Runny03 - Loose Lips (14 page)

“How do I make a hot toddy?”

Juts shared her recipe.

“Well—”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Knowing she had talked her sister into what Wheezie wanted in the first place, Julia repaired to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and made herself a bracing whiskey sour.

When Chessy came home from work that night he grabbed the can of mixed nuts while Juts made him a whiskey sour and one for her, which she pretended was her first.

He twirled his forefinger in the nut can. “It’s all peanuts. False advertising.” He slammed the can down on the counter.

“I know. It’s awful,” Juts said as she handed him his drink.

J
unior McGrail believed more is more. Staggering under the weight of bangle bracelets, large dangling earrings, and many wraps of roped beads around her fleshy neck, she marched down
Frederick Street looking neither to the left nor the right. This took great discipline because the crowd spilled over onto the street like colored jelly beans.

The opening of the Curl ‘n’ Twirl had exploded into a block party. The mastermind behind the frolic, Pearlie Trumbull, had motored over to the Budweiser distributor and bought seven kegs of beer.

When Chessy asked whether he could afford it, Pearlie told him they couldn’t afford not to do it. Chessy, nursing along his old Dodge work truck, cruised back with heavy whiskey casks cut in half and crammed with ice, sodas, and mixers. He bought them from a big distillery down in Baltimore on the dockside. Noe Mojo, the husband of Louise’s dear friend, Orrie, and a hardworking man of Japanese descent, went along with Chester to help him load the casks.

To add a whiff of sin to the party, Chester bought some of the finest moonshine this side of the Mississippi, made in Nelson County, Virginia, and sold on the sly by Davy Bitters, Billy’s older brother. Those Blue Ridge Mountain streams produced exceptional shine but one had to be careful. If you drank too much your knees would lock up on you.

The boys had the bottles of moonshine stashed in various glove compartments, trunks, plus a few hip flasks for the daring.

With the exception of Junior, the town turned out in force. Even Caesura Frothingham showed up. She said it was to gather information for poor, dear Junior.

Junior pretended she was on her way to the Strand, but since the show didn’t start for another hour everyone knew that was a lie. Besides, she only had to walk across the square from the other side to reach the Strand.

“Junior, come on,” Juts motioned, never one to hold a grudge. Then, too, she had tested the moonshine.

“Never.” Junior glared at Caesura and continued in her progress.

Orrie Tadia Mojo sniffed in Louise’s ear, “The tragic queen.”

Thanks to Mary and Maizie, the kids from South Runnymede High gathered around, as did many from North Runnymede High.

Juts had even hired a small band.

Trudy Archer whispered in Chessy’s ear, “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I’m not ready yet.”

“You’ve had three lessons, four including the free one.”

“I’m too—” He shrugged. “I’ll get there. You have to be patient.”

“Am I not doing a good job?”

He patted her on the shoulder. “You’re great. When I’m ready—well, I’ll know. Now you go on and grab some of these guys. Edgar Frost is a good dancer.”

She smiled and moved toward the lawyer she’d met a few days ago.

The three ancient unmarried Rife triplets, the sisters of Brutus—Ruby, Rose, and Rachel—appeared, escorted by much-younger men. They could be distinguished by their attire. Ruby wore Mainbocher, Rachel wore Hattie Carnegie, and Rose had just discovered Sophie of Saks. Given the war, no one could go to Paris, and while it ravaged Europe the conflagration was a blessing to American fashion designers. Ruby’s milliner was Lilly Daché, Rachel adored John Fredericks, and Rose pounced on a rising star in the hat firmament, Tatiana, countess du Plessix.

The La Squandra sisters, as they were known behind their backs, were tolerated not because they spent money but because they were so patently useless. It was rumored that they couldn’t draw their own bathwater. Certainly one couldn’t blame them for the sins of their deceased brother and father.

Too tired to stand for long, they lounged in the barber’s chairs Juts had bought.

Fannie Jump Creighton, between boyfriends, squeezed by
them when Rose declared, “Fannie Jump, do you think the girls can flourish? You know how dreadfully they fuss.”

Fannie paused and admired the sleek hat with curving yellow feathers. “They’ll be too busy to fight.”

Celeste emerged from the private room, a seraphic smile on her face. She edged toward Fannie.

“Celeste, Celeste, darling!” Rachel held out her gloved hand and in a flash of lucidity blurted out, “I want you to know I never minded you killing Brutus. Even though he was my brother he was a brutal son of a bitch.”

The buzz was so loud in the room, only Cora and Fannie overheard this statement.

“Will you hush, little girl,” Rose hissed at Rachel.

Ruby blinked her big china-blue eyes as though reentering the world. “Well, she did it, Rosie, everyone knows she did it.”

Cora stepped in. “Who knows how such things happen? He had many enemies and 1920 is so long ago.”

“Me!” Rachel pouted. “He sent away my gentleman caller.”

“Your gentleman caller was a gold digger,” Rose growled. “If Brutus hadn’t sent him packing, I would have.”

“Jealous,” Rachel triumphantly replied. “But Celeste, darling, I never cared a bit that you shot him.”

“Now, Rachel, don’t accuse me without the facts.” Celeste had in fact killed Brutus those twenty-one years ago for many reasons, not the least being his reign of terror in the town. She never admitted it and never would. “As for your gentleman caller, he was before my time, but I heard he was very handsome.”

“Oh, he had the softest hands, hands like a girl.” Rachel sighed like a coquette.

“Ha!” Ruby exploded, before lapsing back into silence. Celeste pushed her way through the bodies, Cora and Fannie right behind her.

“Useless as tits on a boar hog,” Cora mumbled.

Popeye Huffstetler, cornered at the front door by Caesura Frothingham, seized the chance to get away by grabbing on to Celeste, a good foot taller than his puny self.

Caesura called out, “Popeye, you aren’t being much of a reporter. You haven’t found out who smacked into George Gordon Meade.”

“Robert E. Lee,” Celeste answered her.

“You think you are so witty, Celeste Chalfonte.” Caesura reached for another beer, which was being handed to her in a sherry glass so she had to refill frequently.

“Caesura, let’s celebrate this wonderful opening. I think it’s good that you came over.”

“I came over to spy for Junior.”

“Have another sip,” Cora suggested.

“Believe I shall.”

“Junior is out there marching and countermarching. She’s doing her own spying.” Fannie harrumphed.

“I am not speaking to you.”

“Good.” Fannie pushed by Caesura to reach the street.

Julia Ellen danced with all the boys from the two high schools. Louise was as happy as anyone had ever seen her. She pointed her finger at Mary a few times, warning her against slipping into the shadows with Extra Billy.

The party rolled into the velvet twilight. Flavius Cadwalder, encouraged by his son and the moonshine, told the Hunsenmeir girls that he knew what a hardship the debt was. If they fell behind he’d work something out with them. Everyone cheered and solidified the goodwill with more spirits.

Jacob Epstein Jr., a high-school buddy of Extra Billy’s, passed out on the curb. The men lifted him on the flatbed where the band performed. He was out cold for every song, once emitting a low moan during “Red Sails in the Sunset.”

Junior grew tired of her ceaseless parade so Caesura joined
her and they walked back to the north side of the square. Junior had to assist Caesura who, tipsy, lied and said she had sprained her ankle.

The miracle was that Julia Ellen and Louise didn’t have one single battle, not one. Everyone knew it couldn’t last.

That Sunday, both sisters visited their mother at Bumblebee Hill for supper.

A weak knock on the door lifted Juts out of her seat at Cora’s dining table.

“Oh, honey, sit down,” Chester said, but she was already out of the room.

She opened the front door to face an old man, perhaps once handsome, now hunched over.

“Is Mrs. Hansford Hunsenmeir at home?” he gasped.

“Yes. Would you wait a minute?”

She walked back to the dinner table and whispered, “Mom, there’s some old geezer at the front door. You’d better talk to him in a hurry because he looks to die on the spot.”

Cora folded her napkin and walked to the door.

Juts, Chessy, Louise, Pearlie, Mary, and Maizie heard muffled voices and then a sob. Both Chessy and Paul hurried to the door.

Baffled, they walked with Cora as she helped the old man, crying, to the table.

“Girls, this is your father.”

T
hat man is not my father.” Louise folded her arms across her chest.

“Well, if he’s not your father I guess he’s not mine either,” Julia said.

Chester and Pearlie sat in Louise’s two big armchairs with the heavy wool covering that looked like carpet and scratched in warm weather. Mary and Maizie were supposedly in bed.

The kids crept to the top of the stairs to listen. So far they’d managed to keep quiet.

“Why don’t you two sit down? You’re making me dizzy.” Pearlie, his long, angular face somber, pointed to the sofa.

“I can’t. Walking around helps me think.”

“Better walk around a lot, then,” Julia half joked.

“This is no time to be lighthearted. An imposter comes into our midst. He’ll eat Momma out of house and home—”

Chessy interrupted, “He won’t eat much, Wheezie. He’s on his last leg.”

“What about medical bills?” Louise, focused on money, had visions of a huge stack of white paper impaled on a long nail. Across each sheet was a red rectangle with “Bill” in the middle. It wasn’t a vision, it was a waking nightmare.

“And then there will be the cost of the burial and the casket—you’ve got to be rich to die.” Louise paced faster.

“You could hang him on a gibbet.” Chester kept a straight face. “I could build one in a day.”

“Yeah, you could put the gibbet in front of Junior McGrail’s. I bet that would turn customers away.”

“Think of the dogs, though,” Chessy said deadpan.

“Will you two shut up.” Louise plopped on the sofa. “This is serious. It’s terrible.”

“Momma’s such a soft touch, she’ll take care of him no matter who he is. He can’t be our father. Hansford Hunsenmeir was a handsome man with a black handlebar moustache.”

“Except it wasn’t black, not really. It photographed black.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember him—sort of.” Louise sighed. “Mostly, I remember Momma crying.”

“Thirty-four years is a long time. I don’t think any of us would look like our photographs,” Pearlie observed.

“Why not? Celeste Chalfonte does,” Louise replied.

“She is the exception that proves the rule,” Paul said.

“Her hair turned silver—that’s about it.” Chester ran his hands through his own blond curls; his hairline was receding slightly. He didn’t like that one bit.

“Well, whoever he is, he insulted me before he even sat down at the table. He said, ‘You must be Louise.’ I said, ‘Yes,’ and then he says with that pathetic excuse for a moustache wiggling, ‘You must be forty now.’”

“Oh, Wheezer, for Christ’s sake, you are forty.”

“I am not. I most certainly am not and I don’t know why you insist upon such misinformation.”

“If I’m thirty-six, you’re forty.” Juts stood her ground.

“I am not forty! And as for you, he looked at you and wanted to know where your children were. I may be closer to forty than you are but at least I’m a mother!”

“Louise, calm down.”

She whirled on her husband. “Calm down? What would you
do if some horrible man blew through the front door and said he was your father!”