Turpentine

by Spring Warren

  Curly yelped, “Cor, it’s winter in here!”

  “Hush! Not a sound!” I hissed into the black cold.

  I imagined Curly was puffing vapor rings, but though I could hear his whooshing breaths, I couldn’t see him in the aphotic car. All was quiet, no shouts or police whistles, only the shriek of the steam siren and the call of the conductor to board. When my eyes grew accustomed to the dim, I discerned hulking forms swinging from the ceiling. Curly backed up against me. “Wot is it? Who are they?”

  The train jerked to a start. “Damn it!” I pushed Curly aside as he gazed at the figures. “We can’t stay here, we’ll freeze to death.”

  I pulled on the door. It was jammed. “Curly, help me!”

  Curly tugged alongside me, but we could not open the door from the inside. I slumped against the wall, then straightened away from the chill of the wet boards. The train picked up speed. We were stuck.

  “What are they?” Curly’s voice shook.

  My eyes adjusted to the dark. “Pigs, Curly. Butchered pigs. We’re in a cold car.”

  “I know it’s cold, how do they do it that way?”

  I walked to a chest from which issued an ongoing fog. “Ice.”

  Curly peered in and shivered. “Don’t like it. All them pigs look so sad.”

  Indeed they did. Hung snout down, the skinned hogs seemed to be reaching their trotters yearningly toward solid earth; dark eyes unseeing, tusks protruding, mouths in a state of perpetual howl, they swayed like synchronized dancers to the train’s movement.

  I laughed to cover up my own discomfort. “You said you wanted meat, Curly, now you’ve got it.”

  “Hit’s not meat if it’s got a face on it.” He crouched down and addressed the animal’s snout. “Hope the end were quick, brother.”

  We huddled together for hours, torpor growing like hoarfrost. My knees ached from the chill, my arms ricked, but worst of all was the worry that we, trapped in twilight winter, would miss the stop.

  I could do little about it. My only recourse was shouting and we could not risk discovery by a false champion. We could only hope that we would be released by some hobo-friendly platform workers before it was too late. I drew the warm nugget of Curly in my arms, and fell into such a sound cold-induced sleep that had the knock not repeated, I might have missed it all together.

  I shook Curly from my grasp and knocked hesitantly back. Phaegin hissed from the other side of the door. “Ned?”

  “Get us out! The door won’t open from the inside!”

  There was a click and I threw my arm over my face as light poured into the refrigerator car. Phaegin demanded, “What are you doing in there?”

  “Freezing to death,” Curly moaned.

  She looked behind her. “Get out and quick. Jig’s up.”

  I could barely unhinge my knees and, along with Curly, more fell than stepped out of the car, and hobbled as quickly as we could manage behind the fleeing Phaegin.

  We hid in the bushes, until the train pulled out of sight. Phaegin sat heavily on her bag, looking morose. She gave a halfhearted wave. “The suited man you saw last stop? Law. Plied me with questions. Didn’t know at first if he was flirting or figuring. Some other fella came up and called ’im sir, got a ball-kickin’ look for it too.” She shook her head miserably. “I think he’s Pinkerton.”

  “A Pinkerton agent?” I tried to sound incredulous. “Looking for us?”

  She glared at me. “Yeah. Lookin’ for us: the cowboy, the harlot, and their bastard son!”

  Curly looked pleased once again, but parsing it out he lost the smile. “Did somebody call me a bastard?” He put his fists up. “I’ve charged teeth for that, I’ll do it again.”

  Phaegin closed her eyes.

  I looked across the top of the bushes to where the station was planted, a derelict sign painted HAMMOND over the door. There was no one around. “Did you see Brill?”

  Phaegin didn’t open her eyes. “How would I know?”

  “You two stay here. I’ll take a look and come back for you.”

  Phaegin nodded. Curly was spread-eagled in a pool of sunshine. “Feel like a snake, jes’ soakin’ up the sun.”

  I wandered to the station and peered in the dusty window. Brill sat on a bench inside, staring at the crumpled hat in his hands. His clothes hung on him. If I didn’t know him I’d think he was a hobo himself, for his pants were dusty and ill-kempt, his shirt stained. I opened the door and whispered, “Brill.” I was aghast at how pale he was, the disarray of his hair.

  He rose from the bench and made his way outside as if he was made not of flesh but of some inorganic weight. He put out his hand, and I shook it.

  “Brill, are you poorly?”

  He worked his jaw, his lips twitched, but he seemed unable to speak. I took his arm. He jerked away. “Elizabeth. She’s dead.”

  “What? My God, how?”

  “Hanged herself. A week ago.”

  I didn’t know what to do. What to say. “I’m so—so sorry, Brill. I am so terribly sorry.”

  He nodded. We stared at each other. Brill nodded again. “I got your telegram.”

  “I see. Brill, are you all right?”

  He glowered. “Of course not.”

  “No, idiotic thing to say.” I wished desperately to offer some aid, but I had nothing but sympathy, so I repeated, “I’m sorry. This is unbelievable—”

  Brill cut in, speaking in a monotone. “Truly, she was murdered.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Brill drew his brows. He looked less like my friend and more as if something monstrous was in his skin, eating up what was left of his insides. I guessed at what he was feeling, having married a beloved daughter, delivered her into penury, and watched her wither and die. “Brill, don’t blame yourself. You loved Elizabeth, idolized her. You did your best by her.”

  He smiled shortly. “The best was not enough, not even close. But I don’t count myself among her murderers, Edward. Her parents killed her, as well as her sisters, her peers, neighbors, the class of rich young men she was supposed to marry into, the rich young men’s rich powerful fathers.” He lifted his gaze from his shoes to look me in the face. “Men like you, Edward, supposedly good, generous, intelligent men. You’ve all killed my sweet Elizabeth.”

  “You’re not well, Brill. This has been a terrible shock.”

  “It is a shock. I am not well. But truth does not rely on health.” He continued his mad regard of me. I had to look away, and when I did he laughed. “You believe yourself innocent. Takes not a bit of effort. The privileged don’t have to delude themselves because the poor do even that work for them, building facades for the wealthy.”

  “Brill, it’s terrible to see you like this. What can I do?”

  He laughed hysterically. “How sad. I feel touched, even comforted, perhaps honored you would ask. Just as I was honored by what little kindness you showed me in the past. It must be said, Edward, you are the kindest of the cruel.”

  “I never wished to be cruel.”

  “No holidays, no raises. I scarpered when you rang your bell, ate your leftovers whilst smacking my lips, emptied your bedpan with pride. I walked your dog and, when your dog made me happy, you had it shot. You had a physician on call twenty-four hours a day, but when I sprained my arm, the liveryman bound it. With barely a day’s notice, I was turned out to beg employment.”

  I was horrified. “My mother was to give the dog away, not shoot it.”

  He leered at me. I shouted, “So why did you even come today, if you find me so reprehensible?”

  “To learn if the bomb was indeed your doing.”

  The news had come this far. I shook my head. “Good God, of course not!”

  He clapped his hat on his head. “Then the next time we meet will be in hell, Edward Turrentine Bayard the Third.” Brill took his leave, treading like an old man down the road.

  I sat on the steps to collect myself until I noticed the stationmaster peering out the win
dow at me. I dusted my pants and disguised my upset with a thready whistling. I had no time or energy to spend on dark motives or truth; I had to pull myself together and get my compatriots and myself out of a dire predicament. How, I hoped, would make itself clear as we went. When I got to Phaegin and Curly I clapped my hands and tried to speak cheerfully. “All right, let’s start walking.”

  Phaegin sat up. “What happened to your friend?”

  “Can’t help us, has his own troubles. Chicago’s not far, though. We can get there in no time.”

  “And what do we do there?”

  “I’m going to have to pawn the pistol.”

  Phaegin’s eyes widened. “We’ll be rowlocked, Ned. That fella on the train, by now he’s put it all together. They’ll be watching for that gun, staking out pawnshops.”

  I searched through my bag. “I’ve also got the medal, but I don’t know if it’s worth anything.” I dug it out and gazed at the golden disk. What would Avelina say, the gift she’d given me to make a new start, pawned to flee a murder charge?

  Curly peered at it. “Wot’s on it?”

  I read the inscription aloud. “Medal of honor: Frank O’Hare Junior. Valorous conduct in the face of battle. Chicago Fifth Battalion.”

  Phaegin looked over my shoulder. “Who’s Frank O’Hare Junior?”

  “Avelina’s father. She gave it to me before she died.”

  “Is he still alive? Maybe he’s at home.”

  I shrugged. Avelina didn’t say her dad died, only that he’d deserted her. “No reason to think he’d still be there if he was.”

  “Maybe he’d give you a reward or something.”

  “Something like a kick in the pants. I’m guessing there wasn’t much love lost between them.” I wondered, Did Avelina’s father know his son’s secret?

  Phaegin sat back. “I think you should try. If he’s a hero, he’ll sure enough want the proof of it back. Besides, even if it didn’t go sugar between them, folks still want to hear of their boys.”

  Curly looked somber. “Sure’n they do. My ma would. I’ll send her a letter when I learn to write.”

  There was no other option. If we could find him, I would see Avelina’s father, refer to her as his son, and hope all went well.

  In less than a week we made the city. Right away we decided on a meeting place if we lost each other, for we had a terrible time finding our way through the labyrinthine streets. Chicago was split by rail yards, factories, and the Chicago River, all of these providing a hedge against our attempts to transect the city. We skirted the most impoverished sections but were forced to dive into the filthy tenements, where men, women, and children alike were sick, starving, and soused on the street. The faces were foreign; Italians, Russians, Poles, Chinese, Greeks, Czechs, and Swedes answered in their native tongues when we asked directions.

  Fagged women with garish faces leaned against timber-framed shanties.

  Curly grinned appreciatively. “Sapphire tol’ me she’s goin’ to Chicago. More whores here ’n anywheres else.”

  Phaegin shuddered. “An’ I thought New Haven was bad.”

  The smell was not just bad, it was hideous. Smoke clouded the sky as if the city itself were burning. Black fumes poured from thousands of rusty-necked pipes, jutting out of patched wooden roofs, and from the wide mouths of barrels dotting the roadways, where small groups burned trash for warmth rather than any desire to clean the streets.

  Kitchen waste rotted in the gutters, and ordure reeked from outhouses, the only sewage depositories most of the tenement buildings had. The housing was so cramped on the lots it was near impossible to see any distance down road or any decent piece of sky.

  No gentleman would walk through these streets. Every so often a carriage passed, occupants holding hankies to noses, windows shaded from the sights and smells of the rank slum.

  Street by street, the living improved, scented with trees and soup cooking, the walkways passably clean, plump children played on rope swings. After much wandering we finally broke onto the shores of the commercial center of the city, where if the light was diminished it was by the height and splendor of the buildings or the competing shine of gold leaf and gold watches and the gleaming silks of the rich. It had an eternal air, a scent of omnipotence about it, but just beyond rose the blackened spires from a four mile sea of rubble, remnants of the great fire, reminder all can be lost with a snap of spark. The city was already rebuilding, however, closing the wound with brick and stone. And from the satisfied demeanors of the well-appointed pedestrians we passed, one would never know such horrific tragedy had ever occured. We found Frank O’Hare’s address in the social register at the library. His offices were on Gilmore Street.

  Gilmore Street was a swank avenue, stone buildings flanked with topiary, studded with heavy oak doors on which brass plates announced the business within. Frank O’Hare’s secretary pursed her lips when I told her my name was John Smith, eyed my worn clothes, ready to have me put out, but when I told her I knew Mr. O’Hare’s son, she slipped into the inner office. When she came out, she announced Mr. O’Hare would see me.

  The office was as plush as the facade would have me believe: oak desk, oak shelves, brocade draperies, and a wide wool-tufted carpet. However, Mr. O’Hare, a huge man with a lantern jaw, looked like he’d be more at home on the waterfront.

  He stood and stared at me distrustfully. “You say you know my son?”

  I pulled the medal from my pocket. Mr. O’Hare’s face lost all expression. Slowly he took the medal from me and sat down. “Gone, is he?”

  I nodded. “Ague took him.”

  Mr. O’Hare, in his leather chair, gazed at the gold disk. “Hell. Bloody hell.”

  I waited. When he looked up he asked, “You were his friend?”

  I nodded. “He showed me the ropes, out in Nebraska.”

  He perked up a little. “Went to Nebraska, did he? Had grit. Always had grit.” He half smiled. “What was he doing out there?”

  “Buffalo hunting.”

  Now he grinned widely, very pleased. “Was he?”

  “He and Til—guided.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “Till?”

  “They married. I was his best man.”

  Now the man out-and-out laughed, a great booming laugh, slapping the desktop in delight. “Married, did he? Well, hell, good for him. Married!” He sobered. “Damn it, and now he’s gone. Isn’t that the way?”

  He leaned forward. “Maybe he said, and in any case you’ve likely deduced, my boy and I had been out of contact. Little Frank had a rocky youth, his … not the usual course.” He looked not at me but past me. “Glad to hear he straightened out. Thought he would, if I could bear doing what was needed.”

  “Little Frank?”

  He punched himself in the chest. “Big Frank. We called him Little.” He glanced at me, tapped the medal. “Takes real bravery to get one of these. He signed up, a man at only sixteen years old.”

  “He was in the army?”

  “You don’t get a Medal of Honor peelin’ potatoes. Heroic conduct.” He shook his head. “The war was going to be the making of him. Give him backbone. Teach him what control, what restraint, what discipline is.” Mr. O’Hare smiled scornfully. “A friend followed him in. You remind me of that boy, something in the face. You read Whitman?”

  “Sir?”

  Mr. O’Hare offered me a cigarette, took one himself, and lit it. “The blame is on that boy for the sorrow my son and I suffered. A scheming, unnatural, sick child who turned into an unnatural sick man. Hung around Frankie from the time they were small.”

  Mr. O’Hare tapped the medal on his desk. “Frankie marched into heavy fire, carried out six soldiers two at a time, one of them—that friend.” He nodded with some satisfaction, then shrugged. “Shot in the back. Shook Frankie up.”

  O’Hare smiled. “To say I was glad Frank was finally free of him is an understatement. Frank didn’t care for me speaking out. We fought.” Mr. O’Hare puffed t
hree times in quick succession, then stubbed the smoke out. “I sent him away that night, and it was the last I saw of him. Chewed from the toes up all these years, wondering about Frank, waiting for word.”

  His eyes were moist, and he drew his brows together in an effort of control. “Now you’ve set me free, John. It was like dying slow, what I had to do, but it made him stronger.” He picked up the medal again. “And what life he had left, he made it a good one?”

  Mr. O’Hare looked at me, the medal in hand, ribbon swinging like a noose. “His bride, Tilly, what of her?”

  “Died two days after—Little Frank.”

  Mr. O’Hare stared at the gold disk again, then pressed it to his lips. “Did he ask you to bring this to me?”

  I nodded. What was the harm in solace?

  Mr. O’Hare frowned as if in pain. His tone changed. “Where have you come from, John?”

  “I’ve been in Connecticut, wandering, odd jobs.”

  “You met Frank in Nebraska?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He puffed on his cigarette. “Your manners, boy, polished for a wanderer…. Got a mind on you as well.” He stared at me so long I grew uncomfortable in his gaze. The clock ticked as if it were his brain working. I shifted and O’Hare nodded. “Let’s say you and me have dinner, talk things over.”

  “That’s generous of you, sir, but I have friends waiting.”

  He nodded. “Friends.” He pointed at my sooted clothes with a big finger. “Looks like wandering has taken its toll. How are you for money?”

  I shrugged. “Tight.”

  He pulled out his wallet. “I appreciate your coming by, John. This is to make your journey a little more comfortable.” He handed me a fan of dollar bills.

  I didn’t hesitate to take them. “Thank you, sir.”

  He penned an address on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk to me. “Go to the Abbot Mercantile on Fifth Street, get some provisions. I’ll let them know to put it on my tab. Least I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

  He nodded, put out his hand. As I shook it he smiled. “You have put my mind to rest, John. Thank you.”

  I left the office feeling lonelier than going in. O’Hare’s relief smacked of better-a-dead-Little-Frankie-than-a-live-Avelina, and that, though he’d thanked me, gave me a chill. I shrugged off my worry. It was time to get on with saving ourselves. Stock up at the mercantile and put more time and miles between us and trouble.