by Alice Duncan
More silence.
“Well?” I said crisply.
“I don’t want to do it there, either.”
I assumed “there” in this instance was my home. He probably didn’t want to be seen entering our nice little bungalow in the middle of the day instead of merely in the evening, as he did all the time for card games. And a fine time it was for him to begin thinking about the safety of my family, thought I.
“Well?” I said again.
“You going to church tomorrow.”
“I always go to church.” My voice was as cold as Sam’s temper was hot.
“I’ll see you there and talk to you after the ceremony.”
“Service,” I corrected.
“Whatever it is, I’ll talk to you then.”
“Not if you go to the First Methodist Church, you won’t.” He’d surprised me there one Sunday morning about a year earlier. I’d been singing a duet with Lucille Spinks and nearly fainted when I’d seen him looming in the congregation.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to the Salvation Army church tomorrow. A friend of ours is a captain in the Salvation Army, and he invited us to the dedication of a new chapel. So we’re going there.” In that instance, I guess I was using the so-called “Royal Us,” as I still hadn’t confirmed with the rest of my family that they’d join me.
“Yeah, well, I’ll talk to you there. We’ll probably be able to get a minute alone.”
“Probably.” I was none to happy about it, either.
“What was that all about?” Billy asked when I hung up the receiver.
Sighing heavily, I turned to him and slumped into a chair at the table. Our telephone was in the kitchen, so I didn’t have far to go in order to accomplish my slump. “I found out the name of the person who’s tipping Mr. Maggiori about police raids. He’s a policeman.”
Billy whistled softly. “Whoo boy, Sam’s not going to like that.”
“He already doesn’t like it. I don’t like it, either.” After briefly burying my head in my hands, I said piteously, “I’ll be so glad when this whole thing is over.”
“I bet.” Billy sipped from a fresh cup of tea I’d brewed for us right before I telephoned the police station.
I added milk and sugar to my own tea and took an appreciative swig. For some reason, and I don’t know why, I find tea with milk and sugar very comforting.
“I wish I’d never agreed to do this in the first place. I knew Maggiori and his gang were criminals, but I didn’t realize how scared I’d be whenever I was with them.”
“Well, you’re doing your duty as a citizen, I guess,” Billy said doubtfully.
Equally doubtfully, I said, “I guess.”
Billy squinted at me across the table. “So you’re going to the Salvation Army tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I introduced Flossie Mosser to Johnny, just as you suggested, and there seems to be a spark of interest there.” I heaved another largish sigh. “I guess that’s encouraging, anyway. Maybe Johnny can get her to leave that beast who beats her up.”
To my great relief, Billy grinned at me. “I’ll go with you. I want to see this Flossie character.”
My heart leapt up as I beheld my husband, not in the sky, but in a supportive position across from me at the kitchen table. How often did that happen? I can tell you: not often. I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Billy.” A tear dripped from my eye, and I swiped at it with my other hand. “You don’t know how happy that makes me. I really didn’t want to go alone.”
“You won’t be alone,” said my marvelous husband stoutly. “We’ll get the whole family to go. Then, when you have to talk to Sam, you can kind of sneak off to a corner.” He grinned again.
“Thanks, Billy. You’re the tops.”
His grin soured. “Yeah?”
I didn’t want him to sink into one of his despondent moods, so I chirped, “Yes, you are. And I’m afraid you won’t be able to understand the full glory of Flossie’s transformation. She’s toned down her overall appearance, except that she still has that brassy bottle-blond hair. She’s really quite pretty.” When I spoke the words, I realized they were not merely true, but that they surprised me.
When I’d got my first glimpse of Flossie Mosser amongst that crowd of criminals and flaming youth types in the speakeasy, she’d seemed sort of like a gaudy ornament. It had been difficult to think of her as an actual person. But now that she’d adopted tasteful garb and softened her makeup, and I’d become slightly better acquainted with her, I realized she was not merely an actual person, but a good-looking one with feelings, dreams, and ambitions, if only to lift herself out of her present life.
Billy was as good as his word. He talked the entire family, including Aunt Vi, who didn’t hold with any church but the Methodist variety, into attending the Salvation Army the next morning. I called Mr. Hostetter to tell him I’d be absent from the choir. As luck would have it, he wasn’t home, so I spoke to his wife, who was a very nice lady. She didn’t even shriek or anything when I told her why my family planned to defect for the day.
“The Army does valuable work in the community,” she said, which amazed me, since Mr. Hostetter had almost fainted at the suggestion the choir sing “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
Aunt Vi fixed us a delicious dinner, as usual, and when I finally got to bed that night, I actually slept well, and without a headache for the first time in days.
* * * * *
As soon as my family piled out of the Chevrolet—it was always a struggle to get Billy anywhere, since we couldn’t very well stash his wheelchair in the motor, and he couldn’t walk far—a woman rushed up to us. I thought perhaps she’d been assigned by the Army to greet strangers, although she was clad in a nice blue suit instead of a uniform, and I smiled at her.
It wasn’t until she cried, “Oh, Daisy, I’m so glad to see youse guys!” that I realized the woman was none other than Flossie Mosser! Looking absolutely normal! She must have gone to a hair salon and had her hair dyed, because it was a nice light brown color, and all the marcelled waves were gone. She now wore it in a short, but tasteful, bob. I was flabbergasted.
“Flossie! Your hair!”
That was a stupid thing to say since it only made her uncomfortable. She stopped short and began madly patting away at her hair. I grabbed her other hand.
“You look wonderful, Flossie. I honestly didn’t recognize you at first.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I hadn’t expected your hair to be so ... lovely.” I didn’t want to tell her she’d looked like a gaudy doll before and prayed that she’d take my words as praise. “You look truly beautiful.” Only a tiny fib, and I expected God would forgive me for it.
“You think so?” she asked in a small voice, clearly unsure of herself.
“Absolutely!”
When I introduced her to the rest of the family, they all seemed pleased to meet her, although Billy appeared slightly disappointed. I know he was hoping to see the traces of her dissipated former life. Or present life, if Jinx was still in the picture. I wasn’t able to ask her about that, but figured I’d learn soon enough, when I performed my séance on Tuesday. The notion made me shudder. Not of seeing Flossie, but of being with that gang of thugs again.
However, I must say that the Salvation Army puts on a rousing service. Not only was there a lot of music and singing, but people from the congregation stood and told their stories before the sermon. Some of them were even more dismal than Johnny Buckingham’s. One man evidently had begun a life of crime as a child and continued along the same path until he’d been saved by a Salvation Army chaplain who’d visited the jail in which he resided at the time. It was really an interesting—dare I say entertaining? I don’t know if that’s allowed in church—service.
Well, except that Sam was there, glowering at everything from a back pew. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he couldn’t have looked much more sour if he’d sucked on
a lemon immediately prior to entering the sanctuary—which, by the by, was quite nice. The Army didn’t go in for frills. I reckon they spent their money on other things, but the place had nice white walls and a serviceable, if plain, platform up front where the general (or whoever he was) delivered a most inspirational sermon. He reminded all of us in the congregation that Jesus hadn’t limited His works to the gentry but had included everyone in his message of salvation. His sermon was full of joy and God’s forgiveness of sins, which was a heck of a lot better than the hellfire and damnation some churches preached (or so I’ve been told. I’m a Methodist, and we’re fairly tame as far as the brimstone stuff is concerned). All in all, the entire service was quite uplifting.
It was during the sermon that I realized Flossie had started crying. Poor thing. She was sitting in between Billy and me, and I took her hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back but kept sniffling. Poor Flossie. I sensed that her life was about to make a huge turn in a different direction, and I hoped it would be a better one for her. It was while I was trying to offer Flossie comfort that I spied someone in the congregation that, I swear, looked exactly like Stacy Kincaid. After blinking several times, I squinted again at the apparition I thought I’d seen, but whoever it was—it couldn’t possibly have been Stacy—was hidden behind some lady’s big hat. Well, it didn’t matter.
After the service, we all took a side trip to the new chapel, where the minister prayed over it and blessed it. That was nice, too, and the chapel was quite pretty.
And then we were all invited to dine. Ma and Aunt Vi didn’t say anything as the congregation surged toward the place where they were serving the covered-dish lunch. I walked with Flossie since I couldn’t very well desert her to find out what my mother and aunt had thought of the service, but my curiosity ran rampant. I thought it had been swell, and exactly what I’d have liked to hear if I were down and out (which I prayed would never happen).
Thank God for Sam Rotondo.
Boy, I never thought I’d ever say those words. But while the rest of the throng was making a beeline for the food, Sam made a beeline for Billy. He and Pa assisted Billy—they really sort of carried him but tried to make it look as though he was walking on his own between them—to the room where the covered dishes, salads, vegetables, rolls and butter, and cakes and pies had been set out. I guess the Army folks call it a fellowship hall, just like we Methodists do.
Except for the threat of a private conversation with Sam, I actually enjoyed the lunch and the company. Those Army folks are mighty friendly, and they can cook, too. Flossie sat with us, and Johnny Buckingham joined us beside her at a long table. I guess he was a big gun at that church because nearly every person there that day came over to talk to him, and he introduced every single one of them to us and Flossie. They all seemed to be particularly gracious to Flossie, who seemed to blossom under the uncritical attention. It occurred to me that now that her bruises had faded and her hair color and dress had been toned down, she probably didn’t feel so alien in that group. They welcomed her with what appeared to be unfeigned joy, which probably helped as well. It’s nice to fit in.
Only two sour points marred that morning. The first was Sam, even though I appreciated his assistance with Billy. I couldn’t help dreading our pending conversation, although I knew it had to be done. Not only that, but it might well signal the end of what I’d begun to think of as the Maggiori problem.
I was happily munching away on a delicious fried-chicken thigh when Sam bumped my shoulder. Turning my head, I saw him looming at my back. I swallowed my chicken, glanced at Billy who nodded, I sighed deeply and rose from my seat.
“Save my seat,” I told Billy.
“Of course,” Billy said with a grin and a wink at Sam. “I won’t even eat your potato salad.” Huh. It looked as if they were both against me that day.
However, I knew I had to do this, so I followed Sam back into the sanctuary, where we had the place to ourselves. Even the ushers had cleaned up the pews and were probably enjoying the meal I’d been enjoying until now.
Sam started things on a disagreeable note. “Well?”
That’s it. No, “Thanks for doing this for us, Daisy,” or, “Will you please tell me what you’ve discovered.” Nope. Just “Well?” in that bass rumble of his. Phooey.
If that’s the way he wanted to play the game, so be it. “The rat is Peter Frye, and according to Flossie, he’s a policeman. So the leak is one of your own.” I’d have taken more satisfaction out of delivering this piece of information if I weren’t so troubled about having learned that one couldn’t even trust the police in this day of gang wars and illicit booze. I mean, if you couldn’t trust the cops, whom could you trust?
And then Sam truly shocked me.
He said, “Shit.”
And in a church! On Sunday! Even as forgiving a church as the Salvation Army undoubtedly didn’t want people saying words like that in their sanctuary, for heaven’s sake.
“Really!” I said, miffed.
At least he had the grace to say, “Sorry.”
“Do you know this Frye character?”
Sam heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Yeah, I know him. He’s pretty new in the department.”
“Evidently he’s a rotten apple.”
“Yeah. Evidently.” He squinted at me in what was by that time a very dark room since the sanctuary lights had been turned out. “You sure about this?”
“All I know is that I heard Maggiori talking to somebody on the ’phone, and it sounded as if the person he was talking to had connections with law enforcement. Then yesterday, when I was having lunch with Flossie, she said the snitch’s name is Peter Frye, and he’s a policeman.”
“Hell.”
There he went again.
I snapped, “Sam!”
He didn’t apologize that time but only grunted again and turned to go back to the covered dishes. I followed him, feeling crabby. Sam could take one of my good moods and turn it on its head faster than any other person I’d ever met. Well, except for Billy, but Billy’s circumstances were exceptional, and I gave him a lot of leeway. At least I tried to.
The dear man had not only saved my place at his table but had managed to get someone to refill my plate by the time Sam and I got back to my family. Billy scooted a little farther toward me to make room for Sam, for whom he’d somehow acquired a plate, too. Billy wasn’t able to stand in a line, so he must have talked someone else into doing Sam and me this service. What a guy my husband was. Every time his old sweetness resurfaced, I cursed the Kaiser and his deadly gas another few times. On Sunday. In a church. And I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either.
I kept a close eye on Flossie during the rest of the festivities. She’d been quite animated at first, but as the meal progressed, she began to withdraw into herself. I considered this a bad sign. Could it be that, while she’d welcomed the congregation’s greetings at first, she was getting tired of them? I gave her a measuring glance. Or could it be that she appreciated everyone’s friendliness but didn’t believe that she deserved to be among these people in the long run? I glanced measuringly some more. It was difficult to tell, although her symptoms pointed to the latter theory.
Her head was bowed, her chin quivered slightly and, while she tried to smile when Johnny addressed comments to her, she looked to me as if she were trying not to cry. She was merely toying with her food, which was a shame. Not only did she need proper nutrition, but the meal was really delicious. Poor Flossie. I resolved then and there to find Johnny Buckingham on a street corner tomorrow and have a good long chat with him about Flossie. If anyone could help her, I sensed it was Johnny and his Army of earthly saints.
The second sour note (Remember? There were two of them) occurred when I caught sight of the woman I’d thought looked like Stacy Kincaid in the fellowship hall and discovered that she actually, really and truly, was Stacy Kincaid. I dropped my fork.
Billy looked at me. “What’s the matter, Daisy?”
My state of shock was so absolute, I couldn’t speak. I only shook my head for a few seconds before stammering out, “I-I can’t believe it.”
Billy seemed puzzled. For good reason. “What can’t you believe?”
“That-that ... person.” Against etiquette, I pointed a trembling finger.
Billy glanced over to see what I was pointing at, but again the mob had swallowed Stacy up. Or, rather, it had swallowed up the woman whom I believed to be Stacy, although, when I thought about it, I realized that was patently impossible. Stacy Kincaid might frequent speakeasies and horrible people and think it was fun to smoke and drink and drive her mother into an early grave, but she’d never visit a church. Especially not a Salvation Army church. My mind was playing tricks on me.
I shook my head. “I-I ...” I shook my head again, hoping to rattle my brain back into place. “I must be wrong.”
Still bewildered, Billy asked, “About what?”
“Oh, nothing.” Then I laughed, seeing the humor in my wild surmises. “I thought I saw Stacy Kincaid!”
The notion was so utterly ridiculous that Billy laughed too. His laugh turned into a coughing spasm that had me wishing I’d kept my fat mouth shut.
Anyhow, after lunch we thanked Johnny for inviting us and asked Flossie if we could drive her home. Johnny was gracious and seemed genuinely appreciative that we’d come.
“I’ll visit you again, Billy. Take care of yourself.”
“I’ll try,” said Billy, with a trace of his customary bleakness.
“You can do it.” Johnny patted Billy on the back, but when he looked at me, I knew he knew what kind of torment Billy lived with every day. Still, for some reason, when Johnny talked to Billy he never made it sound as though he pitied him. I considered that one of Johnny’s most telling personality points.
He also didn’t say what lots of church people say: “I’ll pray for you.” Billy and I both knew—and I could tell Johnny did, too—that prayers, while nice and kindly meant, weren’t going to do Billy any good. His body was all shot up and his lungs were damaged beyond repair. When I realized Johnny knew exactly what I was thinking because he’d been through the hell and aftermath of that miserable war, too, I darned near started blubbering on the spot. Thank God I controlled myself.