Spindle City

by Jotham Burrello

  Joseph jumped to his feet. “Will you excuse me? There’s a man from the mill I need to speak to.”

  “See, it is in your blood.”

  Joseph flashed a nervous smile. “Won’t be a moment.” Before Mary could reply, Joseph darted across the green. The frost-covered grass crunched under his feet.

  * * *

  In October, Tommy had returned to the coffee shop in Newport to meet with João. Sheila’s replacement, the ornery Patty, didn’t take kindly to Tommy ordering à la carte and frowned when he displayed his press card. She hadn’t seen João in a few weeks and, after two hours, asked Tommy to leave or said she’d flag down a cop. Either Tommy’s letter requesting an interview didn’t make it to João, or he didn’t want any publicity. Tommy guessed the latter. Outside the café he followed the street behind the Bartlett building to the loading dock where João’s farm truck had parked during his last visit. Tommy hopped up on the dock to peer in the window. As Sheila had said, there was some sort of installation going on. And empty Rose Butter barrels stacked in the corner. But why? The question had nagged Tommy the entire summer and fall. Why does a Highlands gentleman adopt a Portuguese laborer?

  In the library he found the city directory for the year of the fire. In the R listings he discovered João Rose, Steep Brook, Cleveland Mill. No listing appeared the subsequent year. He picked up the 1911 directory. In the M’s he found Maria Medeiros, Flint, Cleveland Mill. There was no listing for 1912. On a brick of Rose Butter, he discovered the company was established two years after the fire. He nosed around Steep Brook and another Portuguese neighborhood, “Below the Hill.” No one would talk to him. He found Maria’s family in Flint and followed her father to the Pocasset mill. He worked in the dye house. Tommy thought marching through the gates of the Bartlett farm would get him fired, and ignite his mother’s ire, so he placed a call to friends at Pocasset, and retreated to the Globe to reread the archives on the Cleveland fire that killed his father.

  At 10:37 p.m., Box 18 was struck for a blaze that started in the Cleveland Mill office building at the corner of Anawan and Washington Streets. The roof is almost gone, and the second story is ruined beyond repair, although the first-floor walls remain quite solid. The insurance on the building was $50,000. Fire Marshal Davol determined a security man mishandling a lantern in the second-floor office started the blaze. Why mill owner Stanton Cleveland ran into the building is somewhat of a mystery. Engineer Thomas Sheehan is said to have entered to save Mr. Cleveland. Neither man survived the blaze. Mill agent Joseph Bartlett, who left the mill prior to the alarm being struck, expressed sorrow at the loss of life.

  In November, Tommy got a call from an overseer at the Pocasset mill who owed him money. Maria’s father was overheard talking about his granddaughter’s upcoming christening.

  * * *

  Tommy stood on the ledge of the pavilion, shoulder to shoulder with a silver-haired man watching the watchers watch Hollister. The corner portrait studio had become an attraction, a stop on couple’s Sunday walks like a nickel peep show. From Tommy’s angle Hollister was hidden behind his easel across the pavilion. He hadn’t so much as gotten a flash of him between portraits. Only his scuffed brown boots, coated with a light dusting of cigarette ash, were visible. Occasionally a lead-stained hand emerged to retrieve the cup of cider from the ledge or a puff of gray smoke floated over the canvas. The line for portraits snaked down the stairs and into the green. Maria was next. Tommy had been staking out the ten o’clock Mass, the christening Mass, at Santo Cristo for three weeks straight.

  “She’s beautiful,” Tommy whispered.

  “Thank you,” said the silver-haired man standing next to Tommy. He nodded toward his wife.

  “Not her,” Tommy said.

  “Watch yourself,” said the silver-haired man. Tommy was gripping the man’s shoulder. The man shook, and Tommy jerked his hand away nearly losing his balance.

  The man pointed to Tommy’s bad eye. “What happened to you?”

  “Shark attack.”

  The man screwed up his face.

  “You should see the shark.”

  “Wise guy, huh?”

  “Piss off,” Tommy snapped.

  The man turned away.

  Tommy loosened his collar; nearly forty degrees, and sweat coated his back. For the first time since discovering them in the fun house, he’d caught Maria and Hollister in the same frame. Over the years, usually on his knees at Saint Anne’s, he’d asked forgiveness for not reporting to the police what he had found in the fun house.

  Tommy turned away from the scene to face the park and took a deep breath. At the time, he had blamed Maria, as if her brown skin had somehow encouraged the beating—no Irish girl would be so stupid. No Irish had to be, he thought. Family responsibility and an allegiance to Joseph Bartlett had blinded him. That was clear to him now. Helen has been right about that much.

  “These are new shoes,” the silver-haired man said. “Don’t get sick on them.”

  Tommy shook his head and spit yellow bile into the shrubs. He popped a Necco wafer in his mouth. He spotted Joseph striding up to João. João smiled as Joseph approached, but as Joseph spoke, João’s face turned to stone. Joseph pointed to the pavilion. João pointed and then João spun to the man next to him and called his son. The man’s wife grasped the handle of the baby carriage. João tore toward the pavilion. Joseph gave chase.

  “We thank you, madam,” Michael Murphy’s voice bellowed inside the pavilion.

  A woman with a blue-feathered hat stood to accept her portrait.

  Michael spoke loudly for the crowd to hear. “Surely we’ll accept an extra fifty-five cents if you think the portrait is worth it.”

  “Give it to him,” she instructed, pointing to Hollister. The crowd laughed.

  Michael plopped the coins into the tipping tin on the ledge. “A tip for the maestro.” He lifted the canvas with his one arm and handed it to her husband. Hollister sat with his head down, wiping his hands with a rag. The creases between his fingers were black. He reached for his cider, and Michael set a new canvas on the easel. Tommy hopped down and cut through the throng to the opposite side and jumped on the ledge. João and Joseph pushed up the stairs, against the tide of onlookers. The woman in the blue-feathered hat and her husband bumped into them. A little dance commenced between the men and the new portrait.

  “Are you next, madam?”

  Maria nodded.

  “Do you know how this works?”

  Maria met his eye and shrugged.

  “The maestro here first needs to have a look at ya. And aren’t you lovely. Well, he doesn’t see very well, so he is going to touch your face so he can transpose your beauty to the canvas. Is that fine with you? That he touch you?”

  Hollister raised his head.

  Maria reared back on her heels, falling into the well-dressed woman behind her.

  “Well, I never,” the woman roared, then stopped. Her mouth formed a large O, either disarmed by Maria’s beauty or shocked by the sight of such a finely dressed Portuguese woman. Michael steadied Maria. Her hand latched onto his forearm for balance.

  “Madam?” Maria’s face rapidly lost its walnut color. The thickening crowd pushed forward like a giant wave. Michael flashed them a tight smile as he stooped down to whisper in her ear. “If you’d rather wait, we’ll hold your spot in the line.”

  Tommy leaned forward. Holy crap, he thought, she’s gonna let him do it.

  Maria peered over her shoulder. João elbowed forward.

  Maria turned to Michael and shook her head, her breathing suddenly labored. She slid two bills from the sleeve of her blouse.

  “Fine then.” He winked at the Yankee woman. “Allow me.” Michael scooted the stool in front of Hollister with his toe and guided Maria down with his arm. “This here is the maestro.” Hollister sharpened a pencil with a pocketknife
. “And you are?” When she didn’t answer, Michael asked again, “Madam, your—”

  “Stop!” João barreled into the tight corner, the veins in his muscular neck pulsing. His wrists hung below the cuff, exposing lean tendons that twitched as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “May I help you?” Michael asked, forcing a smile.

  João’s nostrils flared, and Tommy thought he saw the portrait barker’s knees shake. The crowd hushed; more craned toward the pavilion. Tommy had heard stories in the newsroom about men going berserk, men so consumed with rage they could lift an automobile.

  “Sir?” Joseph appeared behind João. Michael caught his eye. “Friend of yours, Mr. Bartlett?”

  João said, “My wife.” He stared at Hollister sharpening the pencil.

  “Fine,” Michael said, his voice strained. “But we only do solo portraits.”

  Maria watched her husband as his face, slowly draining of color, took on a look of pity. He whispered something in her ear.

  Maria pressed one of João’s fists to her lips, and held it there until his breathing slowed. She glanced at Joseph, nodded, then turned back to João and kissed his palm. Joseph stepped forward and put his arm around João.

  “It’s okay, Michael. Make it a good one.” Joseph steered João back to the green.

  Tommy clapped his hands knocking off the hat of the man below him. “I got it,” he shouted. “João was there.” Tommy took out his notepad and began writing.

  Maria sat down on the stool. Hollister hadn’t moved, his glassy eyes unchanged.

  “Let’s start again,” Michael said. “You are—”

  “Ma-ri-a,” she said slowly, punching each syllable. Hollister’s expression didn’t change. Her chest heaved. How many times had she imagined this moment? Dreamt of her revenge? But sitting before her was a different man. His shirtsleeves were rolled over his elbows, revealing scarred and nicked forearms. There was a heaviness about him, his face pudgy, as was the belly that hung over his trousers. His movements weren’t quite labored, but slow. He had a look of weariness only war can etch in a man.

  “Very well, Ma-ri-a,” Michael mimicked. “Will you be wearing your hat?”

  Maria wore a medium-brimmed hat trimmed with a draped purple scarf and a large buckle. She removed it and set it by her feet.

  “She’s ready for you,” Michael said.

  Hollister tipped forward, balancing the stool on two legs. Maria bent back into Michael.

  “Relax,” Michael said. “He won’t hurt you.” He tilted her stool flat. “Maestro, time’s a-wasting.”

  Hollister’s black-streaked fingers joined at the top of her head and walked down her cheeks until his palms met under her chin. He repeated this motion up and down, as if shaping a snowball, then moved to the canvas and sketched the shape of her head with a lead pencil. He leaned close, the tip of his nose brushing against the canvas.

  “Can you see me?” Maria whispered. Her face, already warm, flushed.

  Hollister continued to draw. When finished, he placed his fingers under her eyes and ran them down her cheeks.

  “Can you—”

  “Very little,” Hollister said. He turned to the canvas, made a mark, then looked back at her. “And only very close.”

  He set his right thumb and forefinger on either side of her nose and traced it. He got to the bend and stopped. Maria bit her lip. He retraced it and stopped a second time.

  “You had an accident,” he said, and leaned back on the stool and made another mark. “But I’ll fix it.”

  Maria picked up her hat and began to fan herself. A bead of sweat formed on her temple.

  Michael said, “The maestro could write a person’s history from their face.”

  “Does he know what happened?”

  “The past is the past.” Michael nodded toward his missing arm. “The past has not been kind to some of us.” He craned his head over the top of the canvas. “Just a minute more. Looking lovely. Then you move across the way there.”

  Hollister poked and probed her ears and nostrils. He brushed her thick black hair and stroked her neck.

  “Ready?” Michael asked.

  Hollister nodded, his face pressed close to the canvas.

  “Wait,” Maria said. “Give me your hand.” She placed Hollister’s index finger at the top of her forehead, near the hairline, where the scar began. She traced it up and down. “Also from the accident,” she whispered.

  “He can make them go away,” Michael said.

  “No,” she said. “He can’t.”

  Hollister closed his eyes and bowed his head. His expression had not changed through the entire process, but now he paused. She dropped his hand, and he scratched his left cheek.

  “Remember?” Maria asked. When he didn’t reply, she whispered, “Spider.”

  Hollister looked off over the granite ledge into the park. He lit a cigarette and dropped the match into the tin can at his feet.

  Michael rolled his eyes and shot a tight smile to the next women in line. “Come here, now,” he snapped at Maria. He hoisted her to her feet and led her by the elbow to the chair across from the easel.

  She sat down, but as Michael turned, she grabbed the tail of his coat.

  “What now?” He winked at the next woman in line.

  “If he doesn’t remember, does that make it real?”

  “Oh, he’ll remember, and it will be a memorable portrait.”

  “Just a portrait?” Maria’s eyes welled up.

  Michael crouched down and set his one hand on the chairback. “Do you have similar portraits in your house?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well then, this is the only moment that counts.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Maria.” Michael stood up. “The past is the past. When you die, this is how you’ll be remembered. Young and beautiful. So dry those tears, and smile. The maestro loves to make people happy.”

  part v

  1919

  To hearken what I said between my tears, . . .

  Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot

  My soul’s full meaning into future years,

  That they should lend is utterance, and salute

  Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

  —Sonnets from the Portuguese, Sonnet 41

  by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  make like a bird

  Howard Borden trampled through the deep rough on the ninth hole of the Fall River Golf Club, whacking down poison ivy and rugosa rose vines with the wooden head of his driver. The late summer day was a scorcher. A small yellowthroat warbler squeaked out a song. A caddie in a white cap lifted a ball out of the brush. “Silver King 4?”

  “Not mine,” Joseph called. He stood under a maple tree. It was two days past his fiftieth birthday. He removed a deer tick from his forearm as the three other men shagged for his slice. Joseph hadn’t played since last summer, and he was embarrassed when the head caddie didn’t recognize him. The caddie returned with pro Willie Dow who explained that Joseph’s bag was one that had drowned in the spring floods. Dow suggested Joseph take his sticks, but Howard cobbled together a set from his other two bags. Proven irons, he assured Joseph, though the putter never worked as advertised.

  The caddie tossed the ball to Howard who pitched it into the fairway. “Hit it anyway. Yours is a goner. You know, Bartlett, I’ve never seen a man lose so many balls in nine holes.”

  “I do have a knack for it.”

  “I don’t remember you being such a duffer. Dad always enjoyed playing with you.”

  “He enjoyed taking my money.” Joseph rolled the ball under his foot. “Elizabeth teased me for being so bad.” He took a practice swing. “How far from here?”

  “Hundred and fifty yards. Lay a nic
e six-iron to the front of the green. Keep your head down.” Joseph loosened his grip, glanced at the hole, exhaled. The swing was fluid, but he topped it. The ball bobbled down the fairway.

  “Another worm burner.” Howard laughed. “Watch it.” The ball scooted between the two sand traps guarding the front of the green, caromed off a rake, catching air, and landed within ten feet of the cup.

  “Whatever works,” Howard said, walking to his ball. His caddie handed him his nine. “Watch and learn.” Howard took an easy, compact swing, a motion practiced during winter holidays in Florida. He had just returned from a trip to the Carolinas, or was it Alabama? Joseph wasn’t sure. Somewhere visiting cotton growers was what Howard had told him last week at the Q Club. The Borden juggernaut, the Iron Works, had remained vital to almost every mill in the city except Cleveland and a few other specialty outfitters, but the special relationship the two mills had shared was all but forgotten in the years since Matt Borden’s death.

  Howard hit behind the ball, shaving a divot the size of a hundred-

  dollar bill off the fairway. He froze, the club wrapped around his neck as if he were posing atop a trophy. The ball arched high in the air, cleared the front traps, and landed with a thud in the middle of the soft green before trickling backward toward the cup, stopping a few rotations inside of Joseph’s ball. Howard dropped the club over his shoulder and started walking toward the green. His caddie unsheathed his putter and extended the grip into Howard’s path. He snapped it out of the air without breaking stride.

  Joseph tipped his cap back and said, “That’s what I was trying to do.”

  “Maybe on the next hole,” Howard said. He stopped in the fairway and pointed his putter at Joseph. “You know, down south, a man can golf twelve months a year. Think about that. That’s the ticket.”