Goliath Fell

By S. M. Atwood

After experiencing nightmares of the Nazi invasion of Poland, Jozef Pokoj and his bride Ana, emigrate to the United States. At the start of the Twentieth century, the Pokoj's settle in Hamtramck, Michigan, become American citizens, and change their name to Powell. Jozef eventually finds work at the Ford Motor Company. Edward, their eldest child, is introduced to the world of photography by a family friend, Trevor Humphries. After surviving the devastating Crash, Edward convinces Humphries to expand their business.
Edward marries Sandra Latham, and they have a son, Christopher. When Christopher suffers a relapse of Chicken Pox at college, and almost dies, he learns he cannot have children of his own.
As the photographic industry reaches it's boom, in the 1970's Powell Photographic takes it's place as one of the biggest photographic plants in the country.
Christopher marries a Vietnam widow, Anne Thompson, who has a son, Ben, who turns out to be of questionable character.
When new employee Vicki Brennan, meets Anne, a bond forms between the two, and Ben becomes threatened.
"Goliath Fell" is a story not only of human survival, financial success, civil rights, and the right to die; it is also a story of animal instinct, and why some people go to the lengths they do, not just to survive, but to succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483690995

S. M. Atwood

Suzanne Atwood spent almost 22 years in the photographic industry. She lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with her cat, Gracie, and enjoys writing, photography, and spoiling her grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2013 by S. M. Atwood.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 11/20/2015

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

For Haley

Prologue

I will never forget how perfect the weather was the day we pulled in at Rosewood Cemetary. It was April 4, and the tulips were in the first stages of bloom. The lawns, rolling green, were neatly mowed. Despite the nasty predictions of La Niña, Mother Nature’s rebirth came early this year. All for the better, I guess, considering the circumstances.

We had all met at the plant at 9:00 a.m. We thought it would be better to show up in a group rather than scattered as Lois put it. Lois Janovich was the head of Human Resources at Powell Photographic. When it came to company funerals, she pretty much had it down to an art form.

As usual, I walked in the employee entrance and down to what was left of the Color/Mural Department. I stood at the entrance, once lined with darkrooms, and thought about the metamorphosis the industry had gone through in the last decade. It was as if I was looking at the Dodge City of the photography era.

I swear I felt the wind blow through my hair as I heard a voice behind me:

What are you doing, Vicki? Lois asked.

I looked at the familiar person standing in the hallway.

Waiting for a tumbleweed to blow by, I guess, I said.

Well, don’t wait too long, we have to get going, Lois said.

Nineteen ninety-seven was turning out to be one majorly weird year.

The lunchroom was set up with coffee and doughnuts. Lois waited until the bulk of us were there before she launched into her who’s-going-to-ride with-whom speech.

The supervisors, along with upper management, would drive separately and directly to the church. This lunchroom meeting was for the Powell associates: a good indication of the ever-widening gap within the company, which was all but non-existent when I first started working here thirteen years ago.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a chocolate-covered doughnut, and sat at a table with Bill Friedman and his wife. Bill worked in the Processing Department. A middle-aged man, with three teen-aged boys, Bill prided himself on his vast knowledge of photography. With over twenty years of experience, there was not a question you could ask him that he could not answer.

Next to him were Dottie Eland and her husband. Dottie was in Shipping and Receiving. Looking around, I saw Eric Newmann, Walt Romano, Phil O’Neill, and Rachel Curtis, all with their respective spouses.

Morning, guys, I said with a weak smile.

Morning, Vicki, Bill said. This is my wife, Sue.

We met at the Christmas party, she reminded him. It’s nice to see you again, Vicki, she said politely. I returned it with a nod. Looks like we’re going to have a full house, I observed.

Cars were still pulling up.

Through the picture window, I saw John Lockwood park his car. He was alone, and I watched him as he walked toward the building. John worked in the Black and White Department. I could not help but feel sorry for him. John was in his early thirties, and raising two children by himself. His wife died in a plane crash two years ago, and he still hasn’t gotten over it. I learned through the Powell grapevine that due to the circumstances surrounding her death, her life insurance company refused to pay out. I hate it when bad things happen to good people.

Lois was checking off our names as we arrived. By 9:30, the lunchroom was filled, and conversations were in full swing throughout.

What do you think is going to happen now? Rachel asked. She was a color printer who came to Powell Photographic five years ago. She had a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts and was a newlywed. I mean, now that Ben is gone, what are the Powells going to do? I’ve been checking out other labs, but no one’s hiring right now.

At this point, I wouldn’t worry too much about it, said Phillip O’Neill. Phil worked in the Mounting Department and always seemed to have a grip on what was going on in upper management. "Chris and Anne have no intention of selling the place, okay? For God’s sake, his dad built this plant, okay? he continued. Look, I can understand your concern for your job, Ray, but take my advice and just wait it out. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon."

Thank God for Phil. His words worked like a narcotic. She nodded and relaxed in her seat.

Okay everyone, Lois said in her Lets-call-this-meeting-to-order voice. So far, the only one not here are Todd and Liz.

Liz called me this morning, Lois, I informed her. She had to take her son to the hospital last night. He’s got an ear infection, so she can’t make it. Liz McKinney was another printer who also worked as a spotter.

Thank you, Vicki, Lois replied.

What about Todd? Any one know? Todd Ingalls was one of the third shift floaters. He, along with Alison Douglas and Mark Valente, worked the graveyard shift to complete unfinished production and tied up any loose ends before the 8:00 a.m. deliveries. No one had heard anything from Todd.

All right, Lois continued, now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business. Who’s able to drive? There was a show of hands from around the room. As Lois was coordinating the plant-to-church transport, I was thinking it would be better if I drove myself. I wanted the option of leaving whenever I wanted.

Joyce Kaplan, who worked in Processing, leaned over to me and whispered, They won’t have an open casket at the church, will they?

My head shot up. I hadn’t thought of that. I turned toward her. God, I hope not. I said. I couldn’t handle that. The thought of seeing Ben’s dead face again was more than I could bear. The memory of last Monday was burned into my memory forever.

I have an idea, she said, who are you driving with?

I’m driving alone, I told her.

Why don’t you follow me, in that way you’ll have someone to walk in there with, okay?

Sure, I said, relieved.

Under Lois’ suggestion, we all obediently filed out of the building and into our cars.

As I waited for Joyce to pull out in front of me, I wondered how many people would be at the funeral.

I squeezed in behind Joyce.

We arrived at The Shrine of the Little Flower Church at 10:00 a.m. sharp. The only available seats were in the back, thankfully. The service began shortly after we had seated ourselves. As the priest began the sermon, I looked around the church to see which members from management showed up. There was Deborah Callaghan, who was the computer programmer, Chuck Pearson, the Production Manager, the sales reps Henry Wright, Shirley Garcia, and Alan Collins. William Kingston, who was the president of Powell Photographic, was sitting with Christopher and Anne Powell. The supervisors present were Dave Rudell from Processing, Colleen Hammond of Shipping and Receiving, Michael Vaughn from Mounting, and Pete Meyers from Black and White. The only one missing was Dewey.

I had the aisle seat in the pew and leaned over to check out the coffin. It was huge. I turned to Joyce. "Did you see how big the coffin is? I whispered. She nodded, looking straight ahead. Pete said he looked like a dwarf in it. Big money, big coffin," she shrugged.

The priest droned on. We all stood, we all sat, we all stood, we all sat. Some people stepped up to the pulpit and read from the Bible. Anne Powell, who was Ben’s mother, did not speak.

At the end of the service, Christopher Powell, accompanied by Jimmy Michaels and two men I have never seen before, carried the coffin out to the hearse. The funeral procession from the church to Rosewood was easily over four blocks long.

As we arrived at the cemetery, people parked where they could. I parked out a little farther, separating myself from the others.

Walking up the road toward the burial plot, I was overtaken by the beauty of the landscape. The gorgeous white flowers covering the cherry trees were a perfect contrast to the luminous purple of wisteria.

A new beginning…

A gentle breeze carried with it the fragrant sent of lilac. I took it in, filling my lungs with its sweetness.

A new beginning…

I came upon John, whose path combined with mine. How you doin’? I asked, putting a supportive arm around him. I’m doin’ okay, he said. He gave me a smile, but his eyes told me differently. Everyone’s wondering what the Powells are going to do now. Who’s going to run the business when Chris retires? The only answer to that is no one, he said.

I have faith, I told him. The Powells won’t let us down. I know it.

He stopped, You know it, he repeated. How? How do you know it?

I just do, I said. "Look, I’ve always lived by the philosophy that unless you have a reason to, don’t worry! It’s worked so far, so don’t worry, okay? It’ll all work out, trust me."

We joined the crowed of people gathered around the grave. Through the two rows of people before me, I could see Anne and Christopher standing on opposite sides of the grave.

The priest opened his book, the Bible I guess, and began to read:

‘Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in Heaven…

Everyone lowered his or her heads. I stood between Roger Lenhard and John. People were still walking up, creating rows behind us. Roger leaned over to me and whispered, I don’t think Heaven is where Ben is.

You can say that again, I whispered back.

‘ . . . For your loving kindness is before my eyes, and I have walked in your truth…

"Truth!" I heard someone whisper from behind. That man had no respect for the truth! It was Paul Sullivan. Paul worked in shipping as a driver. Apparently, about three months ago, Paul was suspended for three days without pay, due to an altercation he had gotten into with Ben.

‘ . . . To You O Lord, I lift up my soul…’

Where’s Heather? I whispered to Roger. I don’t see her up there.

Milan, he replied. From what I heard she was too upset to attend.

Heather Rhodes was Ben’s fiancee.

As the casket was lowered into the ground, the priest raised his hands, and began to recite:

‘I am the resurrection and the life…’ We all joined him: He who believes in me, even if he die, shall live; Twenty-six and whoever lives and believes in me, shall never die.

Anne’s mother, an olive-skinned, petite woman tossed the first rose onto the casket. Many others followed.

"So that’s where Ben’s size comes from, I whispered to John, who nodded. She’s a tiny little thing!"

I watched Christopher as he stood at the edge of the grave. He tossed a rose onto the casket. Anne, who was seated to his left, started to cry. I expected him to turn to her, sit beside her, and comfort her. She put a hanky to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. My heart went out to her. She shouldn’t be sitting alone like that. Her shoulders started to shake, and she covered her face with her hands. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I pushed my way through the rows of people before me and ran to her. As I came up to her, she looked up. Vicki! she cried. Her red face stained with tears.

Oh, Anne! I’m so sorry! I whispered, putting my arms around her. Please don’t cry!

She held me tight and buried my face in her chest. I brought my head up to see Christopher giving me a warm smile. He gently patted my shoulder, and then turned toward the still lowering casket. Anne was sobbing convulsively, holding on to me, as if for dear life. I watched the casket as it went down… down into the ground…

That’s right, you rat-fuck, I thought,

You’re gone . . . . gone . . .

I wrapped my arms tight around Anne.

She belongs to me now.

A new beginning…

Chapter 1

NIE! Jozef Pokoj sat up in bed. His clothes were soaked in sweat.

Jozef? Ana called, sitting up beside him. "What is it, kochanie?"

He had had the nightmare again. It had been almost two weeks since the last one. Jozef found himself clinging to his wife like a frightened child. Ana, he said, gulping hard, we must leave. We must leave the country. I have such terrible dreams. There is no safety here, not for us, not for our children.

What? she asked. Leave? But why?

How could he tell her? How could he make his wife of one week believe him? When Jozef was just five years old, then too he had nightmares. In them, his horse-drawn cart killed his Uncle Stanislaw. He would see the horse rear up and run his uncle over. Twice, he awoke crying. He warned his ojciec about his uncle. He would plead, pulling on his father’s arms, Make him sell his horse, papa!

Jozef, his father would say, trying to reassure the boy, those are just dreams. Your uncle is fine.

Three days later, two passersby found Stanislaw Pokoj’s broken body on the path. The horse, still attached to the broken cart, was grazing not a mile up the road. A trail of freshly picked vegetables led back to where the accident happened. He died just before sunset.

After the funeral, Jozef sat in his grandmother’s front room, curled up in his grandfather’s oversized sitting chair, dressed in black, running a finger up and down the fabric.

Jozef, his grandmother, his babcia, called to him. She stood in the doorway, watching him. Despite her age, her body was still strong. Elizaveta Kazlov was a living reminder of war-ravaged Poland. Then, in the 1800s, the country was under Russian rule, with Germany occupying the western half. Elizaveta’s father returned from battle to see his baby corba for the first time. Elizaveta would grow in height and spirit. Different from her other siblings, her eyes were light, her frame thin. Her mama would talk of an uncle who was the same, but Elizaveta knew she was different. Her papa loved her, but she could sense his shame, leaving his wife and children alone for so long.

Now the matriarch of the Pokoj family, her own children grown, they depended on her strength and spirit to face the death of a son. Tall, proud, Teutonic, she now looked upon Jozef, her precious wnuk, and knew what had to be done. She walked into the room and knelt in front of the chair. Jozef turned toward her. Your father told me of your dreams, she said. The boy started to cry. Jozef, Jozef, she said compassionately, taking him in her arms. She chose her words carefully. "You may not be old enough to understand this, but you have a gift, she said. You have the gift of sight, my slodki! Sometimes you see things before they happen, some not so good, eh? Taking the boy’s head in her hands, she looked into his eyes, so like her own. She stroked his face, and said with excitement, Listen to your gift, Jozef! It is a godsend!"

Jozef’s gift also told him of the birth of his brother, Tadeusz. "Mama’s going to have a boy, he proclaimed. With light hair and brown eyes!" he added. Lo and behold, a towheaded son with mahogany eyes.

Now, sitting next to his wife, Jozef composed himself. Ana, he said, determined to tell her. I have seen it. He looked into her eyes with terror, a terror she knew was real. I have seen the world go mad!

Once Jozef and Ana arrived on American soil, his nightmares stopped. They located to southeastern Michigan, to an area of Detroit known as Hamtramck. The village was predominately Polish, and it was here where Ana felt the most comfortable.

Jozef and Ana were learning English. His need to learn, to absorb as much as possible, as soon as possible, came from an intense necessity to fit into the American way of life. It was the beginning of a new century and a new life.

Jozef applied at once for American citizenship, and began to search for a good American name. It had to be a strong name, a powerful name. Power, Jozef thought, power.

In 1905, after the Pokojes were granted their American citizenship, they became Jozef and Ana Powell.

Jozef had found factory work producing railroad cars, and in 1910, he and Ana welcomed the birth of their first child, Edward. Jozef held his son for the first time and spoke softly to him, "Yes, my Edward, you are a strong one! You will do well, my syn! I see a great success in you! Tak! I am already proud of you, my son! Look, Ana! he said, carrying the child to his wife. See how his eyes shine with intelligence!"

Yes, Jozef, she replied, sitting up in bed. He shines just like his father. She cooed to the child, taking him from his father.

The next five years brought the Powells three daughters: Margaret, Joanna, and Elizabeth. Jozef greeted each one with pride and prophecies of a good life.

In 1913, with the growth of his family, Jozef went to work on the newly developed Ford assembly line. Ana was busy changing diapers and seeing to the Powell household. Jozef worked continuously on the line, providing for his family.

Never willing to trust the banks, Jozef would cash his paycheck and stash his savings in the house. Only Ana and he knew of the moneybox hidden in the attic. She would argue with him of the risk of keeping money in the house. Jozef, she would plead, what if we are robbed?

NO! he would shake his head vehemently. No banks! He made sure the money was well hidden. No robber is going to go up into the attic, he consoled her. You and I are the only ones who know that it is there.

That was it. He could not be swayed.

February 1918 marked Elizabeth’s third birthday. The family had an indoor birthday party picnic, complete with chocolate cake.

Ana insisted on the children wearing their Sunday best on birthdays. Edward! she chastised the boy. Stop tugging at your vest.

It’s too tight, mama, he complained.

I see, Jozef observed. The boy was tall for his near eight years. You’re growing too fast, son.

I want cake! Joanna demanded, tugging at her mother’s dress.

You will eat your supper first, my impatient one, Jozef said, picking the child up.

She was a beauty, with big dark eyes and a heart-melting smile. Even at the tender age of five, she would have many suitors, Jozef knew. Both Joanna and Margaret had their mother’s dark brown eyes and hair, whereas Edward and Elizabeth had his light hair and blue eyes.

Edward’s hair was a dark blond, like his great-grandmother’s. Lizzie’s was a golden brown.

All right, my children! Jozef announced, rubbing his hands together. Let us eat this beautiful picnic supper your mother has prepared.

Papa! Elizabeth said, pointing to herself.

Ah, I am sorry, Lizzie, he apologized. "Let us eat this beautiful picnic birthday supper," he corrected himself.

Thank you, papa, she replied.

The blanket on the dining room floor was set for a meal fit for a krol.

On this birthday, there was chicken salad, kielbasa, perogi, a bowl of peas, a loaf of Ana’s homemade bread, and a tall pitcher of lemonade. Jozef filled the plates, passing them around to eager, hungry children.

When the meal was over, the supper plates cleaned away, Lizzie waited patiently for her father to give the word for birthday cake and presents. Well, well, he said, rubbing his swollen stomach. I don’t think I have room for another bite. Maybe we should wait for birthday cake and presents. Ana, what do you think? he called to his wife, who was in the kitchen.

That sounds like a good idea to me, she called back. I could use a nap.

Papa! Mama! NO! the children cried. We want cake now!

You do? Ana, the children say they want cake now, Jozef called.

It’s cake time! Joanna yelled. "It’s cake time! She jumped on her father’s lap. Margaret and Elizabeth followed their sister’s lead. Edward pulled him down onto the floor from behind, all four screaming, It’s cake time!"

Ana! Jozef yelled. You’d better bring the cake in! The children are attacking! He took the girls in a bear hug.

Ana lit the candles and carried the cake into the dining room. My goodness! What are you children doing? Where is your father?

It’s cake time! Lizzie screamed. She crawled off her father and ran to the dining room table, where her mother set down the cake. The other kids followed, leaving their father sprawled on the floor. They sang Happy Birthday, and Elizabeth, with her mother’s help, cut the cake.

Later on, the presents opened, the cake eaten, Jozef and Ana sat on the sofa and watched their children. Joanna and Elizabeth were playing quietly on the floor. You see how well those two play together? Jozef commented. My sisters would fight constantly. Not these two, hardly an argument, ever.

They are a good match, Ana agreed. "Now, those two over there, she continued, gesturing toward Margaret and Edward, they’re a different story."

Gimme that! Edward grabbed Margret’s book

Mama! she yelled.

Edward, give your sister back her book, Jozef commanded.

There, he said, deliberately dropping her book on the floor. Baby.

I think he feels outnumbered, Jozef said.

Well, Ana said, shifting in her seat, maybe this one will be a boy. She looked up at him.

What? Jozef asked.

You heard me, Jozef Powell, she said. Maybe this one will be a boy.

The summer of 1918 was a hot one.

The acre-sized field to the west of the Powell home was occupied by a huge maple tree the children would spend hours on end playing in.

On this Sunday afternoon, Edward and his friend Nicholas were sitting on two branches in the upper part of the tree. Why do you like to sit up so high? Nicholas asked.

Two reasons, Edward replied. For one thing, the higher up you are the further out you can see. Second, he said, looking below him at Margaret, you can dive-bomb tag-along sisters. He pulled off a handful of helicopters from the branch he was sitting on. He used his teeth to pull the seed out of the end. He began spitting them onto her head.

Hey! she yelled up to him. You don’t own this tree! I can sit here if I want! She picked the seeds out of her hair and threw them back up at him.

Missed me, of course, Edward said.

Who’s that man sitting with your dad? Nicholas asked.

His name is Trevor Humphries, Edward said, using a British accent.

Why do you say it like that?

Because he’s English, dummy. Edward pulled a rounded piece of bark off the branch and held it against his eye. "Yaws," he said drolly.

Boys are stupid, Margaret said, climbing down.

Jozef and Trevor were sitting on the front porch, barely tolerating the heat. Ana had made a pitcher of iced tea, and each man gratefully accepted a glass.

Trevor Humphries was from the Chelsea district of London. From a family of means, he came to America as an aspiring photographer and settled in Detroit. A confirmed bachelor, he became a member of the minority who felt at home in the Polish district. A man of medium build, his full head of hair was graying prematurely, striking against steel-blue eyes.

Your Ana is an extraordinary cook, he commented. I’ve never had Polish cuisine prepared that way. Brilliant!

She is amazing, Jozef agreed. I’m lucky to have her. She takes good care of me and the children.

And another one on the way, Trevor said, clinking his glass with Jozef’s.

Yes.

When is she due?

October.

"October?"

I know, Jozef sighed, she’s not very big.

I didn’t mean anything…

It’s all right, he assured his friend. The baby is active, and Ana has no problems, so the doctor says he’s normal.

"He?" Trevor repeated.

I have a feeling, Jozef said over his glass.

Well then, a toast is in order, Trevor said, raising his glass. Ah, he said, making a face. I’ll tell you what, you ask Ana to teach me how to cook and I’ll teach her how to make a proper glass of tea.

"Ew, I’m sew sorry," Jozef said in an English accent.

Very good, Trevor said, surprised. You know, he added, "your English is very good."

Thank you.

"I’m serious. All the other accents I hear are much thicker, more broken. Both yours and Ana’s are much more Americanized," Trevor said.

Ana and I wanted very much to learn the American way, Jozef said. This is our home now. We took a great task to learn the A’s, E’s, I’s, O’s, and U’s of the language.

You’ve done very well, Trevor said.

Edward appeared, walking from the field to the front porch.

Ah, young Powell, Trevor greeted the boy.

Hello, Mr. Humphries, Edward said.

Where’s Nicholas? Jozef asked.

Went home, Edward said, walking up the steps. He plopped himself in a chair next to his father. Swinging his legs, his attention was drawn to the small oblong box on the table between the two men. Leaning over to get a better view, he asked, What’s that?

That, Master Edward, is a camera.

Oh.

The men continued talking.

The box was 3 and 1/4 x 3 and 3/4 x 6 inches. There was a small hole on the top, and one glass-covered hole on the front. There was a stem sticking up from the upper left corner of the box. The top of the stem was flattened, and Edward put his fingers on it.

Be careful, Edward, his father warned.

That’s all right, Trevor said. That camera is the one I take with me on such days like today. It’s called ‘the Kodak.’ Your own George Eastman introduced it in 1888. With hands in pockets, Edward looked through the hole on top of the box. Trevor was watching him. "Would you like to see