Father had money. We gave generously to the Police Auxiliary, Parents’ Association, and the church. Twice a month, eight men, most I recognized, would come to our cozy, single story, suburban home for drinks. They discussed art and smoked. Each man left with a painting under his arm. Jakob, the most wonderful father, was a slight man with the softest eyes and graying hair. He sat counting the money received that evening. $800 in cash was the fixed and fair price for each of his works of art.

Bobby Darin’s Mack the Knife pumped through the radio as I turned 17. As a present, I had bought myself two simple dresses, confident father would call them appropriate. He smiled in a way I’d never seen when I put on the first one. He said he’d forgotten to notice I had grown into a young lady. I saved them to wear when his clients came like the evening an unknown man arrived with a younger fellow.

“Thanks — Jakob?” the stranger asked as my father opened the door. “Joe Bach mentioned you’re selling works of art that are worth their price.” The man winked hugely. “Told me I’d be interested in your little laundry parties.” He patted his back pocket. “So here I am. And this here’s my boy.”

“Greetings! Our business grows by word of mouth. Joe is a valued client. Always good, bring family into the business early. This boy’s of drinking age, I assume? We don’t want the women of the Temperance Union as drop-in guests, and I’d have to offer them a donation!”

They all laughed at Father’s joke.

Then he reached behind and pulled my dress and me front and center to greet the two men. “My lovely daughter will serve us this evening.”

Luckily, I didn’t blush and, like a proper lady of the house, led them to their seats in the parlor. Most men were sitting, and the cigarette smoke was rising. I ducked out to get the liquor we served. Father instructed me that America’s whisky was just like money: both made the world go round. The bottle of America’s whisky read “bourbon.” I took practiced steps skirting the arrangement of easels to bring in the bottle and tiny glasses.

Mr. Bach’s friends, the father and son, both of carrot red hair, had matching cheeks soon after their first swallows.

Jakob announced: “The sale will start shortly. I want to assure you, gentlemen, that I have worked diligently and with a superb color palette to bring my newest watercolors. Fay will be bringing them out so that we can marvel at all their transient beauty.”

I usually ignored Father’s guests, just following his instructions with the drinks and his painting. And I had never been anything stunning to look at, so, guess that’s why Father never minded me hanging around — I didn’t detract from his art. But this carrot-topped son was staring at me like a rabid wolf, tongue extended, his left palm surreptitiously over his crotch.

The boy was ignorable, and, as Father had taught me, I proceeded. Unruffled, I brought out his works and set them on display, luxuriating in the feel of my dress rustling against my legs. The room was full of laughter. I understood liquor was the grease of business.

Everybody was drinking, and I was serving until that son tried pinching my pancake-flat rear and came up with two fingers full of my dress. It was a slow-motion scene, dress caught, my balance failing, all the open mouths, hands slapping up and down, as I stumbled to the kitchen.

And, as I turned, carrot top charged through the kitchen door and thrust the butt of his hand against the back of my shoulder. My stomach smacked against the counter’s edge, and then I felt pressure against my ribs. A sweaty hand covered my mouth and jerked my head. Mealy lips pushed into my neck as his other hand climbed along the side of my boney hip, taking my dress up with it. For a moment, I imagined it as some kind of vulgar mating dance. Then the kitchen door swung, and I heard my father’s leather soles followed by the cloddish steps of another.

“Let her go, or I’ll skin you alive!” my father boomed.

“I apologize for my son,” the older carrot top began. “He appreciates different kinds of art.”

I’d spun free and saw the man bring from his rear pocket a wad of cash. But in that exact moment, I saw my father, eyes on fire, grab a kitchen knife from the wall and thrust it into the gut of his son, who still held a corner of dress. Then, as blood silently seeped, he fell into his father’s arms, and my father pushed them out the back door with a decisive slam.

The boy’s blood left a sticky trail on the kitchen floor. I dropped to my knees and set to work with dish towels. My father was satisfied with the evening’s take and told me I’d done well.

“I’m proud of you, Fay. I lost my cool, but those two were good-for-nothings. Don’t let a man disrespect you, ever!”

Blood found its way under my nails and was drying to brown on my dress. My knees knocked, and father held my quaking frame, as my mind flew to his stories of a youth gang, gambling, and spilled blood. Father tried to catch my gaze, but my eyes were not focusing. I felt his strong arms wrap around me, his fingers kneading my back.

“You’ll fly, Fay. Don’t be scared. Soon, you’ll fly free of my life. Sleep tight, my princess.” My father patted his pocket of bills, I knew were destined for his gold-painted box. In the end, I threw that dress away.

When I awoke to a crisp winter day, the birds were silent, and the sun was sharp through the curtains. I heard Father in the kitchen.

As I entered, sleep in my eyes, the floor still looked red. I shook my head to clear the image, and as the kitchen linoleum focused, I stood pin-straight in my nightgown. From two pairs of shiny boots and up, I saw knife-pleated blue slacks. One had a stripe of gold buttons that strained against their buttonholes as they traveled up the policeman’s jacket. A badge was pinned prominently on his left breast pocket. I also noticed the matching gold chevrons stacked on his upper sleeve.

My eyes slowly took in the second man, slim hipped, a nervous knee shaking, a rookie uniform of Bakelite buttons and a badge.  His face was apologetic even as he held my father’s shoulder. Father’s thin chest stuck out as his hands were cuffed tight at his back. Gold Buttons rocked on his heels, and I noted they had allowed Father to put on his smartest traveling hat over his sparse hair.

Father spoke, “Fay, they’ve come for me, but you’re safe now. No slimy boy will ever touch my daughter!”

Gold Buttons turned his chin with ceremony, gripped father’s bent elbow, and chirped, “Time to go, Jakob. Now is well your moment. What? Has it already been fifteen years since some crook got away with a fortune?” The police officer patted just under his badge, and I looked.  His smile twisted as he caught my eye. Then he pronounced, “Jakob can try again with the judge, but I’m sure Judge Bergen shares my suspicions.” 

What did this shiny-badged police officer suspect? Father had taught me to maintain the utmost respect when dealing with the police. Better, Fay, they think you’re on their side, then they’ll respect you when doing their job. He had said that many times especially when I was little while he tucked me into bed. Gold Buttons’ sentiment that Father “can try again with the judge” and a missing fortune sure left me with questions. My father was always an honest man, a genuine artist, and a good guy. From school plays to Girl Scouts to those bully girls in school, he’d never failed to be there for me.

“Let me give my daughter a kiss before you take me away.”

Father leaned towards my ear, lips puckered; I felt their heat. “Remember: sell the paintings but just to customers we know, always the same price. That is their worth. But Fay, slow the sales down. Not more than four per party; then my finished paintings will last. Pay the bills. Do your homework. When I get home, everything will be fine. The police respect me. I can handle the slammer for a time.”

***

Milly, the diner’s waitress for twenty-five years, slid my order to rest like the pro she was, followed by a long spoon and straw that came out of her apron pocket. And, as usual, she leaned on the Formica table. Father instilled in me the importance of keeping a low profile, so I hadn’t been in the local diner for over two months. I’d learned the judge was holding him for another ninety days — ongoing investigation, finding bail or something. These were details I refused to contemplate. Today, I needed comfort food. Father was gone; the loneliness was biting.

“Root beer float, extra whipped cream, just what a young lady needs.”

Milly winked and waved with a flourish at her ice cream float creation. The soft whipped cream mountain peak stirred something deep in me. I was still in shock. The world had tipped sideways, and I stood alone and would have to hold down the fort.

As I lanced the whipped mountain with my straw, I bit my lip and screamed inside my head, Father! They took you away in handcuffs! I knew he’d be out soon. He’d promised, but the weeks were dragging, and I wanted him to be proud of me.

“Heard ’bout Jakob. That’s a damn shame, and you being so young.”

“Thanks, Milly, we’ll be fine. I am fine. He’s innocent.” I looked up an instant, searching for confirmation, but felt safer with my eyes on my float.

“It pains me,” Milly said. “I’ve heard the judge’s not gonna be so lenient, this time. Rumors . . .  all these years. Jeeze!  Not a soul’s ever found that stolen loo. . .” The last sound, a whispered T, died behind Milly’s teeth, and she was smiling an apology.

I had to gulp down my sudden tears and turn my face toward the sweet drink. Father had told me adventurous bedtime tales of bandits and robbers, his childhood heroes: Bonnie, Clyde, and the Barrow Brothers, names he intoned as if they were kings. Those were just old stories; this was different, wasn’t it? Millie was talking about my father, who rescued wayward bumble bees and lost dogs. Who tucked me in at night with a kiss and a ‘you can be anything you dream.’ The whipped cream was holding up nicely, even though I had taken fierce sips of the root beer that lay hidden. I wasn’t holding up as well.

Milly’s hand dug into my shoulder. “Oh honey, you’re so alone now. Your mother, God rest her soul, would have died of the shame if she wasn’t already dead. Never understood how she’d married that. . .man.  We all know your father’s a good guy, at heart! All his donations and community service – always supporting our boys in blue, and Lord, he raised you.” Her voice cracked high. “His beautiful, talented daughter.”

Milly was a talker. Now my brown bangs were hovering just above the whipped cream, and my eyes were flooding. I wanted to smile, show Milly how strong I was and that no one should worry. Into my float, I seethed: Father! Is there something you should have told me? But, I felt sure he didn’t have secrets. We were tight. And he was everything to me: my confidant, my cheerleader, my mother. I took a sweet sip, bringing the liquid and a chunk of ice cream through the straw. My back came up straight.

Right outside the diner window, some young men were hanging around. Milly flicked her hand to shoo them away, and they sauntered off but not before one rounded his lips to a pucker. His buddies stomped and clapped his back. I ducked my head, sure as heck not blushing; I was peeved. Such childish pests.

“Judge Bergen will see it as a simple accident, that boy had no right to touch you. Meanwhile, you have your father’s paintings to sell? And, darn sure, you’re an artistic talent too!”

My eyes were wide, her speech impressive, but the pit in my stomach sank. Father painted for love, not to impress. Still a curious thought snuck into my mind: Where did all the money we live on come from?

“Milly, Father’s a master artist. For me, it’s only a hobby. I am going to be a teacher someday.”

Milly stepped back from the table, hands on her hips like she was about to shimmy. “Well, you could do worse! Look at me!  That float’ll be on the house, Fay. My treat.”

I walked out the back, by the bathrooms to avoid those boys. The crisp air hit my face and I realized my eyes were wet, but why? I felt rage! Father had been behind bars for eight long weeks. I had sold his paintings, each work $800, and slower, not more than four at a time. All as he had instructed.  I paid the mortgage and other bills and hid the rest of the money in our gold-painted box, exactly as Father had told me to do.

Come what may in life, it had been just us for as far back as I could remember. Father never withheld his wisdom from me. One of his favorite sayings was that secrets are secrets because they are. Another was that a thing of beauty radiates   —  and often just because its beauty is temporary. I would roll my eyes and that always made him laugh. He’d call me his talented twig, ’cause I never seemed to have any meat on my bones. We had good times together.

I let loose a desperate whoop that echoed my angst and anger into the cold, naked trees lining the back alley and felt control seep into my bones. Step by step, I made my way home to a cold house.

I wanted to call out, ‘father!’ as I opened our door. Only the silence echoed. I couldn’t believe he was still gone. Our calendar, full of funny notes, Jewish holidays, and reminders, hung in front of my nose, but I’d memorized it: Two weeks from Thursday, my father’s clients would be coming again to buy his paintings. I wouldn’t disappoint; Father expected that much.

I flicked the switch in Father’s leather-bound study and approached the wall. There, I faced my new reality. Father’s paintings, inspired by rainbow pigments and shapes reminiscent of color master Josef Albers’, lay against each other, unremitting, vying for attention. However, focusing, my fingers feeling their canvas corners, I found only three. Three paintings remained! My hand hit the light switch and I closed the door to Father’s study as his voice reverberated in my head. Sell the paintings. I’ll be home; you can do it!  

The basement’s wooden stairs had never been my favorites. Father promised only right-minded monsters lived under them, but that had never helped, and so I hadn’t been down to the cellar in ages. He also kept his favorite painting there, leaning, unmolested by other canvases. That work and the woman’s eyes he’d painted were like the monsters’ tracking my movements. Now, creeping a stair at a time, I entered my father’s sanctum, hoping to grab more finished works and flee back up those stairs. 

The odors of linseed and creativity greeted me. Then, as my child’s mind feared, I came eye to eye with the stare of that woman Father had called, ‘Your Mother.’  Her dress, a wash of blues from turquoise sea foam to a royal night sky. Her background a play of beige and sand-colored squares reminiscent of our very kitchen. A horizontal brush stroke, black and harsh swept across half her body, and upon that black line, lay a play of pearly, gold-colored concentric squares. My father always said it was, ‘the family box.’

Shielding my eyes from what father called his masterpiece, I took a deep breath, and focused on the adjoining wall, aching to find anything I could sell. My fingers pressed against my eyebrow. There were no colors in front of me. Only virgin gouache canvases, five or more, leaning like stacks of father’s white undershirts, waiting their turn. And I would swear they goaded me, or perhaps it was his masterpiece, the glowing portrait of the mother I never knew, telling me it was my time to paint.

Father had given me a fat brush and a glass of water when I was still a young squirt. He made powders of yellow and blue and showed me how to drip a drop of water and make colored paint. I’ll never forget the fright and exhilaration as I pushed my wet brush, first blue and then yellow, into the paper and watched. It soaked up the pigment, like magic, then became the green of grass. By his side, Father and I painted together. He grinned with all his teeth at my Sky with Sun and Grass, my first masterpiece.

“Watercolors can be the tears of God or the cascades of Niagara,” he had said. “They are ethereal yet solid, melding then separate like sunlight through a prism. They hide in and from each other.” I would roll my eyes every time Father gave his watercolor speech, but I learned to paint well. So now, blank canvases waited for my brush.

Father’s clients were always happy. They drank, smoked, chatted, and took rolls of bills from their pockets. Everyone was chummy and surely had businesses in common. I never failed to make a cake and always wore my dress. The evenings ended with smiles all around, empty display easels, and my fist full of their money. It was a pleasant surprise that his clients appreciated my watercolor-washed landscapes as well as they had my father’s Albers-like creations.

Weeks slipped away, then a new decade arrived in January. Procedures, agents, bail and bonds, and words of black ink floated in my mind. And still Father had not come home. Thinking of him, I announced to his clients that the next sale would be in one month’s time, and the next month after that.  It was difficult to paint and keep up with my schoolwork. They understood and a month later, four clients, fedoras in hand, were at the door.  Always gentlemen, they were kind, paying the $800 without even a blink.

Once, Joe Bach asked with a joke on his lips, “Fay dear, I am sure yo’ father prepared all of these canvasses before he got sent down?”

I simply nodded, holding the evening’s take in the pocket of my dress.

“You’ve grown into a right young lady there.”

I felt my head bob again, not stopping to imagine what he’d meant.

One brilliant spring day, the gold-buttoned police sergeant, who had taken Father so away many months ago, paid me a kindly visit. A shiny, new Studebaker with two men had rolled to a stop in front of the house, and the sergeant’s hand stuck through an opening in the car’s rooftop and waved. It was obviously his private car. It took me a second to remember Father’s advice. I snapped to put the coffee on and took out a cake, ready to make a generous donation to our boys in blue.

“We admire your father’s work.” Gold Buttons said, waving to include the lanky chanceman at his side. “Always a decent community citizen. Even helped me catch a mob criminal back when we were both young men. I’ve just retired now. It’s a dirty shame his anger got the best of him protecting his little girl. And Jakob, such a talented artist.”

That made me duck my head, shielding my emotion filled eyes. I blurted, sudden nerves, “Yes, sir! My father always supported the law. He never raised a hand towards me, but I suppose all men have secret tempers. His paintings held his emotions.”

The young chanceman stood, face open and eyes gentle regarding. Then his smile broke, and I felt my cheeks redden. I licked my drying lips. Gold Buttons reproved him, snarling, “Don’t just stand there staring dumb, sit! Knowing when to be the guest is a skill.” Then in my direction, he said, “Miss Fay, your cake is so tasty, and your coffee divine. My wife could learn a few things from you. But actually, I am here on behalf of the Police Auxiliary. We are to have an auction, and your father was always so generous.”

My brow crinkled at his talk of Father in the past tense. I glanced to see the chanceman’s head cocked in sympathy, but instead saw Father’s mischievous smile turn to a frown. I shook my head, hoping to rein in my strangely pattering heart.

“My father’s paintings have all sold, but here, just a minute. . .” I sashayed back to Father’s study and returned holding aloft one of mine. A work of billowing clouds and light of shifting bluish hues. Its dimensions fit my inspiration, and I held it proudly for inspection. “It’s titled Clouds over the Hudson River. It would please Father and me that it be auctioned to support such a worthy cause.”

The chanceman’s attention had halted, eyes on my work. Gold Buttons looked critically over his coffee cup. Then, setting it down, he slapped his chanceman on the shoulder, causing him to choke on his bite of cake. Gold Buttons exclaimed, “Why, it is your creation little Fay! I say, good effort! Not your father’s, but just fine.” Then, extracting car keys from his pocket, waving them in the chanceman’s face, he demanded, “Jump up, will you, and take this work out to my car. Be careful!”

The sky had shifted, and a mist started to fall just as the chanceman’s long legs dashed. He laid my Clouds with care against the side of the car and fumbled with the keys. The trunk opened, and I could see his perplexed expression, his brilliant blue eyes flaring; grimaced, dimpled cheeks pulling as he slammed the trunk shut. Next, he opened the driver’s door and fiddled to lean the seat forward, but the mechanism wouldn’t budge. Turning my work this way and that, he tried to angle it into the back, but it was a losing proposition. He wiped water from his face, my painting balanced on the tops of his boots.

I saw him huff his shoulders against the start of a light rain. I held a warm hope he wouldn’t catch cold. 

Gold Buttons droned on. “It is lovely to not have the stress of working with rookies, you understand. On the other hand, all my duties and responsibilities with the Police Auxiliary are pressing. Take this young chanceman . . .”  

Yes! I could!  I was watching his chanceman as he turned from the car and scrunched his nose. My Clouds were looking damp. The rain picked up as his eyes widened. Did he see me watching? It made me grin; old Gold Buttons didn’t notice.

Exuding pomposity, he continued. “How long does it actually take someone to put a donation into a new car?” Crumbles of cake snuck around the sides of his mouth.

Out the window, the chanceman again caught my attention as he had walked around. He began yanking on the passenger front seat. It yielded and he slid my Clouds to the middle of the back seat. Shutting and locking the door, he stepped away with a smile of satisfaction and a little wave. It was then I saw the sky-top on the car’s roof had not been secured.

My chanceman ran back into the kitchen and shook like a dog. “A spring rain is on us, sir. Perhaps we should get to the station?”

Gold Buttons sat holding his second thick slice of cake. I watched out the window as he said, “Sit down, boy! Relax. It’s all about learning to work with the public. There is no rush now. We’ve our donation. Fay, dear, a touch more of your lovely coffee, please.”

I shrunk at his word ‘boy’; the chanceman was a man in my eyes, although the thought made my body twitch.

Thunder rumbled as I held the coffee pot. The rain pelted, and my eyes focused through the kitchen window and into their car. Water was funneling in through the sergeant’s sky roof and I saw my Clouds melting into their Hudson River. The coffee pot tilted, and the black liquid fell neat into Gold Buttons’ cup as my watercolors ran together, dissolving and mixing with the white gouache that had, itself, begun to rinse delicately away revealing a backing of crisp, green banknotes! My mind started clicking, memories and stories turned over at a furious speed.

“Fay, you’ve got to give this recipe to my wife. It’s delicious.”

I felt breath through my teeth as I heard myself say, “Of course, Captain, of course. Excuse me gentlemen, just a second.”

I walked out of the kitchen, leaving the door to swing closed.  I tip-toed, my heart was in my throat.  Like a mouse, I eased the basement door open and stepped into the dark.  First the chanceman’s sudden burst brought sadness, but Gold Buttons silly reply renewed my drive.

“Look sir, look! The painting!”

“By goodness, boy! It’s melting and look at that green showing.  Holy bejesus, it’s money. Get out there quick!”

I took silent, now surefooted steps down more stairs as Gold Button’s voice rocked through the house.  “Jakob, damn you. It was you, all along.”  The front door slammed, and I stood looking up at her face.  My mother stared down at me, her eyes narrowed. I wanted to ask her how I’d been so naïve. I wanted to understand, had she known who Jakob really was, the man we both loved. I let my fingertips brush that painted, floating box – so cold and empty.

The front door opened, and I could hear Gold Buttons commanding whisper.

“Now, Fay dear, it is best to come quietly. Come out, now.” 

© 2022 by Dena Linn. All rights reserved

Previously Published by Transcendent Authors