Page 19 of The Bootlegger’s Bride
H elen pushed through the back door at Lazy Lane calling, “Yoo-hoo!”
She had waited till noon before telephoning to tell Hazel she’d be dropping by for a visit. Helen didn’t want to surprise her sister—or be surprised herself.
Hazel had a nice fire going in the fireplace on the cold, snowy day, warming and brightening the sunroom, filling it with a woodsy aroma.
A plate of finger sandwiches sat on the end table beside the green leather couch.
She came from the kitchen in brown wool slacks and beige sweater.
Lipstick, hair pinned up nicely, her pearl earrings.
Dark circles under her eyes, drink in hand. At least she was trying.
They moved together, embraced, brushed cheeks, Hazel fragrant with Chanel over Old Fitzgerald.
“How about something for you, big sis?”
Helen hesitated then thought, What the hell. She had come to keep her sister company. What better way to do that with a drinker than have one? She asked for a Tom Collins and sat on the sofa while Hazel went to fix it.
Stacks of library books lay on the mahogany butler-table before her: War and Peace, The Iliad, All Quiet on the Western Front, A Farewell to Arms , and other classic war literature, along with a few more recent World War II tomes.
She picked up Tolstoy and saw it was weeks overdue.
Ditto for Hemingway and Homer. Poor thing was wallowing in it.
Hazel returned with Helen’s drink and sat in the easy chair by the fireplace.
“How’s A.J. getting on? He’s so sweet. Rowed all the way up here a few weeks back to visit. Acted like he was out fishing and just happened by.”
Helen told her he was doing well in school, popular with other students, et cetera.
At this point make-believe was easier for everyone to swallow.
What good would it do to tell her that her son was an angry loner that no one could reach?
That he needed his mother back? She had heard it dozens of times already, from friends, family, psychiatrists, and preachers.
The message never breached the alcohol-filled moat she had dug around herself.
Hazel’s life with Jan had been like a fairy tale, she a princess in her castle.
Yet she couldn’t count the blessings of their years together, only rue their end, looking at what she had lost rather than what she had been given.
For a bright and educated woman it seemed a profoundly stupid choice.
But of course, it wasn’t a reasoned choice.
She was stuck in a fable whose moral she was blind to or ignored.
They chatted about friends and innocuous local events. Then Hazel asked:
“How are Mom and Dad?”
Helen stared at her sister, who looked away to a pack of cigarettes beside her and lit one up. “Haven’t you seen them?”
Hazel shrugged. “Not for months. Maybe longer. Dad won’t talk to me. Rather listen to gossip.” She took a deep drag on her Lucky Strike.
“What’s wrong with men?” she went on, lifting her chin toward the stacks of books.
“Fighting, hating, killing. Abandoning everything they claim to love: their mothers, their sweethearts, and their wives; their sons and daughters and their homes. For what? Abstractions for soldiers: patriotism, honor, glory—though it’s money, power, and dominance for those calling the shots.
But why go fight and maybe die? So, they can shine before other men?
So, they can lay more women? In the process deceiving themselves and those they claim to hold dear.
To protect us? From what exactly?… Maybe Lysistrata had the answer: Stop screwing them until they stop killing each other.
Of course, Aristophanes was just joking. Ha ha.”
Helen stared at her sister. Hazel had seemingly taken an even darker turn. Or maybe it was just a bad day. She hardly knew what to say.
“Hazel, you know that none of that applies to Jan. He went to war because he got drafted. He had no choice. Either that or go to prison and tar all of you. Not his doing, the government’s.”
Hazel took a drink of her highball and said: “Did I mention that Richard knew Jan back when he was bootlegging?”
Momentary confusion for Helen before realizing her sister was talking about Richard Dupuis.
“He told me stories about Jan that make me wonder if I ever really knew him. Whether he was ever honest with me about anything. Even whether he ever really loved me…”
“Hazel, you know he did. Jan worshipped you.”
“He wasn’t the angel he made out to be. Just another hoodlum who hurt people and ruined them.
The whole time playing a public role of decent family man and benevolent Christian.
What if A.J. has that same stain on his soul?
” She took a long pull on her cigarette, exhaled, coughed.
“What’s wrong with a small life, a peaceful life?
A life without strife?… Men are such fools. ”
“I can’t do anything about that. Let me talk to Dad for you.”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “You do that. While you’re at it ask him what he would do if I had another child, a bastard child.
Maybe a retard, pickled in alcohol. Could he love his grandchild?
Could he love me? Could the foursquare Christian with perfect church attendance summon up a little New Testament forgiveness and compassion?
” She lit another Lucky. “Let me know what he says. I’d love to hear. ”
Helen bit her bottom lip fighting back tears, rose, and crossed to her sister. She knelt and took her in her arms.
Tears poured down Hazel’s powdered cheeks. “Prince Charming, a redoubt on the sleeping lake, a life of love and leisure. What a fantasy!” She sniffled. “Why, God, did it have to end?”