1934 - Circumstantial Evidence

As a man of twenty seven years, living in a home I inherited from my late parents, and a pleasantly consistent buzz, I confess that I do not dislike the pleasurably distinct odor of a jail cell. While others may smell only sweat and urine, I close my eyes and recognize the finer things, and as I sit and await the arrival of my sweet little sister, a pomegranate and wild berry candle may as well be wafting its lovely scent right beneath my very nose.

Speaking of urine, I’m fairly certain it has something to do with my being in a jail cell on a Tuesday morning. Supposedly when I chose to empty my burning bladder last night I missed the toilet entirely - in fact, I missed it to such a degree that it ended up all over the front lawn of a Mr. and Mrs. Stanton, whose small grandchildren and very small dog all watched from the living room window. Supposedly.

However, I am not a man to cause discrepancies over the little things in life. As my father often reminded me, a man is only as big as the mole hill he builds, or something to that extent. Which is why when two relatively large, bulky men in police uniforms came to collect me, I put up little fight. I’d like to say my only form of resistance was the light thrashing of my head against the backseat of the police car, which, as I assured the officers last night, had nothing to do with being arrested, and everything to do with my frustration that I’d forgotten to sign my last name on the check I mailed out that morning. It was for McClure’s magazine, and thus of deep importance to me. Deep, deep importance.

Anyway, at around ten twenty eight and forty seconds on a Tuesday morning (I was lucky enough to get a cell with an adequate view of the wall clock) I am largely unconcerned about my circumstances. I got a bit sweaty there at first, but I can hear my little sister babbling away at the front desk with such insurmountable clarity that it warms my small, black heart. Crisps it right up, to a nice and admirable crunch.

My grilled little heart takes it up a notch when I hear footsteps approaching - somehow, although many may find this to be impossible, I can recognize my sister’s small and steady footsteps in any given situation. Give me a stampede of a thousand budding five feet four inches dangerously-close-to-mousy grammar school teachers, and I promise to all of creation that I can pick hers out. However, I don’t want to get ahead of myself - as I said, I’m not one to dwell on the little things, so I braced myself to talk to my sister in a calm and concise manner. I decided the best way to start this was by throwing myself against the bars and wailing her name.

“Oh, Richard!” She cried, coming around the corner, hands over her ears. Her hazel eyes squinted shut and I admired the well-recognized the well-recognized expression which some may call ‘disgust’ but I see as an example of sisterly love.

“Sis!” I yelped, stretching my arms through the bars. She rolled her eyes and purposefully avoided my outstretched limbs. As a chillingly stone faced young man came to release me, I shot my sister what I know was a charming wink and braced myself for what she thinks of as a disciplinary life lesson but what I embrace as mildly irritating background noise.

“… you’re just lucky Marlene could cover my classes,” she finished, her high, soft voice breaking at the end. I glanced over, taking her hand in my forearm as we left the station and entered into the - free!- world, and noticed that her eyes were the tiniest bit misted. I felt a pang of guilt, but I knew she’d preserver - this wasn’t the first time I’d had a little misunderstanding with law enforcement, and knowing my luck, wouldn’t be the last.

“Come on, Rach, no worries. Don’t make a small man out of a molehill,” I advised her, offering my best toothy grin. Her eye roll hinted that something about my advice may have been off, but I figured she was just trying to remain in her temporary role as the superior-but-truly-younger-and-therefore-inferior sister.

“Look, Richard,” she began mildly, her eyes clear again, “There’s something I need to talk to you about. Do you want to get dinner tonight? I feel like we haven’t had a meal together in ages.”

I allowed myself a small, brotherly huff. “You know,” I chided, tugging at her slim wrist, “that’s none of my doing. It’s because you’re always out with Mr. Mustache.”

“Oooh! Richard, honestly, sometimes you’re so judgmental! Just because he has a small amount of facial hair -”

“Oooh! Sis, honestly, sometimes you’re so naïve! That mustache is blocking your view of the rest of the world, I swear -”

“He has a name, Richard!” She shot me one of her more severe glances, and I was momentarily impressed - her already small eyes tightened and burned through my crisped black heart like tiny bullets. When I saw, rather than heard, her mouth exhale a very annoyed huff, I decided it was time to take a different route.

“Alright, alright, so Mr. Mustache has a given name, but, honestly Rach, don’t you think it’s a little… weird?”

“No! Ricardo is a perfectly nice Italian name. Did you know,” she explained, her free hand on her hip, assuming lecture position, “that Ricardo means ‘firm-ruler’ in Italian?”

“And are you planning to have him firmly rule you as your lord and master, sis?” I asked, rounding the corner to where I knew we would separate, her back to school and me to the house.

She blushed a bit, and her eyes landed on her shoes. I noticed they were scuffed in the front and that one of the straps was loose. Poor girl has no idea how to take care of herself - Mr. Mustache would have his work set out for him, if the louse was foolish enough to propose. Like hell.

“Dinner tonight, around five thirty?” She replied instead, still not meeting my eyes. I felt a bit bad, because Heaven knows Mr. Mustache wasn’t going to offer my sister a marriage proposal. At no fault of hers, certainly, but because he’s just too… worldly for her. Too suave with his Philosophy doctorate and the flock of undergraduates I’m sure follow him around with wide puppy eyes. They’d met almost a year ago and if he were anyone else, I’d be having the marriage talk with him, but I’m a realist - I know how their relationship is going to end for my sister; lots of crying and chocolate.

“Yes, yes, I’ll meet you at Victoria’s. Unless,” I paused, knowing what her answer would be, “you wanted me to pick you up in that slovenly thing you’re so ashamed of?”

She sighed and slipped her hand from my arm. The schoolhouse was a small beacon of escape for her in the distance, and I knew my place. “Yes, darling brother, if you’d like to pick me up in your car, you’re more than welcome.” She paused and stuck out her tongue for a split-second, just like when we were school children ourselves. “Especially considering we still live in the same house!” And with that, she was off. I stood for a minute or two, waiting to see if she turned back around to wave or wink or stick out her tongue again, like she used to. She didn’t.

Two gin and tonics later, I sat in the living room of my home and contemplated my life. After I completed my undergraduate degree in the infinitely useful field of Mathematics (and no, not entirely because my college sweetheart wanted me to help her with her homework) I decided to take a few years off and travel. I buzzed around the country, but eventually came back to my home in Chicago. And now, I’m simply taking time to find myself, and if I end up at the bottom of a bottle of gin more often than not, who am I to argue with fate? Rachel consistently admonishes that I’m dwindling away the family fortune, but I’m largely unconcerned.

I guess I’m unconcerned about a lot of things, but I don’t see that as negative in my life. Remember the whole man-molehill analogy from the old man and I’m all set. One concern I’ve never had is in regards to my sister’s future - I didn’t assume she’d end up a spinster, per se, but I have to admit I’d never really imagined being apart from her. After mom and dad passed when I was twelve and she seven, we were the largest constants in each other’s lives. I’ve had my fair share of lady friends, of course, but I haven’t met lady luck yet. So it was as we went, brother and sister, in many ways the best of friends, coexisting not always perfectly, but at least comfortably and consistently. And now this Mr. Mustache was distracting my sister, and what’s worse, with no intention of marrying her! I helped myself to a third gin and tonic before I solidified my master plan: a little surprise to pick my sister up at school was most definitely in order.

I knew Rachel was staying late most days this week to help the staff organize a new division of the library (see? I do listen to her babbles at times). I strolled into the building with my usual charm and silently thanked God that no munchkins ran about - as cute as they are from a distance, I confess I don’t have the most, or the best, experience with the little twerps.

As I approached the back of the Mystery section, I could hear her babbling to herself as usual. Rachel never stopped talking, even when only fictional characters were there to listen. I remember when we were children she would set all of her dolls at attention and hold tea parties to rival the Queen (little traitor).

Following the low murmur of her voice, I crept along the shelves, making sure to drag my feet along the floor or shuffle a book to make a suitably eerie noise. But I got the scare of my life when I heard a baritone respond to her babbles! Well. Apparently she wasn’t talking to the bookshelves after all.

“…so glad you came, Ricardo!” She squealed, and I rolled my eyes. Now Mr. Mustache was distracting my sister at her work place, for God’s sake. Who could think of doing such a thing, hurting the education of the little ones? Monster.

“Did you tell your brother about our…” he paused, and I could imagine his long brown hands flailing around, trying to express his point. “Situation?” Through the narrow cracks between books, I could faintly make out their respective outlines. Mr. Mustache’s hands flew dangerously close to my sister’s stomach, and she raised her left hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. I noticed a sharp glimmer - probably a cheap trinket he’d picked up to impress her. Monster monster monster.

“Oh, not yet, I’m planning to tell him tonight. I convinced him to take me out to dinner… I think he’ll have to handle it a bit better in public, no?” The little brat! Where did she learn to plot like that?

“Yes,” he mused, and I saw his hand linger on his chin, knuckle tips just below his long, curled mustache. His lips curled into a smile and he said with incredible ease, “if he handles it poorly you can always promise to name the baby after him!”

Baby?

“Even if it’s a girl,” he added, and snickered.

Baby?!

“You’re horrible!” She bat at his arm and I imagined her eyes squinted in a half-reprimanding, half-joking manner. The next words out of her mouth, however, only served to compound my shock. “Besides, I’ve already picked out the names…”

“Yes?”

“Clare for a girl and Cicerone for a boy,” she said proudly.

“I get no say in this, hmm?”

“Look, let’s not get even more off-track! The sooner I tell my brother, the better.” She paused and I saw her rub her fingers nervously together, staring at her hands. She’d been doing that a lot… that debaucher’s made her nervous!

“What was that noise?” Mr. Mustache demanded, swirling around in his spot. The noise in question was actually the result of the back of my head coming into rather painful contact with the shelf behind me. I sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t take a mind to investigate; I think I could take the fellow, he’s a scrawny one, but I didn’t want to harm the eyes of innocent bystanders with the blood-bath I was sure would ensue.

“It’s probably just the mice,” Rachel said airly, and I could hear her begin to shelve more books. “It’s a sign you should get going, darling, I’ll see you after dinner.” There was a heavy pause and I inwardly groaned at what I assumed they were doing. “I promise,” she chirped.

As they finished their gooey goodbyes I leaned against the shelf and shut my eyes. I waited until his footsteps carried him away and then scuttled out behind him, no longer wanting to surprise, or even see, my sister. Besides, it wasn’t her doing - I knew it was his. I needed to talk to him first, man to scrawny man.

I came up behind him when I reached the top steps of the school. I surveyed the yard to make sure no little ones were lingering about and waited until I saw him stop across the street and light a cigarette. Vices, vices, I silently chided him. After inhaling a few mighty breaths of decidedly fresh air, I strolled across the street and approached this century’s villain: Mr. Mustache. I was a few feet behind him when he turned, gave me a nod of recognition, and dangled his cigarette between his fingers.

“Hello Richard, saw your car parked over there.”

Well. There was that. Espionage may or may not be my strongest suit. Ever so slightly thrown off, I decided to take a few moments and give him the scary silent look which I’m quite renowned for: I narrow my eyes (much like my sister’s), steel my mouth in a straight line (much like my sister’s), and round my shoulders back (much like my sister). I did this for nearly a minute before the monster reacted.

“You look a lot like your sister when you do that,” he commented, and snubbed his cigarette on the ground. “Anything you want to talk about, Rich?”

I bristled. “Anything I want to talk about, Ricardo? I want to talk to you about doing the right and honorable thing, or else…” my throat dried up a bit, but I pressed on to get my point across. “Or else I’m going to see to it that you get a good, a good - thrashing!” Note that I did not state or imply that I would not be giving the thrashing. There are limits, even to the illusions of grandeur of which I am capable.

He snorted. “Jeez Rich, have a drink! Build up those beer muscles.”

“Look, I know what you’ve done, alright? There’s no use in trying to deny it..”

“Yeah, yeah,” he began to turn and gestured at me to walk with him. “You’ll want to sober up for tonight. Rachel has something she wants to tell you at dinner, and you might want to remember it tomorrow morning.”

“I already know about your little secret, thank you very much!”

And here I learned that he was, indeed, capable of changing expressions. “Excuse me?”

“I overheard everything you two said in the library.” Well, there went the ace up my sleeve.

“You were eavesdropping on us?” His voice became very steady and low, but I feared it was the calm before the storm.

“You’re right I was eavesdropping!” I might as well lay all my cards out on the table. “And I want to know what your intentions with my sister are!” And your child, I almost added.

“My… intentions?” He said, his increasingly confused look infuriating me. “I think my intentions should be pretty clear.”

“Well, they aren’t!” I shouted.

“They aren’t?”

“No!”

“No?”

“Damn it man! Stop repeating everything I say and just answer me straight - what do you intend to do about my sister’s situation?”

“What situation?” I could tell he was getting really upset, his hands curled into fists and the red flashing across his face and neck. “What the hell are you talking about?”

In the face of fear, I mustered what I’m sure was a very intimidating oooh and clenched my own admirable fists.

“Look,” he said, placing a rough hand on my shoulder. “I know it seems like I probably rushed her into it, but it’s what we both wanted.” I rolled my eyes. “You can even ask your sister about it if you want to - she was as gung-ho about it as I was. She wasn’t even nervous!” More information than I needed to know, thank you. “And it’s not exactly something I can take back!” He shot me a deafening glare. “And you know what? I wouldn’t, either.” He paused and kept staring at me. “Just let her tell you the rest, alright Rich?”

“All I want to know,” I said slowly, trying to help his little mind understand my very obvious question, “is if you intend to marry my sister, you know, the mother of your unborn child?”

He continued to stare at me for so long that I was afraid he was going to up and knock me to the ground with no warning. But slowly the crack of a maniacal smile crept across his face and he shook his head, beginning to laugh. He tightened his grip on my shoulder and said, “Look, buddy, just let her tell you all about it. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled when you get this news.”

And so it was that at exactly five thirty I was waiting outside of my own house for my sister to come down the walkway. I drummed my fingers against my steering wheel and braced myself for what was to come. When I got home from my little talk with Mr. Mustache, I’d allowed myself a few shots of bourbon before napping gracefully on the kitchen floor. By the time Rachel got home, I busied myself showering then darted out here before we had a real chance to talk. I didn’t think I could look at her without looking at her stomach, and I didn’t want to embarrass her, poor girl.

“Hello Richard!” She shouted as she opened the passanger door and settled herself in. “I’m so happy you purchased this model F, it’s so nice!” She gushed, all smiles.

I sighed. “First, sis, it’s a model T for the love of all that’s holy. And second,” I glanced at her face and saw how much effort she put into her appearance for tonight - her glasses were gone (which I knew meant she couldn’t see a damn thing) and she tucked her hair into a style of sorts that kept it from looking like a rat’s nest. Poor, poor thing, I thought, before continuing, “you hate cars. Trying to butter me up for something?”

“Oh, no, ” she said, shifting in her spot. “Let’s head out!” she clapped her hands together than glanced at me before folding them quickly in her lap.

I started to turn over the engine and felt my stomach turn with it. Could I do this? Knowing her first child was nestled in her stomach was sobering me up quite a bit. How could someone do this to my sister? I thought miserably. I started thinking of how we’d raise it, me having to step up for Mr. Mustache because he’d go overseas for some silly research and then write love letters which would turn into love telegrams which would turn into telegrams which would evaporate until Rachel started crying all the time and then the baby was born and then -

“Richard!” she shook my forearm and I realized there was pleading her voice. “Please, why are you acting so strange?” I glanced at her eyes and the watery affect they had made them seem larger, like little pools of crystallized chocolate. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?” She shrunk away a bit and put her hands over her mouth. Her signature move to keep from crying… That goddamn Mr. Mustache!

I opened my mouth to reassure her that I was her older brother, I’d always be there, no matter, and that even if and when he ran out on her, I’d be there to help - and it was as I rehearsed these words that I noticed a glint on her finger which I hadn’t inspected before. Now, I may not be the brightest bulb, but I know my jewelry. It was an intricate silver piece with a small diamond in the center and two small garnets on either side. He got lucky, guessing her birth stone…

“Let me see that,” I mumbled, grabbing her hand and looking closer at it. I wished I had my jewelry eyepiece with me - we could always sell this later to send the little one to private schooling… “Rachel!” The ring was on her left hand, I realized belatedly. “Rachel!”

“Yes, Richard?” She said, slipping her hand back into her lap, the picture of innocence.

“You! You didn’t!” I felt myself flush red as clarity flowed over me. “You did!” Sure, she wasn’t going to be a mother, but this was almost as bad! I’d wanted him to marry her before, of course, but now… “Sneaking around behind my back, hm, sis? What would mom and dad think?”

She looked crestfallen. “I… I’m sure they would want me to be happy, Richard.” Her eyes fell on her lap and she paused before whispering, “I want you to be happy for me too. It’s only been a week since we -”

“A whole week! Rachel!” I thrummed my fingers on the steering wheel to keep from smashing my face into the windshield. “Rach, I… I just wish you be honest with me. I’m no fan of Mr. Mustache, but I wish I had been invited to the wedding.”

“No one was, Richard. You weren’t the only person left out. We just… we decided it on a whim, and I don’t regret it. Neither does he.” I felt her eyes on me so I sighed and looked back at her. Even in the dark, I could tell she was trying not to cry.

“Don’t cry, sis. If you’re happy, I’m happy,” I sputtered the last bit out, not because I meant it yet, but because I knew at one point I would have to.

“There was one thing really, really missing from that night, though..” Rachel said so quietly I had to lean in to hear.

“What?” I asked, ready to mash Mr. Mustache for any given reason.

“We didn’t get to have a brother sister dance.”

And so it came that at twenty seven years I welcomed my sister’s -gack- husband into our home, redecorated my old study because I knew we’d be welcoming another little person soon enough, and vowed to drink a little less each day so my sister would trust me with my niece or nephew when they came about. But before all of that came about, my sister and I had a very awkward and very off-beat slow-dance to her favorite song.

“When you’re smiling,” I sang painfully (yes, even I have the occasional flaw) off-key, “the whole world smiles with you…”