Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  Once curbside, he handed Esmerelda the pail and two dollars, half the money owed. At first she was livid, then intrigued when Oscar said, “Agents, girl. They get fifty percent of your earnings. If I’m yours, that much is mine. Do we have a deal?”

  Since then, Oscar Bodette had defined himself as many things: representative, companion, mentor, and protector. Her Fagin, at times. He played this role now, neatly settling the argument, naturally in his troupe’s favor. With tempers calmed, Oscar returned to Esmerelda’s frozen pose. She smiled. He didn’t, repeating his earlier question. “So what is it you want, Esmerelda? I need to know.”

  “Why do you suddenly need to know?”

  “Because there’s a storm coming.”

  She looked up at the glow of a giant moon, the sweeping gown of black sky trimmed in stars.

  “Not that sort of storm. Don’t be as daft as Cora.”

  She sobered and stood straighter.

  “A collision of circumstance that will end in a lot of American blood.” He bent down and picked up a small American flag, a casualty from a march held earlier that day.

  A year ago, people were flat-out against getting involved in the war in Europe. Sentiment had changed. A growing wave of support carried through the air and bellowed from podium speeches. America needed to protect itself, and that meant helping the French escape the Germans.

  “Two swirling storms, if I’m right,” Oscar said, spearing her attention. “The first has to do with a great war and Mr. Wilson’s growing army.”

  “I know. I’ve seen. Cora and I went to the pier one Sunday.”

  “Good. Then let me add to what you’ve witnessed. Most soldiers won’t come back.”

  She knotted her brow, having thought of men being sent to fight the enemy. Esmerelda hadn’t considered American men and boys dying, not really.

  “In that kind of situation,” Oscar said, “people make impulsive choices. Heading into hell and glory, they’ll want hope and promise waiting for them, should they make it back.”

  She wasn’t sure she followed. Oscar twirled the flag until its colors spun like a pinwheel’s.

  “I don’t want you making choices because of a war.” The way Oscar looked at her, it sent a prickle up the black buttons on the back of Esmerelda’s dress. “I got a taste of it . . . war. Siege on Santiago, San Juan Hill.”

  “You were in the Spanish-American War?”

  He looked surprised. “I forget, Esmerelda. Not only do you sing better than most, you’ve got a hardworking mind.” He tapped the flag to her forehead, and a great flash of Oscar’s rare smile followed. “My point is this: I’ve drawn a sword in a small war, killed the enemy.”

  Esmerelda reconsidered Oscar, another facet of a complex man.

  “It’s spit in that ocean”—he pointed east, the direction of the beach—“compared to the one we’ve entered.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “Collision of circumstance,” he said, repeating the phrase. “A few days ago, Benjamin Hupp came to me. The seasons are about to change, more than trading food for whiskey and blankets. Hupp offered to get you billing at the Palace—entire winter, if that’s what you want.”

  She backed up a step. “The Palace?” It was the grandest of all New York stages, an unrealistic venue for Oscar’s Traveling Extravaganza. In winter months, troupes like theirs headed south to steadier work and reliable outdoor accommodations.

  “He has that sort of . . . power, Esmerelda. But also know, Hupp is a hard read. And I’m good at reading most types.”

  “Oscar, a moment ago you were talking about war. What in the world does that have to do with Benjamin Hupp and me singing at the Palace?”

  “More than you think. Like I said, with war comes fast choices, and not just ones about taking the life standing opposed.” He inched into the circular light of a streetlamp. “What concerns me about Hupp is I don’t know what truly makes him tick. He pays regular and without argument. He’s acted like the gentleman he’s supposed to be.” Oscar hesitated.

  “What is it you’re not saying?”

  “Things I have no proof of, just a story I heard. And mind you, people will tell stories about folks they envy. This one went that Hupp took a shine to a comely German girl—a housemaid of sorts. She was beholden to the Hupps for her sponsorship.”

  “Ingrid.”

  Oscar raised a bushy brow. “So you know of her?”

  “Benjamin mentions her now and again.” She shrugged. “He speaks fondly of her. Never says an unkind word.”

  “The story goes that the girl went back to Germany.”

  “So?”

  “So I find it strange that a girl makes her way to the States in search of a new life. Then she leaves to return to war-torn Europe. What kind of sense does it make?”

  “Perhaps she had family she needed to take care of.”

  “Actually, I heard it was a suitor who’d asked her to come home.”

  “There’s your answer.” Esmerelda smiled at him. “What’s strange about that? If she was unhappy, maybe Benjamin was only being generous. You see how generous he’s been toward me.”

  “Yes. I do.” He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck, pursed his full mouth. “’Course I hadn’t thought of it that way. It could very well be.” He bumped a finger under Esmerelda’s chin. “But think about this, Esmerelda. You’re a pretty girl with a voice that’d make a songbird turn pea green. You’re also one of us. Well, at least you are now.”

  “I like being one of you.”

  “Where you came from, I’ve always supposed it looks nothing like this.”

  She’d underestimated him. Esmerelda assumed Oscar had never considered her life prior to their paths crossing in Saratoga. Oscar was many things, but confessor wasn’t one of them. Esmerelda might have told him about the lovely house she’d left and the good education she’d known—a high school graduate. But then she’d have to explain why she’d severed such a life. It was too humiliating.

  “Vaudevillians,” Oscar was saying, “we live differently. Keep that in mind when it comes to Hupp. They’ll pay decent money to enjoy our talents. Most wouldn’t stand on the same street corner. Am I making sense?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re like the blacks and the gypsies, people with thick accents and empty pockets. People who live in the tenements or worse, Hell’s Kitchen. We don’t mix with Hupp or his lot. Not beyond the German maids they hire, or the fellow who shovels the shit in their horse stalls.”

  “Yes, but I’ve never given Benjamin the idea—”

  Oscar held up his hand and she quieted. “You’ve not dismissed him, though. You’ve not walked out on his offer to sing or declined a fine hotel room with a water closet.”

  “Why would I do that? It’s business, Oscar. That was the agreement.”

  “And I’m telling you the time for living under that assumption has passed—war will heighten a man’s willingness to grab for what he wants. All I’m sayin’—and God help me, it’s not because I favor the other riffraff that’s got an eye for you—”

  “Don’t talk about Phin like that! You don’t know him.”

  “My point, exactly. I’ve said disparaging things about Benjamin Hupp while we’re standing here. You’ve not come to his defense, not beyond his kind words about another pretty girl. When Hupp comes to you with the Palace offer, be sure what you’re willing to trade for it.” He headed for his troupe, saying over his shoulder, “It’s not just business.”

  Esmerelda turned to the spigot and canteens; she twisted back toward Oscar. His caveat rang in her head, though it was a nickname she heard: “Esme . . .” It wasn’t Phin’s voice, but a heavy Native American drawl.

  “Hassan?” she called out. A figure stepped into the streetlamp’s glow. “What are you doing here?”

  “I come to find you. Phin said not to, last week . . . even last night. But I don’t think he’ll be here tomorrow, so I thought I should do it.”

>   “What do you mean he won’t be here tomorrow?” She thought of the draft and Oscar’s talk of bloody war. “Is that why I haven’t seen him in more than a week?” She dropped the canteen. “Don’t tell me he’s already left to join the army!”

  Hassan shook his head. “No . . . no war yet for us—not yet. But Phin, he won’t make it to a war.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I think he’s going to die tonight.”

  ACT III, SCENE II

  She gripped Hassan’s arm and said, “Take me to Phin. Now.” Esmerelda left Stillwell Avenue so quickly Oscar had no chance to object, nor Cora to ask where she was going.

  With the slickness of a magician, Hassan snuck them onto a trolley car. Then another, after they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. He moved her through avenues that turned to dirt. As they burrowed farther into the streets, the city Esmerelda knew vanished. The people changed. A common mix of classes petered off to one—something beyond destitute. Dwellings grew seedier, and metal sheathing served as shelters. From those, moans and vile smells rivaled the combination of despair and open sewers. The ground beneath her feet was slippery, and every so often a hand would thrust upward, grabbing at her skirt. It might have been hell, but she guessed this was just Hell’s Kitchen. Esmerelda’s breath rattled, strained and fearful. Hassan’s arm clamped around hers, pulling and shouting Indian words that did not sound like any foreign language she knew.

  This New York City made Flatland squatters look like guests in fine accommodations. She and Hassan scooted past a doorway where a man, framed by the moon, stood with his trousers around his ankles. Pinched between him and the building was a woman who screamed.

  “Hassan, shouldn’t we—” Horrified, Esmerelda gawked until she tripped. She fell flat onto the slimy street.

  Hassan gathered her up, and she faced forward, dabbing at a bloody scrape to her chin. A man lay motionless to her left, his pockets being picked, his shoes ripped from his feet. Hassan tightened his hand around Esmerelda’s, pulling her along. “If he doesn’t die, Phin will kill me.” It was the clearest English she’d ever heard from him.

  “Why is that?”

  They stopped. Hassan turned, his black eyes glistening. “For bringing you here.” He tugged again, turning them down a narrow passageway darker than the night.

  All Esmerelda’s common sense had dropped to her feet. She knew this because they’d quit moving. What did she really know about Phin, other than two conflicting points: he could paint and he ran with a raping gang of hoodlums. The things in between were unknowns. Their association had been fanciful meetings on busy uptown streets, moments twinkling in Luna Park lights. Her heart pounded in her ears, outside her chest. “Wait.”

  “But he’s right here. We have a room in the back of the butcher shop.”

  “The butcher shop?” Her trembling fingers moved across her forehead. Splendid . . . a place equipped with knives . . . But the streets they’d passed through, Esmerelda would be a fool to go back alone. One step into the alley and Hassan was invisible. Only touch said he was there. “You haven’t told me. Why is he dying? Is Phin injured? Did he get hurt in this place?”

  “No. Phin, he’s too quick, too much of a fighter for these gutter rats. This is sickness. I’ve seen it in my tribe. It can take you, even someone like Phin.”

  Esmerelda didn’t need to hear any more. She damned the little she knew and moved forward.

  Mortality . . . the word filled Esmerelda’s mind as she entered a constricted room, dank as it was disturbing. Two oil lanterns cast light, enhanced by the moon. On a cot lay Phin—although she knew this only because Hassan had told her as much. His tall frame was balled up in a knot of sweat. He shook so hard the cot moved like it sat on an earthquake. He opened an eye as the door closed, Hassan sliding a slat of wood across it.

  “Good,” Hassan said. “You’re not dead yet.”

  Esmerelda’s skirt swished as she turned sharply toward Hassan’s chilling claim.

  “He was too weak to lock the door. You see now other things that could get to him before we did.”

  “Influenza.” Esmerelda moved toward Phin, though it was only a few feet that separated him from the door.

  “Don’t,” he said hoarsely, managing to hold up a shaking hand. “Hassan . . . if I live, I’m going to fucking kill you. I told you not to . . .” A sputtering cough ended his threat.

  “No. Hassan was right to come find me.” Esmerelda tossed her shawl onto the other cot. A fast glance inventoried the space: a tiny potbelly stove, dirt floor, wooden table, and in the corner, paints and an easel. “I can’t catch it, the influenza.” Phin’s white, sweaty face looked doubtfully into hers. Hassan asked why. “My mother. She had influenza. If I didn’t come down with it after her, I can’t catch it. Even the doctor told me that.”

  Phin shook harder, asking in stuttered speech, “How . . . how did she do? Your mother.”

  “Not as well as Charlie Carlisle.” It was a quick reply, Esmerelda avoiding vivid images of her mother’s death. She didn’t think she could do it again, watch someone she cared for die. She touched him. Esmerelda had thought of doing this, but hadn’t thought her first impression would be fire. His head felt hotter than her mother’s ever had. She put on her best stage face. “Look at me.” Tiny creases of eyes fluttered, a glimpse of blue-gray clouds. She’d be damned if they led to heaven. “Hassan!” Esmerelda spun toward him. “Find me some clean water and rags. When was the last time he ate or drank something? How long has he been like this?” Phin had no time for a language barrier. “And answer in words I can understand.” For the most part, he did.

  There was a small stool, and she pulled it to the side of the cot. She gagged on the butcher’s shop air, which was saturated with the stench of carcasses and blood. Esmerelda tried not to see this as a foretelling. She pressed her fingertips to her head, recalling homemade treatments. “Cinnamon,” she said to Hassan. “Do you think you can get me some cinnamon and milk? It will help the fever.” She went on to tell the Indian to steal what he couldn’t find and to be quick about it. He left, and Esmerelda went to work tending to Phin, who drifted in and out of consciousness. She paid attention to his wheezing breaths—that they were there—and wiped the bloody foam that dribbled over his lips.

  Time drifted into something other than the space between sunrise and its setting. It moved past the moment a pocket watch might keep. Time became the moments that lived on Phin’s shallow breaths. After each one, Esmerelda prayed hard for another. She assigned Hassan the task of keeping Phin’s condition from the butcher. People would panic, and rightfully so. If the butcher knew influenza lurked in his back room, he’d toss Phin into the street. The day noises never stopped, and this was a good thing, whether it was the mayhem outside the shanty door or the butcher and his loud lot of customers.

  Again and again, Phin’s meager words were scratchy pleas for Esmerelda to leave. Eventually, her determination defeated his exhaustion. She placed cool cloths on his head and dribbled broth, stolen from butcher bones, down his throat. Hassan did manage to procure the cinnamon and milk. Esmerelda couldn’t be certain it helped, but his head didn’t get any hotter. Naturally, she considered medical aid, but a doctor would only sound another alarm. None would make a house call to this place. The only accessible doctors would be at Bellevue, the murky public hospital for the poor and insane. They’d only be happy to help him die.

  After two days, Phin’s body rattled with a sharp cough. She’d fallen asleep in the dim wedge of lantern light, curled on the floor beside him. Her head lay crooked in the belly of the cot, between Phin and its hard edge. She felt fingers move through her matted hair. Esmerelda lifted her head and blinked into daylight. He coughed again. It was a positive sign: the cough came with a strong breath, and even sputtering droplets of blood were a welcome thing. This was the most life she’d seen in days. Phin looked clearly into her eyes, the glassiness of his gone. For a moment, Esmerelda panicked, thinking h
e’d floated from this life and was simply smiling at her from the next. She had to touch his face, assure herself it was all real.

  His creaky words moored them to Hell’s Kitchen. “You’re still here.”

  “Well, it wasn’t as if I could leave you to the likes of Hassan.” She glanced over her shoulder. He was gone now, his presence sporadic, or Esmerelda hadn’t kept track. She shook her foggy head. After days and nights pinned to Phin’s side, she was her own wobbly mess of exhaustion. But looking at him, all she felt was grateful. For the first time, sweat didn’t cover Phin’s brow. His face didn’t feel like a lit stove. “You’re awake—looking like you might stay that way.”

  He managed the smallest smile. “You mean alive.”

  He tried to raise himself up. It took no more than the faint pressure from Esmerelda’s arms to get him to lie back.

  “I wanted you to go.”

  “And I wanted to stay. Since it seems you’ll be doing the same thing . . .” She blinked at wet lashes. “Staying around, that is . . . how about we get more than a few spoonfuls of broth into you? I’d wager you’ve lost ten pounds.”

  He nodded softly, his head sinking back onto the dirty cot. But the light was good, and so was the rise and fall of his chest. Phin Seaborn was alive, and this made her happy.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Long Island

  Present Day

  A crease of light cut like jagged glass. Pete’s head pounded and a guttural noise rose from his throat. He wiped his hand over bleary eyes and tried to focus. He’d once woken up in a spider hole in Kabul, cramped and camped with six marines. The ground above had swarmed with a Taliban insurgence. He hadn’t felt this alarmed or disoriented. The horizon was lower than his body, and he saw sky and water meet. He groaned, thinking he might vomit. But where and onto what? He held up a hand, shielding sharp rays. Blinking, he glanced around. A truck. He was sitting in a truck. Weathered leather seats, the antiquated dash, numerous gearshifts.