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Red Roses for Mom

Lorrie Struiff

 

              Vivian May held the corner of her babushka over her nose to keep the bitter cold from stinging her throat.  Her shoulders hitched with sobs as she stood in the small hillside cemetery and the other hand gripped the firm arm of her son, Johnny.  She shivered as the mid-February storm blowing off Lake Michigan sliced into her bone marrow and iced the tears on her cheeks. 

           The service now over, she stooped and laid one red rose on the grave of her husband, Mike.  She let Johnny hurry her into the car that was parked among the other North Side mob members and friends.  Once in the car, she stared out the side window.  

           Behind the swaying pines, across the snow laden gravel road, four men were hunched against the wind, scarves wrapped around their faces.  She nudged Johnny. “Do you think those guys are Capone’s South Siders?”

             “Nah, I don’t think so. What would they be doing at Pa’s funeral?”

             Vivian had no answer, but a pang of uneasiness fluttered in her chest as Johnny drove the car away.             

            Johnny pulled the Landau to a stop near the front of her row house. “I’ll hunt for a parking space on the block and come inside for a few minutes, Ma, but I can’t stay long.   Grace has been up all night with the baby.  I told you, he’s got a bad cough and is running a temperature.” 

             She patted his arm. “Okay, Honey.”  Vivian got out of the car, then picked her way carefully up the slippery steps of the stoop and slammed the door.

           She leaned back against the wood.  “Oh, God, I hate this cold weather!” she yelled.  Her words echoed in the empty house.  She teetered forward and clutched a chair.  A sense of the devil dancing on Mike’s grave snaked upward from her stomach, coiled around her shattered heart, and squeezed until she panted for breath.   

             Her nostrils flared. A growl ripped from her throat.  She raised her eyes to the ceiling as if Mike stood above, looking down.  “Why’d you have to deliver that message to Aeillo for Bugs?  He should have sent someone else to meet with that union guy.  Then you wouldn’t have been standing on that street corner to catch them bullets with him.”  She raised a fist and shook it.  “If O’Banion was still alive, he’d of never sent you on such a fool’s errand. Over a month in the hospital, and you still left me.  I’m not going to let them have our son, too. You hear me, Mike?”             

         A sob rattled in her lungs. She flung her gloves onto the table. Numbed fingers quivered as she struck the wooden match.  The harsh pouf of igniting flame beneath the metal teapot promised a small measure of comfort.  Vivian toed off her galoshes, not caring that her shoes were still encased inside the rubber, and kicked them under the icebox.
           She shuffled onto the grate set into the kitchen floor and slid her feet into felt slippers. Warmth from the banked furnace feathered up her legs. She unbuttoned her wool coat and hurled it aside, accidentally bumping the vase of roses that her nephew Renny had sent to her two weeks ago.  The black petals fell and scattered over the white tablecloth like dried drops of blood.  She ran stubby fingers through her gray hair.             

            Vivian slumped in a chair near the heat flow and waited for Johnny.  Her vacant eyes watched the swirl of dust particles trapped in a ray of light from the window float around and around, and then fade into the gray pattern of the linoleum floor. 

            Fingertips tingling with cold, she reached under her widows’ dress and rolled garters and silk stockings down over plump thighs to form comfortable donuts around her ankles.

           A gush of frigid air as the front door opened sent another ripple of dread down her spine.

*      *     *

          One glance at Ma’s face and Johnny figured he was in for another “Walking into the Pit of Hell” lecture.  She’d been on her preaching fit long before Pa bought it.  

           “I parked the car down the street, Ma, in front of Mr. Leary’s ice truck.”  He wrinkled his nose.  The house reeked of cooked cabbage, tomato sauce, and tuna fish casserole--the condolence food offered by well-meaning neighbors.

         Ma brewed a pot of tea and set the cozy over the ceramic pot to keep it warm. “Light the heater in the fireplace, Honey.  I’m freezing my butt off.  I’ll shovel more coal later.”

          He draped his overcoat onto the arm of the living room sofa and stooped before the knob of the gas burner setting inside of the fireplace, struck the match, and adjusted the flame to high.  He straightened, catching a glimpse of his image in the mirror above the mantle. 

           His new Fedora angled at a slant over his jet-black hair.  He practiced a sneer and an icy blue-eyed, tough-guy look.  Smirking, he winked at his image.  “You are one smart mother and such a handsome devil to boot.”

           Ma carried a tray with teapot, thin slices of cake and set them on the coffee table.  “What‘s Grace doing for the wee one?”

          “Using those mustard plaster compresses on him.” 

            Here it comes, Johnny thought, as he watched her lips pull into a straight line and the way she was fussing with her hands.  He wondered how he could he convince Ma that he wasn’t stupid like Pa?  He had a safe job with the North Siders. 

          The fifty dollars a week he had earned before was real good, but now things were  even better. The boss boosted him to head mechanic and gave him a big raise.  Big job, no risk. 

           Ma’s lips started quivering. 

           I better beat it fast, he thought, before she starts her blubbering. “Wish I could stay, Ma.  I think I should go now to help Grace with the kids.  I should get Brownie from the neighbors, too.  I didn‘t want the dog to be a pest for Grace today, he’s always underfoot.” 

          “Please, I don’t want to be alone, stay a little bit longer.”  Ma plopped her girth on the sofa.  “Besides, it’s your birthday tomorrow, Valentine’s Day.  Maybe we can all spend the whole day together.”  She clasped her hands and stared at him as her eyes filled with tears. “Look. I’m begging you, Honey, quit the mob. Working for that crazy boss will bring us nothing but more grief.”

           Oh shit. She didn’t understand nothing.  He wished she’d quit pleading already.  He’d miss Pa, too, even though Pa treated him like he was still a green kid.  Well, he’d show them all a thing or two.  

          He squatted on his heels in front of Ma, next to the coffee table.  “Ma, you have to understand, I need the dough for my family.”  He twisted his lips in a grin, struggling to keep a conciliatory tone.  “Maybe you should think of moving to Florida, live with Aunt Bess and her doctor husband.  You’re forever bitching about the cold anyway, and I hear it’s always warm there.”  He tipped his head to the side, giving her the grin that always charmed her.  “Maybe Grace and I can buy this row house from you and move outta that cramped apartment.  With this raise, I can do real good for my kids.”

          “Yeah, you’ll be rolling in dough.  You sound just like your Pa.  You see what happened to him.”  Tears trickled down her cheeks and she raised both hands in the air.  “When I married your Pa, I just always wanted a regular, normal family, grandchildren.  Ones to have over and cook for every Sunday, have picnics together.  Go to church together.” 

          She wiggled to the end of the cushioned seat, reached and cupped his chin.  “Honey, find yourself a legitimate job.  Please.  I’m so sick and tired of worrying myself to death all the time.”  Her breath hitched, her eyes glistened with the tears. “I pray to God every night on my knees.  I haven’t slept for a long time now worrying about your Pa and you.  The nightmares are just terrible.  I don‘t want something bad to happen to you, too.”

          “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Ma.”  His voice rose.  “All I’m doing is fixing cars and trucks.  How many times I gotta tell you that?”  His stomach churned with frustration.  “You never even know what you’re talking about half the time.  Women don’t know nothing about the real world.”

          The slap cracked in his ears and burned his cheek.  Thrown off balance, he fell back and his butt hit the floor. Heat crept up his neck and spread into his face. “Damn it, Ma, why’d you do that?” 

          “Cause you’re the one that don’t know what he’s talking about.  You think I’m stupid?  Some kind of idiot?  I know the boss’s brewery is involved in all these so-called Beer Wars with the South Siders.  I hear on the radio all the time about the mob killings since that Volestead Act was passed.  And you work in the garage next door. It’s a dangerous place, a bad gang you’re mixed up with. Your Pa got killed, Mr. John May.  Shot.  Didn’t that teach you nothing?”

           Johnny scrambled to his feet, snatched his coat, and rammed his arms into the sleeves.  “Yeah, it taught me to look out for my own.  That’s having smarts.  Damn it, Ma, I’m twenty-eight years old.  When you gonna get off my back?”      

           He buttoned his coat and yanked on his gloves. His veins pulsed with heat.  “I can take care of myself.  I’m not going to do anything stupid like the ol’ man.  The Boss likes me, told me he thinks I’m as sharp as a switchblade.”  He curled his fingers into a fist and pounded the coffee table.  The cakes bounced and crumbled onto the maroon rug.  “ Stop trying to run my life already.”  He slammed the door behind him.

          The snow crunched beneath his feet, the wind circled his hat, trying to lift it from his head.   He tucked his chin down and headed to Pa’s gray Landau, now his he figured since Ma would never drive.  Shit.  She never gave him credit for having smarts either.  Never understood the workings of things in today’s world, never would.   

          His gut twisted, moisture hardened in the corners of his eyes.  “Damn it,” he muttered. 

          Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at Ma, he thought.  She’d gone through a lot.  Jeez, doesn’t she know I’ll miss him, too?  It’ll seem funny not having him around, teasing the kids and buying them those little gifts.  But, she shouldn’t have slapped me, neither.  And she doesn’t ever quit with her damn harping. Jobs are hard to come by, and I need the big bucks.             

            Schofield’s flower shop on the corner caught his attention.   He quirked an eyebrow as a flash of inspiration struck him.

            The customer bell tinkled above his head.

           Yeah.  Ma would get a dozen red roses later today with a heart shaped card.  Tomorrow he’d talk to her, make his peace and mention Aunt Bess again.  He picked up the pen from the counter, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote in the card.

You are still my best girl. 

Love, 

Johnny. 

          

           He hurried out, a smile curving the corners of his mouth.  He’d have a talk with the boss, make sure he treated Ma right.  Maybe Grace could invite her over tomorrow, and they’d spend the evening with her after his work. Yeah. He figured that tomorrow had to be better than today.

*     *     *

          Oh, sweet Mother of God, she hadn’t meant to slap him. If only he’d of stayed longer, maybe she could have talked some sense into him. 

          No. 

          He and Mike never listened to her  Even when she overheard Mike on the phone last month making arrangements with those bootleggers from Canada.  Some group called the Purple Gang. He was planning to get the boss a few truckloads of cheap Old Cabin Whiskey.  She had begged him to quit.  He ignored her and called Bugs to tell him the sale was all set up to take place.  She pleaded, told Mike he was too old for that side of the business anymore.  He swore at her and told her to shut up.  And God was warning her by giving her nightmares. She was so weary of the stress, the pressure was squeezing the life out of her.             

            Lord, maybe she should go live with Bess.  Her sister had invited her.  Bess even asked her son Renny, who stayed here because of his optical practice, to check up on her.  A nice, educated, mannerly boy, he only loafed with some of the mob guys once in a while just to act like a big-shot.  Renny had to know the harm that could come to her boy by working for them.

         That’s it!  Maybe Johnny would listen to his cousin.  He should be back in his office by now. 

        She heaved herself up and dailed Renny’s office. The phone rang three times before the receptionist answered. “Good afternoon, Dr. Reinhart Schwimmers office.  May I help you?”

          “Helen, it’s me, Vivian May.  If he’s not with a patient, can I talk to Renny, please?  It’s important. ”

           After she hung up, she whispered a prayer of thanks.  Renny said he would catch Johnny at the garage some time in the morning and talk to him.  And no matter this bitter winter weather, she promised God she would walk the few blocks to the Holy Name Church tomorrow, light candles for Mike, and get on her knees before the altar to pray for her son.

*      *     *

          Johnny bundled into his heaviest work coat, noting the time was seven a.m.  He whistled for Brownie, his brown and black German Shepard, leashed him, and took him to the Landau.  They would ride to the garage in style today.

            Thirty minutes later, he shifted to low and slowly followed the chain link fence along Clark Street.  He leaned forward and rubbed the fogged windshield to better see the entrance amidst the pelting sleet and the snow tearing horizontally across the road.  He spotted the open gate and then the S-M-C Cartage Co. sign bumping wildly against the building.

          He parked near the door and hustled Brownie inside where the half-ton Rugby truck waited to have the tires changed.  Pete and Frank’s dark heads were bent over the table in the corner, busy cleaning their Tommy guns,  called Chicago typewriters by the newspapers because they sprayed 800 rounds a minute. The brothers had wounded Machine Gun Jack McGurn who was standing in the telephone booth at the McCormick Hotel smoke shop a few months ago. 

           Grimacing, he remembered the brothers also ripped McGurn’s new car to shreds with the same guns just last month.

           Big Al and Mr. Heyer were in a heated discussion near the frosted window, and he wondered what was up.  Big Al must be waiting for the hooch for his Speakeasy over on Broadway.  He knew Mr. Heyer owned half of the Fairview Kennels dog-racing track with the boss and liked to serve hooch to the heavy betters.  Being the boss’s right-hand man, he also made all the big pay-offs to the politicians and cops.

          The new guy, Jimmy, saw him come in and sauntered over, slapping his hat against thighs that were as muscular as his shoulders. “Hey, Johnny, java’s fresh over there.  Grab a mug.  I’ll tie Brownie to the truck for you.  A couple loads of hooch should be getting here soon.”

          “Yeah, thanks. Think I will.”    

          Johnny hung his coat on the rack, rubbed his calloused hands together for warmth and hurried over to pour the hot coffee.  Changing all the tires would take hours, but the boss should be around pretty soon and he’d get his chance to talk to him.

        

          One tire replaced, Johnny wiped his hands on the grease rag.  His eyes strayed to the big-faced clock against the wall.  Nearly ten-thirty.  He stretched his lanky frame and went to get a second cup of coffee.

          He curled his lips into a surprised grin when Renny came through the door.  He thought Renny was dressed spiffy in the long overcoat, gray fedora, and a pink carnation in his lapel. The dapper silk scarf around his neck looked like expensive goods.  He bet his cousin’s two ex-wives were having trouble getting dough from him again.

          “Hey, Johnny,” Renny said and shook his hand.  “Just dropped by to wish you a happy birthday.  I remembered it was today.  Your ma….”

          Behind Renny, the door burst open.  Two uniformed cops and two plain-clothes detectives wearing long coats entered.  Renny half-turned and gaped at the cops. 

          Johnny laughed at the expression of horror on Renny’s face.  “Calm down, Cuz, this is a usual thing.  They like to pretend they’re doing their jobs. Mr. Heyer will pay them off and they’ll leave a lot richer than when they got here. Just play along.”

          The lead detective ordered them to raise their hands and line up to face the back wall.

          “Okay, okay, jeez you got us.” said Big Al and snickered. 

          Everyone went along with the usual game and lined up facing the wall.  Johnny waited for Mr. Heyer to make the deal and noticed the brothers smirking at each other.  Renny still looked a little pale, so to put him at ease, Johnny winked at him.

            The sudden burst of gunfire rocked Johnny.  He stared, confused at the blood staining the wall in front of him.  Then sharp pain buckled his knees.

           *      *      *

           Vivian clutched her coat tighter.  The icy wind whipped under the hem of her coat, wrapping it around her knees.  She struggled against the gale and walked the two blocks to the warmth of the church, intending to keep her word to God.

           The noon mass had already started when she slipped inside and found an empty pew.  Vivian joined in the prayers, the rituals, and followed along with Father Conner while reading her Missal.  She fingered her glass rosary beads as she waited in the long Communion line.  

          After Mass, the congregation filed out the door.  She walked quietly to the side rail, lit candles and knelt to pray her distress to the Virgin Mary, begging for her motherly intervention.  She laid her head in her hands; her knees throbbed from the hard marble.

           Vivian glanced at the clock in the nave; three o’clock and time to brave the cold walk home.  She blessed herself, bundled into her coat, and shoved out of the church door.     

          Bent into the wind, she walked to the corner of the flower shop.  The high-pitched voice of a boy clothed in a heavy coat, a wool scarf covering his head, and bare hands waved to passer-bys, yelling, “Extra.  Extra.  Read all ‘bout….” but his words were torn away by the wind.  Vivian fumbled in her purse for the pennies to buy the paper.  She tucked it under her arm and made her way home. 

        The slammed door shut the frigid cold out behind her. She unrolled the paper and flipped it on the kitchen table next to the vase of the red roses Johnny had sent her yesterday.  The heart-shaped card lay propped against the lead crystal.  She tore off her coat, already thinking of hot tea.  Steam from the kettle fogged the kitchen windows and awoke the scent of the full blooms.

          She poured the cup of tea and settled into the chair at the table to read the gossip tidbits.  Still folded in half, she glanced at the weather forecast on the bottom right corner of the Chicago Tribune.

                                         

February 14, 1929                                              

                                            

Worst storm in history strikes our area.

   Temperatures reaching eighteen

degrees for the past three days.  

               

             Casually, Vivian flipped the paper over. 

             Her chest hitched.  She tried to make sense of what she was reading.  The stark black letters blurred  Then the bold print focused and screamed into her head.  Hands palsied, the tea sloshed over the tablecloth. Sweat collected on her forehead and pooled under her arms.  Her heart pounded, the thumping echoed in her ears.   

          Vivian battled to regain control of her focus.  Her head pulsed so hard she thought it would explode.  She had to have read the words wrong.  She forced her eyes to see the print once more. 

             

 

    VALENTINE DAY MASSACRE AT NORTH CLARK STREET  

          Chicago gangsters graduated from murders to massacre

this morning

          Seven of the George (Bugs) Moran North Side gangsters

found slaughtered

               

The carnage at the S.M.C. Cartage Company proved too gruesome for onlookers.  The riddled bodies, almost cut in half from the hail of hundreds of .45 caliber Tommy gun bullets, lie in rivers of blood. 

Witnesses reported seeing two policemen, guns extended, exiting the garage in the process of arresting two men.  The police commissioner stated the fake arrest was a sham to mislead any observers.

Listed dead are, brothers, Peter and Frank Gusenberg, Albert R. Weinshak, Adam Heyer, James Clark, John May and Dr. Reinhart Schwimmer. 

George, ‘Bugs,’ Moran is not listed among the bodies.  

A German Shepard  tied to a truck remains the only living creature to escape the brutal slaying.              (Cont’d  pg. 2)   

 

  

 

         A scream built at the back of her throat and escaped in a hissing wail. Crushing pain stabbed her chest and jerked her to her feet.  She pressed one hand against her breastbone as if to stop the pain.  With the other, she grabbed the vase and wielded it at the wall. Shards of smashed crystal ricocheted and gouged deep into her cheeks.  Blood trickled down her chin and dripped onto the tablecloth, as dark red as the rose petals. She braced her arms on the table and struggled to breathe. Her vision dimmed.  She felt her body crumpling to the floor to lie among the scattered red roses.

 


 

 Lorrie Unites-Struiff lives near Pittsburgh, Pa.

She loves to write short stories that interest and entertain readers.

Her favorite genres are Memoir, Historical fiction, Horror, and light Fantasy humor.

She is the founder and leader of the Waterfront Writers Workshop and a member of Penn Writers of Pa.

Her other works appear in various publications.