by LE Barbant
Elijah buried his face in his hands. “You do know what the 19th century is, right, Adam?”
Half the class laughed. The other half looked up from their phones.
“One is china,” Elijah said. “Premium china was made in towns surrounding Pittsburgh. If it got much bigger, your beloved football team may have been called the Pittsburgh Potters.” No laughs, though he paused for them. “Just over 30 miles down the Ohio there’s a smaller river called the Beaver River. Up the Beaver sat a china factory in 1870s called Mayor China. The principal potter there was trained at Syracuse University, apprenticed in New Jersey, and eventually made his way to Western PA. The company was initially run by the Harmony Society—a religious group that settled in the area. Does anyone know what the Harmony Society was known for?”
Crickets.
“The Harmonists were committed to celibacy, which is why we don’t find many of them today. Mayor China had quite a following; its cups and dishes and plates can be found all over the world.”
Julie, the girl who gave him a cigarette, raised her hand. Elijah nodded. “So, what does any of this have to do with Research Methods?”
Elijah leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. His back was strained, and the girl renewed his craving for tobacco. “Great question, Julie.” He emphasized the name, proud that he had remembered it. “I tell the story of Mayor China because one of the most important things to know in research, particularly research in history, is that the majors distract us from the minors. There are tens of thousands of peer-reviewed papers on the Pittsburgh steel industry. Do you know how many were written about Mayor China?”
Elijah stared at the girl waiting for a guess. She shook her head.
“Two,” the adjunct said. “One of them was written by me.” He smiled. “I’ve written fifty percent of the articles on that company. Next class we’ll talk more about the majors and the minors and why exactly majoring in the minors can get you somewhere. See you on Thursday. I hope you all have an average day.”
****
A cough came from the back end of the Subaru as he turned the key and pressed the gas. It had sat for over a month. Between public transportation and his ride-alongs with Rex, Elijah didn’t have much use for his car. He was happy to let it sit. But he didn’t want to explain his injuries to the oversized driver or listen to sports talk radio.
Traffic was light on I-376 heading out of town. Elijah missed Boston, but he certainly didn’t miss the traffic. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and tapped Jelana Novak’s address into his phone. Novak was the daughter of a man who’s been a steelworker in the early days of the 20th century. Several days’ worth of phone calls to local ethnic clubs finally landed him her information.
The Subaru eased up to the curb in front of a run-down two-story home in Homestead. Elijah leaned his weary body on the railing, as he climbed the three steps toward the porch. He rapped his knuckles on the solid wooden door. While waiting, he took in the neighborhood. It was classic Pittsburgh: tight homes, Steelers flags, and chairs saving on-street parking spots. The sight made him homesick, though he couldn’t determine why.
The door open behind him. The historian turned, surprised to find a beautiful twenty-something standing in the doorway. Elijah looked down at his paper and up at the numbers over the door. “Hi. Um, is Ms. Novak here?”
The girl smiled as she took him in. “I’m ‘Ms. Novak’,” she said with a smile and air quotes. “Everybody calls me Lainey.”
The historian laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Jelana Novak.”
Elijah couldn’t help but notice the girl was cute—young, but cute. Standing on the porch was an odd time to think about how long it had been since he had been with a woman.
“Oh, right. Jelana’s my grandmother. She doesn’t live here anymore; this is my place. Do you want to come in?”
Elijah took in her short shorts and tank, which were out of place for February in Pittsburgh. Light perspiration indicated he had interrupted a workout.
I sure do.
“I’m kind of on a tight schedule,” Elijah said, glancing at his watch. “Do you know where I can find your grandmother?”
“Sure,” the girl said. “She’s at St. George’s. She’s been there for five years. But, I have to warn you, she’s not really with it, if you know what I mean.”
Elijah pulled a notepad out of his back pocket and scratched the name of the facility.
“Thanks, Lainey. I appreciate it.”
The girl bit her lip. “Me too. Oh, why are you looking for my grandmother?”
“I’m doing some research on Alarawn Industries. I understand your great-grandfather worked there. Someone gave me your grandmother’s name as the person who could maybe fill me in on some things. I just want to chat.”
“Sounds, um, fascinating?”
Branton laughed. “Well, for some. And, it’s also my job.” Elijah took a step back. “Thanks again.”
The girl raised her hand and wiggled her fingers goodbye.
****
St. George’s smelled like antiseptic and death. Elijah straightened his tie as he walked with confidence toward the front desk. A good portion of research took place in the archives. But more often than not, he found himself trying to get into a closed meeting or land an interview. Confidence worked best. He smiled broadly at the bored receptionist. “Hello. My name’s Dr. Branton, I was just over at Jelana Novak’s house for an interview. Her granddaughter told me I could find her here.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, barely looking up.
“An appointment?”
“Yeah. We don’t let just anybody walk in and talk to our residents.” She stared at him over a set of bifocals.
“Oh, right. Pretty good policy, I guess. Kinda bites me in the ass right now though,” Elijah said with a grin.
Thankfully, the receptionist grinned back. “If her granddaughter calls and gives you permission, I’d be happy to see if Ms. Novak would want to see you.”
“Oh, yeah. Let me give her call. Can I have your number?”
“Honey, if I had a dime for every time a young guy like you asked me that…”
The phone rang five times before he heard the voice. “Elijah, where the hell have you been?”
“Brooke, hey. Sorry I’ve been dodging your messages, but I need a quick favor. I know this sounds weird, but I wasn’t sure who else to ask. I’m standing in St. George’s Assisted Living doing some research. Apparently I’m going to need permission from a relative in order to get in.”
Silence greeted him on the other side. He fidgeted, waiting for her response.
“Okay, need me to have Rex do something?”
“No. I thought you could just play the part.”
Elijah heard a laugh on the other side. He hoped it was a good one.
“Okay, Elijah. I’ll play your little game.”
Elijah smiled; he was starting to like her. “Okay, here’s all I have. Jelana Novak was a secretary for a company called Alarawn Industries. Have you heard of them?”
“Rings a bell,” Brooke said. Elijah could picture her smart smile.
“Her granddaughter’s name is Lainey. I assume it’s Jelana, too. But I’m not quite sure. I figure your job taught you to make up shit on the fly.”
“Learned that in college.”
“Funny. You got this. Here’s the number.”
The phone at the receptionist’s desk rang. Elijah took three steps back and held his breath. The receptionist talked, then smiled, and laughed. Brooke was good. She jotted a few notes on a yellow legal pad. Finally, she pulled the phone from her face, and pushed the screen. Elijah walked back up.
“That girl’s funny,” the receptionist said with a snort.
Elijah shrugged. “I just met her. She seemed nice.”
“Let me give Ms. Novak a call. I’m sure she’s probably free.”
****
In the lounge, a gr
oup sat on a tattered old couch watching reruns of “Golden Girls.” A foursome played bridge in a corner at a table. And one man in a long blue terrycloth bathrobe stood by himself taking the whole scene in. His lips moved periodically. Elijah sat on an overstuffed chair across the coffee table from Jelana Novak. She looked out of place. Her countenance gave off an air of confidence the others lacked. Jelana wore a perfectly pressed pantsuit.
“You know Lainey?” she asked the historian.
“We only just met. I found your name online, on the Internet…”
“I know what the Internet is,” the woman said.
Elijah forced an uncomfortable smile. “Right. So, I want to ask you some questions, about Alarawn Industries. Alarawn Steel.”
Jelana pursed her lips. “I worked there for years. But that place, that place is no friend of mine.”
Elijah nodded, his face solemn. “Actually I think that’s what I want to talk to you about. Your father, he worked there in the early part of the century, right?”
“Yes, sir. My father worked there. His father worked there. I worked there. Some would say we’re part of the Alarawn family. But I don’t know what I can tell you.” The woman’s face was vacant.
“I’m trying to figure out as much as I can about the worker movement of 1902. Did your family tell you stories?”
The woman leaned back in her chair. She gripped its arms, her knuckles going white. “All we did was tell stories, but I don’t have much to say about that. I think I’m what you academics would call a dead end.”
“Ma’am, that movement was powerful. My understanding is that the workers folded before the strike really began but without any violence from the corporation. It seems out of place for a pre-1935 strike.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “1935?”
“Yeah, the Wagner Act—legislation protecting the right to organize. Before that point, mill owners could do almost anything to protect their interests. But the Alarawns resolved this dispute without conceding anything and without resorting to bloodshed. It was a remarkable accomplishment. Do you remember anything about the strike? Or Thomas Alarawn, Jr.?
At the sound of his name, Jelana’s body stiffened.
“Đavo. Da će trunuti u paklu.” Jelana made the sign of the cross and kissed her fingers.
Although Elijah couldn’t explain how, he knew exactly what she was saying.
“What do you mean he was evil?”
Mrs. Novak’s eyes went wide. She was as shocked as he was by his linguistic skills.
“That man…he did things, terrible things. My family was terrified to speak his name, even decades after he was gone.”
The woman stood, crossing her arms. “I’m sorry, Dr. Branton, I don’t have anything more to give you. Our time is over.”
Elijah stood as well. “Please, ma’am, I need help. I have something to show you.” Elijah reached into his pocket. He could feel the medallion cold against his fingers.
He pulled it out and held it up. “Do you know what this is?”
The woman gasped. “You need to go now,” she nearly shouted at him. “You need to go now, zduhać. Leave me. I’m at peace. Leave me now. There’s nothing else I can do.”
The woman was screaming. Two staff members in scrubs came over and took Elijah by the arms. They led him out of St. George’s, nearly throwing him down the concrete steps.
Elijah’s mind raced. There was much he had to make sense of. The conversation with Willa in her apartment and all that transpired still seemed like a dream. It also felt like a lifetime ago.
Driving through the Squirrel Hill tunnels, back toward the city, he couldn’t get the wild look in Jelana Novak’s eyes out of his mind. She was panicked—in a frenzy. What could Thomas, Jr. have done to give him such a reputation? The medallion was obviously important—he needed to figure out why.
****
Elijah pulled the car close enough to the Hillman Library to pick up a decent wireless signal. On the ride into Oakland, he had decided to call Max Noonan. Max was a strange one, not that oddities were unusual in PhD programs.
He was one of the most driven students Elijah had ever met. While Elijah and his friends spent their nights drinking and chasing girls, Max dedicated every waking moment to study. Elijah respected his discipline, and their conversations were fascinating. While Branton focused on American history, Max was enamored by Eastern Europe. He was exactly the person he needed to talk to.
Elijah turned on his emergency flashers and flipped open his laptop. Max’s avatar indicated that he was online.
After three rings, a face appeared—a little too close to the camera. “Elijah, this is a surprise.”
Elijah couldn’t suppress a smile. “Hey, Max. How’s Ukraine?”
“My fellowship dried up last semester. I’m in Estonia now. I’ll tell you what, this place gets a bad reputation, but I love it here.”
“You under ten feet of snow, or what?”
“Three glorious feet. It’s been a mild winter. How’s Boston?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I’m not in Boston. I landed a short-term research job in Pittsburgh. So, I’m digging into archives and slumming the adjunct scene a bit.”
“There’s always adjuncting,” Max said with a grin. “I guess Pittsburgh is the perfect place for someone interested in Industrial History, or whatever you call it.”
“Yep. Sure is. I’m actually working on the history of one of the mid-list steel companies. They hired me to write their story.”
“Or rewrite it, more likely,” Max interjected.
“Heh. Well, maybe. They do have a bit of a sordid past it seems. But the woman who runs the company, Brooke Alarawn, seems sharp and committed.”
“Alarawn? No shit?”
Elijah paused. “Yeah, how do you know her?”
“Come on. She’s like the Hilton girls, but with class and brains. I mean, how many multigazillionaire hotties are there? I even saw her sex tape.”
Elijah laughed. “You know that’s not her, right?”
“Don’t ruin my fantasy. So, you just calling to catch up?”
“Well, I should be.” Elijah felt a twinge of guilt. He had never been good at keeping up with his friends from a distance. “But, I actually need some help with the project.”
“And what do you think I might know about Pittsburgh steel?”
“Not much,” Elijah admitted. “But I know you know just about everything about Slovak history. My question is more about mythology though.”
“Fine line between history and mythology,” Max said.
Elijah laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.” He looked at his notes and asked, “What does the word zduhać mean to you?”
“Zduhać? That’s, ah, a kind of tutelary spirit.”
“You’ll have to help me with the vocab, Max.”
He laughed. “Sorry, a tutelary spirit is a defender of a place, like a guardian angel I guess, but of a town rather than a specific person. Some scholars would take issue with your word myth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well the zduhaci were people; some even made their way into recorded history. Now, certainly the powers associated with them could be described as mythical, but the heroes themselves were real and often played important roles within the life of a village.”
“But you called them spirits. What does that mean? What powers were they supposed to have?”
“That’s where it gets a little tricky. Most of the stories say that they’d ‘leave their bodies’ when evil was near. There’s some disagreement about what that means, but all the legends say that the hero would fall asleep and wage battle against encroaching spirits. Supposedly they had great strength and could rip trees from the ground. When they woke up, they’d have scratches and bruises all over their bodies—evidence of the fight.”
Blood drained from Elijah’s face. His chest itched.
He showed the medallion to Max. “How about this? It belonged to the
founder of Alarawn Industries. Any chance it’s Welsh or Scotch-Irish?”
“Hmmm. It’s definitely eastern European. That symbol looks familiar but I can’t quite place it. I’d guess it’s some sort of cultic artifact. Christianity tried to wipe out the old religions, but people in these parts have long memories. Many of the old ways remained powerful in their minds long after the Church assumed its dominance. That medallion probably was significant to its original owners, but I can’t imagine it originated with the Alarawns. It seems like you’re digging in deep, man.”
Elijah considered his friend’s words. You have no idea.
“Hey, man, thanks for ringing me up. But I have a seminar in about thirty minutes. I wanna run over my notes again.”
“Alright, thanks, Max. It means a lot.”
“No problemo. Let me know if you need anything else,” Max smiled and waved. His image froze for a second and then went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Her legs, long and exposed, extended from the Herman Miller executive chair up to the mahogany desk, feet crossed at the ankles. Brooke knew that reclining in this fashion—muscular lines drawing attention towards their almost-uncovered convergence—would arouse most men. But Rex seemed unaffected.
His eyes, locked on Brooke’s, disregarded the alluring peripheral view. Loyalty—or sexual preference, perhaps—maintained his composure. Either way propriety was far from Brooke’s mind. She had more pressing concerns.
At her desk lay an editorial discussing Mount Washington’s “monster problem.” The Trib placed the blame on a boring election cycle and the Steelers’ postseason failures. They decried the whole incident as a hoax propagated by overimaginative gossip columns and a faked YouTube video.
But Brooke had a first-hand account.
Armageddon.
As mayhem unfolded mere feet away, many fled for shelter at the back of the restaurant. But Brooke Alarawn stayed. Through dirty glass she watched as Elijah Branton turned. Like something out of an old monster movie, the man’s body expanded. His skin was like iron, his stature extraordinary.
Pained screams embedded themselves in her mind.
“You saw him, didn’t you?” Brooke Alarawn asked.
