As the Liquor Flows

by Angela Christina Archer

  I closed my eyes for a moment then opened them. Trust, faith, hope, or conviction, no matter how I rolled my dice all of this rested in this moment.

  “He said that I shouldn’t trust Vincent, but that . . . that I could trust you.”

  “And do you believe him?”

  “I don’t think that Frank has ever lied to me before, but . . .”

  “But?” Confusion and disappointment twisted in his face, deepening the crease in his forehead, almost as though I’d hurt his feelings.

  What is wrong with me? Frank has never lied. Ever.

  Max reached for the door handle.

  “Mr. Catalano?”

  His fingers froze, clutched around the handle as he glanced over his shoulder. With an odd twitch in his eye, he stared at me.

  “Yes, Miss Ford?”

  “I believe him. I believe Frank.”

  A half smirk curved through his lips as a soft glow of appreciation glimmered through his eyes. He slid from the seat and shut the driver door. His gentle and delicate movement barely rocked the frame and wheels.

  Within seconds, my own door opened, and he stuck his hand out for me to take. His smile had vanished, but returned when my fingertips touched the palm of his hand.

  My own heart fluttered as I rose to my feet. Our bodies were inches apart and our eyes danced around, locking for only a few seconds before shifting on to the trees, the house, or anything else we could look at.

  “You may call me Evelyn from now on. If you want to, I mean. I really don’t mind.”

  “Noted.” With his one, single word he strode off toward the house.

  What just happened? Was I not supposed to say that? Did I overstep a line I shouldn’t?

  I trotted after him.

  Please tell me I didn’t do something I shouldn’t. This is so embarrassing.

  As we reached the front porch, Max spun on his heel, so fast that my body nearly slammed into his.

  “You know, you might as well just call me Max, then.” He chuckled and winked.

  Sure, make me feel embarrassed on purpose.

  I cocked my head to the side and clicked my tongue. “Noted.”

  He laughed for a second then pointed a finger at me. His grin vanished. “But don’t do it in front of Vinny.”

  I nodded.

  Voices echoed through the house as we entered the foyer. Vincent’s derision bellowed through the white walls followed by Mr. Phelps’s obeying words of yes, sir after every command.

  I glanced at Max, but he didn’t meet my gaze. Instead, his eyes focused on the closed door to our left. The softness and light behind the hue disappeared, replaced with a darkness of agitation. With a slight groan under his breath, he motioned me to follow as he strode toward the door and rapped on it with his knuckles.

  “Come in.”

  Vincent’s office mirrored every other room in the house with dark hardwood floors, maroon and green wallpaper, and floor to ceiling bookcases along one wall. Completely windowless, the only light in the room came from several oil lamps.

  Vincent sat at the grand desk in the corner. It’s sheer size like that of a bed, with elegant carvings around the rim and down the thick legs.

  “That will be all, Mr. Phelps.” Vincent removed his reading glasses and closed a couple of books that lay open in front of him on the desk.

  “Yes, sir. Dinner shall be served upon your requested time.” With a slight bow, Mr. Phelps left the room. His brushy mustache twisted into a slight smile as he glanced at Max.

  Vincent shoved the closed books off to the side of the desk and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

  “Did you have a pleasant outing, Miss Ford?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I did.”

  A mild irritation swam in his eyes. “And where was this particular place that you needed to go to today?”

  Max stepped forward and halted a few feet from Vincent’s desk. His shoulders slumped in a submissive pose that seemed forced and foreign to him.

  “Miss Ford needed to run a few personal errands,” he lied.

  For a brief second, Vincent’s eyes squinted into a glare. “Ah, well that is understandable. Did you get everything she needed?”

  Both Max and I nodded. The only difference in our answers was while he stared into Vincent’s eyes, I stared at the floor.

  Vincent rose to his feet and straightened his blazer. He strode to a brass cart against the opposite wall, popped the cork on one of the glass bottles, and poured some caramel colored liquid into one of the crystal glasses.

  “You may leave us, Catalano.”

  Max gritted his teeth. Hesitation brewed through the tension in his body. He didn’t move, not even an inch.

  “Did you have something else you wish to say, Catalano?”

  “No, Vinny.”

  “Well, then you may leave us.”

  Max reluctantly spun around on his heels. The concern in his eyes punched me in the gut.

  Was Vincent angry that I left for some reason?

  “Please, have a seat, Miss Ford.” Vincent gulped the contents of his glass and poured himself another.

  I crept toward the chair. As my rump slid against cushion, the wood creaked softly, adjusting to my sudden weight. I folded my hands in my lap.

  My eyes fixed upon his desk and the symmetrical patterns in the woodened boards covered with a cherry stain that darkened the swirls of the knots and deep crevasses.

  “You look as though something is on your mind.” His tone matched the smugness of his statement as he returned to his desk.

  I met his gaze as he sipped his tumbler slowly. His intimidation ran cold through every inch of my skin, engulfing my courage and draining any flicker of resolve or audacity.

  “No. I have nothing on my—”

  The phone rang a hard dinging that vibrated through my chest.

  I flinched.

  With his eyes still upon me, Vincent fetched the headset from the cradle.

  “Yes.” His aggressiveness flowed through his voice. No hello, no this is so-and-so speaking, no formal salutation.

  A man spoke on the other end, but his words nothing more than muffled sounds of incoherent syllables in a tone and volume that growled through the receiver.

  “No. I’ll pay him a visit, myself.” Vincent paused while the man spoke a few more garbled words. “No. I don’t want you to do anything. Do you understand me? I’ll meet with him tomorrow afternoon.”

  He slammed the headset down into the cradle. Lost in thought, his fingers tapped on the wood top of the desk, until finally he wrenched one of the drawers open and withdrew a ledger book. He slammed the thick tome of paper down with a hard thud .

  I flinched again.

  After he checked some of the pages, he yanked a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches from his coat pocket. With the flick of wrist, the match burned, and puffs of smoke billowed around him.

  “Have you ever been to Coney Island, Miss Ford?” he finally asked.

  “I went a few times with my parents when I was a younger; however, I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Would you care to join me tomorrow, then? We can make a day of it.” His face held not a smile, and yet, not a frown, but a calm indifference with a whisper of arrogance.

  “Um . . . I suppose so.”

  NINE

  I SLID OUT of the automobile parked alongside the sidewalk of Surf Avenue.

  Although the hot afternoon sun beat down upon me, my hat shaded my face and the brim casted a shadow upon the ground.

  A gentle sea breeze blew through the satin bow tied around the crown. Its elegant shade of white matched the silk and chiffon dress that hugged my body.

  My hand released from Max’s grip as Vincent slid out of the car behind me. Dom followed last and stood next to Max with his arms crossed in front of him.

  “I have business to take care of before we enjoy the afternoon.” Vincent flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground. “Catalano, stay with
Miss Ford. Dom and I will be back shortly.”

  As they strode off down the sidewalk, I stared across the street at a sight I hadn’t seen in years: the sea.

  Just like in the whimsical romance between two beings, I had loved the sea. Like an old friend, I swore I’d never leave behind or forget.

  And, yet, such is exactly what I’d done.

  I had forgotten her. I left her behind. I cast her aside for the heartbreak and grief she brought back to the focal point of my mind—memories too painful for me to face.

  “Evelyn?”

  I ignored Max as I walked away from him and my shoes clicked against the wooden boards of the pier.

  Strolling along, I couldn’t help but notice the difference in the place from a long time ago. The once bustling Coney Island felt barren, as the thousands who usually visited on a daily basis had dwindled into hundreds.

  A familiar place that I’d once loved now changed.

  Surely, picnic baskets and towels still lay in the sand while families and couples played in the ocean waves, their screams of joy and the sound of laughter echoed through the air. However, even with a crowded beach, only handfuls of people ambled along the boardwalk.

  Although, I suppose in a broke city, one could expect such. While most of the businesses and attractions remained open after the stock market crash, the shabby paint and worn out light bulbs left a sense of desperation.

  Prices listed on advertisements were all slashed in half, the old numbers had been marked out, and new amounts marked in with bright red paint as everyone tried to make what little money they still could.

  Max trotted after me and slowed down as he reached my side. “Do you want to see any of the attractions?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” He paused as we passed a vendor and pointed at a sign. “Because I doubt you’ll have another chance to see a decapitated Hollywood Starlet condemned to death, and yet, through the miracle of science, her headless body has been kept alive.” He twisted his voice to mock his own words. “And for only fifteen cents, too, instead of twenty-five. Now, that’s a deal.”

  I laughed quietly as we continued, meandering further down the boardwalk by another vendor seeking patrons.

  “Come one, come all, and meet the amazing Dolly Dimple,” announced a fat, bald man standing just outside the door of a brightly painted building. “Only five cents and you, too, can meet the six hundred pound luscious Dolly.”

  Max grasped my hand and softly halted me. We both stared at the painted portraits of an exceptionally huge, curvaceous woman, whose breasts were larger than a human baby was at birth.

  Max leaned in close to me. His hot breath whispered across my neck and goose bumps prickled all over my arms.

  “Do you care to meet Dolly?” His tone bordered part comical mockery as he held out his hands in front of his chest as if he was holding gigantic breasts. “Because I hear she’s luscious.”

  Unable to control myself for another second, laughter burst from my lips as Max ushered me away from the building and the infuriated looking bald man.

  “That is . . . is so . . . wrong of us.” I stuttered.

  He laughed harder. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, I’m glad.” He finally stopped laughing and his eyes locked onto mine as he held out his arm for me to take.

  For the first time in several days, I’d actually laughed. For the first time in several days, I’d actually found something to be funny. Max had been amusing when I needed delight, strong when I needed a pillar to lean on, and warm when I needed comfort and caring.

  And for the first time in several days, I relaxed into him.

  American flags whipped high in the air in the afternoon breeze, flying over the buildings of all the vendors advertising one thing or another. Max and I strolled along as the crisp sea air mixed with the salty and sweet scents of pier food.

  Frankfurters for ten cents and sweet pineapple or orange nectar drinks for five cents. Cotton Candy and popcorn for a mere penny, and caramel covered apples, with their sticky, sweetness for two.

  “This place has certainly changed from the last time I came here,” I said. “I guess time has a way of changing everything in the end.”

  “A decline in business doesn’t help, either.”

  “It’s sad, really, when you think about it.”

  “Just another sign of the times.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So how long have you lived in New York?”

  “My parents moved to the city before I was born. They found a tiny apartment downtown and we lived there until Frank and I couldn’t . . .” Embarrassment weighed heavy on me.

  “Couldn’t afford it anymore.” He finished my sentence.

  I nodded, drawing my gaze toward another vendor advertising the capture of the sixty-ton whale, Moby Dick.

  “When was the last time you visited Coney Island?” he asked.

  “I was seventeen.”

  “And you didn’t have fun?”

  “No, I did.” I bit my lip while the images of the last holiday vacation with my family whispered through my mind. We had spent the day together playing in the beach sand, riding the Cyclone, and eating hot dogs until our stomachs nearly burst. It was a day of pure happiness for the picture perfect family who played together and who had fun together.

  We laughed. We talked. We celebrated.

  Who knew that, just mere hours later, our happiness would shatter with the death of my parents?

  The reminder ached in my chest, an overwhelming pain, nearly too much to bear. The heartache hadn’t healed with time, and being here today, only seemed to worsen my sorrow.

  “It’s just that . . . the day was the last time we were all together as a family. My parents had plans that evening to go to dinner with friends.” I inhaled a deep breath. “They never made it home that night.”

  “What happened to them? If you don’t mind my asking, I mean.”

  “My daddy’s stupid, old Ford model T decided to take its last breath while crossing a bridge. They had been out late with friends. It was night, it was dark, and by the time an oncoming truck saw them, it was too late.”

  “That’s awful.”

  An annoyed chuckle snorted through my nose. “Daddy always said that automobile was lucky because we shared the name Ford, but I hated it, hated it from the day he drove it home to the day it lay in pieces, scattered along the river bank. In the end, it wasn’t lucky.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I nodded as tears stung my eyes.

  “So it’s just been you and Frank all these years?”

  “Until the stock market crashed and he lost his job.”

  The darkest day this country has ever known, Tuesday, October 29th, also known as Black Tuesday, or at least, that’s what the newspaper headlines called it.

  Just days before All Hallows Eve, when children of all ages dress up and pretend to be creatures of the night for spiced apples, chunks of salt water taffy and caramel, or the favored chocolate bars that always melted in the palms of sweaty, little hands.

  While most of the children in our neighborhood still celebrated, I remember the look in the parent’s eyes as they passed our doorstep. They all had the same worried and fearful questions that haunted my own life.

  How we were going to pay for rent, food, clothing, and coal for the stove without money?

  Each day Frank went without work, all I could think about was our landlord in the apartment below us, probably sitting in his chair as he counted down the days until he would collect the next month’s rent.

  As the weeks passed the food cans in our cabinets dwindled. We ate dinners of cold beans and stale bread. Before we knew it, the end of the month loomed and we faced the one choice we didn’t want to make. To either pay our rent and starve or allow eviction and have full bellies.

  “So is that when you had to move out of the apartment?” Max asked.

  �
�We tried to stay as long as we could, but yes, that’s when we had to move. I remember the day we left as I stood in the doorframe looking around the empty rooms for the last time.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “Of course, by then, we had sold all of our furniture, so the rooms were bare, but yes, leaving the place we lived as a family . . . well, it hurt. People say it was just a rented apartment, but to me it was home. The only place I ever knew. I miss it and I miss the memories.”

  Images flashed through my mind of years of celebrating Christmas and hosting birthday parties, of warm blankets on a cold New York winter night or ice cream cones in the heat of the summer, and of conversations over Mama’s home cooked meals. Not everyone had those things, but I did.

  As I stared out toward the ocean in the distance, Max squeezed my arm tight against his body. A deep sigh relaxed through my skin.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Maybe a little.”

  With a broad grin, he guided me toward one of the food vendor stands nestled in between two buildings.

  “Two dogs please.”

  Within a few minutes, a warm frankfurter bun rested in the palm of my hand. He led me to a bench seat along the railing of the pier and as my rump slid across the weatherworn wood slats, I bit off a bite. The soft bread melted in my mouth, and the meat snapped with a familiar and enjoyable taste I remembered even after all these years.

  “You have a bit of . . .” He lifted his napkin and wiped the side of my cheek. “I’m sorry, but you had a little mustard on your face.”

  The touch of his fingers struck through my body. Heat flushed my skin. I laughed a little louder than I wanted, and then cleared my throat in embarrassment.

  Did I really just giggle like a little school girl?

  “It’s all right. Is it gone?” I asked.

  He smiled and gave a subtle nod. Amusement flickered in his eyes, a sparkle I tried to ignore along with the gut-twisting notion that deep down the craving to be near him grew more and more each day.

  Silence drifted between us, minute after minute, and bite after bite, until I finally popped the last morsel of frankfurter in my mouth and crumpled the paper holder into a tiny, awkward shaped ball. My knuckles whitened the harder I squeezed.