam wait? No, he’d be lightfooted and swift. Taking my chance, I darted among the crowd. The door closed just as the man behind the desk stood up to call me back. With Adam on his way somewhere, there wasn’t a second to lose.
At the newsroom two floors up, I stepped into a different world from the day before. Now the place hummed with activity. Phones rang, men talked, typewriters clacked. It was so noisy I couldn’t hear myself think. Scanning the room, I spotted him at last, just where he’d been the day before. Vincent Briggs sat at his desk, bent forward, typing with both index fingers flying over the keyboard. No one paid attention to me as I made my way to his corner and desk.
I’d wait until he was finished typing and then introduce myself. That was the thing to do. At least, I hoped so. But when he paused, he didn’t look at me, or even give any indication he knew I was there. He muttered something to himself and bent even further toward the paper.
Should I speak? I shifted my weight from one leg to the next. I looked down and twisted my mouth to one side. I waited for him to ask what I wanted, but he said nothing.
Finally, I found my nerve. Clearing my throat, I said, “Mister Briggs, I’m Carl—”
“Shut up, kid. I’m on deadline!” He didn’t shift position when he talked but kept his gaze on his typewriter and the story he was writing.
I stood there for ten more minutes, silently wondering if he would ever look my way, worrying that the man downstairs would come up at any moment and snatch me out of Vincent Briggs’s “office.” I kept thinking of Adam headed to the train station. If Briggs would listen to me, if he could help, maybe there was still time to catch up to Adam and tell him there was no need to leave Portland.
After typing, muttering to himself, peering at what he’d written, and typing some more, Briggs pulled the paper from the machine’s roller, stacked it with one other already-typed sheet, and called for somebody to deliver it to “typesetting.” Then he twirled his chair to face me and stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “All right,” he growled, “what do you want?”
As he waited for me to speak, he unrolled his shirt sleeves, revealing stiff cuffs through which heavy gold links had been threaded. All the well-constructed explanations flew out of my head as I faced this “ace reporter”—this giant of the newspaper world. With him glowering at me, I was a stammering imbecile. I was sure whatever I had to say would sound stupid and hardly worth a moment’s notice.
Somehow, I found the words, though not the ones I’d originally planned on using, not the ones about what a “pillar of society” Adam was or how he was “the best brother a boy could have.” Instead, I managed to squeak out the barest details of the case. But as I told the story, I noticed Vincent Briggs leaning further forward until, by the end of my tale, he was practically doubled over, his eyes looking up at me, his hands between his knees.
“So this rich family is trying to frame your brother, eh?” he said at last, and I could have jumped up and hollered for joy. Here, at last, was someone who saw, as I did, that Adam wasn’t guilty. “Tell me everything you know.”
I gave him the information Adam had provided me, about the brothers and the family. And I threw in my own guesses about the maid and butler, even though I didn’t know if the Petersons employed such servants. Briggs soaked it all up, nodding a few times as I added details.
“Where you go to school, kid?” he asked.
“I. . . I don’t,” I answered, unsure why he’d ask such a question. Then I noticed one of the Sister Lucretia broadsides on the corner of his desk. Briggs had written a single word on it— “Klan?”
“But I work at the Academy—St. Mary’s,” I said.
“You like it there?”
“Seems like a good school.” Then, to make sure he understood I wasn’t still a student, I added, “It’s a girls’ school. Anyway, I’m done with all that. Needed to help the family.”
“What about your brother?”
“Uh. . . he works, too. Odd jobs.”
“Where’s your brother now?” he asked.
“I. . . I don’t know.” I wasn’t about to tell him Adam had skipped town.
“Well, if I’m going to do this story justice, I really need to talk to him.” He leaned back, placed the cigar on the edge of his desk, and scrunched up his mouth to one side. “No good without interviewing the suspect.” He started to shift his chair toward the desk again, which I took to be an act of dismissal.
“Wait!” I cried out. “I’ll get him to talk to you. If I do that, will you help?”
Briggs looked at me as if I’d uttered a profanity. “I don’t help anybody, boy, except the truth. If your brother’s innocent, then that’s the truth I’ll serve. Have him get in touch with me.” With that, he turned completely away, and began pawing through the piles of papers on the side of his typewriter as if I’d never interrupted him.
As I left the newspaper office and walked home, I murmured silent prayers of thanks—every prayer of gratitude the nuns at home had taught me and then some. Thank God! Thank all the saints in Heaven and Mary, too. Briggs would write the story!
All I had to do was find Adam so Briggs could talk to him.
Maybe he hadn’t left yet. Maybe he was still at the train station and I could catch him and get him to talk to Briggs before leaving. But as I headed up the broad avenue toward the station, I was stopped in my tracks by Officer Miller.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked. “Or is it one of your Holy Days? Which one is it today, kid—the Feast of Saint Caviar?”
At the mention of the phony saint from the Cedar School book, my breath caught. It was one thing to read those hateful words, but another thing entirely to hear them spoken. He’d probably said St. Casimir or St. Caspian, right? I looked at Officer Miller, trying to find the truth in his doughy face. Officer Miller didn’t like Adam, but it wasn’t because of that stupid book, was it? How many people had read it anyway? How many people would go to hear this Sister Lucretia talk? A day ago, I thought no one could possibly believe this crap. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“Uh. . . I’m just running an errand for my uncle,” I murmured, looking down.
“Well, if you should happen to see your brother on your way, give him a message for me,” Officer Miller said. “Tell him he’s not going to see any money from that jewelry, so he might as well turn himself in now and get it over with.”
I stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“We’re going to be telling every jeweler and pawn shop in town that the Peterson jewelry
is missing and what it looks like. As soon as your brother tries to sell it, we’ll track him down,” Officer Miller said.
“He won’t be selling it,” I retorted, “because he didn’t steal it.” I turned to leave, but as soon as I walked away, I realized my trip to the train station had to be postponed. With Officer Miller watching where I was going—I felt his gaze burn into my back—I couldn’t lead him to my brother.
Find another way, my inner voice shouted. I couldn’t continue toward the train station, but if I looked uncertain, Miller would know I was up to something. I kept walking, not sure where I was heading. Find another way. Another plan. Adam would keep walking like he knew where he was going. . .
I rambled through city streets, unsure where I wanted to head. I wanted to talk to Adam, to Vincent Briggs, or anyone who could help me. Most of all, I wanted to be away from Miller. Looking over my shoulder, I didn’t see him tagging after me. I cut down a side street and up and around into town. I walked until I was on Sixth, where I hid myself in a crowd.
Eventually, Union Station loomed before me. I hadn’t seen it since we’d arrived in Portland. Its striking tower and sprawling red brick buildings set off a torrent of unease. I wished I could get on a train, and if I found Adam, maybe that was the thing to do—just get on a train with him and start our plan a little early.
Taking a deep breath, I walked ahead, making my way into the busy station. How had Adam known which train to take? I looked around for someone to help me, but no one gave me a second glance. They all knew what to do and where to go. I didn’t. I felt like a sailor lost at sea, forced to navigate entirely on my own. For a moment, I felt the same sense of hopeless discomfort I’d felt when we’d ridden the trains to Portland in the first place.
I forced these feelings back. If Adam could find his way, so could I. Matching my pace with that of the people around me, I headed toward a large ticket counter. When my turn came, I asked the clerk in a strong voice, “When’s the next train leave?”
The Case Against My Brother Page 5