Page 11 of The Bootlegger’s Bride
A t the back door of her sister’s home on Long Lake, Hazel took Alexander Jan—A.J.
for short—wrapped in a chamois baby blanket, from Helen, who kissed them both.
Hazel turned and stepped outside into the frigid dusk, Helen and Raymond following arm-in-arm.
From the lake bank came the chip-chip-chip of a cardinal along with dank air rising from the fragrant lake as the temperature dropped.
Though just after four p.m. the drive home to their St. Louis park-side apartment would be dark.
Jan rose from the Buick idling in the driveway to shake hands with Raymond. Helen kissed Jan’s cheek as well.
“Don’t stay away so long—and I don’t mean just duck hunting with Raymond. I want to see my nephew again before he gets too big to hold.”
“You’ll be seeing more of us. Promise.”
The car had warmed. Hazel cradled A.J. in her arms, his bonneted head resting on her overcoat collar. Jan moved the coupe down the drive, gravel crunching beneath its tires, headlights illuminating the denuded white trunks of sycamores to either side. He turned south onto the black-tar lake road.
Hazel had always found evenings rather melancholy as the days drew shorter and colder.
She wasn’t sure why. A feeling of things winding down, like a slowing clock.
The weight of routine and stagnation. A sense of confinement.
Though now, thanks to Jan and A.J., her former nighttime dread had vanished.
Her life had turned on a dime—marriage, homemaking, motherhood.
And time to read. Still, it seemed otherworldly and tenuous, as if it might disappear overnight and with it the sublime happiness and deep sense of well-being that now enfolded her night and day.
Soon they passed Sis’s Tavern on the left and the Mobil Oil storage tanks on the right.
But instead of turning west onto Morrison Road to head to Granite City and the McKinley Bridge that would carry them over the Mississippi to St. Louis, Jan turned left to continue following the twisting lake.
Hazel looked at her husband, his gaunt face amber in the cream-colored light of dashboard gauges.
“Thought we’d take a sentimental journey,” he said. “Maybe even stop and kiss like we did on our first drive along here.”
She smiled. “You’re such a romantic.”
“Can’t help it. I’m Polish.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s a good thing.”
He pursed his lips. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Like when it compels you to charge German tanks on horseback.”
She shook her head. “That war… I wish it would just go away.”
“It won’t until we do something about it.
Yesterday the Brits declared war on Romania, Finland, and Hungary.
The Aussies are jumping in against the Japs, who have ramped up the anti-American rhetoric.
It grows worse day by day. Who knows what tomorrow may bring.
I have family there—cousins and such—though I don’t know them. Still, you feel a connection.”
Hazel nodded, though it was hard for her to imagine the emotions of families torn apart by war.
Before they got to Pontoon Beach he braked and turned onto a narrow tree-lined drive heading toward the lake.
“Where are you going, Jan? This is someone’s house.”
On the left the Buick’s headlamps illuminated a carved cedar sign hanging from a wooden post and reading “Lazy Lane.” He stopped the car beside a darkened home on the lake, a white clapboard ranch style house with forest green shutters and large stone fireplace chimney.
The back of the home consisted of tall windows facing the water.
She turned to him. “Who lives here, Jan?”
“Nobody right now. Come take a look.”
He opened her car door and took the infant from her.
She followed him to the home’s back door, which he opened with a key on his ring.
Inside he turned on a green-shaded lamp on an end table.
The white stone fireplace sat cold at the south end of the long den, furnished with cushioned bamboo sofa and chairs.
Shelved books covered the knotty-pine wall ahead.
To the right sat a white baby-grand piano positioned diagonally.
“Come see the rest.”
In the kitchen he flipped a wall switch that lit a stained-glass lamp hanging over an oak table. He went to a thermostat on the wall and pressed a switch. “Central heat.”
“What’s this about, Jan? Who owns this?”
He turned away and gestured down the adjoining hallway. “Three bedrooms, two baths. Completely furnished.” He opened the cabinets above the kitchen counter. “Even dishes and silverware.”
She studied him. In his dark overcoat and black wool turtleneck he looked like a spy in a Hollywood thriller—except for the baby in his arms. Mysterious as always.
At times super secretive. Like now. As much as she loved him, she sensed depths she would never plumb—and wasn’t sure she wanted to. She approached and took A.J. from him.
“Jan, tell me what we’re doing here.”
He looked at her and let out a breath. “I’ve lived my whole life in the city.
Redbrick flats with brick sidewalks and brick streets in front, brick alleys in back.
Pre-Civil-War neighborhoods smelling of dung, decay, and factory smoke…
” He reached across to brush his son’s pink face with his knuckles.
“No place for a kid to dig in the earth. No lake to swim in, no fish to catch, no fields to run in. No rabbits to chase and no birds except pigeons.”
She felt lightheaded, ears humming. “Who owns this place?”
He whistled. “Well, we do if you want it.”
“You’re serious?”
He lowered his chin. “Dead serious.”
“Can we afford it?”
He tilted his head from side to side as if deciding what to say then bit his lip.
“Already paid for. I got a good deal from a Cass Avenue friend who used it as a weekend getaway. He owed me money and needed some fast cash… If you don’t like the joint I can always turn a profit.”
She blew out a breath not knowing what to say and followed him down the hallway to a living room furnished in an art deco style that Nick and Nora Charles would have liked. He took A.J. from her again and lowered him onto the off-white carpet. The child began to crawl about, exploring.
Jan turned to her. “So what do you think?”
She stood shaking her head, not signaling “no” but disbelief. What a curious man she had married. She moved to him, laid a hand on his chest.
“It’s wonderful, Jan. Still, I worry.”
“About what?”
“The future. Money. Security.”
“Everything’s fine. I told you.”
“You never show me.”
He nodded and took a deep breath. “Sorry. You’re right. Here’s the whole story, Hazel… Sit and I’ll explain.”
She sat beside him on a curving turquoise sofa that could have come from FDR’s yacht.
“Never been a husband before and didn’t have a good role model at home, where my father imitated von Hindenburg. Always been my own boss since I was a teen and secretive thanks to the nature of my work.
“A lot of my assets—our assets—are markers I’m holding.
Money that people owe me. It’s the same for all banks.
They loan money at interest and mark it up on the plus side of the ledger.
I also have a cash reserve that can carry us forward for some time.
Which is to say you have nothing to worry about. Trust me.
“But since you asked, I also want to show you. Next week we’ll take a drive over to Cass Avenue Bank & Trust where you can rifle through stacks of sawbucks and c-notes in my safe-deposit box, just so you know we’re not going to starve anytime soon.”
She laughed and caressed his face. “All this talk of money puts me in an amorous mood.”
“Hm. Always thought it was my animal magnetism.”
“That too… I think it’s time we kissed again.”
“Past time.”
He leaned toward her and pressed his lips to hers, inhaling the scent that made him mad for her. Then he straightened.
“Have I shown you the master bedroom?”
“Love to see it!”
Leaving A.J. to reconnoiter the living room on his own they moved to the boudoir.
There on the bed they tore at each other’s clothes as Jan figured what to do about the money.
He’d simply get a second safe-deposit box and put a few gees in it for her to ogle instead of the whole lot.
That should do it. Then she wouldn’t worry about penury nor get too curious about how he had managed to stash away a king’s ransom in circulated greenbacks so early in life.
With that issue resolved to his satisfaction, he gave her his full attention.