Love Lies Bleeding (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Devenport Farm, Newfield, New York
August 1916

J
immy Devenport sat at the old dining table nursing a glass of rotgut. It was all he could afford, and their neighbor, Mr. Aitken, distilled his own and gave him a deal if Jimmy helped with the farm chores. Scraping the very last leavings of tobacco out of his pouch, he rolled a cigarette and lit it from the meager candle flame.

In front of Jimmy sat a stack of bills. He also had a few crumpled IOUs in his pocket that he had written to the madam at the bawdy house at the edge of Ithaca. He had worked off several of his debts there by repairing furniture or other odd jobs. Now he was talking real money. And it had to come from somewhere. The candle flickered with a menacing glimmer as he contemplated complete financial disaster. He was not much of a farmer, and it became more obvious after the death of his no-good father. He had no idea how he was going to continue to support his mother and sisters. If he couldn’t pull himself together pretty soon, his sisters were going to have to join Miss Rosie’s girls themselves. Their home was mortgaged to the hilt, and they had no vehicle other than the buckboard and their nag, Old Blue. Everyone else was buying Tin Lizzies and zipping around town like they didn’t have a worry in the world. But Jimmy would never be able to afford even the oldest model. If he did manage to eke out any crops from the rocky soil around Newfield, he had to drive them to town in the buckboard.

He gazed down at the table to the one valuable item he still possessed; the one item his mother had gotten from her side of the family. His grandfather had spent a small fortune on his silver pocket watch, and Jimmy often sat and rubbed it for good luck when he was feeling low. The bit of tarnish and comforting ticking helped him feel connected to his maternal side. They’d been decent, God-fearing Methodists, not like the drunken Gaelic sots from his father’s line. His grandfather had been a devout Pennsylvania Dutch farmer. He had become prosperous in the area around Waverly in Tioga County, and as the single child of this marriage, Marian had been expected to marry a neighboring farmer and keep their land adjoining. It was to be willed into one large parcel to be split among any children she would have.

But upon Marian’s marriage to the Irish blacksmith whose relatives were all die-hard papists, her father disowned her. He had cried when his daughter married Alfred Devenport. All the land, the dowry, everything she would have received from Johann Geisle was withdrawn, and she was alone, with no relatives to help her. After Alfred’s death, she threw herself on her mother’s mercy, but the old woman had turned her back on her daughter and all her grandchildren and left everything to a nephew. Except this watch.

It was the last thing Jimmy had to remember his grandfather, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to. In spite of himself, he respected these dour Teutons. Angry at his mother for denying herself and all her children the birthright she deserved, he couldn’t help but respect his grandparents and their code of honor. The pocket watch was a mellowed silver, engraved with an elaborate Germanic G for Geisle, and had seen his grandfather through some tough times. His mother had proudly related its history.

He flicked open the lid and felt its reassuring ticking, comforting him almost like a mother’s heartbeat to a kitten. He hated even considering hocking the watch, but the situation was impossible.

He often succumbed to despair at times like these. Most often it was when he drank, which made him even more disgusted at himself. He wanted so much to be different than his father, but he was becoming more and more like him every day. The only time the sorrow would lift was when he thought about visiting Miss Rosie’s place. Her girls were a talented lot.

From the outside, her establishment looked like any other farmhouse. But the gaudy, bright-red front door and shutters gave a clue to what lay inside. Miss Rosie generously bribed the local authorities to keep herself and her girls out of trouble, but the cops were there just as often as everyone else, so it became a question of who was paying whom.

Miss Rosie was a formidable woman of indiscernible years. Her hair was an unnatural shade of red, and she was one of the few women Jimmy had ever seen who wore fingernail paint. Her usual uniform was a deep violet satin dress, her ample charms spilling out the top, and although he owed the place a vast amount of money these days, she was always kind to Jimmy, as he was one of her best customers. She knew he’d be good for it someday.

The parlor of Miss Rosie’s was the most luxuriant room Jimmy had ever seen. Tufted red velvet divans sat about the room in strategic locations. Beaded lampshades swathed in silky scarves added to the ambience. Thick brocade draperies covered the entire length of the windows so no prying eyes could surmise what went on inside. And oh the women…they lay about in flimsy little nightgowns so sheer they left little to the imagination.

The minute Jimmy strolled through the front door, they treated him like an old friend, and all his worries about debts and bills were forgotten. Miss Rosie had a Negro piano player in the parlor, Cajun Joe, and he kept the girls entertained playing the latest in ragtime while they plied the customers with champagne and hard cider.

“Da Fig Leaf Rag!” he’d say, launching into the jaunty piece, his fingers dancing with a deft touch over the ivories. Between tunes, he’d mop his dark face with a calico handkerchief.

When Cajun Joe took a quick break out back to have a bite of a sandwich and smoke a cheroot or two, the girls would fire up the Victrola and play records like “By the Beautiful Sea” or “Aba Daba Honeymoon.” When Bianca sat downstairs, everyone had to hear recordings of Enrico Caruso, which she listened to when she was homesick. When a customer was ready, his girl would take him up to a spare room upstairs, with a bedstead, a rag rug on the floor, a coat rack, and a bowl and ewer for washing up.

The sweet angelic little blonde Anna spoke little English, but he loved listening to her cries of pleasure and pain as he banged her head against the brass headboard in his gusto. She would lambast him in Swedish after they were done, but he’d hand her an extra quarter to shut her up.

From some small town in Calabria, Bianca had black hair, dark flashing eyes, and huge breasts like melons. She’d fought him like a tiger as she too cursed him in her native language. He had ripped off her silky little negligee and left her in just her delicate little shoes as he had gone about his business. She had struggled with him until he found just the right way to proceed, and then she had gone breathless, summoning every saint in the Catholic roster as she came, loudly and explosively.

His favorite was the little redheaded firecat, Molly, just off the boat from Belfast. One night several weeks ago, he’d blown his entire pay packet on one night with hot little Moll and couldn’t walk straight afterward. She’d kept at him all night, and he’d taken her from every position he could devise. Just thinking of that night made his mouth water in anticipation.

But now, he examined the various bills and knew the Devenports were living on credit and the good graces of Mr. Billingsley at the market in the village. It caused him to take another swig of liquor. The burning in his esophagus was painful, but not as much as having to pay for his father’s mistakes in life. He might have had an easier shot at getting through his teenaged years if the old bastard had made a decent living instead of drinking away all their money. How nice it must be to have a little extra from time to time. He thought of the snooty folks who lived in Ithaca—the doctors and lawyers and merchants who never had to worry where their next meal was coming from. His burp reminded him of tonight’s dinner—overdone squirrel meat again.

But there had been one nice addition to his evening that he hadn’t planned on. Branching out from his usual hunting grounds near their house, he had decided to hitch up Ole Blue and head up nearer the falls. Someone had told him the hunting there had been pretty good of late. He’d hoped he could snag a nice buck. He’d been craving some venison meat and deer sausage. However, the deer all had other plans, and he’d managed to end the life of the rather bony gray squirrel instead.

But on his way back to where he’d tied Ole Blue, he’d happened across a Model T parked in the woods near the falls. And what do you know? It looked like the same model that Hi had given their buddy Tom. It burned him that of the two of them, he was the one who most needed it, but Hi had given the car to Thomas Estabrook. Where was the measure of friendship in that? The resentment churned in his gut along with the whiskey as he considered the car again.

The flivver had rocked and quivered and squeaked with all the action going on inside, and he could hear a woman’s mewling cries, exhorting her partner on.

“Yes! Yes!” she gasped.

Wouldn’t Tom be surprised to know Jimmy had caught a striking view of that rich girl he’d met a few weeks ago. She had a nice little body, that one did, with plump tits and a perfect, round little ass. He saw much of it reflected in the moonlight as she rode Tom for all she was worth. Her moans were exquisite and expressive. She was enjoying the hell out of herself, letting her emotion play over her face for him to observe. That Tommy. What a terrible liar he was. Valiant in defending her honor during the day, but oh what a time he had with her at night.

From behind a tree, Jimmy had watched them for the rest of the encounter, wishing he had enough money to stop by Miss Rosie’s on his way home and do something about the iron rod forming in his trousers. As it was, he’d be taking the squirrel home and cooking it over the flames in the fireplace, hoping to God his mother still had a bit of rice or potato to serve with it so it would go a little farther.

Back at the house, Jimmy made lists of how much he owed to each individual, how much was late, and how much could be put off until the last minute. Hunting would have to be their mainstay for a while. He was sure Hi’s mother would be generous with items like flour and sugar until they left, but for the rest, they were on their own. He just had to find a way to earn some more money. He wondered if he could talk to Tom about helping him find work at the clock factory. If he refused, well… Now Jimmy had some ammunition to insist he do it.

Ithaca, New York
July 1986

“So Dad, what’s new?” Shannon asked, reclining on Frank’s couch, her feet up on the coffee table.

“The usual,” he said, not sure how to answer her. “Everything fine with you?”

“Of course everything’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?” she said, picking at a cuticle. “I mean, other than Mom being insane.”

“Don’t talk about your mother that way. It’s gotta be hell on her raising a teenaged daughter alone.”

“But she’s not doing it alone. That jerk Greg she’s dating is over all the time. Wanting me to call him ‘Uncle Greg’ and trying to tell me what to do. Barf.”

“He is?” Frank wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “What’s he like?” At least the bastard hadn’t tried making her call him Dad. He’d have to lay him out for that. He didn’t mind it if the guy made her mind. It was his methods Frank wanted to make sure were kosher.

“Ha. You fell for the bait.”

“Shannon, stop it.”

“What? I knew you’d be interested. How the heck else do you tell your dad that your mom, his ex-wife, is dating a complete schmuck?”

“I don’t need this right now,” he muttered. “I really don’t.”

“Is it because of that case you’re working on? The one with the lady we’re related to?”

“How did you hear about that?”

“Aunt Diana told me about it when I was at the hospital last time.” She looked at him, expecting more information.

“Yeah. It’s the case. It’s making me a little crazy. It’s hard to have to worry about you and your mom and the schmuck right now in addition to this other stuff,” Frank said.

“So what happened?”

“Well, she was a teenager like you, and she got into something that got her killed.”

“Drugs?”

“They didn’t have the drug problem back then that we have now.”

“Gangs?”

“Ditto on the gangs. Not anything she needed to worry about.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure yet, Shan. It was nineteen sixteen. A long time ago.”

“Nineteen sixteen? Wow, I can’t even conceive of that. That’s like, ages ago. Before the sixties and everything. That’s even older than you,” she said.

“Seventy years. And thanks for that.”

“No sweat. So Linda…the lady from the Bluebird Cafe. Is she your new girlfriend?”

Frank sighed. Shannon didn’t miss a trick.

“How’d you know about her?”

“Toby Hackmeier was skateboarding the other night near The Commons and saw you. He told me.”

Thanks, Toby.

“So is she your girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“I do say that. I want to know if you say that.”

“Shan,” he said, his voice a warning.