by John Pipkin
The emotions that dared flit across this void were unexpected. Eliot found himself moved to incredible sadness one afternoon as he watched Josiah Edward, at only six months, straining for a shiny object beyond his grasp. The infant sat on a sky-blue blanket, and just past the blanket's edge a bright ninepence sat on the red carpet. The child grunted softly, rocking forward onto his chubby thighs, breathing hard through a mouth wide open in expectation of tasting some new fascination in the ever-expanding world. The struggle could not have lasted more than a minute, but to Eliot it seemed the quest of an hour's duration, an example of preternatural tenacity in so young a mind. Eliot watched his son rock back and forth, straining, resolved, increasing his reach by a hair's breadth each time, pudgy fingers scratching at the blanket. Eliot felt utterly powerless to intervene. By stages the child pulled himself onto his soft round knees, stretched too far, and slowly toppled forward. His forehead struck the carpet with a harmless thud. Josiah Edward lay facedown, confused and unable to right himself, his fingers still wiggling in an ineffectual grasp. And then, quietly, the infant began to whimper.
Eliot roused himself from his chair and lifted his son with a sweeping motion, as if this act might banish the recent disappointment. He felt a deep melancholy on the boy's behalf—for the nature of things, for the arrangement of the world, for the structure of what passed for reality. And then he realized that the cause of his sadness was not the futility of his son's determination, not the boy's inability to recognize that what he wanted was beyond his reach but, rather, the fact that the shiny coin, once grasped, once tasted, would have proved unworthy of the effort. At that moment, Eliot wanted to pull his son into the heavy, empty space in his chest, so that he might fill himself with his child and replace his confused feelings for the boy with the boy himself.
How suddenly Eliot's life had changed into an utterly foreign thing. Even when his bookshop was thriving, the profits never seemed enough. The house on Beacon Hill, while a generous gift, to be sure, was a burden to maintain. And though the bookshop's profits met his household expenses, the bills were steady enough to make any missteps unthinkable. The house had demanded attention from the start, and it had not occurred to him—not until Margaret pointed out with her tinkling-chandelier laugh—that such a house could be properly maintained only with two servants, at the very least.
And then came more children: after Josiah Edward there was Abigail Marie, Nathaniel Thomas, Humphrey Joseph, and, finally, Samuel Titus. Margaret seemed to have the names at the ready, as if she had known in advance each child's inevitability. Eliot was not sure why he allowed himself to feel surprised every time. He had not thought that he would be childless, and he believed he welcomed the idea of children. But he had not thought their arrival, one upon the other, would be quite so swift, quite so relentless. He knew of playwrights who had children, but he had never encountered fathers who wrote plays.
With the children came additional expenses, and he raised the prices on his most valuable books. If he could only generate slightly higher profits, he reasoned, he might employ a clerk to oversee the shop in his stead, freeing himself to devote an hour or two each day to working on his plays. He expanded the range of inks and nibs he carried. He imported expensive Faber pencils but later replaced these with the superior ones manufactured by John Thoreau & Co. He tried stocking unusual items: reading glasses from France and bookmarks studded with jewels. In an effort to attract wealthy collectors, Eliot devoted an entire wall to exquisite books he ordered from Hatchards bookshop in London. Yet, despite his best efforts, he seemed able to outpace his debts only by the barest of margins, until the day the account books revealed that he was gradually slipping into debt.
Eliot took note of what interested his patrons, what books they bought, what books they examined and returned to the shelves, and tried to vary his stock accordingly. He had always made careful observations of the people who visited his shop, but it was not until his financial difficulties began to mount that he noticed a peculiar, pock-faced man nosing through the stacks, fingering books, staring at the other customers. The man came in every week but never bought anything. He introduced himself as Punch one day, and then set about his usual practice of examining Eliot's wares without another word. Eliot did not ask whether Punch was a first or last name or something entirely fabricated to suit the man's demeanor. The man's nose was permanently mashed to the side, one nostril twice as large as the other, and his breath wheezed noisily through the smaller opening. He bought nothing, spoke to no one, and seemed more interested in Eliot's customers than in anything on the shelves. Whenever Eliot asked him if he needed assistance, Punch merely smiled politely and shook his head, as if he did not understand what Eliot was saying.
Punch finally broke his silence one evening when Eliot was preparing to close. As soon as Eliot pulled down the shade on the front door, he was startled by a voice that sounded as though it had bubbled up from a thick pool of phlegm.
“I believe I may be of some service, Mr. Calvert.”
Eliot had thought that the shop was empty. He turned and saw the pock-faced man standing at the counter. Though Punch usually kept his hands hidden in his coat pockets, today he carried a canvas bag that bulged with flat, sharp angles.
“Mr. Punch,” Eliot said. “I did not realize you were still here.”
“Just Punch, please. Do I understand correctly that you are searching for new ways to fatten your purse?”
“I beg your pardon?” Eliot was stunned by the offensive question.
“Mr. Calvert, I have come to speak to you on the matter of money. These are difficult times. Money is in short supply, but I can be most helpful in this regard. You have indicated that you want more of it, have you not?”
Eliot had occasionally discussed his financial concerns with those shopkeepers and merchants whose discretion he trusted, but now it was clear to him that his worries had not remained a secret. He was not as shocked as he might have been at what Punch claimed to know, but the man's boldness was inexcusable.
Eliot grabbed the door handle. “Your question is most inappropriate, sir. I must ask you to leave.”
“It is why I waited until closing, Mr. Calvert. You will find that I value prudence above all else. Have I been misinformed as to your present needs?”
Eliot hesitated. “How dare you presume to speak to me of my needs?”
“Boston is not so large a city, my friend. You have made inquiries. Those inquiries have made their way to others, and some have made their way to me. You can certainly understand that a man of business must pursue opportunities when they arise.”
Eliot regarded Punch with suspicion. The man looked more like a pugilist than a merchant, and he did not at all resemble the sort of men with whom Eliot usually dealt. Still, opportunity often presented itself in unlikely forms. Punch was more eloquent than Eliot had reason to expect, and he spoke with a wheezing assertiveness.
“Am I to understand,” Eliot said guardedly, unsure why he did not insist that the man leave, “that you wish to make a business proposition?”
“Indeed. I suggest that you expand your offerings.”
Punch hefted the canvas bag onto the counter and tugged at the drawstring.
Eliot held up his hands and shook his head. “I already carry a wide range of books. I daresay you'll not find better-stocked shelves in Boston.”
“Heh.” Punch's laugh squeaked through his flattened nose. “I've seen your stock, Mr. Calvert. I'd say there is room yet to augment your trove.”
Eliot stepped toward the counter to see what Punch carried in the dirty canvas sack. “I can assure you, my shelves have not an available inch of space.”
“The items that cannot be displayed on your shelves,” Punch said, “will likely demand a higher price than those that can.” He snorted, then glanced around the empty shop and grabbed the bottom of the sack by its corners. The open mouth gaped dark and mysterious. Eliot was intrigued.
Punch lifted th
e bag, spilling a jumble of cards and papers tied in bundles, small pamphlets, and several thin books.
Eliot shook his head. “I already carry chapbooks and card games.”
“Mr. Calvert, I doubt that you carry items such as these.”
Eliot grabbed a stack of cards tied with string, and as soon as he saw what was pictured his jaw went slack. The top card displayed a hand-colored etching of a bearded man reclining on a plush couch of red velvet. At his feet, a golden-haired woman knelt in devotion, and in her hands she held his bright pink penis.
“Good God!”
Eliot dropped the cards and they scattered across the counter. He saw that another card displayed a man and a woman entwined in the unmistakable act. In the corner was stamped “No. 16.” The other cards displayed different numbers and a seemingly impossible array of contortions.
Punch grinned as he collected the cards, retied them with string, and rummaged through the pile on the counter.
“Lest you think me unlearned, Mr. Calvert, please note that I am also a purveyor of the written word.” Punch handed him a pamphlet, flipping the pages as he did so to show that there were no illustrations. “I have found that there are men who prefer something more in the way of, shall we say, narrative. For some it serves as an entertainment—for others it provides much needed instruction.”
Eliot scanned the pamphlet's first page and immediately identified a half-dozen words that he had never heard spoken except in the company of men. He should have been disgusted by the filth spread over his counter, but something kept him turning the pages of the pamphlet. Eliot looked out over the properly stocked shelves of his bookstore, and then let his eyes drop down to the cabinets behind the counter, where he stored his extra stock.
“Where did you acquire this rubbish?” Eliot asked sternly.
“Rubbish never commanded so high a price as this, Mr. Calvert.”
“I assume that you are the artist of these”—Eliot searched for the right word—“portraits.”
Punch squeaked again through the flattened nostril. “You flatter me. I have not the skill, but I know talented artists in need of money. Men do what they must to meet their debts. And know this: you will be able to charge your buyers twice what you pay me for these items.”
Eliot noticed that his hands were trembling, and he was angry that he had permitted this man to make him feel that he was not so worldly as he liked to think. “Look here, I have a reputation to maintain. I cater to respectable clientele. I cannot possibly permit these … things … in my shop.”
Punch bared his brown teeth, wide and blunt as toenails. “The men who want such items are not the sort to pass judgment. Honest men recognize their honest desires.”
Eliot grabbed the edge of the counter to keep his hands from shaking. “Do not think that you can teach me about honest men.”
Punch scowled and began stuffing the books and cards back into the dirty sack.
“I will not play this game with you, Mr. Calvert. I see what you are up to. You think that you will shame me. And then, once you have made me feel that I am your inferior, you think you will dictate our terms. I am no fool. There are others, wiser in the ways of the world, who understand that your so-called respectable clientele will pay dearly for this.”
Eliot watched Punch stuff the cards and pamphlets into the sack, and in the fading daylight he caught a sparkle from a long crack in one of the shop's windows. The pane of expensive tinted glass would need replacing.
“Wait, please,” Eliot said softly.
Eliot picked up the stack of cards that remained on the counter. “No. 47” showed two lovers entwined with heads and feet at opposite ends. He thought of the shutters that were currently being repaired on Beacon Street. He thought of the broken flue in the chimney that would need mending before winter arrived. He thought of the spidery brown water stain that had mysteriously appeared on the ceiling of his bedroom. Eliot looked at “No. 52,” where three bodies were, improbably, tangled in positions that did not strike him as at all productive. He thought of the expensive medicine that Margaret had begun needing for her headaches. He thought of the patterned china that she said could not possibly be used for another season of entertaining. And he thought how Josiah Edward, now five years of age, had already begun to show an interest in the scientific microscope that his grandfather kept as a novelty for examining small, squashed insects.
“You say that these men will actually pay for such things?” Eliot asked.
“Men pay dearly for what they desire, Mr. Calvert.” Punch drummed his fingers presumptively on Eliot's countertop. “Dearly.”
Eliot knows he should not allow these pointless ruminations to distract him from his business in Concord. He steps into the street in front of the old cobbler's shop, then turns and watches the blur of smoke spread above the distant treetops like a dark thought. He would gladly purge his life of men like Punch and Seymour Twine and forgo the added income their wares have brought, even if doing so necessitated moving into a smaller home, one less expensive to maintain, one that required no servants. But he knows that Margaret's father would not hesitate to intervene if he perceived that they were in financial difficulty. And the truth is, Eliot admits to himself, he has come to enjoy the idea that he is the kind of man who can afford expensive comforts. He has grown used to the unexpected luxuries that surround him. And what was wrong with that? He does not ask anything of anyone. Patrick Mahoney had provided him with a home and a business, but Eliot can point to his own labor as the sole source of his family's continued contentment. He is about to open a second bookstore; he is very nearly finished with the final draft of The House of Many Windows, and it seems that he has at last found a place for it onstage at Moses Kimball's Boston Museum. His ambitions have survived undiminished. Has he not remained true to himself, after all?
Eliot watches as the wind smears the looming dark cloud against the sky, and still no one seems to pay it much attention. He assumes the people of Concord are accustomed to farmers burning off their fields, or whatever it is they do this time of year. He knows it would serve him well to learn from their wise indifference. It has done him no good to be so easily distracted by his own restless memories. Eliot turns away from the smoke and walks toward Wright's Tavern at the town's center. Every man has his employments, he thinks, responsibilities enough to occupy him for a lifetime without having to seek out new worries. He has an ample store of his own, and today meeting with Seymour Twine heads his list.
17
Caleb
Caleb knows exactly how he has come to this.
And the fire assures him that he is not mistaken.
He crawls from under the tent of his wool coat, and he sees that it is still there, distant in the woods, little flickers of brilliance intimating greater things. He leaves his coat draped over the crumbled foundations of the farmhouse, and when he stands his long white surplice catches the wind. His followers concluded soon enough that the fire was no talisman of celestial reckoning. Caleb knows what they must have thought: if the Almighty so decreed that the woods should burn, who were they to countermand the wishes of heaven? They had no cause to find anything remarkable about a world consumed by flames.
But there is more to it than they can possibly understand, he thinks.
With the black-lacquered pipe clenched between his teeth, Caleb looks around the plot of land as if he were seeing it for the first time. Then he begins pacing its perimeter, crunching the spiky stalks of last year's weeds beneath his feet. The fire confirms that Providence has been at work all along, feeding his doubts, leading him into blasphemy, all so that he—Caleb Ephraim Dowdy—might willingly sacrifice himself in executing the plan that will bring proof of God's existence to a corrupt and ignorant world. Why else would the Concord Woods be aflame on this day of all days? Surely the universe was not so accidental a place.
Caleb stares at his feet as he walks, entranced by the rhythm of his steps. He draws on his pipe, feels the hot,
bittersweet smoke seep into his lungs, and he circles the property a second time. From the corners of his eyes he recognizes groupings of stones he passed before, only now he perceives patterns, illegible messages arranged in characters native to the soil. The fire shows him a new way of seeing, shows him that there is a divine cause behind every act, every trial, every doubt that has accumulated in his memory, and he realizes that he has led a life composed of parables. Everything in his experience has happened for his instruction: his mother's early passing, the flaw in the stained-glass window of his father's church, the dead Irishman in the woods, the blind indifference of his first congregation, his visits to the Leverett Street Jail, even his dealings with fallen souls like Esther Harrington and Amos Stiles. He circles the ruins and recalls, with a renewed sense of purpose, the causes that have brought him here.
Doubt had always been with him: the first syllable of a query, a hard kernel of desperation ready to torment him in his idle hours. It had not begun with his stumbling upon the dead Irishman, but the worm-hollowed skull did give substance and shape to his already nascent misgivings. He saw the rotted face staring at him in his dreams, mocking his attempts to believe that something more awaited the sons of men. He held the preachers of the New World responsible for permitting so wicked a thing as incertitude to gain purchase in his mind; it was a consequence of their carelessness, a symptom of their failed vigilance. He counted his father among them, another impotent leader of insouciant believers; he thought his father too ready to forgive, too eager to dispense the promise of redemption, as if his church were an apothecary for the soul. The great stained-glass window held out hope for the perfectibility of this world, but the sparkling flaw half hidden in the highest pane was a constant reminder to Caleb of man's irredeemable failings. If so beautiful a creation as the window could harbor such a defect, Caleb reasoned, why should he not suspect that the erudite orations of his father and the other ministers of New England hid errors of reasoning in the depths of their well-turned phrasings?
