Rare Objects (11 page)

But this wasn't just messiness or neglect. It was knowledge, rich, chaotic, and diverse.

And everywhere there was evidence of Mr. Winshaw's constant intellectual curiosity; notes jotted down on the backs of envelopes, dog-eared pages in books, underlined passages, and articles torn from newspapers. Like an excavation site, different eras of obsession were layered one on top of another. Here was an entire collection of books on African art, and on top of that a thick stack of newspaper articles explaining German Surrealist cinema. Then came an examination of eastern American Indian rites and rituals. What his interests lacked in cohesion, they more than made up for in variety. Sometimes I'd open one of Mr. Winshaw's books and find myself unexpectedly lost in another of his fascinations—like the making of medieval tiles. But the most compelling thing was the map of the ancient world that hung on the wall above his
desk, with pins marking destinations. At lunchtime I stared at it, wondering at the places he'd been, the things he'd seen, and where he was now.

“Where exactly is Mr. Winshaw?” I asked Mr. Kessler one day.

He looked up from a pile of invoices he was going through, peering at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses in a certain way he had, like a mole poking its nose aboveground to sniff the air before venturing out. “Well, I haven't heard from him in some time.”

“When will he be back?”

“I'm not sure.” He put the papers down, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes with his fists. “You see, Winshaw's an archaeologist—a
serious
archaeologist, not just an academic. A year ago, an opportunity came up that was too good for him to miss; he joined a dig with an old friend of his, Leonard Woolley, in Iraq. What used to be Mesopotamia, the ancient city of Ur.”

I'd studied the map long enough to remember where that was. “In Arabia?”

“Yes. But the truth is, I'm not exactly certain where he is now. Winshaw's something of a loose cannon. It's a bit worrying,” he conceded. “There's been violence in that area. Bombs, air attacks on local tribes. But I'm fairly certain he'll turn up sooner or later.”

“
Fairly
certain?” He appeared disconcertingly calm. “But what about his family? Haven't they heard from him?”

“Oh, he hasn't got a family.”

“Couldn't we write to Mr. Woolley?”

Mr. Kessler took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and cleaned his glasses. “There's no need to jump to conclusions. Winshaw occasionally wanders off course. But he always turns up again, usually with something extraordinary. If it will make you
feel better though, here's an address, a postal box in Baghdad.” He took a note card from his desk drawer. “Actually, you can send his mail on for me. Could be important. Now, are you any good with numbers, Miss Fanning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have a look at these.” He handed me a thick ledger bulging with loose receipts. “Don't lose anything. That's the only copy I have.”

I went back to Mr. Winshaw's office, put the ledger down.

Leaning in closer, I studied the map again. Tattered and frayed, it was worn at the edges as if it had been hung and rehung on many walls over the years. It was drawn in a delicate, florid style, painted in rich, sun-bleached colors that were the fashion at the turn of the century. Here was ancient Egypt with the pyramids, and the golden walls of Troy; another pin marked the island of Crete, home of the mythical Minotaur. It reminded me not of a worldly man but of a small boy planning future expeditions, eager to discover the world of his heroes—to walk in the footsteps of Virgil and Homer, and see with his own eyes the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Great Colossus, and the Sphinx. The very fact that it existed, pins and all, betrayed a child's ambition and enthusiasm, as well as lasting awe.

A shiny silver pin marked the ancient city of Ur in Mesopotamia.

Was this where the story ended?

I sat down in the wooden swivel chair. Its arms bore the initials of several previous owners, the kind of boyish vandalism of students. I had an almost irresistible urge to open all the drawers, go through every book and paper. But Mr. Kessler was just across the narrow hallway, door open.

Reaching for a pen, I brushed against a stack of books. A thin old volume toppled to the floor, a book of Alfred Lord Tennyson's
poems. It had naturally fallen open on a dog-eared page of “Ulysses” on which certain lines had been underlined in pencil.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! . . .

. . . that which we are, we are:

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Something quickened in my chest as I read it, an indefinable excitement and longing.

. . .
that which we are
,
we are . . . to shine in use . . .

Someone, presumably Mr. Winshaw, had scrawled “Yes!” in the margin.

I'd read
The Odyssey
in high school and admired the mythic realm of skies tinted rose and gold by dawn's light fingertips and a wine-dark sea; of a life defined by bold actions, loyal companions, and true hearts. But I'd never read this poem before.

To strive
,
to seek
,
to find
,
and not to yield.

My eyes were drawn to the emphatic “Yes!”

Yes!

The word moved me, though I wasn't sure why. Perhaps because it had been such a long time since I'd felt pure, unrestrained enthusiasm for anything.

Mr. Winshaw was still alive; I felt sure of it.

A man who believed in “Yes!” couldn't simply disappear from life without ripples extending to every shore.

Dear Mr. Winshaw,

My name is May Fanning. I'm Mr. Kessler's new assistant at the shop, and he's asked me to forward your post on to you. I realize we haven't met, but there is a great deal of concern here as to your current whereabouts and welfare. We are both, Mr. Kessler and I, eager to know that you are safe. If you would be so kind as to drop us a line or, indeed, any form of correspondence, it would be greatly appreciated. Likewise, if there is anything we can do on your behalf, please don't hesitate to let us know.

I paused.

I was alone in the shop. The ticking of the clocks and Persia's deep purr were the only sounds.

“Occasionally,” I continued,

I have used your desk for brief periods in order to complete paperwork and I have come to admire the great map on your wall. I am curious as to whether you have been to all those places and what they were like.

Again, I stopped. He might, quite rightly, find the idea of me sitting in his office intrusive. Then again, I reasoned, this letter would most likely rot in the postal box in Baghdad, along with the rest of his mail.

I envy you your freedom, Mr. Winshaw. I wish I too could leave Boston behind. I would like nothing better than to be somewhere new, where people weren't so bound by convention and narrow-minded ideas of right and wrong, good and evil. I think there's
nothing duller than trying to be good nor any task more thankless. If I were you, I would stay missing as long as I could.

Sincerely,

May Fanning

Well, that was childish.

I tore the sheet off the writing pad and began again.

When I had finished the second letter—a brief, polite inquiry—I looked for envelopes in the drawers of his desk. Failing to find any, I took one from Mr. Kessler and then packaged up the rest of Mr. Winshaw's mail into a small parcel covered in brown paper and twine and took it to the post office. It took three clerks twenty minutes to figure out the postage to Baghdad. They were naturally curious about who I was corresponding with, what was in the package . . . I exaggerated a little, explaining it was my husband, the famous explorer, who was abroad and that I needed some urgent signatures on very important business documents.

By the time I left, they were looking at me differently—as if I was fascinating, handling difficult situations on my own, braving the absence of my beloved with dignity and poise. The fantasy lent the afternoon a certain tender hue of melancholy, an imaginary sadness and courage that made everything just a little more interesting.

So I pretended that, in my own way, I'd somehow said “Yes!” to life too.

I was walking past a barbershop in Prince Street when I spotted it, hanging in the window. “Boxing,” the poster advertised in bold red letters across the top, “Five Bouts, Thirty-Six Rounds at Boston Garden.”

I don't know why I stopped; maybe out of habit, maybe just because things had been going well and I had to test them, poking and prodding at my own happiness the way a child picks at a newly formed scab.

I read through the list of names, searching, looking for the one I wanted to find. And sure enough, there it was, down near the bottom: Mickey Finn.

A sudden wave of loneliness hit me hard. I had my freedom back, a new job, money in my pocket, but still my chest ached the way an empty stomach gnaws and clutches for food that isn't there.

Michael Thomas Finlay.

For years he'd been as much a part of my life as my right hand.

We'd grown up together, been in the same class for a while in grammar school. But as soon as he'd grown tall enough, in sixth grade, Mick had been pulled out to work on the docks, loading and unloading with his father, brothers, and uncles. Still, I saw him every Sunday at church, sat next to him in confirmation class. When I learned how to waltz, he was my first and only partner.

I must have been staring—there was a rap on the window, and when I looked up the guys in the barbershop were laughing and blowing kisses at me.

I ignored them, walked on. But the emptiness in my chest grew and spread.

I could still remember the first time Mickey kissed me, in the alleyway behind the cinema; the soft, warm pressure of his lips on mine and, most of all, the way he held me—gently, as if I were made of delicate glass he was afraid of breaking. No one before or since had ever thought I was that precious. It was a pure,
uncomplicated affection, almost like siblings, based on unquestioning loyalty.

Of course Ma didn't like him. He was black Irish, she said, with his thick dark hair and brown gypsy eyes. He'd been taken out of school and would never amount to anything.

But I didn't want anyone Ma approved of.

Then Mickey's brother started boxing, and Mick took to hanging out at the Casino Club. As luck would have it, he turned out to be even better than his brother; just the right combination of height, muscle, and speed. And there was money to be made, a lot of money, for just one night's work.

Everyone knew all the best boxers were Irish. Kids from nowhere could rise to the top of the boxing world in no time—going from brawling in basements and back lots to Madison Square Garden in a matter of months. We watched their breakneck rise to stardom on the newsreels every week—Tommy Loughran, Mike McTigue, Gene Tunney, and Jack Dempsey. Punching their way out of tenements straight into movie careers and Park Avenue addresses.

The first time I went to a fight, I was terrified. But Mickey won that night, and my fear became excitement. Soon I looked forward to the sweaty, raw nerves that snapped like electricity moments before the bell sounded; to the fighters, dancing in their corners, skin glistening, muscles tense. All the chaos, the smells, the din of the crowd, the rickety wooden chairs, the hot roasted peanuts and calls of the ticket touts; gangsters smelling of French cologne sitting cheek by jowl with old-money millionaires; the blood, the fear, the speed, the unholy fury of it all, I came to relish every bit. And Mickey, at the center, fighting, conquering the world.

Overnight he had a manager and a nickname—the Boston
Brawler. His face appeared on fight posters, and his name climbed up to the top of the listings. And afterward, in the pubs and clubs, we drank and danced and felt the glorious relief of those who'd outwitted fate. With our pockets crammed full of bills from Mickey's winnings, the future was ours for the taking.

Mick was my champion, punching his way out of this drab, relentless grind into a new life of unfettered possibility.

Only it turned out Mick was a good boxer, not a great one. Someone else came along, an Italian; they called him the Boston Basher, and Mick couldn't seem to get out from under his shadow.

And then I got pregnant. Suddenly our limitless future shrank to the size of a one-bedroom walk-up in the South End and a dockworker's pay packet.

He would've married me, had I told him. But I never did. I didn't tell anyone.

I went to New York instead. There was more work there, I said; better opportunities and a chance to really make something of myself.

We talked about what we would do, how we would live when I got back. But we both knew that wasn't going to happen.