Dennis Lehane - The Given Day

“Well, look at himself,” she said with a broad smile. “Molly, this is Luther, the one I used to work with.”

Molly gave Luther a small wave and took a drag off her cigarette.

“How are you?” Nora asked.

“I’m fine, girl.” Luther felt desperate to apologize. “I couldn’t get here before now. I really couldn’t. The shifts, you know? They didn’t—”

“Luther.”

“And I didn’t know where you lived. And I—”

“Luther.” This time her hand found his arm. “Sure, it’s fine. I understand, I do.” She took the cigarette from Molly’s hand, a practiced gesture between friends, and took a quick drag before handing it back. “Would you walk me home, Mr. Laurence?”

Luther gave her a small bow. “Be my pleasure, Miss O’Shea.”

She didn’t live on the worst street in the city, but it was close. Her rooming house was on Green Street in the West End, just off Scollay Square, in a block of buildings that catered primarily to sailors, where rooms could often be rented by the half hour.

When they reached her building, she said, “Go ’round back. It’s a green door in the alley. I’ll meet you there.”

She went inside and Luther cut down the alley, all his wits about him, all senses turned up as high and awake as they got. Only four in the afternoon, but already Scollay Square was banging and bouncing, shouts echoing along the rooflines, a bottle breaking, a sudden burst of cackling followed by off-key piano playing. Luther reached the green door and she was waiting for him. He stepped in quickly, and she shut it behind him and he followed her back down the hallway to her room.

It must have been a closet once. Literally. The only thing that fit in it was a child’s bed and a table fit for holding a single potted plant. In place of a plant, she had an old kerosene lamp and she lit it before closing the door. She sat up at the head of the bed, and Luther took a seat at the foot. Her clothes were neatly folded and placed on the floor across from his feet and he had to be careful not to step on them.

“Ah now,” she said, raising her hands to the room as if to a mansion, “we’re in the lap of luxury, we are, Luther.”

Luther tried to smile, but he couldn’t. He’d grown up poor, but this? This was fucking grim. “I heard the factories never pay the women enough to support themselves.”

“No,” she said. “And they’ll be cutting our hours, we hear.”

“When?”

“Soon.” She shrugged.

“What’ll you do?”

She chewed a thumbnail and gave him another shrug, her eyes strangely gay, as if this was some lark she was trying out. “Don’t know.”

Luther looked around for a hot plate. “Where do you cook?”

She shook her head. “We gather at our landlady’s table every night — promptly, mind you — at five sharp. Usually it’s beets. Sometimes potatoes. Last Tuesday, we even had meat. I don’t know what kind of meat it ’twas exactly, but I assure you it was meat.”

Outside, someone screamed. Impossible to tell if it was from pain or enjoyment.

“I won’t allow this here,” Luther said.

“What?”

He said it again. “I won’t allow this. You and Clayton the only friends I made in this town. I won’t abide this.” He shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Luther, you can’t—”

“Know I killed a man?”

She stopped chewing her thumb and looked at him with big eyes.

“That’s what brought me here, missy-thing. Shot a man straight up through his head. Had to leave behind my wife and she’s pregnant with my child. So I’ve been doing some hard things, some hard time since I got here. And damned if anyone — you included — is gonna tell me what I can and can’t do. I can damn well get you some food. Put some meat back on you. That I can do.”

She stared at him. Outside, catcalls, the honking of horns.

She said, “‘Missy-thing’?” and the tears came with her laughter, and Luther hugged the first white woman he’d ever hugged in his life. She smelled white, he thought, starchy. He could feel her bones as she wept into his shirt, and he hated the Coughlins. Hated them outright. Hated them wholesale.

In early spring, Danny followed Nora home from work. He kept a city block behind her the whole way, and she never once looked back. He watched her enter a rooming house off Scollay Square, maybe the worst section of the city in which a woman could live. Also the cheapest.

He walked back toward the North End. It wasn’t his fault. If she ended up destitute and a ghost of herself, well, she shouldn’t have lied, should she?

Luther received a letter from Lila in March. It came in an eight-by-eleven envelope and there was another envelope, a small white one, that had already been opened, in there alongside a newspaper clipping.

Dear Luther,

Aunt Marta says babys in the belly turn a womans head upside down and make her see things and feel things that dont make a lick of sense. Still I have seen a man lately to many times to count. He has Satans smile and he drives a black Oakland 8. I have seen him outside the house and in town and twice outside the post office. That is why I will not write for a while for the last time I caught him trying to look at the letters in my hand. He has never said a word to me except hello and good morning but I think we know who he is Luther. I think it was him who left this newspaper article in the envelope at the door one day. The other article I clipped myself. You will know why. If you need to contact me please send mail to Aunt Martas house. My belly is huge and my feet ache all the time and climbing stairs is a chore but I am happy. Please be careful and safe.

Love,

Even as he felt dread at the rest of the letter and fear of the newspaper clippings, still folded, that he held in his hand, Luther stared at one word above all others — love .

He closed his eyes. Thank you, Lila. Thank you, Lord.

He unfolded the first clipping. A small article from the Tulsa Star:

Richard Poulson, a Negro bartender at the Club Almighty in Greenwood, was released from state custody when District Attorney Honus Stroudt refused to press charges in return for the Negro Poulson’s pleading guilty to illegal use of a firearm. The Negro Poulson was the sole survivor of Clarence Tell’s shooting rampage in the Club Almighty on the night of November 17 of last year. Slain in the shooting were Jackson Broscious and Munroe Dandiford, both Greenwood Negroes and reputed purveyors of narcotics and prostitution. Clarence Tell, also a Negro, was killed by the Negro Poulson after he received the Negro Tell’s fire. DA Stroudt said, “It is clear that the Negro Poulson fired in self-defense for fear of his life and nearly succumbed to wounds inflicted by the Negro Tell. The people are satisfied.” The Negro Poulson will serve three years’ probation for the weapons charge.

So Smoke was a free man. And a reasonably healthy one. Luther played it back in his head for the umpteenth time — Smoke lying in a growing pool of blood on the stage. His arm outstretched, the back of his head to Luther. Even now, knowing what he knew would come of it, he still doubted he could have pulled that trigger. Deacon Broscious was a different thing, a different circumstance — looking Luther in the eye, talking his bullshit talk. But could Luther have shot what he’d believed was a dying man in the back of the head? No. And yet he knew he probably should have. He turned over the envelope and saw his name and nothing else written across it in a male’s blocky handwriting. He opened the envelope and looked at the second clipping and decided to remove “probably” from his thoughts. Should have. Without question or regret.