Fred grinned at the understatement. “Just about the best on the Coast.”
“If you two would like to get out, I thought we could drive there for lunch. And on the way back you can show me the old Klein store.”
Mima cast a doubtful glance at her husband. “I’m not so sure, Mr. Hall. Fred hasn’t been feeling too well.”
“To hell with that!” He lifted himself up, grabbed his cane and plunged into the bedroom, yelling, “Mima! Where’s my good jacket!”
“Hush up, Fred!” She scurried after him, sparing me a contrite glance over her shoulder. “Just give us a few minutes.”
The home of Albert and Martha Klein was on a narrow side street twisting down from Central Avenue between the Coast Guard station and the yacht basin.
I parked the Buick across the street, rolled down the window and squinted up at the building.
“There’s the place,” Mima said ruefully. “We lived there over forty years. God help us.”
The Anchor Cove Liquor-Mart occupied the ground floor. Standing guard at the counter by the door was a pink-faced bald man who resembled an immense overgrown infant. He punched the register, then passed a tiny paper sack across the counter to someone out of sight. A skinny little black kid swung open the screen door and padded down the sidewalk in his dusty bare feet, red licorice snaking from his mouth.
I grabbed my Nikon and crossed the street. At the side of the building feeble wooden stairs led to the second-floor apartments. The steps and bannister sweated with too many coats of paint laid over the years.
Under the stairs a snoozing marmalade Tom raised one eye, then yawned and swaggered my way. His purring flanks hugged my calves, telling me we were friends for life. The cat’s hideaway was littered with empty Red Mountain jugs and no-deposit root beer bottles.
The door to the Kleins’ apartment was mottled with stains and finger smudges. A baby howled from one of the rooms.
Two smallish windows faced the street. The window belonging to the Kleins’ old place was curtained shut. Sunlight seeped through rips in the cotton fabric.
“Believe it or not,” Fred said upon my return to the car, “it was a real nice place at one time.”
“I believe you. No one sets out to build a slum.” I settled behind the wheel. “When did the Kleins move in?”
“Late April, nineteen twelve.”
“Right after the sinking.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Did they talk much about being on board the Titanic?”
“Not at first.” Fred gazed up at the second-story windows. “But their names were on the survivors’ list printed in all the papers, so it was only natural we should ask them about it. Al said he jumped overboard and was picked up in the water. Martha always said she left in the last boat.”
Mima leaned forward. “You can understand how it was, Mr. Hall. They had obviously gone through hell, and we felt it merciful not to press them for details.”
“Did the Kleins have much money when they moved here?”
“Some. They weren’t broke. The store took off pretty quick and they made even more.” He chuckled sadly. “I hate to think of all the times they helped Mima and me through a tight spot. Al gave me money for Mima’s heart operation in twenty-three. Let us charge groceries after the Crash, when some of our neighbors were digging through garbage cans. We might be dead now if not for them.”
I inspected the battered upstairs curtains. “I’d like to take a look up there.”
“It wouldn’t do you much good,” Mima said. “The owner tore out old walls and put in new ones to sublet the place into smaller units. That’s why we moved.” She stared down at her hands folded on her lap. “Also, it didn’t seem very … healthy to stay there after, you know, they were gone.”
“I would’ve felt the same way. The only reason why I wanted to see inside was to, well …” My shoulders shrugged. “I’d like to get some idea of how the Kleins lived.”
Mima’s face brightened. “Maybe I can help you there. Al and Martha didn’t have any next of kin, so we had to do something with their belongings. I kept some odds and ends. They’re stored in our attic. I could let you have a look if you like.”
The Heinleys’ “attic” wasn’t much larger than the inside of a pup tent. Fred and Mima held the ladder as I climbed up through their bedroom ceiling, shoving a flashlight into the darkness.
“It’s the big cardboard box on the left!” Mima cried.
Years of dust cushioned the insides of the box like filthy gray cotton. Mima spread newspapers on the living room floor and passed me a towel.
Most peoples’ attic fodder is pitifully scruffy, and the Kleins’ hoard was no exception.
A milk glass bud vase. Wood shoe trees smelling of leather and mothballs. Odd Mah-Jongg pieces. A tarnished souvenir spoon from the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair, with tiny letters on the handle proclaiming “Century of Progress.” Rotting Zane Grey paperbacks. An art deco ashtray, its orange mosaic tile scarred with ancient cigarette butts.
I set the f-stop on my Nikon, bent over the relics and clicked off a few exposures.
Replanted in his easy chair, Fred wheezed from the dust. Mima tut-tutted in sympathy, cranking open the windows. Fresh ocean breezes quick-chilled the sweat simmering between my shoulder blades.
“Mrs. Heinley, do you have any photos of the Kleins?”
“I wish we did. One of my cousins gave us a Kodak on our first anniversary and we never ran more than two or three rolls through it.”
“After living together all those years?”
“Mr. Hall,” Fred grumbled. “Al and Martha were what you might call camera shy. Martha claimed she couldn’t take a good picture and Al just didn’t give a damn.”
“It’s a shame,” Mima sighed. “You should have seen them, Mr. Hall, when they first came here. Fair and beautiful … just like those little wedding cake statues.”
“I thought the groom on the cake was always dark.”
“Maybe.” She smiled sheepishly. “But you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I think so. Blond and gorgeous. They sound almost angelic.”
“What’re you trying to say?” Fred scowled.
“Nothing really. I just wondered if you ever had any arguments with the Kleins.”
“No.” He was certain.
“No harsh words? No petty squabbles? A little too much to drink one night? An overdue grocery bill? A joke that went sour?”
Fred’s lips sliced thin for a meat-cleaver reply, but Mima gently cut him off. “It’s a little hard to say, Mr. Hall. You get old and you remember what’s convenient. Most everything else washes out of your system.”
I turned to Fred. “One thing I’m curious about. You said the Kleins’ store was successful?”
“I’ll say! He had the neighborhood sewn up within a year.”
“If he was doing so well, why didn’t he expand into more stores?”
Fred scratched the gray thatch at the back of his head. “Damned if I know. I used to kid Al. ‘Why don’t you hire some more help?’ I’d say. ‘Advertise in the papers! Branch out!’ But he would just shake his head and say, ‘We’re keeping it a family business.’”
“By ‘family business’ I assume he meant he and his wife.”
“Al and Martha couldn’t have children.” Mima’s eyes had a hollow unseeing look. “Maybe that’s why we were so close. Fred and I had the same … problem.”
The Heinleys’ den seemed to tighten oppressively around me as I watched both of them.
“Martha Klein told me that her husband received strange phone calls just before they left on their trip. She also said men she didn’t recognize were around the old apartment, keeping watch on him. Did you ever see anyone like that?”
He glanced at Mima, then appeared to make up his mind. “Yes, we did. For about a week before Al and Martha left, a late-model sedan parked across the street with a man in it. The car and driver changed all the time, but th
ey were always there.”
“Could you describe any of the men?”
“Too far away. And too long ago. Mima and I mentioned it to Martha. I do remember that. She seemed a little worried. The men vanished right after they left.”
“Martha Klein told me their trip to Hawaii was an impulse on Al’s part. Did it seem sudden to you?”
Mima wiped dust off an end table before answering. “I suppose it was. Al and Martha had a little money put back and they talked about a vacation, but they did pack up in a hurry.”
“What did they do with the store?”
“Oh, Al had two or three boys helping him out,” Fred said. “They could handle things for a few weeks. Mima filled in and sort of ran roughshod over the store. At least until we heard the news from Hawaii.”
“This part-time help. Do any of them still live around here?”
Her head shook. “There was only one regular boy. Stanley Kallis was his name. He died at Anzio. There were a lot of others, but they came and went.”
I felt my trail drying and I started making thanks-for-your-time motions. “There’s one more thing you folks could tell me. Did either Al or Martha ever mention someone aboard the Titanic whom they knew? A passenger or even a crew member?”
“Oh, dear, I’m sure they had all sorts of friends on board. Both of them were very good with people. But I don’t remember anyone in particular on the Titanic.”
“Wait a minute!” Fred sat up. “There was a crewman. Martha talked about him several times.”
“What was his name?”
“God, let me think.” He cradled his head in his hands. “It was John. John something. John MacArthur … no, that wasn’t it. John McSomething. John …”
“McFarland!” Mima cried. “I remember now! It was their steward. Al used to get kind of peeved whenever Martha brought him up. John McFarland!”
7
January 17, 1962
“McFarland … McFarland …” The personnel director of Cunard Lines’ New York office riffled through a husky gray file cabinet. “John McFarland. Here it is.”
He opened the file on the counter and picked through the pages as if they were delicate lace panties. “Ordinarily our records are not open to public scrutiny but, seeing how Mr. Proctor called and explained …” His voice trailed into a reverent cough.
My fingers pattered on the counter top as his bifocals scanned through the neatly typed papers. Peter Wainwright was his name. Forty-plus and painfully sincere. Every consonant and vowel precisely pronounced through clenched teeth. A pale, pigeon-breasted type the English seem to patent.
“Yes, indeed,” he was saying. “John McFarland did work for us. From twenty-three through forty-seven, actually. First on the Mauretania and then the Queen Mary.” Wainwright’s lips moved like a poor ventriloquist as he read further. Then his head rose from the page. “How did you know that Mr. McFarland was a Cunard employee?”
“Process of elimination,” I said unhelpfully, “and some guesswork.”
“Oh.” The glasses nodded. “Yes. Yes, I see. Well, Mr. Hall, your Mr. McFarland volunteered for special service aboard the Mary in nineteen forty-two, when she was converted to transporting troops. After the war, he served on the Elizabeth until nineteen forty-seven, when he retired.” Wainwright squinted at the page. “According to our records, Mr. McFarland planned to invest his small pension in an opal mining operation. He told his crew mates that he had already bought property in Coober Pedy, South Australia.”
“How’s that again?”
“Coober Pedy. A very small outback town.”
I twisted my head to see the name. “It looks like a typo to me.”
The glasses stared in icy astonishment. “I’m afraid that’s just not … possible, sir.”
Wainwright wasn’t mistaken. Coober Pedy was for real.
“God, what a hellhole!” said Horace Smedly, the pilot of my chartered Cessna, as he taxied onto runway Twenty-two of Adelaide airport. “And you’ve picked about the worst time of the year to go there, seeing as how it’s the middle of summer. One hundred twenty degrees at least.”
The Cessna roared down the runway. My fingers dug into the seats in a sphincter-loosening reflex as the ground dropped beneath the plane.
Smedly aimed us north, over the eastern shore of Gulf St. Vincent. I raised my voice above the clatter of the engine.
“How about John McFarland? Have you ever met him?”
“Afraid not.” He bucked an updraft as we passed over the giant stacks of Port Pirie’s lead-smelting works. “Mainly I just go there to drop people and supplies. It’s not a place to linger in. The folks at Coober Pedy pretty much keep to themselves.”
After clearing Port Augusta, the ground beneath the Cessna quickly lost its savanna-brown richness. Within an hour we were flying over jagged foothills resembling immense bleeding gums.
The radio crackled abruptly. “This is Woomera Base. You are entering prohibited airspace. Please identify yourself.”
Smedly grabbed the microphone and stuck it into his toothbrush mustache. “This is Cessna A2038 from Adelaide, heading for Coober Pedy. We’ve been cleared through the base.”
“Roger. We have your clearance here.” A pause. “We have a report from Alice Springs of a sandstorm headed south. Winds to sixty miles per hour.”
“Roger. Thanks for the warning.” He stashed the mike.
“What was that all about?”
“Just routine. Woomera is a weapons-testing range. Artillery and whatnot. There’s also a NASA tracking station out here.”
“I was referring to the sandstorm.”
“Oh that! Nothing to worry about.” He pointed out to the horizon. “Alice Springs is a good five, six hundred miles north. A storm could blow itself out over all that distance. Or it could switch course and veer off toward Queensland, New South Wales—any which way.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “How long do you plan to stay in Coober Pedy, Mr. Hall?”
“Just overnight. We can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Well, if worst comes to worst, the storm might shut the landing strip down for a day or two.”
“Then let’s hope the worst doesn’t come.”
The Cessna flew on for another hour, the sun rising higher over the bleached limestone arroyos. My eyes ached from the garish Kodachrome blue sky.
Suddenly the boulders and rolling hills vanished as we skimmed over a featureless salt pan which looked like an unimaginably huge sandbox.
“Lake Cadibarrawirracanna.” He relished each syllable. “Been dry for years.”
“So I gathered.”
“Won’t be long now.” Smedly lifted the plane for a climb over the Stuart Range. I gazed down at the anonymous scrub clinging to the slopes. Then the engine dropped an octave and the Cessna drooped low over the desert, like a bloodhound on the scent.
Something sparkled in the sand. Another flash of light. And another.
“That’s the place,” Smedly pointed. “Those tin roofs make almost as good a beacon as any radio.” He gently eased the nose down. “This Mr. McFarland of yours. How long’s he been here?”
“About fifteen years, I guess.”
He shivered at the thought. “Jesus. It takes all kinds. Basically, I’ve found two types of people in places like Coober Pedy. One is a young man with a wife and kids, full of hope, staking his claim to strike it quick in the mines and get out. Some do hit the money. The ones who miss leave anyway. Adelaide, Perth, Melbourne. Anywhere but here.
“Then there’re the type who take root. It’s not the promise of money. It’s something about this damn desert. It’ll dry you out like a smoked ham. People get out here and sit and wait for the world to leave them behind. People who desperately want to escape.”
“Escape from what?”
Smedly tugged at the wheel, bringing the nose up as the dusty landing strip raced to us. Bump, bump, and we were down. He taxied to a waiting Land Rover on the edge of the strip.
; “Well, see what John McFarland has to say. Maybe he’ll give you the answer.”
John McFarland was definitely type number two.
“Old Johnny?” The driver of the Land Rover yelled in my ear as we bounced between potholes, heading for town. “Yeah, I know him. Been out here as long as I can remember.” His teeth flashed white beneath wraparound sunglasses and a khaki-covered safari hat.
“Has he had much luck in his mines?”
“Guess so. He doesn’t talk much about things like that.”
“What about women?” I wiped sweat off my forehead. “Has he lived alone all these years?”
“Just about. John may have done some chippy chasing in his time, but he kept it discreet like. Nothing permanent, anyway.”
I kept quiet as we passed tiny stucco houses and prefab crackerboxes. The road detoured around mobile trailers and low tin-roofed shanties huddled in a clump.
“Downtown,” Horace Smedly said, deadpan.
The Land Rover growled into low as we went over a rise. Then a jog to the right and we idled in front of slanting aluminum doors leading down to a burrow carved from the sandstone. It could almost pass as the entrance to a storm cellar.
“John’s place,” the driver said.
“Thanks.” I grabbed my notebook and camera and jumped to the ground, slapping dust from my pants.
“I’ll be with Jack.” Smedly gestured at the driver. “They’ve got a couple of cots ready for us. Anyway, come on over when you’re through.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far. Just walk back to town and ask anyone the way.”
Smedly grinned and waved, and the Land Rover was off. I squinted dubiously up at the sun. A sweat river flowed from the middle of my back down to my coccyx. While the dust still settled, John McFarland rose up through the double doors. He was a brown and weathered old redwood. Dressed only in sandals, white shorts, and a dark green baseball cap, he stepped spryly forward, one hand outstretched.
“You must be Norman Hall.” His palm was dry and blistered. “A good guess.”
The Memory of Eva Ryker Page 5
