by Paul Boor
“But, Son . . .” Nicolas choked on the word. His face reddened. Rage ratcheted its grip on him.
Nicolas was not a violent man; he disliked fisticuffs, had no stomach for battles. During the Great War, he’d refused to muster with the Ninety-Seventh Regiment of Colonel Charles Wheelock to march south out of Boonville and fight on the fields at Manassas and Gettysburg. But now, this minute, he wanted nothing more than to grapple his only living son to the ground and throttle him.
Nicolas lunged toward Schuyler, then checked himself inches from his face. He struggled to keep his trembling hands at his sides.
“You fool! You’re a disgrace!”
Schuyler’s mouth dropped. He stepped back. “Father, I only meant—”
“How did I ever come to have a son who steals from me?”
“Steal?”
“Behind my back!”
“Just because you operate an icehouse? Because you’re the trader? You should be happy to share with your kin.”
“I give you everything!”
“I’m your son!”
Schuyler sidled away from the secretary with Van Horne & Co. stationery still clutched in his hand. He edged around his father and toward the study door.
“I’m your only son. Don’t forget that.”
The door swung shut and Nicolas, his head hanging, was left trembling in the middle of his study.
“My only son.”
34
Thomas Chubb
Nicolas’s mouth was dry with rage. “That miserable boy,” he muttered, staggering to the kitchen to slake his thirst. “He’ll rob me of my health, he will, along with all else that’s gone so awry.” Nicolas worked the kitchen pump with a fury. “I’ll change that boy, somehow. I will.” He took great gulps of cool, sweet well water, and the serpent released its grip on his innards.
“But first, I’d better cool down. Give it time. It’s Thomas I must see today.”
The house was silent. Nicolas was eager to check his weather instruments, but that took hours and could wait until after a talk with Thomas.
Nicolas climbed the stairs. Ruth lay motionless, fast asleep. Outside her windows the drizzle had turned to mist and fog. He collected their chamber pots and carried them out the kitchen door to the outhouse, which was tucked into the pines at the back of the house, nearly to the property line. There was neighing from the horse barn; the animals were in need of feed and water. He decided to stop by Abigail’s on his way down the hill; she’d gladly do the morning chores—the horses, the henhouse, collecting the eggs, changing straw—all tasks that a loving daughter tended to in her father’s absence.
Nicolas had eaten practically nothing since the steak dinner in Chicago, yet he didn’t feel the least rumbling of hunger. He decided he’d fast today. He’d starve the damned serpent.
There were details of business to attend to, but foremost was a talk with his accomplice in the body business. And Nicolas knew just where Thomas Chubb was to be found; he need only trudge down the hill and slog through the mud of Mill Street . . .
Thomas Chubb, the third-generation village undertaker, had been groomed from childhood to take over the family business. As a young boy, he’d joined his father in the prep room in the cellar, where he quickly learned to assist with the pumps and fluids. In Forestport’s schoolroom he was a loner among normal children but an inquisitive and bright pupil. After common school and a single, unhappy year at Fairfield Academy, Thomas was shipped off to learn the latest advances in the family’s trade at the Buffalo Scientific Institute of Embalming, Undertaking, and Mortuary Sciences.
Thomas accomplished much in Buffalo. Embalming was a new art, and great scientific advances had been made since the Slaveholders’ War provided so many bodies in need of burial. Thomas completed the institute’s advanced course of study, excelled in the use of the trocar, and exhibited a singular talent in the reconstructive and cosmetic arts. He created a unique palette of rouges and paints, which he employed in unique and discriminating ways. Thomas was recognized as a strange bird, but clever, resourceful, and creative. His advanced independent studies during the wee hours of the morning in the institute’s laboratories yielded novel embalming fluids with greatly enhanced preservative powers achieved by chemical innovations that were deserving of patents but that Thomas refused to disclose to his instructors.
Buffalo uncovered other, hidden talents in Thomas. He took up pianoforte and soon astounded the learned faculty at the Buffalo School of Artistic Expression with his exceptional musical talent, so much so that upon his return to Forestport his parents had the finest Steinway, the first and only grand piano in town, shipped from New York and installed in their downstairs parlour. At funerals, Thomas would tickle the ivory keys with gloomy renditions of the deceased’s favorite melodies. Off hours, he bewitched the ladies of Forestport with his playing, giving private lessons to only a select few in the village. Indeed, it was Thomas Chubb’s skilled tutorship that instilled a lifelong love of music in Schuyler Van Horne.
In his youth, Thomas Chubb cut a dashing figure in the village. Forestport had prospered; folks could afford coffins and funerals; and by the time his parents passed on, Thomas had become well-to-do. His company was eagerly sought by the town’s young women. He indulged himself in food and drink, as had his father before him. He grew a bit broad in the beam.
As Thomas approached middle age, the eligible ladies of Forestport married off and the undertaker, whose light brown eyes and skill at the piano had once been so desirable, became reclusive. When no funeral was in progress, Thomas retreated to Stillman’s barroom, his favorite haunt. He traveled often to larger cities, especially Buffalo, on business. It was well-known in the village that he indulged in daily doses of morphine, which—according to Boatmann, the apothecary—Thomas’s great bulk seemed to absorb with little effect.
Nicolas steeled himself on the walk down Mill Street to Stillman’s Inn, the small corner bar where the undertaker would be having his morning whiskey. The piles of dirty snow were melting fast. Trudging in the muddy street, Nicolas felt the acute need of a whiskey; something dense and smoky like Professor Keiller’s Scotch would suit him, but the thought of Keiller’s whiskey brought a flood of disquieting Galveston memories, and he put it out of mind. Besides, Scotch as fine as Keiller’s wouldn’t be found at Stillman’s.
Nicolas pulled open the barroom door and stepped in. It was hot and stank of stale beer and overflowing spittoons. Old man Stillman had hired a new bartender, a one-armed man who was a half-wit to boot. It was the mildest of late winter days; in spite of that, the simpleton bartender had stoked the potbelly stove in the corner to near its melting point. More than ever, Nicolas craved a cool whiskey.
Thomas Chubb was at the far end of a line of men hunched over their drinks at the bar. For Nicolas, the sight of his accomplice in the body trade, his belly rubbing against the mahogany, was a jolt. It was back to business now. Nicolas passed a greeting to the few men who looked up from their glasses.
Thomas shuffled his bulk further down the bar into the darkened corner. “Back in town, eh, Van Horne?” he said, motioning with a doughy hand. Thomas had a finely featured, round face that bordered on womanly, but for the three-day growth of stubble. Nicolas walked to the end of the bar, where he caught a sour odor from the undertaker. When he held a funeral, Thomas wore an expensive suit and was as fine-smelling as any citified dandy. Now, off duty, he apparently went unwashed.
Thomas made a hissing sound under his breath. “Christ, Van Horne,” he said softly, “weren’t you ever going to seek me out? How long have you been in Forestport?”
“Barely hours, Thomas.”
The barman approached, wrapped in a moth-eaten winter coat and with a simple smile set on his face. “Rye,” Nicolas said to him. “Canadian, with plenty of ice, and another for Thomas.” The barman stepped away to the sink and began bashing away at a block of Van Horne ice.
Thomas said, “I stopped at your place the other
day.”
“You know how I feel about keeping my business out of the house, Thomas.”
“I talked with Ruth. Did you get the message?”
“I did, from Abigail.”
“We’re in a mess. This thaw. Don’t you realize?”
“Better than anyone.” Nicolas turned and looked the undertaker in the eye. “But I’ve something else I want to know about, Thomas. You need to tell me about that delivery in Buffalo, the big rush.” Nicolas saw Chubb’s jaw clench. “How do you know this fellow Flynt, the professor with the bodies?”
“Oh, Flynt? Austin Flynt’s been my associate for years.”
“What kind of associate, Thomas?”
“He was of some small assistance in developing my embalming techniques. A bright boy, back then. Flynt’s a chemist by training, but by no means was he destined for greatness in the medical world, despite his skills with alchemy.”
“And those boys’ bodies?”
“Austin Flynt’s always been ready to negotiate for a specimen or two.”
“He told me those two boys were murdered, Thomas. Murdered. That’s why he got rid of them.”
Thomas gave a halfhearted, shaky laugh. “Oh, nonsense. Old Flynt sees intrigue around every corner. Way back, he was sure I gypped him out of a patent, but that was nonsense, too. The man suffers from an overactive imagination.”
The barkeep plunked their whiskeys down. Nicolas waited until the doltish barman drifted down the bar and was again feeding the white-hot stove.
“I’m telling you, Thomas, Flynt found physical signs. He was sure the boys were strangled.”
“Well, what did you see, Nicolas? You had them in your possession.”
“The one boy had dark grooves on his neck. I’m not . . . not exactly sure how to describe it.”
“Then why get yourself lathered over nothing, eh?”
“There was a mark, too, a brand.” Nicolas searched his jacket pocket for that scrap of paper Flynt had given him. He couldn’t seem to locate it.
Thomas stared impatiently at his whiskey, turned it in his hand. “So what, anyway? What if some violence did befall them?” he said with a smirk. “We didn’t do it. And profit is profit.”
“Murder, Thomas, murder. Authorities must be informed, the culprit brought to justice.”
“Oh, authorities, is it? Look, Nicolas—there are lost souls in this world. No one notices when one goes missing.”
“Does it mean so much to you to make a dollar?”
“Look to yourself on that score, Van Horne. Whatever I’ve done, I’ve done for you—your business and your family. You know that. They’re like my own. So, enough said.”
Nicolas lifted his glass and drank. He should’ve expected as much from Thomas. The man was a talker, someone who could turn a thing around on you. Sure, his time in Buffalo had put a sensitive, artistic veneer on him, but under the silvery chatter he was a slick operator, a ruthless conniver. Thomas Chubb’s funerals were heartfelt events with the overpowering aroma of fresh flowers and the plaintive tickling of the keys he did so well. But in reality, the undertaker was extraordinarily cunning with family members. He heartlessly overcharged the bereaved. He exuded compassion just moments after he’d lifted jewelry from a corpse and extracted its gold teeth. He buried empty coffins. For this—the empty coffins—Nicolas paid well. But now, watching Thomas stare into his whiskey, the ice trader wondered who else had paid the undertaker over the years, and for what services.
“I’ve put three new ones in your icehouse,” Thomas said. “They came down from the sanitarium at Saranac. Got ’em into your ice, nicely embalmed, with the help of your daughter.”
“Abigail?”
“Such a sweet girl. She knows the icehouse well. When we transferred the last one from my vault, the blocks in the icehouse were shrinking fast. The lake was mush, and that was over a week ago.”
Nicolas pulled hard on his drink and waved the bartender over. He laid a coin on the bar and nodded at their two glasses.
“All we need’s one last cold snap, Thomas.”
“What if it doesn’t come? Winter may be over; it’s happened before. I’ve pickled them, sure, but they need ice. What will we do if they putrefy?”
“You’ll bury them.”
“Bury,” Thomas said sourly.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be paid.”
“And there’s more coming, Nicolas. Two days ago I got word from the Moose River Lumber Company. That’s what I went to your house to tell you. They’ve got bodies in an ice cave up there, waiting.”
“I’ll send Adam.”
Thomas gave a perfunctory nod.
“How many are there?”
“I’m not sure. Two, maybe three. It’s feast or famine, eh?”
Nicolas looked into the undertaker’s watery brown eyes. “You’ve had them in my ice before, haven’t you?” he said. “Haven’t you? Those boys. Where do they come from . . . ones like Flynt had this time?”
“Oh, let it go.”
“Where, Thomas?”
The undertaker waited a beat, then slurped more whiskey before speaking. “Mostly . . . mostly the cities,” he said, reluctantly. “Buffalo. I’ve had them from Chicago.”
“But why? Why murdered children?”
“Oh Christ, Nicolas! They’re castoffs. Don’t think twice about it. There’s plenty of lost souls working the factories, the mines . . . there’s profit for everyone. Let’s leave it at that.”
Nicolas drained his rough-edged rye in one chill slug and stared into the glass of ice clutched in his hand. This business was wearing on him. He crushed a sharp-edged piece of Van Horne ice between his back teeth, set down his glass, and gave Chubb a perfunctory wave. He’d get no more out of the undertaker. “See ya, Thomas.”
Nicolas moved up the bar, passed a comment to the grinning barman. He bought a drink for an older gent who’d once worked the ice, clapped the fellow on the back.
Yes, business was wearing on him.
Once he’d stepped back onto Mill Street, the thawing earth smelled like the last of winter. He slowed his pace at the steel bridge, crossed halfway, and stopped to look over Town Lake where it narrowed into a flowing torrent of brown water. The lake’s surface was grey with mist. Chunks of ice scoured the shore. Stillman’s cheap whiskey hit his empty stomach hard. His head spun.
Just across the bridge on Main Street sat the U.S. Postal Office, where customers were filing in to make the noon mail train with their postings. He had much to accomplish before the last ice harvest, if it ever came. For one thing, there was a letter to compose, a letter promised to Galveston.
35
Instruments of the Weather
Nicolas turned back onto Mill Street and made his way to Adam’s house. He knocked, waited, thought no one was home; clearly Adam wasn’t about, and Gertrude Klock would be at her job at the mill. Then he heard a ghastly cough and Gert pulled open the kitchen door.
“Adam’s off somewhere . . . ,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I’m afraid I’m feeling poorly today.”
“Sorry to hear that. Please have Adam stop at the house as soon possible, if you would.”
“Surely.”
“Gert, you must think seriously about a stay at Saranac.”
“But, Mr. Van Horne, they’re so costly, those places—”
“Now hush about that. We’ll see to it come summer, so don’t fret. Hope you’re feeling better.”
Nicolas crossed the bridge and set off down Main Street. Fog clung to the streets; it was a dead calm, so dreaded by seafaring men. Nicolas quickly settled accounts with the dry-goods merchant, Parson’s carriage shop, the livery, and the railroad officer. Once the debts accrued from his trip south were cleared, he continued directly to Boatmann’s Apothecary for Ruth’s medicinals. Would there be something new for her? Something more potent? But Mr. Boatmann had little to offer.
“I’ll alter her usual draught,” the grizzly old apothecary suggested halfh
eartedly. “More of the alcoholic base might help, although you and I both know it’s the laudanum that does the trick.”
“She’s also requested something Valdis recommended,” Nicolas added.
“That’d be his latest.” Boatmann reached for a bright blue bottle. “A clyster. Another fad from the good professor Valdis.”
“Valdis is no professor, Mr. Boatmann.”
“Of course he isn’t,” the apothecary said with a chuckle. “He just thinks he is, so why not humor the man? Now, with this latest preparation”—the apothecary held up the bottle—“have her add a pint of strong coffee before use.”
“Snake oil, I say.”
At the foot of Walnut Street, with Boatmann’s brown paper package under his arm, Nicolas entered the Butterfield House, the largest of the town’s three inns, to purchase a jug of hot chowder for Ruth’s supper. Then, climbing the ridge, he caught a momentary breeze from the north. Was a chill in the air? His pace quickened.
Ruth sat in her chair and spooned up the fish chowder. “I suppose you’ll be off to the lake soon,” she said.
“I have yet to check the instruments.”
“Would you bring me water for a wash-up?”
He heated water in the kitchen and filled her washbasin. When he carried the basin in to her, Ruth stood by the window. The pale grey afternoon light outlined a figure that was too full, too protuberant. He’d noticed that roundness last night as she slept. She looked like she was with child. It made him think of those treasured nights in bed when, pressed against Ruth’s warm, healthy body, he’d felt the vigorous kick of a life that hadn’t yet seen daylight. But this was something unnatural, a different sort of swelling.
Nicolas left her to her toilette and went to the shed at the back of the house, eager to check his weather instruments.
Early in his enterprise of ice Nicolas had dedicated a small, low shed at the fence line beyond the horse barn to serve dual purposes. For one, it was here he devised and perfected the machinery to harvest ice. Bolted onto the workbenches lining the walls of his shed were lathes, drills, and jigs for the cutting, turning, and fitting of metal parts. In the center of the floor sat the latest Van Horne innovation—a German engine that Nicolas had converted to run on a fuel called gasoline, rather than on naphtha, the highly volatile petroleum distillate that powered the motor launches of the great Saint Lawrence, and the broad expanse of Raquette Lake.
