Follow Me Down

by Gordon MacKinney

  She wasn’t alone. A woman sat at the table with her back to me, a faded paisley scarf taming disheveled, gray-streaked hair. She hunched in a frayed brown overcoat. A river rat like us, I figured, a neighbor or hopeless petitioner for road repair and stepped-up cop patrols. Maybe an old friend.

  Yet Mom wasn’t smiling as she would to an old friend. “Lucas,” she said, gesturing with a drowsy hand. “There’s someone here you’ll want to meet.” The woman turned.

  I recognized a familiar story in every detail of her face. A half-smile that stopped at the lips and never rose to the eyes. The slightest of nods, a perfunctory acknowledgment that required little energy. Vertical lines that ran from brow to chin, discernible only to the knowing eye—the telltale signs of hidden suffering.

  The woman stood slowly and extended her hand. I took it in mine. “You’re Mrs. Turkel, is that right?”

  Surprise registered momentarily but then drained. “Yes, that’s me. You’re wondering why I’m here.”

  I gave a small shake of the head. “I know why you’re here. We have something awful in common, don’t we?”

  A hand to her mouth, the woman broke down crying, her shoulders rising and falling. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed as if I might smother her pain. But I held her for myself as well; communal relief helped, if only for a short time.

  “I wish there was no reason for you to be here,” I murmured.

  “Me too,” she replied and sniffed her sobs into submission.

  I let go and we both sat at the table. I knew what she was going through, the protocol of loss. The initial shock and waves of reckoning. Opening her crippled heart to the closest few while politely dispatching obligatory sympathies from friends and acquaintances.

  My words would have no more impact than a sip of cool water, but no other words sufficed. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled that tepid smile, her eyes like empty cups.

  My mother leaned in. “Louisa, tell Lucas what you told me.”

  The woman squared her shoulders. “They told my husband where to drive that machine.”

  “The excavator.”

  She nodded.

  “Who told him?”

  “A company man.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “People saw what happened.”

  “Who?” I hoped for an answer a court of law would accept.

  Louisa looked down and gave the slightest shake of her head. “I know their names. They told me in respect for my husband, but only with their names kept private. Delbert would never betray a friend, and I honor my husband.”

  So noble, and stupid. “They’re protecting their jobs?” I rapped the tablecloth with my knuckles. “Some things are more important than jobs.”

  Louisa frowned. “Maybe they protect more than jobs.”

  I broke eye contact and fought off intruding memories of long wooden crates stacked floor-to-ceiling, leathery skin so taut. A few moments passed in silence. “These people… they heard your husband receive orders?”

  Louisa nodded. “Heard and saw. The operations manager walked over to speak to Delbert. These men couldn’t hear that part because the engine was running. But then my husband raised his voice to object because the order made no sense. The manager pointed toward the open field and shouted, Go that way or go get another job.” Louisa pantomimed with her arm rail straight, her index finger leading the way.

  “Operations manager?” I said. “His name is Tony?”

  The woman nodded without a word, as if speaking the name was somehow forbidden.

  “His name is Tony Drax,” I said. My mother’s sunken expression told me what she was thinking. It was happening all over again. First our family and now another.

  It starts with a tragedy, maybe negligence or maybe intention. Then comes the cover-up and the blame game—blaming circumstance or blaming the victim. And if the truth emerges, like the head of a small animal popping from a burrow, stomp it. Strangle it. Tie it off. Then all that survives is the lie.

  I reached across the table and placed my hands on top of Louisa’s. Before I could stop myself, I said quietly, “Drax will pay for what they’ve done. I promise you.”

  . . . . .

  Nine hours after making Louisa Turkel a promise I had no idea how to keep, I was in the darkroom at work printing color proofs of a wedding reception. Why brides submitted to the garter-removal ritual was beyond me. “It’s like she’s making an announcement,” Chuckles had once said, talking like a thirty-three RPM record on the sixteen setting. He touched his thigh and moved his finger north with each stage of the performance. “This is my leg. And this is my garter. And boys, this part up here is now officially closed for business.”

  When I emerged into waning daylight at 5:45 p.m., I verified that all employees had headed home. Then I returned to the darkroom, locking the door behind me.

  Around six the following morning, I held in my hands the fruits of my night-long labor: a dozen immaculate eight-by-ten color enlargements of the subway, a beguiling underground realm only a handful of living Cincinnatians had ever seen. I slid these into a manila envelope and scribbled on the outside, To Features Editor, Cincinnati Enquirer Newspaper.

  Then I sat down at the Smith Corona in the bookkeeper’s office and typed.

  Dear Good Sir:

  For reasons you will soon understand, I wish to remain temporarily anonymous. However, if you must converse with me in order to act upon the envelope’s contents, you may call 258-1772.

  I represent the group SOS, as in Save Our Subway. We oppose recent efforts to destroy a precious historical treasure and potential solution to the Queen City’s burgeoning traffic problem. We encourage a city-wide debate of the pros and cons of restoring our subway and, finally, using it to carry passengers.

  We hereby grant the Cincinnati Enquirer exclusive rights to publish these brand-new and unprecedented photos for a period of 48 hours.

  If you choose not to exercise these rights, we will extend a similar offer to The Cincinnati Post. But please act. A publication as fine as the Enquirer should be telling this important story.

  Thank you kindly,

  President, Save Our Subway

  I proofread my note, slipped it into the envelope alongside the enlargements, and sealed the flap.

  If everything went as planned, the newspaper editor—a thirty-year man at the Features desk—would dial the number but reach no one on a Saturday, only the answering machine for Blumenfeld Photography. Knowing Alfred from the old days, the editor would assume the unnamed president to be either Alfred or someone he trusts—no additional credentials required. Then, with the forty-eight-hour clock ticking, the editor would publish on Sunday, the day with the highest circulation and a color insert.

  I felt a twinge of guilt for impersonating Alfred but shook it off. He’d put me through plenty and, technically speaking, I hadn’t lied. I could be reached at that phone number, and if such a group existed, I’d be president.

  But none of that mattered. Drax’s efforts to kill the subway had to be stopped, or at least slowed down.

  My call to Reuben woke him up.

  “Where the hell were you last night?” he said. Damn. Slipped my mind. We were to meet with Andy to plan the final measurement excursion.

  “Sorry, but something happened.” I told him about Louisa Turkel and my plan for newspaper exposure.

  Reuben clobbered me with silent disapproval before saying, “It’s too personal for you, clouding your judgment.”

  “Drax has to be stopped—”

  “
Which we’re trying to do by building a legal case.”

  “Public awareness could slow them down.”

  Reuben snorted. “The public ignored that subway for forty years, and pretty pictures in the paper won’t change that.” A pause. “Drax will figure out who took the photos.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Know what this is all about?”

  I said nothing.

  “Revenge. You’ll do anything to hurt Drax because they hurt you, but you’re not considering the collateral damage.”

  Dad knew nothing of revenge. He’d once stood straight-backed at the fence as our neighbor cursed a blue streak. Our dog had ripped up his petunia bed. Unflappable, Dad apologized and promised to replant every flower. He fetched a spade a moment later while smiling off the neighbor’s red-faced tirade.

  “Movie heroes seek revenge,” I said to Reuben, “but Mom and I were too small for that, like ants on the sidewalk. We were collateral damage.”

  “And what you’re doing makes you big? Yeah, big enough to become a Drax target.”

  “They’ll find out about us eventually.”

  “Better be worth it.”

  I let Reuben have the last word. He needed it more.

  Arriving downtown by bus, I delivered the manila envelope to the Enquirer building on Vine Street. The receptionist reassured me the Features Editor would receive the materials within the hour. I hit the street.

  On my way out of Alfred’s studio, I had glanced at the weekend shoot schedule tacked to a corkboard by the receptionist’s desk. Beginning at 8:30 a.m., Alfred would be photographing the Yancey/Griffith wedding at the Netherland Plaza Hotel, an eight-hundred-room beauty first opened in 1931. I knew the old building’s elevator shafts, steam tunnels, and service corridors, but this time I strolled through the front door.

  I plopped in a burgundy leather chair in the lobby to await Alfred’s arrival. My last visit had been by night during a remodeling closure. Now, by morning light, I admired the gorgeous French Art Deco styling, rich oak paneling, and two-story ceiling murals. I tipped my head back to take it in. One mural showed bounding gazelles, another a reclining nude with Michelin Man fat rolls.

  “Your attire is ill-suited for this hotel.”

  I awoke to see Alfred standing over me, poindexterish in a checkered sport coat and bow tie.

  “And that butterfly under your chin is?” I replied.

  “You’ve no business advising me about fashion. You look like a ruffian. Aren’t you supposed to be anywhere else?”

  “I was up all night.”

  “What on earth for?”

  I didn’t feel like explaining. Maybe I was doing to Alfred what Alfred had been doing to me: not wanting to explain. “Tony Drax intentionally sent that excavator over the subway to force a collapse, without considering the danger to the operator.” I explained my conversation with Louisa Turkel. “But the witnesses are too scared to testify.”

  Alfred responded without hesitation. “Then nothing’s changed. We need the subway measurements. Have you processed the test photos?”

  I squeezed the upholstered arms of the chair. The leather squeaked. “Did you hear me? They essentially murdered that man. That doesn’t bother you?”

  Alfred slipped a strap from his shoulder and set his camera bag on the ground. “You’re emotional because of similarities to your father’s death. But our strategy—strategy, not tactics—hasn’t changed. We must prove fraud and shoddy work leading to that man’s death. Then we’ll have a case. Smith must validate the test measurements.” Alfred held out his hand, palm up.

  No film without answers. “Your mystery spur…”

  Alfred’s eyes widened. He withdrew his hand. “Yes?”

  I scrutinized his face. “It exists, behind a wall. Someone tried to hide it, but we got in through a back door. It’s filled with stacks and stacks of wooden crates.”

  Alfred said nothing, his expression obtuse.

  I pressed. “What’s inside them?” He had to know the answer, but would he lie?

  Again, he said nothing. His gaze followed my face as I rose from my chair, but I realized he was mentally absent, looking through me to a place or time I knew nothing about.

  Then his eyes filled with tears. I wasn’t expecting that.

  I paused, disarmed, before trying to press further. “What’s in those crates?”

  An elderly couple nearby lowered their newspapers to glower, but I kept going. “Sooner or later, Mr. Blumenfeld, you’re going to tell me what this is all about. Might as well be now.”

  Alfred snapped out of his reverie. “Discretion would serve both of us well.”

  I leaned in and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Okay, then I’ll answer for you. Dead people. Hundreds of them. We pried open a crate. Bodies stacked like cord wood, just like the ghost stories every kid has heard around the campfire since before I was born. But not since before you were born. So why are they down there?”

  Alfred dropped his gaze to the floor. A tear broke free, rolled down his nose, and splashed on the parquet floor. “You’ve upset me. I’m unaccustomed to being assailed so abrasively. You should learn some manners.” He leaned over and picked up his camera bag. “I have a wedding to shoot.” He walked away.

  What had just happened? Sure, I’d been direct, but I had a right to know. Hell, maybe we three had broken into a crime scene. Then it struck me: I’d just witnessed another of Alfred’s Oscar-winning performances.

  I caught up with him and blocked the path to the ballroom. “Unaccustomed?” I said, spraying disbelief. “So now you’re all sensitive? Bitch brides like Miss Angelica slice you up every day and you practically thank them for it. And you actually care what those idiots think. Me? You don’t give a shit what I think. So kill the act and stop ducking the question. Why the bodies?”

  Whatever had upset Alfred thirty seconds earlier had apparently vanished into the lobby’s paneling. The man before me radiated clear-eyed confidence. “I’ll explain, but keep it to yourself or you’ll ruin all the campfires yet to come.” He took a breath. “It’s a potter’s field.”

  “A what?”

  “Remember your Bible studies?”

  I snorted. “I’m afraid not.”

  “The Bible speaks of a potter’s field as a burial ground for indigents—homeless people. During the Depression, there were thousands of them, and many died on the streets. Everyone was broke, the city included, and proper burials cost money. When unidentified bodies showed up at the morgue, there was no money for proper disposal.”

  The story was too fantastic to be made up, especially on the fly. “They dumped dead hobos in the subway?”

  “Technically speaking, they buried them—an important legal distinction. City code required below-ground disposal, but the law said nothing about covering a corpse with dirt. The unused subway was a dirt-cheap loophole, so to speak.”

  “It’s heartless—barbaric.”

  “But not so unusual for Cincinnati. Check your history of the 1832 cholera outbreak. Corpses were dumped into a potter’s field next to an orphanage at the corner of Twelfth and Elm Streets.”

  “But there are hundreds of them down there.”

  “The Depression lasted more than a decade. The coroner was saving money. Why stop a good thing? They figured they’d relocate the bodies eventually.” Alfred looked away. The elderly couple had retreated to their newspapers. “That obviously never happened.”

  “Why keep it secret?”

  He appeared to consider my question for a moment. Was he acting? “It was nothing to be proud of. And besides, corrupt gover
nments can keep secrets when they want to.” He smiled at me. “I’m sorry the truth’s not so nefarious after all.”

  Yeah, not so nefarious if I were hearing the complete truth—unlikely from Alfred. “So you drove all the way to my house at night to ask a favor, just to prove the location of some old burial site?”

  “I appreciate your efforts,” Alfred said, checking his watch. “But I’m late. May I please have the test measurements?”

  Somehow Drax was involved with the cadaver warehouse, another reason for their rush to kill off the tunnels. But the explanation wouldn’t be coming from slippery Alfred. “I’ll process the film tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll have everything first thing Monday morning. Then can I have my negatives from the train station?”

  “I’ll tell Smith we need his methodology verified by Monday night.” Apparently my question was too absurd to acknowledge. “Rudolph is already calling in favors at City Hall to fast-track the subway burial.”

  I remembered the envelope I’d delivered to the newspaper. “Something tactical might happen to slow him down.”

  Alfred shot me a suspicious look. “What’s your meaning?”

  I didn’t feel like explaining.

  CHAPTER 15

  I awoke Sunday to the aroma of coffee, but Mom wasn’t around. She’d placed a note next to the percolator: 411 regulars went on strike, so they gave me some 12-hour shifts. I packed my dosages and I’ll ask Dorothy from work to double check. Proud of me? I can do this! Back tonight 9ish. I love you.

  I bounced two blocks to the Hasty Mart, grabbed the Sunday Enquirer and slapped it on the glass counter as the teenage attendant gawked through a frame of stringy hair.

  “I gotta find the key to last week’s crossword,” I said, dismantling the newspaper. “It’s killing me.” I located what I was looking for. My heart leapt out of my chest.