Homeland

by John Jakes

  He’d hardly slept last night, rolling around in his bed at a cheap hotel. Shaving, he’d nicked himself twice with his straight razor and stanched the blood only after heavy applications of styptic. His hair was pomaded, his cheeks were lightly powdered, and his heart was pounding like hell.

  When he rang the bell, multiple chimes sounded inside. He was admitted by an English butler, who took his card.

  He waited beneath a glittering chandelier. Directly in front of him rose a mammoth staircase. At the first landing, where it divided, multicolored light streamed in through stained glass. In a matter of a minute or two, he counted seven other servants running about. He was awed by the opulence. Also shamelessly jealous.

  The butler returned. He ushered Shadow to a large corner sunroom and said Mr. and Mrs. Edison would join him shortly.

  The room was hot; many large windows let in the sun. Large and small green plants in clay pots crowded all but the very center of the room. When Shadow sat down in one of several comfortable chairs, he was startled by a pair of eyes regarding him malevolently. The eyes were glass, in the stuffed head of a ranged tiger whose skin had been stretched for a rug. With the toe of his boot Shadow pushed the head to one side so that the tiger was looking at something else.

  A maid came in rolling an elaborate wooden tea cart with a silver service and bone china cups. She lifted a silver dome to show him a plate of tiny sandwiches with the crust trimmed from the bread and invited him to help himself. Before she left, she straightened the rug. The tiger was staring again.

  The Edisons kept him waiting only a few minutes. Mrs. Edison came in first. She was a pleasant, stout woman of middle years who shook his hand firmly and said, “Hello, Colonel, I am Mina Edison. This is my husband Thomas.”

  And there he was, the famous Wizard with the rumpled suit, familiar white hair, and pug-dog face. Shadow’s hand shot out as if propelled by a piston.

  “An honor, sir. If I might say—the greatest honor of my life.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Edison said diffidently; no doubt he’d heard it thousands of times during his fifty years. “Please sit.” He had a loud, raspy voice.

  Mrs. Edison took a chair between Shadow and her husband. “Tea, Colonel? We import it from London.”

  “Very fine, thank you,” said Shadow; he hated the stuff.

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “Any way you want to fix it, ma’am.” Mrs. Edison gave him a puzzled look, then added a dollop of milk and a half teaspoon of sugar. “I hope this is satisfactory.”

  Shadow sipped the nauseating drink. “Ambrosia.” He didn’t know how he’d choke down the rest.

  Abruptly, Edison said, “Mina will sit with us in case I have trouble hearing or understanding you.” Every American who could read knew the story of Edison’s deafness. As an enterprising boy of twelve, a regular little Horatio Alger type, he was a candy butcher on Grand Trunk Railway trains shuttling around Michigan. One day he was trying to reboard a train with a stack of papers to sell in the aisles along with his candy, peanuts, and other oddments. The train was departing. He had no hand free. He yelled for help. From the platform of the last car a conductor pulled him aboard. By the ears. Soon he was suffering headaches. Then came a slight deafness, which gradually increased, though as Shadow understood it, Edison still had partial hearing. At least he didn’t walk around waving a damn ear trumpet.

  Edison laced his hands and rested them on his dark gray vest. He had a slight paunch. The suit he wore was fine goods. “You may be perfectly candid in Mina’s presence,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I am a plain man, Colonel. I was born in one plain town, Milan, Ohio, and raised in another, Port Huron, Michigan. My father was a plain man also. He manufactured shingles. Later he sold grain and feed. My education was received at my mother’s knee, and at the reading tables of the Detroit Public Library, between trains. As a lad, my best friends were telegraph operators and railway conductors. Plainness—plainness everywhere. It prevails in my life today. I have my work, my wife and six children, my reading, an occasional walk in the woods. All I need. Here too, we live plainly.”

  Oh yes? Shadow thought. I wish I lived in a palace this “plain,” you fucking fraud.

  Edison sipped a little tea from the cup Mina handed him. “I will be plain while speaking with you, Colonel.”

  “Delighted, sir. It’s always the best way.”

  “You may not think so when you hear my message.”

  Shadow sat absolutely still.

  “Mina, I can hear him adequately. You may leave us. Please thank Cook for the refreshments.”

  She bowed out without a word. Double doors were rolled shut. Shadow felt compelled to seize the initiative, otherwise he might be sitting here till dark. “Your letter mentioned business, sir. Is it about the flickers I produce? Have you by chance seen them?”

  “I have not. I have heard about them.” Edison’s face and rough voice revealed nothing. “I invited you here for a friendly discussion of the picture business in general. Are you a rich man, Colonel?”

  Startled, Shadow said, “Not yet, sir. But I have hopes.”

  For the first time Edison smiled.

  “Well, if you continue to use elements of my designs in your projectors, you can forget your hopes, because the American National Luxograph Company will cease to exist.” From an inner coat pocket he whipped out a blue-covered document. “I present you with a complaint which will be filed in the federal court. I am suing you, your partners, distributors, employees, heirs and assigns, on fourteen counts of infringement of the patents of the Edison Manufacturing Company.”

  Shadow sat there with his mouth open as wide as the stuffed tiger’s.

  “You stole my designs, Colonel. The designs on which I collaborated with Mr. Thomas Armat.”

  “No, no, Mr. Edison! I don’t know Armat. I consulted with his partner Charlie Jenkins, that’s all.”

  “Consulted? And he allowed you to become privy to every last detail of his work? Somehow I doubt that, sir. However, the particulars of your thievery don’t concern me, only the result. I have entered into a business arrangement with Thomas Armat, who is, as you say, the partner of Mr. Jenkins. Therefore you have stolen from Armat, from me, and from the Edison companies.”

  Shadow had a sudden and painful urge to go to the toilet. He turned the brim of his sombrero rapidly in his hands. “You really mean to take me to court?”

  “Yes, and you’ll be left with nothing, my lawyers will see to it. They have wiped out stronger men than you. You shouldn’t have threatened my position of leadership in a prestigious and expanding field.”

  “For God’s sake, sir, can’t we settle this some other way?”

  For the second time, Edison smiled.

  “Why, yes, of course we can. That’s why I invited you to discuss matters in person. We can settle it out of court if you agree to pay me a royalty on every projector you sell or lease, and every cent you take in from your films. These amounts will be subject to verification by my auditors. I will have the absolute right to examine your books at any time. Shall we get out our pencils and do some figuring, like gentlemen?”

  Shadow mumbled, “I don’t have a pencil.”

  Edison reached to another inside pocket. “Here. I always carry two at meetings like this.”

  The light waned and the shadows of the potted plants grew long. They negotiated for over two hours. Shadow felt he would have a terrible accident if he didn’t get to the water closet soon. Mercifully, Edison said:

  “We’re finished. Thank you, sir. My attorneys will draw the necessary papers for signature.”

  Shadow jumped to his feet; a mistake which severely agitated his bloated bladder. “You’re a hard bargainer, Mr. Edison.”

  “Yes, but this way you’ll stay in business and you’ll prosper. Honesty is always the best policy. When you are dealing with the Edison Manufacturing Company, it is the only policy, because the alternative i
s bankruptcy.”

  He offered his hand. “Thank you for coming so far to see me. We will go forward together. May I say you have an excellent speaking voice, Colonel. Strong and vibrant. Shall I show you out?”

  “I can find my way,” Shadow answered. Glassy-eyed, he staggered to the entrance hall, nearly falling over a large Chinese umbrella jar.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, relative to Mr. Edison as the butler let him out. He ran down the driveway, frantically hunting for a suitable tree.

  “Hardfisted, greedy son of a bitch,” Shadow muttered, this time as he waited for the local at the depot. “And every God damn schoolboy thinks he’s a fucking angel. A kindly old inventor tossing his blessings to the public out of sheer goodness. Jesus.”

  And what a reversal he’d come upon! For years Edison didn’t give a damn about the idea of a flicker projector, and said so. Now you’d think he’d invented the business, just because certain segments of the public would pay to see living pictures. What the Wizard had said and done to him was outrageous. But he wouldn’t interfere with Shadow’s business now, that much was assured.

  Soon Shadow began to smile a little, and then to chuckle. He found himself changing his view of Thomas Alva Edison. The old coot wasn’t so bad. Those involved with flickers always said he was a promoter, and they were right. He knew what he wanted, he fought hard for it, but Shadow would have done the same. He decided he and Mr. Edison were alike. Bandits.

  Except, of course, Mr. Edison was a fucking genius on top of it.

  All those little schoolboys and schoolgirls sighing over pictures of the kindly old inventor leaning his head on his hand would never know the dark side of the truth. Ah, well. Such was life.

  82

  Fritzi

  IN THE LATE SUMMER OF 1897, Fritzi’s parents took her on a trip to New York State. Papa needed to confer with a businessman in White Plains about opening a Crown agency somewhere in Westchester, and Mama and Papa needed to confer with the headmaster of Carl’s school about his poor grades and his football injuries. Not injuries to Carl, but the injuries he inflicted on others when he bucked the line or ran for a touchdown.

  Papa installed them in a suite at a resort hotel on the shore of Long Island Sound, near suburban Larchmont. Fritzi begged off from the first day’s activities. She assured Mama that she’d behave properly, and saw them off in a rented buggy.

  During the morning she sunned herself on the rocks overlooking the Sound. She daydreamed of the magical places and personages hidden in the haze to the southwest. The famous playhouses of New York’s Rialto. The matinee idols.

  Daydreams were Fritzi’s antidote for life in Chicago. She had turned sixteen in January and was still humiliated by a flat bosom. Hardly a day passed that she didn’t think of her older brother, and of Paul. She missed them terribly.

  In Chicago she had only one beau, a young man she tolerated out of supreme desperation. Miles Pilbeam was his name. He attended her church. His “sport” was checkers. He read calculus texts for enjoyment. Her private name for him was Miles Pea Brain.

  Around noon, growing bored, she walked down the shore. The breeze was strong. Waves broke into white water. A few venturesome sailboats pitched steeply into the troughs. She passed a number of run-down residences, then came to a large, rambling white building that reminded her of her own hotel.

  Only one person was sitting on the wide veranda, in a rocker. A tiny elderly woman wearing shiny black silk, and a black shawl, and a black scarf tied under her chin. On a plaid lap robe tucked around her legs lay a closed book. She was rocking and gazing at the Sound.

  Fritzi minded her manners; smiled and nodded to the old lady. Only when she’d walked twenty feet beyond did the shock hit. She turned and rushed back with a wildly beating heart. She crept up the broad sand-scoured steps as if they led to an altar.

  The old lady must have been seventy, or more. But no one who loved the theater could mistake the features, even blurred by age. The strong chin, the popping blue eyes remembered as so lively on stage. Fritzi had read that other famous players called her Duchess, out of respect and fear. She inspired fear now, even though she was just rocking and smiling to herself, perhaps recalling some especially good performance.

  “Ma’am? Excuse me.”

  “Yes, child, what is it?”

  “Beg pardon, aren’t you”—she clutched the porch pillar, fearing she’d swoon—“Mrs. Drew?”

  The old woman was pleased to be recognized. Mrs. John Drew had trod the boards, and managed the Arch Street Theater in Philadelphia, for many years. She was the first woman to operate her own acting company. She was a legend. And here she sat, in Larchmont, small and tired.

  “That’s correct, my dear. Louisa Drew. What’s your name?”

  “Fritzi Crown. Frederica.”

  “Do you live in Larchmont? I live in this hotel. It’s for old people. My family placed me here for my own good when I retired.” She said it without recrimination.

  “I live in Chicago. Oh, but I’ve seen you on stage. I saw your final tour with Mr. Jefferson, in The Rivals.”

  “Joe,” the old woman murmured, smiling. She brushed at her forehead, as if to smooth aside a loose wisp of hair. All of Mrs. Drew’s hair was hidden by her shawl; not a strand showed. She kept brushing.

  Fritzi held fast to the pillar and managed to say, “I want to be an actress. I want it very much.”

  “Is that so? Do you have talent?”

  “I believe I do. Others would have to judge.”

  “But you have the desire.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I don’t know how I should advise you in that regard.” A frail hand indicated the water. It was a perfect stage gesture—minimal, but it fixed Fritzi’s attention, which was its purpose. “Waves and actors. They are so very much alike. They come for a little time, rise to separate heights, and travel with varying speed and force. Then they’re gone, unremembered.”

  Her blue eyes, so bright in her old face, pinned Fritzi like a specimen.

  “Do you appreciate what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And still you’re determined?”

  “Very determined.”

  “Then go forward. It’s a profession full of heartbreak, doubt, and betrayal, but noble withal. There’s no calling to equal it.” She stretched out her hand and touched Fritzi lightly in a sort of benediction. Mrs. Drew’s fingertips felt like dry paper.

  “Bless you in your endeavor.”

  The screen door banged open, propelled by a young man in white flannels. The white line of a part exactly bisected his dark hair. His chin was deeply dimpled, his teeth almost perfect. Fritzi judged him to be her age, or a little less. He didn’t seem like a boy, though. With his satanic good looks, he more closely resembled a roué in a stage melodrama.

  “Mum-mum, are you all right out here? Not too chilly?”

  “No, no, fine,” Mrs. Drew said. The boy fussed and rearranged her shawl, then the plaid lap robe on which lay the forgotten book. “Miss Fritzi, this is my grandson Jack. He’s with me this summer. Jack has done some acting. His mother, my daughter Georgie, is an actress. His father Maurice Barrymore is an actor—”

  “Maurice Barrymore? Oh, I’ve seen him.” Fritzi felt she wouldn’t remain upright and conscious five more seconds. Maurice Barrymore was worshiped by women for his handsomeness and powerful stage presence. This boy, Jack, nearly matched his father; he too inspired woozy thoughts of D’artagnan, moonlight, stolen kisses.

  “Jack, this is Miss Crown. From Chicago.”

  His dark eyes flashed with contempt for so plain a creature. In a bored voice he said, “Charmed.” He picked up Fritzi’s hand and kissed it. Then he went back inside the old people’s hotel.

  Mrs. Drew bid Fritzi good afternoon. If Fritzi’s feet touched the pebbled sandy shore on the walk back, she didn’t remember. Her path was straight ahead, and clear as a May morning after rain.

  Until th
is day, she’d had doubts aplenty. They were strengthened every time Papa spoke in opposition. But suddenly what Papa believed, what he said about actors and the theater, didn’t matter. Joe Junior had left. Cousin Paul had left. If it became necessary—if Papa forced it—she could leave too. After this morning, this magical morning, there was no other course.

  83

  Joe Junior

  HE WORKED HIS WAY west a day, a week, a month at a time. Hard physical labor, outdoors, among ordinary, often illiterate men.

  He wore his beard long again, long and thick as a G.A.R. veteran’s. His skin was dark tanned leather. Between jobs he knew privation, hunger, homelessness. Yet he thrived; the life agreed with him. The majestic land west of the wheat prairie rewarded him with beauties beyond belief. And with repeated discoveries of a truth: the old human wickedness and cupidity hadn’t been left behind by the pioneers.

  His hardest work was within himself, and it was constant. The effort to purge himself of painful feelings of loss and anger; of homesickness, and a desire to punish. Some memories he refused to part with. Memories of Fritzi, whose exuberance seen through the lens of distance was no longer annoying but endearing. Burly Carl, who’d forever be stronger than he knew, and infinitely lovable. Cousin Paul, whom Joe Junior had grown to care for nearly as much as he cared for his brother and sister. Strongest of all was his love for his mother. That was why he kept sending her the little tokens of his pilgrimage with no destination. From Denver he dispatched a small sparkling half of a geode in a sturdy wooden box. The expressman adamantly wanted him to mark his name and address on it; at least a general delivery. Just as adamantly, he refused. She’d know the sender.

  He hiked and hitched rides on boxcars through the Rockies and the Sierra, descending from the latter into the flat Central Valley of California. He thought it remarkably like Illinois, but enhanced by spectacular mountains behind him and lower, gentler ones ahead. Though sparsely settled, the Central Valley seemed a rich place for crops. He learned that little rain fell, except in a short season in winter, but mechanical irrigation systems were coming into use.