Frieda shook her head and said again to Bea, “You don’t belong in here.”
Bea’s eyes bright, she said, “Look at all the other women in here, for God’s sake. It’s a new era for women! I wish you didn’t belong here so clearly among the men! You know, you could buy yourself a nice dress for a change.”
“Sit down,” Frieda said, and gave Bea the stool.
“Am I allowed a drink in celebration?” She looked up and down the bar in search of the bartender.
Frieda’s lips pursed. “Maybe one. Just this once.”
Bea flagged down the bartender. “What should I order?” she whispered to Frieda.
“Something weak.”
As the bartender approached, Bea said, “I’ll try a Bee’s Knees.” Then she sat back and waited, looking very much like a young lady poised to take her first dance. Frieda asked, “How’s Silver today?” Frieda hadn’t seen him since the night before, since she’d arisen and left the house early to work on the Wonder’s engine. Despite treatment from a specialist paid for with Frieda’s money, Silver’s condition had remained virtually unchanged. He needed assistance with all activities and had not regained the ability to speak. Frieda and Bea had encouraged him to communicate by writing with his good hand, but Silver had never been able to write much more than his name, anyway; instead, now he let his feelings and needs be known through gestures and expressions. Frieda had bought him a gramophone, and he loved to listen to music or have one of the girls read to him. His favorites were classical music and Walt Whitman’s poems.
Bea answered, “The same. Polly and I got him up this morning, fed him, and settled him out on the porch. He sits there, you know, and looks for you.”
After one of the men gave up his seat, Frieda slipped onto the barstool next to her sister. She mumbled, “Thanks,” to the man and just sat there, ignoring Bea’s comment. Nothing Bea could say could compare to the stares Silver often sent her way. I know what you’re doing, his eyes said, and I don’t approve. How she hated what those eyes did to her. They looked right through her.
Hicks appeared over her shoulder. “He checks to make sure you’re still alive, Frieda.” She turned around to take a good look at Hicks. She rarely saw him now. He clammed and fished during the day; she worked primarily at night. Sometimes he picked up an odd job on an engine, and a few times over the past two years he and Frieda had worked together to fix a more complex engine. But it had been a long time since their last joint job.
So had he come over just to make her feel bad?
He looked unchanged, with the same concern in his eyes, a certain tenderness Frieda could not face. He said, “It must worry Mr. Silver to no end, what you’re doing.”
Frieda remembered the day Silver had sold the boat and told her that he wanted her to do something safe with her life. Safe! It was true he never would’ve sanctioned her rumrunning. But safety? How could one ever feel safe without money?
Bea nodded. “He can’t go to sleep most nights you’re out unless we give him a sleeping powder.”
Why was Bea doing this, too? Frieda fumed.
Bea said, “I’m going to college now. You can quit, can’t you? I’ll get a summer job to help.”
After spinning around to face the bar, Frieda folded her hands together on the bar top and stared straight ahead. The money she’d made running had paid for the nurses, the clothes, the good food, and now was going to pay for Bea’s education and housing in the city. Frieda had worked on a budget late into the wee hours of many nights. She probably had enough for Bea’s education and life in New York City. She probably had enough for Silver’s care for several years into the future. But what if something unforeseen came up? She needed excess savings to feel secure. Didn’t they know that?
Hicks placed a hand on her shoulder ever so gently, as if to say he understood. Over the past few years Hicks had continued to be a clammer and fisherman plain and simple, while most everyone else glittered in some newfangled way. Now many of the fishermen turned runners drove to the docks in new Cadillacs, Moons, Auburns, and Pierce-Arrows, and their families wore clothes from the city. Over the years many men had slowly surrendered to temptation—but not Hicks.
He continued to stand behind her—a bit too close, she felt. Perhaps he still harbored hope that she would go back to being the girl who only wanted her own clam boat and might marry him and settle down. But she had changed irrevocably, and that was no longer possible, if it ever had been.
Frieda said, “Enough, please.” She sipped her shot. She had never liked to gulp it and didn’t like the sudden rush that happened the few times she had tried. Rather, she liked the slow ease into a peaceful hum that blocked out the looks, the advances, and the recriminations from people like Hicks and the secret voice inside her head.
Nearby a heated discussion had ensued between a local fisherman and a couple of young men who clearly didn’t belong there any more than Bea did. They weren’t local—of that Frieda was certain. Too well-dressed—wearing Panama straw hats, cuffed trousers, and two-toned shoes—and too sure of themselves, too cocky to mind that they stood out. They had well-cared-for hands, pressed clothes, and moved with a certain elegance that no local man would ever be able to emulate.
The fisherman, Tom Cleary, was saying in a heated voice, “Sure, I’ll rent you my boat, but don’t even think of going out for a load of booze. If I find out you’ve gone within ten miles of a rum boat, I’ll wring your blue-blooded necks. Remember I warned you.”
It wasn’t the first time a group of weekend playboys had come down and tried to enter the business for nothing but a night of fun and adventure. One of the young men, a thin fella with a manicured moustache and horn-rimmed glasses, lifted his glass in the air. “We’ve been properly scolded,” he said to Tom Cleary. “We only wish to take a moonlight ride on the bay.”
Didn’t they know that nights with a big moon were the worst time to go? Fools, she thought. Tom said as much. “Moonlight ride? If you’re aiming to head for the rum boats, you couldn’t’ve picked a worse time. You’ll get caught, and I could lose my boat. If I find out that’s what you’re up to, I’ll shoot you and leave you on the beach for the crabs.”
The other young man stepped up. “Forget it, mate,” he said to the fisherman. “I wouldn’t want to deceive you.”
The second young man came into view, and Frieda froze. She had seen him before. But how was that possible? He wasn’t from around here; he smelled of old money. No matter how much the rich tried to dress down in their “casual clothes” and fit in, they reeked of another upbringing, just as hothouse roses always smelled different from wildflowers. It was in the looks, movements, and mannerisms; Frieda had always distrusted anyone who oozed wealth. But at least this man was honest. Then it hit her: she had seen him on a sailboat about the time she’d started running with Dutch and Rudy. His beauty had stunned her then as it did now.
He said, “We’ll find another way of entertaining ourselves.”
“You do that,” said Tom.
Hicks was telling her about a new speedboat he’d been working on for a customer and how difficult it was to handle in rough seas, how hard to steer while pounding over the waves. But her eyes had never left the face of the rich young man. An Ivy Leaguer if there ever was one. He had a simple but astounding beauty. Tall, with a confident stance. Clever, self-assured eyes. She studied the way his lips moved as he continued to chat with the fisherman and watched the curve of his wrist as he held a bottle of gin by its neck.
He turned and met her gaze, staring with open curiosity right back at her, as if she were a strange and rare bird on display in a cage. Frieda’s heart tripped.
She pulled her eyes away and set them on Hicks’s face. She knew the boat he was talking about. “If Carl can learn to handle her, he’ll be able to outrun anyone out there.”
“He got double-crossed by a scoundrel coast guard captain who handed him a rotten deal. Lost his other boat because of it.”
&nb
sp; “Why, Hicks,” Frieda said with a smile. “I thought our business didn’t interest you.”
He shrugged. “Just sharing a story, that’s all.”
Bea handed him her acceptance letter. Hicks looked it over, congratulated her, and passed it back. Then he said to Frieda in a low voice, “You’ve done what you set out to do. You can get out.”
Frieda blinked hard. “There’s room and board to think of. Plus she’ll need clothes and books. And don’t forget Silver.”
“Silver would want you out of this tomfoolery more than anybody. Look, I listen to all the stories. It’s getting harder, more dangerous, and you know it. Get out with what you have. Get out while the getting’s good.”
She looked at him more closely. He seemed in the midst of some sort of personal loss. So she said as gently as she could in a voice that few ever heard her use, “I know you mean well, but this conversation is as old as two-day fish.”
Hicks sipped his drink slowly, just as she did, but he didn’t comment again, nor did he leave. Never willing to give up on her, it seemed. The bar was getting more crowded. A few couples started dancing on the old plank flooring, and the lights flickered off and on as if the energy of the place had drained electricity from the wires. Hicks kept glancing her way, and to her dismay his eyes were lit with that old familiar flame. For a terrified moment she thought perhaps he might ask her to dance. Dreading how to refuse him, she was relieved when the opportunity was lost. Relieved only until she saw that Hawkeye was approaching. He broke into their little group, bringing with him the stink of fish and an unwashed body. Frieda tensed. Why would he come near her? He knew she despised him. Hawkeye was verging on drunk, and he slurred his words. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
She had just taken a sip of whiskey, and the burn in the back of her throat shot back into her mouth. How dare he congratulate Bea when, more than anyone else, he would love to see both girls fail, would love seeing them used as he had used their mother? Frieda’s eyes turned to slits as Bea looked up and accepted his well wishes. When Frieda was able to speak, only four words made their way out of her.
“Get away from her,” she said tersely through her teeth.
He grabbed ahold of the bar. “I only wish the best for the girl,” said the white-haired old cur, his eyes reflecting pain or remorse or something else. Guilt, Frieda decided.
Frieda hissed, “She doesn’t want to hear from you.”
“I don’t?” piped in Bea.
Hawkeye said, “Let the girl speak for herself.”
Bea quipped, “Yeah, Frieda.”
Now Frieda was fuming at the both of them, but she focused her rage on Hawkeye. Bea was too young to know better. “How dare you try to come between my sister and me!”
Hawkeye rocked on his heels. “What?”
“Haven’t you done enough? We all know what you did to our mother.” Stunned she had said that, Frieda tried to gulp back her words. She never mentioned her mother, nor did anyone else for that matter, at least not in front of her. The liquor had given life to her anger and loosened her tongue, and Bea and Hicks held still from the shock of the mention of Della Hope. They had no idea she had almost said, “And now you have your eye on my sister and me!” She bit down on her lip and breathed in and out a few times in large gulps of air.
Bea said, “Old business.”
Hawkeye took off his hat, revealing oily white threads smeared onto his forehead, and he appeared sobered by her words. “I always wished the best for your mother, God rest her soul.” At that moment he looked more pitiable and penitent than ruthless and cruel.
But once her rage had shown itself she couldn’t plug it, couldn’t stop the rushing flow. “Where were you when she was sick?”
Hawkeye never lowered his sharpened gaze, as if Frieda’s words had awakened him from a deep sleep. “I done what I could.” He pointed a finger at her. “Now listen here, young lady. You don’t know as much as you think you do.”
“You did what you could? Guess that wasn’t much, was it?” Hicks placed a calm hand on her shoulder, but Frieda shrugged it off.
A line of distress ran down the center of Hawkeye’s greasy forehead. “I did more than the others did.”
Those words, like daggers. “The others?” The sting festered and made the room seesaw. Why did this still hurt so badly? “Aren’t you the devil, so good at rubbing salt into an open wound?”
“I meant no harm, not to your mother, your sister, not even you, though you’re the mean one.” He wagged his finger again. “You need to learn how to watch that mouth of yours, because someday someone’s going to—”
She grabbed his finger and twisted it so hard she heard a crack. Hawkeye let out an alarming wail, Hicks gasped, and then the bar went silent. Doubled over, Hawkeye clutched his finger, and Frieda heard Bea breathe out an astonished, “Frieda . . .”
“Go to hell,” Frieda said to Hawkeye, although she hadn’t meant to hurt him badly. She might have been small built, but she could summon an almighty strength when she needed to.
Around them the bar remained frozen like a photograph. Frieda didn’t know if the bar was really as silent as it seemed, or if nothing could be heard above the pounding of her heart.
Hawkeye looked in agony, and for a moment she felt regret. Still holding his finger, he straightened up. “I hope,” he began, as his eyes misted over, “that someday you know the pain of loving someone you can’t have, Miss Frieda. I don’t wish harm on no person, but I wish for you to know this.”
How dare he? “I wish to amend my comment.” She stood up and plunked down some bills on the counter. “Go straight to bloody hell.”
She pushed away from the bar and took long strides toward the door. People parted for her. Her vision was blurred from held-back tears or the smoke in the place or her anger, but she did see well enough to notice the handsome Ivy Leaguer with the beautiful lips as she passed him by. She paused and stared at him—the scent of worldly experience wafting, charms abounding, face handsome-ing. He held her gaze with what looked like a bit of awe and respect, lifted the bottle in a little salute, and gave a single nod of his head.
Outside the night was soft and silky. The beam of the lighthouse was making its sweep; the distant lights of the big city were in sharp view. The clanging of some boat’s bell hammered through her bones. A brisk night wind was blowing in off the water, and she pulled her sweater across her chest. She began to walk briskly toward home and then heard footsteps behind her.
“That was quite a show,” Hicks called out.
She continued to stride away.
“This life is roughing you up, Frieda,” he called out just loud enough for her to hear him. “It’s making you hard.”
She said over her shoulder, “I’ve always been hard.”
CHAPTER NINE
Two days later Carl, the man who had bought the big speedboat Hicks had told her about, sold it to Dutch. Carl had been scared off by reports of go-through men murdering entire crews, but his boat left no doubt as to what his original intentions had been. The Pauline was equipped with two compartments for carrying cargo, one in the engine room and one between the engine room and crew’s quarters under the pilothouse, meaning that she could carry more than a thousand bags of cargo. Fifty feet long, she was a beauty, and Frieda quickly inspected the engine room. Fitted with three engines capable of three hundred horsepower each, and all fitted with silencers, the boat could make thirty-five to thirty-eight knots even with cases on board.
Dutch stood aside as Frieda completed her inspection. It was midday, the sun at the top of the sky. “My oldest son got his college acceptance letter, too, and my wife wants a new house up in the hills. We already bought the plot, and she’s working with an architect to kit it out with all the frills,” he said. “I figure we can go out more nights on this one. We can handle rougher seas. We’ll get out and back faster. And we won’t even have to wait for dark nights if we don’t want to.”
“I
won’t dare ask how much she cost,” said Frieda.
“I aim to make it back in six months’ time,” answered Dutch.
They motored her out for a test run in the bay, and Dutch let Frieda take the helm. There was a flat calm, and the sun was a bright coin hanging in the sky, raining down warmth. Frieda realized she had forgotten how nice it was to be out on the water with nowhere to go and nothing to fear. The boat, with her V-shaped hull, cut through the water as if it were a sheet of spread oil. Dutch squinted into the sunlight, his face turning redder by the minute; even with his fair complexion, he was one of the only watermen who rarely wore a hat.
Dutch said, “Lucky for you Hawkeye’s finger ain’t broke. He could’ve pressed charges. But I hear he’s willing to let it go, because it’s just a sprain.”
“Oh, that’s big of him. He’s such a lying scoundrel. I bet I only cracked his knuckle.”
Dutch laughed harshly. “Remind me never to cross you.”
Frieda shrugged. “It’s worked out pretty good for us these years. I pledged never to cross you, captain, remember?”
“That you did.” Dutch rubbed his chin and they flew onward.
“One thing I didn’t tell you yet,” he shouted over the wind a few minutes later.
Frieda tossed a glance his way but kept her focus on the water ahead.
“I took on another man.”
She shot him an inquisitive look. “Why do we need another man?”
“I figure with this boat our chanciest moments’ll be when we ain’t moving a knot, when we’re loading up off the rummies. He’s a big guy; he can help get her loaded up fast.”
Frieda shrugged.
“We’ll all still be making more money. This fella don’t even want part of the take.”
The Whiskey Sea Page 10
