Paris

—for Marion Austin
Crime Fiction by John Jeffire

Paris of the Midwest.  That’s what they called it.  The war was over, the soldiers all come home, packed theaters and new cars and smiling people everywhere you looked.  Woodward Avenue lit up mile after mile, the J.L. Hudson store a whole city block, as big as anything in New York or anywhere else.  So why not let everything sweep you up and expect a fairytale?  She had known Antonio from high school before the war started.  Not real close, just known him, seen him in the hallways and at basketball games and in choir class.  He was tall and dark eyed and sported a kind of confidence that made you want to be around him.  She had worked at Willow Run during the war, welding sheet metal onto the frames of bombers.  Just a bitty thing, they would say, no bigger than a minute, but she could work as hard as anyone and handle whatever they put in front of her.  A spitfire, they called her, a real spitfire.  But with the war over, it was time to live a dream.

                She was lonely.  It was hard working all day, then coming home to fix dinner for her parents and clean the house and do dishes.  She was not selfish—not at all—but she wanted some time to enjoy her life.  She wanted a life.  To do things and see things and be a part of things.  To go to the pictures and dance and eat out at restaurants every now and then and listen to a live big band orchestra.  So when she met Antonio—Tom—at the Grande Ballroom at a dance, so tall and graceful and smiling, she saw all of that as more than possible.

                He had been in the Army.  He volunteered in ’41 as soon as he was 18.  He was in a lot of battles, a lot of fighting, a hero who won all kinds of medals, but the most he would say about it was I don’t need to talk about it.  So they didn’t.  Ever.  As soon as he arrived home in Detroit, he gave up the name Antonio Carlini to become Tom Karl because, he said, he was American and didn’t want to sound like some greasy dago and he had killed enough of them in the war.  He was accepted into the police department right away—lots of soldiers were.  He could shoot a gun and he knew how to follow and give orders.  They married in September of ’46 at St. Josephat Church.  There was rice and a reception in the Knights of Columbus basement and a Ford with cans tied to the rear bumper and—well—what came later when they stopped in a motel in Erie, Pennsylvania.

                Maria was born and then Theodore.  Then the problems began.  The first time, they were eating breakfast and Tom, dressed in his ironed blue uniform, picked up the ketchup bottle.  He liked to shake the bottle first before he poured some on his eggs.  But one of the children—Maria—didn’t screw the lid back on tightly.  When Tom shook the bottle in his ritual way, the lid flew off and ketchup shot everywhere, spraying the comics section of the morning newspaper Maria was looking at.  Maria giggled, Theodore sat wet eyed in his high chair, and even she could not help but laugh.  Tom, however, gave her a look she had never seen before but would see often in her dreams for years to follow.  His dark eyes turned gray, his mouth turned down at the corners and froze, and his fist was across the table before she could stifle her laughter.  The blow knocked her backwards off her chair, and she lay dazed on the floor, looking up at the swirled plaster ceiling.  Tom’s face, that face she would never forget, then filled her field of vision, and then she heard his open hand strike the side of her face and felt her head swivel to the left, where a sideways Maria looked down at her from the table.

                “Don’t you ever, ever, laugh at me.  Smart-aleck bitch.”

                When she stood up, Maria was holding her hands out to her and Teddy was playing with his eggs.  Tom strapped on his pistol and walked out of their apartment without saying anything more.  She straightened herself and picked Maria up from her chair and held her.

                After he left, she cleaned the table and picked up the newspaper.  She could not tell her blood from the ketchup staining the comics.  When she went to the bathroom to clean herself, she noticed the trail of blood from her nose and how it had soiled her dress.  After she changed and Theodore was put down for his nap, she told Maria her father did not mean it and he did not hurt her, although the aching side of her face tightened with swelling.  The front of Maria’s dress was specked with drops of her blood.  Later that night, she had his dinner ready for him, a steak, his favorite, with linguine and marinara and pie for dessert.

***

                It would be a perfect night because she would make sure everything was perfect.  She stuffed the dough with mozzarella and Soppressata and sprinkled on the fresh garlic and oregano and basil, smiling the whole time.  It would be perfect.  The kids were put to bed early.  Tom and his pals from the precinct would play cards and drink and eat to their hearts’ content and she would be the perfect hostess for her husband.

                “Abrianna, hey, come on, the boys are thirsty.  Sbrigati!  Fai presto!”

                She set down a plate of capicola sandwiches, smiled broadly, and fetched two handfuls of beer bottles from the ice box.

                “Good gracious, Annie, this is a feast.”

                Dick Goodworth sat at the table with Tom and four other officers.  He was blond and thin with large ears and a bulging Adam’s apple, but he had a movie star smile and was well liked by everyone in the neighborhood.

                “Awwe, glad you like it.  How’re the rest of you boys doing?  Get you anything?”

                She dumped the contents of their ashtrays onto an empty plate and picked up the empties.  She did not look at Dick, but the compliment felt good and she could feel the flush filling her cheeks.

                “Hey, enough small talk.  We’re hungry.  These sandwiches ain’t gonna last long.  Go check the stromboli.”

                Tom did not look up from his cards.  She went to the kitchen and checked her cooking—just about ready.  When she closed the oven door and looked up, Tom was before her.

                “Where you been?”

                He was looking through her, his eyes a glassy gray.

                “Where I been?  Here, honey.  I just….”

                She was wiping her hands on her apron when the blow struck.  It was open-handed.  Sending a message but not necessarily meaning to damage her.

                “I’ll deal with you later.  Clean up your damn face.”

                He walked out of the kitchen.  She touched her cheek.  It would be perfect.  The night would be perfect.  She would be perfect.  At the sink, she ran ice cold water, wet a wash cloth, and set it against her cheek.  Perfect.  Everything perfect.  Her legs were weak, but she breathed deeply and set down the cloth.  She poured herself a glass of water.

She smiled. 

Perfect.

                She returned to the card game smiling, carrying a plate of piping stromboli.  She smiled, forgetting the sting in her cheek.  The men were smoking and laughing, obviously enjoying the beer.

                “More?  How on God’s earth can you be bringing us more food, Annie?”  Dick tossed his cards on the table and swigged his beer.

                “Hey, this guy’s not complaining,” laughed Joe LaRusso, picking off the first piece before she could place the plate on the table.

                “Awe, thanks, Joe.  I’ll bring fresh plates,” she smiled.

                “You need any help?” Dick asked.  “You been waiting on us all dang night.  Lemme help you.”

                “You turning Nancy on us, Dick?” one of the guys jibed.

                “No, no, sit, Dick, enjoy.  Who needs a fresh beer?”

                “We all do.  And the Seagram’s.  Bring the Seagram’s and the shot glasses.”

                “Annie, you’re the most.  Tommy-boy, you hit the jack pot with this doll.  Looks like Lana Turner and cooks like Joe’s Italian mama.  You by chance got a sister?”

                They laughed.  Dick grabbed her lightly around the waist and gave her a quick hug.  She looked immediately at Tom, whose gray eyes flashed in their direction.

                “You by chance got two sisters?” asked Joe, and the color returned to Tom’s eyes.

                “You guys are something.  Sorry, only one sister and she’s circled.”

                “Darn.  Well, in that case I’ll take another beer and some more stromboli.”

                Joe always made everyone laugh.  It hurt her cheek to smile, and once inside the kitchen the smile dropped.  Her heart raced.  Her breath was getting away, running somewhere.  Running somewhere safe.

***

                “Well, I hope somma you are in Fat City now, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t.”

                “Not me.  I’m down to nuggets.  Time for me to go, gents.  But it was a swell time.  Abrianna, you really outdid yourself with all the fine grub.”

                “Awwe, it was my pleasure.  Any time.”

                “How ‘bout tomorrow?”

                “How ‘bout we just don’t leave?  You got some couches here for us, right?  Get me a blanket and I’ll camp on the floor.”

                “C’mon, boys, let’s let these lovebirds alone.”

                It was around 2:30 in the morning, the men all in good spirits.  There were only a few beers left, the whiskey and food were gone, and the patrolmen were slowly, drunkenly putting on their coats and hats.  It was over.  She had done it.  Besides the incident in the kitchen, perfect.  She had gone to their room and applied make-up to her face to hide the redness and added some rough to her other cheek to even out her appearance.  Perfect.

                “And lissen up, boys, hear-tell the police are out at this time of morning looking for snockered drivers, so have them peepers peeled.”

                They all laughed as they shuffled to the door.  Each shook Tom’s hand, then gave her a friendly hug and peck on the cheek.  She stiffened when it is Dick Goodworth’s turn and looked down.  When the door closed she stepped quickly to the table to begin cleaning up.  If Tom were drunk enough, maybe he’d just go to bed.  If she could keep busy enough, maybe he’d just let go of whatever was rotting his insides.

                “So.”

                Tom stood before her, blocking her from reaching for the furthest plates on the table.  She would not look up.  No matter what, she did not want to look in his eyes.

                “So?  What do you mean, ‘so’?  C’mon, honey, I gotta get this place cleaned up.”

                “‘Honey.’  You talking to me?  Or you talking to your sweetheart Dickie boy?”

“Aw, Tom, I didn’t do nothing.  Tom, please….”

                “Please what?  Huh?  Don’t think I didn’t see what you were doing?”

                “Doing what?  I did good tonight.  The boys…”

                The hand was no longer open.  There were no more guests.  The fist was heavy.  She fell against the back of the couch, dropping the dishes she was carrying.

                “That help your memory?  Or you still got smog in the noggin?  Huh?”

                “Tom, stop, I don’t know what you’re….”

                “Oh come on, Annie, you think I’m stupid?  You think everybody here tonight didn’t see what the hell you were doing?”

                The second fist sent her to the ground. 

                “Tom, please, what are you…”

                “You all but nailed him right here on the goddamn table.  You wanna nail Dick Goodworth?  Huh?  You want his crank in your mouth, don’t you?  Huh?  That’s what you want?  You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

                The fists fell rapidly about her head and shoulders.  Blood.  More blood.  She kicked at him, crawling crablike to escape, knocking a lamp from an endtable.

                “My wife, il quartiere prostituta.  Eh?  Deny that?  Damn Italian bitch.  God, you make me sick.”

                He hovered over her, removing his belt from his pants.  She could no longer form words. Her screams were drowned by the blood pooling in her mouth.  She spat it out at him, speckling his trouser legs.  He panted as he brought the belt down on her.  Again.  Again.  Again.

                “Mama…”

                Both Maria and Theodore stood at the end of the hallway to the bedrooms looking on, Maria’s arms draped around her smaller brother.  Their parents froze, looking at their children, unable to speak.

***

                Darby’s on West Seven Mile near Wyoming was her favorite restaurant, known as “Detroit’s Finest Restaurant and Cocktail Lounge.”  It was nice.  As nice as it got.  One side had a deli with any meat you could think of and a bar and booths, but the other side, that’s where they were eating.  All the tables were spread with white cloths and adorned with cloth napkins beneath the chandeliers, and there were even those cushioned wrap-around booths like you saw the stars gathered at in magazines.  She knew Tom was taking her out and had taken the kids to her sister’s to sit, but he came home with fresh flowers and milk chocolate caramels from Sanders.  He slung his gun belt on his kitchen chair like he always did and tossed off his uniform in their bedroom, shaved again, changed into a suit, put on his cologne, and they were off.

                Tom whistled to Perry Como’s “No Other Love” on the radio as they drove, a slight smile on his face.  She looked in the passenger side rearview.  The scars from the belt buckle on her head, most of which were hidden in her scalp, had healed, and those that still showed on her face were easily covered with mascara.  He had taken her to Darby’s when they were courting, and she looked over and saw that man again, tall, powerful, confident, and kind.  In his heart, he was a good man.  Pressures sometimes got to him and made him act out, but he was deep down a good man with a good heart.

                At the restaurant, they were shown to their table and he pulled her chair out for her.  She looked around at all the well-dressed people, laughing, sipping drinks.  She was one of them.  She was a respectable lady out with a handsome man and everyone could see how happy they were.  The world was good.  It could be a fun place, a place to eat a good meal and laugh and dance and have cocktails and come home to smiling children and a warm kitchen.  The waiter in his white coat came up to them and took their drink orders.  Tom had his whiskey, and though she felt like just having a beer, she ordered a glass of wine.

                “Darling, I know…I know I been a louse at times.”

                “No….”

                “No, no, I got to say this.  I, I know it ain’t been easy for you.  Trust me, I know that.  Giving you the hard times and all.”

                “Tommy…”

                He took a long drink.

                “What I want to say is, is that I’m going to do better.  I promise.  Sometimes, sometimes things just get kind of mixed up in my mind, like I just don’t see things straight.  I know it, but I can’t stop thinking these mixed up thoughts sometimes.”

                “Tommy…”

                “No, I got to say these things. I know sometimes I ain’t right.  I…”

                “Darling, you gotta hard job.  Lots a stress.  I know you don’t mean things.”

                “It don’t matter whether I mean them.  It ain’t right.  I know it ain’t right.  It’s just, sometimes, I believe things.  It don’t matter what it is, how off it is, I believe it.  These crazy ideas get in my head and I can’t make ‘em go.  They just sit there and….”

                “Tommy, darling, you don’t gotta say nothing else.  Bringing me here, tonight, this says everything.  I’m gonna do a better job, too.  We’ll both do better.  We’ll be happy.  The kids’ll be happy, too.  Let’s just enjoy our dinner and our time together.”

                She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.  He smiled.  It was a good night.  The best night ever.  Like the old days.  If Tom could be this man, this same man, every night and every day, or at least most days, their life would be good, perfect even.

                “Baby, lemme say something.  I’m gonna give you everything.  Everything.  This place.  The Penobscot Building.  The Guardian, the Fisher, Book Tower, you name it.  Hell, the whole city, it all belongs to you from here on out.”

                Her heart filled.  Was it possible?  Yes, if they both worked at it.  Tom would know the thoughts in his head didn’t belong there.  He would chase them out, draw his gun and make them leave.  And she’d be more careful. About what she said.  What she didn’t say.  What she cooked and how she cleaned and how the kids behaved.  She didn’t need the city or anything in it, just her husband, the man she was sitting at the table with at this very minute.

                “Christ,” Tom said, finishing his whiskey.  “Detroit ain’t enough.  I’m giving you the world.  The whole world, Paris and every other city on earth.  It’ll all belong to you.  You’ll see.”

                Finally, finally, finally the world was good.

***

                It ended with the popsicle.  She got her son a popsicle.  He was playing with the other young boys in the building and one of the mothers got her son a popsicle but not the other boys.  Little Teddy wanted one, too, so Annie got him and the other boys one.  He was a little boy.  Little boys are messy.  It’s not the end of the world for a bit of popsicle to melt onto a shirt or get your hands and mouth sticky.  It wasn’t anything a wet washcloth couldn’t take care of.  How could anyone think it was a big deal?

                When Tom came home after his shift he was shaky and not walking straight.  He found  Teddy in the hallway with the other boys and dragged him by the arm into the apartment before closing the door.

                “Abrianna, get your ass over here. Now, get out here.”

                She was in the kitchen slicing vegetables for dinner.  Fresh tomato and onion and basil for Tom’s salad.  She made everything fresh for him.  No shortcuts.  Everything she did was to make it perfect for him.  The beatings had not left any scars since the card party.  Some bruises, but those healed and went away.  Life was good.  Mostly good.  Much of the time it was good.

                “What?  What’s wrong?”

                Tom stood before her, Teddy gripped by the arm, on his tip-toes, fear already flooding his eyes. 

                “‘What’s wrong?’  Brutta cagna italiana.  This, this is what’s wrong.  Look at this.  My son, sporco maialino.  Goddamned little pig.”

                Teddy had red popsicle on his lips and a bit on his hands, a drop or two on his t-shirt.

                “It can clean up.  I’ll just get a rag.”

                “You get a rag, bitch.  Bring me the rag.  Now, bring me the rag.”

                She ran to the kitchen and wet a rag.  She would clean Teddy up.  Wash his shirt under cold water and bleach it later.  He would be nice and clean for dinner.

                “Here, I’ll get him cleaned right up.”

                The back of Tom’s hand found her cheek so fast she could not flinch or raise a hand in defense.

                “You ain’t doing nothing.  You’re the reason this kid is a damn pig.  My son, a pig, a goddamned pig.  An embarrassment.  You really like embarrassing me, don’t you?  You’re gonna watch how you clean up a child.”

                Tom snatched the rag from his wife and began rubbing at his son’s face.  Teddy writhed, turning his head up and away and back down to escape the scrubbing.  The more he fought, the more his father asserted his physical strength until he had the boy on the ground, his knees pinning the child’s shoulders.  He was no longer trying to clean the boy’s face; Teddy’s skin was rubbed raw and beginning to bleed.

                “You stop it.  Stop it.  Tom, you’re hurting him.  What are you doing?”

                She grabbed her husband from behind and tried to pull him away but she was too small and he was far too large.  If she could divert his anger away from the boy, though, she could take whatever he needed to get out of his system.  He rose with her still gripping him around the neck.  He twisted his shoulders and flung her off his back onto the floor, then he kicked her in the side.  She slid back, scuttling across the floor, trying to regain her breath, her husband following, kicking her in the legs, stomach, and back.  When she was pressed against the wall, escape was impossible.  She raised her knees and began to kick at him, but he pushed her legs aside and his fists found the side of her head.  Anna was about to lose consciousness when she felt a warm weight across her chest.

                Maria draped herself across her mother, followed by Teddy.

                It stopped.  The apartment spun and listed and capsized over and over.  But the pain had stopped.  She could hear Tom talking.  She could hear Teddy whining slightly and smell the sweetness of his breath.  She loved the heaviness of her children’s bodies.

                “…hadda enough of your act.  Enough.  You’re lucky, Abrianna.  You hear me?  Lucky.  You don’t do shit, shit, and I drag your ass all over the place.  I pay for your roof, your bed, your food, and what do you do in return?  Huh?  I’ll tell you what.  Nothing.  Not a damn thing.  You embarrass me every damn chance you get.  You can’t even keep a damn kid clean.  You…”

                “It’s all right, momma.”

                Maria continued to shelter her mother, laying across her upper body, an arm cradling her head, a leg wrapped over her mother’s lower body, with Teddy clinging to them both.  Anna tried to make the room right itself.  She could feel blood dripping from her nose and maybe her eye.  She did not want the children to see this.  They didn’t need to know about adult things.  Maybe she wasn’t innocent, maybe she wasn’t a good wife, but Maria and Teddy didn’t do anything to anyone.  She needed to get them out.

                “That’s where you’re wrong, Maria.  I wish you knew the truth about your mother.  I really do….”

                “Momma’s okay, sweetie.”

                She clung tightly to her children.  He would have killed her if they hadn’t jumped in.  Whatever Tom had become, she believed he wouldn’t hurt his children.  She wanted to get up, but something told her she was safest with Maria and Teddy laying on top of her, which made her burn with guilt.  Her eyes gained focus.  Tom was pacing back and forth looking down at floor, mumbling to himself—no matter how bad he had been in the past, he never acted like this in front of the kids.  She needed the children to cling to her.  She gripped onto the backs of their shirts and held them closer.  All three were adrift in the sea holding onto one failing life jacket.

                “This is how it’s gonna be.  This is it.  The end.  I gotta sleep for an hour.  I gotta just sleep for one hour and then you’re done.  You hear me, bitch?  I’m tired and I gotta sleep.  As soon as I get up, though, you’re done.  Done.  No more.  Done.”

                “Tom, what are you saying?  Stop it.  Just stop it.”

“What am I saying?  What am I saying?  I’ll say it in Italian so you can understand, you greasy bitch.  Sei una donna morta.  Capire?  Huh?  You get that, greasy bitch?”

  “Tom, stop, you’re scaring the children.”

                “Yeah?  Well, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry kids.  I’m sorry you have a mother like this.  Look at you, laying on the floor like a pig.  You’re a pig.  A filthy, dirty pig.  And you’re turning two beautiful kids into pigs like you.”

                “Daddy, stop.”

                Maria’s voice broke the spell.  Tom stopped pacing, looked up at them, the gray mist slowing leaving his eyes.  He unstrapped his gun belt and hung it across his chair at the kitchen table. 

                “I gotta lay down.”

                He stepped past them and walked down the hall to their bedroom.

                “Oh, my babies.”

                She could not cry.  No matter what, she could not cry.  Maria and Teddy were afraid and she’d have to pull herself together to get them through this.  What to do?  What to do?  She had to get them out of the apartment.  They could go across the hall to Mrs. Tomajko’s place.  They would go there and lock the doors and use her phone.  She would call somebody.  Somebody would come and get them and they would never see Tom again.  He could take the apartment, the dishes, the refrigerator, the dresser drawers, all her jewelry.  She would take Maria and Teddy.

                “Momma, what was daddy saying?”

                “Nothing, baby.  He didn’t say nothing.  Daddy’s just sick.  We have to go get him help.  We need to leave right now, though.  We can’t stay here.”

                “Daddy’s sick?”

                “Yes, he’s sick.  But we’ll be okay.  We’ll get him help.  But we need to leave right now.”

                She loosened her grip.  She could feel her children’s heavy breaths moist against her chest.  She might still be bleeding but she didn’t know or care.  Pain gave way to panic—she had to get Maria and Teddy out of the apartment before Tom changed his mind about sleeping and decided to come back down the hall.  She had to get up.  She let go of the children’s shirts and tried to push off the floor to prop herself up.  She was weak.  Where did her strength go?  It didn’t matter.  They had to move and she had to lead the way out.

                “C’mon, kids, help momma up.”

                Maria got up first and then Teddy.  She was ten but almost as tall as her mother.  She held out her hands to Anna, who took them.  Her head swirling, she pulled and Maria pulled back until she was up on her feet.  The room tilted.  Her legs shuddered.  She could not fall.  Not now.  Maria took her under one arm and Teddy burrowed under the other.  She stepped.  She could not hear out of one ear and the building shifted hard in the opposite direction.  Maria pulled hard to right her but the three of them lurched into the dining room table.  The table scraped against the wooden floor—they could not make noise.  They could not stop.  Tom could not get up.

                “Almost to the door.  Keep moving.  Almost there.”

                She had no strength without her children guiding her.  Her steps were heavy and drunk and she continued to drift toward her good ear and then back again.  They reached the door and passed through into the dark hallway.

                “Teddy, close the door—quiet.  Real quiet.”

                When he let loose of her arm she tilted again but Maria was strong and caught her.  She heard the door close quietly—good boy, Teddy.  He returned and rooted under her arm and they continued the trek across the hall to Mrs. Tomajko’s.  She felt her face bulging, her nose, her lips, her left ear, and she could barely breathe without her stomach and ribs spiking in pain.

                “Knock on the door, baby.  Quiet though.”

                Maria rapped lightly on the door.  Mrs. Tomajko was always home.  She had to be home.  She lived alone with her dog Jigs and left only to take the dog out.  She could hear the dog’s nails clicking on the floor inside, then the lock clicking.

                “Abrianna?  Look at you.  Sweet Jesus, come in, come in.”

                Mrs. Tomajko took her arm from Teddy and she and Maria walked her in.

                “Mrs. Tomajko, we need to use your phone.  And please, lock your door.”

                “Abbie, of course, oh dear God.  The phone, here in the kitchen.  Good gracious, he’s done it again.  Let me clean you up and get some ice.”

                “The door, please lock the door.”

                “Yes, yes, children, please, sit down here.  I’ll help your mother.”

                “Kids, you stay here.  We’re safe now.   Momma’s gonna get us help.”

                She could now walk on her own.  The door would be locked, the kids were okay, she would get help.  Someone would come and get them and take them somewhere safe.  She lifted the receiver and dialed the numbers to the Third Precinct desk.

                “Third Precinct, Officer Goodworth here.”

                “Dick, is that you?”

                “Yes, Officer Goodworth here.”

                “Dick, it’s Anna, Anna Karl.”

                “Anna, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

                “I’m, I’m okay.  Its’ Tom.  He, he went crazy.  He said he’s going to kill me.”

                Seconds passed like minutes.

                “Is he there, Anna?  Can I talk to him?”

                “Ah, no, he’s back at our place, I’m at a neighbor’s.  Dick, he’s out of control, he’s scaring me and the kids.  He said he’s going to kill….”

                “Anna, Anna, listen to me.  You’re fine, Anna, trust me, Tom’s a good man, he won’t harm anyone.  If I can just talk to him…”

                “Dick, he punched me out.  I’m bleeding all over.  I think I lost a tooth.  The kids, they saw everything.  Dick, this is serious.”

                “Anna, I need you to calm down and listen to me.  Family business, especially police family business, it’s, it’s not something we get involved in.  I’m sorry, I really am, but you’ve got a personal family matter going on there.  But I tell you what, we can have someone stop out and talk to Tom.  Listen, just give him some time to cool off and I’ll come by myself as soon as I’m off and I’ll have a word with him.”

                Who was this talking to her with Dick Goodworth’s voice?  He was a man who ate sandwiches and played cards and drank beer at her table.  He said thank you.  He gave compliments.  He was appreciative and kind.  He acted so nice, so, so sensible.  He was not a man who would let a woman, a good who woman who had cooked for him and waited on him hand and foot, the mother of two sweet children, bleed and break and scar for no reason.

                “Dick…”

                “Anna, I know you and Tom have some troubles, and I know he can give you the roughness now and then, but he’s s a good man, a good cop, and we’ll get him on track.  I tell you what….”

                She felt the phone drop from her hands.

***

                A noise.  A loud noise.  An explosion.  The phone hit the floor and dangled from its cord.  What had he done?  What was the noise?  She could run now.  There was no pain, no blood, no anything.  Teddy was sitting on Mr. Tomajko’s living room couch with the little dog, Jigs, at his side.  Mrs. Tomajko entered from the kitchen holding a wet towel wrapped around ice.  Her mouth was open but she said nothing.  The door to Mrs. Tomajko’s was ajar.  She entered the hall and could see the door to their apartment, too, was slightly ajar.

                She ran to their door and pushed it open.  Her strength was back.  What had he done?  What had he done to Maria?  He could shoot her as soon as she came through the door but she had to know what he had done to their daughter.

                Inside, she turned the corner to walk down the bedroom hall.  Maria was sitting motionless on the floor, her legs splayed in front of her.  She looked up at her mother.

                Her father’s pistol was on the ground between her knees.

***

                Cars line the curbs on both sides of the street, but the man and boy use the cracked strip down the middle to toss a football back and forth.  They don’t speak.  They throw the ball.  The ball is a bit big for the boy’s hand and he must shot put it over to his father.  They smile.  When the father has the ball, he signals his son to go long.  He lofts the ball in the air, and sometimes the boy catches it.  This is their evening ritual.

“Dinner.  Inside, guys.”

                The man and boy complete one last throw and head indoors.  Their home is one of the row house colonials built for the tens of thousands of assembly line workers that made the city go.  The table is set with ham, kielbasa, pierogis, and sauerkraut.  Plates and silverware and glasses and paper napkins are all in their place.  The boy bounds up the front stairs and inside, his father right behind him.  The man’s wife greets him with a distracted kiss and gets milk and a beer from the fridge.

                “Wash your hands, Richie.  You don’t come to the table like that.”

                He runs off to the bathroom to scrub up.  The man sits down, his forehead dampened with sweat.  His wife pours his beer.

                “You’ll never guess who I saw at the A & P today.”

                The man takes a long drink.  He knows the answer.  A least once a month for the past year she raises this topic.  The grocery store, the post office, at a stop light, wherever, his wife made a point of mentioning this person’s every sighting.  Once, a while ago, he had said something about this person, something that didn’t mean anything, but his wife would never let him forget it, not now, not after what had happened.  He sets his glass on the table.

                “Who might that be?”

                “Miss Abrianna Karl.”

                “Yeah?  You say anything to her?”

                “Dick, you know damn well I won’t say one word to that woman.  You know me better than that.”

                He takes another drink of his beer.  The glass is nearly empty.

                “Richie, hurry up, dinner’s getting cold.  Anyways, she’s walking up and down the aisles like Miss Priss.  How she can even show that ugly scar-face in public is beyond me.  Murdering bitch.”

                He looks away.  She looks at her husband, waits, then takes his plate and fills it with careful portions.  She does the same for her son, and then fills her plate last.  The boy returns and takes his place at the table.  He lifts his fork to stab at his food.

                “Hey, hey, you put that down.  You know we say grace first in this house.  Go ahead, Richard.”

                The boy replaces his fork and bows his head.  The mother reaches and takes her husband by the hand and grasps her son’s hand with the other—the boy’s hand is still wet from washing it.  Her husband reaches across and take his son’s free hand and they form a ring.  Mother and father bow their heads.  The boy begins to pray.

---

Bio: John Jeffire was born in Detroit.  In 2005, his novel Motown Burning was named Grand Prize Winner in the Mount Arrowsmith Novel Competition and in 2007 it won a Gold Medal for Regional Fiction in the Independent Publishing Awards. Speaking of Motown Burning, former chair of the Pulitzer Jury Philip F. O’Connor said, “It works. I don’t often say that, but it has a drive and integrity that gives it credible life….I find a novel with heart.” In 2009, Andra Milacca included Motown Burning in her list of “Six Savory Novels Set in Detroit” along with works by Elmore Leonard, Joyce Carol Oates, and Jeffrey Eugenides.  His first book of poetry, Stone + Fist + Brick + Bone, was nominated for a Michigan Notable Book Award in 2009. His books can be found in our Bookstore. Former U.S. Poet Laureate Philip Levine called the book “a terrific one for our city.”His short story “Boss” appeared in Coolest American Stories 2022, which won the International Book Awards Prize for Fiction Anthologies.  In 2022, his novel River Rouge won the American Writing Awards for Legacy Fiction, while the manuscript for his novel Detroit South won the 2025 Claymore Award for Literary Fiction. Find his artwork HERE.

Cover Art: By Author

Read More Crime Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

Follow us On:

Looking for a book to read? Try our Bookstore, or True Crime Library