No one really called it Death Avenue anymore except for the newspapers, but this stretch of Eleventh had certainly earned its reputation over the years. With nowhere else to put the New York Central freight line as it emerged from the dockyards, the city had elected to run it right down the middle of the avenue, forcing the wagons and automobiles to either side. Every so often someone was killed trying to beat a train, or surprised by one at a crossing—but for Toby’s money there was no better riding in the city, so long as you kept to the narrow channel between the tracks and the traffic, and stayed alert for the hard press of air, the cotton in your eardrums, that meant an engine was at your back.
He whisked past taxicabs and delivery wagons, searching beneath the streetlights for pedestrians who might step out in front of him. A signal-rider appeared on horseback, trotting south, hoisting the red-glassed lantern that meant a locomotive was on its way. He felt the telltale change of pressure—and a moment later the engine loomed out of the fog, dragging its reeking line of cattle-cars toward the slaughterhouses.
At 59th the tracks veered west along the shoreline, and the tenements and factories turned to brownstones. Riverside Park appeared to his left, the cherry trees barely visible in the dusk. He slowed, his heart beating. His ma would throw a conniption if she knew he was riding Death Avenue after sunset, but it was his only way of letting off steam—and there’d been a lot of steam to let off, lately. Most of it wasn’t even his ma’s fault. As far as Toby was concerned, the shine had long since come off the Western Union apple. He’d believed in the job, had swallowed all their nonsense about the rewards of hard work and loyalty; he’d even studied Morse code, tapping out words on the kitchen table while his mother glared at him, all in hopes of being promoted to operator someday. And then Western Union had finished their new building on Lispenard, and invited all the employees for a tour. He’d washed and ironed his uniform, polished his badge until it was bright as a mirror, even paid for the streetcar so he wouldn’t arrive sweaty and mussed—only to be crammed into a line with hundreds of other boys, all similarly slicked and polished, and paraded through room after room of baffling contraptions. This here, the tour guide proudly told them, was a repeater that did nothing but fling telegrams from one wire to another! And here, a printer that could send eight messages at once over a single line! Specialists in white coats tended to the clattering machines like cherished pets, feeding them pneumatic capsules and reams of paper. Tentatively Toby had raised his hand: Was there a Morse department? Yes, over there, said the guide, pointing to a far corner where five middle-aged men sat morosely at their desks, their hands idle at the keys.
But worst of all had been the cold and gleaming cafeteria, where tall men with brilliantined hair sat at white enameled tables, eating chicken sandwiches and smoking cigarettes. As he’d peered in at them through the glass, Toby had felt all his hopes abandon him. Not a one of those men had grown up within sight of Hester or Mulberry, or the Hell’s Kitchen shanties. They’d never risked their necks on icy streets for nickel tips, or driven roofing nails into their shoes to keep the soles from flapping. They’d come from somewhere as clean and shining as that cafeteria—a place that boys like Toby might glimpse, but never touch.
He’d left in deep embarrassment, angry at himself for ever having thought it might be otherwise. Most of the messenger boys his age had jumped ship years ago, but Toby had stayed the course, and for what? Sure, the money was decent, but there was no future in it. At eleven, he’d been one of the youngest messengers in Midtown. Now, nearly fifteen and looking older, he was in danger of becoming that most pitiful object, a man working a boy’s job. He had no one to put in a good word for him elsewhere, no family business to join. And every night the ancient man in Toby’s nightmare held him immobile and grinned at his fears until Toby woke in silent panic. Was it any wonder he preferred Death Avenue to sitting up all night in an apartment full of his mother’s secrets, waiting in dread to fall asleep?
* * *
Kreindel lay awake listening to the Asylum’s usual symphony of snores and sleeping murmurs, the creaks and groans as the old building settled. At last she slipped from the dormitory, descended the stairs, and crept down the basement hall to the storage room.
Her route through the room was like a convoluted dance, over theater props and between filing cabinets, reaching to feel for the next obstacle. The warmth of the boiler grew stronger; and now here was the narrow passage, and the alcove beyond, shrouded in velvet darkness. She tiptoed forward, straining to hear, fingers outstretched to find him—and at the moment when she felt his cool hand grip her own, her composure broke.
He held her close while she cried, and wrapped the velvet curtain around her to keep her warm. “Thank you,” she whispered. She always seemed to breathe easier, sitting with him. Sometimes, even after all these years, she worried that he’d grow bored there in the alcove, and decide to go off exploring; that she would find him in the Marching Band room, trying on the uniforms, or in the laundry, mending the holes in the children’s trousers. Now, curled against his clay shoulder, she could smile at the image.
But perhaps it wasn’t a silly idea after all. A golem for cleaning, laundering, cooking? Why not? He would be swift and diligent, would never complain or wish for other work. She pictured a cozy
