“Someone is coming,” Norma said, taking her hand from Isabel’s elbow. “If you don’t straighten up quickly, I daresay he’ll offer assistance.”
Isabel straightened and was aware of a passing black suit and set of bushy whiskers.
The lawns were muddy and damp, the air clear. At the edge of the Common, where the underground trolley stop was, a policeman was engaged in a loud conversation with a vagrant.
Isabel and Norma walked quickly. The officer didn’t look at them. They glided into the crowd on the far side of Tremont Street.
Norma touched Isabel’s elbow lightly. “What an adventure,” she said.
“Yes,” Isabel agreed, forcing a smile.
“We’re almost there,” Norma said.
Isabel was jostled in the crowd; men bumped into her without apology. If this had been a Sunday walk with father, how they would have stepped into the gutter to make room.
They passed King’s Chapel and came to Scollay Square. Advertisements cried from billboards, from every storefront, from every inch of available brick.
PASTELS, PHOTOGRAPHS, OUTDOOR WORK A SPECIALITY
M. HOCHBERG’S EMPIRE PHOTO STUDIO.
$10,000 WORTH OF JEWLERY TO BE SOLD REGARDLESS OF COST!
LADIES TAILOR & DRESSMAKER.
MUSIC!
Near the ticket booth of a theater a man in a slouch hat smoked and wiped his mouth. He looked away as Isabel and Norma approached. He certainly had been looking at them. Isabel stared at him but he did not glance up again.
THEATRE COMIQUE, a great arc of light bulbs above him proclaimed, flanked with smaller lights that spelled out, ADMISSION 10 CENTS. Another sign called, FOR MAN WOMAN AND CHILD, NEW FEATURES WEEKLY, and between its two lines, again in lights, CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE.
Isabel stepped off the curb on to the cobblestone street. “Let’s cross,” she said to Norma. “I’ve seen that man somewhere before.” A trap rushed past, spattering her with mud. “Too fast!” she cried after it, shaking her fist.
The man with the slouch hat raised his head. He looked old. He looked away.
Everything is fine, Isabel told herself. He’s no one. How wonderful to be herself, to shake her fist, bump into someone, walk like she owned everything she saw, nod to passing ladies, act as if the freedom didn’t even mean much to her.
“Come on, Norma,” she said, starting across the street, slapping mud from her trousers.
“Shall we go to a moving picture?” Norma asked, catching up to her.
Isabel paused. She glanced back at the theater. “Oh,” she said. “I suppose we could.”
A heavy carriage drawn by two large horses plodded past. Isabel closed her eyes.
“Watch out there, buddy,” a man called from the driver’s seat.
Oh Lord, forgive, Isabel thought. “Let’s go to Hank’s,” she said. “We should—we should be getting on, not loitering here.”
“Of course,” Norma said. She took Isabel’s arm and guided her across the street.
IMPORTERS AND DEALERS IN GUNS
RIFLES, PISTOLS, FISHING TACKLE.
QUICK AS A FLASH, YOU’LL TASTE THE DIFFERENCE.
VELVET CIGARETTES.
DIMOND UNION STAMP WORKS—RUBBER STAMPS.
They entered a narrow street overhung with staring brick buildings and came upon the harbor smell of fish and rotting wood as if they were the breeze and it the stillness. Narrow streets formed valleys under buildings plastered with tall, unblinking advertisements; shops offered newspapers for two cents and packets of cigarettes for five; well-dressed men ducked into houses or burlesques; boys ran, peered from under wool hats, and begged for coins. Every alley gave way to smoky entrances from which greasy people looked out at the world not conceiving that their next interaction with it might end more happily than their last. The air was rich with frying food, manure, and the cheap perfume of a group of prostitutes chatting in a doorway.
For what, Isabel thought, did she seek forgiveness? One was what one was born to be, inalterably, and it was unnatural and ungodly to pretend—to disguise oneself. As if one could make aristocracy base or—or…. If she were honest with herself, truly honest, she would dress as she dressed today. And why should the world take such an interest in her as to care how she dressed or even who she was? A vast, inquisitive, prying old bitch, the world was. She asked nothing of it and was rewarded with questions and judgments. But did not God see all? Was it not God who judged, really, leaving the world no part? And if God judged her an abomination, who was she to think for herself? Who was she to resist? But God knew what she was and that flesh was transitory, that she could tear it away and leave her soul intact and her soul was good and was not man nor woman and didn’t care what clothes it wore. No, no, you are too easy on yourself, Isabel, you forgive yourself too readily for the humiliation your family would feel. Beg forgiveness and don’t stop, even unto your last breath.
Norma pulled open a crooked door and they stepped into a narrow room. The windows were covered with dirty shades. The smell of the harbor inside was concentrated, fried, layered over bar, tables, and floorboards, dimming the light from an electric bulb and bunches of candles. Behind the bar liquor bottles were ranged in three rows in front of a greasy mirror. Three small tables were aligned as far apart as possible in a small space lit by another bulb.
A heavy man appeared in the kitchen door, wiping his hands on his dirty apron.
“Hello, Hank,” Norma said. “You remember Iz, don’t you?”
“Jacob,” Isabel whispered, reddening.
“I mean Jacob,” Norma said.
“Yes, hello, Jacob,” Hank said, his voice high. His buttery face seemed too soft for the tufts of silky black hair that sprouted from it.
“Whiskey,” Norma said, taking a seat at the bar, lowering her chin to her chest to deepen her voice as much as possible.
“Ok,” Hank said, imitating her.
Norma laughed and looked at Isabel, who managed a brief smile.
“Better give her two,” Norma said in the same voice, giggling.
Hank nodded and poured whiskey into smudged glasses.
Norma sipped and shook her head. She took up a menu blotted with finger marks, studied it, and ordered two fish and chips lunches. Hank nodded and went to the kitchen.
Isabel held her glass to her lips and took some whiskey in her mouth, holding it on her tongue for a moment before swallowing it. She closed her eyes and emptied the glass in a gulp.
Norma took another small sip. “I could never do that,” she said. “I’d fall over.”
The front door opened. Isabel and Norma turned squinting to the light. A small, thin figure in dirty trousers and a soiled white shirt stepped to the bar, pulling at one of the buttons on his jacket, his boots thumping on the floor. He took the stool nearest the door.
“Afternoon,” Norma said.
The man nodded. “Hank around?” he asked, leaning forward on his stool, his voice husky.
“Sure,” Norma said. “He’s just out back, makin’ us some lunch.”
As their eyes adjusted to the dark room again, Isabel and Norma could see that he was young. His eyes moved about quickly in the stubble of his face.
Hank came out of the kitchen. “Just another minute on those,” he said. “Well, good day to you, Jamie.”
“Hello, Hank,” Jamie said.
Hank poured him a drink from a bottle of clear liquor. Jamie took the glass delicately and applied himself to it in steady sips.
Isabel nodded for another drink and swallowed it. She rested her elbows on the bar. The room was good, warm and solid. Hank was the kindest person in Boston, as well as the bravest, really, Isabel thought. How so at ease, how so peaceful? Her mind spun again to forgiveness. She spat in the direction of the spittoon in the corner.
“Smoke,” she said to Norma, who gave her a cigarette. She turned to Jamie. “It’s very fine today,” she said.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, his eyes moving.
/> “Iz and I have been out walking,” Norma said.
“Jacob,” Isabel said.
Norma giggled. “Yes, Jacob. This is Jacob, I’m Norma.”
Jamie nodded and sipped from his glass.
“A man can use a good walk on a new spring day,” Norma said. She laughed.
“Yes, indeed,” Isabel said, lowering her voice in an imitation of men that always made Norma laugh.
“Aye-yup,” Hank joined in, lowering his voice, too. “A good day for a walk.” He went back to the kitchen.
Voices and laughter entwined like scraps of paper and twigs in a nest. Jamie sat silent but forced a smile.
“There you are,” Hank said, putting chipped plates mounded with fried fish and potato in front of Isabel and Norma.
“Thank you,” Isabel said. Hank’s face hovered for a moment and she smiled at him. She bit into a strip of greasy potato.
“I’ll take lunch, too,” Jamie said. “I have money today.”
Hank frowned. “Don’t say it if it ain’t true,” he said.
“It’s true,” Jamie said, his voice rising.
“It ain’t, either,” Hank said, rubbing a spot on the bar with a soggy cloth. “Just don’t say it is all. You know I’ll feed you all right. Just don’t say it.”
“Hank, why not get me an extra plate,” Norma said. “I can’t eat all this. I never finish.”
Hank looked at her and back at Jamie.
“I got money,” Jamie said. “Make me some goddamn lunch, Hank.” He reached into his boot, pulled out a fold of bills, and slammed them on the bar. “There,” he said.
Hank shook his head and went into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with an empty plate. Norma put half her lunch on it and Isabel added a handful of potato strips.
“There,” Hank said, sliding the plate toward Jamie. “I don’t know where you got that money, but you don’t have to lie or steal to eat here. You should know better.”
Jamie put the money away. “I didn’t steal nothin’,” he said. He turned to Isabel and Norma, his face ruddy and square. “Thank you both very kindly,” he said. He cut into his fish delicately with a fork but a moment later was hanging over his plate, eating with both hands.
Hank shook his head.
“’Nother, if you please,” Isabel said, pushing her glass forward. She didn’t want to eat anymore. The fish tasted chewy, the potatoes sodden. She sipped her whiskey and asked Norma for another cigarette.
“Hank,” Norma said. “I believe you are the best chef in Boston.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Bar none. Better than Wirth’s, the Parker House—Locke-Ober itself.”
“Why thank you,” Hank said, nodding.
“Here, here,” Isabel said, raising her glass.
Hank raised his hand as if it held a drink. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, laughing.
Jamie finished his lunch and stared at each of them in turn for a hard moment. The dim light caught the red rims and bloodshot whites of his eyes.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t choke,” Hank said to him, clearing the plates from the bar.
“I’m all right,” Jamie said.
Hank took the plates to the kitchen. Isabel and Norma smoked.
“The way he treats me,” Jamie said. “Who’s he? Who’s he to look down?”
“No-one’s looking down,” Norma said.
Hank returned. Norma tried to give him a warning glance but if he saw it he ignored it.
“Someone lookin’ down on you again, Jamie?” he asked.
“It’s terrible how you treat me,” he answered. “You got no right to be lookin’ down.”
“Jamie,” Norma tried to intervene.
Jamie stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. “No, sir. He’s got no call to look down. He—ha! That’s a laugh, Hank.”
“Watch it,” Hank said. “You always get a meal here but that don’t have to be so.”
Jamie stood still a moment, his jaw working as if to form words. He turned and left the bar.
Hank shook his head. “He mostly has to leave like that,” he said. “Puts all his money into drink, but he ain’t entirely killed his pride yet.”
Isabel held a cigarette between her lips and stared at her glass. “We are all awful,” she said.
“Iz,” Norma said, leaning in, touching her arm. “Don’t do it. Not today.”
“‘Don’t do it,’” Isabel repeated.
“Shhh,” Norma pleaded.
“What’s his name?” Isabel asked Hank.
“Hammond.”
“He’s hurting,” Isabel said. “Like all of us. ‘Oh that this too-solid—’ My God.” She sobbed. “How do you do it, Hank? How?”
Norma hugged her and begged her to be still.
“My life ain’t so bad,” Hank said.
“I know what I am,” Isabel said. “I know what I am, but God gives me this skin. Why?”
“Shhh, Iz, shh,” Norma soothed.
Isabel looked at Hank, who stood uneasily behind the bar, running his soggy rag over bottles and shelves.
“Do you want to change?” he asked.
Isabel blinked. “Change?” she asked.
“Think about it,” he said.
“I don’t need to think about it,” Isabel said. “Of course I want to.”
“Think about it,” he said. He took a stub of pencil from beside the cash register and wrote a name and address on a scrap of paper, which he folded and held out to Isabel. “I can’t tell you you should, but I can tell you it’s possible to do it.”
Isabel disentangled a hand from Norma and took the paper. “What’s this?” she asked.
“The name and address of someone who can help you, if you want it,” Hank said. “But think about it. And if you go—if you decide to go, for God’s sake don’t take the smoke.”
Isabel nodded.
“You’ll want to,” Hank said. “But don’t.”
Isabel slid the paper into her trouser pocket. “Let’s have one more,” she said to Norma.
“Yes, one more, Iz,” Norma said, hugging her around the neck.
“Thank you,” Isabel said to Hank.
“No,” Hank said, reaching for the whiskey bottle to pour another round. “Don’t thank me. Just think about it.”
The carriage swayed gently. A bar of sunlight penetrated a gap in the curtain and illuminated Theodore’s face. His skin was pale and rough, his eyes downcast. Isabel felt a surge of guilt. Theodore wasn’t as bad as Charles. He was sweet, or had been; now, though he wasn’t young, really, he still struggled with expectations, with an older brother whom he idolized. It was probably too late to give that up, so he would go on trying to smooth over arguments, to be as good as the best in all of them. With Father gone he would probably lead a comfortable, quiet life at the edge of his brother’s existence, not close enough to feel he’d given himself over to what other people wanted of him and not far enough away to be his own man. Isabel felt great pity for him and wanted to apologize. For what—for causing every family argument or discomfort. Of course they couldn’t understand that she felt more than they did. Charles could no more understand that than feel something himself, and Theodore wouldn’t allow himself to understand or to feel.
Isabel moaned.
Her mother pushed aside the curtain and allowed more light into the carriage. “This was your father’s favorite view of the city,” she said.
They turned their heads slightly to look. The carriage was on a bridge, crossing the Charles river. Behind them, beyond the wind-laced water, rose the cluttered brick houses and the gold dome of the Statehouse on Beacon Hill.
“Yes,” Charles said. “Quite beautiful.”
There, too, partially obscured—though not as much as Isabel wished—by trees was the charcoal-colored stone of the Charles Street jail. She felt sick thinking of it. Sitting in the cell, head in hands, tight-clenched, Norma’s arm around her shoulder.
“Ahh, you’re the South girl
, ain’t ya,” the sergeant had said. “Your family will be ‘round soon, then.”
“No,” Isabel had said. How could they know, she’d wondered. Did everyone know everyone in this town?
Damp walls, white paint peeling from wood, dirty men in filthy clothes, brown teeth in black mouths.
How had it come to that, anyway? Leaving Hank’s, the sidewalk pitching, bright warm sunlight softening every spinning thing.
“I need a new skin,” Isabel had said.
“Yes,” Norma had agreed. “Hel-lo, my turtledove, goodbye, my turtledove, so goodbye my ladylove, goodbye,” she sang.
“Let’s go here,” Isabel had said, taking the scrap of paper Hank had given her from her pocket.
“Yes, my turtlelove,” Norma said.
But the streets had not agreed; had, instead, twisted into odd angles under foot.
“Wrong way,” Isabel said. “That’s city hall.”
“Mayor Whatshisname,” Norma said, saluting. “Hizzoner Turtledove.”
“We’ve got to go back the other way,” Isabel said.
“Hel-lo my mayor dove, goodbye my turtlelove,” Norma sang.
“Shhh,” Isabel warned.
From under a passing black hat a pair of blue eyes paused on Norma.
“We’ve got to go here,” Isabel said, holding out the paper. “Here.”
“Yes,” Norma answered. Holding one arm out from her body with thumb and forefinger touching in a dainty “O” she danced slowly, singing, “And then you will—re-turn to me, and love me turtle-ly….”
“Good afternoon, Sir,” a deep voice said from close to Isabel’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon,” she replied, turning to face a stiff collar, a moustache, and a single thick eyebrow suspended across a red brow. A constable’s cap.
Norma stopped dancing.
“What are you gentlemen up to on this fine day?” the officer asked.
“Enjoying the—yes, enjoying the sunshine,” Isabel answered.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Now on your way, please. Both of you.”
“Yes,” Norma said quickly.
“Mind your tone when addressing me,” Isabel said.
From between eyebrow and moustache the gray eyes settled on Isabel. “You mind the tone, Sir,” he said. “Or I’ll have you in in a jiffy, you get me?” His eyes narrowed.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 8
