Sold on a Monday

by Kristina McMorris

  Each instance earned Ellis a warning, the last two sterner than the first.

  As a direct result, he became hyperdiligent when recording any information, confirming facts at least twice to prevent another blunder. This was precisely how he knew, without a doubt, that he’d correctly transcribed the time Dutch had given him for a council meeting at City Hall. Ellis was sent out to grab a comment from the mayor about a controversial zoning dispute. Yet he arrived to discover that the event had ended hours earlier and the mayor had left for a trip.

  Straightaway, Ellis phoned Dutch, who apologized for the gaffe. Ellis therefore had no cause to prepare a defense when returning to the paper, where he was promptly beckoned to the city desk.

  “Dutch told me about the mix-up,” Mr. Walker stated. He was never one to yell, unlike old Howard Trimble, but a thread of frustration tugged at his drawl. “We needed the mayor’s response to corroborate. Now we can’t run the damn piece.”

  “Sir, I’ll track him down. I’ll get a quote by tomorrow—”

  “Dutch’ll handle it.”

  From the assistant city editor’s desk, Mr. Tate shot Ellis his usual owlish glower.

  Mr. Walker leaned back in his chair. He shook his head with a firm look. “Bottom line, Mr. Reed. This cannot happen again.”

  Equally stunned and bewildered, Ellis silently grappled for an explanation. But then he caught eyes with Dutch across the room. When the guy dropped his gaze, the situation gained clarity. He had pinned the blame on Ellis.

  In any competitive business, let alone in New York, a man had to look out for himself. Especially in times like these. Ellis just never expected this from someone he considered a friend.

  “I understand,” he replied simply, in no position to argue.

  All things considered, which of them would Mr. Walker have believed?

  • • •

  Four or five. No—six. Gently swirling the whiskey in his glass, Ellis tried to recall the number of shots he’d downed since planting himself in a corner booth at Hal’s Hideaway. True to its name, the dim bar was nestled deep in an alley with a nondescript door, just blocks from Ellis’s flat in Brooklyn. Entry required a special knock, which he’d gleaned from the janitor of his apartment building. The elderly man claimed to enjoy a nip of “rye gag” at Hal’s on occasion.

  On the low stage, a trio played the blues to a half-filled room, where a mix of tables and booths afforded decent privacy. But what Ellis favored most was that the place wasn’t Bleeck’s, a joint full of Tribune staffers who surely viewed him as a chump, thanks to that damn backstabbing Dutch. The guy actually had the guts to approach Ellis before day’s end. Ellis had walked away, not hearing a word.

  Folks in Allentown voiced warnings about his kind. The sneaky, greedy, double-crossing types. Ellis hadn’t listened. And now here he was, on the brink of hightailing it home, washed up. A bum.

  Lily was a smart one indeed. Given a choice between him and ace-in-the-hole Clayton Brauer, she’d picked the winner.

  Ellis threw back his drink. No longer blazing fire down his throat, it melted away another layer of frustration. He’d need two more shots to dull the pangs of betrayal. Four, maybe, to drown out the sense of defeat.

  Squinting toward a waitress—his vision had transformed her into twins—he waved to signal a refill. She nodded, then attended to other patrons. No rush on her part.

  Ellis sank into his seat, eyelids growing heavy. He tried to lose himself in the notes of “Embraceable You,” but voices behind him kept seeping over the high-back booth. The group’s volume had been growing with every round of drinks.

  With the state Ellis was in, he had half a mind to tell them to keep it down. But he was catching enough of their words—about a recent warehouse raid and a new member of their outfit—to know better. He’d be wise to turn a deaf ear, but the same nosiness that had doomed him to become a newspaperman compelled him to listen closer.

  “We bloody need to do somethin’.” The man spoke with a brogue, implying ties to the Irish Mob, a large faction in the borough. “We look like a bunch of dolts and killers, the lot of us. The boss is right. People see us as alley rats, and we’ll never get the respect we deserve.”

  “Yeah, so? Whaddya have in mind?” This one’s accent was clearly local.

  “What, I gotta have all the answers?”

  They were fretting over public perception, Ellis realized. Not an original concept, even in the underworld. Mobsters, at least the savvy ones, were businessmen, after all.

  Ellis recalled an article. After the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, when Capone’s men gifted the competition with a spray of bullets, the bootlegger’s suave image suffered. Soon after, Capone himself began funding soup kitchens, as highlighted in the paper, to regain the public’s favor.

  An idea now formed in Ellis’s head, a solution to more than a single dilemma. Sure, it came with a voice of reason, but it was tamped by a desperate desire to reverse his luck. More than that, a primitive urge to battle his way back. He envisioned himself as Jack Dempsey in the ninth round of a title fight. Pinned to the ropes. Refusing to go down.

  Before Ellis could weigh the risks, he came to his feet.

  At the next table, dizzy from standing too fast, he struggled to bring the men into focus. Two of the figures were seated together, their faces indiscernible. A third, with a scar on his jawline, stared straight at Ellis.

  “What the bloody hell are you lookin’ at?”

  “I’ve got a proposal.” Ellis aimed for assertive, trying not to sound shellacked. “A fairly easy way to solve your problem.”

  The brawnier of the seated pair jumped in. “Our problem, huh? So, you listening in on us? That it?”

  Despite his mental haze, Ellis knew to skip to the point. “See, I’m a reporter at the Herald Tribune. And if you’re looking to better your—”

  “Take this eejit outside,” the scarred Irishman ordered.

  The guy who stood up topped Ellis by a good foot, plus a solid seventy pounds. As he gripped Ellis by the arm, tight as a tourniquet, the error in Ellis’s judgment became strikingly apparent. But so did his need to blurt out the rest.

  “I’m offering a trade that your boss is gonna love.”

  The hold on Ellis’s arm remained, but the men were exchanging looks. He’d at least piqued their interest. But was it enough to save him from a one-way trip to the dump?

  After a steely pause, a gleam entered the Irishman’s eyes. “Take a seat.”

  Chapter 12

  The March morning sky filled Lily’s window with an ominous gray, fitting for her rising angst. Two floors sat atop her parents’ deli, with living quarters in the middle and both bedrooms on the third. Today, in her childhood room, even the familiar scents of pastrami and bread drifting through the vents brought little comfort. Nor did the sight of Samuel on the floor, drawing pictures of rockets and rabbits and family. If anything, his presence was compounding the issue.

  “Mommy, look it!”

  Lily twisted on her vanity stool, where she sat in her slip and robe, begrudgingly preparing for the day ahead. He was holding up another masterpiece, this one of the deli flanked by trees sprouting spring leaves. “Oh, baby, it’s marvelous.”

  His toothy grin widened, his pale-green eyes and round face aglow. “I’m gonna show Gamma.” He jumped up and rushed out of the room. His footsteps pattered down the hall and faded down the stairs.

  While not the primary source of Lily’s troubles, the fact that tonight would mark her first Saturday spent away from her son was hardly trivial. Already she spent so much time without him, mulling over what-ifs.

  That wasn’t to say she was immune to feeling silly over her worrying—like back in October, when she and Clayton arrived to find Samuel’s fever subsided. To his credit, Clayton had expressed only delight, unfazed even by her son’s refusal
to engage with a stranger. Then again, her mother had dominated all, including her father’s skeptical looks, while ushering Clayton inside for supper, her enthusiasm as clear as her will.

  Hailing from a long line of bakers, Harriet Palmer was deceptively strong for her short form, topped by reddish-brown locks styled with nightly curlers. Together with her husband, the couple resembled the light and doughy rolls she baked every dawn, with the sweet demeanors to match.

  Well, if one didn’t count the expletives from Lily’s father during radio broadcasts of Yankees games, which earned him routine visits to the confessional, or the piercing glares her mother reserved for opposition to matters she valued.

  Clayton might have sensed the latter from the start, as he didn’t hesitate in agreeing to stay for a meal. A month later, he accepted just as easily after driving Lily again on a Friday after work. It was a stop on his way to chasing down a lead, he claimed. Whether true or not, Lily couldn’t resist saving herself an hour of travel time, for it meant seeing her darling Samuel run to her that much sooner. It meant another hour of his lively chatter and heartwarming giggles.

  So it went, ashamedly with little protest on Lily’s part—the benefits far outweighing any message she might be sending—until the drives to Maryville in Clayton’s Chevy Coupe, followed by a family supper, became a regular occurrence unless a big story pulled him away.

  By late winter, her lone bus rides to and from the city came to feel much longer for lack of conversation. She didn’t always agree with Clayton’s opinions. His stances, often to a maddening degree, were as black and white as the clippings of his articles. But as a seasoned reporter, on the crime beat at that, he had no shortage of intriguing tales or skillful questions—for Lily’s parents, in particular—to prevent awkward lulls.

  Over time, her father’s defenses wholly thawed. It didn’t hurt that Clayton was also Catholic and, though with German roots, “three generations American.” He was swift to point this out, as if to sidestep any resentment related to the Great War. Not that anything could deter Lily’s parents by then—or Samuel, who had grown equally comfortable from regular visits.

  Besides, what wasn’t there to like? Clayton Brauer had a respectful yet confident bearing and an upstanding career, key elements of a fine suitor. Most important, he showed no averseness to courting an unwed mother.

  And yet, spring had arrived before Lily was forced to confront the standing of their relationship.

  She had just walked Clayton to his car, parked in the crisp darkness outside the deli. Despite being aware she shouldn’t bother, she scanned the town’s main street for gossipy onlookers and found relief in the evening stillness. She thanked Clayton profusely, as she always did before his return to Philly. He replied by peering down into her eyes, and she recognized his intent before he leaned toward her. Given the ease that had developed between them, such an encounter was surely due. But once his lips pressed to hers, she reflexively drew away, an act that immediately smacked her with guilt.

  “Clayton, I’m so sorry. I know you’ve been patient…”

  A corner of his mouth lifted, and his thumb gently brushed her chin. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

  An expert at his craft, he had once again addressed her concerns in just a few words: that she could take all the time she needed, that he was a man she could count on.

  He then climbed into his car but stopped short of closing the door. “There’s an old pal I grew up with in Chicago—works at the Sun now. He’s getting married next weekend at the Waldorf in Manhattan. If you’re up for it, I’d sure love if you came along.”

  In the silence that followed, she realized she hadn’t responded. She shook her head at herself and laughed. “Gosh, of course. I’d love to go.”

  He sent her another smile before starting the engine and driving away. Only then did it dawn on her that the wedding would interrupt her weekend routine. She considered changing her answer, though after their exchange that evening, paired with his ongoing generosity, how could she possibly?

  Pondering this, she had ascended the staircase behind the deli counter. Up in the sitting room, her mother was knitting in her rocking chair by lamplight. The floral curtain on the window hung conspicuously open. Lily was in no mood to surmise what her mother had witnessed.

  “Good night,” Lily said quickly. She turned for the upper stairs, eagerly retreating toward the room she shared with Samuel. How she yearned for the peaceful sound of his rhythmic breaths.

  “Dear, wait.”

  With great reluctance, Lily pivoted back. Her mother rested her knitting needles on the lap of her long skirt, an admonition in her sigh. “Lily, you mustn’t forget. A man like Clayton doesn’t happen along every day.”

  Here it came, an inevitable lecture on the horrors of permanent spinsterhood. Lily was suppressing a groan when her mother added, “You need to think of Samuel.”

  Lily just stared. How many times had she been told that she fussed too much over her son? True, in the beginning she had feared he would suffer from the void of an absent father. But no longer. He had a family who adored him. There was no denying that Samuel’s life, while unconventional, was blessed more than many.

  Before these thoughts could form words, however, her mother held up her hand, a command to let her finish. “But you also need to think about you. Your father and I won’t be around forever, and we simply dread the idea of you being alone.” The heaviness and care in her voice were mirrored in her downturned eyes.

  A parent’s protectiveness, it seemed, was a beloved burden with no end.

  Defenses lowering, Lily attempted to comfort her. “I appreciate your worry, but I’m not alone. I have our family. I have Samuel.”

  “And when he grows up? What then?”

  He was so small and young, still so dependent. It shook Lily to imagine him off on his own adventures, perhaps half a world away.

  “Mother, truly. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, yes. You’ll be fine,” she said. “But will you be happy?”

  • • •

  The question had stalked Lily ever since. Even now, it loomed in every inch of her and Samuel’s room, from the toy chest in the corner to their pair of narrow, quilt-laden beds. One of which would someday remain empty.

  Shutting out the thought, she completed her french twist and applied red lipstick, preparing for her train to New York Pennsylvania Station, where Clayton would be waiting. So as not to encroach on her savings, he had arranged for her ticket and overnight stay at a place suitable for a lone female traveler. When Clayton made plans, he left little to chance.

  At the closet, Lily stepped into her T-strap heels and fastened the gold buttons of her silken dress. With its jade hue and sweetheart neckline, the garment was her only one elegant enough for a highbrow affair. She added her tweed coat and pinned on her green brimmed hat, each article bringing her closer to departure.

  Just inside the entrance of the deli, she tucked her ivory gloves into her travel bag and knelt before Samuel. A smattering of customers blurred into the background. Lily forced a smile as she straightened the collar of her son’s shirt, the misaligned buttons proof of having staunchly fastened them himself. “Now, be a good boy while I’m away. Promise?”

  He nodded with such surety, growing ever more accustomed to making do without her. A pinch flared deep in her chest. But then he threw his arms around her neck and said, “I love you, Mommy.”

  “Oh, Samuel. I love you more.” She savored the feel of his fine hair, auburn like hers, brushing against her cheek. He smelled of lavender soap and boyish sweat and bananas from his oatmeal. Tears pricking her eyes, she reminded herself that she would be gone for just a night. Tomorrow, an early train would loop her back to Maryville, where she would spend the afternoon with her son before catching the bus to Philly. Her mother thought it foolish not to travel directly back w
ith Clayton, but Lily disagreed.

  “Well then. I’d best be off.” She kissed Samuel’s sticky, dimpled cheek and broke out of his hug before she could reassess her plans.

  On cue, Lily’s father hollered from behind the counter, “Hey, Sammy! How about a gingersnap?”

  Samuel scurried toward the cookie, a reliable distraction.

  “Goodbye, sugar bug,” Lily whispered. Travel bag in hand, she sent her father a grateful smile and slipped out the door.

  Sugar bug. The origin of the nickname passed through her mind as she bused to the train depot. Years ago, on endless nights of colicky wailing, a dab of sugar on Samuel’s tongue had delivered moments of reprieve until he wore himself out, along with Lily. And now part of her yearned for those bittersweet days. He would be turning five in June. It was all going too fast.

  You need to think of Samuel, her mother had said. Once Lily was settled into her train car, she reevaluated the words. History had taught her to be wary when it came to men, including her own judgment in their regard. With Samuel to think of now, the stakes had never been higher.

  The more she deliberated, weighing the idea of a future with Clayton, the clearer her path became. She rubbed her locket like a worry stone, a cherished picture of her son inside. By the time the train passed Trenton, her decision was made.

  Still, to prevent wavering, she focused on the book she had packed. Ten Days in a Mad-House. It was Nellie Bly’s firsthand report of committing herself to an asylum for a shocking exposé. Lily had read the account so many times one could easily question her own sanity. Rationale, perhaps, for what she was about to do.

  After the reception, Clayton would escort her back to her hotel, and before parting ways, she would bring to an end what she never should have started.