1929 (21 page)

Sunday morning, Jonathan and Ava roused at
noon. Jonathan stumbled to the bathroom, and Ava went to the
kitchen to make coffee; both had a mild headache from the previous
evening. Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, she reached for the coffee
from the hanging shelf Patrick helped Jonathan build the week
before.

“We’re almost out of coffee,” she called.
Jonathan didn’t hear her, having his head fully under water. He had
had a good time last night, and just like at the end of the
Halloween party, he hadn’t wanted it to end, forcing him to return
to the doldrums of reality. The brandy provided a soothing blur to
the truth of his circumstances, and the presence of his friends was
reassuring and amusing.

In what was a blend of male bonding and
therapy, the five managed to get thoroughly lit with what little
alcohol was available, rationing having lowered their thresholds.
Mostly it was a night of hilarity, and when conversation became too
deep or gloomy, someone would crack an irreverent joke. Caleb was
particularly good at timing loud and meaningful bodily emissions to
break any quiet tension.

They sat around the small table, playing
cards, and smoking cigars and even created an imaginary barmaid
that they would periodically call out to for refills. And Sven,
Jonathan remembered with a smile, was the most comedic of them all.
Jonathan had only ever seen the hard, serious side of Sven. He
laughed heartily, teased the others, and taught them all to swear
in Russian. He was the highlight of the evening.

Of course, they all presumed that the women
were talking about them, and Aryl’s only reverent moment was when
he secretly hoped that Arianna wouldn’t divulge more details about
the trips to Paris. One trip in particular had left him with a
pressing burden of guilt that he carried every day. Jonathan
remained in his reminiscence until the water grew cold.

When he walked out of the bathroom in muslin
boxers and a white, sleeveless t-shirt, Ava was in the doorway of
the small kitchen with coffee in one hand and a plate of biscuits
in the other. Her head fell forward slightly and her mouth gaped.
She raised one eyebrow as he walked by, looking him over from top
to bottom as the biscuits nearly slid off the plate.

“Wow,” she whispered. Strenuous labor had
given his arms and chest masculine definition, and his shorts hung
loosely on his hips. He rubbed his wet hair with a towel, glancing
over at her with strikingly sapphire eyes.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, leisurely
crossing the room toward her.

“You,” she said, eying him this time from
shoulder-to-shoulder.

“What?”

“Get back in there,” she said quickly,
nodding her head toward the bedroom. She set the plate on the table
and pulled off her apron with a yank. He looked at her, confused
for a second, until she ran her hands up his arms, over his
shoulders and down his chest, grabbing two fistfuls of t-shirt
material that was already stretched tight, and he smirked as he got
her meaning.

“Well, you know, honey, they say you
shouldn’t perform strenuous exercise on an empty stomach,” he said,
grinning slyly.

“Fine. Eat then.” She loaded the plate with
biscuits, shoved it in front of him and sat across from him to wait
impatiently.

He smiled, shaking his head. He enjoyed the
newly assertive side of her and ate very slowly, just to tease. She
huffed her breath at him to hurry him along.

“I wouldn’t want to eat too quickly and get
indigestion, Ava,” he said seriously but with a mocking look. He
still had lingering buoyancy from the night before and smiled at
her with more life in his expression than she had seen in a long
while, and it made him all the more appetizing. She watched him as
he ate; his wet hair tousled and glistening, lingering on every
movement and muscle twitch of his hands and arms. She stared at his
mouth as it opened for each bite, his tongue occasionally licking
his lips and his eyes, deep as the abyss, flashed under dark
lashes. She swallowed hard. Unconsciously, her breathing was
shallow and fast through her nose as she admired, gripping her own
hands like a vise in her lap. He flashed an amused smile.

“You gettin’ started without me over there?”
he teased, relishing in her torment. She flushed scarlet, but
didn’t look away.

“Well, if you’d just hurry up,” she
insisted.

He was being downright cruel when he began
casual conversation about the night before and the day ahead, their
friends and his to-do list, dragging breakfast out as long as he
could. As he ate the last bite, he wished that it could be like
this all the time; lighthearted and teasing. By the time he looked
up from his wish, she was by his side, reaching for his face with
both hands and leaned down to kiss him. He stood without breaking
their kiss and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her so
tight to him that she could hardly breathe. When she pulled away to
catch her breath, he teased her further.

“You know, they say you shouldn’t exercise on
a full stomach.”

“That’s swimming,” she said, pulling the
t-shirt over his head so ferociously a few of the stitches on a
seam popped.

“But I might get cramps,” he whined.

“You’ll live,” she said sternly and attacked
his mouth again, ravenous. He put up no more false excuses,
returned her greedy kiss and lifted her up by the waist, shuffled
toward the bedroom and kicked the door closed behind him.

November 25th 1929

Monday morning came with the shrill ring of
the alarm, and Jonathan pulled himself from his bed to begin
another disciplined week of strenuous work, ravenous eating, and
restless sleep. He was particularly discouraged that Thanksgiving
interrupted the week. No dinner plans existed yet, and he felt torn
between hoping they would furlough the day and working so he
wouldn’t lose pay. They had been hemorrhaging cash, setting up a
new home that required purchasing several primitive tools for
day-to-day life, supplementing heat with bought firewood, and
shopping daily for food as they lacked the convenience of an
electric icebox. He made a mental note to find a box to put on the
fire escape, some chain link and a lock to secure it to the bars
like Patrick had devised. It was cold enough outside to keep milk
and butter, and when the temperature dropped further, they could
freeze some meat. But the box would cause a further dip into their
dwindling savings for yet another expense of poverty. He kissed Ava
goodbye and she felt saddened by the dejected expression that had
returned to his face. She sighed heavily as she closed the door
behind him and began her routine.

∞∞∞

Tony walked slowly, waiting until Jonathan
passed him on his way into the yard before doubling back and
jogging across the street to Victor, who was waiting by a lamppost.
“I messed wit’ dat guy like you said to,” he told Victor proudly.
Victor nodded.

“Good. What did you do?”

“Well, I cut some flour bags, made ‘em spill,
and he got docked pay for it, an’ I stole his coat an’ gloves,
bastard froze the rest of the day an’ got blisters, too, wit-out
his gloves.” He could see Victor was not impressed. “An’ I told a
supervisor he was talkin’ disrespectful-like ‘bout him, so he got
coal duty for a coupla days, boy, that pissed him right off.”
Victor gave a tight smile.

“Anything else?”

“Well, not really, sides tellin’ some of the
bigger fellas at work 'bout his talkin', too. They get in his face
and threaten him regular now, he gets real embarrassed.” Victor
nodded.

“That’s a start, I suppose.”

“Say, not that it’s any of my business, but
what’s ya' beef wit’ this guy anyways?” Tony asked curiously.

“You’re right. It’s none of your business.
You weren’t able to do more than that?”

Tony shifted uncomfortably. “Well, no. See,
he’s always got these two uttha guys wit’ him before an’ afta'
work. It’s not that they’re big guys er nothin’, but wit’ three of
‘em, I’m just not wanting to get my ass kicked, if I’m found out,
ya' know?” he explained, hoping Victor wasn’t too disappointed.

“Do you have any friends, Tony?”

“Well, yeah, course.” He bobbed his head.

“Big friends?” Victor quizzed.

“Yeah, some of ‘em are.”

“Lastly, Tony, do you and your friends want
to make some more money?”

He eyed Victor cautiously. “For doin' wat?”
Tony didn’t frighten easily, but something about Victor did
frighten him. He started to feel dread well up in his stomach as he
expected Victor to ask him to kill Jonathan. Victor could sense the
apprehension and took a step closer to him, smiling as he pulled
three fifty-dollar bills out of his pocket. Tony began bobbing his
head, suddenly not so concerned with morals.

“Yeah, yeah, I'll off ‘im for ya’,” he
volunteered before Victor could ask.

“No!” Victor said, loud and stern. “I don’t
want him dead, you understand?”

“Yeah, I understan’, but if ya’ don’t wanna
off 'im, wat then?”

“I have a very simple but specific request,
Tony.” He waited for Victor’s instructions, glancing from his face
to the money in his fist and back again. Victor could see he was
itching for the cash and would do anything for it. “You gather a
couple of your bigger friends. Catch Jonathan alone. Here’s where
it gets specific, so listen closely, Tony. I want you to beat him,
but strike where it counts. The ribs, kidneys, stomach, but not the
face. I don’t want his pain to be obvious. I want it to be his
alone to suffer through. And not so badly that he can’t work. I
wouldn’t want him to not be able to pay his rent, after all.”
Victor said and smiled cruelly. “But for a couple of weeks, I want
him to feel lingering pain with every move he makes.”

“I can do that easy,” Tony reassured and
reached toward the money. Victor snapped his wrist away.

“No. You get this when the job’s finished.
I’m going to be out of town for a week, and you have that long to
catch him alone. Next Monday, I’ll be waiting here. If it isn’t
done by then, don’t bother to approach me.”

“It’ll be done. Don’t you worry ‘bout that,”
he said with his eyes on the money as Victor stuffed it back into
his pocket.

“Good. I’ll see you in a week then.”

Tony hurried through the gate just as the
whistle blew, thinking about which of his friends he would
recruit.

∞∞∞

Patrick knocked softly on Aryl’s door.

“Patrick, how are ya’?”

“Good and yourself?”

“Good. We really appreciate you showing us
how to make those hanging shelves last week. It’s a great idea.
Hopefully now there’ll be no more cases of the runs.” He laughed,
patting his stomach.

“No bother a'tall. I was wonderin’ if I could
speak to yer wife real quick. Shannon’s puttin' the wee ones to
sleep, and I snuck out on the sly.” Aryl stepped aside.

“Come in. Claire, Patrick needs to speak to
you.”

“Hello, Patrick,” she said, smiling and
wiping her hands on her apron.

“Ma’am.” He nodded. “I had a question to ask
ye, if ye have a moment.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“Well, I know tis a bit early, but I’ve been
thinkin’ on Christmas for Shannon. The babes are young and don’t
know better, but I wanted to do something special for Shannon, and
well, when I found out ye painted and then seeing this,” He pointed
to the mural in progress above the fireplace. “I’ve got to say,
that’s some talent. Absolutely amazin’.”

“Thank you,” Claire said modestly.

“Anyway, I was wonderin’, an’ I kin pay ye,
if ye’d paint a picture for Shannon.” Claire beamed.

“I’d love to, Patrick. What a sweet thing to
think of. What do you think she’d like?”

“Well, I have this picture.” He pulled a
folded piece of newspaper out of his back pocket. “It’s a picture
of a statue, an angel that sits in the gardens of Powerscourt Manor
in County Wicklow near where we grew up. She found this picture in
the newspaper and tore it out to keep as a reminder of home ‘fore
we left. The paper’s gettin’ mighty tattered. I’d love to have it
painted for her.” He handed Claire the faded scrap of fragile
newspaper carefully. She laid it flat in the palm of her hand and
took it over to the light.

“Yes, I can do a painting of that. It’s
beautiful. I’d be happy to.”

“That would be wonderful, just let me know
what would be the cost.”

“Oh, I don’t know? How about I trade you for
black paint?” she offered.

“Black paint?” He looked confused.

“Well, I’m almost out from painting the
storm, so how about I do it for paint?”

“That would be fine. Could it be ready by
Christmas?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Claire, thank ye so
much, ye have no idea how much this will mean to her. I better go
now before she notices me gone.” He waved goodbye, joyful at the
thought of having something so special to give Shannon on
Christmas. Claire carefully laid the faded paper between two pages
of a book, then sorted through the remaining canvases Aryl had
brought with them until she found the right size.

“I’ll start working on it tomorrow morning,”
she decided aloud.

Aryl had moved to the window, tuning out much
of the conversation, looking out as a light snow began to fall. He
loved the quiet hush that came over the city when snow blanketed
the streets but was unable to enjoy it thoroughly, knowing he would
soon have to turn up the heat. He looked back at the dwindling
supply of wood on the hearth and sighed. He decided he would have
to go out and look for more broken pallets or any form of firewood
after work tomorrow.

November 26th 1929

Aryl broke off from the group a few blocks
from home in search of firewood while Jonathan and Caleb continued
home. Caleb mumbled about feeling guilty for not helping Aryl, but
Jonathan had a hard time hearing him over the crunch of their work
boots on the iced-over snow coating the sidewalk. He pulled his
wool hat down lower on his ears and shivered.