Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  “Funny how we never discuss anything but those deafening mills.”

  Joseph glanced at the hulking Randall mill on the western shore, near the mouth of the Quequechan River. “That’s why we’re here, George.”

  “There—you used my first name. I heard it. Now that is something friends do, right? Ain’t I right? Aren’t we friends, Joseph?” Pierce extended his right hand to Joseph.

  Joseph lowered the paper. Who were his friends? This was a difficult question.

  Pierce dropped his hand. Scratched his jaw. “So, how’s the mouth? Any more loose teeth?”

  Joseph skimmed his tongue around the inside of his mouth settling on a creaky molar at the back of his jaw. He gave it three weeks, maybe four. He pushed the tooth with the tip of his tongue and tasted blood. “You fish—” he began, and then stopped, waiting for the green New Bedford trolley to clatter past. “You fish, George. I pretend to fish.”

  “You know we sometimes have union meetings in the pub?”

  “Just like on the island.” That was probably one reason why they’d never negotiated a major wage concession from the association, Joseph thought.

  “A good pub builds community.”

  “Anything else on your mind?”

  Pierce brushed Will’s shoulder. “Getting any bites?”

  Joseph turned to Will, surprised. He’d forgotten about him. Wasn’t this meeting the start of his grooming process? The heir apparent, like it or not.

  “Answer him, Will.”

  “But you said—”

  “William.”

  Pierce knelt down on one knee. His tone softened, “You like to fish, Will?”

  “Some,” Will mumbled.

  “What’s the biggest fish you ever caught?”

  Will shrugged.

  Pierce licked his line and threaded a hook. He made a knot with his tongue and pulled it tight with his teeth. “You know the cotton business like your daddy?”

  Again, Will shrugged. Joseph said, “He knows the finest silks to the cheapest cotton. Can run a mule spinner and balance books. He’ll run this town someday.”

  “That so?”

  Joseph pinched Will’s shoulder.

  “Yes, sir,” Will barked, jerking his shoulder free.

  Pierce turned to Joseph. “Just like old Otis taught you. Makes me miss my boy.” Pierce reeled up his line. “You know, Will, we’ll always need another straight-shooting Bartlett.” Pierce launched a long cast into the water. “Now, Will, you need to throw out away from the dock. There’s nothing biting that shallow.”

  Will looked over his shoulder at his father. Joseph nodded. Will reeled in.

  Pierce pointed. “The ornery bastards are near those rocks. Let me help.”

  Pierce handed his rod to Joseph and stepped over him, knocking Joseph’s boater to the dock. He lifted the boy by the arm, and reaching around him, set his hand over Will’s. They rocked to and fro, practicing the casting motion.

  “That’s it.” Pierce released Will and stepped back. “Now let it fly.”

  Will took two steps back and skipped into the throw. The line spun high into the air falling just short of Pierce’s float.

  Joseph shot up, nearly dropping Pierce’s reel into the water. “Nice throw, son.” Will beamed.

  Pierce winked at the boy. “Maybe the cotton business ain’t for him.”

  “And what is, fishing?”

  “Or boxing.” Pierce sat down on the dock. “I heard about that whipping.”

  “He’ll settle on mill work.”

  “The fish might outlast the cotton.”

  “I doubt it,” Joseph snapped. He tossed the rod at Pierce and reached for his hat. “What’s news?”

  Pierce pointed at the newspaper. “Did you read my quote on the production goals?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the funny pages yet.”

  “Those controlled fires saved us.” A week after the centennial, two fires had ruined the inventories of the Gower and Pocasset mills, forcing the Manufacturers’ Association to pull back from their threatened summer curtailment. And Globe Yarn lost two months of thread to a broken water main.

  “If you have to rely on luck like that fire, you’ll never beat the owners. I’ve told you before: you’re better off teaming up with the unskilled workers. The craft unions could stomach the company. Give them half a vote; who the hell cares? Cause a real ruckus.”

  “Must we do this dance every time?”

  Enlarging the union would mean the council might lose its special status with the association. “Then you could really milk those old men—like in Bangor: your members broke ranks and won wage increases for everyone.”

  “The weaver for the weaver and the spinner for the spinner.” Pierce hummed the refrain.

  “It’s a quaint old ditty. But times are changing.” As always, the council was behind the pitch. “And the women—they need stronger representation in negotiations. Again, you saw what they contributed in Bangor: picketing, parades, pestering scabs. Your kind, my friend, is a dying breed.”

  Pierce whipped in his line, the tone of his voice hot. “Are we in Bangor, Joseph? No. Do you see any of those Wobblies here? No. The day I sit at a table with a radical bitch like Sarah Strong, I’ll cut off me own prick.”

  “She got results.”

  “Rumor is she’s coming to Fall River.”

  “And targeting the union.”

  Pierce shouted, “Never. Their equal rights slogan is poppycock.”

  Fishermen surfcasting on the shore stopped to stare at Pierce.

  Joseph raised his newspaper. “Easy, George.”

  Pierce glared at Joseph. “Unskilled immigrants aren’t worth the trouble. My men make almost twice as much—and deservedly so.”

  “As a matter of fact, our fathers weren’t born on President Avenue, either.” Joseph snapped his fingers in that aw-shucks kind of way and tipped his hat back to feel the sun on his face. “All right. I didn’t convince you.” In Otis’s heyday, the unions didn’t represent any immigrants—skilled or unskilled—so some inroads had been made.

  “I hear rumors that the Elephant Man is coming after you. You know, he still can’t sleep over missing his chance to get Cleveland into the association. Before the fire, Stanton was a shoo-in there.” Pierce reeled in his line frantically, but nothing was at the end but his bait. He cut the line with his pocketknife and began tying on a larger hook. “When Borden dies you’ll lose some security. The Elephant Man wants Cleveland, Joseph. He wants the entire city under the association.”

  “We’re too small to cause a hassle.”

  “Who said anything about size? It’s about controlling it all. Please, don’t make me lecture you on the Fall River system.”

  Joseph wondered why he had allowed himself to be a conduit for the unions, as he did at every clandestine meeting with Pierce. Joseph enjoyed knowing the scoop early, but it wasn’t critical to the operation of the Cleveland. And with Sarah Strong loose, Joseph thought, where was his out?

  “I’ve got one!” Will’s line tightened and he yanked back on the rod, setting the hook. The fish jumped out of the water.

  “Nice size too,” Pierce shouted.

  Joseph readied the net in the water and then lowered the fish on the dock. The fish’s gills gaped open and shut. A trail of blood leaked from its mouth.

  “It’s a monster.” Will danced around the thrashing fish. “Get him, Dad.”

  “He’s like our friend here, Will,” Joseph said, nodding toward Pierce. “A dying animal.”

  “The thing about your father,” Pierce said, “is that he never can bag the big ones.”

  Will flinched at the flopping fish.

  “Let me show you.” Pierce stepped on the tail and handed his pliers to Will. “Just reach in his gullet and twist the
hook out . . . That’s it. Off the lip. Easy.”

  Will raised the hook, beaming. “What is it?” The fish heaved on the dock.

  “A perch.” Pierce lifted the fish by the mouth and dropped it into their basket.

  “Your line!” Will shouted.

  “They’re biting today.” Pierce reeled in a black bass. Joseph lowered the net and scooped the fish to the dock. Pierce grabbed the fish in his hand and pried the hook free. He sized up the fish, fingering it below the belly, and then moved to toss it back into the water.

  “Keep it,” Will said excitedly.

  “Females that size go back,” Pierce said as the fish hit the water. “Keep too many of those, and there’s nothing to catch.”

  As Pierce rebaited his hook, Joseph unfolded the newspaper and skimmed the article that quoted the labor leader. Pierce helped Will cast his line. Setting the paper down, Joseph said, “What did you mean, the fire was ‘controlled’?”

  “What did you hear?”

  “What the fire marshal reported: spontaneous combustion of fine dust saturated with oil smoldering in a mechanic’s repair wagon. Smoke damage alone ruined Gower’s thread.”

  “Funny place to park a wagon, ain’t it?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “We’re mates.”

  “And the water main rupture?”

  “Dumb luck. But it made the other less fishy.”

  “And you think you’re better than—”

  “Sarah Strong and her International Workers of the World radicals are high from their Bangor success. They’ll be looking for sympathizers in the owners. You’re a target.”

  “Will, pack it up,” Joseph snapped. “We’re leaving.”

  “Got another.” Pierce said. He’d hooked another bass, but this one was much larger, and male.

  Will handed his rod to his father and grabbed the net. His thin arms bulged lifting the fish to the dock.

  Pierce knelt down on the wooden planks next to the glistening black bass, the line disappearing between its gaping lips. It had swallowed the hook. Pierce whispered something to the fish. Looking up at Will, he said, “You know what we call this one?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Lunch!” Pierce wiggled the line and gave it a sharp tug; the fish jerked forward, but the hook didn’t budge. He pointed at the tail. “Step on that.” Will did, and Pierce released some line from the reel and wrapped it around the toe of his shoe. “Get ready, boy,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “One, two, three.” He jerked his foot back, ripping the hook free. The sound was like a sheet of paper being torn in half. The fish’s bloody innards slopped onto the dock. The worm dangled from the hook. Pierce lifted the disemboweled fish by the gills and dangled it before Joseph, whose face flushed three shades of green. “Fire talk turn your stomach?” Pierce chuckled. “You’re no stranger to it. What was Cleveland’s mishap? A broken lantern?”

  Joseph squeezed Will’s shoulder. He whispered, “Let’s go, son. Grab your rod.”

  “Sometimes you’re lucky.” Pierce raised the fish higher still. “Sometimes you’re not.”

  Before Will could finish stowing his gear, Joseph yanked his son to his feet and started down the dock. The boy shouldered his rod and the basket. A hook and float swung wildly over his shoulder.

  Pierce called, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Joseph remembered the reason he had few friends: loyalty.

  * * *

  Later that evening Joseph battled his demons alone on the rear stoop of his Highlands mansion. He knew his friends and competitors were just as weak after a day of pretending. They were probably crying in the bath this very Saturday, reliving their own moments of regret. Joseph put little faith in any sort of atonement, believing even a religious cleansing did not completely erase the memory of an ill-spoken word or wanton act. Tragic memories buzzed above one’s head, just out of reach at a low but persistent frequency. And no philanthropy or hushed prayers could rewrite the past. He wished a large tree limb or the gutters would crash down on him. He would gladly exchange a bale of good memories for a thimble-full of nightmares. And now he had Lizzy to mourn.

  As the humid air tightened around him, Joseph crawled into the house, collapsing on the screened porch. Mary Sheehan found him in a similar position, but asleep, sprawled across the chaise, when she arrived with a dinner of corn chowder, homemade wheat bread, and a strawberry pie. She had sent word that morning to expect dinner, though she knew how hard he worked and figured it best to let him nap. Earlier that afternoon, without her adult children loitering about the house (something she was determined to remedy with an arranged marriage if necessary), she had taken a long walk down to the Narrows; she had even dipped her feet in the South Watuppa. After Saturday Mass at Saints Peter and Paul, she had visited the cemetery where Tom was buried, but instead of going in, as was her custom, she had set flowers against the wrought-iron gate nearest his plot and hurried home to pick berries.

  She set the dinner basket in the kitchen and went to find the boys. Hollister’s room was empty. She discovered young Will asleep in the drawing room, a half-finished model dinosaur was splayed on the table where his mother had lain a few weeks before. She scooped the boy into her arms and carried him to bed.

  Downstairs, she unpacked the dinner basket in the kitchen and then lit the range to warm the chowder. She found a blanket for Joseph, pulled a chair up next to the wicker chaise, and took out her knitting. She paused the needles every few minutes to listen to Joseph’s deep breathing. She had grown used to such stillness from Joseph. On their Sunday walks in South Park, they strolled side by side, occasionally brushing elbows but not speaking, much like a husband and wife who felt content and unafraid of long silences. When they did speak, it was of the children or events in town and very rarely about his work at the mill and never of the past. “Let us never speak of what we might have done differently,” Joseph had told her once. And although she thought such bottling-up might kill a man, she respected his wishes.

  She shooed a fly from his cheek. The last trolley of the night rumbled in the distance. She set her empty chowder cup on the tray and went to the kitchen. She cleaned the dishes and began straightening up. Evelyn’s work had fallen off after the funeral. On the porch she fetched Joseph’s shoes and hat. Folding his jacket, she spotted a shiny rectangular piece of glass in the breast pocket. She smiled at the sight of it, and then, after rechecking he was soundly asleep, she peeled back the fine glass limbs of the object until it was fully extended. Even under the weak porch fixture the glass reflected the light. As she twirled it between her hands, tiny tornadoes of color burst inside each arm. Mary giggled. She pressed a hand to her open mouth. Was it magic? Only Highlands men owned such whatchamacallits. Where do the rich find such wondrous things? she wondered. And what kind of man might invent it?

  part ii

  1905

  The difference between a moral man and a man of honor is that the latter regrets a discreditable act, even when it has worked and he has not been caught.

  —H. L. Mencken

  when sparks fly

  Joseph knew that Stanton Cleveland was keeping a second set of books when he agreed to a union demand to allow the local clergy to examine the ledgers. Once the men of the cloth signed off on the numbers, the planned production curtailment was agreed to by the spinners and weavers. cleveland in dire straits, read the headline in the Evening News, others will follow. But Joseph had no proof. The battles between the two men began after Otis’s death and Jefferson Cleveland’s retirement. First Stanton started overcharging operatives in the mill store, and then he fined them for meeting with George Pierce. Joseph knew he’d lost Stanton in 1904 during the showdown between Borden and the Manufacturers’ Association. Borden needed gray cloth for his American Printing Company, and the association’s mills refused to sell. When Borden’s agents told him that S
tanton Cleveland had refused to sell him the cloth he wanted, he summoned Joseph to a secret meeting aboard the steamer Commonwealth.

  Joseph hopped a train to New York to catch the boat back to Fall River. At Pier 19, he found his ticket under a false name, as Borden’s man, Sullivan, had instructed. In his six-dollar stateroom (Borden’s party had taken all four seven-dollar rooms), he found a note instructing him to wait until he was summoned. Joseph removed his tie and jacket and read the Times. At eight o’clock the opening march of the boat’s evening orchestra concert floated down the corridor. He had made the trip dozens of times and could pinpoint the boat’s location by the passing lighthouses. When he saw Little Gull Island out the porthole, he knew it was near midnight. He ordered a Horlicks malted milk and fig pudding. He knew Borden conducted business on the boat, but it was really getting on. The old man had something up his sleeve. To calm his nerves, Joseph washed his face and damp armpits and then rang the purser for a bourbon. When the man arrived, Joseph bought the bottle. He hadn’t seen Borden since Otis’s funeral, and there only briefly to exchange condolences, and Borden’s usual mantra: “Call if you need anything, dear boy.”

  Call if you need anything. Joseph wondered how many men Matt Borden had thrown that line to. He had heard the phrase a handful of times while learning the selling side of the business from Borden at J. and E. Wright and Company, the largest commission house in New York. Borden saw two threats to the manufacturing and selling of textiles: the Fall River system and the Southern menace. The Fall River agents believed that control of the competition was best achieved by dominance through their vast productive capacity. Their bare-knuckle business model relied on strikes, lockouts, political hardball, and mandatory vacations for operatives to deal with price fluctuations and pesky unions. The Southern assault, Borden explained, was the antithesis of this model, a capitalist’s dream, there were virtually no barriers to profit: weak unions, poverty wages, small or nonexistent municipal taxes, and no workday regulation. “This lovely combination,” Borden prophesized, “will someday close Northern mills and push grass up Plymouth Avenue. And, dear boy, I plan to be in the thick of it.” In New York, Joseph grew frustrated by the work stoppages and strikes back home. He was forced to break contracts with printers and commission houses. The Fall River system killed profits and relationships. The vast capacity of Borden’s Iron Works and American Printing Company and the staunch independence his New York base afforded him made him few friends in Fall River. When you worked for Matt Borden, you just didn’t give a damn what others thought, because deep down you knew they wanted your job.