The Angels' Share

by James Markert

  “He also said not to feed the dog. And your father doesn’t believe in signs. I do.”

  The twelve squatters devoured the ham sandwiches Samantha had made for them.

  As they had crossed the potter’s field, William wondered aloud if the group would be fasting while they waited for Asher Keating to rise. Would they eat any food offered to them? The answer was immediately obvious. The joy with which they’d taken the offering proved the Twelve had been fasting unwillingly for too long. Of course they would eat food offered to them.

  Samantha graciously accepted their thanks and was set to depart, but William had grown roots into the floorboards. He felt the need to watch them eat, which was rude, but then Polly looked up from her sandwich and smiled at him as she chewed with her mouth closed. The smile was enough. He felt for the pen inside his pocket, uprooted himself, and followed his mother toward the door.

  William ambled across the field, so slowly that his mother built a ten-yard distance.

  “William.”

  And there it was, the voice he’d been hoping for. William turned to find Polly standing in the open doorway to the aging house. “Yes?”

  She held a pen in her right hand. “You dropped this.”

  William checked his pockets for show. He walked back toward the aging house. “It must have slipped through a hole in my pocket.” He looked toward Samantha, who’d stopped to wait for him. Thankfully she let him be and returned inside.

  Maybe she’d drop the notion of his being a priest now.

  Polly handed him the pen and folded her arms against the cold. They stood in a patch of grass highlighted by the three-quarters moon. “What a man carries in his pockets tells the world about him.”

  “I’m a writer.” William averted his glance, but then he locked in on her emerald eyes and felt inadequate. He didn’t want to blow it with a rare breed of girl who actually showed interest in him. “I . . . always carry a pen.”

  “A writer? You seem young to be a writer.”

  “You seem young to be living on the streets. I’m sorry. That was awful.” Now that he’d pasted his brother, he was starting to act like him! He stared at his shoes. “Forgive me.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “You didn’t. It’s what the people at the Courier tell me too.” William briefly met her gaze. “I’ve failed to find my way into print. Despite many attempts. I need the right story.”

  “That’s why you brought us food? To butter us up for a story?”

  “I . . . no!”

  Polly playfully punched William in the arm. “I’m only needling you. We know the offering was one of kindness.”

  They locked gazes for longer this time, but then she looked away. “I saw you walking alone in the woods earlier. I think it’s noble for men to cry.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were. It’s okay. As you were saying?”

  He hadn’t been saying anything, not anything he could recall. “I had an argument with my mother. And then I pasted my little brother after he got involved. Knocked him clean out. I know it wasn’t a very Christian thing to do. I’ve never punched anyone before.”

  “I’m sure if you pray on it, all will be forgiven.”

  William glanced toward Asher Keating’s grave, ten yards away.

  “What is it?”

  Can she really believe it? She appears too intelligent for such nonsense. He started to ask her about Asher but stopped. She is, after all, waiting for a man to rise from the dead.

  They smiled at each other until the moment became bashfully awkward. “I should get back inside and see how my brother is doing.”

  “Thank you for the food, William.”

  “We’re happy to do it.”

  “And your father? Was he happy to do it?”

  “He’s passed out in his chair.”

  Polly lowered her head. “We’ll pray for him then. And for your family.”

  William didn’t know how to respond. She says it like she knows about Henry. “If you need anything else, just let me know. Good night, Polly.”

  “Good night, William.”

  He walked five paces toward the house before her voice stopped him again.

  “William.”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “I, too, am a lover of words. It’s been some time since I’ve been able to read something other than my Bible. You wouldn’t happen to have a novel that I could borrow?”

  William scoured the bookshelf as Barley snored from his chair. He ran his finger over dozens of spines. It was one thing to feel an immediate emotional connection, and even a physical attraction—but to learn that she was also a lover of words!

  The knowledge validated his feelings for her. And as odd as it seemed, he thought of her in the same breath as Henry. She’d arrived on the one-year anniversary. He’d met her in the very place he’d last seen Henry. After writing that stupid article, he’d gone outside to apologize to his baby brother. But Henry was dancing, and William simply watched him through the window.

  Henry had no idea about the angels’ share or the thousands of barrels that used to fill the ricks to the ceiling; he had never known Grandpa Sam. To him, the aging house was a dance hall and he liked the way his footsteps echoed. William watched him jitterbug for twenty minutes before he decided to apologize in the morning . . . He tore himself from the memories and focused on finding the perfect book.

  In between The Little Red Hen and Little Black Sambo and some German books Barley had stolen from Kraut trenches during the war, he found The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was the American dream incarnate, a story that showed that anyone could achieve anything. The Seelbach Hotel in Louisville had been used as a backdrop for Tom and Daisy Buchanan’s wedding. Has she already read it? He didn’t want to give her a book she’d already read. She’d be too polite to tell him so and would probably take the book anyway.

  He shelved it and removed Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis. A satirical look at small-town life? William had loved The Sun Also Rises but wondered if there was too much sexual freedom in the novel. He didn’t want to seem too obvious. But then his eyes caught The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, right next to Eugene O’Neill’s Strange Interlude, and his decision was made. He’d yet to read Wharton’s novel, but it was a Pulitzer Prize winner and she was the first woman ever to win the award. Polly would surely appreciate that. In a sense, Wharton was a pioneer, just like Polly.

  The Age of Innocence it would be.

  The next morning they waited until Barley drifted into his post-lunch nap, and then William and Samantha took a plate of biscuits and jam to the aging house. More deer spied from the trees.

  “It’s like they’re waiting for something,” Samantha said of the deer, knocking on the wooden door to the aging house before she entered. Cat was with them. Perhaps it was an illusion, but it appeared as if the dog had already gained weight. He seemed healthier, his fur now clean from the bath Samantha had given him inside the milling barn, away from the house so Barley wouldn’t know about it.

  William checked to make sure the book was still tucked away inside his belt. He’d concealed it behind a wool sweater that was too hot, and now he’d begun to sweat.

  As she had the night before, Samantha smiled as she stepped inside. She missed the distillery, William could tell. The air in the aging house was less musty than the night before. The floors had been swept, the cobwebs pulled down from wooden beams, and the ricks were now positioned in neat rows. Empty oak barrels lined the walls. The twelve followers of Asher Keating sat in a circle in the middle of the floor, laughing about something the squatty black man on the far side had said.

  “Are we interrupting?” Samantha placed a china plate stacked with biscuits on one of the barrels. “I brought lunch.”

  Polly wore a worn white sweater over her faded dress. She waved them in. She was the youngest of the group but seemed a leader of sorts. “Come sit.” Polly scooted ov
er to make room beside her. “We’re sharing stories of Asher.”

  William hadn’t noticed it the day before, but they all had bindles within arm’s reach. A thirteenth bindle rested against one of the barrels. He assumed it was Asher’s and was immediately curious about what was in there. He sat next to Polly, then scooted close enough to leave a gap for his mother to sit beside him. He crossed his legs because that was how Polly was sitting. His elbow accidentally touched hers, and she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she smiled, and the gesture radiated kindness.

  It was quiet for a minute. A sense of reverence crept over the room as sunlight bled through the windows. While his mother appeared to be in deep reflection, William’s only thought was how to get Polly the book without his mother seeing the exchange.

  The black man who’d been the source of laughter moments earlier broke the silence by clearing his throat. He was big boned and wide, but his skin was loose in places, as if he’d once been bigger and had lost weight. “Three years ago,” he said, pausing to look directly at William and Samantha, “I was forced to the streets. Lost my job and couldn’t pay the rent. Turned into a boozehound on what I could beg from the Speaks. Slept in a box by the Fourteenth Street Bridge. I developed a cough. A heavy loose rattle in my chest. When I started spitting up blood, I knew what it was. The white death took my wife and kids. It was preparing to take me too. I had a fever every night, chilled ’til I was delirious. I thought I’d been called one night. Felt a warmth that could have only been heaven. Heard the laughter of my kids and the sweet voice of my wife. She said, ‘You ain’t done yet, Thomas. You ain’t done yet.’”

  The man reached into his raggedy clothing and pulled a black-and-white picture from his coat pocket. He placed it on the floor facing William and Samantha. “This is Asher Keating.”

  In the picture, a man with closely cropped hair, a kind smile, and in full military uniform leaned against a tree, staring at the camera. He had a wide, flat nose, full lips, and a hue to his skin that showed he’d spent some time in the sun. Three pairs of boots, tied together by the laces, hung from his neck, along with a necklace and small cross. Smoke spiraled from a cigarette in his right hand. In relation to the rusted jalopy parked on the street behind him, William guessed Asher Keating was six and a half feet tall and looked to be in his midtwenties. The picture was probably taken soon after the war; Asher’s look was one of having survived something.

  “I opened my eyes that night and saw Asher leaning above me. He said, ‘Relax, my son.’ He was bearded, had taken on the wear of the streets, but his voice soothed me right quick. At first I had doubt.”

  Doubting Thomas.

  “He told me to be still. And I stopped trembling. He put his hands on my neck. I stopped coughing. He put his hands on my chest, told me to feel the warmth. The cold chills left me. He told me to close my eyes and rest. I slept for two days.”

  William had no need to ask Thomas how the tale ended. The man was alive and showed no signs of tuberculosis. Thomas picked up the picture, slid it back into the folds of his coat, and closed his eyes in reflection. William didn’t know what to say, and Samantha looked speechless.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Polly discreetly gripped William’s hand for a squeeze and then let go. “Would anyone else like to offer their story?”

  William’s hand tingled from Polly’s touch. He wanted another story because he wanted her to grip his hand again. Her sweater had side pockets. When she turned slightly, a small whiskey flask revealed itself, the cap protruding like a baby chick rooting for food. Polly slid the flask deeper into her pocket.

  Beverly removed a photograph and positioned it on the floor, another black-and-white picture. Beverly started to tell her story when they heard tires skidding on gravel outside and the high-pitched wail of a police siren. Everyone ran to the window. Up the hillside, past the potter’s field, two officers approached the McFee house. Barley met them on the front porch, his rifle poised and ready to shoot if they took another step away from their black Ford Model T.

  “Barley, don’t,” Samantha said softly. “Please, go back in the house.”

  William got a better look. It wasn’t a rifle in Barley’s hands. It was his tommy gun.

  “Oh no, Mother, he’s got the Chopper out.”

  Samantha had to hike up her purple skirt in both hands as she ran with William to the house. “Barley, put the gun down!”

  Barley had his fedora tilted against the sun and a cigar dangling from his mouth. He stood confident and poised, without a hint of fear in his expressionless face. William didn’t trust him not to fire. The chubby cop wiped sweat from his brow. His partner, one of Twisted Tree’s own, had known Barley for years and looked less worried. Or at least he did a better job of hiding it.

  Samantha stopped at the driveway. “Barley, put the gun down. Let’s hear them out.”

  “I can listen just fine with the Chopper in my hands.” The cigar bounced in his lips. He looked to the shorter cop. “Hey, Baby Bear, you know why I call it the Chopper?”

  “I’ve got an idea—”

  Barley unloaded a series of bullets toward the gravel, spraying rock dust in every direction. Pebbles pinged off the windshield of the Ford. The officers hunkered down, covered their eyes, as did Samantha and William.

  When all was quiet, the taller officer pulled his pistol. “Come on now, Barley. What are you on about?”

  Barley pulled the cigar from his mouth. “Put your little bean-shooter back in the holster, Luke. You got some nerve coming here flashing Louisville tin. State your beef and breeze off.”

  Baby Bear cleared his throat. “We’re here for your son.”

  Barley looked at Luke. “Is Chubby here jingle-brained? Looks like he’s about to soil himself. Which son you talking about?”

  William took a step forward, ready to offer himself up.

  “Johnny,” said Officer Luke. “We’ve come to take Johnny.”

  “You’re not taking Johnny,” Barley said matter-of-factly, implying that perhaps they could take William.

  “We have reason to believe he robbed a Coca-Cola truck three days ago,” said Luke. “Flashed a pistol. Made off with two cases.”

  So they hadn’t been freebies from the driver. Samantha covered her mouth and looked at Barley as if it were his fault.

  “What evidence you got to finger my boy?” Barley asked, gun in both hands again.

  “Seems he did some bragging at school about what he’d done,” said Officer Luke. “We have ten kids heard his story.”

  Barley looked at William. “Go in and get Johnny.”

  William started toward the porch but stopped when the screen door opened.

  Johnny came out carrying a case of full bottles. He didn’t look at either of his parents. He rested the case on the porch. “Here’s what’s left. I used the rest.” Johnny looked at his mother. “The gun wasn’t loaded. It was a prank.”

  “Walk to the car,” Barley snarled at Johnny. And to his wife he said, “Go in and get some money to pay for what was stolen.”

  Samantha hurried inside.

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Barley ignored Johnny. “Put the bracelets on him, Luke.”

  Luke nodded, took the handcuffs from his belt, and then latched them on Johnny’s wrists.

  Barley walked down the steps, leaned in, and spoke quietly to the officer. They each jerked a few nods and then Barley stepped back.

  “Do your bit, Johnny. Quit crying, do your bit, and everything will be jake.”

  Samantha returned from the house with a stack of cash bound by a rubber band. Barley took it from her and then handed it to Luke. “See that the Coca-Cola driver is compensated. And take a pair of Cs for your trouble.” He looked at the second officer. “Even you, Tin Can.”

  The police force had implemented a 20 percent pay cut due to the Depression. Now that it was legal to produce and move alcohol again, bribes were no longer rampant. Both officers looked genuinely thankfu
l for the tip.

  William loaded the bottles in the trunk, and when he closed it, he noticed a handful of Asher Keating’s followers praying around the grave. Polly was with them. Don’t judge me on this. I can’t help it if some of my family is jingle-brained. He tried not to look at Johnny but did anyway. They waved limply at each other, and then William stood next to his father to watch the officers pull away.

  Samantha was on the porch behind them, fighting back tears with Annie in her arms.

  “Where’s Johnny going?” the girl asked.

  “To jail.” Samantha scowled at Barley and then went inside.

  Cat showed up, and Barley reached down and stroked the fur atop Cat’s back, then stopped when William saw him being affectionate and instead reached into his shirt pocket for a small flask. He uncapped it, took a swallow, and then handed it to William, who was repositioning The Age of Innocence inside his belt. William downed a wince-inducing gulp of Old Forester and then handed it back. Seeing the flask inside Polly’s sweater had been jarring. Not so much that she could be a drinker; he was now a drinker, after all.

  But it was a piece to the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit.

  Inside Johnny’s room they found two small wooden vats next to the bed and dozens of empty Coca-Cola bottles lined under the window. Ten bottles of carbonated water rested in neat rows on the floor in between the two vats, along with a satchel of ingredients, bags and jars labeled sugar cane, phosphoric acid, lime juice, vanilla, and caramel. Three empty jars were unlabeled. A dark, syrupy substance and a large wooden spoon sat in one of the vats.

  Barley stirred it, bent down for a whiff. “He was trying to make cola.”

  William spotted a bottle that had already been mixed. He sniffed it, took a sip. “He got pretty dang close.”

  Barley grabbed the bottle. He tasted it and nodded approvingly. “Good thing they took cocaine out of the ingredients.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about Edith Wharton’s writing. Thank you.” Polly fanned through the pages as they stood outside the aging house. “So what happened with your brother earlier today?”