Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  Poor Will. She had overestimated him. The cool confidence she’d witnessed in school and Highland parlors was absent under real pressure. The sweat coming off his forehead could have filled a canteen. She’d chosen the gold earrings on the hunch that he’d probably steal for her but not himself. If he’d taken the time, he would have noticed she didn’t even wear the stupid things. Men. She had to teach Will it wasn’t the cost of things, but the rush you received when you got away with something in your pocket. Of course, this wasn’t a hard and fast rule. Helen stole many things for their sheer beauty, and unless she did, she’d never own them. Will’s pockets were always silly with allowance money—his weekly chores, a joke. She’d grown up too fast since her father’s passing not to understand the economics of her family. In fact, years ago when her mother took her trip to Ireland, it was young Helen who stepped in as the family banker, collecting checks and disbursing spending money to her doting brothers. She even shortchanged Ray once just to see if he was paying attention. He wasn’t. True, most items she stole had to be kept secret, but she didn’t care. There were hers. They had value. When the money goes, you die. Enough said.

  * * *

  Joseph parked on Pleasant Street beside the Troy Store, waiting for his strength to return. Young Will’s latest transgression, while not near the level Hollister’s folly, hurt Joseph more. Joseph knew the boy was over his bouts of self-pity and the acting out that followed Lizzy’s death, so he surmised this latest episode had its roots in the murkiest of pots: adolescence.

  Since Lizzy’s death Joseph had come to know many things about his family. First, he found out just how much of his sons’ development had been guided by their mother. She had filtered everything they read, ate, saw, felt, and heard. Second, he discovered that the years of her illness meant years the boys suffered without her guiding light; God knows he was in no shape to fill the void, what with his nagging denial and then unyielding grief. Luckily, Will’s tender age required him to stay close to home, usually playing peggyball with his friends, but Hollister, poor Hollister came untethered. And last, and perhaps most painful to Joseph, he realized just how much of his involvement in the boys’ lives had been scripted by his wife. She spoiled them in return for accompanying Joseph on Saturday afternoon driving trips to New Bedford or Yarmouth. The feigned interest the boys exhibited in his workday was a direct result of a threat of no dessert after supper. Only when he was forced to raise his hand did the boys really pay attention to him. He prayed—oh God he prayed—that a paper cutout of himself might not have done a superior job fathering them. Each day he regretted his decision to write off Hollister. Perhaps he’d make a good soldier.

  With Lizzy not four weeks gone, he had told Hollister a fishing trip was in order. Just the two of us on the Merrimack River. The cycle seemed to have no end. Hollister spent days assembling rods, reels, provisions, and even researched the types of tackle New Hampshire fish favored. The boys weren’t used to a summer in the city. And though Joseph didn’t approve, Will took a job as a soda jerk at Randall Apothecary. Jobless and homebound, Hollister hung around June Street until the fishing trip.

  Joseph’s sweaty hand had slipped over the steering wheel as he drove between the academy’s iron gates. He told Hollister about the cabins the school rented in the summer to fishermen like themselves. His instructions, as spelled out during his brief phone conversation with Commandant Blunt, were as simple as they were hard to stomach: “Lead the boy into the administrative building, and then lie about forgetting your billfold in the car. Don’t turn around. Don’t look back. Just get in your automobile and go. He won’t need anything—no clothes, no teddy bears, no kiss goodbye. He’ll thank you for this someday.”

  “And when can I come get him?” Joseph had asked.

  “From what you described, this may take some time.”

  “Christmas?” When Blunt didn’t respond, Joseph said. “When will I hear news?”

  “I’ll send word. He’s part of our family now. We’ve broken plenty of mustangs.”

  “That’s it?” Christ. The boy had not been orphaned, or had he?

  “Goodbye, Mr. Bartlett.”

  On the street a black carriage passed, and Joseph glanced at his gaunt image in the window glass. He was resigned to the fact that he might burn in hell for suppressing Maria’s attack. Thank God João was going to marry the poor girl. But still, Joseph imagined the two of them at their kitchen table swapping stories of how they might ruin him. He would keep them well stocked in new music for the Victrola. Of course, João’s butter business was slowly making him a rich man. (And the rest of the operation was making Joseph an even richer one.) It had taken him six years to completely trust João. Maria had many more to go.

  Joseph stood on the sidewalk outside the Troy Store, buttoning and unbuttoning his suit coat. He decided to circle the block. Haven’t I minded the boy well? Joseph thought. With Mary Sheehan’s help, of course. He left the mill promptly at six to dine with his son. On his trips to New York he arranged for Will to tag along. Only at the mill or with his son did he keep his feelings in check. Of course he loved his son, but did he really love spending time with children? He was never one for nursery rhymes or make-believe. Thankfully, Will showed a genuine interest in the cotton business, and Joseph relished teaching the boy the basics so that, perhaps, he might continue the family’s run.

  * * *

  Two minutes to the dogs.

  Will’s first guess was that they had Helen in another room and her mother was coming to fetch her. But that didn’t wash. She had been too smooth going about her business. The only time she dared meet his eye was when she pointed him toward the unmanned jewelry counter. He smiled as he remembered the silk tie that sucked up her sleeve as if her arm were a straw. She’d made it look so easy. Will’s face stiffened, then flushed; he couldn’t fathom what he’d say to her after he was released from house arrest. Was there anything Helen hadn’t done? Could he be a friend to someone who was always right? Always the boss of him? Perhaps it was like his mother had said, that they’d just been assigned to different ends of the pretzel, but eventually, they’d meet at the knot in the middle. The end-of-the-season dance was in two weeks. Would she boss him around the dance floor? Fetch the punch? Walk him home?

  One minute to the dogs.

  He whispered, “She made it look so easy. Really, Dad, Helen’s a pro.” I won’t rat on Helen, he thought. She’d kill me. I’ll throw myself at the mercy of the court.

  Will worked hard to keep his old man from feeling like such a failure. He enjoyed New York taxi rides and ordering chocolate malts to the stateroom on the boats; he looked forward to skimming cranberries from the bogs. But he had grown tired of the forced questions about his school days, the buddy trips to Fenway. Even baseball seasons end.

  Will was humored by his father bending over backward to suggest that mill work was only one of many career options; he did this even while explaining the intricacies of the new Northrop looms. Will learned to name the parts of a Moscrop single-thread yarn tester and the capacity of a Rhoades-Chandler separator. The man from the Draper Corporation in Hopedale began sending Will birthday presents. The young boy had been grandfathered into a post without ever applying. Even Hannah Cleveland talked shop with the boy in hopes of keeping her many orange-inspired cloth lines alive when she was eventually discontinued. But Will hadn’t accounted for the watchful eyes of his grandfather. Otis haunted Will from his hook in the hallway. The dead man’s gaze spoke of the obligation Will was under after Hollister had gotten himself exiled. It was getting to the point where the simple act of wearing soft Cleveland fabrics reminded Will of what he must do. Getting dressed he would count the years between now and the end of college. Perhaps he’d obtain an apprenticeship in New York or Philadelphia, but after that, he was stuck in Fall River, stuck at the Cleveland Mill.

  Will stood in front of the mirror, buckling his trou
sers. He was already thirty seconds overdue. He ran cold water over his rosy cheeks. His face was still fleshy and smooth. Bartlett men grew weak beards. He straightened his shirt and smoothed down his trousers. He took a deep breath. I don’t have the face of thief, he thought, nor the guts.

  * * *

  Joseph turned the corner back onto Pleasant Street. He tried to remember his own teenage life, but it was so far removed. Scooting his mattress closer to the radiator was one memory. The other was the temptation of girls. And not having enough to buy candy. He had dropped the receiver when the store manager told him the price of the earrings. One dollar and ten cents. Gold painted, costume trinkets with a matching charm bracelet. Will earned five times that amount in spending money. The manager said he’d hold the boy until Joseph arrived and then in passing mentioned there was no reason to get the law involved. This comment boiled Joseph’s blood, for it was an obvious allusion to this being a favor that would require payback. Both men knew the police would simply call Joseph and issue a reprimand. But calling the law in would also mean a paper trail—one that would be picked up by muckrakers like Billy Connelly or his network of narcs. The manager surely read the Highlands gossip rags.

  Inside the store, Joseph passed the jewelry department and stopped to stare at the shiny assortment of gems and metals. He stepped to the counter and fingered the costume jewelry, finding a set of earrings similar to those the manager had described over the phone. There was nothing spectacular about them. Nothing at all. Just two simple studs. Joseph smacked his fist against the glass counter, rattling the rack of jewelry. Was the boy’s taste also on the fritz?

  “May I help you, sir?” A saleswoman steadied the clanging rack of trinkets.

  “Do you like these?” Joseph held the studs up to the woman’s earlobe.

  The woman blushed. “Really, sir,” she began. She shot a glance at a coworker dusting the opposite end of the counter. The saleswoman set her hand on Joseph’s wrist and lowered his arm. “That’s not for me to say.”

  “They’re the most god-awful things in the store.”

  “Then, perhaps there is something in the case that interests you?”

  “Why would he want these?” Joseph hung the earrings back on the rack and spread his arms wide. “Of all the thousands of items in this place, why would anyone take these?” Joseph dropped his arms to his sides making a loud clapping sound. “Helen.” He shook his head. “Where did I go wrong?”

  “Sir?”

  “Which way to Mr. Knipper’s office?”

  She pointed over her shoulder. “That way.”

  Joseph nodded. He trudged around the jewelry counter toward the distant offices. Of all the poor influences he had steered his boys away from—immigrant gangs, spoiled Highlands riffraff—he never imagined a young girl living under one of his own roofs could be the cause of such calamity. Mary had no control of the girl—or her sassy mouth—but given Hollister’s path, he’d never raised the issue of child rearing. Mary was one of only a handful that knew what had happened in the fun house. In fact, Joseph had no real proof that Helen had led Will astray, and Lord knows, he’d never get either of them to admit it, though the earrings were surely a present for Mary’s wild child. He must stimulate the boy before he made a tragic error in judgment. He couldn’t lose another boy. The Lord was cruel, but not that cruel. Or was he?

  fireworks

  Mary Sheehan and her widowed neighbor Rita crouched low and pressed their noses against the parlor window of the Snell Street house. On the porch Will and Helen waited on the swing. Will sat sideways staring at his date, his eyes traveling head to foot and back. Helen crossed her ankles, her left toe dragging across the wood planks as the swing swayed in the late afternoon breeze.

  “Yes, it’s really me,” Helen said. “I wore a dress to your mom’s funeral. Remember?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Will rubbed the fabric between his fingers. “Choice stuff.”

  “One more minute of gawking, and then I’m gonna slug you.”

  “Does that hurt?” He patted the coils of her French twist.

  “It’s all the rage in Paris, don’t ya know.”

  “You don’t know squat.”

  “But it’s fun to say.”

  He tapped his index finger on the emerald cameo pinned at her neck. “Old lady Rita make this too?”

  “I stole that.” She touched it. “Saw one like it once in one of your mother’s magazines.”

  “You could be in one of those magazines.” His eyes settled on her round breasts.

  “I even let Rita wash my face with lemon.”

  “I wondered what that smell was.”

  “It’s my first dance.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Got Highlands boys to impress.”

  “I’m a Highlands boy.”

  “Halvies.”

  “I asked ya.”

  She followed his gaze. “You can touch them if you like.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Time’s up.” Helen stood as a car pulled up to the curb. “My chariot has arrived.”

  Inside, Tommy called, “You seen my hat?” He galloped down the stairs and stuck his head in the parlor. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Mary and Rita whipped around, pinching the curtains closed behind them. “Hat’s on your head.”

  “Oh.” Tommy turned the front corner down over his strawberry eye. He smiled. “I’ll spy on those two all night. Don’t worry.”

  A car horn squeaked.

  “What’s the hurry?” Mary said. “Have Little Doc come in.” Big Doc, Little Doc’s father, was one of the few veterinarians in southern Massachusetts, and the first vet to own an automobile.

  “Gotta go.” Tommy winked and ducked out. Mary and Rita gave chase.

  “Tell Little Doc to turn those lights on,” Mary called from the porch.

  Tommy squinted into the setting sun. “Go inside, Ma.”

  “Helen, you mind that new dress.”

  Helen waved off her mother as she climbed into the back seat. Tommy slammed the door. “Hit it!” Little Doc shifted, all the kids waved, and they were gone.

  Rita patted Mary’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” she said. “I can always make another dress.”

  Nellie Zorra, Little Doc’s girl (or rather, he was hoping to make her his girl), sat up front on Tommy’s lap. She had large green eyes and finely coiffed black hair with turquoise combs that complemented her olive skin. She reminded Will of the actress Florence La Badie. Will and Helen crammed into the back of the Buick with another couple. Will squeezed her hand. She smelled like lemonade. Will had suggested they take the trolley, not wanting to wait for Tommy to set up the dance, but Helen insisted she arrive like the Highlands girls, in a chauffeured motorcar. The summer dances at the pavilion were one of the few places where all of Fall River’s classes mixed—at least those that could afford the price of admission.

  At the top of Pleasant Street, Little Doc stopped and pointed toward the barges anchored in the river. “There’s fireworks at nine. We can see them from the beach.”

  “Look.” Helen pointed to the sun setting over Somerset. The clouds were breaking up and the sun reflected off their underbellies in rich coppers and reds. Good fireworks weather.

  Helen had counted down the days to her first dance. Tommy’s work for the dance promoters kept the topic swirling all summer. Mary Sheehan called it the Summer of Nag, and it wore her down. Rita conspired against her neighbor by sewing a linen dancing dress. Queerly, Helen had had her hair done—a first. The conical tube pinned to the back of Helen’s head batted Will between the eyes the entire drive to the beach. Helen knew full well Tommy couldn’t be trusted to look after her for more than an hour. He would make sure she arrived with two shoes and sound bones and returned at the assigned time with two shoes and sound bones. But supervising wha
t transpired between going and coming was where Will Bartlett figured in to her plan.

  Little Doc parked in the row outside the Sandy Beach Pavilion, and Tommy dispensed free tickets on the veranda. “If anybody asks, you paid full price,” he whispered, then hurried off to set up the bandstand, move the chairs around, and mix the punch. “Official junk,” he assured the crew, though Will had seen him showing off a new set of dice to Little Doc on the drive. Other cars started arriving. The Labor Day dance was always a sellout. Tommy expected close to five hundred. For tonight only, the usual dime tickets were upped to a quarter. The band came from Boston. On the boardwalk Will heard the last runs of the toboggan ride rumble in the distance. Children’s shrill screams carried from the giant circle swing as their mothers packed up picnic dinners in the nearby elm grove. Will and Helen traipsed down to the water’s edge. There was little wind, so the chop in the bay was small. The tide trickled in.

  Little Doc and Nellie and the other couples talked on the picnic tables under the awning of the boardwalk, licking their ice creams. The boys smoked. After a time, Little Doc and Nellie hopped down the beach in front of the bathhouses and took a turn dancing. Will watched them between skipping stones with Helen. Between Tommy and Doc, Nellie was sure to have sore feet. Will figured to tire Helen’s with the new dances he’d learned over a year ago in his mother’s parlor. He remembered her advice on how to treat a lady in public: how to hold her hand, make small talk, and compliment her wardrobe. And don’t ever, ever, she drilled, leave your date alone. Women don’t function well alone; it rattles the confidence.