by Renée Rosen
• • •
One week later, when I was feeding Hannah, trying to get her to use her spoon, Bugs and Hymie stopped by to tell me Shep had been moved to Chicago’s House of Corrections on Twenty-sixth Street and California.
“But why?” I asked, looking up just as Hannah plastered a handful of creamed corn into her hair. I blew out a sigh so deep it fluttered my bangs. “If he’s supposed to be coming home, why are they taking him farther away?”
“This is routine,” said Hymie. “It happens whenever someone goes away.”
That was how they referred to it. Going away. No one ever spoke about anyone being in jail, as if the word were taboo. Instead they all just went away.
“They only keep you in the Hubbard County Jail for a couple days—a week at the most,” said Bugs.
“Why didn’t someone explain that to me?” I wiped the paste from Hannah’s hair and took the bowl of creamed corn away, which only made her fuss more, running her fingers through the slop on her high chair tray. “I want to talk with his lawyer.” I stood up and wiped my hands on the front of my apron.
“That’s not gonna do any good,” said Bugs. “Shep doesn’t want you getting caught up in all that. We’re talking to the lawyer every day and as soon as we hear anything, we’ll come and tell you.”
“In the meantime,” said Hymie, reaching into his breast pocket for an envelope, “here.”
“What’s this?” I looked inside.
“Two hundred,” Hymie said before I’d had a chance to count it. “That should hold you.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged. “If you need more, you come see me.”
I wasn’t even aware that I was pacing until Bugs grabbed hold of my shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay, Vera. We’re making good progress on the appeal and we’re gonna lean on the judge. Don’t you worry about them moving him. Shep’s gonna be out of there any day now.”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
Hymie and Bugs let themselves out and I called to the housekeeper, told her I was going out and to watch Hannah until I got back.
As I was walking out the door, Hannah cried out, “Da-da! Da-da!”
• • •
Twenty minutes later I arrived at the law office of Henry C. Brice, Esquire. His secretary tried to stop me, saying he was on a telephone call but I barged into his office anyway. Brice looked up from his desk and, as if we’d had an appointment all along, he stood up, crossed the room and welcomed me in.
“Come sit down. Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?”
I shook my head. “I just want to know what’s going on with Shep’s case. Why did they move him? Why is this appeal taking so long?”
“Just come sit down and I’ll explain everything.”
He tossed out a lot of phrases like petition the court, plaintiff in error, the appellee’s plea, the series of injunctions. . . . He said the courts were overloaded and we were on a waitlist for Shep’s case, but it was solid. We had nothing to worry about.
When I got home that afternoon, I fixed myself a drink, lit a cigarette and resumed my pacing—right in the same spot where I’d paced earlier that day. Back and forth I went until the housekeeper came and stood in the doorway.
“Mrs. Green?” She hesitated when I looked up. “It’s Friday and . . .”
“And?”
She cleared her throat. “This is the day Mr. Green pays me.”
“Oh, I see.” I went over to my pocketbook, propped my cigarette between my lips and squinted to keep the smoke from my eyes. I took out a five. The housekeeper looked at the bill in her hand and then looked up at me. I had no idea what Shep paid her each week but clearly it was more than that. I went back to my pocketbook and gave her another five. She thanked me and went upstairs to give Hannah her bath.
I stayed in the living room, watching the shadows grow longer as the sunlight slipped away from the windows. Finally I went into Shep’s office and poured myself another drink. When I’d worked up the nerve, I began to shuffle through the bills for the electric, the water, the telephone, the mortgage and car payments. There were bills from Marshall Field’s, Carson Pirie Scott, my dressmaker, Shep’s tailor and Hannah’s doctor. I made a list of all the other household expenses and finished off my drink. I had no idea how much coal we needed every month or what arrangements Shep had worked out with the iceman and the milkman. What did he pay the gardener each week?
Whenever I needed money for groceries or anything else, Shep gave me plenty with more to spare. We lived well—very well—I knew that much, but until Shep went away, I had no idea what it cost to be us.
I collected the bills and stuffed them in the top drawer, unwilling to look at them anymore. My neck was stiff with tension and from leaning over the desk all afternoon. When I couldn’t sit there any longer, I went and checked on Hannah. She was fast asleep, without a care or worry and I wanted to keep it that way.
As more time passed, I tried to remain optimistic. I wrote to Shep almost every day—sometimes twice a day—filling up two and three pages, front and back. Every day I checked the mailbox, hoping for a letter from Shep, but instead, all I found were more bills. Bugs and Hymie assured me that Shep was doing fine and that the appeal was moving forward. When I said I was running low on money, Hymie produced another envelope and on top of that, he reached into his own pocket and handed me a couple extra twenties.
One afternoon Cecelia came over and told me about the first time Vinny went away.
“I think it’s harder on us than it is on them,” she said, looking over the bottles on the bar before selecting the scotch and pouring us each a glass.
“Shep doesn’t want me to go see him.”
“Ah, sometimes they get like that. Stupid pride. Vinny said the same thing, but I went anyway. It’s not so bad. Really.” She handed me a glass. “Just be glad he’s out here on California and not downstate at the penitentiary. That was worse. I wouldn’t put a dog in there. Maggots this big.” She spread her fingers three inches apart. “They got no toilets. There’re two and three men to a cell. They just piss and shit wherever they want. And they only let them bathe once a week. . . .”
I set my glass down and reached for a cigarette.
“The main thing is to keep busy. But I’m not gonna kid you. When Vinny went away, it was a long six months.”
Six months! “I won’t make it six months.” I shook my head and took a long pull from my drink. “I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t come home soon.” Even as the words left my mouth, I thought of my mother going it alone all those years after my father had been killed. God, please don’t let me end up like her. “I won’t be able to make it without him.”
“You’d be surprised, toots. You’re a lot tougher than you think. It’s this sort of thing that shows you what you’re really made of. . . .”
• • •
Later that evening Basha called, asking if I wanted company. It was the third night in a row that she’d come to see me.
After I’d gotten the baby to sleep, I came back downstairs. “Feel like playing gin?” I asked.
“I don’t know what I feel like doing.” Basha went over to the bar and fixed herself another gin martini, reaching into the ice bucket with her fingers. “Squeak was supposed to come over tonight and at the last minute, he calls and cancels. I didn’t get to see him last night or the night before, either.”
“Oh, so now I get it!” I lit a cigarette and drew a deep puff. “That’s why you’re here—because Squeak’s at home with his wife.”
“Ah, no. It’s not just because of that. I wanted to come over tonight. No, really, I did. I’m here for you, you know that.”
“It’s okay, Basha. I get it.” I held up my hand to cut her off. “It’s okay. Spare me!” Basha’s visits may have been more about consoling her than me, but still, she was company; and at night, after Hannah was in bed, the house grew so still even my favorite radio programs couldn’t fill the quiet.
Basha finished her drink and contemplated another one while she told me her latest plans for Mrs. Squeak. “I was reading up on black widow spiders. Turns out even a bite won’t kill her if she gets to a doctor in time.”
“So what do you hear from Viola these days?” I had to change the subject. Basha may have been my friend, but I was a wife just like Mrs. Squeak. At times, I took Basha’s vindictive spirit toward her as a personal affront.
In the days and weeks ahead, Basha was company whenever it was convenient for her, but it was Evelyn and Dora who were my rocks. Especially Dora, who was always helping out with Hannah. There were plenty of afternoons when the housekeeper had the day off that Dora would encourage me to get out of the house.
“Go do some shopping or take a walk. I’ll watch Hannah for you.”
“No, I shouldn’t. She’s been fussy all day.”
“She’ll be fine. Go on. Don’t worry about us.”
After going back and forth, Dora would persuade me to take some time for myself, listening patiently as I’d remind her which toys were Hannah’s favorites and what blanket she liked to nap with and which pacifiers to use.
“I know. I know,” Dora said each time, ushering me to the door. “Now get out of here. We’ll be fine.”
Usually on those days I’d escape to the picture show, hoping to lose myself in the dark theater for an hour or two. But as the screen flickered in the blackness all I could do was fret over whether Dora had remembered to put Hannah down for her nap, if she’d given her an extra blanket in case she was cold, if she’d put the ointment on for her diaper rash. . . . I’d shift in my chair, trying to follow the movie, but all I did was worry about Hannah, and then Shep. By the time the picture was over and the lights came up, I couldn’t have told you what the movie was about.
• • •
I woke in the middle of the night and reached for Shep—a habit I couldn’t break. I was always surprised at first to find his half of the bed empty, the sheets cool beneath my hand. Grabbing Shep’s pillow, I hugged it to my chest. This time of the night was the hardest for me. I was used to Shep being gone during the days and in the evenings, but at two or three in the morning, I didn’t know what to do without him. I took him for granted, always assuming he’d be here for Hannah and me. He was our cornerstone; he was what made our life together work.
A chill swept through the room and I reached for Shep’s bathrobe and covered my shoulders. I knew it was a silly thing to do, but each night before I turned in, I always put his robe at the foot of the bed, just like he used to do when he was home. In the mornings, before the housekeeper would see, I’d hang it back in his closet. I pulled the robe up to my chin, smelling the collar, still alive with the spicy scent of his shaving soap.
I was about to drift back to sleep when I heard Hannah crying. I pulled on Shep’s robe and went to her.
“What’s the matter, sweetie,” I asked, turning on the night lamp and scooping her up in my arms. I brushed the dark curls from her eyes and saw that her long black lashes were webbed with tears. Those curls and dark eyes had to belong to Shep. They just had to.
“You miss Daddy, too, huh?” I held her as I sat in the rocking chair that squeaked each time we pitched forward and back. “When you’re older,” I said to her, “you’re going to hear a lot of unkind things about your father, but don’t you believe them. He’s had to do a lot of things—terrible things—that he didn’t want to do. No matter what people tell you, just remember your father’s a good, decent man.” I was saying this as much for myself as I was for her, maybe more so. “And he loves you. He’d be here with you right now if he could. So don’t listen to what people say, because they don’t know him like we do.”
Hannah gurgled and cooed, and as she reached up with her tiny outstretched hand, a tear ran down my cheek and splashed against her fingers. I rocked her and before long she was back asleep and so was I.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
It was a brisk October day. The air smelled of burning leaves and manure from a carriage that had just clomped by. I was on my way to Schofield’s to talk to Hymie and ask for more money. I was already behind on most of my bills. Plus, Hannah, whose weight had more than doubled in the past six months, was outgrowing her clothes as fast as I could replace them.
I was at the corner of Superior and State, waiting for a streetcar to pass, when I spotted Hymie coming up the sidewalk. He was with another man and his two bodyguards. Those oversize thugs with their thick necks and broad, burly shoulders had been sticking close to Hymie ever since the Standard Oil Building shootings. His bodyguards had started out as Little Pishers. Now they were just bigger Little Pishers.
As Hymie crossed the street a few yards in front of me, I heard a loud bang. It sounded like an automobile had backfired, but not a second later there were screams and a long, steady eruption of noise. Clouds of dust billowed up, coming off the limestone on the front of Holy Name Cathedral. It took a moment before I realized I was in the midst of gunfire. It was machine gun fire, rattling off round after round after round. I went stiff. Couldn’t move. I heard the bullets soaring past my ears as more dust kicked off the limestone facade of Holy Name.
Both the bodyguards were down, one lying in a pool of blood in the middle of State Street, the other collapsed just steps away from Schofield’s. Hymie was running for cover when he froze, arched his back and stretched his arms out to his sides as his legs buckled and he dropped to the ground. His eyes were wild, bulging open as blood trickled from his nose and mouth.
I heard myself cry out, “Nooooo!”
Hymie tried to get up but another round of bullets flattened him on his back, making his body jump as each new round pelted him. The pavement was sprayed in blood and the bullet holes in his suit coat were smoldering.
I gagged when I saw bits of brain coming out the top of his head. I couldn’t look anymore. My legs gave way beneath me, and the next thing I knew the sky was spinning overhead and someone was shaking me.
“Miss? Miss? Are you okay? Were you hit?” A man stood over me with blood splattered down the front of his shirt. There were screams and the sound of tires screeching around the corner.
“Have you been shot?” he asked again.
I didn’t know. I didn’t think so. I was numb and later would vaguely remember him helping me to my feet. I heard the sound of sirens growing louder, approaching the scene as a flurry of people gathered around the bodies lying in the street and along the steps of Holy Name Cathedral.
I gathered myself together as the ambulances arrived to tend to the dead and wounded. By the time they were leaving, I had made it inside Schofield’s, where I telephoned Evelyn. Cupping my ear against the whine of the sirens, I explained to her very matter-of-factly what had happened.
“Stay put, Vera. I’m on my way.”
I hung up the telephone and stared at the floorboards. They were worn and uneven, and some looked charred in spots, as if they’d once caught fire; others had splits running down the length of them. I realized that I could have been standing in the very spot where Dion O’Banion had been gunned down almost two years before. It seemed wrong, standing there, like I was standing over his grave. I stepped to the side and when that didn’t feel like it was enough, I moved to the opposite end of the room.
There was chaos inside the shop with police officers and reporters coming in and out, asking questions. Some I answered; some I knew I shouldn’t. The heavy scent of flowers was nauseating me.
As soon as Evelyn arrived, I took one look at her and began to cry. By the time she got me home, I was hysterical.
“His body was full of bullet holes,” I said as she helped me into bed and placed a cold compress on my forehead. I covered my mouth and sobbed. “I can’t believe I’m crying like this. What’s the matter with me? You’d think Hymie Weiss was my best friend.” I sat up and bawled into her shoulder.
The doorbell sounded and she pulled away. “I’ll be right back,” she s
aid. “That must be the doctor. I asked him to come by and give you something to help you sleep.”
Even after the doctor left, I was restless. When I did finally fall asleep I had nightmares filled with the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire going off.
The next day I slept until noon, and though I was still groggy from the sleeping pills, something about me was different. I couldn’t explain it. It was as if all those tears I’d cried for Hymie and for myself had hardened into a shell around me. You’d think it would have been just the opposite, but after seeing a man gunned down, after having my husband taken away, nothing was getting through my skin anymore. It was just like Cecelia said. I was tougher than I realized. And if all this hadn’t broken me, there was nothing else that could.
• • •
With Hymie dead, Drucci was now in charge of the North Side Gang. And he was also in charge of me. Every few days he came by the house with an update on Shep’s case, which as far as I could tell was at a standstill. He’d pacify me with promises that all was moving forward and hand me an envelope, which seemed to be getting lighter by the drop.
One time I looked inside the pouch and then back at Drucci. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s it.”
“Vinny!” Dread moved over me.
“That’s all I got to spare right now,” he said without apology, checking his pocket watch, as if I were keeping him from something more important.
“But I can’t live on this. I have a child. I have bills. What about the Meridian? There has to be money coming in from the club.”
“The Meridian’s been sold,” he said.
“Sold? To who?”
“Look, we had to, okay. Izzy couldn’t run the place by himself without Shep. We had no choice.”
“But what about the money from selling the club?”
“Gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Vera, you weren’t the only one depending on the Meridian for your income. Now listen to me. I’m doing what I can for you, but you gotta understand, Hymie’s gone now. Over the past few weeks a dozen of my best men have been taken out by Capone. I don’t have enough men left to keep the sauce moving. I got warehouses packed to the gills and thirsty customers, so unless you wanna start hauling hooch,” he said with a laugh, “I can’t keep you in the grand style that Shep did.”