Stork Bite

by Simonds, L. K.

Mae pulled, and Hollister staggered to his feet, swaying dramatically. When he had stabilized, Mae slung his arm across her shoulders, slowly walked him into the house, and sat him down on the couch. She left him there and went into the spare bedroom to pull down the Murphy bed and get a pillow from the top shelf of the closet. Hollister would have to clean up before lying down on her fresh linens. That was all there was to it. Mae went back to the living room and found him sound asleep again, his chin resting on his chest. She shook him awake.

  “You need to clean up, Hollister. You’ll sleep better.”

  He ran his palms down the front of his shirt. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Think if I run some water you can get yourself in and out of the tub?”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  “Okay, be right back.”

  Mae ran a warm bubble bath. She laid two fresh towels on the hamper beside the bathtub and went back to the living room to fetch him. She held out her hand and said, “C’mon.” Hollister took Mae’s hand and, with much effort, pushed himself up. He permitted her to lead him to the bathroom, steadying himself with one hand against the wall.

  “Go in there and undress,” Mae said. “You can hand your clothes out to me.” He stood in the open doorway, not moving. “And don’t lock the door. Just in case.”

  Hollister gazed at the bathtub. “What will I wear if you take my clothes?”

  “Just wrap one of those towels around you. The bedroom’s right there.” Mae pointed to the door. “Go in there and get in the bed when you’re done.”

  He nodded but did not move.

  “You okay? You need anything?”

  “No’m. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t forget to hand your clothes out to me. Everything.”

  She gave him a small push, and he walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He bumped around while Mae waited outside. She heard him use the toilet. He ran water in the sink for a long time. Then it got quiet, so she knocked on the door. “Hollister?”

  He opened the door, bleary-eyed and still fully clothed.

  “Get undressed and hand me your clothes. Then get in the bathtub and wash up.”

  “Okay,” he said and closed the door again. He shuffled around, moving from one side of the bathroom to the other. The hamper scraped across the floor. Eventually, he opened the door enough to push out his shoes, followed by lumps of clothing. He shut the door again.

  Mae carried the clothes to the tiny laundry room off the carport and pulled the string hanging from a bare overhead bulb. She filled the copper bowl of her new electric washing machine with hot water and loaded Hollister’s clothes, poured in a full cup of Oxydol, and turned on the agitator. By the time Mae had washed Hollister’s clothes and wrung them out, she found the bathroom door open and the bedroom door closed. She expected a mess, but he had managed to clean up after himself.

  Mae hung Hollister’s clothes in the sunroom. She turned on the fan so his shirt and trousers would be dry enough to iron before she went to work in the morning, then she went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of hot tea and check the icebox and the pantry for milk, eggs, and bread. It was after midnight before Mae got into bed. She could hardly sleep, and she did not hear a peep from the spare bedroom.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Mae rose early the next morning. She wanted to open the door and peek in to make sure Hollister was still there, but she didn’t dare. Besides, his Ford was at the curb and his clothes were in the sunroom, stiff and dry. He had not gone anywhere.

  Mae dressed quickly, ironed Hollister’s shirt and trousers, and hung them neatly on hangers on the bathroom door. She folded his underwear and socks and laid them on the hamper with a fresh towel. Before she left for work, she dashed off a note and left it on the kitchen counter.

  Hollister,

  Fix yourself some breakfast. Stick around today and rest. I’ll cook supper for you when I get home.

  Mae

  Mae was busy all day taking dictation, typing, and filing, yet the hour hand crawled around the clock in slow motion. It seemed as if six o’clock would never come, and when it finally did, she rushed out the door, eager to stop at the market and get home.

  She was heartsick when she turned onto Alexander Avenue and saw her front curb empty. She felt like crying. She carried the groceries into the kitchen and tossed the beautiful New York strips—the best steaks City Market had to offer—into the freezer. Her note from the morning lay on the counter. Had he not even read it? She picked it up and was about to crumple it and throw it in the wastebasket when she realized it wasn’t her note at all. Hollister had written,

  Mae,

  Thank you for last night. Running an errand,

  but I’ll be back for supper.

  Hollister

  P.S. I told the neighbor I’m your brother.

  Mae laughed out loud. She read the note again and clasped it to her throat. He was coming back! She looked at the kitchen clock, which seemed far more energized than the one at work. The hands stood at a quarter to seven.

  Mae pulled the steaks out of the freezer and laid them on the counter. She would pan sear the tender strips to medium rare with butter and serve them with fluffy baked potatoes loaded with butter, sour cream, and chives. She had bought everything to make a Caesar salad too, and she planned to toss it tableside, the way they did at the Youree.

  She had just put the potatoes in the oven when she heard a knock at the front door. She opened it to Hollister, wearing a starched shirt tucked into pressed khaki trousers. His face was freshly shaved, his hair was freshly trimmed, and he smelled like a man who knew how to wear cologne. He carried a large paper bag, and bottles clinked inside it when he walked through the door.

  “Hello brother,” Mae said. “Hope you’re hungry.” Hollister let go of one of his million-dollar smiles, and Mae realized how lonely she had been to see his face.

  “I brought supplies,” he said. He carried the bag to the kitchen and pulled out bottles of tonic water, Bombay gin, and Templeton rye. “How about a little malaria medicine?”

  “Sure.” Mae felt flushed and nervous and very, very happy.

  Hollister pulled half a dozen limes from the sack and corralled them on the counter. “Do you like limes? A little lime does wonders for a gin and tonic.”

  “Yes. Sounds refreshing.”

  Hollister seemed to know where everything was. He folded the paper sack and put it in the narrow pantry with the others Mae had saved. He popped ice cubes from the tray in the freezer, took her paring knife from a drawer and sliced limes into perfect sections, and assembled her drink with the finesse of a professional bartender. He handed it to her and poured himself a generous glass of rye, straight up. He held up his glass.

  “What are we toasting?” Mae asked.

  “The best of times, and the worst of times.”

  She hesitated.

  “Just the best of times then,” he said quickly and touched his glass to hers. “So, little sister, tell me about our childhood in Texas.”

  Mae laughed. She took the iron skillet from a cabinet and set it on the stove, then went back to separating and washing Romaine leaves. “Daddy works for the railroad. He and Mama were living in Texarkana when I was born. I guess you were born there too, brother, since you’re a couple of years older.”

  “Sure miss the old home place.”

  “No, you don’t. It was a section house, and we were awfully glad to get out of there. I was in the fourth grade when we moved to Whitesboro. That’s where our little sister, Victoria, was born. Vic is fifteen going on thirty. She’s something, that one. You’d like Vic.” Mae suddenly remembered Rita—how young she was—and she blushed. She put the back of her hand to her cheek. “I think that gin went to my head.”

  “I’ll go a little lighter this time.” Hollister took her empty glass and mixed another drink while Mae busied herself with the parmesan cheese and Caesar dressing. “So, tell me about you, Mr. Hollister Caine. Do you have br
others and sisters?”

  “A brother, Allister. Five years older than me. He’s named after the old man.”

  “Allister and Hollister?”

  “Right. Like there weren’t enough names to do better than that. Allister and my father run the hardware store. Caine’s Hardware on Line Avenue. It was my grandfather’s—he started it, oh, forty years ago.”

  “Do you work there too?”

  “Lord, no. I liked to hang around there when my grandfather ran it. Not so much since my old man took over.”

  “I heard you played football at State.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you were the starting quarterback.”

  Hollister drained his glass and reached for the Templeton. “Did Jax tell you all that?”

  “Oh, no. Jax and I never talked about you. Miriam Landau told me. She went to school with y’all.”

  “I knew Mike Landau. Didn’t really know Miriam.”

  “Mike’s playing for Centenary.”

  “Yeah, and they had a great season. Mike’s a hell of an athlete.”

  “Do you miss it? Playing ball?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Miriam said you were really good.”

  “I was pretty good. I liked it.”

  Mae stopped fussing with the salad dressing. “What happened at State, Hollister?”

  He set his glass down and turned it slowly with his fingertips on the rim. “Everything just kinda got away from me, and I couldn’t reel it back in.”

  Mae rubbed salt and pepper into the steaks. She put butter in the skillet and turned on the burner. After moment she said, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to stay in school. It must’ve been fun, living on campus and all of that.”

  Hollister looked up. “I could’ve stayed, even if I wasn’t playing. But I decided to come back to Shreveport.”

  “Oh? Miriam thought you had a football scholarship.”

  “I did, but I could’ve stayed in school without it.”

  “Well, it’s good your father would have paid for school, with or without football,” Mae said.

  “I have a trust, Mae,” Hollister said.

  “A trust?”

  “From my grandfather. I’m not rich or anything, but it’s enough money to get by. The trust would’ve paid for me to stay at State, not my old man.”

  “Oh.” Mae laid the steaks in the hot skillet. They sizzled and smoked.

  “My father doesn’t approve,” Hollister said. “He thinks the trust lets me do as I please. Which it does. But Granddaddy set it up with the bank before he died, and nobody can change it. My brother gets money every month too, same as me.”

  “Wow. So you don’t have to work?”

  “Nope. I’m footloose and fancy free. Hungry too. Those steaks smell great.”

  “Almost done. Let’s eat in the dining room.”

  “You can cook, girl,” Hollister said after supper. “Want another drink?”

  “Sure. I don’t mind if you smoke.”

  “Nah. I’m tired of smelling like a dirty ashtray.” Hollister carried their empty plates to the kitchen. Mae had never in her entire life seen Buster, or Jax, or her own daddy for that matter, pick up a plate from the supper table. He returned with the drinks and sat down again. “So, what’s the deal with that husband of yours?”

  “I haven’t seen him in weeks. Not since I left the Youree and moved in here. For all I know, he’s still at the hotel.”

  “He’s staying in an apartment in Bossier, Mae. Near the dry cleaners.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good to know.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing ever happened. I don’t know what’s going on. You know, the people down at the law firm where I work think Jax is a gangster.”

  Hollister laughed.

  “Is he?”

  “Jax? Lord, no. But Red Malone and that bunch are. They’re Irish mob. At least, I think they are.”

  “Bootleggers?”

  “For sure. And a lot of other stuff. That’s what the dry cleaning business is all about. They’re laundering money from all their bootlegging and gambling. Probably prostitution too. Did you see that piece in the Journal about the government bringing Capone up on income tax evasion?”

  Mae shook her head and said, “I still can’t believe we saw him in Hot Springs.”

  “That was crazy. Now all those mob guys are scrambling to hide their money from the Feds.”

  “I can’t believe Jax is tied up with them.”

  “He’s up to his ears in it,” Hollister said.

  “Do you think he’s trying to protect me?”

  “I dunno. Maybe. Maybe he’s just trying to keep his head above water.”

  The conversation lulled. Rita has been on Mae’s mind ever since she mentioned Vic. Finally, she asked, “Do you still see Rita?”

  “No.”

  Mae was about to change the subject when he added, “She left town with some schmuck.”

  “Oh.”

  “Supposedly, they went to St. Louis. Sounds like a cliché, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry,” Mae said.

  “For what?”

  “I thought . . .”

  “No, that thing with Rita was just—I don’t know what that was.”

  They sat in awkward silence, then Hollister said, “It’s late. I should go.”

  “I’m sorry I brought all that up.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Mae did not want him to go, but it was very late—almost one o’clock—and Mr. Carter would expect her to be alert in the morning. “This was so nice,” she said. “Will you come back to see me?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “I could use a friend, Hollister.”

  “Me too, Mae.” He drank the rest of the whiskey in his glass. “Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He stood and carried his glass to the kitchen, and Mae followed him. He turned on the faucet and put the stopper in the sink’s drain.

  “Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll let them soak tonight.”

  “So, do you want to go someplace nice tomorrow night? Or someplace a little bit naughty?”

  “Naughty,” Mae said without missing a beat. “What about the juke joint at Bistineau? I never got to go there.”

  “It burned down, but I know another place I think you’ll like. Pick you up at seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll wear my dancing shoes.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Mae walked Hollister to the front door and stood on the porch until he pulled away. Then she walked out to the yard, the night quiet all around, and watched his taillights round the corner onto Wilkinson Street.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The Blue Goose Grocery and Market was a white frame double shotgun house in the same neighborhood as the delicatessen where Mae had taken Miriam to break the news that she had married Jackson Addington. The Blue Goose stood at the corner of two rutted dirt roads, just south of the railroad tracks, and it had a large blue goose painted on one wall. Hollister parked across the street, and music drifted from the market into the coupe’s open windows.

  Mae looked toward the back porch, where men and women were talking and laughing, many of them with bottles or glasses in their hands. A gang of children ran down the street past Hollister’s window. “That’s not your typical grocery store,” Mae said.

  “It’s a speakeasy, Mae,” Hollister said. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Hollister reached across Mae, opened the glovebox, and took out two enameled cups. He pulled a bottle of Templeton from under the seat and poured a little for Mae and a lot for himself.

  “What are we drinking to?” Mae asked.

  “The Shreveport Home Wreckers,” Hollister said. He pointed to the market. “The guys playing tonight.”

  Mae held up her cup, and Hollister tapped it with his. “To the home wrecking blues,” he s
aid.

  “Amen, brother.”

  They finished their drinks, and Hollister returned the cups to the glovebox and the Templeton to its hiding place under the seat. He got out and came around to open Mae’s door. The sun was down, but the sky was still light above the treetops. A cool, dry breeze came across the railroad tracks and gave Mae a chill in her sleeveless dress. Hollister took her hand and led her across the street and up the back steps. The market’s rear room was packed. They weaved between the slow dragging couples to an empty table against a wall. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mae watched the Home Wreckers, who weren’t more than a dozen feet away. One of them sat in a straight-backed chair with a steel guitar across his knees. He wore a floppy hat that hid his face, but he looked up once and caught Mae’s eye. He smiled and winked then put his head down again and worked the guitar’s strings. He wore a broken bottle neck on the third finger of his left hand—where another man might have worn a wedding band—and he ran it up and down the frets, making the instrument whine and keen as if it were alive.

  A second musician blew a long riff on a kazoo, then raised his voice and crooned,

  Tell me, baby, what’s the matter now?

  Mmm, tell me, baby, what’s the matter now?

  Are you tryin’ to leave me?

  And you don’t know how?

  Hollister was back at the table, his hands filled with bunched newspapers, and two bottles of Coca-Cola dangling from his curled fingers. Mae took the bottles, and Hollister spread the newspapers on the table releasing the savory aromas of barbequed ribs and roasted corn on the cob. “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Smells delicious.” Mae sipped her Coke. “Oh,” she said and put her hand to her mouth.

  “It’s spiked with rum. Do you like it?”

  “I do.”

  They ate and watched the dancers and the Home Wreckers. When they had finished, Mae asked if there was a ladies’ room.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you.” Hollister gathered the newspapers. “Another Coke?”

  Mae nodded, and Hollister showed her to the ladies’ room, where a line of women waited. Mae took her place at the end, and a few of the girls smiled at her shyly. As far as she had seen, she was the only white girl in the place.