In the City by the Lake

by Taylor Saracen

  “Are you fucking cuckoo, Vik? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Really, tell me,” Cal demanded, having followed me into our room. “Are you nuttier than a fruitcake? Am I nutty to not have noticed it before?”

  “Calm down,” I said flatly, wondering if maybe I was losing it. I was probably losing it. People who had it together did not launch bowls across their living rooms. They didn’t feel the need to destroy inanimate objects for their betrayals.

  “Calm down?” he cried, his green eyes going impossibly wide. “You’re telling me to calm down? Am I the one who just launched breakfast across the room, because I thought that was you? You’re the one who is throwing ceramic bowls clear across the fucking room. That’s the person who needs to calm down. You.”

  I closed my eyes and fell face-first onto the bed, pulling a pillow over my head to muffle the sound of his bitching. He was right. I knew he was right. I was wrong, absolutely, unequivocally, one hundred percent wrong, but I could not bring myself to admit it. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw shit. I wanted to break it and I didn’t want to answer for it. I had held it together for years and I wanted to tear it apart, if only for a few minutes.

  “You lost every one of your accounts. You watched Towertown shut down. You’ve struggled, and you have never complained as much as you are about milk. Milk, Viktor. Milk!” Cal yelled, tearing the pillow away so I could hear him. I heard him, but I didn’t want to listen. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but it felt like a really big deal. It felt like the worst thing to happen because I’d had quite enough of bad shit happening. I wanted there to be a day when I woke up, poured myself some milk and cereal, had tons of sex, and didn’t worry at all. I wanted there to be one day where everything was easy. “You’re crumbling like a stale cookie over milk.”

  “I feel a certain way about cereal,” I muttered, turning onto my back. I was unable to stop a smile from stretching across my lips when I saw Cal peering down at me like I was crazier than a bunch of bananas.

  “I can see that,” he nodded, sitting on the bed beside me. He rested a palm on my chest and hummed at my racing heartbeat.

  “I’ll clean it up,” I promised.

  Cal shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “You thought it was a big deal two minutes ago. You looked like you wanted to have me committed.”

  “You know I don’t have that power.”

  I smirked. “Lucky for me I guess.”

  “Maybe so,” he teased, lying down and wrapping his body around mine. “The paper said they’re getting closer to a resolution.”

  I groaned. “They’ve been saying that for the past week.”

  Of all the strange things that had happened in Chicago over the years, the “Milk Wars” may have been the most bizarre. Over the summer, a group of around fifteen thousand dairy farmers started utilizing their union to angle for a better price for their milk. Distributers had denied their demands, saying the increase would be too rich for the public. By late September, the farmers voted to stop delivering milk to the city. As if that weren’t a strong enough message, they had broken the seals on five tankers and dumped nearly thirty thousand gallons of milk. Farmers who tried to take their milk through were assaulted. The authorities must have liked their cereal as much as I do because they attempted to stop the protests. In reaction, the farmers set fire to two bridges. A couple of weeks later, armed guards rode tankers into the city to ensure milk deliveries, but it hadn’t been enough to fulfill the needs. Violence was still breaking out sporadically and I was really fucking tired of eating dry cereal.

  “I have a good feeling about it,” Cal assured, pushing a lock of hair off my forehead.

  “You have a good feeling about everything, Wizard,” I laughed, pressing the heels of my hands against my eye sockets. “Fuck. You had a good feeling about the Cubs’ year too.”

  “They did well, didn’t they?”

  “No. You can’t say they did well when the season ended like it did,” I sighed. A twenty-one-game winning streak had culminated in the pennant and a severe increase in my blood pressure thanks to the commitment I had made to have Maks over to my home if they were to win the series. As expected, my fretting was for naught. The Cubs lost to the Detroit Tigers in a soul-crushing display of wasted talent. I didn’t know if I was more relieved or disgruntled. I think when it came down to it, I would have preferred if they had won, but unfortunately, I hadn’t been given a choice in the matter. The positive note was my secret was safe.

  My secret. I traced my thumb along Cal’s lower lip. He was the best part of me and one of the only slivers I didn’t share. It wasn’t fair. Sometimes I considered the potential outcomes if I ever decided to be more forthcoming with the way I lived my life. I would imagine the reactions of my family, attempting to predict the words that would pass through their shock-dropped lips. I had no doubt my father would say something along the lines of wishing I had died with my mother, which would sting but be nothing compared to hearing the same sentiments as a young child. If I survived it then, I would survive it again. The issue was I didn’t think I would want to. Igor would crack jokes, and I would feel compelled to crack his jaw. He would use the information to set himself above me, as if it somehow made him a better man to be castrated by an angry little housewife. I could see the smug look on his face already. Igor was by far the most predictable, while Maks was anything but.

  I wanted to believe Maks would be different. He’d always been more forward thinking than the other Mikhailovs, someone who immersed himself in the culture of ideas because he thought it would give him the depth our Russian family had not. Regardless of how much I wanted to believe Maks would be accepting, I wasn’t willing to double down on the chance. Though he annoyed me endlessly, I could not fathom what my life would be like if Maks chose not to be in it. Thankfully, I hadn’t had to.

  “You were happy at the time,” Cal reasoned.

  “And when they lost?”

  “You weren’t shocked.”

  “I’ll give you that,” I nodded. I took a deep breath, knowing I needed to get it together and get on with my day.

  The numbers racket had been going exceptionally well, so well that after nine months I had solidified a thirty percent cut of Vlad’s profit. The income paid for some extras including a few Cub games, fresh fruits and vegetables, and all the milk I couldn’t actually get my hands on. While I wasn’t the proudest American patriot, I could not help but wonder how the farmers would have reacted to the collectivized farming of the Soviet Union, how they would have managed if they had been stripped of their autonomy in the way the Russian farmers had been.

  “You’re so generous,” Cal said playfully, nudging his nose against mine.

  “I’m feeling extra benevolent today,” I stated as I rolled on top of him. I kissed his lips and admired how beautiful he was.

  “Oh, are you?” he asked, looking quite pleased by the admission.

  “So much so that I’ll let you clean up the mess in the living room,” I joked, laughing at his unimpressed face.

  “You better be kidding,” he warned, patting my ass as I climbed off him.

  “I am,” I promised. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “And I’ll take care of you later,” Cal decided, sitting up to watch me change into my street clothes.

  “A little show of temper turns you on, huh?”

  “I think the term you’re looking for is temper tantrum,” he corrected, “and don’t get any thoughts in your head. We only have three bowls now.”

  “There are three of us, so it works out fine,” I reasoned, much to Cal’s chagrin.

  “Our food groups are soup and cereal. Bowls are gold.”

  “I’ll get a few more today,” I promised, pecking him on his lips, “and I’ll clean up my mess as soon as I get back from Ricky’s.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Sometimes you have to let someone else
pick up the pieces, Vik. I’ll show you I can.” Cal gave me a patient smile and I grinned back at him, wondering why I was so worried about milk when I lived with the cream.

  Nodding my ‘goodbye,’ I made my way out of the apartment, down the stairs, and onto the uncharacteristically busy block. As I walked, I felt lucky. It was good to know I had Cal at home, waiting for me, rooting for me. It provided me with a sense of purpose I had sorely lacked in the past. I wondered what my youth would have been like if I had had someone in my corner rather than feeling perpetually cornered. Would I be a different man? For better or for worse? Perhaps I would be weaker, more willing to lean on someone when I should have been concerned with holding my head high.

  Lighting my cigarette, I kept a brisk pace, wanting to finish the day’s work, buy a few bowls and get back to my place. Though many outfits were still running rackets, the streets felt safer than they had in years. The turf wars that had tamed after Capone’s incarceration were all but forgotten, with every crew taking care of their own business and not worrying about anyone else’s. The mostly Protestant proponents of Prohibition had believed public morality would be bettered by a decrease in alcohol consumption, but they had underestimated the culture’s capacity to rebel against oppression. Their tunnel vision hadn’t allowed them to see it was a basic study in economics. The lack of supply would create demand and those who fulfilled the demand would gain power. Unintentionally, they had facilitated an explosion of organized crime, a cesspool of depravity that fucked them right in their morally superior faces. As soon as alcohol was made legal, everything quieted enough for the government, who had been persuaded by the promise of Prohibition, to hear the sounds of their failure. The skull protected theories that would otherwise be sacrificed to the elements in practice. And in practice, Prohibition had been sacrificed to the mobs.

  When I reached The Commons, I pulled the door open and strode toward the back of the bitty bar. The place was a dump, but it paid me like it was a palace. Early in my game’s inception, I had approached Ricky, who was the owner of The Commons and a pretty nice guy. I offered him five slips a game if he would let me solicit his patrons. Initially, he had asked for a percent, but when I told him it was the free games or nothing, he’d eagerly accepted the offer. The thing about Ricky was, he had one hell of a heroin habit. Vlad had been right. Those possessed by their vices would do anything to feed them, and Ricky was ready to feast.

  “Hey, Hey, Hey,” Ricky greeted, shaking my hand hard. “Long time no see, huh? It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

  “Three days,” I replied, pulling my papers out of my back pocket. “Are you going with your free five, or do you want to ice the top?”

  “I’ll add an extra five. I have got to win one of these times,” he said, nudging his knuckles against his nostril nervously. “I know this is my week.”

  “You do?” I grinned, hoping it was. “Well, old Charlie thinks it’s his, so we’ll have to see how it all shakes down.”

  “Fuck that piece of shit,” Ricky grunted, narrowing his beady eyes. “And fuck his mom too.”

  “My guess is she’s been dead for a good while.”

  “Yeah well,” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to go do my rounds. Sammy’s going to be around this afternoon to collect.”

  “Alright, alright. Sounds good. Make sure you tell him I only have to pay for five because my other five are free.”

  “He knows,” I assured. “It’s the same shit, different day, Rick.”

  He glanced down at his slips. “That’s how you know my numbers, huh? You’re a bright boy. Has anyone ever called you that before? A bright boy?”

  “I’m usually called worse.”

  “To me you’re a star.”

  “You know flattery isn’t going to get you shit, right Rick?” I laughed. “The numbers are picked randomly.”

  “But they don’t have to be,” he offered.

  “Hey. None of that,” I warned, pointing my finger at him. “You know I keep my game on the up and up.”

  “That’s why I love you. Such an honorable guy,” Ricky nodded. “I’m a jokester. I like to joke.”

  “Good luck,” I said, shaking his hand again.

  “Can you at least fix it so old Charlie doesn’t win?” he whispered, glancing past my shoulder at the frail man at the end of the bar.

  I shook my head and chuckled, before working the room. They were all beasts ready to eat, so I sold them slips and broken bowls of bullshit. And they always came back for more.

  23

  December 1935

  In my younger years, I had experienced bone-crushing guilt for simply existing. Though it was likely a normal emotion for a child who killed his mother, I had admonished myself for how much I wallowed in it. An irritating effect of the self-pity was how often I allowed my family to talk me into things. I felt compelled to make up for the murder. The most twisted part of it all was I was sure my father and Igor knew how malleable I was and exploited it whenever they wanted something done. After nearly three decades, one would think I would be able to move past the feeling, but the fact that I was sitting in my father and Sally’s apartment on New Year’s Eve preparing to eat a “family” dinner proved that I had not.

  It was hard not to notice that I was the lone single at a table with four couples. Man, woman, man, woman, and at the head, me. Man, woman, man, woman, and an empty seat. I should have been looking at Cal and he should have been gazing back at me, a soft smile on his face. Instead, I saw the living room beyond the vacant chair. Sally had insisted that I sit in my father’s spot, which was weird to begin with. Perhaps she’d thought I was embarrassed by my solitude and wanted to make me feel as though I was being revered in some sort of way. I didn’t understand it, but from how relentless she was in her insistence, it seemed it was important to her. I complied, mostly because it wasn’t something I gave a shit about. I was far from easygoing, but I’d long since mastered the ability to determine what was worth digging my heels into the dirt for and what wasn’t. If I chose to object to something it was because it was important enough to care about. Typically, I kept my head down because I was too disinterested to lift it up.

  “Are you enjoying the meatloaf?” Sally inquired as I pushed the dog food around my plate. Glancing around, I realized she’d once again directed the question toward me. She’d made a point to ask me how I felt about each part of the meal. It took a great amount of my patience not to tell her to fuck off. I wished she’d shift her attention to anybody else.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, taking a bite so my mouth was too full to say more. It was a sacrifice, considering how it pained me to ingest the mush. However, speaking to her was a more brutal endeavor.

  “I would love to get the recipe from you, Sally,” Millie interjected. “It has the perfect amount of tang. It would be a great addition to our dinner rotation.” She patted Igor’s cheek and gave her step-mother-in-law a tight-lipped grin.

  I glanced back and forth between them, attempting to figure out which Mikhailov woman I hated the least, and came to the conclusion that Yekaterina was the only correct answer. Unlike the new additions, Kat was authentic. She didn’t attempt to play nice for the sake of appearances the way the Americans did. She wasn’t rude by any means, but she remained quiet, an attribute I found respectable.

  “It is delicious,” Ingrid complimented as if she hadn’t slyly slid her portion onto Maks’ plate moments before.

  “My Sally is a tremendous cook,” my father boasted, very obviously peeking at Yekaterina when he made the statement to assure she was paying attention. She wasn’t.

  “Aww, Taros,” Sally crooned, kissing my father. The display was more revolting than the food, and as my stomach turned, I willed the clock to move quicker. Their affection was more forced than the farce of a family dinner.

  “Vodka,” I said, kicking Maks under the table and holding my hand out so he’d pass me the bottle. My instinct was t
o bring the neck to my mouth and chug, but I poured a healthy amount in my glass instead. I needed to get soused to make it through the rest of the meal. I grinned when Maks slid his glass in front of me. He needed some too.

  “Are we supposed to stay here past midnight?” my cousin whispered.

  “I’m not,” I stated. “I have things to do.”

  “Things,” he repeated with a knowing nod. “I would live vicariously through you if you weren’t so stingy with the details.”

  “A gentleman never—” I started but was cut off by Maks filling in:

  “Fucks before marriage.”

  “You keep telling yourself that,” I laughed. “Whatever gets you through the night.”

  Ingrid glared at both of us, displeased. I cringed, realizing we must have been louder than I thought, and took a healthy swing of my drink.

  “So, Viktor,” Sally began, twirling her finger in one of her fluffy blonde curls. “Your father tells me your number games are going well.”

  I guzzled the rest of the contents in my glass. “I don’t like to talk about business in mixed company.” It was the nicest way I could think of to say “shut the fuck up,” but the merciless showed me no mercy.

  “We’re all family here,” my father reminded, and I saw Grygoriy nodding his agreement. Why wouldn’t they want to hear? Once again, I had turned a tough assignment into a lucrative one, and they were ready to take notes.

  “You should be proud of your accomplishments,” Sally added. Her efforts to butter me up had me wondering if she was trying to be slick. I could not imagine how someone without ulterior motives could be so empathetic about shit they shouldn’t have cared about. “It sounds like you’re continually given challenging tasks. I can’t even begin to imagine how awful it was for you to spend so much time in Towertown. Absolutely sickening.”