“Sir?” Through the door came the muffled plea of Josiah’s assistant, who was already being bombarded by men waiting to see Josiah. It was Friday morning. By ten o’clock, the line might be twenty deep. He had arrived hours ago, when the sky was still pink, determined to finish the speech before anyone arrived.
“Just a minute,” Josiah called. He removed his face from the wall, straightened his jacket, and, to bolster himself, took a minute to regard the activity down in the pit. From this height, a ten-foot slab of granite rising through the air on dog hooks appeared light as a child’s toy. The ladders looked like matchsticks, the men on the ledges like ants, their movements—swinging hammers, setting drills, maneuvering hooks—barely visible. Here you are, Josiah told himself. Running the quarry. Running for mayor. Last winter, his father-in-law, Caleb Stanton, had retired from the company’s day-to-day business and put Josiah in charge and here he was, in Caleb’s warm, leather-scented office, entrusted with Friday Favors, a tradition begun years ago by Caleb to enhance the company’s reputation. Caleb, it seemed, had created or invented almost everything in Josiah’s life, including his mayoral aspirations, for Caleb himself was too old now to run, and besides, too many powerful people envied him. Josiah, the rookie, the native-born son-in-law, was the perfect foil. So what if he had left school after eighth grade, like most of his friends? He had spent more time in front of the bathroom mirror than his mother and three brothers combined, regarding his strong chin and sky blue eyes, the both-feet-planted-shoulders-back bearing he had never been taught, and now a muckraker at the Gloucester Daily Times had dug up proof that Josiah’s opponent in the mayoral race, Frankie Fiumara, once attended a rally for the socialist Eugene Debs. That Fiumara was Italian didn’t help him. Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti were once again dominating the news: the findings of Governor Fuller’s Lowell commission were soon due, the public waiting to see if the shoemaker and fishmonger would finally be executed. It had been seven years since their first trial for the murder of a payroll clerk and his guard in South Braintree, and six since their second, and still, though no evidence linked them clearly to the crime, the anarchists remained in prison. Around the world, people had risen up in protest. They had marched, gone on strike, bombed American embassies, named streets and cigarettes after the men. The cry was foul play: Sacco and Vanzetti had been tried for their politics and convicted for their foreignness. All this might have worked in Fiumara’s favor—Gloucester was full of Italians. But there were more Irish, and plenty of blue-blood WASPs, and still more people who, though it didn’t make them proud, simply didn’t like the look of the two wops. And so Josiah Story, boy from Mason Street, was likely to be mayor, if he could just give a few decent speeches and rally the women’s vote.
The women were still new to voting. The women were key. And Josiah had a plan to win them over, by eking an endorsement out of a leading dry named Beatrice Cohn. See? Josiah urged himself. Here you are. With a plan. It’s April. Almost spring. All these men are here to see you.
The door opened, then shut again, letting in a brief roar from the waiting room. Josiah didn’t turn at first. He waited to hear his assistant say, “It’s time, sir.” Then he turned.
Sam Turpa was a tall, skinny boy who would stoop like that until he filled out in the chest and shoulders. Josiah had chosen him for the job because he was loyal, because he was Finnish—the quarrymen liked seeing one of their own in a decent suit up in the office—and because Josiah did not trust himself to keep a woman at his side all day, as Caleb had. Josiah’s eyes were the wandering kind. Back in the day, before Susannah, other parts of him had wandered, too. He was prone to a pretty smile, flattery. And so, no women. Susannah suffered enough.
“Who’s here?”
“A Mr. Taylor, sir, and his brother. An Italian named Buzzi who says you said you had a job? Various innkeepers. A lobsterman . . .”
“The Italian is pronounced ‘Boozy,’ I think.”
The boy nodded, too harried to appreciate the joke. “Who should I send in?”