El Paso: A Novel (3 page)

The notion made Arthur hesitate, but it was exciting, too.

“The beauty of it,” Mick continued, “is you don’t gots to do it unless you want to—work. You want to go down to the river and fish, it’s up to you. Way it is now, we work all the time and don’t gets a dime for it.”

“We got a home,” Arthur answered.

“A home? Yeah, a damned orphanage! Nobody’s gonna take us, Arthur. We too old. All they want is babies—you’ve seen that. I figure we need to get started in life. Those guys, some of them, they even got girls.”

A few days later, Arthur and Mick took a few of their things in paper bags, planning to sneak back into the orphanage later and get the rest, what there was of it. The first night they used a few of their saved-up pennies to buy a loaf of bread and some bacon, and when the sun had set they made a fire and cooked over rocks in a park along the shore.

The night was deep and starlit, until a pumpkin moon eventually rose up over the water. It backlit the islands in the harbor and the two of them speculated that many of these might not be inhabited and that maybe they could find a way out there on a fishing boat. Once they arrived, they could build themselves a cabin and fish all summer; winter was not discussed. At dawn the next day, they set out, full of hopes, for Dorchester and the streets paved with gold that awaited them.

It turned out, however, that the Dorchester Avenue boys Mick knew were part of a vicious Irish teenage gang that didn’t take kindly to strangers. Even with Mick’s toughness, the Bostwick lads were no match for these thugs, who chased them off their turf all the way north to Summer Street. After three days of squandering their tiny hoard of coins, Arthur and Mick were reduced to hanging around the docks and fighting rats for the spoiled vegetables left on the piers.

Still, they fished in the harbor and Arthur was usually able to scrape up some kind of dinner of flounder, clam, or crab stew. Once Mick killed a seagull with a stick after tempting it with a piece of moldy bread and even that went into a stew. But, within a few weeks, Mick seemed to be getting morose and lost so much interest in fishing or scavenging that these tasks were left to Arthur, who had constructed a little shed for them out of washed-up boards he found along the beach.

They stole a pail from behind a butcher’s shop and Arthur would fill it with water from a fountain in the park and lug it back to camp for drinking, eating, and washing purposes. But at his lowest, Mick basically lolled around and stared out across the water and rarely spoke. The biggest excitement came when Arthur caught a little green grass snake and brought it back to camp. Mick pitched such a fit that for a moment Arthur thought he was going to hit him unless he let the thing go, which he eventually did.

Then, one morning, Arthur finally said, “I’m going home.”

Mick looked at him with an air of disappointment, but both of them realized that at least
this
great adventure was over. When they got back to Bostwick, the two of them spent the next several weeks of their spare time cleaning out the jakes—a typical punishment for what Mick quickly began referring to as their “daring escape.”

Arthur sat by the window of his room in the orphanage, looking out on an iron-gray Boston morning. The sun had barely risen, and the streets already bustled with traffic and noise. His life at Laura Bostwick had not been miserable; since it was all he could remember, he felt no anger or even hurt that he was an orphan. But all of Bostwick’s children, Arthur included, were taught to harbor a hope that someday a family would come and take them in.

When it so suddenly appeared that this might happen, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder if it was no more than a wispy dream about to burst. Would they show up? The beautiful lady and the big handsome man; Arthur looked again at the piece of paper Mrs. Walters had given him: “Mr. And Mrs. John Shaughnessy (Beatie). He owns a railroad.”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw a shiny open car round a corner and turn down the street. It moved slowly and deliberately among the regular traffic of South Boston—vegetable trucks, coal and ice and milk wagons, fish carts, trolleys, and ox-drawn bread vans mixed with a few dilapidated private vehicles and a spray of pedestrians.

The motorcar halted while a woman wearing a shawl around her head crossed the street, then moved slowly toward the orphanage. The motorcar attracted attention; people stopped and stared. Arthur’s heart began to race. When it stopped in front of the building, he picked up the canvas bag and cardboard box.

They were standing in the dimly lit foyer of the Bostwick Home when Arthur descended the staircase into the room. Mrs. Walters had told him to smile. Beatie did not rush to him, but remained by her husband, holding his arm with an anxious, expectant look on her face. The man smiled broadly with big strong teeth. The matrons came in soon after and filled the foyer, where there were oohs and aahs and everyone bursting into conversation. Arthur stood there, alone in the corner, feeling forgotten. And then it was time to go. Mr. Shaughnessy took Arthur’s cardboard box and carried it to the car, where he handed it to a man standing beside the open door. He was a young dark-skinned man enormous as a statue and dressed in chauffeur’s livery—gray suit with brass buttons, salmon tie, high-topped polished brown boots and a cap, perched on a head of bushy hair. He seemed to scowl. The man reached for Arthur’s bag, too, but Arthur took a step backward.

“It’s all right, Arthur,” Beatie said. “This is Bomba, our driver. He will put your things in the trunk.”

Arthur handed him the bag and, after Beatie got in, stepped up into the large open motorcar, followed by Mr. Shaughnessy, who stepped inside like a king ascending his throne. Arthur had never been in an automobile before and it was more magnificent than he ever could have imagined. When Bomba cranked the engine it seemed to come alive, like the sudden purr of a sleeping beast.

The seats were of deep, pleated walnut-colored leather that smelled of polish and saddle soap. The floor was covered with a lush gray pile of carpet that his worn-out shoes seemed to sink into. Behind the front seat a gleaming mahogany table folded down; built into it was a bar with crystal glasses, decanters, and a silver ice bucket. The car began to move with a low, breathy snarl, and Beatie handed Arthur a soft wool lap robe. He wasn’t sure what to do with it, but she tucked him in. Light snowflakes swirled past the windows.

“Well,” said Mr. Shaughnessy, “what would you like for Christmas?”

Arthur looked at him, stupefied. It was a question he’d never been asked before.

“Haven’t you anything in mind, Arthur?” Beatie asked.

Arthur shook his head.

“All right, then we’ll just have to find something, won’t we?” Shaughnessy said merrily.

Arthur stared straight ahead, not knowing what to think.

The motorcar slowly wound its way out of South Boston, crossing a river, and through the city proper. Arthur had never actually seen the city—the
real
Boston—with its stately stone buildings and men in expensive chesterfields and top hats. A place of big parks with enormous trees and manicured lawns. He unabashedly looked around as Mr. Shaughnessy pointed things out to him: the State House, the Revere Monument—and before he knew it, they were . . . home.

Bomba pulled the car up to the front of a tall, elegant brick house five stories high. It had an enormous bay window in front and the other tall windows were flanked with shiny green shutters. Bomba seemed to scowl as he opened the car door, but as Arthur stepped out and faced the house his mouth dropped open and Bomba beamed like a harvest moon. A set of white marble steps led to the front door, which was adorned with gleaming brass.

“Bomba will put your things in your room, Arthur,” Beatie said as they climbed the steps. Arthur could see his reflection in the plate of the brass entrance knocker. A maid opened the door and they stepped inside. Arthur didn’t realize his mouth had dropped open, but he had the presence of mind to remove his cap. The hallway was illuminated by a great crystal chandelier that was gaslit. To the left was an elegant parlor room covered with a tremendous Aubusson carpet; elegant and plush chairs and sofas were scattered around among tables of highly polished wood. To the right was a room with a grand marble fireplace flickering warmly. On the floor sat a richly colored Persian rug, upon which stood deep leather furniture and plush chairs with ottomans. Trophy animal heads were affixed to the walls, along with hung paintings of racehorses, yachting events, and shooting scenes; African spears and shields adorned the desk, as did the bleached skull of something: ape—possibly human.

“That is Mr. Shaughnessy’s room,” Beatie explained. “He goes in there to smoke cigars.”

They walked farther through the house, past a tremendous dining room, marked by three sparkling chandeliers and a table that could have seated fifty. They passed other rooms, too, including what Arthur observed through a slightly cracked door was an inside toilet. Seeing that Arthur had taken notice, Beatie asked cheerfully, “Would you like to freshen up?”

Arthur nodded, not knowing exactly what this meant, but Beatie opened the door to the toilet and showed him in. Arthur stood inside the little room, lit by gas lamps, which made it warm and inviting, unlike the outdoor jakes of the orphanage. He stepped up to the toilet and relieved himself. When he finished, he buttoned up and stood staring into the bowl, so different from the black holes into which lime was poured every day or so. This bowl held the water—all of it. There was a pipe leading behind the toilet to a porcelain tank on the wall and a velvet cord with a pull attached to it. Arthur wondered what it was for. He stood for a long time until he heard Beatie outside:

“Arthur—are you all right?”

He stepped back into the hall, hat in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

Beatie understood. Since she had not heard the toilet flush, she stepped into the lavatory and pulled the cord. The sound startled Arthur.

“See?” she said.

THREE

T
he next morning, Mrs. Shaughnessy awakened Arthur and got him properly dressed for Christmas, the likes of which he had never experienced even in his wildest fantasies. He’d never seen a tree like the one in the center of the Shaughnessys’ great back room. The room overlooked the Charles River, and the tree stood in front of a broad bay of windows. Silver and brass ornaments, shiny glass balls, and strings like pearls were draped from every branch. The tree at the orphanage only had candy canes, apples, and strings of popcorn—all things that would be eaten later. But atop the Shaughnessys’ tree was a fine porcelain angel with real white bird’s wings, the whole thing lit by dozens of tiny candles in clip-on brass holders, and there were presents for Arthur under the tree.

Sitting impatiently in a chair and eyeing the presents under the tree was a girl, Alexa, the Shaughnessys’ ten-going-on-fifteen-year-old daughter who, per her mother’s instructions, was restrained from starting Christmas as she always did by rushing to the tree and tearing into the loot. She looked distinctly unhappy about having to wait, but also about Arthur’s intrusion into her life; still, she smiled as she’d been ordered to do when he was introduced.

Soon enough Colonel Shaughnessy entered the room and word was given to open the gifts. Beatie had gone to the Jordan Marsh department store and bought for Arthur several lovely suits of clothes: a tweed jacket, a soft cashmere scarf, a black velvet cap, polished leather shoes, wool knickers, a belt with a silver buckle, cotton shirts. More than he had ever had in his life, or had hoped to get. There was also a bone-handled African throwing knife that Shaughnessy had picked out from his own collection.

But this was not the present that Arthur had asked for. On Christmas Eve night, when the Colonel had asked him again what he wanted the next morning, Arthur had stammered before finally asking, “Could Mick come for Christmas?”

“Who is Mick?” Shaughnessy asked.

“My friend.”

“From the orphanage?” Beatie prompted.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her husband shot her a disapproving glance.

“Well,” Beatie said, “won’t he have a Christmas of his own there, then?”

“Yes, ma’am,”

“So wouldn’t it be best if he enjoyed it there,” Beatie said, “with his friends?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur replied, “I guess so.”

“Then why do you want him here?” asked Shaughnessy. “Instead of with his friends?”

“I . . . I . . . guess I just wanted him to see it,” Arthur said hesitantly; he felt the beginnings of a stammer. Another glance was exchanged between Beatie and her husband, but this of a different sort.

“Well, I think that would be all right,” Shaughnessy had said expansively. “I’ll send the car around to have him picked up tomorrow.”

IF POSSIBLE, MICK MARTIN WAS EVEN MORE
flabbergasted than Arthur with the Shaughnessy opulence. His mouth actually gaped as he walked inside. He forgot to remove his cap as he immediately gravitated toward Mr. Shaughnessy’s grand study, with its trophy heads and spears and sporting prints and the big tiger-skin rug. Arthur stopped him before Beatie could.