Whiskey & Ashes, page 26
Ezekiel took the paper and read the headline with growing fury:
"BOYS BADLY BURNED BY BARREL BOILING SWILL at the E. Gouge Distillery"
Below it, the details unfolded two children scalded, swill, pig feed, barrels overturned.
“It wasn’t here,” Ezekiel growled. “We don’t keep swill barrels out in the open, and I’ve never seen a man let children on this lot without a hand to hold. This was in West Bristol.”
“I know,” Lee said. “But the story’s out now.”
Ezekiel stormed down to the newspaper office before the midday whistle blew. The editor, a thin man with ink-stained cuffs, blinked as Ezekiel’s shadow filled the door. “You printed a lie,” Ezekiel said evenly. “You will print the truth.”
By noon the next day, a retraction appeared:
“ACCIDENT NOT AT GOUGE DISTILLERY”
The incident occurred in West Bristol. The previous report was in error.
But Ezekiel knew better than to trust retractions.
“Who reads corrections?” he muttered that night to Pantha. “They don’t build them to repair the damage only to say they tried.”
Pantha didn’t answer. She was reading Walter’s latest letter again, one hand on her chin, the other tracing the margin where his handwriting had grown tighter.
“There’s more than one way to plant doubt,” she finally said. “Someone’s planting plenty.”
Ezekiel stared out the window, jaw tight. “Well,” he said, “then they best not forget who’s still holding the plow.”
The Eve of the Canal Opening – August 14, 1914
Balboa Clubhouse – Canal Zone
Walter adjusted his collar in the reflection of the tall window, watching the candlelight play off the palm fronds outside. The grounds of the Balboa Clubhouse were strung with electric bulbs and red-white-and-blue bunting, but the mood felt more like a negotiation than a celebration.
Inside, the dining room buzzed with conversation officers, engineers, and administrators dressed in cream suits and spotless boots, nursing cocktails and polishing off platitudes. A string quartet played softly near the far wall, their music nearly drowned by the clink of glasses and the laughter that never quite reached the eyes.
“Tomorrow, boys,” someone near Walter said. “We open the locks and shut the old world out.”
Walter turned at the voice. It was Mr. White, swirling ice in a tumbler and speaking low to a freight contractor with a pocket full of manifests and a half-smile too fixed to be honest.
Across the room, Commissioner Charles Morris raised a glass in a quiet toast dignified, restrained. There would be no grand parade, no naval fanfare. The war in Europe had seen to that. But still, tomorrow morning, the SS Ancon would slip through the last gate, and the Panama Canal would belong to history.
Walter made his way to the edge of the room, taking a seat near a column wrapped in bunting. He held a glass of warm punch and sipped it without tasting. From his position, he could watch the flow of men like a ledger in motion: names crossing, deals whispered, nods exchanged. Some faces he knew engineers, mapmen, quartermasters. Others were new to him, but wore expressions he recognized from Bristol saloons and backrooms.
At one point, he caught sight of Harwood recently absent, now conveniently returned standing with a navy officer, laughing softly into his hand. Harwood's presence alone confirmed that the final pieces were falling into place, quiet as cards on a gambler’s table.
Walter leaned forward slightly, pretending to adjust his shoe, and slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. The small, bound book was still there, wrapped in the same oilcloth. His private log. Every discrepancy, every skipped shipment, every unexplained item re-coded or double-booked.
He wouldn’t stay much longer. The last ferry back to the dormitory left just before midnight.
A voice beside him startled him. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”
Walter turned to see Mr. Morris standing there, a plate of untouched hors d'oeuvres in one hand, the other resting lightly on his hip.
“Big day tomorrow,” Walter replied with a neutral smile.
“It is,” Morris said, looking out the window, his eyes tired. “Too big, maybe. I was supposed to give a speech to a congressional group from Washington next month. They canceled the trip. Europe’s fire seems to be drawing all the oxygen.” Walter nodded, heart pounding slightly.
Morris looked at him for a long moment. “You’re sharp, Walter. I’ve noticed. Don’t let this place keep you longer than you ought to. There’s nothing left to build once the gates close.” And with that, he turned and walked away.
Walter sat a moment longer, the weight of the logbook like a stone against his chest. Then he stood, stepped quietly out the side door, and into the humid night. Tomorrow the world would look toward Panama but tonight, he would write down what the world wasn’t watching.
Spencer Street – August 19, 1914
The sound of the screen door slapped softly behind him as Ezekiel stepped in from the porch, the Bristol Herald Courier tucked under his arm. The kitchen smelled of coffee left warming on the back of the stove, and the light through the window caught dust motes in slow-motion drift.
Pantha looked up from slicing apples for a pie.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Newspaper,” he grunted, pulling out a chair. “No letter.”
He opened the newspaper with a flick and spread it across the table. His eyes scanned quickly, landing on the bold black type:
“$100,000 PAID IN CANAL TOLLS”
“PANAMA CANAL ACT SIGNED BY WILSON”
Ezekiel read silently for a moment, lips pressed tight. Pantha didn’t ask again. She only poured his coffee.
“They’re already counting money,” he muttered. “Three days in and it’s already about freight and flags and ‘foreign-built ships joining the American registry.’” He tapped the article sharply. “Wilson signed the amendment two days after the Ancon passed through.”
“Was that the one Walter mentioned?” Pantha asked softly.
He nodded. “The Ancon. First official transit, Saturday. I’ve got the date circled in red on the ledger in my desk.” He folded the paper carefully and set it aside, though his fingers lingered on it like it might still give something up.
Pantha dried her hands and turned to him. “Anything from Ben Atkins?”
Ezekiel nodded once, slowly. “Got a wire yesterday evening. One of Morris’s freight men, Harwood, has history. He was quietly removed from the Norfolk yards in 1912. Never fired, just… shifted. Paper trail ends in Panama.”
He didn’t need to explain further.
“I don’t think Morris is dirty,” he said after a pause. “But the men close to power... they know how to operate in its shadow.”
Pantha sat down across from him, her face unreadable. “You think Walter’s in trouble.”
“I think he’s smart enough to see trouble,” Ezekiel said. “And stubborn enough to write it down.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the tick of the wall clock filling the space between them. The kitchen was still, but Ezekiel’s foot tapped under the table, a steady, unsettled rhythm.
“Tomorrow’s mail,” Pantha said at last.
Ezekiel nodded. “Tomorrow’s mail.”
He rose, took the folded newspaper, and carried it to the desk in the front room. He opened the drawer and placed it atop Walter’s last letter, aligning the corners with care. Then he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and his pen.
August 20, 1914 Bristol, Virginia
My dear Walter,
The newspapers are full of numbers now tolls paid, ships passed, acts signed by Wilson to open the canal to foreign-built vessels flying our flag. They’re already calling it the artery of a new American century, and your name is now tied to all of it, whether the papers know it or not.
I imagine they’re still celebrating down there, even without the parade. But here, I read between the lines.
I received a wire from Ben Atkins at the railroad. Said one of the men near Morris, the one you call Harwood, is not new to shadows. Last seen at Norfolk, removed quiet-like in ‘12. No record after that until Panama. You mentioned him once in passing, and now I wish you hadn’t.
Son, I do not believe Mr. Morris is the man to orchestrate deceit. But power draws opportunists like heat draws flies, and you’re in the thick of both right now.
If you’re keeping records, and I know you are, keep them safe. Not in your room. Not where a desk clerk can be paid to look. Wrap them tight and post them home if need be. Or bring them yourself, but don’t trust the final days of a job half-filled with men racing to make their last cuts before the ledger closes.
You are your mother’s son sharp and measured and mine, I hope, in knowing when to keep your back to a wall and your eyes open.
We expect your letter soon. Irene keeps drawing maps of Panama from memory now. She’s nearly got it right.
All my love,
Papa
Spencer Street Parlor – Late August 1914
The late summer air lay thick in the parlor, heavy with the smell of dust, heat, and peaches ripening on the kitchen table. The windows were open, but the breeze had gone still.
Pantha sat in her rocker with the envelope opened neatly in her lap, the thin paper unfolding like a leaf across her hands.
August 18, 1914 Balboa Heights, Canal Zone
Dear Mama and Papa,
The canal has opened. The Ancon passed through Saturday, as smooth and quiet as you please. There was no brass band, no firing of cannons just the low call of the horn, the turn of the locks, and the long shadow of a ship slipping between oceans.
It was beautiful, in a strange way. Not triumphant, but profound. I stood on the eastern ridge at dawn and watched her pass beneath the high ridges of Culebra. The labor of a decade moved forward in silence.
There was an event the night before. Dinner and punch at the Balboa Club. I wrote down what I saw and who was there. No one suspects I notice things. That’s the benefit of being the bookkeeper. You’re invisible until something doesn’t add up.
I think the major work will be finished by October. Morris has said he may keep a few of us on through November to finalize account reviews. But after that, my work is done. If the trains run on time and the ships are steady, I hope to be home by Christmas. Tell Irene she can mark it on the calendar.
I’ve kept my own copy of the ledgers. I know what I’ve seen, and I’ll bring it home if I have to.
I hope everything is well in Bristol. Has Elmer invented anything that caught fire yet? And will Bernice send photos from the wedding? Tell her I expect a full report on prairie life when I return.
I send my love to each of you, and you’ll have my next letter before the week is out.
Yours always,
Walter
She didn’t read it aloud at first.
Ezekiel stood nearby, watching. He recognized the envelope Walter’s handwriting, tight and clean. The latest one received.
When Pantha reached the end, she looked up slowly.
“He says he’ll be home by Christmas,” she said. “Thinks Morris will finish up by November. Says he saw the Ancon pass through the canal… called it profound.”
Ezekiel sat heavily in the chair opposite her, the one where he’d written his warning just five days earlier. “He doesn’t know,” he murmured.
“No,” Pantha said, folding the letter with care. “He doesn’t.”
She passed it to him, and he read it in silence. His brow furrowed at the part about the dinner at the Balboa Club. He noted the line: “No one suspects I notice things.” His jaw tightened.
“He’s right,” Ezekiel said finally. “People forget about the one doing the books until the books don’t balance.”
Pantha stood, crossing to the sideboard where she kept the letters bundled in blue ribbon. She added this one to the stack. Then she walked to the window and looked out across the ridge, where the late sun was slipping down behind Bristol.
“Irene’s marked December 22nd in red,” she said. “Wrote ‘Walt comes home’ in the corner.”
Ezekiel looked up sharply. “What made her pick the 22nd?”
“Said she wants him home in time to light the tree,” Pantha said quietly. “She’s already asked Bernice to send pinecones from Oklahoma when they get there for decorating. She wants to make it look like the riverbank in Fish Springs.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Ezekiel rose, returning the letter to the envelope. “He means to come home,” he said. “We’ll do what we must to see that he does.”
Outside, the first katydids were calling from the trees, their rhythm steady, tireless. The wind hadn’t come back, but the house held a stillness that was almost a prayer.
Bristol, Late August 1914
The parlor clock had just chimed five when Ezekiel came through the front door, his temper already simmering. He set down his hat with a thud, loosened his collar, and called for Zeke louder than necessary.
“You nearly bought your own plot at East Hill, son,” he said once Zeke came hobbling down the stairs, stiff in the shoulders but trying to look unbothered.
“I was not speeding,” Zeke protested.
“You were driving, weren’t you?”
That earned a dry laugh from Pantha, who was at her secretary desk with a half-written letter to Alice. She set her pen down gently, but her eyes stayed on Zeke.
“You’re lucky to be walking,” she said, voice low.
“I’m lucky to have such attentive critics,” he muttered.
But the truth was, when the family gathered for supper that night, there was a kind of hush around the table a reverence that comes only after a near miss. Irene clung to Zeke’s elbow while Orde asked a hundred questions about flying through the air. Even Elmer, who usually teased him without mercy, passed the butter without a single jab.
After the meal, Ezekiel poured a quiet drink and stood by the window. Outside, the Studebaker sat in the side yard, fender crushed, pride dented worse.
“You can fix a car,” he murmured. “But not a boy.”
Letter from Zeke to Walter –
August 24, 1914 Bristol, Virginia
Monday Evening
Dear Walt,
Well, brother, I’ve made the papers, and not the way you used to. I’m still sore from neck to knees, but I’m walking, talking, and in possession of most of my teeth. You can stop worrying before you start the Studebaker’s worse off than I am. And yes, I know what you’re going to say: I still can’t round a curve to save my life.
The accident was on Hamilton Hill. Bad grade, sharp bend, loose gravel, and I met a Ford roadster full in the face. Poor Miss Denny broke her collarbone, and her beau flipped the car into a ditch. I’ve since heard she’s healing well, and the families are handling it peaceably. No charges filed.
The old man paced a hole in the rug and barked at the insurance agent for half an hour. Then he sat me down and read me all the death notices from last week’s paper just to make his point. Mama made me broth and wouldn’t let me out of bed for two days.
I’ll admit, for a moment when the thing struck, I thought I might be joining you in the tropics permanently in the sky rather than on a steamer.
Anyway, I’m mended, mostly. Hope your books balance and your breezes blow cool. Write soon.
Your stubborn little brother,
Zeke
Letter from Walter to Zeke –
September 5, 1914
Balboa, Canal Zone
September 5, 1914
Dear Zeke,
It took two weeks for your letter to reach me and half an hour for me to believe it. You always had a taste for speed. Glad to hear you bounced rather than broke. Hamilton Hill sounds like a death trap. Remind me not to buy property there.
You’d have had Mama wringing her hands and Papa quoting Psalms. I hope you got both. You probably deserved them. My work here is steady, if dull. I sign papers all day and sweat through every stitch. Still, there’s pride in order and work, and this whole zone is a ledger right now. Tidy columns, budgets balanced, tracks laid true.
Tell Elmer to mind your repairs and tell Irene I still have the flower she sent in her last letter pressed in my account book.
I’m glad you're all right. Bernice says the wedding will go forward as planned and that Eula and Lillian have been such a help to her. I’ve written her my congratulations.
Don’t go flying off any more hills. We’d rather have you late to supper than early to heaven.
With affection,
Walter
Bristol, October 7, 1914
The parlor of Hotel Bristol was bright with autumn light, softened through lace curtains and tall windows. A single bouquet of white roses stood in the corner beside the piano, their scent mingling with pressed linen and face powder. No grand affair, just a quiet ceremony, as Flora Bernice had wished.
Pantha straightened her daughter’s traveling hat, the wisteria-colored ribbon tucked just so beneath her chin.
“You look like a lady in a magazine,” Irene whispered.
Bernice smiled, cheeks flushed. “I feel like a page in one.”
Rev. J.L. Rosser of First Baptist took his place as Dr. James Shoun reached for Bernice’s hand. Ezekiel stood tall behind his daughters, his arm lightly touching Irene’s shoulder, his eyes fixed on the couple with a mix of pride and something deeper an absence he could not ignore.
The ceremony was brief. The “I do” was clear. And when it was done, Bernice’s new name was spoken like a hope: Mrs. James Garfield Shoun.
They gathered afterward for photographs on the front steps. Irene clung to her sister’s arm as the shutter snapped, then slipped a folded slip of paper into her palm.
“It’s for Walter,” she whispered. “You can post it from Oklahoma. I already put a stamp on it.”
Bernice smiled and tucked it safely into her handbag.
An hour later, the train to Fairfax pulled away from the station, steam billowing like a soft goodbye. Ezekiel took off his hat and pressed it to his chest.
“She left happy,” Pantha said quietly.
