She read: “Goodbye, dear. I am leaving you, the three boys, Fall River. My time has come. My heart has stopped.” They spoke the last line in unison, “My new journey begins today.”
A bird with a long wingspan, Will thought. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Dr. Boyle, call the chief of police and report a suicide. Ask him to come personally. It’s in his best interest to keep this quiet.” Will tossed his letter on the end table.
“Okay . . .” Dr. Boyle hesitated. “But, but there’s no body.”
“Talk to the sharks in Long Island Sound.”
Mary began to weep.
“It was a full life,” Dr. Boyle said. He walked to the small bar in the corner of the room. And poured scotch into four short glasses. “Let’s toast to his memory.”
“None for me,” João said. He backed toward the door. “Past time for me.”
“You knew him better than anyone,” Will said, taking a glass. “Was it his time to go?”
João shrugged, then sniffled. “He was good to me.”
“Go home.” Will walked over and embraced João and led him to the door.
“I forget.” João pivoted back. “Bring Holl—your brother to the farm next week.”
Mary wiped her eyes and stood up. “Ask your wife.”
“Her wish.” João looked around the room, pausing on the books. “She reads like Mr. Bartlett. Knows about things. Love. War. Forgiveness.” João tipped his cap and left.
The three stood in the center of the room and raised their glasses. “For a great man.”
“For Dad.”
“For Joseph.”
The scotch stung Will’s throat. He set his hands on his father desk and let out a deep breath. When the money stops coming you die, he thought. But what if the money kills you first?
The sound of shattering glass filled the room.
“Who’s upstairs?”
Mary and Dr. Boyle exchanged glances. Finally, peering over his round glasses, Dr. Boyle said, “She was the first one here.”
Will shot out of the room and up the stairs. Glass shards from a hurricane lamp sprinkled the landing. He smelled tobacco and followed the vapor trail into his old room at the end of the hall. He pushed the door open and stood on the threshold. Helen sat on the foot of the bed, a cigarette tapping her knee.
“I wanted more light,” she said.
“Then open the drapes.”
“No,” she said, exhaling. “There’s too much commotion on the street.”
Will stepped to the window. Indeed, a small crowd of neighbors stood at the front gate. Ray Sheehan stood below Hollister’s tree house jabbering about something. Will turned and perched the paper bird on the dresser.
Helen walked to the dresser and took up the bird. She fingered its long neck. “What’s this?”
“Dad’s bird.”
“Does it fly?”
“Over great distances.” He grabbed her elbow.
“I won’t hurt your new toy.”
“You’re not wearing your calico schoolteacher dress.” He rubbed the label of her linen jacket between his fingers. “Fancy suit on a teacher’s wage.”
“I stole it,” she said, the cigarette hanging from her lip. She tucked her hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and squeezed his hips.
Will snatched her cigarette, took a drag. Exhaling, he said, “You were always good at taking things that didn’t belong to you.”
“Better than you.” She removed her hands from his jacket, and twirled around. “You bought me this. Remember.”
“Just wanted you to say it.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Men are so dumb.”
“Perhaps.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Why are you here?”
“You’ve made every other boy inadequate.”
“Very funny.” He handed her back the cigarette and walked to the bureau, removed his suit jacket, and tossed it over the desk chair. He stood in the middle of the room. “Now, why are you here?”
“To see you.” She sat on the bed.
“But no one knew I was coming.”
“I guessed.” He reached for the cigarette, and as she extended her arm, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet.
“Why are you here?”
“Finally some pep.”
“I’m serious.” He twisted her wrist. Helen grimaced and he eased off.
“Time I came home,” she said.
“To my father’s house?”
“He’s always been good to us.”
“You’re crazy.” He dropped her arm, and the cigarette fell to the carpet.
She snatched it up and walked across the room, rubbing her wrist. “So where’s your father?”
“At the bottom of Long Island Sound.”
“Oh God!”
“That sounded awful.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to think right now.” Will glanced at the paper bird. Where are you?
A car horn honked, and she peeked out the window. “Drowning. Dreadful. Even I have sympathy for that.” She turned, her voice trailing off. There was a row of gapers bumper-to-bumper down June Street. Ray shook his croquet mallet at the gathering crowd. In the distance a siren wailed. Down the lawn she saw Hollister pacing the tree house. The leaves on the old oak were just beginning to turn. She followed the phone lines down the hill until they disappeared into the fog rolling up from the bay. She let the drape fall and took a drag. Exhaling, she said, “You’re an orphan now.”
“I was hoping to surprise him at the awards ceremony, then apologize for what happened between us. I just ran away.”
“That’s something we have in common.”
Will sat on the corner of the bed. His shoulders shook. “And he’s left me to hold it all together. The mill, the operatives, Hollister. I don’t know if I’m mad or sad. Jesus Christ.”
“He must have known you could do it.”
“All I ever did was what he told me to do.” His eyes glistened as he blinked back tears. “I can’t do it alone.”
Helen slipped a hankie from his suit jacket and handed to him. “Hey,” she said. “Maybe it’s time we made something of this two-bit mill town, don’t ya think?”
He shook his head. “Then we gotta trust one another.”
“Seems that’s the only way.” She dropped the cigarette in the glass of water on the bedside table and stood before him.
“But first this orphan is gonna be sad for a night.” He blew his nose into the hankie and threw it across the room. “I’m gonna miss him.” She pulled his head to her chest and kissed the top of it.
“Rest. We’ll dominate the world tomorrow.”
“Promise me no more stealing.”
“I’ll try.”
There were footsteps on the stairs, and a voice called up; Helen pressed a finger to her lips. She turned and locked the door. Will fell back on the bed. Helen knelt down and removed his shoes and socks. She brushed street dust from his trousers, and then lifted his feet to the bed. Will rolled over, squeezing his body into a tight knot. Helen found a green wool blanket in the bottom of the chest of drawers and spread it over him. She removed her shoes and jacket and snapped off the bedside lamp. She wedged her knees inside his and pressed her forehead to the nape of his neck, hoping he didn’t feel the gun stuffed under the mattress.
epilogue
What follows is a partial audio transcript. The estate of Helen S. Bartlett donated the recording, along with other mill documents, artifacts, and her own personal diaries, to the Plymouth State University library following her death on September 26, 1984.
Date of Recording: August 12, 1964
To: Cleveland Mill Employees
From: William D. Bartlett, Company President
&
nbsp; In the memory of Colonel Jefferson Cleveland, Hannah Cleveland, Stanton Cleveland, Otis Bartlett, and my father, Joseph Bartlett, I stand before you with a heavy heart. In one month’s time, the Cleveland Mill will cease operation. Rumors that the white knight of Omaha might purchase Cleveland, as he has our friends down Route 6 at Berkshire Hathaway, are incorrect. Though phone calls were exchanged, he has kindly passed on our offer. As you know, since the war, we have started new lines, trimmed budgets, and attempted all kinds of maneuvers to keep the Cleveland name alive, but now the banks, but mostly my heart, tells me the time has come to close our doors. We have outlived hundreds of competitors and beat back the Southern menace. We survived the Great Depression, recessions, two World Wars, and the lure of overseas production. On behalf of my wife, Helen; my brother Peter; and the entire board of CCM, I want to thank you for your service. You are the sons and daughters of Fall River.
All of you know the story of my father’s . . . [recording garbled, loud bang in background] . . . as we used to say, “Loom up,” and listen as the ghosts of Fall River bid you farewell. They are all around us,—operatives of past glory. They are of all creeds and colors. Men, women, and, regrettably, children. From Steep Brook to the Flint. From the Watuppa Ponds to the bay. They drink from the Quequechan River buried deep below our feet. And sleep on the oil-soaked floors of shuttered mills, waiting for the next great industry that will once again make our city the crown jewel of New England.
acknowledgments
Given you have your whole life to write a first novel, I’ve accumulated a long list of friends and readers to thank, but the book started with the real-life stories of my family. I’m grateful to my great aunt Helen and uncle Thomas Sheehan and my grandparents Mary and Thomas O’Donnell—my Fall River heroes, Spindle City natives who lived and worked and are buried in the city. I started recording our conversations much too late. From their tales of triumph and tragedy, I spun my fictional narrative. My apologies for the liberties I have taken to tell this story.
I am grateful for the help of Michael Martins and Dennis Binette at the Fall River Historical Society for opening their door on Rock Street and allowing me to wade through the archives.
I am indebted to the following editors and authors, whose books assisted me in my early research: Philip T. Silvia Jr., Victorian Vistas: Fall River, 1901–1911; Mary H. Blewett, Constant Turmoil; William Moran, The Belles of New England; Carmen J. Maiocco, The Granite Block ; Daniel Georgianna, with Roberta Hazen Aaronson, The Strike of ’28; Joe Thomas and Donna Huse, editors of the miraculous Spinner anthologies; and finally, the Cotton Centennial Committee for leaving behind a rich paper trail.
I’m grateful for early feedback from my old Chicago writing group—Ed, Mike, and Kevin—who sometimes moaned when I showed up with more pages from “the Fall River book.”
Thanks to my writing and artistic communities—readers, friends, authors, and fellow teachers who were quick with comments and encouragement—from Columbia College Chicago, Central Connecticut State University, the Yale Writers’ Workshop, Redmoon friends, Roar Reading Series, the Writers WorkSpace, Novel Generator, ERB authors, Westport and B-town friends, and Muddy Feet. A special note of thanks to the thousands of writing students I’ve had the privilege of sharing a semicircle with, and to the Ragdale Foundation and Ox Bow Arts for their generous support and for quiet confines to write in during the early years—yes, years—of writing the novel.
Thanks for acts of kindness go to: Sergio Troncoso, Mary Collins, Jacob Appel, Patty McNair, Randy Albers, Christopher Morris, Victoria Rinkerman, Amy Davis, Tanera Marshall, Janet Burroway, Sarah Desjardins, Dena Cushenberry, Suzanne Sturgeon, Uncle Anthony, Jim Wilson, Mr. Mann, Bud and Mary Davis, Rose and Leo, and Brett, Jake, Lindsay and big sister Elizabeth.
The final edits of the manuscript were completed in March 2020, the day after the US recorded the most coronavirus cases worldwide. I write this note holed up in my home office not knowing what the future holds for the world, for you, for me, for this book.
I want to thank everyone at Blackstone for their steadfast support, particularly Megan Wahrenbrock. Also a big thank you to my keen editors Madeline Hopkins and Michael Krohn. It was a pleasure to work with designer Kathryn English on the cover and map design.
Special thanks to my agent, Mark Gottlieb, for his persistence and kindness.
Thanks to my parents, Leonard and Sheila Burrello, for their unflagging love and support no matter the project or harebrained idea. Thanks for showing me the value of hard work, and for taking care of my boys.
Thanks to my three boys—Atticus, Miles, and Baby J.—whose genesis and maturation paralleled the writing of the book. Thanks, guys. (And stay off Dad’s computer.)
And finally, to my wife, Kristin: Thank you. Your encouragement and love make everything possible.
Spindle City Page 31
