A Beautiful Poison

“The Volstead Act is going to die,” Jasper said, exasperated. “They won’t outlaw liquor. Only fourteen states have ratified the amendment. They’ll never get the thirty-six they need.”

“You’re a pessimist. I’m a preparer.” Tiny globules of spit flew off his lower lip with every p. He got up off the liquor cases, his arthritic knee making a crunchy sound as it unbent. Jasper took the three letters but stopped before opening them. The bureau was uncharacteristically clean. Usually it was littered with bills, but now the brass receipt holder was empty, a lone spire in the middle of the desk.

“Uncle Fred, where are all the bills?”

The old man paused in the doorway. Without turning around, he said, “They’ve been paid.”

“With what? We already spent my last paycheck on groceries. We had at least four others I was going to try to get extensions on.”

“I had money put by.”

Jasper went to the kitchen, where a pail of trash was heavy with glass containers. He pulled out bottle after bottle before he spied the wadded-up bills buried beneath them. Fist full, he marched back to the front room, where his uncle was leaning against the wall, eyes closed.

“Uncle Fred, throwing them away won’t make them go away. We’ll get evicted. We’ve already lost credit at half a dozen stores.”

“I tell you, I’ve paid them!” The vehemence of his words made him cough and shudder, but Jasper didn’t stop.

“I don’t believe you. I know for a fact that your bank account was empty two weeks ago.”

“Now, son . . .”

“Don’t call me that!” Jasper snapped. “I got a better job, and most of it goes to you drinking all the hours away and squirreling away booze so you can sell it on the black market or just stay drunk. I can’t afford to have you get me arrested. You throw away unpaid bills like they’re cigarette butts, and you’re an embarrassment.”

“What about you? You’re no angel either.” He waggled his finger at Jasper. “Oh, I see you. So hell-bent on getting ahead, you’d step on anyone to do it. Even those pretty girls you’re so keen on. You can’t have everything you want!” His eyes were wide, and red crept into the edges of his eyes, whether from emotion or spirits, Jasper didn’t know. His hands were shaking, but this time it wasn’t from lack of drink.

Jasper could barely speak anymore. He thought of how much money he tried to save, and how it was always getting spent on rent and food. It was never enough. He’d never rise up higher in the medical examiner’s department without a proper degree and training. What was more, Fred had made it clear he didn’t want Jasper anywhere near Birdie and Allene.

When he was newly orphaned, his uncle had meant family and shelter. He had meant belonging somewhere when his friends would no longer have him. But now, his uncle’s feckless existence ate away at Jasper’s own future, like rain corroding a thinning iron roof.

He reached for the door and stuffed the letters in his pocket. “I’m going out for supper.” He slammed the door behind him, hoping it didn’t break like everything else in the apartment. The dishes were chipped, the bedspread had a worn hole, sweaters were moth eaten, buttons were missing from jackets. He remembered a time when his clothes were carefully pressed, his meals plated on Wedgwood china and water drunk from Hawkes crystal goblets. God, that was a thousand years ago.

The landlady would come out looking for the rent and find none, so he hurried down the stairwell as silently as possible to bypass her listening ear.

On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t. He stopped off at the first apartment nearest to the entrance and knocked. The landlady answered—a shrewd Polish lady with puckered, thin lips. Her blue eyes were bright and watchful. A few wisps of tired blonde hair had escaped the mercilessly tight bun on her head.

“Tak? What is it?”

“Can you give my uncle a message? I have to go to a friend’s house, and I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Dlaczego? Go to tell him yourself. I am not messenger! You haf good legs.”

“I’m in a big hurry. Prosz??” Jasper smiled. He knew very little of the language, but it worked magic on the lady of the house, particularly when they were late with the rent. When he had first moved in, Jasper earned pennies by running errands for her. He had a quick ear, and her Polish chatter stuck. She reached up to grab Jasper’s ear and lightly slap his cheek. She murmured something endearing and garbled in her mother tongue. It sounded like she was calling him a baby frog or some such.

“Dzi?kuj?,” he thanked her. For good measure, he added, “I’ll pay rent when I get next week’s paycheck. I promise.”

The landlady raised her hand and swept it through the air. “Your uncle paid. But bring next month early. Goot, goot!”

Wait a moment. He had paid? With what money? His uncle had some set by when they first began living together, before he’d lost his old job at the hospital. That cache of money was long since dry. Perhaps liquor prices were already going up, and Fred was making a profit on his kitchen experiments? Impossible. His uncle never left the apartment, not without the disastrous consequence of an incapacitating nervous fit. And they’d had no visitors. The landlady remarked on every person that came by—including that fateful day when Allene and Birdie had visited. Ach, ?adna dziewczyna i bogata pani, she’d said admiringly. Ah, the pretty girl and the rich lady. But all week and just now, she’d mentioned no visitors.

Jasper didn’t understand how Fred was paying, but he wasn’t ready to go back upstairs and unravel the truth. His temper still flared too hot.

He exited into the night air, hungry and exhausted, with guilt nipping at that soft area of his belly beneath his ribs. In his pocket were the three letters. He drew them out, feeling the crispness under his fingers and anticipating Allene’s wit and Birdie’s quiet, sweet reflections.

It had been weeks since Hazel Dreyer’s death. He’d managed to borrow Hazel’s small diary from the police, but the names of her clients were scribbled in code—G-S, S-R, P-A. No addresses, no angry cross outs or torn-out pages. Useless. Birdie had recalled that Hazel had never acted as if she’d had jealous lovers, never seemed to fear for her life. But one revelation was hard to unsee—Birdie’s and Holly’s lives were infinitely better now that Hazel was buried in the Evergreens.

He tucked the letters away, opting instead for the real thing.

Perhaps it was time for a visit.




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