Turpentine

by Spring Warren

  Curly watched her happily. “Go ’head, she’s just the prettiest thing!”

  She smiled at him. “You are sweet.” She kissed the top of his head, then gazed at me. “Well?”

  “Get out.”

  She shrugged and held out her hand. Curly reached under the pillow and gave her the bill he drew out.

  “Five dollars?” I was incredulous.

  Sapphire tucked it into her bodice and hurried from the room, as if she could tell I was contemplating wresting it from her grip.

  I pointed at the closed door. “We’re broke and you gave her five dollars?”

  Curly nodded sleepily and lay back down. “Shoulda tried her. She’s so nice. Warm and softish. Wish I had a fiver every day.” He sighed. “I’d give it to her just to fall asleep on her bosoms.”

  “Is that all? You just slept?”

  He grinned, his eyes closed. “Whatta waste that woulda been.”

  I was in over my head. If we judged by experience, Curly should have adopted me. Even the prostitute could see it. I shook my head. The act notwithstanding, how had Curly got hold of five dollars? Did I want to know? The tide just kept pouring in, and I couldn’t take a breath. I grabbed my coat. Curly sat upright. “Wait, I’ll go with ya.”

  “I don’t want you with me.”

  He began putting his pants on nonetheless. “What’re we doin’ today, Ned?”

  “We’re not doing anything. Go back to sleep.”

  “I’m not really tired.”

  I slammed the door behind me. He yelled, “Wait up!” He opened the door, one boot on, one in hand, his shirt in his teeth. I took off at a jog. Curly shrieked, “Ned!”

  I stopped. Curly caught up, one foot still bare and muddy. He dropped the boot and stuck his arms in his shirt, panting. “Hol’ on, left my coat, gotta go back, jus’ wait, ’kay, Ned? Jus’ wait?”

  I put out my hand to steady him while he put his other boot on. “Curly, I don’t want you with me. Stay here, go somewhere else, I don’t care. Just don’t follow me.”

  “Well, sure, if you want. Maybe we can meet somewhere.” He brightened. “I know where I can get a pie. I’ll bring a pie.”

  “How are you going to get a pie? You spent five dollars on the whore. Do you have more money, Curly?”

  “Nah, not right now.”

  “I don’t want a stolen pie, Curly. I don’t want a stolen dollar.”

  Curly shrugged. “We gotta eat, Ned. Mother won’t notice one less pie.”

  “You would steal from Mother?”

  “Look at ’er, Ned,” Curly protested. “It’s a service to keep her from it!”

  I couldn’t help myself and laughed at his reasoning, then sobered. “If she found out you stole a pie it would hurt her, Curly.”

  “Nah, nah, wouldn’t.”

  “It would.”

  Curly looked suddenly worried and perhaps even sorry. I took pity on him.

  “You can meet me later, without the pie, on the green, at—” I felt my pocket, then another. “Where’s my watch, Curly?”

  He looked uneasy. “It’s safe, Ned. Don’ worry.”

  I grabbed his shoulders. “Where’s my watch?”

  He smiled at me. “I borrowed it, but I kin get it back.”

  I shook him. “I’m asking you one more time. Where’s my watch?”

  “Pawned it for the five dollars. I’ll get it back, Ned. Easy. That’s what pawning is.”

  “That’s my father’s watch. It’s all I have, you little guttersnipe!” I spun away and balled my fists. The last tie I had with Edward Turrentine Bayard, the only proof of who I was, the only picture I had to look at to get back to him, gone. The filament snapped. I was well and truly hopelessly adrift. I snatched off Tilfert’s hat and shouted into the sky, “God damn you! Phaegin was right. All I’ve had is bad luck since I met you.” I wanted to smack him, flatten him. Instead I walked away.

  He followed. “I promise I’ll get it back. Somebody’s got some work for me, said big pay. I shoulda done it afore, but I can get it yet, maybe tomorrow or the day after. I promise.”

  He put out his hand and touched my jacket. I spun and took hold of the front of his shirt, which hung unbuttoned on his skinny white chest. I spoke close to his snub nose and worried grin. “Get—away—from—me. We are no longer associates.” I shoved him, he fell into the street, and except for a small “Ned?,” he did nothing but watch me leave.

  CHAPTER 23

  Curly didn’t show at Pete and Sean’s that night. He wasn’t in his nest of blankets the next morning. By afternoon I was swinging from furious to terrified.

  Pete shrugged. “He probably found that whore again. Paid her enough for a solid week.”

  I walked around downtown and didn’t see him. Asked around the nickel dump, searched for both Sapphire and Curly. Curly was nowhere to be seen, but I found Sapphire by the train station.

  She sashayed over. “Little fella tell you what you was missing, cowboy?”

  “He’s missing. Have you seen him?”

  She looked worried. “No, hope he’s all right, though. That night I was with him, he jus’ curled up like a little kitten after he finished. Usually I won’t stay over, but he was just so cuddle-some I wanted to play house with that one.”

  I went to Mother’s and asked if a pie went missing. She said not, tut-tutted over Curly, gave me a sandwich, and told me it was for the best, that boy going his own bad way. She patted my arm and smiled. “I know what’ll cheer you. Another letter arrived from that girl in Nebraska, and a feller stopped by with a paper for you.” She waddled out and returned with a letter from Lill that I put in my pocket to read later. The paper was pale brown and crackling, as if it had been toasted over a flame. I opened it and found an accounting of the auction of our house in Cornwall. It brought $32,650, less $800 paid to Cornelius Pierce.

  I sat down. I turned the paper over. It was blank. Where did the money go? Why was the house auctioned at all? Certainly not for an eight-hundred-dollar debt. “Who gave you this?”

  “Youngish man, like you. Wanted to know if Edward Turrentine Bayard the Third was stayin’ here. Took me aback a minit, but then I remembered it were you.” She chuckled. “Turrentine, hoo-la-da!” Mother Fenton noticed I wasn’t in the mood for humor and continued. “Anyhow, fella looked a little mouse-’n-corner, but earnest-like, so I said you’d be by.” She nodded at the paper. “He gave me that and said he were mailing more. Expect a packet tomorrow, he said.”

  “Was the fellow weasel-faced?”

  Mother Fenton nodded.

  It must be the clerk Montgomery Elias had mentioned. Oh, I’d trusted too much and waited too long to take matters into my own hands. That was going to change. I would make a personal visit to Alan and Jamieson immediately and demand a full accounting of my affairs. I’d walk all the way to Danbury if need be.

  I took a deep breath, attempting to stem my impatience. I would wait one more day. I’d be better informed once the packet arrived. Besides, right now I had to find Curly—if I could find him. I had looked almost everywhere. The only places left were terrible possibilities.

  I went to the neighborhood precinct and asked the police captain if they’d picked up a boy. Then, perspiring with dread, I went to the hospital and asked there. They checked both the patient list and the morgue.

  Relieved of some worry, I then figured maybe Curly’d gone back to Scranton. Maybe he’d decided his old hell was better than mine. I hated to think of him in the mines again. The image of him abandoned, eyes aglow as I rose to safety, made me shudder.

  I waited outside the cigar shop for Phaegin. When she saw me she squealed and ran over. “I was going to come by. Look!” She waved a card in her hand. “Chester’s loaning me the money. We sign the papers this afternoon!”

  I nodded. “Congratulations. Have you seen Curly?”

  “Congratulations? That’s it?”

  “Phaegin, Curly’s been gone for two days.”

 
“Well, congratulations to you, is all I can say.”

  I put my hands to my head then waved her off. “Fine. Hope you’ll be very happy in the hat business.”

  She stamped her foot. “I’m sorry the stinking ash cat’s gone. But you know he’s up to no good somewhere. Find trouble and you’ll find him. Or worse, vice versa.”

  “I have to find him.”

  She pointed at me. “You have a problem with wanting to save people who shouldn’t be saved. First that Lill girl, now the guttersnipe.”

  “Yeah, well, I tried to talk you out of prostituting yourself too.”

  “I’m not … don’t do this, Ned.”

  I glared at her a minute, but she looked so hopeful, so happy, I gave in. “Fine. I’m sorry. But help me find Curly. I’ve received some very important information and I’ve got to get to Danbury right away. I can’t go without knowing Curly’s all right.”

  She glanced at the card and smiled before looking up. “All right. I’ll look for one hour. I don’t care if he’s being boiled alive after that. I have to get ready for the bank and nothing’s going to stop me from being on time.”

  As evening came on we searched downtown in a tightening circle. We asked everyone who would look at us if they had seen a skinny red-headed boy wearing a dishcloth around his neck. No one had.

  Phaegin asked me for the time. I shook my head. “I lost my watch.”

  “No. Your father’s?”

  I looked away.

  “It was Curly, wasn’t it? I can’t believe you’re looking for him after he stole your father’s watch.” She shook her head. “I can’t be late.” She grabbed my hand and towed me over to where a crowd had gathered around a fellow giving a speech from the top of a pile of crates. A policeman paced, his billy in hand. Phaegin asked him for the time then told me she had to go.

  “Ten more minutes,” I pleaded. “Phaegin, please.”

  She pursed her lips. “It won’t make a difference. He’s gone, Ned. An’ if he’s in this crowd—” her voice dropped to a whisper “—he’s picking pockets.”

  The green was fair bursting with people. Men carried signs that exhorted workers to unite while others leaned against lampposts or stood, hands in pockets, listening to the speechmaking. About a quarter of the onlookers looked like workers; the rest were business people, investor types, in pressed suits of good fabric and shining shoes. The ranks of police swelled as we searched. The officers looked tense and irate, more interested in breaking up than uniting anything.

  A wagon was pushed into place facing the crate dais. It was draped in bunting with an American flag fluttering from a makeshift pole. A man in a black suit was helped onto the bed and he took off his jacket and began shouting down the other fellows. Several boys handed out flyers. I wished Curly had found such wholesome employment, but Curly was not among them.

  The action picked up. The orators shouted more and more vehemently, a shoving match broke out in the crowd. I couldn’t make out what anyone was saying in the din. I nudged Phaegin. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

  Phaegin glanced up then back at the banker’s card again. “Gun factory works. Owners trying to break a start-up union. Gotta eat the little people all up, deny ’em a decent wage.” Phaegin shouted through the cup of her hands. “Rich pigs!”

  Someone behind us shouted, “Eight-hour days!”

  The man with the bunting shouted something about the threat of socialism, rusting our good society from within. A roar of agreement. A tumult of booing.

  “You’re going to be one of the rich pigs, Phaegin,” I pointed out. “Soon enough you’ll work poor little Irish girls to the bone for pennies, sewing ribbon on hats.”

  She snorted, then grabbed my arm. “There’s your boy.”

  I searched the crowd. “Where?”

  “There. Got somethin’ in ’is hand. Stole it, I’ll bet anythin’.”

  Phaegin pushed her way through the tight knots of people. By the time I got there, she had a hold of his ear and Curly was hissing venom, attempting to hide a curious grapefruit-sized orb under his vest, then holding it at arm’s length from Phaegin’s reach. “Let go of me, you bloody whore!”

  She shook him. “You’re not going nowhere. What are you up to?”

  He looked up and saw me. His eyes got huge. “Ned, get outta here. Take Phaegin, quick. You gotta run, hurry!” He gave Phaegin a mighty kick in the shin. She screamed and all eyes turned our way. She spat “Filthy rotter!” at him as he twisted free. Curly danced away with the orb, screamed, “Run, Ned! Now or never!”

  I shook my head, confused.

  Curly moaned and considered the ball, which was welded from zinc or maybe tin, a bolt protruding from one side to the other, with a length of what looked like candlewick protruding from a hole in the seam. He shook his head, tucked the ball gingerly back into his vest, and shouted, “Forget them, let’s git!”

  By this time we had attracted a great deal of attention. Two policemen were heading our way with some dispatch when I saw, in the gloaming, a little tail of fire quivering overhead. I thought for a split second someone had thrown a cigar, but then heard a hissing sound and figured it for a firecracker or squib tossed by a prankish boy.

  I followed Curly and Phaegin with some haste, hoping the squib might prove a distraction in our favor. When I glanced back to gauge the law’s proximity, a vivid column of fire erupted six to eight feet above the crowd and rained down upon them. As if a thick dark sheet was then thrown over the world, nothing was visible for a blink. Then an entire wave of people shrank to the ground, followed by a deafening roar and a screech of breaching wood. I was hit by what felt like a giant’s fist, lofted backward some fifteen feet into the people behind me.

  The horrible din was shadowed by uncanny silence. I could see a wheel in the air. The wagon from which the suited man had been shouting dispersed as if made of paper. All around, flitting through gauzy smoke, hovered bits and pieces of wood and brick and what else I could not think about.

  I dumbly surveyed the scene confused by the silence, all those mouths open with no voice, rubble falling quiet as feathers, animals flailing with no scuff or breath. I cupped my ears, and like an oncoming train the sound returned: a hum rising to terrible volume. There came the horrendous shriek of horses, screams of terror, agonized moans. A chimney collapsed amid shouts of warning, followed by the clatter and thud of masonry on slate and sod.

  I looked at my hands. They were covered with blood. I found it was not mine, but the gentleman’s on whom I’d fallen. A piece of debris had been shot through his neck, leaving a hole the size of a silver dollar. I could see the carotid artery pulse, and I hastened to stanch his wound with my jacket, but his eyes were already dull and unseeing.

  In horror, I began shouting for Phaegin, for Curly, but doubted they would hear me as the riot of screaming and crying was considerable. I searched through the haze, terrified I would recognize them among the terribly wounded and dead. One man sat staring at his foot, still in a shiny patent wingtip, which hung by a mere shred of skin to his ankle. Another was crawling along the ground, shouting for help. A woman cradled her sobbing husband in her arms. The closer to the wagons, the less the victims resembled humans than ghastly meat, and I turned from the sight. An old man pulled out a Bible and began reading from it. Policemen whistled for help.

  With relief that made my eyes run and stomach clench I saw Phaegin pulling Curly to his feet. Their faces were dark with smoke and dust, Phaegin’s lip was split, and Curly had a bleeding scrape across his cheek, but they were otherwise unscathed. We clutched each other for a moment, but Curly whispered, “We need hightail it outta here.”

  A man whose dusty gray suit had been ripped by a piece of flying debris stood unsteadily staring at us, mouth agape. He pulled his jacket aside to stare at a six-inch piece of shingle that protruded from his side, then considered us once again. I went to him at once, shouting, “Help! This man needs help!” Phaegin took his elbow. The policem
an who’d given Phaegin the time came running.

  The injured man did not take his eyes off Curly. When the policeman was near, the man gasped, “I am Cyrus Wright, president of Wright Steelworks.” He lifted a shaking arm to point at Curly. “He did it, officer, I saw it. He did it. Had a bomb and some woman”—he looked right and left at Phaegin and me—“it was her.” He struggled free of us and shouted again, “Those three! Anarchists!”

  The officer turned toward Phaegin as she shook her head. “No.”

  The man looked at the piece of bloody wood in his side and the red stain that grew down his white shirt and darkened his trousers. He hissed, “Murderers! They’ve killed me!” and fell over.

  Curly took advantage of the collapse, ducking into the crowd while shouting, “Ned, save yer skin!”

  The policeman immediately grabbed Phaegin. She was still shaking her head, protesting, “No, not me! Not me!”

  I took hold of her waist. “Let her go, she didn’t do anything!”

  Phaegin was struggling hard now. The policeman pulled out his gun and pointed it at my head. “Haul up, or I’ll shoot you both.”

  Phaegin and I froze.

  There was a bloodcurdling scream, louder than any of the others. Curly launched himself at the policeman in a whirlwind of arms, legs, and wild orange hair, knocking the gun from the man’s grasp. The policeman swore, swung the billy from his belt, and struck Curly across the skull. Curly fell, picked himself up, kicked the officer in the groin, and when the man doubled over the three of us fled through the smoke and the fallen.

  CHAPTER 24

  We returned to Pete and Sean’s. Curly placed the tin orb on the table. Phaegin sobbed in the corner. I went to her, but when I put my hand on her shoulder she swung around and almost bloodied my nose.

  Pete and Sean looked alarmed, shuffling their big feet back and forth on the wood floor. “Wot’s she goin’ on about? Did that Chester give her the heave? Wot’s wrong?” Pete picked up the tin ball and tossed it idly into the air.