A Harsh and Private Beauty

by Kate Kelly

  Now the fear of discovery tightens his chest; blood thumps through his ears, making it difficult to concentrate. If he can make it out with the money, he and Jeanie can leave Chicago and start a new life. They could return to Canada, to Montreal. He can set up his own business, a new home. A life away from this, he thinks, taking one last look along the hallway and into the flower shop, the odour of roses and death hanging heavy in the air. Ruby retches at the smell, then vomits her lunch over her hand and onto Daniel’s chest and arm. Her visceral reaction urges him outside and into the sunlight of the November afternoon. As quickly as he can, he escapes the flower shop and all it contains.

  The bodies in Schofield’s are not discovered until early evening, when Viola, Dean’s wife, drops by to help with the orders for the next day. Within minutes, the flower shop is swarmed with Chicago’s finest, making notes, taking pictures. Jimmy Owen will be interviewed, and the three men’s description will be circulated. It will be years before the main gunman is named. Frankie Yale, a New York mobster, and two others, John Scalise and Albert Anselmi. The modus operandi, three men shooting victims with a handgun at close range, will come to be known as the Chicago handshake. O’Banion’s death will begin the bloodiest and most violent era in Chicago’s history, culminating in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre on February 14, 1929.

  If we are present at some historic event, can we hope to comprehend it? Can we even remember it with accuracy? Perhaps retelling it as a story is the only way we can make sense of it, make it acceptable, make it real, or as real as we imagined. Jimmy will tell his story to the police, to his parents, to his neighbours, to his children and eventually his grandchildren. The tale will be told and retold, embellished, improvised, and glamourized. He will always remember the part he played in the history of the Chicago gangs, the death of Dean O’Banion, the end of the Irish stronghold on the North Side, and the beginnings of syndicated crime in America.

  9.

  “HOW’S THE PEPSI?” Ruby asks over the rim of her glass, eyebrows raised

  “It’s fine.”

  “Should we order some pretzels, or do you think that would be pushing my luck?”

  “Nan!” Lisa smiles.

  “So, finally, a smile.”

  “Sorry. I’m preoccupied and not very good company. Now that I’ve told someone about my situation, it seems more real than ever. I can’t ignore it anymore. I have to make a decision.”

  “Well, you don’t have to make it right this minute, do you? Let’s weigh the pros and cons. Shall we?”

  “It would be easier if you could just tell me the right thing to do.” Lisa’s voice is edged with exasperation.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that, honey. Only you can know the right thing to do. I can try to give you some advice, but really, advice is something you ask for when you already know the answer, but wish you didn’t!”

  “Maybe that’s why I haven’t asked.”

  “Maybe.” Ruby nods, preoccupied. “Maybe…” she repeats, her voice trailing off, her mind pulled by an irrevocable force into the past.

  “MAYBE THE RIGHT THING to do is to do nothing.” Daniel Kenny’s eyes are flat as he turns from his daughter.

  “I can’t just do nothing, Dad.” She shakes her head in defiance. This is not what she wants to hear.

  “You have responsibilities, Ruby. You are a mother and a wife!” Daniel says almost dismissively.

  “I’m more than a mother and a wife.” Ruby’s voice breaks with frustration.

  “SO?” LISA NUDGES HER GRANDMOTHER gently, bringing her back to the present.

  “So, what?” Ruby answers, unsure who is speaking.

  “Do you have any advice, Nan?”

  “Do I have any advice.” Ruby repeats. Her eyes dart around the bar car as she attempts to recall the present moment.

  “Yes,” Lisa says slowly, aware of Ruby’s struggle, the force of her effort to regain equilibrium. Like a drowning victim grasping a buoy, Ruby grapples for something concrete.

  “You were going to give me some advice.”

  “Some advice on what, honey?”

  “Nan,” Lisa continues patiently, aware of her own need. “I was telling you about my present situation. About me being pregnant and…”

  “And you aren’t sure what to do, are you?”

  “Yes, exactly. And I was wondering if you had any advice, if you could, I don’t know, maybe give me your opinion, your thoughts?” Lisa places her head in her hands and draws them along the sides of her face. She turns to Ruby, a tired smile on her face.

  “Oh, yes.” Ruby takes Lisa’s hand and pats it with a sigh. “You need some advice.”

  “Yes, I need some good advice.” Lisa says with relief.

  Ruby laughs. “Oh, I know, old people are supposed to have good advice. But really, what is good advice?” She looks out the window. “It’s just someone else’s opinion of your situation. Those opinions are always coloured by our own perceptions of ourselves….” Turning back to Lisa and smiling, Ruby continues, her voice and her mind strengthening with the focus the present moment is demanding. “I suppose at my age I do have some experience with situations. Damn, my whole adult life has been a situation. And I guess what you’re asking me to do is evaluate my situations, my life, and glean some insight that may help you with your. Is that right?”

  “I guess. At this point, anything would be helpful.”

  “You know, honey, I don’t know how helpful I can be. All I can tell you is that you can never live without regret. I think a life without regret is a life not lived, because life is about making choices. If you choose one thing, it means you don’t choose the other and it can leave you wondering, “what if?” It can leave you with regrets. But if you live a life of ‘what ifs’, you will drive yourself crazy. You have to make your own decision, and when you make it, follow it and don’t regret it. Don’t divide your energy, don’t divide your thoughts. Make your decision and don’t look back. Whatever decision you make, it will be the right one for you. It always is. Besides, I find that retrospect gets far too shaded by rationale most of the time and it becomes impossible to tell the difference between what really happened and what you remember.”

  Lisa shakes her head. “That’s a bit jaded, don’t you think? Especially for you, Nan.”

  “Well, I think that at my age, I’m past lying. I don’t mean hurtful, conscious lies—I mean the lies we tell ourselves in order to keep up the façade. Who we think we are is often so removed from who we are that the twain shall never meet.” Ruby shakes her head before continuing. “Can we make them meet? Should they meet? Ha!” She looks directly into Lisa’s eyes. “And who do we become if they do meet? Stripping away all our rationalizing, all the stories we tell ourselves, our last line of defence. When we find ourselves standing in the harsh light of truth, whom do we see? What are we left with? Maybe all we are left with is some good advice?”

  “Well, for my sake, I hope so.” Lisa laughs.

  “I wonder if it’s worth it? I wonder if we really can end up being honest with ourselves?” Ruby picks up her drink, watches the light playing through the ice.

  I never became the soprano I wanted to be. There was a passion in me, but not to the exclusion of everything else. Not like the passion of the genius living only for her art. Was it because I was a woman, biologically and socially hampered? Was it because the art was not all consuming and left room for love? For it is true, I loved Leland with a passion, a passion that still burns.

  “Who would I have been without Leland?”

  “Who would you have been without Leland? Is that what you just said?” Lisa, confused by the new direction but interested, gently urges her grandmother. “Nan?”

  “When I was eighteen, LeLiberté was so excited with my developing soprano voice that he encouraged my training and set out a three-year course of study. His plan
was for me to work toward a scholarship in music at McGill and eventually perform on the world stage. They seem like highfalutin aspirations now, don’t they? And I can hardly reconcile the young hopeful girl I was with who I am today. Even the photos of those days look like they’re of someone else’s life. Who was I? Who am I? And who do I become in the telling?”

  Lisa, trying to follow the thread of Ruby’s thoughts, answers tentatively, “Maybe you find meaning? Maybe, truth?” Then she adds hopefully, “Maybe you become someone who can give good advice?” Lisa laughs, breaking the tension. She is watching Ruby carefully, unsure if her grandmother is even aware of her presence.

  “Maybe you’re right, honey! Maybe all this looking back can bring some meaning, and meaning always brings its own sense of satisfaction, doesn’t it? And maybe I can end up giving you some good advice along the way! What’s that thing you said—an unexamined life is a life not worth living? Well my life was worth living, let me tell you!” Ruby lifts her glass to her lips and drinks in deeply, appreciating the bite of the liquor, the sweetness of the tonic, savouring the moment. When she continues speaking, after wiping at the corners of her mouth, there is conviction in her voice, the timber of the storyteller, the actor.

  “Should you marry your young man? Should you have this baby? Is that what you want, what you need, or is it just the next logical step in your life? Do you love him, and to what extent, and will that love last? Will it grow? The love grew between Jack and myself, although it was different from the love I experienced with Leland, and the love I felt for John. I’m not sure if what I felt for John was love at all. When I met John Grace I had just turned eighteen and I was still studying vocal with LeLiberté. He thought I had a talent; I was unsure but willing to believe him….”

  “RUBY, MY PET.” LeLiberté’s voice, is deep and rich, his accent lyrical. “That is enough for today. For Wednesday, I want you to think about the importance of the jaw. Remember to drop it and allow the note to form from the diaphragm.” He indicates his abdomen with his hand and then lifts it easily to his face and out toward Ruby.

  “Yes, I will, Laylay. I promise to run through my scales every morning.” Ruby gathers her sheet music as the late daylight from Rue St. Catherine falls in rays across the wooden floors, slanting up and along the piano legs, illuminating dust particles. The street noises that float lazily up to the second floor window signal the coming evening.

  “Good, good. This too is important,” says LeLiberté, almost absent-mindedly at first, and then with sudden presence. “Ruby, do you have a moment before you rush off to your bridge party or dance or whatever keeps you so busy these days?”

  “Yes, of course!” Ruby laughs. “I always have time for you. You and opera are my only true loves!” Her smile is radiant in its conviction.

  “You know, I would like you to continue studying with me. I see a future for you, my pet. You may attain that which so many can only dream of: an operatic career!”

  “Oh, yes. It is my dream.” Ruby’s pulse races at the idea, her face flushing with pleasure.

  “I would like to bring someone in to hear you. He is an old friend; we studied together in Europe, and I hold his opinion in the highest regard. Hopefully he will hear your potential, as I do.”

  Ruby clasps her hands like a little girl as LeLiberté continues. “Have you spoken to your parents about McGill?”

  Ruby hesitates. LeLiberté is planning for another year of study with him before she is admitted to McGill University, but the cost is becoming a burden to her parents and the money she makes at Moore’s Music is minimal at best. The plan is exiting and inspiring, but how feasible? Her parents are well off, but not rich, and university is expensive, almost inconceivably so.

  “Well, my pet?” LeLiberté looks over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

  Ruby shakes her head. “No, I haven’t spoken to them yet.”

  “Well, you must. We should be, how do they say, setting these wheels in locomotion. You may be able to receive a scholarship of some kind, but you must speak to your parents and begin looking into this.”

  “I will. I promise.” Ruby picks up her sweater and purse, and turns toward LeLiberté with genuine affection. “I must run now,” she says, and kisses him quickly on a cheek in desperate need of a shave. “See you Wednesday, Laylay!”

  “Yes, Wednesday!” he calls after her, then shakes his head and turns to Peter, the accompanist, who is still seated at the piano. “Youth, it is wasted on the young, is it not?”

  “Yeah, it always is.” Peter nods. “Do we have time for an espresso before the next lesson, Maestro?”

  LeLiberté checks his watch. “Yes, a wonderful idea. Let me get my chapeau!”

  RUBY DOESN’T SPEAK to her parents about McGill. She continues to work and to sing—in the church choir, at concerts as a solo soprano, and with LeLiberté—but university seems like too daunting a financial burden. Ruby is the apple of her father’s eye, the oldest and only surviving daughter. There is only Ruby and her younger brother Edward, and their lives have been comfortable and privileged in many ways. Until recently, Ruby hadn’t thought much about money. Her parents were always well off, with a large home in Outremont, a summer home in Maine and occasional trips to the continent. Her father was a successful accountant. The depression did not seem to affect them, at least not that Ruby can remember. There was never any scarcity in their home, never any want, and, except for May’s death, no sadness. Ruby can hardly remember Jamie, who died as an infant, but May’s death is present in her mind as the saddest of memories. Any time her thoughts light upon those days—the dying, the wake, the funeral—she can see only her father, his hands, competent and gentle as he cuts a ringlet from May’s hair and presses it into their family bible, smiling at Ruby, his only remaining daughter, his little jewel. This part of the memory is too painful: the sad smile on her father’s face, the resignation and the love, coming together in a look of defeat. He looks so unlike himself, the man in the memory, that he slowly becomes someone else, her brave unshakable father, changing so imperceptibly that years later, it is hard to credit his eventual fragility to this moment.

  This summer, Daniel and Jeanie are in Maine with Edward. Ruby loves spending the summers in Maine, but this year she has her job and her many concerts, and it is getting harder to leave her friends. Montreal in summer is a bustling, exciting place; it holds Ruby spellbound on the threshold of adulthood, in high heels and short skirts, the antithesis of the barefoot daughter she would be in Maine. She misses her family, but she feels preoccupied by her own life, running full speed toward her bright and promising future.

  Hurrying from the studio, Ruby runs toward the bus stop, her thoughts racing ahead toward home and the outfit she will change into for her date with John Grace, her excitement growing with a force of its own. He is four years older than she is, and he seems more worldly compared to the boys she has been seeing. When he finally kisses her, the mysteries of her body open; she feels the tugging in the pit of her stomach, the tingling down her spine, the ache between her legs. The immediacy of the moment, the force of physical passion, pushes all thoughts from her head, and she enjoys the feeling, falling unfettered through an abyss to breathless ecstasy.

  “YOUR GRANDFATHER was a good man, Lisa. When we met, I was excited about his attentions. He was older, and he had a good job working for Decca records. In fact, that’s how we met. I worked in one of the music stores that he supplied. He was an inspirational sales man, your grandfather, and an enthusiastic musician. He loved jazz, understood it the way my own father did. John Grace was probably the reason I turned to jazz after my hopes of a career in opera had drifted away.” She takes a sip of her drink, the look in her eye turning inward. “There I was, married with children. Opera is too demanding a life to allow for such personal pursuits.”

  “Do you ever regret marrying Granddad?”

&n
bsp; “Well, you know how I feel about regrets. They are the black holes of our personal universe, sucking in momentum to no end. I did marry John, and at the time I thought it was the right thing to do. I liked the idea of marriage, of husband and wife and happy ever after. But it was over before it ever began. One day I found myself at the kitchen sink, Francis and Phoebe at my feet, John absent on a sales trip, and me, Ruby Grace, stranded in the middle of a life I never wanted, in a city I didn’t know. I picked up Phoebe, who cried out at my wet hands, and carried her to the phone. Francis tagged along behind, confused about the abrupt change in the day. I called a taxi and left that afternoon to go back to my parents. They were in Maine, but I knew the schedules for bus, or train, or plane. Ha! My escape route!”

  Lisa, about to say something, stops. Her mind is full of the image of Ruby Grace as a young woman, stranded in a life she didn’t want.

  “I was pregnant, though I may have only been vaguely aware of it. Another baby.” Ruby, stares out the window, her memory pulling her into itself. She is,suddenly unaware of the world outside, or of the young woman beside her.

  Lisa, afraid to jar her but uncertain about leaving her to her painful reverie, sits quietly beside her grandmother. She has never heard this story before. She has heard her father and aunt talking about their childhood—their words full of nostalgia, the honey that sweetens the past—but this is a time before her father was born, before Phoebe would remember, a time when Ruby was vulnerable with youth and hampered by convention, confused and lonely and fleeing for her life.