“Yeah,” Charlie said softly, as if he was thinking the same.
“C’mon,” John said, offering Charlie a hand up. “Let’s go. I’m thirsty.”
“Only if one of you drives,” Walter said. “We’ve been itching for a spin in your dad’s new Ford.”
“Deal,” Jerry said, grabbing his flat cap.
John and Walter squeezed into the back of the Ford, letting Charlie ride up front where there was more space for his cane, and Jerry slid in behind the wheel. Driving the familiar roads into town, he felt more athome than he had in a long while. All those times he’d feared he’d never see this place again, and here he was.
About twenty minutes from the house, he turned onto Sandwich Street, then slowed a bit, intrigued by the bustling sights and sounds. When they’d left Windsor for the war, the streets had been quiet, women had worn ankle-length dresses and were always accompanied by a chaperone, and the mood was nothing special. None of that could be said tonight. Prohibition had made this place a lively town, and laughter and music filled the air.
“Busy little place,” John said.
“Yeah,” Walter said, then he coughed for a few seconds. Neither he nor Charlie commented on it, so Jerry didn’t either. “It’s nice to see it getting busier.”
Jerry studied the crowds along the side of the road, taking in the crutches and the pinned trouser legs like Charlie’s. He got the impression there were more women out here than he’d seen before. Or maybe it was just a lot fewer men.
“When I got back in ’16, everyone was pretty tense,” Charlie said loudly. “The town was walking on eggshells, afraid to talk about the war in case someone’s boy got killed or wounded. It’s better now that everyone’s home. Everyone who’s coming home, anyway.”
“Look at the women!” John exclaimed, leaning out the window and watching a group of ladies, their midcalf, colourful dresses swaying in the streetlights. “Look what they’re wearing! The world sure has improved since we’ve been gone.”
“Pull over there,” Walter told Jerry, indicating an open spot at the side of the road.
It was only six o’clock, but as they crossed the street toward a large, well-tended building and yard, Jerry could already hear music coming from inside.
“Sounds like a party,” John said.
Charlie grinned. “It’s always a party at the Edgewater.”
“The Edgewater Thomas Inn,” Jerry read from the sign out front. “I don’t remember this.”
“Sure you do,” Walter said. “Used to be a little restaurant.”
“That little three-room place from before?”
Walter nodded. “The very same. Now it’s a speakeasy.”
Jerry whistled as they got closer, admiring the construction that had gone into the building. “Someone’s put some money into it since then.”
“Alotof money. It’s one of the more sophisticated speakeasies around,” Walter said. “The Edgewater belongs to a gorgeous dame by the name of Bertha Thomas. Food’s good, drinks are good—”
“And it sounds like a great band,” John said, picking up his pace. “I’m gonna let loose in here.”
“In we go,” Charlie said as Walter opened the door.
Instantly, they were swallowed up by the animated voices of men and women straining to be heard over the music, which came from a circular, raised island in the middle of the busy dance floor. The air Jerry breathed was thick with the stink of fermentation, and his shoes sank so deep into the thickly padded carpets he felt like he was walking on a pillow. Peering over heads, he took in the room’s bright white interior, the matching white tablecloths, and a low, white fence dividing the large oak dance floor from the tables. In case that wasn’t fancy enough, someone had planted half a dozen imitation palm trees around the circumference. And the guests—the room itself danced, brought to life by men in fancy dark suits and women swishing past in colourful, beaded dresses, laughing and flirting, glasses held in the air. Beyond them, at the other end of the room, Jerry spotted a mirror behind the bar, where the largest crowd milled. All shapes and sizes of liquor bottles stood on a shelf, the coloured glass reflecting the lights in the mirror like jewels.
With everything coming at him, Jerry’s senses were bombarded. The close squeeze and the noises of the crowd threatened to drag him back toward the mud, but he forced himself past the danger point. He stuck to John, quietly concerned about the rapid movements of his brother’seyes, and they followed his cousins to an open table. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared to take their supper order, including their free drinks, and while John ordered whiskies all around, Jerry scanned the room, observing the lights, the faces and bodies, the movement. The place had its own pulse, he realized, but instead of fear, there was laughter. Instead of darkness, magic glinted off bottles. This might be wild, but it wasn’t dangerous. One breath at a time, the tension in his shoulders began to melt away.
By the time Jerry sat down, John was already enjoying himself, exchanging smiles with a gorgeous brunette a table away. He hooted out a laugh. “Hell, I think I’m gonna like this place.” Then he lifted his glass and met Jerry’s gaze. “Here’s to us, brother. Let’s drink to our new lives.”
Jerry shot back his drink, wanting to share John’s joy, and as the whisky burned down his throat, the whispers of war began to slip beneath the noise of the people.
“Thing about Prohibition,” Charlie yelled happily, signalling the waiter for a second round, “is that I drink more now than I ever did before. I hope booze is never legal again.”
Jerry turned to Walter, his mind shifting to the possibilities he’d seen in his father’s journal. “So how’s it all work? I mean, booze is illegal, but I’m sitting in a public place drinking whisky. The noise can be heard out on the street, and yet there isn’t a policeman in sight.”
Walter’s face cracked into a broad smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”
