Long Ago-
Stiletta Jones sat in her rocker, desperately trying to lull
her infant daughter to sleep. Baby Angelica had been wailing for an hour, with
no apparent reason and no sign of stopping.
I didn’t have this
problem with Floyd Jr… Stiletta thought. He’s always so quiet.
Upon thinking of her son, Stiletta realized she hadn’t seen
him since before Angelica had started crying. Carefully, she stood, bouncing
Angelica gently in her arms. The girl kept crying. Stiletta made her way to
son’s room and knocked on the door.
“Junior?” She asked. There was no response.
Panicked, Stiletta opened the door and found her 4-year-old
lying on his stomach, drawing with a crayon on a blank pad. In the corner of
the room was an elaborate structure made out of wooden blocks. Floyd seemed to
be drawing up plans for his next project. Stiletta sighed in relief.
“Junior! Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?” She
demanded.
“Not Junior.” The boy responded coldly.
Stiletta couldn’t be sure, but the comment almost seemed to
make Angelica stop crying and laugh. She promptly began crying again.
“I know you don’t like being called ‘Junior’.” Stiletta
said. “But I want you to answer when I ask for you! Do you understand me, young
man?”
“Yes.” Floyd Junior said flatly.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Stiletta scolded.
Floyd Junior turned and looked at his mother with a
heavy-lidded glare. His cheeks were fuller, but he looked so much like a child
version of his father that it never failed to amaze Stiletta. She bounced
Angelica in her arms.
“Would you like to hold your sister for a while?” Stiletta
asked.
“No.” Floyd Junior responded. He just stared at her.
Stiletta rolled her eyes.
“Fine. Stay in here, then. Your father should be home soon
and we’ll all have dinner together.” Stiletta turned to leave.
“I know…” Floyd Junior said impassively. He waited until his
mother had left the room to return to his drawing.
Stiletta made her way back to the front room. She wished
that she could share her son’s certainty about her husband’s comings and goings.
Recently, Floyd Sr. had been so different. Distant, aloof, hardly his old
adventurous self. At least, not when he was around her.
“Don’t call me ‘Flattop’,” he had said to her the last time
they were together. He had never complained about the nickname before. But now
it seemed to irk him when she used it.
I wonder if he
suspects… She thought.
Forty minutes later, Angelica was finally napping. Stiletta took the
opportunity to finish preparing dinner for her family, her eye on the clock,
wondering when Floyd Sr. would arrive.
This was hardly the life she had expected for herself. She’d
been a daring, care-free young woman, as much at home on a dusty backroad as in
a sumptuous hotel suite. Her skill as a knife-thrower had allowed her to travel
the world giving exhibitions even as a teenager.
Then she had met Flattop and her world turned upside-down.
Something about him drew her to him. His cool, dispassionate demeanor which
fell away the moment they were alone together was irresistible. He had taken
her with him on some of his early jobs, finding that she made an effective
distraction in preparations for bank robberies. And the “celebrations” they had
afterwards were even more exhilarating.
The life of an outlaw soon took over, though. Floyd would
frequently send her to some relative’s or a safe house while he fled the state.
“Lay low, I’ll send some money when the heat does down,” was a common sentiment
that she would get in his letters. When Floyd Jr. had come along, she had
insisted that they have a proper home, which quickly became like a prison to
her.
Of course, she wasn’t a lonely woman. Floyd’s brother Walter
went on fewer and fewer jobs with him, and he consequently became a frequent
visitor to Stiletta’s home. Walter was so unlike Floyd in so many ways, but his
passion was just as fiery. Stiletta had found it difficult to resist after a
while…
Stiletta heard the front door swing open. She wiped her
hands on a towel and went to meet her husband.
“Floyd! You’re here! Dinner is almost ready.” Stiletta
beamed at him.
“Where’s the kid?” Flattop demanded, coldly.
“Angelica? She’s right here in her crib. She’s only just
calmed down after-“
“Not her. MY kid.” Flattop said, fixing his wife with a
intense gaze.
“What do you-" Stiletta gasped. “Oh! Oh, Floyd, no! It’s not
what you-"
“I just had a long talk with my brother.” Flattop said. “I’m
not having a long talk with you.”
Flattop pushed past Stiletta and made his way to the back of
the house. Stiletta stood, fixed to the spot, unable to move. She heard Flattop
talking to his son, then they emerged into the front room. Flattop was pulling
Floyd Jr. by the arm. The boy wasn’t resisting.
“Go get in the car.” Flattop told his son. Floyd Jr. walked
out the front door without looking at his mother.
“I’m taking him.” Flattop told Stiletta.
“Where?” Stiletta asked?
“None of your damn business.” Flattop snarled. “I paid for
this house, got it? That makes it my house. When I get back here tonight, I
don’t want you or HER-“ he pointed derisively at Angelica’s crib, “-to be in
it. Understand?”
“Floyd, I-“ Stiletta started. Flattop cut her off.
“Blowtop’s my brother. I’m not going to kill my brother.” He
stepped towards Stiletta and wrapped a hand around her throat. “You, I’ll kill.
If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.”
Flattop squeezed his wife’s neck for a brief moment, then
released it. He stalked out without back.
***
Less than an hour later, Stiletta was pounding on Walter’s
door. Angelica was wrapped in a blanket in her arms, squalling. From inside,
Walter shouted at her.
“Woo! Gosh!” Who is it?” Walter demanded.
“It’s me, Stiletta!” she answered. “Walter, let me in! Floyd
knows! He threw me out!”
The door flung open and Walter stood there in a robe. He
blocked her from entering.
“Of course he knows!” Walter bellowed. “You think he’s
stupid! Look at her head! Look at her hair! He was bound to figure it out!”
“But- But did you tell him?” Stiletta asked.
“We were coming back from a job and had a few drinks!”
Walter yelled. “He’s my brother! We talked! He weaseled it out of me!”
A neighbor across the street opened his front door. “Hey!
Knock it off out here, will you?”
“Mind your own business!” Walter shouted. “Woo! Gosh! Some
people!”
Stiletta lowered her voice. “Will you just let me in,
please? Floyd threw us out and I don’t have anywhere to go.”
“You can’t come in here.” Walter said, his voice quieter but
insistent. “You know what he’d do to me if he knew I took you in?”
“But, Walter, we were…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, she held up her crying child. “She’s your daughter, Walter.”
Walter looked from the baby to his brother’s wife and back
again. He sighed.
“Wait here.” Walter said. He closed the door. After a
moment, he returned. “Give me the kid.”
Hesitantly, Stiletta placed Angelica in Walter’s arms.
Angelica stopped crying. Walter looked at her and half-smiled. Then, he looked
back and Stiletta and held out a bundle of cash.
“That should get you pretty damned far away from here.”
Walter said. “You can buy a new name, face, documents, whatever you want. Just
don’t try to contact us.”
“Walter-" Stiletta began.
“And I mean ANY of us. Not the boy, not my other brother or
sister, not our parents, aunts and uncles, ANYBODY. You’re not a member of the
Jones family any more. Forget you ever were. Understand?”
Tears were welling up in Stiletta’s eyes. “But, they’re my
children, Walter…”
“Not any more. Now get lost! Seriously!”
Walter turned and shut the door. Stiletta stood there for a
moment. She sobbed, silently, only once. Then, she wiped the tears from her
face and walked off the front porch. She was resolved that it would be a very very long time before she
cried again.
Epilogue
Eight year old Angelica stormed into the house and
confronted her foster father.
“You threw away my letters!” She yelled.
“I don’t know what you mean.” The man said, impassively.
“I waited by the mailbox until the mailman came! Every day
for 3 weeks!” Angelica shouted, red-faced and teary-eyed. “Today I got this!”
The girl held up a letter and an envelope addressed to her.
“It’s from my brother! He asks why I haven’t written back!
He says he’s been writing me twice a month sometimes!”
“Those letters get you worked up, Angel.” Her foster father
explained. “I decided it was better that you not see them.”
“He’s my only brother! He’s my family and he loves me! I
have a right-"
“Now you stop that this instant, young lady.” He scolded.
“You live in my house and you follow my rules. Those letters put all kind of
foolish ideas in your head about running off and robbing banks and shooting
guns and all manner of terrible things. You’re much better off here in a safe,
secure home than you would be surrounded by a bunch of outlaws and hoodlums, do
you understand? It wouldn’t hurt you to show some appreciation.”
Angelica scowled, then adopted a calmer demeanor. “You’re
right. I’m sorry.”
“Good.” The man held out a hand. “Now give it here.”
Reluctantly, Angelica handed over the letter from Floyd Jr.
Her foster father folded it and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“All right, now. Go to your room until you can show me the
proper respect.”
Angelica sulked off to her room. You think you’re so smart, She thought. My father was the most wanted man in America. My brother’s a genius and
I’m just like them.
Closing and locking her bedroom door behind her, Angelica
lifted her mattress. Hidden between the mattress and box spring was the
painting that Floyd Jr. had made of her, based off of a photograph she had sent
him, back when she had still been allowed to write back. It had creases from
where it had been folded to fit in an envelope, but the likeness was
remarkable. She could sense the affection for her that must have guided his
efforts.
Someday we’ll be
together. She thought. Dad may be
gone, but as soon as I’m old enough, my brother and me will show the world that
Flattop’s kids are smarter and tougher than any cops…
Angelica didn’t think about her mother at all.
