More bad slurs (they're much worse in this chapter) that do not reflect
the opinions of this author.. Just being safe with another disclaimer.
July 4, 1920
Emily Dawson skated around the corner and stopped at the library. Lately, she'd rekindled her interest in Tudor England and had this time remembered to return her book on time. She glanced at her watch. Almost noon. She'd left Sonny and Milton in charge of Joe's and thought of taking an hour or two to stroll and grab lunch someplace else. She was boss and Sonny and Milton were more friends than employees, therefore, they'd just have to suffer if she came back an hour later than she said she would.
She was thankful, too. Joe's was also close for three hours from eight to eleven so she and the boys could meet Calvert at the docks for the fireworks that night. And what a great Independence Day it was! Sunny and clear but not too hot for July. Perfect!
Emily ungracefully clunked her way up the cement stairs of the Central Building of the New York Public Library at the corner Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street in her roller skates, not bothering to take them off as she skated under the gigantic columns and one of the archways, even after she ahd entered the library. In fact, she pulled a pack of Lucky's from her pocket and noticed she had three left. Smiling, she pulled one out and, holding the cigarette between her fingers, she glided through the first floor, evoking some faces of shock and horror (and a few giggles) from the other patrons and librarians. When she arrived her destination she stopped and placed the book on Anne Boleyn in on Mrs. Dursley's desk.
Mrs. Dursley looked over her long, serious nose, through her glasses.
"Lookie, it's on time," Emily said childishly.
"There is no roller skating allowed in the library, Miss Dawson!"
"Gee, where's it written." Emily quite enjoyed torturing people. Mrs. Dursley was among her favorites.
Emily skated off as if the librarian no longer existed, eager to get outside in the sunshine. And upon exiting the building, whilst still under the archway, she lit up her cigarette and took a satisfying drag. To follow that, she tilted her head to stretch her arms in an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction with herself.
Unfortunately, Emily paid for that one. The wheels on her feet slid forward and out from under her and sent her toppling flying over the first flight of stairs.
Emily screamed and landed with great force into someone's arms. She stared up at her rescuer, as she stood diagonally and pin straight as he held her up. He examined the girl, shocked by the lucky catch. She was of small build, a wiry-looking girl, raven-haired with piercing blue eyes. Something about her was child-like, maybe it was the stripped cotton candy pink blouse, maybe it was the little bow that held up half her hair. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, she seemed both innocent and vicious.
Emily had rarely allowed anyone to rescue her so she herself took a good look. He was older than her but certainly not old, mid to late thirties perhaps, rather handsome and of solid build. He had dark hair and dark eyes. But remembering that this damsel in distress was Emily Dawson and not anyone else, it's no surprise that it was not the man's striking good looks or the rescue that might have inspired young Emily, but it was his hat. She liked his fedora. Emily loved fedoras and this one was particularly stylish.
"Are you alright?" he asked, still holding her as she was.
"I like your hat," she said stupidly, "Er, I mean, I'm fine...thank you."
He propped her back up on her feet and Em slipped again. And any random act of chivalry can certainly be followed by another. He caught her again.
"You know," he said, throughly amused, "these steps aren't the best place for roller skates." He laughed as he identified the cause of the mishap.
"Well, this city isn't the best place to be a single girl on her own, but I guess I just like to break all the rules...just a minute, I think I'll be good today. Best take these things off."
The man helped her sit down and took off her skates.
"You should be more careful," he said patronizingly. Em frowned a little but he seemed to mean well.
"Yes, but unfortunately I'm Emily instead." She stuck out her hand in her usual cocky manner and smiled her usual cocky smile that she knew was irresistible to anyone that didn't know her better. "Emily Dawson."
She flustered her rescuer who was embarrassed that he'd forgotten to introduce himself but he received her hand and shook it anyway.
"Excuse. I did not introduce myself sooner."
"Aint' no crime."
"Caledon Hockley."
"Sounds fancy, Mr. Hockley." Hockley...sounds familiar...
"Cal, please."
"Well, Cal," Emily popped to her feet before assistance could be offered, "you'll have to call me Emily then. Plain old 'Em' if you're feelin' lazy."
"Well, then. May I walk you home, Emily?"
"I'm not going home. I'm going to lunch."
"I can buy you lunch. It would be a nice treat after a nasty shock."
"Nasty shock? You obviously haven't been on my block." Emily said without thinking. She immediately felt embarrassed. "But I'll take you up on the lunch..." Handsome man in a fedora AND free lunch. This was a great day indeed.
Lunch had led to a leisurely stroll with Cal. But somewhere between friendly conversation (and admittedly a little flirting) something had gone terribly wrong. Her handsome rescuer had started by making some fleeting complaint about all the "Negroes and Italians" in the area. He wasn't fan. In his opinion, they were what were keeping mid-town "a slum." That, and those sneaky Irish; there were far too many of them taking jobs away from Americans.
"Honestly, how many of them are on that God forsaken island? They just keep coming. I can tell, I can't produce as much steel as they produce children!" He meant that as joke but Em didn't laugh.
"They produced me," she said bluntly.
Cal was caught completely off-guard. Emily continued to frown.
After that set-back things later developed, though I'm unsure how, into this:
"I run own my joint. I own it. You know that? So don't patronize me like a little girl. And I'm not. I'm twenty-one. Only a few of my friends are even white like me and we're all poor. Do you know what it's like to have people just be able to look at you to decide you don't bloody count but I can't exactly get rid of these and grow something else!" she hissed gesturing to her chest.
"I apologize, but my God you're vulgar!" Cal sneered. "Maybe the reason you're still stuck in Hell's Kitchen isn't because you're a woman. It's because you don't act with any decorum whatsoever. You're brash and rude and self-centered."
"Self-centered?! You don't even know me!" "I wasn't attacking you but you immediately thought it meant you and all that you stood for, didn't you?"
"You did, you creep. I am friends with people that aren't white. I'm Irish and I'm poor!" This was partly a lie, though Em was working class through and through, she'd managed to make a decent living for herself but refused to move out of Hell's Kitchen (much to George's chagrin.)
"Yes, but even with your pretty little face and your batting eyelashes, you're still the type that looks for a fight." He turned around walked away. And he never turned around.
Emily still waited, she knew she'd look like an idiot if she shouted at his back, but she needed her rebuttal. This wasn't fair!
True, he was a bastard. He was a stuck-up bastard and he should have never have gotten mixed-up (even just for lunch) with that kind. The rich guy she'd ever met that didn't think she was stealing or tried to use her was Calvert. And Calvert wasn't all that rich and he didn't exactly have blue blood running through his veins.
Emily decided she hated Cal Hockley and all of his kind, and would not go looking for him–even though he had her skates. She was angry about that especially but she decided to sacrifice them for the cause. What cause she didn't know.
She also decided his fedora wasn't all that great either.
Emily walked into Joe's in a sour mood. It was closed for the fireworks until eleven so only Sonny and Milton remained, cleaning and looking almost as sour as Em.
"Nice of you to show up," said Milton from the stool on the little stage as he cleaned the piano with a rag. Emily just grunted and decided not to notice that Milton was near unflappable and that he must be rather angry with her to throw out such a careless comment.
"You've been gone almost eight hours and you don't even say nothin'!" Sonny huffed.
"It's 'anything,'" she muttered.
"Oh, don't you start going on about my English. Who do think you are, Rose? You've gotten a mouth fouler than my john."
"Fine! You know, I pay you bastards. Don't give me any lip or I'll bloody yours!" she stormed behind the counter to get herself a drink.
"Sue us for worrying. We almost called Calvert." No one heard Milton. "When does Rose come back? I could use her right now." Still, he was ignored.
"What? Did Irving ditch you?" Sonny spat.
"That ain't your place. I stopped seeing him a month ago. Milton, you know. Tell him!"
"Now you know this ain't my little love triangle," Milton said, not looking up from his rag and the piano.
"Who were you with?" Sonny demanded.
"None of your business, Santino!"
Just then the bells on the door jingled and entered the last person (next to Sonny) that Emily wanted to talk to.
"What are you doin' here? How did you find me?" Emily put her hands on her hips.
"You forgot your skates," said Cal. "Thought you might want them."
"I'll take them, sir, girl may bite at the moment," Milton walked over and held out his hand.
"I'll take them, thanks," Sonny argued.
"Honestly, wouldn't recommend talkin' to the lady, but you can give them to old Sonny here," Milton conceded to Sonny. Milton never liked to get involved with anything confrontational.
Cal took a good look at the two dark young men. Dawson hadn't lied. He shoved the skates into Sonny's arms and walked to Emily behind the counter.
"Only us niggers, wops, and cunts in here. What's your interest?" Emily said quietly but clearly.
"I apologize for before. Please forgive me." It was his only stammering answer to the disgusting words that had just come out of the pretty young woman's pretty young mouth. She'd even called herself a cunt to make her point. Cal had what he publically called "reservations" about "certain peoples" and he did, like all of his stature, conform to the common opinions of the time. All of which put the people in the room, the girl in front of him, the black man and the Italian man, into categories below his own. For the first in time in a long time, Cal felt terribly uncomfortable about those thoughts.
Emily could just look at him. She had no retort, save for "why?" but that didn't sound very clever to her. So she said nothing. Cal also said nothing but continued to look on uncomfortably, mostly at Emily.
The door bells jingled again.
"We'll be late, you peop–am I interrupting something?" George had burst in.
Milton, who got antsy doing anything but playing his sax, looked as if he desperately wanted to be cleaning the bar. Sonny looked ready eat everyone in the bar in front of their mothers. Emily looked...odd. And the tall, dark man in the nice fedora and tailored suit looked quite out of place on this side of town.
"I was just leaving," said Cal.
"Hello there, do I know you by any chance?" George squinted.
"I don't believe so," Cal sighed, trying to get his wits about him. There was a comfort in the way the big brown-haired man carried himself. He had a way about him that suggested he had not been raised like the other three. A cleaner accent, better English, like he had gone to college.
"George Calvert. Lieutenant Calvert with the police. These are my good friends in here." George didn't mean for the police title to sound so emphasized but he figured his mere presence comforted the stranger. He hadn't decided whether he liked him or not but George knew the man in the fedora could smell his money.
"Caledon Hockley." They shook hands.
"Hockley! Pleased to meet you. I'm a good friend of Holden's. Great damn squad leader."
"Oh, so you're the Calvert."
"I am the Calvert." Now George was of coursed biased against Cal, being close with Holden but he was going to hold his tongue.
"Having a little reunion are we?" Emily folded her arms.
"No biting today, Em. Please." George wondered what had gotten her so worked up. Emily was about to tell him this was her place and that she gave the orders but she wasn't good with words today and she swallowed it. "How's Holden?"
"He's well. I'm sure you've been hearing from him."
Milton and Sonny exchanged glances. This was a weird little scene.
"I haven't in a month or so but that's Holden," George laughed awkwardly.
"Well, I ought to be going," Cal was looking for the quickest way out with knocking something over and choking the wretch behind the counter...or slighting his brother in front of his large, muscular friend.
"Should you ever find yourself in this neighborhood again, you know who to look up," George nodded.
"I hope the day finds all of you well," Cal tipped his hat. Emily tried to look at the fedora and not his face. "Happy Fourth."
That night after the fireworks, George stopped Emily on her way back to Joe's.
"Oh, come on, George, I'm tired and I gotta work more tonight," Emily moaned.
"Keep your distance from Hockley." He tugged her arm as they were jostled by throngs of people heading home or heading to celebrate some more.
"What makes you think I want to be anywhere near that stupid bastard?"
"Just...keep to that sentiment."
"Believe me I am."
"I saw the way you were looking at him. I know when you're putting up a front. Don't start warming up to him anymore than you have. I don't trust him and Holden wouldn't lie...too much..." George paused for a moment, thinking about his friend.
"Okay, okay. What more do you want from me?"
"Also," he sighed.
"Also what?"
"Martin's missing some of the last delivery," he whispered.
"It was picked up. I just gave it to the guy when he gave me the booze. He must have done something with it."
"You sure?"
"Of course! Why wouldn't I be sure?"
"The same pick-up guy's coming by in two days, please make sure nothing goes wrong and find out what happened to the rest of that God damn poison he sold or used or whatever...or you'll owe Martin money. This could be you'd be cut off...which means we lose leads."
"Yeah, I know."
"No, you obviously don't," he tightened his grip on her arm.
"George, you're hurting me."
"This is dangerous and one more thing like this and you're out and on the train to Jersey."
"I'm twenty-one and I make more money than you by now! Don't treat me like a child!"
"No, I'm treating you like someone who actually cares about what happens to you. You need to get out of here. Maybe go to school, make something of yourself where you can walk the streets at night, maybe settle down. Why are you staying here?"
"Why are you?" she stuck her nose in his face.
"Em, don't start."
"Maybe you could move back in with your folks at thirty, go into insurance with your old man. But oh no, Maybe Johnny Culbreth'll kill another Mary McBride."
"Stop."
"Maybe you could run away and live in California with Rose or maybe she'll lose her mind and live in this place forever with you. You think we're stuck here because we can't afford someplace else? No, we're just stuck by things more powerful and ain't nobody gonna change that. No, not even Rose. Why do you think she left? You think she's coming back to this shit? She only came because she felt bad because she'd made it after the war and you haven't. And remember this, George Calvert, I lost Mary too! I was there! I can't have her back but I'll take back what I can! I'm not such a coward to sit back on it!" she hissed viciously.
Emily had stepped on George's last and most sensitive nerves–very much on purpose. He just stared for a moment.
"Go home and stay out of my sight." And he walked away.
Emily felt strange, she wanted to cry–although she waited to do that once she got home as she had skipped out on returning to Joe's again, saddling Milton and Sonny with the work. She hadn't had her feelings hurt this bad–or hurt anybody so badly in a long time. Why on earth then, was she thinking about Cal Hockley and that stupid fedora as she curled feebly under her covers that night.
July 4, 1920
Emily Dawson skated around the corner and stopped at the library. Lately, she'd rekindled her interest in Tudor England and had this time remembered to return her book on time. She glanced at her watch. Almost noon. She'd left Sonny and Milton in charge of Joe's and thought of taking an hour or two to stroll and grab lunch someplace else. She was boss and Sonny and Milton were more friends than employees, therefore, they'd just have to suffer if she came back an hour later than she said she would.
She was thankful, too. Joe's was also close for three hours from eight to eleven so she and the boys could meet Calvert at the docks for the fireworks that night. And what a great Independence Day it was! Sunny and clear but not too hot for July. Perfect!
Emily ungracefully clunked her way up the cement stairs of the Central Building of the New York Public Library at the corner Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street in her roller skates, not bothering to take them off as she skated under the gigantic columns and one of the archways, even after she ahd entered the library. In fact, she pulled a pack of Lucky's from her pocket and noticed she had three left. Smiling, she pulled one out and, holding the cigarette between her fingers, she glided through the first floor, evoking some faces of shock and horror (and a few giggles) from the other patrons and librarians. When she arrived her destination she stopped and placed the book on Anne Boleyn in on Mrs. Dursley's desk.
Mrs. Dursley looked over her long, serious nose, through her glasses.
"Lookie, it's on time," Emily said childishly.
"There is no roller skating allowed in the library, Miss Dawson!"
"Gee, where's it written." Emily quite enjoyed torturing people. Mrs. Dursley was among her favorites.
Emily skated off as if the librarian no longer existed, eager to get outside in the sunshine. And upon exiting the building, whilst still under the archway, she lit up her cigarette and took a satisfying drag. To follow that, she tilted her head to stretch her arms in an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction with herself.
Unfortunately, Emily paid for that one. The wheels on her feet slid forward and out from under her and sent her toppling flying over the first flight of stairs.
Emily screamed and landed with great force into someone's arms. She stared up at her rescuer, as she stood diagonally and pin straight as he held her up. He examined the girl, shocked by the lucky catch. She was of small build, a wiry-looking girl, raven-haired with piercing blue eyes. Something about her was child-like, maybe it was the stripped cotton candy pink blouse, maybe it was the little bow that held up half her hair. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, she seemed both innocent and vicious.
Emily had rarely allowed anyone to rescue her so she herself took a good look. He was older than her but certainly not old, mid to late thirties perhaps, rather handsome and of solid build. He had dark hair and dark eyes. But remembering that this damsel in distress was Emily Dawson and not anyone else, it's no surprise that it was not the man's striking good looks or the rescue that might have inspired young Emily, but it was his hat. She liked his fedora. Emily loved fedoras and this one was particularly stylish.
"Are you alright?" he asked, still holding her as she was.
"I like your hat," she said stupidly, "Er, I mean, I'm fine...thank you."
He propped her back up on her feet and Em slipped again. And any random act of chivalry can certainly be followed by another. He caught her again.
"You know," he said, throughly amused, "these steps aren't the best place for roller skates." He laughed as he identified the cause of the mishap.
"Well, this city isn't the best place to be a single girl on her own, but I guess I just like to break all the rules...just a minute, I think I'll be good today. Best take these things off."
The man helped her sit down and took off her skates.
"You should be more careful," he said patronizingly. Em frowned a little but he seemed to mean well.
"Yes, but unfortunately I'm Emily instead." She stuck out her hand in her usual cocky manner and smiled her usual cocky smile that she knew was irresistible to anyone that didn't know her better. "Emily Dawson."
She flustered her rescuer who was embarrassed that he'd forgotten to introduce himself but he received her hand and shook it anyway.
"Excuse. I did not introduce myself sooner."
"Aint' no crime."
"Caledon Hockley."
"Sounds fancy, Mr. Hockley." Hockley...sounds familiar...
"Cal, please."
"Well, Cal," Emily popped to her feet before assistance could be offered, "you'll have to call me Emily then. Plain old 'Em' if you're feelin' lazy."
"Well, then. May I walk you home, Emily?"
"I'm not going home. I'm going to lunch."
"I can buy you lunch. It would be a nice treat after a nasty shock."
"Nasty shock? You obviously haven't been on my block." Emily said without thinking. She immediately felt embarrassed. "But I'll take you up on the lunch..." Handsome man in a fedora AND free lunch. This was a great day indeed.
Lunch had led to a leisurely stroll with Cal. But somewhere between friendly conversation (and admittedly a little flirting) something had gone terribly wrong. Her handsome rescuer had started by making some fleeting complaint about all the "Negroes and Italians" in the area. He wasn't fan. In his opinion, they were what were keeping mid-town "a slum." That, and those sneaky Irish; there were far too many of them taking jobs away from Americans.
"Honestly, how many of them are on that God forsaken island? They just keep coming. I can tell, I can't produce as much steel as they produce children!" He meant that as joke but Em didn't laugh.
"They produced me," she said bluntly.
Cal was caught completely off-guard. Emily continued to frown.
After that set-back things later developed, though I'm unsure how, into this:
"I run own my joint. I own it. You know that? So don't patronize me like a little girl. And I'm not. I'm twenty-one. Only a few of my friends are even white like me and we're all poor. Do you know what it's like to have people just be able to look at you to decide you don't bloody count but I can't exactly get rid of these and grow something else!" she hissed gesturing to her chest.
"I apologize, but my God you're vulgar!" Cal sneered. "Maybe the reason you're still stuck in Hell's Kitchen isn't because you're a woman. It's because you don't act with any decorum whatsoever. You're brash and rude and self-centered."
"Self-centered?! You don't even know me!" "I wasn't attacking you but you immediately thought it meant you and all that you stood for, didn't you?"
"You did, you creep. I am friends with people that aren't white. I'm Irish and I'm poor!" This was partly a lie, though Em was working class through and through, she'd managed to make a decent living for herself but refused to move out of Hell's Kitchen (much to George's chagrin.)
"Yes, but even with your pretty little face and your batting eyelashes, you're still the type that looks for a fight." He turned around walked away. And he never turned around.
Emily still waited, she knew she'd look like an idiot if she shouted at his back, but she needed her rebuttal. This wasn't fair!
True, he was a bastard. He was a stuck-up bastard and he should have never have gotten mixed-up (even just for lunch) with that kind. The rich guy she'd ever met that didn't think she was stealing or tried to use her was Calvert. And Calvert wasn't all that rich and he didn't exactly have blue blood running through his veins.
Emily decided she hated Cal Hockley and all of his kind, and would not go looking for him–even though he had her skates. She was angry about that especially but she decided to sacrifice them for the cause. What cause she didn't know.
She also decided his fedora wasn't all that great either.
Emily walked into Joe's in a sour mood. It was closed for the fireworks until eleven so only Sonny and Milton remained, cleaning and looking almost as sour as Em.
"Nice of you to show up," said Milton from the stool on the little stage as he cleaned the piano with a rag. Emily just grunted and decided not to notice that Milton was near unflappable and that he must be rather angry with her to throw out such a careless comment.
"You've been gone almost eight hours and you don't even say nothin'!" Sonny huffed.
"It's 'anything,'" she muttered.
"Oh, don't you start going on about my English. Who do think you are, Rose? You've gotten a mouth fouler than my john."
"Fine! You know, I pay you bastards. Don't give me any lip or I'll bloody yours!" she stormed behind the counter to get herself a drink.
"Sue us for worrying. We almost called Calvert." No one heard Milton. "When does Rose come back? I could use her right now." Still, he was ignored.
"What? Did Irving ditch you?" Sonny spat.
"That ain't your place. I stopped seeing him a month ago. Milton, you know. Tell him!"
"Now you know this ain't my little love triangle," Milton said, not looking up from his rag and the piano.
"Who were you with?" Sonny demanded.
"None of your business, Santino!"
Just then the bells on the door jingled and entered the last person (next to Sonny) that Emily wanted to talk to.
"What are you doin' here? How did you find me?" Emily put her hands on her hips.
"You forgot your skates," said Cal. "Thought you might want them."
"I'll take them, sir, girl may bite at the moment," Milton walked over and held out his hand.
"I'll take them, thanks," Sonny argued.
"Honestly, wouldn't recommend talkin' to the lady, but you can give them to old Sonny here," Milton conceded to Sonny. Milton never liked to get involved with anything confrontational.
Cal took a good look at the two dark young men. Dawson hadn't lied. He shoved the skates into Sonny's arms and walked to Emily behind the counter.
"Only us niggers, wops, and cunts in here. What's your interest?" Emily said quietly but clearly.
"I apologize for before. Please forgive me." It was his only stammering answer to the disgusting words that had just come out of the pretty young woman's pretty young mouth. She'd even called herself a cunt to make her point. Cal had what he publically called "reservations" about "certain peoples" and he did, like all of his stature, conform to the common opinions of the time. All of which put the people in the room, the girl in front of him, the black man and the Italian man, into categories below his own. For the first in time in a long time, Cal felt terribly uncomfortable about those thoughts.
Emily could just look at him. She had no retort, save for "why?" but that didn't sound very clever to her. So she said nothing. Cal also said nothing but continued to look on uncomfortably, mostly at Emily.
The door bells jingled again.
"We'll be late, you peop–am I interrupting something?" George had burst in.
Milton, who got antsy doing anything but playing his sax, looked as if he desperately wanted to be cleaning the bar. Sonny looked ready eat everyone in the bar in front of their mothers. Emily looked...odd. And the tall, dark man in the nice fedora and tailored suit looked quite out of place on this side of town.
"I was just leaving," said Cal.
"Hello there, do I know you by any chance?" George squinted.
"I don't believe so," Cal sighed, trying to get his wits about him. There was a comfort in the way the big brown-haired man carried himself. He had a way about him that suggested he had not been raised like the other three. A cleaner accent, better English, like he had gone to college.
"George Calvert. Lieutenant Calvert with the police. These are my good friends in here." George didn't mean for the police title to sound so emphasized but he figured his mere presence comforted the stranger. He hadn't decided whether he liked him or not but George knew the man in the fedora could smell his money.
"Caledon Hockley." They shook hands.
"Hockley! Pleased to meet you. I'm a good friend of Holden's. Great damn squad leader."
"Oh, so you're the Calvert."
"I am the Calvert." Now George was of coursed biased against Cal, being close with Holden but he was going to hold his tongue.
"Having a little reunion are we?" Emily folded her arms.
"No biting today, Em. Please." George wondered what had gotten her so worked up. Emily was about to tell him this was her place and that she gave the orders but she wasn't good with words today and she swallowed it. "How's Holden?"
"He's well. I'm sure you've been hearing from him."
Milton and Sonny exchanged glances. This was a weird little scene.
"I haven't in a month or so but that's Holden," George laughed awkwardly.
"Well, I ought to be going," Cal was looking for the quickest way out with knocking something over and choking the wretch behind the counter...or slighting his brother in front of his large, muscular friend.
"Should you ever find yourself in this neighborhood again, you know who to look up," George nodded.
"I hope the day finds all of you well," Cal tipped his hat. Emily tried to look at the fedora and not his face. "Happy Fourth."
That night after the fireworks, George stopped Emily on her way back to Joe's.
"Oh, come on, George, I'm tired and I gotta work more tonight," Emily moaned.
"Keep your distance from Hockley." He tugged her arm as they were jostled by throngs of people heading home or heading to celebrate some more.
"What makes you think I want to be anywhere near that stupid bastard?"
"Just...keep to that sentiment."
"Believe me I am."
"I saw the way you were looking at him. I know when you're putting up a front. Don't start warming up to him anymore than you have. I don't trust him and Holden wouldn't lie...too much..." George paused for a moment, thinking about his friend.
"Okay, okay. What more do you want from me?"
"Also," he sighed.
"Also what?"
"Martin's missing some of the last delivery," he whispered.
"It was picked up. I just gave it to the guy when he gave me the booze. He must have done something with it."
"You sure?"
"Of course! Why wouldn't I be sure?"
"The same pick-up guy's coming by in two days, please make sure nothing goes wrong and find out what happened to the rest of that God damn poison he sold or used or whatever...or you'll owe Martin money. This could be you'd be cut off...which means we lose leads."
"Yeah, I know."
"No, you obviously don't," he tightened his grip on her arm.
"George, you're hurting me."
"This is dangerous and one more thing like this and you're out and on the train to Jersey."
"I'm twenty-one and I make more money than you by now! Don't treat me like a child!"
"No, I'm treating you like someone who actually cares about what happens to you. You need to get out of here. Maybe go to school, make something of yourself where you can walk the streets at night, maybe settle down. Why are you staying here?"
"Why are you?" she stuck her nose in his face.
"Em, don't start."
"Maybe you could move back in with your folks at thirty, go into insurance with your old man. But oh no, Maybe Johnny Culbreth'll kill another Mary McBride."
"Stop."
"Maybe you could run away and live in California with Rose or maybe she'll lose her mind and live in this place forever with you. You think we're stuck here because we can't afford someplace else? No, we're just stuck by things more powerful and ain't nobody gonna change that. No, not even Rose. Why do you think she left? You think she's coming back to this shit? She only came because she felt bad because she'd made it after the war and you haven't. And remember this, George Calvert, I lost Mary too! I was there! I can't have her back but I'll take back what I can! I'm not such a coward to sit back on it!" she hissed viciously.
Emily had stepped on George's last and most sensitive nerves–very much on purpose. He just stared for a moment.
"Go home and stay out of my sight." And he walked away.
Emily felt strange, she wanted to cry–although she waited to do that once she got home as she had skipped out on returning to Joe's again, saddling Milton and Sonny with the work. She hadn't had her feelings hurt this bad–or hurt anybody so badly in a long time. Why on earth then, was she thinking about Cal Hockley and that stupid fedora as she curled feebly under her covers that night.