Laura blushes and drinks her brandy.
Amelia notices the breeze coming through her open window.
“You didn’t climb through there did you?”
“She knocked. Multiple times.”
“So you figured a two-story drop was worth the chance to escape.” Normal people don’t do that.
Laura shakes the brandy bottle. “The promised company helped.”
Amelia drops into the chair opposite and accepts the proffered drink. She’s always been a sucker for sincere flattery. Even when it’s meant to distract her. “That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”
Laura brightens.
“This week.”
The way Laura deflates makes Amelia feel a little better. She knows it isn’t Laura’s fault she’s a high class prostitute getting banged around by guys with more money than goodness in ’em, but Amelia’s day’s been rotten and teasing Laura helps a little.
She’s not proud of it.
She drinks too much for one gulp.
Really not proud of it.
Some of the brandy hits the wrong pipe and she coughs. Laura leans forward like she’s gonna pat her on the back, and Amelia has to hold up her hand to ward her off.
Laura smirks. “Thought you Italians could handle your liquor.”
“Maybe, but half of me’s teetotaler Puerto Rican. Besides, you try routing it down the wrong pipe.” She wheezes.
“No, I’m fine sending it down the right one, thanks.” To illustrate Laura sips her brandy, and Amelia tries not to watch the way her throat undulates when she does.
“And you’re really half Puerto Rican?”
“What? You think I just have an especially nice tan?”
Laura shrugs, and Amelia leans back so she can appraise her own face in the mirror. It’s hanging on the closet door, clear on the other side of the apartment, but it still gives a good image. She maybe missed out on some of her dad’s swarthier coloring—but her hair’s dark enough and her skin’s got enough of olive in it that nice places would turn their nose up at her. Least she dodged her dad’s hairy bullet. Something her sister can’t say. Woman has had to shave her mustache once a week since she was twelve.
Laura honest-to-God chuckles. “I suppose I should have guessed from a last name like Maldonado. So what made your family choose Brooklyn?”
“My dad was one fella from Puerto Rico versus a whole mess of Italians boys on my mom’s side. They probably would have dragged us down to South Brooklyn if he hadn’t agreed.”
“You make your mother’s family sound…”
Amelia looks up from her drink.
“Unsavory,” Laura finishes, seemingly half-embarrassed by her own words.
There’s a bad joke in there about food. Amelia just shakes her head. “Most of the family is just fine.”
“Most?”
“Well, every family has a bad egg, don’t they? Even the Wrights, right?”
Laura pours herself another drink. “Afraid I’m the bad egg in the Wright family.” She drinks half the glass and tops it off. “Twenty-eight and,” she toasts no one in particular, “shamefully unmarried.”
They both drink a little more and then some more, and it’s only after Amelia loses count that she notices the newspapers still laid out on her coffee table. Working as a coaster for that big ol’ bottle of brandy.
Laura doesn’t ask about the papers. Thank God.
Instead, she talks about work—at the factory—with a hint of a grimace she fails at hiding behind her glass when she drinks. She speaks fondly of a war Amelia never hears people speak fondly of. She sips her brandy and leans her elbows on the table, and a lot of the mystique that props her up is gone.
And it should knock the bloom right off of whatever rose Amelia’s carrying for her, but it doesn’t.
So, she gives them some space by rising from the table and flopping onto the bed.
“You didn’t spill a drop,” Laura observes. She’s twisted in the chair so she’s facing Amelia, and Amelia’s mouth is dry and other parts of her are wet. Brandy with Laura Wright after a long day was a bad idea.
“That’s nothing. Give me six plates and a pot of coffee and then you’ll really see a show.”
Laura goes cipher on her again. Face perfectly still, and only her eyes moving. Focused. Piercing. Like they could see everything. “This one’s good enough.”
She wonders if maybe that isn’t Laura’s cipher face. Maybe it’s another kind of face. Maybe she’s schooling bad thoughts too.
She chews on her lip.
Laura’s eyes are quick, but Amelia still sees the way they dart to her mouth and back again.
She scoots over on the bed.
Laura makes it onto the bed too. Eventually. Amelia doesn’t know how long it takes because she’s not about to glance at the clock. That’s how spells are broken. And whatever’s happening between them is a spell. Glossy and muted like a love scene in a movie.
The brandy makes it to the bed, too, and Amelia sets it on her bedside table. “Never get liquor on the sheets,” she explains. “Edith’s got a nose like a bloodhound.”
“Just for liquor?”
She ticks them off with her fingers. “Liquor, cigarettes, reefer, hot dogs, cats, actual dogs, a ferret—I’m still not clear on how that got in—and m—”
“Men.” Laura finishes Amelia’s sentence with a grin. It’s the closest to a giggle she’s ever seen her.
“She can smell a guy even when he’s on the street. One time, a girl wore her boyfriend’s coat up the stairs and ol’ Edith came this close to tackling her.” She makes a tiny space between her thumb and finger and holds it up for Laura’s amused inspection.
Laura’s fingertips brush the inside of Amelia’s wrist as she pushes her hand away. She’s still laughing. “And the ferret? How on earth did she smell it?”
“No one knows! My theory is she’s got fancy training during the war. Super soldier nose.”
“Oh, they just issue those, do they?”
Because she’s had one too many, she grabs Laura’s nose and wiggles it gently. “You tell me.”
That gets another laugh and a playful hand slap. Then Laura reaches over her to pour more brandy, and Amelia catches a glimpse of all those things she’s been trying real hard not to think about. She pointedly focuses on Laura’s back. The play of muscles under that silk robe. She tries not to think about the eyeful she just got. Tries not to think about how things could be real easy.
Laura’s laughing as she’s pouring her brandy. Her back shaking with all that mirth.
She starts to right herself, and the laughter stops.
Time stops.
It doesn’t really. She’s pretty sure she can hear the tick tick tick of her clock and cars on the streets and Hayseed warbling down the hall in her room.
But on the bed. In the precise confines of that mattress and frame. Time stops.
Amelia doesn’t breathe because that’ll kick time back into gear. Laura doesn’t either.
They’re just inches from each other. Face to face. Laura’s knee is pressed against Amelia’s thigh. A blaze of heat right there at the point of contact. Like a red-hot fire poker. Amelia can’t ignore her.
She’s just too close. Too there. Too much.
Amelia’s breath hitches in her throat, and Laura’s all cipher again. A code Amelia just wants to read and understand. She wants to know what Laura means when her eyes dart to Amelia’s lips. Wants to understand why she stops breathing too. Why she goes so still. Why her face doesn’t betray any of the feelings Amelia desperately needs her to return.
Amelia just wants to know why time stops when they’re both so close.
Laura supplies the answer. Not w
ith words.
Amelia can hear the clatter of Laura’s glass settling onto the table and she looks toward it—the noise a distraction from the heavy moment sitting between them.
But Laura’s hand on her chin stops her.
And her lips on Amelia’s are all the answers she’s needed.
A hand slips into her hair, and catches on a pin, then stills.
Laura’s ardent.
Passionate.
Fervent.
Laura Wright kisses her, and words Amelia barely remembers reading in high school are flooding through her head. Screw being an actor and screw being good. She could be a writer like Hemingway if Laura keeps kissing her.
Nails scrape against her scalp and when she gasps, Laura’s tongue slips into her mouth. Her fingers scratch at the smooth fabric of Laura’s robe. Her finger tips rough in comparison. Her hands climb from the swell of Laura’s hip, to the curve of her waist. And across the bulky bandages still wrapped around Laura’s middle.
Just like that, time starts back up again. The hands of the clock grind forward with a pained gasp from Laura. Amelia pulls back and is pretty sure she’ll never get the image of Laura’s smudged lipstick and bruised lips out of her head.
Now Amelia’s got the key to her cipher. Can read Laura clear as day. She’s confused. Her breath is hot and sour with brandy. “Amelia.”
She squeezes Laura’s hip. It isn’t the kiss. It isn’t Laura. And it isn’t because they’ve got no future being like they are. It’s bandages still tight around Laura’s ribs. It’s the shadow of the cut behind her ear. It’s her own cousin with a cracked skull.
Amelia swallows. “When you came to the diner half passed out, where were you coming from?”
Laura’s not quite as breathless anymore. “Work.”
Amelia wants to rub small circles with her thumb and never forget how Laura’s body is both hard and soft. “What kind of work?”
And now she’s all hard. She’s a wolf with teeth and she’s far too close. “Why are you so determined to find out?”
“Why are you so determined to hide?”
“Don’t.” She says it like a command. Like she’s said it before and people listened.
“Laura, I like you, but any way you look at us, this is gonna hurt. And right now—” Laura’s up and off the bed abruptly, so all Amelia’s words can do is chase after her. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ you’re gonna kill me.”
Laura’s whole body sinks when she sighs. “I never wanted to kill you, Amelia.” Then she’s out the door. It doesn’t even slam. Just clicks shut as if they were in there playing bridge.
Amelia cleans up the glasses and hides the brandy away.
She doesn’t think about what Laura said. Not because it hurts. As soon as Laura kissed her, she knew it was all gonna hurt.
It was the way she said it—that she never wanted to kill her. She said it like she was sorry. Not for what she’d done, but what she was going to do.
CHAPTER 4
Amelia doesn’t dream of kissing Laura. Even a little bit.
Okay, that’s a lie.
She doesn’t dream of Laura, because, point in fact, she doesn’t dream. Because she doesn’t sleep. She tries, of course, but then she starts running over the conversation and what might have been a veiled threat. Even though she really, really wants to sleep, she just twists around under the covers until the sun’s up in the sky and pale light streams through the window.
The sky’s a gray haze with a little yellow because there’s a great big sun behind it. But mainly it’s gray. And the city’s gray, too. It’s as depressing as walking through the sea of fellows in the same suits and hats on the way to the train.
It stays gray all day. It brings down the mood of the folks who come in asking for a cup of coffee or a ham and cheese sandwich.
Amelia, being the middle kid between two brothers who always had to step between fights and sooth ruffled boy feathers, just smiles harder. Her cheeks hurt by the end of the day, and that makes her think of her and Laura talking about Hayseed. And that makes the rest of her hurt because Laura Wright’s slit a hole in Amelia’s skin and crawled inside. She’s pretty sure there’s no way she’s gonna get her out.
Traveling to Brooklyn after work is more of an ordeal than usual. The train’s backed up and decides to skip her stop, which sends her twenty minutes and one bus ride out of her way. When she finally steps onto the narrow, tree-lined street her uncle lives on, the sun’s well past set and most folks have moved off their stoops to warm up inside. A couple of houses are glowing with friendliness, and she can see families gathering around eating warm dinners.
Amelia’s stomach wishes she was there for a warm dinner.
But nope. Instead, her uncle’s sitting on the bench in his front garden. The whole neighborhood is built up in blocky brownstones with big front gardens that stretch out toward the street. A lot of ’em have actual gardens—full of food for eating.
Her uncle just has a big tree and lots of flowers and prickly bushes you wouldn’t want to fall in. When it’s sunny out, he totters around with a watering can and pretends to be older and more senile than he is.
But now he’s just sitting on his bench, reading one of his mystery books. He idolizes the guys in them. Fellas like Nick Charles and Sam Spade. Smart guys. Good guys. But nasty when they have to be. Bashing heads in and keeping the peace through violence there in South Brooklyn. Her uncle probably thinks he’s just like those guys.
She peers at the spine when she’s close enough. It’s about as far from hard-boiled, boy fiction as it can be. “Machiavelli,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “Really? Was I Want Everyone to Think I’m Evil Incarnate checked out of the library or something?”
He chuckles, and it’s supposed to be warm, but it chills her through. She pulls her light coat tighter around herself.
“Running your mouth is what always gets you into trouble, Amelia.” He licks his thumb and turns the page. Never looks at her. She’s not worth it. Not yet. Not to him.
She’s gotta earn his respect.
It rankles her. She shifts on her heels, juts out her jaw, and sucks on her front teeth.
“You should sit.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“After all day in that diner? No, baby doll. Sit.”
She takes the seat next to him and watches him read by the light of the street lamp.
“There a reason—”
He cuts her off just by lifting his hand. Still doesn’t look at her. So she stares at him hard. He’s got big knuckles, thick with arthritis and fleshy fingers that end in neatly trimmed nails. He used to come over, listen to the radio with the whole family, and clip and file them. Real neat like. Clip and file.
“How’s your brother?”
He only means one brother, because the other two still live in the city and probably see him during big family dinners on Sunday. “Happy in Nebraska,” she says. “He’s got a little garage he runs. Wants my ma to come out and visit.”
“Not you?”
She studies the flowers he’s tended to since his wife died. Studying them is better than socking her uncle in the mouth.
“What about acting? You still acting, Amelia?”
One of her hands squeezes the strap of her purse tight and the other digs into her thigh.
He’s not looking at her yet, but his tone is needling. “Still playing pretend?”
She stands jerkily. “Weeeeell, this was real fun. My cousin ever wakes up, you tell him I said hi.”
Her uncle still hasn’t looked up. “Why’d you call about your cousin?”
It’s actual curiosity. Which isn’t something her uncle tends toward. And he’s playing like he doesn’t care, but he’d never have asked if he didn’t. She
sits back down. “I was worried.”
He harrumphs. “We both know how you feel about him. About all of ’em.”
“Yeah. I love the big ape. Him, late trains, and enemas. My favorite things.”
It’s a pretty coarse thing to say, and if her dad were still alive, he would have thumped her with that big gold family ring of his.
Her uncle just glares with those narrow eyes. Like chips of dark glass. “I get the feeling it wasn’t for him. Or even you.”
“You know my ma. Always worried about the nephew she can’t stand.”
It rolls off him like water in a hot pan. “See, I get the feeling you’re doing this for her.” Her uncle knows Amelia. Knows things about her the rest of the family can’t. So he can take something simple like a pronoun and twist it into something… nasty.
She’s proud of herself. She doesn’t squeak or anything. Doesn’t even bulge her eyes a little. Instead she tilts her head back and hopes she looks defiant. “You gonna keep dancing like Fred or you gonna tell me who exactly you think I’m doing this for.”
“That woman. The one who cracked my son’s skull nearly in two and got Jimmy Andronico so scared, no one’s seen him since.”
Jimmy Andronico. Of course. The other guy messing with Laura that night has to be the only guy in the whole wide world to ever get a hand up Amelia’s skirt. Not for the first time, she’s proud of Laura.
But she snorts. “You really think I’d know a broad like that?”
He’s still staring.
“You gotta be kidding.”
“You show up out of the blue asking questions. And I know the kind of friends you keep Amelia. Real funny girls.”
Real funny girls. Queer even. Like her. She’s got her jaw clinched so tight she might crack a tooth.
Her uncle leans in. Tobacco on his breath. “Who is she?”
How can she say when she doesn’t even know? “I got no idea, Vince. But I do gotta wonder why my cousin and Jimmy are running around with broads who aren’t their wives.”
The Lavender List Page 4