In the City by the Lake

by Taylor Saracen

  “It seems so,” I nodded, glancing around the condo acquired with cash from criminal acts.

  “Speaking of your queens, Towertown’s dead.”

  “I saw.”

  Vlad narrowed his dark eyes. “More dead than you can imagine,” he promised. “I spoke with one of my boys in blue, and this is the beginning of the war on homosexuals. People who matter are blaming the nation’s financial problems on the liberal attitudes of the twenties, so the eccentric will be eradicated, sacrificed to the economy in hopes it will treat us better. The queer clubs are just the start.”

  I sat quietly, attempting to process the words that had come from his mouth. It sounded familiar, like Hitler scapegoating Jews. I was awed by the patterns and the long strands of similarities weaving together throughout the world.

  “Towertown is dead. Prohibition is dead, but we aren’t,” Vlad stated. I wished he had brought the bottle of vodka into the room with him and continued filling my cup. There was nothing I wanted more than to drown my terrible thoughts in alcohol. Flashbacks of conversations I’d had with Abraham flashed in my mind. He’d said something along those lines before but with a different message. I didn’t want to be connected to any of it. Not Hitler or Jews, homosexuals or Towertown, Vlad or Abe, Russia or America, Mikhailovs don’t need or Mikhailovs do, I wanted to cut every tie, break every bond.

  “You were popular with the queens,” Vlad began, pausing in a way that made me instantly uncomfortable. “Well liked. You’ll do well with your next assignment too. You have to be good with people, get them to trust you.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I shifted in my seat, knowing anything he said other than ‘nothing’ was something I didn’t want to do.

  “You’re going to run a numbers game. I’m putting you in charge of the whole thing. You’ll sell the slips, get runners to carry the money, draw the numbers, issue the payouts and bring the profit to me. Half whatever the odds are. If a hundred people bought in, tell them it was fifty. Pay fifty to the winner, then fifty to me. I’ll give you ten percent, but if you show me increases by the week, we’ll put it on an escalating scale up to fifty of my fifty. Alright?”

  No, not alright. “Yes.”

  “Money may be tight for people, but it just makes them more desperate to get it. Between the hopefuls and the addicts, you should be able to rake in the dough. Those gambling addicts …” He clicked his tongue. “Vik, the best thing about sick people is they’ll do whatever it takes to feed the beast. They’ll go to any length. Find people with vices and exploit them. That’s how you make it in America. Let’s make it in America, yes?”

  No. “Yes.”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the glasses and vodka so that we could toast the endeavor, but I was more concerned with getting toasted, removing myself from the apartment either in body or in consciousness.

  It was fucked up. I knew it was. Providing whiskey to the parlors never felt that way, because I was giving people what they wanted, but being a victim of a numbers racket wasn’t what people wanted, nobody wanted to be made into a fool. When it came down to it, it didn’t matter much. I’d do it. The small pangs of regret I would feel would pass. I probably would not have even had them if I hadn’t been living in a crappy apartment with Mr. Sunshine and a struggling prostitute. I would pad Vlad’s wallet and then hopefully mine while shaking coins out of pants with holes.

  I wasn’t a good person. I wasn’t going to pretend I was. Anyone who believed he was inherently good was one of the worst sons of bitches to know. There was nothing more disingenuous than those who denied the existence of a meandering river of poison that twisted around the base of their brain, ready to break the dam when they needed to and maybe before. People did what they had to do, what they wanted to do. They worried about themselves, their bottom line. I would worry about mine too. Capitalism. Fascism. Survival of the fittest. Me or you.

  Holding my glass out to indicate I needed yet another shot, I grinned when the handsome man across from me filled it and once again said, “Na Zdorovie.”

  “Na Zdorovie,” I muttered, realizing I did have a taste for vodka after all.

  There was no good. There was no decent. There was only indecency, with a padlock and a paper or without.

  21

  June 1935

  I should have assumed when Igor proposed to Millie back in January that there would be a big wedding to follow. Millie wasn’t the type to agree to courthouse nuptials the way Sally had. She was the kind of girl who wanted the works and had parents who would indulge her.

  Millie’s father was a podiatrist, a fact I was painfully aware of whenever I shook his hand. While I assumed he wore gloves and, you know, washed, I could not understand how anyone would want a career where they spent so much time with feet. Though Millie’s old man was nice enough, it took me aback how intent my father seemed to be on impressing him. Taros had even sprung for the prenuptial dinner the night before Igor and Millie’s wedding, which had evidently sent his new wife into quite a rage. I guess Sally had wanted a dinner reception after their quickie wedding in March and Taros had denied her due to the lightness of his wallet. It served my father right that he’d be facing years of headaches to come, and I derived some semblance of pleasure from his apparent suffering. He was living the life he’d spent the majority of his years warning us against. Hypocrisy had its ramifications.

  I watched my dad standing beside Sally as she told a story to Millie’s mother. He was standing stiffly in his suit, looking like he wished to be anywhere but in the wedding hall. I could relate. I kept my eyes on him as his began to wander to the dance floor where he observed Grygoriy and Yekaterina dancing cheek to cheek to “All I Do Is Dream of You,” and it was evident my father dreamed he would be the one holding Yekaterina instead. How long would he suffer the loss of her? If marrying two other women could not make him move on, what would? Lovers spoke of “the one who got away” with a pained sense of nostalgia, and Taros had tortured himself by following his wistful memory to America, watching her as she didn’t think of him.

  “My cousin,” Maks sighed as he sat in the chair beside mine, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s been too long.”

  “I saw you last week,” I reminded, keeping my eyes on my father and my hand on my drink.

  “Like I said, it’s been too long. I used to see you multiple times a day, and now so much less. This isn’t working for me.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. “You occupy your time.” I gestured toward Ingrid, who was gabbing with a group of hens beside the drink table.

  “Men need their man time. You’re my man. I need time with you. It’s been nearly six months since you moved into your apartment and you’ve yet to invite me over. Shit, I don’t even know where the hell your place is.”

  “Would you drop by if you did?”

  “Of course I would,” he answered emphatically as if I was hoping his reply would be “yes.”

  “That’s why you don’t know. I chose to live on my own for a reason, reason being privacy. I don’t answer to anyone. I come and go as I please. I shut the door and shut out the world.”

  “You’re a hermit, you know that? That’s how hermits think. Don’t you lose your mind from boredom? I would go mad. What do you even do?”

  “Read. You should try it some time. There are these words typed on paper, and when you string them all together, they tell a story. It’s a marvel.”

  Maks grinned. “You’re a sass. See, I miss your sassiness. I need you to tell me off at least a few times a week, or I feel out of balance.”

  “Your dame holds your leash pretty tightly. I’m sure she’s more than willing to give you a good tongue lashing.”

  “That’s sounds sexual, and I assure you, there are no tongue lashings to be had.”

  “No shit?” I attempted to clarify, in hopes I was misunderstanding what he’d admitted. “Are you saying she’s a virgin or that she doesn’t tell you off?”

/>   “She tells me off plenty,” he grumbled.

  “Wow. That’s, um, interesting.”

  “Yeah. You didn’t know Ingrid is saving herself for marriage? I could have sworn I told you.”

  “If you had, I would have remembered. So, are you going to be the next to put on a penguin suit?”

  “I’m considering it,” Maks said. “My penis made up its mind many moons ago, but my head continues to step on the breaks. What about you?”

  “What about me what?”

  “Are you seeing anyone special or playing the field? Tell me. My penis wants to live vicariously through yours.”

  “That’s probably the creepiest and most pathetic statement anyone has ever uttered.”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” he prodded.

  “I should be avoiding you.”

  “You do that often enough.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” I laughed.

  “I wish I could. Lord, I wish I could,” he chuckled, rubbing his forehead.

  “What if the sex is awful?”

  “With Ingrid?”

  “Yeah. What if you marry her and find out the sex is bad?”

  “Is the Depression not depressing enough? Do you need to find ways to bring me down even further?” Maks tsked.

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “That’s like telling the sun not to shine, the moon not to rise.”

  “Are we done talking yet?” I asked, knowing I most certainly was.

  “Almost. My girl is giving me eyes. I think she wants to dance.”

  “You should go do that then.”

  “Will you be here when I’m done?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Are we still going to the game on Thursday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I swing by your place first?”

  “Nice try,” I smirked.

  “How about if the Cubbies win the series this year? Can I come over then?” Maks proposed, standing up halfway to show his girl he was on his way.

  “Why does this feel like a bet?”

  “Because you have business on your mind. Let’s shake on it. If the Cubs win, we celebrate at your place, and if they lose, we’ll wallow in our misery at mine.”

  While I knew it was a dangerous bet to make, I reasoned the worst to happen would be the Cubs winning which, in many ways would be the best. Knowing my luck, if I had the chance of being put in an awkward position, the Cubs would finally pull out the championship, which would not be an entirely bad thing. I was torn but figured I could sort out the details if need be.

  Extending my hand, I shook Maks’, noticing how pleased the goofball looked at the prospect. It almost made me feel guilty for keeping things from him. Almost.

  I spent the rest of the wedding reception doing something I usually didn’t—dancing. I’d had just enough drink to be light on my feet and out of my head. A constant line of single ladies kept me busy, and I was glad to give my family, Vlad, and the mob a peek at the life they believed I led. To be regarded as a womanizer was highly preferable to the alternative.

  Returning to the apartment, sweaty and beat, I expected to see a smile from my man, but found a clenched jaw instead.

  “Hey,” I said as I entered our bedroom.

  Cal was lying on the bed, reading Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express for what must have been the fourth or fifth time.

  “You already know how it ends,” I quipped, slipping my tie off and draping it over a hanger. I glanced over my shoulder to find him glaring at me, unamused.

  “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing,” he answered, burying his nose in the book once again.

  “I can tell you’re annoyed.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked,” I replied, sitting on the foot of the bed and waiting for him to regard me. He didn’t.

  “I never said I was.”

  “Believe me, you’re saying it, even if you’re not using words.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Finally, I drew his eyes.

  “It makes perfect sense and you know it,” I stated. “Since when do I have to pull your thoughts out of you? Just tell me what the problem is so I stop asking.”

  “Maybe you’re the one with the problem. Why don’t you fill me in on what your problem is?” He tossed the book aside and crossed his arms over his chest. A portrait of a petulant pansy.

  “My problem is that you have a problem and somehow you made me into a sap who gives a shit how you feel.”

  “I mean the problem you have with who you are. Why don’t you tell me why you’re so ashamed?”

  “How did this turn around to me?” I asked flabbergasted. “I was asking you about you and you’re telling me about me.”

  “Don’t you see it’s one and the same? My problems are yours, and yours are mine. What affects me affects you. You being ashamed of who you are is you being ashamed of me.” Cal’s voice climbed with every word he punched out, his face tinging red.

  “Don’t go there,” I warned, pointing my finger. “Should I have paraded you around in front of my family today, Cal? Is that what you wanted? For them to think I was a certain way?”

  “For them to think you’re the way you are?” he corrected. “Maybe.”

  “What world do you live in where that would be a good idea?” I cried, wondering if he was certifiably insane, if I’d gotten completely wrapped up with a genuine lunatic. “Do your eyes completely avert from the reality surrounding us? Things are getting harder, not easier. The crack in the door you thought was going to bust it open is gone now. Shut. That quickly.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis and he snapped mockingly in return. In that moment I hated him. I hated him so badly I wanted to shake him. Gritting my teeth, I listened as he continued his bullshit.

  “It didn’t even have to be a big deal. You could have said we were friends.”

  “I don’t have friends, and if I did, I wouldn’t bring them to my brother’s wedding. It’s weird.”

  “I consider you my best friend.”

  Suddenly, I hated him less, so much less it was as though I hadn’t hated him seconds before.

  “Rosie’s your best friend,” I disagreed. “I’m your … more than that.”

  Cal tsked. “You’re my everything, but what am I to you? Your secret? I can’t even be brought around as a buddy? You’re that ashamed of who I am?”

  “You’re being unreasonable. You know it’s not like that.” I reached for his hand, but he brushed me away.

  “Do you know why I left Georgia?”

  “I want to know. I’ve asked,” I reminded.

  “I left because I wasn’t willing to pretend I wasn’t who I was. If I had stayed in Douglas, I would have had to live my whole life portraying myself as someone my family thought I should be. They knew I was queer. I told them.”

  “You did?” I asked. I was sure I was staring at him as though he had four heads from the way he was looking back at me.

  “Yes,” Cal answered slowly, as if I were too dense to comprehend the simple world.

  “What did they say?”

  “They said I could be whoever I wanted to be behind closed doors, but out in the open I was to live my life the way a southern gentleman would. They expected me to live a traditional life with a wife and children”

  “They were okay with your proclivities as long as nobody saw them?”

  “I guess.”

  Cal didn’t realize how lucky he was, how differently sharing my truth with my family would go for me, for so many other people like us.

  “And you left?”

  “I didn’t want to hide, to marry a woman, to have children with her. I wasn’t willing to live a lie, so I found a place where I didn’t have to.”

  “Things are changing here, Cal, and not in the way you want them to. There are consequences for being queer. Look at the clubs. That’s just the start.”


  “You said that six months ago and nothing’s changed but a few locks on the doors of bars. We still gather in Bughouse Square, on the beaches. We’re out there and nobody is doing anything to stop it.”

  “And what are you going to do when they don’t gather anymore? When you don’t have any choice but to hide?” I questioned, a wave of worry washing over me. He did not get it. He didn’t understand.

  “There’s always a choice, you just have to be willing to make it,” Cal stated simply, picking up his novel. “I’m always willing to make it, Vik. I’m only worried you won’t be able to.”

  Worry. We were worried. At least we had that in common.

  22

  October 1935

  There was only so much bullshit a person could take, and as I stared into my bowl of Rice Krispies, I knew I had reached my threshold. It was an interesting study in resilience to see what it was that pushed people over the edge. Some could endure hell and push forward for more, while others barely tolerated the first burn. Closing my eyes, I tried to gather myself, to realize what I was about to do was a gross overreaction. While I had mechanisms to mitigate outbursts, I knew I had come to the point where resistance had become futile. There was no turning back.

  Removing the spoon from my cereal bowl, I placed it on the table, gnashing my teeth into my lower lip. I needed it. It would be a release; I needed a release. Whether it was a good idea or not, it was happening. Without another moment’s consideration, I launched the bowl across the room, watching puffs of rice rain down to the carpet as it torpedoed to the wall. It hit with a thud, immediately cracking into several pieces from the force. As the ceramic split, I heard Cal’s voice cry, “really?” as if he couldn’t fathom why the hell I had hurled the bowl across the room.

  Wordlessly, I stood up and walked into the bedroom, steeling myself for the barrage of questions I knew were coming. I had never done well with frustration. There was so little I cared enough to get distressed about, but the things that got to me struck nerves I often forgot I had. Take the Cubs for instance, though I never wavered in my devotion to the team, I had grown used to them disappointing me, so when they inevitably did, I was mostly numb. My father and brother were another example. They annoyed me with their meshugas, but they didn’t surprise me anymore. After they had pummeled and pissed on the “family motto,” there wasn’t a lot left to get frustrated with.