But I'd been in Carmine Genna's a few times, mostly with Jimmy buying cigarettes, so I knew he carried lady stuff like perfume and all, so I thought when I got some money I'd have an excuse for stopping in. I'd buy a present for Lurlane. As soon as I had some money.
And that came sooner than I expected. From my mother. She wanted to know what I was doing at the Hindustani Palace, and when I told her I was selling candy she said, “That's nice. It's a nice stopgap until you find your niche. I want you to have a little pocket money. They may not pay you for a bit, so take a dollar out of my change purse.” And while I was in the pantry getting my dollar, I heard the sound of the harp coming from the dining room, and I knew he was in there charming them all.
The harp sounds stopped and there was applause. I took the dish towel and dried some dishes and thought how he and she were always fighting, but after the fights she always made up with him no matter what. I said, “What about doing the rooms, Ma? Is he helping you?"
She rinsed out the dishpan and turned it upside down in the sink before answering. “I told them they'd have to do their own beds. Except when I change the sheets."
That explained why she hadn't found Mr. Hall's gun. Just then my father came in. He was grinning and his eyes were shining. “I've got me a position,” he crowed. “Mrs. Salome, she's been needing a new act for her show, and she tells me my harp is just the ticket. I'll add a bit of class!” He grabbed my mother and pulled her to him. I looked away and walked quickly out the back door. “Buddy,” I heard him call, “Mr. Hall is going to drive us to work.... “But I kept on going. If I hurried I'd have time to stop at Genna's.
Genna's store, like everybody else, was capitalizing on the Fair. They had a bunch of souvenirs on the shelves by the window. Behind a lineup of Campbell's tomato soup cans, I spotted a pillow with fringe all around it, in the middle of which it read, “A Century of Progress, Chicago, 1933.” I stepped inside looking for Carmine Genna, but he wasn't in sight. Instead his daughter Fiona was behind the counter at the rear, jabbering in Italian to an old lady. I guess it was Italian, it was all Greek to me.
I picked up the pillow and moved behind the old lady. When she finally left, Fiona took notice of me. She'd been three years ahead of me in school so I figured she didn't know who I was, but when I asked how much the pillow was, she answered “Eighty-nine cents” on a strange note. Now that I was closer to her, I could see that she was going to have a baby. Soon.
When I handed her my dollar and the pillow she asked in a low voice, almost a whisper, “Are you the Carmody boy?"
"Yes, ma'am.” I was still holding the pillow and the dollar.
"You get outta the store,” she hissed.
"But I want to buy..."
I heard a man's voice talking to somebody in the back of the store. Fiona looked over her shoulder, and I noticed for the first time that she was a pretty girl in a dark kind of way. She had big black eyes and high cheekbones.
"Go,” she commanded.
"But I want the pillow..."
The male voice said something in Italian, and the curtains behind her parted, and there was Carmine Genna in person. He was swarthy, with matted curly hair and mean eyes. Jimmy had told me once that Carmine Genna had connections with the Capone mob. Right then I didn't doubt it.
His eyes got even meaner when he saw me. Fiona grabbed the dollar and the pillow, rang the cash register. Carmine said something in his native tongue. She shook her head and handed me eleven cents. I could see her hands were trembling.
"You the Carmody kid?” Carmine demanded.
"Yes, sir.” I fought an impulse to back away.
"Where's your old man? You know where he is, don't ya?” He reached over the counter, grabbed my shirt, pulled me closer. I could smell garlic on his breath, garlic and liquor.
"No, sir. He left us—in February."
"He don't know nothin', Papa.” Fiona clutched at his arm. “Leave the kid alone."
One thing was certain, whatever my father had done, Carmine Genna was pretty mad about it. “I don't know where he is, Mr. Genna. Ma and I, we've been taking in boarders to make ends meet."
His little dark eyes looked deep into mine. Fiona stuck my pillow in a paper sack and thrust it at me. “I told you, I never wanted to see him again,” she muttered under her breath.
"What you want don't matter,” snapped Carmine. Reluctantly he let go of me. “When you see your old man, you tell him Carmine Genna will catch up with him. You tell him that! Hear me?"
When I got to the Hindustani Palace, Mr. Max Henry was sitting down in front watching Bert and Hal and a chorus girl rehearse a scene. Al was playing a lawyer and Bert was the judge. The woman—she had bright red, almost orange hair—was sitting in a chair with her skirt way up above her knees. She said, “I shot him between the coffeepot and the buttered toast.” Bert leered at her, came back with, “One inch lower and you'd have got him in the percolator.” The lights went down.
I clutched the pillow to me and asked Mr. Henry, “Is Lurlane here?"
"She and your father went out for a cup of coffee or something. Sam's been looking for you. He's backstage, better go give him a hand."
I did as I was told and helped Sam get the candies set up, but Lurlane and my father didn't come back and they didn't come back. I'd been carrying the pillow around so long that the sack had a rip in it. The orchestra leader called to Mr. Max Henry, “When's the prima donna coming back? And the fruit with the lute?"
"Buddy,” Mr. Henry called. “You go out and look for them."
"Yes, sir. But where? Where would they go to get coffee?"
"Try places where you can get booze.” And he named them. “They haven't been sittin’ this long over a cup of coffee."
I found them in the back of one of those places that had “Café” in its name. They were sitting in a booth in the corner. My father was talking and she was listening. He'd had quite a few, I could tell; his eyes were shining the way they did when he got soused and his cheeks were extra red. He was saying, “and the trout streams, like crystal, they are; and the air is like wine, new wine..."
"It's time to go home for supper,” I told them. “Ma will be waiting for us."
"My goodness,” said Lurlane. “What time is it?"
"I'm afraid I got carried away,” my father smiled ruefully. “I always do when I get going about the old country..."
"Mr. Max Henry sent me to find you,” I told her.
She gave me a look that asked me to be on her side. “Is he mad?"
"Sort of."
"We'd better get back,” she said to my father. “We don't want to spoil our beautiful act."
"Tell your mother,” he said grandly, “we've been detained rehearsing. She'll understand."
"You're not coming home for supper?"
"We can't. We have to work right through. We'll get a bite later.” She reached out for my hand and I realized I was holding the pillow in it.
"I'll tell her,” I said. “Here. This is for you.” And I walked off and left them there. With her holding the pillow.
I saw the new act that night. Lurlane wore a gown that made her look like a queen. My father, wearing a tuxedo, sat at the edge of the stage on a gilded chair with his harp. He started playing “All I Do Is Dream of You” and she began to sing it, sort of, and as she got into the chorus she began to move her hands up and down her body. After a minute or two, she stepped out of that black dress, revealing lacy black underclothes. Somehow in the other act with the snake I hadn't been disturbed, but I couldn't say the same about the black underwear. When she got off the stage, Mr. Max Henry clapped his hands and said, “It's got class, Lurlane! It's got class.” So my father had a job.
My mother came with me to the Fair the morning of the official opening. She'd put on her best dress, a filmy voile with little blue flowers and buttons up the front. We stood in line with the rest of the world, and when the gates opened and the turnstiles clicked, we went in. A Century of Progress
was described as “the crystallization of a modern creative spirit through the use of new materials and new design."
"Isn't that interesting?” my mother said and then she said it again at the Sears Roebuck Building and at the Illinois Host House, which had a lot of stuff about Abraham Lincoln. She thought everything was interesting—the Chinese Lama Temple and the Golden Temple, the “seat of worship of the Manchu emperors shipped in 28,000 pieces to Chicago,” and Admiral Byrd's polar ship. She didn't want to go on the Sky Ride, “where you could see Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin,” so I said, “What do you want to see next? The World a Million Years Ago?"
She asked, “Where's the place your father works?” Not “where you work” but “where your father works."
"Don't you want to stop at the Hall of Science first? They've got..."
"It's an awful warm day, Francis, and I'm tired. Let's just go by the Hindustani Palace and then go home. There'll be lots of other times to see the Fair."
But when we got to the Hindustani Palace, there were pictures out front of Lurlane in her seven-veil outfit with a great deal of Lurlane on view. I waited for Ma to say something so I could say something back, but she only turned and headed back the way we'd come. I had to trot to catch up with her. “It's an artistic show, Ma,” I told her when I'd caught my breath. “Don't be upset. If it bothers you so much, I'll quit."
"It's too late for that.” I tried to ask her what she meant, but she was going full steam ahead, heading for the gates and home, and there was no stopping her.
Next morning I found Father Connolly wearing a carpenter's apron in the parochial school playground where he'd been painting the platform on the push merry-go-round. Of course he had time to listen to my problem, he said, and when I'd told him my father'd come back and my mother had given him my room he said, “When I was your age, Buddy, I was already in the seminary so I missed out on some of life's disappointments."
"Disappointments? Is that what you call it? Finding out the world is a lousy place?"
"Not a lousy place, Buddy. Maybe some people ... you must learn some compassion."
"I'm supposed to honor my mother and my father. But how can I when he drinks and doesn't work and I think he—fornicates with other women. That's adultery, isn't it? Like Fiona Genna. Is he the father of her baby?"
"I can't answer that, Buddy. I can only tell you that Carmine Genna is bringing a husband for Fiona over from Italy. The child will have a name.” He shrugged and I realized for the first time that Father Connolly was a man, just like any other, except that he had taken vows. “You haven't reconsidered about the seminary, have you, Buddy? I thought you felt a leaning toward the priesthood."
I shook my head emphatically. “No. I'm not good enough."
"I wonder sometimes,” he said softly, “if any of us are."
"Why did my mother marry him? She came from a good family. Why did she marry an Irish ... bum?"
"She indeed came from a good family. Pillars of the church, the O'Malleys were, bless their souls, and hard workers. Your grandfather O'Malley bought himself a house, your house. I remember your mother from those days. A fine young woman, Mary Kathleen O'Malley, a clean-minded, pure-hearted, godly daughter. Maybe not as beautiful as some, but then she didn't use paint and powder. There were plenty of pretty girls who set their caps for Donal Carmody when he first came to Chicago. He was like a fresh breeze from the Shannon as a lad, a darlin’ boy with a merry Irish eye and a beguiling brogue ... a bit of the old Ned in him, but nothing that couldn't be set right. You've been listenin’ to tales, Buddy; tales that shouldn't be told."
"How can she take the abuse that man gives her?"
"Does he strike her? Is he a cruel man?"
"Of course he is. Sometimes. I think so. Once he tried to smother her—I came in and pulled him off. After that, they locked their door. So he could do what he wanted."
"Buddy, I've never been married, of course, but I've counseled many a married couple in my twenty-some years as a priest. The thing is, a woman like your mother gives her heart and soul to a man when she marries him and that's that. I say a woman like your mother because I remember their wedding day. She was like a girl gone to heaven, every star in the sky was in her eyes.” He stood and came over to me. “I don't think your father's all that bad, Buddy. As you grow older you'll come to realize there's many a man who can't live up to his dreams. Your father's sins are mostly of omission, not commission. Your mother knows that and, I suspect, loves him all the more for it."
"Swell!” I punched the post on the merry-go-round. My fist stung. “You won't say he's guilty, and you can't say he's innocent. Well, thank you, Father Connolly. I thank you for nothing!” I wanted to kick the can of paint as I went by but didn't. It would have given me too much satisfaction and I wanted to feel miserable.
I wasn't sleeping too well at night. It was because I kept hearing noises. Somebody kept creeping up and down the stairs. Yet every time I looked, no one was there. And one morning I sneaked into Mr. Hall's room and checked under his pillow. The gun was gone. Somehow a gun missing was worse than a gun under a pillow. It was time, I decided, to tell my mother about the gun—and about somebody creeping around at night. I straightened up, replaced the covers, and looked out Mr. Hall's window. Mrs. Hennessey was on her front porch.
I found Ma in the kitchen. Before she could say anything, I told her. “I didn't tell you before because I was afraid you'd make him move out and we'd lose a boarder. Mr. Hall keeps a gun under his pillow."
"I know that.” She ran water into the dishpan. “I found it shortly after he moved in. I told him I wouldn't stand for guns in my house, and he said he needed it in his business; he carried payrolls to his laundries. I told him he wasn't carrying payrolls now, so give me the gun, and he did."
"What did you do with it?"
"I put it away, of course. I locked it up."
"Where? Where did you put it?"
She stared hard at me. “That's none of your business."
I switched subjects. “I think somebody's fooling around at night. I wake up when I hear footsteps on the stairs."
She gave an angry swipe at a plate with the dishrag. “Now I won't have that. I suppose it's that girl Tamara. She'd chase anything that wears pants. She keeps making eyes at Mr. Hall. He's old enough to be her father. I'll give her a talking to—her and her mother. I told you women boarders cause trouble...."
The World's Fair was winding down for the coming winter and some of our boarders were getting ready to leave. Al and Bert were taking the Super Chief for New York; they had jobs there. But Lurlane and her daughter told Ma that they thought they'd stay on. Mr. Hall hadn't decided; it seemed to me that Tamara had something to do with that.
Ma was making oatmeal and pancakes. The minute the temperature went down a little she made oatmeal. Tamara and Mr. Hall spoke to each other and went into the dining room. He was following her like a puppy dog. Al and Bert came down together, and as they came through the door, I heard Bert give the punch line of the new routine they were planning: “When you've seen two, you've seen them all.” I glanced quickly at Ma, but she didn't seem to have heard; either that or she didn't get it.
My father came in then wearing the green velvet smoking jacket that he kept in the hall closet. He looked around and asked, “Where's Lurlane?"
"I guess I'd better call her,” Tamara said, pushing her chair back. “She was dead tired last night, she must have overslept."
"Came in pretty late, didn't she?” My mother asked the question of no one in particular.
"I wouldn't know,” Tamara said as she headed for the stairs. “I don't keep track of my mother's hours."
"Could I have some more syrup, please?” I asked.
"I hate to complain, Mrs. Carmody,” Al took his oatmeal in little sips while Bert gulped, “but that dog next door woke me up with his barking at some ungodly hour this morning."
My father interjected, “I don't care for any fla
pjacks this morning..."
Then from upstairs Tamara screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
I sat frozen, syrup bottle in hand. My father jumped up, hit the edge of the table in the doing, and the coffee from his cup slopped over the tablecloth. Then we all started moving, pushing against each other to get through the door, bumping against each other as we tried to get up the stairs. My father reached Lurlane's open door first, and I was right behind him.
Lurlane lay on the bed under the covers. All I could see of her was her hair and part of her forehead. A pillow lay across her face. The pillow with the words A Century of Progress printed on it. My father moved forward and yanked the pillow away. Lurlane's blue eyes were staring and her mouth was stretched into an ugly grimace.
Al squeaked, “She's..."
I finished up for him. “Dead. She looks dead."
Tamara, who'd been standing frozen, mouth open but soundless, keeled over. Mr. Hall picked her up.
My father said, “Buddy, get a doctor."
My mother said, “A priest. Francis, get Father Connolly."
Then my father added, “And the police."
* * * *
They arrested my father two days later. They took him in after the testimony of Mrs. Hennessey. I heard her tell it at the trial. “I wasn't one to spy on the Carmodys, you understand, but I'm not a good sleeper and then, too, I've got this dog Tippy that wakes me up at all hours. Tippy got me up that morning between four and five A.M. I got up to let Tippy out and I waited for him to scratch when he wanted back in. That's when I saw this light go on on the second story of the Carmody house. The light was in the bedroom of the boarder with the peroxide-colored hair and it's easy to spot her when she gets home—when she does get home; she stays out pretty late most nights—what I was lookin’ at kind of reminded me of a motion picture but in color—you know, the scene opens and you wait for somebody to come in so the movie can start? That's when I saw the man in green. That funny green."
"That funny green?” asked the district attorney.
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