Growing up, we called February 14 St. Valentine's Day. Three have their feast day on that date, the day they were martyred and all together there are around eleven saints with the name Valentine. Over the decades, however, it's become Valentine's Day and it's a much bigger holiday that the simple one that I recall from childhood. Back then, we had a party with cookies or cupcakes, maybe punch. We created a mailbox from a cigar box or other easily obtained box from around the house, covered it with white or red or pink construction paper and cut out a heart to paste on the front. Then we wrote our names on tiny little Valentines for all our classmates and in a wild frenzy, we darted around the room delivering them on that day.
I believe it was in the fifth grade, in Mrs. Berryman's class, I was elected and crowned "Valentine Princess" which meant I got to wear a cardboard crown and a red tissue paper cape. I also got to pick one fellow student as my slave for the duration of the day.
In 1971, just days after losing my grandfather, Pop (Thomas "Frenchy" Lllafet), my cousin Carolyn Ann had a baby girl. That brought joy to my life and for me, Connie will always be "the Valentine baby."
One of the mock ads I wrote during an interview for my first radio job was one hawking special products for Valentine's Day. Since the station hired me and ran the ad, I suppose I did a good job.
Since this year Valentine's Day falls on Monday, the preceding days have been dubbed "Valentine's Day weekend" so expect retail frenzy, a shortage of flowers (which I already hear is in effect thanks to Covid), and long lines at your favorite restaurants. It's also Super Bowl Sunday but since the Chiefs lost, my interest waned.
https://www.amazon.com/Cats-Patient-Heart-Sontheimer-Murphy-ebook/dp/B00HYDY7B4
At any rate, in addition to offering one of my titles, Cat's Patient Heart, FREE through February 16 as an ebook, I'm offering this little short story I wrote some time ago, one that was inspired by the legend that gangster Al Capone once frequented the Rockaway Beach area in Southwest Missouri.
Enjoy!
Lake Taneycomo,
Rockaway Beach, Missouri
1924
A
cool breeze rippled the surface of the lake as he walked across the dance
pavilion toward her, different and dangerous, a leopard among paint
ponies. His raw and masculine scent was
an intoxicating fragrance combining bay rum with bathtub gin. He wasn’t smiling but his grey eyes burned
with living fire igniting her senses into flame.
“You
wanna dance?” His voice sounded different too, rough and with an accent she’d
never heard before.
“I
do.” Her mouth was dry and she wondered if her speech sounded as odd to him as
his to her. “I want to dance with you.”
His
hands encircled her and drew her into his arms.
Graceful and light on his feet for a large man, he swirled her among the
dancers as if flying her to the moon.
Full bellied and round, the moon cast a silver light over Rockaway Beach
and painted the ordinary scene with magic.
Behind the pavilion, Lake Taneycomo stretched from the beach to the
wooded hillside opposite, a wide lake that resembled a fat river more than a
large body of water. Created by damming
the White River in 1913, the lake drew summer folk from faraway cities like
flies to a sorghum spill. Although it
was just May, vacationers were arriving in droves to swim, fish, and enjoy the
solitude. He must be one of them because
he was different and even the way he moved on the dance floor spoke of away, of
the land outside the Ozark hills.
“What’s
your name, beautiful?”
She
found her tongue to answer. “Genevieve Johnson.”
“It’s
a pretty name for a pretty lady.” His lips moved against her ear. “I’m Al Brown.”
His
name was common. She’d expected something grand, an exotic name that summoned
images of the stars or a foreign land.
With his white Fedora slanted to one side, his tailored grey pin stripe
suit and fine shoes, he must be from Kansas City
or maybe even St. Louis.
“Are
you from the City?” she asked, feeling shy and countrified.
He
laughed, a low bass rumble that reminded her of their tomcat when he
purred. “You might say that, doll – I’m
from Chicago.”
“Chicago?” That was where
Sears and Roebuck headquartered and the city that had burned to the ground in
the great Chicago fire started by a careless cow. “You’re all the way from Chicago?”
“Yeah,
doll face, I am.” Laughter thickened his voice.
“Is
this your first time here?” Genevieve leaned into him, drawn the way moths
failed to resist flame.
Putting
her head against his broad shoulder felt natural and he didn’t mind because he
touched his lips to the top of her head in a quick motion.
“Yeah,
I never been so far out in the sticks until now. I’m really from New York, though. I’ve been in Chicago for a few years, though,
and I’m in the used furniture business.”
His
hands were soft, not calloused like those of a man who did heavy work and
although he was built sturdy, he lacked muscles. Genevieve knew the look of a man who worked
hard with his body and Al Brown lacked it.
Intrigued rather than repulsed by what seemed to be a lie, she snuggled
closer and asked another question, “Where are you staying?”
“Hotel
Rockaway.” He named the biggest of the hotels along this arm of Lake Taneycomo.
Hotel Rockaway featured tall white
columns like a Southern plantation house. There were others, including Hotel
Taneycomo where she worked and a number of tourist camps, tiny resorts
scattered in the trees above the lake.
“What about you?”
She
shook her head. “I’m from around here, born and raised within five miles of the
place.”
Al
acted surprised, then intrigued. “You don’t say. Whatcha do for fun, honey, watch the grass
grow?”
“We
dance.” Genevieve said, prickling at the old joke. “And pick strawberries and
go boating and fishing and work like the dickens.”
“So
you’re a working Jane. What do you do
for a living?”
“I
work in the brown hotel, Hotel Taneycomo.
I clean the rooms, fetch for the guests, and meet the boat when it docks
from Branson. Don’t you like the
country, Al?”
“Hang
on.” The music ended, the piano and the drums fell silent so he led her
across the dance floor and
outside. Moonlight fell across the lake
waters and turned
them to silver. He took her hand and they walked down to the
shore, away from the crowds and the noise.
Near the dock, he grasped her and kissed her, his lips demanding and
urgent. Al was greedy and devoured her
mouth like some hungry man, eating pork cracklings on hog butchering day. No one had ever kissed her with such selfish
desire but it kindled her and she locked her arms around his neck.
“Oh,
baby.” He shook his head but his full lips curved into a smile. “Yeah, I like the country. The lake’s pretty and I like the trees. They grow on you, ha, ha. I never have been any place like this, where all
the roads are dirt and people are living like pioneers or something. It feels different here than in Brooklyn or Chicago, like a man could
be something else here if he wanted to be.”
Dizzy
from the kiss, she leaned toward him in the darkness. “Who would you like to be, Al?”
He
pulled a fat cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket and fired it with a
match. Her question had been teasing
but he pondered it, his face serious. “I’d like to be someone without
responsibilities, without a lot of razz-a-ma-tazz. I’d like to run a hotel or
something, stay here and spice up the night life, open up a club, swim in the lake,
and never worry about nothing more than what’s for supper.”
Dreaminess
gave his voice huskiness and she felt his emotion, sympathizing with it. Whoever he was, she doubted he was in the
furniture business. When her arms had
wrapped around him, she felt the strap of a shoulder holster beneath his suit
jacket.
Furniture men didn’t need to carry
a gun but Al Brown, whoever and whatever he was, did. Something she’d heard, a snatch of gossip or
a bit read in a discarded newspaper niggled at her brain. Al Brown, Al Brown, she thought, something
about it rang a distant bell. Still,
Genevieve liked him and wanted him to hang around.
“So,
stay.” The bold words burst from her mouth before she considered them.
Al
laughed. “I wish I could, cutie. I wish life was so simple.”
“Then
how long are you staying?”
He
shrugged. “I don’t know; I was in St.
Louis and heard about the place, came down on the
train to scope it out. You game to play
with me while I’m here?”
This
man was fire. The old adage, play with fire and get burned had been one of the
first things she learned as a child but Genevieve nodded. “I’m game, Mister Al Brown.”
“Then
let’s play, Miss Genevieve, let’s play”.
Genevieve
danced with him until the stars faded and the first light of dawn illuminated
the eastern skies. He walked her back to
the hotel where she worked, where she had room and board as well as pay and lingered.
His cigar glowed in the dark, a burning ember clutched in his fist.
“I
gotta go get some shut-eye,” he growled. “I’m not a day kind of guy,
sweetheart. But if you’re out tomorrow
night, look me up.”
“I
will,” Genevieve said, mesmerized by the stranger. She had to skedaddle though, a day’s work
waited and sometime she’d have to try to steal a nap so she could play with Al
Brown again.
At
dusk she headed for the dance pavilion, dressed up and with all the bravado she
could summon. It wasn’t until after
full dark fell she saw Al Brown again but he made for her the way a hungry
trout heads for fresh bait.
“You want to dance
some more or what? I’ve got good whiskey if you want a drink.” Al Brown held
out a flask and she took it.
The
flask he pulled out was silver and the bourbon Genevieve tasted was fine,
nothing like the rank, raw ‘shine her daddy made over Forsyth way.
“That’s
sweet.”
“And
you’re the cat’s pajamas, kiddo. Let’s go
dance. Do they do the Charleston here or do I need to teach you?”
Laughter
bubbled up like a rainy day spring.
“I
can do the Charleston
all night with you, Al.”
“Then
let’s go dance, my little bearcat.”
Sweet,
strong perfume wafted toward them in a cloud ahead of a woman who lurched on
high heels. Her hem was six inches
higher than Genevieve’s and her face, even in the moonlight, was painted.
“There
you are, Al! I been looking for
you. Who’s the dumb Dora? She looks like
a rag a muffin for sure.”
His
voice was a growl, an animal sound that contrasted with the easy way he’d
talked to her moments before.
“Scram.”
Genevieve
looked down at her plain blue dress, worn organdie she’d remade from one of her
aunt’s old dresses. The full skirt, the
long sleeves, and the high neckline contrasted against the flapper’s straight
dress that stopped at her knees. Embarrassment
flamed her cheeks and she would have fled into the night if Al hadn’t grabbed
her arm.
“Not
you, pretty girl. Let her take a powder
– I want you to stay.”
“But,
Al, she’s a flapper and I’m just a country girl at a dance. I’m not pretty – she is.”
He
was so close that she could smell the bourbon on his breath and the smoke from
his stogie floated into her face.
“You’re
beautiful, honey, with that hair streaming in the wind. Your dress is out of date but I’ll get you
some glad rags tomorrow and we’ll paint the town, what there is to paint. Come on, baby, let’s dance and forget the
dame. I don’t know her except she came
over on the boat from Branson, down on the train from Saint Louie same as me.”
“Hey!
You can’t talk about me like that!” Mouth pursed into a bow, the flapper from
far away stamped her foot. “What’s
eating you, Al?”
He
tossed the smoldering cigar down at his feet and ground it out. “You are - so get lost. Don’t make me tell you no more. Capiche?”
His
harsh tone persuaded her and she yielded. “I get ya, already. I’m going, I’m going.”
Genevieve
didn’t watch the flapper leave. She
couldn’t, her eyes stung with unshed tears.
She seldom dared to come down to the dance and it had taken every atom of stubborn
resolve to come. Until Al Brown
sauntered onto the floor like he owned the joint, no one but shy, simple Horace
Holden usually asked her to dance.
Around Rockaway, she wasn’t beautiful – she was the girl who worked at
the brown hotel, daughter of a moonshiner, a hillbilly, nothing much to look
at.
Hours of hand stitching to convert the dress
to something wearable seemed futile now and she turned her face away,
humiliated and ashamed of her tears.
Al’s
hands cupped her face. “Hey, what’s got you balled up? Don’t mind her – she was
just beating her gums. She’s green over you;
you’re an orchid and she’s a daisy.”
Tears
that had threatened erupted at his kind tone and she sobbed as she moved into
the shelter of his arms.
“Here,
now, honey, come to Al. Don’t cry now.”
He
patted her back with one big hand and the weight of it was comforting. Genevieve leaned against him and felt
safe. From one pocket he pulled out a
handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it.
Although he was clumsy, he cared
and that meant something. So did the
kisses he covered her face with and the way her body responded to the light
caresses.
“Thank
you.” She sniffed twice and scrubbed her face with both hands. “I didn’t mean to cry.”
“I
hate dames crying.” Al said, tucking the hanky back into his pocket. “You still wanna dance or you done for the
night?”
Her
legs ached, her heart was heavy and she had to be at the hotel by six in the
morning but she didn’t want to leave the dance or Al. “I want to dance.”
Dancing would take her mind off her troubles and if anyone wanted to stare, let
them. “Let’s dance.”
And
they did, first the Charleston,
then the Black Bottom, and last she waltzed in Al’s arms until the band stopped
playing for the night. By then the
kerosene lanterns had burned down until the wicks sputtered and no more than
three other couples lingered.
“It
must be midnight.” Genevieve said as they left the pavilion.
Al
checked his watch. “No, it’s almost one.
I’m beat. Want I should walk to
your hotel?”
That
wouldn’t do. The folks who owned the
place frowned on fraternizing with summer visitors and she wouldn’t risk it a
second time. “No, thank you. It’s not far.”
“I’ll
walk you home.” It wasn’t a question and
she gave in without any more protest because she enjoyed his company. “Thank
you, Al. That would be nice.”
He
snorted. “It ain’t for nice, girlie. I
like you and I want to see you again.
Meet you tomorrow?”
The
road to hell was sweet and paved with temptation but she felt her lips curl
into a smile. “Sure. I get off work
around six.”
His
arm around her shoulders was a pleasant weight as they walked up the narrow
lane. A fresh cigar glowed like a
devil’s eye in the darkness and she figured the strong aroma would cling to her
clothing like cockle burrs but Genevieve didn’t care. Too soon they reached the hotel. “This is
it. Good night, Al.”
“Hey.”
He growled the word and dropped the cigar to the ground. “A gentleman gives a
lady a good night kiss, don’t he?”
Somehow
she didn’t think he was a gentleman. Heat radiated the length of her spine as
she tilted her head back for the kiss.
If he’d been greedy before, he savored her mouth now with the slow,
deliberate appetite of a connoisseur. Al
awakened dormant passions within and she ached for more. Gentleman or not, though, he released her.
“Good
night, kid.”
“Bye.”
With one finger she traced the scar that marked his face from near his left ear
to the corner of his mouth. He flinched at
her touch and then relaxed, cupping his large hand over hers. And the scar reminded her of something. Al Brown.
Al Capone. Scarface. She knew who he was now, and although she
should, she didn’t care. She made no
move to go inside but stood facing him, their eyes locked. After a long pause, heady in its silence, he
spoke, “Genevieve, you move me, kid, down deep.
I want to drink you in like champagne and eat you up like I was
starving.”
“Then
drink me.” Reckless abandon did what lipstick, what paint and powder could not
– made her into a vamp. He circled her
with his arms, his Cupid’s bow mouth poised over hers.
“I
gotta tell you something first.” His voice was a growl, a low rumble that made
her think of thunder. “My name’s not Al Brown, its Alphonse Capone. Now you know who I am?”
“I
do but I already made the leap, Al. It
doesn’t matter to me. Here, you’re just
another stranger from the city. And I
like you. I like you a lot.”
He
laughed and the sound in the darkness echoed without amusement. “I wish
everyone felt that way, little doll. Too
many people in Chicago
know me and judge me but you don’t and maybe you won’t. Will you?”
His
eyes were like the lake waters, clear and almost placid but she could sense the
ripples that rocked his soul. Fear,
need, and longing warred in his grey eyes and mirrored her own. Although her throat was dry, she scraped the
words out,
“I
won’t judge you, Al.”
Intensity
flickered between them like heat lightning on a humid summer night, so strong
that she might have feared it in anyone else but she wasn’t afraid of him. His very difference, the ways he stood out as
a stranger in her world were intoxicating and she sensed he felt the same. Her thoughts fluttered and jumped like
grasshoppers in knee-high summer grass but when he touched her, everything
faded but the man and the night.
His
lips tasted both sweet and bitter as she gloried in the wild feel of his mouth
on hers. The kiss erased her sordid
reputation and negated anything he might be in Chicago.
She savored the pleasure with delight; there had been very little in her
life lately. In the honeysuckle scented darkness there was no Al Brown, no
furniture dealer, no Genevieve Johnson, no hotel maid, and no Alphonse Capone,
nothing but a man and woman who hungered and needed, two people who came
together in the way that a compass points true north.
What
would happen didn’t matter because they had this night and maybe more.
