Prime Mover

I’d spent the evening after a hurried dinner wrapping last-minute Christmas presents bought the weekend just before that unforgettable Thursday. While taking an antacid to settle the battle between my stomach and the chili burritos I had forced upon it, I phoned for a cab. I kept an eye on the clock as I retaped a gift intended for my nephew – a Patriot’s jersey with Eason’s name and number on the back. It had been two years since the Super Bowl drubbing at the paws of the Bears, but New Englanders still kept up hope. After waiting for decades for the Red Sox to win it all again, patience was one virtue Boston fans were well acquainted with. Knowing the cab would be running at least fifteen minutes later than the eight o’clock arrival per my request, I would have plenty of time to change my clothes and rehearse my story.

Of course ‘rehearse’ might not be the proper term. I didn’t need time to get my facts straight or anything. I mean, I wasn’t preparing an alibi or an elaborate lie, but I was going to tell a tale that I had never told anyone before. Not that it was something one should be ashamed of, nor was it some vast secret. On the contrary, I felt this tale of mine would rank right up there with the best I had heard at the club. It was perfect for that particular evening, that was why I had been bold enough to volunteer as that year’s holidays entertainer. Instead of Dickens and his ghosts, it would be me who would haunt their visions of sugar plums with a Christmas witch story!

Just as I had known, I stood in the lobby of my Fifth Avenue apartment building an half-hour before the taxi pulled into view. I thanked God I had worn my flannel undies to go with the insulated L.L. Bean gear I had donned that night to keep the New York winter night at bay. The howling wind, whipping my scarf to give me the appearance of an old-time aviator, nearly ripped the cab’s door out of my grasp as I rushed to get in. The walk had been cleared by the time I had come home from work, but in the interim nearly three more inches had fallen. Pedestrians, what few who braved the below-zero wind-chill, picked their steps carefully as they trudged along wrapped like mummies.

“249 East 35th Street, driver,” I told the cabbie, my breath puffing out smoke-like in the refrigorated air of the car. “And please turn up your heater, it’s freezing in here.”

“Sorry pal, it’s on the fritz,” he said in an accent more Back Bay than mine. “It’s just like these city plow jockeys, it only works when I threaten it,” he spoke to me by way of his rearview mirror. “Just think of all the poor schmucks having to hoof it tonight. It’ll help you gain some perspective,” he finished with a satisfied snort.

“I’ll do that,” I answered with a stare colder than the frosted windows. “I’ll also keep your tip to buy myself a steaming cup of cappuccino. I can sip it as I’m gaining my new perspective,” I quipped with an even more sufficing smile.

Ignoring the returned dirty look, I took advantage of the ensuing silence to further recall all the details of my intended tale. I was becoming apprehensive, and I must admit it now, somewhat doubtful. Again, not about my ability to tell it or the possible embarrassment of speaking in front of so many people – although, public speaking has not been one of my strong suits. I must fess up to that. No, it was more of a growing hesitation, a surfacing doubt that I may not really believe the story myself. It involved details of which I never observed first hand. In actuality, it was my dad’s story. He had been the one who had experienced all its fantastical details, I only the expectant recipient of the outcome. Dad had lived through the nightmare, I could only share in his experience by getting the cold sweats second hand. His going through the ordeal was an act of fortitude, my trusting in his voracity had to be an act of blind faith.

We pulled up to the brownstone as I was still wool-gathering. “Night’s not getting any younger, pal,” the cabbie startled me back to the present.

“Sorry, driver, I was back in 1967 there for a minute,” I apologized. With the car in park, he actually turned around and faced me this time, probably to see whether I was trying to get a rise out of him.

“Yeah. Well, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but it’s two decades later, and it’s too damn late on a piss-poor night to be reminiscing about the Summer of Love. I’ve got people waitin’ on me,” he motioned toward his C.B radio.

Reluctantly, I got out of his cab after handing him a ten. He only grunted, but I could see both surprise and pleasure in his eyes. “Thanks, mister. Any time. Just ask for Ernie Yerzy.” I watched him out of sight as his tail lights vanished in the swirling snow. My reluctance stemmed more from the view of the outside of the brownstone that from my revulsion to the prospect of getting out into the weather again. Each time I came to that door, no matter if it was the first time, in which case I was the guest of Mr. Andrews, or the one hundredth time, I always got that feeling I got back when we trick-or-treated that one house all the kids said to stay away from. We all knew that it was lived in, but we didn’t know by who…or what!

I recalled that first time vividly. After being picked up by Mr. Andrews, we had stood in front of that uninviting door together for maybe thirty seconds at the most, but for me time seemed to be totally irrelevant. For that brief period of less than a minute, time, to me, was just a concept applicable in some other universe. Looking over at Mr. Andrews, he with his ginger-colored beard streaked with much more gray now than when I had first met him, helped to ease some of my apprehension. Not just that expected disquiet one feels going into an unfamiliar social situation, but that queer feeling of impending doom. That certainty that one was about to come face-to-face with some indescribable creature that lurked now just behind that forbidding door.

Standing in the winter wasteland of New York City’s 35th Street, I steeled myself to knock – something I had never done before; something I had never seen anyone do. But, this time, just as it had on that first visit and every one in between, the door opened to invite me into the relatively cozy interior of our club. Yet, to enter might be tempting fate more than taking one’s chances by staying out in the frozen gale! The lady or the lion? Heads you win, tails I lose. In the end it didn’t really matter, you knew standing still was always a fate worse than death.

“Ah, Mr. Silverstein, it’s good to see that you could make it on such a monstrous night,” Stevens greeted me as he took my coat and scarf. “It’s not fit for any man or beast to be out in such a storm, but it would have been…tragic not to have been able to hear your tale this evening,” he stated as he turned away and disappeared to that place only he knew where our garments were kept.

My gazed followed him until he melted into the shadows. Still shivering slightly, I directed my steps down the hall toward the main room’s fireplace whose flames reflected off the mahogany panels. It was still early, so only three of the others were there. Old man Waterhouse dozed in a dark corner recliner, a mostly-drunk hot toddy rested precariously on the arm of the chair. On the other side of the room, illuminated by a shaded floor lamp, Johanssen read his Wall Street Journal. He had been predicting a ‘major adjustment’ for months, and in October his horse had finally come in. Afterwards, you couldn’t speak to him on any other subject without the stock crash being brought up. He relished his astute acumen. But it was also said that he had lost a bundle. He gave the paper a quick rattle as he looked up at me. “Gold and platinum, both going up, Silverstein. What did I tell you after Thanksgiving, Fred?”

He picked up a copy of Money magazine as I noticed Mr. Andrews coming back into the room from the library. “Up for a quick game of chess, Fred?” he asked me motioning toward the board. “I’ve been wanting to try that new opening on you, so pull up a chair.”

“Give me a couple of minutes, Peter,” I assured him. “I need to check on a couple of things first.” Before I could start for the library, Stevens was at my elbow.

“A Manhattan, sir, extra wet, the way you prefer,” he held the tray out to me with a towel draped over his arm.

“Why, thank you Stevens. One step ahead of me, as always,” I took up the offered tumbler. I took a sip immediately, more for his benefit than mine. “Perfect! Just like always,” I tipped him a wink. “Only one other thing would be better on a night like this, and that would be a…”

“Pardon me, Mr. Silverstein, but I took the liberty of making you a hot cup of jasmine green tea, also,” Stevens inserted with the slight slip of a smile.



“…a hot cup of tea,” I finished. After an awkward silence, I said something that had crossed my mind more than once in reference to our host: “Why, Stevens. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you can read minds.”

He only returned that closed-coffin look of his. “So glad you appreciate it, sir.”

“Mr. Andrews, ready for another Scotch, neat, sir?”

“Why, yes, Stevens. That would be capital.”

As Stevens left the room – but only after taking the nearly-empty glass off Waterhouse’s chair – Mr. Andrews and I exchanged a knowing glance. Had Stevens meant that I appreciated his sterling service, or that I had correctly guessed at his secret ability?

Stevens’ demeanor and dress were always staid and conservative, but never quite formal. His appearance suggested a funeral director more than that of a butler. Although he did bear a striking resemblance to Lurch of Addams Family fame, there wasn’t anything comical about him. The interior of the club offered only indirect lighting, but you could always mark his eyes and the grim set of his mouth. Looking into those steel-gray eyes was like staring down into a depthless well. You wouldn’t dream of dropping in a stone to measure the distance or disturb the surface, for fear of awakening the things that lied beneath. And his locked lips and set, hanging-judge jaw betrayed a person who thoughts would be of things and places and times that would hold no meaning to us of this universe.

His own universe consisted only of the sandstone and the rooms that occupied its vast interior. And just how extensive was our club? I don’t think anyone knew. I believe that only Stevens himself really knew all its passages and parlors and portals. Yes, doorways. And not just exits to the outside world that you and I are familiar with, but openings to other worlds, perhaps. One of which lead to that place Stevens called home.

I continue to refer to it as that: a club. But not one of us, its ‘members’, has ever openly called it that. Nor do any of us carry a membership card, or one of those symbolic keys or some other such token of association. And, unlike the Elks or Rotary, not one of us, that I know of, has ever paid dues or fees of any kind. How the bills got paid, or who paid Stevens’ salary, or where the money for upkeep came from is lost on me. Yet, considering all the strange things that I have learned over the years associated with the ‘club’, none of us ever discuss them. Asking questions was perhaps the only thing not permitted by the non-existent rule book. We didn’t ask one another, none of us ever quizzed the oldest member of our cadre, Mr. Waterhouse, and no one would ever dare prod Stevens. For when he did smile – rarely – the affectation of humor seemed more for our benefit than his. When he appeared in a more serious mood, his natural disposition, his eyes usually forecasted an approaching storm that you would do well to avoid at all cost.

I walked over to the huge fireplace to better thaw out my frozen fingers and toes as the Manhattan worked its magic to warm me from within. There was no mantle to set the now-empty martini glass on, just an arching stone work with a keystone in the middle bearing this inscription:

IT IS THE TALE, NOT HE WHO TELLS IT

Once again, I thought about my first visit here. On that particular Thursday evening, nearly ten years before, Johanssen had spun a yarn. Watching the flames dance and listening to the sap sing, I tried to recall the story he had told. There had been so many over the years. Some sentimentally sad. Some so side-splittingly hilarious that you feared you’d wet yourself or hyperventilate. And some were the kind that chilled you to the bone. So much so, that even this roaring infernal of a fire would be hard pressed to defrost your soul.

Before I lost myself in thought all together, I moved into the library to satisfy my curiosity. I needed to know this one thing before I entertained my friends with my tale of curses, hexes and retribution. Passing the billiard room, I heard the faint click of someone practicing cushion shots. There was really nothing extraordinary about this room that I ever noticed. On the contrary, it contained an assortment of different types of tables that you would find at any first-rate pool parlor. But the entrance to this room did stand out a bit. The easiest way to describe it would be to have you picture a Dutch door. But just the bottom half of that Dutch door! You’d have to be a munchkin to be able to just walk through normally.

“That had been it,” I mumbled to myself. Johanssen’s story had been about the time his parents had taken him and his brother to see The Wizard of Oz. He had remembered having nightmares about the flying monkeys (who didn’t!?!). But that was nothing compared to his brother’s ordeal. Up to that day, he had been a perfectly normal five-year old. Yet, on the following morning his brother had awoken babbling about ‘dying last night, dying last night’ and repeating endlessly: ‘pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie…’. The doctors declared him clinically insane three days later. Johanssen’s tragedy went on to relate other things said and done by his brother, and about some of the things that went on it their room afterwards that would defy explanation. But I stopped my recollection there. Again, as I said earlier, I had business of my own to attend to.

Upon entering the library from the connecting hall, you would get the feeling of walking out into an ill-lit cave from a dissecting tunnel. The change in the air and the echoes thrown back at you hinted at the enormous size of the room. Stacks rose into the dark like skyscrapers into storm clouds. Smells of leather bindings and musty, moldy pages engulfed you in the gloom. One browsed at the risk of getting lost like Hansel and Gretel in the deep, dark forest. On more than one occasion, I contemplated leaving a bread-crumb trail of torn-out pages behind to find my way back out.

Of all the rooms contained at 249B East 35th Street, I enjoyed the library the most – even though some of its contents could be quite unsettling. Further along the hall, one would encounter a fully-equipped gym, including a sauna and steam room; two regulation-size bowling alleys with automatic pinsetters; an art studio stocked with canvases, oils, pastels and chalks: nearly anything a serious artiste might require; a thoroughly furnished wood-working shop with everything from lumber to lathes provided; and, although I had never seen it personally, a luxurious suite of rooms for guests who couldn’t make it home for whatever reason or who just needed to get away from their usual routine for a while. For myself, I couldn’t picture staying in that place after the witching hour for all the tea in China.

Of course, I knew there had to be other rooms, other floors. Perhaps countless corridors leading, turning, climbing, descending (just thinking of what waited in the basement to be discovered gives me gooseflesh!) and then finally, dead-ending in front of that final door. A door that led to Stevens’ private apartment, perhaps. Or a harmless storage closet. Or maybe, with its ghastly light leaking through the doorframe’s cracks, another world.

For myself, I limited my explorations to those rooms where I was accompanied by whomever had invited me. Mr. Andrews, for a birthday present one year, had meticulously carved an ebony and ivory chess set for me. On a pretext, he had lured me to the wood shop. Without knowing what to say, I stammered something about needing just such a set to practice with in order to beat him soundly. “You’ll need more than this to beat me, Fred, if you continue using that sorry Giucco Piano opening on me,” he had countered. His pleased expression surrendered no hint of the time and hard work I knew it had taken him.

George Gregson created some wonderful charcoal drawings in the art room, and Hugh Beagleman actually bowled a 300 game one night when I and some others were present. Yet, the library was still the only room that fascinated me. I have always been an avid reader, and proudly exhibit my knowledge and familiarity with great literature. So therein lies its attraction, its pull. Not that it contained rare works or first folios or an original Gutenberg Bible – it might, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least – but it did embody works that I could never find anywhere else.

On my second or third visit to the ‘club’, Hugh Beagleman and I found ourselves in a friendly argument about rare Shelby automobiles. The disagreement centered on whether his first Cobras appeared in 1961, my contention, or 1962, his. I was positive I was right, because I remembered praying (beyond reason!) for one for my bar mitzvah. Confidently, Beagleman motioned me toward the library. He knew just the book that would settle the matter. I became less sure of myself as he unhesitantly went straight to a large tome he undoubtedly had referred to many times before. He was right, and I good-naturedly handed him the Lincoln per our wager.

Then, after we had returned to and finished our game of hearts, I repaired to the library, alone this time. I knew that I couldn’t have seen what I thought I’d seen in that car book. While Gerald Tozeman and David Adley congratulated Beagleman on his superior memory, I continued flipping through its alphabetized sections. Shelby…Studebaker…Stutz…Subaru…Takuro! Takuro? That was a new one on me. I got only a few sentences in before they called to me from the doorway to return to the card table for the rubber. Now I wanted to investigate further.

According to A Complete Guide to the World of Automobile Manufacturers, by Stedham & Son Publishing, the Takuro Company of Japan began building cars right after World War II. They were to Japan car making what Volkswagon was to Germany. Their latest model introduced to the public, according to this volume, was the 1977 Spirit. I had never heard of either the car or the company. However, some of their breakthrough innovations and original ideas reminded me of Preston Tucker.

In that first year of my ‘membership’ (if I can call it that) , 1977, few people had ever heard of or could recall the Tucker automobile. But in the year following my Christmas-time Red Sox yarn, 1988, a movie about his life would reintroduce Preston Tucker to American folklore. He shocked the auto industry after the war by advocating a car that came equipped with a rear-mounted engine, all-independent suspension, headlights that turned with the wheels and a fully-sealed water-cooling system. Because of Detroit’s jealousy, and its power, he was prevented from introducing disc brakes, curved windshields and state-of-the-art rubber springs. Due to the ‘establishment’, the only Tucker model to see a show room was the ‘48’. But not according to this extensive encyclopedia. It featured a model called the Talisman built between the years 1950 through 1953. In a way, I found that information more unsettling than the Takuro section.

“Here you are, Mr. Silverstein,” Stevens startled me out of my reverie. He stood at my shoulder dressed in his familiar mess jacket, a tray extended in his left hand. “I’ve been looking for you, sir. Here’s the tea I promised,” he stated flatly in that Brooklyn accent of his. “I’m afraid Mr. Andrews grows quite impatient for his game.”

“Oh…yes. I guess I’ve been longer than I expected. I simply got lost in thought,” I explained, taking the offered drink. “Thank you, Stevens. Tell Mr. Andrews I’ll be with him shortly. I’m just finishing up.”

“Very good, sir. Should I have another Manhattan waiting by the board?”

I nodded, returning my gaze back to the book which was my purpose for coming into the library in the first place.

“A strange time of year to be reading of baseball, sir,” Stevens continued. “Particularly from that book.”

I looked up into his eyes, searching for those storm clouds I dreaded to see coming over the horizon. But I only saw puzzlement. “Ahh…just some research. Curiosity, really,” I smiled back nervously.

I”ll assure Mr. Andrews that you’ll be joining him shortly.”

Before he had gotten very far I called him back. “Yes, Mr. Silverstein? Anything else?”

“You better make that Manhattan a double, Stevens.” He continued to look puzzled, but I could swear there was an added hint of a satisfied smirk lurking in his eyes now. “Very good, sir.”

After watching him exit, running what I had observed of his gaze through an inner barometer, measuring for a possible future cold front, but then persuading myself that he was only truly perplexed not angry, I returned the book on baseball back to its spot in the stacks. My hand trembled slightly. By then I was getting used to it. The inexplicable publications, I mean. Takuros and Talismans. The books by Stedhan & Son (a publisher with no background that I could ever find). The novels by Kafka, The Castle and Amerika, which in this library were actually complete, with endings that I had never even heard rumors of in rough drafts before. And added to all those – plus countless others I won’t burden you with – this latest: American Baseball 1901-1950 – A Half-Century of Legendary Summers. All books that on the outside looked acceptable, relevant to our time and space, but on the inside held facts and figures that left one feeling either the victim of an elaborate hoax or the visitor to another dimension, a parallel universe.

Giving myself a couple of minutes to fully digest what I had just read, I fixed my most winning grin on my face to join Peter Andrews for that promised game of chess. I needed a diversion just then, but I needed that drink much, much more.

“Did you find what you needed?” Andrews asked me as I sat down opposite him across the chess board. Fortifying myself with a sip of the martini, I answered: “More than I wanted to know.” Without looking up at me, he cocked an eyebrow as he reset the pieces to begin our game. Stroking his graying beard, he countered with: “Well, whatever lesson you might think you learned, it will pale compared to the one I’m about to hand you, Fred. Having studied those Bobby Fischer games won’t help you tonight,” Peter smirked.

I had come to work for Andrews, Andrews, Finch and Monroe late in 1973. After graduating from Harvard Law the year before, I hosteled my way through Europe until my money ran out, then returned to look for my future in New York City. My father nearly rolled over in his grave, and he hadn’t even died yet! For him, me, a Bostonian moving to New York for employment was the Babe Ruth story all over again. The only foreseeable outcome would of necessity result in a curse.

An intern’s life is not nearly as glamorous as a part on L.A. Law. Researching past legal briefs;preparing court motions for review; running errands, of both a business and personal nature; refilling coffee cups during late night conferences: I did it all with the same professional attitude. My dad had sacrificed too much for me to merely wing it for a payday. His dream was for me to be a success in life, in both my vocation and my indididuality. My only hope was to make him proud of me. I bided my time and prayed that somebody noticed.

The phone in my cubical rang one day as I was stuffing my briefcase full of weekend work. It was nearly 5:30, so I assumed it was Verinda, my girlfriend, reminding me to hurry home because we were expected at her folk’s for dinner. I was shocked to hear Mr. Andrews’ voice instead. In the just over three years that I had been with the firm I could count the times on one hand that he had called my extension this late. On those occasions, as I believed was the situation this time, he had simply phoned me because everyone else had already left for the day. On the instant of hearing his voice, I knew what my next phone conversation would be comprised of:

“Hey, Verinda…guess what? I’ve got to work late. Some documents need to be transcribed, and the consensus here agrees that I’m the only man capable of the task.” A sigh on the other end, then: “What you mean is, the shit slides downhill.” After a silent chuckle, I respond: “That’s one of the things I love about you, Verinda, you always have that knack of seeing the ‘big picture’. I’m sorry, hon, but this one came from the head honcho. Tell your parents, next weekend, I promise.”

The second shock made the first one worth while. I couldn’t have been more wrong about his motives. “Yes, Silverstein, this is Mr. Andrews. I’m glad to have caught you before you got away.” (Yeah!...I bet. Well, here it comes!) “I’ll be out of town until Wednesday evening, so I wouldn’t have had an opportunity until the last minute. Are you free this coming Thursday night?”

I had been standing while packing my briefcase, this made me sit down. I couldn’t have heard him right. If there was extra work to be done this coming Thursday, I would not be asked if it was convenient for me, and I definitely wouldn’t be asked by Mr. Peter Andrews, senior partner. “Why…sure, Mr. Andrews. I’m always available for the firm. Whatever you need, consider it done.”

I could hear his smile over the receiver. “I certainly believe you…Fred. It’s Fred, right? I know your devotion is unquestionable, and believe me, it’s appreciated. But what I had in mind is rather more…more extracurricular, let us say. I have this…this place I go to on most Thursday evenings. A sort of get-together of like-minded individuals. I understand through my son that you like to play chess; you won some sort of junior grand championship, I believe. I’d love to try out my abilities against you. How about it?”

The ensuing space of silence spun itself out. He had called me Fred. I remembered the first social gathering we had attended together after I had been hired on. He had referred to me as ‘that Springsteen fellow’. Something was going on here, but I didn’t have a clue. Could he be confusing me with someone else? No. His knowledge of my chess background ruled that out. I couldn’t keep him waiting. Every lawyer worth his salt knew that you never showed signs of doubt or hesitation. “Sure, Mr. Andrews. I’d be happy to attend. I’m pleased you thought of me.”

“Great! I wouldn’t have anyone else! I’ll pick you up at your place, around 8:00. Thank you, and have a pleasant weekend.”

I must have stared at the phone for two full minutes after hanging up. “She’ll never believe me,” I said out loud.

Ten years had somehow slipped by between that unexpected phone call and this chess game. I had worked my way up to junior partner, and Mr. Andrews (I couldn’t bring myself to address him any other way until I had belonged to the club for nearly two years) was now semi-retired. Many conversations had taken place, many games of chess had been played, and yes, many tales had been told. Yet, one thing still bothered me.

“Are you going to castle, or do something a little more daring?” Peter plied, taking a satisfying sip of his straight scotch. “Staring at the pieces isn’t going to change their positions.”

I looked him in the eye, meaning to just have it out, then picked up my king, only to put it down back in its original place. I played with the onion in my drink, then sat the glass down with a sigh.

Andrews pushed himself away from the board and eased further back into the leather-upholstered Queen Anne chair. His level look reminded me of my first job evaluation. As then, I found it hard to match his gaze. “You really did get in over your head in there,” he motioned toward the library with the hand holding the tumbler. “Now, I know it’s probably not a good idea to delve too deeply, but…would you like to talk about it? In generalities, at least,” he finished in his best lawyerly fashion.

I knew what he meant, and almost took him up on it just to avoid the more unpleasant true source of my distraction. “Oh…oh, no. It’s not that. I’ve already compartmentalized that information (I showed him that I too could speak diplomatically). But there’s something else I would like to ask you, Peter,” continuing the posture of elbows on knees, my chin cupped in both hands.

“By all means, Fred. Get it off your chest,” he returned, putting down his glass.

“Well…it’s just this. Do you remember the day you asked me here for the first time?”

He nodded, with a more guarded look in his eyes. “Yes.”

“I have to admit, and I’m sure I’ve told you this story more than once over the years, I was absolutely stunned when you proffered that invitation. I mean, put yourself in my shoes. I’m sure you can understand my astonishment at the time. I don’t think I said a dozen words to you in the car on the way here – I felt like a school kid being invited into their teacher’s house for milk and cookies. I didn’t know what to say, how to act. And then, after we got here, I felt like that same kid, only a little older, suddenly thrust into a formal cocktail party.”

“We all get nervous in similar situations, Fred,” Peter interrupted, dropping his guard a bit. I apparently wasn’t going to broach the subject he feared most (careful, Peter, that’s how I always get you in chess – I divert your attention to the king side with a lazy move while I’m closing in for the kill on the queen side).

“Oh, I admit I loosened up a bit after a while. My first drink… it’s uncanny how Stevens gets my Manhattan perfect every time…it got me half the way there. Then I noticed how at ease everyone was. There was none of the formality or standoffishness I had expected. After meeting and chatting with some of the others, I felt right at home. Then Johanssen told that story about his brother, you remember the one. It was then that I think I got a clear picture of what this is all about, what we’re all about.”

Andrews stiffened. He had been lulled. His gaze had drifted to a spotover my head, but now he refocused on me. “Careful, Fred. Let’s not be telling tales out of school,” he warned me mildly while casting about for the whereabouts of Stevens, no doubt. “Let’s not rock the boat, as they say. That’s all I mean.”

I gave him that knowing look that we had exchanged earlier that evening. “You mistook my meaning, Peter. What I was going to say is that we’re not a bunch of stuffy old codgers sitting around telling stories about how we made our first million, or about past conquests, or about the women who used to throw themselves at our feet. No. We’re more like a bunch of kids telling stories around a campfire. Whether you call them ‘funny tales’, as Stevens refers to them, or uncanny or silly or scary or whatever, it comes down to the same thing. We do it to make others laugh so hard that their drinks squirt through their noses, or to make them stop and think about what might have been, or, our favorite, to make them lie awake in the wee hours of the night wondering what that sound just outside the tent had been. We’re sadists, Peter, pure and simple.”

He gave me that grin he always flashes before saying: ‘Checkmate!’ “Is that what was bothering you?” he prodded. “Are you afraid of the fact that maybe, maybe mind you, we feed off each other’s fears and weaknesses. He leaned forward and kindly slapped my shoulder. “It’s too late to rationalize, now. You’ll never take over the firm until you realize that that’s the name of the game.”

Before I could respond, Stevens reentered the room from the shadows carrying an enormous charger holding a plate of piping hot sausages and his equally famous spiced eggnog punch. “Come gentlemen, it’s time to get into the holiday mood,” he remonstrated, clapping his hands.

Men started rearranging their chairs closer to the fire, while others emerged from whatever other room they had been entertaining themselves in as if drawn by a siren’s singing. When Stevens wielded his conductor’s wand, we followed his lead.

“Come on Fred, we need to lighten up a bit,” Andrews nearly sprang out of his seat.

“No, wait, Peter,” I grabbed him gently by the elbow. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me, again. I didn’t really mean to get off on that tangent about what motivates us to come here. What I was driving at…what I was trying to ask is more personal than that.”

He touched my hand that was holding him by the arm, then looked at the gathering crowd as if longing to escape. As if it offered his only means of escape from the trap I was about to spring on him. “This can wait for another time, Fred. I think we’ve said enough. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, hmm,” he finished, turning to face me fully.

My first instinct told me not to just drop it. I needed to ask now, for I would never get another opportunity. Peter would make sure of that. I wanted to blurt it out: “Why me, Peter? Of all the people you know, your influential friends, your rich clients, and, my God Peter, your own son. Of everyone that you could have asked to come here, why had you chosen me?” Because I was the only one from the firm or his family that he had ever invited here.

But Andrews would not have to face cross-examination that night, for as the question balanced on the end of my tongue, I noticed Stevens staring at me as he passed out brandy snifters. His eyes bore right through me. It was as if he was trying to hypnotize my soul instead of my conscious mind. In that instant I was aware of only two things: those battleship-gray eyes and the ticktocking grandfather clock marking eternity in the shadowy hallway. It’s pendulum sweeps matched the beats of my heart. Right then, without a doubt in the world, I knew he could stop one just as easily as the other. He would simply hide me away in one of those unexplored rooms where I would slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y wind down like that un-minded clock.

With all my will, I tore away from that gaze to answer Andrews: “Sure, Peter. Whatever you say. You’re the boss!”

We walked over to join the others. After a cup of the eggnog and a couple of those delicious sausages, my disquieting thoughts involving Stevens dissipated as quickly as the smoke rising up the chimney. I observed my fellows through the filtered lens of memory.

There sat Waterhouse, fully awake now, refreshed from his nap. I remembered two years ago, how he had hinted at hiring me away from Andrews. That had been the Christmas when he told of his son’s nightmare of being stalked by the Quaker Oats mascot who had stepped out of his bedroom dresser’s mirror one morning. I had actually seriously considered his offer until he killed the deal by offering me Yankees season tickets.

Waterhouse was talking to his protégé, David Adley. One year, Adley had entertained the group with a tale of a bewitched black cat that would suddenly begin speaking Mandarin Chinese. It’s owner, a family friend of his, would have to feed it Chow Main for days afterward, it wouldn’t touch anything else. David and I would spend hours together in the library. He directed my attention to a group of novels by an Edward Gray Seville, and I, wanting to return the favor, told him of some existential verses by a poet named Mark Dallas Hardy. Neither of these writer’s works existed anywhere else except in the library at 249B East 35th Street.

Here came Johanssen, his stocks and bonds forgotten temporarily in favor of his Christmas stocking. I’m sure his brother had finally failed to wake up to announce ‘I died last night’ long ago. I caught myself wondering if he could ever eat a piece of pumpkin pie. He accepted a brandy from Stevens gratefully while slipping him something inconspicuously. I knew what it was, nevertheless.

“Happy Christmas, Stevens,” I wished him as he handed me my own snifter. “And many more,” I added, as I tipped him a $100.00 bill. It was the only time of year when currency was openly seen. “Thank you, Mr. Silverstein. Happy Holidays to you and yours, sir,” he returned, accepting the offered bill in exchange for a small envelope; an envelope which I would need to start this year’s tale.

With the last sausage consumed and the level of the eggnog punch bowl considerably lower, the hum of scattered conversation started to die with the fire. Peter threw on a new log of spiced wood. Sparks swirled up the flue. Watching the re-energized flames leap and dance, I thought of the witch’s accused ancestors. In the sound of the howling wind rattling the windows, I fancied I could hear their pleading moans for mercy that fell on the deaf, unforgiving ears of their fellow Salem residents. The hissing sap and snapping knots became their searing flesh and boiling bone marrow. I imagined the heat of the fire magnified, amplified to that point where the pain would suddenly extinguish itself for the fact that even the nerve endings would burn out. Holding my hand to the flames, I meditated on their suffering. I wondered if the looks they saw on the faces of their executioners matched ours as we gaped hungrily into the fire.

With elbows on knees, leaning forward as if to move a perilously placed piece to a safer square, I threw the seed-packet sized envelope into the inferno. I made my offering to an offended power as those Salem citizens must have believed they were doing. The flames sequenced through colors, bathing our faces in soundless fireworks: yellow, like a school crossing sign; grotesque green, changing us all momentarily into Frankenstein’s monsters; bright red, splattering us in blood; then some that I could draw no comparison to. With the ritual completed, the proper spell cast, I was ready to tell my tale of cursed teams, hexed baseball players, vengeful witches and the age-old story of misplaced retribution.

“I’ll call my tale: The Real Curse of the Boston Red Sox for lack of a more colorful title, because it has nothing to do with Harry Frazee selling Babe Ruth to the Yankees and the resulting, so-called, Curse of the Bambino. God knows, what the Yankees did to The Babe after he got too old to play broke his heart a lot worse than what that deal could have done.”

“As most of you know, my father went to work for the Red Sox back in 1946. He had met Ted Williams three years previously, as they served together during the war. Although my dad couldn’t hit a ball to save his life, Ted promised to get him a job in some capacity with the organization. And when you hit .400 in the majors, you pretty much got what you wanted. Well, dad arrived in Boston in March of that year, and…”

It’s not my purpose to relate that story in full at this time. Just to whet your appetite, though, I’ll only say it involves the famous ‘held ball’ play of game seven of that year’s World Series against the Cardinals. When Pesky got the relay from Culberson then turned to fire the ball to home plate, why did he hesitate? What do you think he saw? Or maybe, what didn’t he see? Then there’s the Billy Buckner play at first during game six of the ’86 Series against the Mets. We all saw that on television. You don’t really believe that could have happened without some sort of outside influence, do you?

I thought about those instances and all the other heartbreaking moments of Red Sox history in a completely different light as I was leaving the club that night, though. Because, according to that book I had referred to, the Red Sox had went bankrupt during the Depression. Then, after the war, a new team named the Warlocks had come to town. I think Stevens and the witch held season tickets. Box 13.



Just a note:

Most of the characters and setting are the creation of Stephen King; the story is my own.

--Bruce Chaney