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The Tombs

Page 2

by Deborah Schaumberg


  She stood on two legs with her potbelly slung low. The pig iron was dropped into her gaping maw. She’d get hotter and hotter, a low rumbling roar coming from inside her gut. We would feel the tension build as the air around her glowed like embers in a fire and the shadows turned purple. It was eerie. Then, impossibly, her immense bulk would flip completely over, blasting an orange volcano of fire and gas thirty feet into the air. Just as abruptly, she’d tip back and expel flowing white-hot liquid steel. She was something to behold, terrible and beautiful. The first time I saw her in action, I had a nightmare of her tearing herself loose, stomping out of the Works, and burying Brooklyn in molten metal.

  Pulling on gloves and lowering my goggles, I flared up my arc welder and began to work. Sparks burst from the tip, heating the air so intensely I sucked air through my clenched teeth until my lungs adjusted. I found a strange satisfaction in creating the perfect weld. The speed and angle of the torch had to be just right to reduce slag and eliminate air bubbles in the weld pool. But it was more than that. I permanently joined things together. Nothing could tear them apart.

  If only I could unite my own family as easily as I fused metal.

  The loud grinding and clanging of machinery kept off normal conversation, but we’d learned to communicate without words. I was about to begin my third piece when I noticed Tony signaling.

  Oscar sprinted toward us, pulling on gloves and helmet as he ran. Despite Tony’s warning, he didn’t see what was coming until it was too late.

  Mr. Malice appeared in his path, holding a rod of steel like a baseball bat. I flipped up my goggles and started toward them. Halfway there, I felt Leo grab my arm. “Don’t mess with Malice, Ave,” he said, his eyes on Oscar.

  I hesitated. Maybe Mr. Malice just wanted to scare poor Oscar—a thought pushed from my mind by the sickening crunch of steel on bone. Oscar collapsed, his legs knocked from under him.

  Oscar bawled while Mr. Malice’s booming voice echoed over the din of the factory. “You wanna come late? I’ll teach you what happens when you cost—me—money!” He kicked Oscar with each word.

  Oscar was bleeding from his mouth, trying to hunch into as small a ball as possible. I lost all sense of myself. “Stop!” I screamed. “For God’s sake, he’s only twelve.”

  Mr. Malice turned on me, his full height like that of a grizzly bear I’d seen at P. T. Barnum’s circus. Glistening beads of sweat crowned his bald head. His small eyes, set into folds of fat, seemed amused, which scared me even more.

  “When you’re here, you belong to me.” He spit on the floor. “You lackeys are lucky to have a job, you hear me? There’s kids begging me for work every day, and I will not be taken for a fool.” He glared at me, his voice a low growl. “Turn around, girl, and get back to your station.”

  But I couldn’t leave Oscar.

  “Please, sir. Oscar won’t be late again.” My eyes stung from the sweat running into them. “I promise.”

  Mr. Malice turned toward Oscar. “Oh, that’s not all he did. Isn’t that right, boy? Serves me right for hiring a gypsy.” He raised his foot. He was going to kick Oscar’s face.

  “I said stop!” In that instant, everything was illuminated, surrounded by a halo of light, like when you squint into the sun. I clearly saw a dark gray cloud around Mr. Malice. I had no time to decide if it was real or imagined.

  My anger compressed into a tight ball in my chest. I wished I could throw it at him like a knife. The air crackled with the sound of breaking ice. The hair on my arms rose up and a thunderous roar enveloped me. It felt as if something erupted from within me, cracking open my ribs.

  The explosion threw us both back. Mr. Malice landed against a trolley loaded with tie rods, knocking it over. The deafening sound of metal crashing into metal reverberated through the factory. I hit the floor, my head smacking hard on the concrete, my last thought to wonder who’d tell my father I was dead.

  Chapter Two

  The Nightmare

  I opened my eyes to a hovering circle of concerned faces as all hell broke loose around me. The tie rods had fallen on top of the boss. The boys, seeing I was not dead, rushed to Oscar’s side. He was still crumpled on the floor screaming, clutching his legs.

  Two runners were dispatched, one to the livery for a horse cart to get Oscar home, and the other to fetch the ambulance coach to take Mr. Malice to the hospital. He lay unconscious amid the wreckage.

  Tony reached out and pulled me up from the floor. As soon as I was on my feet, the foreman we called Scarface marched over and yelled, “Back to work!” He pointed the way, but the factory spun around me.

  Tony seized me as my body swayed to one side. “Yes, sir,” I said. My skull felt like it had been cracked in half. “It’s just that I’m seeing two of you, sir.”

  He swiped the air and huffed. “Ah, get on home, then. You’ll damage the equipment. Don’t come back ’til Monday morn, but mind you, come with yer head on straight or don’t bother coming back a’tall.”

  “Yes, sir,” I murmured.

  “Either way,” he added, “I’m docking yer wages for time off.”

  Tony was permitted fifteen minutes to walk me home. As we passed people in the street, flashes of light blurred my vision and sent pain stabbing through my head. I lowered my eyes, relying on Tony to guide me.

  “Something must’ve set off that blast,” Tony said. “Avery, are you listening to me?” He shifted, supporting my weight. “Try to remember.”

  I was trying, but my brain was spinning with thoughts that made no sense. “I’m sorry. I heard you. But my head feels like it’s in a vise.”

  “We need to know what caused that explosion.” He slowed his pace to match my dragging feet. “Malice is gonna blame us.”

  “I don’t know what happened, Tony.” It was not a lie, although I did feel I was somehow responsible. He shook his head, clearly disappointed. I kept my gaze on the street. “Did you notice anything?” I asked, wondering if he’d seen the fog gathering around Mr. Malice. “A flash, or smoke, maybe?”

  “Nope. Nothing. The blast was huge, like the air was charged. No smoke though.” We wove our way through pushcart vendors hawking their wares along the street. Stepping deftly, Tony added, “So long as Malice is in the hospital, that louse Scarface is in charge.”

  A boy raced forward, almost knocking into us. “Hey, watch it, chump!” Tony yelled.

  I glanced at the boy and immediately regretted it. An image shot through my mind like a shard of glass, too fast for me to make out. Then another, from a man staring at me as he walked by. I cringed and covered my eyes, stumbling over my own feet. These people must think me a drunkard.

  “You okay?” Tony tightened his grip on my arm.

  I nodded. Tony was right; Roland Malice was bad enough, but Scarface was even worse. A power-hungry Irishman, Scarface had been at the Works so long his face had taken on the look of pitted metal, long scars searing his skin like jagged welds.

  “You should rest.” Tony sighed. “Can’t believe Scarface gave you today and tomorrow off. Wish I didn’t have to work on Saturday.”

  “You heard him. He’s worried about the equipment, not me. Besides, he’s not paying me.”

  “That piker will skin my beans, too, if I don’t hurry.” When we reached my building, he said, “I got to get back,” and turned to go.

  “Wait.” I shielded my eyes with my hand. “Send for me if anyone’s taking heat for this. Oh, and Tony, what did Mr. Malice mean when he said that wasn’t all Oscar did?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever it was, Oscar sure paid for it good.” Tony left me at my door and took off running back to the factory. I unlocked the shop and went inside. My father was out. On Fridays he mined the salvage yards for parts for his inventions.

  My mind swirled with questions. I remembered the haze of darkness around Mr. Malice and the powerful surge within my body. Did I somehow cause the explosion? It didn’t seem possible, but I’d felt like Bessie erupting. And the
walk home was torture, the visions erratic.

  I wished I could ask my mother about her visions. A long time ago, she’d tried to tell me. She’d been in bed with a cloth tied over her eyes. She often did this, said it kept her from “seeing things.” In public she wore small spectacles with darkened lenses. Weeks earlier, the local Brooklyn Heights doctor had diagnosed her with “female hysteria” because she was prone to dizzy spells and melancholia.

  Mother had asked me to sit with her. I was glad her eyes were covered. Sometimes when she looked at me, it was like she saw right through me.

  “Avery, tell me about school. Is that nice Mrs. Bell helping you with your elocution?”

  Earlier that day, I’d refused to read aloud in front of the class with everyone staring, whispering hurtful things at me like witch or devil’s daughter. Mrs. Bell had lashed my knuckles with a ruler.

  “Mrs. Bell says I’m quite good at reciting Longfellow,” I’d lied.

  My mother had lifted the cloth and raised one eyebrow at me. I’d put my hands behind my back to hide the red welts.

  “Avery, I think it’s time I tell you about my visions. You need to understand what I’m going through.” She’d pushed herself up onto one elbow. “Are children teasing you again?”

  My cheeks flushed as I’d jumped up. “Yes. They tease me. Because of you. They say you’re a mad witch.” I’d run out the door, slamming it behind me. She’d never mentioned the visions again.

  I felt the hole in my chest expand. And now, I’m becoming the lunatic.

  Shrugging off my soot-stained jacket, I pulled my work gloves from the pocket and inspected them for holes. Small ember burns, but nothing I couldn’t repair. These gloves, my helmet, and my goggles were my only protection. I had to take good care of them. Thankfully, nothing had been ruined in the explosion.

  The thought of going back to work made me shaky inside. But I had to. And when I did, I’d either get beaten or fired. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Welding was the only thing I knew how to do. I’d been at the Works since Father and I lost everything, and I was the best welder they had—now that Alexander was gone, anyway. Maybe that would count for something. Besides, if any blame was coming down on the boys, I had to be there.

  I collapsed onto my bed fully clothed, hoping to escape my own thoughts. My head ached and my eyelids grew heavy.

  I was a little girl hiding under the sofa. I watched Mama’s lace-up boots pacing back and forth. She turned to answer a rapid knock on the door, the skirt of her dress sweeping over my arm. A man in a cloak and top hat entered the parlor, bringing with him a cold breeze that swirled around my legs. I tucked my bare feet under the hem of my nightgown.

  A series of metallic clicks sounded—Papa’s clock, about to begin its on-the-hour routine. This clock had a little Mama, a little Papa, and a little me, spinning in an endless ring-around-the-rosy. I counted the chimes. Eleven.

  The man placed his hat and gloves on the table. His face reminded me of mine when I’d been crying: red-rimmed puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks. He folded his cloak over the arm of the sofa. Something concealed within its folds clunked against the wooden frame.

  “Madame Kohl,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Mr. Edwards, what can I do for you?” she said.

  I was supposed to be sleeping, not spying on Mama.

  The man took a shaky breath. “Thank you for seeing me at this hour. It’s about my wife.”

  “Please. Come sit.” She motioned to two chairs near the fireplace. While he settled into one, she poured tea.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what I am to do.” He picked up the teacup, but his hand shook so much the spoon rattled wildly. He put the cup back on the tray without a taste.

  Mama sat, hands folded in her lap. She looked pretty in her dinner gown, hair piled high.

  The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I believe she has . . .” He spoke to the floor. “How can I say . . . been unfaithful to me.” He coughed as if the words hurt his throat. “I love her still. But my good name . . . Madame Kohl, you must understand—we have children. A man in my position . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Mama leaned forward and took a slow sip of tea. Then she tilted her head and said, “Mr. Edwards, let us open our eyes and see, really see. Shall we?”

  “But how? I heard you could help me, but now that I’m here, I don’t know how you possibly can.”

  “Did you bring a photograph?”

  The man removed a tintype from his breast pocket and handed it to her. I wished so badly I could see it.

  Peeling off her lace gloves, Mama laid the photo on her open palm. She placed her other hand over it. It was so quiet I held my breath for fear they would hear it.

  Their eyes met, and it was as if the man and Mama were seeing something that I could not. His eyebrows went up and then down. It was no more than a minute, but everything had changed. He sat up straighter.

  “Ahhh.” He nodded. “I thought I would go mad. I thought I must defend her honor, but now I see I was wrong. She is innocent and I am a fool. How can I ever repay you, Madame? Will you accept a note?”

  “I do not want your money, Mr. Edwards.” She stood, smoothing her skirt, and glanced at the photograph before handing it back to him. “She’s very young, your wife. Be kind to her. Now, alas, it is getting late.” She rolled her gloves back on.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’ll be on my way.”

  At the door he gathered his things, took her hand, and brushed his lips against the lace. Mama opened the door. He started out, then turned back to face her.

  “I am ashamed of what I might have done.” He reached into his cloak and removed a small gun. My heart skipped a beat. I’d seen Papa’s Civil War musket, but this one was small enough to fit into my own hand. “I . . . I cannot go home with this.”

  Mama nodded. Without another word, he placed it on the table, donned his hat, and left.

  She stared at the gun. The only sound was the tick, tick, tick of the second hand. My mother lifted the tiny weapon and brought it slowly to her temple. I wanted to call to her, but my throat squeezed shut. Then her eyes opened wide. She dropped her arm and held the gun with two fingers as if it was disgusting, as if it was one of Papa’s oil rags. With her other hand, she pressed her hair back in to place and dabbed her face with a handkerchief. After she left, I heard her toss the gun in the rubbish bin in the kitchen.

  I took a deep breath, my mind full of questions I was too afraid to ask. Sliding out, I ran to the window to see if the man was still there.

  He was not. I squinted my eyes at the dark. One shadow shifted, just slightly, just enough to catch the circle of amber light from the gas lamp. Just enough for me to see its face.

  It stood out stark white under long straggly hair. Small ratty eyes looked right at me, one of them catching the light oddly. The pointy nose tipped up on the end, like that of a skeleton. Its thin red mouth cut across its ghostly skin. I gasped, knowing even then that I would have nightmares of that white face. I was about to scream, but it raised a finger to its lips, like Mama did to shush me.

  I jerked open my eyes, inhaling sharply. My mouth had gone dry. The nightmare felt lodged in my throat, choking me. My father had not returned, and every click of a gear and hammer of a chime made me jump. Dark shadows crouched in the corners of the shop.

  I had to get out.

  Chapter Three

  Ink

  I charged up the steep stairs, six floors to the roof of our building, and gulped the fresh air. The cool breeze soothed my searing headache and cleared away the sharpness of my dream.

  Although Father was still out, he probably knew something had happened. Any time there was an accident at the factory, a whistle blasted out over the neighborhood, taunting spouses who lived in fear of its piercing sound. With all the moving machinery and scorching fire, it was not uncommon for a man to go down, but not the children. The welding area was considered safe. School would’ve been s
afer, of course, but no one liked to talk about that.

  I missed school. I’d been foolish enough to think I might be the first in my family to go to college. My dream of attending Vassar women’s college in the Hudson River Valley had slipped through my fingers like boiled bacon grease. Both an education and the security of an affluent husband were out of my reach now. The education was the loss I felt the hardest. I hadn’t realized at the time that our social standing was so shaky or the slide into poverty so slick.

  When money got tight, my father took me out of St. Ann’s, where wealthy Brooklyn Heights children studied. As Grace made perfectly clear this morning, I no longer belonged to that world.

  Then Father moved us to the tenements. We rented a one-room shop, divided into storefront and sleeping areas, in Vinegar Hill, the area named after a distant battle in Ireland. To me, it was just a sour taste in my mouth. My father hung a large clock outside the shop, and a sign saying New and Repairs, but nowhere did it say our name.

  Somehow, the wounded soldiers found us anyway. Now Father spent more time working on his inventions than on selling clocks. His latest creation was a mechanical eye that could restore sight to Union soldiers who had lost one of their own. And every time one of his war comrades showed up, he stayed out drinking all night. I knew he never charged them for the gadgets he created, as if we could afford to be so generous.

  I clenched my teeth. His kindness didn’t bother me nearly as much as his obsession with a secret project, one he spent the rest of his time working on. Whenever I asked him about it, he evaded my questions. When I was little, his workshop in our old house was a place of marvel and wonder to me. Here, it was a mystery in the basement boiler room, kept locked away from all eyes, including mine.

  Why can’t he get a real job? I felt my blood heating, making my head throb all the more. I lifted the cord around my neck, absently playing with the trinkets I’d collected over the years. Among them were gears from my father’s menagerie clock, the key to our old house, a silver ring from my friend Khan, and the C and K from my mother’s Remington typewriter—her initials.

 

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