“I’m sorry, ma,” Susie whispered once she’d tucked her mother into bed.
Ethyl looked up at her from the bed with a soft expression.
“You can’t see that boy any more, love. It’s best not to let people get too close. It hurts too much.”
“But why?” Susie asked. There it was again. Why?
“Because Donny will never let you go. I can feel it growing in you, just like it did in me. You’re different, love. Special.” She lifted her hand, gently trailing her fingers down the side of her little girl’s face. “But you’re strong, Susie, so much stronger than I am.”
Susie shook her head emphatically. “You could be strong Ma, it’s this place, it’s bad. We could leave together. Find a good place to live, with fancy curtains and lipsticks and perfume - just like in the magazines. You’ll be so pretty mom, and I’ll be good, I promise!”
Ethyl looked forlornly at her hands.
“They’d find me. They know everything, love. They’re everywhere. Too many of them. I can hear them in my mind. Besides, I need them.” Ethyl’s fingers began to shake uncontrollably. She pulled herself out of bed and walked to the kitchen. Opening a sideboard drawer, Ethyl retrieved the paper packet of heroin and sat at the kitchen table in her nightgown.
“You don’t need that stuff!” Susie cried.
“I feel things, love. All the pain, all the sadness in the world, more than you could ever imagine. The heartache of women, the loneliness of men on the streets. The burden is too much for me.”
“Only pain?” Susie implored.
Ethyl took Susie’s face gently in her hands. “No, not only,” she said. “You were pure love.” She shook her head, then stood and crossed the kitchen.
“Then just feel that and ignore the rest!” Susie cried. “Make it go away!”
Cutlery rattled as Ethyl raked through the drawer. She drew out a small silver spoon.
“I do make it go away,” she said.
Susie tried to take the packet from her mother. She wouldn’t force it though. Not today, when she’d already been through so much.
“Not that,” Susie said, “Please don’t. It’s hurting you. I can tell.” Ethyl pushed Susie gently away. She lit the stove and tore the packet open onto the spoon. As she held it over the flames, she pulled an old syringe from a high cupboard.
“You don’t understand, love.” Ethyl said. “I need this. I need the silence- to block them out.”
“Please, ma. Don’t -” Susie pleaded, as Ethyl slid herself against the cradle of cupboards doors on the floor. But the poison made its way into Ethyl veins as always. And for a moment, the woman looked peaceful. “He was right, I was weak…” she slurred, as she fought consciousness.
When she was done, Susie pulled the stick from her mother’s arm and crawled into them herself, instead. With her ear pressed to the woman’s chest, Susie heard her mother’s heart slow, then, for the first time, something else.
Her mother’s voice. Not aloud but inside her head, as if she were speaking through the deathly blue lips that remained closed.
I wanted so much more for you, Susan, my baby.
Through the thin nightgown, Susie heard Ethyl’s heart stutter, then beat for the very last time. She clutched the gold locket around her mother’s neck and cried until the morning sun, and her father, found her there.
Betty blinked, refocusing on the task at hand. A man was sprawled on the ground in front of her, boxes of amphetamines piled high against the wall and paper blocks of heroin spilled across the bench. Her white gabardine heel was pressed firmly to his pink neck as he struggled for breath against the checkerboard linoleum. Barely a moment had passed.
Why? Came Johnny’s silent pleas again.
Betty looked at him, fluttering her thick lashes and pursing her red lips before she answered.
“Because darling, you’re killing the American dream. My dream, that is.” With a swift twist of her ankle, she broke his neck.
“Get back, lady! I don’t want no trouble,” came a voice from behind her. Betty turned slowly. The second doper was on his knees holding a shaking gun, pointed directly at her heart. Each thigh still bore a knife imbedded within it.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Betty added three more knives to his collection. He crumpled to the floor.
Plumping her hair and stepping over the bodies, Betty returned to the front door to retrieve her crocodile skin bag. She emptied each packet of heroin into a decorative glass jar meant for bath salts. She filled her bejeweled vitamin jars with bennies, then packed it all carefully under the false base of her bag. She layered the stash with her beloved cosmetics then dusted off her gloved hands.
Betty leant back against the sink, assessing the crates of bennies stacked against the kitchen wall. It was as she’d expected; too much to take home. They were large crates, each one enough for a single set of arms. Undeterred, Betty carried them out, three at once. She stamped down hard, dislodging a plank of wood from the front porch steps and ripped it from its place. She set it across the back tray of her bicycle, then strapped every crate to it in a pile, leaving the house empty but for its dead occupants and their incriminating white mess upon the bench. Betty popped her Avon bag into the front basket of her bicycle, balancing the apple she had brought with her on top. The enormous pyramid of crates wobbled behind Betty as she pedaled away. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile as she set off for a place to stash her cargo. Under a sliver of moon barely light enough to see by, she zipped down back streets and alleys before skimming the shadowy edges of Central Park. She was fast enough, and it was dark enough, that prying eyes wouldn’t find her. Except of course, for old Herb, the tramp that slept on a bench not far from her destination. He sat up as she passed, mouth agape, with a paper-bagged bottle in his hand. Betty grinned, tossing the apple over her shoulder, smiling at the sound of a crunch as it landed between his open teeth, just as she’d intended.
“‘Night Herb,” she called as she rode away. Her destination was close now, and Betty slowed at a wire gate, passed through, then skidded to a stop outside an old tinkers’ shop. The windows were boarded up. She pulled a bobby pin from her hair, jimmied the lock and entered with her cosmetic bag.
“Yes, this will do nicely,” she said aloud to no one in particular, writing the address on the back of a card that read ‘Avon Calling, Sorry I missed You!’ in cherry red script. Betty unstacked the crates and left them against the back wall in a neat pile, then jammed the door shut and left with a satisfied smile.
It had been an unfortunate end to the night, but nothing new. If anything, lately, Betty sought out evenings like this one with greater zeal than perhaps she should.
These men were just pawns in a much bigger game. Betty took them out, one by one, patiently, deliberately, strategically. And she’d begun her play months ago, with a single end in mind. Donny.
Donald Pinzolo’s family of murderers and thieves were like an insidious disease on the city, with tentacles stretching far beneath the pavement. And Betty should know, given she was one of the family. Or rather, used to be.
He had politicians and militia in his pocket, thugs, prostitutes and pastors. From Stan the greengrocer to Dr Strauss at the clinic, politicians, gambling houses, even hospitals were indebted to his calculated generosity. Those naïve folks that lived their lives on the surface had no reason to question him unless desperate times dragged them below where he’d be waiting with a smile. There was no escaping the subtle manipulations that kept businesses humming in Donny’s favor, or the constant reminder of debts owed. And God help the poor bastards if they couldn’t pay.
Yes, a little anarchy was well in order.
Betty rode off into the dark night, humming happily.
I may even have time for a cup of tea before bed.
Episode Two
A Dream That I Can Call My Own
“Mom, are superheroes real?” asked George Junior the next morning. His Kellogg’s Pep Whole Wheat Flakes were half eaten,
and he was staring forlornly at the side of the cereal carton. ‘Boy, it’s Super!’ was stamped in bold letters on the cardboard next to a brightly colored illustration of Superman.
“Of course they’re not, you goose,” said his sister, rolling her eyes. “Superheroes are just make-believe. People can’t really do any of those things.”
“Well now, Nancy, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Betty hushed. She turned to her five-year-old son. His moon-sized eyes were hopeful. “I happen to know that Superman is most certainly real, my little cherry pie. And not only that, he’s quite the gentleman. Why, I spoke to him only last week on the telephone!”
“For real?”
“For real.” The little boy gave her a dazzling smile and dug into his cereal with renewed enthusiasm. Betty tousled his hair and made her way into the sitting room.
She frowned. Nancy was eleven years old now. It wouldn’t be long before her daughter would feel the changes in her mind she had once felt herself. Not long enough before her innocence was stolen, and her head filled with the thoughts of other people. Once the voices broke through, Nancy’s young heart would be moved by their sorrows as much as their joys, terrified by their secret fears and inflicted with their guilty pleasures. It was a terrible burden. The inside of a man’s mind was no place for a young girl. Yet it couldn’t be prevented any more than keeping the sun from rising. Nancy was sure to have other gifts as well, other burdens, but what they might be, were anyone’s guess. Betty sighed. It’s time to have a quiet talk with her. Whether the child could be trusted with such a secret, was another thing altogether. Then again, she had held the secret herself well enough.
Betty stopped in the sitting room by the telephone table. She held the wall lightly and closed her eyes as a memory came rushing back. Her mother was younger, prettier and Betty just a tiny girl, far younger than Nancy was now.
“And Grandmama too?” she’d asked as Ethyl brushed the girl’s long dark hair. On the bed in front of her was a little silver box of trinkets. The child retrieved an old wooden clothes peg from the box and held it up for her mother to see. “This one?”
“Yes, that one was Grandmama’s. Margaret, her name was, but everyone called her Peggy. She was my mother, just like I am yours. It's such a shame you never knew her, love. She was strong in her heart, just like you. She had the gift, like all the women of our family do. Mama taught me not to pry into people’s minds though, it’s not ladylike, she said. Sometimes you just can’t help it of course, the voices get so loud. And sometimes you don’t get to choose…” Ethyl frowned, lost in a dark cloud. The little girl on her lap twisted around to face her.
“Why did she put a peg in the box?” she asked. “Because of her name?”
The young woman looked down and gathered her thoughts. “In a way. It’s best to put your gifts to good use, that’s what your Grandmama always said. She washed bedsheets at the parish orphanage while Pop gave sermons in the church. She listened to all the women’s woes and knew just what to say to cheer them up because she understood what loneliness or fear was inside their heart. There wasn’t a woman in town that didn’t love to yap over the washboard and soap with your Grandmama. She used her gift to help people understand themselves a little better.” Ethyl smiled at the wooden clothes peg in her daughter’s hands. “That was just her way of helping me remember. ‘Ordinary deeds can make all the difference if they’re done right,’ she used to say - or at least, I think that’s what it was. I was only your age when she died. It’s hard to remember now.”
“I don’t think I’d like to spend so long washing sheets,” Susie said, her little nose scrunched up. “Even with Grandmama.”
Ethyl laughed. “Oh, she did more than just wash the sheets, love. That’s just how she helped people find themselves. She was strong, too, you know, she could carry a hundred-gallon tank of water in her arms. The townsfolk would’ve gossiped something terrible if they’d seen her filling the washing tubs each morning at dawn. Only I ever saw that.”
Susie’s mouth dropped into an astonished little circle. She held her scrawny arms up, imagining how it might feel to have such strength in them. I’d be strong enough to fight back when Pop takes you away at night. I’d stop them being mean. I’d fight all of them and we could run away forever. Inside, the injustice of her own tiny size roared through her heart. She let her arms fall dejectedly to her lap, then tossed the peg back into the box.
Ethyl looked at her daughter, shocked at the sudden flare of anger that flickered across. She occasionally reveled quietly in the sweet joy of her daughter’s imagination as she played, but for the most part, Ethyl left Susie’s childish thoughts alone. But this was new. Anger and defiance practically leapt from inside of the girl in a tumble of emotion. Ethyl shuddered. It was not fear of her little girl, but for her - and what she’d bring upon herself if she ever acted on the defiance and hate burning inside.
“You mustn’t worry about me so much, love,” Ethyl shushed quickly, pulling her daughter close. “For goodness sake, you’re just a little thing. There are grown up problems in this world that you don’t understand, and you’ll be in terrible trouble if you even try to. Everything will be alright as long as we’re together and you’re a good girl. There’s nothing else to be done.”
Susie picked through the box of treasures quietly again, not wanting to upset her mother further. These days, she was upset enough. Finally, the girl drew a silver hat pin out. She held it up to the light, squinting her eyes.
“What about this one?”
“Her Momma, my Grandmama, Viola.” Ethyl said. “She was a very clever lady. She helped sick people. They’d come from all across the county to see her and she’d know just the right medicine to set them straight. She could feel their pain see, in her body and her mind. Then she’d set to work fixing them medicines to ease it. And this one -” Ethyl leant forward pulling a faded playing card from the box. “The Jolly Joker,” she read aloud. “This belonged to Ida, her twin sister. Mama said that they were as different as the moon and sun those two, but close as biscuits and butter.”
“Did she have the gift, too?” Susie asked.
“Of course,” Ethyl smiled. She passed the card to her daughter to hold and began fussing with the little girl’s hair. “But Ida was a bit of a lark, she didn’t want to be pinned down like Viola, so she never married. She got into trouble at the euchre tables in Harlem. When she played, she could read cards as simple as reading her opponent’s mind then made off with the winnings. She thought it was a right caper until they ran her out of town.”
“Where did she go?” asked Susie.
“Grandmama never told,” Ethyl smiled, wistfully. “She would’ve been in trouble with the law if they’d tracked her down. But Viola found five dollars tucked under the wood pile every month until the day she died. So, I guess Ida kept up with her old tricks.”
“I like the sound of that,” Susie said. “I bet she had an adventure. Maybe the gift isn’t so bad after all.”
Ethyl’s brow furrowed as she pulled a pink ribbon through the plait she had made of her daughter’s hair.
“Maybe for you,” she said. “You’re strong.”
Susie turned her cornflower blue eyes to her mother. “Will it hurt?”
Ethyl smoothed her daughter’s hair back from her forehead. “Sometimes. Not in the same way that you might fall over or scrape your knee. It’s different - like a hundred voices in your head, and as many feelings in your heart. But only one of them belongs to you. You must learn to shut them out. To keep a part of yourself, only to yourself. Do you understand?”
Susie nodded, but then shook her head sadly.
“You’re still little, love. You don’t need to worry about this now. You’ll understand when you’re older,” Ethyl said.
“But I don’t want my heart to hurt,” Susie said, her lip quivering.
“Love always hurts, my darling. You must be brave. Besides, there’s something special waiting for you Susie, I promis
e. You’ve got a fire inside you.”
The little girl layered the odd collection back into the silver box. “Can I put something in here too?” she asked.
“Of course,” her mother said. “One day. And something of mine too.”
Susie lay the box aside and circled her mother’s neck with her arms, curling into her lap. She pulled one arm down and gently traced the engraved locket around her mother’s neck with her fingertip. “Yours will be the prettiest,” Susie said.
Ethyl kissed her daughters’ forehead. “Only because there’s a picture of you in it, my love.”
Betty shook her head to clear it and smoothed down her periwinkle dress and white rounded collar. With the children at breakfast and George still getting dressed for work, she had a phone call to make.
“This is Frank,” the voice answered.
“Good Morning, Mr. Polletti. This is Mrs. Ethyl Taylor. I’m the secretary for a new business man in town who would like to meet with you. His name is Mr. Jimmy Carson.”
“Jimmy Carson? Never heard of him. What’s this about?”
“Just business, sir. The usual kind.”
“Is that right? Some big cheese from down south, I bet. Tell him I’m not interested.”
Betty smiled as she spoke, making sure every word was clear. “I strongly recommend you meet with him, Mr. Polletti. Mr. Carson has a proposition for you.”
“Yeah? Doesn’t everyone.”
“Please, Mr. Polletti, it will only take a few minutes of your time. I believe you may have lost something recently? A special delivery by some one-stripers?” Betty heard Frankie choke on his cigar. Fuck! This is the bastard that knocked my deal!
“Mmm,” Betty smiled. “A simple exchange is all he needs, cash for shipment. Five thousand dollars.” Again, Frankie spluttered across the line. “Where shall I tell him to meet you?”
Avon Calling! Season One Page 3
