AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Revenge is a child's weapon; honor is a game that children play. For them the world is black and white. Someone hits you and you hit them back because it's not fair. And if you hit them back harder, then it's their own fault. After all, they deserved it.

  I looked at Anna. Her eyes were wide, but they were different than they had been five minutes beforehand, when we were sitting on a bench talking about the death of an old man who had lost everything life had given him.

  She was realizing what it meant to leave childhood and childishness behind. It was a lesson I doubted someone like Marty could ever learn.

  Marty was on the floor, bleeding from his nose and sulking like he couldn't understand why the adults were punishing him like this.

  I could have turned him in. I suppose I should have turned him in, but he cut such a pathetic figure that I could not bring myself to do it. He was going to suffer enough through his whole self-centered life without my making things any worse for him.

  I turned my back on him and walked away. The others didn't move. No one said a word.

  As I walked back out into the night, I felt tears in my eyes. I waited until I was out of sight of the gang, and I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I took a deep breath and walked back home, feeling a weight in my heart that only became heavier with each step I took.

  When I arrived home, the lights were off. I looked in on Ros who was asleep in bed. I let her sleep and went through to the living room. I opened the window and took out a cigarette. Ros doesn't approve of me smoking indoors, but it barely seemed to matter that night.

  I'd finished two cigarettes and was sitting on the sofa when the door opened. I looked up, fully expecting Ros to reprimand me. She opened her mouth, but then her expression changed. She gently took the cigarette from my fingers and stubbed it out on the glass surface of the coffee table. She climbed onto the sofa beside me and laid her head on my chest. Neither of us said a word.

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  Copyright © 2005 by Russel D. McLean.

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  A Long Sad Song for My Fair Lady by DeLoris Stanton Forbes

  My father ran away from my mother and me exactly three days before Chicago Mayor Anton J. Cermak was shot by a man named Giuseppe Zangara in Miami, Florida. The target was Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I asked my mother if my father had anything to do with the assassination attempt. She yelled at me, she yelled, “Are you crazy?” After awhile she told me my father had left Chicago to find work someplace—anyplace because things were very bad all over. Because of the Depression.

  I knew she was keeping things from me, she always did bend the truth a little for my benefit. I perversely preferred to imagine my father hiding out in some faraway cellar because the G-men were after him. I could see him clearly, all hunched over with only his old green velvet smoking jacket to protect him from the damp Lake Michigan vapors; eyes like an animal's darting this way and that, seeking out danger.

  My father was a man who smelled of danger. The papers said Zangara was an anarchist, and my father was a black Irishman who was always talking about Sacco and Vanzetti and the Irish rebellion, which I figured mixed with anarchists. He had this rashness inside him, you see, but truthfully, I knew my father didn't have anything to do with this Zangara business. For one thing, I was pretty certain that he couldn't have driven from Chicago to Miami in three days even if he had a car, which he didn't. And the smoking jacket scene was all wrong because he'd left it where he always left it; it still hung limply at the back of the hall closet.

  I really believed my mother. He'd just skipped out because he couldn't take it any longer. He made his living as a musician—or tried to. I don't know what he was thinking when he took up music (singing tenor and playing the Irish harp) and came to America where all the working Irishmen were construction workers, cops, or politicians. All the smart Irishmen.

  After he left, we pawned his harp and put a sign in the window reading: ROOMS FOR RENT.

  Somebody important said when you throw a stone in a pond the ripples go on forever; the first stone in the Carmody pond was my father's leaving, causing us to turn our house into a boarding house. The second stone (maybe a cobblestone) was the Chicago World's Fair, the Century of Progress Exposition, which brought Lurlane Salome and her daughter Tamara to our two front rooms on the second floor, and they caused ripples upon ripples, believe you me.

  My mother was in the back hall scrubbing something (she was always scrubbing something) when the doorbell went ring-ring, so I went to open the door. The lady standing there had hair the color of shiny yellow straw all done up in waves and curls and meant to stay that way. Her lips were the color of cherries. Where there should have been regular eyebrows were two perfect lines like bird wings drawn with a black pencil and a steady hand. She wore a little hat with a veil on it that matched her dress. Pale blue it was. Both the dress and the hat matched her eyes.

  She said sweetly, very sweetly, “How do you do? I see by your sign that you have rooms to rent. I am Mrs. Salome and this is my daughter. Is the lady of the house at home?"

  I looked past her then and saw a smaller, younger version of herself, only dressed all in pink. I stuttered, “M-my mother. The lady of the house is my mother, Mrs. Carmody. I am Francis X. Carmody, but everybody calls me B-buddy. Won't you come in?"

  I opened the screen door for them, and they stepped daintily across the threshold. Then I dream-walked down the hall into the kitchen. “Ma, there's two ladies to rent a room. They saw the sign we put in the window."

  My mother, red hair pulled back into a bun, sighed and wiped her flushed face with the corner of her apron. Her hands were soapy from dishwater, so she wiped them on the rollaway towel as she said, “Do they look like nice ladies?"

  I swallowed, “Yes, ma'am. They do. They're real pretty. Dressed nice. They look to be well off."

  "Oh dear.” She took her apron off and smoothed at her hair. “I thought men would be better...” She made herself taller then. I could see her collecting the Irish inside her, and went past the swinging door with me right behind her, seeing at the far end the pale blue and the pink figures looking like strange flowers against the brown woodwork and tan wallpaper.

  "Ah. Mrs. Carmody. How do you do.” Mrs. Salome put out a white-gloved hand, and from the way my mother touched it I could tell she didn't take to the Salomes on sight. “This is my daughter, Tamara,” Mrs. Salome went on. “We've come from New York City to appear at the Fair and we're looking for a clean, convenient place to call home.” She smiled, and dimples appeared at either side of her cherry red mouth. “Being so conveniently located, it would seem that your house might fit the bill."

  "Well, I'm not sure...” Mother took her hand away but didn't seem to know what to do with it, so she put her hands in back of her and clasped them together. “To appear at the Fair, you say? And what would appearing at the Fair consist of?"

  The smile widened. “When I tell you that I am Lurlane Salome, you'll know."

  My mother twisted her hands behind her in agitation. “No. The name doesn't mean a thing to me."

  Mrs. Salome made a disappointed little face and Tamara spoke up. “Ma-ma (pronounced like that) is a soubrette.” Her voice reminded me of tinkling glass bells.

  "A soubrette?” Ma brought forth her arms around in front, folded them. “I've never heard of the word. It sounds like it's foreign..."

  "I'm on the stage,” explained Mrs. Salome. “The star. The leading lady of a theatrical presentation."

  "An actress?” My mother used her snotty tone, the one she used when my father brought home one of his musician buddies.

  Mrs. Salome laughed. She laughed the way her daughter talked—do-re-mi, do-re-mi. “A bit more than that, really. I prefer to be modest, but apparently you don't read the theatrical news. In New York and various places, I am rather famous."

  Ma opened her mouth, but before she could say what I knew she was going to say, I butted in:
“How many rooms would you be needing? For how long?"

  "Two rooms would do nicely. We'll probably be here some time, as long as the Fair lasts, I should think."

  "We've got two rooms up front, upstairs with a bath in between."

  My mother spoke at the same time saying, “I charge seven dollars per week per room. That may seem on the dear side but..."

  "That sounds satisfactory,” said Mrs. Salome. “May we see them?"

  "I'll take you up,” I said, heading for the stairs and almost falling over my own feet.

  "Francis!” my mother said, and I stopped and looked around at her. The Salome ladies were right behind me. Ma hesitated, then nodded her head to mean I could take them up. Whether they could stay or not was still a question. “We'll discuss it when you come down,” my mother said, sounding just as ritzy as Lurlane Salome, who beamed and answered, “Of course."

  The rooms were big and sunlit. The wallpaper was newish; one room was pink, and one blue. Hanging the wallpaper had been one of the last and, truth to tell, few household chores my father had done. The old furniture looked all right too, if you didn't look too closely. My mother could do a lot with a polishing cloth.

  "How very homey,” Mrs. Salome said. “We'll take them."

  "Breakfast and dinner go with them,” I offered. I wasn't sure they knew.

  "I'm certain your mother's a fine cook,” Tamara said, standing close and looking up into my eyes. She smelled like spice. “How old are you, Buddy?"

  I swallowed. “Seventeen.” Well, I would be in a few days. Ninety-three days, in truth. “How old are you?"

  She giggled and tossed her head. “It's a woman's prerogative never to tell her age."

  * * * *

  We found my mother just where we'd left her in the very same pose.

  "Mrs. Carmody,” Mrs. Salome said, “the rooms are charming, so sweet and old fashioned. We'll be pleased to be paying guests."

  "Well, now, that's nice but I prefer men. I told Francis we should put a sign saying gentlemen preferred."

  "You said seven dollars per room per week, I believe...” Mrs. Salome shifted a hat box to the other arm, opened her lacy white pocketbook, and extracted money. “Here is two weeks in advance.” She handed over twenty-eight dollars, and I thought, Oh boy, now we can pay the grocery bill.

  Mother set her mouth. “I prefer to be paid by the month.” I knew she was itching to take the money, but at the same time she hated to accept it.

  "All right,” trilled Mrs. Salome. She counted out thirty additional dollars and took back two singles without batting an eyelash. Ma, after a minute's hesitation, took it and said grudgingly, “I'll make you out a receipt."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Carmody. I take it we're the first. You have other rooms?"

  I was helpful, “We've got two in the back on the second floor and two on the third floor."

  Mrs. Salome nodded. “Tamara, would you pay off the taxi man and ask him to bring our things? Buddy, perhaps you can assist?"

  "Yes, ma'am.” I walked out with Tamara. Maybe I swaggered a little because I knew Mrs. Hennessey was watching, the way she watched everything around our house. I would like to have yelled at her, “See, Mrs. Hennessey, we've got two boarders already and one of them's a soubrette!"

  I guess boarders are like mice, but in a nice way—one boarder attracts another. That's the way it was with us, anyway. I was at the upright in our living room intending to practice the hymn Father Connolly had assigned us for choir practice but found myself singing a song my father fancied, “Kevin Barry” was the name of it, when the doorbell rang again, and when I went to answer it a man stood looking in through the screen door.

  "Hi, kid,” he said. “You got rooms for rent?"

  I nodded and looked past him. Parked at the curb was a really keen shiny black sport coupe with red wire wheels. “Golly,” I said. “Yeah. Come in."

  He wasn't real tall, but he was broad shouldered, so he looked big. He had on a fancy suit with white pinstripes and his black shirt looked like silk. He held a straw hat in his hand, and his brown hair sprung back off his head in a pompadour. His brown eyes were deep set and he had a neat little mustache like Clark Gable's.

  He told my mother his name was John Hall and that he was visiting the Fair from Indianapolis. He wasn't certain how long he'd stay, maybe as long as a month. Or two. Before my mother could tell him, I said the rent was seven dollars a week with breakfast and supper and we only rented by the month. And again before she could speak, he said that was fine, and we had our second boarder just like that.

  The Salomes then brought the other two, a thin blond man named Albert Pfenn (pronounced Fenn and called Al), who sang in Mrs. Salome's theatrical presentation, and a fat fella named Herbert (Bert) Dawes, the head comic at the Hindustani Palace, where Mrs. Salome was the star soubrette.

  The seven of us sat down at the dinner table with me in my father's chair. Mrs. Salome sat next to my mother and I couldn't see her too well, but she'd removed her hat and fluffed out her hair, and from my seat she kind of looked like one of the Christmas angels that go up top on a tree. Mr. Hall was next to her, and I heard her ask him what kind of work he did that allowed him to take time off to come to the Fair, and Mr. Hall said he was in the laundry business, and Mrs. Salome said, “Oh, really? I have a friend in New York who's in the laundry business too,” and he said, “You don't say?” and they looked at each other in a funny way, and my mother said, “Buddy, stop daydreaming and finish your supper. You're due at choir practice in twenty minutes."

  Jimmy Crosby was waiting for me on the steps of St. Patrick's, waiting to tell me he'd got a job at the Fair.

  "Yeah? Where? Do they need anybody else?” I asked. It seemed like all the breaks always went to Jimmy Crosby.

  He smirked. “Naw, I don't think so. I'm a dishwasher in The Streets of Paris."

  "What's The Streets of Paris?"

  "It's a nightclub. Kind of. There's a woman who works there that does a dance with fans and nothing else. An old guy who works in the kitchen told me."

  "Fans? What kind of fans?"

  "Big feathery things. Her name is Sally something. Here, want a Wing?” He offered me a crumpled cigarette pack.

  "No thanks. We've got four show people staying at our house.” For once I could top him. He was probably making it up about the woman and the fans anyway. Jimmy had a habit of exaggerating.

  "Yeah?” He puffed on his cigarette. “Who are they?"

  I recited their names. Jimmy blew out a feeble smoke ring. “Never heard of them."

  "They're in the show at the Hindustani Palace."

  He scuffed out his cigarette, turned to go into the church, whipped his head back around. “Where?"

  "The Hindustani Palace."

  "Boy, oh boy!"

  And just then Father Connolly appeared at the door. He wasn't smiling like usual because we were late, so I had to wait for an explanation of the boy-oh-boy until we got to Jimmy's house after practice. We were in Jimmy's cellar behind the coal furnace; we each had a bottle of Jimmy's old man's home brew in hand when he told me.

  I said, “A cooch dancer? Mrs. Salome is a cooch dancer?"

  "That's the story. The Hindustani Palace does burlesque. When the Fair officially opens next week, she'll be bumping and grinding away. Boy, are you lucky! Right in your own home."

  "What's bumping and grinding?” Ordinarily, I wouldn't have let on that I was ignorant of the phrase, but Jimmy seemed so impressed that I went ahead and asked.

  "Well, you know. No, I guess you don't.” He stood up to show me, “Kind of like the hula. Only more so.” It didn't look like much when Jimmy did it.

  "How do you know all these things?” I asked crossly. He was a know-it-all from the git-go.

  "My father tells me. After all, he's a cop. Which reminds me, he told us at supper tonight that John Dillinger got out of jail yesterday. I guess he bought off somebody or got paroled or something. My old man says he'd bet a C-not
e that Dillinger will turn up here."

  "In Chicago? What for?"

  "Buddy, you sure are dumb. All the big-shot gangsters hang out in Chicago."

  "But Dillinger isn't a gangster, is he? Like Capone and Nitti and all those guys?” I wondered if I dared take a big gulp of brew like Jimmy.

  "Naw, he's more like Robin Hood, I guess. My old man says he's a dangerous one, though."

  "Aw, I read where he doesn't kill anybody. He just robs banks and stuff like that.” I thought what the heck and took a big swig. It made my eyes water and I coughed.

  "Hey, Buddy,” Jimmy peered at me like he was having trouble seeing. “Heard anything from your father?"

  "Naw. I think maybe he's gone for good."

  "What's your mother say?"

  "Nothing much.” I wished he'd stop talking about it. “I think sometimes she's glad. They had a lot of fights, you know."

  "That must be tough. Did he hit her?"

  I winced at the thought. “I'm not sure. Sometimes I think you're lucky having only one parent. Two can be bad news."

  "I guess so. I don't remember my mother, but she must have been nice. My old man is always talking about her."

  "Why do you think people get married?"

  "Sex and all that stuff. And having kids."

  "I guess. Only I can't imagine my mother and father ... you know."

  Jimmy laughed. “You've just never taken a good look at your old man."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Well, I've heard my father talking. Some guys say Donal Carmody's hot stuff."

  I scrunched up against the coal bin wall for leverage. “You'd better not say that. My mother's not like that!"

  "I didn't say she was. I said your father. Ask Carmine Genna. Hey, ssh, Buddy. I think I hear my old man. Better not let him catch us down here..."

  But he did, I guess ‘cause cops are trained to catch people. And when he did, he made us chug-a-lug what was left in the bottles, and when I drank it all down without taking a breath my stomach received it numbly at first, then after a few minutes sent it back up, and Sergeant Crosby made us clean up the mess, so it was after midnight before I got home, and I only went home because I didn't have any other place to go. I knew Ma was going to kill me if she caught me.