Stork Bite

by Simonds, L. K.

  “That’s okay, Jaxy. Maybe next time.” She kissed his cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

  Jax made his way toward the bar, where Hollister was drinking rye whiskey. Jax smiled at the bartender as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then he turned his face away and spoke into Hollister’s ear, “I bought a round for the house, but I lost everything. I got nothing to cover the bar tab.”

  Hollister grinned and clapped Jax on the back. “My man!” he said. Then into Jax’s ear he said, “That’s not good, Jax. Not in this place.”

  Jax laughed as if Hollister had just told him a good one. To the bartender, he said, “Hey mister, gotta take a leak. Toilets back there?”

  The man nodded.

  “That makes two of us,” Hollister said. “Watch my drink?”

  The unsmiling bartender nodded again.

  “You got anything on you?” Jax asked when they were away from the bar.

  “A couple of bucks, but we still gotta fill up at the all-night station to get back to Shreveport.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jax said.

  They pushed through the crowd. Hollister looked worried, and Jax’s nerves churned the acid in his stomach. He pulled a flask from his pocket and swigged Pepto-Bismol. They reached the rear hall, where Jax had seen an arched doorway. He opened it, and they slipped through to a dark, quiet courtyard.

  “There,” Hollister said, pointing to an iron gate, beyond which was the street.

  A very large man in a dark suit and tie stepped out of the shadows in front of them. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “Private party.” Jax looked across the courtyard and saw a man and a woman seated at a small table. Their cocktail glasses shimmered in the light of a hurricane lamp.

  “We were just leaving,” Hollister said.

  “Through the back door?” asked the large man.

  Jax clutched his middle. “Some dame in there took a bath in cheap perfume. I got a weak stomach, man. I had to get out of there pronto.” He belched loudly.

  The man who had been seated at the table with the woman stood. “Is there a problem, Rolando?” he asked. His voice was barely audible across the courtyard.

  “Not sure, Boss,” Rolando said. “These guys were trying to slip out the back.”

  The man crossed the courtyard to join them in the circle of light from the doorway. He was a slight man, no taller than Jax but not as gaunt. He wore a white linen suit and white straw fedora, a black tie and slim black loafers. He was an ugly man, with a beak of a nose and small black eyes. Constellations of pocks marred his cheeks. He smelled good, though. Whatever fragrance he wore made him smell like a man ought to smell, like a man might smell in Paradise. Fresh. Earthy. Powerful.

  “Mr. Dante?” Jax said.

  Dante cocked his head to one side. “Go inside, Rolando,” he said. “Find out if these gentlemen have reason to leave through the back door.”

  Rolando left, and Jax and Hollister looked toward the iron gate that led to the street.

  “There’s a man out there,” Dante said. “He isn’t a nice man.”

  They stood in silence until Rolando returned. “Unpaid bar tab, Boss,” he said.

  “How much.”

  “A hundred bucks, give or take.”

  “How much exactly?” said Dante.

  “One eighteen. That one,” Roland motioned toward Jax, “bought a round for the house.”

  “Generous,” said Dante.

  “Your roulette was generous,” said Jax. “Then it wasn’t.”

  “Ah, temperamental beast. What shall we do with these two, Rolando?”

  “I’m good for it,” Jax said quickly.

  “Good for it?” Dante raised his chin. “When did you become good for it?”

  “My old man’s a banker. In Shreveport. First City Bank. He’s the president.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Jackson Addington. My old man is Walter Addington.”

  Dante turned to Hollister. “Is this true?”

  “It’s true,” said Hollister, his face grim.

  “Very well, son of Walter Addington,” said Dante. “You have one week, then you are a dead man. The debt doubles every day.” Dante paused. “On the other hand, maybe I should do Walter Addington and Louisiana a favor and take my payment tonight.”

  “I swear I’ll pay. All of it. The juice too.”

  Dante sighed. “Yes, you will. Afterward, you will not return to Vieux Carré. I will go to mass tonight. I will light a candle and say a prayer for Mr. Walter Addington, whose son brings him shame instead of respect.”

  Then he spat on Jax and walked away.

  On the fourth morning after Dante, Jax worked up the nerve to come clean to his father. Walter Addington listened in silence to his only son, then went into his study and got on the telephone. Jax couldn’t hear who he called or what he said. Finally, his father emerged and took his hat from the rack. “Tell your mother I’ve gone to New Orleans,” he said. “And tell her why.”

  When suppertime came and went without his father’s return, Jax told his mother that he had gone to New Orleans to meet with an investor.

  Walter Addington finally returned late that evening. His shoulders were slumped, and his mouth was set in a frown that looked hours old. Jax met him in the foyer. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I paid the man. That’s what.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He suggested I keep my money. He said he would liberate me—liberate, that’s the word he used—from you, the son who brings me shame. He seemed surprised I didn’t take him up on it.”

  Walter Addington shook his head, hung his hat on the rack, and crossed the foyer to the bottom of the stairs. He looked up the stairs and back at Jax. “You’re getting a job, Jackson. For once in your life, you’re going to take some responsibility for your actions, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Indentured servitude notwithstanding, the scenery in Cole’s Dry Cleaners was just fine with Jax. Behind the counter, leaning over a movie magazine, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in person, maybe even in the movies. Her face was a lot prettier than Greta Garbo’s mug looking up from the slick page of the magazine.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Seen what?”

  “Anna Christie. At the Strand.”

  “I saw it the first week.” She closed the magazine.

  Jax smiled, but not too big. He wasn’t much to look at, but he compensated for it with sharp wit and high-grade charm. “I thought it was aces,” he said. “‘Gimme a whiskey, and don’t be stingy, baby.’”

  “What? Oh . . . the movie. Can I help you? Do you need to pick up some clothes or something?”

  Jax saw he was in danger of making a poor first impression. “Excuse my manners.” He extended his hand. “Jax Addington.”

  She permitted him to give her hand a shake. “I’m Mae.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Mae. Um, is Mr. Cole around?”

  “Uncle Bill? Sure. He’s in the office there. Wait here. I’ll get him for you.”

  Jax watched the skirt of Mae’s yellow summer dress twirl when she wheeled around to call her uncle.

  That’s the girl for me, he thought. She’s got class. I could do anything with a girl like Mae in my corner.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jax went into a mild panic when Mae disappeared the middle of June. His heart was set on the girl, even though she ignored him. When he couldn’t stand wondering where she was one more minute, he commented to Mr. Cole that the place was awfully dull without Miss Mae around. “She seems like a nice kid,” Jax said, feigning interest in the classified ads.

  “I’ll be glad when she gets back,” said Mr. Cole. “It’s too quiet around here.”

  Jax turned the page of the newspaper. “She’s coming back?”

  “Oh, sure. Mae starts classes at Centenary in September. She’s just gone home for her friend’s
wedding.”

  Jax’s heart swelled, but he tried not to let it show on his face. “You know, Mr. Cole,” he said, “some of the dry cleaners around town run advertisements in the newspaper. You ever think about doing that?”

  “Reckon I mostly rely on word of mouth.”

  Jax pointed to a competitor’s advertisement. “I got a buddy down at the Journal who does typesetting,” Jax said. “He could probably get us a discount on an ad.”

  “That might be all right,” said Mr. Cole.

  “He might even print us some coupons. Ten percent off, or something like that, and I could take them door to door. Spread the word. I’m a pretty good salesman.”

  “Ten percent?”

  “Could bring in a lot of new business,” Jax said. “Folks appreciate a bargain, especially with times as tough as they are.”

  By the end of the week, Jax was canvassing neighborhoods in his best seersucker suit. He introduced himself as Mr. Cole’s general manager, which he thought made the business seem larger than it was. His routine was to knock on the door, then stand on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps. He didn’t want the housewives, most of whom were home alone, to feel threatened. When the lady of the house opened the door, Jax gave his spiel about Mr. Cole, a veteran of the Great War, all-around good guy, and the best dry cleaner in town. Then he delivered a coupon into her outstretched palm as if it was a first-class ticket to all her dreams coming true.

  The ladies often invited Jax inside for glasses of lemonade, iced tea, or Coca-Cola, which he always accepted. He unloaded the beverages he consumed into beds of azaleas and roses and cannas, and his prospects were none the wiser.

  Jax returned to the dry cleaners before the afternoon heat set in, shucked his coat and tie, and read the newspaper. He took in some of the new business he’d drummed up too, even though Mr. Cole’s bookkeeper, Cargie Barre, complained about Jax’s ticket writing. She said he missed items and didn’t write down the tally. Jax thought Cargie Barre was as persnickety as an old granny and twice as bossy.

  Mr. Cole threw some good will Jax’s way by bragging about him to Walter Addington, and Jax wasted no time trading on it. The old man had seized Jax’s car after the incident in New Orleans, and Jax did not intend for Mae to come back to Shreveport and find him dragging around on streetcars. He needed his wheels. One night over supper, Jax said, “I’ve been burning up the tracks getting new business for Mr. Cole.”

  “So I heard,” said his father.

  “Yes sir,” said Jax. “We’re getting new customers every day.

  “Sounds like you’re doing all the good,” said his mother.

  “Bill Cole is a heck of a guy,” Jax said. “Feels great to be helping a fella like that.” He paused while their plates were cleared and dessert was served. “Say, Daddy, I was wondering if I could keep a few dollars of my pay for a new summer suit. I need to look sharp on my rounds.”

  “That’s reasonable,” said his father.

  “Yes sir. My suits are taking a beating on the crowded streetcars in this heat.”

  “Oh Walter,” said his mother, “shouldn’t Jax have his Cadillac? He’s working so hard. You said so yourself.”

  “The streetcars run all over town. I expect they can get him everywhere he needs to go.”

  The next day, Jax told his mother he had gotten sick to his stomach on the streetcar and had not been able to get the conductor to stop in time. It was a lie, but Jax reasoned it could have been true. He felt like death warmed over in the hot, crowded streetcars. “I vomited on a lady who was going downtown to shop,” Jax said. “It was just awful, Mama. I was so embarrassed.”

  “Oh, Jaxy, honey . . .” His mother set her mouth. “Don’t you worry. I’ll get your car back. Let me handle your father.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” Jax said, and he meant it. Nobody could work the old man like his mother.

  Soon Jax was strutting a white linen suit, a white straw fedora with a black band, and summer oxfords of white canvas and black leather. He wore expensive cologne—very manly, though not quite as virile as Dante’s. Jax had possession of his powder blue Cadillac Sixteen convertible too. He felt like a million bucks driving around town with the top down.

  On the first day of July, Jax rolled to the curb in front of the dry cleaners and saw Mae at the counter with Cargie Barre. It was noontime, when Mr. Cole met Jax’s father for lunch at the Youree Hotel. “Well, look at you,” Mae said when Jax came through the open door in his new suit.

  Jax swept off his sunglasses and his hat. “Miss Mae! Welcome back.”

  “That’s quite a car you’re driving.”

  “My ride has been released from purgatory, and so have I.”

  Mae cocked her head. “I imagine a lot of girls around here are happy about that.”

  Cargie coughed and cleared her throat.

  “I don’t see them beating down the door,” Jax said.

  “They will,” said Mae. “Just give them a chance.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  Mae smiled. A warm, friendly smile.

  Cargie pulled the morning’s tickets off their spike and looked through them. Jax waited for her to carry them into her office and close the door behind her, as she did on every other day. But Cargie didn’t budge.

  “Say, are y’all going to the big Fourth of July celebration Friday night?” he asked Mae.

  “Uncle Bill hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “It’s at the airfield. I got a buddy keeps an airplane out there.”

  “An airplane,” Mae said, as if she didn’t believe him.

  “Ned Turner. Heck of a pilot. He’ll take you up if you want.”

  “I’ve never been up in an airplane,” Mae said.

  “We’ll be out there all evening,” said Jax.

  “Aunt Vida isn’t keen on being outside.”

  “Well . . . hmm,” Jax said. “The boys and I can swing by your uncle’s place and pick you up if you want. It’s no trouble at all.”

  “I guess that would be alright,” Mae said slowly.

  “Seven okay?”

  “Sure,” Mae said. “Seven o’clock will be fine.”

  On Friday afternoon, July 4th, Jax left work early and drove to the Shreveport Airfield. The hangar in which Ned kept his Curtis Jenny was a cavernous building with fifteen-foot doors at each end. Jax opened the doors and turned on a big electric fan to pull a breeze through the overheated hangar. No one was around to help him, so he rolled up his sleeves and swept the concrete floor. Then he wiped off a few chairs and a small wooden table at which Mae could sit. He found an old washtub the mechanics and pilots used to ice down beer, and he set it near the open door. Hollister was in charge of bringing ice and Cokes. “No hooch,” Jax had told him.

  Jax even went as far as scrubbing to a brilliant shine the dingy, stain-streaked sink and toilet in the tiny bathroom. From the looks of them, they hadn’t been cleaned since the hangar was built. Doing these menial, unpleasant tasks on Mae’s behalf convinced Jax that his love was true.

  He was wringing wet by the time he finished. He drove home to bathe and change clothes. Hanging in his closet were new pleated khaki slacks and a powder-blue long-sleeved shirt that matched the Sixteen’s paint perfectly. Jax never wore short sleeves—his arms were too skinny. His man at Selber Brothers put the ensemble together, and it looked absolutely aces. Jax’s mother had paid for the new clothes, angel that she was.

  Jax’s dear mother was funding flying lessons in Ned’s Curtis Jenny too. His father was in the dark about the lessons because he would’ve viewed them as a worthless and undeserved indulgence. “Who knows, Jaxy?” she had said as she opened her purse. “You might run your own airline someday.”

  The first time Ned took Jax flying was on a clear day, and Jax could see everything at once—the river, the city, the forests and farmland. He understood then and there that he was born for the air.

  Flying the Jenny was easy—she wanted to fly. Getting off the gro
und wasn’t hard either, once Jax got the hang of it. But putting the airplane down again was a skill that eluded him, even after dozens of attempts. Every time the Jenny’s wheels touched the dirt, she bucked as if he’d laid spurs to her. Ned called the airplane’s stiff-legged bouncing oscillations, and he put the blame on Jax. “You gotta ease back on the stick. Like this.” Under Ned’s hand, the Jenny obediently kissed the ground. Every time.

  Oscillations weren’t the only tricks Jenny had up her sleeve. Given a chance, she spun around swiftly and without warning, swapping ends so fast Jax did not have time to do anything but hang on. Only Ned’s quick footwork on the rudder pedals kept them from tipping over and dragging a wing. “That’s what we call a ground loop,” Ned said. “Try to stay away from ground loops.”

  Jax could tell Ned was losing confidence in him. Ned’s hands were never far from the stick, and his feet were always fighting Jax’s on the rudder pedals. Jax was getting worried Ned would never trust him enough to let him fly solo, and he would never get a chance to take Mae for a ride.

  Jax pulled up to the Cole house at seven o’clock sharp. He jumped out of the car and walked on a cloud to the front door. Mr. Cole answered the door and invited him into the front parlor. “Mae’s still getting ready,” he said and motioned for Jax to sit on the couch. Jax had just taken a load off when Vida Cole walked in.

  “Hello, Jackson,” she said coolly.

  Jax stood. “Evening, Mrs. Cole.” She sat, and he sat again too.

  “Well,” Mr. Cole said, “I hear the city’s worked up quite a fireworks show tonight.”

  “Daddy said they hired a couple of Greek guys, brothers,” Jax said. “They make the fireworks by hand.”

  “Should be quite a show. It’s tinder dry out there, though.”

  “Yes sir. They’ll have the fire trucks standing by. Heard they’re gonna hose down the grass beforehand too.”

  “That’s good. Real good,” said Mr. Cole.

  “So,” said Mrs. Cole, “what time should we expect Mae home?”

  “We won’t be too late,” said Jax. “It’ll be dark by nine-thirty or so, and I doubt the fireworks’ll go more than an hour. Maybe around eleven?”