by Joe Meno
OFTEN, RIDING BACK from Mr. Miner’s apartment, with the dollar tucked securely in his back pocket, Henry would begin to narrate the latest episode of his favorite hero’s adventures, having read and reread it so many times that the words had become a bright-sounding refrain in his head.
“Alexander Lightning, teenage boy, supreme commander of the Airship Brigade, has only his magnificent airship, the X-1, to rescue his friends, who have all been shanghaied by spies from the dark side of the moon. What will he do, dear readers, what will he do?”
Whizzing past the park on Western Avenue, Henry would glance at the clock on the Great American Savings Bank to see how long he had been gone on his deliveries.
“Flying the fearsome vessel through the cloudy reaches of outer space, our hero only has one hour before his fellow brigadiers meet their end at the hands of the menacing Lord of the Moon.”
Henry, dashing down Irving Park Road, would squeal to a stop in front of the drugstore on Lincoln, leap down the aisle to the magazine rack in the back, and grab as many new issues of Adventure, Airship Brigade, All-Flash, or The Justice Society as he could afford. The clerk, some older lady in gray glasses or a boy roughly the same age, would watch Henry mumbling to himself as he approached the counter, glancing around the drugstore for a clock.
“Our hero only has twelve minutes left,” he would whisper. “Only twelve minutes.”
Then, grabbing wildly for his change, he would hop back on his bicycle, check to see if he was being followed by some Martian spy or rogue G-man, and pedal back to his father’s tailor shop, slipping the comics beneath the long green bicycle seat. Throwing the front glass door of the shop open, he would clamber inside and ring the bell on the counter to signify that he had returned, looking up at the yellow clock that was hung above his Uncle Felix’s sewing machine.
“The world is saved once again,” he would whisper, nodding in victory. “With no small thanks to our hero, Alexander Lightning, teenage boy, supreme commander of the Airship Brigade.”
ON MONDAY, December 8, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Henry sat beside the honey-colored radio in the tailor shop, listening to the terrible exclamations about the sinking of the American fleet. At his sewing machine, Henry’s father listened for as long as he could, before standing up and switching the radio off by turning its great golden knob.
“That is enough of that,” he said.
Henry nodded, leaning over to sweep the dust into the dustpan with the end of the broom. Henry’s father bundled up a pair of shiny black slacks in a sheet of brown paper, tied the knot tightly, and handed the package to Henry: a delivery.
“For Mr. Miner. Be careful not to drop it or to wrinkle it.”
Henry nodded again, pulled on his winter coat and hat and mittens, then took the package and placed it in the basket of his bicycle. Glancing over his shoulder for enemy spies, he started off, quickly turning down a side street. Just then, he noticed a black sedan pull away from the curb. The sedan was beautiful, with a silver grille and bright hubcaps, exactly what Henry imagined a spy or enemy agent would drive. Behind the wheel were two stern-looking men in gray felt hats. Henry glanced over his shoulder and grinned, just as the sedan took the turn, slowly easing down the narrow street in pursuit.
“Our hero, Alexander Lightning, pursued by enemy agents, finds his radio-ring is suddenly not working. He is unable to contact his fellow brigadiers.”
Henry popped a wad of gum into his mouth as he skidded along the snowy street.
“With two enemy spies hot on his trail, the young commander makes a bold move.”
Henry hit the brakes, darting in between two parked cars, then up the curb and along the sidewalk to the opening of an alley. The black sedan veered speedily, hitting its brakes, its rear lights blinking red as it lunged in reverse. Seeing the car stop, Henry realized something was wrong. The sedan heaved backward, then stopped again, and turned down the alley.
“Our hero is in serious trouble.”
Quickly, he pedaled along the narrow alleyway, past discarded cardboard boxes and overflowing garbage cans, the sedan moving swiftly behind him. The car began to honk, then flash its lights, and Henry—terrified of most strangers, let alone those following him so closely—let out a yelp. The sedan drew beside him, still honking its horn. The passenger, a man in a gray overcoat and hat, unrolled his window and shouted out to him:
“Hey, kid. Hey kid, we just want to talk to you.”
But Henry, frantic now, was too frightened to speak. Small silver tears poured from the corners of his eyes. He flew out of the alley and turned quickly to the right. He double-backed the other way along the west side of the street and hurried back to Western Avenue, where he thought there would be more traffic. For a moment, hurtling back toward his father’s shop, he grinned, thinking he had lost them, but then the sedan rounded the corner at the end of the block and flashed its lights twice in his direction. It quickly pulled alongside him.
“Okay, kid, listen, we just want to talk to you is all.”
The guy in the passenger seat, big with square shoulders, opened the door and began to climb out. Henry let out a nervous peep and sped past him, darting down the avenue, past a woman with her groceries and some kids having a snowball fight on their stoop. The sedan was wheeling around now, cutting across traffic, its yellow headlights glaring angrily. Henry’s bicycle slipped back and forth, careening over the wet snow.
“The Airship Brigade teen commander is in deep, deep trouble. Our hero is going to be murdered. Our hero is going to be put in those villains’ trunk.”
Henry slowed as he crossed Lincoln Avenue. He took a right, then another quick right, which he knew was a straight shot to Western Avenue, where Mr. Miner lived, where he hoped he would be safe. Pedaling slower now, his lungs tight in his chest, he glanced over his shoulder, past the rows of parked cars and drifts of gray snow. The street behind him was empty. He smiled a small nervous smile, his face red from fright and exertion, then pedaled down the alley behind Mr. Miner’s apartment. Hurrying down the gangway to the front of the building, Henry bolted for the front door, holding down the door buzzer much longer than he normally did, as a signal to let Mr. Miner know that he was in dire trouble.
“Hello?” came Mr. Miner’s calm voice.
“It’s me, it’s Henry,” he said, pulling on the door, which was still locked.
“What’s the password?” Mr. Miner joked.
“Mr. Miner, Mr. Miner, I’m in trouble,” he whispered, still holding down the call button.
“Hold on, pal, hold on.”
Suddenly the front door mechanism buzzed and swung open on its hinges. As he took the stairs one, then two, then three at a time, he thought he heard the footsteps of someone behind him, but he was too afraid, too full of cowardice to face those men again. With the brown package in his hand, Henry made it up to the third-floor landing just as Mr. Miner’s apartment door opened. Mr. Miner was in a red robe, his hair as shiny as wet plastic, a long cigarette between his lips, looking collected, suave, his forehead unwrinkled, his narrow mouth a little smile of vague concern.
“What’s the matter, kid? Who’s after you?”
Henry was too scared to speak, his heart pounding so loud in his chest that he could not think. He fell to one knee, handing the brown package to Mr. Miner, who regarded it with a large smile.
“Okay, okay, kiddo, who’s tailing you?” Mr. Miner asked, and then, as if they had been summoned, the two enemy agents from the black sedan marched up the stairs, their black shadows falling across Henry’s red face. Seeing them, Mr. Miner frowned, the cigarette tumbling from his mouth, and slowly, gracefully, he backed into his apartment. But the enemy spies were out with their guns quick, both of them. From his spot on the floor, Henry gasped at the guns’ bright, oiled certainty. Mr. Miner kept slowly backing into his apartment, raising his hands, as the two agents commanded him to be still. Henry could see Mr. Miner’s red slippers move inch by inch until he had
backed over the threshold of his apartment, and then, as quick as a nightclub magician, he saw Mr. Miner reach for something—was it a gun, too?—from behind the doorframe. Before he could raise his weapon, the bigger of the two thugs jammed his pistol hard against Mr. Miner’s temple, then backed him with force against the shiny black door. A smallish, .22-caliber snub-nosed pistol, looking exactly as it did in the comic books, clattered from Mr. Miner’s hand to the carpeted floor.
“We got it, Burt,” said the other agent. “We got it, take it easy.”
The agent reached down and grabbed the brown package, then, stowing his gun back in his holster, he began to slowly untie the white thread.
“What do we got?” Burt, the bigger man, asked. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like clothes,” the shorter one said. “It looks like a pair of slacks.”
The bigger man, Burt, frowned, and then gave Mr. Miner a shove.
“What’s with the slacks? Spill it and maybe we can go easy.”
Mr. Miner, a greased black forelock of his hair dangling over his white forehead, only smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Gentlemen, I believe there’s been some kind of mistake,” he said.
The two agents glanced at each other, then shook their heads. Burt pressed his pistol harder against Mr. Miner’s temple, growling. “We know all about you and your pals, Silber. You might as well come across with what you know.”
“I believe you have mistaken me with someone else.”
The big agent laughed, nodding toward his partner.
“Pete, show him the credentials.”
Pete, the shorter of the two, with gray hair and thin tired eyes, reached into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet, which he flipped open to reveal his badge.
“Maybe you’ve heard of the FBI?” Burt asked.
Mr. Miner did not seem very impressed.
“I have done nothing wrong as far as I know of.”
Pete looked down at the gray slacks again, eyeing the fabric, inching his fingers along the thread, checking all of the pockets carefully. He ran the cuff between his finger and thumb, nodding.
“Very fancy duds for a radio repairman. Where does a fellow like you get the money for a high-price item like this?”
Burt grunted a little at this and turned toward his partner.
“Maybe we give his place a once-over, what do you think?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
Burt turned to Mr. Miner, knocking him in the head with the barrel of his gun as he spoke. He reached into his coat pocket, found a pair of silver handcuffs, and slapped them on Mr. Miner’s wrist.
“Now, you don’t try anything brave, Mr. Fancy-Pants, and we won’t have to ruin your nice little robe there, how’s that?”
Burt backed Mr. Miner into his apartment, pushing him toward a red velvet sofa.
“Take a seat and make nice.”
He then turned to Henry, who was still kneeling, trembling, out in the hallway.
“You, the kid from the tailor shop? What’s your name?”
“Henry Casper.”
“You stand there and tell me if he moves, okay?”
Henry nodded, crossing into Mr. Miner’s apartment. The apartment itself—which Henry had never seen before—was gloriously decorated with ornate statues of Greek nudes and lush oil paintings of pastoral scenes. Henry glanced around the place, his eyes moving from an enormous radio set, to a stack of books, to many, many rolls of unfolded blueprints. On the sofa, Mr. Miner smiled at him, sighing, moving a few inches to his right. As the two agents tore open drawers, upended the black wooden table, threw letters and papers to the floor, Mr. Miner only smiled, staring directly at Henry, who was fixed in terror beside the door. When the two agents holstered their guns to move a large piece of white antique furniture—some sort of curio cabinet—Mr. Miner winked at Henry, sliding as far as he could to the other end of the sofa.
“What do we got here?” Burt asked, staring at a large gaping hole in the plaster wall. “Look’s like Mr. Silber here has been keeping secrets.”
“Maybe he didn’t know working for the Germans was against the law,” Pete said with a grin.
“Maybe he forgot which country he was living in.”
Henry did not make a sound, only watched in horror as Mr. Miner, glancing out of the corner of his eye, flung himself up from the couch toward the shiny white-paned windows. By the time the two agents noticed what was happening, Mr. Miner had lifted open the window closest to him, his handcuffed hands shoving the latch upward, and had gotten one of his red slippers up onto the ledge. Henry stood watching, his heart beating wildly, his mouth open, but unable to make his tongue and teeth work.
“Silber, my God, don’t move,” one of the agents shouted.
The last thing Henry saw was Mr. Miner’s black eyes, as he winked just once, and then disappeared into the cloudy air, the red sash from his robe flapping like the tail of a kite as he flew decisively from the ledge. In his heart, Henry hoped that the man had somehow flown away, but he knew it was impossible.
BY NIGHTFALL, a gang of federal agents had surrounded the Caspers’ little tailor shop, and had torn the place apart from floor to ceiling—wrecking their old twin sewing machines, cutting up newly stitched garments, smashing the honey-colored radio. Henry, watching it all from atop his bicycle in front of the shop, saw his father and his uncle Felix marched out in shiny silver handcuffs, the yellow measuring ribbon still in his father’s vest pocket. His father’s face did not look outraged: only ashamed, his dark, wrinkled eyes small, his mouth weak-looking with embarrassment. While Felix, younger, full of fight, shouted and shoved at the empty-faced agents in their matching gray hats, Henry’s father Len looked down at his feet as he was led past neighbors and customers. The shop—the thing Len had been most proud of in his life, even more than his ailing wife and his three children—was in ruins. His son, with his bright, questioning eyes and quiet, piercing gaze, sat atop his green bicycle, watching its destruction from outside.
“Tell your mother what has happened,” his father said as he was led past. “Tell her I am not a spy. I did not do what they say I have done.”
But as he stared at his father’s long face, while the agents shoved him through the December snow into the backseat of a black sedan, Henry knew he had seen that same look on countless men, in serial films and in the final pages of dozens of Airship Brigade comics. It was the look of a guilty man, a villain, a crook. Henry’s father was one of them—the black-hearted enemy. Having seen Mr. Miner step from the ledge of his own window, Henry did not wonder if his father and uncle were lying. Why else would the FBI be arresting them? No, it was becoming clear now. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. His father was guilty—of what, Henry wasn’t exactly sure—but by Len’s dull, weak-lipped expression, it was obvious he had been caught at something. Maybe he was a villain and, worse, a traitor, a spy—the most cowardly villain of them all. And now, having been captured—as spies in comic books never succeed, always crumbling at the feet of the hero in the final panel on the final page—his father was gone, abandoning Henry and his family, and for what? What do spies in comic books ever hope to gain? Money? Secrets? Power? All of it was useless now. And worse, without his father, without Uncle Felix or the tailor shop, how would the family live? A deep hatred began to glow silently within the boy’s chest as the first sedan pulled away, then the others, all disappearing into the wintry light. Watching them go, Henry climbed from his green bicycle, then crept into the ruined shop, his heart beating hard in anger and shame.
Henry could barely look. Bolts of linen, silver tools, spools of thread, had all been upturned along the front of the shop. The stores of fabric strewn about, the recently mended garments had been trampled upon by wet, dirty shoes. Looking around the tiny shop until his shoulders began to tremble, Henry climbed behind the counter, then through the black curtain into the back of the store, searching through the unmended clothes that had been tossed about in
mismatched piles. Leafing through the yellow claim tags one after the other, then moving to another pile, then another, he finally came upon what he was looking for: hidden beneath an inconspicuous black suit coat and white dress shirt was a yellow paper tag marked Nachtfalter in his father’s writing. Henry tore through the plastic cover and found a pair of gray slacks, hemmed in the style Mr. Miner preferred. The waist needing mending, or so the note on the tag said. Henry moved his fingers along the waist and saw that the hem there was perfectly intact, the white thread as steady and unbroken as any he had ever seen. Moving his finger along the stitches, he felt what he had been searching for against his fingertips: there was an almost identical hem, all around the waist, but broken, in short lines and dashes. Holding the pants up to the fading winter light, Henry could see the thread was not stitched to hold the hem in place. It was a message, a secret code of some kind, left in his father’s infinitesimally small stitches just a few millimeters below the real hemline, the evidence hanging there in his grasp: his father, with his cunningly small hands, was a spy, a traitor, a coward. Henry ran his finger along the message and felt his small heart shrink in his chest. He stormed from behind the black curtain, found a pair of scissors on the floor, and began to tear the false stitches apart, splitting the pants at the same time, until they no longer resembled a garment of any kind.
One by one, he searched through the other clothes in the narrow back room, flinging them from the shelves. At once, a tiny brown moth flittered from its hiding place, frightening Henry as it swooped to an empty spot on the bare wall. He stared at the small creature for a moment, and then squinted his eyes, before he slammed the palm of his hand against the insect, watching the delicate-winged moth drift heavily toward the floor. He did not bother to lock the door of the shop behind him as he climbed onto his bicycle and pedaled the three blocks back to the tenement, overcome by the terrible feeling that the world, like the little tailor shop, like all of the garments within, had suddenly come undone.
