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| The Pickle Jar [Character Family History] | Started by: Pickles on Apr 30, '09 23:20 |
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My life was over the day it began. My mother, who I never got to meet, wrapped me in a bloody towel and left me in a pickle barrel behind Blum's Deli. I was found nearly frozen to death the next morning, the first day of Channukah and was taken in by Deborah and Eli Blumenkrantz. They named me Penelope Irene and raised me in the two bedroom apartment they kept above the deli. By the time I was twelve I had figured out I wasn't like my parents. My mother was gorgeous, with violet eyes and hair the colour of freshly brewed coffee. My father had a long, curly beard he kept meticulously trimmed and styled. And I didn't look a thing like them. In the summer when I spent long hours out doors playing with my dolls and finding new ways to upset the neighborhood boys, my skin would turn a deep olive brown which enhanced the lapiz-lazuli colour of my eyes. I went to an Orthodox school and learned Hebrew and Yiddish but often felt my heart tug with a longing I didn't fully comprehend. Sometimes, when I walked home, I'd stray into the Italian neighborhood and peer into the windows of the shops. The butcher shop amazed and horrified me and I'd stand mesmerized for hours, looking at the meat my family considered "unclean." Often I would stay so long I would hear the massive bells of the Catholic church ringing for evening mass and would have to rub my arms to get rid off the goosebumps. The bells seemed to sing just for me but I felt guilty for listening to their songs. My mother said she knew there was was something wrong with me the day I came into her life and constantly treated me like a burden or a disease. My hair wasn't the right colour or length, my skin was too dark and my eyes were full of sin. The day I asked her about a small statue I had seen in the Italian neighborhood she knocked me down the stairs that led from our apartment to the deli. And that was just the beginning of another 4 years of hell. When I turned 13 I was suppose to have a bat mitzvah or a coming of age ceremony. The day before, I went into my mother's room to get my dress and saw the bottom drawer of her vanity was open. I knew I was already tempting the evil eye by being in her room but the lure of my mother's finery pulled me closer. I don't know how much time I spent pawing through her drawers but I was dazzled by the pearls and gold and jewels I saw. Then I found something that not only puzzled me, it shocked me. Among a strand of pearls was what looked like a crystal necklace, each bead on a wire that connected it to the next. Hanging from the end was a small silver cross with a little carved man on it. I had heard of these but only from friends at school who told me they were evil. As I lifted it up to watch sun beams dance off the crystal I gasped. Standing in the doorway was my mother. "Vilda chaya!!" She shouted as she rushed towards me. My head was slammed into the desk as she leapt at me, grasping for the beads. I don't remember much of what happened next but I do know I never let go of the necklace. Waking up in the hospital, I saw that the beads were wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet. The nurses spoke in quiet tones and I only saw my father twice. Once, when he came to pay my bill and once to tell me that my mother would never let me back in the house. When I asked, tears running down my bruised face, where I would go, he shook his head. That was how I found out I was adopted. I was told I'd be going to an orphanage as soon as I got well so as soon as I could sit up without pain exploding in my head, I ran away. The first few weeks on the street I was painfully naive, believing that people would take pity on me. After my first few run ins with dirty cops I came to realise that the only luck you have is what you make for yourself. I rode the rails looking for work and got plenty of beatings and shakedowns whenever I got caught by a rail yard bull. The first man I ever killed was a bull who made me pay my fare in flesh. After stripping all the men I rode with naked it was obvious I wasn't the boy I dressed as. The Bull took half of each rider's money, not caring if they had twenty cents or twenty dollars. When he left me with the cash I had I knew I was in trouble. He didn't even try to hide the raw lust in his eyes as he grabbed me and took me to an unused room at the rail station. I had been pawed at before but never suffered the indignities he forced upon me. When he was done he threw my dirty clothing at me and told me to disappear before he considered keeping me. I stumbled out into the sunlight and vomited, the only thing I wanted more than to be clean, was revenge. I waited all afternoon, rolling my plan around in my head, wondering if I could really do it. After his shift was over I followed him as he went to the nearest saloon. The hours he spent getting drunk just hardened my resolve and when he finally stumbled out the doors around midnight, I was ready. It was easy to knock him off balance as drunk as he was and as soon as I had him down I began beating him with a rail spike I had taken from the supply yard. Even after my arms began to ache with effort I kept hitting his face and head, feeling hot blood spray my skin in the cool night air. The pathetic gurgling sound he made was like listening to an aria. When he stopped twitching I took his money and the fancy gold pocket watch he had and hit the rails again in pursuit of Chicago. The day I met Kittie Capone was the worst day of my life. Once I hit Chicago I ran with a crew of bootleggers disguised as a boy. I fought, I drank, I gambled and I killed if I had to. I was just coming back to our hide out in the woods after a delivery and had smelled the smoke before I saw the fire. I foolishly drove all the way back and jumped out the the car to look for survivors. From what I could see, there weren't any. The stench was like nothing I ever smelled or ever wanted to smell. I had made a delivery and had money but no where to go and nobody to trust. I buried the money in a metal cigar box and drove into town, setting the car on fire behind a row of empty buildings. I figured whoever had offed my crew would know I was still alive and I sure didn't want to leave them any damn bread crumbs. It rained that night, and the next, and the next until everything was just a grey, soggy blur. Until I met her. A large awning protected vegetables in wooden crates on the back stoop of a joint I'd been casing and I was so hungry that even eating a whole head of lettuce sounded better than going another second without food. My sense of self preservation was split. If I got caught... I didn't care anymore, I couldn't think over the rumbles in my stomach. As I grabbed a head of lettuce I heard a shout. I turned to run and tripped, sprawling in a huge, muddy puddle. Before I could scramble to my feet a hand wrapped around my wrist and hoisted me to my feet. I twisted around, expecting a man and got a shock. Green eyes. Woman's eyes. "WALK!" She barked. Over the next 2 years I tried to run away and Kittie found me every time before I did anything stupid. She made me finish high school and dress like a girl. She also taught me ways of expressing myself that didn't involve killing anyone. She taught me to sing. Right before I left to work at a club in California she gave me a present I didn't expect. I had been dodging the men who killed my crew then entire time I was with Kittie and she knew I was worried about them catching up with me. The night before I left, she closed the cafe for what she called "special guests" and asked me to waitress for them. Right after I saw who they were I marched back in and told her to drop the fuck dead. She calmly told me to do as she asked. So for almost three hours I swallowed bile and death threats and called them all sir. I knew they'd never recognize me dressed as a girl but that only made me angrier. After dinner Kittie sent me out with a tray of desert wines. When I got back she smiled and patted me on the shoulder before she walked out to talk to them. I was trying not to explode from rage when I heard gun shots. One after another after another. I disobeyed Kittie and ran into the dining room, meat cleaver in hand and stopped in shock. All six of the men I had been serving all night were dead, bodies twisted in various angles. Several of Kittie's dishwashers were already beginning to clean up the mess and take bodies out the side door. "K-Kittie?" She turned and smiled at me. "Just think of it as a going away present kiddo." I got into San Francisco the next week and found that Kittie had paved the way with her people who all looked out for me. She'd call me once a week and write me postcards. And when I told her I was tired of California she told me about her new blues club she ha opened in Chicago. She asked me to come home and offered me a job singing. The train ride was boring and there were lots of unhappy people every place we stopped. I got into Chicago late and made it to The Blue Butterfly right before closing. It was dark and no one seemed to be inside but the door was unlocked so I pushed my way in and met Adrian, Kittie's fiancee. What he said changed my life in ways I still can't comprehend. Kittie was dead. I don't really know what I'm going to do or where I'll be next, but I hope that whatever I do, it makes Kittie proud. |
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| This has been one of the best and most intense stories I have heard so far in my young life here. This story is excellently told. | |
| Reply by: Adrian at May 01, '09 09:41 | |
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