“Vangie! Look what he did to their cute little wagon!”
The yellow and green cart had been overturned, the fabric torn, the contents scattered. The two ponies were grazing on the other side of the road.
We climbed out of the hack to examine the damage. Their dishes were broken, their few pathetic clothes torn and tied into knots, their cheap jewelry thrown on the ground and trampled. A plaster statue of the Madonna and Child had been deliberately smashed against the side of the wagon.
“How horrible!” Tears were streaming down April’s lovely face.
I put my arm around her. “Dad gave me some money. I’ll give it to them. It’ll pay for the repairs.”
“Your father is a wonderful man.”
“For a Republican.”
“And West Side Irish!”
Laughter quickly chased away the tears.
I whistled for the ponies, attempting to demonstrate my skill with horses.
They picked up their ears, but didn’t move. Apparently, my whistle wasn’t in Romany. I whistled again. Grudgingly they ambled across the road and permitted me to tether them to the tree and April to pet them admiringly.
“He did it, didn’t he?” she said when we were back on Highway 50.
“It’s the sort of trick he would play. He doesn’t mean—”
“I know that, but he does harm just the same. What if those two women were assaulted last night?”
“I’m sure they weren’t, not after my father’s phone call.”
“That’s not Jim’s doing, poor man.” She was sympathetic to him again. April’s capacity to be angry at the unfortunate was severely limited.
“He’ll probably try to give them money before the day is over, more than they need. That’s his way.”
“I think he wanted to…well, to make love with both of them and they refused. After I wouldn’t take his ring.”
It was the sort of thing Jim would try to do.
“You turned him down cold?”
“I tried to be clear. All summer long, I’ve tried to. He doesn’t seem to understand that I like him, but I don’t love him. He doesn’t hear what I say.”
“Were you tempted to say yes? I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“It is too your business.” She swerved around a slow bus. “I liked him and I felt sorry for him and I thought maybe I could help him and no one had ever asked me before. And this week…well, I thought you’d never forgive me for the way I acted last Sunday. But when he asked me again yesterday, I knew I could never be his wife.”
“Uh-huh.”
We were entering the outskirts of Kenosha, pleasant enough little neighborhoods. The town itself was a lake port turning into a small industrial city. It somehow managed to look shabby even in prosperous times.
“He was so pleased with himself for something he had accomplished on Saturday. One of his business deals, you know. Do you think he’s involved with bootleggers?”
“Maybe.”
“He tried to become affectionate…not the way you do. Just the opposite, like I was a thing to be played with…almost a prostitute. So I pushed him out of my room and screamed at him to go away. He did finally.”
Poor Jim. He had blown his best chance. It was as inevitable as one of the Greek tragedies the Jesuits at St. Ignatius College had made us read. Except Jim was not the tragic-hero type.
Which didn’t mean his agony wasn’t any less painful.
I had done my part, but it hadn’t been enough. Could I have done more? How had I failed him?
“Do you think he did these terrible things to the Gypsies because he was angry at me?”
“Don’t blame yourself, April. Jim’s behavior doesn’t fit ordinary explanations.”
The redbrick Gothic courthouse and jail in Kenosha looked like it had been built right after the Civil War and had never been remodeled or even painted. It smelled of rot and human excrement.
The deputy in charge on Labor Day was a man not much older than me with a rapidly developing potbelly. He wore a Sam Browne belt, riding trousers, puttees, and a massive colt revolver.
“You’re the politican’s kid from Chicago?” He sneered at me.
“Captain John O’Malley.” I promoted myself and tried to sound like an efficient cavalry officer.
I heard April draw in her breath at my fib.
“Captain?
“106th Cavalry.”
He was impressed, as I knew he would be.
“You see action, sir?”
“A little.”
“I missed it completely. Never got out of Georgia.”
“It was no picnic, I can tell you that.”
“But I bet you wouldn’t trade it for anything, sir?”
“That’s right, Deputy. Now, can we arrange this matter quickly? I’ve requisitioned my vehicle for an hour.”
“You bet, Captain, sir.”
April drew her breath in sharply again.
I handed the deputy her fifty dollars bail. He gave us some forms to sign.
“You’re not likely to see this money again, sir.” He counted it carefully. “They’ll leave the jurisdiction before the sun is down.”
I slipped him ten dollars from the roll Dad had given me. “I think that’s probably the best outcome for all concerned, Deputy.”
“Yes, sir.” He winked at our little conspiracy. “Thank you, sir. I understand, sir. Now, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll bring the…”—he glanced nervously at April—“the prisoners.”
“Carry on, Deputy.”
“Vangie,” my love whispered, “you’re terrible!”
“All right,” I whispered back, “I anticipated my promotion a little. But everything else was true. Collapsing on the parade ground was certainly action and it certainly wasn’t a picnic. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything, because when I came out of my fever I had a dream of a beautiful brown-eyed woman that I knew I’d meet someday.”
“Really?” She grabbed my arm. “How romantic!”
Oh yes, it was all of that, God knows.
“Shush! Here comes the deputy with his prisoners.”
He read them a warning about what would happen to them if they violated their bail bond. They listened dully, as if such warnings had been read before.
Then they walked out into the September sunlight with us, timid and cautious, not knowing, as Romany never know, what would happen to them next.
“Now.” April took charge. “We’re going to drive you back to your wagon. Some terrible people have damaged it, but we’re going to give you some money to repair it. We’ve tied up your ponies so they won’t run off, though the poor dears showed no sign of running. It would probably be a good idea if you cross the border to Illinois by tomorrow morning. All right?”
The two women, fear still in their eyes, hardly knew what to say.
“Thank you, kind lady,” the older finally said, bowing low. “You are very good.”
“This young man will tell you that’s not true. Anyway, we’d better leave here while we still can. Vangie…”
I held out to the older woman the roll of bills. Dad had given me. “We’re very sorry about the harm you’ve suffered because of one of our friends. This might help you to repair some of the harm.”
The woman looked at the roll and at me, afraid to touch it, afraid that we were buying her and the girl for some evil purpose.
“It’s a gift,” I said awkwardly. “Nothing more.”
“Please don’t be afraid of us,” April added. “We won’t hurt you.”
The woman glanced at the other Gypsy and then gingerly accepted our gift. She continued to watch us as if she expected something terrible to happen. Then she sighed deeply.
“I can only say thank you.”
“That’s all you have to say,” April said briskly. “Now we really must leave.”
We stopped at their camp on the way back. Both women wailed at what had been done to their cart. We helped them turn it over
on its wheels and waited while the woman pronounced a “holy blessing” over us in Romany.
“Did you make enough sketches?” April asked when we waved good-bye to them.
“You should have been watching the road instead of peering at my work.”
“I think they’re beautiful.”
“The women or my drawings?”
“Both.”
Mrs. Kennelly sent me back to my room at the priests’ house. I put on my trunks, threw a towel around my shoulders, and walked to the pier. April was waiting for me in her red swimsuit with the gold belt. I sat next to her and put my arm around her waist.
“Are we friends again, April Mae Anne Cronin?”
“I hope so.” She snuggled close to me.
Then Jim arrived. April and I separated from one another self-consciously. I’m sure he didn’t notice our embrace.
He felt compelled to tell me in great detail and much laughter about his wonderful joke on the Gypsies.
We listened without comment and then excused ourselves. We wanted to swim before the storm clouds marching across the sky from the west drove us away.
We swam far out into the lake together and, treading water, kissed each other passionately.
“Well,” my love sighed. “Now we know you can kiss in the middle of a lake.”
“Kiss effectively.”
“Definitely.”
We swam back. Jim had disappeared.
“We must be nice to him one more day,” April begged me.
“One more day. Then we see each other without him as chaperone.”
“Can you stay the night? I can. We could take the morning train—”
“And watch the bonfire that ends the summer?”
“Wouldn’t that be fun!”
“I’ll call my parents. They like you already, though I can’t imagine why. My boss won’t mind if I’m a bit late tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll call my parents too.”
“And we’ll sit on the pergola after the bonfire.”
Pause.
“I’d love that, Vangie.”
It was not to happen. I would die again several hours before the bonfire.
She wrapped a towel around her shoulders—no beach pajamas required now—and we walked back to the Drake.
There was no one on the porch. So I stole another kiss, the most passionate yet. My hands roamed her body, soothing, caressing, demanding.
“Vangie,” she begged.
I stopped.
She took a very deep breath. “That was very nice.”
“A little too much?”
She grinned. “Just enough. Now go dress for lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The wedding, I decided on the way back to the priests’ house, would be in early January or after Easter at the latest.
Jim was waiting for us at the lunch table, decked out in black-and-white checkered finery.
He insisted that I drive with him to a “friend’s place” where he would get some “swell whiskey” for the bonfire.
I wanted to spend more time with April, but I had promised both her and myself that I would be nice to Jim for one last time.
The rain clouds loomed above us as we lurched along the road to the golf course. The smell of rain was already in the air, deep, earthy, pungent.
The two Romany women were about to leave their campsite when we drove by. The ponies were hitched to the hastily patched wagon.
Jim passed them and then stopped the Duesy.
“Hey, they’re out already. I was going to bail them out tomorrow. Well, I’d better give them something.”
He jumped out of the car, strode over to the two Romany, said something and then laughed at his own joke. He pulled several bills out of his pocket and thrust them into the older woman’s blouse, patted her rump and walked away from them, beaming happily.
The two of them watched him, their expressions revealing implacable hatred.
“Well, that’s that,” he sighed with satisfaction. “No harm done, huh? Hey, isn’t that older one a nice piece of ass? Would you like her? I think I might be able to arrange it.”
“No, thanks, Jim.”
I’d argued with him for the last time.
We turned off the main road and down a narrow dirt road through several miles of untilled farm fields, crossed a river on an old wooden bridge, and made another turn.
I was completely lost. I had no idea what the river was. Perhaps it was merely one of the broad creeks that creep along the shore of Lake Michigan, a few miles inland, and then suddenly, as though they have taken a deep breath, turn and rush for the lake.
“Say, I’ve got some swell news.” He turned to another enthusiasm as we swerved down a dirt road that was no more than two ruts in a field. We careened toward an ancient farmhouse in front of which was a buggy that may have expired when Grover Cleveland was president.
“What’s the swell news?” I asked wearily.
“Well, I’ve talked to April. Yesterday, before you came up. She’s just about agreed to marry me. After Easter probably, though it depends on what Momma says. Isn’t that swell?”
“Are you sure, Jim?”
“Well, you know how women are. She just about said yes. I felt her up a little. She really liked it. We’ll probably tell Momma at the end of the week.”
When, I wondered, would it end?
Three men waited for us on the porch of the old house, grim, dark, bearded men in straw hats and overalls.
Just as we pulled up, the rains came, sudden and heavy. We were soaked instantly.
The men motioned us into the house. I noted with considerable unease that two Springfield rifles, clean and well oiled by the looks of them, were stacked inside the door.
The room was dark—one window that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the Grant administration—and bare: a couple of rough chairs, a single wooden table. The room smelled of wood fires and whiskey.
Both of us were served two tumblers of what was certainly presentable bourbon. Jim babbled cheerfully. Our hosts said hardly a word.
When they did speak, it was in guttural whispers and with a strange accent I could not place.
Then when the drinking ceremony was over, they presented us with two milk bottles of the whiskey covered with paper caps and sealed with rubber bands.
Jim reached into his wallet for money.
They waved it away.
“See how generous my friends are?” he crowed. “Didn’t I tell you they were great friends?”
He neglected to thank them, an omission of which the old Jim would never have been guilty.
They did not offer to assist us in putting the cover on the Duesy. We were soaked again.
The rain did not daunt Jim’s good spirits. His friends had proven him right. The whiskey was really “swell.” The drinks were taking effect. He began to sing, off-key, “One Alone” from The Desert Song.
I twisted uneasily in the seat next to him. Jim was drunk. He was driving too fast for a now muddy road. The rain was so thick I could see only a few feet in front of the car. And now hail was beating against the canvas top.
“Watch out, Jim,” I yelled as a flash of lightning crackled in the sky ahead of us.
“I’m fine,” he shouted above the roar of the thunder.
“The wooden bridge,” I screamed as we hit the slippery planks.
“I can’t brake!” Jim wailed.
The car seemed to sprout wings and fly through the air. A dark, raging current of water leaped up to meet us. There was a terrible wrenching crash. I was flung through space, cartwheeling back toward the water.
The river hit me a wet angry blow.
Everything turned black.
I thought, as I had on the parade ground, that I had yet to love.
The blackness became deeper. I searched for laughing brown eyes again. This time they weren’t there.
Or maybe they were.
Then there was nothing at all.
The brown eyes were definitely amused.
I forced my own eyes to flicker open again.
My dream woman and my mother were standing at the end of my bed, arm in arm, smiling at me. Dad was on the other side of April, grinning cheerfully.
I closed my eyes in self-defense.
“We know you’re awake, Vangie dear,” April chortled. “You can’t fool us. You’re not that sick.”
I gave up and opened my eyes.
“You’re all right, son.” Dad was trying to be sensible. “You’re in St. Mary’s Hospital in Kenosha. You had a bad bump on your head and a few bruised ribs and some nasty scratches, but the doctor says you’ll be able to come home in a couple of days.”
“And that sweet Mr. Hurley said you could take the next ten days off.” April beamed at me.
“And your father and I think April is adorable.”
“She plays a nice harp,” I tried to say.
They all laughed at my raspy voice.
“Jim?”
“Not a scratch.” Dad frowned. “That kind always lands on its feet.”
“His mother took him home in tears,” April continued. “Poor boy, he was so unhappy about his ruined car.”
“The brakes had been damaged. Deliberately. He blames the Gypsies, but they’ve disappeared, lucky women. And it’s unlikely they would know how to sabotage a car.”
“Bootleggers,” I said. “His friends.”
“I thought as much.” Dad nodded grimly.
“We’re going back to Chicago, dear,” Mom purred over me. “Your father has his usual Thursday meeting tomorrow.”
“Thursday!”
“Today’s Wednesday.”
“What happened to Tuesday?”
“You slept right through it, Vangie.” April giggled like a silly little girl.
“Dr. Cronin, who is such a nice man, says you’ll be fine, but he’s letting April stay over at Barry till you’re ready to come home. He thinks she’ll keep you out of trouble with the nuns.”
“Such a nice man.” I returned blissfully to sleep.
The next day, when April came to visit me, I was wide awake. My body was a solid mass of hurts, particularly my ribs and my head. But I was well enough to melt when my rhapsody in blue waltzed into the room.
“Are you being good, Vangie?”
Younger Than Springtime Page 33
