No. 12

Mrs. Lafayette to Mrs. Quinn (The Loot)

Mrs. Quinn

908 E Jefferson

Louisville, Kentucky

July 6, 1940

Win told me that she herself had only arrived a few days before the storm hit. She was living in Clinton, Iowa, waiting to move into a new house, which was being painted. When Julien died in December, she could not travel to comfort her sister in Oxford for the snow, but she promised that, when it was warmer, that she would come to help her sister clear out the house for the tax sale. The plan was for her sister to move out into town or come back to live with Win in Iowa.  

“I knew that we’d be burning things,” Win said. “And so, I brought with me a suitcase of old letters from my old life in Clinton. I didn’t think I would find courage to do it at my stove. I needed help from my sister. I knew it would have to be one big toss, a leap!”

“Where are the old letters, Win?”

“If the tornado blew them out to the town, I’ll be mortified,” she said.

“It is a good idea to build a fire. Let’s get it done, Win, and accomplish something today. Maybe the smoke will attract some do-gooder from town,” I said, standing up.

“Start the fire,” Win said, “And I’ll see if I can find more to burn, including the old letters. They were still in a suitcase.”

“A black one?” I asked.

“Yes, with brass handle. Did you see it?”

I told her I thought I had seen one at the edge of the field, near the barn. And she started leaning that way, but I told her, “I will get it. Let me lift it.”

When I found it, it was still locked. I brought it to the edge of the barn, and set it down to see if I could find a gas can or other accelerant in the barn.

The barn had collapsed a bit more since the last time I was there, but I found a tank and smelled it. I grabbed a rag. And walked out, pushing the door out more and bringing in the sun. I saw the truck on blocks again. I backed up and climbed up to look in the cockpit, thinking there might be old blankets or tools we could use for the house.

In the passenger seat was another suitcase, looking like the one that Win described. I opened the truck door and dragged it down to my feet. I opened the case, expecting old letters.

Immediately loose cash blew about. I slammed it shut, ecstatic to rush back to Win.

As I reached for the other suitcase, both feeling equal in weight, I decided I could come out even, too.

I decided to lie about the money. To hide it. To pay off the debt I had with my boss, for ruining his car.

But an old silence crept in me. I looked behind me.

Was this even Julien’s money? What dice did he cast to hide this? What tyrant knows that it is here?

How much I wanted to leave my boss, Chicago, where I was! This Win lady was like Edna. Was I going to cast her off like Julien cast off his dice? I didn’t want to drop her off. I didn’t want to be like Julien. I didn’t want to be like me. How much I wanted to leave my life, where I am!

I left the suitcase of money in the truck. I kept it hidden in my heart, this darkness. Even among strangers, even in some nowhere place barn, I could not cast it off, whatever it was, this old silence.

But maybe I could burn it, symbolically, as Win wanted to do with her letters. My high fell down hard. It was not my money. I could not earn anything on my own.

I picked up the gas can, the case with the letters, and returned to Win.

I found her curled up on the floor, where we had make-shift beds. The sun beams pouring in were illuminating her gross arm.

“I found it,” I announced, and lifted the case in the air.

“Great. Now we can burn it,” She said. “You must play my pusher. You must make me do it.”

“Why can’t you just do it on your own? Why trouble me? I have to get back to Chicago.” I said.

Win said, “Laura, if the tornado didn’t blow it away, I know where Julien hit the money. I can’t get off the farm by myself. Help me look for this money and I will give you enough to pay for the car damage. But I must to go back to Iowa clean.”

“Try to save your arm, Win.” I whispered under my breath. And I turned to her to say, “What did you ever do wrong, for you to want to be clean?” I asked, “Go to confession, whatever, but you’ve got to see a doctor first.”

We were annoyed with one another. She prayed the rosary all the time, had one around her neck when the storm hit. I kept looking around the house for matches and cigarettes. I asked her who the patron saint was for cigarettes. She said probably St. Anthony, but because I was lost, not the pack of cigarettes.

Never did I find any because she got in the way.

Mrs. Laura Lafayette

2025 Copyright Christine Friesel