Simon Stapleton’s eyes couldn’t help but follow a hazel-eyed barmaid at the local tavern. She possessed a fierce and ineffable quality that Simon envied. She went by Lou. Simon finished his factory-shift at 4:30 p.m. If the weather was nice, he might circumnavigate the small pond a few blocks from the factory, borrowing a rowboat or head out on the trail that followed the water’s edge. Getting outside before dusk kept Simon from sinking into despair. He longed to be close to the water.
Often by half past five, Simon ambled over to the tavern and took a seat in the corner. As Simon ate whatever sustenance the tavern served up that night, boiled beef, franks and beans or perhaps chicken stew, he tried not to stare at the curvy young woman who glided around the room, filling pint glasses and scooping up plates. Like most of the newer arrivals at the factory, Simon had no family dinner to return to. Louise served up the hot plates with a smile, skillfully navigating the maze of chairs and tables tirelessly. Simon especially enjoyed how she took no mess from those men that got irritable and nasty after too many pints. Only a handful of times did Simon observe the owner of the tavern coming out from the back and threaten the unruly folks with a pistol. Most of the time, Louise held her own, despite her smaller stature.
Over time, Simon gathered the courage to ask Lou if she’d join him for a Sunday walk after her shift. Soon, they took a weekend trip east to Cambridge. When Simon had saved enough money, he and Lou took the train down to New York City, staying overnight at an unimaginably fancy hotel. New York was a metropolis the likes of which neither of them had ever seen. The sheer number of people on the wide sidewalks was dizzying.
Within a year, the two were married in a modest Catholic church where Louise's parents worshiped. Simon’s melancholia rose up in the weeks preceding the wedding. His twin brother had developed tuberculosis and died years earlier. Simon’s happiness at a future with Louise was tempered by the absence his twin Henry left behind.
1884—Worcester, Massachusetts
In five years, there were three children. The oldest was Martin, whose memory was a source of disbelief to the locals. He could recall details that few others even recognized. His memory was compared to pulling up a photograph. As if he could scan a scene in his mind from top to bottom, corners to the center, missing nothing. Martin’s face was a replica of Simon’s, with a long, angular nose, bushy eyebrows, and a square chin. The two younger children, both girls, more closely resembled their mother, both in appearance, and the youngest with the same vivacious personality.
Louise took the children to the Public library every Saturday. Martin read books as if they were oatmeal cookies, leaving no trace of crumbs when he came to a book’s final page. Louise proudly observed Martin at the library table, as the family read their books quietly, a form of devotion.
As time passed, Simon was promoted to supervisor within the factory, though he longed for more intellectually-stimulating work, but found joy on his days off, sharing meals and games with Louise and the children. Louise became a schoolteacher. Martin continued to read. He received a scholarship to study at Amherst College. Martin left home with a plan to study engineering.
1899—Cambridge, Massachusetts
Old Simon died in his sleep from a heart attack. Martin was in Boston by then. He’d been hired by the city to help to build the streetcar system. His group helped design and build North America’s first subway tunnel, near Government Center. Martin returned home to his mother and sisters and found himself bereft. First Uncle Henry’s sudden death. Now his father’s. Martin became fixated on the possibility of his own death. It gripped him long after he fell asleep. Taking hold of him in his dreams: the terrifying prospect of going to sleep one night and never waking up.