by Marc Simon
“Alex!”
She dropped to her knees, digging through the flotsam, swiping under the bed with outstretched arms.
The grandfather clock in the hallway, a wedding gift from her mother, read 8:13. Irene rushed into Arthur and Benjamin’s bedroom, screaming for her older sons, but there was no sound, save her desperate breathing against the backdrop of firecrackers. She staggered back into the bedroom, pounded on Abe’s back. “Abe, for the love of God get up, the baby, the baby,” her fists puny against his broad buffalo flesh.
“What? By God let a man sleep in for one stinking holiday morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“Abe! Get up, Abe, the boys. The boys, they’re all gone. All of them.”
“What, what are you saying, what, where?”
“The boys, listen to me. Alex and Arthur and Benjamin, they’re not in their beds. They’ve been taken, oh my God, get up, please help me.”
Abe the Hung Over Avenger rushed down the steps in his nightshirt and bare feet, trouser cuffs flapping against the threadbare runners, yelling for his sons through the beer and cigar aftermath in his mouth, rage and fear frothing his saliva.
He flung the door wide open. Up and down Mellon Street front porches were festooned with American flags and red, white and blue bunting. Hanging from a second-floor window on the house across the street was a hand-lettered banner that read Remember the Maine! Even at the early hour, people were up and about—boys throwing and catching baseballs, with visions of Honus Wagner, The Flying Dutchman, dancing in their heads; little girls with red, white and blue ribbons in their hair playing Red Rover Red Rover; wives sweeping their porches as their husbands slept in on their one day off from the mill or the sanitation department or the artificial limb factory, a booming local industry and a natural for Pittsburgh, thanks to the plethora of appendage-consuming accidents in the mills. Arms and legs for the world, that was the motto.
Abe burst into the street. He stepped directly onto a glass-specked cinder but barely felt it. Mrs. Angela Sanflippo, who’d lost her husband in an explosion at the J&L #4 Open Hearth some three years earlier and still dressed in widow’s black, sat on her stoop with her only child, 14-year-old Phillip. The boy had a mustache many a grown man would have been proud to wear, as did his mother, although she kept hers well-trimmed so as to be nothing more than a hint of a shadow on her upper lip. Mrs. Sanflippo waved at Abe and pointed to the left, toward Jackson Avenue.
Abe ran down Mellon Street, shirttails flying behind him. When he got to the corner of Jackson Avenue, two blocks away, he found Arthur and Benjamin, standing next to their wagon, shouting like carnival barkers. On the wood fence behind them hung a hand-painted sign: “See Tiny Alex, 1 .” Inside the wagon was their baby brother.
Their marketing effort had attracted quite a crowd, even at this early hour, with several children and a few adults lined up behind the wagon. At the front of the line were two boys in shorts and baseball caps, the Walsh brothers, classmates and sometimes mortal enemies of Benjamin and Arthur. Behind them stood their two younger Walsh sisters, born eleven months apart, known as the Irish twins. Next in line was the mildly mentally impaired August Daly, age 36, from nearby Portland Street, holding the hand of his mother Gertrude. August, nearly six and a half feet tall, gawked over the children in from of him, eager to see the show, and he might have pushed ahead had Gertrude not tethered his hand tightly. Behind the Daly family was Giuseppe Traficante, ice and coal deliveryman and self-proclaimed mayor of Mellon Street, smoking his ever-present Perodi and wiping his brow with a dingy white handkerchief. He waved a politician’s hello to Abe.
Although Abe grudgingly admired his sons’ P.T. Barnum-ish display of all-American entrepreneurship, his rage had reached the boiling point. He snatched Benjamin and Arthur by their necks like two chickens. It took all of his willpower not to knock their heads together. He announced his intention to lock the boys in the coal cellar for the remainder of the holiday, maybe longer.
Irene, who’d managed to throw on a robe and catch up with the family, intervened on the boys’ behalf, arguing that the baby was none the worse for wear, and though they’d had given her the shock of her life and should have known better, they meant Alex no harm. In her heart she wanted to strangle both of them, and in due time they would pay for their misguided effort at free enterprise. But at least the baby was unharmed. She lifted Alex from the wagon and kissed his forehead.
The Walsh brood yelled for their money back. August Daly bounced up and down, yanking his mother so hard her hat fell off.
As the Millers turned up the walkway to their house, in a voice as high and crisp as the cracking of a bird’s egg, Alex said, “Momma. Dadda. Arthur. Benjamin. Alex. Home.”
“Alex?” What in God’s name was going on here, Abe thought, a child this young shouldn’t know how to talk, this wasn’t normal, but not a damn thing about this boy was normal. He pulled Irene against his chest and, as if to check his own sanity, he said, “You heard him, too, didn’t you?”
Irene gawked at the boy, too. “By God, I did.”
Alex didn’t speak again for nearly a year. Neither his brothers nor his parents could get him to talk, despite a variety of inducements—Alex want a cookie, Alex want a candy, show Momma what a smart boy you are, come on, sonny boy, I bet a quarter with that bastard Walsh from across the street that you could talk. Day after day, until they grew tired of asking, Alex gave them nothing but smiles and silence.
Chapter 2
On March 1, 1909, a year to the day after Alex Miller was born, Delia Novak’s mother died in her sleep from complications due to a variety of maladies, the final manifestation of which was congestive heart failure. One month later, a mildly bereaved, mostly relieved Delia sold her mother’s house for $1,850, cash, to Reverend Jeremiah Johnston, the new pastor at The Church of the Holy Shepherd in Youngstown, Ohio. Since there was no will and she was the only living member of the immediate family, all of the house money went to her, as did the $255.45 in her mother’s passbook account at Youngstown Dollar Bank. For the first time in her life, Delia was flush.
With nothing to keep her in Youngstown—not her 71-year-old Aunt Tilda; not her sometimes friend Dolores Wozniak, who at 24 was married with three sons and a boozehound for a husband; and certainly not the hawk-nosed, sooty-fingered coal and ice man, Richard Stutz, who had on several occasions tried to convince her to go for a Sunday drive in his delivery wagon—Delia took a series of trains from Youngstown to the most exciting destination she could imagine: New York City. She was determined to live high for once in her life.
Feeling free as an orphan—her father had abandoned the family when she was six, so technically she was an orphan——Delia rode in first-class births all the way to Manhattan. She booked a room at the Waldorf Hotel, which she’d read about on the train and which offered electricity throughout and, to her amazement and delight, a private bathroom. She ordered room service breakfast the first morning. Her waiter called her “My Lady Delia.” Flattery got him everywhere, and the newly titled Lady Delia tipped copiously.
Without any particular agenda in mind, other than to see how the other half lived, Delia started to explore the Old Town. On her third day, during a leisurely springtime stroll along Fifth Avenue, she saw a hat exactly like the one she’d admired in the Harper’s Bazaar she’d thumbed through in the hotel lobby. She absolutely had to have it. It featured two longish feathers plucked from a snowy egret, a Florida bird close to extinction. The hat cost more than her weekly salary at Gross Hardware, but, she reasoned, who cared?
In her first two weeks on the town, she took in several Broadway plays and heard Sophie Tucker sing “Some of These Days” at the American Music Hall. She marveled that she and Sophie were almost the same age, but there was Sophie and here she was, somewhat well off but now pretty much at a loss as to how to fill her hours. At night, as she lay in her feathered bed, she had to admit she was lonely. She missed her friends from Gross Hardware and
the risqué camaraderie of the rooming house girls. She also missed Abe Miller and his husky laugh and rough hands and the “big boy in his pants,” as she called it, and she was curious about what happened to that cute, tiny bump of a child he brought with him Saturday afternoons to The Squeaky Wheel. She couldn’t imagine the boy was still alive, but then, she never could have imagined herself here in New York.
The next evening, as she was pondering the menu in the Waldorf’s dining room and trying to figure out what kind of a duck confit was, a thin young man in a tuxedo and slick-backed blond hair asked if he might join her for dinner. Delia liked what she saw; he even smelled good.
He introduced himself. “Devon Jenkins, London and New York, at your service.”
“Delia Novak, uh, Youngstown and Pittsburgh, I’m sure.”
He kissed her hand. No one had ever kissed her there before. She thought it was a bit twitty—Abe never kissed her like that, he would grab her around the shoulders and press his big mush into hers until she was out of breath—but it was all right with her, sort of.
Devon used a lot of what she would call fifty-cent words, and although she didn’t understand half of them, she pretended she did and hoped he wasn’t catching on. He ordered a bottle of champagne. “Delia, how do you feel about oysters? I must confess I have a rather obsessive affinity for them. Shall I order a dozen?”
“Yes, you shall.”
By the time the second bottle of champagne was uncorked and dinner was served, Delia’s shoes were off under the table.
“So, dear Delia, what do you think of the Waldorf?”
She paused. “I got my own bathroom.”
Devon smiled an even-toothed smile. “Remarkable.” He shifted a bit closer, his knees touching hers. “So, dearest Delia, if I may ask, what fortuitous happenstance brings you to New York and into my life?”
She thought for a moment. “Oh, this and that.”
“I see.”
“It’s just that I’ve come into a bit of, you know, money.”
“You don’t say. However, I would be most careful not to allow your good fortune to become general knowledge.” His eyes surveyed the room. “There are some, how shall I say it, charlatans with less than honorable intentions in this city.”
“Really.”
When the bill came, Devon snatched it up before Delia could see it, which disappointed her, since she was dying to know how expensive dinner was, just so she could tell someone sometime, like the gals at Gross Hardware, not that she was planning on seeing them any time soon, but still.
As he bid her good night at the elevators, he pressed a card into her hand, and then kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Until tomorrow?”
“Until tomorrow.”
It was her first business card. Under the reading light on her night table, she read, Devon Jenkins. Rare gems, rare opportunities. New York. London. Her head spun. Rare opportunities. She was up for anything. Especially with a man that smelled that good.
The next night they met again, for lobster and more champagne. Devon toasted Delia’s beauty with a glass of 20-year-old port. “I cannot believe a woman as radiant as you has yet to be wed.”
“Oh, you know,” she said, the port swimming in her head. “I’m still kind of playing field.”
“Of course you are.” He took her hand. “You know, dearest, I’m certain a woman with your means wouldn’t have the slightest interest in matters of commerce, but, forgive me, I would feel a bit derelict if I neglected to tell you about a rare opportunity.”
“Like it says on your card.”
He looked confused for a second. “Oh, yes, of course.” He paused again. “But no. Forget what I just said. Whatever was I thinking, bringing up something like this to a woman like you? I’m sure you wouldn’t have the slightest interest.”
“No, go ahead, Devon.” She hiccupped. “Dearest.”
“Well, if you insist.” He glanced around the room. “Not here.” He snapped his fingers. “Waiter.”
They took a handsome carriage. Devon told her about a diamond mine in South Africa that was literally bursting at the seams with the precious stones, and that some “important” people, whose names he was not at liberty to divulge but who, suffice it to say, were “people of title,” had already taken a large quantity of shares. There were still a few shares to be had, and of course he realized that Delia was “quite comfortable,” and no doubt let professionals manager her wealth, but nonetheless, he felt he should tell her about the mine because, if on the off chance she were interested, she could in fact triple her investment, conservatively speaking, in four weeks.
What Delia knew about diamonds would have fit on the nail of her pinky finger, which was where she wore her mother’s engagement ring. Nonetheless, she agreed to give Devon seven hundred dollars, in cash.
They had dinner at the Algonquin the next evening, even though Delia was somewhat embarrassed that she had to wear the same dress as the night they met. The champagne soon made her forget all about it. Once again, Devon picked up the check. Delia invited him to her room, but Devon begged off, explaining that he had to meet with one of the other investors, a cranky exiled member of the Russian royal court that needed to have his hand held, but he promised he would see her the next day, no ifs, ands or buts. She thought it was odd he’d turned down her invitation, since she’d already undone the top three buttons of her dress and leaned in against him, but, she guessed, Russian royalty came first. She went to bed and dreamed about soaking in a bathtub full of diamonds.
Delia waited for Devon in the dining room until nine o’clock the next night. She went to bed without eating. Two days went by. She thought she saw him hurrying out of the lobby on the third, and she was about yell, “Hey, Devon!” but that seemed inappropriate for a woman of her supposed station. The next morning she went to the front desk to ask about him. The clerk told her Mr. Jenkins had checked out the previous day.
It rained the next day, and Delia decided not to get up. Around two p.m., the bill for the month slid under her door. After her initial panic, she dressed and asked the concierge for the train schedule for Pittsburgh.
Her old job at Gross Hardware was long gone, her slot in the rooming house was gone, and so was ninety percent of her bank balance. She took an efficiency apartment in Mt. Washington and began waitressing at The Hometown Inn and Tavern on Forbes Avenue, two weeks before they opened the new baseball stadium, Forbes Field. New York had taught her one thing. There were the takers, and there were the taken.
Chapter 3
June 30, 1909, was a day generations of Pittsburghers would always remember. It was opening day for America’s first true baseball stadium, Forbes Field, fabricated, appropriately enough, almost entirely from poured concrete and Pittsburgh steel.
Forbes Field was one of many firsts for “Hell with the Lid Off,” as Boston writer James Parton had characterized the city some 40 years earlier. Pittsburgh could also legitimately boast of having the country’s first museum of modern art, its first motion picture theater and its first banana split. What’s more, if there had been an accurate means of compiling the statistics, Pittsburgh surely would have been America’s first city for pulmonary fibrosis, silicosis and a host of other occupational and airborne maladies, thanks to the incessant appetite of its steel industry.
Abe Miller was not about to let Forbes Field’s maiden voyage set sail without him. He rose early that morning, as excited as a schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation, roused Arthur and Benjamin and made them a big breakfast for this big event—generous portions of fried salami and eggs, oatmeal with molasses and butter, toast with raspberry jam and glasses of buttermilk. “Eat up, boys, this could be the best day of your lives. Like the newspaper says, we’re going to be part of history.” He intoned the word as if intoxicated by its significance. “Let’s get it a move on, boys—like the ballplayers say, we have to hustle. We don’t want to miss out.”
The boys had almost finished wiping their pl
ates with their fingers when Irene dragged herself to the kitchen with Alex slung on her hip. She’d slept restlessly, shifting as far away from Abe as their four-poster queen-sized bed would allow her without falling over the edge, like her marriage. She stared at the burned remains of salami and egg in the massive wrought iron skillet her mother had given her the prior Christmas, with instructions to either cook with it or use it to brain her husband. A wave of nausea passed over her, then a panic-like chill—she couldn’t be pregnant again, please God—until she remembered that she’d just finished her period. It must have been the oily fumes of meat and eggs that hung over the frying pan that caused her to feel so queasy. She put Alex in his highchair, next to Abe at the head of the table.
Abe had the morning paper open to the sports section, reading as best as he could, skipping over the longer words. “Boys, who can tell me who the Pirates’ shortstop is?”
As if he were in Mrs. Farrell’s reading class, Benjamin threw up his hand. “That’s easy.”
Before he could continue, Alex said, “Honus Wagner, shortstop. Dots Miller, second base. George Gibson, catcher. Jap Barbeau, third base. Fred Clarke, left field. Tommy Leach, center field. Chief Wilson, right field. Bill Abstein, first base. Babe Adams, pitcher.”
Abe dropped the newspaper.
Arthur said, “God damn.”
“Watch your mouth, mister.” Irene twisted his ear perhaps harder than he deserved, jealous that Alex had spoken to him first and rather than his own mother. “Wait—did you two know he was talking? Has he been talking to you? When did you teach him that?”