Woodsburner (13 page)

“I can assure you, Mr. Dickerson, I am not a hardware merchant. I am a purveyor of the printed word.”

“Oh. Well, good then. Whatever your trade, though, you'll want to manage better than your neighbor.”

Eliot looks where Otis Dickerson points. The windows of the shop next door reveal an assortment of junk piled floor to ceiling. The paint is peeling from the sills and shutters. There is no sign over the crammed windows or above the door. Eliot holds his spectacles in his hand as he scans the storefront, and even without them on he notices that the blurry line of smoke rising above the rooftop has grown thick enough for him to make it out as a dark smudge against the sky. He is about to ask the boiled man if he knows anything about the smoke when he spots a marked slant to the doorway of his shop. He'll need to have that righted, possibly have the lintel replaced as well, if not the whole frame. This might prove a more expensive undertaking than he thought. Eliot begins wishing that Mr. Dickerson were indeed the man he mistook him for.

“I see people carrying stuff in there on most days,” Mr. Dickerson says, still pointing next door, “though I hardly ever see them bringing anything out.”

Eliot puts on his spectacles and glances up and down the
length of Main Street, but he sees no one who might be the dilatory Mr. Twine. It is not absolutely necessary that Eliot meet him today, but if not today what guarantee can he have that the man will show in the future? It is possible, Eliot thinks, that he might stock his new bookshop without this man's assistance; such an arrangement had not been among his intentions when he first opened his Boston shop. Still, Eliot's dealings in Boston had proved so lucrative, he can scarce imagine doing without similar arrangements in Concord.

Dickerson waits for Eliot to take an interest in his neighbor, and when no questions come he provides the answers in advance. “Stubbins is his name, if you're curious. Humphrey Stubbins. Quiet fellow. Runs a pawn in back. Mean business that, if you ask me.”

“I see,” Eliot says distractedly. He is reluctant to ask Otis Dickerson if he knows of Mr. Twine's whereabouts, and at the same time he wishes he were not so quick to feel ashamed. Distasteful liaisons were oftentimes a necessary part of business. A man needs to have the will to do what is necessary if he expects to make his way in the world.

“It's not another junk shop you're planning to open, is it?” Dickerson asks.

“No. Certainly not. As I said—”

“Well, whatever you're planning, you just let me know what you need. I'll see you get quality.”

“Actually, Mr. Dickerson, it is a bookshop I plan to establish here. A bookshop. I hope you will find it a welcome addition.” Eliot hears a certain meekness creeping into his voice, as if he were already apologizing for the question he wants to ask.

“Books?” Dickerson considers this for a moment, rolling the word on his tongue as if to determine its flavor. “Books. Yes. Fine, fine. A fine business.”

“I also write myself,” Eliot adds. “For the stage.” He thinks it
important that Dickerson know this. After his play is a success he will be able to look back with fond chagrin at the lengths to which he has gone to make a living while struggling to produce his art. All will be forgiven. “In fact, it is my hope that you will see my latest work performed within the year.”

“I don't attend the theater. I take it you'll sell ledgers and bankbooks and the like?”

“Well, yes, and literary works of the highest quality—fine bindings, decorative endpapers. In fact, I am confident this location will prove an attractive gathering place for like-minded patrons to discuss recent events and publications.”

“What about card games—something educational, for the children? You'll be selling those, too?”

“Those as well, yes.” Eliot tries to hide his disappointment. “I guarantee you will find all that you might expect in any fine bookshop, and more.”

“Well, I can see you'll want new shelving, and that lock there won't hold long enough to baffle a squirrel. You be sure to come to me, whatever you need.”

Eliot taps the card in his pocket and wishes that he could conduct the unpleasant business boldly, without embarrassment. “As a matter of fact,” he ventures, “there is a small matter in which you might be of assistance.”

“If I can't help you,” Dickerson says, “you'll be hard pressed to find one who can.”

Eliot pulls out the card and makes a show of being unfamiliar with the name. “Do you happen to know where I might find Mr. Seymour Twine?”

The boiled man takes a step back and Eliot sees his eyes flicker back and forth between Eliot's face and the vacant shop.

Eliot immediately regrets mentioning the name. “I only… we have some small matters of business to conduct, and I thought you might have some knowledge of the man's whereabouts.”

“I thought you said it was a bookshop you were opening?”

“Yes, but there is a separate matter I need to discuss with him, you understand.”

“No, I do not understand.” Dickerson holds his broom upright, stares squarely at Eliot. “This is a town of good people, Mr. Calvert, God-fearing people. But we cannot be held accountable for the likes of what passes through from time to time.”

Eliot wishes he could say that he is mistaken—that in truth he has no need for the likes of Seymour Twine, that this is all a misunderstanding. He feels as though someone were staring at him, and he sees that the young man and woman he passed earlier are now standing on the far side of the street pointing in his direction. Then Eliot realizes that they are actually pointing at the sky above his storefront and are most likely staring at the smoke rising from the trees.

Dickerson clears his throat before saying quietly, “I'd avoid this Twine fellow if I were you, but if you must, I hear he might be sought some afternoons at Wright's Tavern. An otherwise respectable place, mind you.”

“I appreciate your candor,” Eliot says. He wants to show Dickerson that he is not embarrassed, that he is a man well acquainted with the wide world and its great variety of commerce. “You may very well have saved me an afternoon of waiting in vain.”

Dickerson purses his lips. “I suppose you'll conduct your business as you see fit, but I must insist that you refrain from mentioning my name in this matter.”

“Of course,” Eliot says. “And, likewise, I would be most grateful if you, in turn, would avoid mentioning this to, well, to anyone else. I would not have my intentions misconstrued.”

Dickerson works his tongue in his cheek, grunts in assent, and makes his way back to his shop with the broom over his shoulder. His feet kick up little whirls of dust in the street. Eliot turns and stares through the dirty window of the empty store, pretending to
take inventory of the crooked shelves, the warped countertop, the bent nails and scraps of shoe leather scattered about the floor. He can see Dickerson's reflection in the glass and he watches him scuttle away, looking just as boiled as before but somehow less certain of his stride. Eliot sometimes hates himself for the things he feels he must do, simply because there seems no other way to achieve the end he deserves. Every man undergoes transformations, he thinks, some great, but most so small as to be imperceptible, until that day when the sheer number makes their reversal improbable.

The first time Eliot spoke to the beautiful and unapproachable Margaret Mary Mahoney, his legs were very nearly numb from more than an hour of standing in restless anticipation. When he arrived earlier that evening, he found that all three tiers of the Haymarket Theater were sold out, and the twenty-five-cent gallery was crammed with spectators standing shoulder to shoulder. There seemed little reason for the crowd, since the play was known to be mediocre at best. He decided to leave and come back on another night, but then he saw the woman from the Federal Street Theater make her way up the wide stairs on the far side of the Haymarket's lobby. As if by reflex, Eliot surrendered the coin he was about to return to his purse, hurried through the doors, and squeezed into the last bit of remaining space in the gallery. Though he could see only a corner of the stage, he had a clear view of the private boxes hovering above, and through most of the first two acts he watched the dim light from the stage lamps flicker shadows over the woman's graceful expressions.

During intermission, Eliot spotted her alone and within reach in the crowded lobby—coincidences he dared not ignore. For months he had been secretly rehearsing what he would say to her
if given the chance, but until that moment he had never seen her without the imposing gentleman he assumed was her father. Once more, silently, Eliot practiced his greeting and the bon mots he had prepared especially for this encounter, and he almost lost his nerve, almost gave in to the churning sensation in his stomach. As he wove his way around the prattling knots of gray-haired men and bejeweled women, Eliot marveled that she had not already attracted the other potential suitors in attendance, men in possession of far greater prospects than his own. He fully expected a handsome gentleman of obvious wealth to step to her side at the last moment, and then he suddenly felt that he could not shuffle through the unyielding crowd fast enough. It surprised him that he was even attempting so audacious a maneuver. He would never have considered doing such a thing a few months earlier, before his rapid advancement at Carter, Hendee & Co. Eliot still chose to sit in the cheapest seats available despite the rise in his wages, but tonight he wore a new suit of clothes, and in his coat pocket his purse hung heavier than usual. Its weight gave him an unexpected confidence.

Up in her private box, the woman had seemed to him to exist in a world far removed from his own, but as he pushed his way toward her in the lobby she surprised him by deigning to look up from her playbill and nod, as though he was just as deserving of her nods as anyone else. It struck him as too generous an acknowledgment. Emboldened by her attention, he drew close, bowed politely, and introduced himself. She said her name was Margaret Mahoney When she smiled, fine lines bloomed at the corners of her eyes, giving her an air of intelligence that made her appear a bit older than he'd expected, perhaps several years beyond his own twenty-three, but this only made him marvel that she was not already on the arm of another gentleman.

“And what is it that you do, Mr. Eliot Calvert?” she asked. It
was a natural enough question, but her directness took Eliot by surprise. It was not what he had rehearsed.

“I am a playwright,” he heard himself announce, and he watched how the words made her knowing eyes sparkle. He had not meant to reveal his ambitions from the start, had intended only to say that he was a senior clerk at Carter, Hendee & Co., but her reaction made it impossible for him to take the words back.

“A playwright? How wonderful. I have never before met a playwright. I daresay that Father will be most, ah, intrigued.”

Eliot had no idea how he would explain his position to her father if the man did not share his daughter's enthusiasm. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say next.

Margaret Mahoney looked at him expectantly, and then said, with what seemed undue excitement, “What a lovely shade of lilac.”

Eliot nodded, and nodded again. His mouth had gone completely dry.

“Your coat,” she prompted him.

Alone in his room, Eliot had imagined the phrases spoken by the kind of man accustomed to addressing such a rare woman. But now he had completely forgotten his lines. He feared he would have to improvise.

Margaret Mahoney continued, untroubled by his silence. “It is a fitting coat for a man of creative endeavors.” She seemed to speak in smiles. “If I were to venture a guess, I would say State Street? By the Common, yes?”

“State Street,” he repeated, with some effort.

“Studemeyer's on State. I believe I saw that lilac fabric in the window last month, and it too-soon disappeared.”

“Oh, yes, of course. That is most perceptive.” Eliot self-consciously brushed the darker lavender of his lapels. His pulse quickened as he sought the right words, pressed his tongue
against his teeth, and forced out one of the bits of dialogue he had prepared.

“May I ask what you think of tonight's performance, Miss Mahoney?”

“It is no worse than some, though no better than most.”

“A polite judgment.”

“You wish something more caustic? Well, then, our hero, I think, lacks direction.”

“Perhaps it is intentional?” Eliot watched as a richly attired man examined Miss Mahoney's profile from across the room and then caught Eliot's eye and nodded. It was the first time he had ever possessed, however temporarily, an object of another man's admiration. The rush of blood in his ears made it hard to hear what she was saying.

“And our heroine,” Margaret Mahoney said with an air of disdain, “if such she may be called, seems utterly incapable of speaking her mind. If she is waiting for our hero to speak it for her, we shall be imprisoned in this theater for quite a long time.”

“You are splendidly harsh.”

“And as for the title, I should think that
A Conflagration; or The hover's Chance Meeting
would necessitate the inclusion of, shall we say, a bit more
heat
. Is that judgment enough?”