“You got it.” Cal smiled, and suddenly we’d become a team.
Later, we’d gotten bent on another one of his batches and barneymugged all night.
“There are some of your Towertown marjories,” Maks said, gesturing to the men I’d homed in on moments before.
As Cal and Rosie approached, I wished I was an innovator myself, who could invent a way to push them back with my mind, compel them to retreat. Being a mere mortal, I said cool ‘hellos’ and introduced Cal and Rosie, who was clad in men’s clothes and lighter than usual makeup, to the rest of my group.
So much of me was Cal now. His kisses pushed oxygen through my blood, bringing my body to life. I was deflated before him, waiting for a breath of fresh air, mouth open, gasping for something to breathe in, someone to inhale. I’d become a filter as he filled me, letting what I didn’t need trickle through as I cradled the nutrients I craved in my catch, holding onto him as he held me. Yet, standing too many feet apart from one another on the crowded fairgrounds, Cal wasn’t anything to me and more painful still, I was nothing to him. Moonlit moments on the beach were washed in white, a flashbulb fantasy disappearing under the spotlight, particles of who we were present only until we dissipated in the beam, eradicated by the light of day. In the quiet of his closet-sized room, we lived a lifetime among the paint, held in that small space, where I grew in ways I hadn’t expected to. I didn’t know how to treat him like he wasn’t everything, or at the very least something.
I watched as Cal greeted Iggy and Maks, itching to knock their hands apart, phony fingers and pretending palms. Their worlds didn’t exist in tandem, only ours did; any acknowledgement of the others’ existence felt like an invasion. I didn’t want them to touch him and tarnish my illusions of my autonomous relationship. Their politeness penetrated my bubble, one I wasn’t willing to let burst. As familiar as I was with Cal was how unfamiliar I wanted my family to be. I was spiraling, something I rarely did because I had always cared too little to get wrapped up in overwhelming emotions. How could I if they hadn't existed? How could I exist now that they did?
He smiled at me and I was scandalized. It was the same grin he gave me when he was on top of me, when he rested his head on the pillow next to mine, when I was on my knees in front of him—he smiled that smile and I nearly lost my mind. My smile on his lips. I wanted to fall in to the dirt in that moment and cover myself until I didn’t exist, until he didn’t exist, until none of us existed at all. It shouldn’t have been so complicated, but it was, and I shouldn’t have cared so much, but I did. I was inundated by rogue feelings when all I wanted to feel was nothing, because it was easier to feel that than everything.
Time spent at The Gallery on State and The Studio had hypnotized me into thinking there was anything simple about being who we were, liking what we liked. Standing in the middle of the World’s Fair, regarding my lover like he was a stranger, I was jolted from my trance.
“We have other exhibits to see,” I said abruptly, desperate to get as far from Cal as I could without ever leaving his side.
Cal nodded while Rosie looked like he wanted to crumple into a ball and roll away, never to be seen again.
As we continued on our way, in the opposite direction from Cal, Igor shook his head, muttering, “Faggots.”
If I hadn’t been paying attention, I would have missed the sympathetic glance Maks gave me, but as always in times of discomfort, I’d already been looking toward him.
When I went to The Studio that night, sunburnt from the exposure and cranky from the impromptu date, I found I wasn’t the only person in a foul mood.
“I would say it was a pleasure seeing you at the fair today, but it’s obvious the pleasure was only mine,” Cal mused as soon as I opened his bedroom door. He was lying on the bed, tapping a pen against his lips thoughtfully. How long had he been there like that, tapping and thinking, considering things I didn’t want him to consider?
“I could very easily say the same if you hadn’t brought him and made a spectacle of yourself,” I replied, leaning my back against the door I’d closed behind me and was quite sure I would be exiting before I wanted to.
“A spectacle?” he asked, nodding his head and breathing ‘wow,’ the way he did when he was angry.
“His hair sweeps his shoulders and he was wearing rouge, Cal,” I said firmly, irritated by his propensity to twist the truth into an accusation of bias. If my cheeks hadn’t already been inflamed, I knew they’d be prickling hot with frustration.
“So?” he challenged, sitting up and crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you afraid of, hmm? A few raised eyebrows from ignoramuses who don’t realize we’re at the precipice of a revolution?”
I’d heard the speech so many times, but still, Cal implored me to settle into his eyes and see what he did, see the hopes he had for the future, a world of which I would not let myself dream. He was a child that way, more a child than I ever had been, even in my youth. Cal acknowledged only the best in people, believing they were good as if he had never faced the bad. He had, hadn’t he? Why else would he have run away? Questions he had deflected every time I’d alluded to them made their way back to my lips, but I was distracted by his next declaration:
“if you’re worried about raised eyebrows I’ll confess I raised two at you.”
“Oh did you? Why is that?” I asked. He bristled at the challenge in my tone but persisted.
“Boys and their broads,” Cal tsked. “I didn’t take you for the type to pretend like that, maybe when I first met you but not anymore. Look around,” he waved his arms wildly, “Towertown is alive. The rest of the city’s on the decline, and we’re steady.”
“First of all, she’s nothing to me. I met her today and I won’t see her tomorrow or the day after that. Second, parlors in Towertown are closing too.”
“Not Abe’s.”
“Not Abe’s,” I conceded. Thankfully my ledger was still quite full.
“Rich people come to The Gallery every week, you see them, joining along in the merriment, listening to Rosie sing, emotion welling in their eyes. They participate.” He was taking the tone of my scorched skin, spurred partially by passion but mostly by a palpable rage. I had learned during my time with Cal, stereotypes regarding redheads rang true, though I really fucking loved his hue.
“The people you’re talking about come to see something new, to gossip, to gawk at them.”
“At us,” Cal roared, chucking the discarded pen at my head. “At us.”
“Calm down,” I admonished, sighing as I muttered, “You and your revolution.”
“Ours,” he whispered, shaking his head as tears streamed down his cheeks, puddles of pain falling on the papers spread over his sheets. “It’s ours.”
It hadn’t been the first time we had the fight and it wouldn’t be the last, but as he cried in my arms, I feared one day I would finally snuff the spark I’d seen in him years prior, or he would leave me before I could.
15
December 1933
Somehow up from the sea of folks who were better than me, I had risen, taking my unmerited place in the middle of the food chain, sharks above and minnows below. I had been treading while others sank, oceans of illicit whiskey hoisting me, my head held above the water, lungs full of air, pockets brimming with money. And I hadn’t deserved any of it.
There were schools of men more violent and vile than me who warranted worse, yet achieved better, and though I wanted to believe there were leagues between us, we all fed on the bottom to fatten ourselves up. From Al Capone, who was weak and syphilis-ridden in a Georgia penitentiary, to the recently indicted “Handsome Jack” Klutus, ringleader of the ‘College Kidnappers,’ the big fish were fried, and on December 5, 1933, the government cooked me too.
Though Roosevelt had promised to bring an end to prohibition, I hadn’t anticipated he would be true to his word, because I never thought a politician’s words could be true. Regardless of how much Igor had attempted to prepare
me, the passing of the twenty-first Amendment to the Constitution, an end to national prohibition, had been an unwelcome surprise. While the majority of Americans celebrated the news, I promptly swirled into a spiral of self-pity. An availability of legal libations promised to spear organized crime, the industry of piranhas I swam among. Blood billowed in the water as I aimed to see beyond the red of rage. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
My childhood was spent picking pockets on Payne Drive, bringing pennies home to my father to help us survive. It wasn’t until the son of a dear friend of Taros and Grygoriy’s from Yaroslavl, Vladimir Petrov, moved to the States that things began to change for us Mikhailovs. The Russian Revolution of 1917 had impelled a then eighteen-year-old Vlad to see the writing on the wall, driving him to leave the old country before it would fall. I was nine at the time and recall being taken by our new houseguest’s strength, confidence and good looks. Vlad didn’t stay with us for long, finding it easier than my father and Uncle had to gain footing in America, but the short time I’d spent in his company had left an inexpugnable imprint on me. Perhaps I loved Vlad in the way a child loves their teacher, a chaste affection for someone who imparts wisdom and inspires you to see from a different view, or maybe my fondness for him wasn’t innocent at all.
Vlad had made quick connections with a group of twenty-something Russian immigrants who recognized that organized crime rackets were the best way to make it in Chicago. They started with low-level racketeering and moved on to prostitution. My father and Grygoriy joined the growing outfit, and as soon as I entered high school, I did too. After I was done with my classes for the day, I ran errands for Vlad and his boys, learning the ropes. The more successful Vlad became, the tighter he ran his ship. He grew less forgiving of the insubordination I’d grown accustomed to showing the men Vlad had chosen to flank him on his throne. I could acknowledge now that I was jealous they were closer to him than I would ever be again. Vlad had shown me that disrespect would not be tolerated to the tune of my forehead scar, and I’d realized I was not my teacher’s pet, though I wanted to be. As much as I had revered Vlad was the level I had grown to fear him, and the apprehension had never waned.
Between Dad and me, we had made enough dough to live comfortably while Igor promised bigger returns from his schooling than we had been pulling in. There was no way Ig could produce like we did once Prohibition was enacted and business shot through the stratosphere. It wasn’t as though we were handling money hand over fist—especially with the enormous cut Vlad took, confirming there was no discount in familiarity—but we did well. I had saved a few clams, but facing the uncertainty of a free-drinking future, I wished I had stashed away more. I was glad to have something but concerned about what I didn’t have — marketable skills.
Unlike my father, I had the benefit of being literate and well-read; however, I doubted white-collar establishments were looking for a man with a name like Viktor Mikhailov who lacked work experience that could be touted on a resume. More troublesome still was the fact that America’s unemployment rate was nearing twenty-five percent with no projection of abatement. Even if I found a job to apply for, which was unlikely, I would be in competition with more qualified candidates. Unfortunately, the best chance I had at getting a job would be to search for factory work where I would use my hands more than my mind or back-breaking physical labor, similar to what my father had done when he first moved us to the godforsaken country of smuggled and snatched success.
I spent the weeks immediately following the repeal getting so fried I barely recalled my name let alone my predicament. Occasionally, I would drag my downtrodden ass to The Studio, where I avidly avoided Abraham, worried that if I saw him, he would tell me our arrangement was over. Instead, I listened to Cal concoct crazed schemes of how we could parlay his minute moonshine racket into a viable business for both of us. Though I attempted to dash his hopes in the most sensitive way, exorbitant amounts of said moonshine made kind phrasing an unrealistic goal. Luckily, Cal had been patient, caring for me and overlooking my crabby mood in a way nobody had done before. He was convinced I’d come around once I dried out and could see straight, but I was hell-bent on being unable to open my eyes.
With vision blurred by ten pointing fingers of Canadian Club, I climbed on the L, making my way to The Gallery on State for its annual New Year’s Eve party. I was coherent enough to know one more drink would have me incoherent, so I did what any mess of man would do, I entered the crowded speakeasy and walked directly to the bar.
“Viktor,” Abe exclaimed, regarding me as if he’d encountered an alien. “Long time no see, Egg.” He shook my hand and I scanned the room for Cal, thinking it hadn’t been a great idea to saunter up to Abraham. I didn’t want bad news, I wanted Cal. I wanted to dance. I wanted to dance with Cal. The jazz music pulsed through my body and demanded I dance, something I hadn’t done since a middle school hop I instantly regretted attending as soon as I had shown up. “Are you?” Abe asked, making it apparent I’d missed a large chunk of what he’d been saying to me.
“Hmm?” I hummed, nodding my ‘thanks’ as he slid a glass of hooch in front of me.
“Are you alright? I haven’t seen you around, and you didn’t come to get the order for January,” he repeated patiently.
The laugh that escaped my mouth jarred me nearly as much as it surprised Abe.
“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as if he’d missed the joke.
“It’s over. Everything’s over,” I replied, wondering if I’d walked into another dimension after my last shot. Venturing a cursory glance around the room again, I confirmed I was in The Gallery on State among men in the same gowns they had worn the year prior, sequins held on by threads, hems ripped.
“It’s going to take a little while for everything to get up and running again,” Abraham reasoned. “I figured you would still take care of my order, and if you can get me a good rate, I’ll give you my business beyond the big distributor hiccups.”
I had definitely stumbled into another universe, one where I had a chance to continue along with life as I knew it, if only on a smaller scale.
“I don’t know what to say,” I muttered, throwing the drink back and allowing it to carry me into oblivion.
Whatever I had said after that had Abe smiling, flashes of straight teeth and lips kissing my ear. Not his lips. Cal’s lips. Cal’s arms wrapping around my chest from behind. Abe was right there. He was there, and Cal didn’t care. I probably didn’t either. Turning my head, I caught his lips and we kissed in front of the man who had just shown me extraordinary mercy.
“I’m happy you came,” Cal purred, tracing a finger along my jawline. I moved for him like he was the charmer and I was the snake, spinning enough to face him and connect our mouths again. “You’re in a good mood,” he noted. “And exceptionally zozzled.”
“Exceptionally,” I confirmed, looking toward Abe who was wiping the bar top with a rag. He gave me a nod, one validating Cal’s years of reassurance that Abraham never pined for his Peach as much as I had. Cal had been mine before I knew he could be, no resistance, only coexistence. Constantly surrounded by immense beauty, Abe grew tired of even the most gorgeous. So gorgeous. I could not think of a better way to describe him as the imperative portions of my brain went numb, inundated with endorphins and chemically altered by the alcohol I had drowned it in.
I was dancing, overtaken by Cal, flanked by queens and bitches swaying to the music, not giving a shit I was doing the same. Pictures of his face. I’d close my eyes expecting when I opened them he’d be gone but he wasn’t, freckles smattered over his nose and an angular jaw, smiling at me.
“My man,” Cal crooned, nuzzling his face into my neck. What did he see in me? I pissed on his positivity and challenged his cheer, yet his fingers were interlaced with mine. We were having a good time. Dancing.
“You’re crazy,” I admonished, shaking my dizzy head.
“About you,” he assured. I saw it in his eyes. He wa
s in love with me. He looked at me like I was something, and I knew he was everything.
While whiskey should have hit my lips, making them loose with affection, instead it moved my hips, into him, our private dance in public, but I didn’t care because he was there holding me, and I’d washed all other thoughts away.
“Did Abe talk to you?” Cal asked, and I bristled at the mention of his name. “About the new plan?”
“The New Deal.” I laughed until my sides split. “The New Deal.” Cal was Congress petitioning the President to give me something to work with. Abe loved Cal. He loved him so much he saw past the fact that his Peach was a gorgeous thing. He loved Cal enough to help me. It would have been too much to ingest if I wasn’t starving from my anemic dinner.
“Shhh,” he hushed, resting his lips against the shoulder of my shirt.
“Tell me why,” I whispered, falling into the routine we had in our life so far removed from the rest of the world. Tell me why you want me. Tell my why I’m worth it. Tell me what you see in me, why you see me at all. I don’t deserve to be seen by you.
“You’re smart as a whip and clever as shit.”
Cal liked to rhyme.
“You’re so handsome it hurts to look at you, but heals to touch you,” he continued, pecking my lips as I chuckled.
Cal made me needy, into a person who craved touches, confessions, partnership. He made me everything I never wanted to be. Mikhailovs don’t need women. It was true after all: I needed a man, that man, my man. The men in my family had their uptight women, and I had my revelation of a man, a man they would have wished they could be if they had gotten to know him. They never would. He was mine and I was smarter than to share him.
“You look sad,” Cal said, catching me before I fell into a well of feelings I didn’t want to have.
“I’m hungry,” I blurted, and he nodded, taking my hand and leading me to the narrow stairwell to The Studio.
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