JP Steab

ONE

The witching hour the night before my world ended.

Hellbelly.

A giant Poseidon angrily peered over the roof of an imposing edifice. He swung his trident to and fro in an eerily slow arc. The three barbed tips narrowly missed the heads of the mortals below the god. Throngs of sinners stepped through the gaping, shark-toothed mouth of the sea monster the Lord of the sea rode atop. The brave were ushered to an awaiting cart styled as an open clamshell. The God of the Seas dared wandering souls to take a ride through the murky depths of his watery underworld. Leviathan awaited at the end, that great watery beast that swallowed drowning souls unfortunate enough to get swept into the maelstrom.

They called it a dark-house ride because it was meant to scare the bejeezus out of its visitors. Timid young lovers looking to escape the summer city heat and find a space of time together braved the attractions frights. At the very end, after swirling pell-mell along a spiraling track, Leviathan, a giant fish-faced monster, waited with an open mouth to swallow the riders and their cart. I only rode it once and it was with my very good friend, Mary Adamczyk. We squealed and screamed and when the light of day outside that dark realm at last flooded our eyes, we laughed like the schoolgirls we once were.

By the time of the great disaster that would sweep along the Battery, we were recently graduated from St. Josaphat's, an all-girls' academy. He wasn't much older than us when his life ended so tragically. The unfortunate man was killed by an angry mob who tossed his body into the river after shooting and bludgeoning him.

Funny how ironically fate can play.

Men worked well into the night to get the popular attraction ready for the busy and important Memorial Day Weekend. With Coney Island claiming guests were more excited to ride its Cyclone, the owners of Neptune's World were anxious to lure those same people through their gates down in the Battery.

Hellbelly, the one sure-fire moneymaker in the park, had experienced a rough season the previous summer. The boat run had sprung leaks. The cracked wood sat through a rough, seaside winter. The spring thaw brought more operational worries. Workers, exhausted from a long day, rushed to spread tar over cracks in the walls hoping to patch the leaks. They worked deep into the night as one workday slipped into another.

Just before it struck two in the morning, the steam engine providing power to the filament bulbs seized. Within seconds the lights went out. What happened next in the Hellbelly only added fuel to this spectacular disaster.

The theory was a tired worker, in an effort to stoke the engine, struck a match over a bucket of hot tar. When the flame burnt down to his fingertips, he dropped the match into the bucket. Another man kicked it in his haste to leave. Hellbelly went up in flames. Fire poured from the tunnel. Men ran from the inferno erupting deep within the attraction. Cut off from the city by the growing, searing flames, they dove in the Hudson.

By morning, Hellbelly and the rest of King Neptune's World amusement park were gone. Thirty men perished. As the news spread, so did the rumors and gossip. What no one would have suspected, or ever learn, was that it had been no accident.

***

On our walk to work at the Hightower Garment Factory a few mornings later, the city's air remained thick with the stench of burned down buildings. It had a different smell from other fires. We could smell the desperation, the loss.

The death.

"We could see the flames from our building," Mary Adamczyk said. She was a lovely young woman and my friend and confidant. Like so many other girls our age, we had finished school to take jobs to help our families.

Mary clutched my arm. "Father feared our tenement would be swept up in the flames. He says we can thank the Lord the wind shifted."

"Or thank the developers for building King Neptune's World along the boardwalk where the fireboats could get at them."

"Rose Jordan! Are you saying it wasn't a miracle?"

We rounded a corner of East 14th Street and stopped at Union Square. The shadows of air-carriages slid silently over us. The voice of one of the gondoliers came from a horn below his basket.

"Extra extra. Read all the latest news of the Battery fire in today's Telegraph!" The words echoed off the concrete facing of the skyscrapers. It was a miracle more of the air-carriages didn't get snagged along the towering edifices.

A large crowd gathered around several newsboys. Their papers sold quickly. Every penny we earned we saved for our families. As much as we wanted to read the news, we just couldn't spend any money on the paper. We nonetheless made our way through the wall of people. As they turned, papers popped open in front of us, their headlines looming.

Hellbelly Inferno!

Poseidon's Fiery Wrath!

Sea Devil Get's His Due!

All the front pages showed split images: A before with the easily recognized Poseidon with his trident pointing at the reader; an after of the smoldering rubble. The newsies had little trouble hawking the press.

"I know that boy," Mary said. She tugged on my arm as she pointed at one of the newsboys. "He's friends with my brother. Come on, then."

She pulled me closer to the boy.

"Jamie Cochran! What are you doing selling papers at Union Square?" Mary asked.

"The Telegraph needed extra help on account of the fire, Mary Elizabeth. Nickel for the special edition."

"A nickel?" I said.

"The World and the Journal are charging a dime."

"Gouging us for what we should be told," I said. It fell on deaf ears.

"Give us a peak, Jaime," Mary said.

"Wish I could, Mary," Jaime said. He did sound apologetic.

Ever persistent, Mary pushed the matter. "We'll stand right here until you give us a peek."

"Give him a nickel and move on," the boy selling the Journal said. "You're costing him his pay."

I tugged on Mary's arm. She pouted playfully at Jaime but he didn't give in to her charm.

"It's the last time I let him kiss me when my family isn't looking," she said.

I pinched her arm. "Mary Elizabeth Adamczyk," I said. "Who's being sinful now?"

We laughed together continuing down the path of Park Avenue. In front of us, a well-dressed man finished his copy of the Telegraph and dropped it on a bench. Mary scooped it up as another man was reaching for it. He flushed, then tipped his hat to us and went on his way.

Mary sat down.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "We'll be late."

"No, we won't. Mercer Street is just over a block. Sit and read with me."

I could never say no to my best friend. I sat and she read.

"Devil Gets His Due," she read. "Well, that gets your attention."

"Read on, then!"

According to William Hodge, the reporter, the fire burned uncontrollably for nearly four hours. It was only an act of Mother Nature that averted a citywide disaster, at least in Mr. Hodge's words. Mary lifted her head with an air of indignation. She cleared her throat. "Did you hear that Rose Jordan? An act of Mother Nature."

I grabbed the paper from her hands. A portion of it ripped in her grasp. Mary laughed at our little escapade. The portion of the paper she held flittered out of her hand and settled against by my boot. I absently reach for it and crumbled the bit of newsprint tucking it into my waist pocket.

"Come along," I said. "We are now going to be late and you know how Mr. Duncan gets when we're late."

"As long as we're there before he bolts the doors he can't say a word."

"At least they don't chain our feet to the machines."

"That's just an ugly rumor, Rose."

I let the conversation drop even though I knew it wasn't a lie. For quite some time there had been stories of girls like us being chained to the base of their sewing machines. The bosses wanted us to increase their profits. One way was to make sure we weren't off at the coolers filling up with water. Mr. Duncan called it a detrimental cycle but fell short of shackling us to the legs of our machines.

As it were, Mary and I arrived before the doors were locked although Mr. Duncan was not immediately there. He gave us a warning glare as he came down the stairs to bolt the doors behind us.

Following him was an odd-looking man. His skin was alabaster white. He wore a pair of dark, conical goggles made of copper and capped with black lenses. The goggles fit awkwardly over a long nose with a ridge that stretched up between his eyes and disappeared beneath the bowler hat he wore. In one hand he carried a bucket stuffed with rags. In the other, he held a canister.

"Here you go, girls, off to your floor," Mr. Duncan said. He held open the door. When the man moving behind him passed through the door, Mr. Duncan looked nervously after him. There were beads of sweat on his baldpate. He scratched at the kidney-shaped mole high on his forehead.

"Who was that, Mr. Duncan?" Mary asked. "I don't believe I've ever seen him before."

"New boiler man," Mr. Duncan said. He slammed the bolt into place. The click echoed a bit before he turned and faced us. "Lot's to do tonight. Off you go."

Mary and I went into the crowded lift to head off to our floor.

"Why would a boiler man be on the upper floors?" Mary asked me.

"Hmmm?" I was busy reading over the shoulder of the young woman in front of me. She held a copy of the Telegraph in front of her.

"I mean, aren't the boilers in the basement of the building?"

"Of course they are. What are you going on about, Mary?"

Mary slipped her arm through mine. I could tell something weighed heavily in her thoughts. We walked in silence for half a block before she spoke again.

"Sometimes I wonder why we still work at Hightower," Mary said. "We're old enough to get other jobs."

"And where would that be, Mary Adamczyk? A public house serving drunkards? A store clerk wrapping dress boxes? The money just isn't as good as here. Now, no more talk of our true ages. Mr. Duncan and the foremen all believe we are twenty. If they think we're younger, they'll show us the door."

The lift stopped. The door was raised. One of the foremen stood outside on the lift.

"Move it along, ladies," the young man said. He nudged the lass who had been reading the Telegraph. She giggled.

Mary leaned in close to me. "I would have laid him out for poking me in the ribs with his boney elbow." She balled up her fist and pushed it into the air. She made a popping sound. We clutched each other's arms and laughed. If anyone could knock out one of the bosses it was Mary Elizabeth Adamczyk, sister to five older brothers.

"That'll be enough of the silliness, ladies," the foreman said. "Else you find yourself out of a job."

Mary challenged him. "You can't fire us, William Roberts. Mr. Duncan says we are two of the best seamstresses Hightower has.���

"I'm warning you, Mary Adamczyk. Do not push me today."

She wanted to say more but I stopped her. "The fires have everyone a little on edge. Let's do our jobs."

Mary softly stomped her boot. I had a sense it was going to be a rough shift.

I just didn't know it would be our last.