by S. L. Stoner
Sage’s thoughts hopped in another direction. What use was this information now that Leo was in jail? For that matter, without Leo’s steady hand on the reins, how long before the strike petered out? Or, worse, how long before the men’s pent-up frustration spun out of control and Mackey obtained the overt violence he was hoping for?
Sage called a halt to his worrying. The best he could do was trust that the way forward would unwind like a forest trail in fog, one cautious step at a time. Right now, that approach required finishing the list. After that, he’d see what Gray had to say.
NINE
The early morning light found Herman Eich hunched over his repair bench, a fragile teacup cradled in his hand, paintbrush bristles poised to stroke delicate pink across the smoothed surface of the repair clay.“Lindy Ann might actually smile when she holds this little beauty in her hand,” he muttered to himself. “If so, that smile will be my payment—a sight welcome as a fire in winter, glorious as sunlight on snow.”
Hearing a noise outside, he held his breath, listening. No, not Daniel. Probably just that cream and ginger cat, finding a marginally drier route home beneath the shed’s narrow overhang. He glanced at the pallet he’d made for Daniel on the floor beside the crackling stove. Not genteel, perhaps. Still, it was dry and warm compared to that shanty where he’d finally found Daniel shivering. God’s pity on the poor man. Home, wife and son all gone up in flames. He accepted the comfort of food and warmth but Eich’s kindly words failed to ease the young man’s crazed grief. Eich sighed. “Silly old, fool,” he chided himself. Overwhelming grief took its own time to work its way out of a spirit—just like a blood spot from under a fingernail.
Still, Eich did what he could—making room in his shed and his life for the young man and his grief, keeping him company throughout the night once exhaustion and hunger drove Daniel off the streets. Last night he had not returned until dawn started cracking behind the eastern mountains. Two hours later he was up and out the door again.
Eich forced his attention back onto the teacup. Its sprinkle of blue flower petals reminded him of that interesting woman, Mae Clemens. Her eyes shone with the same deep blue intensity of the petals. A curious situation, that fancy restaurant. Mae was an employee. Yet, what sort of employee invites beggars into a kitchen with no rebuke from the boss? And that owner. Curiosity he evinced, yes. But no hostility, no repulsion and little surprise. And then there was that Chinese man, Mr. Fong. In the normal course, Chinese servants slid around the edges of things, careful not to draw attention. Mr. Fong, however, stood beside the woman and conversed as though her equal. As a vagabond for many years, Eich moved about in the eddies created by numerous other peoples’ lives. In all that time, he’d never encountered such an odd group of people. Curious, most curious.
He set the teacup down and took up its saucer. The saucer also sported a chip in need of filling. Even mended, such a damaged cup and saucer would never be found in his mother’s good china cabinet. But neither would Sophia Eich, ever mindful of harsher days, toss a cup with such minor damage into the dustbin. Instead, she would consign it to the kitchen cupboard as being perfectly suitable for everyday use.
Eich carefully sanded the clay patch on the saucer. Oy vay, such long ago days. Years before he’d traveled West, hoping to create a communal utopia. Now, that had been one grand adventure. And rewarding too because, for a brief few years, life’s potential bloomed gloriously in that southern Oregon commune. That is, until the gossamer strands of moral compromise, self-interest and mutual disappointment layered up until the dream lay smothered beneath their weight.
Eich sighed again, rolling his shoulders free from the pain of hunching in one position too long and from the memory. He flipped the saucer over to read of its origin. An English ceramics factory. So delicate and yet it traveled such a long journey to this bench, all the way across sea and continent to reach that fine Portland house. A dab of paint and off it goes once again, its life journey renewed and changed.
Maybe this little cup and saucer is destined to serve its time in a better place, Eich mused. Truly treasured, instead of being just one more acquisition among so many others. Lindy Ann’s wan face appeared in his mind’s eye. She was growing old before her time, working for Alma Mackey. Now there was a human being who passed her days far removed from her own humanity. Alma Mackey, benevolent woman in public, tyrannical witch in private.
He could hear his mother’s chiding voice asking, “And who do you think you are, stepping into shoes bigger than your own to pass judgment? There was an easy answer to that question, “Just a judgmental old curmudgeon, wallowing in memories and imaginings.”
He raised the teacup up to the window, turning it, admiring the pearly luminescence of the thin porcelain. Yes, it was ready for the sad-faced Lindy Ann. And, in return, he hoped to see her smile. A rare sight, indeed.
s s s
By the time Eich’s cart wheels rattled down the alley behind the Abner Mackey mansion, weak sunlight was coaxing mist from the cobblestones. He settled the cart shafts onto the ground and slowly pushed the gate open, peering about to make certain that no one stood within the yard. The only sound was the dry rasp of wind-driven leaves across the brick pathway. He followed that path alongside the house, bending his knees just a little so that the top of his head stayed below the window sills.
Ragpickers were a common sight in this city overflowing, as it was, with the homeless and hungry. It was his practice to follow the same routine from day to day so that most of the household servants knew when to expect his appearance. Many watched for him whenever they needed his skill to mend discarded tableware or when they wanted to purchase, for themselves, one of the inexpensive reusable objects he recovered from dustbins, spruced up and sold from his cart.
Today, he saw that the window above the dustbin was cracked open a few inches. Lindy Ann once told him that Alma Mackey forbid cigar smells in the house. That prohibition forced her men folks to always raised a window whenever they smoked. Of course, they always forgot to close it, letting in puddles of water for the servants to wipe up.
Yes, he smelled it now—the pungent odor of cigar smoke growing stronger the closer he moved toward the window. He slowed, stepping carefully. No need to draw attention to himself. Of course, householders usually chased him off. One was so used to being shooed away that it was nothing more than a momentary annoyance—like summer flies or a rat scurrying across his boot. Still, given a choice, he preferred to avoid confrontation.
When he reached the overflowing dustbin, Eich paused to contemplate its fullness and to plan his stealthy exploration of its contents.
“There’s nothing to worry about, I tell you,” a churlish voice came sailing out the slightly open window.
“So what? There’s no proving we knew,” said the same voice. It was a one-sided conversation. Evidently, the answering party was situated too far inside the room for his words to carry outside. Eich froze, straining to hear more. In earlier days, he never eavesdropped because it felt like trespassing. Over the years, though, he found that his yearning to know more about his fellow humans, and less about himself, had grown. Nowadays his ears drank in other people’s words, as he gently tested their perceptions of the world against his own. He’d come to view it as a harmless educational exercise since he never took advantage of what he overheard and never passed it on. Instead, strangers’ words melded into that chorus of voices singing from his poems.
Or so he hoped.
“Hell, no, they won’t look at the other bridges. Why should they go to all that trouble? We’ll say all the water running down the Marquam Ravine caused the problem! People will believe that since the damn rain hasn’t let up for over three weeks.”
Another pause.
“Well, let me know if we need to encourage them to turn their attention elsewhere.” The voice rose in volume, irritation giving it bite as the speaker continued, “Jesus, man! Today is not the time to make me listen to you whine. I told
you not to worry, God damn it! Now clear out of here and make sure nobody sees you leaving. Damn stupid for you to come here.”
Silence. Because he sensed that the speaker remained inside the room, Eich didn’t move. Sure enough, a minute later the man spoke again, this time his voice sounded calm and amenable.
“You can come on out now. He’s gone.”
For a panicky instant, Eich thought his presence had been discovered. Somehow, the man in the room, Mackey in all likelihood, had realized that the ragpicker was lurking beneath his window. The urge to flee was on the verge of overcoming Eich’s paralysis when the man barked out a mirthless laugh.
“Yes, he is a fool. This world is full of fools like him. It is my misfortune that I am forced to continually deal with them, one bribe at a time. That one may find himself in serious trouble if he doesn’t pull himself together. We can’t afford to be associating with someone unreliable and so easily spooked.” The speaker’s tone switched to hearty, “Here, try one of these fine Cuban cigars.”
The room above Eich again fell silent, presumably as the new man took Mackey up on his offer. Next came a question that perked up Eich’s ears. “So, my man, what are they saying about the fire?”
As before, Eich only heard one side of the conversation. “He’s still jailed? How is that affecting the men?”
Once again, Eich heard only one side of the conversation. “Great. At least in that regard, our situation couldn’t be bet-
ter. Come on, let’s move into my father’s library. I’ve put your money in there.”
Eich waited until he heard a door shut and no further sounds came from the room above him. Movements deliberate, his gloved hands began quietly burrowing into the dustbin. By the time the screen door on the back porch screeched open, a number of reusable items lay piled at his feet. He looked up to see Lindy Ann standing there, her face more morose than usual. She gave him a watery smile and he noticed that one side of her mouth was red and puffy.
“Child, what has happened to your lip?” he asked.
She flushed and ducked her head. Speaking into her chest she said, “Mrs. Mackey backhanded me when I brought her the wrong dress.”
“It’s not right to stay where they hit you, girl,” he told her softly.
“What choice is there? Where on earth can I go? I’ve no home, no friends except for you.” She kept her voice low, glancing fearfully toward the kitchen door.
She spoke the truth, of course. If she quit the Mackeys, she’d never find work in another fine house. Mrs. Abner Mackey was an influential woman whose reputation for vindictiveness meant none thwarted her wishes. Her negative reference would doom Lindy Ann to barroom work or worse, just like the other country girls lured off the farm by phoney advertisements for housemaids. Arriving in the city, friendless and nearly destitute, many found themselves manipulated into a life of prostitution. Compared to those other farm girls, Lindy Ann was lucky. She held a reputable position, no matter how abusive her employer. The girl hurried to excuse her mistress. “She’s awful upset today. Somebody murdered her husband the night before last, poor lady. Just tied him up and burnt him to death.” Lindy Ann’s thin frame shuddered and her pale eyes brimmed with tears. “Old Mr. Mackey, he weren’t really all that bad. Better than her.”
She sniffed.
“Murdered? Burnt him to death?” Whose voice was it that he heard speaking inside the house if Mr. Mackey was dead?
As if divining his thoughts, Lindy Ann supplied the answer. “Mr. Mackey Junior is here, helping his mama and taking care of his daddy’s business.”
“Lindy Ann! Where in heaven’s name did you disappear to? Come here right now!” The screeching command came from inside the kitchen. After throwing him an apologetic half-smile, the girl hurried into the house without another word.
Once back in the alley, Eich realized that he still carried the cloth-wrapped teacup and saucer in his pocket. He’d forgotten to give them to Lindy Ann. As he stood, indecisive about whether to knock on the Mackey’s back door or return the next day, a man barreled out the yard gate, nearly knocking him over. “What the hell!” the man exclaimed, giving Eich’s arm a push with both hands, more from the irritation of being startled than from any need to clear a path.
Eich looked briefly into a pair of flat staring eyes before the man shoved on past and disappeared around the corner into the street. After his departure, a question teased Eich’s mind. “Why was such a well-dressed man leaving the Mackey house through its back door and in such a temper?”
Eich shrugged. It mattered not to him. He picked up the cart shafts and trudged down the alley, a vague unease tensing his shoulders. “‘To work! To work! In heaven’s name! The wolf is at the door!’” he quoted to himself, a little louder than he’d intended.
TEN
Distracted by lingering dream images—a hodgepodge of screaming horses, broken bodies and smouldering oil-soaked torches—Sage failed to see the man sitting on the top stair tread. Sage’s foot slammed into the other’s hip and only a grab at the bannister saved him from tumbling down the staircase. “What the hell?” he exclaimed.
The man looked up. It was Daniel—the fellow Herman Eich had brought into the kitchen the day before. The homeless man was gripping a bucket of white paint in one hand and a small paint brush in the other.
“Sorry,” Sage said. “No one told me you’d be here. Are you hurt?” Daniel shook his head while saying nothing, his lips pressed closed.
Sage paused until he realized that the other man did not intend to speak. Then Sage added reassuringly, “Ah, painting the balusters, I see. Good. They’ve needed it for some time now.”
At Sage’s friendly tone, the other man seemed to relax a bit. A quick dip of his head signaled his agreement with Sage’s observation. Sage still waited on the top step, thinking the man might now speak. But, Daniel remained silent and his brush began applying white paint onto the baluster spindle. Lacking anything more to say, Sage smiled and silently stepped around him to continue down the stairs. He found his mother sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper while Ida and a covey of kitchen staff bustled about cutting up vegetables, stirring pots and sudsing dishes in the sink. Sage glanced over his mother’s shoulder to see a full page of advertisements offering, among other things, “Swamp Root Kidney, Bladder and Liver Cure” and “Syrup of Figs Is the Best Used Laxative.”
“Feeling poorly, Mrs. Clemens?” He spoke softly, right next to her ear, making her start before she slapped the newspaper shut. He pressed on, “I see that you are still performing good works on behalf of Mozart’s. I stumbled over that Daniel fellow at the top of the stairs.”
Her response was uncharacteristically tentative. “Well . . . yes, well . . . I wasn’t too sure what to do with Daniel when Mr. Eich brought him this morning.”
“Hmm. Mr. Eich again? How is it, you suppose, that your ragpicker friend has come to believe Mozart’s runs a private charity out of its kitchen door?”
“Mr. Eich is doing the best he can,” she said, her customary asperity snapping back into place. “He’s been housing poor Daniel while he tries to find him some steady work. He says he’s afraid to leave him alone just yet. Daniel’s been wandering the streets and Herman’s afraid he’ll land himself in trouble or die from exposure.”
“Herman?” Sage asked. She flushed.
“So now we are to pay Daniel to paint our stairway?” Sage asked.
“Mr. Eich actually offered to pay us to let him paint for awhile.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Eich pay to have Daniel paint Eich’s house?
Why Mozart’s?” Sage felt suspicion grab hold.
Mae looked uncomfortable. “Well, Mr. Eich says he lives in a one-room, lean-to shed that would be kind of silly to paint and, he says he likes the look of naked wood.”
Sage looked at her closely. Was that a blush creeping up her neck? He arched an eyebrow to let her know he’d noticed her discomfort but merely said, “Ah well, as Mr. Sh
erlock Holmes might say, ‘we end where we began’.” Like most of the reading public, Sage was a devotee of Conan Doyle’s serial detective so he struck a pose, rubbed his chin and continued, “The town ragpicker wants to pay for a another man to paint the town’s most elite restaurant. Now there’s a twisty group of facts worthy of Sherlock’s consideration.”
Mae said nothing, merely rolling her eyes before snapping the newspaper open once again.
Sage took a clean mug from the wall shelf above the table. “Maybe I better drink some coffee. It’s like I’m still asleep and dreaming all of this. I hope you informed your mister ‘Herman’ that we would pay for the paint job ourselves.”
Mae pushed back her chair, grabbed the mug from him, filled it with coffee and sat it down on the table none too gently as she said with exasperation, “Of course I said we’d pay. Like I told you, Mr. Eich is worried about the fellow and it seemed the right thing to do. Agreeing to let Daniel paint a bit around here, I mean,” she clarified once she’d taken her seat again, adding, “And, he’s not ‘my’ Herman!”
