Riverside Drive: Border City Blues

by Michael Januska

  Vera Maude crushed her cigarette under her heel and they started walking together up Ferry Hill. “Can I ask where you got the black eye?”

  McCloskey had forgotten how beat up he was. He touched the cut over his brow. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  McCloskey watched her wiggle all the way up the hill.

  “You’re gonna need a bodyguard in New York.”

  “That’s cute. You learn all these lines hanging around in hotel bars all day?”

  “As a matter of fact —”

  She turned to face him.

  “Look, you’re sweet and everything but I’m not looking for romance. I’m just getting over a really bad relationship.”

  “Okay, okay.” McCloskey held his hands up in mock defense.

  “I just thought it would be nice to talk, and you look like the kind of guy that might know a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Who do you have to know in this town to get a decent bottle of whisky?”

  — Chapter 36 —

  CROSSROADS

  Jack and Vera Maude were sitting at a little table in a speakeasy near the bus station on Chatham Street. He was listening to her every word, and she was filled with them. At first he listened because he was tired and just wanted to hear a friendly voice, but before long he was captivated. After an hour he felt like he was in love.

  She told him about her experience with Braverman at the dock, the episodes leading up to that fateful moment, and the significance, for her at least, of Joyce’s novel. He knew nothing of the book but her passion got to him. Then she told him about her father and her brothers and sisters and what it might mean if she left town. She was torn, she said. She loved her father but couldn’t stand most of her siblings. They were strangers to her in so many ways and there was really no hope of them ever coming to any kind of terms. Why shouldn’t she be able to live her life the way she wanted? There was a life for her out there somewhere, of that she was certain. But could she go it alone? And what if she failed? Wouldn’t there just be more heartbreak and disappointment? Probably. But better to go through all that while you were actually living your life rather than avoiding it. You don’t regret the things you’ve done only the things you haven’t. She was philosophizing again, thinking out loud, reasoning with herself as she prepared to take her next big leap.

  When it came McCloskey’s turn to talk, he avoided reliving the events of the past twenty-four hours — or twenty-four months for that matter, the lost years of his life that left him spinning his wheels on county roads. Instead he recounted tales from what he could now call his youth, growing up on the banks of the Detroit River. Vera Maude liked his stories. McCloskey barely recognized himself in them. What ever became of that boy? The wake was going on right now over at Chappell House, but he couldn’t bring himself to go. Actually, it was more like he couldn’t pull himself away from Vera Maude. What was he doing? Only two days ago he had lived and breathed for a girl named Sophie. Then he was having rough sex with his brother’s widow, a woman the two of them shared like a car. Just the thought of his brother could make his blood boil. It was a complicated web of self-loathing, bitterness, and revenge. Was that why he was always fooling around with Clara behind Billy’s back? And she never said no. Misery loves company. And now was he blaming his brother for his father’s death? Maybe.

  And what was Sophie? An innocent girl, Clara before the McCloskeys got to her, a river in which he thought he could purify himself but ultimately would have poisoned and brought down to his level. Funny how he didn’t miss Sophie, funny and sad. Something had happened to him in the last couple of days, something unexpected. A long time ago he had settled his mind, then realigned his body. What he had neglected was his heart. He never gave his heart much thought. He probably didn’t know he had one until he met Sophie. And he didn’t know how full it could be until just now, sitting here with Vera Maude. He already missed her, and they hadn’t even said their goodbyes yet.

  Someone once told him there were two kinds of people: question people and answer people. Vera Maude was the answer to his question. Now she was going off in search of herself. He was confident that Vera Maude would find what she was looking for. She had an inner strength that didn’t come from a life in the street or from being smacked around by her husband or boyfriend. It didn’t come from a bottle either; she wasn’t bitter or angry. She was smart, genuine, the real deal, and fiercely independent. She was different from all the other girls. She talked about things like destiny, past lives, and other stuff he barely understood but wanted to hear more about.

  He hung on her every word and loved watching her as she expressed these ideas and opinions for what seemed like the first time. He felt her loneliness. But why me? He didn’t flatter himself. They were caught up in the moment. She recognized a kind of worldliness in him. She looked to him as someone who would understand and not laugh at her, someone who might even be able to explain what it was she was going through. Before he got to know her better, he would have to say goodbye. They have met too late. This girl sat her self down, opened up to him, and for the first time he was the one that was going to be left with a broken heart.

  He studied her; he wanted to remember her face, everything about her. When she smiled she had dimples in her cheeks. He found it easy to turn that smile into laughter. Her laugh was natural, infectious, easy. Her eyes flickered between green and brown, depending on her expression and the light. He studied the curve of her brow, the shape of her nose. She kept pushing stray locks of hair away from her face, dark brown hair with the occasional chestnut streak. Pins held it off her slender neck. There was a smoky texture to her voice that contrasted with the sound of her s’s — a tiny whistle from an imperfection in one of her teeth. She covered her mouth while she tried to get her food down faster and her words out quicker. She talked with her hands, her beautiful hands. She wore a fancy ring that was either a family heirloom or a piece of costume jewellery from a five and dime. He could never tell the difference. She wore her watch halfway up her arm. She probably couldn’t get the band to go any smaller. Her left ear was double-pierced, with a little gold hoop through each hole.

  Her mind went a mile a minute as she kept up the conversation and watched the door and the other customers. They weren’t all heady thoughts; there were many asides about certain movie actors or what some boy had said to her once over a soda at the drugstore. She liked the movies, maybe just as much as she liked reading. She kept asking him if he had seen this movie or that. Half the time he had never even heard of the picture. She was encyclopedic, pages flipping all the time. She also liked to eat. He had to keep ordering more food and drinks. Where did she put it?

  Vera Maude noticed that their waiter seemed nervous around Jack and that people would glance over at them and then exchange tense words in hushed tones. She studied Jack’s busted-up face. Had she seen it somewhere before? She wasn’t sure. Then, when he leaned over to grab an ashtray off the table next to them she noticed the shoulder harness inside his jacket. She nearly choked on her toast and tomato sandwich but managed to keep her cool. Jack … Jack … who is this guy? She casually took another look around the room as she polished off her glass of beer. Then it hit her.

  “McCloskey! You’re Jack McCloskey!”

  She realized she was pointing at him with her finger like a gun barrel and relaxed her hand on the table.

  McCloskey was a little embarrassed He wondered how much she knew. He tried to make a joke of it. “You’re confusing me with a character I play in the movies. That happens all the time.”

  “No — I saw your name in the paper once, though I don’t remember exactly what it was for.” She lied.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  She laughed. “So the bit about you organizing a rummage sale at Central Methodist wasn’t true?”

  “Except that —
that was the absolute truth.”

  On top of everything else she had a sense of humour. It made him want to cry in his beer.

  “What time did you say your train leaves?”

  Vera Maude looked at her watch. “In about an hour.”

  Once again his timing was wrong. But he knew that had he met Vera Maude before today, he wouldn’t be having the kind of conversation he was having with her right now, or feeling the things he was feeling. What sort of man had he become? Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be around to show him.

  There was another pause in the conversation. Whenever that happened, he knew they were thinking the same thing. He thought he knew what courage and sacrifice was until now.

  “We should go soon. I need to pack a few things. And I should stop by the library.”

  A feeling of complete and utter loneliness washed over McCloskey, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He buried it deep inside him.

  “My car’s parked around the corner; I’ll give you a lift.”

  They walked out without paying and no one stopped them. Vera Maude briefly wondered what it would be like to be Jack McCloskey’s girlfriend. Heads turned, girls giggled, and men got out of his way. She thought it was kind of fun. His vehicle was parked near Windsor Market. Bullet holes in the passenger door.

  “Hop in.”

  She sat with his box of cigars in her lap.

  “Where am I going?”

  “Let’s stop at the library first so I can pick up my things. The house I board at is on the way to the train station.”

  “Gotcha.”

  He parked in front of the library entrance. McCloskey followed her up the steps. He had never been inside the library before. When he came through the inner doors, the already quiet library fell dead silent. The vets reading the papers knew who he was and a few wanted to shake his hand. The children were a little frightened, but curious the way children always are. The librarians were at a loss for what to do until they saw he was with Vera Maude.

  “Daphne, this is Jack McCloskey; Jack this is Daphne.”

  “Vera Maude’s told me a lot about you, Daphne.”

  McCloskey turned on the charm, knowing full well that Daphne represented everything Vera Maude hated about this town. Daphne meanwhile took one look at this bruised, hulking gangster with the blood on his shirt, the bulge in his jacket, and the sway he held amongst the vets and was ready to be knocked over by the proverbial feather.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. McCloskey.”

  “Is Miss Lancefield in?”

  “Uh — no, she’s chairing a club meeting.”

  “Oh, right. What’s on the menu for this Saturday?”

  “Miss Lancefield’s lecture on modern sculpture.”

  “I’ll have to miss it. Who’s watching the store?”

  “Peggy.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just be a minute, Jack. I have to claim my belongings from the Properties Department.”

  “Sure.”

  Vera Maude disappeared behind the counter.

  “So, Daphne, you read all these books yet?”

  “Uh — no.”

  “Mm. You got Joyce’s novel? I hear it’s really good.”

  “No, we don’t I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid, Daphne.” He took a step closer. “I don’t bite.”

  “Jack!”

  “What?”

  “Let’s went.”

  “Nice talking to you, Daphne.”

  “See you in the funny papers, Daphne.”

  Daphne finally snapped out of it. “Say — where you been, Maudie? And where you off to?”

  “New York City. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  McCloskey touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll be back later for my library card, Daphne.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Vera Maude. “He’d sell your mother out for a bottle of rye.”

  They galloped down the front steps.

  “That was fun,” said McCloskey.

  “Yeah, a regular barrel of monkeys.”

  McCloskey headed straight up Victoria all the way to Tecumseh. He kept glancing over at Vera Maude. She had an elbow out the window. The wind was teasing her hair. She was smiling. McCloskey envied her. He couldn’t imagine feeling as free as Vera Maude must have felt right now.

  “Turn here.”

  McCloskey turned right at Hanna, left onto Dougall, and parked in front of Mrs. Richardson’s.

  “That’s Mrs. Cousineau’s house across the street.” Mrs. Cousineau was looking out the window. “And that’s Mrs. Cousineau.” Vera Maude waved.

  “C’mon,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to my parole officer.”

  Once again McCloskey followed Vera Maude into another corner of her world, the world she was saying her goodbyes to.

  “Mrs. Richardson?”

  McCloskey looked around the front room: an upright piano; old photos; furniture from the last century; lace everywhere. And cat hair.

  Mrs. Richardson came out of the kitchen. She was drying something with a tea towel. “Vera Maude, dear, why aren’t you at the library?”

  When she saw McCloskey she almost dropped whatever it was on the floor.

  “This is Mr. McCloskey. He’s giving me a ride to the train station.”

  “The train station?”

  “I’m leaving, Mrs. Richardson.”

  This was a lot for Mrs. Richardson to register. She needed to back up a bit. “Were you let go from the library?”

  Vera Maude wondered what reason Mrs. Richardson had to think that.

  “No, I quit.”

  “Oh, dear. Does your father know?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Vera Maude Maguire, what will I tell him?”

  “You’re not going to tell him anything. I am.”

  “And what’s Mr. McCloskey’s business?”

  “Like I said, he’s giving me a ride to the train station.”

  “Are you some sort of driver, Mr. McCloskey?”

  “I guess you could say I was in the transport business, ma’am.”

  “Looks like you had a run-in recently.”

  “Someone refused to pay their fare, ma’am. Believe me, he looks a hell of a lot worse.”

  “Language, Mr. McCloskey.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “I’m here to pick up a few things, Mrs. Richardson.”

  Mrs. Richardson didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a small matter of the rent, Vera Maude.”

  There was a knock at the door. Vera Maude took the opportunity to scoot upstairs.

  “Mrs. Cousineau.”

  “Mrs. Richardson — I saw our Vera Maude brought home by a strange man and I wondered if everything was all right.”

  They spoke in front of McCloskey like he wasn’t even there, like he was the elephant in the room nobody wanted to mention.

  “She’s leaving us, Mrs. Cousineau.”

  “She isn’t.”

  “She is.”

  “Who could she be leaving us for?”

  “New York,” said Vera Maude as she came down the stairs.

  “Were you already packed?” asked McCloskey.

  “Pretty much. That reminds me — Mrs. Richardson, those are my sheets in the ice box.”

  “I was going to ask you.”

  “A trip, is it?” said Mrs. Cousineau. “I hope you’ve remembered to bring something to read.”

  Vera Maude thought of the dozens of magazines she’d brought Mrs. Cousineau over the past several months. “As a matter of fact I —”

  “You must stop by before you go.” And with that Mrs. Cousineau was out the door and halfway across the street.

  Mrs. Richardson brought up the subject of rent again.

  “Let me take care of that.” McCloskey reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a roll of bills as thick as his wrist. He proceeded to peel off a few layers. “Will this cover it?”

  He handed Mrs.
Richardson $80. Mrs. Richardson was looking for about $12. Vera Maude tried to contain her laughter. When Mrs. Richardson didn’t respond, because she was nearly catatonic, McCloskey peeled off a couple more bills and handed them to her. When she didn’t accept, he tossed them onto the piano.

  “Well, Vera Maude’s got a train to catch. It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Richardson. If we’re not squared up then just send Vera Maude’s bill to my attention at the British-American.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Richardson.” Vera Maude gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you a bottle of gin.”

  McCloskey followed Vera Maude out the door. Mrs. Cousineau was waiting for her on the sidewalk. She held something under her arm.

  “Mr. Braverman gave me this but I have no use for it.” It was a copy of Ulysses. “You’ve got a long trip ahead of you, dear. Chatterbox and House Beautiful simply won’t do.”

  Vera Maude just stood there holding it, staring at it. She opened it up at the end — something she thought of doing only after her encounter with Braverman.

  Yes.

  She showed McCloskey.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Vera Maude smiled and clutched it to her chest. McCloskey smiled back.

  “We better get going,” he said.

  Vera Maude kissed Mrs. Cousineau goodbye and thanked her. McCloskey threw her bag in the back of the Light Six and Vera Maude climbed in. She flipped through Joyce’s novel as they made their way along Tecumseh Road. She wondered aloud how she’d be able to get it across the border at Buffalo. McCloskey pulled something out of his coat pocket, something he had picked up in Riverside last night.

  “What’s this?” asked Vera Maude.

  “A ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “Richard Bathgate Davies, Esq., Riverside Drive. Will it really work?”

  “It’s worth a try. Show it to the customs officer. If he gives you trouble, mail the book back to me and I’ll hand deliver it to you in New York.”

  “Okay,” said Vera Maude and she tucked it inside the book.

  They passed the Elliott. McCloskey glanced across the rail yard. It appeared to be business as usual.

  “What about your father?”