Stork Bite

by Simonds, L. K.

  “Mrs. Malone!” hollered Red. “Is there anything for a man to eat?”

  “For a man, aye, Mr. Malone. But nary more’n a crust of bread for an old goat!” Red’s wife grasped her husband’s chin in her hand and stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth. The women laughed and Mrs. Malone said, “That’s how you tamp the rowdy in your husband.” Red made a show of yelling and swiping at his wife’s backside, the coarse bread crumbling from his mouth.

  Mae giggled. She held a glass of whiskey, which she sipped between nibbles of bread. “It’s soda bread, Jax.” She motioned to a platter of crusty round loaves. “Try it. It’s really good.”

  Mrs. Malone pointed to a bowl that held a slithering mess of meat, carrots, potatoes, and something green. “Lamb stew!” she said. “Lamb, not mutton. I made it myself in honor of the bride.”

  “Thank you,” Mae said. “It looks delicious.”

  “Black pudding and white pudding!” cried Mrs. Malone, pointing to a platter on which rounds of firm black gristle were piled beside pale, gelatinous rounds of similar size. “And my famous potatoes and kale.” Green slime floated amid lumps of boiled potatoes like seaweed.

  Jax watched Mae’s face as Mrs. Malone worked her way down the table, showing off her robust Irish delicacies. Mae’s eyes widened, seemingly in delight. She smiled and winked at Jax every time he caught her eye. If it were possible, Jax fell even more deeply in love with her.

  Suddenly, the backyard erupted with shouts. Jax looked up and saw two priests, one of whom wore a long black robe with a red sash. Four musicians carrying instruments under their arms followed. “Now it’s a celebration!” hollered Red. “Drink! Eat! Then we dance.” Red motioned for the men to draw glasses of whiskey for the priests and musicians, who accepted them readily. Clergymen who drank were nothing new to Jax. He routinely ran whiskey to several churches in Shreveport and Bossier, always in the dead of night, where he oftentimes was met at the back door by the pastor or priest himself.

  Jax took advantage of the distraction to stand beside Mae. She smelled like a freshly bloomed rose. He leaned toward her and whispered in her ear—that lovely ear nestled in soft, dark curls, “The Catholics aren’t like us Baptists when it comes to drinking and dancing. They don’t mind it a bit.”

  “Well, my goodness. That’s convenient.” Mae said and giggled. She was making good progress on her own glass of Old Bushmills.

  Jax stopped counting after his third pint. When the sun got low, some of the men strung electric lights through the low branches of the oak tree, and the guests danced their Irish folk dances under it. The musicians played quick music on banjo and fiddle, penny whistle and concertina. Mae got right in the middle of it and so did Jax, forgetting all about his lack of rhythm. He stomped and spun and twirled Mae around like he knew what he was doing. No one—not even Mae—seemed to mind that he was out of time to the music.

  At the end of the evening, the musicians slowed it all down and played mournful, lilting melodies. The songs were beautiful, and some of the older men, ruddy and tough, blubbered over missing the old country.

  Red and Mrs. Malone had retired to rocking chairs on the back porch, from which they watched the party wind down. “Get your bride, Jaxy,” Red called, “and your friend. We’ll have a toast.”

  Jax found Hollister deep in his cups, playing a gambling game with a few of the younger men. Hollister bowed out of the game and staggered to the porch with Mae and Jax. Red unscrewed the top of a Mason jar, raised the clear liquid toward the nighttime sky, and said, “To the bride and groom! The sweet shine of the New World. May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace.” He took a swig and handed the jar to Jax.

  Jax sipped the moonshine. It was smooth, the smoothest he had ever tasted. He handed the jar to Mae, who took a sip and passed the jar to Hollister.

  “Sweet,” Hollister said after he took a deep pull.

  “It’s Possum Kingdom shine,” Red said. “The hillbillies north of here make it from the springs.”

  “Can I get some?”

  “I’ll send a couple of jars with you.”

  After the toast, Jax went in the house to call the hotel to send a car. Red followed him inside. “No business on your wedding day, Jaxy,” Red said. “But I’ll meet you for breakfast at the hotel in the morning. Got a proposition for you.”

  “Thanks, Red. Thanks for everything.”

  “Congratulations, son,” Red said. “Mae’s a peach. Couldn’t a happened to a nicer guy.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Jax hoped Mae didn’t think it was strange when he invited Hollister into their suite for a nightcap, but he was as nervous as a cat about being alone with his new bride. Hollister followed them into the sitting room with a jar of moonshine tucked in each elbow.

  “I need to freshen up,” Mae said and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  “We need to eat something,” said Hollister. “We’re all pretty lit.”

  “Yeah. Did you eat any of that Irish slop at Red’s house?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “Me either,” said Jax.

  “Good whiskey, though, and a helluva romp.”

  “Yes sir. Helluva good time was had by all.”

  The bridal suite came with a celebratory basket for the newlyweds, and Hollister rummaged through it. “We have champagne, chocolate, caviar from Russia.” He held the flat tin toward Jax.

  “What else?”

  “Soda crackers.”

  “Gimme some of those.”

  “Here you go, champ.” Hollister pitched a cellophane-wrapped tube of crackers to Jax. “Let’s see. More crackers. Grapes and strawberries. Couple of apples. Oranges. This is real nice, Jax. There’s a brick of cheese from Wisconsin.”

  “Slice that for the crackers.” Jax fished in his pocket for his knife and tossed it to Hollister.

  Hollister lifted a bottle of Canadian Club from the bottom of the basket and held it up. “Feels like home now,” he said, and they both laughed.

  By the time Mae came out of the bedroom—still in her day dress and looking peaked—Hollister had cut up an apple and the cheese and opened the tin of caviar. He spread the brown paper the moonshine had been wrapped in on a low table in front of the couch and arranged the food on it.

  “That looks good,” Mae said. “I could use a little bite.”

  “We all could,” said Hollister.

  Mae sat on the couch, and Jax sat beside her. Hollister pulled a wingback to the table and set the jars of moonshine in front of him. They ate, only speaking to say how good this or that was. The color came back into Mae’s face. “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Who knows?” answered Hollister.

  Jax squinted at his wristwatch, a Rolex Oyster with a stitched leather band. He had bought it with the first profits from the lucrative Baton Rouge run, and he planned to buy Mae a matching one if she wanted it. “It’s a quarter to two,” Jax said when he had finished admiring his watch.

  “Oh golly,” Mae said. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  “How about that nightcap?” said Hollister. He unscrewed the top of the Mason jar.

  Jax groaned. “Not for me.”

  Mae pushed herself up. “Sure, why not.”

  Jax watched them drink. He had fantasized nonstop about taking Mae on their wedding night, fantasies in which Jax himself was transformed into a virile, bare-chested rake, à la Douglas Fairbanks in Thief of Bagdad. Fairbanks had been Jax’s first and most enduring infatuation. He first saw the actor in The Mark of Zorro on his tenth birthday. Jax’s mother indulged him by taking him to a matinee, even though it was a weekday and he was home from school with a stomachache. After the movie, Jax had commandeered an old walking cane from the umbrella stand and spent the rest of the evening marking every wall, door, and stick of furniture with an imaginary Z.

  Never once in all of Jax’s fantasies and visions about Mae had he appeared as the sickly runt
that he was. He did not think there was enough moonshine in the entire Possum Kingdom to get Mae past her first glimpse of the scrawny weakling she had married.

  Mae and Hollister swayed in wider and wider circles each time they passed the jar across the coffee table. When their outstretched hands could no longer synchronize to make contact, Jax grabbed the sloshing jar. Hollister’s eyes fluttered, and Jax picked the half-burned Lucky Strike from his friend’s mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Mae sat with her eyes closed, her chin propped on her palms and her elbows propped on her knees. Jax touched her arm and said, “Come along, Lady Sheik.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Time for beddy-bye.”

  She looked up at him with unfocused eyes. “Is it time?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Okay . . . okay . . . I can . . .”

  “Here we go. Upsy-daisy.” Jax pulled on Mae’s arm until she was standing. She leaned against him heavily.

  “I can . . . I promise,” she mumbled.

  Jax walked Mae into the bedroom and closed the door behind them. He sat her on the bed, holding her so she wouldn’t tump over and fall to the floor. He opened her valise and took out her silk honeymoon negligee. It was dusty pink with black lace roses around the neckline. “Mae, this is beautiful,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Okay, Lady Sheik, let’s get you ready for bed.” Mae was so out of it that Jax could have done anything he wanted. What he did was undress his bride tentatively, respectfully, and then he slipped the negligee over her head. Mae obliged his requests that she lift an arm here or put a hand through there. Jax eased her back onto the pillows and lifted her delicate feet with their polished red toenails onto the bed. He leaned over her and kissed her rosy cheek. She did not smell quite as fresh and nice as she had earlier in the day, but she was still the sweetest girl around. “Good night, my love,” he said.

  Jax took his own valise and an extra blanket from the closet, then he closed the bedroom door behind him. Hollister had slid off the chair and lay on the floor between it and the coffee table. Jax fished the room key from Hollister’s pocket, then unlaced and removed Hollister’s oxfords. He put a pillow from the couch under Hollister’s head and unfolded the blanket and covered him with it. Then Jax picked up his valise and opened the door to the hallway. He paused and looked back inside. “Okay then,” he said. “I’ll leave you two to sleep it off. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  The hallway was dimly lit and dead quiet. Jax opened the door to Hollister’s room and went inside. He undressed to his shorts and bare feet, went into the spacious bathroom, and turned on the hot mineral water spigot on the bathtub. While the tub filled, Jax hopped back and forth across the tiled bathroom floor, trying to recall the steps of the Irish jig. Eventually, he tired and stepped out of his underwear into the steaming water. He relaxed, closed his eyes, and loosed his imagination.

  He was the Thief of Baghdad, running as swiftly as a jackal across the desert sand. He darted stealthily between towering palms illuminated by a bright crescent moon that was as sharp as a sickle. He climbed a rose-covered trellis on a torch-lit marble palace and stole in through a window. He passed from room to room, gliding silently through a thousand veils so smooth they slid across his arms and shoulders like water. In the heart of the palace, he found the Lady Sheik, waiting for him.

  The next morning, Jax met Red in the Venetian Dining Room. Red laughed at the sight of him and asked, “Up all night?”

  Jax grinned. “Thanks for the party, Red. We had a helluva time.” He sat down and motioned for the waiter to pour coffee.

  “You’re family now,” Red said.

  “So, what’s cooking?”

  “I keep thinking about that dry-cleaning business in Bossier that you told me about.”

  Jax put his coffee down. “You mean the army contract I’m working for Bill Cole.”

  Red leaned forward, shirt-sleeved forearms on the table, and said, “See, that’s the thing. I think that contract oughta be your business.”

  Jax’s stomach seized, and he turned his head and belched. “Excuse me. I don’t know anything about dry cleaning, Red. I’m a sales guy.”

  “No, I know. You won’t have to do a thing. Just be the front man. I gotta guy to run the laundry.”

  “Why do you want to get into the laundry business?”

  “Here’s the thing, it ain’t for cleanin’ clothes. It’s for cleanin’ cash.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The G-men got a new scheme,” Red said. “They’re going after guys for not payin’ income tax. It’s trumped up, right? But it’s gettin’ serious. They indicted Capone a couple of months ago. Word on the street is there’s more indictments comin’.”

  “So you take the cash from . . . well . . . whatever . . . and say it came from a business?”

  “A legit business that takes in a lot of cash. Like a laundry.”

  “But you could do that right here in Hot Springs, where you can keep an eye on things.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we could. We will too. But we can run a big operation in Bossier under the cover of that army contract. Lots of cash. Besides, I want to throw the opportunity your way. Get you outta runnin’ bootleg all hours of the day and night.” Red punched Jax’s arm playfully. “You’re a married man now, Jaxy. It’s time to settle down and put down some roots. You got a wife to keep happy.” Red winked. “And to keep an eye on.”

  “It’s just that Bill Cole is Mae’s uncle.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Hell, we’re all family men. She’ll be mad for a while, but she’ll get over it. She’ll have her man home every night, and you can buy her lots of pretties with all the dough. Don’t worry. Your new bride’ll be just fine. Now, what’s the name of that army guy you been workin’?”

  Jax could see this was going to happen whether he liked it or not. Whether he was part of it or not. Red only bothered to bring him in as a friendly courtesy. “Lavender. Captain John Lavender,” Jax said. “He’s at Delia’s every Thursday night.”

  Red leaned back, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a money clip stuffed with bills. He unfolded a five-spot and laid it on the table. “Have a hot breakfast on me, Jaxy.” He stood and shouldered on his suit coat. Straightened his tie. Then he leaned over and kissed Jax on the forehead. “Don’t worry about a thing, son. I’ll take it from here.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Mae woke up midmorning with a piercing headache that only began to let up after she took half a dozen aspirin tablets. She was certain that she and Jax had not consummated their marriage. The moonshine had finished the job Old Bushmills started, and Mae suspected her new husband had been put off by his walleyed bride. Jax left her to herself—alone in the suite—all afternoon, where she lay around trying to prepare herself to bear, stone cold sober, whatever the night would bring.

  That evening, she and Jax dined in the Arlington Hotel’s grand ballroom, just the two of them. Hollister was elsewhere, finding his own entertainment. Jax’s mood was buoyant. He seemed as chipper and satisfied as a man with ten concubines.

  “Where will we stay when we get back to Shreveport?” Mae asked. “We don’t have any furniture yet.”

  “I booked a suite at the Washington Youree. We can stay there until the house is ready.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as we want.”

  “Well, I need to get my things from Aunt Vida’s house,” Mae said.

  “Want me to drive you?” Jax asked. “Or you can take my car. We need to get you some wheels, my dear.”

  “I just dread going over there. You know how Aunt Vida is. She’s liable to give me an earful, even though not one bit of this is any of her business anyway.”

  Jax wiped his mouth. “We could have the Youree send someone to pack up your things and bring them to the hotel, if you want.”

  “Would they do that?”

  “Sure. They’ll do anything for a price.”


  “Well, gosh, that sure would be nice. I know I have to face her sometime, but I’m just not ready.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Do you think we could have a cocktail on the veranda after supper?”

  “Whatever you want, my dear. It’s a beautiful evening.”

  Mae had two cocktails while the day cooled down and they watched people stroll up and down Central Avenue. Later that night, she dutifully slipped into her dusty pink nightgown and waited in bed with the door closed but unlocked. But Jax never opened it. The following morning, Mae dressed and packed her things. She found Jax downstairs in the Venetian Room, drinking milk and reading the newspaper. He beamed when he caught sight of her. He rose quickly to pull out a chair.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  Jax motioned to the waiter and gave him Mae’s order, a single sunny-side-up egg, grits, extra-crispy bacon, and dry toast. He ordered oatmeal for himself, and the waiter poured fresh coffee for Mae. “Well, my bride, we need to round up that no good friend of mine so we can go home. Have you seen him?”

  “No. Not since night before last.”

  “Not to worry. He’ll show up eventually. He always does.” Jax grinned, showing all his dingy little teeth.

  The Washington Youree Hotel was so swanky that the very idea of living there made Mae feel as if she were dreaming, but the double staircases and indoor fountain in the marbled lobby were as real as could be. Mae sat on a red velvet loveseat, feigning bored sophistication, while Jax checked them in. When he had finished, Jax escorted her to the elevator, where two bellmen waited with their luggage. They rode to the top floor, and the bellman opened a door at the end of the long hallway.

  “After you, my dear,” Jax said.

  Mae walked into a high-ceilinged sitting room with tall windows. Fresh daisies were arranged in a crystal vase on a table in front of the window. There were two bedrooms, their doors standing open on either side of the sitting room. “This one gets the morning sun.” Jax pointed to the bedroom on the left and told the bellman to put Mae’s valise in it.