Gin and Toxic (Swan Song) (5 page)

I feel dizzy all of the sudden. Disoriented. Lost
. When I turn to face him I find myself looking into his eyes. Hard and intent.

“You m
oan like you sing.” he whispers. “Throaty. Rough. It’s beautiful.” He kisses my shoulder as he gently pulls my dress back up onto my body. “Everything about you is beautiful.”

I sit back to look at him as he continues to dress me. My bra is replaced, the other shoulder of my dress looped over my skin. I reach down and push him back into his pants, watching his eyes as I do it. We stare at each other as we dress one another, packing away what we’ve done here. What it meant. What it will mean to us in the future.

I worry about this. It doesn’t mean anything to me other than a release and I know if anyone can distance themselves from another person, it’s Tommy. But is he distancing himself from me or is this all laying groundwork for some huge misunderstanding that will leave us both angry and confused? Is it like the gang wars that wage around us, threatening to blow up in our faces every single day? Some days I think so. Some days I know it because I’m not an idiot. I know this will be a massive disaster and that I’m playing with fire in a TNT factory but I don’t stop and I try not to care because I’m hurting, I’m confused and I’m just plain tired. And lonely. That’s the worst of it, the loneliness. I haven’t felt it in years, not since my parents died and I ran away from Nothing, Nebraska to a city teeming with life and people and noise. I’ve outlasted it for so long but when I look in Tommy’s hard, empty eyes that are softening around the edges, I see it catching up with me. It’s then I know I can’t run forever.

Chapter Seven

Christmas comes and it’s just Rosaline and I in our tiny apartment with the saddest looking tree you’ve ever seen. We got it as a cast off from the club. It’s one of the 10 or so trees that were decorating the joint during the season but now that we’re closed for Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day, it was either heading for the trash heap out back or our apartment. Looking at its pathetic browning boughs, I think it might have looked better in the trash.

“Christmas trees are supposed to make you happy, right?” I ask Rosaline.

“Supposedly. Most of them just make me sad.”

“This one certainly does.”

“You know, not me.”

I glance over at her where she sits on the couch, her head tilted to the side examining it. “Really? You can look at this thing and not feel sad inside?”

“Yep. Because we saved it.”

I sit down beside her, tilting my head as well. “Did we?”

She nods. “From a fate worse than death. Can you imagine being a Christmas tree and spending Christmas day behind some trashy club in downtown Cicero?”

I look at her in mock surprise. “Are you calling the Cotton Club trashy?”

“You work there.” she says, grinning into her eggnog. “You know the score.”

I definitely do.

I turn back to the tree, looking at it in a new light. “I guess you’re right. It’s like we adopted it.”

“It’s going on the curb tomorrow morning.” she mutters.

I nod
, looking at its broken, battered branches and its fading color. At its promise and its shortcomings. At the beauty it still holds in its imperfections because even if it’s failing, it’s still trying.

“But tonight it’s one of us.”
I tell it softly.

We sit in silence for a while listening to Christmas music on the radio and sipping our eggnog. There’s no hooch in it, much to my dismay. The only thing we have in the apartment is whiskey, a bottle Rosaline got as a gift from the new bartender,
Reggie. He’s sweet on her with her long legs, chestnut curls and full lips but I think if he likes her so much he could have sprung for a bottle of vodka instead. As for me, I got a fat lot of nothing for Christmas. Not even a gift from Tommy which I’m actually thankful for. I’m going numb to that whole situation, just like I’m going to numb to just about everything lately. The laudanum is taking its toll and I’m grateful for these two days off work to avoid the spotlight and the club. I haven’t had a headache all day and without Tommy’s watchful eyes on me, I haven’t taken the laudanum either. It’s given me some clarity. Clarity that I wish I could avoid with some vodka in my nog because I’m seeing the Tommy situation for what it is and it ain’t good. We’re using each other, just as I never wanted to be used, but I’m too deep in it now to walk away cleanly. I know deep down it’s going to get worse before it gets better and I should probably do something about that, but I don’t know what so I try to ignore it. If you close your eyes and don’t look at that monster in your closet he’ll just go away, right?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

“What do you think Lucy is doing right now?” Rosaline asks wistfully.

“If she has any sense, she’s seeing the lights downtown. Maybe
catching a late show. Carriage ride through the park.” I reply immediately.

Rosaline chuckles. “I think that’s what you’d be doing.
You know what I think she’s doing?”

“Hm?”

“I think she’s sitting by a fire in that fella’s house, surrounded by his family full of sisters and mutt dogs and she’s holdin’ his hand with a big stupid grin on her face.”

“That’s sentimental of you.”

“No, it’s sentimental of Lucy. And I think come midnight when everyone else is asleep and there’s nothin’ but the light of the fire and the bulbs on the tree, that man is gonna pull out a small box that holds the ring his granddaddy gave his grandma and he’ll drop to one knee, tell her she’s swell and ask her marry him.”

I smile in the darkness at the picture Rosaline is painting.

“You know what I think?” I ask her softly.

“Hm?”

“I think I hope you’re right.”

Two days later I receive a package. It’s postmarked from New York so I know it has to be from Lucy. I’m thrilled she thought of me while she was visiting my dream city but when I tear it open I’m surprised.

“What is that?” Rosaline asks, looking over my shoulder.

I pull out a small cellophane bag of green and red candies I’ve never seen before. Beneath them in the box is a postcard with a likeness of the Harlem Cotton Club on it. I immediately flip it over and find writing on the back.

This cage could use a canary.

“That’s strange.” I mutter.

“Did Lucy write that?”

I shrug. “I guess so. It doesn’t seem like something she’d say though, does it?”

“No, but maybe her fella wrote it. The handwriting looks like a man’s. What’s in the bag?”

I put down the card carefully and open the bag of candy. Popping a red one in my mouth I offer the bag to Rosaline who takes a green. She immediately puckers her face.

“It’s sour.”
she says.

“Really?
Mine is…sweet.”

I
snatch up the card again, examining the handwriting. It’s not Lucy’s. It can’t be. I’ve seen her handwriting a hundred times on notes and letters. This is completely different than her tight, precise script. Bolder. Unapologetic.

“Do you even like sour things?” Rosaline asks, returning to her ironing in the living room.

I stay in the kitchen staring down at the card and clutching the bag of sweet and sour candies to my chest. I can feel the wild beat of my heart pounding against my knuckles, banging against my body and begging to come out.

“I do.” I mutter, a smile and a blush blossoming on my pale face like spring warming out winter. “I really do.”

Chapter Eight

New Year’s Eve. The entire club has been in a crazy uproar over the fact that Duke Ellington and his band are coming to our Cotton Club. How Tommy managed it is still a mystery but it’s one no one cares to solve, least of all me. Having the Duke at our club is so close to New York City I can almost taste the apple on my tongue. I haven’t been this excited since the day Ralph Capone wal
ked into that dive bar and asked me to come with him to his club. This is a night where things happen for me. I can feel it in the air like electricity in the clouds before a storm.

“You’re dolled up tonight.” Lucy says, smiling at my get up.

I’m wearing the black evening gown I wore for Halloween, the only one I can afford to actually own if the truth be told, and a small array of fake diamonds on a necklace and small earrings. My hair is down and long, a casual contrast against my elegant dress. It lays smoothed over my head, hanging close to one eye giving me a smoky, mysterious look.

“It’s a big night.” I say, clicking into the room from the bedroom.

We all still store our clothes in the bedroom but Rosaline and I have taken to pulling the mattress out into the living room and sleeping on the floor near Lucy. Neither of us is ready to sleep inside that room yet. Not since Alice.

I wipe my hands together briskly, trying to push away some of the sweat I feel building on them. I’m nervous about tonight and not just because of Duke Ellington and the chance to perform with him. Even just to meet him. I’m nervous because it’s the first time I’ll see Tommy for more than two seconds since the pre-C
hristmas incident, or complete and utter loss of my damn mind as I’ve come to think of it. I haven’t taken any laudanum since then either and while the headaches have crept back a couple times, I’d rather deal with the pain than the aftermath of poor decisions made in a drug fueled haze. No matter how phenomenal they were.

“What are you gonna do tonight?” I ask Lucy, noting her very casual dress.

“I’m going to a small party one of the other girls is throwing. Nothing huge. I’ll sing some songs, play some games, shout ‘Happy New Year!’ on the roof and head home.”

I smile. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Ha!” she laughs, not believing me. “It’s nothing compared to meeting Duke Ellington but I’m excited about it.”

“What is Rob doing?”

“Flying. Delivering mail. Righting wrongs. Saving the world.”

“One letter at a time?”

“How else is it to be done?”

Lucy did not return with the family heirloom diamond as we had expected but she did come back with a very clear picture of what Rob wanted. Her. He absolutely
, 100%, for all eternity wants her. He didn’t have a ring, his grandparents had been too poor to afford one and his mother was still using hers, but it’s in the works. Lucy is ‘engaged to be engaged’ as she put it and she couldn’t be happier. I and Rosaline, on the other hand, are starting to wonder where we are going to live in the next couple years. We are getting by without Alice, but without Lucy too? We’re sunk.

“Are they sending a car for you?” Lucy asks, grabbing her coat.

I frown. “No. I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“It’s not.”

It is. It’s very strange. Ralph never mentioned it, Tommy hasn’t had time to talk to me (thank God!) and no one else said a word about my coming to the club tonight. Considering one of my idols will be there, that’s all very strange.

Lucy and I walk down to the sidewalk together and say our goodbyes while we head our separate ways. I feel silly dressed up as I am and walking through the city streets but it’s late, nearly 10pm, and several people similarly dressed have spilled out of clubs out onto the sidewalks. I can hear music rolling out of open windows and doors, shouts of excitement and joy ringing out in the cold air and suddenly walking doesn’t seem so bad. At one point I even cross paths with a group of men and women stumbling down the street singing a popular song I do in the club almost every night. I join in as I pass them, receiving a round of applause and sloppy handshakes.

Then I’m home, at the door of the Cotton Club and I can hear the familiar music of Duke and his boys wafting through the walls. My pulse slams out of control. I feel lightheaded from excitement. The world takes on a razor sharp fineness to it, almost making it grainy, and I’m acutely aware of every detail in every brick in the walls. This is it. This is when my dreams and life collide. This is when I take that next step toward my ultimate goal, toward Harlem, toward New York, toward
the Big Time. My moment is finally now.

“Adrian.” Rick says when he sees me. He sounds surprised
. That should be my first clue. “What are you doin’ here, darlin’?”

I laugh, feeling light and giddy. “What do you think I’m doing here? I’m meeting Duke Ellington.”

Rick grimaces, looking over his shoulder toward the closed door of the club. “We’re all full up, Aid.”

“What?”

“We’re full. At capacity.”

“Since when?”

“It’s a busy night.” he mutters, not meeting my eyes.

I force another laugh, this one far less airy. “What? Is the Fire Marshal in there?”

“Probably.”

I feel myself begin to sink as though I’m falling into the pavement. As though the cement is
quicksand and the sidewalk is swallowing me up.

“You’re really not letting me in, are you, Rick?”

He finally looks at me and his eyes are pleading. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

I take a sharp breath and ask firmly, “Why not?”

He shakes his head, looking up the street. “Come on.”

“Who?” I ask sharply. “Who told you to keep me out?”

“He just doesn’t wanna lose you.” Rick whispers, turning back to me.

My blood is lava.

“Tommy.” I say with venom.

Rick nods. “Yeah. Tommy.”

“He doesn’t want me to meet him.” I say through clenched teeth.

“He doesn’t want to lose you to him. To New York. He knows you’re talented enough.” Rick says quietly, imploringly. “He loves you, Adrian.”

“No!” I scream. Heads turn toward Rick and I. I try to rein it in. My hands are shaking with rage, my face burning with blood risen in fury to the surface. “That man doesn’t love anyone or anything. He’s probably in there right now with a goddamn whore on his lap and he does this cause he
loves
me?!”

“Let me go get him. If you ju
st talk to—“

“
Don’t cause I’ll kill him. I’ll do it here and now on the street in front of God and everyone and the fucking Irish can throw me a fucking ticker tape parade for finally getting’ it done!”

I nearly run home. When I burst through the door to my dark, empty apartment I immediately strip off every article of clothing and jewelry on me. All of it gets tossed carelessly into a corner of the bedroom and I don’t care if it wrinkles, stains or burns. I don’t care about anything. Not about the club, New York, Tommy – none of it. I head for the kitchen, stark naked and thundering around in the dark, and reach for the cupboard that holds Rosaline’s Christmas gift. The bottle of damn whiskey. I start to pull out a glass but think better of it. Or maybe worse. Either way, I uncap the bottle and pour the vile liquid straight down my throat. I’d cut open my arms and drop it into my veins if I thought it’d bring about oblivion fast enough. After one long pull from the bottle I know I can’t handle anymore. Crazy angry or no, I hate the stuff too much so I cap it and toss it back in the cupboard.

I hear it knock against something making a crinkle sound and suddenly I remember the candies. The sweet and the sour. And the postcard. It’s in the living room tacked against the wall, writing side out. I take my candies and go to it now, pulling it gently down and running my fingers over the slightly raised writing. I trace them as though I’m writing them and I imagine watching him making these words. His long, sure fingers holding the pen and making the marks with a decisiveness most can only imagine. He’d have no doubts. There are no hesitations in the markings, no stops and goes. Nothing but fluid honesty.

I flick on the radio, leaving the volume low. Music is playing from somewhere but the where doesn’t really matter to me. Where is irrelevant now because I’m here and he’s somewhere
else but we’re not that far apart. He’s whiskey on my lips, candy on my tongue and he’s always on my mind. And this card tells me I’m on his. So sweet and so sour. So close but so far.

I’m still standing there naked in the dark when midnight rolls in. When the year turns over and the clock resets. When we can
start again, fresh and new, leaving the past behind us and saying goodnight to all the errors we made. To the fools we’ve been.