Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 (13 page)

He began to walk through corridors lit by sconces holding candles. The walls were dark and rich, but from neglect, not varnish. A thousand hands had touched each place on the wall leaving their oils; smoke too, from pipes and perhaps even a fire, as well as the effect of innumerable breaths in closed hallways. The flames from the candles danced a little in an unseen breeze, casting wild shadows that reminded Henry of the doorknocker. He said, “Why the demon on the door?"

"It is not a demon, young man.” Brightman did not turn around. “A plow blade and a sword are both metal and sharp, yet one is used to till and the other to kill.” He chuckled a little. “Demons and spirits are both hideous for they are men altered beyond recognition. Some pity men since we are both mortal and blind to the future. Some say we are even blind to the past. But demons
are
blind to the past and so see us as a plague. It is good that there are so few of either. Ah! Here we are.” He opened a plain door with a brass handle. “I'll find the key in the morning. For now, just lock the door from the inside."

They had wandered a number of corridors. Henry was thoroughly lost. Yet he was certain they had passed through at least two other buildings. “How large is the college?"

Brightman took a thick candle from one of the sconces. He walked into the room and lit a similar candle on a small table. Henry could stretch his arms nearly from one side of the room to the other.

"I'm sorry the bed is so small. We may be able to have one made for you, but you would have to pay for it, of course. Could you pay for one?” When Henry shook his head, Brightman said, “Perhaps you could find work in the college. You could work in the kitchen. They may need more hands for the mops and brooms. I don't know. Ask around.” Before Henry could reply, he had closed the door softly.

There was only a bed, a beaten metal mirror, and the desk with the candle on its pricket. Henry laid his two bags on the bed and moved the candle to the windowsill. He didn't remember climbing stairs, yet he had a window. It was narrow and made of leaded glass with wrought iron curls on the border. When he looked out he was surprised to see that he must be three floors above the ground.

Opening the window, he remembered the foul stenches of the street and closed it again quickly.

He lay on the bed. His feet dangled at an awkward angle even with his head at the furthest edge. He removed the worn mattress, laid it on the floor and laid the frame in against one wall so that the legs stuck out.

When he woke he did not remember the legs. He held the side of his head with one hand as he opened the windows. The smells were stronger, but they were pleasant. There were odors of spices and meats that made his mouth water; and he realized he could smell mules, which reminded him of home.

The streets were crowded with men and women, some hurrying one way or another and others standing with wooden carts filled with the meats he'd noticed. There was a pattern to the traffic and he thought if he stared long enough he might see it.

He realized he did not know where to go. Where would he fit in that pattern? He composed a letter to his mother while he waited. The last sentence was the hardest.

DEAR MOTHER,

I AM HERE. I HAVE MET MR. BRIGHTMAN. HE IS DIFFERENT THAN I THOUGHT. THE CITY IS DIFFERENT TOO. I HAVE NOT SEEN MUCH OF IT. I DO NOT THINK I WILL EITHER. I AM TOO BUSY.

YOUR LOVING SON,

HENRY

P.S. HOW IS THE FACTORY?

He laid his letter on the table. How he had lied. How had he lied? But if he had not, she would fret constantly.

His window remained opened, and now he caught the odor of pork. He counted what little change he had, weighing whether to leave it here and risk theft, or carry it and risk the same. He put all he had in his front pocket. It took him longer than he thought to find the door; and he was certain he did not return the way he had come.

The streets were different by day. The buildings seemed not to loom nor lean quite as much, and the alleys that had held unnamed monsters now held only thin cats scrounging in the garbage. He stopped at the first vendor who had bacon.

She had to shade her eyes to look up at him. “What'll it be?"

"A bacon sandwich please. And a cup of milk."

"You're not from here. Look. I've got the sandwich, and I'll sell it to you for less than I usually do, as a welcome to the city. All right? But the milk you've got to get from someone else.” She pointed down the street. “The old man with the red and white striped awning will be happy to oblige. Tell him Vera sent you. Say I said that you're new in town."

He counted out the coins (which was nearly all that he had; he fervently hoped one of those jobs Mr. Brightman mentioned was available) and thanked her.

"Don't mention it,” she said, and winked.

He bought the milk, which came not in a clay jar but a glass bottle, which delighted him, but also cost him all but his last brass coin. When the man saw this last, his cheerful face had fallen. “Listen,” he said quietly so that Henry had to bend almost to his lips to hear. “You bring that bottle back to any of the ones that sell drinks, and they should fill it for only a few brass. They don't, then leave them. Come to me if you want but all I've got is milk. You want ale or something stronger, you'll need to be on your two feet."

He had thought to idly walk the stalls, but now he had no money and thought that he would only be disappointed if he were to find something for his mother.

He had to shoulder his way through the people, but being so tall he saw the COLLEGE sign easily enough. This time the door was open.

It was still empty. His first thought was to go to his room. But he might get lost again, and anyway first must get the key. Surely Mr. Brightman's room was not far from this door.

He went right this time, passing a number of oak doors as heavy as the entrance door with brass doorknobs worn to a dull finish. Hard as he knocked though, no one answered any of them. He made it to the end of the hallway which, though he could not be sure, of course, felt as if it were another three buildings beyond the college entrance. There was a door at the end the same as all the others.

He knocked on this one; and this time Mr. Brightman answered.

He opened the door enough so that his head could peek around the corner and no further. “Yes?” He looked over the top of spectacles he had not had last night.

"Mr. Brightman?"

"Yes?” Henry could hear his foot tap-tap-tapping behind the door.

"About my key,” he started.

"Oh! Yes, yes. Pardon me. I had forgotten.” He opened the door wide, turned and walked inside. Henry stepped forward once, then back, then decided to go in anyway. It had to be an invitation.

Mr. Brightman rummaged through each of the drawers of a large oak desk, yanking them out one after another, shuffling rapidly through whatever was inside, then slamming the door with irritation. “Ah ha!” He held up a brass key on the end of a dull metal ring; and then tossed it. Henry caught it awkwardly.

"I was just reading some of the letters we've received. Yours is on top.” Mr. Brightman tapped one finger on a sheaf on his desk. “Yours is interesting.” He sat in a worn, rather uncomfortable-looking wooden chair behind the desk.

"Am I the first one here?"

"You know, don't you? Yes, I can see. Who wrote the original letter of request? Because it surely wasn't you.” When Henry said nothing, Mr. Brightman handed him a leather book from one of the shelves behind his desk. “What's the title?"

Henry's mouth moved in an exaggerated motion. Each syllable was difficult. For half a hundred heartbeats Mr. Brightman let him try.

"It says,” said Mr. Brightman, “
A History of the North American Peoples
, by Jack George. It's so thick because it covers five hundred years, from the Age of Machinery to today."

Again Henry remained silent. He opened the book carefully (for he knew the value of a book) and paged through. It was mostly words typed very small but with more letters than the fingers on one hand. There were a few photographs. One was of a clean-shaved man with a shock of white hair. His eyes were serene though Henry could only see that they were a dark color.

"I did not pick that book at random. Whoever wrote your letter said that you knew about machinery, but not in the way that one who knows gears would say.” He rubbed his chin. “How much did you pay for that bottle?” When Henry told him, he said, “That was twice too much. How much do you have left?"

"Mr. Brightman, I really need that job you mentioned.” Henry's hands lay flat against his hips, palm down.

"Those that I mentioned are filled, I discovered this morning. However, there was an accident. Are you afraid of heights?"

Henry thought of the trees he'd climbed, high enough to see a horse and cart on the dirt road when it was more than half a day's ride. “No, sir."

So Henry found himself on the roofs. Though the angle was steep enough that rain didn't roll off so much as simply turn a bit on its way down, Henry walked with an ease not attained even by his taskmaster, a Mr. Johnston. This man was much like Mr. Brightman in stature, but he was the type that had taken the other path, namely that of the trample. He let Henry carry the pitch in a big bucket in one hand and the shingles in another. He showed him what to do, then complained that he had the gout and left Henry to himself.

This was not a bother to Henry. He'd done this at home plenty of times. The sun felt good; he'd begun to feel vertigo in those dark windowless corridors. Even the bedroom, with its narrow window, was unpleasant. (There was a courtyard in the College, accessible only by locked doors whose keys Mr. Johnston, complaining that his gout was increasingly worse, had given Henry. On nights when the rain was not too heavy, Henry took the patched blanket from his room and slept there.) The crowds below seemed as toys; and he was a grown man, through with toys.

School was not to start for a week, which, when he thought of it, brought a certain dread to his stomach. He would be between the walls again, among people he did not know, and who would doubtless consider him the bumpkin that the merchants did. (He learned to haggle a bit; and though the merchants often cried that they had children, Henry was certain they smiled when they thought he was not looking.)

It came to him on the fourth day that he was lonely. Once, when Mr. Johnston was not quite as drunk as usual, Henry asked him where he might find company.

Mr. Johnston mumbled something, and Henry asked if he might draw a map. Mr. Johnston obliged, though the lines were crooked and blotched from when he pushed the pen too hard. Some of the street names were difficult to read.

So Henry ventured forth one evening (before true dark, when the world was different) armed with a knife he had pilfered from the empty kitchen. He felt bad, but he'd heard one man telling another that it was best to be armed between sundown and true dark; and best to carry it in such a way that men knew you meant business. How that was to be, he couldn't be certain. Sliding the knife under his belt, big as he was, made it look too small to be effective. Simply holding it in his hand seemed too threatening. At last he decided it was best simply to carry it wedged into his boot.

He studied Mr. Johnston's map. It seemed to say Charles St., which was the street some blocks away. It could have been Charlotte Blvd., but that was even further and he was certain that Mr. Johnston would not need to go so far for company.

The buildings still seemed to lean over him as if they were attempting to whisper in one another's ears. Charles St. was a good place for a certain type of sandwich made with a rich honeyed bread and thick slabs of beef. Tonight that merchant was absent; instead, there were other merchants with their carts, and these contained objects Henry could not readily identify. One such cried out that he had some sort of animal for sale; another, a matronly woman in bright silks, said she would tell one's fortune. Henry's mother was forever taking such women up on their offers when they passed through the village; and though they always spoke of riches just around the corner, that corner seemed to forever stretch toward the horizon. Henry went to the other side of the street.

He glanced at the map again. Was that a
D
or an
O?
And was that an
E
or
F?
He continued to walk, glancing at the faded signs for a
DE
or an
OF
or
OE
(which seemed unlikely) or
DF
(which seemed even less likely.)

He took a right down Deer Street, which was darker than the others; but he thought perhaps taverns liked less light than the city people traditionally did.

He looked at the map once more. This must be the place. It didn't look much like a tavern, but very little looked right when the stars couldn't be seen.

He opened the door and was greeted by a woman much like the fortune teller. He couldn't have told them apart for all the gold in the world. Her smile was wide but her eyes were sad. Still, she took his hand. “Good evening, young sir. And how are you on such a fine day?"

Flustered, and red from both an embarrassment he couldn't quite define, he said nothing. The atmosphere was thick with perfumes.

"That's all right,” she said, patting his hand. “You aren't here to talk anyway."

He found his voice. “Actually, that is why I am here."

"Oh,” she said. “If that's what you like. I've got just the girl for you. Her name is Bethany—What's the matter, dear? You're awfully red. Is this your first time?"

"No. Yes! I mean, thank you.” He lifted her hand from his with his free hand and rushed into the night.

It was cool though there was no breeze, for the brothel (which was what it was) was too warm. He leaned against a rough stone wall, taking deep even breaths. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. It was too much. Now he knew the type of man Mr. Johnston was. He should go home. Find his mother, find a home. Plow. Marry. Raise a passel of children. Watch the boys grow into men, and the girls into beautiful women. Grow old and gray and content.