“Where are you headed?” Igor asked as I poured a mug of coffee. He was in his usual spot at the kitchen table, studying his boring books as he listened to the depressing news. Maks was sitting beside him, eating a bowl of my Rice Krispies, which immediately pissed me off.
“Do you live here now?” I asked my cousin as I poured myself some cereal.
“The better question is, do you?” Ig inquired with a smirk as Maks continued to indulge. “You’re here less and less.”
“You’re not here enough to notice how often I am,” I retorted, leaning against the counter as I ate.
“Bullshit,” he laughed.
Maks chuckled along and I stared at both of them, unamused.
“So,” Igor said, still awaiting a response. “Are you pounding the pavement to find a job?”
“I have a job,” I replied, barely believing the words as they slipped from my lips. My ledger was paltry at best and becoming more anemic by the month.
“How long can you survive in Towertown?” Maks asked. His three pansy parlor accounts had dropped him as soon as prohibition ended. “Your guys aren’t going to keep a middle man indefinitely. Distribution is running smoothly now. You should talk to Vlad about getting involved in another racket. Prostitution, gambling … everything is slow, but at least we’re getting a few clams.”
Maks wasn’t wrong but I didn’t want to hear it. Handing over a wad of cash to Cal’s landlord assured I needed the five clubs I was still working with for at least another few months.
Sometimes I wished I had gone to college. With Igor preparing to graduate from the University of Chicago with a PhD in Economics, he was beginning as I was drawing to an end. Though I gave him guff about his focus on economics when the economy was disintegrating, he retorted that it was the best possible time for the study because they would look to experts to ensure a crash would never happen again. I hated that it made sense and despised even more that I had so readily gone for the easy money of the mob rather than positioning myself for a better future. Perhaps I had settled, never considering anything beyond the present, never foreseeing a moment past it until I had a reason to look forward. Moving through the motions of life had been all I had ever thought I would do, but Cal made me want more, if only because I coveted moments with him.
“We’ll see,” I replied vaguely, wanting to be finished with the conversation. I inhaled the rest of my cereal and placed my bowl in the sink. “Either way, I’m going to go now and do something other than sit around with you crumbs.”
“Soon you’ll need to refer to me as Dr. Crumb,” Igor reminded with a grin. “I think those two terms are uncomplimentary, don’t you?”
“When you perform brain surgery, I’ll call you doctor, until then I’ll call you dummy,” I decided, barely waving ‘goodbye’ as I left the room.
It was peculiar that though I’d made the trek to Towertown thousands of times before, it had never felt as alien as it did knowing Cal wouldn’t be there. I had spent years walking those blocks before I knew him, but now that I did, Cal had become every lamppost and building, a brilliant warmth casting a glow on the rain-slick streets. Without him, everything was duller than I remembered, as if my prior impressions had been burned full of holes by his brightness.
While The Gallery was always less crowded during the day, the mornings still consisted of queens hanging around, playing cards and killing time before the evening’s festivities. As I entered the club on that dreary April morning, I noticed there were fewer marjories than there had been the month before. Every establishment’s patronage had dwindled, and it was impossible to think any business could hoist itself up with tattered strings.
I made my way back to Abraham’s office, knocked on the door and awaited his call to ‘come in.’
“How’s it going, Egg?” Abe greeted, standing to shake my hand. Though he was as handsome as ever, he looked tired, with bags hanging under his bleary eyes.
“Alright,” I replied, taking my usual seat. “The better question is, how are you?”
“I’m still here,” he answered, his response far from the affirmations of the past.
I was sure Abraham felt strange around me just as I felt around him. It was impossible to ignore the Georgia-sized chasm between us, yet we both refused to acknowledge the division.
“And me?” I ventured, reading his body language as it spelled out my demise.
“I wish I could say the same. There are incentives for going with a bigger distributer and I can’t afford not to.” He looked empathetic in a way I found reprehensible. I didn’t desire his softness, much preferring cold, hard cash.
“You don’t have to explain,” I assured, clearing my throat. “It was only a matter of time.”
Ordering my hand to stop trembling, I stood to shake his while tuning out the niceties he was spouting. I didn’t need a kiss with the fuck, I just needed it to be over with.
As I walked to the next parlor, expecting the same outcome, I hummed the death lullaby of my younger years. I was on borrowed time.
18
October 1934
When you lived in a nation in flux, there wasn’t much you could count on to remain the same. Every week, businesses locked doors that had been open for years, and iconic signs were dim from blown-out bulbs. It was as though everything I knew had shifted, creating a disconnect between past and present. I hadn’t realized how visual my memories were until they were jarred by disjointed pictures forever altered by a changing landscape. Contrary to my family’s beliefs, I didn’t think of myself as a creature of habit. I’d always done things that worked rather than doing things that didn’t, so I often did the same things. It was as simple as that. I could not deny I found solace in the constant: the blue of the lake, the sounds of the street, even the turning leaves. Though I couldn’t predict the colors they would become, I knew they would transform from green to an autumnal hue before flitting to the dry grass below. I understood bare tree limbs and crunchy, crumpled leaf heaps, moved by feet and gusts of wind. It was a change I could predict, one that made sense in the cycle of the seasons, a tangible promise when everything else felt just out of reach. Taking a fistful of fallen foliage in my hand, I squeezed, allowing the rough edges to dig into my palm, ground me.
“Leave the leaves alone,” Cal teased as we lay in our usual spot of Bughouse square. It was a beautiful day, one with a clear cerulean sky and temperatures chilly enough to have us bristled by the breeze but not too cold for comfort. I could have pictured him there, even if he had not been, his face etched into my mind like a painting that wouldn’t fade over time. I wanted to believe he was a constant too. “What did they ever do to you?”
“I like the sound,” I defended, giving my handful a squeeze before tossing the particles toward him. Though his actions were difficult to anticipate, I had earned the finger, and when he flipped me the bird, I was oddly proud to be right. He laughed through the gesture, as if I would think him serious without the levity. Cal was very southern that way, careful not to offend when he was doing something offensive. It was downright charming, and since I stopped chiding myself for being taken with him many moons ago, I smiled a smile I was sure was quite goofy and nudged his shin with my booted toe. I was a bonafide flirt and he liked it.
“You,” he said as if it was so much more than a word.
I wanted to kiss him, but I didn’t. Instead I stated, “My mom was Jewish,” like it was something he should know. “So, I’m half,” I amended, studying Cal’s confused face. “Although a lot people say if your mom’s Jewish, you are too.”
The topic was fresh on my mind after listening to a Hassidim, in his top hat and tassels, warn onlookers of the injustices Jews were facing in Nazi Germany. I’d been following the news, which had grown more bizarre by the day. In August, Hitler had declared himself Führer and Reich Chancellor, and since then he’d been systematically stripping German Jews of their rights. I didn’t know how to feel about it other than confused.
“Is it?”
“You tell me.”
“It feels like it could be,” I relented, trying to read his demeanor. “I’ve never …” cared, understood, owned it, “practiced.”
“Do you want to practice?
“No.”
“I’ll learn with you,” he offered, pinching the stem of a leaf between his fingers so he could tickle my cheek with the tip. “If you’re interested …”
Chuckling, I swatted it away. “I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why aren’t you interested?” he pressed.
“Are you Catholic?” I asked. It wasn’t something we’d discussed, but with a name like Calvin Connolly, flame red hair and freckles, I had assumed my lover had Irish Catholic blood.
“My family is.”
“Are you interested in Catholicism?”
“No.”
“See,” I shrugged, propping myself up on my elbows and dropping my head back to drink in the sunbeams.
“Not see,” Cal chided with a light laugh. “You can’t say ‘see’ as if you’ve proved something when you haven’t.”
“You’re not interested, and neither am I.”
“The difference is I learned about Catholicism before concluding I wasn’t interested in practicing. How can you know you’re not interested in Judaism if you don’t know anything about it?”
“You have to be at least slightly interested in something to want to learn about it. I’m not interested enough to want to learn.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re obviously not listening to the radio because I assure you, if you were, you would realize the daily news is much sadder than my lack of interest in Judaism. You know, with dictators ruling several major countries and all.”
Cal rolled his eyes in a way that assured me he got my point.
“We’ve got Mussolini, Stalin, now Hitler. They have a few things in common.”
“Of course they do: they’re fascists, they’ve had their political opponents killed, and they back out of treaties,” he rattled off. “I pay attention, asshole.”
I grinned. “I know, but those aren’t the things I’m talking about.”
“I would say they all have unattractive mustaches, but that’s only two of the three,” he joked.
“You’re always focused on the important shit aren’t you, Connolly?”
“You know me,” Cal winked. “So, what do they have in common?”
“They hate Jews and homosexuals.”
“That’s confirmation they have bad taste,” he said easily.
“They’re not the only ones,” I added, wondering how he could not feel persecuted by their opinions.
“And this bothers you?”
“Should it not?”
“I mean, it bothers me for the people who are living under their rule, they don’t deserve that, but does it make me feel a certain way about myself? No,” Cal explained. “America may be struggling right now, but look around,” he waved his hand toward the bohemian crowd, “we’re good here, accepted, thriving.”
“Thriving is a stretch,” I interjected, floored by Cal’s capacity to remain positive through the hardships the country and its citizens faced.
“It could be worse,” he reminded, “you gave me two ways how and there are a hell of a lot more.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“Is admitting I’m right supposed to be a gift for me?” Cal chuckled. “I think it’s more a gift for you to be with a person who’s right as often as me.”
Though I often doubted everything would end up on the sunny side the way Cal thought it would, I wished for him to be right. Life would be markedly better if he was.
“You’re right again,” I said, resting a palm on his narrow hip. “You are a gift.”
He smiled wide, happy to have my hand on him for all the trees to see. It was the best I could do in terms of public displays of affection, but it was something.
“You’re alright too, handsome,” he crooned. I had been told I was attractive for most of my life and never gave the compliment much thought until it was given by Cal. Words held more weight when they were spoken by someone who looked at you the way he looked at me when he said them.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know,” I laughed, too flustered to formulate a meaningful reply. “You should focus your correctness streak on the Cubs. Tell me they’ll finish in first rather than third next year and be right about it, Mr. Right.”
“I’m not a wizard,” he exclaimed, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “I can’t wave a wand and make things happen.”
“Do wizards have wands?” I wondered aloud.
“I think so. They need them to do all their magic.”
“We should go to New Orleans and bring your Voodoo queen back to Chicago to mix the guys some potions.”
“Now you’re talking,” Cal grinned. “I want to try to mix you that cure-all for your neck. I know we can get the herbs, but we have to find a black cat.”
“First of all, fuck off. Second, are you supposed to mess around with Voodoo if you’re not a queen?”
“I kind of am a queen,” he shrugged, giggling when I smacked his chest. “You know what your problem is?”
“Other than the fact I know I’m going to be searching alleys for black cats this afternoon?” I asked, putting my hand back on his hip.
“Other than that.”
“I’m assuming you’re about to tell me?”
“Sure,” Cal decided. “You let your fear lead to stand in your own way.”
“What am I afraid of? Voodoo potions?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “I think it’s reasonable to be tentative about that.”
“You’re afraid of the world,” Cal sighed. “Who runs it, what it thinks of you, the darkness, the light. You’re scared of all of it.”
I clicked my tongue, too gobsmacked to acknowledge the statement. Instead I asked, “And you’re not scared of anything?”
“I’m afraid you’re too afraid to be happy,” he admitted. “That you’ll always feel relegated to sadness when it’s not what you deserve.”
“You’re making my neck hurt worse,” I admonished, desperate to change the subject. He had me too raw in my feelings to feel safe, so fearfully, I needed to back away.
“That’s why we need a cat,” Cal nodded, granting me reprieve. “I’ll get you fixed up.”
“If it doesn’t work, you’ll owe me a massage,” I warned, not sure how I always let him talk me into ridiculous shit.
“Deal. I’ll give you one right now as an act of good faith,” he smirked, knowing damn well I would not take him up on the offer. He fanned his hands playfully.
I shook my head and curled into a ball as he tried to lay them on me. “Stop, stop,” I laughed.
“Fraidy-cat, is about to get up close and personal with some real-life alley cats,” he grinned, backing off when I kicked him in the shin. “And be cured.”
“Fuck off with the fraidy-cat shit,” I grumbled, standing to brush dead blades of grass off my pants. “Let’s go get this over with.”
“This is really happening?” he asked, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as he jumped up from where he’d been lounging.
“I guess so.”
I didn’t want my nerve questioned, especially by someone I would rather impress. If it took drinking some nasty potion and finding a black cat to divert the conversation from my fears, I was going to do it. I hated and loved how Cal understood me, saw through me even when I didn’t want to be seen. Every single strand.
19
December 1934
People looked forward to the new year for many reasons, the most positive of which being hope for better things to come. For me, the new year had always been an acknowledgement that I had made it through the one before. It wasn’t as though I struggled as much
as countless others; it was more that I had lived every minute of every day and I was glad to put five-hundred thousand or so behind me. It was an achievement to exist and even greater to do it with an inkling of joy in your heart, which Cal had helped me find. Still, I was glad to say goodbye to 1934, a year that had been unkind to me and mine.
Hearing my dad readying himself in the bathroom reminded me that regardless of how often I was away from the apartment, we continued to share a space, and it had me immediately wishing for solitude. I thought of Al Capone, sitting in the new prison in the middle of the sea, and wondered if his isolation and three squares a day made the incarceration worth it. Perhaps I would have come to that conclusion if not for Cal.
“I didn’t realize you were still here,” my father remarked once I left my room and waited for him to move away from the hall mirror.
“In general or tonight?” I ventured to clarify.
“Tonight. I thought you would be joining Igor, Maksim and their dames for a night on the town. You’re off gallivanting with girls all the time, couldn’t you have wrangled up a date?”
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