Poe (13 page)

I pass the bored security guard on the first floor (I can’t see the need for security, really, except to keep Mac’s legendary creditors from dropping by inconveniently) and give him a wave, which he studiously ignores as I press the
B
button on the elevator. I’m somewhat in luck, because it’s half past twelve, which means most newspaper employees are still on their smoke/lunch break. When the doors open, the elevator is empty.

I’ve never understood why the lighting is so poor on the basement floor, or why the walls are painted a prison-cell olive green. There is a steel gray desk, behind which sits Ernest, who really should have died about ten years ago. He officially retired from Exeter Academy after forty years teaching pubescent boys Greek and Latin but got bored and lonely at home, so he took a job at the paper, where he is paid to be bored and lonely at work. It’s rumored that he’s eighty-five, but he jokes that he doesn’t feel a day over ninety.

“I thought you kicked the bucket,” he says, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.

“Why, you after my job?”

“I’d consider that a demotion,” he says dryly.

“You’re probably right. Mind if I do a little research?”

Ernest pulls a well-chewed pencil from behind his ear, tapping it on the desk. “Suit yourself,” he says absently. “What’s a four-letter word for a flat-topped plateau?”

“Mesa.”

“Oh, for cripe’s sake, I should have known that.”

I head toward the back, where the microfiche machines are gathering dust, passing through the narrow corridors created by the steel shelving. Each shelf contains a white cardboard box of archived newspapers and forgotten office files—a genuine tinderbox of paper, which apparently doesn’t concern the employees of the
Devonshire Eagle
, because I note more than a few cigarette stubs ground onto the floor. The Stacks, as we call the basement, is a great place to hide from work or engage in an office tryst—I once caught Myrna passionately kissing Barney from accounting, a fact I use every once in a while to get her to vouch for one of my mythical illnesses.

The lone fluorescent light flickers overhead, making a low, ambient buzzing sound. I reach the far end of the room, where an antiquated computer stores the article catalog, and I sit down in a creaky wooden chair, turn on the computer—it takes a good five minutes for it to boot up—type in “Aspinwall,” and press
RETURN
.

A long digital list appears. The archive goes back to the mid-1850s and might have gone back further if not for a fire in 1839 that razed the newspaper office—and most of the surrounding town—to the ground. Fire seems to be a recurring issue for New Goshen.

January, 1930.
ICE TRUCK HITS CYCLIST NEAR ASPINWALL

July, 1935.
BASTILLE DAY CELEBRATED AT ASPINWALL BALL

August, 1940.
BABY CRIMINAL CAUGHT STEALING, RUNS OFF

October, 1940.
TRAGIC FIRE CLAIMS FIVE, SOCIALITE MISSING

May, 1970.
ASPINWALL FOR SALE

September, 1972.
HOW TO TELL IF YOUR CHILD IS A HIPPIE

October, 1972.
WILD ANIMAL SUSPECTED IN ASPINWALL DEATH

December, 1980.
ASPINWALL DEMOLITION SET

January, 1982.
ONE YEAR LATER, AND ASPINWALL STILL STANDS

I decide to skip the first article and focus on the others, jotting down the dates in pencil. “Baby criminal” in particular seems to stand out—how much trouble could an infant get into, anyway? It doesn’t take long to find the box with the microfilm reels, and then I settle onto the fabulous fifties plastic chair in front of the reader.

Spinning the articles on the monitor always makes me motion sick, and I wonder why no one has thought to digitize the film and put it online, like a real newspaper. But then I remember that, gee, no one really gives a shit about New Goshen in the early part of the twentieth century. The Bastille Day article yields nothing, unless one is captivated by the ballroom finery and high society of New Goshen circa 1935, although there is a photo snapped in the Great Hall that looks like a film still straight from
Citizen Kane
. Two men with slicked-back hair, one sporting a thin pencil mustache, are decked out in tuxedos, and they stand next to a beautiful woman wearing a satin evening gown and mink coat. The headline reads
BASTILLE DAY A GAY AFFAIR.

The second article proves to be more mundane than its title suggests. The baby criminal in question turns out to be a twelve-year-old stable hand who was accused of stealing five silver spoons, a silver creamer, and a good laying hen. Positively tame by today’s standards of juvenile depravity.

Finally, I find the most interesting article of the bunch.

TRAGIC FIRE CLAIMS FIVE, SOCIALITE MISSING

One wonders if the town of New Goshen will ever recover following last night’s tragic events, marring the traditional Halloween festivities. Downtown businesses put the flag at half-staff, and a funeral procession with all five bodies made
its way down Main Street today, with dirges played by the American Legion Military Band.

All Hallow’s Eve began in traditional fashion with little tykes playing trick or treat on neighbors’ porches. Who would have thought that hours later the town would be mourning five lost souls, the most luminous of Devonshire County’s socialites, Mr. Blaine Lomond, Mr. Edgar Sweeney, Mr. Sidney Crane, Miss Eliza Fitzgerald, and her twin sister, Miss Sarah Fitzgerald?

Chester Hurlbut of Hurlbut’s Ice Delivery on East Street was on his way home from a late-night church service when he spotted the flames.

“I thought maybe they were having a bonfire,” said Hurlbut. “They had some fancy parties there. When Miss Delia turned five, they brought in circus ponies and peacocks!”

Indeed, Aspinwall mansion has seen happier times. Just last September this reporter was invited to the Annual Harvest Gala to help support the Cooke School for the Blind, a sparkling affair that brought high-society folks from as far away as Albany, NY.

In today’s burial service, Rev. Dr. William Jersey of Grace Protestant Episcopal Church read the prayer as the five coffins were laid to rest at Folsom Cemetery.

And as if this tragedy alone wasn’t enough to bear, police say they’re searching for Mrs. Aspinwall, who was last seen being carried from the inferno by the gardener but has subsequently disappeared. Captain Aspinwall attested that when he saw her last, she had suffered horrible burns and seemed close to death. Readers may recall that the Aspinwalls were recently robbed by their young stable hand, who made off with several pieces of silver and some say was seen at the house shortly after the fire began. Any persons with
knowledge of the whereabouts of either the groom or the gardener should contact authorities immediately.

Several photos accompany the article. One is an easily recognizable Main Street, filled with throngs of people clad in somber black, watching as the funeral procession passes by the
Devonshire Eagle
flatiron building. There’s a hand-drawn pencil sketch of Miss Sarah Brewster, almost cameo-like in its perfection, and then a photo of the Aspinwall mansion with family and staff neatly arranged on the clipped front lawn. The maids wear uniforms and starched white aprons, while the valets or butlers wear stiff black suits and the same sober expression. At the far right is an awkward, freckled twelve-year-old who looks like he’s overdue for a growth spurt. He wears dirty overalls and a jaunty sideways cap. The caption identifies him as A. Bennet, the baby criminal. I wonder if he’s related to Lisa.

Centered in the photo and seated on white Adirondack chairs are Captain Aspinwall and his wife. Captain Aspinwall sports long sideburns and a fierce, burning expression; an eight-year-old Delia kneels at his feet, her hair looped in perfectly formed curls, a shy smile on her mild face.

And here I find something strange.

The face of Mrs. Aspinwall has been purposely rubbed out, like someone took an eraser to the print. And then to the far left is a man, a blurry figure who at the last moment must have stepped out of the frame so that only his arm and shoulder appear. His shirt is dirty and coarse, and his pale hand holds a trowel.

It can only be one man. The gardener.

Bob looks crushed as soon as I enter the third-floor newsroom, like I just stole his favorite Monday morning gag (as if I’d wear Old Fart Slippers to the office). In fact, the whole room stops. Myrna’s hands
freeze above her keyboard, Nate drops a pencil, and everyone stares, including a few people I don’t recognize who are probably from the accounting department—they never leave their floor,
never
. I feel like another head has just sprouted from my shoulders.

“Who died?” I ask.

Silence. And a palpable aura of sulkiness.

“IS THAT MY FAVORITE GODDAMN WRITER IN THE WORLD??!!”

The glass door to Mac’s office crashes open, and suddenly he rushes out to greet me, wiping his sweaty palms against his pants—a consideration usually reserved for car dealers when they’re looking at a big ad buy. Mac is short, about the height of the average fourth grader, but what he lacks in size, he more than makes up for in volume.

“HOW THE HELL ARE YOU, KID?!”

“Uh, fine,” I say. “Better.”

“
Great
news, great news, so good to see you. You want anything to drink?” He shakes my hand eagerly, and his grip is almost painful. Nate gives me the evil eye.

“MYRNA GET THE KID SOME COFFEE. WHAT THE FUCK’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?”

Myrna jumps from her chair like she’s just received an electric shock (but then with Bob in the office, that’s a definite possibility) and scuttles over to the kitchenette with a speed I wouldn’t have thought her capable of.

“You take sugar? Cream? We only got the powder stuff. MYRNA, WHY THE FUCK WE ONLY GOT THE POWDER STUFF?”

“Black is fine,” I say, utterly confused.

“Got that, Myrna? NO SUGAR!”

“I got it,” mutters Myrna. I can only hope she’s not adding rat poison.

“Well, come in, come in,” says Mac warmly, pulling me into his office. “We gotta catch up, right? Chew the fat, talk shop.”

Everyone else stands, frozen in place.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU ALL WAITING FOR? GET BACK TO WORK.”

This seems to be the magic phrase that releases them from the spell, because immediately everyone rushes away; in fact, Bob runs into Nate, which causes Nate to swear quietly.

“Have a seat, kid. Make yourself comfortable,” Mac says, settling himself onto his leather executive chair, which squeaks vainly in protest. It’s a large chair, too large for his height, and instead of making him look appropriately intimidating (the point, after all, of executive furniture in general), it makes him look like a Keebler Elf. In fact, he has to reach up to grab his pencil off the desk.

I ease onto one of the hard plastic chairs that I generally associate with getting screamed at and fired, since those are the only other times Mac has invited me in. But the vibe now is freakishly congenial. Myrna bustles in with a Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee. Although I usually don’t drink the office stuff, because it tastes like a burnt dishrag, I actually feel guilty for the way Mac’s treating her and take a few sips.

“Good?” asks Mac, scribbling his signature on a letter.

Sure, if you enjoy licking the sole of your shoe. But I nod. Mac waves Myrna off, and she closes the door quietly behind her. Then he leans back in his chair, pressing his hands together like he’s having an intellectual bowel movement, his brows seriously furrowed.

“I have to tell you, kid, you had us all gravely worried. I’ve always looked at you like you were a second son, ya know? Family, that’s what you are. Family.”

He can’t be serious. I start to laugh and inhale the coffee into my lungs, which brings on a bout of coughing.

Mac shakes his head seriously. “Look at you, you aren’t even fully recovered. What a trooper. Not like Nate, that lazy-ass piece of shit.” His eyes actually get moist. “If I had a son like you…”