Bridgetown, Issue #1: Arrival

by Giovanni Iacobucci

Susanna turned to the throng of workers that had gathered to watch the emerging shitshow. "Show's over, gentlemen," she announced. "Everyone back to work, except for Rimmler's men. They have their orders."

  By lunchtime, her blood pressure felt like it had resumed a more or less normal course. At noontime every day, she called lunch for her crew. Then she returned to her on-site office and ate in blissful solitude. Sometimes Wayne would stop by, if it was convenient for him. Today, however, when Susanna opened the door to her office, Wayne was already waiting for her.

  "Hey." She gave Wayne a casual peck on the cheek. "How are things?"

  "Not bad," her husband responded. "We haven't had a chance to really talk since, well, you know. I thought I'd stop by."

  In the flurry of the morning's events, she'd put the Jesse situation on the back burner. Now it came whooshing back to her consciousness. Was this what it took for Wayne to show some concern in her life? The unspoken threat of cuckoldry?

  "Thanks," she said.

  "Yeah."

  Susanna became aware of the buzz of the halogen bulb overhead. Wordlessly, she retrieved a sandwich Martha had made for her that morning from the icebox, and started in on it. Wayne cleared his throat, and took a bite of his lunch accordingly.

  "You know, I was thinking," he said, between mouthfuls of tuna sandwich. "We should really get away, after the factory launch. Just the two of us, and Junior. Take a train to New York, and then a boat to Europe? A nice family trip."

  Susanna had to admit, she hadn't expected that from him. Any time she'd brought up the idea of vacation, Wayne had banished it to the circular file. Maybe having Jesse around could, in a twisted way, actually benefit their marriage.

  "I would love to do that," she said. "Knowing you, though, I'd better get it in writing before you change your mind."

  "I won't," he promised. "I'm itching to stretch my legs. There will always be work in Bridgetown for us to come back to."

  "Especially if you keep giving me more factories to build."

  Wayne grimaced.

  Susanna put her food down. "What is it?"

  "Well, it's no big deal," he said, putting his hands out in a subtle braking gesture. "And, before I say anything, I really want to stress that you shouldn't take this the wrong way. I mean, you know how I feel. It's just that, the times being what they are—"

  "Wayne, spit it out."

  "The board wants to hand over project management to someone else. They want you to keep focus on planning the gala ceremonies instead."

  Susanna's heart sank. He had been buttering her up before the feast. And now came the meat cleaver. "Oh, I see why you really came down here."

  "Susanna, I swear, it's not like that—"

  "Why the hell would they want to replace me now?" She asked. "We're only a month away from the start of production. We're on time, everything's going great. Who do they think they're gonna get for the job this late in the game?" As soon as she asked the question, she regretted it. She could hear the answer coming like a train roaring down the tracks.

  "Well, I believe Howard Rimmler's name was mentioned." Wayne swallowed, adding, "he does have a lot of experience."

  Was the ringing Susanna suddenly heard all in her head? Was it possible to be so angry that it drove a person to madness?

  Wayne was waiting for her to say something, she could tell. Instead, she only glared at him, arms folded.

  "They don't want any controversy," Wayne went on, attempting to explain himself. "Or any doubt about the way our operations are being run, once we're in the national spotlight."

  That was it. Susanna felt like flipping the desk over. "Why don't you stand up for me, for once? Instead of giving in to these backwards imbeciles?"

  "Look, you and I both know this isn't about your actual abilities," Wayne said. His palms were open to her, in a theatrical show of fealty. "I'm asking you to make a sacrifice, for the good of Cole Company. This is about public perception. And I can't change that, you know that. At least, not right away." For good measure, he added, "I'm so sorry."

  "No, you're not. And I know this isn't about the appearance of impropriety. You're tired of raising eyebrows every time you go to some smoking club and they wonder who wears the pants in your house. You must get tired of the jokes, the rumors. I know the kinds of bigots we do business with."

  "Look, I wish it wasn't this way, but there are some trade-offs to living in the time that we do."

  "If people found out that a wealthy woman actually got her hands dirty by choice—"

  "Suze—"

  "I can't deal with this shit right now," Susanna said. "Just get out." Her lips were pursed.

  Maybe Wayne realized he was better off giving her some distance. He stood up and headed for the door.

  "Next time I see Rimmler," Susanna said, "I'm going to punch him in the face. Just know that when it happens, it's you I ought to be punching."

  Wayne left, closing the door behind him quietly.

  After a moment, Susanna slammed her fists down on the table.

  She steadied her breath. Nothing good came from letting others get to her. Susanna's honed sense of self-discipline was the sharpest sword in her armory. And it would continue to suit her well. She needed to distract herself. She looked down at the day planner laid flat across her table.

  2:00p - Ladies of Btown Asmbly mtng was scribbled haphazardly in Susanna's own hand, along with a little cartoon throwing up.

  Rimmler would have to wait a little bit longer: she had a meeting to go to in just a few minutes. She got up, straightened her outfit and tidied her hair in the mirror, and exited her office, locking its door behind her as she always did. Even though walking onto the factory floor would give her a straight-shot to the conference rooms, she avoided doing so. She wanted to keep Rimmler on his toes. As it stood, it would take all the calm she could muster to talk to the Ladies of Bridgetown about the inanities of gala preparation.

  So, instead, Susanna walked along the corridor that hugged the factory floor's perimeter. The longer walk gave her a few extra minutes to gather her thoughts for the meeting. The painted ladies would be here to talk about flowers. Or complementary curtain and tablecloth colors. Or something. She hadn't really been paying attention on the phone. She'd had real matters to worry about. And now, all she could think about was how much she'd rather be making Cole Co. viable. About how her long hours and many scrapes and bruises earned in erecting the largest, most advanced structure Bridgetown had ever seen were about to be stolen from her.

  From the hall, the conference quarters were a series of blank doors, in Wayne's preferred minimal aesthetic, with only a colored dot to identify each one. The hall still smelled sour with fresh paint, while the odor of machine lubricant that Susanna so loved receded into the distance, as did the familiar sounds of the workers' toiling. That buzz of the factory floor was so preferable to the stuffy stillness here.

  Susanna sighed. She opened the door to the conference quarters and laid eyes upon a dozen-plus of the most well-to-do wives of the city. Each one wore a hat that made her look like the mutant offspring of a palm frond and a peacock. Their midsections were sucked in to impossible points, their collars practically reaching up to their earlobes.

  Susanna was not ashamed of her greased-stained denim overalls and rolled-up sleeves; in fact, she felt proud. This was as good an implicit middle finger as she was going to find to illustrate just how much she wanted to be here right now. The Ladies of Bridgetown did not publicly raise an eyebrow at her apparel: To them, Susanna was an evident eccentric, but one with more wealth and power than anyone else in the room. Had she been their monetary peer, they would have banished her to Mexico merely for showing up the way she did.

  The Ladies of Bridgetown Assembly was, like the rest of the local elite, well aware of Cole Co.'s true industrial ambitions. They were sworn to secrecy about the auto project, though that didn't mean much. They wouldn't have been able to put a stop to their gossip grapevine if it we
re a matter of national security. Several of the ladies had already placed orders through their wealthy husbands, reserving some of the first cars to come off the production line. They tittered and chirped about how they'd read that female driving was all the fashion in Paris, and asked Susanna about the availability of an electric-powered option.

  "If ever there has been an invention of more solid comfort to the feminine half than the electrical carriage, I cannot think of one," one of the peacock-women announced. "How delightful a thing! A machine a woman such as myself could operate, with no loss of dignity, no risk of injury upon ignition. Of a demeanor as clean and quiet as my own. For shopping, perhaps, or a pleasurable ride, even just the paying back of some small social debt." The other ladies nodded and made womanly sounds of agreement that were overwrought in their tiny inoffensiveness.

  "Look, ladies," Susanna shot back, playing up a butch undertone in her voice as much as possible. "Baker and Colombia want to sell to the 'the fairer sex'." She took a breath. "But let me tell you something. Those companies think men will only buy cars for their wives if they don't have to worry about them driving past the city limits."

  This elicited blank stares from the Assembly. "Why would we ever need to go beyond the city limits by ourselves?" one asked, earnestly. The others gave small laughs in agreement.

  Susanna sighed. "I suppose you have a point," she conceded. "Why would you?"

  She had failed to realize just how small the self-imposed prison that these women lived in was.

  That was that, as far as Susanna was concerned. From then on, she paid attention only to every other word that was spoken. She simply could not bring herself to care about the things they were debating amongst themselves. Are two centerpieces per table too gauche? Another would say, these tables are simply too long—they'll appear barren without the proper sprucing up. Then a third would stick her neck in—If we were concerned with it seeming gauche, why did we choose such large tables in the first place?

  Every once in a while, the League would turn their heads, seemingly in unison, towards Susanna, expecting her decisive judgement to bring clarity to the proceedings.

  "Whatever you guys think is best," she would reply.

  When she reached her breaking point, she did what she had in their previous meeting three weeks earlier.

  "Ladies, thank you for your time," Susanna said, already getting up, "but I'm afraid I have some business I must attend to." With no further elaboration, she left the room.

  Yet she couldn't quite help herself. She stood just outside the doorway, curious to know what the Ladies had to say about her when she was gone.

  There was a long pause, while each of the ladies no doubt debated within herself if it appeared unseemly to be the first to say it. Finally, one of them broke.

  "Mrs. Cole has been acting very oddly all week, I must say."

  "All week? Why, I can hardly recall an encounter when she hasn't seemed almost perverse!"

  "And that outfit!"

  "Where are her graces, showing up to a meeting dressed like that!"

  "I do believe she looks down upon us."

  "Well, our tea sets may not be gilded in gold, but we know how to treat our neighbors."

  "You're absolutely right."

  More silence fell upon the set.

  "I suppose it will be two centerpieces per table, then?"

  Susanna poked her head back through the doorway. The women's faces immediately went wide in ghastly expressions, realizing they'd been caught by their social superior. Each wore a look of contorted, silent agony. They'd have scarcely looked more horrified if Susanna had walked in on them engaging in an orgy. She savored this moment. It made the whole damn meeting worthwhile. "Once centerpiece per table will do, ladies."

  She closed the door, quietly, and began the march back to the factory floor. When at last she rounded the corner and passed under the doorway that opened up into the cavernous interior of the factory, she walked with heavy steps. She wanted Howard Rimmler to hear her storming in, her shoes going clack-clack-clack with all the anger of a slighted hen. He wanted her to fear her, just a little woman. She wanted his bruise to smart for a while.

  She found Rimmler, back turned to her, muttering to one of his crew. The younger man saw Susanna first. It was as though he knew what was coming, for his eyebrows arched wide and his eyes locked with Rimmler's, issuing a kind of silent alarm. But Rimmler didn't take the hint.

  Susanna tapped Rimmler on the shoulder, twice. He stopped, grunted, and turned to face whoever it was that had deigned to interrupt his thought.

  What he found was the angry fist of one Susanna Cole, a veritable freight train on an unstoppable collision course with his face.

  For the next few days, Susanna's knuckles would hurt as though she'd smashed her fist right into a countertop. But it was worth it, and every time it ached, she smiled just a little.

  * * *

  "This little crystal can hear things we can't," Wayne told his son with a reverent quiet. "It can help us hear the radio waves that travel all around us, silent and invisible."

  "Oooooooohhhhhh," W.J. said, imitative.

  Wayne wore a big grin on his face. He'd been just a few years older than W.J. when he'd made his first radio. And now he was passing this magic on to his son, who would one day inherit a kingdom built on a more sophisticated extension of the same trick.

  The crystal radio was little more than an old oatmeal cylinder attached to a wooden board. Wayne guided W.J.'s hands to wrap a reel of thin insulated wire around the cylinder. The best way to learn was by doing, something the elder Cole knew from experience.

  When it came time to finish the wiring, Wayne make the cut himself while W.J. looked on with bated breath. Then he took an alligator clip, one he'd fashioned himself in his workshop, and attached it to a tap loop on the side of the radio.

  Instantly, they both heard the fruits of their labor—quiet sound leaking from the ceramic earpiece on the table. Wayne picked up the receiver and held it to W.J.'s ear.

  "Woooooooooooowww," W.J. said. "Is it coming from inside the oatmeal?"

  Wayne smiled. "Not quite," he said. "It's coming from that great big radio tower on the other side of town." He pointed out a ways towards the tower.

  They were outside, on the ranch property, sitting on dry grass underneath the balmy late summer's evening light. A bit of wind kicked up around them, and carried leafy debris on a current of air in the direction of Wayne's outstretched hand. Pink sky crept up into a gradient the color of a perfectly ripened orange, and little wisps of cloud hung lazily, seemingly applied by brushstroke. Even Wayne was not fully immune to bouts of Romanticism. He couldn't help but be carried off by the transcendent quality of the moment.

  Across the town, the radio tower stood as a triumphant marker to what Wayne had brought to this land. The Lotus Boys could burn his oil fields, but even they didn't dare touch his tower.

  "You don't even need to plug it in," Wayne said, of the radio. "It runs on the electric power of the radio signal itself. Isn't that amazing?"

  W.J. nodded, maybe because even at his young age, he could tell that was what he was supposed to do.

  "Dad," W.J. began. He looked like he wasn't sure he was supposed to say whatever came next.

  "Go ahead," Wayne assured.

  "Where'd Uncle Jesse go?"

  Wayne pursed his lips. "He's on a trip," he said. Martha had alerted him to the letter Susanna found that morning. "Business. Like I have to do sometimes."

  "Oh," W.J. said.

  The elder Wayne forced a smile. "Come on, let's get you back inside. Martha has to wash you up."

  W.J. obliged, and Wayne helped him, gingerly, onto his feet. He handed the boy his crutch, and W.J. took it in his hand, second nature, a part of him as much as his lungs and his heart.

  "Dad," the boy began, not quite able to hit the hard "D" sound with full force, "I do it myself."

  Wayne felt two disparate emotions pulling at him
. On one hand, he surged with intense pride, for his son was already developing a strong independent streak. It was clear he would not let his condition stop him, or hold him back. And yet, Wayne was still a father. The ranch house was maybe five hundred feet away. The thought of W.J. trekking by himself, over mounds of dirt and rock, like a west-coast Tiny Tim, made his heart sink. But he brushed aside such cloying thoughts. If W.J. wanted to make the trip by himself, Wayne knew he ought to let the boy.

  "Okay," Wayne said, confirming with a nod. "Just be careful." He wondered how it might look to Martha, Wayne leaving W.J. to hobble back up by himself while he stayed out to play with radios.

  He watched W.J. go up the hill a ways, then turned back towards the vista.

  In the distance, Devil's Peak faced him. He got that strange feeling, the feeling he was sure Susanna got from time to time but of which neither of them spoke. The sensation that the mountain was staring at him. Judging him.

  What a silly notion.

  The wind was still blowing, pleasant in its warmth. He began to feel a prickly sensation, the hairs on his body rising with static arousal, and a bolt of lightning rang out over the mountaintop.

  His heart skipped a beat. Could this be it? What if, standing where he was, he saw a hole open up in the earth before the mountain. He was struck with an oblique terror. Even though he knew Susanna could never make it there in time, it was all to easy to imagine her wanting to take flight. Or worse, Jesse stealing her away.

  The radio was making strange noises. Wayne knew better than to hold a crystal radio to his ear in the event of a lightning strike, but his curiosity was overpowering. He leaned in, closer to it than he ought to have, and listened:

  The radio tower was being overpowered by some kind of interference from the lightning dancing over Devil's Peak. The squelching that eminated from it was louder than he'd have thought possible for the tiny speaker to produce.

  It sounded like talking, almost, but garbled and too rapid. Was it some kind of code? Or just random electromagnetic white noise?