LENA

Sunday, March 5, 1933

“God, I love this town.”

I glance at Booker across the end table separating our favorite side by side overstuffed chairs. We’ve been enjoying reading in front of the living room fire, Booker with his paper and me with Alice B Toklas’s autobiography. The big pot of stew simmering on the stove scents the house, and flames dance through the logs in the grate. A piece of fir suddenly pops, throwing up a small shower of sparks as Booker grins at me over the folded down top corner of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. A stack of newspapers in addition to the P-I rests next to his chair.

“I wuv it, too, Papa,” three-year-old Lucy declares from the floor where she’s playing with her Flossie Flirt doll not far from Booker’s feet. Her blonde brows meet briefly over her little button nose. “Why we wuv it, ‘gain?”

“Because Seattle is our home, Baby Girl,” he gently informs his daughter. “And it’s chock-full of good people.” Lucy clearly loses interest before he finishes his explanation and Booker shoots me a wry smile.

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Why do we love it in particular today?”

“I’m just proud to live in a town where businesses help their employees—especially during this bank holiday experiment. Which, incidentally, the papers are all calling a smart move.”

Unlike many states, Washington has had darn few bank closures. But due to the huge number of loan defaults, it struggles with the same diminished cash flow banks are facing nationwide. Governor Martin ordered a state wide, three-day bank closure in solidarity with several other states hell bent on forging ahead without awaiting the new president’s approval. Our old president’s waffling, which made the banking situation even more dire, is still fresh on everyone’s mind.

“The papers have done a good job explaining what the closure really means and are urging patience rather than hysteria. They’re reminding their readers that Seattle banks, especially, have kept themselves in strong condition and have the highest degree of liquidity in the country.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “God knows having a cash business has helped our liquidity situation.”

“Ow licka-diddy saysun,” Lucy whispers to her doll and Booker and I exchange mutually besotted smiles.

We have been so fortunate. Seattle speakeasies are surviving this depression extremely well. Washington has always been a wet state, and in Seattle, jazz is a hot commodity that’s going strong—especially down on Jackson Street. So, the police and city officials for the most part continue to look the other way.

Not for free, of course. But I’m pretty sure the men down in the immense Hooverville encampment would call that a rich man’s problem.

“A lot of businesses are stepping up while their employees can’t access their money,” Booker continues. “Many are paying them in cash, and Boeing Aircraft—”

The doorbell rings and our oldest, five-year-old Jack, thunders down the stairs hollering, “I’ll get it!”

I snag him as he rushes past, swinging him around until I can mold my palms over his skinny little shoulders. “Jack Joseph,” I say sternly, “what have we told you about running and yelling at the top of your voice in the house?”

“Don’t do it,” he says, then flashes me his father’s charming get-out-of-jail-free smile. “Sorry, Mama.”

I tug him in for a quick hug and a kiss, then hold him at arm’s length. “I don’t want to hear your sorries, young man,” I admonish as I set him loose. “I want you to quit doing what we have told you over and over again not to.” I shake my head as he promptly dashes for the door. Give his daddy a look. “That lack of manners didn’t come from my side of the family.”

Booker laughs and surges up from his chair to haul me out of mine, pulling me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet. “I’ll talk to him again, baby. But I don’t think either of us should hold our breath waiting for my lecture to find fertile ground.” He sets me back on solid footing. “He’s a wild little Indian.”

That’s putting it mildly. Being pregnant with Jack was like hosting one of those Olympic gymnasts we heard so much about last year on the radio and in theater newsreels. And I swear that child hit the ground running the moment I gave birth to him. Unlike Lucy, who’s our snuggle-bug and loves to be read to, Jack is constantly on the move and has no patience for lap cuddles.

“I’m an In-ee-an, too, Papa,” Lucy says, jumping up to tug on his trouser leg.

“Nah.” Booker scoops her up and blows a raspberry on her cheek, closing his eyes briefly when her chubby little arms wrap around his neck. “You’re Papa’s princess.”

“Look, Mama, Papa!” Jack charges back into the living room. “It’s Uncle Will!”

Will strides in on our son’s heels, making Jack laugh uproariously. “Something sure smells good in here,” he says cheerfully and crosses the room to kiss my cheek and shake Booker’s hand. Lucy hops to her feet, demanding “Unca We-o’s” attention and Will bends down to scoop her up. In between talking nonsense to her, he nods at the pile of Sunday papers next to Booker’s chair. “You as impressed as I was when I read Boeing bought three thousand streetcar tokens and arranged credit for gasoline and groceries for their workers? I heard more than sixteen-hundred employees were unable to cash yesterday’s pay checks.”

“I was just telling Lena how much I love this town. Fisher Flour and the local Ford Motor branch cashed their employees checks. Fisher also offered car tokens and credit at certain stores.”

Will nods. “I read that, too. And about the utilities advancing their worker’s enough cash for necessities.” Then he sobers. “I hope to hell the new President can get the men in Hooverville working again.”

“Roosevelt’s New Deal seems geared to putting people to work. That right there is a huge improvement over Hoover’s inactivity. So, here’s hoping. There are too damn many people out of work.”

The doorbell rings again and before I can get up, Jack thunders through the living room once more to answer it. Most of the time I not so secretly enjoy the racket my kids make. Booker and I got married in February of ‘27, and I felt then I finally understood what family—real family—meant. But with the birth of our kids...?

The two of them multiplied the family aspect a thousand-fold for us. So, I let Jack’s inability to walk when he can run or talk quietly when he can yell, slide.

“It’s Auntie Clara,” he shouts, trotting back into the room, hauling Clara behind him with his grip on her wrist. “And she made brownies!”

I will be working on his manners again tomorrow, however.

“Jack, unhand your auntie.” I rise and relieve Clara of the plate she’s balancing with her free hand as Jack’s full-speed-ahead locomotion has her almost doubling the length of her stride to keep up.

Booker quirks both eyebrows at Clara. “The ball and chain still out parking the car?”

Clara relinquishes the dish to me, pries her hand free from Jack’s clutches and grimaces at Booker. “Unfortunately, no. He’s at home icing his shoulder and sipping whiskey to manage the pain of the muscle he pulled trying to put something up in the garage rafters.”

“Trying?” Booker rises to his feet. “You need us to put it up for him?”

“Oh, Booker, would you?” Clara beams at him. “You know how he is—he’s not going to rest until the damn thing is put away. And that means more whiskey, which probably isn’t a great idea.”

Booker transfers his attention to me. “We have time before dinner?”

“Sure.” I shrug. “There’s nothing that can’t be kept hot or refrigerated. If you’re too long, I’ll feed the kids.”

“No,” Jack yells, “I wanna go with papa and Uncle Will.”

“Me go, too!” Lucy dances in place.

“Help your sister with her coat,” Booker says and heads for the foyer to collect his keys. After a noisy couple of minutes, the door slams behind the group of four.

“Ah, silence,” I say contentedly to Clara as the kids’ chatter fades away. “Come on into the kitchen,” I invite. “I’ll get you a drink and you can keep me company while I make a salad and cut the bread. What do you hear from Dot?”

Clara had to reinvent herself as a solo act a couple of years ago after a Canadian businessman dropped by the lounge for a quick drink and ended up sweeping her sister off her feet. Dot now lives up in British Columbia.

“You know what?” I fetch a couple goblets from the cupboard. “Forget the salad and bread for now. It’s a clear day and the city looks magical when the sun goes down. Grab that bottle of wine over there,” I direct, pointing to it. “Let’s take this out into the backyard and enjoy the view. You can catch me up on all the news from north of the border while we still have the house to ourselves.”

We make ourselves comfortable on the patio, with its view of the city, the Olympics and part of Puget Sound. I pour us each a glass a wine and pass Clara hers. “Here’s to us.” I raise my glass. “Did you ever think our lives would turn out the way they have?”

“I really didn’t. I wasn’t looking to fall in love at all, but I must say—” She shoots me a sly smile “—Dot and I could see the writing on the wall when it came to you and Booker.”

“I feel so lucky, Clara. I have everything I ever dreamed of, and more. Booker. The hooligans. And good friends like you and Dot and Will. How the heck did I get so lucky?”

“Oh, it’s not luck, kiddo—you get what you give. And you’re not just a good wife, mother and friend, you’re the best at all those things.” Clara reaches to give my free hand a squeeze. “So, like I said, sweetie. You get whatcha give.”