Avon Calling Box Set Page 2

  Betty sighed. She picked up her Vogue and handbag and dropped them in the front basket of her bicycle. The back tray was already strapped with a crate of groceries. She rode home with a heavy heart. A woman’s work is never done.

  “How was your day, my darling?”

  “Well enough, jitterbug.” George stepped through the front door, passing his hat and coat to Betty, who hung them on the stand. He kissed her cheek and winked. “I sold four new trauma policies on my rounds, so that will keep us for a good while. Only the best for my baby-doll! I tell you Betty, this war is a blasted business, but it’s certainly good for insurance.”

  Betty beamed and took his arm, leading him into the lounge. “You really are the cleverest thing, darling,” she smiled at him adoringly. “My goodness you must be beat. Rest by the wireless for a bit, your pipe and slippers are waiting. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Betty called the children from their homework, humming to the music as she danced around the kitchen laying the table.

  “My, you’re a hep kitten, jitterbug,” said George, leaning against the door frame with a smile. “You’re as pretty today as the day I met you.”

  “Oh, shush,” Betty blushed. From the day her husband had stumbled, endearingly snow-blown and sniffling with the flu to the drugstore counter she tilled, Betty had never once pried into his thoughts.

  It delighted her. She didn’t need to. The man was an open book, uncomplicated and kind. His genuine and perfect mediocrity was the very thing that kept the fires of her heart burning for only him.

  “It’s just this new moisturizer I have,” Betty deflected. “It really is a miracle; all of the ladies love it. Actually,” Betty turned away, biting her lip, “I have to visit the Seymore girls tonight after dinner to help them with colors. They’re getting all dizzied up for the church social next week.” She turned back, pleased the lie was done with. Inwardly, she forgave herself for it.

  A small boy with nutmeg hair and freckles sat down at the table, stuffing a paper comic under his plate. He helped himself to the peas as his blue-eyed sister, six years older with her curls in ribbons, pulled up a chair beside him. Betty lay the pot roast in front her husband and handed him the carving knife.

  “George Junior? Nancy? Did you wash your hands and faces, dears?”

  “Yes, mom.” They replied in unison, accepting meat from their father.

  George Senior, turned back to his wife with a slight frown.

  “You’re going out after dark again?”

  “Yes, darling, but I won’t be long.”

  He chewed for a moment, then raised his fork mid-bite, considering. “You know, jitterbug, all this Avon business, it’s not necessary. I pay the bills -”

  “Oh, of course you do!” Betty supplicated, placing a hand on her husband’s elbow. “It’s not that at all! Goodness, no. It’s just that, now that Georgie has started school this year,” the youngest family member puffed his chest as they smiled proudly, “Well, I’m at a loss for things to do and you know how I love meeting my ladies. We girls will flap our lips at any excuse, and I just adore to make them feel a little ritzy. With so many boys drafted, they all work so hard to make do. I just - I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if you were called up, George. There’s talk of another lottery.” Betty blinked back tears.

  George nodded pitifully, patting her hand back. “Such a big heart, I understand, jitterbug.” He turned back to his dinner. “Just don’t overdo it. I don’t like to see you put yourself out.”

  “Yes, darling.”

  After the children were in bed and George was settled in his favorite armchair with a pipe and newspaper, Betty kissed him goodbye, picked up her oversized cosmetic bag and left the house. She rode her bicycle along the quiet streets of New York and crossed the train tracks toward a darker side of town.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Avon Calling!”

  There was a slight scuffle behind the door and the sound of men's voices. Above the voices, the sultry, fast swing of ‘All the Cats Join In’ rolled from the wireless. Betty smiled. It was one of her favorites.

  Four. Five. Six. “Get it Ricky,” instructed Johnny.

  Make Willy get it, came the reply, growled too quiet to hear. A snorting sound and a sniff.

  “Willy, get the damn door.” Just in case. Instinctively, Betty knew Johnny was pocketing his gun. She smiled. Seven. Eight. Nine.

  The door opened.

  Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

  “Yeah?” asked Willy. His face was scrunched in confusion as he looked at Betty, then past her to the dark street beyond the front steps, then back to her face. His fingers traced the cut edge of his oversized zoot jacket nervously. “What do you want?”

  “Avon Calling!”

  Betty stepped forward, past him into the doorway pulling him into the room with her and shutting the door behind them. She dropped her bag to the floor. Instantly, the game was clear.

  Piled high on the enameled metal bench, plastic wrapped powder and tiny white pills were being counted by Johnny. He froze mid-count at the sight of her, dropping a bag that split into a puff of white dust on the bench. Behind him, ten crates of amphetamines were piled against the kitchen wall. To her left, two other men were wide-legged on the couch, leaning forward to the coffee table, cutting rows of whiz with a playing card. They looked up, startled with red-rimmed eyes as she bent forward lifting her lemon-scalloped skirt high above her knee to reveal a row of shining knives in her garter.

  “Time to play, boys.” She smiled, cold and cruel.

  “What the hell?” Johnny rushed forward, his lip in a sneer and his right hand plunging into his pocket. Before the men could even blink, Betty pulled a six-inch blade and flicked it straight between one man’s eyes, thud, and he fell, dead, against the couch, still staring.

  Beside her, Willy lunged. With super-speed, Betty spun and leapt, cracking her knee against his jaw and sending a spray of teeth rattling to the floor. Snap! She brought the side of her flat hand against the back of his neck forcing him down, then kicked his backside hard, sending him sprawling forward into the closed door.

  Without missing a beat, Betty ducked, Bang! Bang! Bang! - missing the bullets Johnny aimed at the back of her head. So utterly predictable, she thought. The bullets splintered the wooden door as Crash! Her heel shot out and around behind her, dragging the dainty hall table from the wall, sending it skidding across the floor toward Johnny who was one second from pulling the trigger again. One second was far more than she needed. Johnny stumbled. He righted himself, kicking the table from his path as he thundered toward her. The second red-rimmed doper from the couch was scrambling to his feet. He lunged at her from the other direction, his face frozen in chaotic fear as if his mind and body were at odds with reality.

  Faster than thought, Betty stripped two more knives from her garter. She spun one in each hand and leapt for Johnny. She flicked the blades over her shoulders as her feet left the ground. They found their home in each of the junkie’s thighs. The stench of blood and urine filled the room though Betty knew only she could smell it. She wrinkled her nose in disgust mid-flight.

  Betty leapt into Johnny’s outstretched arm, grappling for his gun. He grabbed her long hair, ripping it backward with his free one and Betty pulled her knee to his groin, hard. He crumpled. She wrenched the gun from his hand and flung it across the bench. Her elbow smashed backwards, gouging his ribs. Johnny swore, punching out. Too slow. Betty swerved away, pivoting on her left foot, spinning low. The ball of her right foot met Johnny’s face, crack! and she round-housed again, slamming his chest, crack! He recoiled as she leapt high into the air, snapping her foot forward into his face. He fell to the checkerboard linoleum, chest heaving for oxygen. Carefully, Betty placed her heeled white gabardine across his pink neck.

  Why? Johnny’s mind begged of her.

  It was instantaneous. The pleading, the why? Why? Once upon a time, she’d asked the same question herself. Memories came rushing back
and bit her heart. Betty had been someone else then. A child. Torn by desperation for a picture-perfect life, a safe life, and the realization that there was no such thing. On the porch of her childhood home, she’d once held hands with her perfect life. He was two years older than her, fourteen, and his name was Jacob.

  “Why? Why does it always fall off the edge right before it stops, do you think?” she’d asked him. Her voice was innocent, her suburban accent broad. A brass spinning top was whirring between them following the grooves of the wooden planks. A faded blue bicycle leant against the side of the house with pink ribbons tied to the handles.

  “Dunno. Maybe the floor is lopsided.” Jacob expertly caught the top as it spun toward the edge of the porch and flicked it to life anew. “When are you coming back to school?”

  Susie looked down at her arm in a makeshift sling. “Maybe tomorrow. It was worth it though. Got Mom off the hook.”

  The boy scoffed. “Susie-pocket. Miniature defender of the Universe. You’re mighty brave for a girl, I’ll give you that. But you’ll never win against that bastard.”

  “I did win,” Susie retorted. “In a round-‘bout way.”

  “I should tell Pop what he did.”

  Susie’s eyed widened and darted to the open front door beyond the fly-screen. She grabbed his hand. “You can’t, Jake. They’d take Mom too. She needs me.”

  Jacob sniffed loudly and swatted a fly near his face with his free hand. “’Spose. For now.”

  A dusty black Cunningham spun into the driveway and both of them startled. Susie jerked her hand away as a man in a striped slate gray suit with clover leaf lapels approached. He was slick and neat, and Jacob looked surprised as he jumped to his feet. The brass top spun off the side of the porch to land in the dirt.

  “You don’t look like a fortune teller, boy, so keep your mitts to yourself,” the man growled.

  “We were just -” Susie began.

  “Did I ask you?” His eyes held a dangerous glint. He turned back to Jacob. “Got it?”

  The boy pulled himself as tall as he could before replying. “Yes, sir.”

  The man studied him. “A kike, hey?” The words were laced with provocation. “What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Lawrence. Jacob Lawrence.” Jacob took a deep breath and jutted his chin out a tiny bit. “And my Pop said to let him know if anyone rags on me like that. He says it ain’t American.”

  “Is that right?” Susie’s father stepped forward with a darkly amused smile. “Well you can run back to your daddy and tell him I’ll show him what a real American’s made of, if he don’t like it. And I’ll give you a lesson on your mug if you don’t watch your mouth.”

  Jacob shot a glance at Susie and her eyes flashed in silent warning. Despite it, Jacob stepped forward.

  “My Pop’s Chief Sergeant, sir. You sure you want to be sending him an autograph?”

  The man’s grin faded. “Get off my property, kid. You sound like you know enough of the law to figure I have every right to shoot you where you stand if you’re gonna threaten me.”

  Jacob swelled in silent victory. It wasn’t much, but he’d been waiting for the opportunity for months. Susie had never hidden the truth from him about where the bruises came from, but until now, Jacob had never had the displeasure of putting a face to the fist.

  “See ya, Suz” Jacob muttered. He turned and kicked a pebble down the driveway as he left.

  Susie quietly stepped back and picked up the brass spinning top from the dirt.

  “Don’t you move,” her father said, without turning his head. Susie froze. Waiting for it was punishment enough. Jacob turned the corner of the street and disappeared out of sight. Her father turned around, stepping onto the toes of her shoes. The coffee spot on his shirt seemed to swell. “If I ever see that boy here again, I’m gonna make him disappear like a fucking magic show. And you’ll get the front row seat. Do ya hear?”

  Susie nodded, her eyes filling. Her father leant back on his heels, releasing her and took the steps two at a time, snapping open the flyscreen door. Susie followed him, shrinking into her dress.

  “What the fuck, Ethyl?” he yelled, once inside.

  A young woman in a crumpled day dress appeared at the corner of the kitchen door. Her pale skin was ruined and her eyes dark and dulled with some unfathomable pain. In another life, she had been beautiful.

  “Roy?”

  “What the hell are you doing, letting her bring a kid like that here? You want Donny to find out, is that it? You wanna see me taken for a ride under the bridge? And Susie winds up in a stitch with that boy?”

  “No, I just- Of course not- I was just making them some cookies,” Ethyl said nervously. She pulled a mixing bowl from the cupboard, clearly confused. “I forgot to turn the oven on- she doesn’t have many friends - thought it might be nice…” Her voice wavered off pathetically as she found the flour canister.

  “Cookies?” Roy crossed the floor in two strides and hit the mixing bowl across the bench. It cracked against the tiles. “You weren’t even watching them. Off your face while a copper’s boy is sniffing around the house!” Roy knocked her violently, sending Ethyl sprawling to the ground in an explosion of flour.

  “They’re only babies, Roy -” Ethyl whimpered from the floor.

  “His old man’s a copper!” Roy yelled. “If he dropped a dime, I’m done for!”

  “He was nothing love. Just a kid -”

  Roy rounded on the woman, glowering over her. From behind the kitchen door, Susie fought with her resolve to step forward. Tears made streaks down her face where the dirt of the spinning top had been smeared.

  “You’re sentimental! Weak!” Roy ranted, pacing the kitchen. “A chippy, just like your old man said. I did right by you, Ethyl, knocked up like you were. I could have left you with it when he kicked you out. I never wanted a kid. But I didn’t because I’m a good man! I look after you Ethyl. And you repay me by bringing a copper’s boy to watch you dope up?” He slapped her hard across the face.

  “No! Pop, no!” Susie slid from behind the kitchen door and dashed over to her mother, cradling her hand in small ones. Track marks and bruises peppered the woman’s arm.

  “You keep out of this!” Roy roared at the girl.

  Tears welled in Ethyl’s eyes. “This life - I can’t do it any more, Roy. It hurts my heart. They’re in my head, the voices of the people Donny takes out. The ones you -” Ethyl looked away, too terrified to meet his eyes. “Every one of them. I feel it all too much, the lies and the shame. It’s breaking me-”

  “The shame?!” The words thundered from Roy and every glass shook as if it might shatter. “You’re ashamed of me now? You’re ashamed I have a job to do? I gave you everything!” He pushed past her, yanking a sideboard drawer open and drew out a small paper packet of heroin and threw it down at her. “I give you what you need! And you won’t get any of this if I’m in the cooler, you gowed-up bitch.”

  Ethyl picked up the packet. She clutched it to her chest. “It makes the voices go away.”

  “You just keep that door shut!”

  “I will, I will! I promise.”

  They all startled as another man appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was smartly dressed with a hat and trench coat over his suit. He surveyed the room warily.

  “Frankie.” Roy said, stepping away from his wife and daughter.

  “Donny’s waiting,” Frank said calmly.

  Roy grunted in acknowledgment and disappeared into his bedroom. Susie looked up at her uncle standing by the door.

  “You ‘right Ethyl?” Frank muttered. Susie’s mother looked up at him through bleary eyes.

  “I shouldn’t have - I made him angry. My fault.” she mumbled, wiping dry the dark rings under her eyes. Frank’s eyes swept the floor then caught Susie’s. She glared, silently daring him to say something, anything, to show he disapproved of his brother’s actions. Frank looked away.

  Roy returned, shrugging his jacket over his should
ers. Underneath, a pistol was strapped to his body. He took an overcoat and hat from the stand by the door.

  “Donny wants her tonight.” Frank said, nodding at Ethyl, still slumped on the floor. She flinched. “He’s got a deal with the Salleri boys going down,” Frank continued. “He needs her to be there - do her mind reading crap and tell him if they’re dirty. Can’t trust those goons.” He paused. “Better clean her up.” Roy looked at his wife and took a deep breath.

  “Get dressed,” he said.

  “Please, no Roy. Not tonight,” she implored.

  “You’ll make yourself up and you’ll get in that car. If Donny needs you, Donny needs you.” He pulled the packet of heroin from her fingers and threw it back into the sideboard drawer.

  Ethyl took a deep breath, tears slipping. Susie shot a dark look at her father, but helped her mother to her feet and into the bedroom to change.

  Hours passed as Susie sat alone in the house. She had never been scared to be alone, it was a reprieve she cherished. She read a book, finished the homework she had left over from the previous week, then made herself a meager dinner from the contents of the refrigerator. Old magazines of beautiful women, stylish clothes and bright cosmetics were dog-eared upon her bed. A perfect life, frozen under glossy smiles that seemed always pleased to see her. Each minute, though, she worried for her mother. Susie had witnessed Donny’s request many times when she was younger. Ethyl would be sitting in a smoky office somewhere, reading the minds of duplicitous men and secretly feeding their thoughts back to more corrupt and evil ones. Her payment was freedom, but not from her violent husband and his family. It was a fleeting freedom, carried on the wings of the heroin that muddied her blood and granted an escape from the overwhelming burden of the empathic super-senses that suffocated her every waking thought.

  Ethyl was dropped back just after midnight and Roy and Frankie took off again into the night to continue their negotiations. The lines on her mother’s face said it had been dark.