Lewis remembered his father’s expression, anger and anguish in equal measures, as he gazed down at his wife and son, realizing the permanence of what he’d done. And then Lewis’s pain became intolerable, growing with the pool of sticky, scarlet blood on the floor under his mother’s head. His own wailing reached a piercing crescendo. His father fled and a neighbor entered, followed by a policeman. This was as much of the story as Lewis could dredge up, for he must have passed out.
After that, everything in his life changed. He lived somewhere else, bunking in a room with many children. He barely spoke, but drew incessantly on the paper the nuns gave him: old newspapers, magazines, wrapping paper, cut-up cardboard boxes. He grew older in a place where parents no longer existed, until he was old enough to leave.
“I understand your message,” Lewis now said, meeting Mr. Russo’s eyes meaningfully. “You don’t need to come around again.”
For a second Mr. Russo glanced down, then looked up again bitterly. Lewis quickly shut the door. After a pause, he locked it too.
The next morning, Lewis awoke with a headache. It was as if he’d been the one drinking whiskey all night. He cringed when he remembered whom he was scheduled to draw that morning: Antonia. Lewis knew there would be trouble. Women always talked to each other. And sisters — they must tell each other everything. He’d been foolish to ignore that fact.
She strutted into his workroom without a word, shoulders squared, back straight as a lightning rod. Behind the partition she noisily changed her clothes. She emerged in the day’s garments: a conical brassiere, garters, stockings, high heels, and a waist-high, lace-up corset. Lewis took a deep breath. Behind his sketch pad, he felt unnerved. By contrast, Antonia appeared supremely confident.
“We’ll be drawing you from the front today. Straight on. One hand on your hip, the other dangling, fingers relaxed,” he said. “Look at me directly, please.”
She glared at him as she assumed the position he’d requested. Under his arms, sweat stains bloomed.
“I hear you went out with my sister,” she said. Lewis knew more was coming. Her voice was smug, indignant, and jealous all at once. “She said you were quite peculiar, but I could have told her that.”
“Relax your hands, please. They’re clenched.”
“She said you didn’t like her.”
Lewis didn’t reply.
“She said she’s not your type. But I guess I’m not your type either, am I, Lewis?”
He wiped his brow. Now his whole body was perspiring, though this was one of the few rooms at Strouse Adler that was air-conditioned.
“What I want to know is — what is your type?”
“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Miss Colavolpe.”
“But it was appropriate to take out my sister?”
“No, that wasn’t appropriate either,” he conceded.
“All I want you to do is answer the question. What kind of girl do you want? My sister thinks the problem is that you don’t know what to do. I think you know what to do — but can’t do it.”
Quietly, Lewis chose another pencil, licked the tip, and kept drawing. He wasn’t sketching Antonia, however. The body he created was naked, lush, and fat — thick in the middle. A baby suckled on a swollen, unconstrained breast. Antonia continued to antagonize him. All the while, he wanted to argue, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t insult her.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. He picked at the meal Mrs. Russo had packed him. He still had no appetite. She fretted, asking him if he was feeling well.
“I’m fine,” he replied, avoiding eye contact.
After lunch he crumpled up the picture he’d drawn. From memory, he tried to sketch how Antonia had appeared that morning, like an angry empress, but his mind was muddled. His hands kept trembling and he couldn’t concentrate. Eventually, he threw his pencil on the floor and left the room to wander the halls of the factory. On the first floor he loitered outside one of the huge workrooms. Like the others, this one had a wood floor and slow-moving fans. Corsets and brassieres and other silky things spilled out of bins. Many lay scattered about on the ground. The air was thick with lint particles.
The ear-piercing cacophony of sewing machines filled his head, giving him a respite from his thoughts. From outside the room he watched row after row of tired women hunched over their machines, working in tandem. Occasionally they paused, or tried to take a smoke break. But those were discouraged, as was talking. Mainly, the women hummed or sang as their fingers busily guided fabric under sharp needles.
Young bundle girls moved the garments from station to station, for there were many stages before a product was complete: cutting, sewing, embroidering, eyeletting, boning, binding, trimming, starching, ironing, lacing, and packing. By comparison, Lewis’s job was a breeze.
The noise distracted him for a time, but it also made his headache worse. He decided to leave work early — something he rarely did. With nothing to do, he walked New Haven for hours, until his legs tired. Until his left foot felt like it was on fire.
On his way home he decided to walk down Court Street, to the store that carried books. Over a week had passed; he’d counted the days. He opened the door and greeted the shopkeeper, who had a twinkle in his eye.
“I have it,” the man said proudly.
Lewis was skeptical. In his heart he didn’t believe he would ever find that childhood treasure again. Sometimes he wondered if he had imagined it in the first place.
The storekeeper disappeared into the back, returning a few moments later with a book in his hands. The book. The same version of The Time Machine that Lewis’s mother had read to him when he was a young boy.
“It’s a sfinge?” the shopkeeper asked, pointing to the cover. “I find it — for you.”
“Yes, the sphinx,” Lewis said, wide-eyed. There it was, front and center, the same mythical, lion-haunched creature he remembered.
“Hard to find. Very hard to find,” the shopkeeper said, holding fast to the book. Still smiling, he sized Lewis up. “Perfect condition. I take only ten.”
“Ten dollars?”
When the man nodded, Lewis nearly lost his breath. It was an unreasonable sum, especially now. Especially here. Nobody had that kind of money. But Lewis could not possibly leave without the book. He opened his wallet and gave the man what he’d asked for.
The man examined the bill carefully, then nodded again. Humming, he wrapped the book in brown paper, tied it with twine, and handed it to Lewis. “Glad you happy,” he said.
Lewis tipped his hat on his way out. He thought that happy wasn’t quite the right word. What Lewis felt was transported.
It was dusk by the time he finally returned to his apartment.
He fell asleep in a chair while reading the book, having lost himself in familiar characters from another time. Hours later, a knock on the door awakened him. He was annoyed, although it was still a reasonable hour — not the middle of the night. Readying himself for a conflict, he was shocked to see Mrs. Russo — instead of her husband. She smiled and held out a steaming plate of food.