Page 21 of The Bootlegger’s Bride

H ot wind in his face, Tommy Freeman sped along the lake road thinking he needed to find a new job. He had come to hate this one.

He did get to wear the blue uniform and peaked cap and ride the motorbike, which was grand. But all in all, today he’d rather be out of the blazing sun and in the shady backyard listening to the Cardinals game with his dad instead of spreading bad news.

The Redbirds were running away with it, ten games up.

They had Mort Cooper and Harry Breechen pitching a doubleheader against the Giants.

And in the American League the Browns—of all people—were in first by a game.

Already folks were talking about a St. Louis Streetcar World Series. But that was it for the good news.

The bad news telegrams had been coming fast over the last few weeks, ever since D-Day. Often you knew what it was when you saw the delivery address. No one out in the country hardly ever got a telegram unless it was something awful.

Lots of times, it was a woman they were addressed to, a wife or mother, who answered the door. He never even waited for a tip. Just handed them the envelope and jumped back on his motorbike before he could hear them howling and crying, see them fainting and such. Oh brother. What a fucking job.

He saved this one for last since it was out in the sticks. Had to stop twice to get directions to the right house. Now Tommy slowed the bike before a shaded lane on his right and peered down the gravel driveway with grass growing in the middle. This looked like it from what that last guy said.

He motored on down the drive and saw four cars parked by the house and on the lawn in back. Tommy smelled barbecue and saw people near the lakeshore drinking beer and playing horseshoes, laughing it up and having fun. At least for the time being. Jeez.

He braked on the gravel, slid to a stop, jumped off, and headed to the front door, avoiding the party out back. He rang the doorbell and waited. He rang it again. No way he was going to the backyard and join the party.

After a minute the green wooden door beyond the screen door opened wide and there stood a tall brunette in flowered dress, bright red lipstick, and pearl earrings. A real tomato. He swallowed.

“Mrs. Hazel R. Nowak?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t her. And if it was, praying that this time he gauged wrong, and it was good news. Yeah, this time it was good news.

She stood transfixed, mouth agape, staring at the Western Union badge on his cap.

§

Raymond Lomax tended to the ribs on the brick barbecue pit. He called to the two men pitching horseshoes under the sycamores, his father Fred Lomax and father-in-law Roy Robinson.

“You guys gonna finish that game before nightfall? Everyone else will have eaten and gone home.”

Fred turned to Roy. “I did a terrible job raising Raymond. Grew into a real smartass. Thinks he’s Fred Allen.”

“Well, he has some room to talk after whipping me in five minutes.”

Their wives, along with Helen and Hazel, sat on folding chairs in the shade of a thick maple tree atop the lake bank sipping ice tea and beer.

Raymond could hear the buzz of their conversation and occasional laughter.

He took a drink from his beer bottle. Pale blue skies, puffy white clouds, a breath of wind when a cloud floated across the sun.

He hadn’t been anywhere else, really, except St. Louis on occasion and Springfield once to see Abe Lincoln’s house.

He didn’t want to go anywhere else. The lake, the fields where in summer errant sunflowers grew, and the clean, fresh air were all he needed.

He even liked his job at the steel mill now that he could work with a pencil instead of his back.

Raymond looked to his beautiful dark-haired wife, knowing his life was blessed.

A.J., who had been playing with toy soldiers in the sandbox at the far side of the house—a sandbox that Raymond had helped Jan build for the kid—came running to Hazel.

“Mommy! Somebody at the door.”

She rose saying, “Who could that be?”

A minute later, over the clang of horseshoes, conversation, and green leaves rustling in a gust, a cry rang from the house. Helen jumped up and raced inside. Raymond set his beer on the smoking brick pit and followed.

He found Helen kneeling next to the turquoise living room sofa embracing her sister, who sat curled in her arms, shaking.

On the coffee table before them lay a telegram.

Raymond moved toward it and stared down.

Then he bent and lifted it in his hand, tears welling in his eyes.

He turned and moved back through the house.

In the backyard everyone stood rigid, staring at him. He bit his lips and shook his head. His mother-in-law gasped, pulled A.J. to her, and walked him back to the sandbox where his toy soldiers lay on the ground. Raymond moved forward and read aloud:

“The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regret that your husband Corporal Janusz Aleksander Nowak was killed in action on twenty seven June in France. Letter follows. Witsell Acting Adjutant General.”

They stood silent encircling Raymond. At the sound of a raucous chirping, he looked to the bayberry bushes guarding the lake to spy a rust-colored wren hopping from branch to branch. He turned back to the others.

“I guess somebody should tell the boy what’s going on. Hazel’s in no shape…”

He looked to the telegram in his hand, picturing Jan at his side as they strode across a field of dry weeds on a gray winter day.

Shotgun broken in the crook of his arm, cigarette hanging from his lips where also sat a soft smile, signaling his friend’s unceasing pleasure in being alive: savoring the smell of damp earth, the burn of cold air on his face, the joy in movement and in practicing what men had done since the beginning of time, connecting himself to them.

“God damn this war.”

Raymond folded the telegram and slid it into the back pocket of his khakis. He turned toward the sandbox and took a deep breath. “Guess I should tell the boy something.”

§

Though after eight in the evening the sun still sat on the horizon across the wheat field as Helen and Raymond Lomax returned to their lake home. He rose from the black Plymouth, beer bottle in hand and strode to the back fence and down the steps to the dock. She led A.J. inside the house.

Raymond lowered himself onto the dock, sitting cross-legged Indian style, listening to the cicadas sing and breathing in the dank, aromatic air.

Long Lake lay flat, darkening and shimmering. Near the opposite bank a bass leapt from the water, startling Raymond and sending across waves that eventually lapped at the shoreline behind him.

As the sky turned indigo Helen appeared, handed him another beer, and knelt beside him.

“The boy’s asleep.”

“Will Hazel sleep? Will she be okay?”

“Doctor Markopolus gave her a shot. Mom will be there with her tonight.”

The wavering din of the cicadas echoed across the water.

“Those bugs drive city people crazy with their racket. Always sing me right to sleep in summertime,” said Raymond. “Have all my life. Not so sure about tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dear. No need to go to work tomorrow. Your boss will understand.”

“I’m part of the war effort… Steel armor, steel tank hulls, and turrets. That’s what we’re producing. Wonder what got Jan. Maybe a tank…”

“Don’t, Raymond.”

“I work in a factory making weapons that kill other factory workers and their brothers in Germany and Japan. Others get rich off it. Others smoke cigars and move us around like chess pieces. What do we get from it? They say they’re looking out for us.

Know what’s best for us, better than we know for ourselves.

It’s a racket, Helen. They’re just taking care of themselves, that’s what I think.

Plotting to win the game. If a few pawns and knights get removed from the board, well, that’s just how you play it. ”

He drank from the beer bottle. Helen laid her hand on his. The cicadas quieted for a moment. He went on.

“The world’s a fucking mess. I feel for the poor people being bombed out of their homes or forced into uniform and shot, whatever their ilk.

I know we have to do business with the Germans, Brits, Russians, French, and whoever.

But do we really need to destroy and kill each other to do that effectively?

I truly don’t get it. I have lots more in common with a German steelworker or a French fisherman than with the conmen in Washington and New York.

Can’t we all just live with each other in peace? ”

He shook his head, lips pressed together.

“The First World War was bad enough with all the slaughter of men in the trenches fighting over a few yards of dirt. But as stupid as that was at least then you had soldiers killing soldiers. Now you have planes dropping bombs on cities from a mile high not knowing if they’ll land on a factory or a schoolhouse.

It’s a crime, Helen, whether it’s London or Stalingrad or Berlin.

Innocents die just to spread terror. Destroy everything and anybody until they give up. ”

He took another drink and stared off over the water. “Jan loved it here. Loved the lake, loved to hunt and fish. To drink beer and enjoy life.”

“You’re right, Raymond. It’s wrong. So wrong.”

“What will become of A.J. without a father? How will Hazel go on?”

Helen patted his hand. “We can help. They’ll be fine. We’ll pray for them and trust in God.”

Raymond started to speak, to blaspheme, then bit his lip. Tough enough for all involved to swallow that Jan was dead. Trying to digest that maybe God was also dead was too much to handle just now.