2

2:

Ms. Carlyle is the woman who The Beast hired to head the speakeasy as well as run the cafe above. I begged for the cafe when mother passed, even though I was only 10, but he knew it would make me happier than anything in the world. His answer was obvious. In addition to his incessant need to keep me unhappy, he barked that I reminded him too much of my mother already so I wasn't even allowed to be seen in the building. Of course, this included the speakeasy underneath. A restriction he thinks bothers me, but the further away from the smell of that awful liquid the happier I am.

Ms. Gina Carlyle is an awful woman. Often just a female version of The Beast and another reason for me to stay away from that building altogether. Knowing she runs and pretends to care about my mother’s cafe stings worse than the old kick’n spit. Seeing her in that apron my mother made starts my teeth grinding. She’s much too fat for it anyway. It looks like someone wrapped a rubber band around a sausage link a few too many times, and her fat oozes over it so much the knot that keeps the apron in place gets lost in her back somewhere. She is fairly tall too, a rhino of a woman; the female beast. I hate her. Her name sounds like a young, unmarried beauty, but she’s an old, unmarried hag. Her name is as misleading as her fake personality and smile. Always that smile; a cruel, wicked smile that could frighten a hyena. It fools no one smart enough to tie their shoes, yet she parades around as if she embodies the virgin Mary herself. As wide as tall, with her long and coarse gray hair pulled tight into a bun, and that evil smile all wrapped up in my mother’s apron as if she were an unholy present.

She never really has reason to come to the house when The Beast isn’t home, but she always shows up anyway just to torment me.

‘Girl,’ she calls me. Sometimes it’s maggot, but I prefer girl.

‘Girl,’ she screams again, ’where are you?’

‘I’m mending in the sitting room. Is there something you need that you don’t already have?' I coldly reply. 'I doubt that highly so I'd appreciate it if you just left me be.’

‘Now don’t you start with me, you little maggot or I’ll sick your uncle on you. Give him another reason to toss you around.’

‘Maggot is not how you pronounce my name and I would prefer if you didn’t bring him into this.' I mean that much so I decide to change my tone, 'What can I assist you with Ms. Carlyle?’

‘That’s better you skinny runt, and I don’t gives a damn how you say your ugly Irish name,’ she smiles and glares at me as though she wishes she could attack me herself. Her speech is atrocious, but she’s smarter than she sounds and I shouldn’t really test her. I just continue to mend The Beast’s work pants in my hands. I won’t give her the satisfaction of looking up into her cold, black eyes, and we remain that way for a few moments.

‘I need flour. The cafe’s is almost out and it’s so old the weevils have taken over.’

‘There’s some in the pantry, but what do you need it for? All you make those poor customers are those stale sandwiches and that awful gumbo.’

‘Look here maggot, we happen to have some special customers a’here right now and they wants me to fry some chicken. I’m obliged to makes it fors’em so get off your ugly a*s and fetch me that flour!’ She began to pant from the small amount of movement she made and lung use from her volume. The fat of her upper arms jiggles uncontrollably as she points her stubby fingers at me.

‘What guests,’ I inquire, ignoring her rant.

‘Not like its anya business,’ she growls, ‘ but men from the city here to see the hooch. Mighty fine and well dressed men who might just buy a good amount and become regular customers or partners of sorts, ya’ hear? So fer the last time gets the damn flour you ugly bruised t**d!’

Her insults slide off me like butter does a baked potato, they always do. Plus, she was right. I probably do look like a bruised t**d; I smile to myself. She’s upsetting herself more than she is me, which means she’s nervous. They must really be important customers. I’m curious, so I lie.

‘It’s a bit buried at the moment, can I just bring it over in a few minutes when I find it?’ I smile and give my best dunce stare.

‘You know Scáth don’t like you in that building girl,’ she replies looking a bit suspicious.

‘Well,’ I counter, ‘if they really are that important they shouldn’t be waiting even now. I made banana bread this morning, you can take them that to start off.’ I see her think for a moment, I had sealed the deal and she’s convinced. She straightens my mother’s apron and her posture, then puts her fake country homemaker smile back on. This is her only reply and means she agrees. She turns around, walks into the kitchen and moments later I hear the screen door slam. I look out the window in time to see her waddle down the path towards the cafe, my bread in hand.

Our usual customers are local farmers and the frequent travelers who pass by. No one from the city comes out of their way to drive the 30 miles to Paradis for liquor, there are plenty of places closer and in the city itself. I wonder how they’d heard of us, or if they were just a traveler who had been a previous customer and decided to return; but again there are much closer places, many of them, and I don't think our whiskey is particularly special. Not like I would know, I've never had a drop in my life.

Then there is the large quantity part that intrigues me. We make our money by selling small quantities at high prices because the perk of being in the middle of nowhere is the monopoly. I don’t think we’ve ever sold more than a few crates or two at any one time. Partners? What would that mean for us, or for me?

All of this ran through my mind as I ran my fingers through my hair in front of the mirror. It’s cracked at the bottom from where he threw me into it one night. I feel the scar on the back of my head and sigh. Smoothing the wrinkles out of my old, green dress, I look over at the powder on the bureau and decide to use what’s left to try to cover the bruise on my cheek and jaw that’s beginning to form. Luckily, it was fresh and not too dark yet; luckily, he usually hits me in stomach and sides so the older and worse looking bruises are covered. Luckily.

Afterward, I glance one last time at myself in the mirror. I bathed this morning, so my wavy, red hair that hangs down my back is no longer greasy and has extra bounce. I scan my hair and my worn dress that’s too short now as I continue to grow taller. Lastly, I scan my eyes; pale and luminous green that match my dress. I think of my resemblance to my grandfather's country of Ireland and am glad I’m different from all the French Creole that surround me in Louisiana; I bet they could pronounce my name. I smile to my reflection and go down to the kitchen. After opening the pantry door, I see the flour in seconds. It’s at eye level next to the cornmeal.

‘Buried indeed,’ I think to myself. I smile again at my private joke and am out the door in seconds. I start down the path to The Four-Leaf Clover. When I walk around to the front entrance I see two very fancy Model T Fords. One, yellow and black and reminds me of a hornet, while the other is silver and blue. Both are the shiniest things I’ve ever seen and I wonder how they could have driven all the way out here without being covered in dust in the process. My curiosity escalates and now I’m almost nervous to go inside and find the men who match these automobiles. I’m not disappointed as I enter and see four men dressed better than anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on. Brightly colored suits, matching hats, and all with either bright gold or silver pocket watches tucked into their vests. I know instantly who they are. I never thought I would see members of the Matranga Crime Family with my own eyes… and I realize these mobsters are my unholy angels, here to help me escape from this hell. 

Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

The metaphors are great, rhino, present, sausage. I got a wonderful picture of Ms. Carlyle. But the Ms. makes me stumble. The term Ms. didn't come into being until the 1970's. Miss would be more in keeping. It also would provide even more contrast between the title and the reality of her awfulness.

[Trash Fairy]

Thank you! You are 100% accurate- I will remedy that =]

[Coyote Poetry]

This is a a amazing story. I like how you make each detail important. I like the discussion with Ms Carlyle. She is a pleasure lady. I like how she observed herself. She saw a opening for a escape with the crime family. I like stories with open endings. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote