“And I didn’t kill Clyde,” she said. “Neal, I need you to believe me. I need you to trust me.”
“How’d the files end up in your house then? Tillie, it doesn’t make sense.”
“I can’t say.”
“It looks bad.”
“Neal, what are we doing?”
I knew she wasn’t just talking about the two of us.
“I’ll talk to Seamus,” I said. “Hear him out.”
She bowed and I think she wanted me to go, but I wasn’t sure when we’d get to talk again. “Did you read my file?”
Her eyes flared, burned. If I was her last hope, she must have thought she was a dead woman.
“Don’t you think it’s best to focus on one catastrophe at a time?” she said. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you were thinking. It was shell shock, wasn’t it? Bedding a Negro is one thing, but marrying one—my god, Neal, you know what they’ll do to you.”
“I’m sorry.”
When I got outside into the parking lot, Jacob was cranking his car engine. Behind me, a Pinkerton with long burnsides climbed a ladder, fixing a rope to the hanging tree. Gertie was supervising. She came over to me and tried to kiss me, but I pushed her back.
“Tsk, tsk,” she purred. “You can’t blame Gertie for your sister’s troubles.”
“She didn’t kill him and you know it. She’s too small to get the drop on him, even if he was a one-eyed drunk.”
“You’re underestimating our sex again. I once killed a giant with a fork. Put it right in his throat. He had dishonorable intentions toward me.”
I pushed past her, toward the car. “I don’t care.”
—14—
Jacob drove south along Seventh then turned right on Elm, taking a circular route to the museum. He described his morning in Rahillville. Seamus had posted eviction notices: everyone had to leave by sundown. Picketers lined the mine fence, playing chicken with armed militiamen. One nervous kid with a rifle could set the town on fire.
“A fucking disaster,” Jacob said. “Over 3,000 men out of work. Be hungry by Christmas if it keeps up. Need a new damn job, that’s what I need.”
He turned down O’Donohue Avenue, and sped along a short dirt road toward Pioneer Park. In the west, a burst of snow clouds levitated above the Rockies, while the northern sky was dry, blue. I tried convincing myself that it was a beautiful contrast, a stunning kind of light, but the eastern wind punched my face and it smelled like coal smoke.
“See that?” Jacob pointed at a row of lawn signs in front of a stretch of old Victorians. Each called for Forest’s head. “You did that.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“What did you think would happen by tying Forest to Jesse?”
“Dancing.”
“You’re an asshole. Nothing scares people more than your pa. Pair him with Forest and the whole town cries for blood.”
“They’d have done it no matter what I wrote.”
He slowed the car, straining to see a militiaman signaling him to stop. He pulled alongside the soldier, and then laid his badge out on the door for the armed child to inspect.
“What’s the holdup, son?” Jacob said. “The Canadians invade?”
“No, sir,” the soldier said, a private. “We’re just setting up roadblocks.”
“On whose orders?”
“The Governor’s.”
“Oh him,” Jacob said. “We’ll be on our way then.”
The boy waved us along.
“How many did he send in?”
“The governor?” Jacob said. “Heard a hundred, but it’s probably more.”
“How bad is it going to be? Like Ludlow?”
“Maybe that bad. Maybe worse. It’s a good story for you. Has good guys, bad guys, heroism, bloodshed. Get you famous. Get you on that train you keep lusting over.”
Paris
In the spring of 1914, I was freshly engaged to Lorraine, when news reached us about the Ludlow Massacre. It made the back pages of the old Paris Herald. Nineteen miners killed when the Colorado National Guard invaded a tent city set up by the union. I knew that Jacob, who’d joined the Guard, probably had a hand in it. Lorraine showed me the article.
We’d met for breakfast at a café in the Latin Quarter on one of those cold, rainy mornings where it felt like your suit was pasted to your skin. She had the paper hidden under her raincoat. People talk a lot about how the French don’t see race, but that’s not true. People looked at us as we sat together, as we held hands, but the difference between France and the States is pretty simple: there was no hanging tree in Paris, at least not for people like us.
“You’re from here, aren’t you?”
Ludlow is couple hundred miles south of New Sligo, in the high desert country that looks a lot like New Mexico. While they still dig lignite coal down there, most of them were Italian or Mexican, and there wasn’t much of a middle class. It was all company town.
“Never been there,” I told her. “Hear it’s hotter.”
“I could use some heat now,” she said, looking out at the sopping sidewalks. She liked to say that she didn’t care about what happened in America. She was done with that nation. But every morning she read the Herald, alongside Le Monde, despite the latter being the better paper. I never called her bluff, though. It would have shamed her and there isn’t any pleasure in that.
“They fired at the tents,” she said. “I don’t think they were aiming. They didn’t care who they killed.”
“It happens that way.”
Then I told her, for the first time, who my father was. I told her about Big Hank, about how the man they called “Dynamite Jesse” taught me to read, to ride a horse.
She buttered her baguette. “I already knew that. I was just waiting for you to get around to it.”
I don’t remember what I said. I probably apologized—it was always my first defense—but I can’t say for sure.
“Do you miss him?” She pulled off her shoes, wiping the insoles with a handkerchief.
“No, I hardly remember him anymore.”
“Antoinette,” she said.
“The Queen?”
“No, for our first daughter.”
“Seems like we’re bequeathing her a poor fortune with that name.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It was my aunt’s name. I always thought it pretty.”
“I love you.”
“You’d better.”
—15—
We met Seamus in the grand hall of the museum. It reeked of privilege, with its vaulted entrance, decorative columns, and dollar admission. I didn’t have to pay, however, because the museum was dedicated to my mother.
When we came in, my uncle was barking at two Mexicans building a case to display the Shakespeare Quarto. If everything went well, the book would arrive in two days, and in a week the public could look at the oldest copy of Hamlet. People would line up and pay good money just to eyeball a damn book cover.
When my uncle saw me, he held up a finger—one minute. A Wells Fargo truck pulled up outside and two men got out and walked in carrying sawed-off shotguns. They guarded a third man, some burly German-looking bastard, carrying a satchel.
“Why so much cash?” I asked. “I thought you liked your bribes off the books?”
“Banks shut off Seamus’ credit until the strike ends,” Jacob said. “Don’t want to bet on anything that ain’t for sure.”
Even though the museum was open, it was nearly empty, except for another collaborator hiding in the corner, appearing like he cared about some knight’s bust melded during the English Revolution.
I went to Roosevelt, took off my hat, and called him a son of a bitch.
“My mother was no princess, if that’s your intention, Stephens,” he said. “Family lore speculates that
at one time she danced burlesque.”
“Did you know they’d arrest Tillie?”
“If I’d known your sister was to be handcuffed, I’d have paid money to watch.“
“If you weren’t a cripple—”
“You’d what? Still get pummeled by me? Now wipe the tears from your gash and pull yourself together for your sister’s sake.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“You’re always the last to figure things out, aren’t you Stephens? We want your father.”
“You don’t care.”
“I care about my pecker, and I might be the only man in town who thinks your sister provides a noble public service. I’m trying to save her neck.”
“They’ll call her an anarchist.”
“Americans are predictable.”
A man with a long, waxed moustache interrupted us. You could tell he was a Pinkerton by his vacant eyes and the way his breath smelled like dead children. He was all menace and anonymity, the kind of man who came to your house at night and put a pillow over you face before you had the chance to protest. It was the same Pinkerton who’d been following Forest, the John Wilkes Booth twin.
“Mr. Rahill is ready for you,” Pinkerton Booth said.
“Just a second.” I wanted to finish my argument with Roosevelt.
Booth, I discovered, valued promptness. He yanked me with the sort of savage gentility common amongst his clan. “We don’t have time for games,” Booth said. “Now, go.”
My uncle’s kept a large, debonair office in the back of the museum. It was here, rather than Rahill Coal & Electric, where he did most of his business. He liked being surrounded by the calm of the museum, rather than the bustle and commerce of his corporate confines. But that wasn’t his only reason. He once confessed that the Rahill headquarters reminded him of Big Hank and that was a day he’d rather forget.
He filled his office with old British artifacts: royal portraits, family crests, and even a prop skull from the Globe Theater. Unlike a lot of men back then, he wasn’t caught up in the African fads or the obsession with the primitive. He was top-drawer and enjoyed fine cigars and fitted suits, leaving him little interest in the lives of those he considered below him. Behind his desk, he’d hung a portrait of Queen Elizabeth, before she’d been crowned—stern, nubile, and redheaded—a tempting combination. Near the portrait, he’d pasted newspaper articles about my father, a primary history of Jesse’s crimes. My uncle’s gun rested on top of the Bible. I looked out the window at the Square, where you could see Negroes sweeping up the remains of last night’s explosion.
“Take a seat, son,” Seamus said. “Roosevelt, close the door.”
I lowered my gaze.
“Let’s talk honestly, Neal. Can we do that? Without all these rules?”
I wasn’t sure what rules he meant.
“We’re finding ourselves in a fine quandary here, a real mess as they say. Isn’t that right, Neal?”
I lit a cigarette, nodding.
“We’re caretakers, just simple guardians of this town and if that’s not trial enough for an old man like me, your father’s stolen your sister’s good sense. You’d think there was a holy bet on my faith.”
“I told Jacob I saw him as soon as I did.”
“I know,” he said. “You’ve had a series of shocks this last score of years, but you’re going to have to be strong for me. We’re obliged to care for the people here.”
A secretary in a dark dress and dark heels came in and then handed Seamus a piece of paper.
“Sign here?”
“Here, Mr. Rahill.”
“It’s the final details for the Shakespeare exhibit,” Seamus said. “People will travel from hundreds of miles just to see it. Can you imagine? They’ll feel like they’re near something great, something holy.”
Out the window, a pair of militiamen patrolled the square, marching in formation just as they’d been taught in basic training. They’d grown up on tales of war heroics, maybe even seeing some of my pictures, and now here they were, invading the Front Range.
“Do you remember much of my father, Neal?”
“Pardon me?”
“My father. You were just a boy when the Lord took him.”
“A little.”
“He was a great man, Mr. Rahill,” Roosevelt said. “A real pioneer.”
Seamus ignored him. “What do you remember?”
“His voice,” I said. “How Irish he sounded.”
My uncle stood, turning to a photo of my father from a Swiss paper.
“He was illiterate,” Seamus said. “He never read a word, not even the Lord’s. I know I speak highly of him, and I dare say I must have loved him, but we never understood one another, not even a little. Back then, well, boys didn’t speak to their fathers. They listened, obeyed. Not like now where every little scamp swears the Lord’s name to his parents. I imagine that’s the curse of man, to misunderstand our fathers, to be ignorant of our sons. I saw him as a shameful, violent immigrant and he saw me as dithering, bookish, without the will to lead. I’m sure that’s why he loved your father more.”
I looked at Roosevelt, hoping for some sort of sign telling me how to work this confession, but my boss was studying his cane.
“I’d never witnessed such joy in him,” Seamus went on. “As that day your father asked for Pearl’s hand. Like the light in his eyes burnished enough to heat the Earth. He adopted your father as his heir, casting me aside like Cain. Did you know that?”
“No one tells me anything.”
“Explained to me how Jesse had the backbone for it, while I was better served manning the abacus like some Jew. It’s haunting to be shunned by one’s own father. I vowed that if I ever had my own son.” He paused, checking his watch. “Well, I never had a son, not until you.”
“I’ve always thought of you that way, uncle.”
He laughed and I heard how pliant I sounded.
“No, you don’t,” Seamus said. “You’re angry. I can see the devil in your eyes. You’re the angriest man I’ve ever met. An inheritance from my father, I’m afraid. You’ve always been more Rahill than Stephens.”
“And you? You’re angry. Why else—”
“Would I have Tillie jailed?”
I nodded.
“She is more Stephens than Rahill.”
“Stop it,” I said. “She’s your niece.”
I stood and I saw, I believe, just a flinch, a slight gesture of my uncle reaching toward his revolver. It sent me back to my chair.
“There’s that anger again,” Seamus said. “I can see my father in your eyes. You’re a lot like him. He also fornicated with Negroes.”
He took my file and held it up as if he was about to hand it over, but paused, removing a small photograph, the last surviving image of Lorraine, the one we’d taken on our wedding day. I wanted to reach for it because, even by then, her memory was disappearing. It was the one piece of blackmail I truly desired. But I didn’t take it, no matter how much I wanted to, because Seamus was watching me, studying my reaction, so I sat there passively as he struck a match and put it to the paper, and I was obedient as her picture burned in the ashtray.
He took the rest of the file—mostly legal documents and witness testimony—and then slipped it into a desk drawer for safekeeping.
“I understand the damage war does to one’s faculties,” he said. “We’ll talk of this another time. In the meantime, I think we can keep this between us. No need to upset the townspeople—you know how unforgiving they can be.”
I thanked him but I knew this wasn’t the end of it: he hadn’t thrown the file out. It was still there, in his desk, waiting for the right moment to bite.
“Your father nearly killed you last night and that was your lightning strike. Do you understand me?”
“I’ll d
o what you want,” I said. “I just want Tillie safe.”
Seamus waved at my boss. “Tell him.”
Roosevelt leaned against his cane, remembering his lines.
“I’ve completed a thorough inventory of O’Leary’s files. Forest’s isn’t there. Your sister pleads that she never saw it.”
“We need it,” Seamus said. “For the good of the town.”
No one believed Tillie acted alone, but only as a patsy for my father, who was using her to get to Seamus. They figured Jesse was holding on to the file and they wanted me to steal it. In exchange, Tillie would leave town, forever. I knew I had what they were looking for. But I wasn’t ready to give the check to them. Not yet.
“We have a deal?” Seamus said. “We can spit on our palms if you don’t trust my word.”
It didn’t take me long to answer. “Fine.”
“And then we’ll talk about the Negro,” Seamus said. “But first, we’ll pray.”
We knelt and recited together the Lord’s prayer, to consecrate our deal. When we got to “thy will be done,” I looked up to see my uncle eyes closed, enraptured. It was then that I began seeing the real difference between us. When I prayed, I expected nothing in return, but when Seamus prayed, he expected fire and brimstone to rain down on the armies of his enemy.
When I got outside, I considered walking right to McGuffey’s, but I figured that I’d drink myself into doing something dumb, so I started toward home. The snow had nearly melted away and I felt the sidewalk under my boots. I thought of just heading back in, giving them the check, getting it done with. The thing was, even then, I wasn’t sure how the check from my father to Big Hank worked as blackmail. It didn’t seem to concern Forest, but I knew my father wanted it as well and that was enough to know its importance. If it got Tillie out, I told myself, then it didn’t matter how it all fit together. Still, I needed to think it through.
As I crossed Pioneer Square, I saw, at the end of an alley, the dents and scratches on the fender of a black Ford, my stolen car. I went to it and saw the keys were in the ignition and the engine was running.
The Trench Angel Page 11