by Joanne Dahme
I looked at the man sitting on the stool beside me with an amazed affection. My father was like a shrunken version of me. Reddish-blonde hair, much more sparse than it was at my age, although a respectable amount of it still occupied his head, completed his pale, Irish complexion, the freckles still visible on the top of his cheeks and forehead. Unlike me, he sported a wispy red mustache.
“What did you hear?” I asked, as Tyne handed him a glass of ale with a brusque nod of his head. Dugan’s spirit was capable of pursuing me even into our neighborhood bar.
My father quickly glanced about the bar before answering. Only when he was convinced that we were safely cocooned among the raucous laughter and backslapping did he plainly say, “That Dugan is out to get you.”
Although I felt a shiver of alarm, I couldn’t help but emit a bitter laugh. “Out to get me, eh? And when did he declare this?” I asked. “After his visit to the Water Works or following the hearing?”
“Visit to the Water Works? You didn’t tell me anything about any visit,” my father admonished. “I’m talking about the City Councils’ session today—the one about the parks. What happened there?” he demanded.
“You tell me first what you heard,” I said quietly, causing him to lean in closer to hear me. “And then I’ll tell you what happened yesterday,” I promised.
I stared straight ahead as my father began telling me about his visit this morning to the neighborhood stable on 11th Street. His friends said that they had heard from a carriage driver who works in the City Hall area that this driver had taken Dugan to a restaurant earlier in the week with another gentleman. Dugan had been ranting to the other fellow about me, apparently over my opposition to the preliminary bill for the proposed construction of new water filtration plants.
“Did you hear what I said?” my father interrupted my thoughts with a blast of a question. “He said that he’s going to make sure that you lose your job.” For emphasis, he drained his glass and then slammed it loudly on the bar. Tyne ambled up on cue and refilled it.
“He can’t do that, Father,” I tried to reassure him. “What cause does he have?”
By answer, my father peered suspiciously into the bowl of beef stew that Tyne had quickly delivered to us in stained china bowls. My father tapped cautiously on a visible crack with his spoon. When satisfied that the bowl would stay intact, he stirred the soup, dredging thick, beefy chunks up from the bottom. I began doing the same.
“According to Dugan,Trout has been told to raise your assessment.” My father quickly spooned another mouthful, a cube of beef truncating the reminder of his sentence.
I wanted to weigh my words carefully. Paying the annual, voluntary assessment to the Republican Party sickened me. I hated being tainted by their corruption.Yet I didn’t trust my job to anyone else. I had no choice but to pay.
My father shook his head. “I guess it’s to make you uncomfortable—put the pinch on you, Sean.” Father snorted into his glass.
“I’ll talk to Chief Trout,” I said finally.
“Talking to Trout isn’t going to help you. Who do you think the mayor listens to? Look, just stay away from Dugan.”
I hated seeing my father’s brow creased with worry. An impotent anger simmered in my gut. I felt that the shadow of City Hall had suddenly flung its damp, putrid shape across the roof of the tavern. I didn’t know how to answer my father. It was Dugan who wouldn’t stay away.
“Sean, my boy,” father nudged me with an all bone elbow. “Tell me what happened at the Water Works. Then, between the two of us, we’ll think of something.”
ROSE
Patrick had managed to ease my fears about the letters. While in his arms, all of my anxieties about his safety, his dogged pursuit of the filtration contracts, and his antagonism toward Sean seemed to dissolve. My fears, like the early morning fog, dissipated under the ardor of his assurances. Even the sting of his remarkably rude treatment of me the other night, was cooled by his strong hands against the small of my back. His words were so sincere, and his touch so gentle and caring.
But now, in the unrelenting brightness of the afternoon sun, apprehension, particularly about the letters, seized me again. How could I have let Patrick saunter through his early morning routine, without so mush as a protest? He kissed my cheek, picked up his walking stick, top hat, and coat, and opened the front door to find Julius waiting with the carriage, just as expected.
Patrick had turned to me and given me one of his sleepy, contented smiles before he walked out the door. I was like my thirteen-year-old self at those moments, basking in the warmth of his attentions.
I was angry with myself now—angry that I had allowed him to manipulate me so.The threatening urgency of those letters tugged at me. I needed to talk to Nellie about Patrick’s response to the letters, if doing nothing could be considered a response at all.
I waited for Nellie on the deck of the distribution arch, which thrust itself from the north side of the reservoir mound like a bridge abandoned in midspan. The arch loomed sixty-five feet above the North Garden. From here, I could easily see carriages approaching the Water Works from Spring Garden Street and River Drive. They ambled beneath the homage paid by stately trees waving them onward with their golden canopies of leaves.
As I waited for Nellie, I wandered over to one of the deck’s wooden benches. Many of the city’s residents found their way here to marvel at the bird’s-eye view that the arch offered of the Schuylkill River Valley, a view rivaled only by the one enjoyed from the Lemon Hill observation tower. I appreciated even more the hidden power of this arch. Nellie and I had learned from Sean that the arch had a practical purpose. Beneath its paved deck, it harbored a sixty-inch diameter distribution pipe—a pipe that directed the water from the reservoir standpipe to another reservoir on Corinthian Avenue, providing additional storage for the Fairmount Water Works. I marveled at the notion of all that water sluicing beneath my feet.
I closed my eyes and allowed the chill air to act as a salve on my anxieties. I pulled at the sleeves of my green cloak. I welcomed the dulling effect of the cold on my nerves if it could numb only those emotions that inhibited me from acting on Patrick’s behalf.
I looked down at the Water Works and straightened.The romantic structures symbolized an ideal—an ideal worth fighting for—purity, public health, man’s best intentions and ingenuity. I found them a source of strength. It saddened me that Patrick did not share this ideal with me. What symbols did we share, I wondered? I found myself turning my attention to the Water Works and searching for Sean, hoping to catch a glimpse of him at work.
The curtain in his office window was drawn. I watched as a man dressed in overalls passed in front of the Engine House to knock on his office door. It looked as if the man held a rolled-up drawing in his hand, judging by the length of the paper. Although the door opened enough to allow the man to enter, I didn’t catch a glimpse of Sean.
I heard the snap of a twig and turned to look for Nellie, although I saw no one along the reservoir path. Nellie and I were due to attend Mrs. Warwick’s meeting at the Watering Committee Building today at two o’clock.Yesterday, Nellie had suggested that we meet an hour earlier on the distribution arch to talk about the letters, and Patrick’s reaction to them.
I unclasped my emerald green cape, despite the air’s sharp bite. The sun’s clarity provided an illusion of warmth at least. I wore my brown wool skirt and jacket beneath my cape. I had dressed in anticipation of the weather and felt warm beneath all these clothes.
I leaned my hands on the rail, my black leather gloves dulling the dead cold of the wood to my touch. The wind pressed my hair against my face as I held on to my hat. I struggled against the gusts to adjust my hat pin and realized that, on a day like today, I needed a handful of pins. I wished I had left the hat in the carriage with Julius.
“Rose!” Nellie’s breathless voice called to me. I spotted Nellie striding along the reservoir path, impatiently pulling at the hem of her skirt. Nelli
e wore a high-collared blouse and a felt boater. Strands of her red hair had loosened from her bun. I ran to greet her and couldn’t stop myself from hugging her. Just seeing Nellie brought me such joy.
When we pulled back, I looked at Nellie eagerly. Could it be that I was only noticing now, for the first time, another trait that Nellie shared with Patrick? Their physical presence was a balm for me, despite their convictions, which were worlds apart.
“Rose, I was so worried about you.” Nellie scolded. “Why didn’t you call me last night? I told Charles about the letters, and he was appalled.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Nellie. Patrick and I had a disagreement over the letters. And no matter how I pleaded, Patrick still refuses to show them to the police.” I looked at my friend’s freckled, wind-burned face. I didn’t mention how he tamped my protests. “But Nellie, where is your coat? You’ll catch your death of cold.”
Nellie laughed dismissively. “I was in such a hurry to reach you here—and as usual running a little late, that I completely forgot the weather and left my cape in the carriage with James.”
“Here,” I quickly removed my own and placed it around Nellie’s trembling shoulders. “I have a jacket over my blouse. I am really quite warm.”
“Just until I warm up. Then I’ll insist you take it back.” Nellie took me by the elbow as we walked to the far end of the arch.
“My, the river looks particularly vile today,” she said with disgust. “The City Councils’ hearing couldn’t have happened a moment too soon.”
I nodded my head in agreement. “You would think that we could protect our parks and rivers by enforcing our own sewage laws, but the coal dust comes from miles upstream. Mr. Parker believes that we need to protect our rivers beyond our own city borders.”
“Never mind that.” Nellie’s tone switched to her mothering one. “How much time do we have until our meeting with Mrs. Warwick? I want to talk to you about Patrick—and how you plan to convince him to go the police, or at least, to the mayor.”
I brushed my hair from my face. “He still believes it’s a hoax, Nellie. He refuses to take the letters seriously.”
Nellie furrowed her eyebrows in concern. “Do you think that Patrick may know who is sending them?”
I took a step back. The question surprised me. I felt the old familiar need to defend Patrick rise into my throat.
Nellie read my reaction and drew in a deep breath. Her eyes were reduced to thin slits as if she were thinking hard. “I don’t know, Rose. If a man and his family are threatened, why would he shrug those threats away? And I can’t imagine Patrick receiving a threat without trumping it with his own.” Nellie’s steady blue eyes demanded an honest response from me.
I hesitated. “You think he knows—what these letters are all about—and that he’ll take care of them through his business connections, don’t you?”
“Yes. Or at least, that’s what Charles thinks. It’s the expedient way. If Patrick has made someone unhappy as a result of something that he is working on—would he want questions and an investigation?”
“But Nellie!” I snapped. “I know you don’t agree with Patrick’s insistence on filtration. I don’t agree. But that doesn’t mean that Patrick deserves ...”
“Of course not, Rose. Of course not. I just don’t like to see Patrick’s pride put you into any danger.” Nellie grabbed for my hand.
Cold air suddenly engulfed us, snatching at our clothes and hair in a mix of swirling, brittle leaves. The breeze then died, and the leaves dropped lifelessly to the deck of the arch. I turned and pulled my cape tightly across Nellie’s chest. “I’ll talk to Patrick again and won’t allow him to woo me. We had better go below to warm you. Mrs. Warwick is sure to have some hot tea ready.”
Nellie smiled, relieved, as another gust of wind pushed us back from the railing. “Rose! Your hat!” Nellie yelled.We leaned over the rail to watch it flutter to the ground.
“No need to worry about it,” I said lightly. “I’m sure it will be there when we get to the bottom. I’ll pick it up before we go into the meeting.”
It was then that I heard another rush of leaves as the wind caught and cascaded them across the rough cement and tile of the arch’s deck. I didn’t have the chance to turn away from the view of the river, crawling away from the Water Works like a thick, black snake, before I felt something hit me hard in the back and shove me to the ground. As my arm and shoulder struck the wooden slates of the bench, I heard Nellie’s scream—a drawn out scream, full of terror. I looked up from the ground, numb against the pain in my arm and fighting to draw a breath, when I saw a flash of emerald green and Nellie’s high-top black shoes, disappearing over the rail.
My own scream was strangled in my throat. I reached up to grab for anything—a piece of the cape, Nellie’s ankle. But Nellie was already gone. Only Nellie’s piercing scream still filled my ears.
I struggled to scramble up from the deck and saw the back of a man, a man dressed for sport. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and knickers. His hair was thick and dark, untrimmed. I knew that he couldn’t be much more than twenty by the ease with which he sprinted down the reservoir path.
“Stop! Wait!” I cried, as I thought desperately that somebody must stop him.
Still in shock, I pulled myself up, placing my gloved hands on the rail of the balustrade, and leaned over the rail to look down at the garden path sixty-five feet below me. My knees went weak, and my heart stopped as I saw Nellie lying, face up on the grass beside the path below. My own green cape was spread beneath her.
Were Nellie’s eyes open? Maybe she is all right, I thought desperately, while struggling to keep my hysteria at bay.
“Nellie!” I screamed. “Nellie! I’ll be right down!”
I hesitated for just a moment as I saw two men in overalls running from the direction of the Water Works toward Nellie.
“Please, help her!” I pleaded. “I’ll be right there!”
All that I was to remember of my descent from the arch to the Water Works below, was that I had never felt such a terrifying urgency in my life. I hurled myself down the winding dirt path, slowing only to grab at the cold, ornamental iron rail to stop myself from tumbling over my own feet. I passed the Engine House and the Pavilion without seeing them. All I could see was Nellie lying on that path.
When I finally crossed the forebay bridge, I paused to catch my breath and drew back at the image of the arch, which appeared dizzyingly high—a dark and medieval wall of stone. I turned up the garden path and saw men kneeling beside Nellie. A man was running only a few yards in front of me toward the group. When I cried out, unwittingly, Nellie’s name, he turned around. It was Sean.
I would never forget the look on his face. His relief and joy at seeing me was palpable. His eyes were wet. Then he ran to me.
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was blurt out, “Nellie.”
Sean stepped in front of me.
“Wait, Rose. Let me take you to the Watering Committee Building.” I saw the horror reflected in his eyes. He touched me gently on my forearm to steady me.
“Please, Rose. Come with me.”
I pulled my arm away. “No. Please, Sean. I must see Nellie. Please get out of my way.”
He opened his mouth to protest but then nodded his head. He lifted his chin, summoning enough strength for the both of us.
“All right, Rose,” he whispered.
He took me to Nellie and asked his men to step aside to allow me to kneel by Nellie’s broken body. I heard him, instructing one of his men to fetch the police. I wanted to scream then that it wasn’t an accident, that someone had brutally, deliberately pushed Nellie over the rail. But I couldn’t say it. All I could do was take off my gloves to touch Nellie’s still warm cheeks, to reach for one of Nellie’s hands and hold it at my chest.
It was then that the reality of Nellie’s death struck me with the same blunt force of the stranger’s hands on my back. I couldn’t stop staring at Nellie�
�s stark, blue eyes and the glistening line of blood running from Nellie’s mouth to the green cape beneath her broken neck and the cold, hard ground. I closed my eyes, not wanting this final image forever imprinted into my memory. I felt Sean kneel beside me and watched as he gently closed Nellie’s eyes with two fingers.
I felt tired as I sat at the large wooden table in the Watering Committee Building, staring at Mrs. Warwick’s tea set. Mrs. Warwick never did host her meeting, although all of the amenities designed to help the ladies through it—tea sandwiches, cookies, and the cups and saucers—were still there on the sideboard, having been set up by Mrs. Warwick’s house staff. The police wouldn’t let anyone near the Water Works, not even the mayor’s wife, despite her protestations, until the coroner had removed Nellie’s body.
I had spent two hours telling and retelling Sergeant McCormack and Officer Russo about the circumstances surrounding Nellie’s death. Initially, an entire squadron of Philadelphia police officers had amassed beneath the arch, some arriving by horse, others by police wagon, to comb through each blade of grass, every dying leaf, and each mute black rock that encircled Nellie’s body.
The police later filtered out to the park grounds and reservoir, looking for the young man that I had described. They were all gone now, with Nellie’s body, the initial flurry of excitement over for them. All that remained were the two officers who kept asking me the same questions over and over again.
By now, a nagging panic possessed me. From the nature of their questioning, it seemed that the police were limiting the scope of their investigation to a robbery and an “accidental death.” What was I not saying that didn’t convey the purposefulness of the act? The man had pushed Nellie and had done nothing more.Why were they trying to make this a robbery?
“Why would someone push Mrs. Murphy from the arch?” I didn’t know. “Was anything taken?” the officers asked. Sergeant McCormack’s questions were perfunctory. Officer Russo was at least genuinely interested in determining a motivation.
