The Weight of Living Read online

  “Oh, that hat. Naw, I ain’t seen it.”

  “If you do, call me. It’s a big deal,” Nagler said sternly. He shook his head. I never talk to Barry like that. “Thanks.”

  “A little on edge there, Frank?” Dawson asked.

  Nagler swallowed some coffee. “It’s like everyone is in on some big joke and I’m the only one on the outside. We spent hours on the little girl, and a nun I’ve known since”—he waved a hand back and forth in frustration — “since dinosaurs walked the earth, was hiding her the whole time.”

  Lauren touched his hand, then raised it to her lips and kissed it. “Maybe she had a reason.” A goofy smile.

  “That’s just it. She said, and I think she is right, something worse is coming. Something tied to the girl somehow, and to the company that owns the Sisters Home. I just don’t know enough.” He glanced up at Dawson and Lauren. “And I don’t know who to trust.”

  Lauren put on a fake shocked face. “Not even us?”

  Nagler laughed, the tension broken. “Yeah, okay, you two.”

  “The church doesn’t own the Sisters’ Home?” Dawson asked.

  “They sold it and leased it back from some company,” Nagler said. “Sister Katherine gave me a list, some holding company their lawyers are looking at.” He pulled the list from his jacket’s inside pocket. “Here it is.”

  Dawson whistled. “Lotta names.”

  “Yeah, she...I didn’t have time to look at it.”

  “Look at this one.” Dawson held up the paper and pointed at a name. “Mine Hill Foundation.” He nodded to Nagler. “I looked it up. It’s a mess. Have a story set to go out tomorrow. Give me a copy of this. I’ll see if the church lawyers will talk and I’ll add them.”

  “I looked up the old theater’s tax records and permits,” Lauren said. “It’s in Jimmy’s story. They have flipped that building back and forth half a dozen times. There’s about thirty code and health violations, ten of which are serious. A history of late tax payments. A whole basketful of stuff. But no one can find them. The city must have send fifty letters and conducted a dozen inspections. Let me see the list.” She scanned the names. “Oh, yeah, damn, here’s one of the companies. And... here’s another, aaanndd... oh wait, here’s the one that sent that foreclosure letter to my mother. Son of a bitch!” She looked up at Dawson, who was grinning, and over at Barry, who smiled and returned to wiping the counter. “What?”

  “These guys are first-class crooks, Frank. First class,” Dawson said. “No wonder the sister warned you. Watch your six.”

  “Yeah, you too,” Nagler said. “I’d image that having their names plastered all over the Internet might piss ’em off.”

  ****

  Her name was Sarah Lawton and she was fourteen when Warren Appleton escorted her from his mill in Paterson to Apple Mountain Estates, the name he gave his hilltop palace in the Morris woods. The date was April 16. She could not recall having been out of the city of Paterson before, she wrote, and had barely traveled beyond the fringe of her dusty, dark factory neighborhood. Yet here she was, riding in Mr. Appleton’s Buick sedan through farmland and wooded hills, up the rutted and winding drive, through the tree break to face a house “like a royal’s castle.”

  That appeared to be her last happy day, Frank Nagler concluded as he carefully read the pages of neat handwriting that described her life for the next eight months.

  He closed the diary around one finger and rubbed his eyes. All the tales he had heard in his career, the weeping stories of rape and abuse, attacks with weapons and fists; of all those tales, none had prepared him for the details contained in Sarah Lawton’s diary.

  What made it more horrible, he decided, was the precise and detailed descriptions, the clinical analysis of the wreckage of her body and spirit. At first the entries were filled with pain and horror; she cried out in the written words to “Sissy” — Nagler presumed that was Sister Katherine — as she wrote about Appleton’s fat fingers probing her, mashing her breasts with his palms, his stale whiskey breath and his pig-like grunting. Then a month or so later, her descriptions changed, whether from numbness or shame, but she did not fill the pages with her anger and disgust, merely a clinical recitation of repeated rapes, how she would steel herself as his footsteps shifted down the carpeted hallway accompanied by a light tapping of fingers on the wall; how she began to refuse his final kiss.

  Near the end of her captivity, the entries changed again. No longer were they about him, but her own efforts. She became the aggressor, she wrote. Greeting Appleton, not cowering on the bed covered by a long nightdress which he had taken pleasure in tearing away, but at the door naked, pushing him against the wall and grasping his penis with both hands; speaking in gutter terms about their intercourse, bringing all his acts down to a level of perversity that she said he found disgusting.

  “I was the aggressor, and he did not enjoy himself tonight,” she wrote on September 3.

  After a while, he stopped coming to her room at night. She wrote about her fear that some harsh punishment was in store and worried that he was taking his displeasure out on younger girls who did not fight back.

  She wrote about plotting her escape, perhaps down a long rope of torn nightgowns, or a daring thirty-foot leap to the ground below.

  The payback for her came during the daytime. Appleton showed up with another gentleman and they took turns or entered her together, she wrote. Appleton’s eyes did not roll with soft pleasure, she noted, but were painted with darkness and hate. The tone of the entries again changed, her words at first diving into despair, the description of her pain both harrowing and illuminating; then the anger, and there, Nagler saw, the plan for her salvation.

  She escaped out the window about a month after the daytime visits began, aided by “A Mr. Garrettson’s man, Harry.” He had brought a horse and a coat and they ran away down the back farm trail. He took her to St. Francis Church in Ironton, where the sisters took her in.

  A Mr. Garrettson’s man, Harry, Nagler thought. Can’t be. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Can’t be,” he whispered.

  A single slip of newsprint tucked into the back pages of the diary announced the discovery of her death.

  “Miss Sarah Lawton passed last Thursday, county coroner Thaddaeus McCarver announced. Miss Lawton, lately of Ironton, was said to be about 16 years of age, and employed at St. Francis Church as a clerk.

  “Mr. McCarver would not disclose the exact nature of Miss Lawton death, but residents of the Berkshire Valley neighborhood of Jefferson Township where she was found, said Miss Lawton appeared to have committed suicide by hanging.

  “A Mr. Garrettson, who would not disclose his full name, said Miss Lawton was discovered near the former Ringling Brothers Circus elephant shed. She was wearing a full-length white dress and jacket and ankle-length boots, her hair tied back with a red ribbon. Mr. Garrettson said she had looped a thick farm rope over the extended branch of a maple tree, placed the noose around her neck and stepped off something and was hanged.

  “When asked how a girl alone might accomplished that, Mr. Garrettson replied, ‘Just determined, I’d guess.’

  “Miss Lawton will be interred at Locust Street Cemetery without a church service.”

  Nagler dropped the diary on the bed and leaned against the headrest. That was no suicide.

  “Sister Katherine’s sister was murdered,” he whispered harshly.

  “Whose sister was murdered?”

  Lauren entered the bedroom from the hallway.

  Nagler held up the leather bound diary. “Sister Katherine’s”

  “My God! I didn’t ... when? Is it tied ...”

  “1931,” Nagler said. “They made it look like a suicide by hanging. And you know what? It might be.” And he carefully but briefly explained what he had been told by Sister Katherine about the history of the Sisters’ Home.

  Nagler showed Lauren a notation in the diary that had puzzled him. It was not about the rapes, but about book
s.

  “What do you think she meant by this?” he asked. “Within the books of children are the terrible tales of men.”

  “Well a psychologist might say that children’s stories are adult stories in disguise,” Lauren said. “Many old fairy tales are actual reworked folk tales about plague and ...”

  Nagler laughed. “Well...” Then, he said, “Books. Of course. Those books Bobby stored in the back of Leonard’s warehouse. They came from the Mine Hill Foundation. Did anyone look at them?”

  ****

  “What are we looking for?” Bobby asked. He had directed Del, Rafe, and Dominique to spread the boxes around on the floor and number them. Nagler made them wear white gloves so their fingerprints would not be transferred to a box or any book.

  Nagler flipped open one of the boxes and saw covers that displayed drawings of young girls on swings hung from apple trees with laughing dogs and sheep all around. He thumbed through the pages containing more sketches and words in large print. He read a few pages and concluded that at least that book was what it seemed to be: A story of children growing up on a farm.

  “Look, Mary. The sheep are playing on the lawn!”

  “And look, Bobby the Dog has joined them.”

  “Shall we run to the stream for some water?”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s all run to the stream.”

  The next page was a drawing of three girls running through tall grass.

  Okay, he thought.

  He turned each page slowly, looking in the margins for notes or extra words, but did not find any in that one book.

  “Look through each book page by page,” he said. “We’ve been told that there might be something hidden inside a book, or maybe in these boxes. It could be anything.”

  The room filled with the soft shuffling of pages and the occasional tearing of a box cover. Occasionally someone read a page. “Listen to this: Bobby and Marty decided to raise pigs.”

  The box Nagler had examined held thirty-eight slim children’s books; some were copies of the book he had initially read. He did some sloppy math in his head and guessed that if each box held between thirty and forty books, there could be about a thousand books.

  The air in the room was soon thick with faint dust and humidity. None of the windows would open, so Bobby and Rafe went to get a fan or two.

  Nagler examined the books in his box for a publishing date. Sarah Lawton’s diary was written in 1930 or 1931, but the book he had read was published in 1953.

  I’m no literary historian, he thought, but why would anyone hang on to thirty-eight paperback copies of a generic children’s story. No author was listed. A school maybe?

  “Hey, Frank, Dom and Rafe have to get to school, and I have to open the store,” Bobby yelled. “There’s about six boxes left.”

  “Yeah, Bobby. Thanks, and thanks guys,” Nagler called out as they left the room and thumped down the wooden stairs. “You ever seen such stupid stories?” Dom asked. “Mary’s white dress was torn? She had spilled something red on it. Oh, what am I going to tell Mother?” Dom’s phony high-pitched voice faded.

  “What are we exactly lookin’ for, Frank?” Del asked as he sat on one of the boxes.

  “I’m not quite sure, Del,” Nagler said. I was hoping that we’d find something that would shed some light on an old diary I was given from a woman who died in 1931.”

  “She wrote books? Cause we got a mess of ’em.” They both laughed.

  “She said something about children’s books telling the tales of men,” Nagler said. “Something like that.”

  Del wiped his brow with a large blue handkerchief. “Well, that’s deep.”

  “Yeah, right. I thought it could mean that these kid’s stories were code of some sort, but these for the most part were printed after 1931 in the forties and fifties and professionally done, and mass produced. I would have thought that the foundation that sent them to Leonard would have been sending old books, historic volumes, not boxes of mass market paperbacks.”

  “Maybe it’s like one of them spy books,” Del said smiling. “Hidden messages with invisible ink, and all that.”

  “That’d be great, but she died in 1931,” Nagler said. “Maybe it’s not just these books.”

  Del stood up and patted the sides of box in front of him and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  The box Del opened held similar books, but also contained an envelope.

  “Hey, Frank, look at this. Ain’t that one of them computer storage things?”

  “A flash drive,” Nagler said. He glanced around at the mess of boxes and shook his head. “A flash drive.”

  “And, hey, this is different,” Del said pulling out a thick leather book. “Looks like a picture album. Mr. Apple’s Farm.”

  “What?” Nagler turned to Del. “What’d you say?”

  “Just read the title. Mr. Apple’s Farm.”

  Nagler took the book and placed it on a table. It was nearly six inches thick and each page was roughly ten by thirteen inches, to which were glued or taped old photographs of a house, grounds, and young girls.

  Found it. Nagler smiled. Mr. Apple’s Farm was the estate of Warren Appleton. Nagler recognized the arches, main doors and the circular driveway. He flipped carefully through the pages. Some of the photos had become loose and fell into the binding.

  Then there she was, Sarah Lawton. She was standing with four other girls next to a long black car with a rotund, bearded man in a striped suit. Meet Warren Appleton. Some of the photos were just of the girls, seemingly on a day out at the farm or being displayed by the staff of the home. A few photos were of men in dark suits standing next to fancy cars: The guests. This was Appleton’s collection, Nagler thought. His prizes. His accomplices. Nagler found a separate photo of Sarah Lawton. Close up, not quite Sister Katherine’s fine cheekbones and long brow; still a pretty girl who would become a beautiful woman, had she been given the chance. He closed his eyes as the sorrow surfaced.

  “I think this is it,” Nagler said as he coughed out a catch in his voice.

  “That ain’t all of it,” Del said, his face long and dark. He handed Nagler a smaller volume of photos. This time there were no cars, but beds, and hands tied, and the girls were naked, and sometimes there were men.

  “Bastards,” Nagler said. “You know who these guys were, Del? And who these girls were? They were bankers, and shop owners, plant owners, judges, cops; rich men, fabulously wealthy, and these girls are factory girls, teenagers, maybe younger. Brought to Mr. Apple’s Farm, to be raped and humiliated, maybe even killed, to service those men.”

  Del handed Nagler another book. “Well, if those are the pictures of it all, then this might be the story.”

  The book was entitled, “Our Home.” The cover was a pencil drawing of the archway at Appleton’s estate. Inside was a copy of Sarah Lawton’s diary.

  Nagler smiled. She had created a second copy of her diary that included her ledger and had hidden it, probably in plain sight in the home’s library. With everything else that was going on, who would notice a book entitled “Our Home?”

  “Know what, Del? I bet we find a couple more of these diaries tucked inside other photo albums.”

  “That’s pretty clever, there, Frank.”

  “Got that right. Let’s see what we can find.”

  After searching the other boxes, they found another photo album assembled by Appleton, and three diaries. Appleton’s second set of photos featured just his friends, often standing beside their long black automobiles, or on horseback, or playing golf. Rich men celebrating, ruling the world. Page after page. And yet, Nagler noticed, no women. Even the servants were all men. The only women in the photos were the factory girls, which made their presence even more troubling.

  What was more, Nagler thought. Names; names and positions. Page after page of the cream of the business world of the time, all together, drinking whiskey, eating thick steaks and toasting each other’s success. All together, we fine fellows, ruling
the world, raping young women.

  What they also found in the pages of the books at first puzzled Nagler, but after he read a few, he sighed. Dozens and dozens of notes and letters from the staff at Appleton’s home. The things they could not tell to family and friends out of shame and duty born in a fear of being fired, they wrote down and stuffed among the pages of children’s books, hoping for discovery. That’s what Sarah Lawton knew. She’d probably encouraged it; many appeared to be from the factory girls. Some a page, some just a single sentence or two. Some just a name and date. Nagler blinked back tears as he read a few of the notes; felt his heart stutter at the pain that poured off the pages. “To mum and dad. Find me. Sally, Aug 12.” “Joan Smith, 14. I am here. When will I go home?” “Jessica. 12. I fear I am lost.”

  Desperate girls. Desperate cries, all shouting: This is me. I am here. Remember me.

  Nagler slammed shut the photo album. The stories of children did indeed tell the tales of men. How did Sarah Lawton hide all these diaries and photos? What did it cost her? Nagler wondered, although he already knew the answer: Her life.

  Del hunched near the wall, holding his head; a low moan, the puzzle in his eyes wrapped in a torn face, wet with tears.

  “I know these men,” he said softly, “From my time on the railroad. Not these particular men, but their type, the showy I’m-richer-than-God men, swilling their drinks, yelling out, ‘Hey, waiter, Hey, boy, another round’; takin’, takin’ what they wanted, everything they saw, telling the world and all us little folks to get outta the way. And I saw them when I was on the street, mind all jumbled, veins on fire. Stepping over me. I been spit on, kicked, pushed aside and ya just want to be recognized as a human being. Is that askin’ too much? Then you see what’s in them boxes, you see how deep the poison goes, how strong is the wrong in what they doin’ and your soul cries out for justice and you just wanna bring ’em down.”

  He wiped the tears from his face, replacing the sorrow with anger and determination. “I heard you sayin’ there’s more like them today, doing the same thing. You gonna bring ‘em down, Frank?”