Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (2 page)

From the table,
Gurty coughed up a chuckle, but no one else made a peep. The Polack ladies didn’t want to barge forward when Mrs. Barnes, their social better, might want the privilege. Vera seemed content to look on like a hungry spider. Finally Ermel said, “Are you just gonna stand there staring or are you gonna talk?” And then the flood gates opened. “What does the duchess sound like?” “Does she have an accent?” “What do you talk about?” “Does she like kielbasa?” “What type of perfume does she wear?” “Does she like dumplings?” “Where’s the duke?” “Does she have a villa in Italy?” Ermel answered all the questions in a manner befitting the owner of an evening dress by Lucile.

And then
Vera Snyder spoke. “Ya know why she keeps coming around, don’t ya?”

“I think she wants me to be her friend…since I’m famous and all.”

“She wants your babies. That’s what she wants,” said Vera.

The other ladies gasped.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ermel.

“How many people have come two days in a row?” asked Vera.

“I don’t know. A few.”

“And how many have come three days in a row?”

“I got better things to do than count my visitors, in case you ain’t noticed.”

“None. That’s how many. I seen every
buggy and motorcar that come through here.”

“That don’t prove nothin
’. If she ain’t my friend, how come she give me this deluxe dress?”

“Because
she knows it’ll unscrew your head, and you’ll start dancin’ around like a fool instead of keeping track of your babies.”

“You’re just jealous
‘cause my best friend is a duchess.”

“If she’s such a friend, how come she don’t
never come in your house?”

The other ladies acknowledged Vera’s point with a quiet murmur. Ermel looked at her feet
. “I’ll bet you five dollars,” continued Vera, “she won’t never come in here ‘till the day she takes your babies.” She reached over Gurty’s shoulder, snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table, and walked away. “Let me know,” she said as she swung open the front door, “I could use the money.”

Nobody showed up Ermel Railer, especially not the likes of Vera Snyder. The
next day, when the chauffeur once again knocked upon her door, Ermel locked Gurty, who wasn’t fit for company, in her bedroom and went out to invite the duchess in to see the babies. She said they were sleeping and couldn’t be brought to the motorcar. The duchess politely declined and drove off. Still determined, Ermel went out that very day and bought teacups and a lace table cloth and pastries from the fancy bakery on Center Street. This finery proved to be no temptation whatsoever to the duchess. After the third try, when Ermel pushed too hard, the duchess stopped coming altogether.

Ermel knew
envy. She knew the choking kind that turns its victim into a big talker who bristles and puffs but still goes to bed feeling small. She had no taste for hope or contentment or thankfulness, so she slurped a resentful gruel that numbed her heart and leached her soul. Yes, Ermel knew envy like a prisoner knows handcuffs, but for a few blessed days she’d felt the freedom of handcuffs removed when she, Ermel Railer, had been the big somebody; when the fawning, licking eyes had been glued to her instead of the other way around. She’d been the one with the duchess, and the dress, dishing out jealousy and serving up discontent like a flashy soda jerk. And she liked it, loved it, and now that it was gone, she felt devastated. Ermel fell hard off her pedestal and landed right back where she’d started: envious and small.

Fortunately, she’d married into a family that had been producing champion enviers for a century.
In her hour of need, when she had the bile, but not the throat to deliver it, her husband stepped in to pick up the slack.

“You know what’s the difference between them
hoity-toitys up on the hill and us down here? I’m asking you! Do you know?” hollered Jeb. “They’re better cheaters and liars! That’s it. And that duchess lady is worse than most ‘cause she went out and got herself an extra coat of paint to cover up her cheatin’ and lyin’. That’s what her title is, a cover up!”

And then
he howled about the Newfields, calling them the biggest cheaters and liars of all.

“
And if she’s a real duchess then I’m the King of Siam and my ass is Prince Charming! Anybody can get a title—it ain’t no harder than puttin’ down your name on a legal document—but most people don’t do it ‘cause they know it ain’t right. Why do you think nobody ain’t never seen the duke? ‘Cause he don’t exist, that’s why!”

And then he
wailed about the hatchet job done to his family name and how no royal title on earth could repair it.

“
And that motorcar ain’t hers neither. My friend up at the tannery told me so. It belongs to a motorcar salesman in Santa Marcela. She drives it during the day and he drives her at night, if you know what I mean.”

And then he drove himself
crazy talking about the Newfields.

Jeb
did a proper job on the duchess and made Ermel proud. Of course he got something out of the deal too. Up at the Wagon Wheel Tavern nobody listened to his stories anymore, unless he bought them a drink. Now he had someone who did it for free. As long as he took a break every now and then to commiserate with Ermel and complain about the stuck up duchess, she let him pontificate as he pleased. For a while she even laughed in the right spots, thought of cuss words when he ran low, and clucked her tongue when the shame of the Newfields called for it. That’s how it went for three days running, like it used to be before they got married, almost blissful.

Too bad Ermel’s hour of need didn’t last a week
, maybe the bliss could’ve taken root, but she had a house full of babies and needed to figure things out, like how to pile as much work as possible onto Gurty without killing her. Besides, what good ever came out of Jeb’s tired old stories? They sounded daring, but he never got anything out of them, and now, after three days, all Ermel got was a headache. So she stopped listening, and Jeb went searching for an audience back up at the Wagon Wheel Tavern. Ermel could live with that. It was a routine she knew—even though they’d only been married seven months. He’d drink and argue and try to make loud speeches. He might get kicked out and have to try his luck at the bar across the street, or he might make it to closing time. After midnight he’d stagger home, barge in like a hurricane, and make another speech. And then the next day he’d do it all over again, unless the money ran out, in which case he’d go to his uncle’s in Santa Marcela to make a few bucks.

But this time it didn’t happen
like that. This time Jeb came home earlier than usual and slipped through the front door like a cool summer breeze. Humming a happy tune, he moseyed up to the table where Ermel and Gurty had just started dinner, reached into his overall pocket, and pulled out a bottle of store-bought gin. He put it on the table with a wink. Ermel liked store-bought gin but usually got stuck with the rotgut sour mash from Jeb’s uncle.

“What’s the occasion?”
she asked.

Jeb
stared at her, started to say something, stared some more, and then said, “We’re celebrating our good fortune.” He swung his leg over a chair and sat down.

“If you’re talking about the money
in the envelopes, there ain’t nothing to celebrate ‘cause you’ve spent every last dollar of it.”

“I ain’t talking about that. I’m talking about true good fortune
, the good fortune of powerful friends in powerful places.”

“And what friend might that be?” asked Ermel suspiciously.

With raised eyebrows and a knowing smile, Jeb said, “We shall see.” He put a big piece of cornbread on a plate, covered it with sausage gravy, and picked up a fork.

“We shall see is right,” said Ermel, as she snatched away his plate. “What friend are you talking about?”

“The one that got me a job that pays ten dollars a day.”

“
Ten dollars? For doin’ what?”

“Drivin’ a truck
half day.”

“
Some drunk in a bar says he’ll pay ten dollars for a half day’s work and you believe him?” snorted Ermel, followed by a bigger snort from Gurty.

Jeb
tossed an envelope onto the table and said, “That’s for the first two weeks. Paid in advance. Cash.” He grabbed the plate from Ermel and dug in.

Gurty
reached for the envelope, but Ermel beat her to it. After a quick count, she said, “There’s a hundred dollars in here!”

“Just like I told you.”

“What are you gonna to do with it?”

“I’ll tell
you what I’m gonna do. You’re goin’ up town tomorrow and spend every penny on yourself. You’re gonna buy jewelry and perfume and all the other whatnots. And when you run out of things to buy in Prospect Park, I’m takin’ you over to Santa Marcela.”

“Really?”

“It’s a celebration, ain’t it?”

With brown gravy dribbling down his chin, h
e smiled and chewed enthusiastically.

After dinner
, Gurty ran from one fussy baby to another while Jeb and Ermel sat at the kitchen table and downed big glasses of gin-lemonade. When that ran out, they poured rotgut whisky and talked loudly about the big motorcar they’d buy, and the big house—maybe even a big house at the base of the hill. Why not? It’d been done before. After all, they were the famous Railers who owned the newest set of identical triplets in the country, maybe even the world.

While
Ermel might’ve been a simple, dirt-poor sixteen year-old, she possessed the suspicious nature of a purse-clutching old lady. Gin-lemonade and rotgut whisky applied to an unsuspicious mind can smooth the jagged edges of apprehension down to harmless nubs. On a mind like Ermel’s, it didn’t work. Even at the height of their boisterous revelry, when numb lips impaired speech and floating brains turned rational thoughts into bobbing apples, those jagged edges called out to her. Why had Jeb forked over the money? He never did that. The rent got paid only when the landlord parked his motorcar outside their front door and caught Jeb off guard. Ermel kept food on the table only because she foraged his overalls for loose change and the odd dollar. Now he was tossing around packets of money and telling her to spend it all on herself. And who was this powerful friend that passed out high paying jobs to the likes of Jeb Railer? Too many jagged edges.

In her quest
against these suspicious happenings, Ermel had a secret weapon: Jeb’s big mouth. He knew how to talk, and more often than not, talked himself into trouble. She just needed to wait.

And sure enough,
after a while his head tipped to the side, and the words started running wild. He raised his glass and hollered, “Here’s to the duchess! I take back half the stuff I never said about her!”

Ermel
put the brakes on her spinning head.

“It just goes to show you can’t judge a cook by its
cover…a cook by its…a…you know what I mean,” he said.

“What are you saying
, Jeb?”

“I’m…er…saying what I’m saying. What do you think I’m saying?”

“Jeb, what are you saying about the duchess?”

“Oh yeah, the duchess. She must want kids real bad
.”

Ermel sat up
straight and said, “You better not be talking about my kids, Jeb Railer.”

He
tried to likewise straighten himself up and meet her glare. “Well maybe I am, and maybe I ain’t.” He leaned forward and studied her face. “Your mouth is wadded up like a horse’s butthole. That means you’re mad. But I got a secret that will make you happy…and then the horse’s butt will go away. Come here and I’ll tell you…but you can’t tell no one ‘cause the man said so. Come here.” She leaned in close and he said, “We’re gettin’ three thousand dollars for ‘em.” And then he sat back and beamed like a man with a gold mine.

The horse’s butt didn’t go away.

“You snivelin’ son of a bitch! You sold my babies to that...that two faced, stuck-up duchess!”

~~~

Nobody ever accused Jeb of having any sort of a military bearing, but on the night when Ermel figured out his little scheme, he would’ve made a terrific soldier. With his wife bearing down like a frothing charger, instead of indulging his appetite for drunken combat, he fortified his wobbly legs with sheer gumption and quickly affected a strategic retreat. He saved himself. He saved the day. He saved the cause. Then again, maybe it hadn’t been anything quite so noble. Maybe it had been the power of money. Like a rat following its nose to the dumpster, maybe the smell of money raised Jeb up and safely guided him through the alcoholic fog and away from his raging wife. It didn’t matter though because it ended with the same results: he had indeed saved the cause and would fight again.

And lose repeatedly.

First, when Ermel had calmed enough for Jeb to risk proximity, he attacked with love. With a bowed head and a lump in his throat, he offered up his own tender heart to be cracked like a melon. Didn’t his little girls deserve the best? Didn’t they deserve fancy dresses and shiny leather shoes and nannies and maids and…and…banjo lessons and all the other whatnots that went part and parcel with being rich? Yes they did, and he’d be a darned sorry father if he didn’t give it to them. Yes, it was true he’d never recover from the loss, but he had to do it because he loved them that much, and, he knew, Ermel loved them that much too. They had to let their babies go to the duchess.