Half a year ago I shared the first chapter of the novel I'm kinda sorta working on, inspired by my cousin, by his death, and by the stories we used to tell each other. It's kind of interesting to write what now seems like it has to count as a period piece, being set in October of 2004. Am I really that old? And then, last month, I shared the prologue, because, you know, pirates.
Well, if you're interested, here's the second chapter. No pirates this time, But it's got a surprise at the end. If I can keep up the current pace, you'll be able to read the next chapter some time next month.
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| Different pirates. |
Well, if you're interested, here's the second chapter. No pirates this time, But it's got a surprise at the end. If I can keep up the current pace, you'll be able to read the next chapter some time next month.
Chapter 2
October 12, 2004
Jim Kelley pulled his eyes off the dusty, cobweb-filled ceiling beams of the old carriage house and turned his
attention back to the young man listlessly stirring the mortar beside him.
It was early, and the chill in the air was a constant reminder that summer was gone. Even the summer season was officially over, as of yesterday, Columbus Day. Once, Jim recalled, the summer tourist season ended with Labor Day in September. But at some point, some genius had decided that the tourist season should go until Columbus Day.
Whatever keeps the tourists coming in, thought Jim.
They should have finished this job almost a week ago, but a lot of the outside work had been delayed by a series of thunder storms, just bad luck, and this new kid hadn’t shown Kelley much in the way of promise.
It was early, and the chill in the air was a constant reminder that summer was gone. Even the summer season was officially over, as of yesterday, Columbus Day. Once, Jim recalled, the summer tourist season ended with Labor Day in September. But at some point, some genius had decided that the tourist season should go until Columbus Day.
Whatever keeps the tourists coming in, thought Jim.
They should have finished this job almost a week ago, but a lot of the outside work had been delayed by a series of thunder storms, just bad luck, and this new kid hadn’t shown Kelley much in the way of promise.
“C’mon,
kid,” he shouted. “We gotta get this done.”
The kid
didn’t look up. “What's the hurry?"
"What's the hurry?" Jim shot back. "The hurry is we got to get this job done by the weekend. This ain't some guy's man-cave, this is Astors freaking Beechwood. And they got a big thing happening this Saturday. And they're not paying us to take our sweet time. Now get moving!"
Jim walked out of the carriage house and stood in the driveway beside his pickup truck. He hated yelling at the kid, but Jim needed to get him motivated somehow.
"What's the hurry?" Jim shot back. "The hurry is we got to get this job done by the weekend. This ain't some guy's man-cave, this is Astors freaking Beechwood. And they got a big thing happening this Saturday. And they're not paying us to take our sweet time. Now get moving!"
Jim walked out of the carriage house and stood in the driveway beside his pickup truck. He hated yelling at the kid, but Jim needed to get him motivated somehow.
He didn't usually do historical renovation jobs, not like this, where the emphasis was on keeping as much of the original materials as possible, but he'd done a few, and the money on this one was something he couldn't say no to. And hell, you couldn't do a half dozen jobs in a place like Newport without running into something that was built two hundred years ago. Historical preservation was one of those annoying things that went with the territory
Still, this job was different for him. Astors Beechwood was a big league tourist attraction, one of the named Newport Mansions that lined famous Bellevue Avenue. It was unique, in that is was one of the few mansions open to the public that wasn't owned by the Newport Preservation Society, which owned properties like the Breakers, Marble House, the Elms. No, Beechwood was privately owned, and it showed.
Rather than a boring tour guide, visitors to Beechwood were shown around by people who acted like it was still 1900. They dressed, talked, totally acted like they were living more than a century in the past. God help you if you pulled out a cell phone, they'd probably burn you as a witch. It was what they called "living history," and Jim had seen it before. He'd taken the family up to Plimouth Plantation and Old Sturbridge Village. Stupid, if you asked him. Hokey. Just talk normal. It's the twenty-first century!
This job had been presented as something that needed doing in a hurry. Someone had come across a story about a party that had been held here by John Jacob Astor IV exactly one hundred years ago, in 1904, and had decided that recreating that party would be the perfect end to the summer season. Even though they were holding the party in the middle of October. They'd decided that they would need the carriage house renovated for the party, which was a bit of a problem, since the carriage house wasn't a normal part of the tour, was mostly storage these days, and had been renovated so many times over the past century that it was totally out of character from the rest of the mansion.
Which was how Jim had gotten the job. He'd needed to peel back all the layer of renovation and bring the carriage house back to the kind of look it might have had back in 1904. They'd already peeled back decades of shoddy workmanship: rotted wood, veneer, faux marble, back to the original bricks, which were threatening to come apart as the mortar disintegrated with the slightest touch.
Still, this job was different for him. Astors Beechwood was a big league tourist attraction, one of the named Newport Mansions that lined famous Bellevue Avenue. It was unique, in that is was one of the few mansions open to the public that wasn't owned by the Newport Preservation Society, which owned properties like the Breakers, Marble House, the Elms. No, Beechwood was privately owned, and it showed.
Rather than a boring tour guide, visitors to Beechwood were shown around by people who acted like it was still 1900. They dressed, talked, totally acted like they were living more than a century in the past. God help you if you pulled out a cell phone, they'd probably burn you as a witch. It was what they called "living history," and Jim had seen it before. He'd taken the family up to Plimouth Plantation and Old Sturbridge Village. Stupid, if you asked him. Hokey. Just talk normal. It's the twenty-first century!
This job had been presented as something that needed doing in a hurry. Someone had come across a story about a party that had been held here by John Jacob Astor IV exactly one hundred years ago, in 1904, and had decided that recreating that party would be the perfect end to the summer season. Even though they were holding the party in the middle of October. They'd decided that they would need the carriage house renovated for the party, which was a bit of a problem, since the carriage house wasn't a normal part of the tour, was mostly storage these days, and had been renovated so many times over the past century that it was totally out of character from the rest of the mansion.
Which was how Jim had gotten the job. He'd needed to peel back all the layer of renovation and bring the carriage house back to the kind of look it might have had back in 1904. They'd already peeled back decades of shoddy workmanship: rotted wood, veneer, faux marble, back to the original bricks, which were threatening to come apart as the mortar disintegrated with the slightest touch.
Jim checked his watch. The kid moved slow, but he guessed they'd still finish on time, which was good. He didn't want any unexpected late nights this week. He wanted to get home in time to watch the Sox game. Playoffs. Against the Yankees, even. Can't beat that.
At least, he reflected, traffic wouldn't be bad. Like many Newporters, Jim had a complicated love-hate relationship with the tourist industry that doubled the city’s population every summer. Newport’s economy had become more and more dependent on tourist dollars, especially as the Navy’s presence had decreased. Now, the sailors wandering the stores by the waterfront owned their own yachts and the stores had gone from bars and tattoo parlors to nightclubs and upscale designer clothing boutique. But on the other hand, traffic turned into gridlock for five months out of the year, prices went up, and the bars would suddenly charge you twenty bucks just to get in the door. Still, without the money the tourists brought in, Kelley wouldn’t have a job, let alone his own business.
At least, he reflected, traffic wouldn't be bad. Like many Newporters, Jim had a complicated love-hate relationship with the tourist industry that doubled the city’s population every summer. Newport’s economy had become more and more dependent on tourist dollars, especially as the Navy’s presence had decreased. Now, the sailors wandering the stores by the waterfront owned their own yachts and the stores had gone from bars and tattoo parlors to nightclubs and upscale designer clothing boutique. But on the other hand, traffic turned into gridlock for five months out of the year, prices went up, and the bars would suddenly charge you twenty bucks just to get in the door. Still, without the money the tourists brought in, Kelley wouldn’t have a job, let alone his own business.
It all came back to these mansion, Jim reflected, turning his attention from the small carriage house, nearly hidden behind a stand of trees, to the main Beechwood mansion. Compared to some of the other Bellevue Mansions, Beechwood was nearly reserved. It fairly gleamed in October sunshine, but had none of the over-the-top architectural touches of mansions that were built later, with the touches of French or Italian elegance. It looked a little like a modest house that had been added to over and over again over the years to turn it into a mansion, which was pretty close to Beechwood's actual history. Beechwood was built in 1851, but massively renovated for by the Astors after they bought it in 1881, one of the first mansions of what they would call the Gilded Era. "They," in this case, being Mark Twain, who coined the phrase to refer to how the newly rich tycoons of the late 1800s seemed to cover everything in gold, only to hide the rot and corruption underneath. And as the rich realized they had more money than they knew what to do with, they came to Newport, and started building their modest "summer cottages," sprawling mansions that other, less rich people would come from miles around just to get a look at. It was the beginning of a kind of golden age for Newport, when the city let the super-rich do whatever they wanted.
So different from now, Jim thought sardonically.
Suddenly,
from behind him, he heard the kid let out a shout of surprise. He spun around just in time to see his
employee running out of the carriage house and out across the estate lawn. Jim shouted after him, “Get back here, or
you’re fired!” The kid didn’t even look
back, just kept running.
Cursing, Jim turned his attention back to the carriage house, walking slowly back inside. Now empty, the large, open space of the carriage house had a solemn, eerie
quality he hadn’t noticed earlier.
The sun did not reach far enough in to banish all the shadows, and a
gloom hung in the corners. Jim thought for a moment he could feel a palpable heaviness, some hard-to-describe
pressure in his gut, the kind of twisting stomach people might associate with
seeing some gruesome image, but here, it just floated on the air.
He
shook his head, told himself that his mind was just playing games, and walked to
the wall where the kid had been working.
Probably some raccoon, he thought. It wasn’t uncommon for some animal to dig its
way into decaying walls and to build a nice nest for itself in that in-between
space. Probably scared the raccoon as much as the kid. He looked at the black hole in the wall where
a dozen bricks had been pulled away and stacked neatly on the floor. It was too dark to see inside. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and
shone it into the empty space.
The
light illuminated the dull yellowish white of a human skull, bits of skin and hair still clinging to
its rounded dome, and the glint of metal from a knife blade protruding from the
vertebrae of its neck.
Jim jumped backwards, dropped the flashlight, and ran out of the carriage house. Once out in the sunshine, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and breathlessly called 911.
Jim jumped backwards, dropped the flashlight, and ran out of the carriage house. Once out in the sunshine, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and breathlessly called 911.
