Secrets, part thirteen

For weeks, Leta had been secretly spending time with Leech Hoose, primarily at a speakeasy in a part of Toledo far from where she lived with her husband and two children. Two nights a week, she would board a streetcar that carried her from her neighborhood, spend a couple of hours at the establishment with Leech and then return on the penultimate trolley back to her own home. She dreaded returning home, although her children were there. Her marriage to Ora Freeman had dissolved into one of mutual disrespect and distrust. His temper, his laziness in all things—from employment to personal habits—his disrespect, his meanness toward her two children all combined to make her loathe him, being with him, even being near him. For his part, he seized every opportunity to be away from her as well.

And so she began to talk to charming, sweet-voiced and gentle Leech. He knew she was married and stated very clearly that he did not care. She was in an establishment where she had little chance of meeting any friends or relatives, and she felt great warmth in him, a warmth she needed desperately.

Their friendship grew into a relationship. She didn’t know how she could exist without him. However, one evening, after a particularly complicated day, while they were sitting at their usual table in the speakeasy, she heard a familiar and completely unwelcome voice interrupt their peace.

“Ora?” Leta gasped and turned her head.

There he was, her unwelcome husband, towering over her and her beau.

Before Leta could react any further, Leech tried to stand in her defense, but he had been sitting too long and was weighed down by the generous amount of liquor he had consumed during the evening. Ora pushed him back down easily.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Then he grabbed his wife’s arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Let’s go, whore,” he snapped.

“Watch your mouth,” she demanded, “and let me go.”

Leta struggled, but he held on to her tightly.

 “Shut up, bitch!” he roared and slapped her across the face.

If he had not been holding her arm, she would have fallen to the floor, weakened by her own inebriation, but also in response to the force her husband used. Leta grabbed her cheek with her free arm. She could not see the red handprint, but she could feel the sting. All the drinking in the world would not have numbed her from that.

Charlie, the barkeep, had run over to them, his massive frame casting a shadow on both Ora and Leta.

“Hey, pal,” he said to Ora in his deepest, most commanding voice, the one he used when he was breaking up a potential fight or ordering a belligerent inebriate out of his establishment. Once Leta witnessed him physically lifting a man and throwing him out into the rain. “Calm down and the let the lady go.”

Ora swore an oath and stood defiantly before the larger man. “This is my wife,” he hissed, “and I am taking this hussy home where she belongs.”

Charlie immediately stopped and looked at Leta. “Is this true, Leta?” he asked.

With tears in her eyes, she looked at Charlie and nodded slightly. Immediately, the barkeep raised his hands in defeat and stepped back.

“Alrighty then,” he said agreeably. “Let’s just do this calmly. We’re all adults here.”

“Not this,” Ora hissed, jerking Leta’s arm roughly, “this is a cheating whore.”

“Hey!” Leech protested, and made to interfere, but Charlie grabbed him firmly.

“Not our business, pal,” Charlie said.

To be continued.