Chapter 2-Biloxi, May-June 1921

Biloxi Yacht Club

Biloxi-May 1921

The noon crowd had dispersed, and it was too early in the day for any pesky schoolchildren to be racing for the catboats and an afternoon of sailing. This was Theodore Desporte's favorite time of the day to be at the Biloxi Yacht Club. The club was built over the water at the foot of Bank Street. The water, like most of the Sound, was brown, thanks to the barrier islands. Despite the color of the water, the view from the middle of the pier was the best on the coast. Only members were allowed inside, but Theodore, like everyone else he dealt with, was a member.

Desporte strolled to the clubhouse admiring the view. To the north was the growing city of Biloxi. The east quickly turned from open water to Deer Island. Off to the west, on the horizon, was the still struggling town of Gulfport.

As he reached the two‑story clubhouse, he started up the stairs to the restaurant bar over the main clubroom. He let himself in and found his way to his favorite table. Even if the room was crowded, he would have no trouble getting his table, most people came for the view of the water, not the city. Desporte's seat had a view of the city and almost none of the water.

A waitress appeared to take his order. After she had left, Biloxi Police Chief George Bills walked in. After a quick glance around the empty room, Bills hurried over to Desporte's table and sat. 

"Afternoon Chief Bills. How're you this fine Mayday?"

Bills shot an annoyed look at Desporte, "Not all that great. Let's get right to business. I need some action, now."

"Like what?"

"If you want my men to keep looking the other way and ignoring your business, you'd better give me exactly what I want." Bills fidgeted in his chair. Few men had the balls to talk to Desporte in this manner.

Desporte sipped his water before answering, "George, when I entered this agreement with you, I knew there would be times when you would require me to make a sacrifice. Losses are to be expected. We can discuss this like civilized men and reach an understanding that will benefit both ourselves and our respective lines of work."

"A big shipment. Not on the water, unloading."

Desporte despised being ordered around. He dealt on his terms, not someone else's. "If you catch them unloading, word will get out about how you knew." The sternness in his voice as he said "will" indicated exactly how sure he was that word would get out. "Besides, catching them on water can get you in good with the Coast Guard. Then they'll owe you a favor. You can get the product from them, then have my sources distribute it and we split the money. Because it was on the water, the Captain gets cut out of the profits."

Bills looked out the window. A bigger share of what would have been no share at all, a chance to look good in the citizen's eyes, or a chance to be revealed as a dirty cop. What a choice. "Alright, but I need it now."

“Can't arrange something like this overnight. Late June, maybe mid‑June, if your lucky."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

Now Desporte was annoyed, "In about five hours, there will be an ambulance coming from New Orleans. It'll probably have a nurse and a patient inside. Your men have even given it an escort before. Watch it and where it goes. It's full of booze. Bring it to me and I'll get rid of it, Will only take a tenth, you take the rest." The only thing Desporte liked better than getting rid of competition was making money off getting rid of competition.

Bills got up to leave, "I'll call you in three days about the water deal. You'll have the booze by tomorrow night."

“Make it four. Good day, Chief."

As Bills walked off, he mumbled, "Good day to you, too."

Desporte watched briefly, to some it might seem that the police chief had scampered away rather than walked. As if he was in a rush to ensure that no one had seen him in the same place as Desporte. Most men thrilled at the opportunity to be seen with the man who, behind the scenes of course, ran the thriving little town. Some would not even show their faces unless they could be seen. The old man had the town right where he wanted it. He had the power and the knowledge to manipulate every man in the town, except the one he wanted.

Cliche though it may be, knowledge is power. It was in times past, it would be in times future, and right now, in the midst of the Golden Era in the history of the country, it was still ruling. Desporte got his power from wherever he could. Theodore was twelve when the Great War broke out, not the War to end all Wars; it takes a real Southern gentleman to know what the real Great War was fought over. Before and after the war, Theodore went to boarding school in Ohio. Those years were the only years he had ever lived anywhere besides his beloved hometown.

His father, Lawrence Desporte, had wisely chosen a future in seafood. His packing plant was one of the first in the sprawling little town. It came way before the boom on seafood. Lawrence was rich before his time. Before the war, Mississippi was an exciting place to live. It had more millionaires than any other State in the country. Even then, money meant power. That money paid for Theodore to go to the boarding school. The school brought knowledge, and that brought power. Long before the Great War, Lawrence had set up a political machine to run Biloxi. 

During the war, Theodore had fought alongside his father learning his conniving ways. He learned how to deceive and extort. He learned how to have his way.

The waitress arrived with his order. Though the poboy smelled delicious, Theodore's thoughts were still as entrenched as his sights were on the city that occupied the window. 

After the war, Lawrence became a scalawag. Whatever it took to retain control, Lawrence had done. However, one thing he forgot. In all his greed, he forgot that what goes around, comes around, and in 1874, Theodore snatched the family power from under the old man. 

Ever since, Theodore had been in control. He ran the machine every bit as effective as had his father. The city continued to grow, and his power grew with it. What Theodore wanted, happened. Oh sure there were exceptions, like when John Webster beat Henry Diaz for mayor in '16, but after all, Ernest had his hands in that, and Diaz would not have been Theodore's choice that year anyway. 

Now nearly fifty years later, Theodore was thinking further ahead than his father had. Rather than lose the political machine as Lawrence had, he would pass it on. The old man's mind swirled with thoughts of how he could pass things on to Ernest. He was the only real choice for the job.

Theodore picked up his sandwich and started eating, his mind never skipping a beat. Ernest would someday run the town, but how would the torch be passed?

Back at his office, Desporte sat at his desk. Time to get the ball rolling on his next big move. He spun his chair around and opened his phone drawer. He picked it up and buzzed his secretary. "Get Taylor on the line."

A minute later, the phone rang. Desporte waited for the third ring to answer, "Desporte."

"Taylor here. You needed something?"

“You have June's early shipments planned yet?"

Taylor shifted through some papers. "Not specific, just general amounts headed to which areas. I can go ahead and plan the specifics now based on last month's sales if you need a particular area." Taylor knew what was coming.

"Just plan one. To Biloxi. Was thinking of the Thistle. Tell me about it, and the captain."

"Howell is the captain. He's been with us since the county bought Popp’s Ferry in ’16. He was wasted talent running the ferry, got him a ship in late ’18. Excellent returns on his shipments. Never a blemish on his record. Due for a promotion soon, that’s why we chose his ship for the retrofit,” said Taylor.

“I have the Thistle's file on my desk now,” he continued. “It’s being re‑fitted with our new hidden keel design. Right now we're painting a fake waterline on her, that way she'll look empty even when the keel's full. All together she'll hold about sixteen thousand cases, and can make the sail from here to there in about nine days at max speed with max load."

"Has it ever been boarded?" Desporte asked.

"Not yet."

"Good, and does Howell stick to prescribed routes or go on his own?"

"On his own, but, he will follow a requested route,” said Taylor.

Desporte spun around in his chair, "As you have guessed by now, Bills is getting a bit antsy. Told him late June; think the Thistle will be ready for a full- scale test of the new compartments by then?"

"I'll make sure. I can let you know for sure in three weeks. I'll look up for an alternate ship, just in case."

"Good. Plan on the Dog Keys route."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Desporte hung up. This was not the first time he arranged for one of his boats to be captured, but this would be the best. The liquor in the keel would be kept secret from even Bills. If the Coast Guard could find that, he deserved to lose it. This bust would give TransGulf complete control of the Sound for at least three months. Word would get out that locals tipped off the Coast Guard. No one but a local would want to ship near here, and Desporte was the only local shipper in the water.

Business was booming, and looking better. Desporte's plan for the city was slowly edging closer to completion. All that was needed now was for Ernest to come help finish implementing it.

Caught

Dog Keys Pass- June 1921

Sunrise on the Gulf of Mexico was slow in coming. A low fog hovered over the island and surrounding waters decreasing visibility but increasing the beauty of the morning. The sky glowed red and finally orange before the sun silently crawled above the horizon. Captain Paul Howell watched it, and dreaded the ominous meaning. Today was going to be tough enough without old sailor's superstitions.

An odd rendezvous at the tip of Horn Island, what in the world could be so important that Desporte would interrupt his precious schedules? Howell scanned the waters. Horn was to his right, and there were no signs of life on it. As his eyes wandered, he saw a ship come from around the island. It had a single mast, but no sails up. It was moving fast, motor driven. "Get this boat moving, head southeast!" Howell ordered his crew. He headed aft and spotted his First Officer.

"Are the crab traps ready?" Howell asked.

"We don't drop them here," replied his First Officer.

"We do now. We'll get word to the old man later. Get them overboard now. Overfill them if you have to. Get rid of this cargo now!" Howell barked.

"Paul, I don't see why all of a sudden..."

"Do you see that cutter to port?" Howell pointed at the ship that was rapidly closing on them. "Get those hams overboard, before I throw you overboard!"

He wheeled away from the First Officer and grabbed a sailor rushing past, "Williams, throw over as many salted hams as you can as we pass the sandbar, then jump in and swim to shore. If we don't come back in three hours, swim over to Dog Key. Baker will be by later in the day and can pick you up." Williams ran to the starboard side to wait for the sandbar.

"Head west! Keep her between the sandbar and that cutter!" Howell yelled over the splashing sounds of the rapid jettison of the Thistle's cargo. Another ship appeared this one to the west.

The cutter was close enough now for a visual verification of Howell's worst fear. The unmistakable white color gave it away even before the Coast Guard flag flying in the breeze atop the mast could be seen. Though Howell could not tell, Bills was standing on the bow, pointing as if the cutter's Captain could not tell which way to go.

Williams jumped into the water with the crab pots and salted hams. These hams were packed in the same pyramid style of 6 bottles but were weighted with salt. After two days in the water all the salt dissolved and the ham would float to the surface. The burlap and straw would be waterlogged but the precious alcohol intact. 

The Thistle turned to head due south. Another cutter appeared, this one to the east. "Fire up the engines! We need everything we've got!" Howell yelled at the helm. The wind picked up. The chase was on in earnest. 

"Cover up those cases! Prepare for boarding! If three boats are all they sent after us we can fight 'em off by hand." The Thistle began picking up speed. She pulled away from the first cutter.

Bills stopped pointing. The Captain of the cutter tapped his radioman's shoulder. The net was closing. 

Two more ships appeared to the south out of the the dissipating fog. No way out there, now another to the west, the trap was tight. "Head for the first cutter! Full speed! No one takes us without losses!" 

The Thistle turned west toward the first ship. Howell began to realize that he might have been set up. Nothing left to do now but cause some damage.

The distance between the two ships closed rapidly. Howell reviewed the situation on the water. If he could somehow make it through this one, which one would come up next? Two more to the north, one more from the south, as if surrounded were not enough. They must have every ship they own out here.

As the two ships came in close, the cutter turned to starboard; the helmsman wisely went to port. The schooner crushed the cutter. Men jumped for their lives. Bills belly flopped off the bow.

As quick as the chase started, the net closed and the Thistle was surrounded. One cutter sunk. One listing to port, the wind had stopped. A dripping Bills climbed up the ladder to the deck of the schooner. The crew had been rounded up and the cargo holds were being searched.

Bills walked across the deck as if he owned it. He stopped in front of Howell. "Beautiful morning isn't it, Captain? You'd better enjoy it while you can, you may not see another sunrise for a long time." Bills turned around smirking and tripped over Howell's feet.

Biloxi- June 1921

"Howell here yet?" an irritated Desporte asked his secretary over the phone.

"Yes, sir."

"Send him in now!" Desporte slammed the receiver into its cradle.

Howell stood and headed for the door, even without a phone, Desporte could have been heard. He walked in and sat down in front of the oak desk.

Desporte started, “Seems you were set up. Bills got a tip from someone on shore, must have been someone you sold to here." 

"I never had a chance to sell here since arriving. Bills and the Coast Guard were there to meet as soon as I got here." 

Desporte leaned back in his seat. With the cases Bills had given him and those hidden in the keel compartments, there were still missing cases. No alcohol, no money, where was it? “Got you out of jail myself. Can even clear your record. All I ask is that you continue to work for me. Course you can't go back to TransGulf, but you'll have a boat here."

"As big as the Thistle?"

"No, no, no. All my American triple‑masted schooners already have captains. I'll take the money for your last shipment, and for your bail out of your first paychecks.”

"Same salary?" asked Howell.

"You can't really still expect a raise now." Desperate leaned back in his seat.

"And if I don't agree?" Howell's face showed no emotion as he spoke. 

"For starters, Bills will probably find a reason to re‑arrest you."

Howell leaned forward and dropped his voice. "And if I tell anyone you set me up, or how you're blackmailing me into working for you?" 

Desporte leaned forward, "Who do you think will be believed? An outstanding member of the community, or you, a common, ordinary negro? Even I wouldn't have given you the time of day if you didn't have the skills you have as a captain." He shuffled through a folder on his desk. Without looking up he said, “Have a small ketch, maybe with a little hard work you can move up later. In or out, Howell?"

"A choice between you and Bills? I'll take the worst of the two. I'm in."

"Good. Secretary has all the papers." Desporte spun around in his seat to dismiss Howell. With one last scowl at the back of the old man's chair, Howell left.

As Howell crossed the shell parking lot, he noticed Desporte's car. How could anyone not notice a 1921 Rolls‑Royce Phaeton? Made in America. Desporte didn't drive and his chauffeur was not around. Howell walked up to it.

No visible transmission locks, no ignition locks, not even a steering wheel tilt lock. This was a car screaming to be taken for a joy ride. Howell opened the door and sat inside. No one would think anything if they saw him. No one would expect a white chauffeur anyway.

Howell pushed the starter switch, no manual starter on a fourteen thousand dollar car. He glanced to his left and saw Ernest Desporte standing next to Howell's Hudson. Ernest looked up and down the street then headed towards the Rolls. He cut off the engine and got out of the car.

Walking quickly toward the front of the car he started to open the hood. Ernest's hand stopped him from raising it, "No one opens a Rolls‑Royce hood in public, someone might think it was broken."

"I'm sorry, suh. Jus' tryin' ta look the engin, suh.” Howell laid on a thick, slurred accent. “It sounded sa purty when I seen it go by my shack this mornin'."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Of course, suh. It's the God honest truf, suh. I really oughta be goin, suh, the wife and chilren are waitin with suppa."

"Cut the act Howell, you're divorced and educated. Get in." Desporte headed towards the passenger door.

A startled Howell did as he was told. "Where to, sir?"

"Cut the ‘sir’ and go where ever you were headed, if you find a private place, I may be persuaded to let you look at the engine.” Desporte said.

The first block was driven in silence, then Howell turned north away from the beach. The trees lining the road gave a cloistered look.

Desporte broke the silence, “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“How do you mean?” asked Howell.

“I don’t know, where’d you come from or maybe how a man like you come to get a name like Howell?”

He took his eyes of the road for a second to look at his passenger, “I was born here, but my Mama and Pa were from Brierfield. When the Union came through they freed everybody but still treated them like slaves so one night they ran off. The soldiers had talked about coming up from New Orleans so they figured it was free territory and headed that way. Only they didn’t know how to get there and ended up in Handsboro.” 

They had reached Back Bay so he turned east and continued, “At the end of the war there were a lot of people looking for last names. My folks didn’t want to take the name of their last owner so they took his wife’s family name. A couple years after I was born they ended up moving down here too. Ms Varina remembered my Mama from Brierfield and gave her a good job at Beauvoir. She stayed on when the Davises left for New York.”

“Turn in here,” Desporte interrupted. They had reached the building he worked out of on Back Bay. “Go around back, you can check out the engine there.”

He nodded as he turned in and continued the story, “I grew up working seafood. Did everything you could do on a boat working for Dubaz. Finally got one to call my own when your old man bought him out. We tried to form a union and demand better wages but only eight of us ended up showing for the strike. We were fired and I went to the County for a job for a while. Then about four years ago your pop hired me back. It was more than I was making working the ferry, but still less than he would’ve paid me if I hadn’t try to strike in ’16.” Howell pulled into a spot and turned off the engine.  

“Tell me something, Howell, I made a deal with my father a while back, and he owes me, would you be interested in a job?"

"All your father gave me is a ketch, I'm afraid that won't help you much in any business."

"You take my offer, and I'll find you something bigger. How does a triple‑master schooner sound?" Ernest asked with a smile.

And Sold

The whistle was muted by the thin walls of the processing room building but it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. The bustle and noise had slowed as quitting time approached. Now it was replaced by brooms and shuffling feet as the workers filed out.

Molly looked up at the short man dressed in a suit who stood on the balcony near the entrance. “Who’s that?” she asked Ada, the worker shuffling out next to her. 

Ada raised her head from looking at the floor to the balcony, “Dr. Babendreer. He’s the owner.”

No more information would be forthcoming from Ada. By the end of their 12 hour shifts no one who had been working at the Biloxi Canning Company more than one season wanted to talk. Molly had only worked there four months but Ada had started after the last big hurricane hit Biloxi in 1916. Molly shuffled with the rest of the crew watching Babendreer until she passed through the doorway below his balcony.

Outside the factory Molly could feel the warm, moist breeze from the beach. Closer to the beach she could smell the salt but here the smell of seafood carcasses overpowered everything. She pulled the front of her dress to her nose. The smell was on her, too.

She crossed the hard-packed shell road and walked down Reynoir Street south into the breeze. Remembering what today was she began to walk faster. Today was the day she had to sell her prized possession.

When Ernest had brought home the car back in July she had been so enamoured. It was by far the fanciest ride in all of Biloxi, maybe even the whole Coast. Ernest never gave her the car, or even called it hers, but he had the Lincoln and she had nothing. And she wanted it so bad. He had finagled it from his father and as much as she wanted to call him father-in-law they still were unmarried. Always another hill to climb, always one more goal, one more piece of the puzzle to make them comfortable and not scraping for every creature comfort they had.

The house on Iroquois Avenue still needed work. One bedroom, one bath, a living room and a kitchen. They had built a carport for to store the Rolls under. Ernest needed the money for his new plan and it was the logical choice to sell the Rolls. It was ostentatious but it had made her happy. She turned west down Division Street to head for home. Maybe there was time for one last drive before the new owner came over.

It was wrong to be so proud of a car but to Molly it was allowable. Ernest had his pride she should be able to have hers. It had to be pride that kept him from working with his father. Why else would he stubbornly stay away? He had worked there for two years after he got out of the Navy. Then in 1916 he quit to help John Webster run for Mayor. 

When Webster won Molly had figured there was no way to go back. Diaz had been Theodore Desporte’s candidate and that had to sting. But that was five years ago. John was now a Senator and last year Ernest had done some special job for his dad. The car had been part of the payment.

As she turned south onto Iroquois she started to run. Their house was only a few lots down. A huge oak tree was in the middle of the lot next door but as she cleared the trunk she could see into the carport. The gleaming white Rolls Royce sat facing the road. She had only driven the car once before. The smell of the fish factory felt fused into her skin and that was not a smell she wanted inside her car. When they had made it and she no longer had to work there she would drive this car from New Orleans to Mobile, everyone would know that Molly Lee, soon to be Desporte, had arrived. 

But today she did not care. It was her last shot, her only chance to drive her dream auto. Flinging open the door she sat down and lovingly massaged the seat, the steering wheel, and finally the dash before pushing the electric start motor. 

Nothing happened. No noise, not the engine starting, not even a click.

She crawled out of the car much slower than she had gotten in but then she remembered. Molly opened the hood and looked, the battery was disconnected. No one would dare to have stolen the car, and even if they had anyone who had seen this car driving around would know if it had be taken. Still, as a deterrent they had removed the wire from the terminal. She tightened it back on with her fingers before closing the hood and getting back in.

This time she held her breath as she pushed the button but the car started right up. With the engine purring she pushed the car into gear and turned to head south. The railroad track hill would be a bit of a problem but she intended to cruise the Coast not just remain on Back Bay. Everyone who was anyone was on the front beach and Molly had a bad case of champagne taste on a beer bottle budget.

Ernest and his Lincoln were parked beside the driveway as Molly coasted back down Iroquois at the end of her drive. His arms were folded and he followed the car with his head as she turned in and stopped. The stern look on his face melted as Molly smiled. “I had to take it out one more time,” she said with a sweet tone in her voice.

He leaned down and kissed her, “I could never be mad at you, but the new owners will be here any minute.” He opened the door to help her out.

“What are we going to do with the money, finish the house?” she asked.

“Well, some of it will go to that. Most of it will go into this new venture I’m working on,” he said as he began wiping the dust from the lower parts of the vehicle. He wiped in silence several seconds before looking up to see Molly standing there with her hands on her hips.

“You didn’t give me this car. You just let me think it was mine. All this time I thought you loved me,” she said with a frown.

“No, no, no,” he pleaded as he rushed to hold her. “I do love you, more than you could ever know. But you work so hard, and we can’t get ahead. Just a little more work and I promise you can quit your job. I’ll be able to pamper you the way you should be. This is it. This is truly it, I promise.”

Without returning his hug she asked, “Does this have something to do with your father?”

He hesitated a second before answering, “You could say that.” He kissed her cheek, “Trust me, Molly. This is it.”

She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Finally, he was going to get on with it. Working with his father was the way out. “OK, get the deal done. I’ll go inside and clean up. Can we go out for dinner tonight?” she asked.

“Anything you want, my love.” He kissed her then spun her as if they were dancing. She headed for the house while he returned to wiping the dust from the Rolls.

Desperate had just finished wiping down the rear door when another car, a Pierce Arrow, pulled up and parked on the street. A short, sharply dressed man with round, wire-frame glasses got out of the back and without hesitation started towards him in the driveway. 

“You’re Desperate I take it?” asked the man. “Doctor Albert Babendreer, pleased to meet you.” He held out a hand.

Shaking hands Desporte noticed the driver had gotten out to help a female out of the back seat. She rounded the Arrow while the driver just waited in the street. “Dr. Babendreer, pleased to finally meet you. Here she is.” He motioned toward the car.

Babendreer turned his attention to the car admiring it as he walked around it. “It’s every bit as nice as you said on the phone. One of a kind, for down here.” Opening the driver’s door he started to get in. “What is that smell? That’s worse than my factory. Desporte what are you selling here.”

Ernest quickly leaned in and sniffed. The aroma of seafood plant hung in the car like remora to a shark. He reached up to release the roof clamps. “I’m sorry, this will dissipate quick. Let me show you how to put her top down.” He rushed to the other side to release that clamp then pushed the canvas back on its metal-framed hinges.

“I think a discount is in order. You didn’t mention it stinks,” Babendreer was always looking for a bargain. Waving his hand in front of his face he sat behind the wheel.

As Desporte finished stowing the roof he leaned over to point out the controls including the start button. Babendreer pushed it and the engine made a clicking sound without starting.

“Come on, man. Are you trying to sell a lemon here?” Babendreer shouted as he stared down his nose at Desporte.

Ernest ran around to the side of the engine where the batter was, “I disconnected the battery to conserve its life. It’s probably just not on tight enough.” He opened the side of the hood, sure enough the nut holding the battery cable had worked itself loose. Without slowing down he sprinted to the back door of the Lincoln and poked his head in coming out with a wrench. Within a minute he said, “Try it again.”

This time the Rolls fired right up. The engine purred softly, “I still think I need a discount. The smell, it not working. I mean I can’t drive this thing home tonight, I’ll have to have Taconi there drive it just in case something else breaks,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of his driver while talking.

“Well, I want to make sure you’re happy Mr. Babendreer. . . “ 

“Doctor!” he interrupted.

“Doctor Babendreer,” Desporte corrected himself. “Sorry, sir. She’s in perfect order. Rolls Royce only makes them that way. I haven’t driven her hardly at all since I got her. She’s worth every penny.”

“It better be, Estelle will be the one in it. I only get the best for my wife,” he said.

Turning his attention to the lady who had been admiring the vehicle without getting too close, Desporte bowed slightly, “Mrs. Babaendreer.”

“She’s a doctor, too!” he barked from behind the wheel. “I’m knocking off $500. You ahve a problem with that?”

“How about a test drive first, then we’ll talk price. I’m sure you’ll like the way she drives.” Desporte walked around to open the door for Dr. Estelle. As she sat down her nose crinkled at the aroma. It was dissipating but still present, soon it would blend in with the slight smell that hung in Biloxi all throughout the prime seafood season.

The two doctors backed out of the drive and headed north toward Division. Desporte watched them until they rounded the corner then went to stow his wrench and move his car into the carport.

Getting out of the tub always made Molly feel good. Even though she felt like she was still unclean. The smell of sweat and toil was gone but the seafood plant lingered. It got into your skin, deep down in your pores. Most of the people working alongside Molly were destined to be there forever but she was only a temporarily embarrassed poor person. Her days in the plant were numbered. All the same, she had soaked in the tub in the hopes the smell would go away.

It did not.

She slipped into her cotton nightgown. It was sensible and comfortable. Not at all sexy or chic. But it was night and there would be no going out tonight. After yet another long shift in the plant she had no energy for fun anyway.

The bed creaked as she plopped down on it. She propped herself up on her elbows and looked out the window. Ernest stood in the driveway as the Rolls pulled back in. Both Babendreers got out. She recognized them both, one from this morning the other from her mother’s parties. Estelle had been friends with Molly’s mother and attended many events at the Lee house. Remembering those parties brought a twinge of pain. She was so far removed from where she wanted to be. 

Estelle sat in the passenger seat of the Arrow while Ernest and Albert shook hands. They had exchanged car title and money already. Albert jerked his thumb in the direction of the Rolls to tell his driver what he would drive home and then proceeded to get behind the wheel of the Pierce Arrow. 

Molly buried her head in the mattress. One step forward, two steps back. Further than ever from where she wanted to be. Just one more Thursday night in a string of indistinguishable days. His plan better be a good one or else they would become just another one of the masses.