A Dark Stain
The warm sun rises above the tall buildings and creeps into the cracks of the chestnut brown shutters right into the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Howell. Richard Howell stretches his arms above his sleepy head, slowly rising from his slumber. The silk pajamas stick on sweaty skin. Should have bought one of those fancy air conditioners. Damn Indian Summers.
In the closet a gray jacket and a pair of slacks are carefully folded and placed on a chair. Groaning with sleepiness Richard slowly dresses and shuffles down the hallway in a leisurely fashion. Shoes “click-clack” down the just-waxed hallway marble floors. Family pictures placed throughout the hallway display a picture perfect family: basking in the hot sun of the Bahamas, taking a picnic in Central Park, in front of a lavish Christmas tree with precious presents, visiting and eating cookies with Grandma. The smell of bacon fills the air. A woman in a knee-high dress and white closed-toe shoes greets him at the tall, white, French dinning room doors. Good morning Mr. Howell, she says politely.
A chandelier swings gently in the middle of the open dinning room, thousands of large and small crystals glistening above. Large city windows stream sunlight down onto the dangling chandelier and the reflection dances across the several Picasso paintings bringing natural light across the room. A large mirror framed in gold hangs on one of the walls. In the reflection of the mirror, the table is set for four. Eugene, Richards’s oldest son, 10 years old, sits across from Priscilla, Richards’s youngest daughter, who is 8. Both children are presented in their prestigious blue and white school uniforms. Eugene’s uniform fits snugly around his rotund belly, so taut that the little brown buttons on his jacket appear ready to pop off. The still wet, slicked back hair and shiny face reflect Eugene’s anxiety. Pricilla, however, fits perfectly into her blue dress and coat. Pricilla’s golden hair runs down to the middle of her back and is pinned back by a few diamond-studded bobby pins, which her mother gave her. Pricilla and Eugene are anxiously cramming food into their mouths when Richard comes into the room. Good morning father.
Richard nods at the children and sits down in his chair quietly. Mr. and Mrs. Howell preside at the ends of the table, king and queen. Fresh flowers fill the table with a sweet summer smell. The long wooden table groans under napkins, crystal glasses, china, eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits, gravy, hotcakes, coffee, juice and milk; all prepared by Rosa their cook.
Sweat drips down the brown face of another maid, Ruby. Quickly she rushes to find Mr. Richard’s daily newspaper—foolishly she had forgotten to hand it to him when he came into the room. Richard sighs, slightly irritated by the scatterbrained maid. The crisp bacon crunches loudly, eyes scanning the sport section. The Yankees had done it again. A picture of Babe Ruth and his fellow teammates holding the 1933 World Series Trophy is placed above the article of the winning team. Thank God. Something good was coming out of this year. The next page of the newspaper is not good news. The WPA would be serving food down by his Oil Refinery. Not again. Damn poor always wanting more. Lazy sons-of-bitches! Mrs. Howell glances up at Mr. Howell’s disgust. The government spends too much money on the worthless and the no good. Why don’t they just get a job like the rest of us? Rosa’s giggle at the woman’s ignorance, but is quickly squelched by another one of the maid’s scowls. Not right now.
After breakfast the children head to private school, Mrs. Howell stays at home and “watches” over things. Richard is picked up by the $945, Auburn 1932, five passenger, two door, Brougham and his quiet but friendly driver Johnny. The shiny black car cruises through the city, sparkling in the beaming sun. Johnny takes a short cut through the “Hells Kitchen” neighborhood of Manhattan. A long the way various people of every kind walk along the sidewalks. Beggars fill the streets but very few are recognized by the more fortunate man. An older man with two children sits on the curb dressed in filthy old rags. Dark circles rim the man’s and the children’s tired eyes, lifelessly following Mr. Howell’s car as it moves along the congested street. Any change will do. It might pay for our next dinner. The children are hungry, our last meal was yesterday morning, don’t you have a heart?
No, not this time. The car sits stuck in a line of traffic due to the immense amount of people hurrying to the soup kitchen that the WPA has set up. The starving family looks desperately at him. Goddamn Johnny run em’ over if you have to—I can’t stand being even a minute late!
The gates of the factory open and inside black jumpsuits move vigorously down the line of work. Sweat drips from the men’s distressed faces and falls onto the concrete floor unnoticed. Wages are low and hours are long, families to feed. Mr. Howell observes the men intently. The men continually move barrels, fill barrels. No time to loose. Must keep working.
Inside Mr. Howell’s plush office accountants, secretaries, assistants are diligently working—consumed by their tasks yet acutely aware the boss is in. Ledgers are filled out, papers shuffled and filed, documents are signed, money flows. A meeting is called. Revenue has slowed, expenses have increased, somebody must be laid off. Who has not met their quota? The hapless are called in. The other workers turn their backs as each drags to his demise. They are silent. What is this about? Mr. Howell used to hate this task, but his heart has hardened to stone since money became tighter and tighter. Can’t help every body. Not running a charity. It wasn’t a choice, it was a requirement. The bank was his master, it told him what to do. The men in the jumpsuits knew this is the end, time is up. But how about our family? It isn’t my problem. The men sluggishly pack up their belongings and go home, brought news to their families and dream for better days. Mr. Howell heads home early as well, however, for a different reason.
On Friday night lavish parties offer an escape to the wealthiest and well-known. This Friday it is a costume party held at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. The ballroom is ornate and impeccable—with a live band and a crowd of wealthy socialites and aristocrats. Bright colors, masks, furs, silks, diamonds and watches drape around each and every guest. Steak, lobster, caviar, and Mr. Howell’s favorite dessert—Baked Alaska—make up the meal. The men talk finance while the women chat about books, their daily lives, silly drama, clubs and brag about their beloved children. The children sit quietly, struck with boredom. The music plays, the drinks flow, the colors flash as they dance all the dirt and ugliness of the city falls far away.
Arriving home, as usual, Mr. Howell has a glass of cognac and cigar before going to bed. Staring drowsily into his cognac, he suddenly is reminded of the family he witnessed earlier. He seems to see their exhausted, vacant eyes staring back at him, accusing, begging for a meal, and his heart begins to bear a little faster for a moment. Then the cognac begins its magic, blurring the memory just enough to push the guilt away. His eyelids into a peaceful dream, his fingers begin to tremble and become weak. Slipping forward, the crystal glass spills onto the pearl white carpet, the cognac forming a small brown stain.