You may call me an extremist or an overreactor, but that is wrong. I am a realist, to an extent. Late afternoon, I took a walk outside. The society I had found myself in is in moral peril.
As I stepped from my humble apartment, I was met with such blinding signs they stained my sight with spots. Then, the tumult of this city had rattled me so thoroughly my head split the rest of the night.
You should probably have a little backstory on why I ventured into this backwards amalgamation of people we call a “city.” I usually like to stay in my little apartment above the theatre on Fourth Ave. Although the place is loud, it is nice to hear the orchestras play every Friday night. I also work at the theatre.
I was told by my landlord, Greggery, a gypsy I had grown fond of over my years here:
“Cole, Robby has opened a book store on Sixth Avenue. I figured I should tell you since you like books.”
I was curious to see what “Robby” was selling book-wise, and my supply was running short.
So now you understand why I find myself in this predicament. As I stepped into these industrial streets, I could only describe it as hell. The new neon signs everyone loves so much are so disturbing to look at. The women, too, now are so utterly promiscuous; it's repulsive—have they no respect? They call themselves “flappers”; nay, they are succubuses from the lowest levels of the crimson castle.
The air, still spoiled by whatever they burn in those awful towers of those plants.
Quickly, I bolted across the street from these diseased sights. Yet my punishment was not over. I had the displeasure of witnessing a group of men exiting the speakeasy that was across from the theatre. Like drunken buffoons, they waved for a taxi, and one of them, I dare say, tried to speak to me—the heathen.
This speakeasy had become its own layer of hell. The atrocities I witnessed while looking out my window at it could make anyone's faith quake. The other day, I saw a young girl being attacked by a brutish man. He struck her violently—so violently even some passersby had to step in. In the paper, I later learned the man was arrested and it was his wife he was attacking.
Luckily, I hurried by the speakeasy onto the other block, and from there, the only troubles were the smell and lights. I made it to the haven of Robby’s store. Delightful a place. I went on a shopping spree, buying any book I had slight interest in, and when I made it to the register, I spoke with Robby.
We spoke and exchanged pleasantries. It was nice to see someone I knew from this city make their dream come true. We caught up on each other's lives. He then told me to take a book he handed me, “Don Quixote,” saying it was in the house. Such a kind soul; it's a shame I never see him on Sunday.
But if I do recall, Robby, being an immigrant of some variety, practices a different faith than I, so I am not surprised. I hurried home with my haul—around 20 books. The streets were empty, luckily, beside the few cars that sped by.
Now at the apartment, I plan to read my new book. The author has quite an interesting name. Very formal-sounding.
I fixed my shelf, rearranging it so the new books would not destroy its order. I then sat looking out my window at the speakeasy.
Deplorable, some of these men are. Stumbling around without a care in the world. Like they own this city because they have that silly market to play. I find when I look out this window, it is hard to follow the Good Book. It is so hard to distinguish sin from sinner in some cases.
Like these drunkards lusting for women on the streets while they spit up on themselves. Shameful.
As of right now, I am in a predicament I never thought myself to be. A young lady sleeps on my bed and I write on the couch.
I started this Sunday like most. I went to church and heard Father Jules give his beautiful reading of the Good Book. I always find him so much more enthusiastic than Father Cecil ever was, God rest his soul.
I was trotting down the street talking to my friend Hal. We were discussing the sermon before he had to turn down Seventh Street. As the turn came up, I bid him farewell and hurried my pace, not wanting to be out longer than need be.
When I got to my apartment, I made sure it was no more than two blocks from the church to make my travels quick and safe. This alone was not enough to keep me from the troubles in the city. I heard yelling down an alley and curiously poked my head down, only to see a man walking off while a lady stumbled back, falling against a wall and sliding down it.
She began to cry and I cautiously approached her. I could not make out any features on her, for I left my glasses at home, but as I drew near I saw her covering her face with her hands and crimson hair.
“My lady, are you ok?” I asked. She then uncovered her face, picking herself up to sit against the wall.
“Yes, I am fine. Thank you?”
I sensed she was not fine. She had a streak of blood down her face and had a black eye forming.
“Not to be blunt, but you do not look ok.” She insisted she was fixing her hair and picking herself up. As she began to walk away, she stumbled down. I caught her swiftly and sat her down.
“Ma’am, do you want me to escort you to the hospital?”
I did not believe her, so I asked if she had a place I could walk her to. She said no, so I asked if she would like to come to my apartment to get patched up at least. She agreed, so I walked her to the apartment.
I opened the door, pointed her towards the couch, and began readying a cool cloth and my first aid kit. I put on my glasses and was able to get a sharper view of her as she sat on the couch. I was puzzled; she looked almost like a flapper. Short crimson hair, cherry red lips, and she dressed as one.
I began patching her up. I was not one to pry, so I did not ask her what happened. I gave her a bandage for her head. She had a small cut which worried her because of the amount of blood, but I assured her that the scalp is just dramatic. I checked to see if she was punch-drunk. She wasn’t, just rattled, and we started to talk.
“Your name, what is it?” she asked.
“Cole, Cole Einmann,” I responded.
“I am Cecilia, but most call me Celia. You’re German?” she questioned.
“The son of German immigrants, correct. What are you? You have an accent—maybe southern? And you dress as a flapper,” I stated.
“I am from down south, a little ways past Nashville. I grew up on a farm. I am a flapper, kind of. I only got to the city about two weeks ago, you see, but I love the culture,” said she.
This shocked me, a southerner up here. “What brings you up this way?”
“Well, recently I fled my house. My dad wasn’t kind, and being that I am old enough now, when Jacob asked me to elope, I had to go with him here. You saw how that went for me, though. I know it was dumb, but anything to get me away from that cruel monster was good enough for me. See, I only knew Jacob hardly two weeks before I left with him. But I’m twenty-four now, you see, and I was tired of the old man treating me how he did.” She began to tear up. “So, as soon as a nice man came along saying he’d take me away from it all, I foolishly jumped on it,” she said.
“You are no fool for hoping, Celia. You hoped for a better life; that is no foolish thing. I’d consider it brave,” I said to her, patting her shoulder.
She looked at me and smiled. I told her she should get some rest and told her to sleep in my room. I took my post and read my new book, which is what I had planned for that day.
She slept the rest of the day and night. I slept on the couch. I had made myself a delicious dinner of bacon and eggs, but sadly, that meant tomorrow I was gonna have to traverse the streets of this city once more.
Today Celia’s screams awoke me. I rushed in to see what was happening, and she said she had had a nightmare. Poor thing, I thought; she has had it rough the past while. I informed her I was going to make breakfast, and she asked me where my bathroom was. She wanted to shower, so I showed her.
I remembered as she was in the shower that I had run out of food and would have to get some more. Not wanting to be rude, I waited for her to be done and asked if she wanted to tag along. She agreed, so I put on my suit—a wonderful pinstriped one my father used to wear.
We headed to the street and I asked her the question I was dreading.
“Have you a place you can stay, Celia?”
She looked like she’d seen a ghost. “No, but I will leave tonight if you wish. It's just so cold on the streets, Cole, and I am not a gal for the streets.” She looked at me with puppy eyes as she said this. Knowing I was going to have to bid farewell to my bed, I asked,
“Would you like to stay with me until you can make arrangements?”
She lit up, saying, “Oh yes, I would, if you would be so kind.”
We had made it to the store and I opened the door, letting her go in first. We wandered for some time looking for discounts, but we didn’t find any, so I settled for my normal basket of bacon, eggs, milk, bread, and peanut butter. We headed to the register.
At the register, I spoke to Mike. He was a war vet; he served alongside my father and we shared some stories, and I introduced him to Celia. We had a delightful conversation before we left.
As we made it to the apartment, Celia asked me if I knew any fun things to do in the city since she wanted to see the city life. I told her how I normally stay within my four-block limit, yet she insisted. She asked about the theatre and said we should go tonight. I agreed, for an orchestra I liked was playing that night.
We had breakfast and she asked me about my childhood. I am not a closed-off man, I believe, so I told her.
“Well, I was born here, the son of two German immigrants. My father died when I was relatively young because of the Great War. So my mother raised me here in an apartment not far from here. She was an actor here at the theatre, which is why I got the apartment so cheap. She died recently also, so I mostly stay here, go to work, then go to church. How about you?”
“Sorry to hear about your parents; I bet they were wonderful people to raise you. My childhood was also not the best. My mom died giving birth to my sister, Gertie. My dad became a very mean and unholy drunk after that. He did something to me and my sister I won’t discuss, but he always hid behind his religion when he hurt us. He blamed us for him hitting us, saying we were tempters from hell and no man could withstand our spells. The bastard, he ended up killing Gertie when I was twelve. Gertie was only seven; she got the worst of it from him. He said she was eye candy. After that, he focused on me. I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear my sob story,” she said, jokingly, almost.
“It’s ok, you can tell me whatever you like. I am sorry to hear about Gertie.”
“Alright, well, at eighteen my oldest sister, Jackie, ran away. I haven't heard from her since. Let's see, I think I was sixteen at that time. I recently came here to escape my father with Jacob. That is pretty much my life story, sad and pathetic,” she said.
“Sad, yes, but pathetic, hardly. What you just told me was a story of endurance. You came out still believing you could find something in the city. That is not pathetic; far from it,” I said to her.
The rest of the day we sat and chatted. I ended up getting her to read her first book—well, I tried to. I figured “The Wizard of Oz” would speak to her a little. She did not get any formal education, so I tried to help her but ended up reading it to her since it’s shorter.
She ended up liking it immensely. I do too; one of my favorites was one of the first I read as a child. Until, of course, we went to see the orchestra.
The night started kindly and we had finished the book, almost losing track of time. We hurried to get ready. We donned formal clothes since the theatre is fancy.
We went down the stairs, entered the doors, and found our seats. We sat in the middle front row—perfect seats, as I thought. They weren’t a little too loud for my liking. Celia found much enjoyment in the show. She told me it was her first time in a theatre and she found it almost mesmerizing.
The show ended and she told me how she loved the piano at the end, and I agreed, since it was another kid I grew up with. We called him Hammel, but his name was Carter. She found it amazing that I knew so many people and wanted me to take her around the city some more. She had a taste for it, I guess.
So I did—the only other place I went to, Father Jules. Before we went, I went back to the apartment to retrieve a book I had to give him. It was “Wuthering Heights,” a book I dearly loved and believed he may enjoy it also.
Now about halfway there, it became apparent that Celia may not want to go to a church with her upbringing and all, so I asked. She then told me she will go since he is a friend. This surprised me. I was weary and would only drop off the book and maybe take her then to a museum I went to once as a kid.
As I entered the chapel, Father Jules greeted us warmly, hugging me and Celia. He asked who the fine young lady I had with me was and I introduced them. When I handed him the book, he lit up, saying, “My, my, Cole, you have wonderful taste; this is, without a doubt, beside the Bible, of course, my favorite book. I read this so much as a young man my copy got lost in the move to this city. This one is so beautiful, Cole; where did you find it, if I may ask?”
“Robby opened a store down the ways; I’ll take you one day after service if you’d want. It’s beautiful there, Father; you must see it yourself,” I said.
“Looks like we have a plan,” he said in his jolly light voice.
Our visit came to an end and me and Celia walked outside once more. I told her about the museum, but she seemed upset and wanted to go home.
“What is a matter, Celia? Was it the church?” I inquired.
“You didn’t tell me Father Jules was a negro. I want to go to the apartment and shower,” she said in a very harsh tone.
My heart has never sunk more in my life. “Father Jules is a great person, Celia; look past that. He has helped me through my hardest moments. Please do not say that.”
She then stormed off back to the apartment, and I began to follow her. She went straight to the shower, so I waited for her on the couch, still in a little shock. I used to think the same thing about the Father, but I never wanted to shower over the hugs. I just got to know the guy and realized he’s a good man.
She came out in a towel wrapped around her tightly. She then, like a woman from a whorehouse, pounced atop me, disrobing herself and kissing me. I had never been more shocked in my life. She must have put a spell on me because I went along with it. She unbuttoned my shirt, and you can imagine the rest. This whore, this harlot, this wench had corrupted me.
When I came to, I was disgusted. How could I fall for such sin? Repulsed with myself, I headed to the bathroom, throwing up everything I had eaten that day. I was shook; I had defiled myself. Unmarried, I had corrupted my very soul. No, not me—it was her spell, I swear.
I rectified this by telling her to leave. I told her I did not care where she went. She was an object of sin and avatar of lust—the whore. I took her suitcase with me as I set it out the door, and I slammed the door in the impurity’s face.
Though I quickly came to my senses. I let her back in, but she went right to the bathroom and locked herself in, crying. I do not know why I had such a reaction, as to blame her. I know deep down if I didn’t want it to happen, I could’ve stopped it. But I guess it is easier to blame than accept you did wrong sometimes. Tomorrow I will head to the church and ask for forgiveness.
This will not be an easy sin to forgive, though a true sin I have committed. Sickened with myself, I have taken down each mirror in the house. I believe Celia spent the night in the bathroom.
I have never held such hatred for myself. Even the city as a whole—as I track to the church to meet Father Jules, I can’t help but be sickened. I am now no better than the man who beats his wife. No better than the man who murders.
The chapel is welcoming and Father Jules instantly knew something was off with me. He guided me to the confessional and I explained the events.
“Premarital intercourse, Cole—that is quite the sin. A foolish one also. If you love her, why not get married, Cole?”
“I have only known her for about a week or two, Father. It confuses me why she even initiated the act.”
“That is a question, Cole, but I secretly think you know the answer. She had a harsh upbringing, you said; men were never kind to her, you said. Then you, Cole, a quite handsome, tall, a little lanky man, nurses her to health, feeds her, and shelters her. See what I’m getting at? She maybe felt like she was repaying you to an extent. Now, may she have gone about it wrong? Yes, but I believe you should not hold it against her, Cole. She meant no harm. Also, a little tough love: you were just as complacent; you are about double that little angel's size, Cole; you are not a victim here. Now pray the rosary twice and apologize to Celia, you fool.”
This struck me like a train. He was right. I did not want him to be, but he was. I made my way to the apartment and to the bathroom. I knocked a few times. No answer. I knock and call her name with no answer.
I pushed open the door, breaking it down. There she was on the floor in a ball. I shook her and shook her. I noticed an empty bottle of various pills near her. I put two and two together, horrified. I scooped her up and rushed her as fast as I could down the street to the hospital.
About halfway there she began to throw up a little, a sign so marvelous I almost cried. How could I do this to her? What is the matter with me? A friend is about to die in my arms because I am no man.
Barely, I make it into the building, some nurses towards me, ushering me to a room. I placed her gently on the bed. So many people surrounded her. I was pushed out of the room while they pumped her stomach, I think.
I waited outside the room for about thirty minutes. I thought I could never feel as much shame as I did last night—never more repulsed with myself than last night. I was so wrong. A friend's blood is about to be on my hands because I have this weird ego in myself that I am better than everyone—I'm not. I make mistakes and I sin. But now I truly am a murderer. A sin I will never allow myself to repent for.
A doctor came up to me, saying, “Your wife is stable and you should go sit with her.”
I thought it funny he believed her to be my wife; I sat with her the rest of the day. The hospital had a library, so while she was in a comatose state, I read to her. All I could find was a story by a Russian called “White Nights.”
She slowly began to awake after an hour. I lit up when she opened her eyes, but she flipped around to face the wall. This was the worst feeling I had ever felt. Nothing could compare to that, ever. I failed a friend over what? A silly mistake, maybe even a miscommunication.
I did not know what to say, so I started with an “I am sorry.”
“I am sorry, Celia. I know what I did was wrong. There is no excuse for how I treated you. You are the best thing that has happened to me in these three years since my mother's passing. Because of you, these streets aren’t as wicked; my days are filled with joy. I threw that away, over—I don’t even know on my part. You can hate me, but know I am sorry. I have to stay with you here; forgive me for that also.”
The rest of the day we sat in silence. She has to be on watch for two weeks. I made a deal; somehow, I convinced the doctor she didn’t need to go to the nut house. With that deal, I have to stay here with her.
Hopefully this does not give her another reason to hate me, but I know what they do trying to “cure” those people in those institutions.
During our stay at the hospital, we never talked, just glances. I brought her food and books from the library. But towards the end of our stay, she told me she was going to be going back to her father, condemning me as another religious zealot who weaponizes their beliefs.
I was very much against this and made a foolish mistake. I told her she could stay at my apartment and I’d find somewhere else to sleep. She accepted this proposal.
On the way home, she entered the apartment and locked the door in my face. I decided to see the only man I knew could help me: Father Jules. He said he’d speak to her for me. A tray of cornbread in hand, he marched to my apartment while I prayed the rosary. This is his account of the encounter:
Cornbread in hand, I made my mama’s delicious recipe, knowing Celia is a southerner like me. I knew this was the only way I was gonna get inside. I knocked on the door; a voice rang out:
“Oh, this isn’t Cole. It is Father Jules.”
She opened the door a crack, asking what I wanted. I told her I just wanted to talk and brought cornbread. She allowed me to sit with her.
“So Celia, I’ve heard you’ve had it rough recently.”
“Well, there is my father; you know what he did to us. Gertie was three when he started… Then there is Jacob. I believed I have found haven, but no, I keep being wrong, Father. Cole was the same as Jacob; was physically violent, but it was worse. I couldn’t put into words how he made me feel. I thought all men wanted it; that's what Jacob wanted, that's what Dad wanted; that seemed to be the only thing that I could do to make them happy. Now, I was a little pushy with it, but in that shower, I thought of everything he did for me and I was just a parasite on him. I don’t know, I just thought. But what he did to me was worse than Jacob; he made me feel inhuman. I thought I finally found a good man, but no. In that bathroom, I kept thinking about how my whole life has just been bad with a sprinkle of good—seeing light and having it ripped away. I can't live like the Father. What did I do wrong to deserve that? I was born?”
“You are right, you don’t deserve that, Celia; no one does, truly no one. I am sorry, I wish I could do more for you, Celia. I know it is going to sound odd, but I would like you to attend Sunday church. You see the bad apples of the church. There is good in it, I promise. But some people use it because it's easy to hide behind when faced with self-reflection. But a lot truly believe in just doing good. I’ll even let you have the little house on the side of the church, because Cole is gonna need his apartment back.”
“No, Father, I'm not some charity case.”
“You’re right, you are someone who has been dealt a dreadful hand. All I can do to fix that is use what I have to help you, Celia. I wish I could do more, but I can’t. One mass and I could even get you a job as a secretary or something at the church. I want to help you, Celia. I believe you are a great person who just needs a hand out of the darkness.”
She nodded and cried, and I led her to the church. I showed her around the house and got her about a month's supply of food.
I explained to Cole what happened. He then left.
This is back to me again, Cole. It has been about two years since this happened. I only see Celia at mass now; she looks well. She grew her hair out and has a husband, Nathan. She is expecting a child.
Although I do not talk to her, I admire her from afar. I stay away not wanting to disturb her new found happiness. It is the least I can do. She is the secretary of the church, but she doesn't need to work, for Nathan owns a lot of businesses in the city.
She still has a love for reading. I believe she always has a book on hand. I am back to my solitary life now. I do not know how I couldn’t see what I had, but I couldn’t. I still try to talk to Father Jules every once in a while; he keeps me updated on Celia. She always sits in the front of the church and even began doing some readings. Nathan is very lucky. They met at church, if you can believe that.
My life is a lot dimmer without her. Maybe I was just so blinded I could not see, but we shall never know.
