You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  Every single cringe-inducing detail of the previous evening socked me in the ribs, along with the aftereffects of Planter’s Punch—Planter’s Poison, more accurately. Behaving like a complete . . . a complete . . .

  I buried my face in the pillow. Why did Hollywood only show the glamorous side of drinking? Why didn’t they show the other side . . . the morning-after side? In my misery I vowed to personally never touch an alcoholic beverage again as long as I lived.

  Much as I tried to block them out, images of the previous night reeled through my mind. The shocked look on Peter’s face. Wobbling along in Dot’s too-small shoes, clinging to Frank’s arm for dear life. Some kind of messy good-bye scene in Louie’s roadster. Dot and I pitching ourselves up the stairs in the dark, making plenty of noise to alert the neighbors that the drunken floozies were home.

  Dimly I realized it was a workday. Get up, I told myself sternly. If I could only get up, I could make things right. Life would return to normal and I could forget about ever setting foot in a speakeasy. But it was still early. I’d close my eyes for a few more minutes, just a few, and then I’d go. I’d get up, scrub off the wickedness, put on fresh clothes, and go to work, one foot in front of the other. Just a few more minutes.

  Sometime later I sensed Dot standing over me, holding a glass and an aspirin bottle.

  “Up and at ’em,” she said. “Poor kid. Here, take a sip of ginger lemonade.” She held the glass next to my lips. One whiff of the gin-laced concoction made my stomach heave. I waved her away so violently that I nearly knocked the glass out of her hand.

  “What are you doing?” I croaked.

  “The best cure for a hangover is the hair of the dog that bit you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Well, try to swallow the aspirin, at least. I’ll tell Old Rugged you’re sick.”

  I fell back on the pillow. “Why bother? I’m never going back.”

  “Yes, you are, and you’ll do it quickly if you want to keep your job.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  I turned my face to the wall. I didn’t want to talk about it later. I was quitting Field’s. This whole Chicago business had been a terrible mistake. I wasn’t cut out for city life. Furthermore, the possibility of running into Peter, after the disgraceful spectacle I’d made of myself, was unthinkable. True, he had been at the speakeasy too. But he was a bootlegger—that was his job. For all I knew, he’d been among the many hauled off to jail. Me, I had no excuse. I shuddered to consider what he must think of me. After all my lofty speeches about avoiding alcohol, he’d seen me as I truly was. Surely he felt as disgusted by me as I was by myself.

  When I did finally get up, I stumbled over the blue dress crumpled in a heap on the floor. The fabric was torn, mottled and discolored. Panic squeezed my chest as I realized I’d squandered all my money on a dress I could neither return to Field’s nor ever wear again. How was I even going to cough up my share of this month’s rent? In disgust I wadded up the ruined garment and shoved it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.

  I threw on a robe and padded through the empty apartment to the kitchen, where I chased two aspirin with a glass of water. With any luck, Dot would go straight to Louie’s after work and we could skip all the talking.

  Louie. The name made my gut roil. Without him and his so-called connections, we would have never gotten into this mess. We had only wanted to see John Gilbert. Was that too much to ask?

  But a ray of reason sliced through my foggy brain. None of this was Louie’s fault. At any point I could have backed out, said no, hailed a taxi. Still, I wished I’d never heard the name Louie Braccio.

  Slowly a clammy chill settled over my heart.

  Louie Braccio. Luigi Braccio. The gangster Annamarie had warned me about. The terror of the neighborhood around the settlement house. A fearsome gangster who was, oh by the way, dating my roommate.

  A fresh wave of nausea swept over me. I’d just spent an evening with one of the most notorious criminals in the city, blinded by his flashy connections and eager to impress his friends—and a no-show movie star—with my worldly sophistication.

  Some sophistication.

  Sick with remorse, I shuffled back to my room and got on my knees. Oh, Lord, I sobbed. No words came. Deep inside, I knew that God had no use for someone like me. I so longed to start over, to make things right. The trouble was, I had no idea how.

  I must have dozed off, because suddenly I jerked awake, a phrase running through my mind.

  Thou art ever with me.

  I glanced around to see who had spoken, but I was alone. Still, I heard Pastor Higgins’s voice echo in my head. Thou art ever with me.

  Then I knew. I could do nothing to make things right with God. But there was Someone who could. I just needed to trust Him.

  Feeling slightly stronger, I took a long bath, put on a fresh nightgown, fixed myself a supper of tea and crackers, and curled up on the sofa. Then I picked up the little Bible Mrs. Dunsworthy had given me and flipped through it until I found the phrase, nestled in the familiar story of the prodigal son, who ran away from home, spent all his money in riotous living, then returned home humiliated.

  Son, the kindly father said to the disgruntled older brother, thou art ever with me, and all I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.

  I, too, was lost. I wanted to be found.

  My eyes traveled back up the page. At his lowest point, the wayward brother knew he had done wrong, and he understood the remedy.

  I will arise and go to my father.

  And when he did so, his father greeted him with open arms.

  All at once, I knew what I had to do. There are times when a girl needs both her Father, and her father.

  First I needed God.

  And then I needed Pop.

  That much decided, I slept. Then, before dawn started slanting through the windows, I washed my face, got dressed, packed my bag, scribbled a brief note for Dot, and headed for the station. As the nearly empty El train rocked and rattled its way across the sleeping city, I tried to cobble together some sort of plan, but couldn’t see beyond simply getting home.

  With an hour to kill before boarding the Kerryville train, I settled on a bench in the station’s soaring waiting room, quiet and cathedral-like on this Sunday morning. At this early hour, the only person in the waiting room besides me was a cleaning lady, swishing her mop over the tile floor.

  I thought about The Song of the Lark and the girl with her face lifted toward the sky in hope and expectation. “Lord, why would You want to hear from someone like me? After all the terrible things I’ve done?”

  Thou art ever with me.

  I bowed my head. In my heart I told Him everything, laid out the whole sordid story. How I’d abandoned my job after spending an evening getting rip-roaring drunk in a speakeasy owned by a ruthless gangster. How, in preparation for that illustrious event, I’d purchased an expensive gown with full intention of returning it as if it had never been worn.

  “It gets even worse, Lord,” I said, as if He didn’t already know. “I’ve made myself look perfectly ludicrous in the eyes of the man I want, who now will definitely never want me back, which is probably just as well because he also happens to be a bootlegger—a bootlegger—for whom I threw over a decent, upstanding, caring man who would have given me a secure future and a stable home. And after all that, Peter isn’t even Jack!”

  I paused to gather my thoughts, then plunged ahead.

  “Lord, I’ve made such a shambles of things. I know I’ve said this before, but I mean it this time. I’m turning the reins of my life over to You. From now on, I’m out of the driver’s seat, and You’re in it. Whatever You say, I’ll do. Amen.”

  In the hush of the station, as a strange sort of peace settled over my aching heart, I thought I heard the swoosh of wings. An angel? But when I opened my eyes, the on
ly soul around was the cleaning lady, her mop making a gentle swish-swish as she washed away the grime.

  I arrived at Kerryville toward midday. Since I’d told no one I was coming, naturally no one met my train. I could have telephoned Pop or Charlie for a ride, but preferred to walk home, passing familiar and reassuring landmarks of my life B.C.—Before Chicago. The gray stone bulk of the high school. The grocery store. The Tick-Tock Cafe.

  When I reached Corrigan’s Dry Goods, I stopped and peered in the window, noting how clean and orderly the store looked. Clearly Helen was doing an excellent job, running the front counter in my stead. Maybe I hadn’t even been missed.

  I took my time, practicing a speech for my family. By the time I reached home, they were just sitting down for Sunday dinner.

  “Hello, everybody,” I said, dropping my train case on the linoleum. With a cry, Helen leaped up and threw herself at me. Over her blond head I announced in a quivering voice, “I’ve come home. For good.” After that my speech flew out the window. I simply sobbed.

  The whole family gathered around me. Once they’d ascertained I was not mortally wounded, no one pressed me for details on what had taken place.

  “There’ll be time enough for talking,” Pop said when Frances tried to launch an interrogation. To her credit, she closed her mouth and opened her arms. Then she went upstairs and drew me a hot bath, and later brought a tray up to my room. After a while I slept, and when I awoke, sunshine was streaming through the curtains. I was back where I belonged.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  My days fell into the once confining, now comforting routines of Kerryville life. I helped in the kitchen and the garden—whatever I could do that didn’t involve seeing people. I sensed I was the hottest topic since Mercy Gilligan performed a scandalous Scheherazade at an Odd Fellows’ fund-raiser. News of my broken engagement had spread like wildfire, and from what I could tell, most people had thought Richard dodged a bullet. After all, I was the crazy Corrigan girl who’d—depending on whom you asked—left town in a hurry to hide an unwed pregnancy, a mysterious illness, or a nervous breakdown. And now I’d come back from the big city, a failure.

  I longed to confide in Charlie all the details about what had taken place at the speakeasy, about Dot and Louie’s involvement, but didn’t want to sound like I was blaming anyone for my poor decisions. When he told me he’d started corresponding with Dot again, I simply told him to tread carefully, that her old boyfriend could cause trouble. Beyond that I backed off of giving advice.

  I telephoned the Art Institute to say I wouldn’t be back to finish the textiles class, explaining only that I’d needed to leave the city quite suddenly. In reply I received a kind note from Miss Smith, praising my work and encouraging me to enroll again when circumstances allowed. Enclosed in the envelope was a refund. I didn’t foresee ever taking another class, but I kept the letter to remind me of what might have been.

  As the weeks went by and summer dwindled into fall, I settled back into my old job at Pop’s store and regained my strength. Helen stayed on until school started, and then worked after school and on Saturdays. She and I had a lot of fun working together, unpacking the fall fabrics and figuring out creative ways to display them. I’d picked up a trick or two during my weeks at Field’s. Pop, finally seeing the necessity to keep up with the other Main Street merchants, stopped complaining about too much “razzle-dazzle” and gave me free rein to spiff up the store.

  Seeing Richard around town with this or that girl brought a pang, a sense of the path not taken. As time passed, memories of our quarrels faded, and my firm conviction that I’d done the right thing to break our engagement started to waver. Could my heart have learned to love him if I hadn’t been so eager to seek adventure? Would I eventually have gotten over my strange attacks of nerves over the idea of marrying him? I’d never know.

  On the third Saturday in September, as Helen and I unwrapped bolts of woolen fabric, I realized with a start that, under other circumstances, this would have been my wedding day. The uncut length of satin intended for my gown now sat on the markdown table. Seeing it made me feel a little melancholy, but mostly relieved. Still, I wondered if God had a plan more interesting for me than a lifetime of selling dry goods to Kerryville homemakers. I hoped so. But if He didn’t, I determined I would be content. Wasn’t that what the apostle Paul said? “Be content in all things”? I’d had my little taste of excitement and adventure, and wrecked everything in the process. Now it was time to settle down to real life.

  Helen’s voice broke my reverie. “Marjie, doesn’t it bother you when people say mean things about you? It makes me livid.”

  I had to think a moment before I answered. “I won’t lie and say the gossip doesn’t hurt, sweetie, because it does. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t stop people from talking when they want to talk. All you can do is hold your head up and cling to God for strength.”

  “I guess so. But I can’t help wishing God would smite some people in the head.”

  “Helen.”

  “Imprecatory prayer,” she added, drawing out the syllables of the unfamiliar word. “Mrs. Varney told us all about it. It’s biblical.”

  “‘Love your enemies’ is also biblical,” I said. “I think that’s a more suitable idea in this case, don’t you?”

  “Oh, all right,” she muttered. “But loving your enemies is a whole lot harder than letting them have one good smite.” Suddenly she perked up. “I almost forgot to tell you. I need next Saturday afternoon off.”

  “I suppose I can limp along without you. Why?”

  “It’s Jeannie King’s birthday, and her father’s taking a bunch of us out on the river in his runabout.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said, “but go easy on the cake and ice cream. Remember what happened the last time you rode on a boat with a full stomach.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “When?”

  “The Fourth of July. Remember? You and Kurt Steuben went out on Lake Michigan on that excursion boat right after lunch, and you were sick for the rest of the evening. Poor thing.”

  She looked down, her face as red as her sweater. “That’s not what made me sick, Marjie,” she said slowly. “I was just fine until that Kurt fellow tried to kiss me. That’s what made me sick—his dirty paws all over my dress. Not the boat.”

  My blood ran hot and then cold. “Kurt Steuben made a pass at you? Why, he’s old enough to be your—your—” I couldn’t think. “Why in the world didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I knew you’d blow a fuse—just like you’re doing now,” she said. “I didn’t want everyone to think I was a baby.”

  “But you are a baby,” I wailed. “Oh, the nerve of that creep. If I ever get my hands on him—”

  “It’s all right, Marjie,” she soothed. “I socked him good in the solar plexus, and he left me alone after that.” She gave a wry grin. “I smote him.”

  I gathered her into a shaky hug. “I’m so, so sorry, Helen. I feel responsible. I gave you permission to go with him.”

  “Marjie, it’s all right,” she repeated. “It’s not your fault. How were you supposed to know he was a creep? Besides, I begged and begged to go on that boat ride.”

  “Have you told Pop and Frances?”

  A look of horror crossed her face. “Oh, Marjie, please don’t tell. Pop will blow his stack, and Frances will never let me leave the house ever again. I’m fine, really I am.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said, dismayed that my own poor choices had such far-reaching consequences.

  Unable to sleep, I prayed late into the night. The next evening after supper I sought out Pop in the front room.

  “I need to go back to Chicago.”

  He folded his newspaper. “To collect the rest of your things?”

  “No, I mean . . . go back.”

  “I had a feeling this was coming.” He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “I wondered if it would be hard for y
ou to live in the same town as Richard, after everything that’s happened.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I see now that in coming back to Kerryville, I was trying to run away from my problems. I’d made such a mess of things, I just wanted to start over. But I can’t run away, can I? I have to finish things, to tie up loose ends.”

  Pop nodded. “I see. How long do you think you’ll be gone this time?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably not long, as I no longer have a job there. When I called to explain my absence, the lady in Personnel told me my services were no longer needed.”

  “That seems overly harsh.”

  “She said rules are rules.”

  “You’ll always have a job at Corrigan’s, you know.”

  “I know, Pop. Thanks.” My heart swelled. “Can you manage without me for a while? I hate to leave you in the lurch.”

  “Don’t worry about the store.” Pop patted my hand. “I wish you’d stay here forever, of course, but maybe God has something else in mind for you. And if it takes going back to Chicago to find out, then I’ll drive you to the station myself.”

  He did, in time for me to catch the earliest train the next morning. I didn’t have a clear plan in mind of what I’d do when I got to Chicago. I just knew I had to finish what I’d started. I had to see Peter one more time. And I couldn’t let Kurt Steuben get away with what he’d done.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  As I emerged from Union Station, the smell of exhaust fumes evoked images richer than any Paris perfume. How I’d missed Chicago—the energy and vitality, and the independent woman I’d been when I lived here. I’d come here once to have my heart healed. Now I sought heart-healing of a different sort.

  First, I needed to return the extra key to Dot’s place that was tucked away in my handbag. I rode the streetcar to the apartment, climbed the musty stairs, and knocked timidly on the apartment door, half hoping she wouldn’t be home so I could just let myself in and leave the key on the table. I didn’t know what kind of reception I’d get. Although I knew she’d been in contact with Charlie, she and I hadn’t spoken directly since that terrible night at the speakeasy.