Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  “Not yet.” Joseph was surprised to find himself and Will seated near Blunt’s table, but then all the staff had been mixed with the cadets. A student stood near the table with his back toward Joseph. “May we sit anywhere, young man?” Joseph asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the tall boy said, his voice deep. He waved to a cadet across the cafeteria.

  “We enjoyed the parade,” Joseph remarked, thinking the boy was much thicker in the shoulders than his son.

  “Thank you, sir.” Another clipped response. Joseph wondered if they were allowed to string two sentences together.

  Joseph said, “Is it something you practice?”

  “We march every day.”

  “You do it very well.”

  The cadets stood at attention and saluted when Blunt entered the cafeteria. Not knowing any better, Will jumped to his feet, and Joseph followed. A smattering of applause greeted Blunt, but he waved it off; from his thin smile, Joseph could tell he had expected nothing less. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with a bushy sponge of white hair and confident stride; though he walked briskly, his head and shoulders moved stiffly, and Joseph detected a slight grimace when he turned his head. He wore a dress uniform that didn’t appear very army. Joseph noticed it wasn’t made from the coarse wool of the students’ uniforms, but from a superior linen fabric.

  “Yes,” the student standing before Joseph smirked. “We are swell marchers.” The boy fell forward over a chair, laughing hysterically.

  “Hollister?”

  “Hollister!” Will raced around the table and vaulted into his brother’s ropy arms. Hollister lifted him into the air, kissed his cheek, and then playfully rapped his knuckles against his younger brother’s head. Will clung to his brother’s neck and Hollister held him against his chest.

  “I knew I could fool you. I knew it.” Hollister’s face lit up. The light reflected off his white scalp through his closely cropped hair.

  Joseph sank into his chair and watched his sons, mouth agape. It was his boy, but a larger, stronger version, with a fine coating of fuzz over his lip. But unmistakably a Bartlett. He was struck by the sudden tenderness he felt for Hollister; he’d expected the boy to take a swing at him. And poor Will. Not until this moment did Joseph realize how lonely he was on June Street. Joseph blinked. He looked around the room at the family reunions occurring across the shiny parquet floor. He was unsure how he had gotten to this sad place in his life, seated on the most rigid wooden chair he had ever encountered, under the flat light of a military school cafeteria in the middle of New Hampshire. How far the Bartlett name had fallen in the last two years. Oh Lizzy, he thought. I’ve failed miserably.

  Joseph rolled his tongue over his teeth. He looked down and caught his reflection in the china place setting. His pale complexion looked ashen. Was it possible that this place and Commandant Blunt were the elixir to cure the family’s ills? How could a crude alchemy of discipline and isolation change his wild child into a young soldier? Joseph watched his sons’ horseplay. Was such a metamorphosis possible?

  The mother seated next to him squeezed his forearm. She said, “That tall one’s the spitting image of his father.”

  Joseph smiled at the woman and sipped his water. She winked. He was content to sit the entire afternoon and listen to the music of his boys’ laughter.

  “I told the guys you wouldn’t recognize me.” Hollister turned to his father. “Sir?”

  “Call me Dad.”

  “Commandant insists we respect—”

  “Then, Father.”

  “I fooled you too.”

  “What’s in the water?”

  “It’s the uniform.”

  Joseph stood quickly, knocking his knee against the table. Water sloshed over the rim of his glass onto the ironed tablecloth. “And you’ve grown. And look at your face—that fuzzy lip of yours.”

  Hollister lowered Will and stroked his chin. His back stiffened. “That’s my mustache.”

  “Of course,” Joseph said, rubbing his sore knee. “And a damn fine one.” Over the edge of Hollister’s tight collar, Joseph spotted thin, gauzy scars from last summer’s accident. That was the gutless euphemism he’d used when describing Maria’s assault and near rape to Mary Sheehan: “Hollister’s accident.”

  Standing toe to toe, Hollister’s nose came to Joseph’s chin. Soon he’d surpass his old man’s six feet.

  “And you’ve just had a birthday. Did you get my card?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve got something for you in the Pope.”

  “I saw you checking out my regiment.”

  “I spied each group, but couldn’t make you out.”

  Joseph was waiting for an outburst, a roundhouse. He set his hand on Hollister’s shoulder, rubbed the thick wool between his thumb and forefinger. Quality stuff. Hollister’s face was flushed. His eyes sparkled. Could he be genuinely happy to see me? Blunt may have carved a soldier from a block of wood in less than a year, but Joseph still remembered the scheming little boy he had dropped off nine months ago. All the crooked edges couldn’t have been whittled down in that time, could they?

  Hollister extended his hand, and Joseph pulled him into a hug. Hollister pressed his hands into Joseph’s back. As Joseph relaxed his embrace, Hollister pulled tighter. A father seated at their table snapped at his son to stop staring. Will’s face flushed. He tugged at his father’s sleeve.

  Hollister turned his mouth to his father’s ear and whispered, “Mother always said you were weak. And it was your weakness that destroyed this family.”

  The cafeteria door opened, followed by the clanging of pots and pans. As the crowd whirled, Joseph jabbed his thumbs into Hollister’s armpits releasing the boy’s iron grip.

  “I’m still your father,” Joseph hissed. Hollister turned away and Joseph clutched Hollister’s elbow. “You’ll do as I say.”

  Will weaseled his shoulders between his father and brother. Joseph clutched the boy to his side and kissed the top of his head. Hollister busied himself pressing down his suit pants and jacket.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a cadet announced from kitchen doors, “lunch is served.”

  * * *

  The Bartlett family waited outside Blunt’s office in the dimly lit administrative building, seated on yet another trio of ridged wooden chairs, waiting for their name to be called. Will sat between his father and brother.

  A cadet with a clipboard appeared at the end of the hallway. “Bartlett!”

  Joseph set his hand on Will’s shoulder. “Wait here.” Joseph shuffled through a table full of magazines and handed his youngest a National Geographic instead of one with a gun on the cover.

  Blunt stood behind a large oak desk. “Welcome.” Blunt pointed to the chair opposite the desk. “Please.” Hollister stood at attention inside the door, his khaki cap tucked under his arm.

  A large painting of William Tecumseh Sherman followed Joseph across the large rectangular office. The room was carpeted with Persian rugs and oxblood leather chairs. Two tall glass cabinets held military books and trinkets such as a miniature cannon cigarette lighter and a collection of hand-painted Revolutionary War soldiers. A rosewood corner table held a whalebone chess set. Joseph paused before the fireplace. He’d expected a spartan office, but this matched the man’s taste in fabrics.

  “We finally meet, Mr. Bartlett.” Blunt extended a hand across the desk.

  “Your letters are brief,” Joseph said. He shook Blunt’s thick hand and froze. Blunt’s chin was dotted with shallow-pitted wounds, and his neck burnt red. The raised tendril-like scars fanned out from his collar like sucker shoots from an oak tree. Joseph imagined a white-hot cannonball exploding on a dusty Puerto Rican hill. Was this why he quit the regular army? Blunt’s square jaw turned up and he smiled, stretching the scars on his neck, their bloody hue softening to a warm salmon.
r />   “War souvenir,” Blunt said, pumping Joseph’s hand three times. “I hope the luncheon was satisfactory?”

  After a moment, Joseph squeezed back. “Yes, fine, of course,” Joseph stumbled.

  “You know, I found our cook in Cuba and paid the freight for her pots and pans. Can you imagine? She wouldn’t come unless I brought her cooking utensils.”

  “Now I see why my son is getting so strong.”

  Blunt shifted his weight and Joseph glimpsed a silk-wrapped saber mounted behind the desk.

  “Yes, our boy.” Blunt stopped, his eyes taking in Hollister. “We’ve made some strides. Haven’t we?”

  “Yes, sir,” Hollister snapped.

  “And there are more to come. Mr. Bartlett, I have friends in Washington, in the military, who rely on me to identify promising soldiers.” Blunt stood up straight, crossing his arms. “Spots are held for me to fill at West Point.”

  “The military academy?”

  “The very one.”

  “You’re not implying . . .”

  “I thought he might tell you over lunch.”

  “There was no time, sir,” Hollister said.

  “Of course.”

  Joseph looked at Blunt and then to Hollister. “When would this be?”

  “Next fall. Hollister would stay on and take summer school until then.”

  “Nine months can’t make a man.” Joseph gestured toward the door, but Hollister kept his eyes forward.

  “We had good raw material,” Blunt said.

  “I’ve spoken to Trinity College in Hartford, plus there is a summer job waiting. You’ll learn the cotton business with a clearinghouse. I’ve had it all arranged.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I prefer the first option.” Hollister’s eyes burned a hole in the window behind Blunt. He’d somehow gotten stiffer standing in the office.

  “That’s all you have to say? You prefer? This really isn’t your decision.” Joseph turned, eyeballing his son. Then to Blunt. “Or yours, Mr. Blunt.”

  A wiry smile crept across Blunt’s face. “Of course not, Mr. Bartlett. You’re in charge.”

  “Certain actions have limited the boy’s options.” Joseph hated to bring up Maria, but he needed to take back control. Did they call this rehabilitation or brainwashing? “Last summer the boy wept in a tree fort after the death of his mother, and today he’s ready to lead a skirmish line in some far-flung Indian campaign?”

  Blunt came around his desk and leaned against the corner.

  “He is no longer a boy, Mr. Bartlett. White Mountain has taught him discipline and responsibility and given him a sense of duty to something besides his own hide.”

  Joseph pictured Maria’s dented face. He pushed back the leather armchair and sat. He was tired of standing between these two.

  Blunt turned to Hollister. “Your father has made you a good offer, son. College. A job in the family business.” Blunt was offering the boy cover like he would a fellow soldier on the battlefield.

  “I’m an army man now, sir,” Hollister said, looking at Blunt, but Joseph knew to whom the comment was directed. “Cotton is not my future.”

  Joseph glared at the painting of Sherman. You went there. Is my boy West Point material? Damn. Will is my only hope.

  Blunt said, “Son, why don’t you take your brother on the tour of the campus. I want to speak to your father alone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hollister saluted Blunt, snapped his heels, and spun around.

  When the door shut, Joseph jumped out of the chair. He raised his arm, but thought better of it. He looked right, left, then back to Sherman’s portrait. His arms settled on his hips. “I want my son back, Mr. Blunt.”

  “He’s a real leader, that boy. A real strategist. He took the older boys’ guff and proved his worth.” Blunt walked over to the chessboard and snapped up a knight. “The army would hate to lose a leader like that. He might turn the tide of a battle someday.”

  “He’s a manipulator. He knows the path of least resistance. Always has.”

  “I think we’ve broken him of that.”

  “He’s coming home.”

  “You must let go, Mr. Bartlett.” He turned to the chessboard. “Knight takes pawn. Hollister is strong, smart; he’s a young man now.”

  “A young man who may be a threat to others—and you want to give him a gun.”

  “Let the army educate him a tad longer. We’re in the business of changing boys into men. There is prestige associated with these academy appointments. Much more than a bought admission to Trinity College.”

  “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Mr. Blunt.”

  “Insinuating? Oh hell. Am I not being direct, Mr. Bartlett? The boy will fail in Hartford without the discipline of the military, and you know it. Nine months ago he might have killed the next girl he seduced, but—”

  “Mr. Blunt, if you please.” Joseph slowly removed his bowler and ran his hand through his thinning hair.

  “The army will teach him to respect his fellow man.”

  “And women?” Joseph interjected.

  “Of course.” Blunt walked back around his desk and ran his finger down a roster of names. He glanced at a wall clock. “When you first called, you asked me if I could find something your son is good at. ‘If you find that,’ you said, ‘then he has a chance.’ Well, Mr. Bartlett, it is not buying cotton for one of your mills. The boy has a mind for military strategy like I’ve never seen before. And a gift for mapmaking. He can glance at a battlefield and re-create the terrain in minutes.”

  Joseph clicked his tongue over his teeth. Elizabeth had purchased an easel and paints for the boy one Christmas, but Joseph had never given more than a cursory glance at the portraits.

  “Are you saying my boy is good at the mechanics of war?”

  Blunt snapped and pointed at Joseph. “Exactly.”

  Joseph ground his teeth. No movement.

  “Please let me know your decision.” Blunt marched to the door. “I need to write my friends in Washington in the next few weeks. It’s complicated.” Blunt opened the door. “Sir, I have other parents waiting.”

  Joseph zeroed in on the flecks and folds of black oil paint in Sherman’s eyes. Are you watching this charade? Do you judge me like old man Otis? He set his hand on the mantel. He glanced at Blunt then back at the portrait. Otis would have dealt with the boy at home. He whispered, “But times have changed, old man.”

  “Sir?” Blunt said.

  Joseph whipped back his hair and dropped his bowler over the crown of his head.

  “No need to wait,” he said, and extended his hand. “The boy can do as he wishes.”

  “Excellent. Excellent.” Blunt gripped Joseph’s shoulder, guiding him into the hallway. “Good day, Mr. Bartlett.”

  Joseph stopped on the threshold. “You’ll watch out for him?”

  Blunt replied loudly so the others would hear. “I watch out for all my boys.”

  The parents in the hallway set down their magazines; the women smiled awkwardly to one another; the fathers continued to pace.

  * * *

  Beside the car Will handed Hollister his present, a balsa wood plane model.

  “I’ll fly a real one someday,” he said, handing the model back to Will. “You build it.”

  Will hugged his brother. Other families walked past. The air was wet. Car engines roared.

  “Will, wait in the car,” Joseph said over his shoulder.

  “Sir.” Hollister extended a hand.

  Joseph searched his son’s eyes for some sign of recognition of what he’d done, some sign of the scared boy he’d dropped off nine months ago. He said, “You’ve hurt people.” He squeezed Hollister’s hand. “What do you say to that?” Joseph crunched his son’s hand, gnashing his knuckles. Hollister swayed but refused to buckle.


  “I say nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I say sorry.” Joseph released Hollister’s hand. Two classmates walked past. One brushed his shoulder.

  “I told Blunt he could make you a soldier. Fall River can wait.”

  “I’m not coming back,” Hollister said, rubbing his palm.

  “Everyone returns home. And when you do, you’ll face what you’ve done.”

  “I won’t fail.”

  “Just survive.” Joseph squeezed Hollister’s shoulders. “And pray.”

  “To Mother every day.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Sir.” Hollister swiveled on his heel and fell in with the other boys.

  * * *

  On the drive back, Will spoke excitedly about dorm rooms with gun racks built into the walls, though the guns were only wooden models. He said Hollister was sure Joseph would demand he go to Hartford and that that would have just caused a huge fight because there was no way he was going.

  Joseph brushed his son’s head and sighed. “Yep, we have an army man in the family now.”

  Will flew the model plane box across the dash, making engine noises.

  “After we check in with the cotton agents tonight, we’ll stay in Boston. See if the Red Sox are in town. Whaddaya say?”

  “Yeah, Dad. Great.”

  Joseph cracked his window when the drizzle stopped. At a break in the clouds, a large rainbow appeared, and he veered off the motorway to a muddy dirt lane for a better look. When Will ran off to urinate behind some budding forsythia, he pulled out his handkerchief to shine the bell-shaped grill of the Pope. Wiggins needed a speaking to about car maintenance. The man’s binges were legendary. Joseph caught himself smiling in the shiny chrome. Hollister was as obstinate and reckless as ever. A West Point appointment! Huh! Amazing! There was no job in Hartford, no admission to Trinity College. He’d made it all up to see what Hollister would choose: the easy street in Hartford or the rigid army way. White Mountain had indeed taught him something. And now they could take responsibility for his actions, Joseph thought. I’m sorry, Lizzy. He kissed his knuckle and rubbed his chest.