The Lightning Keeper (34 page)

From his new residence in the Bottom, it took Toma only five minutes to walk from his breakfast table to his desk, which gave him a good jump on the day, on the box overflowing with correspondence, requisitions, and reports. Much of the paperwork resulted from the geographical separation of the Experimental Site from the headquarters in Schenectady. Toma knew this perfectly well. It was as Steinmetz had predicted on his first visit to Beecher's Bridge, or as the General Electric lawyer had warned in the original negotiations. Toma could not wander down a corridor to ask a hypothetical question or borrow a wrench any more than Steinmetz could drop in to see and hear for himself how things were going. Each tool or question or scrap of information required paper, many pieces of paper. It must be the same for Steinmetz, Toma realized, though there was never a hint of reproach in his letters.

Sometimes, when he worried about this matter, or felt inclined to pity himself, he would glance for reassurance at the sturdy post just a few feet beyond his desk. It had been salvaged from some earlier construction, for its several mortises and peg holes bore no relation to its present function. Behind it was the door to Harriet Bigelow's office. He remembered the chipped mouth of the green bottle found near the silk mill, which served as a vase on the windowsill; he remembered that the ledgers lying flat on their narrow shelf came within a half inch of interrupting the arc of the door. These things were as familiar, as pre
sent to him, as the pattern on his mother's apron or the three books on the shelf over her kitchen table. He had many vivid memories, and some led to sadness or rage; but the green bottle summoned hope. That is what Lydia had told him in the postscript to her letter: Defend your hope, whatever it may be, for it is all you have.

On this morning, August 27, Toma was up earlier than usual; he was anxious about the visit of Steinmetz, which, for all he knew, was a deliberate surprise. Olivia saw him to the door, and she made certain that the red cufflinks she had given him were secure and right-side up. “Uneeda” was the legend in tiny white lettering, as if he were a walking advertisement for a tin of biscuits.

“Do you really like them?”

“I wear them every day.”

She put her arms around him and her head to his chest. He held her there, not wanting to be the one who drew away, unable to escape the odor of her hair: the red jar—Society Cream—to straighten it, the brown bottle to hide the red highlights. She had told him what it felt like to have Harriet's hair in her hands, how she had shown her what might be done with its weight and texture. And the other day, in the midden, he found what at first seemed to be a wig, a tangle of hair that turned out to be Olivia's. These were not trimmings but thinnings, long strands shorn at the scalp or yanked out by the roots.

The bulk of the mountain shielded this neighborhood of Beecher's Bridge from the early sun, and Toma's route past the ironworks to the Experimental Site was all downhill. How pleasant it was, and how different from the journey at the end of the day.

Beyond the ironworks, where the path grew steep, he stopped by a maple tree; it was from here that he had first glimpsed the ruin of furnace No. 3. He looked for it now and saw the girdle of brambles and a tracery of weeds sprouting from the fitted stones; it was being absorbed back into the forest. What if he had not seen the furnace?

The traffic up and down this path had fallen off since the telephone between Toma's office and the silk mill had been installed, and it looked more familiar to him now. But the whole aspect of the silk mill had changed, the old building disappearing as new structures sprouted from it. A gravel road led to the east gable, and what had been
their bedroom and kitchen was now the loading dock. To the right was the new stone fortress of the turbine wing. From this angle and elevation the rooflines came together and formed a notch framing the tree where Horatio's body had hung. What if he had not seen the furnace?

This persistent thought was connected, as if by an arrangement of mismatched gears, to his embrace of Olivia. There was no explanation of why things had happened as they had, no plot, as there would be in a story, no motives. All he could say was that there was a connection, with logic but no meaning, like a mechanical sequence.

Stefan was already at his bench. Toma looked at his pocket watch, another gift from Olivia. “How long have you been here?”

“I am the early worm, boss. This is when I can do my work without someone asking me for another thing every ten minutes. And you?”

“I thought I'd get here early just to look around. I have to send that report by tomorrow. I am hoping you have time to run one last series today.”

“That's what I mean. That's why I am here now. They don't give me time to do what wants doing before there's some big new rush. Why don't they wait until they know something before they change it?”

“The materials division says the alloy isn't stable. They are looking for something else.”

“German silver isn't good enough for them?”

“German silver is the reason Tesla's turbine failed. They aren't complete idiots over there.”

“Why don't they let me make the turbine rotors, then? I'll do it right.”

“Stefan, I'm afraid we're beyond that stage. Wait till you see what's coming today.”

“What?”

“Just wait. I don't want to spoil your surprise.”

Toma wondered at the changes. The bay he and Stefan had built was now partitioned off with metal doors and a small sign that read Restricted Area. Windows flanking the loading dock admitted the morning light. New cabinets, new shelving, new benches. The monitor along the ridge of the roof was a landmark, its dust and cobwebs undisturbed since Horatio had climbed up there to salvage the old fan.
What he would have wanted was a strong cup of coffee and several hours to himself with Horatio's vanished pile of scrap.

“Stefan, would you have a couple of men pull the old turbine out from under the bench there and get it up the hill? I don't think anything is safe here.”

“Can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Every so often they want me to hook it up again, run the test, like maybe I cheated the last time.”

“I know nothing of this.”

“Listen, boss, I don't want any trouble, but I'm telling you it drives them crazy that the new prototype doesn't give them what they want, so they think something must be wrong with the figures, the tests on the old one there. Larssen just shakes his head and stares at the work sheets until I'm almost sorry for him. The other one, Piccolomini, I don't talk to, but he knows that I built the old one, just the way you told me, and I know that the new one is a piece of shit. He knows that too, but it's his piece of shit, so I don't care.”

“And why have I heard nothing about this from you?”

Stefan kept his eyes on the bench and tapped the work sheets with his pencil, leaving a random pattern of dots. “I know it's not right, but they show me a piece of paper from Dr. Steinmetz, so what do you want me to do?”

Toma put his hand on Stefan's shoulder. “Do what they tell you, Stefan. And then you tell me, okay?”

“You know me, boss. I'm no engineer, I just build things, and I do what I'm told. But I'm no dummy either, and if you ask me what's wrong with this thing I can tell you right out: it's too big. What do you think?”

“I think you may be right. And I think it does not matter what you think, or what I think.”

“But this is not reasonable. They must be crazy.”

“I didn't say that. We see the thing differently, that's all.”

“Well, if I say this paper is white, and you tell me it is black, one of us is crazy.”

“You know, if I close my eyes I can still see a waterwheel that I saw when I was a child. The man who made it was a genius, but he did not
know it. All he wanted was a better way to grind barley in his trickle of water. And the wheel that Horatio built, why did he go to that trouble? So his woman can wash clothes, that is all. And both those wheels, like the turbine under your bench there, you can put your arms around them. Tesla's machine? The bladeless turbine? You could put it in your hat.”

“This story of yours…what is the point?”

“I don't know, Stefan, I am just thinking out loud.”

“So who's right and who's wrong?”

“I don't know. But your friend Dr. Steinmetz sees something else when he closes his eyes. He sees an empire, and for that you need a very big wheel indeed. Make the big wheel and you'll be a hero, just like Steinmetz.” He clapped Stefan on the shoulder and laughed.

“Tell me, what was your wheel for?” Toma had never seen Stefan smile so. He had no ready answer. “I am thinking this story of yours is really about a woman?”

“Yes, Stefan, it is about a woman.”

“Are you staying while I run that test?”

“No, just until the freight comes in. I'll be over by the dynamo if you need me. I haven't seen those new gauges yet.”

At eight o'clock the morning shift arrived, and Toma greeted them with nods, or by name if they had worked with him in the old days at the furnace. At the same time, the Schenectady men emerged from their restricted area and issued orders to Stefan and the technicians. Toma nodded at them as well, thinking that he should make, or should have made, more of an effort. The tension between Piccolomini and Stefan was immediately obvious. But Toma had observed that Piccolomini held himself aloof from the other Italian immigrants, of whom there were many among the stonecutters and the masons. His contempt for the harsh dialect they spoke could be read on his face.

At the sound of the freight whistle men started to gather at the doors of the loading dock, and Toma went to stand near the engineers.

“This is an important day, I think.” Larssen was looking into the air a few inches above Toma's head as he spoke. Piccolomini was rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Important one way or the other,” said Toma pleasantly.

“You must not make jokes.”

“Indeed not. I hope for the best.”

The horn of the truck put an end to the small talk, and the doors swung open, revealing a huge wooden crate.

“Here. Set it down here, and gently, gently,” Larssen instructed the porters. He took a wrecking bar from one of the men and made short work of the crate. The axle for the new turbine—the third prototype as it was to be called—gleamed through the excelsior, and the smell of shaved pine filled the air. Larssen groaned in rapture. Piccolomini crossed himself.

It was not as massive an object as the axle to the Curtis turbine that Steinmetz had described, but it was larger than any machined part Toma had ever seen. He wondered if the new turbine shed would be adequate to contain this thing when fitted out with its rotors. Stefan's face was a study in shock: the eyebrows raised, the mouth working soundlessly. Toma caught his eye and smiled.

 

C
HARLES
P
ROTEUS
S
TEINMETZ
was not a heavy sleeper under any circumstances, and the instantaneous flash and report of a lightning strike so near the Truscott house was the final straw. He had been careful to drink only two glasses of wine with dinner, for the drowsiness induced by alcohol was a fleeting phenomenon, and his sleep, like everything else, must be carefully managed. But here he was, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He might as well get up. He would find a book.

A tension had been building in him all day, and he could not quite put his finger on it. It was pleasant to have the company of Mrs. Truscott, who was so gracious and attentive, who took such pleasure in serious conversation. In the afternoon he had asked her to sing for him, and she had obliged. At dinner he had shocked her by explaining his vision of the future, the part of it pertaining to electricity and the total utilization of hydroelectric resources.

“Now that we have so many uses for electricity we must collect all the power which there is in the watercourses of this country. When that is done, there will be no more rapid creeks and rivers, but the streams which furnish electric power will be slow-moving pools connected with one another by power stations.”

“Even here?”

“Certainly here.”

“All the water, you say?”

“Yes, yes, every drop. I tell you that a great mistake was made at Niagara Falls because they diverted only a part of that great flow through the power station. An opportunity lost.”

“But surely you cannot mean to take it all away? The people…”

He saw how the idea distressed her, and he took her hand. “My dear Mrs. Truscott, I am not such a monster. On the weekends we will turn the machines off and you shall have your waterfall.”

He remembered now the sensation of her skin against his and the pressure of her large and exquisitely proportioned hand.

But it was not any thought of Harriet Truscott that kept him awake. All day long he had felt the mountain at his back. He had been distracted—in his calculations, in conversations with Peacock or the engineers—and from time to time he had stolen a glance at it. When he had launched into his soliloquy with his hostess he had been extrapolating from his earlier thoughts, his awareness of the mountain. He knew this feeling, though not for years had he experienced it so acutely. He would have to be patient.

The lightning struck again near the house and he went to the window, shivering in the warm night. His room faced out over the lake, but if he opened the sash he might get a glimpse of the mountain. Now the rain began to fall in fat drops driven by the wind. He found his robe on the bedpost and went out to the stairwell.

The electrical storm seemed to be caught on Great Mountain like a ship upon a shoal, and he had several bursts of illumination to help him down the dark stairs. One tremendous thunderclap seemed to rattle the house and he heard, or imagined, an echoing resonance in the stairwell that made him smile; it was like being inside a percussion instrument. Even without the lightning he would have been guided to the glass house by the damp odor of foliage. The door had been left open.