A Harsh and Private Beauty

by Kate Kelly

  “It does,” Daniel says quickly.

  Michael nods, wishing there was some way, anyway, he could help ease his brother’s pain. “Do you want another drink?”

  Daniel laughs, spurting liquid from his pursed mouth, aware of Michael’s desperate need to give him something. He wipes his chin and swallows, “Yeah, I’ll have another drink.” He grabs Michael’s shoulder. “And don’t worry, big brother. I’ll be fine. We come from hardy stock.”

  “Hey, Daniel, enjoying the band?” A slim, good-looking black man stops beside the two brothers and places his hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, Tommy. Thanks. You getting up later?”

  “Well I brought my horn so I’m hopin’ to blow.” Tommy laughs.

  “I’ll stay to hear that,” Daniel says, smiling into the other man’s dark eyes.

  “Who was that?” Michael asks as they watch Tommy making his way past the bar and its patrons.

  “That, Mick, is Tommy Ladnier, one of the world’s best jazz trumpeters,” Daniel says, his eyes following Tommy until he disappears behind the stage. “Born in Louisiana but raised in New Orleans—the city where it all came from,” Daniel says, nodding to himself.

  “You seem to know him pretty good, Danny boy.”

  “Yes, that is my privilege,” Daniel says and then looks at Michael. “You’ll have to stay and listen to him. Then maybe you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”

  The music starts again, and the brothers listen in silent companionship. A blues tune soars around them, its scale intentionally forced over the major chords, distinctively dissonant. The conflict of tonalities pulls at Daniel’s soul, painful and soothing in equal parts; it is somehow able to touch him, to free him from his misery. “All right, you come with me to hear Jelly Roll Morton, and I’ll meet with Dean. I’m not promising anything, but the distraction can’t hurt.”

  “Agreed!” Michael laughs, nodding at his brother.

  THE GANG’S HEADQUARTERS has moved to accommodate its growing needs. Now, they operate out of William Schofield’s flower shop on North State Street, across from Holy Name Cathedral. Dean has a growing interest in horticulture; he finds the growing, clipping, and arranging to be a calming pastime. He sets his girlfriend Viola up as the shopkeeper and turns the rooms above Schofield’s into the headquarters for the North Side Gang. It is here that Daniel finds himself. The usual suspects are in the front room of the headquarters when Michael and Daniel enter, smoking and talking in hushed tones. Vincent Ducci is the first on his feet, stubbing out his smoke and looking Daniel up and down, a wide smile across his dark face.

  “Danny Boy! How are you doing? It’s good to have you back. I heard you gave those Jerries hell over there.”

  Daniel accepts Vincent’s handshake and looks around at the others. “Nice to be back, Vinny. See you boys haven’t changed much. Hymie still taking all your money at cards?”

  Hymie Weiss laughs and extends his hand. “No. The boys like to gamble their money away at the Clarke Street poolroom. Tennes is running a racing form outta there. He’s got control over the whole telegraph service, so he brings in the daily returns on racetracks throughout the country.”

  Daniel whistles one long note. “Nice work if you can get it.” He looks around at the men. “I guess the neighbourhood boys have all been busy while some of us have been off fighting the Kaiser.”

  “You got that right, Danny,” Bugs Moran continues. “Between Tennes with the gambling and Big Jim Colosimo with the prostitution, Torrio and Dean are gonna be fighting for the only thing left: booze.” They all laugh. The virtue of vice.

  “It looks like I’m the answer to your prayers then.”

  “Well, we’re hoping so,” Dean O’Banion says as he emerges from the back room, a smile on his face, his hand extended in greeting. “How’s it going, Daniel?”

  “Good. Thanks, Dean.” He accepts the handshake.

  “So the conquering warrior has returned.” Dean is still smiling.

  “So to speak.” Daniel’s reply is clipped, his eyes unable to meet Dean’s.

  “Let’s go to the back room and talk, Daniel. It’s not much, but I use it as my office.”

  The office is bright; two large windows set in dormers look out onto the street, and the light spilling across the floor catches the corner of a large metal safe, its door partially open. There is a mahogany table and chair, dark and polished and facing the door. The table is empty except for an ornate anniversary clock and two books lying haphazardly on the corner. A settee is placed against the south wall, and two straight back chairs face the table. “Take a seat, Daniel.” Dean indicates a chair and moves behind the mahogany desk. “Do you want a drink? I think it will be appropriate for our talk.”

  “Okay. What have you got?”

  Reaching into the bottom drawer, Dean produces a bottle of single malt scotch and two glasses. “Only the best.”

  While Dean pours the scotch, Daniel picks up the books. A snort of laughter escapes him. “The Holy Bible and The Art of War? Unusual bedfellows, wouldn’t you say, Dean?”

  “They’re not as contradictory as you would think.” He hands Daniel a glass. “The Bible is full of struggle and conflict, people wanting and fighting for territory, and The Art of War is a meditation on dealing with your enemy in times of struggle. I suppose the big difference is that the Bible teaches that God is on the side of victory while Sun Tzu teaches that restraint and good planning ensure victory. Guess which one I follow?”

  Daniel smiles, turning the book over in his hand. “What else does The Art of War say?”

  Dean downs his scotch in one swallow, winces, and pauses before he answers. “To win without fighting is best.”

  There is a silence. Dean allows the silence to settle before he continues. “So, I hear you’re struggling with being back.”

  Startled at the abrupt shift in direction, Daniel coughs up the scotch. A moment passes before he’s able to speak. “Who’s saying that?”

  “Your big brother.”

  “Well, what would he know?”

  “Nothing compared to you. Like the rest of us here, we didn’t go to ‘the war to end all wars.’ We’re pretty occupied here with this war.” With a sweep of his arm, Dean indicates the street outside.

  “Is that why you didn’t go?”

  “Partly. That’s the biggest part. But another part of me had trouble coming to terms with fighting on the side of the English…”

  Dean laughs. “Meaning, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” Dean pours himself another scotch and looks inquiringly at Daniel, who shakes his head. “Then another part of me has a hard time believing in the necessary lie.” He takes a drink. “I have no patriotism.”

  “I’m impressed, Dean. The Art of War and now philosophical insights. You’re gaining wisdom in your old age.” Daniel smiles ironically. At twenty-three and twenty-five, both men are old beyond their years.

  “I have to use anything and everything I can. I’m up against worthy opponents in a time with no rules.” Dean snorts out a sound close to laughter and stretches out his arms. “This is the opportunity of the new world. We are men without a country because we are the country. I can be my own sovereign, and I’m engaged in a serious war. Capone is the new kid on the block, and he’s not a boyhood rival—he’s from New York and he’s running Torrie’s organization like an army. They’re even calling the guys on the street ‘soldiers.’ And they intend to take over Chicago by force.”

  “I thought Mike Merlo doesn’t like violence?”

  “Yeah, but Merlo can’t be everywhere. This Capone is a new breed; he plays with no holds barred.”

  “So, what does this have to do with me?” Daniel can barely contain his contempt at the use of the word “soldier.” “Michael said you want me to make the con
nection for you in Canada. I can’t do that without all the background information.”

  “That’s true.” Dean pauses, leaning forward, unsure how to continue. “Look, Daniel, nobody’s trying to belittle your efforts and those of millions of other men who put their lives on the line. I have nothing but admiration for you. I couldn’t do what you did, fight for an ideal, to keep the world safe for democracy, as old Woodrow Willy would have us believe. That’s not immediate enough for me, and, to be honest, it doesn’t mean anything to me. I watched my parents suffer in a so-called democratic country, working themselves into early graves surrounded by squalor and with nothing more than empty dreams. It was the same for your parents, Danny. That won’t be my life. Or Michael’s, or any of the guys out there.” He points to the adjoining room where the men are waiting. “We’ll fight for that.”

  They fall silent, surrounded by the ticking of the anniversary clock, the muffled noises of the street, and the murmured voices of the men in the other room. Dean has been unknowingly describing Daniel’s unspoken fear: that the death and dying on the fields of France, on the fronts of Europe and in the villages of Russia, the accumulated cost measured in human life both military and civilian, measured in full scale destruction of land and property, may have been for nothing. Futile. Daniel is overcome by a sense of helplessness, of impotence, a loss of control; in the silence, his feelings of disillusionment sharpen into deceit and manifest into anger.

  “You did what you had to do, Danny. The Allies won.” Dean says, breaking the silence and bringing Daniel back to the moment. “The ends justify the means.”

  “And now you’re a Machiavellian?” Daniel scoffs.

  “All I know is that sometimes, good men do bad things in the belief that it’s for the greater good.”

  “And the problem with that, Dean is that belief can so easily be manipulated.”

  “Yes, that’s what I know, Danny. I think it’s called leadership.”

  “Propaganda is more like it.”

  “Call it what you will. It’s a tool.”

  “A tool? That’s a joke.” Daniel laughs but with no humour. “Tell that to the men that died in Flanders. Tell that to their families! We have all been used!” Daniel’s voice rising with anger. “Used like fodder!”

  Dean says nothing as the two men sit in silence, more pronounced after Daniels outburst. Then, picking up the bottle, he offers one to Daniel who nods his acceptance.”

  “All is fair in love and war, Danny boy.”

  “That’s what you think, Dean.”

  “That’s what I know.”

  Daniel shakes his head, his mind wheeling and darting around Dean’s words, his anger palpable, flushing through his body and colouring his face. “So, what do you want with me?

  “I want your loyalty. I want your intelligence. I want your bravery.”

  “Hell, you’re not asking for much, are you?” Daniel spits out the words, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

  Dean nods. “No more than Uncle Sam asked of you.”

  He is right, of course. Wasn’t the war brought about by the same competitive urges that individuals experience: acquisition, pugnacity and pride, the desire to control, to dominate? Yes, Daniel thinks. Uncle Sam, the state, is a living organism rife with all the baser human instincts of its inhabitants, but none of the restraints.

  “He asked too much.”

  “Ours not to reason why, eh Danny.”

  “Yes. Tennyson was right, ours but to do and die.”

  “Some men find that noble.”

  “Some men are fools!”

  “Yes, I agree!” Dean laughs, throwing back another shot. “And that’s what I count on.”

  For Daniel, there was nothing noble to be found in the mud of France, where men shit themselves in fear, cried like children, or prayed to a God who had long ago forsaken them. That the Allies won the war means little to him. More was lost than won, but he knows that the stories will never be told, not the true stories; instead, things will be coloured and shaded, cleaned up and made acceptable.

  “I need a representative. I need you to be my liaison with the connections in Montreal. It’s behind the scenes. You’d have your own autonomy. You would be making decisions for me, creating a future and I need someone I know and trust.”

  Dean’s proposal brings with it a feeling of immediacy. It is something he can see himself doing, something intriguing, even entrepreneurial and something, Daniel thinks, could help push the despair, the scenes of France, so vividly alive in his mind, to the periphery. He could, for a time, exchange one war for another, if not as a soldier then as an ambassador, an advisor.; there is only the individual, the here and now. Dean’s offer is the armour he needs to be able to centre himself in a world that has tilted on its axis and is pulling him toward oblivion.

  “Look, Daniel. You can think about it for a few days. You’ll never be on the front lines in my organization. You can continue with the books and as an advisor, but I would like you as my representative. I need a personal contact in Montreal. If this amendment gets through, it’ll be a licence to print money, and I’ll want to get the jump on Torrio and Capone.

  “No, Dean. I won’t need a few days,” Daniel answers, his gaze steady. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “And everything to gain, my boy!”

  When do you need me to leave?”

  Dean smiles broadly, relief evident in his face. “Is next week okay?”

  “Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Daniel nods. “I can start on those books, and you can fill me in on the details between then and now.” Daniel gets to his feet and extends his hand across the table.

  Dean accepts the handshake and replies warmly, “Welcome home, Daniel.”

  5.

  “I THINK HE KNOWS.”

  “About us, you mean?” Leland lifts Ruby’s hand to his lips. She feels the pressure and wetness against her fingers; her body reacts, a tightening in her abdomen, a flush to her face.

  “Oh, Leland, what are we doing?” she asks with vague concern, running her hand through his hair, along his broad forehead. The question is always there, haunting her every waking moment, at times leading to such panic that she becomes curt and distracted with everyone around her. She has become an open sore, too vulnerable to be able to concentrate on anything but the need she feels. It grows with the intensity of lust, painfully alive and soothed only by the presence of Leland. He is a cooling balm on the heat of her confusion. With him, she is no longer aware of the pain that leaves her breathless and hurting. Being with Leland calms her mind, anchoring her safely in the whirlwind of emotion her days have become. With him, the world stops and she becomes, not the mother, not the wife, not the daughter, but Ruby Grace, existing fully in the moment.

  She has stolen the time to be with him, taken it from her children, her family, feeling guilty and desperate at the same time. And her guilt makes her reckless, the sex between them driven and intense. She pushes past boundaries, wet and breathless for more, meeting Leland on a level that neither of them has ever experienced. He revels in her appetite and she in his creativity and openness, exploring each other with a thirst that cannot be sated. There is a wicked, almost violent undertone to their love making; but it is love making, a sharing, a communion, a recognition of soul. Afterward, lying wrapped in the lull of satiated release, there is no turning away from each other, or from the bond that holds them.

  Leland stops his playful kissing and nipping of Ruby’s neck, and sits back to study her face. The back booth of the night club is hidden from sight and lit only with a small, red, pot-bellied candle holder that flickers steadily, illuminating Ruby’s distress in the sharpened angles of her face. Shirley Horn’s song, “It Had to Be You,” is playing in the background, her voice slow and sultry, the piano and saxophone sliding smooth against the brushes. “It had to be you …
could make me be true … make me be blue … wonderful you.” Leland, picking out the lines, smiles to himself. The words are so apropos, the song so beautifully sad.

  “Oh, my Ruby Grace. You need an answer, don’t you?” He looks steadily into her eyes; into depths he can’t reach.

  Ruby nods, afraid to speak, holding Leland’s eyes with her own, trying to force what is in her heart into him.

  Leland takes her hand again, sighing deeply, the romance of a moment ago replaced by the levity he knows Ruby needs. “I told you already. Leave John and marry me and let the cards fall as they may.”

  “Just like that?” she whispers.

  “What else can we do?” Leland places both hands on the table shakes his head. “We can’t go on like this. You can’t go on like this.”

  “But John? The children?” she asks, pleadingly.

  “John and the children.” Again, Leland folds his arms across his chest and nods. He is an interloper in her world, holding open a door to something else, but he feels her reluctance, understands her confusion. She is balancing precariously on the ball of decorum, conformity leaving her unable to move one way or another. His suggestion, his answer comes from selfish frustration.

  Ruby leans back against the seat; her body is clammy, her mind racing. She is where she hoped never to be. But from the first moment, it was inescapable, this running off the rails, this catastrophic train wreck. She hasn’t wanted to look. She has been pushing the reality out of her mind, out of reach, unwilling to contaminate what has grown between them, what is growing within her and what she can no longer deny. She wants to be with him, needs to be with him, will die without him. Closing her eyes, she begins silently to cry, her body moving gently with the rhythm of her sobs.