The Blood Lie (3 page)

“Who's that?” asked Daisy, pointing to a man emptying rubbish into a can in the diner parking lot.

“That's the owner,” Jack said. “Gus.” A squat, nearly bald man, Gus Poulos was chewing a cigar and trickling ashes every time he moved. “I eat supper here sometimes when I'm working late, and he brings me my food.”

“His head's shiny,” Daisy said, and Martha giggled. “Is he nice?”

“He's okay, I guess,” Jack said. “He knows Mama goes to the Sunflower Café instead of to his place. And that's because the Sunflower makes pies and doughnuts for us—without lard. Gus would never do that. But he hates losing the business.”

The noon bells from the Sacred Heart Church began to ring. “Okay. Time to get you home, Daisy.”

“Aw,” Martha pouted.

“C'mon,” Jack said. “I've got to get back to the store soon, anyway.”

As they headed back across Main Street and rounded the corner of Maple, it dawned on Jack that Emaline might be home when he dropped off Daisy. He couldn't face her—not
right now. He knew
jealousy
was written all over his face, and he didn't want her to see it. So he dropped Daisy off at the foot of her driveway. He watched her until she disappeared inside, then challenged Martha to a race back home.

Emaline and Lydie cut through Paradise Woods on their way home. The dirt path was covered with end-of-year pine needles, and the leaves on the trees were already tinged yellow and red, but it felt more like summer than autumn. The woods ran on for miles, dense with scaly-trunked trees, spiky evergreens, jagged vines, and prickly shrubs, but if you stuck to the paths, there were some handy shortcuts, especially on a bright day like today.

“George Lingstrom sure thinks you're the bee's knees,” Lydie said as they passed the boulder they called the Sausage Stone.

“Really?”

“Anyone can see he's goofy over you. And what about you, Em?”

“What about me?”

Lydie pushed her glasses up her nose and looped her arm through her cousin's. “Do you fancy him back?”

“Well…”

“Well what? The fall festival dance is coming up, isn't it, and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts he's going to ask you. You'll say yes, won't you?”

“I suppose I will…I mean, yes. Probably. Yes, I'd love to go to the dance. With George. If he asks.” It wasn't like Jack was going to ask her, after all. It wasn't like Jack could ask her.

“He'll ask.”

“Hmm?”

“I said, he'll ask you.”

“You know, his father's a drunk—at least, that's what Ma says, ever since he lost his job at the aluminum works. Cussing and hollering all day, and I hear—”

“But you're not going to the dance with the old man, are you?”

“Yeah…hey, do you have any ciggies on you?”

“Almost a full pack,” Lydie said, stopping to spit out her gum. She pulled the box out of her coat pocket and lit one, handed it to Emaline, then lit another one for herself. “Let's duck behind that tree.” She led Emaline to the same fat oak where Jack had held her hand.

“Mmm, that's good,” Emaline said, taking a puff.

“Mother says they turn your teeth brown and your fingers yellow.” Then she laughed. “She's such a worrywart.”

Emaline leaned her head against the tree, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “They remind me of Daddy, how he smelled like tobacco—tobacco and shaving cream. He smoked every night after supper and whenever we went driving. I wonder if he and your daddy were smoking when the accident happened. I wonder if the last thing they did in this life was take a puff of their Lucky Strikes.”

“Couldn't say,” Lydie said without much interest.

“You don't talk about him—about your daddy—much,” Emaline said. “I probably talk about mine too much. Everything, everyone reminds me of him. Ma especially. She reminds me of him every time I see that look in her eye, that awful, sorrowful look. I don't know how you did it, you and your ma—you pulled yourselves together lickety-split.”

Lydie let her ashes fall to the ground. “Maybe that's because—this is probably a terrible thing to say—but I don't really miss Father. I don't think Mother does, either. Oh, don't look so shocked. You know how he could be—his
spells
, as Mother called them. We never knew who was coming to dinner at night: the gloomy father, the mean and angry one, or the sweet one.”

“I…oh.”

“Don't tell me you never noticed.”

“I guess so. It's just…”

“Just what?” Lydie asked, flicking her ashes on the ground.

“You know, denigrating the dead.”

“That's the best time to denigrate someone—when they're dead. They don't get their feelings hurt that way. Honestly, I bit my tongue so often when he was alive, I'm lucky I can still talk. Ma and I are better off without him, and that's the truth.”

Emaline tried to take a puff, but the smoke made her cough this time.

“Sorry,” Lydie said, rubbing her cousin's back. “Sorry to spout off like that. Didn't mean to make you have a fit.”

“I'm okay. I'm glad you told me. I should have figured it out for myself. It's just, you know, thinking about the accident and all…well…Ma wanted us home by 12:30 and it's past that now. We should go.”

“Right.”

Lydie and Emaline dropped their cigarettes and stamped them out with their feet. “Here, I have some Lifesavers,” Lydie said. “Take one. Aunt Jenna will have a cow if she finds out what's been keeping us.”

Mrs. Durham was heating a venison stew when the cousins walked in. “Finally,” she said, pulling her hair back and leaning down to breathe in the gamey aroma. “Ah, that's perfect.”

“I'm starving, Ma,” Emaline said.

“Wash up and I'll get you some. Say, what's in the box?” She lifted the lid and examined the hat from different angles. A tall, statuesque redhead—people said she looked like President Coolidge's wife—she had a good eye for fashion and was always smartly dressed. “Very nice. Perfect for the autumn. By the way, Daisy was right behind you, wasn't she?”

“No,” Emaline said.

“I just sent her out to call you. Told her you could all have lunch together. I thought that's why you came.”

“We just got here, is all. Plus I'm famished.”

“You must have crossed paths then. Well, she'll be along when she's done straggling.”

Mrs. Durham sprinkled the stew with a medley of herbs and salt that she kept in an old milk bottle. She loved milk bottles and used them to hold everything from flowers to spices to the occasional pollywog. They were her closest connection to her Frank, who'd run the Sweet Creamery Dairy with his brother, and she kept them in every room.

She ladled out two bowls of stew and set them on the table. “All right, clean up after yourselves, girls. I have some bulbs to plant out front. I think I'll just give Daisy a shout first.” She opened the back door and made a long, low whistle.

Gus Poulos was standing behind the register at the Sit Down Diner counting the dollar bills, while Sarah Gelman took inventory in the pantry and Tiny, the cook, stood over the deep-fryer.

“Twenty-three,” Gus said to no one as he bit down on his cigar. “Twenty-three miserable little clams. And that's before you take out wages. For this I left Salonika?”

“You say something?” called Tiny.

“Yeah. I want you to tell me where to find the glittering gold roads and the marble sidewalks people told me about when I was a kid.”

“Don't I know it?” Tiny said in his Irish brogue. “We all think we're going to live the life here, and we end up just barely getting by.”

“Amen to that.” Gus started to light a fresh cigar when the diner door jangled open and Roy Royman limped in. Royman hobbled to a stool at the counter and leaned his walking stick against the railing. “Morning,” he said.

“You're late,” Gus said.

“Hey, Tiny, whatcha cooking back there?”

“Shepherd's pie, meatloaf, doughnuts about to come out of the fryer. You want?”

“Any hash browns left?”

Tiny shook his head.

“Eh, give me a slab of meatloaf, and save me a couple doughnuts, plain.”

Gus led Royman to the table nearest the noisy window fan.

“We on for tonight?” Royman asked.

“Rum boat'll be here between midnight and two, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

Gus shrugged. “Depending on everything. Anyhow, get the truck here by eleven-thirty.”

“Why's it got to be so late, that's what I don't understand,” Royman said. “What am I supposed to tell the missus?”

“My Bettina just thinks I'm out gin milling. Anyway, let's make it eleven straight up, just to be sure.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

Gus and Royman's smuggling operation was easy money during these Prohibition days. Whiskey and wine were legal a scant mile across the St. Lawrence River in Canada. All it took was knowing one Canadian with a boat who was willing to load up with alcohol and meet you somewhere. Then you let a few discreet friends know you had a supply. You might let the Mr. Lingstrom-types know, too. You might even let a Jew know because the Jews used wine to welcome the Sabbath, and if you couldn't get business from the sheenies on your pies and meats, you might as well get them with the hooch.

Better yet, you kept your direct dealings to a few trusted customers, and let them sell their stuff to the Jews and the drunks.

Tiny appeared with a plate heaped with meat and biscuits. “Doughnuts'll be another minute,” he told Royman.

“Anyways, I gotta work,” Gus said as the first paying lunch customer strolled in.