The Bootlegger's Wife: A Love Story
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“How appropriate,” he mumbled to himself, as he remembered from a childhood lesson that Saint Anthony was the patron saint for lost things. Perhaps Anthony would intervene and pray for Frances, who was indeed very lost.
The heavy wooden doors closed softly behind him, and he was left standing in the vestibule, staring down the long aisle that directed him like an arrow to the light-filled sanctuary. A kaleidoscope of colors leapt from the stained glass windows to dance around the altar and Frankie succumbed to their siren song.
He stood with his hat in his hand, looking up at the crucified Christ. “What do you want from me?” he whispered, his breathing heavy. “You’ve taken everything. Do you want me on my knees?” He lowered himself to the altar rail, “There, does that make you happy?”
Jesus said nothing, but stared down at him with his own head bent in sorrow and pain.
Frankie looked around the deserted church and the smell of candles and incense swept him back to his youth. Forced to go to daily Mass, to speak to a God that didn’t hear the pleas of a small child with his fists folded in prayer, Frankie had soon given up his end of the conversation.
But this was not about him. He might not be worthy to ask for anything, but Frances was. He was afraid that locked away in a world without words, she might be incapable of doing her own praying. So he would do it for her. He would set aside his reservations and his grudge and he would pray to Frances’s God and if begging is what it took then he would beg that she be healed. He poured out his heart, and God listened to every word. He heard it all, the anger, the fear, the guilt and the blame. With nothing left to say, Frankie rose and walked slowly home. On the way he stopped at the corner florist and purchased a single red rose.
“I love you, Doll-Face.” He bent to kiss her cheek as he handed her his offering. She ignored it, as she had all the others on all the previous days. Frankie placed her hand around the stem and drew her hand up to her face so that she could inhale its intoxicating scent. He knew smell was a very powerful agent in retrieving memories and he hoped it would work. Yet it hadn’t worked before and it didn’t work today. Or the next day.
The roses were part of Frankie’s daily routine, in spite of the fact that Frances showed no interest or recognition. Day after day he handed her a rose, his pledge that indeed, he would not give up on her.
***
Another day, another rose. He sat in the chair opposite her rocker and stared at her blank face. Something was digging into his back, and he felt around the seat cushion until he produced the offending object. It was a tiny toy soldier. His startled breath caught in his throat.
Sophia and he had taken it upon themselves to clean out Robert’s room and remove everything except a box with a few clothes and favorite toys, only a few days earlier. The task had almost done him in. But Sophia had convinced him that it would be the best thing for Frances. When Frances recovered, it might be too much to walk into Robert’s room with everything in place as if the child would be coming back at any minute.
So the box full of memories was safely tucked away and would be waiting for Frances whenever she was ready and strong enough. Now the sight of this innocent little toy that had escaped exile had appeared and it was suddenly more than Frankie could bear. He was undone by the sight of it. Tears ran down his face and he had no strength left to wipe them away.
In the midst of his grief, he noticed a hand reaching out from the rocking chair. A tear formed in the corner of Frances’s eye, silently ran down her cheek, splashing off the end of her chin. She stretched out her hand and Frankie knew what she wanted. He placed the little soldier in her palm and she clutched it to her chest with the faintest moan.
He jumped from his seat and dropped to his knees in front of her. Taking her face in both of his hands, the words rushed from him. “Frances, come back to me. I’m right here!” He was determined to grab her, before she could slip away again.
She blinked and then slowly focused her gaze on Frankie’s eyes as the dam broke and the tears that must be shed before the healing could take place flowed freely. It was as if the tears were brand new. And for her they were. For wherever she had been hiding, she was back now, and she must pick up the pain where she left it and start all over again.
“My Frances,” Frankie had tears of his own to shed.
He grabbed on to her like a life line tossed to a drowning swimmer. He hugged her fiercely, kissing her wet face over and over again. As he held her close with her head on his shoulder, he whispered to the room and to whoever might be listening.
“Thank you.”
FORTY TWO
Frances came back to him, slowly but surely. Her strength returned, along with the color in her cheeks. Dr. Tyndall cautioned Frankie to allow Frances to take her time, as they were still dealing with so much that was unknown concerning her condition. Frankie assured him that he would let his wife take all the time she needed.
She had been destroyed. Frankie wouldn’t have blamed her if she refused to come back to this world that had taken everything from her. But she did come back. She was back from the dead. Everything else would fall into place.
As Frances grew stronger and heard more details about her lost days, it broke her heart to realize that Frankie had been left to deal with everything. She had abandoned him when he needed her most, and it was hard to forgive herself for that. It was one more thing to regret.
“I’m so sorry I left you alone, Frankie.” Frances cried. Now that the tears had found their way to the surface, it seemed as if there was no stopping them.
“I told you once, I’ll say it again. There is no need for you to apologize to me.” Frankie took her small hands in his. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through.”
“It was so dark…” She tried to explain the place she had found herself in, but she couldn’t find a word to describe the emptiness. “I’ve never felt so alone.”
“You were never alone.”
“I think somewhere deep inside, I still knew that.” She had been pulled down by the undertow and finally when she reached the depths of despair that her soul could take her, it was love that called her back and allowed her to slip off her silent shroud.
For all the attempts from the universe to tear them apart, the two of them were still standing. And though she couldn’t tell you how she knew it, Frances knew that they would be alright.
***
What Frankie knew was that it was time for a change. Frances had been spared and now Frankie would do everything he could to keep her safe and strong. He was convinced that she needed someplace warm, she needed the light on her face.
“Let’s run away.” Frankie broached the subject one evening while they snuggled quietly on the couch.
“What?”
“You. Me. Run away.”
Frances squirmed in his arms and sat up straight. “Run away? Where to?”
“Anywhere. That’s not the point.” Frankie noticed a small smile creep across her face. “What are you thinking?” He nudged her.
“I was just remembering a conversation a million years ago, when I said those very words to Charles.” She shook her head. “Then, he accused me of wanting to run off and join the circus.”
“We can do that if you want.” Frankie would promise her the moon.
“That’s alright.” She lowered her gaze to her lap. “But I think I might like to leave this place.”
Plans were made. They would follow the sun and head west to the land of milk and honey. Ready to leave everything behind, and start over again, with only their love. Which is all they ever really had. They would walk away one more time and never look back. So belongings were snuggly packed into the car that would carry them far away from daily reminders of the life that had been snatched by a thief in the night.
The pain of saying farewell to Sophia was lessened by the fact that Sophia’s daughter had finally persuaded her to move to Texas. Frances was glad to hear it, as she didn’t want to think that s
he would be leaving her old friend alone. But the parting was still difficult.
“Thank you for coming into my life,” Frances said through her tears as the two of them held hands.
“No,” Sophia smiled. “Thank you for coming into my heart.” She pulled her young friend close, hugging her fiercely and whispered in her ear. “I know there is still happiness out there with your name on it, my girl. Go and find it.”
Frances just nodded as she wiped her cheeks. Happiness was a long way off.
***
The moment Frances had been dreading came several days before they were scheduled to leave. She had not yet been to the cemetery, fearful that she might be sent reeling back to the darkness that she had only recently escaped. But fear or no fear, it was time for her to say good-bye to Robert. She and Frankie held tightly to one another for support as they stared at the tiny plot with its temporary marker where their son had been laid to rest.
After several moments, Frankie pulled away slowly and left her in privacy, allowing her to say her final words to the little boy, gone too soon. He watched from a distance, standing guard, and Frances could feel his constant worry hanging on her shoulders. She knew that he was afraid that she was still so fragile, the slightest breeze might cause her to lose her footing and trip over the edge. And she might be lost. Forever this time. She wasn’t so sure herself.
She knelt down and the cold grass around her son’s grave received her tears. There was no need to hold them at bay; he deserved them all. She cried for the ache in her arms that refused to leave her in peace. She cried for the nightmares that continued to steal her sleep. When she rose to answer the small voice she heard calling out for her in the night there was only emptiness to greet her and Frankie’s loving arms to drag her back to bed. She cried because she could not reconcile the image of the happy two-year-old and his high pitched squeals with this piece of cold dark earth. The only words that could find their way through the tears were, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Guilt and regret were two threads from the same cloth that wrapped around her heart and her gut and tied them into tight little knots, making it hard to see things clearly. Death had stolen her dreams. Dreams that had already been a long time coming. Only time would tell if she had any dreams left.
***
By the time they got to California, Frances had left the girl she was far behind her. The old Frances Durant was young and carefree, with her whole life ahead of her. Life had intervened and happy-go-lucky dreams had been replaced by harsh truths. The last of her innocence had been left on the sidewalk in the New York winter of 1931. Yet there was something in that young girl, some inner strength passed down through the generations that allowed this Frances to pick up the pieces and move on down the road.
Frankie and Frances ran as far as they could. They ran until they ran out of road and the Golden Coast stopped them in their tracks. The California light suited her. It warmed her soul and just as Frankie had hoped, she healed. In fact, she more than healed, she blossomed.
Of course it would be too much to ask that she forget what had brought her here. It would take many years before she could hear a fire truck in the distance without going pale.
The drama of their earlier years faded into the dust, along with their youth, and she and Frank settled into a comfortable suburban life. Frank would manage a small chain of grocery stores; Frances would play the happy homemaker.
Three beautiful babies were gifted to them in quick succession. Children that would grow up brown and happy in the California sun, unaware that there could be anything else.
It would be almost impossible for those who would come to know Frances and Frank later to grasp the world they had once inhabited. Only a hint could be gleaned from dusty stories, as grandchildren heard the faint echoes of their past in their gentle teasing, or when a song on the radio could cause the thin veil of time to sweep away the years.
“Remember that, Mommy-Dear?” Frank cooed.
“I do,” she whispered, her head on his shoulder.
Who knows where they went? For they were not dancing in their tiny living room with two curious granddaughters watching their every move, but swirling about a dance floor to music only they could hear. Swept away on a magic carpet of memories where time was irrelevant, they were still young and beautiful. And in those moments, Frank would often refer to Frances with a lusty laugh, as “The Bootlegger’s Wife.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terri Lee follows up her debut novel, Back To Austen, with this love story that grew from the tales she heard around the kitchen table when she was young.
Terri lives in a small rural town in southwest Missouri where the only excitement resides in the stories she weaves, which is just the way she likes it. She and her husband of forty years share their home with a loveable Golden Lab named Elizabeth Bennett and a terrorist cat with the implausible moniker of, Baby Kitty.