Chapter 13 #3
Margie wasn’t waiting in the hallway when Fern emerged.
In the brief time it took to walk to the dining room, she tried to come up with a believable story for how she’d scraped her forehead.
To her surprise, Buchanan was seated at the table.
Their mother sat at one end, and their father at the other.
By the expressions on their faces, they hadn’t expected Fern to come down for dinner.
Her father’s instant scowl, and the way he couldn’t hold her eyes for more than a few seconds, made Fern reconsider having joined them.
“Goodness, your temple!” her mother exclaimed.
“I went on a walk and tripped and fell,” she blurted out, apparently having settled on a ridiculous, though slightly believable, lie. “I’m fine.”
“A walk?” Her mother shifted in her chair as Fern ladled soup into her bowl from the tureen in the center of the table. The three of them had already started eating.
“Yes. I’m too cooped up these days,” she replied. It was the furthest thing from the truth. Father and Buchanan knew it too. Her brother also knew what the scarf obscured from view.
Fern’s hand shook as she lowered her silver spoon into the soup.
“That’s wonderful. Fresh air is excellent for you, but I do worry—”
“The girl is fine. Let us eat,” her father snapped, cutting her off. Her mother threw him a startled glance but said no more.
Silver clinked against china for the next several minutes, allowing Fern’s pulse the chance to calm.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Cal, though, and whether Dr. Levy had been able to stop the bleeding.
Her father and brother were mumbling to one another—or perhaps Fern’s ears were only muffled to their conversation—when one word stood out: shot.
“What did you say?” she asked, eyeing first her father, then Buchanan.
Neither of them wanted to speak to her, or so the scowls on their faces hinted. Buchanan’s jaw hardened. “We heard Clean Calvin got shot up outside his factory today.”
He waited for Fern’s reaction, holding her stare the way only a petulant older brother could.
“Buchanan, this is unseemly dinner conversation,” their mother said, pushing her bowl of soup aside.
“Has he been killed?” Fern asked, wondering if they had heard any news that she had not.
It felt like she had a pair of hearts in her chest instead of just one, each one pumping out of rhythm with the other.
“No word yet.”
Her father wiped his mouth. “The man’s a snake, sneakier than his crazy brother. Let’s hope the Jacky Boys sent their best.”
Fern’s pulse stuttered, and air twisted down her throat painfully. “How do you know it was the Jacky Boys?”
The question took the judge by surprise. He sat straighter and met her eyes, as if confused. The break in his confidence made him appear years younger. He picked up his spoon again.
“Everyone knows they’re feuding,” he replied. “Dorothy, tell Mrs. Jennaway she had too heavy a hand with the pepper in tonight’s soup.”
The quick change of subject confirmed it: He wanted to distract Fern from the conversation—because he’d let something slip.
She pushed her own bowl aside, though not because it was too peppery. In fact, she hadn’t tasted even a spoonful that she’d swallowed so far. All Fern could think about was Cal and the two men who’d followed them on the Pier. Jacky Boys.
How had her father known the Jacky Boys had shot up Harris Looms? A sickening suspicion wove itself into her mind. There was one way to find out how he knew.
“I was there.” Fern’s voice was so soft, it barely rose above the sound of Buchanan’s slurping.
This was a risk. But she had to know.
Her father’s eyes landed on her. He held utterly still, statuesque. “Where?”
“At Harris Looms.”
Horror blazed across his face, burning up his eyes. In that moment, Fern knew that he both loved and hated her. Her father exploded from his chair. “What in God’s name, Fern!”
Buchanan spluttered on his soup and pushed himself to his feet as well, his hand catching the rim of his bowl and knocking it sideways. A mess pooled on the tablecloth.
“What in hell were you doing there?” her brother shouted. “You could have been shot!”
Their mother’s face paled. “Shot? Fern, you said you went on a walk.”
“I lied.” Fern stood too, so she would no longer have to stare up into her brother’s flared nostrils. She turned to their father. “Just like you have. The Jacky Boys…you’re in league with them, aren’t you?”
The judge’s neck purpled, and she recalled his same reaction when Mr. Clifton had carelessly stated that the city’s gangs could do whatever they pleased, considering they owned nearly all the police, politicians, and judges in Chicago.
“That is quite enough!” her mother exclaimed. “Fern, stop this at once.”
And then, with Rodney’s blackmail attempt and Cal’s determination to destroy Buchanan…
“Did you know, Father?” Fern continued, ignoring her mother. “Did you send them?”
Her father’s fist came down onto the table, shaking the china. Her mother screamed.
“How dare you question me!” The booming of his voice, the eruption of his fury lifted the hairs on Fern’s arms.
“My taxicab driver was killed,” she pressed on. “What if I hadn’t taken a Checker to Harris Looms today and asked Mr. Carlson to drive me instead?”
Her father’s pupils rounded. The barest hint of regret? Her stomach dropped. Buchanan’s expression was less shielded. Guilt slackened his cheeks and chin as he looked between Fern and the judge.
Rodney hadn’t succeeded in procuring her father’s alliance. The lewd pictures taken of her hadn’t pushed him over the edge into Rodney’s waiting hands. Instead, he’d struck back. Or at least, his Jacky Boy friends had.
There was too much silence in the dining room. It had been too long, maybe a minute or more, since anyone had said anything. Her father stepped away from the table, bottling his fury once again. “Dorothy, you’ll make the arrangements for Young Acres immediately.”
The words slapped at Fern’s cheek, but she should have expected this punishment.
Her mother’s lips gaped. “But Henry, she said she—”
“She is either going there or to Dunning,” he snapped. Her mother gasped. Fern stared at him, frozen. Dunning? The Chicago State Hospital was a place for lunatics.
“Henry! You wouldn’t send your own daughter to an asylum!”
“Then make the arrangements for her at Young Acres!” he roared, then stormed out of the room.