Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Jesse
Slices of brisket sizzled in the skillet on the stove while cubes of potatoes boiled in a pot on one of the other burners.
Jesse’s mind was still far away as he turned the meat, thoughts of Arthur Hughes tickling his brain tissue, as though the new owner of the printing office had become an internal itch that constantly needed scratching.
Whenever Jesse tried to shift his thoughts to something else, he couldn’t hold onto them for very long before the urge to think of Arthur became too powerful to resist. If Jesse closed his eyes, he could still smell the man’s musk, the memory so prominent that not even the salty sweet scent of the brisket’s brine could overpower it.
Ever since their meeting, Jesse had been considering whether or not he could stand to risk pursuing something with Arthur Hughes.
And it would be a risk. Socially. Financially.
Legally. Emotionally. Jesse wasn’t even sure which one of those would be worst. Should Jesse surrender to this foolish want of his, he would be setting himself up to face potential ruin.
That wasn’t even an exaggeration, either.
Someone like Arthur Hughes could ruin him in a myriad of ways.
And, of course, Jesse couldn’t forget the fact that one of the other men belonging to Chicago’s social elite had once made him feel small, flaunting his money and touting his superior schooling, oftentimes comparing Lake High School with his fancy boarding school.
Jesse winced, his stomach curdling from a sudden spike of resentment, and he dropped the carving fork onto the floor where it landed with a clatter.
Sighing, Jesse forced the thoughts of his future possible banishment from Chicago’s print industry from his mind.
He then tried not to ruminate on his potential future heartbreak as a result of Arthur’s inevitable belittlement of his person as he bent to pick up the fallen cutlery.
Jesse had worked so hard to try to escape from the clutches of poverty.
And he nearly had escaped them. He would have, had it not been for Percy Verne.
After a few more minutes, once the food was finished cooking—the potatoes and beef ready to be paired with the cabbage that he’d finished boiling earlier—Jesse strained the pot of potatoes.
Then, he portioned out the softened spuds into two bowls.
After layering the cooked meat over top, he moved to close the vents on the stove.
Its fire would likely burn out shortly before bedtime.
Hopefully Giuseppe wouldn’t be too tired to clean out the firebox later. It was nearly full.
Shortly after Jesse took a seat at the small kitchen table, he heard the sound of fast footsteps on the stairs. Giuseppe came into the room heaving a big, exaggerated sigh.
“Ninety-eight hours of work, only breaking to shit and eat and sleep, but now, I have the next three days to myself, thank the Lord.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “See, Jess, this is why I work for the steel mill. When’s the last time you had three days’ break from work at the print shop?”
“Uhm, the same time when I had to work sixteen or more hours in a row,” Jesse countered. “Never.”
“Ah, well, to each his own, eh?” Giuseppe said, letting his coat fall to the floor. Jesse rolled his eyes as Giuseppe strolled into the main room, which served as both a living space and a kitchen. Giuseppe held his hands over the still-hot stove to warm them. “What did you make?”
“Corned beef and cabbage,” Jesse said before shoveling a forkful of food in his mouth. “And potatoes.”
Giuseppe scrunched up his nose. Corned beef and cabbage was one of Giuseppe’s least favorite meals, but it was one of the cheapest, and therefore, it was one that Jesse made once or twice a week.
Popular in Bridgeport, even with those who weren’t Irish, corned beef and cabbage was a meal that Jesse had learned to like ever since moving out of his old neighborhood and changing his name. He knew how to cook it well.
Jesse swallowed his mouthful of half-chewed food with a sip of warm beer.
“When you cook, you can choose what meals we eat,” he said to his roommate. He pushed the prepared bowl closer to Giuseppe. “Here. Mangia.”
Giuseppe stuck out his tongue but still pulled out his chair to sit.
“I should have never let you meet my ma,” Giuseppe said. “Not without first convincing her that she should teach you how to make something edible.”
“Again, you can cook if you’d like. Run to the markets tomorrow yourself.”
Giuseppe frowned. Judging from the manner in which he was eyeing his meal—with a look of mild revulsion—Jesse knew he’d probably try to cook some sort of pasta tomorrow.
While Giuseppe wasn’t the most skilled cook, he could still make spaghetti if he was able to find the uncooked noodles in one of the shops near Taylor Street, where a lot of the Italians, including Giuseppe’s family, lived.
Unlike Jesse, Giuseppe had only moved to Bridgeport to be closer to the steel mill.
Giuseppe had no problems with his family.
Other than the fact that his mom wanted him to find a nice woman to marry.
Giuseppe wasn’t interested in that, though.
“How was the lesson with Mr. Hughes?” Giuseppe asked.
Blood rushed to Jesse’s cheeks, and he hated himself for it.
“It was fine,” Jesse said. “I think he has the information he needs now.”
Fixing his gaze on the cooked potatoes in front of him, Jesse forced himself not to look up, even for a second.
If Giuseppe noticed that his cheeks were flushed, then he would be subjected to a load of ridicule, not because Arthur was a man (Giuseppe himself had the same inclinations, though, to Jesse’s knowledge, Giuseppe had never brought a man home with him before), but because Arthur was a Hughes.
Giuseppe wasn’t fond of people like Arthur.
Not for exactly same reasons as Jesse, but his reasons were close enough.
People in Arthur’s circles could often be found chattering on about progress, while simultaneously holding whole groups of people back from it.
And Giuseppe resented them for it.
“What’s the man like?” Giuseppe asked through a mouthful of food.
Jesse wondered how he could even sum up the whole everything that was Arthur Hughes.
Keeping his tone neutral, he shrugged and said, “Excitable.”
Glancing up from his corned beef, Giuseppe’s face twisted in confusion.
“Excitable? What do you mean?”
“He’s very . . . enthusiastic,” Jesse explained. “Too enthusiastic, really. It makes spending time with him . . .” Jesse paused to search for a word. Thrilling. Exhilarating. Fun. “Tiresome.”
“Do you think he’ll be chosen to exhibit in the fair?”
“Probably. He knows Mr. Burnham personally, so I can’t see him not being chosen.”
Giuseppe let out a little incredulous huff. “All those people, they keep to their own, huh?”
Jesse shrugged, feigning boredom, though Giuseppe’s words were rekindling Jesse’s still-smoldering resentment that he was trying to ignore. Luckily, Giuseppe was too busy being lost in his own misgivings to notice Jesse’s renewed upset.
“What an event that fair will be,” Giuseppe said, voice tinged with scorn.
Immediately, Jesse remembered how Arthur had looked whenever either of them had brought up the fair—his bright, beautiful eyes that sparkled with excitement; his handsome smile that was so sweet and lively and infectious—and he had to momentarily cover his mouth with his hand to hide a burgeoning smile of his own.
Giuseppe continued. “It probably cost the city a lot of money.”
“Yeah, probably,” Jesse replied, his voice slightly muffled by his palm. He removed it and moved to take a sip of beer. “Arthur thinks it’ll bring in a lot of money, too, though.”
“Arthur, huh?” Giuseppe said, and Jesse cringed mid-sip. He could practically hear Giuseppe’s little teasing smile even before he set the bottle back on the table. “Are you two friends now?”
Jesse could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly, his cheeks becoming even hotter than they had been before.
“We’re not friends, exactly, but he’s not bad.”
Giuseppe smirked. “I thought you called him tiresome.”
“He is.”
Giuseppe set his fork back in his bowl and leaned in close, furrowing his brow in concentration like old Mr. Putnam trying to read the smallest sized type in the case.
Jesse subtly bit the inside of his cheek to try to keep his secret, but it was no use.
Slowly, Giuseppe backed away, and the man’s mouth curled into an even larger smile.
“Can’t wait to meet him,” Giuseppe teased.
“Shut your hole, Giuseppe,” Jesse shot back.
“I thought you wanted me to eat, not shut my mouth,” Giuseppe retorted. “I believe you even tried to use my mother tongue.”
“Mother tongue,” Jesse repeated, letting out a sound that was half-incredulity and half-scorn, while still being fully playful. “You came to Chicago when you were two. Also, there’s humor in that statement with regard to your wording, only I’m too polite to utter the epigram myself.”
“Yeah, too polite,” Giuseppe said. “Not the other thing.” Jesse scowled. Giuseppe’s smile broadened, and Jesse knew that his roommate would soon follow it up with an even worse remark. “You know, the fact that it’s my father’s tongue you’d be interested in.”
Jesse burst out laughing and kicked Giuseppe’s shin.
“Shut it!”
Giuseppe snorted. “Jeez, sorry. Just Mr. Arthur’s tongue, then.”
Cheeks burning, Jesse thumped his roommate once more, but harder this time, kicking Giuseppe’s leg with as much force as he could muster from his seated position.
Giuseppe only laughed in response, and then the two of them resumed eating, one or both of them continuing to snicker on and off for the rest of the meal, though neither of them explicitly brought up the topic of Arthur again.
Still, Arthur was never far from Jesse’s mind.
***