Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  The crowd is beside itself, stomping and shouting. Placards are waved. The mob is unleashed. Police move in. Fights and scuffles break out. The colonel, standing on the stage above the fray, watches. “And if I go, he goes,” he repeats quietly to himself.

  Clutching onto Archie, the pair work their way against the crowd who are trying to reach the stage. A placard narrowly misses Archie’s head. Maggie’s elbows are up, abandoning civility for self-defence. They are squeezed through the exit, bursting out onto the sidewalk and fresh air.

  The roar of the crowd is audible even from inside the trolley as it pulls away from a stop. “What do you think Kendrick’s going to do now?” she asks Archie, who is glancing around anxiously. His usually neat hair is dishevelled, and he’s lost his hat somewhere back in the melee.

  “I don’t think he has any choice. He’ll need to ask the Marines to give Butler at least a year’s extension on his leave or the crowd will rip him apart, electorally if not literally. He has aspirations for the Governor’s Mansion, so he’s going to be very cautious, making sure he comes out on the right side of this.”

  “But the colonel slapped him around pretty badly tonight. I don’t know how he retains his dignity and authority after this.”

  “Dignity and the mayor? An oxymoron. Kendrick will be calling the governor and Bill Vare to test the waters for political support. If they say Butler stays, he stays, and Mayor ‘call-me-Freddy’ Kendrick will have to live with it.”

  “Well, tomorrow’s headlines will be interesting,” Maggie says. “I wonder if we’ll see Dick at all tonight, or whether he’ll be tied to his typewriter?”

  “I’m sure the Inquirer will have a field day with this. They dislike Kendrick as much as Colonel Butler does.”

  “It will be interesting to hear what Joe has to say, as well. He’s so loyal to Colonel Butler.”

  “Blind loyalty is not a useful characteristic in these times.”

  Chapter 50

  M aggie twitches back the curtains of her living room window and peers out into the twilight. She glances at the clock. Quarter to seven. She looks back out the window, and then again at the clock. The minute hand has barely moved. She walks over to the mirror and rechecks her hair, just in case something untoward has happened to it since she last checked—five minutes ago.

  Tommy is at the dining room table, supposedly doing his homework. He watches all the to-ing and fro-ing with amused smirks. Unbeknownst to Tommy, Frank is watching too. He’s in his chair by the fireplace, contentedly puffing on a cigar.

  Ten to seven. Back to the window. Frank chuckles, earning a scowl from Maggie. An engine comes to an idle outside. Maggie rushes to the mirror again; cheeks flushed pink, the skirts of her tawny colored dress with scarlet polka-dots swirl around her legs. She quickly retouches her lipstick, a darker shade of red than usual.

  “You look lovely, my dear,” Frank says. She smiles and slips on her coat.

  There is a knock. Tommy jumps up and runs over to the door, flinging it wide.

  “Hello, young man. Nice to see you again.” Teddy steps into the front hall and shakes Tommy’s hand.

  “Hello, Professor Galway. Nice to see you too, sir.”

  Maggie kisses Tommy on the forehead, leaving a smear of Romantic Flame behind.

  “Aw, Mother,” Tommy says, rubbing at the lipstick.

  “Don’t wait up, Tommy. And finish your homework. Mr. Mansfield and Mr. Sessions are here if you need anything.”

  “Have a good time, Mother.”

  “Oh, before I forget. I got you a gift, Mrs. Barnes. To make up for our museum trip that was cut short,” Teddy says, blushing a bit as he fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a small package. “I hope you like it. It’s one of Mother’s favorites.” He hands the gift to Maggie.

  “How lovely. Thank you, Professor Galway.” She peels back the paper and reveals a small book with a bright scarlet cover and gold stamped title. “Oh, it’s a book. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre.”

  “Mother says it is an anguished cry from the depths of a struggling, suffering, much-enduring spirit.”

  “Oh, well I’m sure I’ll enjoy it anyway. Thank you. That’s very thoughtful. I love to read. It fills the time so well. Tommy, can you put this on my desk?”

  Teddy smiles. “Well, we’re off then. Good night, Tommy. Good luck with that homework.”

  As the door closes, Frank sits, bemused, staring at the small red book.

  * * * *

  Edith slips into the powder room in the foyer of the hotel and checks her lipstick in the mirror. Scarlet red against her pale skin and brunette hair. A faint blush to her cheeks. Her heart flutters. Glancing around to make sure she’s alone, she lays out two short lines of cocaine—a bit of courage.

  The elevator lumbers along: second floor, third floor, fourth floor, bing. She opens her fur coat, shrugging one shoulder free. She’s wearing a scarlet satin dress that clings to her every curve. She walks down the hallway, breathless. Room Four Fifty.

  The door opens. Tony stands there. Shirtsleeves, top collar button undone. A shock of jet black hair escapes and plays on his forehead. The provocative mustache dances on his upper lip.

  “Edie.” He breathes her name into her hair, taking her into his arms, nudging the door closed with his foot.

  “Tony,” she murmurs.

  They cling to each other before she can fully remove her fur coat. Edith had been lost and now she is found.

  She breaks away and gives a shaky laugh. “A drink. I need a drink.”

  On the dresser, reflected in the mirror, is a crystal vase of scarlet roses. Propped in front is a stiff, white envelope. Tony grabs it as he brings her drink over to where she’s sitting on the bed.

  “What? For me?” She tears open the flap, excited. Inside are two tickets to a musical playing Saturday. Tony pulls one of the tickets out of her hand and tucks it into his shirt pocket.

  “Just a little something. I figured Duffy wouldn’t take you, and I always want to know when I’ll see you again, beautiful.”

  Edith holds the ticket in one hand and her drink in the other as Tony lowers his head and begins to nuzzle her neck. He slips the fur coat off and begins to hunt for the fastenings of her dress.

  “Oh Tony, you make me feel so good.” With a dazed gaze, she sees the red roses on the bureau, one single red petal lying on the polished wood.

  * * * *

  Mickey slips off his jacket and lowers his suspenders. They hang like parentheses on his hips. He walks over to the bar cart and pours a shot of whiskey, tossing it back.

  “Mickey, are you coming?”

  Mickey turns toward the bedroom door where Delores stands. Clinging to her is a bit of flame red silk, a small bit of nothing that caught Mickey’s eye in the window of the hotel gift shop on the way up.

  She slowly lifts one strap, lets it slip. When she’s sure she has his attention, she slides off the other, and the camisole slithers to the floor. She stands there, slim hips, small breasts like crab apples, a nude child-like Venus with long, honey-gold hair. Mickey strides over, kicking the garment out of the way. He grabs her roughly and pushes her back on the bed.

  Delores, his weight heavy on her, looks to the side and sees the pretty, new slip, crushed and discarded in the corner. Mickey’s body is also crushing. She sighs, closes her eyes and hangs on tight.

  Chapter 51

  “ You’re too thin, Margaret. You’ll never attract a man looking like a scarecrow. Is this one of those flapper fads that you’re always going on about?”

  Maggie winces. Trust her mother to go immediately on the attack. Maggie had suggested a neutral location for their ritual pre-Christmas visit, albeit a little earlier this year because of Maggie’s busy December schedule. Cordelia Gifford is a pillar of tradition and insists on it, regardless of the strain it places them both under. Maybe she enjoys it? Certainly she never makes an effort to be kinder, or to get along. What does she have to be so resentful of? She’s no
t a widow, raising a son, the bank knocking on her front door.

  “I’ve been working very hard Mother. I’m juggling lodgers, school, Tommy, my business, and a few other projects. Keeping all those balls in the air is demanding.” Don’t mention the investigation.

  “Well, my first priority is always your father. I always make sure that I look good for him when he comes home. But I guess you have the luxury of not having to worry about that, don’t you?” Cordelia consults her menu. The hurtful words come from behind the large menu at Green’s Garden Café.

  Oh, why do I do this? I know what will happen. A misguided sense of family? That martyr complex again? Wanting to make sure Mother has my version of success stories for her precious Garden Club? Regardless, I don’t think it’s healthy.

  “And what are your Christmas plans, Mother?” Maggie asks, flapping her menu.

  Cordelia Gifford huffs. “I imagine that we’ll be spending it alone. Again. Unless you change your mind and join us? We’d love to be able to celebrate the holidays with you and Tommy.”

  “Unfortunately, we’ll be busy. The same as last year. Next year too, for that matter.”

  “Oh, really, Margaret. Sometimes you are so stubborn. Just like your father.”

  “I’m nothing like my Father.”

  “What about the bookkeeping business? What about the boarding house business? You’re exactly like your father.”

  Maggie huffs.

  “And how is Tommy? Still doing well in school?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s doing very well. We’re still planning that he’ll go to Boys’ Central High School in a few years.” Don’t mention the cheating.

  “Excellent school. Your father is a graduate.”

  “You’ve mentioned that.”

  “I’m sure he could make a few inquiries when the time is right.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need to ask him to do that. Tommy is an excellent student.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “And how is Father filling his time now that he’s retired?”

  “He’s staying busy. He’s doing some accounting work for a few acquaintances. Very similar to your little business, Margaret.”

  “I doubt that. I’m a bookkeeper. I look after payrolls, inventory, money coming in and going out. I don’t deal with high finance.”

  “Well, you never know, dear. You certainly have the capacity for it. You could set up an office together. Gifford and Gifford.”

  Maggie rolls her eyes. Even her attempts at a compliment have barbs. “Gifford and Barnes. Again, the likelihood of Father and I talking to each other, let alone opening a business, is the same as hell freezing over, Mother. I try not to work with murderous felons.” Don’t mention Mickey Duffy.

  “Margaret, that is cruel. And you know it. I’m disappointed in you.”

  Maggie simmers, trying to regain her control. The last outburst was unfortunate. She doesn’t want her mother thinking that her sharp words are having any affect. But I’d rather choke than apologize.

  “You know, one of the Garden Club members saw a woman who could have been your sister selling liquor on a street corner. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Maggie’s sputters water over the table. She struggles to regain control. “A secret family you’re keeping from me, Mother?” Don’t mention the Minnows.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Margaret. I found it amusing, and thought you might as well. Oh, by the way, thank you for the invitation to Fanny’s bridal tea. I enjoyed meeting her family. And Sergeant Kelly’s family, of course. Have they recently immigrated?”

  “You know perfectly well that Joe’s been here since he was a little boy. Sometimes, Mother,” Maggie warns.

  “Of course, it merely slipped my mind, Margaret. I meant nothing by it. And what about you, my dear? Are you seeing anyone?”

  “No, Jack will always be the only man for me.” Don’t mention Teddy.

  “Sometimes I think you clutch his memory to you like a hair shirt. It’s been seven years, Margaret. Will you ever be ready to remarry?”

  Seven years. I’ve been without Jack for seven years. Surely it hasn’t been that long? The question makes Maggie pause.

  “I don’t think so, Mother. I gave up a lot to love Jack, and now I’m giving up a lot to love the son Jack and I have. I’ve learned to cherish my independence, and we are managing quite well.” Don’t mention the mortgage.

  “How is school?”

  “Is there not a topic we can discuss without me feeling like I’m under attack? University classes are fine, thank you very much. I’m doing very well on the exams. I should be done the first level this spring.”

  “Margaret, I’ll never understand this hysterical sensitivity you have. I’m pleased to hear you’re enjoying it and doing well. You come by it naturally, you know. When do you find time to study?”

  “Tommy and I spend most afternoons, before supper, with our books open doing our homework together.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a different image of motherly bonding than in my day, but I can see the appeal. When you were a girl, I loved to stand and watch you with your nose buried in a book. I imagine Tommy’s the same way.”

  Maggie jerks her head and stares at her mother. Is the old curmudgeon finally beginning to thaw? Well, if she can bend a little, I suppose I can as well.

  “And how is the Garden Club?”

  “Why thank you for asking, Margaret. You’ll never guess what Mrs. Frazer told me ….”

  Chapter 52

  M ickey’s at his suite at the Ritz. A plate with toast crumbs and a bit of dried egg has been pushed to the side. He’s enjoying coffee with the latest newspaper headlines. There’s a sharp knock at the door, and John Bricker comes in, followed by a little girl. Ribbons are tied in her hair. She holds a paper bag in front of her pinafore.

  Henry, who had been sitting on the couch with his own stack of newspapers, looks up. “Bricker. Congratulations. I hear your old lady has another bun in the oven, eh?”

  John grins. “Thanks, Henry. Yeah, I’ll soon have enough for my own baseball team.”

  Mickey looks up and frowns. “John. Didn’t we talk about this? This ain’t no place for a kid, especially a girl.”

  “Sorry, Boss, but Dot was supposed to be at my sister’s today on account of my wife, Annie, not feeling well.” The last part of the sentence is said with meaning, and John looks hard at Mickey and then at his daughter.

  “You dog,” Mickey says with a grin. “Maybe another boy?” Mickey slaps John on the back, handing him a cigar from the wooden box on the table.

  “We’ve already got five kids, two girls and three boys but, for sure, another will be a blessing. Look, my sister will be by within the hour to pick Dot up. I told her that it would be okay for Dot to wait here, with me.”

  “Well, that’s just grand, except that I’m supposed to be at the bank in twenty minutes, and you’re driving me.”

  “Rats. I forgot. Say, Henry? Could you keep an eye on Dot until I get back? She has her dolls and stuff to keep her amused.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. Babysitter. Sure, John, and give my love to Annie. Good luck.”

  * * *

  Mickey and John make quick work of the bank, then walk from the car back into the hotel suite. They’re deep into a discussion about Philly’s baseball team when John leans forward and opens the door. Mickey starts to go in and then stops dead. His full-stop blocks John from entering.

  Sitting on the floor, playing with Dot and her dolls, is Delores: her hair is mussed from just getting out of bed, the silken strap of her camisole has slipped off her shoulder, her face smeared with make-up.

  Underneath the sleaze, Mickey sees the innocence of a thirteen-year-old girl delighted to be playing dolls. Mickey turns his head; begins to retch.

  Henry looks up from the couch. “The kiddies have been good as gold, boys. Although they may want some cookies and milk for a snack.” Henry levels Mickey a look that is weighted with the sarc
asm in his words. Mickey shakes his head in disbelief.

  Delores looks up from her playthings. “Hi, Mickey.” She starts to get up. Mickey backs away and clears his throat. “That’s okay, Delores. You keep playing. I’m glad you two girls are getting along. John, maybe you could call down for milk and cookies for the girls. Henry and I are going to have a little chat,” Mickey says, nodding toward the other bedroom.

  Mickey walks over to the bed, sinks to the edge. His head is in his hands. “Oh, my God, Henry, what have I done?”