by S. L. Stoner
lifeless voice.
“Hello, Daniel.” Eich held up the small bowl, “Since heaven saw fit to release so much of its blessings upon us, I thought to stay dry and mend this small bowl for Isabel. She works as a maid at the Portland Hotel.”
Daniel shuffled closer to study the bowl.
“I don’t know why you bother. They sell bowls everywhere for pennies. Can’t she buy herself a bowl without a break in it?” he asked.
Eich gave a wry chuckle. “To be sure, there are many bowls made by hundreds of workers who are standing for hours in assembly lines doing just a little portion of the tasks needed to create a bowl. And, yes, it is true that Isabel could purchase one of those unflawed bowls for just a few pennies. This bowl,” however,” Eich held it up so that the window light bathed its translucent curves, “is unique. There is no other exactly like it in the world. It is the work of a skilled artisan who oversaw its creation from inception to completion. After being shaped from the finest porcelain clay and hand-decorated with these vibrant colors of red and blue, the piece was carried countless times to and from the kiln until each color, each glaze, shone bright. Once finished, it traveled all the way from France. A bowl like this can never be mass produced and bought for a few pennies. If fate is willing, this bowl will pass from Isabel to her daughter. And so that Frenchman’s artistry lives on, delighting the eye for many years to come.”
Daniel shrugged. “But it’s broken. What good is a broken piece of pottery to anyone?”
Eich gently set the bowl down and swiveled atop his stool to speak directly into the bleak face of his lodger, “Everything in life is less than perfect, Daniel. Every thing, every person. No thing and no one person is absolutely perfect. And, although, I cannot make this bowl absolutely the same as it once was, it is possible to restore it to its former function and recover almost all of its beauty.”
“Don’t you think it’s better to destroy broken things so that they don’t have an opportunity to hurt you?”
“Hurt? I’m not sure that I. . . .” Eich fumbled in his effort to divine the meaning beneath Daniel’s bitter words.
“That bowl, it might hurt someone. Cut em for instance.” Eich pondered Daniel’s point. “No, Daniel, this bowl is unlikely to hurt anyone. With a little time and attention though, it will become close to what it once was. I will use clay to fill in the chip so there will be no sharp edges. In time, the mend will blend in, be less noticeable. It will not be perfect but sometimes it is the imperfections, in things and in people, that make them all the more precious to us.”
“I just don’t think like you do, Mr. Eich. If something’s broken, throw it out—get rid of it. It’s garbage—no good to anybody. If you keep it around everybody is in danger!” Agitation raised the volume of Daniel’s voice. As Eich searched for a mollifying response to make, the other man snatched his hat from the nail and opened the door.“I gotta go out,” he mumbled, banging the door shut behind him.
Eich was alone again, gazing after the departed man.“What was that exchange really about?” he wondered aloud. “Not you, my little beauty, not you,” he assured the bowl, picking it up to cradle in his hand. He bent to his work, his mind snagging on the worry of Daniel’s grief. It showed no signs of abating. If anything, its intensity had increased.
Comforted by the soft rain now pattering on his tin roof, Eich sighed and again raised the knife to score the edges of the break, making rough anchor points for the new clay to cling to. That task completed, he mixed the clay and water, stirring it into a creamy paste. Just as the mixture neared optimum consistency, a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” he shouted, unable to stop stirring because, if he did, the mixture would harden into an unusable lump.
He glanced over his shoulder to see the owner of Mozart’s, John Adair, step across his threshold. On this occasion, Adair wore neither the suit of a prosperous entrepreneur nor the shabby work clothes that Eich last saw him wearing. Instead, Adair was clad in a nondescript suit and hat—garb that would allow him to travel unnoticed in the surrounding neighborhood.
“Come in, Mr. Adair. Please indulge me for just a minute. This wet clay hardens rapidly so I must smooth it quickly onto the piece.”
“Certainly,” Sage responded. He closed the door and crossed to stand next to the bench, watching silently as Eich scooped up the wet clay, smoothing it onto the bowl’s edge with fingers as deft as a watchmaker’s. Once he’d placed the bowl safely on the bench, Eich gave Sage his full attention.
“I am glad to see that you are well,” he said. “Every thanks to you I understand.”
Eich stood up from his stool and gestured Sage toward it. “Only seat in the house, I am afraid. You rest there while I sit on the cot.”
From his vantage point on the stool, Sage surveyed the shed. The blankets on Eich’s cot were smooth and tucked neatly beneath the thin mattress. Underneath a small window stood the workbench cluttered with pottery, paint pots and small metal tools. A potbellied wood stove filled a corner, its top covered by a cast-iron bake oven—probably used as a poor man’s kiln, Sage thought. Here and there, empty tin cans were pinging softly as water drips from above hit them square on. In the far corner, drab garments hung in neat rows from wall pegs. Below them, tidy bedding lay rolled out atop a rough wood plank floor.
Eich noticed Sage looking at the bedroll and said, “That’s where Daniel is sleeping temporarily until he acquires a new home. Thank you for letting him paint at the restaurant. My hope is that working at what he does best will help him regain his footing.”
Sage cleared his throat. “Actually, it looks like we’re the ones benefitting. He’s a skilled painter. Never uses a paint cloth, yet never spills a drop.”
“I thought he might be. He has an air of persnickety in everything he does.” Eich responded.
“I want to ask . . . I mean I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me what you saw when those men grabbed me yesterday.”
Eich chuckled softly. “I confess it startled me to find myself staring straight into those eyes of your when I raised my head out of that dustbin. Those eyes are recognizable anywhere, no matter how you clothe yourself.”
Sage shifted uncomfortably. He never considered his dark blue eyes to be particularly remarkable. If they somehow were, it could be a problem.
Eich seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t worry about other people recognizing you that way. I tend to look into the eyes of a person to the exclusion of everything else. I’ve always been that way. Unnerves some folks, I imagine.
“Those men that grabbed me, where did they come from?” Sage asked.
“They stepped out from between the buildings, moving so fast that I had no more warning than you did. One minute, I was staring into your face then there was a flurry of motion and next thing I knew two big men had their arms wrapped around you. I figured if they thought too long about me, I wouldn’t be around to tell anybody what happened to you.”
“So you took off?”
“Only until I was out of sight around a corner. I immediately doubled back and followed them. You hung limp as a rag doll so they had a hard time toting you and didn’t look over their shoulders much. When I last saw them, they were lugging you up the outside stairs of that cooperage, so I figured they weren’t planning on hauling you down again anytime soon. At least not until dark. That’s when I hared off to tell Mae what happened to you.”
Sage felt his face stiffen at the man’s easy use of his mother’s first name but gave himself a mental shake and pushed on. “Did you recognize the two men?” he managed to ask, trying to sound normal.
“Can’t say that I’ve ever seen them before,” Eich responded. “They wore big hats like farmhands and rubber slickers. I couldn’t really see their faces or forms. I’m not even sure if I would recognize them if I saw them again. I was afraid to move too close because that dock was empty. So, I watched from a long ways up the riverbank.”
Sage stirred on his stool. So far, Eich was not
providing any useful information.
“Now the third man, I saw him better.”
“What third man?”
“He climbed up the stairs of the cooperage a few minutes after your kidnappers. When he left a short time later, he moved like someone who had all the time in the world. There is no question. That man is a partner of the two kidnappers.”
“Think you’d recognize this third man if you saw him again?” “It’s possible, although he didn’t seem particularly remark-
able in appearance. I never saw his eyes from where I stood. Funny thing is, I had the distinct impression that I saw him before and not that long ago. The problem is remembering when or where. If I keep thinking on it, I am sure it will come to me. I usually remember things, although remembering takes me somewhat longer these days than when I was younger.”
“If the memory comes back, let me know as soon as possible. I’d really appreciate it.” Sage knew the edge in his voice wasn’t going to help the other man remember. Memory was funny. Snatch at it and it moved farther away, let it be and it would unexpectedly tap you on the shoulder.
“Certainly, I will,” Eich promised.
s s s
Sage entered Mozart’s front door an hour before the restaurant was to open for the dinner hour. The smell of wet paint, not cooking food, assaulted his nose. Glancing around the foyer he discerned no change. A movement at the end of the narrow hallway caught his eye. Daniel stood back in the gloom, methodically brushing paint onto the wall.
Going through to the kitchen, Sage found his mother marshaling the dinner preparations. “You decided to ask Daniel to paint the downstairs foyer I see. Good idea. It needed it.”
She paused in her glass polishing, her expression momentarily blank. “Me? I thought you told him to paint it.”
“Nope, not me. Maybe Mr. Fong told him to?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Fong never issues an order like that without checking with us. Besides, he hasn’t been in yet today.”
A knock sounded at the back door cutting off their conversation. Sage opened the door to find the young messenger, Thaddeus, shivering on the doorstep, a hungry, hopeful look on his young face.
“Thaddeus!” Sage greeted him warmly. “Step inside out of the rain. You are just in time, the food is hot and ready to eat.”
Thaddeus entered quickly and took a seat at the kitchen table. Mae took one look at the shivering boy frowned and reached for a dinner plate. Under his intent gaze, she heaped food onto a plate before sitting it and a glass of milk in front of him along with the admonition, “See that you eat it all up, boy. We don’t want any of it going to waste.” In the same stern tone, she continued. “There’s more than enough waste taking place in that dining room out front there. You finish that plate, there’ll be seconds and dessert.”
Sage tried not to grin. Leaving Thaddeus to his task and certain Mae Clemens would stuff the boy until he was too full to wiggle, Sage retreated upstairs to change his clothes since it was nearing the time to assume his restaurant hosting duties. His mother hadn’t complained, but she’d been doing more than her share when it came to keeping Mozart’s running smoothly.
s s s
He was flipping the discrete sign to show “Open” when the lawyer, Philander Gray, came through the door.
“Adair. Glad you’re here. Ida’s young nephew said to come around noon, so here I am.”
Sage took Gray’s coat and hung it on the ornate hall tree. “How’s Leo?” he asked.
“Things don’t look good for him right now. The police are convinced Leo murdered old man Mackey. They aren’t budging off that idea and far as I know, they aren’t looking to find anyone else. Leo’s feeling pretty grim about his family’s future. I told him you’d make sure they wanted for nothing. Still, those assurances will be damn little comfort to him, or them, if he’s hanged for this.”
A clatter sounded in the dim back hallway. Sage saw Daniel hastily righting a knocked over empty paint bucket.
Sage took the lawyer’s elbow and steered him through the dining room. “Come through to the kitchen, Philander. There’s a young man I want you to talk to. He might provide you with some helpful information.”
Soon the three of them sat at the kitchen table. Eating had brought a tinge of color to Thaddeus’s pale cheeks and his big brown eyes sparkled with curiosity. Two empty plates and a drained glass of milk indicated the boy had faithfully followed Mae Clemens’ orders.
Sage introduced the two. “It looks like Thaddeus here might be your rival when it comes to the quantity of food he tucks away,” Sage teased, making the boy squirm in his chair. “I asked Thaddeus to talk to you about a message he delivered some nights back.”
He spoke to the boy. “Thaddeus, suppose you tell Mr. Gray about that message.”
The boy related receiving the message and delivering it to Leo. He remembered Leo’s address and described the union leader accurately. His description of the message-giver was markedly less precise.
“His face was hidden because it was dark and his hat was pulled low and a scarf was up around his chin and mouth.”
“Was he a big man? Was he breathing heavy?” Sage prodded, thinking of the voices he’d heard through the cooperage wall.
The boy shook his head. “Nah, he moved light on his feet.
He was average-like.”
“How about his eyes?” Sage asked thinking of Herman Eich’s unique fixation.
The boy’s face lightened as if he finally saw a way to be more helpful.“Yup. I saw his eyes all right. Pale blue and chilly-like,” he said, a shudder seeming to travel through him.
FOURTEEN
Sage was once again heading toward the strike line—for once, under a clear winter sky with the sun shining as bright as early November allowed. Admittedly, his lack of fear in taking this stroll was solely attributable to the presence of Fong’s “cousins,” trailing along on both flanks. Ahead a Chinese man stood gazing into a shop window while yet another sat on a porch step tying his boot laces. Sage found himself speculating whether some residents and shopkeepers in this neighborhood of small houses and stores wondered at such an influx of Oriental men into their otherwise Occidental neighborhood. A few widow women might bolt their doors and watch from behind partially pulled curtains. Most likely, though, the men and women who worked and lived along this particular street were too busy trying to keep warm, dry and reasonably fed to think much about the life passing by outside their walls.
Sage paused at the top of the cul de sac to study the strike line. Although he expected it, his heart sank at the sight of just a few strikers straggling back and forth in front of the construction office. What destruction time had wrought in the workers’ optimism. Two months ago, exhilarated men walked off the job, confident that such a decisive action would improve all their lives. Their numbers clogged the road’s end on that first day of the strike. Now, the remaining men numbered too few to even slow a lumber wagon, let alone block its passage. Sage straightened his shoulders and willed confidence into his step. Halfway down the nearby stream, a Chinese fisherman stood methodically dipping a net into the roiling waters. Fong was recognizable from his stance—anchored as securely to the earth as was the big willow at his side.
“Hey, Sam, heard anything about Leo?” a man asked as Sage neared.
“Yes. Leo now has the best lawyer in town working for him. I’d say things are looking as good as possible under the circumstances.”
“Did his lawyer turn up a witness to clear him?” This question came from O’Reilly, his face as tense as everyone else’s. Maybe O’Reilly was more than the fair weather rabble rouser Sage suspected him to be. Sage smiled, saying only, “Something like that. Anyway, Leo sends his best and asks that you men don’t give up the fight.”
Muttering stirred the group until one man spoke up. “What fight? Most everybody’s abandoned the strike and the public thinks we’re a bunch of murdering thugs. There ain’t no ‘fight’ going on her
e.” Murmured agreement followed this bitter declaration.
Sage raised a palm to halt their words. “Hold on, men. You ever heard the saying,‘It’s always darkest before the dawn?’ We’re working on a little something that might turn things around. In the meantime, you need to help each other keep your spirits up for a few more days,” Sage said, all the while hoping his bravado sounded more confident in their ears than it did in his own.
It evidently did, because a faint brightening of hope washed across their grim faces. No doubt, the grinding lack of progress made them ready to clutch at anything. Time had winnowed the strikers down to the diehards—men enduring the pain of the strike yet staying rock solid in their commitment to the effort. In the beginning, many abandoned their jobs without knowing how hard the struggle to win an eight-hour workday was going to be. By now, those who remained did so knowing the real stakes. They understood that the fight’s outcome would impact many more people than just the Mackey Construction employees. A win here meant a rising of the wage floor for everyone who worked in Portland’s construction trades. These few remaining men slogged through this mud knowing that the weight of many people’s futures rested on their shoulders.
