Amie had been sitting very still, looking shocked. “But—but—” she gasped. And yet, reality was sinking in. Everything she’d ever heard people say about proper sex, she realized, had absolutely nothing to do with what had been happening between her and Brunon. She had just misunderstood. A wife’s duty. You must learn to relax more. Yes, a virgin will bleed the first time, and keep bleeding if the man’s too rough.
“Are—are you sure?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Lucy said firmly. “Yes, Amie. Your husband hasn’t been doing it right. That’s why you haven’t been able to get pregnant. Understand?”
“Yes,” Amie whispered, flushed with shame.
Lucy said, “When you go home, look at yourself down there in the mirror. Feel with your fingers where the right place is. And then tell that stupid brute of a husband—I’m sorry, dear, but honestly—tell him the right way to make love to a wife!”
Lucy went home to get dressed for skating. When Amie returned alone to the bar, Johnny was gone, and Brunon was waiting, seething with fury.
“Don’t ever leave this place without my permission!” he thundered. “And stay away from Johnny, do you hear? It’s bad enough that I have to put up with his bookies and his card games in the back room. And now this guy Johnny is asking my wife to go skating with him? Well, you’re not going anywhere tonight, you understand me?”
Amie’s throat felt dry. “He wanted both of us to come. But the doctor said I should get some rest, and drink more water,” she said, reaching for a glass. Brunon slapped her arm, and the glass shattered to the floor.
“Stay away from that guy, you understand me?” he insisted.
“Brunon,” she said quietly, “the doctor told me other things. He told me why I haven’t been able to get pregnant. The nurse said I should talk to you—”
In a split second, she saw the truth cross his face, before he had time to hide it. She saw that Brunon was not as ignorant as everyone supposed he must be.
“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew all along, that this was the wrong way?”
His eyes took on a cunning look. “You’re so damned ignorant,” he said shortly. “Get me my dinner.”
Mechanically, Amie went into the kitchen to heat up some baked beans and add some sausage pieces to it. She heard Brunon banging around and cursing to himself. She knew what tonight would be like.
The doctor had given her some sleeping powders and recommended rest as the best cure. The more Brunon banged and cursed, the more she knew she simply had to get some sleep tonight. She thought about swallowing all of these powders at once to sleep forever.
But to her surprise, she realized that she did not want to die. All these months, she’d thought she did, but now, she knew she wanted to live. Not only that, but she wanted to feel as young as she was, and not a day older.
So when Brunon’s dinner was heated up, Amie, feeling tired and somewhat dazed, took the powders and dumped most of them into the pot and stirred them. She put some powder in his beer, too, and brought it to the table, thinking, This is the best thing to do. Brunon needs sleep, too. Tomorrow, we can talk, and maybe he’ll listen to reason.
Brunon ate and drank rapidly. Amie was as quiet as a mouse, but everything she did seemed to annoy him; he kept scowling and making impatient faces at her.
“Aren’t you going to eat something?” he demanded, so she took a few spoonfuls herself and ate some bread. They would both sleep well tonight.
“Brunon,” she said finally, “if you knew the right way—then why all this time have you been doing it the wrong way? You knew this way we couldn’t make babies.”
He had been eating rapidly and barely looked up. “I hate kids,” he said defiantly. “They cost money, and we can’t afford them. Not now, and not for a long time. You should be glad I’m not making you have sixteen kids. That’s how many my mother had, until she dropped dead. And the babies, some of them died, too. The ones who lived were miserable. You ever try to take a bath in water that five brothers have washed in first? I’d rather raise goats than kids.”
He can’t really mean that, Amie thought, returning to the kitchen to drink a glass of milk. Milk was good, for mothers and for babies. Now that she knew the right way to do things, she didn’t feel so defective. She clung to a small particle of hope that she could still have the life she craved, as a loving wife and the mother of loving children. Why shouldn’t she have that?
Brunon finished his dinner and got sleepy while he sat there drinking his beer. He yawned, looking suddenly exhausted, then rose and staggered into the bedroom, calling out over his shoulder, “Amie, come to bed.”
She washed the dishes first. Then she followed slowly, praying that by the time she got near the bed he would be fast asleep. But he’s such a big ox, she thought. Maybe those powders aren’t enough to make a man like him go to sleep.
He had flung himself down on the bed. “Come on, Amie,” he said, sounding drowsy.
She changed into her nightgown slowly, then approached the bed on tiptoe. He was silent at first. But when she slipped under the covers, he turned to her, all in a rush, his eyes blazing, saying, “I don’t want you talking about us to other people anymore, you hear me? Not Johnny or his stupid brother, or some ugly doctor, or even some smart-ass nurse, you hear me, Amie? You’re my wife, and you do as I say!”
“No, not that way, Brunon!” she whispered in dismay as he climbed on top of her, regardless of all she’d said about it. He was too heavy and she could not move.
But he kept repeating, “You do as I say!” until his energy was finally spent. And at that point, the sleeping powders had their effect on Brunon. He fell asleep right then and there, with his full weight pinning her down. Disgusted, Amie pushed him off her and crawled out of the bed. Brunon had rolled over on his back, and he lay there undisturbed, snoring loudly, as if he would sleep forever.
But he won’t, Amie thought as she went into the bathroom. He’ll wake up and behave like a beast every day of his life—and mine. There will be no peace. Not now, not ever.
She washed the blood off her nightgown just as she had done so many times before. The sheets would need washing tomorrow morning, and Brunon would pretend he hadn’t seen it, and their world would keep turning and turning the same way, over and over again. He would never change, because he didn’t want to, and because he simply didn’t care how she felt about it. And how would Amie face people, now knowing the sordid truth of her own life? The shame would engulf her until she might as well be dead.
The familiar dull sensation of hopelessness returned to her and was all the more awful after that small spurt of hope she’d just experienced. She went into the kitchen thinking about the skating party she’d missed tonight. They were all so healthy. It was hard even to imagine having the energy to be that happy. She could feel herself growing older by the minute.
And yet, sitting here at the kitchen table, she felt something else. She was hungry. There were still some beans left over. She could heat them up. Brunon had eaten all the sliced meat, but there was more sausage in the icebox, which she could add to the beans for herself. She must keep up her strength, the doctor had said, so she could fight off this chest infection and finally get well.
Amie picked up the knife and began to slice the sausage. But she had to stop, seized by a sudden panic. The sausage felt like something else, something familiar, and she didn’t want to touch it. She put the knife down, and heard herself wheezing for breath. She could feel her own life ebbing out of her, like blood. She heard Brunon, snoring louder than ever. She remembered countless nights lying beside him, praying he wouldn’t wake up again that evening—praying, in fact, that he would never wake up—then asking God to forgive such terrible thoughts. The shame, the hopelessness, the brief flicker of anger, the guilt. It was all so exhausting, like a merry-go-round that would not let her off until she died. One thought remained: She did not want to get into that bed again with Brunon. Not tonight, not ever again.
She tried to resume slicing the sausage. But instead, still holding the knife, her arm simply dropped to her side. Nothing seemed worth any effort. Numbly, she left the kitchen and headed back to bed. She felt woozy. Brunon was lying on his back, stark naked, his penis exposed, smaller and more innocuous now. He was deeply asleep; he’d stopped snoring.
Like a sleepwalker, she moved closer, thinking, If he doesn’t want children, then he doesn’t need it. It must be a burden to him. They would both be so much better off without it. He had turned it into a weapon of hate instead of a tool of love. She was so tired of all the hatred.
Afterwards Amie did not remember exactly how it happened. She only knew that one minute her arm hung limp beside her, still clutching the knife; then, in one swift moment, she made her move. She did not notice if Brunon even stirred. The next thing she knew, she was back in the kitchen with that thing in her hand, where, at last, it could no longer hurt her. She couldn’t keep this thing here, where he might find it when he woke.
So she carried it into the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet. She washed out her nightgown and hung it to dry. She washed the dishes, put on a bathrobe, went into the tiny parlor, and sat in the chair where she usually did her sewing. She pulled her shawl around her chest and put a pillow behind her head. Having eaten some spoonfuls of the bean dinner, she dimly understood that it had more sleeping powder in it than she’d realized, which must have been why she felt so distant from her own body. Now she just let herself drift off into slumber.
Hours later, there was a knock on the door. Amie woke with a start and could not imagine who would come calling at this hour on a Sunday. Even so, she was prepared for anyone—a policeman, a priest, a neighbor—when she opened the door.
But it was Johnny and Lucy and Frankie, returning from their skating party. They had seen her light on and wanted to say hello, have a drink with her and Brunon. Johnny looked a bit worried and seemed to be checking on Amie.
“Brunon’s asleep,” Amie said, as if in a trance. Lucy instinctively felt that something was very wrong here. She told the men to go downstairs, so she could speak to Amie alone.
When Lucy asked what was wrong, Amie was in such a fog that her reply sounded as if it came from an eerie other world. “The doctor gave me powders so I could sleep. Brunon ate some, too. And he had beer. Maybe you should see if he’s all right.”
“How many powders did he take?” Lucy asked, confused.
“I’m not sure,” Amie said in her foggy, dazed way. With a certain dread, Lucy forced herself to tiptoe into the bedroom, expecting to have to deal with a hostile drunk.
Lucy didn’t stay in that bedroom long. “Who did this to him?” she demanded. Amie didn’t answer. “Amie, for God’s sake,” she began sternly.
But now Amie was shaking uncontrollably, like a stray puppy on the street in the pouring rain, her eyes looking huge in the way abused animals and children appeared.
“Was it you?” Lucy whispered.
Amie only nodded, still shivering. “I just had to make it stop,” she quavered.
If this poor girl goes to prison she won’t last a week, Lucy thought. She hurried downstairs, where the men were seated in Amie’s bar, pouring drinks and talking in low voices.
“Lucky Luciano is going to jail for at least thirty years,” Johnny was saying. “Got railroaded on a trumped-up charge of ‘aiding and abetting compulsory prostitution.’”
“Aw, c’mon, that case won’t hold up. He’ll get off on appeal,” Frankie replied.
“Nah. Pop says the D.A.—Tom Dewey—has had it in for Lucky all along, and they’ll throw away the key forever,” Johnny said. “It’s Frank Costello who’ll replace Luciano as Boss now. Strollo will still be capo of the Greenwich Village Crew, but he’ll answer to Costello.”
“Costello’s all right,” Frankie said. “He’s a classier act than most, and he’s got all the politicians in his pocket. Pop says he won’t ask for more of a cut from us than we can bear.” They looked up and saw Lucy emerging from the shadowy hallway.
She’d recognized those terrifying names from the newspapers but never knew anyone to drop them so casually. Well, tonight a gangster is just what I need, she thought. She walked right in and told them everything. She knew that she could trust these men to help her with a situation like this.
“Amie did what?” Frankie asked incredulously.
“I think he was already half-dead from the sleeping powders,” Lucy said. “No sign of a struggle. I don’t believe she meant to kill him. She just couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“Serves him right. You don’t know just how much abuse that poor girl’s been putting up with,” Johnny said. He added urgently, “I love her, Frankie. We’ve got to help her.”
Frankie studied him for a long moment. “All right, Johnny,” he muttered.
Johnny stepped away to pick up the telephone. Frankie turned to Lucy now. “Babe—we can’t ever tell anybody else about this. You understand?”
Lucy’s eyes searched Frankie’s face, the face of the man she loved, the only man she’d ever trusted.
“I do,” she said. “I do understand.”
But she was still a little surprised when the person Johnny called was their father.
“We need a clean-up crew here tonight, Pop,” she heard him say. “It’s got to be done. Otherwise the entire bar and all its operations will be in jeopardy. We can’t have cops sniffing around here. Yeah, I understand, Pop. We’ll owe somebody a big favor.”
It didn’t take long. The men who came to remove the body and the bloody mattress were brisk and businesslike.
Incredibly, Amie slept in her chair in the parlor alcove through most of this. Lucy hovered in the kitchen, making coffee, mostly to avoid being around the “clean-up” detail.
But she caught a glimpse of the big man who was in charge of these thugs—and once you saw that terrifying face, you never forgot it. He had coal-black eyes, a nose that curved at the tip like a hawk’s beak, a jaw like a stone monument, and well-slicked hair. His body was big and broad, as imposing as an icebox. He strode in and surveyed Brunon’s body, then his gaze rested on the dead man’s bloody crotch. His mouth twisted into an ugly grin of comprehension, and his eyes were alight with such sadistic pleasure that he looked half-mad.
“Where’s the missing piece?” he asked. His men shrugged. “This is not a detail you want to leave behind,” the big man growled. The other men looked about uneasily.
At that moment, Amie stirred from her chair in the parlor alcove. She’d been so mousy-quiet, the men had barely noticed her. But now she spoke.
“I flushed it,” she said in that eerie, faraway voice. The big man gazed at her in fascination, causing Amie to realize that her bathrobe had fallen open slightly, revealing her large, lovely bosom. Like a dreamer, she pulled up her shawl and turned away.
Johnny and Frankie had been helping the crew. But now Johnny went over to Amie, protectively reaching up to close a curtain that shut off the alcove, hiding her.
When the strange men were finally gone, the room looked entirely blameless. Lucy tried not to think about how professionally it had been taken care of. They were more scrupulous, even, than the hospital.
Johnny poured another round of drinks downstairs in the bar. This time, Lucy joined them. Frankie had been on the telephone, but now hung up, swore under his breath, and looked keenly at his brother.
“Christ, Johnny! Do you know who those guys were?” he demanded.
“Strollo’s men, right?” Johnny said impatiently. “So what?”
“It only started with Strollo. This had to go higher up, to get it done fast and get it done right. We just had a visit from Murder Inc., man! And the big guy? That was Albert Anastasia! We just raised the devil out of hell.”
There was a long pause before Johnny spoke again. “It had to be done. It’s in everyone’s interest to protect this place. We’re good earners now. We can handle whatever comes.”
/> Lucy stifled a gasp and hurried on upstairs. She knew instinctively what she must do, right this second. Amie had not once moved from her chair in the parlor, still looking confused, until finally, in a childlike way she said to Lucy, “Brunon is dead?”
“Yes,” Lucy said shortly. “Yes, and you did it, Amie. And Johnny and his family are going out of their way to help you, so that you don’t go to jail. So, no matter how you feel tomorrow, or the next day, or month, or years after, you must never, ever speak of this again, or tell anyone, or even say his name to anyone, ever again—even the priest in the confessional—or you will send all of us to jail. Do you understand me, Amie?”
Lucy was speaking sharply now, and she grasped Amie’s shoulders so that they would look each other in the eye. “Don’t act stupid with me, girl. I need to know that you hear me and understand. We all protected you tonight. Now you must protect us. So tell me you understand, Amie, and that you will never feel sorry and try to confess to anyone. Say it, Amie. You won’t betray us. Eh? Or, if you can’t keep quiet, then tell us right now, and we’ll take you to the police tonight, and you can confess everything.” She gave her shoulders a shake. “Answer me, Amie!” Lucy cried.
Amie seemed to suddenly awaken, looking straight at her, clear-eyed. When Amie spoke, it was in a calm voice that was new, even to her, yet it seemed like the voice of someone who’d always been there, simply waiting to come out.
“All right. I won’t tell. I won’t go to jail for Brunon,” Amie said firmly. “And I will never betray you and Johnny’s family.”
“Swear it on the soul of your father and mother,” Lucy insisted.
It seemed to Amie in this moment, with Johnny and Frankie and Lucy circling like pioneer wagons around her, that this was the first time anyone had really tried to protect her. So, this was her real family. She would die for them, if she had to. Yes, this she could do.
The Godmothers Page 8