Cold Bullets and Hot Babes: Dark Crime Stories (7 page)

“How you doing Cooney?”

“Same-o, same-o.”

“Hi baby,” said Uncle Pete, turning toward me on his bar stool. “Come sit,” and he patted the stool next to his. I slid in beside him. I felt more comfortable in the smoky dark interior than I did at home. A couple guys from the packing house were playing pool beneath a green-shaded ceiling fixture, the juke box at the back of the room bubbling red and blue, Green Door playing softly in the background. When I was little Old Da let me play the pinball machine and sleep in the back room until he locked up for the night.

“That kid’s a minor,” said a butinski at the other end of the bar.

Uncle Pete spun around, his badge glinting on the front of his blues.

“Shut your fuckin’ gob or I’ll shut it for you,” he said. “She’s family.” The man went silent, dropped his shot glass into his mug of beer and watched the dark whiskey web through the golden bubbles.

“Boiler maker?” asked Uncle Pete. I laughed and shook my head. “Well then, finish off my beer. Not enough there to fill a thimble. Cooney, another cold one.”

I sipped the beer. Before I knew it I’d downed two tall ones.

“Frances got you tied in knots?”

I nodded.

“She’s a wet blanket. Don’t let her get to you. Any time you want to move in with me and Rose, you’re welcome.”

“Thanks Uncle Pete. I’ll be okay. The walls were beginning to close in, that’s all.”

An hour later he helped me across the street. I flopped on top of my bed and went down for the count...no dreams...no prayers...no words....

On the evening of the countywide I came down with the flu. One moment I was burning up. The next I was shivering with chills. Mama took my temperature. Normal. I had a debilitating case of nerves. I washed down two aspirin just in case.

To make things worse I was obsessing about shoes again. I took thick polish to the black saddle part and made a terrible mess of it. The whiter I made the shoes the dirtier the laces looked, one with a double knot where it had broken. I considered polishing the laces. I had lost my mind. No matter what I did I couldn’t make saddle shoes go with a party dress. And all this time trying to keep the words in my head...ayahuasca...hyaluronidase...reconnaissance....

No question that the ruby red dress was stunning, the perfect color, the perfect fit. I stood in front of the mirror, refusing to look at my feet. I judged myself 99% okay.

Mama gave me change for the bus. She had a car and a license but could no longer fit behind the steering wheel. She wasn’t coming with me. Her feet were acting up. More likely she didn’t want to be seen in her slippers and faded muumuu the size of a circus tent. When you’re fat or wear bad clothes people never look deeper to find out who you really are. I was sick with disappointment and giddy with relief. It was one less thing to think about. My head was crowded. I had trouble keeping the words inside...provocateur...conflagration...insouciance....

I slipped the change in the pocket of my tweed coat. It didn’t go with the party dress but I’d ditch it as soon as I got to Cooley. Mama smiled and looked me up and down, trying hard not to look at my shoes. She hugged me. Her cheek was wet with nervous perspiration, rehearsing what she’d say when I failed. The flu was on me again. A deadly strain.

I opened the door and froze.

There stood Miss Silverwein in a gray silk suit and gold earrings, her hand raised to knock, a shoe box under her arm.

My legs began to collapse beneath me. I blanched.

“What are you doing here?” It was an accusation.

She looked surprised. Gave me a questioning look.

“Who is it, dear?” called Mama.

All the big words tumbled out of my head, tangling in the dirty, knotted laces of my shoes.

THAT GIRL! THAT NEIGHBORHOOD! FAT PIG! TUB OF LARD! Those were
my
words. Those were the ones that stuck. I stood there paralyzed.

“It’s Rachel Silverwein, Mrs. Bulger, Rosemary’s teacher.”

She looked past me into the living room with its hopeless linoleum and tattered window shades, the living room where Mama’s fat overflowed the couch cushions like bread dough rising in the oven—sweaty, fat bread dough, and the bunions on her feet as big as walnuts.

“Well, come on in.”

Miss Silverwein’s eyes flicked to my face. Catatonic. C-A-T-A-T

“I wish I could Mrs. Bulger but we’ll be late. Maybe another time.”

Her arm was firm around my shoulders as she rushed me down the stairs to the car. She opened the passenger door and put the shoe box on my lap when I sat down. She walked briskly around the hood, got in the driver’s seat and felt my forehead.

“You’re awfully warm, Rosemary.”

“I’m sick. I’m going to throw up.” I began to cry noiselessly, tears running down my cheeks, no sound except my uneven breathing.

An ice age passed.

“What I’ve heard is true then,” said Miss Silverwein, giving me her full attention.

“What do you mean?” I licked a tear from the corner of my mouth.

She extended her hands, palms up. “The Irish don’t know how to have a proper cry. Take the Italians or the Jews. They know how to bawl, how to wail, how to really let her rip. You should have heard my mother when she dropped the Passover kugel on the kitchen floor. You’d have thought someone shot her cat.”

I sputtered a laugh.

“That’s better. It’s clear I’ve been pushing you too hard. Everyone falls apart before a big competition, releases some of the stress. Really, it’s not such a bad thing.” She handed me her hanky all lacy and sweet with Blue Waltz perfume. I wiped my eyes and took a couple ragged breaths. “You can hang on to it,” she said. “Go head, try on the shoes.”

Inside the box was a beautiful pair of black leather flats like something Audrey Hepburn would wear. They smelled like the leather seats in Miss Silverwein’s new Pontiac Strato-Streak. I took off my saddle shoes, pushed them underneath the seat and put on the new ones. They fit like soft kid gloves.

“Thank you. I love them. I’ll pay you back. I promise. But, I’m sick. I really can’t do this.”

“Let’s just drive a little then. I’ll take you home anytime you want. Just say the word.” She pulled a u-ey and driving slowly headed in the general direction of Cooley High. She turned her head to the left, her eyes running down the 700 block of Lower Division Street all wet and dreary, a few bums huddled against the side wall of the Stag Hotel For Men. “See that building with the blue and orange awning?”

“You mean Polly Prim Bakery?”

“I was raised in the apartment above the store. I played hopscotch on that very sidewalk.”

“No kidding?” I was stunned. Lower Division? And yet she’d somehow gone from there to here.

“Sometimes I miss the old neighborhood but time marches on. First you live the life people make for you. Then you move forward and live the life you make for yourself.” She placed her hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling any better?” I nodded. “You’ll be fine, Rosemary. Tonight is a challenge but it’s supposed to be fun. Make the most of it.”

In the packed auditorium I saw Tommy, Uncle Pete and Aunt Rose, at least a dozen cousins and teachers from all five competing schools. Once I nailed the first word...discompose...the flu had run its course.

After an hour and a half only two of us were left standing. My final adversary was Wang Lu from Chinatown, the one contestant everyone said could never win. He was a goofy kid, a head shorter than I. He wore sad black pajamas that were worn in the knees, cloth shoes and a bowler hat too big for his head. On our way into the auditorium a bully from Hoover, whom we all hated, gave his pigtail a vicious tug. His broken English was almost indistinguishable from Chinese.

Most of the words were easier than the ones I’d studied: misjoinder...raconteur...substratum...misspell...erudite...and the dreaded diarrhea. The definitions came easily. But, like Mama said, something always comes up, and this time it was the word uxoricide. Never heard it. Thought I could spell it. Had no idea what it meant.

“Uxoricide,” I said. “U-X-O-R-I-C-I-D-E.” So far so good. Icide. Icide. Icide. My head spun. Pesticide. Homicide. Matricide. Had something to do with murder. But, what the heck was an ux? Time was running out. Latin. Think Latin. It wasn’t until I decided to give up that Et Ux leapt across a synapse in a remote fissure of brain. It rose like a bubble from the depths and broke the surface with a pop. Et Ux. I’d seen that somewhere. Old Da’s deed to the house. The property belonged to Patrick Edwin Bulger, Et Ux. Et Ux had to be Grandma. Three seconds to go.

“The act of murdering a spouse,” I said, just under the buzzer.

There were gasps from the few people in the audience who were familiar with the word. The English teacher from Cooley held up a hand for silence.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bulger. That is incorrect. Mr. Lu. Uxoricide.”

I held my breath. If Wang Lu missed the word we’d go on to the next word and I’d still be in the game.

Wang Lu’s father leaned forward in his front row seat looking anxious and hopeful. I looked at Miss Silverwein, who smiled and gave me a wink. Lu was trembling. “Uxoricide. U-X-O-R-I-C-I-D-E. The act of murdering a...a...wife,” he said. A moment of utter silence followed.

“That is correct young man. Congratulations, Mr. Lu.” I thought he would faint. I congratulated him and shook his small cold hand. His father had tears in his eyes.

“You provided him with most of the answer,” said Miss Silverwein on our ride home. “I suppose you’re aware of that.” It was still raining and the click of the windshield wipers made it hard not to fall asleep. During the competition I’d forgotten about the dress, the shoes....everything but the words.

“He won fair and square,” I said. “I can work this summer to cover my first year at Community. It’ll get me out of the house.”

“How do you feel? You did great you know.”

“I sweated in my new dress. I hope it’s still okay for the prom.”

“What word did you stumble on?” asked Mama, as I hung my new dress in the closet and slipped into my jeans.

“Uxoricide. I spelled it but didn’t know the definition.”

“That’s an easy one, Rosemary, like when Cousin Eddie shot Nonnie and did seven to ten in the State Pen.”

“My memory doesn’t go back that far, thank God.”

“Old Da told him before he married that girl that she’d slept with every shanty Irishman this side of Shannon Street. You couldn’t tell Eddie nothing. Not a damn thing.”

I laughed out loud and hugged her.

“So, who beat you, that Jew boy they call Little Einstein?” I put my new shoes on the closet shelf so they’d be nice for the prom and stepped into a pair of worn tennies.

“No Mama, it was Wang Lu from Chinatown.”

“Chinatown? You mean you couldn’t beat out a foreigner? They smoke opium, eat their cats.”

SMOKE OPIUM! EAT THEIR CATS!

“Oh, Mama.”

I put on my rain jacket and ran a brush through my hair.

“Get your coat. We’re meeting Uncle Pete and Aunt Rose across the street. Cooney ordered a cake to celebrate my big day.”

“Pete, Rose, and all those Shanty Irish brats of theirs. I’m just not up to it.”

“Here’s your coat. Put it on.”

“Rosemary, my bunions are killing me.”

“You’re coming if I have to carry you.”

I worked at the shoe store in the strip mall that summer. I read
Peyton Place
by Grace Metalious,
The Color Curtain
by Richard Wright, and every book the Catholic Church told me to stay away from. I paid my own way to Community College and finished my degree on a scholarship to State.

The next time I saw Miss Silverwein she was Mrs. Adler and I was Mrs. Nolan. She sat at a table in Stenglers drinking a latte and reading a book with the morning sunlight on her salt and pepper hair. She wore a new perfume, something spicy and expensive.

“Miss Silverwein?”

She looked at me over her glasses. There was no sign of recognition in her expression.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s been awhile. I’m Rosemary Bulger. The spelling bee? The new shoes? Uxoricide?”

The light went on in her eyes.

“Oh my God, Rosemary! How are you. You look wonderful. I imagine you’re teaching these days.”

“I changed my major. I’m a social worker. My husband Tommy is a civil rights lawyer. We’re getting ready to leave for Mississippi to help with the voter registration drive.”

“You’re sure you want to stir up that hornet’s nest? Do be careful.”

“We will!’ I laughed. “What are they going to do, shoot us?”

“Last I heard your mother wasn’t doing well.”

“I lost her a year ago. It was her heart,” and Eddie Malone and the ‘unknown.’

“I’m sorry, dear. Why don’t you sit?”

I took the chair across the table from her.

“May I ask you a question?” I said. “You told me something on the evening of the countywide. It helped me get through the competition” and more, much more.

“Shoot.”

“Did you really grow up above the bakery on Lower Division?”

“Did I say that? I spent my entire childhood on Lighthouse Hill.”