A New York Haunting: Pt. 02

Author's note:

Due to the mystery/suspense plot, the individual parts of this novel are unlikely to make sense as stand-alone reads. Please see note at the beginning of Part 1 for more information.

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Chapter 6. FULTON FORDYCE

Thursday after clinic, Anders returned to the boardinghouse to find a hand-delivered message for him on the entry hall table. As Mrs. Sullivan did not have a telephone, such messages --- delivered by various messenger boy services in the city --- were his usual means for communicating with acquaintances. The message was from his longtime friend Fulton Fordyce --- the sloppy handwriting read:

Hey Norski ---

No damned studying next Friday night. Planning a scorcher of a night for your birthday.

--- F.

He grinned and made a note on the wall calendar, surprised that Fulton even remembered his birthday. As he emptied his knapsack onto the desk, rays from the setting sun illuminated the row of crystals on the windowsill. In an array of colors --- clear, yellow, pink, purple, green, blue, red, orange --- all were crystals he had grown from various chemical solutions --- his hobby of choice throughout childhood and college.

He gazed at the blue crystal, recalling a birthday celebration many years ago.

*****

1886 - 1897

After the long voyage from Norway, Anders and his father arrived in New York City. From there, they took a train west to the city of Rochester, New York, where his father had secured a position as a chemist in the Eastman Dry Plate and Film Company.

They found a small cottage to lease, located on the rearmost corner of an enormous mansion's grounds. The cottage had apparently been the gardener's residence when the wealthy family's estate in a previous generation had encompassed significantly more acres. With two tiny bedrooms and a common room for the parlour and kitchen, the cottage was admirably suited to the Røkkes' needs.

That summer, while his father daily reported to the Eastman laboratory, nine-year-old Anders was left with strict instructions to continue his English studies. Eager to assimilate into his new surroundings, he did not shirk the assignment --- reading, translating, and walking every few days to the library to borrow more books. But after exhausting his capacity for studying, he occupied the long summer days with other activities.

He explored the bustling city of Rochester on foot, following the waterways --- the Genesee River and the Erie Canal. Rows of brick buildings populated the banks, and from the advertising signs painted on their sides, he became cognizant of the profusion of factories and mills that supported the city's economy. Further afield were numerous seed and flower nurseries, and beyond that, the expanse of Lake Ontario.

In particular wonder did he observe the engineering miracles of the Erie Canal. There were elevated aqueducts in which boats traveled. There was a bridge over the canal for people and carriages that lifted and lowered to permit water traffic to pass. There was a lock that filled with or drained water to raise and lower boats between the different levels of the channel.

At the same time, Anders also found diversions within his immediate environs: exploring the toolshed behind the cottage, playing in a nearby creek, and climbing trees on the estate grounds. One day, when he found on the street a squirrel that had recently met its demise, he carried it to the shed where he carefully cut open the pale belly to inspect the organs therein, burying it afterwards.

From the front porch of the cottage, he could see across a groomed expanse of lawn and flowerbeds to the back of the stately brick mansion where a wide veranda was decorated with potted plants and scrolled metal furniture. When he walked around to the front of the estate, he realized the house was only one in a row of similarly grand mansions along East Avenue. His father had informed him that their landlords, the Fordyce family, lived in the mansion and owned one of the big factories in the city.

Over the summer, Anders observed in the yard the various inhabitants of the mansion and quickly appreciated the difference in garb between servants and family members. The family included four Fordyce children, all with curly black hair. There were two boys, one near his age and one a couple years older. Of the two daughters, one was old enough to be wearing long skirts and the other looked to be about eight.

With wistful interest he observed their activities, marking several novel luxuries he had never seen or had only read about: lawn tennis, croquet, roller skating, and shooting at targets with bows and arrows.

Predictably, nearly every game would devolve into a fight between the two Fordyce boys, with the younger one punching the older or attempting to strike him with a croquet mallet or racket while screaming, "You bastard! I hate you! I hate you!" The scuffle would shortly be terminated by the appearance of their governess.

Anders sensed the children from the mansion had noted his presence as well, although they never spoke to him. When he started school in the fall, he discovered the younger Fordyce boy, Fulton, to be in his class. Fulton Fordyce had an established, select circle of friends in the classroom, all apparently from wealthy families. If Fulton recognized him as a tenant on his family's estate, he acknowledged it neither by word nor action. Indeed, he didn't speak to Anders at all.

What a relief it was when the Christmas break finally arrived! He had made it through his first semester of school in America! His father and he had been invited to spend Christmas Day proper with a Norwegian family in a nearby town, but in the days preceding the holiday, Anders busied himself building a sledding hill next to the cottage. With the first snowfall, he had instinctually scooped up a mitten full of snow and tasted it --- it did not taste as good as the snow in Norway, he thought.

One day when he trekked through the snow to the stable by the big house to ask to borrow a pail, the coachman good-naturedly informed him there was ice skating on the frozen barge canal --- he could lend him a pair of skates if he was interested.

Anders' face lit up. "Ya, I haves," he announced.

His sledding hill at once forgotten, he hastened to the cottage and searched through the small collection of objects that had made the transatlantic voyage with them. Under his bed, wrapped in wool rags, he found his skates. He took them to the shed and sharpened them as he had been taught, re-wrapping them in the rags and slinging them over his shoulder in a burlap bag as he set out for the canal. Following the coachman's directions, he found a set of stone stairs that allowed entry onto the ice. Bundled-up people sat on nearby benches donning or removing their skates.

Anders doffed his mittens to fit the wooden footstock of his skates to the sole of his boots and fasten the leather straps. He surveyed the frozen canal as he walked carefully to the top of the stairs. Some two dozen skaters were on the ice south of the lift bridge, most of them tentative in their motions. He turned to a couple on a nearby bench --- the man kneeling to assist the woman in fastening her skates.

"Pardon, sir," Anders said. "Where skate safe?"

The man looked over his shoulder. "What was that, son?"

"Can I skate anywhere there?" He waved his arm at the canal. "Is safe?"

A burst of snorting laughter interrupted them. Looking up, Anders beheld Fulton Fordyce and his friends trooping towards the canal in their expensive skates with the blades affixed permanently to the boots. "Vere skate safe?" one mimicked his accent in a singsong voice.

"Ya, ya! I skate dere?" rejoined another.

"Servants and dead-beats skate on the scum pond by the brewery," Fulton Fordyce said.

The man fastening his companion's skates frowned slightly, shaking his head as he met Anders' bewildered eyes.

The boys brushed past him and started down the stairs. "Snabby coat you've got there, cornstalk," jeered one.

He glanced down at his warm but frayed-edged wool coat with its mismatched buttons, then up at the other boys' sleek, fur-trimmed jackets.

"Where did you find that hat, on an ash heap behind a circus tent?" The insults hovered in frozen breaths behind them as the boys with their fur, ear-flapped caps stepped onto the ice.

Anders' fists curled inside his mittens. The blue wool hat with the white reindeer pattern had been knit by his mother. Down the stairs he went, his eyes fixed upon the four boys whose darkly clad forms presented a stark contrast to the bright ice. Their gliding steps told him they were not novices to the sport.

"We'll race to the church at the bend," said one. In a moment, they were poised on their marks, and on the count of three they were off in a clattering start.

Anders stood motionless at their improvised starting line, staring after the receding figures. Despite the cold air, he felt a rising heat in his belly and face. After a minute, the heat filled his limbs and without thinking, he set out after them.

The church spire marking the finish line was approximately a mile away. He found his stride, hearing his blades cutting the ice as he rhythmically pushed off with increasingly long strokes ... leaning forward with his arms smoothly augmenting his momentum as his grandfather had taught him. Ahead of him, the four boys were hurtling onward with churning motions.

He caught up to them with two hundred yards to go, his masterful gait carrying him past them --- steadily past their bitter and chagrined faces as their movements grew yet more agitated. Zipping past the finish line, he made a wide turn back towards the boys who now stood in a cluster, panting and gazing at him.

He sprinted towards them. Confusion ensued --- the boys skidded about, exchanging nervous looks, assessing whether to flee or stand their ground as Anders charged at them. On the brink of crashing into them, he nimbly turned his blades, bringing himself to an abrupt stop and showering Fulton Fordyce with a cloud of ice particles.

He skated away.

The next day, he was in the yard outside the cottage, building a snowman sentry for his fort, when a motion behind the mansion caught his eye. Lo and behold, there was Fulton Fordyce trudging through the snow towards him. Anders continued his work, crouching as he pushed a snowball that was now up to his knees. Fulton halted before him, watching him with his arms hanging at his sides.

At last, the Fordyce boy spoke. "I do like your hat," he offered. "It's spiffical."

Anders didn't recognize the word but accepted the compliment with, "My mother maked it."

Fulton hooked his mitten thumbs in his coat pockets with a wistful expression. "My mother never made me anything." He shifted the snow about with his boot and added in a hesitant tone, "My father told me your mother died."

Anders faltered, then shrugged and patted a handful of snow onto the sphere to smooth its contour.

"I - I can't even imagine ..." Fulton mumbled. He continued to watch Anders for another minute, then said, "What is your name?"

"Anders."

"My name is Fulton."

Anders nodded. "What is your sisters' and brother's names?"

"My older sister is Edith, my younger one is Cecily. My brother's name is Grover."

"Oh, I thought it was 'Bastard'." A smile lifted one corner of Anders' mouth.

A wicked grin flashed over Fulton's face. "It ought to be!" He squatted and began helping shape the snowball.

"If together, we can build it bigger," Anders said.

They rolled the ball together now. "Where are you from?" Fulton asked.

"Norway."

"Where is that?"

"Far away."

They pushed the ball to the base of the snowman and together lifted it atop the first ball.

"I've been to London," Fulton said. "Is it near there?"

"Farther away." Anders began rolling another ball while Fulton hunted in the snow for sticks.

"Do people in Norway play ice hockey?"

"What is that?"

Fulton explained the game to him.

Anders nodded. "Ya, I play similar game."

"Do you want to play on our team this Saturday?"

A grin provided the affirmative answer.

After completing the snowman, they addressed the fort with enthusiasm, extending the walls and adding slits through which to throw snowballs. "We should lure my brother out here and ambush him," Fulton said gleefully. As they were supplementing the arsenal of snowballs, a woman's voice called Fulton's name from across the snowy yard.

Fulton looked over his shoulder. "I have to go," he grumbled, standing. He started through the snow towards the mansion; Anders waved before turning back to the fort. A moment later, he was startled by a snowball walloping him on the backside. Spinning around, he saw Fulton grinning. "Remember Norski, we're playing ice hockey Saturday!"

Anders caught up a snowball and pelted him in the face. "Ya, okay, rasshøl."

*****

His strange comradeship with Fulton Fordyce began thus.

Over the ensuing years, their friendship centered around various sporting pursuits --- ice hockey, snowball fights, lawn tennis, croquet, swimming, baseball, football, sailing, roller skating, and cycling. Many of the games were unfamiliar to Anders, but with his natural aptitude, he learned them quickly.

It did not escape his notice that Fulton in particular recruited him for contests involving partnerships or teams --- and that his new friend always wanted him on his team. No insincerity did he ascribe to Fulton's sudden amiability; instead, he accepted it as a mark of respect for his physical prowess. Besides, he was enjoying the games too much to take umbrage.

Moreover, Fulton often sought him out to simply wile away his idle hours, seeming to find inordinate pleasure in such commonplace diversions that Anders could offer, such as building dams in the creek, fishing in the river, and exploring the alleys of the city. Despite Fulton's life of luxury, Anders sensed his friend's simmering mutiny against the overly-regimented social calendar enforced by his parents. Sometimes he wondered if Fulton's enjoyment in these simple pastimes rested primarily in escaping his parents' scrutiny.

Following Fulton's lead, the other boys from wealthy families were now friendly to him as well --- at least out-of-doors.

That was the strange part.

Among all these invitations, never was one extended for an indoor party. And there were many of them. From the porch of the little cottage, Anders could see the servants' preparations for social functions: decorating the veranda with lanterns and flowers, setting the table for dinners. He could see the delivery wagons from the grocer and the florist. And he witnessed from afar the parties in progress --- the carriages pulling up on the drive, the guests in their finery, the music playing. True, many of these gatherings were for the grown-ups, but there were plenty of parties for the children.

Anders could not help feeling wounded at this discrepancy in hospitality. Was Fulton ashamed of him? Embarrassed by his plain clothes and humble pedigree? Or his English? With every month that passed, his English was improving; he was making fewer grammatical errors, but admittedly still had an accent. Or could the omissions stem from an impulse of empathy on Fulton's part for what he assumed would be Anders' own discomposure?

Thus, he was taken aback to receive an invitation to Fulton's twelfth birthday party. It was not a formal invitation in an envelope, but consisted of Fulton calling across the lawn, "Hey Norski! Come over for my birthday party at six tonight."

Promptly at six, Anders walked across the lawn in his Sunday suit, possessed by a jittery happiness at finally being included. A dozen or so children, several of whom he knew from school, were already on the veranda --- the girls whispering and giggling, and the boys laughing and jostling each other. Among them was Fulton with a golden paper crown atop his curly black hair. Fulton's younger sister Cecily beckoned Anders as he approached. "The gift table is over here." She pointed. "What did you give him?"

Glimpsing the present-laden table with its a riot of colorful papers and ribbons, he flushed. "Oh! I-I forgot it," he mumbled, turning on his heel and hastening back to the cottage. Of course! A gift! How had he not thought of that? In panic, he searched for some item to call a gift. But among the Røkkes' modest possessions, he could find nothing suitable. Anders debated whether to return to the party at all.

Then he spied something on the shelf in his bedroom: a vivid blue, palm-sized, copper sulfate crystal he and his father had grown. He thought it was beautiful, but he knew not if Fulton would be likewise impressed. No matter. He had nothing else. Grabbing it, he wrapped the crystal in the only thing he could find --- a piece of writing paper --- and tied it with a string. There was no need for a card, he thought ruefully; there could be no doubt as to the identity of the giver of the laughably wrapped present.

Back on the veranda, he embarrassedly slipped it behind a large box on the gift table.

Anders' unease fluctuated at a low level for the remainder of the party. He was able to join a group of boys discussing a recent baseball game, then speculating on the feasibility of installing a rope swing at the local swimming hole. On the other side of the veranda, a pretty, dark-haired girl among the guests drew his notice, but he had not the least notion of how to initiate a conversation.

The birthday meal was unsurprisingly disrupted by Fulton launching himself at his older brother for interfering with the candle blowing-out, almost toppling the elaborate cake to the floor. After the dinner, a maidservant wheeled the phonograph onto the veranda.

"Now there's dancing," Fulton said aside to Anders.

"With girls?"

"With girls," Fulton confirmed.

The children streamed through the open French doors. Anders glanced about for the girl he had seen earlier. "Do I ask a girl to dance?"

"No, mudhead, we line up --- boys across from girls."

All the children appeared to be familiar with the dance and lined up as Fulton had described. Anders followed the example, standing next to his friend.

"Your partner is across from you," Fulton explained.

Anders looked up. The pretty, dark-haired girl was opposite him! Her eyes met his ... and her face crumpled. At once, she turned to a blonde girl next to her and whispered none too quietly, "Who's that?! I won't dance with some hobo!"

Leaning close, the blonde girl responded in her ear behind a cupped hand. He caught the words "some servant's son."

"I don't care!" hissed the dark-haired girl. "Here, you switch with me." The two girls shoved against each other.

The humiliation burned in Anders' cheeks. Ducking his head, he made a brief show of lifting his foot and muttering, "Oh, my shoelace is broken." He backed out of the line, crouched to fuss with his shoe, then slunk off as the dance began. Back home in the cottage, he ignored his father's questioning look and decamped directly to his room. There, he yanked off his good suit, fighting the stinging sensation behind his eyes. He surveyed the tiny room --- the cot with its coarse wool blanket, his drawings pinned to the wall, his pile of books. Someday, he vowed ... someday he would have money ... someday he would be respected.

*****

After that birthday party, seized by the conviction that he must attend college if he were to achieve his aspirations, and knowing that attending college would require tuition payments, Anders began seeking employment.