Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (17 page)

Chapter Eighteen

At ten and three-quarters, Justin Bradshaw was old enough to know that the white-bearded man in the red suit on whose lap he now sat was employed by the Leader Bargain Store, but he’d insisted on visiting him. Bradshaw had chosen Leader’s rather than the Bon Marché because he hadn’t wanted to enter the big store today. He was taking the entire day off from work.

“And what is it you want for Christmas? A fine red wagon? A shiny new bicycle? Or are you a musical lad? A piano or violin to make merry?”

A piano? thought Bradshaw. Did this Santa work on commission?

“No, I don’t want anything from the store.” Justin put a hand to his mouth and whispered. Santa’s eyes opened wide and he looked at Bradshaw questioningly. “Well now, I will see what can be done. How about I have the elves make you something special, a model train set, just in case, eh?”

“No, thank you. That’s all I want.” He stood up and relinquished the jolly man’s knee to the next child, a girl of about four, with a massive pink ribbon on top of her head, who didn’t seem sure she wanted to sit there.

Bradshaw asked Justin, “What next? The lunch counter?”

“Really? But it’s Advent.”

“That’s true, I hadn’t forgotten.” While Catholic children didn’t fast during the season, they were expected to perform works of penance, just as they did at Lent. The penance usually included giving up some favored treat, such as candy, and the practice made Christmas morning all the sweeter. “You’ll have to abstain from soda, but a modest meal at your favorite lunch counter is within the spirit of the season. It’s part of the preparation for celebration. As long as we don’t overindulge, we get to do anything we want today.”

“Anything?”

“Anything that won’t put us on Santa’s naughty list. Or Mrs. Prouty’s.”

Bradshaw did his best to make it a jolly day. It was a distinct effort to set aside his worries, but the happiness on his son’s face made it worthwhile. He had no appetite and was grateful that Justin didn’t seem to notice. As he’d explained to Justin, in keeping with Advent their day was one of preparing for the holiday to come. They purchased a few gifts at the stores to supplement the most treasured gifts they would exchange, those that were homemade. They each dropped a coin in the Salvation Army kettle, and Justin chose the toys, which they purchased and delivered to the Women’s Society, which was collecting them for the city’s poor children. They strolled through McCarthy’s, Spelger & Hurlbut, and every other store but the Bon. They marveled at all the decorations, stopped to listen to music played by musicians on street corners and inside the stores, and they examined all the latest novelties. At Bartell Drugs, Justin became serious and asked his father to wait outside for him, and he emerged with a small brown-paper bundle, which Bradshaw knew not to ask about. Their final purchases were from a farmer off his wagon. They selected a wreath for the front door that Justin would decorate, boughs of greenery, a canvas sack of prickly holly, and a Christmas tree—a Douglas fir—which, they were promised, was freshly cut that very morning. All to be delivered before the end of the day.

By early evening, the tree stood on the back porch in a bucket of water where it would remain until Christmas Eve, being subjected to Mrs. Prouty’s vigorous shakings to rid it of spiders. The decorations waited in a box in the corner. Delicate glass ornaments in a variety of shapes and colors. Handmade ornaments of paper and ribbon that Justin had made, more delicate ornaments of silk and glass made by Mrs. Prouty and Missouri, and a few small wooden birds and angels, carved by Henry.

Bradshaw was pleasantly exhausted. A day with a child, no matter how enjoyable, taxed a man’s physical and emotional energy. After a meal of leftover beef stew, Justin gazed through his stereoscope at his collection of slides of Christmas scenes from around the world before settling on the rug before the hearth to string a popcorn garland for the tree. Bradshaw now sat gratefully with the evening paper, skimming the articles, wondering when the Wright brothers’ success would be brought to light. Wondering where Missouri was at this very moment. Imagining her in a dim compartment in a speeding train. Wishing his thoughts had not gone there. He turned his mind away and found himself lost in the case of Doyle’s death, and there his thoughts churned dismally for a good long while. It might be the first case he never solved.

When he became aware of his surroundings again, the fire had dwindled to embers, and Justin was no longer sprawled on the floor before it, although the bowl of popcorn and string were still there. The house was too quiet. It was Mrs. Prouty’s night off, and as usual she was out with her cousin, who was also in domestic service.

“Justin?” He called, but there was no answer. The boy had been very quiet the past hour or so. Had they overdone today? Was he coming down with a cold after all? Bradshaw climbed the stairs and found Justin’s bedroom door ajar, the room alight. He tapped lightly with his knuckle, then called out again. When no answer came, he pressed open the door and looked in. Justin’s bed was neatly made, the dark blue spread flat against the mattress, the pillow fluffed and propped against the wooden headboard. A glance around revealed an unusually tidy room, the dresser drawers all closed with nothing protruding, the books on the shelf neatly arranged, toys stowed in the closed toy box. This state of order was a holiday gift, the result of a boy skeptical of the naughty and nice list, yet taking no chances. The closet door stood ajar.

“Justin?”

There was no answer, but Bradshaw felt the boy’s presence. He opened the closet fully to find the clothes pressed aside on the wooden rod, revealing the back wall and the little door that accessed a cubby space. This door was also ajar, spilling a meager light.

“Justin?”

There was a short pause before he heard, “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

“You won’t fit.”

Bradshaw got down on his knees and pulled open the door. Justin was inside, seated on pillows, a battery-powered lantern beside him. Bradshaw had squeezed in a few times before, but the boy was right. He had modified the space since Bradshaw last visited and a small shelf with books and gadgets prevented him from doing so now. He could only kneel in the closet looking in. Justin was hiding something, but the look of apprehension on his face didn’t indicate it was a gift.

“Best show me and get it over with,” he said gently.

“Promise not to get mad?”

“Yes, but I won’t promise not to lecture if appropriate.”

Justin reached behind his back and pulled out a small dark glass bottle. He sat very still, holding the bottle on his lap. When he looked up, his eyes were filled with anguish.

Bradshaw didn’t need to see the label to know what it was. Carbolic acid.

His heart stopped. The closet floor tilted beneath him. He felt as if an ice cold washcloth was draped over his face. He knew he needed to be strong, and wise, but first he knew he needed to breathe. Second, he needed not to vomit.

He managed both, and he heard himself say in a surreally calm voice, “Can you come out so we can talk?”

Justin shook his head. Bradshaw didn’t push. This was his son’s place of safety, a concept he understood all too well. He moved to a seated position before the door, marginally more comfortable and stable.

Justin’s young innocent face was awash with confusion.

“I just wanted to know,” he said, “what it was like. It smells sweet.”

“Yes, it does. It’s rather deceptive, though, because it doesn’t taste or feel sweet.”

“My mother swallowed it.”

Bradshaw felt numb. He’d dreaded this moment for a decade. He’d prayed it would never happen, or if it did, that it would be when Justin was much older, much stronger. He was a boy. A boy shouldn’t know such things.

“Yes. I’m very sorry. How did you learn?”

“It wasn’t hard to figure out. You always hide the paper on days when there’s articles about someone drinking it.”

If it were possible for him to feel any worse, he would, but he could spiral no lower.

Justin asked, “Did she think it would cure her?”

“Not cure her, no. But I think she believed it would end her pain. She had the sort of illness, an illness of the mind, that doctors don’t yet know how to cure.”

“You mean she hoped she would die.”

“I’m not sure. She wanted her life to be different. She found the pain unbearable.” It had not been a physical pain, but a mental one. She’d been unbalanced, with a desperate and sick need for attention masked by her loveliness and acting ability. Her parents had known and not told him. He’d not understood until too late, until the wedding vows had been said. And then she’d revealed her true self. It had come as a shock to him. He’d courted a charming, lovely girl, but married a monster. Each day, she had grown steadily worse, demanding, threatening, until she discovered she was with child. And then she’d been furious. He’d spent the duration of her pregnancy doing her bidding to keep the child safe, and after the boy was born, and she rejected him, refusing even to hold him, Bradshaw became both mother and father. But these were truths Justin need never know. They weren’t publicly known, they were his secrets, shared with only two people in the world, Henry, and Missouri. And they would all take the secrets to their graves.

Justin stared at the bottle, his pale slender hands wrapped around it.

“Is that what you bought at the drug store?”

The boy nodded.

He’d forbidden Mrs. Prouty ever to bring it into the house. It had never occurred to him that Justin would bring it home himself.

“It cost two bits. They’ll sell it to anybody.” He said the last as if surprised by the fact. “Even me.”

“Because it’s a household cleaner. It’s made from coal tar. It has antiseptic properties. Many people use it diluted for cleaning when there’s sickness in the house. Doctors use it in their offices. In very small doses it can even be used in medicine, but too much is very dangerous.”

“But it’s a poison.”

“It can be, yes. There are many things like that. When used one way they are dangerous, used another they are helpful. Most everything can be used to cause harm, that doesn’t make everything inherently bad.”

“Do you think—I mean, it’s one of the Ten Commandments, isn’t it? That you’re not supposed to do? You’re not supposed to kill anyone, not even yourself.”

“That’s true.”

“People who break a commandment, it’s not like fibbing or something. If you break one of the commandments, you don’t go to heaven. Do you?” His innocent and distraught blue eyes begged for comfort.

“For a very long time, I believed that. I was angry at your mother for leaving us. I didn’t understand her illness, and I couldn’t forgive her. But over time, I came to realize that life isn’t always clearly divided into right and wrong. We are none of us born with perfect minds or bodies and we are often faced with very complicated choices. Your mother was faced with something beyond her ability to control, and she made a mistake. Her death still makes me sad, but I’ve forgiven her.”

“So you think she’s in heaven?”

“I do. A life is judged by more than one act. And she did give the world something very special.”

Justin gave a half smile. “Me?”

“There is a theory about the conservation of energy. Very simply, energy is never lost. It simply transforms from one state to another. People are a form of energy, and your mother passed on some wonderful energy I see in you. You’re musical like her, and artistic. I’m sure she’s very proud of you, and she wants you to be happy and live a full life. And do your homework.”

Justin rolled his eyes. But his smile grew.

“Can I have the bottle, son?”

Justin handed it over. Bradshaw dug into his pocket and found a quarter. “Now you can buy me a present.”

“I already made you something.”

“You did? Well, you keep the money then. How about we go downstairs? You can finish stringing popcorn, and I’ll read us a story.”

“‘A Christmas Carol’?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

With a copy of Scrooge’s tale in hand, they headed downstairs to the parlor, and it occurred to Bradshaw he’d spoken the truth of his beliefs to his son, and they echoed not the Catholic Church, but Missouri Fremont.

***

When Mrs. Prouty arrived home at ten, Bradshaw was dressed to go out.

“Don’t wait up,” he said, wrapping a woolen scarf around his neck and pressing his hat low. The night was cold and clear and tinged with frost. He walked briskly, hands deep in his pockets. The streetcars were still running, and restaurants and places of entertainment open. He made his way down to the corner of Second and Pike and stood across the street from the Bon Marché, which was still busy with customers taking advantage of the extended hours. The Men’s Wear window display was lit up, with the mannequins depicting a jovial holiday morning, but there was no tree in the scene, nor any of Edison’s holiday lights. He stood for a quarter hour, willing inspiration to come, imagining someone tapping on the window to be let inside.

Who had it been?

What did he not yet know?

He tried to keep his thoughts focused on the case, but they kept returning home, to Justin’s cubby in the closet, and the sight of the carbolic acid in his hands. What if he’d taken a few minutes longer to go in search of his son? What if Justin had decided to taste it?

The thought sent a panic through him, his every nerve screaming, and his brain spiraling. He couldn’t stand still, so he began walking again, and then he ran for a few blocks, heedless of looks from others on the street, until a stitch in his side forced him to slow. When a streetcar passed, he hopped aboard and was soon headed north. He stood near the door, clinging to the strap until the end of the line, then walked again, his frenzied stride leading him toward the university. He avoided the lamps that lit the walks, staying in the shadows until he reached the Observatory. When he reached for the handle, he begged to find it unlocked, and nearly whimpered when it swung open for him. He lit the lantern kept near the door and carried it up into the dome. When he had the narrow section of roof open, he collapsed against the wall, head tilted back, praying to the stars in the heavens to instill in him a sense of perspective. There were more stars in the universe than grains of sand on Earth, Taylor had said. But Earth held just one small boy named Justin Bradshaw who was all the world to him.