These were the truths that existed in Jasper’s world. Not champagne in cut crystal glasses or the whip-smart repartee he used to enjoy.
A clinking noise came from down the hallway. He followed the sound into the kitchen, where cans of paint thinner and solvents from the local hardware store lined the walls. Cases of Jamaica ginger were currently doubling as a kitchen chair, and a case of aftershave crowded the doorway. The long enameled sink was stacked to the brim with dirty dishes and bowls of uneaten oatmeal that were beginning to smell vaguely like cheap beer. Jars and bottles, filled to different levels and in shades from clear to amber to dark brown, covered the countertops to nearly overflowing.
Uncle Fred stood in the corner fiddling with a piece of glass piping. He was tall and spare, a specter of a man. Quiffs of wheat-colored strands barely covered his bald pate, and his eyes were so dark they appeared black. Jasper liked to think that God had added those inkblot eyes as an afterthought—an oddly unsettling shade to make up for the rest of his faded self.
And faded he was. He’d been the younger son in a family that had no money, whereas Jasper’s mother had been quick witted and richly stylish (she had been a brilliant sewer) and had easily snagged herself a husband beyond her circle.
Embarrassingly, Uncle Fred had barely been able to keep a job for longer than a month at a time, driven to stay in his apartment for fear of falling into the sky. That was the only way Jasper could describe the anxiety that plagued his uncle. He’d step outside and put his hands out as if the fresh air were attempting to suffocate him, as if the sun and clouds were attempting to murder him where he stood. Booze helped, but not enough.
Oscar had stayed at home with Fred for months. Jasper’s brother had never been able to pull himself out of the mire of his melancholy, which appeared after their colossal decline in consequence. Oscar had been terrified of life as much as Uncle Fred was of the open sky. So when Oscar died even before he stepped into a European trench, Jasper hadn’t known whether to be surprised or relieved for his sake.
Uncle Fred was fitting a glass cylinder the width of his thumb to an elbow joint, smearing glycerin on the frosted edges to engage them smoothly. But his hands trembled, and he lay the cylinder down to drink from a small glass filled with amber liquid. When he swallowed, he closed his eyes, as if in prayer.
His undershirt was stained yellow beneath the armpits, and suspenders kept his loose pants from hitting the ground, though Jasper knew that his uncle couldn’t care less about scandal. When your most common companions were the four walls of a room, not much else mattered. Jasper was impressed he was even wearing trousers.
“How’s the search for cheap intoxicants going?” Jasper asked, after a huge yawn. He rolled up his sleeves and started washing the mountain of dishes.
“Swimmingly.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
His uncle shook his head.
“I left you dinner last night, and you didn’t eat that either. What would you like, toast? I think we have some eggs.” Jasper wiped his hands and opened the icebox, but it wasn’t cold anymore. He eyed a bottle of milk suspiciously and sniffed the butter. It seemed all right.
His uncle hitched up his loose trousers. “Tell you what I need. A few more flasks to finish up my rig. Bring me a few from work today, will you?”
Jasper closed the icebox and sighed. His uncle liked to think of Bellevue as a pickpocket’s grocery. The staff was too harried and the patients too numerous to notice a few missing pieces of glassware here or steel tongs there.
He immediately saw the hesitation on Jasper’s face. “Now, Jasper. You know I can’t buy these things. I have to be careful. Any day now, there won’t be a blessed drop of legal stuff anywhere in Manhattan.”
For him or for selling, Jasper wasn’t exactly sure. Spirits seemed to ooze out of his uncle’s pores. Fred was frantic at the idea of the dreaded prohibition amendment actually being fully ratified.
Jasper picked up a half-full box of Nabiscos but after two bites lost his appetite for the wafers that dried his mouth with their powdery sweetness. There was no chance of coffee because they’d used the last of it yesterday morning. If it wasn’t for him, his uncle would be living off whiskey alone. It irritated him to run errands and grocery shop for two, but there was also something sacrilegious about his pale-skinned, indoor-dwelling uncle in the raw brightness of the sun. Uncle Fred seemed to know this; he hadn’t left the building in eighteen months. The last time was because the next-door apartment had a fire, and smoke had choked their rooms with darkness.
Jasper headed for the door, tucking in his shirttails. “Well, I’m off. Don’t forget that there’s half a loaf of bread in the bread box, and butter. You should eat that. Don’t touch those eggs—I think they’ve gone bad.”
“You worry too much.”
“It’s what I do best,” he said, grimacing. Fred had a little cash to help with rent, but it was running out. He promised that his little alcoholic experiments would bring in money someday, but Jasper wondered if it would land them all in jail. He tried not to think too hard on that.
“Have a good day,” Fred told him, waving the now-empty glass.
“Eat breakfast,” Jasper nagged, pulling on his mackinaw.
“Good-bye.”
“Eat breakfast.” He pointed at Fred. “Don’t die while I’m gone.” It was both a joke and not a joke, but he said it often enough that Fred thought it was hilarious.
His uncle waved him away, chuckling as he began cramming pieces of sawdust into a large, stained flask. Soon, he’d cook it to coax out the alcoholic vapors. It would be a miracle if their whole apartment didn’t go up in flames.
Jasper scuttled down the two flights of stairs and strode onto the sidewalk. The air was cool and brisk, and the city relatively quiet. The plain row houses and tenements held the morning sun at bay, and trash littered the gutters. In the distance, bells tolled for churchgoers. Jasper ignored the sound.
Florence was waiting, after all.
One of his favorite stores that sold him cigarettes had changed its name. Heppenheimer’s Shoppe was now the Stars and Stripes, trying to convince its customers that the owners were patriots, begging them not to turn them in to the local APL. A restaurant advertised “liberty steak” instead of evil German hamburger. The world buffeted people in all directions, telling them how things should be. How he ought to be. There was no escaping any of it.