Authors: Ann Tatlock
Tags: #FIC042030, #FIC042000, #FIC014000, #United States—History—1919–1933—Fiction, #Prohibition—Fiction, #Alcoholic beverage law violations—Fiction, #Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction, #Life change events—Fiction, #Ohio—Fiction
Sweet Mercy
© 2013 by Ann Tatlock
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6149-6
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Pitts. Cover illustration by William Graf
Author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
For my sisters,
Martha Shurts and Carol Hodies,
because you've been my best friends from the beginning
M
AY
1981
N
o one has been by this way for years, but as I step up to the porch of the old abandoned lodge I'm certain I hear music. Music and laughter. Footsteps and telephones ringing. And a thousand voices coming not from far away but from long ago, reaching me now the way the light of a burned-out star reaches Earth thousands of years after the star itself is gone.
I turn to Sean. He is gazing at me quizzically, head cocked, fingers kneading the flashlights he holds in each hand. He is eager to get inside.
“What's the matter, Grandma?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “I'm just listening.”
“To what?”
But of course he doesn't hear what I hear. He can't. He doesn't have the memories.
I turn the key in the lock and open the front door. It was
last closed in 1978 by Stuart Marryat, my first cousin once removed and the final owner of the Marryat Island Ballroom and Lodge. When I told him why I wanted to go back, Stu gave me the key and said I could go in and look around before the wrecker's ball did its work.
Not much has changed in fifty years. When I step into the spacious front hall and breathe deeply of the musty air, time snaps shut like a paper fan and I'm young again. Young and idealistic. And smug, though back then I didn't know it.
My grandson walks through the front hall, head bobbing like a pendulum, looking left and right. On the one side is the vast dining room, still furnished with tables and chairs and the large buffet table from which we served and refreshed drinks during meals. Across the hall is the sitting room, where guests reclined to read, converse, play cards or board games, or simply to rest. Straight ahead is the front desk, the mail slots, the rows of hooks that still hold an odd assortment of room keys.
“Wow,” Sean says. “Cool place. Why are they going to tear it down?”
“Too old to pass code,” I say.
“Too bad.” He shrugs.
“Yes, it is.”
“So how old were you when you lived here?”
“Well, I was seventeen when we moved here from Minnesota.” Seven years older than Sean is now. He probably thinks I was all grown up. I thought so too, at the time.
“So what are we looking for?”
“Something I left behind when I moved away. I'm pretty sure it got packed up with some of my other things and was stored away in the attic.”
“But what is it, Grandma?”
“A wooden box. My parents gave it to me for Christmas one year, when I was very young.”
“Just a box? After all these years, why do you want it now?”
I pause and smile. “I'm a sentimental old fool.”
He laughs lightly. “No you're not, Grandma.”
“Well, there's something in the box your grandfather gave me. I'd like to have it again.”
“All right. So how do you get to the attic?”
“Follow me.”
The attic is a large room with a low slanted ceiling and windows across the front and on both sides. With the electricity off in the lodge, the attic is dim and stuffy and smells heavily of must and of things that have been stored for decades. Sean and I go about unlocking and opening the windows to let in both sunlight and fresh air. Then we turn to the task at hand. We are surrounded by an eclectic collection of dusty furniture, old steamer trunks, floor lamps with tasseled shades, wooden crates, and cardboard boxes.
“Where do we start, Grandma?”
I turn on my flashlight; he follows suit. “Well,” I say, “we might as well start with these boxes right here.” I shine my light to indicate the pile.
Sean shrugs. “Okay.” He settles his flashlight on the seat of a ladder-back chair and pulls one of the boxes off the pile. He opens the flaps. “While we're looking through all this stuff, why don't you tell me about what happened here?” he says. “You know, the summer you moved in.”
I step to the box and move my flashlight beam over what's inside. “Do you really want to know?” I ask.
“Yeah. You've never told me the story, Grandma. Tell me now.”
I think about that a moment. I suppose it is time for him to know. “All right, let's see,” I say, searching for the place to begin. “You know we moved here in 1931, right?”
“Yeah. But that's about all I do know.”
I nod. He pulls another box off the pile. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Well, I'll tell you what, had I known what was waiting for me in Mercy, Ohio, I might not have been so eager to leave Minnesota. . . .”
H
ad I known what was waiting for me in Mercy, Ohio, I might not have been so eager to leave Minnesota. But of course I could never have imagined what lay ahead, so for weeks I happily anticipated the sight of St. Paul in the rearview mirror of Daddy's 1929 Ford sedan. It was May 30, 1931, when we finally packed up the car and made our great escape from the Saintly City, refuge of fugitives and gangsters.
Something else I didn't know then was that the furnished apartment we'd just vacated, #205 at the Edgecombe Court, would in two days' time be rented out to bank robber Frank “Jelly” Nash, lately of Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. He'd managed to escape the year before and had taken a circuitous route to Minnesota's notorious haven. Like most criminals, he knew that once he reached the state capital, it was “olly olly oxen free!” That's just the kind of town St. Paul was in those days.
The sun was starting its ascent over the eastern edge of the city as Daddy started the car and pulled away from the
curb. The morning offered enough light to showcase the wondrous array of spring blossoms that had unfolded like a miracle after another harsh winter.
In the passenger seat in front of me, Mother sighed. “We're leaving at the very best time of the year,” she said.
“It can't be helped,” Daddy replied. “At any rate,” he added, “there's spring in Ohio too.”
“Do you suppose they have lilacs there the way we do here?”
“Probably. If not, we'll have some imported.”
Mother laughed lightly at that before sighing again. Truth be told, Mother and Daddy weren't happy about leaving St. Paul. I was the only one among us who wanted to go.
I felt a quiet satisfaction as we drove down Lexington Avenue for the last time, winding our way through the otherwise fashionable streets of the city, filled with stately Victorian houses and luxury hotels, among them the Commodore where rich and famous luminaries like F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald had partied away much of the Roaring Twenties. It might have been a nice town, this midwestern metropolis nestled along the banks of the Mississippi River, had its wheels not been oiled by corruption.
We'd lived there seven years, having arrived in 1924 when Daddy got a job as a spot welder at the Ford Assembly Plant. Before that, we'd been living in Detroit, where I was born, and where Daddy also worked for Ford. But Mother and Daddy didn't like Detroit, and eventually Daddy applied for a transfer to Minnesota.
When we arrived in St. Paul, the city was already rife with criminals, and yet it was a surprisingly safe place to live. This was a result of the layover agreement established by former Police Chief John O'Connor. Gangsters, bootleggers, bank
robbers, money launderers, fugitivesâall were welcome as long as they followed the agreement's three simple rules.
First, upon arrival in St. Paul, they had to check in with “Dapper Dan” Hogan, owner of the Green Lantern speakeasy and supervisor of O'Connor's system. He was himself a hoodlum, a money launderer, and an expert organizer of crime who was known as the Irish Godfather.
Second, all incoming criminals were to make a donation to Dapper Dan, who distributed it among the lawmen with pockets open to payoffs: police detectives, aldermen, grand jury members, prosecutors, and judges.
Third, once settled in the life of St. Paul, these active felons had to swear never to commit a crime within the city limits. Bank robbers could rob banks, murderers could kill, and gangsters could blow each other to kingdom come without interference from the law, so long as they conducted their business elsewhere.
John O'Connor died the year we moved to Minnesota, but Hogan went on instituting the agreement until he himself was hurled into the hereafter by a car bomb in 1928. After that, without Hogan around to keep the peace, things started going downhill. Harry Sawyer, Dan Hogan's assistant as well as his probable assassin, took over both the Green Lantern and control of the O'Connor system. Sawyer wasn't nearly as interested in keeping the peace as he was in making money, and right after Hogan's death, crime spiked and crested in a five-year wave. Sawyer's friends from all over the country started rolling inâpublic enemies like John Dillinger, Alvin Karpis, and Fred and Doc Barker. When we left in 1931, the worst was yet to come, and yet I'd already seen one man gunned down in the streets. That one murder was enough
for me and the reason I was glad to see St. Paul in the rearview mirror.
Daddy sat behind the wheel, his face wan and pinched. Of the three of us, he was the one who wanted least of all to go back to his home state of Ohio. We were going only because we had no choice. A year and a half after the stock market collapse, more than a third of the country's Ford dealerships had closed, and men were being laid off in droves. Daddy's turn had come a few weeks back. The night Daddy told us the news was the first time I'd ever seen my father cry.
Mother and Daddy prayed to God for help, and God's unforeseen and somewhat bewildering answer came in the form of a call from Cyrus Marryat, Daddy's brother, the one who owned the Marryat Island Ballroom and Lodge. There were plenty of rooms and plenty of work at the lodge, Uncle Cy said. He even sent us the money to make the trip, which was quite remarkable, since Daddy and Uncle Cy hadn't seen each other since 1926 when we went to Ohio for Uncle Cy's wedding to Aunt Cora. Daddy and Uncle Cy had had a disagreement, but I never knew what it was about. It was a wonder Uncle Cy invited him back, since they'd never really gotten along since childhood. But blood was blood, and in desperate times, family took care of family no matter what.
As we headed east on Grand Avenue, Mother said, “Pull over onto Victoria one last time, will you, Drew?”
“Oh now, darlingâ”
“Please, Drew, for me.”
Sighing, Daddy turned left onto Victoria Avenue. In another moment, we approached a familiar house. “Stop just for a minute,” Mother said.
“Now Rose . . .”
“Please.”
Daddy reluctantly eased the car to a stop in front of the clapboard house where my sister lived with her husband and their two little girls. Mother pulled a handkerchief out of her pocketbook and brushed away tears. “Oh, Cassandra,” she moaned.
I moaned too and rolled my eyes.
Daddy patted Mother's arm. “She's a big girl. She'll be all right.”
“I can't help thinking she still needs me.”
“She's made her bed, Rose, and so far she's adjusted pretty well to lying in it. You worry too much.”
I knew Mother was thinking about all the years that had brought Cassandra to where she was now. All the tumultuous and heartbreaking years.
I crossed my arms and slunk down impatiently in the back seat. All I wanted was to be on our way.
Mother reached for the door handle, but Daddy stopped her. “We said good-bye last night, Rose. And anyway, they're probably still asleep.”
“I suppose you're right.” Mother dabbed at her eyes again.
“And just think, we'll be seeing them in a couple months,” Daddy reminded her. “August, they said. They'll take their vacation in August and come on down and see us.”
Mother turned to Daddy and tried to smile, but it was little more than a ripple of sorrow passing over her lips.
Daddy put the car in gear and we moved on down the road. Finally. I would miss my brother-in-law and two young nieces but, like Uncle Cy and Daddy, Cassandra and I didn't get along. She was the older sister I had never admired and
never wanted to be like. I was just as content to leave her behind with the criminals and gangsters in St. Paul.
The sun had fully risen by the time we reached the eastern edge of the city. An equal measure of anticipation rose in my heart.
Good-bye, St. Paul!
Good-bye and good riddance!
The town of Mercy lay ahead of us, the place I had loved as a child but hadn't visited in years.
“Daddy?” I asked.
“Yes, darling?” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His brown eyes looked weary, and his narrow handsome face was still without color.
“What did you and Uncle Cy fight about?”
His brows went up. “When?”
“The last time we were in Mercy. You know, when we went down for the wedding. Whatever it was, it's kept us from going back for five years.”
Daddy was quiet a moment. He looked at Mother, who shrugged. Then he gave another glance at me in the mirror. “Did we fight about something? I honestly can't remember.”
“Then why haven't we gone back? To visit in the summer like we did when I was little?”
Daddy sniffed and scratched at the cowlick on the crown of his head. His brown hair was thick and unruly. “That's a good question, Eve,” he said. “I'm not sure I have an answer.”
“I do think you argued about something.” Mother pulled one corner of her mouth back and shook her head. “Though for the life of me I can't remember what.”
“Well,” Daddy said, “it's water under the bridge. And you know what I always say, right?”
“Don't tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. First Peter 4:8. Right?”
“That's it.” Daddy nodded. “âFor love shall cover the multitude of sins.'”
“That's
charity
, Drew,” Mother said. “âFor charity shall cover the multitude of sins.'”
Daddy chuckled. “You correct me every time, Rose, but you know very well I say love because it made more sense to the girls when they were little. And anyway, charity, loveâsame thing pretty much, don't you think?”
“So, Daddy,” I interrupted, wanting to get us back on track, “whatever you and Uncle Cy fought about, we'll forgive him and love him anyway.”
Daddy hesitated just a moment before saying, “That's right, darling.”
“Well, that's easy,” I said. “It's easy to love Uncle Cy.” After all, he was my ticket out. He was my ticket to a new life. We were leaving the city of sin behind. No more bootleggers, brothel-keepers, gangsters, corrupt lawmen, kidnappers, or murderers. We were on our way to Marryat Island Ballroom and Lodge in Mercy, Ohio, on the Little Miami River. We were on our way to the Promised Land.
Daddy gave me one more glance in the rearview mirror before settling his eyes on the road for the long haul ahead. Mother wiped at tears one last time before resignedly stuffing her handkerchief back into her pocketbook. She turned her face to the window, her features delicate and gentle in profile, her soft brown hair pulled into its usual knot at the back of her head.
I too settled back for the ride. As the newly awakened Minnesota landscape rolled by, I noticed the morning edition of the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
on the seat beside me. Clear of the city limits and facing the long stretch of open road toward
Wisconsin, I picked up the paper to pass the time. When I saw an advertisement on page six for Wilson Tailors, I shook my head and clicked my tongue softly. Even the tailors were making money from the fallout of St. Paul's sleazy underworld. In bold type the proprietor, Mr. Edmund Wilson, boasted:
Bullet holes rewoven perfectly in damaged clothes.