Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (16 page)

Leon took Abel from me and we walked down Fore Street, hugging the shadows.  A police car climbed the imposing hill and we dropped low behind a cluster of beach roses in bloom.  When the automobile rounded the corner onto the Eastern Promenade above, we hurried down to the corner of Mountfort Street. 

Not far up Mountfort Street, I saw the high stone wall with the wrought iron fence above it to the left.  Climbing steadily, we passed the corner of Federal Street.  We were both exhausted, but it was my turn to carry Abel again.  With him draped over my shoulder we continued onward.

We rounded the corner onto Congress Street and hurried along to the gates of Eastern Cemetery.  The intimidating shadow of the clock tower, high above the North School made me hesitate before entering.  I followed Leon over the damp, green grass.  Wandering between the headstones, we searched for the shack where shovels and other digging tools would be stored. 

Trees ringed most of the cemetery and we felt safely concealed there.  Neither of us worried about ghosts, spirits, or ghouls in the graveyard.  We had far more to fear from the cops and the men on the waterfront than from anything that might haunt Eastern Cemetery.

We chose a space that would likely be overlooked for a long while or at least until the caretaker cut the grass again.  There was no need to dig the grave six feet deep.  When it was discovered, they would move Abel to a pine box and rebury him elsewhere.  We would have preferred to give him an honorable burial with a fine, silk lined casket and an engraved marble grave marker.  Yet we knew Abel would understand.

In less than two hours we had buried our friend.  Worried that a neighborhood dog could disturb his grave, we dug down four feet.  We prayed over him with the words we recalled from church services years earlier.  It wasn’t much to honor poor Abel’s life.  The world let him down when he was alive and we had failed him in death.  Still we believed that Abel would understand.

*

Leon and I skulked close to buildings, staying out of sight as much as possible.  The sky was getting lighter by the time we reached his grandfather’s apartment building on Munjoy Hill. We snuck down to the basement and flopped on an old mattress behind the boiler.  If his grandparents knew we were in the building they would wake us for morning mass at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, just down the hill from Eastern Cemetery.

We slept into the afternoon in the dark basement.  The sound of someone stomping up the stairs above woke us.  We crept up the back stairs to the Tripaldi’s apartment on the third floor.  The old couple hadn’t yet completed their Sunday rituals and returned home again.  We took turns bathing, shaving and were soon dressed in clean clothes.  Carrying a sack of food and our dirty clothes we ran down the back stairs and out behind the building. 

A fire pit in the small backyard was covered with a wrought iron grate.  The ashes from the last of the trash burned hadn’t yet been removed.  Leon lifted the grid and tossed our blood stained clothes into the pile.  The grate sang when he dropped it again.  He lit a match and we watched as our clothes smoldered and finally burned.  When there was little left of them, we jumped over the back fence and hurried away from the neighborhood.

In the fracas the night before we were both banged and scraped.  My cheekbone was bruised, and Leon had a nasty scrape on his chin.  Our hands were severely blistered after digging the grave for Abel and filling it in again.  We decided that we should wait another week before joining the Army and sailing for France.  It would save us from explaining the wounds.

*

Life went on.  Through the hot afternoon, we slept under shade trees in Deering Oaks Park.  When darkness descended, we went out to get our money.  We never had jobs, but we did earn it in a sense.  The conniving, swindling, cheating, and stealing took a good deal of planning and work to do it successfully.  It took determination and cunning to accomplish what we did.  Few would have considered it commendable, but we took pride in it and gave it our best.

Early Friday afternoon, we sat at the edge of the pond in Deering Oaks.  Women pushed prams around with squawking babies in them.  The ducks and geese gobbled the crumbs children and old men threw to them.  It was a magnificent summer day.  We talked quietly about our plans for the weekend before we enlisted in the Army on Monday. 

“Tripaldi! Cloutier!” a young man shouted as he approached us.  He stopped nearby and rocked forward, slapping his hands against his thighs.  His face was bright red and he was fighting for air.  For a moment I waited, expecting him to topple over and land in the pond.

“Rudy Benoit!” Leon called out.  We both laughed at his distress in the summer heat.

“You… cops… for you…” was all he could manage.  He dropped onto the grass and sat there gasping for air.

“What cops?” I demanded and jumped to my feet.  Leon was at my side as we stood over Rudy.  Leon gripped his shoulder and shook it hard, as if that might shake the words free from his mouth.

“Cops… cops looking for you.  Abel Hilaire… he’s dead!  They dug him up out of a grave in Eastern Cemetery!”

People were staring at us and listening intently.  I grabbed Rudy’s arm and dragged him away from the pond.  We stopped behind a thick stand of evergreens at the edge of Park Avenue.  A young boy with a sling shot in one hand and pebbles in the other, stood close by.  He had been shooting them at the squirrels, but he stopped to listen to our conversation.  Leon cuffed him in the back of the head and sent him running for the other end of the park.

“Who told you?” I asked.

“I was outside North School when a mass of cops went into the cemetery.  I followed them and pretended I was praying at a grave so I could hear what they were up to.  That big cop, Dillan, said they found Abel Hilaire down in the hole there.  His head was busted good.  Another cop said he arrested him with Tripaldi and Cloutier and if you two weren’t buried then you knew something about Abel’s grave.”

“They’re batty!” Leon declared and winked at me.

“How would we know anything?” I demanded of Rudy.

“The cops say you do.”

“Well we don’t!” Leon argued.

“Don’t worry yourself, Rudy,” I assured him.  “We’ll get this fixed.”

“Okay,” Rudy nodded, looking from me to Leon as if he was parked in front of a tennis court.

I gave him a punch in the arm and we hurried off along Park Avenue.  Believing that we were going to the police station, Rudy wandered back toward the pond.  We wound through the side streets at a brisk pace.   On Gilman Street, we found an alley to hide in until night fell.

It felt like time had slowed as the sun inches across the sky.  Hours passed and we dozed some.  Finally, darkness blanketed the city and we moved on.  Warily, we crossed St. John Street to the Grand Trunk Railroad Station.  We rushed by the main building and around the back to the tangle of train tracks. 

In short order, were aboard a freight train headed north.  Hours later it rumbled to a stop in the Bangor and Aroostook rail yard in Brownville.  We jumped off and hid out of sight until it departed leaving us behind. 

We stayed in the area around the Brownville rail yard for a day to get food and catch up on sleep.  We were careful to stay well out of sight.  Surely the Portland cops knew we were dodging them, and they might have figured out that we had gone.  Eventually, they were bound to think of the trains as our easiest way out of town. 

We planned to ride the train north into Quebec in Canada.  My mother’s family came from Quebec and I hoped that we would find help there.  I had little faith in the plan, but we didn’t have any better ideas, so it was worth a try.  If they refused us then we would consider enlisting in the Canadian Army and going on to fight in France.  The Canadian’s were like cousins to us.  Fighting for them would be an okay thing.  We could be Canadian heroes just, as well.

Late that night we hopped on another train and continued our trip north.  As it veered to the east, we jumped off at Houlton.  The unexpected easterly route would take the train on to New Brunswick, Canada instead of north to Quebec.  We had boarded the wrong freight car.  There was nothing for us in New Brunswick. 

The town of Houlton was busier and more populated than we had expected.  With money from logging and farming, Houlton was a prosperous place in 1917.  We considered hopping on the next north bound train that came through to continue our trip to Quebec, but the help we hoped for was far from a sure thing.  Quickly, we decided to stay on. 

We became new people, somewhat.  We came up with new names and used them when we introduced ourselves.  Leon became Leonard Bowen and I was Harry Godwin.  With money we obtained, we bought snazzy suits befitting respectable salesmen from southern Maine or even Boston.  Our birthdates changes as well, aging us from 16 to 23 overnight.  Nobody questioned anything that we told them.  They simply allowed us to become new men.

  There would be no more sleeping in box cars, or other uncomfortable places.  We rented a fine room with two large beds, in the classiest boarding house in town.  The beds were soft and the sheets were crisp.  They were the kind of beds that rich men slept in.  Leon and I found easy marks and filled our pockets.  Careful not to get too greedy and tip off anyone, we were living the life we had dreamed of!  Our only regret was that Abel wasn’t there to appreciate it with us.

*

Summer faded and fall rushed in.  Winter was eager to take hold and we considered heading south before the snow began to fly.  It would be good to go someplace where the winter would be less trouble, but we weren’t ready to give up our new lives.  We were enjoying our newfound respectability.  It was an easy decision to stay in Houlton. 

Leon met a good girl and he started to change.  He took an honest job working for her father and announced that he was done with our illegal activities.  I laughed and dismissed it.  He didn’t mean it, he was just getting into the fantasy life we had made.  It was forgivable and I would be patient. 

  While Leon played the good boy, I was left on my own more of the time.  I didn’t like it much.  The grifting was harder without him.  It made me miss Abel too.  I swam against the tide for a few months before I gave in.   Grudgingly, I accepted a job in the office, alongside Leon. 

We were working six days a week and sitting in church every Sunday morning, like most of the town did.  The people of Houlton thought of us as reputable men, and that was something we never had before.  It made the whole charade worth it.  Our past transgressions were behind us and we looked forward to good lives.   

Leon surprised me when he proposed marriage to Mildred Peavey the following spring.  She agreed to become Mrs. Leonard Bowen and started working on plans for a big affair in October.  Mildred was already 24 and in danger of becoming a spinster.  She wasn’t a stunning beauty, but she was a smart lady and she didn’t ask too many questions.

Mildred introduced me to her cousin Cordelia Burnes.  She was prettier than Mary Pickford and I liked her from the first.  I struggled with all of the social rules we were forced to honor.  I had never been one to follow social customs and it made me feel caged.  Back in Portland we chose the loose women who would drink with us and share a mattress for the night.  The rubrics of courting a lady from a proper family were maddening.

Leon and Mildred were married in October.  The good reverend announced that they were Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Bowen.  I wondered if God cared that the church recorded the falsehood.  We had done so many things that were far worse.  I suspected that he was not surprised by any of our misdeeds.

Mildred’s father gave Leon the deed to a fine house where he and his bride would live.  It was furnished with all of the trappings of a proper dwelling.  It felt like a funeral home to me, but Leon didn’t mind.  He had transformed into an honest citizen.  I missed my old friend and accomplice. 

Leon had changed but not so much so that he’d forgotten me.  He frequently suggested that he and Mildred chaperone for her cousin Cordelia and me.  He was a good and loyal friend to me.  After an evening at the moving picture show or a good dinner, I could count on Leon to distract his Mrs.  While he kept her occupied, I led Cordelia to a private place where I could convince her to let me have my way with her.  I told her I planned to make her my wife and that satisfied her moral concerns.

In truth, I was growing tired of playing the role of Harry Godwin.  I missed the exciting life I had lived.  Leon was mellowing too quickly.  How long would it be before the babies started coming, and he would be bound to that place for good.  He’d be strolling in the park with his family on Saturday evening and sitting up front in the church on Sunday morning.  In time, he’d likely become a deacon in the church, as well.

That was not the life for me.  I felt like a wild animal locked in a small cage, lacking the room to turn around and scratch myself if need be.  Cordelia was no better than the other girls even if she was a beauty.  She cried and told me I’d ruined her for marriage with another man.  According to the rules of society, I was obliged to make her my wife.  She mistakenly believed that I had a sense of honor.

I began thinking of where I might go and what I would do when I left Houlton.  Leon announced their first child was coming in only a few months.  I was happy for him, but I didn’t care to witness the further domestication of my friend.  I began hinting about my plans to go.  That didn’t set well with Cordelia.  She dug her claws in deeper and hung on for dear life.