Speak Easy, Speak Love

by McKelle George

  The hall leading to his apartment had carpeting, but it was thin as paper, and the air smelled of yeast and sauce and cigar smoke. He led her through an unmarked door between number 7 and 9.

  Inside, the woman sat in an old armchair, her hands clasped in her lap. She was wearing a red velvet dress, a large silver clasp around her high waist, matching her starkly pale skin. The stitching was barely holding the dress together, it was so worn. Like her, it looked as though it might have been beautiful a decade ago. “Who is that Negro girl?”

  “I’m a friend of your son’s,” Maggie said, ignoring John’s flinch.

  “Pedro will be along shortly; he’s playing in the street. Come in, come in.”

  John wilted, as if somehow his mother had sucked life out of him with her words, but he set his jaw and motioned Maggie in. The apartment was on the small side, but was immaculate, for all its plainness. A small library of leather-bound books, mostly poetry. The glass in the windows looked recently replaced.

  John muttered for Maggie to wait, gesturing gruffly to an old wooden rocking chair; then he shepherded Mrs. Morello into her bedroom. Maggie heard her say, “I said never to touch me again, Don Morello!” and then: “Where is Pedro? Where is Pedro?”

  “Let me.” A familiar voice. Maggie inched toward the hallway and glanced around the corner toward the bedroom. There was Prince, back at home in spite of everything John had done to keep him away. Prince was a head taller than his mother and took her by the elbow. She softened at his touch, but John stopped him. He murmured something to his brother, and Prince said, “Our Maggie?”

  Maggie stepped back.

  A few seconds later Prince appeared, looking as if he’d been somersaulting through hell, his hair more disoriented than usual, his eyes bruised underneath.

  “Hello, soldier. You look beat.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Wary as a wounded animal, he lowered himself into the chair his mother had vacated.

  “I was planning on getting some rest today; only I found out a friend of mine needed to have his dear self dragged back home.”

  From down the hall, a low piteous sob rose out of the bedroom. Prince turned, as if he could see his mother through the walls. Neither he nor Maggie said anything for nearly a minute; then Prince ran a hand over his mouth. “I used to think—I always thought that if I ever got a family, I wouldn’t do to them what they did to me. And this whole time . . .” He looked down. “I didn’t know she was like that. I didn’t know John was taking care of her, while I did what I wanted. John refuses to take her to an asylum. He never told me. Not once.”

  “John does what he thinks is best without asking for anybody’s opinion first.”

  Prince studied his knuckles. “He told me he didn’t kiss Hero. Said I should go back.”

  “You should,” said Maggie. “With me.”

  “What’s the use? The speakeasy isn’t going to last. I treated her like I—like I swore I never would, and I can’t leave Mama like this, not now that I know.”

  “The speakeasy’s closed,” Maggie said. “Hero’s taking it real bad. Beatrice says she hasn’t even left her bed; she got sick.” Not strictly true, either one, but Maggie had promised Hero she’d get Prince back if she had to drag him by his hair.

  Prince frowned. “Sick with what?”

  “I don’t know.” Maggie sighed. “But . . .”

  But that was how it had started with Anna, too. One rough night, and she’d been in bed the next morning—and then never gotten up. Prince looked stricken.

  “Go, Pedro.” John’s voice slipped between them like the crack of a whip. “You can always come back,” he added, braced against the corner with his hands in his pockets. He looked like a frayed old rug that had been picked apart by fate’s ruthless tread.

  Prince’s mouth pinched together, but Maggie thought she recognized the set to his eyes. Hope died hard in him. “All right. All right. God dammit.” He stood, then faced John. “Let me talk to Mama first,” he said to John. “You can’t keep protecting me from everything. I’m going to help.”

  When he strode out of the room, John let him go.

  Left alone, neither John nor Maggie spoke. He’d apologized once and he wouldn’t do it again. That wasn’t his way.

  “I didn’t know,” he said finally. His expression was strange. At first she thought he was angry. But the tight lines in his face were nerves; she just didn’t recognize it in him, he was so rarely nervous. “I didn’t know they saw us kiss. I only talked to Claude about the speakeasy.”

  “Then why did you leave?” Maggie whispered. “Why did you say it was nothing?”

  John’s hand errantly brushed over his chest, but there was nothing there but his own shirt. No gun holster, his usual way out of an unpleasant situation. “You know why,” he said finally.

  “I got the part,” Maggie said. “I’m in the chorus.”

  He swallowed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “I sang ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow.’ Tommy said I shouldn’t, said it was too slow and sweet for a dance club. But my voice is suited for slow and sweet singing.” She stood, stepped closer. He backed up to accommodate her and bumped into the wall. “When I hit the last note, I knew I had them. I knew it in my bones before anybody said a word. Tommy didn’t understand, John, because he hadn’t heard me sing it yet.”

  His eyes squeezed shut. He looked as if he’d rather be shot. “This isn’t the same.”

  “I think you love me, John Morello.”

  His eyes opened: dark and unreadable as night. Her voice faltered. “In case you’re wondering,” she said, “I love you, too. I know what you are and what you are not, so—”

  “Stop. Christ,” he said, voice breaking. “What do you want from me? What about—”

  “The laws? Kind of like the ones against bootlegging, extortion, gambling? That’s never stopped you before. Who’s asking for a proposal anyway?” She put a hand on his icy cheek, half laughing. He cringed like a yard dog. “I just want to be near you.”

  “I’m asking,” he said, slicing her mirth to ribbons. “If I had you, I wouldn’t let you go. It only makes it harder to have you in reach but not actually in reach.”

  “I know what I want,” she said. “Life’s already hard, John. And it’s not going to be fair, not to either of us. I’m tougher than I look, and I look damn tough.”

  His shoulders sagged. He stared down at her without seeming to breathe. His lips parted a crack. “God in heaven,” he whispered.

  “Do you love me or not?” she asked.

  He took her hand from his face and held it between his own, so they were left standing there linked at the hands, staring absurdly at each other; like a couple at the altar. “Yes.” He considered her hand, then brought it up to kiss her palm; his lips lingered there a moment. She leaned forward in a more straightforward attack and kissed him on his hard mouth, which only remained hard a moment. He melted soft as butter when she knew how to do it. She pulled back enough to catch her breath, and he drew his thumbs over her cheeks and mouth and chin. He kissed her again, and swore.

  “Should I apologize?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Too bad.” She tucked her arms into him and he fit his neatly around her back. His embrace felt safe; he, too, was tougher than he looked (and he looked terrifying). “And just in case this whole booze enterprise doesn’t work out,” she said, “I’m also on the lookout for a manager.”

  CHAPTER 32

  SILENCE IS THE PERFECTEST HERALD OF JOY

  Beatrice had woken with that particular restless itch in her middle that always led to trouble, and she hadn’t gotten rid of it, even though she’d spent all morning putting to work the only thing that never failed her: her mind.

  So what if she was lousy at comfort? That wouldn’t matter if she found a way to save Hey Nonny Nonny. The one thing they had going for them was the estate. Leo and Hero owned the land and the house outright, and Flower Hill had a
lovely climate for farming. If they sold a few things—maybe the Lambda, maybe the speakeasy’s piano—they could get started on crops. They could reopen a speakeasy known for fruit-based ciders, not to mention feed themselves and get some produce revenue in the meantime.

  Of course that might take over a year to truly gain traction, but it was possible. They would keep a small farm, obviously, until they could hire some real hands, but there were other jobs, too: cleaning on the weekends; Hero could take on seamstress work maybe.

  And surely Uncle Leo . . .

  He hadn’t answered Beatrice’s knock on his door that morning or much of anything since Hero’s party; she’d let him be.

  Beatrice’s head ached. The pounding sounded like doctor, doctor, doctor.

  She went in search of Hero, a written-out plan clutched in her hand. Hero wasn’t in her room, but when she passed the open door of Prince’s, Hero was kneeling on the floor, her arms around a wrapped box on her lap. She looked up as Beatrice came in. “Can we skip to the part where we love each other again?” she asked softly.

  “Oh, Hero.” Beatrice knelt next to her, and for the moment, the plan was forgotten, their arms around each other, the box sliding to the floor.

  “What is that?” Beatrice asked, pulling back.

  “They got me a birthday present,” Hero said, sniffing. She turned the tag around so Beatrice could see:

  “Happy Birthday, Helena Rose. With love, your boys.”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Beatrice asked.

  “Should I?”

  “Of course you should. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  Hero smiled, then ripped off the paper without hesitation. She unearthed a brand-new sewing machine and several swaths of cut fabric. “Oh.” She hushed.

  “It’s beautiful,” Beatrice said.

  For several minutes Hero just looked at the box. She didn’t even open it. “I wish . . .”

  Whatever she wished, it was with decidedly suspicious timing that a car engine rumbled up the drive. Hero glanced at Beatrice—what were the odds?—then hurried to the window to look out. The car was a mustard yellow tourer, not any vehicle Beatrice recognized, but she did recognize the mop of messy dark hair and long body striding across the lawn like a robust panther. Hero gripped Beatrice’s wrist so tightly it hurt, and objectively speaking, Beatrice understood.

  “What do I do?” Hero hissed.

  “Hero?” Maggie’s voice shouted down the hall.

  “In here!” Beatrice called, and Maggie skidded in a moment later out of breath.

  “I told him you were sick,” she gasped. “Get in bed—quick! Act bedridden.”

  “What?” Hero asked. “Sick how?”

  “For God’s sake, you’ve gone the color of a cherry,” said Beatrice. “That’s the opposite of what we want.”

  “I’ll stall him,” Maggie said, and ran out as fast as she’d come.

  “Quick, quick! I’ll just pull the sheets up over my face!” Hero sprinted down the hall toward her own bedroom—below them, the front door closed—and dived onto her bed in record time. Never mind that she was now further flushed and out of breath. “Look doctorly!” Hero whispered.

  “I always look doctorly,” Beatrice muttered. “Listen, why don’t I leave and then—”

  “No!” Hero protested. “You can’t leave me in the same room with him alone, or I’ll crumble like the last muffin and kiss him on his big, stupid mouth.”

  “What? Hero!”

  Hero wiggled under the covers, shimmying out of her dress, which she tossed over the side of the bed. “I wouldn’t wear a dress to bed if I were sick, would I?”

  “I doubt he’d notice.”

  “He’ll notice now all right.”

  A soft knock came at the door. “Hero?” Prince’s low voice, a little muffled by the door. Too late it occurred to Beatrice to wonder where Benedick was. He might have saved them a lot of time intercepting Prince.

  Beatrice opened the door. “Hello, Prince.”

  Hero dragged the sheet up and let out a piteous groan. Beatrice managed to keep her face straight, eyebrow twitching. He was rather sad looking, hunched as if afraid Beatrice might draw a sword and slice and dice him. “Can I come in?” he asked, glancing past her shoulder to the bed. “How is she?”

  “Difficult to say at this point.” Beatrice stepped back to let him inside the room.

  He walked around to the side of Hero’s bed, his movements stiff and guarded. He lowered himself to the very edge of her bed. Hero stayed twisted up under her sheets, only her red hair visible on the pillow. “Hero . . .” Prince extended a hand to her curved form.

  The sheets whipped away, along with Hero’s restraint, and she sprang up and slapped him clean across the face, her whole arm behind it. “Ow!” He reeled back, touching his reddening cheek. He stared at her: first in shock, then in blatant relief, then in annoyance. “You’re not sick at all.”

  “Oh, yes, I am.” She moved for him again, but he caught her chin between his fingers.

  “Don’t kiss me, Stahr.” His voice was husky.

  She blushed. In lieu of kissing, she shoved him with both hands, with her feet, trying to send him off the bed. “You son of a bitch! I didn’t kiss John! I never asked you to do anything but be here! Do you hear? Do you?” She pulled his hair for good measure. Her cheeks were wet. She stopped, worn out.

  Prince took her hands and kissed each little fist. “I know.”

  Hero pushed Prince off and gathered the sheets up to her chin. “Well, I do not forgive you.”

  “I’ve got plans to set things right, so just listen, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m coming home,” said Prince. “I’m bringing my mother into one of the empty rooms, and I’ll watch after her and this place. Don’t I owe Leo at least that? I have two hands to work. I can get a job, or two or three. I’ll—”

  “Come closer,” Hero broke in.

  He leaned in.

  “Clooooser.”

  He got so close their noses almost touched. Hero drew down the sheet and fluttered her lashes. Prince didn’t take the bait, but he frowned in a peculiar way that put a line up his forehead and made a tic jump in his jaw.

  Hero got a tell-tale look in her eye. “Would you mind terribly tasting my lips for any death germs?” she whispered.

  “Now why would I do a silly thing like that? Suppose there are death germs and I die, too?”

  “Oh, you.” Hero pushed against his chest with both hands, but this time he didn’t budge. He grabbed her wrists.

  “I’m sorry. I was always yours, no matter how you looked at me, but I forgot, is all. I got jealous, and I acted like an ass, and Claude’s a fool if he doesn’t court you all summer and give you diamonds and tell you you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.”

  “Shut up and kiss me right now, Pedro Morello, or I swear I’ll never forgive you for as long as I live.”

  The restraint, the frown fluttered away like a loosed bird. He looked back at her with unguarded desire, and kiss her he did.

  Beatrice was almost excited to tell Benedick, to see his face warm with relief, for his silly tender heart to convince her not to be so mad at Prince; she wanted to show him her plans and get his opinion about them. She took the attic stairs two at a time and opened his door with a single knock as warning. “Ben, I hope that you’re—”

  She stopped. His room was transformed. Everything was packed up. All that remained was the ugly couch, his bare desk, and a small cot that existed after all on the other side of the room.

  When had he done this? She ransacked the past few days for any mention of his departure and came up empty. Two folded letters waited on his desk, her name scrawled on top. She tore open the first; the words barely entered her psyche.

  “By now I’ll be on the 2:17 train . . .

  “. . . home to Manhattan with my father . . .

  “I’ll start university in September . . .

 
“. . . second letter is a copy of the one I sent to Payne Chutney, but I thought you’d like to read it . . .

  “. . . terrible at good-byes, but you’ll tell the others . . .”

  How dare he, how dare he!

  Then finally:

  “Give ’em hell, Clark.

  “—B

  “P. S. It seems I fell in love with you after all, on my own, in spite of that trick. Isn’t that strange?”

  She bounded down the stairs, his useless letters clutched tight in one hand. He had a lot of nerve, prattling on about his plans willy-nilly, telling her he loved her as if it didn’t matter. Oh, by the way.

  “Home to Manhattan”!

  This is your home, idiot.

  Wasn’t it? How could he act as if it weren’t?

  She stared at the tall grandfather clock in the drawing room. Hours. He’d been gone for hours; she was too late. Somewhere her name was being called, but she didn’t move until Hero and Prince found her still standing in front of the clock.

  Hero had a broom in one hand, Prince a bucket and rags draped over his shoulder. “I can’t find the good soap. . . .” Maggie said, trailing behind them.

  “We’re going down to whip the speakeasy back into shape,” Hero said. “Coming?”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said. “I—yes.”

  “You seen Ben?” Prince asked.

  “He just—he left to do this thing, but he’ll be back.” Wouldn’t he? You’ll tell the others. Like hell she would. He could tell them himself if he were so inclined.

  She followed them down the secret entrance and through the door.

  But the lights were already on, and the speakeasy was clean.

  “Papa?” Hero asked, clutching the broom handle.

  Uncle Leo set a chair right side up, his steps slow and heavy, as if he’d aged twenty years in one night. The tables were bare and returned to their normal positions. The bar counter gleamed with fresh polish, and not a speck of shattered glassware was left on the floor. The only evidence from the party was the sprinkling of forgotten gardenia petals, wilted and curled, like a dusting of white tears.

  He must have worked all night to do this.