“There was a shift in his behavior six or seven months before he died. He stopped coming in to the Tavern with his wife. He was devoted to her. I’d never seen a gentleman quite like him, holding out her chair for her, helping her into her coat when they left, holding doors, the types of things no one does anymore.
“I think that was the point when he found out she was seeing one of his business partners.
“At the same time, he stopped bringing in out-of-town businessmen as well. Whether the two were connected, I can’t say.
“A rumor began circulating that Mr. Braithwaite had denied him a loan to keep the business going for another year. He began selling off furniture and paintings, items that had been in his family for generations. I think Mr. Holmes knew it was a desperate act; that he saw the writing on the wall and something broke inside.
“Mr. Holmes used to drink at the Tortoise a night or two during the week and on Sundays he’d duck his head in to buy a round. He wanted to be around his employees. Santiago told me his father always said making sure to appear no better than the men who worked for him was the most important thing a business owner could do. A manger, owner, whomever was only as good as the people who worked for him. So Mr. Holmes would spend nights at the Tortoise buying rounds and letting his employees see he was one of them.
“Of course, it didn’t work. As things began getting tough for the business, the nights he wasn’t there Big Mike Tatum was and he was talking about striking for better wages or more benefits or just sewing some sort of discord. As the business dried up, there were whispers of resentment over hours reductions despite a slight uptick in pay and no loss of benefits. The good will Mr. Holmes had built up over rounds of beers through the years was forgotten.
“Mr. Holmes began coming to the Tavern every night and drinking at the bar because he couldn’t face the men at the Tortoise. He’d tell me over the top of a draft how much the hurt and anger on their faces cut into him, ‘like the sting of a thousand paper cuts with the depth of a knife wound,’ he said, ‘my heart bleeds for my workers, but I can’t find a way to lift them up, not this time.’
“The sadness was devastating. I’d never seen someone so sad. The mirth was gone from his eyes. This man who was so tall was crushed by the weight of the town’s expectations. You weren’t born yet, so you’ve only seen the fallout, but those mills were the lifeblood of this town. They were everything; its heartbeat.
“Look around today, and these big corporations and other businesses aren’t based in any of the towns where they have offices or shops. They don’t know what they mean to the cities they’re in. They pick up and leave – if they ever come at all – as soon as things go south or they find a better offer. Cities and towns have to prostitute themselves for big businesses to find the places attractive. It’s all about the dollar, no matter what that dollar means or does to a community.
“The owners and CEOs of these companies, they don’t care. They’re too busy making more and more, distancing themselves from the workers – the ones doing the hard work of making the company money – and the communities.
“That’s why it was so devastating to see Mr. Holmes so sad. He wasn’t that way. He understood his workers, because he spent time in the mills. He worked on the floor at least one day a week, and he was out walking the floors every day, interacting with the workers, asking after their families. He even lived downtown amongst the men and women who depended on the mills because he knew he depended on them for the mills’ success and he wanted to better understand them.
“And before you argue that it’s different, or Berwick is a small town, remember that at their height, those mills employed thousands of people. Not hundreds, thousands. It was big business.
“Pap never had much good to say about anyone in this town, but he respected Mr. Holmes a great deal – that didn’t mean he didn’t like to poke at him every chance he got, but he respected him. He appreciated how Mr. Holmes cared about his people, despite they’re following the likes of Big Mike Tatum against him. He always wanted what was best for them.
“That goodness, contrasted against the pain he was feeling drew me further and further into him. He would come in night after night, never getting drunk. He would drink and sink further and further into the bar. A piece of him fell off each night. I couldn’t stand to watch him coming apart. I would have done anything to find a solution for him or take away some small part of the hurt.
“The day he died he was down lower than I’d ever seen him. He was in the early afternoon with Mr. Braithwaite. The place was empty when they entered. Mr. Holmes gave me a weak smile as they passed by the front and moved to a quiet table in the back.
“They placed their orders and then bent in close to one another over the table. It was as though a couple were out in a crowded space having an argument they didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Mr. Holmes’ back was to the bar, but I could see Mr. Braithwaite’s face. His gray eyes looked dead on his pasty face as he focused in on the powerful gesticulations of Mr. Holmes, whose words came in pieces to the front of the bar.
“When I dropped off pints and sandwiches, I could hear the desperation in Mr. Holmes’ voice as he begged Mr. Braithwaite for a loan, ‘Will, the people. You’ve got to think about the people. What will happen to them if the mills close? What will happen to the bank then, when no one has any money to save?’
“’The only people I have to think about are my shareholders. They’d never go in on this. We’ve given you two loans in each of the past two years. Where are the results from those?’
“’I have potential investors scheduled to come in next week. There’s another guy who’s interested. The money is coming Will, I just need a little to float right now.’
“’Names Jerry. I need names of these people. Better than that. I need to see these people, see their money.’
“’They’re coming Will. Trust me.’
“’I’m sorry Jerry. I can’t right now. We just aren’t in a position –‘
“’Have I ever not repaid one of your loans? No, I haven’t. You’ve always gotten your money back. What’s different now? Explain that to me.’
“I returned to the bar and their conversation faded into background noise. I took to drying glasses and sneaking glances at their tables. I had my back to them when Mr. Holmes’ chair slammed off the ground. In the silence of the bar it sounded like a clap of thunder. I jumped and dropped the glass I was drying.
“’Fine! Sit there up in your castle on the Hill and watch the down die,’ he roared as he turned and stormed towards the door. He stopped at the bar and handed me a $100 bill, ‘sorry about that Linda. You shouldn’t have had to see that. This is for lunch, and the glass, you keep what’s left.’ He smiled at me with those sad eyes and walked out the door.
“Mr. Braithwaite stuck around long enough to finish his drink. He didn’t say a word on his way out, his eyes glued to the floor. I think I caught a smirk on his face, but I wouldn’t swear to it.
“A half-hour later the tension was just beginning to leave the air and the bar was still empty when Mr. Holmes pushed back through the front door. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his face was contorted with manic energy. He took up his usual spot at the bar and I put down a Heinekin.
“’A slug of Jame-o too Linda, if you would.’
“I poured off a full shot of Jameson and was about to move off and allow him space when he put his hand on my wrist. Electricity and butterflies slammed through me and I looked down into those big sad eyes.
“’It’s no good Linda. No good at all.’
“I was a wreck. ‘What’s no good?’
“’How can I do it to them? I can’t. I don’t want them hurt, but they keep pushing and pushing. They want more and more. I know it’s hard, all of them are afraid, but they’re destroying themselves, don’t they see it?’ his eyes pleaded with me.
“I was young and dumb and in love with him. I wanted so much to take the pain from his voice. ‘Who is destroying themselves?’
“’They are,’ he waved his arm off at the world around us,’ my workers. This town. They’re all going to implode on themselves. I keep trying to get them to see reason, but they refuse. Lower their demands, or reduce them down to one thing, not all things. We can’t give them everything, I’ve tried so hard over the years to give them everything, but there just isn’t anything to give now, but how can I not keep trying? I am what I am because of their efforts, who am I to refuse them their wants?
“’But the rest of the town, these leaders of the community like Watson, Millen, Linda Knox, each and every one of them a plague on the town’s success. No matter that it raised them up to their current heights. They can’t be bothered to bend down and lift it up now. They just chase the fast money.
“’And that damned Braithwaite,’ at this his fist slammed on the bar, shaking him from his frenzy, ‘another Jame-o Linda, and all this stays between us, right? Bartender as confessor, right?’ he smiled as he said this. My heart skipped as I nodded at the small secret between us.
“’Glad that’s settled ,’ he said with a wink. Then he was back on his soap box, but with a calmer fury, ‘that damned Braithwaite. These mills have made him more money than god and he has the gall to deny me a loan to meet next week’s payroll,’ he threw back the Jameson’s, slapped the glass on the bar and nodded for another one.
“’Will Braithwaite used to give a damn,’ the anger in his voice was replaced by sadness, ‘he fought with me when Cynthia Knox pushed to dam up the Melanski. Yeah, we didn’t win, but we received concessions that kept us going, kept people at work. Will was right their in the thick of it; the small town, local bank supporting local business, supporting the people.
“’Then Watson and Millen decide to pull up stakes for Asia and higher profits and he charges right after them, principles be damned. Another round Linda.’
“I pulled out a beer and poured him a shot. He drained both then put his head down on the bar and began to weep. I broke. Any hard edges I might have kept up around him – there weren’t many – shattered there behind the bar.
“I reached a tentative hand to his shoulder, trying to bring him some sort of comfort. When he looked up, tears streaked his cheeks. It was unthinkable to see this man, who I loved so much – even if he had no idea – in so much pain.
“The desperate sadness in his eyes cut deep inside me. I wanted to bandage the wounds I saw there and make him whole again; give him back the belief – the faith – that he had lost. I reached out to him…
“And I can’t tell you what happened next. It’s between your father and me.”
“But Ma –“
“Do you really want the details? I remember them like it was yesterday, “ seeing the look that crossed my face at the implication, “I thought not. Just know that it was imperfect and beautiful. And it brought me you, and you are perfect.”
I was stunned, so the only question I came up with was a simple one, “who else knew?”
“Oh, no one in town. Pap or Gram might have suspected something, what with seeing Santiago every day. You and he were near spitting images of one another, or at least you were before he ruined himself with the drinking and became covered in that constant layer of dirt and muck.”
“If Pap thought I looked like Santiago, wouldn’t he have thought Santiago was the father and fired him?”
“That’s what you’d think, but maybe Pap didn’t know? Or maybe he did and just allowed Santiago to keep working due to some reason only he knew. Pap wasn’t one to be forced into something or typecast.”
“And you never told anyone?”
“I couldn’t. He was married, despite how she might have been behaving. When you were born they were both gone, but I didn’t want his memory any more tarnished than the people of the town were already trying to make it. And who was there to tell? I didn’t have friends I was ready to turn to and tell I was pregnant. I tried to hide it from Gram and Pap as long as possible, but I never once said who the father was. It drove Pap crazy.”
“Pap must have known. How could he not?”
“He wasn’t there. Listen, your Pap was smart, so I’m sure when he saw how much you looked like Santiago he made some quick assumptions. Santiago did tell me Pap once took hands to his throat in the shed and told him to never lay a hand on me, but that was well before you had been born and Santiago told me that was why he struggled to make eye-contact with me at Sunday dinners. So Pap either thought it was Santiago and accepted it, or figured out the truth and never said a word to me.”
“And what about Santiago?”
“I don’t know if Santiago knew. He treated me the same after you were born. He was pleasant, almost kind. He must have known. You looked so much like him – you still do – it would have been impossible for him not to make the connection. But…”
“What?”
“By the time your features came in to sharper view, Santiago had already thrown himself into hating the people of Berwick and obsession with the bottle. The old Santiago, the rich bratty one, wasn’t a bad kid. He had parents who were indifferent, or had other concerns.
“This new angrier version that went to the Tortoise more for the upset it caused the people already drinking their than the numbing effects of the alcohol, that version had killed off the decent kid. I don’t imagine he recognized himself in the mirror any longer, let alone in you.
“I think he wanted to try and get that back at the end, some of the goodness –maybe we can call it innocence – of his youth, but by then it was too late. He’d burned too many bridges and he didn’t have the strength to rebuild. He knew it, so he accepted his fate, made peace with it and tired to live out his last days in peace.
“I learned a lot from that. In the face of death, he didn’t bemoan the life he should have lived, could have lived or would like to have lived. He told me you get one chance at it. You make your choices. There is no going back to make changes.
“There was a certain grace about his acceptance of his fate. It reminded me of his father. Your father.”
I could see the catharsis this laying down of the secret weight she was carrying had on my mother. A million questions surged through my head, but I kept my mouth shut and let her continue as the night closed in around us.
“I know you have questions. I can’t answer most of them, because I didn’t know the man that well. He was a kind, gentle soul who wanted the best for this town and its people. I do believe he was a good man.
“I don’t regret for one instant what happened between us. It was a wonderful, beautiful moment during a hard time. And it brought you into this world, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Being the mother to such a wonderful child is the best gift I’ve ever received, even if, maybe, it wasn’t intended,” at this she smiled.
“But Ma, why did he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Why did he go into that burning mill?”
“I don’t know.”
“He must have said something. You were with him hours before he didn’t say anything?”
“You’re supposing he went in on purpose to kill himself.”
“No, I just…I guess I just don’t understand.”
“I don’t think anyone did at the time, or does to this day. There were the usual theories: it started by accident; some unsavory characters, whom he’d borrowed money from, were unhappy with the rate of repayment; he couldn’t take the pressure of his failure and took his own life.
“I don’t give much weight to those theories. I think it was something else. Maybe parts of those theories were right but when he and I…when we finished, we sat at the bar and had another drink. His hands were wrapped around mine. There was no one else in the bar. It was a quiet, intimate moment. We didn’t say anything until our drinks were finished. Then he stood up, looked into my eyes and said, ‘thank you’. I asked where he was going, and he said, ‘to make things right’”.
“What did that mean?”
“I think he went to set fire to a couple of the mills so he could collect the insurance money and pay the workers.”
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“Which is why I’ve said it out loud to anyone before you. But you have to remember, he cared so much for his workers, and through them, this town, I think that was the only way he saw to get them the money he owed them.”
“But Santiago always said his father loved those mills more than he loved Santiago. Why would he have burned them?”
“First of all, I think Santiago was a little harsher on his father than he might have needed to be. I imagine to Mr. Holmes’ mind a fire was the easiest way to collect the insurance payout.”
“But why did he kill himself? Or do you think that he did? Was it an accident?”
“Nobody knows. I think he was at an end point. This was the last stone he could overturn for his employees, but he knew Big Mike Tatum would have them back, asking for more. I don’t think he had any new ideas of how to care for his workers and save his dying businesses. I think he knew his marriage was at its endpoint. The corruption and lack of humanity in the town weighed on him. I imagine he knew setting the fire was not an ‘aboveboard’ solution to his problems and felt guilty about doing it. Maybe it was just an accident. Maybe one of the theories is right. It’s all supposition.
“Whatever the reason, Mr. Holmes was a good man whose heart was in the right place, in particular, when the hearts of others were not. I do miss him.
“But I also get to see him every now and then,” she squeezed my hand as she said this, “if you look deep enough, you’ll see you have the same goodness in you. I know you ran from this place and its failings. I understand why; there was only sadness and unanswered questions here for you. And also I know city-life has hardened you, maybe even made you more cynical.
“There still isn’t much here, but there could be. This beautiful waterfront area is dripping with potential. If good, smart people like you came back and cared about the place, I’m sure you could realize the potential and turn Berwick away from the path of “town that destroyed itself,’ into ‘the town that overcame hardship and thrived’ or some such corny slogan.”
“I don’t know about that Ma.”
“A Holmes has always lived in this town. And for most of its existence they’ve been the ones causing it to thrive. Come home. You don’t belong in that city. Your roots are here.”
