CHAPTER EIGHT: The Glass Block
“It happened in 1923,” Donati said, with the fireplace behind him alight. “An explosion so ruinous it awoke at noon the maid of midnight.”
It was Sunday again. Over breakfast Dante had described the events of the previous week while the opera singer quietly listened. Only once did Donati break in, this to ask whether the cigarette box was sealed or torn open. When Dante told him it was sealed he smiled and said: “Mistake. Who would believe this Maris had been smoking if the packet wasn’t even opened yet? Please continue.” At the end of his story the singer let several seconds pass without saying a word. Content to let the silence draw out, Dante waited. The living room of 114 looked picturesque as ever today, what with the fire’s glow upon the floor, and the light of gray clouds dampening its tired walls even more. In the hallway a grandfather clock ticked. From the doorstep the sound of wind chimes.
“A rat,” Donati said, the way a man speaks when he tries to convince himself. “On school grounds. That will raise a ruckus with the board of health. Unless of course it can be swept under the rug.”
“I swear I had no idea there was a real rat in the locker room,” Dante told him. “It was just something I reached for. The story I mean. It just popped into my mind.”
“Coincidence is an evil thing,” Donati said. “I believe that with all of my heart. On Friday it wasn’t on your side. You just happened to catch the good of it, like a man who finds a sack of money after a bank robbery. With coincidence that’s all we can do—benefit while it’s busy doing Lucifer’s work elsewhere. Did you know,” he continued, “there was once a woman who died downtown, simply for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time? It happened in 1923…”
∞
Norwalk was a different town then. Not that I was here to see it—goodness no! But I have found several trips to our local library to be quite educational. There are history books with photographs and articles. My interest in such things began with Georgina Esposito. When I arrived here, the church in which she’d performed by gaslight so long ago was gone, with a bland insurance company risen in its place. I meant to return to Cleveland immediately, where I was staying with friends, but first wandered into the library, with hopes of discovering why Church Street no longer had a church on it. And I did indeed find out, though the story contains no romance, no drama. The old Methodist church was torn down so a larger one could be built nearby. This was done about 1895.
The razing may have lacked romance, but the pictures of Norwalk taken during that era certainly did not. In the silent, leather-lined aisles of that library exist a virtual treasure-trove of moments lost. I encourage you, dear boy, to visit it and see for yourself. What you will notice right away is the traffic. For about fifty years—between 1850 and 1900—Norwalk did not sleep as it does today. Businesses boomed on East and West Main. Banks, bars, restaurants, cigar shops. Drug stores, general stores. Basement barbers and snake oil cafes. Just down the street is a house with an old strawberry patch in the backyard; the owner used it to make ice cream—strawberry, of course—which he would then sell at a parlor. There were also dressmakers, blacksmiths, pastry chefs. Doctors and dentists. Lawyers. Tanners, milliners. Things were busy, is what I mean to put forth. Norwalk was a very busy place. A trolley car once ran the length of Main Street to help lighten the horse traffic, but goodness, to see the pictures you wouldn’t think it helped very much. There were horses everywhere. And carriages. And barefoot boys helping ladies down folding steps. These boys would then receive a half-penny for their chivalry, or perhaps a penny if luck favored.
The beginning of Norwalk’s decline is hard to pin down, but at a guess I would blame the closing of a large canal to the north, which once bore the largest merchant ships Lake Erie could float. Farmers would travel to the canal port, hoping to trade agricultural goods for money or equipment or whatever else might be needed for their fields. It all made for great business until about 1850, when the railroads came. Then, slowly, the wailing of horn-blowers was replaced by the whistle of trains. The once raucous canal became more and more silent. In 1858 a control dam failed, preventing large ships from entering the canal at all. This marked the absolute end of its use. The canal closed. It was over. Today you can walk the valley where it once functioned. Souvenirs for historians lie buried in the dirt. One windy spring morning a friend of mine found the top of an Elkington teapot, quite by accident, while cleaning his shoe on a rock. This actually happened.
The canal’s death may have marked the beginning of death for Norwalk, but for a number of years there was still hope among the horses. The St. Charles Hotel continued to thrive, and about 1894 a rather large glass block department store opened. It was here the woman I mentioned earlier met her demise. How exactly did it happen? Oh my, but the story is grim.
Two floors of the original glass block are all that stand today. If you’ve ever been to the video store at the corner of Main and Benedict, then you’ve been inside of it. But in 1894 it was five stories high. Majestic. Marvelous. None of the other business blocks could match it, or even come close. It faced northeast, as if to pay homage to this state’s great glass city, and in the mornings it glowed like a handsome, dignified man, while at night its many windows watched the moon in the way of poets in thought for a rhyme. Ah, Dante! I know it only from pictures, but how I wish my shoes could have pressured the clay walks of its living days. Hearing that may sound strange to you—a man from beauteous Italy fawning upon American architecture—but to find something so wondrous in a place so unlikely makes the thing even more wondrous still.
Much of what department stores sell today could be found inside. These included clothing, cooking utensils, pet supplies, health and beauty aids, household cleaning items, dishware, timepieces. And sporting goods, of course. It is said that the father of America’s famous NFL coach, Paul Brown, once bought a football there. You’re nodding, Dante. You must have heard that story. Do you believe it is true? Yes, so do I.
Getting back to the building. As I said, magnificent. Just down the road in Bellevue stood its twin. Both buildings were five stories high and both had a cupola on the roof where one could enjoy a no doubt breath-taking view of Ohio’s countryside. The Bellevue store’s fate is a mystery to me, but what happened to Norwalk’s will live in history books for all eternity.
It was 1923. August 5th. A Sunday. This was rather fortunate, for had the accident occurred during the work week many more people would have perished. As it stood, the store was closed for the day. Empty but for two stationary engineers who were new to the job. The previous engineer had retired, and it should be noted he voiced grave doubts to the management concerning these fresh applicants’ abilities.
They were in the basement when it happened. No doubt it was dark, lit only by that time period’s fitful flame. Did I also mention the basement was huge? It was. It had to be to provide foundation for such a tall building, as well as house the store’s massive Bigelow steam boiler.
Ah! The expression on your face, Dante! It has changed considerably. Your soul’s windows burn with the fires of deduction. The destination of my story has become plain, yes? And you are quite right. Regardless, we shall travel on. Perhaps the sights along the way will interest you.
The Bigelow ran the length of the basement’s east wall. It was black as the sixth hour of a water thief’s repose. To look at it one might have wondered why he could see no stars. To stand near it one might have felt a very disturbing and venomous regard—the gaze, if you will, of Friedrich Nietzsche’s well-remembered abyss.
Tending a boiler is not difficult, but one does need to be extremely cognizant. Most can withstand steam pressure of three hundred pounds per square inch. That gives a tender plenty of time to adjust the necessary valves should anything go wrong. Something did indeed go wrong that day in the basement of The Glass Block. At approximately 10AM the Bigelow’s pressure gauge began to rise, very slowly but very steadily. To this day no one knows the reason. Perhaps the boiler was old and in need of repair. Perhaps its two doomed tenders were not properly trained to adjust its valves. I rather think it was the latter, for at 11:30 a young chimney sweep cleaning the basement at that time reported an ominous knock coming from inside the Bigelow’s tank. He had no idea how to read a pressure gauge, but left the building immediately after informing the two tenders.
A wise lad he must have been, for at 12:05, the Bigelow exploded. Its ferocious cry of agony slaughtered the peacefulness of that Sunday noon. The new tenders were instantly killed, while every window of The Glass Block shattered and became as storming knives. Chunks of brick flew in all directions, some landing over a mile from the blast point. Flag poles fell over; sidewalks collapsed.
No one knew what had happened—not at first. The fire department raced fast as they could towards an arm of black smoke. A curtain of dust veiled the sun, making things hard to see, but it soon became apparent The Glass Block was burning. Firemen later discovered the Bigelow boiler on the roof, six stories removed from its proper place. The side of its belly was torn open.
Considerable damage had also been done to the rest of the building. As I’ve told you already, none of the windows survived. It was 6PM before the fire came under control. It burned until midnight, by which time the once magnificent store was completely gutted, a total loss. Her five stories still stood, but three of them were no longer safe and were eventually chopped off, like mold from a slice of bread.
The Glass Block never reopened. For about thirty years the building operated as an umbrella factory, then that closed, too. When I arrived in Norwalk it was a realty. Now, as you well know, it’s the video store. But remember, Dante, that it was once great and powerful, and that only a lack of love for what helped it be strong brought about its demise.
By the way, that woman I spoke of, the one who died by coincidence? She just happened to be standing right outside the block when it exploded. The sidewalk collapsed, pitching her into the basement, where her broken body burned to ash. Family members later recounted that she’d decided on a constitutional after that day’s church services. Alas, her health did not improve. Quite the opposite. As for coincidence…
Bah! I hope a part of that evil thing died in the basement with her, truly and with all my heart.
Poor, wretched girl. La tua anima `e libera.
∞
“What does that mean?” Dante asked.
He did this almost every time he heard Donati speak Italian. Never once did the singer appear irritated; rather, he answered with a tone that sounded appreciative of Dante’s interest.
“Your soul is free,” the singer replied.
“Do you really believe that?”
“Indeed I do. Upon death the soul is unleashed. Unleashed, that is, to return to its one true owner.”
For the next half hour they spoke of other things, then Dante had to leave. His father expected him to rake the lawn before lunch. Hearing this, Donati carefully offered a sum of money to have the same done for his lawn, to which Dante agreed, promising to return later that day. By four o’clock all the leaves in front of 114 were in neat orange piles, ready for bagging. When he was finished Dante rang the front bell. Donati opened the door with ten dollars in his hand.
“Is this enough?” he asked, with pure innocence.
Dante told him that it was fine—more than fine. He then thanked the singer for his generosity.
“You’re a good lad,” Donati told him. “A very good lad.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dante said again.
“Take this Sunny girl out on a Coke date. Or perhaps for an ice cream.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“But remember…” the other began, only to let his thoughts trail off on a chill afternoon breeze.
“Yes?” Dante reached, hoping to bring them back.
Donati took a deep breath before continuing. “Remember that she is dangerous. I know this from what you have already told me. She is dangerous, Dante. Take care to make adjustments when the pressure grows too high.”
And on that piece of advice, he gently closed the door.