by LE Barbant
She adjusted her oversized glasses. “Sean, are you okay?”
He dabbed his nose with his finger, pulled it away and saw red. The bridge of his nose pulsed with his heartbeat. “Oh, um, yeah. I’m, ah, I’m fine. I just slipped on the stairs trying to, ya know, get here on time.” He tried to fake a smile.
The professor placed her hand on his shoulder.
“After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs.”
Her words were a balm.
Sean sensed her power as his loneliness and anxiety dissipated into the calm embrace of her poetry. He hadn’t recognized the tension in his shoulders, but it was released as she finished the stanza.
She smiled. “Grab your seat, Sean.”
Three rows back against the wall had become his territory. The front row would have been more suitable, but from there he could be less conspicuous. The lecture hadn’t even begun and phones were out. Eyes were glued on timelines, tweets, and whatever else was Internet du jour.
Dr. Weil was inspirational. While Sean was enraptured the others were enraged. “American Women Poets” was supposed to be an easy gen ed class. That’s why most of them were there. Listed only as “staff,” the course would likely be taught by a grad student or adjunct hungry for good evaluations and little grading. But Weil orchestrated it more like a graduate seminar. Sleepwalking through the semester wasn’t an option, though there were those who tried. While Sean wasn’t an expert in the subject manner, he worked harder than normal to impress his professor. She was, after all, why he took the course. The other students rolled their eyes—if they were open—as she delivered verses.
For Sean, every word was ecstasy.
“Soren Kierkegaard, the famous Dane, said, ‘Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.’ I disagree, as do most of the women poets of our time. It’s not freedom, but captivity. So many of our female poets, fighting the claustrophobic trappings of their time, dealt with the epidemic of strain. For some—like Dickinson—this anxiety was their calling card.”
A small Moleskine notebook quivered in her hand. Her voice trembled, as was customary for the first few beats. A tattered paperback collection of Dickinson sat on the edge of the wooden desk, though she seldom needed it. Without hesitation, Weil closed her eyes and began her recitation:
“The bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially.
The brooks laugh louder when I come,
The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?
Wherefore, O summer’s day?”
She paused, letting the poet’s words change the very fabric of the room. The cold winter faded as the professor brought forth Dickinson’s “summer day.”
The eyes of the classroom, which had all been trained on their devices, turned toward the classroom’s captain. The distracted mess of students became a focused entity. The change was palpable.
“Emily gives us this gift wrapped in metaphor and nature, as she often does.” Weil continued with hands as steady as a master archer’s, her voice now confident. A smile danced across her face. “What do you feel?”
Half the hands shot up.
“Yes, Kathy.” Weil’s eyes glimmered.
“She, or he, I guess, is finding solace in the woods. He feels like the bee. You know, small but powerful. I feel like this sometimes when I’m walking in nature. All of life’s problems fade. I see the tiny things and I gather their strength.”
Professor Weil seldom critiqued students’ perspectives, even when warranted. She welcomed the response. “Thank you, Kathy. Others? What is it about the bee?”
Anthony, a Panther basketball star, who took up more space in the chair than it allowed, missed half the classes for games. He too raised his hand. The professor nodded at him.
“The bee is small. Which I don’t know anything about that. But it has its sting.” The girls encircling Anthony giggled. “But I get it. Nobody ever looks at me and thinks I might feel, you know, small. But I do. I feel like that bee all the time. Even if I don’t look it.”
She’s on today, Sean thought. He never talks.
“That’s right. You got it. And as we think of the bee—and the butterfly—whose beauty bends, we should draw strength. Dickinson uses these tropes of nature and its power, which are sometimes paradoxical, to inspire her readers. We know now that Dickinson was ravaged by anxiety. She had a hard time coping with the world and found her own solace,” she smiled at Kathy, “through her pen and paper. Many would say that writing, for her, was magic. It was transformational and she believed that the words could transform the reader as well.”
In Weil’s classes, fifty minutes passed in a flash. Before Sean knew it, the class was over. Students shuffled to push notebooks into their bags. The trance was broken, and the zombies pulled their phones from their pockets; lost to the glow, they walked out the door.
Sean lingered.
It would be five long days until he got to be with her again. Professor Weil would often remain after the changing of the guard. These were their times. Sean would ask questions just to hear her talk. He sat, waiting for the other students to leave.
But Weil pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen. Worry crossed her face. She shouldered her bag and tucked Emily under her arm. Sean’s muse peeked over her shoulder, shot him a nod and an apologetic smile, and then briskly exited, leaving him alone.
CHAPTER TWO
There are 446 bridges in Pittsburgh, beating out Venice for the record by three.
Elijah was pretty certain he had crossed every damn one of them.
Unfamiliar with the city, he was stuck using the GPS app on his phone. It made for a pretty unreliable guide as the reception kept dropping. His navigator directed him (for the second time) across the Smithfield Street Bridge. The Monongahela was placid, waiting for winter to make its attempts at icing her over. Elijah turned left on Fort Pitt Boulevard, a corridor surrounded by a line of downtown buildings on one side and the river on the other. Traffic was light for an urban center in midday—but maybe only in comparison to the gridlock of Boston. He had only been gone for forty-eight hours.
The car was packed with enough luggage for a month—though he’d be staying for six. The initial stretch down I-95 was refreshing. A recent ex-girlfriend, a failed job search, and his mildly sociopathic roommate were all in his rearview mirror—further away than they appeared.
Pittsburgh was a new start. It was opportunity.
Elijah turned right on Stanwix. Another right brought him into the heart of Market Square—a quaint little urban plaza in the shadow of the PPG Tower. PPG’s distinct spired tower stood out when he first entered the city, but up close Elijah was struck by its glass exterior, reflecting the image of the metropolis that sprawled out beneath. Meandering around the base of the building, he spotted the parking garage and pushed the nose of his ’99 Outback toward the gate.
I hope they pick up the tab, he thought, pulling a ticket from the machine.
Elijah found a spot between two large SUVs. The historian took the elevator to the 38th floor. His tweed jacket with worn leather elbow patches and beat-up khakis—the international adjunct professor uniform—was completely out of place.
****
Alarawn Industries filled the entire floor. Rather than opening into a foyer, the elevator deposited Elijah directly into the bustling corporate offices. A young receptionist, with hair pulled back tight enough to cause a headache, and a blouse low enough to incite the imagination, smiled as he approached. “You must be Mr. Branton.”
Elijah coughed. “Doctor. It’s, uh, Dr. Branton.” He immediately felt like a douche bag.
The girl’s face turned a shade of pink. “Oh, yes. I apologize, Dr. Branton. Ms. Alarawn is waiting for you. I’m Laurie, her executive assistant. Can I get you a drink or something before you go in?”
Elijah pushed his hand through his hair and gave her the broadest grin possible. Trying to negate his douchiness, he said, “Oh, no worries. I’m good. But thank you, Laurie. That’s very kind.”
He overdid it.
The receptionist stood; she was nearly his height. “Come with me.” She smiled again, this time a little forced.
They wove through a section of cubicles. Elijah inconspicuously took in the view from behind.
“Zumba?” he asked, trying to break the ice he had created.
“Excuse me?”
“You look like you work out. Is it Zumba or something?”
“Cross Fit,” she replied. “You?”
“Typing, mostly. Some reading mixed in for muscle confusion.” She warmed—just a little.
The worker-bee din of the cubicles faded as they moved down the hallway past the executive offices. From open doors he could hear businessmen making their business deals—a foreign language to his academic ears. This wing seemed exclusively reserved for overeducated, upper-class, white males.
Except for Brooke Alarawn.
The hall terminated at two enormous mahogany doors accessorized with oversized brass handles. The receptionist grabbed the levers and pushed the doors open. The effect, no doubt intended, worked.
The chief executive’s office was the size of a regulation basketball court. Elijah took it in, appreciating the clean design. Photographs chronicling the steel industry’s rise tastefully filled the walls. And there was metal everywhere, making the open space gleam from the natural light that poured in from nearly every angle.
Brooke Alarawn sat behind a mahogany desk. Its stain matched the doors, and it seemed larger than Elijah’s apartment. She stood as he entered. Younger-looking than he expected, and objectively beautiful, she placed both hands behind her back and flashed the most perfect smile money could buy.
“Dr. Branton, welcome.” The enthusiasm in her voice was unmistakable. She was either extremely excited about his arrival or he had just met the best damn liar in town.
Trying to exude a confidence that wasn’t there, he reached out and shook her hand. “Please, call me Elijah.”
Brooke Alarawn stood naturally at five foot something, but achieved just at six feet tall in her black heels. Long muscular legs terminated in a charcoal dress suit—made for her by some designer Elijah would have never heard of. A fitted blazer with a single button flared just enough to entice his imagination.
Her face was angular, emphasized with a modicum of blush on the cheeks and a smoky eye fit for the runway. But her lips took center stage. They were full and blood red—the perfect contrast to the flawless teeth they veiled.
Part CEO, part socialite, Brooke Alarawn was a complicated woman. A month before she was to graduate top of her class from Yale with a degree in International Economics, Brooke’s parents crashed their private plane deep in the Sierra Nevadas. The authorities ruled out foul play and blamed the tragedy on her father, Thomas Alarawn IV’s, piloting abilities. A private investigation concluded the same.
As an only child, she left the ivied world of academia and returned to the Steel City to captain the family ship.
Elijah had done his homework—which wasn’t difficult, as she often adorned the covers of gossip mags and entertainment TV. A major cable network had even offered to create a reality show around her life—which was, naturally, too garish for her taste. There was a recent scandal involving her breakup with a local sports figure Elijah had never heard of. But mostly, Alarawn attempted to keep a low profile. It also was no secret that during the early months of 2009 the company nearly claimed bankruptcy. Brooke Alarawn was on a mission to bring it back. At thirty-two this made her one of the youngest major CEOs in the nation.
“Grab a seat, Elijah,” she said, directing him towards the most comfortable chair his ass had ever had the pleasure of meeting. “Can I get you anything? Water? Bourbon?”
Bourbon at a meeting at 10 a.m.? What’s this, Mad Men?
He half-expected her to offer him a cigarette. “No, thanks, I’m good.”
Elijah’s hand trembled slightly as he reached into his hand-me-down attaché. Made out of cracking, synthetic leather, it was likely older than even his thrift-store jacket. The fact that he was meeting with one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the country struck him for the first time. His first-day-on-the-job nervousness turned into fear in the face of power. His research hadn’t prepared him for it. Pulling out three loose sheets of paper from the satchel, Elijah placed them on the table.
Brooke’s eyes surveyed the paper.
“My CV, if you need it.” His voice cracked.
“Pardon me?”
“Sorry. Curriculum Vita. It’s what we call a resume.”
“I know what a CV is, Dr. Branton, but I certainly don’t need it. We did a thorough background check. I know more about you than you know about yourself.”
Realizing his naiveté, his temperature rose. “Naturally.”
Strike one.
Brooke handed a padfolio across the table. “Before I say anything else, you will need to sign a non-disclosure statement. The typical things, really. No talking with the media—or anyone—about your research. You’ll have access to sensitive documents about the company—and our family. Let’s just say the Alarawn skeletons must remain in the closet. Further, you will be allowed to publish an academic paper for a journal of our choosing, but only after my team goes over it with a fine-toothed comb.”
So, much for academic freedom, he thought.
Despite any reservations, Elijah breezed through the document. If it required the donation of a testicle, he would likely still sign. Desperate times, after all. If Alarawn Industries had done their research, they would know this as well. He pulled his Lamy 2000 fountain pen from its home in his attaché. It was his prize possession—a gift from his PhD advisor, and possibly the most expensive thing he owned. Even after years of use, he still took notice of its smooth action as he wrote his signature on the bottom line.
“Good then, let’s get started, shall we?” Brooke asked. “Your task over the next six months is to write a thorough history of Alarawn Industries. You’ll submit weekly reports directly to me.” She leaned back in her executive chair and seemed to admire her own office. “My great-great grandfather worked for Carnegie. The family emigrated in 1860. Instead of going to school, Thomas became a ‘coal boy’ at the age of thirteen. I’m sure you’ll dig some things up on his life. Thomas was smart and a hard worker. He did everything right. After years of climbing the ladder into management, he finally got a break that landed him in corporate—a very lucrative position. Typical American dream.”
Yeah, very typical, Elijah thought.
“His son watched him closely. A good Catholic boy himself, Thomas Jr. attended Duquesne University and learned everything he could. He swore to never work under a man like Carnegie. He would build his own empire. This grit and determination allowed him to build Alarawn Industries.”
Brooke Alarawn rose, pushing the executive chair back. She walked over to the glass on the west side of the office. “Join me, Elijah.”
From their vantage point, the surrounding downtown buildings were child’s toys. The view of The Point—a park sitting at the confluence of the three rivers—lay before them like a model meticulously built by a master craftsman.
“Thomas Jr., my great-grandfather, was a significant link in the industrial chain that made this city truly great.”
Elijah recalled the city as described in several texts he brought with him. Buildings covered in soot, air filled with smog, water unsafe to drink. He resisted interrupting his new benefactor’s reverie with these sordid details. Nor did he mention the significant human rights violations associated with steel.
“I love this city, Elijah. It’s a part of me, and in many ways, I am a part of it. Most people think our future is in medicine or tech, but there is a place here for Alarawn Industries. Steel will always be
a part of Pittsburgh.” The historian’s eyes wandered to Heinz Field and through the historic North Side. She placed her hand on his back, which made him distinctly aware of his old tweed jacket. “You’re going to be the first stage of our reemergence. We’re calling it Project Phoenix—I know, a little tacky, but you get the picture.”
“Rise from the ashes. Probably the most appropriate use of an overused metaphor.”
Brooke paced back to her desk. “You’ll have the full power of the company at your disposal.” She reached into the top drawer and threw a set of keys on the desk. They slid across the polished surface like a puck on the ice at Console Arena. “Access to our archives and an office here—if you choose to use it.”
“Better than any teaching job I’ve had.”
“I aim to please.” Brooke’s dark eyes locked on his. In his imagination, one of the most powerful young women in the world had just come on to him—if only a little.
“Oh, we also have a loft for you in the Cultural District. It’s modest—two bedrooms, two baths. I expect it will be fine for you.” Her eyes surveyed Elijah Barton, making him feel more uncomfortable than ever. “Where do you want to start?”
Thought I’d move in and grab a quick shower.
“Well, I like to be in the contexts I study. I read that the original mill is still standing?”
“Barely. But it’s there.”
Elijah, a sucker for post-industrial ruins, smiled. “Good. I’ll eventually need to head out there and take a look around.”
Brooke pressed a button on her phone. The doors swung open almost before she could remove her finger.
A man twice the breadth of Elijah walked in.
“This is Rex. He’s my personal assistant. Whenever you’re ready, he’ll accompany you to the site in Homestead. It’s not exactly the safest neighborhood.”