Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  On his drive back to Middletown, João stopped by a Columbia Street tavern to hear news of the president’s visit and arrived home on the farm after midnight slightly drunk. If not for the morning milking, he would have stayed later to listen to more stories of Taft’s speech and the battleship Connecticut’s booming guns. He found a note tacked to the front door, its four short black sentences written on the back of a Rose Butter label:

  Elizabeth Bartlett died today. The service is in three days. Join me in praying for our friend. He won’t weather this blow gracefully.

  Kitty

  João wedged the tack from the door with his thumbnail and folded the note in half. Inside, he set his hand on the light switch but then dropped it and sat down on the mudroom bench. He removed his boots and sat in the dark. He had first met Elizabeth Bartlett at the Cleveland company picnic at Lincoln Park. She’d extended her hand, and foolishly he’d bent at the knee and bowed before the queen of Cleveland Mill, but she’d hoisted him up. Called him a “hero” for saving Hollister. She said his future was bright.

  João walked through the dark house, opening all the windows. From the mantel he collected a clay bowl and set it on the hearth. He sprinkled dried rosemary, bay leaf, and garlic in the basin; he struck a match. He sat cross-legged with the burning herbs between his legs waiting for a sign that the quebranto hanging over the Bartlett house had lifted. He would wait all night if necessary. Joseph Bartlett deserved as much.

  bruises, some of them deep

  Joseph pressed the ice pack to his jaw between sips of whiskey. The left side of his face was frozen blue, but the pain burrowed deep in his jaw; the rest of him was numb. Usually, the third glass of rye removed all the pain. At least the salty taste from the pus had passed. God damn this day. Joseph kicked the porch wall, cracking a clapboard. He stood up and paced the screened rectangle, alternating between the whiskey and a cigar from the cedar box Hannah Cleveland had presented him when he took over running the mill. “You’re one of us now,” she’d whispered, still bleary-eyed from her son Stanton’s death. The tobacco was brittle and stung his throat. He clicked his tongue over the remaining twenty-nine teeth, stopping to wedge the tip between the gaps. Another enameled soldier was sure to exit. But what did he expect? They’d served him well for forty-two years. The collateral damage from his last abscessed tooth hadn’t been pretty. Dr. Boyle had prattled on about silk floss, but it was no use. Taft’s pearly chompers were surely falsies, a man his age. Otis had favored a seahorse ivory denture. Joseph extinguished the dry cigar. Perhaps it was just his time.

  The house was quiet, save for Evelyn muttering prayers over his Elizabeth’s body. Hollister and Will were gone, bunking at the Sheehans’ while their mother lay in the front parlor. A nice cross-breeze swept through the porch, cutting the stifling heat. Earlier he could make out a long stripe of moonlight down the Taunton River, but now low-flying clouds draped the city. An occasional motorcar or horse carriage passed below. It had been an exhausting day of preparations, house calls, and a long conversation with Matt Borden, who’d sailed back to New York before the Mayflower lifted anchor. Lizzy’s death had set certain arrangements in motion, such as stock transfers and grave purchases—tidbits that Joseph had thought his boys would take care of after he passed.

  This was his punishment, he decided. The center had finally come undone. Never again would he be able to blame Lizzy, or her people, for his failings. But the weight of her family’s wealth cut deep. Borden had suggested New York bankers, encouraged Joseph to move the lot of it out of Fall River investments. “The next frontier,” he called it, as if his niece’s death was a footnote in a quarterly report. The cemetery caretaker appealed to Joseph’s thriftiness by suggesting that investing in a large family plot made fiscal sense, so Joseph had begrudgingly anted up hundreds for himself and the boys and the boys’ wives, if they so chose to join the Bartlett family for eternity. And if they were ungrateful, the caretaker assured, this meant “more space for you and the missus.” Space for what, Joseph wondered. His library? Lizzy’s antiques? A tomb for his crazy maid to lament at? Knowing a patch of earth sat ready for his demise made him uneasy. Joseph’s last task of the day was approving the outfit Mary Sheehan and Evelyn had selected for Lizzy, a brown handkerchief-linen gown with inset lace he’d purchased in New York last winter. It wasn’t what he’d have chosen; he wanted something sunnier, the lavender silk piece he’d recently picked up. But he was too weary to object. No, the ladies should select the gown, given that they were going to have to maneuver poor Lizzy’s stiffening limbs.

  Joseph poured another dram of rye. He set the crystal decanter on the sideboard, then held his glass up to the light. It was now his property. Along with the bone china, divan, Persian rugs, and Dunning still lifes. All the accoutrements a Highlands household required. Everything Lizzy had wanted. Like June Street itself. But Highlands women don’t usually marry Irishmen. He’d backed into a life he’d gladly return, as if it were a fine mohair overcoat he’d worn around the store: yes, it looked good, but seemed off, no thanks. No, now it was his, wrinkles and all. And the boys. Perhaps, without a Yankee in the household, the Ladies Auxiliary would pressure him to sell.

  Evelyn wandered onto the porch rubbing her doughy cheeks and blinking rapidly to wake from her Catholic trance. She looked around the room and then knelt down to rub a spot from the carpet with the corner of her apron.

  Joseph toed the spot. “Can I help you?” he snapped.

  “Sir?” She scrambled to her feet. “There’s a man at the door.” She pointed over her shoulder. “He wants a word.”

  Joseph smacked the decanter against his thigh.

  “They’ve come to evict us already?”

  “Sir?”

  If it was a man from the mill, he would fire him on the spot. Joseph turned to the vestibule.

  Evelyn tapped his elbow. “The back door, sir.”

  “Who is it then?” He handed her the ice pack and decanter.

  “Didn’t say.” Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “Said, you’d ‘understand.’” She knew of her boss’s involvement with union rabble-rousers.

  It was probably one of George Pierce’s idiots in training; he’d grab his gun, scare the crap out of the dope. Curse this day. “‘Howdy-do’ to you, Mr. President, you fat walrus.”

  “Sir?”

  “Move.” He brushed past Evelyn, cursing the time he had to wait until Hollister took over the mill.

  Before Joseph stepped down the stoop he sensed a shift in the weather—dampness up from the water weighing down the air. The heat had broken. Smelled like rain. He opened his mouth and inhaled. The cool air soothed his mouth. Evelyn must drop the windows.

  A figure and horse-drawn carriage stood just outside the arc of light cast by the kitchen fixture.

  “Who’s there?”

  João Rose stepped into the light. He was dressed in black, a virtual shadow. Joseph scanned the neighbors’ for prying eyes. João knew the rules about house visits.

  Joseph said, “It’s a bad time, João. Lizzy—”

  “I’m sorry.” João stepped closer. “I have something to show.”

  “The farm?”

  “No.” Joseph had been putting off their quarterly state-of-the-farm meeting. And now he had the boys to manage. He’d never get straight again.

  João turned toward the farm carriage, motioning Joseph to follow. Rain began to fall.

  João set his hand on the door handle. He put on his black hat, made a start to speak, then paused and released his hand from the handle. “Not good events.”

  “It’s been an unpleasant few days.” Joseph’s tongue explored the soft pit in the back of his mouth.

  João said something in Portuguese, and the latch inside the cab unlocked. The door opened on two slim legs wrapped in plain black cotton stockings.

  João said, “Come forward. It’s okay.�
�� The woman’s legs shuffled. A moment later her left hand clutched the doorframe and the leather seat creaked. The left side of her face inched into the weak light. Her skin was light brown and beautiful, though swollen; the eye, black and focused on the carriage floor. Joseph glanced down to see what caught her attention. Rain pooled on the running board. João mumbled something and she sat up, and turned her shoulders to face them.

  “Jesus.” Joseph whipped his wet bangs off his forehead.

  Her right cheek was bruised, nearly black. A cloth bandage covered the eye, and the thin slope of the nose took a funny bend near the tip. Her rich, dark hair was pulled back in a scarf, revealing a shaved patch above the right eyebrow and, there again, a dressing dotted with blood. This one snaked into her hairline.

  Joseph stumbled back from the carriage.

  “Obrigado,” João said, his voice barely audible, and the girl fell back. He shut the door. The lock snapped closed a second later.

  “Who is she?”

  “Maria. She sews for Cleveland. So does her mãe. The pai is out of work. A fisherman.”

  “She get hit by a truck?”

  “Her pai spoke with Manuel. Also from Santo Cristo.” João paused. He sucked his teeth. Surveyed the yard as if pitching a price for its care. He took a step toward Joseph, his voice low. “You have heard lies.”

  Joseph shook his head. “I don’t know that girl.”

  “Hollister does.”

  “You mean the fun house incident?” Joseph said, startled. “The police called. Said they’d stop by after the funeral. My boy was attacked.”

  “No, no, no.” João removed his black hat and slapped it against his leg. His eyes narrowed. He said, “Your boy attack Maria. Your boy in trouble with my people.”

  “Nonsense!” Joseph remembered clutching his son to his chest when Tommy had brought him home. His oldest son. Motherless and bloodied. Hollister had run the block after hearing the news. They found him later that afternoon in the tree fort the boys had built years ago with Wiggins. Mary Sheehan had set a dinner tray at the base of the old oak. Joseph had wondered what the boy was hiding from. Was that the word he’d used, “hiding”? No, he thought, this girl’s face set the word in my head.

  Joseph said, “Hollister said a girl slipped in the fun house. A drunken operator hit him.” João’s expression didn’t change. “Slipped, João. Not anything like this.”

  “No, no, no,” João said. “She with Hollister. He beat her. Glass boom when the man forced door. Shards cut her legs.”

  “And Hollister’s neck.”

  “No, no, no. She cut him.”

  “You’re talking about my son.”

  “He cheated her in the mill store—”

  “Impossible!” Joseph clutched his stomach. The pain in his jaw had fallen to his gut.

  “He forced her to . . . how do you say?”

  “Not another word.” Joseph paced behind the carriage. He spied the light in the parlor and Evelyn’s shadow moving about the coffin. There was no place for him to store this new information in his full head. He flung his hands over his head, walked a few paces, stopped, and walked back. His right arm shot up, and he made a start to speak, but then lowered the arm to his side. He nodded for João to continue.

  “The police protect him, not her.” João paused, glanced at the neighbor’s house, and walked to Joseph. “Stories involving you people always lost in translation.”

  Joseph tapped his toe in the puddle encircling his feet like a noose. You people. He now understood the police chief’s courtesy call the day after the incident. The up-and-coming mill owner sympathetic to labor, the death of his middle-aged wife, a Durfee no less, mother of two young boys, took precedent over the mild disfigurement of the daughter of an unemployed Portuguese fisherman in the Flint. The chief saw an opportunity; Joseph would have to repay the favor.

  “What does she want?”

  “To cut her throat with a razor.” He dragged a finger across his throat, then glanced at the granite house. “Boy here?”

  “No.”

  “You do something, Joseph.” João touched his boss’s elbow. He’d had never spoken Joseph’s Christian name.

  “I’m sorry, João.”

  “Sorry don’t make it hurt no less.”

  João stared at the carriage. Joseph stared at João. Yankees for the Yankees. Irish for the Irish. French for the French. Portuguese for the Portuguese.

  “I’ll make it right.”

  “No.” João shook his head. “Never right. Never.”

  “What now then?”

  João brushed a twig off the carriage. “I take her to Middletown. Kitty help her heal. The apothecary give me all we need.”

  “I’ll send Dr. Boyle out.”

  “That paper man, Connelly, been asking around Columbia Street.”

  “I’ll deal with him,” Joseph said. “What’s her father’s name?”

  “Francisco Medeiros.”

  “I have shares in some boats.” He spoke in a flat voice. “Have him come to the mill store.”

  “They cheer you in the neighborhood,” João said. Perhaps he couldn’t hurt his old friend any longer. Joseph appreciated the effort, but what Hollister had done was his failure as much as the boy’s.

  “But not under my own roof.” Joseph’s wet shirt clung to his long torso. His wet trousers began to constrict around his legs. He seemed to be expanding in the rain.

  João watched a motorcar pause at the corner. It cruised on. A gust of wind loosened the upstairs shutters, and they clapped against the house.

  Joseph said, “This is the second time you’ve saved Hollister.”

  “Next time I let him drown.” João looked up at the house again, his eyes landing on each window. Joseph knew the wiry farmer could scale the building.

  João said, “I will plant a tree for Ms. Bartlett.”

  Joseph extended his hand and João took it. “Godspeed.”

  Joseph stood in the rain until the carriage turned down the hill. He removed his wet shirt and stood for a moment half-naked. He bent backward and closed his eyes, letting the rain cleanse his face. When his heartbeat slowed he righted himself, a tad dizzy, and peered up at Hollister’s bedroom window. Oh Lizzy, he thought, how are we to survive without you?

  Approaching the kitchen door, he paused and turned back to the yard. What was clanging? On a low-hanging crabapple branch, at the back of the yard, Lizzy’s seashell wind chime twisted sideways in the wind and rain. Every Highlands housewife had a garden full of beach-inspired crafts from summers spent in Westport. The kitchen light reflected up off the wet grass and brightened the strands of white shells. Lizzy thought the chimes gave voice to the spirits.

  * * *

  Joseph poured another healthy standard of rye and followed the smell of vanilla to the parlor, hoping Evelyn wouldn’t burn down the house with the candles. She sat slumped, snoring in his leather armchair beside Lizzy’s open walnut coffin. He considered the two of them. There is a peacefulness to the dead, pristine for their eternal sleep, but the longer Joseph studied Lizzy, the more he became aware of the haunting stillness of her chest, her eyelids, her waxy hands. And the chilling pallor. Evelyn’s light freckles glowed compared to Lizzy’s whitening cheeks that no amount of rouge could warm. The few strands of strawberry hair were all that remained from her youth. Their youth—it seemed so very far away. He couldn’t call up one memory. Hollister. Hollister. Hollister. The boy’s name pounded between his ears. He tucked a loose strand behind his wife’s head. “Lizzy, there is so much to talk about.” He stepped away from the coffin and raised the lip of his tumbler below his nose hoping a liquor-induced sleep might help him forget that his son had sexually assaulted that poor girl in the fun house. The previous night, drinking had helped, at least for a few hours. His increased tolerance made it harder to
forget, but easier to summon the courage to beat the fear of God into the boy.

  A motorcar turned up June Street, and the passing headlamps filled the room. The light reflected off the gilded picture frames on the desk: photographs of her father and mother in South Park, the family portrait from last Christmas. Above the desk in an oval frame hung an oil painting of Joseph’s father, Otis. God, how she’d loved the old taskmaster. They were cut from the same hard cloth. The artist had captured a brooding expression, a disapproving frown—or that’s how Joseph read it now. The expression changed each time Joseph had sought its approval in the years since the old man’s death. The artist had taken some liberty in smoothing out the scar on his neck and muting eyes bloodshot from chronic insomnia. Joseph was developing similar eyes. Otis’s investments had taken care of everything. Rents from his real estate holdings in Newport had allowed Joseph to buy waterfront buildings. Money from the Middletown farm Otis had purchased paid his sister’s yearly allowances. The man had been a peer to men like John Flint, farmer turned tin peddler turned real estate speculator turned mill owner—men who had made something out of nothing. Joseph looked into his father’s eyes. The old man worked tooth and nail to afford the type of privilege Hollister now took for granted. Otis would have beaten the boy and thrown him into the Taunton River.

  Joseph stepped to the windowsill and dumped the glass of rye into a potted germanium. He wouldn’t forgive what the boy had done, but he wouldn’t lay a hand on him either. There had to be a third way.

  He jostled Evelyn. “I’m going up, dear. You come too.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bartlett,” his half-asleep maid yawned.

  “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  “Right behind you, sir.” But she turned her back to him and stood over the coffin. When Evelyn had finished fussing with Lizzy’s hair, she moved on to the dress and shoes and then knelt down and bowed her head. Her hands clasped.