by Ariel Lawhon
“Get up. Get dressed,” Owney said. “You’re taking a ride with us.”
Ritzi didn’t move when the light went out or even when the hotel room door clicked shut. For over an hour, she huddled there, fist rammed in her mouth to muffle the scream that boiled in her chest, drawing blood from her knuckles.
Chapter Thirty-Five
SHELBY, IOWA, TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1931
RITZI kept to the side, where the country road softened to dirt, and walked along in a pair of new patent leather shoes that pinched her toes and rubbed a blister on her heel. As a girl, she ran down these gravel roads with bare feet toughened to leather and wind in her face. There wasn’t a swimming hole or a rope swing within ten miles that she hadn’t befriended. It seemed like another lifetime. Another woman, really.
The fields were wrapped in snow, and the sky was a clear cornflower blue. Beneath the frozen soil lay a crop of winter wheat, planted after the corn was harvested. Ritzi could see the gentle rise of each row, dormant, waiting for the warmth of spring before it would send tender green shoots skyward. She scanned the fields, peering into the horizon, and then tilted her head up and drank in the sight. No skyscrapers to block the view. No exhaust or smog. A cathedral of sky above her.
She’d been walking for almost an hour, and stiffness rose up through her calves and into her lower back. Her entire body felt strained and heavy, cracked at the seams. At the train station, a kind farmer had offered her a ride, and she’d allowed him to bring her as far as the turn onto Rural Route 79. She took the rest on foot, and with each step her courage waned. For the last twenty minutes, she’d been walking slower and slower, looking for opportunities to stop and ponder this or that.
When Ritzi came to the last rise in the road before the Martin farm, she stopped. There was no way to count the number of times she had traveled this road, both as a child and as an adult. She knew its curves and dips. That pothole a quarter mile back that no one ever bothered to fill and everyone swerved to avoid. She knew where the split-rail fence buckled over the culvert and how that ditch always overflowed in spring when the rains came. The fields, whether newly planted, bursting with wheat, or stripped bare, were intimate friends. She had lived within two miles of this farm for all but three of her twenty-two years. Yet Ritzi was not prepared for the terror that filled her as she stood atop that knoll and looked down at her old home.
Ritzi stared at the thin gold band on her left hand. She rubbed it with her thumb, took a deep breath, and made her way toward the gate at the bottom of the hill. Ritzi had all the courage of a newborn calf. She would have turned and run, but her belly weighed heavy and her lower back groaned with the strain. This was the end for her. She had nothing left. And so she limped across the yard and up the front steps. They sagged in the middle, same as always, and the porch rail still needed painting. Everything looked the same as it had the morning she left, only sadder, emptier.
There was a hush in the air, as if the farm held its breath, as she reached out, hand curled into a fist, and rapped on the screen door with her knuckles. It was the first time she had ever knocked. Ritzi locked her knees and waited. Seconds later, she heard boots thumping down the hall. The rattle of a hand on the knob, and then the door opened. Ritzi looked at her husband.
“Hi, Charlie.”
He pushed the screen open and filled the doorframe, shoulders broader than she remembered. Chestnut-brown hair flipped out in curls above his collar. His eyes were still kind and blue, but he’d gotten the sort of lines around them that only sorrow could bring. He hadn’t shaved in days. Charlie stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists. She watched as his face contorted from shock to rage to sadness to relief. He looked her up and down, over and over, wincing every time he glanced at her swollen abdomen.
Finally, Charlie took a deep breath and looked straight in her eyes. His voice cracked. “That ain’t my baby.”
Ritzi stepped backward and dropped her chin. “It is if you’ll have it.”
He flinched as though she’d slapped him, and she saw that look on his face, the one he got when trying not to curse. Charlie couldn’t look in her eyes any longer, so he stared at her feet instead. His arm twitched like he wanted to slam the door shut in her face.
“You been gone a long time, Sarah.”
The name was a blow. Her name. Coming from Charlie’s lips, it sent a shudder through her body, and she reached out to steady herself against the side of the house. But there was no stopping the tears. They were a flash flood, coursing down her face. “Nobody’s called me Sarah in years.”
“That so?” There was a long pause as he stood there, one arm propping the door open.
She wiped her cheeks. “Mostly, they call me Ritzi these days.” She’d tried to say it with nonchalance, but all she could muster was embarrassment. It was the stage name she’d picked for herself as a child, when she dreamed of being something more than a farmer’s daughter.
Charlie barked out a mirthless laugh. He shook his head there in the doorway like he’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. Her breath clouded between them in the cold, and she rubbed her arms, shivering.
“That’s a right stupid name.” He turned and walked back into the house.
The tears came even though Ritzi fought against them. She stood on the front porch of the home she had once shared with Charlie and stared at the door. He’d left it open.
Five months later …
Chapter Thirty-Six
CLUB ABBEY, THURSDAY, AUGUST 6, 1931
STELLA stood across the street from Club Abbey on the first anniversary of Joe’s disappearance. She’d dressed for the occasion in black satin, pearls, and two-inch heels—enough to be dressy but not celebratory—and carried a simple black clutch. Her hands were bare except for her wedding ring. It was almost ten o’clock. The girls of the evening sauntered from the shadows and into the bars of New York City near midnight, but the respectable women did their drinking before then. Especially when swilling for two.
She made her way down the steps and through the double doors without hesitation. The band played a subdued tune, and half the tables were occupied, despite the early hour. Stella found a seat at the bar and made eye contact with Stan.
Stella, he mouthed, and she nodded, oddly pleased at being remembered. He threw the bar towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her.
“What are you doing here?” He flashed his boyish grin.
It was an easy question. Nothing invasive. But when Stella went to answer it, she couldn’t find the right sequence of words. She swallowed her first attempt. She shrugged and said, “A year ago. Today.”
Stan needed no further explanation. “You’ll be drinking, then?”
“Who’s to say I haven’t started already?”
He shook his head. “You’re not the type. I’d wager you’ve saved up a year’s worth of liquor for tonight.”
“I hate being predictable.”
“I believe they call that classy.”
“Is that the term now? I thought it was stodgy.” Of all the people in the world, an underage bartender in a seedy Greenwich Village speakeasy seemed to be the only person who could put her at ease.
“What’ll you have tonight?”
“Same as last time. Whiskey on the rocks. But make it two.”
“Where do you want to drink?” He spread his arm out across the bar.
“I’ll clear any table in the place.”
“Don’t bother. Here is fine.”
“No way. You came to drown your sorrows, and you’ll do it in style.” He pointed to Owney’s booth in the corner. “Over there?”
“Looks like it’s taken.”
“Not for long.” Stan stuck his thumb and middle finger beneath his tongue and let out a sharp, high whistle. A few seconds later, Shorty Petak stepped behind the bar.
“Who’s that in Owney’s booth?” Stan asked.
“Some prick.”
“Does the prick have
a name?”
“Harris, I think.”
“Well, you tell Harris to take his sorry ass to another booth.”
“Why?”
“This lady here needs a seat.”
“Looks like she’s sitting. And that guy”—he pointed at Harris, who was busy whispering in a young woman’s ear—“is a paying customer.”
Stella suspected that the woman, not the alcohol itself, was the commodity Shorty referenced.
“This here is Stella Crater.” Stan grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “I believe you are familiar with her departed husband?”
Shorty’s eyes filled with knowledge. He nodded.
“A little respect for the dead, then.”
“Shorty Petak.” He stuck out his hand. “I knew your husband. Good customer.”
Stella tried to smile, but her mouth drew tight at the corners. “You saw him often?”
He backpedaled. “A few times.”
“Often enough to think highly of him as a customer? Like Harris, perhaps?”
Shorty played with the brim of his bowler hat. “Your husband was a good man.”
“So they say.” Stella hadn’t been in the place five minutes and had already grown weary. “Stan, can I get my drinks? Then I’ll be out of your way, and you gentlemen can continue with your business.”
Abashed, he turned to Shorty. “You clear that table for Stella. Send Harris and his … lady friend … to me.”
Stella watched Shorty approach the booth. He said nothing to the middle-aged man, merely cocked his head back toward the bar, and Harris slipped out, tugging on the woman’s arm.
“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea? Me sitting in Owney’s booth?”
“He won’t be in tonight. You’ve earned the spot, I think.” Stan picked up the glasses. “Follow me.”
They skirted the edge of the dance floor, and she followed close behind, eyes away from the growing crowd. She could feel them watching. Recognizing. The bartender leaving his station and escorting a woman through the room was a flare for attention, and the crowd responded. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.
Stan set his palm on her elbow as he guided her onto the riser that held Owney’s booth. “Mrs. Crater,” he said. “Your drinks.”
Those nearest her booth began to whisper.
“Thank you.” Her words came out stiffer than she intended. Colder.
Stan stepped away with a wink. Somehow the little charade had become a spectacle. The band played on, oblivious, but half the room stared at her. Stella met as many glances as she dared, unafraid. She would make certain they remembered this.
On the other side of the room, at a small round table, sat Detective Simon. She wasn’t sure if he’d been there when she came in or if he was a new arrival, but he seemed intent on her every movement. Stella matched him blink for blink, then turned her attention to the two glasses on the table. She took a deep breath and lifted the first glass. Sniffed the pungent whiskey. Took a long, slow sip and let it roll around her tongue before she swallowed.
“Good luck, Joe.” Stella said it loudly. Clear. Then she lifted the glass a little higher so that the amber liquid was eye level. She could almost imagine him, amused, on the other side of the booth. That arrogant, lopsided grin on his face. “Wherever you are.”
She drank the rest of the glass in three slow, measured gulps. Stella felt the whiskey rush through her system. She blinked hard at the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass. Her usually thin frame had shrunk considerably over the last year, and she could feel the tingle in her veins.
Stella pushed the other glass to the middle of the table and stood, steadying herself with one hand as the edges of her vision blurred. Stan watched her from the bar. He wiped up a spill and grinned. She gave him the hint of a smile and then wove her way across the dance floor with uncertain footsteps, toward the doors of Club Abbey.
When she reached it, Detective Simon stepped in front of her.
“Stella.” He pulled the doors open. “May I have a word with you?”
She looked to the street above. Eighteen steps. It may as well have been eighteen stories for the way her head swam. “If you hail me a cab.”
Jude followed her up the narrow concrete stairwell. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Putting on a show.”
Stella flicked a stray curl out of her eyes. “I am honoring the memory of my husband.”
“Interesting choice of venue.”
“Joe was fond of the place.”
“Was he fond of the owner?”
Stella looked over Jude’s shoulder as two city cabs drove by. She watched them idle down the street and turn the corner. “Is this an interrogation?”
“As I recall, you don’t care for those. Just trying to get at the truth while I can.”
“You think I’m going somewhere?”
“You’ve been known to wander away for long stretches of time.”
Stella unclasped her purse and lifted out the now-standard pack of unfiltered Camels. She held the cigarette out to Jude, and he fished around in his pocket for his lighter. “What does it matter to you? I hear you resigned from the case.”
“It’ll always be my case. Officially or not.”
Stella Crater smiled at the young detective. She considered laying her secrets into the silence between them like playing cards. She’d turn them over, one by one, and expose the full house she’d carried all this time. It would be a her, but only momentarily. Instead of telling Jude the truth, she raised the cigarette to her lips and let the nicotine flood her lungs. She held it. Savored it. And decided that she would keep what she knew to herself. Stella could never let anyone know that she helped Joe buy his seat on the New York Supreme Court. Or that she was partly responsible for his death. That wasn’t the sort of guilt she could shake off with a simple confession.
“Are you going to hail that cab, Detective? Or are we going to stand around all night and stare at each other?”
Jude slipped the lighter back in his pants pocket. He looked as though there were many things he’d like to tell her. But he too kept his silence. Jude stepped into the street and waved down the first cab he saw. When it eased to the curb, he opened the back door for her.
“Will I see you back here next year?” Stella asked.
“Is there any reason why you should?”
“Feels as though I started a tradition tonight.” Even as she said the words, Stella knew she’d found her penance.
“Go on and torture yourself. I don’t care to be a witness.”
She gave him a wry smile and slipped into the cab. “I think you get a lot of satisfaction out of watching me suffer.”
“Good night, Stella.” He shut the door.
“Next year.” He shook his head as the cab rolled into traffic, but Stella felt certain he’d be back. If not next year, then the one after that. She would not be alone in this misery. Even if it meant baiting him to keep her company.
FIFTH AVENUE, MONDAY, APRIL 7, 1930
Joe popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and a cheer went up around the apartment. Stella had assumed that he would hire a band and send out embossed invitations, that he would make a big deal out of his appointment to the court. But Joe said there were people he needed to thank quietly and that a private cocktail party was more appropriate.
“To my friends.” Joe raised a crystal goblet. “Whom I owe.”
“And don’t you forget it!” Senator Wagner shouted.
Laughter filled the room, and Stella watched her husband bask in the glow of success.
The only thing that upstaged the hors d’oeuvres and flower arrangements was the women. Wives mostly, but also the occasional showgirl or indiscreet mistress. As Stella glanced around the room, she couldn’t help doing a quick comparison. She cleaned up well—tonight in particular, having spent the afternoon at the salon—and there were only two women in the room who made her feel uneasy. The fir
st was to be expected: Sally Lou Ritz, the voluptuous showgirl seated next to William Klein. Ritzi’s hazel eyes and seductive pout were envy inducing. It felt a bit odd to have her sitting a few feet away, quiet and demure and hardly the shimmering woman seen onstage. Her presence was unnerving. It was the closest Joe had come to admitting the affair, and the fact that he included her tonight was the height of hubris.
The other woman who stirred Stella’s jealousy was the maid. She’d always considered Maria pretty. But tonight she realized that Maria, wearing the high heels and black cocktail dress that Stella had given her, was a great deal more than pretty. She was stunning. Glances followed Maria around the room as she served appetizers and champagne. Eyes appraised her curves, her full lips, and her warm skin—Joe’s included. He seemed distracted every time Maria was near him. This unsettled Stella in ways she couldn’t articulate—especially after three glasses of champagne.
Joe stood and draped his arm over Stella’s shoulder. She stiffened beneath his touch, but he flashed the same confident smile he had the day they met. He planted a kiss on her forehead for the benefit of their guests.
“To the judge!” The chorus rose around the room. A few men whooped. The ladies clapped. And Stella grew angrier by the moment.
“I owe each of you in a different way,” Joe said, nodding first at one man and then at another. “Robert, I thank you for hiring me as your law secretary ten years ago.”
“Worst mistake I ever made. Lazy bum. Look where it got you.”
More laughter.
“Indeed, it got me a seat on the New York State Supreme Court. And for that appointment, I thank you, Governor.”
Governor Roosevelt had been silent most of the evening, listening to the chatter, sitting a few seats away from Joe. He’d come alone. Trouble with the wife again, most likely. At least he hadn’t shown up with his mistress this time. No one could dampen a dinner party like the pious Lucy Mercer. “Had to fill the hole, my boy,” he said, “and you looked like a decent plug.”