Ghost Town

by Patrick Mcgrath

  Noah was nothing if not decisive, but for once in his life he found himself reluctant to do what he knew he must. He spoke of the matter to his son-in-law that very night. He told Rinder what was on his mind.

  —She won’t do, he said.

  Rinder himself came of immigrant stock. He had clawed his way into society, had become a partner in the House of van Horn, had married into the family—all good reasons why others must be prevented from doing the same. He must thwart this upstart girl, despite the fact that she aroused him—or because she did, perhaps—or the family would begin to look like a way-station for every aspiring nobody in New York. He was astonished that his father-in-law could have allowed the thing to progress this far, but he understood the reason.

  —Why not leave it to me? he said.

  It went no further that night. Charlotte appeared in the library some moments later to ask Rinder please to take her home. I next see the two men in Noah’s office in the warehouse on Old Slip. I see Noah at the window, frowning, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. I see him turning toward the younger man.

  —Leave it to you?

  He regarded his partner with some suspicion. In all the years they had known each other Noah had often been surprised by Rinder. A generation younger than Noah, Rinder regarded the city as a lawless territory where ferocity, speed and cunning counted most: a state of nature. More than once he had made the argument to Noah that they served the market, and what the market demanded they must supply, for if they did not then the next man would and he would prosper and they would fail.

  Noah disliked thinking of himself as a servant of the market, as a servant of anything, in fact, but he recognized an ugly truth in what Rinder believed, even if he no longer acknowledged the brutal rapacity of his own activities as a young man. But why should Rinder take care of the Annie Kelly problem?

  —I know girls like that, he said.

  He had identified precisely what troubled Julius’ father: “girls like that” were girls who preyed on gullible young men. Rinder was closer than Noah to the street, where such girls flourished. Noah saw the point. He assumed there would be a payment made.

  —Not overly generous, he said.

  —Of course not.

  —And Julius must know nothing.

  He held the other man’s eye. A profound importance attached to Julius remaining ignorant of the scheme.

  —He must think she has tired of him.

  —He will know nothing of it.

  —You relieve me of a tiresome burden.

  Rinder bowed slightly. So stiff was he, this thin, ageless creature in his black clothes you might almost expect to hear a creaking sound when he bowed from the waist. Rinder’s ambition, his sole ambition, was to assume control of all that Noah van Horn possessed. It had been his habit in recent years to take on whatever Noah found distasteful, and the problem of Annie Kelly was distasteful in the extreme.

  Rinder left the room and Noah settled at his desk with a sense of relief which was not altogether comfortable. He was still troubled. It was an instance of an almost imperceptible slackening in his control of his own affairs that he should so quickly have allowed his partner to assume responsibility in this matter. Noah was at last growing tired. For more than forty years he had run the House of van Horn and overseen its steady expansion. He was now among the wealthiest men in New York. He believed that in a few more years he would retire. To travel, perhaps, and to read. He had for years wished that he had more time to spend in his library. He wanted to study the ancient civilizations, for he was curious to draw comparisons between those civilizations and his own. He believed that the American people would in time be as great as any in human history, and he wanted to spend a year in Europe to visit the old sites, the ruins. He would take Julius with him, perhaps set him up with a teacher in Paris, or in one of the German studios. Alone each evening in his library, Noah thought often of this happy prospect, and Rinder, he was confident, would make it possible by assuming the responsibilities he was finding increasingly irksome.

  So Noah permitted himself a sigh of relief. Five more years, he thought, possibly four. Julius would then be twenty-two. He would take the boy to Europe and they would see together what the Old World had to offer the New. He had recently read that the coming of the great cosmopolitan city marked the beginning of the last phase of a civilization, the city being a sure symptom of imminent degeneration and decay. As he sat there in his office on Old Slip, he lifted his head from the papers before him and regarded the wharves and piers built out into the East River to north and south as far as the eye could see, and from the vessels crowded at those wharves a forest of masts rising high as church spires in the shimmering air of the morning. More shipping lay at anchor out in the river and the Upper Bay beyond, among them his own clipper ships, narrow, high-masted vessels which crossed the Atlantic faster even than the steam-driven packets; and seeing all this he knew that what lay ahead was not the first stage of decay but the last preparation for greatness, or more than greatness, for New York’s triumphant assumption, rather, of the mantle of distinction of being not only the pre-eminent city of America, but of the world.

  He then reflected that he must be getting old. He had never had time to think thoughts of such foolish grandiosity when he was a young man. With a snort of amusement he went back to work.

  A week later Julius appeared in the studio and discovered that there was no model for the life class. The students were working from pieces of plaster statuary. He approached Jerome Brook Franklin.

  —Where is she, sir? he said.

  The painter was attempting to open a window that was stuck. The day was a hot one, and he was warmly perspiring.

  —How should I know? he said, between grunts. She was meant to come to me yesterday. I waited an hour. Damn!

  The window continued to refuse to move.

  —She was meant to come to you? said Julius.

  Brook Franklin turned to him with considerable ill humor.

  —I waited an hour! Waste of time! She’s gone to hell for all I care.

  This was the first Julius knew of Annie’s private modeling sessions with Brook Franklin. It did nothing to allay his sense of unease, rather it increased it. But had no one gone to Nassau Street to see if she was at home? No one had.

  An hour later Julius walked east to Broadway and boarded a horse-car going downtown. He got off at Warren Street and crossed the park where they had so often sat together, and made his way down Beekman to Nassau. Then he was hammering at the door of the boarding-house, and a few seconds passed before it was opened by Mrs. Kelly. At once Julius knew there was no good news.

  —Have you seen her? she cried. Is she with you?

  She stepped past him and scanned the sidewalk beyond, as though he might be trailing the girl behind him. Julius had been inside the house on several occasions, and had come to know Annie’s mother. She was a plump, jovial woman with skin as clear and youthful as her daughter’s. She had lived all her life on the east side of lower Manhattan, having been an actress once and played in all the local theaters. She later married a ship’s carpenter, raised several children and saw enough riotous times not to be shocked by anything now. In her narrow hallway, on a threadbare carpet with the smell of boiling vegetables seeping from the back parts of the house, she told Julius what had happened, or rather what had not happened. Three days before, a Sunday, Annie had left the house early in the morning, saying she would not be home until dinner-time. She had not said where she was going. She had not been seen since.

  —Where could she be? cried Julius.

  —Oh dear God if only I knew! cried Mrs. Kelly. And her with only the clothes on her back!

  She began to weep, and Julius took her in his arms. They clung shuddering to each other for a few seconds. Julius stepped back. He clutched her shoulders, and the one tear-streaked face stared into the other. He asked her what had been done, and she told him that the men in the house had been out looking for h
er every night, and had told the police, and all the neighbors knew she was missing, but nobody had seen her.

  —I had thought she was coming to you! she cried.

  This brought on further sobbing, and it was another half-hour before Julius could leave the house. He sat on a bench in the park and tried to think what to do. How could she allow her mother and now himself to suffer such anxiety? Was she dead? Then he was running down to the East River to find his father, but Noah was not there. Julius was frightened now. He could not shake off the feeling that Jerome Brook Franklin was involved, for this news of the private sessions unsettled him. He ran through the seaport scanning the crowds for a glimpse of her, groping in his mind for an answer. Dead or captive, he thought. The docks were crowded with wagons and barrows, with men, with ships, crates and bales, stacked barrels, officials of the Port of New York with their papers and pens and watch-fobs, a storm of talk and shouting and drifting through it this distraught youth staring hard at any young woman who passed him, his lips trembling as he murmured to himself, although nobody could have made out what he was saying even if they had the inclination to, which they didn’t. Gulls screamed and horseshoes clanged on cobblestones, there was salt in the wind and great pungent drafts of beery odor issued from the South Street taverns. Pennants flapped from yards and masts and bare-chested Irishmen rose up from cargo holds like heroes from the underworld, while in the upper stories of warehouses shouting clerks winched up barrels by means of hoisting wheels, and merchants with aprons round their waists and cigars between their teeth added their own voices to the din. But in all this hectic humanity no sign of Annie Kelly.

  He reached Bowling Green and there at the very foot of Broadway he turned north. It was as good a place as any to search for her, and besides, a simple plan had begun to take shape amid the wild lunges of his disordered mind. He would go back to Tenth Street and talk to Brook Franklin, ask the man’s help. Discover why she had said nothing to him of these private sessions.

  Jerome Brook Franklin was still with the others when Julius reached the studio. He stood panting in the doorway as the painter, frowning, straightened up from a student’s easel and asked Julius with some irritation what he wanted.

  —She has not been home to her mother, sir!

  —Who has not? Oh. Then I expect she has gone off on some business of her own.

  —Without telling her mother?

  Brook Franklin knew the ways of artists’ models. He laid a meaty hand on Julius’ trembling shoulder.

  —I shall be twenty minutes more here, he said, and told Julius he could wait for him, if he wished to.

  Julius wasted no time, when twenty minutes later he had the painter’s undivided attention.

  —Did she say nothing to you, sir?

  —Of what?

  —Of any scheme, or plan?

  They were sitting in the empty studio. The dust danced in the autumn sunshine streaming down through the skylights overhead. The stuck window was now open. Brook Franklin was filling a pipe with tobacco. Shreds of black shag hung from the edge of the bowl. He shook his head, his eyes on the bowl.

  —I fear the worst, said Julius darkly.

  The painter gave out a short choke of laughter as he set a taper to the tobacco. Julius turned on him.

  —You think it’s funny? he cried.

  —My dear man, said Brook Franklin, girls are like young horses, did nobody tell you that? Skittish. She has gone off on a whim. Perhaps she has a friend.

  He stopped here. He was bored now, and careless. He understood that Julius was her friend. He did not want to inflame the boy further. He wanted to get rid of him. But Julius had become suspicious.

  —Why didn’t she tell me about her private sessions with you?

  At this Brook Franklin colored beneath his beard. Again he busied himself with his pipe, which had at once gone out.

  —How on earth should I know?

  —What happened?

  —What are you getting at, sir? I am a painter. I painted her. I cannot help you further. I am sorry she hasn’t told you where she’s gone but I can shed no light on the matter.

  —She didn’t tell her mother either.

  Brook Franklin threw his hands in the air.

  —I know nothing of the mother!

  At this Julius leaned close to him and lifting his hand, stabbed a finger at him.

  —But you do. You were there. She told me.

  —Weeks ago, when I wished to employ the girl. What do you accuse me of?

  He was on his feet now, and growing angry. He was a stout man who reddened easily, and he stood now with his arms braced at his sides and his fists clenched. His true relationship to Annie Kelly he was not going to disclose to Julius, and he was certainly not going to sit in his own studio and be accused of some vague malfeasance toward her—!

  Julius also rose to his feet and stared at the man for several seconds, his eyes hot with tears. Then all at once he fled from the studio, banging the door behind him.

  —Damn! cried the painter, and flung his pipe on the floor, where it clattered against the wall, throwing off sparks like a locomotive in the night.

  I do not know where Julius went when he left Brook Franklin’s studio. Somehow word got back to Waverley Place that Annie Kelly was missing and that Julius was distraught, or more than distraught, desperate, rather, out of his mind with worry. The sisters sat in their parlor wringing their hands, saying how much they wished dear Julius would return home so that they could reassure him that the girl had come to no harm; but Julius did not return home. They went in to dinner without him.

  Their father was already at table casting an eye over the newspaper. He took off his spectacles and folded the paper—it was Greeley’s Tribune—and asked Hester where her brother was. Hester cast a glance at Sarah.

  —We do not know, father, she said.

  —Annie Kelly is missing, said Sarah. She went out for a walk on Sunday and never came back.

  Noah van Horn’s head came up sharply.

  —On Sunday?

  He was silent through dinner, and neither of his daughters said a word. The curtains were closed and the room was warm. Cutlery tinkled on china. Plates were removed, new plates were brought. The servants moved about the dining room like ghosts, and the gas lamps flared and flickered, throwing sudden illumination upon the portrait of Noah which hung on the wall over the mantel. A nimbus of gloom seemed to surround Julius’ empty chair. I can only guess what was passing through Noah’s mind. Perhaps he had been expecting to hear that the girl had broken Julius’ heart, and then he might predict that for a few days the boy would be disconsolate, but within a week or so would be his old self once more, having forgotten her entirely. But this sudden disappearance, what did it mean?

  After dinner he retired to his library, and a little later rang for his butler, an Englishman called Quentin. Quentin was dispatched with a message and within an hour Rinder was with Noah. The two men stayed there until a late hour. Hester and Sarah heard voices raised, and crept as far up the stairs as they dared but were not able to make out what the two men were saying.

  Julius returned home very late that night and everyone was in bed except Quentin, who let the boy in through the basement door. He was in a state of utter mental turmoil and unable to say where he had been. Quentin later said that as the boy drank a cup of hot chocolate at the servants’ table in the basement he told the butler he had been out looking for his mother. Quentin, tactful fellow that he was, assumed—correctly, I believe—that Annie’s disappearance had inadvertently awoken a deep sorrow of his early childhood grief and he had confused it with the death of his mother. Quentin took the sobbing boy upstairs and got him undressed and into bed without disturbing any of the family.

  The next day Julius came down to breakfast in his nightshirt, wild-eyed and incoherent. He seemed to have no idea where he was, nor who his father and sisters were. He stood in the dining room beneath his father’s portrait shouting that the two
boats must be taken off the back of the wagon and put in the water. It made no sense to any of them, and the doctor was called. Quentin took him back up to his room, the butler being the only member of the household now to whom Julius would listen. As regards the two boats, I think that in Julius’ disordered mind they represented coffins. He believed that Annie Kelly was dead, and that she would therefore require a “boat” for her last voyage. Not hard to see why he should have dreamed of boats, given his presence on South Street the previous afternoon. As for the second boat, I can only assume that he meant it for himself.

  The doctor was not greatly alarmed. He sedated the boy with some opiated preparation of his own devising, then told Noah that his son was suffering from acute nervous exhaustion, the inciting agent being a sudden intense shock related to the disappearance of a young woman of whom he had become fond.

  —Seem a healthy thing to you? said the doctor.

  —I did not like it at all, said Noah.

  —He’s young. He’ll get over it.

  Noah gave the doctor a cigar and showed him out himself.

  All that day Julius lay in his room in a state of stupor induced by the drug he had been given. His sisters sent word to Charlotte that their brother was ill. Charlotte was at Waverley Place within the hour. The three sisters embraced tenderly at the front door then hurried upstairs. Charlotte tapped at the door and without waiting marched in.

  Julius was asleep. A young housemaid sat beside the bed with a basin and a damp cloth. He turned from side to side, muttering, and every few seconds cried out incoherently, and no sense could be made of any of it. The shock he had suffered was apparently being exacerbated by the medicine he had been given. Had that been all, the sisters would have drawn the same conclusion as the doctor: nervous exhaustion brought on by shock.