Onyx (11 page)

Tom …

Even now, in her anxiety, thinking his name weakened her thighs and made her grow moist. Lately she had become alarmed at the ruthless physical dimension her love had taken on. With her odd, isolated upbringing Antonia knew even less than most well-bred girls of her time about the mysteries of sex—that is, the so-called facts of life. The act itself had become an essential part of her being. Everything to do with Tom drew her toward it. She would watch him talk and be reminded of his kisses; his odors, masculine and tinged ever so faintly with gasoline, recalled to her that violent, convulsive bliss when acrid sweat drenched them both; even her admiration for his incorruptible vision dissolved into a sensual yearning for him. Her nature was ardent, her love innocently passionate.

The front door opened. Tom came out.

Antonia was on her feet. “Tom, wait,” she called softly, hurrying along the narrow summerhouse path to the driveway. His footsteps crunched on the gravel, not slowing. She caught up. Ahead of them shone the gate torchères, and by this thin light his face had the bleached look of skulls she had seen in the Roman catacombs. “What happened, Tom? What did Uncle say?”

“Can't you guess?”

“Was it very bad?” she asked.

“It seems that when he agreed to back my credit, I was meant to realize that you were off bounds. Permanently.”

“What?”

Tom shrugged. “He thinks I welshed on him. All I wanted was not to hurt you. How could he have thought I'd sell being with you?”

In the darkness she lost her balance, stumbling, not feeling the gravel against her ankle as her stocking tore. Regaining her equilibrium, she ran after him.

“When's your birthday?” he asked.

“April eighteenth.”

“You'll be twenty-one, and can resume your contact with me—should you so desire.”

“Tom, please don't be sarcastic.”

“You asked what your uncle said. I'm telling you. You are his obligation now, he says, and he makes all your decisions. After your twenty-first birthday you can resume contact with me, should you so desire.”

She sighed. “He hasn't been well.”

“I'll mail him a sympathy note.” They had reached the gates, and the torchères shone on Tom's deathly pallor. “And then there's the little matter of the shop. By the first of October we're to be clear of his premises—and I'm to have paid him off for his share in the machinery and unsold automobiles.”

She put her hand on his arm. “He needs to do something more profitable at the factory. He told me that business has been bad, very bad.”

“You've just heard that?”

“You knew?”

“So does everybody else in Detroit. There's a giant slump here. People are hurting.”

“He never said a word to me. I remember wanting to take up the slack for Nurse so we wouldn't need Minnie, she's the second laundress, and Uncle was angry. He's never stinted on us.”

“You're his princess. And I'm not keen on playing swineherd—even if I do have the right dirty fingernails.” Tom spoke loudly. Gnawing at him was his bitterness that the Major, whom he occasionally grudgingly admired, believed him capable of relinquishing Antonia—for a credit line!

“Tom, he's so sad. He looks ten years older than when he left. Did you notice? His color's bad, and his beard's turned all white.”

“I gather then that you're siding with the old bastard?”

Though Tom could be obscene, this was the first time he had been in Antonia's presence. Stepping back, she said, “He's been wonderfully generous to Father and me.” A sigh tempered her coolness. “You'll find another backer, another shop.”

“Didn't you hear, Antonia? He won't let us see each other.”

“We have to, we must. So we'll manage as we were doing before.”

“Hudson's on Thursdays? Sneak like burglars? Wonderful!”

A thrush sang. Startled, they turned in the direction of the liquid sound to peer into the darkness.

Abruptly Tom's bitterness drained, leaving dregs of hopelessness. He was being thrown out of his shop, he must pay the Major off for his share of the machinery, the racer was not finished. A life with Antonia seemed the sick fantasy of an overzealous imagination. “That income of your father's,” he mumbled. “How large is it?”

Antonia understood what he was asking. Could they marry now? “Nurse Girardin is expensive. She trained at Hôtel-Dieu to handle Father's sort of case. She massages him, exercises him, she knows the right foods—everything. There's medicines. Laundry—bales of laundry. The specialist, Dr. Abler, comes once a month from Chicago, and sometimes he brings Dr. Roussel. Dr. McKenzie has his bills. I don't know what it adds up to, but Father's income can't cover a fifth of it.”

Tom's mouth twisted miserably. “I see.”

Prudence warned her to keep silent, yet she continued. “It doesn't matter what the income is. I couldn't leave. Not now, not at this time. I don't know what happened to Uncle in New York, but it must have been murderous.”

The hissing gas torches illuminated her expression of determination. Momentarily Tom wanted to slap it away, but when he noticed her hands hanging at her sides, the fingers jabbing into the palms in nervous little twitches, he touched her gently. In order not to destroy her he must accept that she loved and was loyal to her uncle, his enemy.

“Hudson's?” he asked. The name seemed dishonorable retreat.

“Tom, thank you,” she said, clasping his shoulders, pressing kisses on his jaw, his chin, the fine bones of his Adam's apple. At first he stood unresponsive, bitter, then a wordless rumble sounded deep in his throat, and he pulled her to him, kissing her mouth, a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and desperation. They clung together as one being, one feeling, the blood hammering through them as from the same heart. “The summerhouse,” she murmured shakily.

“I won't set foot on his property.”

“The Hammond place?”

Across the broad street from the Major, Hammond, a lumber baron, had built himself a wooden stronghold, bulbous leaded windows, fanciful spoolwork, Gothic towers, then hidden his grotesquerie behind double rows of boxwood. Tom drew Antonia into the black shadows, spreading his jacket on prickly grass. They blindly fumbled with each other's clothing, and without undressing in the warm summer night, they obliterated their differences.

CHAPTER 5

On the afternoon of September 15, a Western Union boy bicycled into the Stuart yard. The Major hurried out, tossing the child a coin. He carried the telegram back to his office unopened, and stood weighing the yellow envelope in his trembling palm.

In the weeks since he had left, no word had come from New York. The Major had written four letters of inquiry to J. P. Morgan, letters that on rereading to his eyes seemed anxious, needy. He could not bring himself to mail them. Instead he had formulated a plan. The weather had been unendurably hot even for late summer, and through the nights he lay sweating into monogrammed sheets, refining his plan. His most profound hope was that Morgan would deliver him from using it.

Letting out a sigh, he used his ivory-handled paper knife, reading:

HAVE RECEIVED OFFER OF FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS STOP PLEASE ADVISE FURTHER ACTION MORGAN

All color drained from the bearded face. Crushing the yellow paper in his fist, he shuffled to the sawdust-coated window, looking down into the yard.
What is it
, he thought.
A factory. A big, slowed-down factory. No more. No less. Why should I feel it is as much a part of me as my blood, my bones, my heart
?

His eyes dampened with tears.

Blinking fiercely, he pulled back his shoulders in a travesty of his old military posture, and again surveyed the yard with its pale barricade of well-seasoned white fir planks, its squadron of dark, uneven secondhand lumber that he had picked up last week for a song, good enough, as he informed everyone, to be hidden below the veneer of cheap export cabinets. Then he returned to his desk. He found a telegraph form, writing,
Seventy-five thousand least will accept. Negotiate. Stuart
.

He rang for Heldenstern.

Holding out the form, he said, “Here. Take this to the telegraph office.”

“Immediately, sir.”

“Just a moment, Heldenstern. Is anyone out there with you?”

“No, Major. I'm alone, sir.”

“Good. Before you go, I need to talk to you.”

Heldenstern removed his green eyeshade, nervously smoothing his sparse gray strands over his pate.

“First lock the outer door,” said the Major in a commanding tone. His face was sternly set.

II

Two nights later, at eight twenty, Tom stood over the sink rubbing gritty mechanic's soap on his arms up to his elbows. At nine he was to meet Trelinack and a rental agent. The shop he had found on Anthon Street had scarcely room to assemble three automobiles, a miser-windowed, dark little place, but the best he could afford—and at that, the landlord, distrustful of “these damn horselesses,” demanded Trelinack's signature too.

Hugh sauntered in from his drafting table behind the partition, leaving the door ajar, peering at a fresh newspaper clipping that he had tacked below the time sheet.

The big automobile race to be held sometime this October at the new Grosse Pointe track bordering the Detroit River will be the most important in the history of the sport. The turns have been banked for a breathtaking mile-a-minute pace.

Four events are planned, including a mile dash for electric vehicles and a five-mile race for steam mobiles. The major sweepstake of twenty-five miles is for gasoline-powered vehicles. The entry list is prestigious, including Winston (Cleveland), Apperson (Kokomo), Bridger (Detroit), and W. K. Vanderbilt, whose famed French machine, “Red Devil,” is reputed to have cost $15,000 plus $7,000 duty. Detroit's smart set as well as the city's automobile-minded citizens are expected to be on hand for the races.

Hugh read the final paragraph aloud with smug pleasure. “‘Of special interest is the Detroit chauffeur, Thomas K. Bridger, manufacturer of the “Curved-Dash” Bridger. His racing machine has been tested on the boulevards. Without effort it covers a half mile in thirty-six seconds, according to Hugh Bridger, the chauffeur's brother.'”

Tom dug his fingers into the jar for more soap. “How often do I have to hear that damn thing?” To his teasing clung grizzles of respect.

Working on the racer had changed the relationship between the brothers. Until then Tom had protected Hugh, supported him, worked far beyond his strength for him, so it was natural that he felt no respect for him. The race, a promotion, held up a magnifying glass to the fine print of Hugh's abilities. Tom was amazed at Hugh's smooth, wily repartee with reporters, his shrewd ploys with the race manager. And Hugh, in this new equality, found himself able to deposit into the fraternal bank the same unalloyed affection that Tom always had deposited.

“I got the name Bridger mentioned four times in the
Detroit Evening News
, didn't I?”

“And what was that about her being tested?”

“
You
said she'd go fifty an hour.” Hugh's altered status did not preclude fraternal sparring.

“I said I
hoped
she would,” Tom retorted. “Ahh, why nitpick? The article will help do the trick.” He glanced at the partially assembled automobiles: quick sales were imperative, they were desperate for cash to pay the Major his twenty-five percent share of the tools and machinery. “She better go that fast, otherwise it's
requiescat in pace
Bridger Automobile Company.”

“Latin from you?” Hugh asked.

Tom held his arms under the spigot to let water bubble away the soap. “Isn't that the translation for ‘if we don't win the race we're up shit creek'?”

III

After Tom left, Hugh returned to the other side of the partition and his drafting stool. The
Evening News
reporter had requested a sketch of the machine for the paper, and the dangling light bulb cast a benedictory glow over Hugh's blond head as he drew an illusion of speed, elongating the racer's body, penciling the driver's hair straight back as if windblown. He had a natural aptitude, or so the rotund art teacher at high school had told him, and with training he could make his mark as a commercial artist. She had not tempted Hugh a moment. He had cast his lot with Tom, and his future would be rich, elegant, swank. Perhaps it was inevitable that Tom, possessed by creativity, had no interest in wealth while Hugh anticipated his rewards in concrete form. As he flattened his pencil to draw marks under the tires, he was thinking of a mansion with ivy-covered gables on Woodward Avenue, a butler opening the front door, himself in a swallowtail, a satin-gowned, extravagantly beautiful woman adorning his arm as he graciously received guests for one of those soirees he read about in the rotogravures. His breathing grew labored. Absorbed in his dreams and his sketching, he did not realize that the smell of smoke was irritating his bronchi.

Hissing crackles made him glance toward the window.

A blackish pink sheen, redder to the far left, illuminated the panes.

He ran to the other room for a better view. The stacked fir planks blazed with masses of small flames that glowed like orange fish scales. Clouds billowed. Sparks exploded, floating upward, luminous spores carrying fire. It had not rained for weeks. The pile of used lumber was burning in several places and the drying kiln, too, had caught, the flames reaching ominously toward the entry passage.

O'Reardon, the ancient Irishman, the only night watchman still on the Major's payroll, scuttled across the gaudily lit yard. “Fire! Fire!” His yells faded into the roar of flames as he scurried into the tunnel.

Hugh's impulse was to flee shrieking after him.

But he paused in the fire's brilliant illumination, looking around at the fragile sled-shaped automobiles, the two drill presses, the chain shaver, the grinding wheel, the new forge, all the tools that Tom had struggled to buy.