Sundance

by David Fuller

“Dead five years, old news. How do you know about Cassidy?”

  Longbaugh kicked himself and took the nearest exit. “I met his cook.”

  “Why hear it from you, why not talk to the cook?”

  “Somebody hung him for being a jackass.”

  “Not enough of that going around.”

  Longbaugh cut off the conversation, reaching for his money to pay the bill. Hightower put his hand on Longbaugh’s arm. “This is my party.”

  Longbaugh let him take it.

  “You see, distraction is what you need. You’re feeling better already.”

  And now you know more about me than I cared to tell, thought Longbaugh.

  “Come work for me. You’re good with a gun, from what you say. Although if you kill Moretti, you dry up a steady source of revenue.”

  Longbaugh thought to turn the tables, see if he could quid pro quo Hightower into spilling more than he wanted to tell. “Tell me what she did all these months.”

  “A little wallow, eh? I can respect that. Man’s got to mourn.”

  “Where do you think she was hiding?”

  “You’re the one found her in Brooklyn.”

  “That was a new place. What about before?”

  “How can it matter? She’s dead, let her rest.”

  “Because I want to know.” His voice came loud and harsh and heads turned.

  “Easy now, tourist.”

  “I want to know who she was,” said Longbaugh, more quietly but no less harshly.

  Hightower shook his head in disgust. He tore the corner off a newspaper and took a pencil from an inside pocket, poised to write something on its blankness. “This is pointless, but I’m glad it’s not my cross to bear. I tracked her to a place she was living, almost caught her, too.”

  He handed Longbaugh the newsprint scrap with an address.

  “You helped me with Moretti today, tourist, telling me about Silvio, so consider this your reward. Now I get to mess up Silvio and get a little respect back. I imagine he’s backtracking right about now, telling Joe it wasn’t Mrs. Place after all. Little creep may never grow out of his pimples.” He scratched himself as he stood up, leaving money on the table. “Oh, and the next time you see your wife, say hello for me.”

  Longbaugh was not surprised when he found the street with the address he’d gotten from Hightower. Another innocuous boardinghouse in an area full of boardinghouses, not too nice, not too shabby, a place for a person to blend in and vanish. He bribed the elderly landlady to let him in and went up the stairs to the room she indicated. Longbaugh entered Etta’s old room to find it furnished. He pocketed the torn corner of the newspaper. The landlady had told him Etta had lived there as recently as three months before. This time he looked immediately at the wooden wardrobe in the corner. From the moment he saw it, he ignored everything else in the room. The wardrobe was fancier than the one in the Levis’ boardinghouse, topped by a carved finial, a front piece that added five inches to its height. A line of books stood upright against it, their spines partially covered by the decorative wood. Behind the books he saw the very tip of the flame of a Statue of Liberty toy. He dragged a chair and stepped up to find it perched on a stack of letters held together with an olive ribbon. Her handwriting shaped his name on the top letter. He could smell her, a heart-surging whiff of perfume amid the dust. That letter also had a layer of dust, and he lifted the stack to find a clean, rectangular shape on the wardrobe’s wooden top, where the envelopes had been placed. The top of the wardrobe had gone months without a cleaning. Etta had known no one would look there. Hightower had missed it, but he was only looking for her person.

  He thumbed the edge of the thick batch of envelopes and realized she had continued to write to him every week. He was amazed. She had been speaking to him all along, all the while knowing he might never receive her words. He stepped off the chair and sat on it, filled with a kind of awe. The volume of her affection and the extent of her communication now rested in his hands. He undid the olive ribbon and fanned the envelopes out on his lap. She had sealed each one and acted as if she had sent them off irretrievably.

  He chose the bottom letter, assuming it to be the oldest, the first that he had not received. It began as did all her letters, My Dear. He quickly went to the bottom of the second page, to see the closing sentiment, and he read, Your Etta. He sat in silence, so many of her words in his fingers, her gorgeous scent in his nose, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed, and she was nearer to him than she had been in years.

  He returned to the beginning of the letter and began to read. He had planned to skim it, as there were so many letters and so much to learn, but he was bewitched by the sound of her voice in his head and he inhaled her cadence.

  My Dear,

  I must not send you this letter, and for that you cannot imagine the pain I suffer. Signor Moretti’s men captured a letter I had posted to Mina. I did not think it possible, but he showed it to me and said he knew someone in the post office. I know there is massive corruption in this city, but the Black Hand’s reach surprises even me. He said he was going to send men to see her. He was warning me that he could find my family. I doubt if he bothered to follow through, I’m sure Mina only thinks I’m too lazy to write. Better she think that than know the truth. Nevertheless, I learned my lesson. As long as I don’t send this to you, he can never find out you exist. It appears the Hand has many arms (laugh now, darling, at least I can still joke), and if he was to find this or any future letter, he would know where you are, and send someone to meet you on the day you are to be released from that dreadful place. You would never know someone was coming, as my letter would fail to arrive to warn you. I will not risk you, no matter how much pain my silence may cause. I know what it is doing to you, and I’d do anything in my power to keep you from hurting this way, but it’s better you should suffer silence than be lost to me forever. I could not live knowing you were no longer in this world.

  He stopped reading. He thought of his visit to Mina and the men sent to frighten her. Etta could not have known Moretti had followed through on his threat. Mina had been lucky. Perhaps Hightower had a heart after all, as it had surely been his men.

  He returned to the letter.

  The very act of writing draws you near, and I selfishly cannot bring myself to break the habit. I do now as I’ve always done, organize my thoughts days in advance of lifting a pen, as even thinking of writing to you makes me happy. As I plan what to say, that is an intimate time, and when I ink my thoughts into permanence, you are here in the room with me. When I picture you reading my words, I imagine that you can hear my voice, so I try to write as I speak, precisely and never falsely. Oh, my, I just reviewed those last words, can you imagine me saying “precisely and never falsely”? Maybe it’s a good thing you’ll never read this. But I know these words are for me alone. Again, how selfish of me to be speaking to you this way.

  I am conflicted, my darling. I want you to come and find me when finally they let you out, but I also fear it because they will try to hurt you. If I’m lucky, my silence will keep you away and safe. But when you do come, because you will, you must be careful! Swallow your pride, stay safe. Beware of those men. And now listen to me, sounding like a nervous mother. Or maybe like a nagging wife. Why would you marry such a shrew?

  I am safe and in hiding. My plan is to relocate frequently, so do not fear for me. I have no planned-out strategy, so they will not be able to detect a pattern. My hope is that they will tire of this game. If I read them correctly, they are childish and impatient. Eventually I will find a way to continue my work.

  I met an anarchist named Mabel. You would dislike her. Oh, my, I laugh to think of you two in the same room. For all her haughty attitude, I would fear for her sharing the same room as you. Her philosophy may not be appealing, but the anarchists are a cautious, nervous, and furtive lot, all things I must learn to be. She thinks I am a fool
, and perhaps I am, but to underestimate me proves she lacks imagination. No surprise there, after all, she’s an anarchist. Or maybe she just lacks humor. What is it you always say? I can’t abide a man without a sense of humor. Or in this case, a woman. I will let her believe what she will and hold my tongue (not so easy, thinks my husband), although I find her imperious and insufferable. Best not to underestimate her in turn. At one time when you and I were looking for hideouts (where were we? Colorado, I think), we would have laughed at the idea of accepting refuge from that sort of person. Now how funny it is to find it to be prudent.

  I close now, as it is late and I must rest. I move again in the morning. I always think of what you would do to make sure I was well hidden, so now in your place I take extra care. You would be proud of my precautions, I think.

  I love you in silence,

  Your Etta

  He did not know what to do. His heart was full, she was here, right here, in the room with him, her words lifting him, her humor, her wit, all there, her voice alive in his head, and yet she was gone, out there somewhere, in hiding, and he couldn’t reach her. His mind churned in frustration.

  It was time to leave the room. He had already fueled the landlady’s curiosity, better not to fan it to flames. But wise as that notion may have been, he did not stand up. He looked at the many letters and tried to decide his next move. He reached too quickly for the last envelope to see if she had left a clue to her latest destination and accidentally knocked them all to the floor. They scattered, out of order. He went to his knees and collected them with care to identify the dustiest, the letter that had been on top, the most recently written. If worse came to worst, he would open each one, as she had dated them.

  The olive ribbon had left a clean stripe in the dust on her final letter, making it easy to identify, but he also saw a clean square in the middle where dust had not fallen, and he did not at first understand until he remembered the Liberty toy had stood on it. He opened it to a date only twelve weeks before. Twelve weeks. A long time and yet no time at all, although had he missed her by twelve minutes, she would still be out of reach. He scanned it but her words gave no clue to her current location.

  He rewrapped the letters in the ribbon and remembered the toy, on its side atop the wardrobe. He stood on the chair, took the toy, and vaguely noted that one of the books standing along the finial was upside down. He was in the hallway before that fact tripped him and sent him back to stand on the chair and bring down the book. A loose sheet of paper slipped from under the book’s cover. He unfolded it, holding his breath. My Dear. He turned it over but there was no affectionate close. It was unfinished, words dangling mid-page, the last thought a fragment without a period. She had been writing and was halted mid-thought, the white expanse below a testament to imminent danger. She had had a mere moment, enough time to fold it and slip it in the book and turn the book upside down. He reread the fragment, her last words:

  SFS has been traveling back and forth across the ocean and I’m starting to wonder if it has something to do with

  14

  Every spare moment was spent reliving the last two years through her letters as he read and reread them—at meals, before sleep, while traveling on trolleys and trains. He started at the beginning, first letters first, and read in order to own the context. He initially read through them quickly to make sure she was all right, then started again and read slowly for clues or codes. The second year of letters brought to his attention one particular man, an anarchist, and as he read, he thought there was a chance this man might know of her whereabouts. He was supposedly well hidden, yet ironically, from her description of his habits and manner, he might not be difficult to find.

  Longbaugh rode out to Paterson, New Jersey, Silk City, to visit the hall where the Industrial Workers of the World, “the Wobblies,” made their offices in support of the silk workers’ strike. He carried the pertinent letters and reread them on the train. This particular man had come to Etta through the female anarchist, Mabel. Mabel the anarchist had looked down on Etta, and it amused her to put Etta together with one of her anarchist compatriots, identified in the letters only as Prophet. The origin of this moniker was unclear, and if Etta knew his name, she had neglected to mention it. He held out hope that the SFS in the dangling sentence of her final letter was him. Mabel the anarchist’s idea of a joke was to play Cupid for Prophet. Mabel the anarchist believed in free love and sneered at “bourgeois” progressives like Etta. Mabel the anarchist seemed to have more patience for the posh class she so deeply opposed than for progressives who were closer to her political philosophy.

  He jumped to a recent letter. Etta had written that Prophet was energized by the strike and had spent significant time in Silk City with the Wobblies. Prophet’s early enthusiasm was akin to the ecstasy of a first love or a religious conversion. Longbaugh flipped to a letter dated three months later, where, as she had expected, she recounted Prophet’s profound disappointment in the Wobblies and the strikers, his vitriol and disappointment as predictable as his initial infatuation. Prophet now saw the strikers as docile and ineffectual. But he still on occasion visited their offices. Apparently, he was lonely.

  Longbaugh walked along the Passaic River through Paterson, passing a series of silent silk factories that lined the riverbank. He crossed the bridge over the Great Falls and found his way to the IWW hall on Main Street.

  He entered the hall. A harried young woman crossed his path, with an armload of papers and no time for him. He stood in her way. She looked at him in the way that those who are chosen look at the ignorant and misinformed, over glasses perched precariously low on her nose, through hair strands falling in her face.

  “Can you help me?” said Longbaugh.

  “Apparently, I can’t help anyone.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, I mean I can’t help anyone, according to my boss.”

  “Is he some sort of idiot?”

  She thawed slightly. “And you’re not one of us.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “No one calls him an idiot. Out loud.”

  “I’m looking for a man named Prophet?” It came out as a question, as he had never spoken the name aloud, and it sounded false and careless in his mouth.

  “What could you possibly want from him?”

  “Nothing good.”

  His answer bought him another moment of her time. “Well, you’re not the law.” That was not a question, merely the opening salvo of her critical assessment.

  “No.”

  “And you’re no Pinkerton. No rabid foam.”

  “I washed my chin just this morning.”

  “A reporter would ask leading questions.”

  “Do you think your strike is the only reason America is dying?”

  She was enjoying this. She looked at his clothes. “Not an anarchist recruit. Can’t see you joining Prophet’s cause. You’d be better off with us.”

  “Not political.”

  “Right. But you’ve heard about us, the enemy of capitalism out to destroy life as you know it.”

  “That’s what comes of better conditions and higher wages?”

  “Apparently so. If we’re not starving, we’re not doing our part.”

  “A progressive with a sense of humor.”

  “One more thing I can’t get right. Not serious enough.”

  “So which one is your boss?”

  “See those men over there?” She indicated a line that had formed in front of a desk on the far side of the room. Each man in turn was handed an envelope. “He’s the one giving out the money.”

  “Awfully young to be an idiot.” She laughed out loud and he caught her glasses as they fell off her nose.

  Longbaugh watched her boss and the line of men. “The union hiring picketers?”

  “No, they’re ours, broad-silk weavers. I visited the picket line and f
ound out they’re broke, although not quite starving. I thought maybe the union might help, from the fund.”

  “Your boss took credit for your idea.”

  “Girls don’t have ideas. This strike is about boys, men, virility, and please don’t mind me. At least our people aren’t groveling and their children eat. Those men had been running two looms at a time until the company decided they should run four. For the same money.”

  “Making half of them out of work already.”

  “So you’re not a cop, a Pinkerton, or a reporter.”

  “From out west.”

  “Riding horses, mending fences.”

  “Robbing railroads.”

  “No need for a union when you make your own hours.” He nodded at her quick wit. “But wait, I see it now. You’re a cattle baron. Should have known all along, the way you carry yourself.”

  He smiled a little. “Confidence?”

  “Arrogance.”

  “I must be hiding my affable nature.”

  “You buy up land the railroad wants and sell it to them for a profit.”

  “And apparently I’m rather cynical.”

  “It’s your lack of affection for the workers.”

  Longbaugh shrugged. “My wife supports you.”

  “Send her along, I’ll give her a picket sign.”

  Before he spoke, Longbaugh hadn’t given much thought to Etta’s politics. But from everything he’d learned in her letters and from those who had interacted with her, he was confident that he knew exactly what she believed. His own convictions may have been unresolved, but hers were not.

  “What does a cattle baron want with Prophet? Wait, don’t tell me, secretly he’s the son of a wealthy landowner and you need him to help you buy Indian land.”

  “Something like that.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “He’s one of yours, why let him hang around?”

  “He is definitely not one of ours. You can shoo a fly, but as long as you smell sweet, he keeps coming back. Big Bill got sick of his face and sent him packing day before yesterday.”