Belle Brezing

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© 2014 MC Price. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse    10/21/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3246-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3247-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3248-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014913883

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Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter One    Girl With The Ribbon

Chapter Two    Undelivered Papers

Chapter Three    Falling Feathers

Chapter Four    Kitten

Chapter Five    A Storybook

Chapter Six    Angel Wings

Chapter Seven    Sarah Brezing

Chapter Eight    Painted Paperdoll

Chapter Nine    The Dutchman

Chapter Ten    Flickering Candles

Chapter Eleven    West Main

Chapter Twelve    Willie

Chapter Thirteen    Hester

Chapter Fourteen    Valentine’s Day February 14, 1874

Chapter Fifteen    Broken Winged Buzzard

Chapter Sixteen    Johnny

Chapter Seventeen    Mrs. James Kinney

Chapter Eighteen    A Love Letter

Chapter Nineteen    A Suicide Or Murder?

Chapter Twenty    The Philadelphia Boyfriend

Chapter Twenty-One    Shopping

Chapter Twenty-Two    A Bicycle Ride

Chapter Twenty-Three    Sassafras Tea

Chapter Twenty-Four    Mixed Bricks

Chapter Twenty-Five    Little Black Book

Chapter Twenty-Six    The Dandyman And Painted Ladies

Chapter Twenty-Seven    Musicians/Magicians

Chapter Twenty-Eight    Alice Elly

Chapter Twenty-Nine    Cyrus

Chapter Thirty    The Kentucky Association Track

Chapter Thirty-One    Young Billy

Chapter Thirty-Two    Kitten

Chapter Thirty-Three    The Last Memory

Acknowledgements

Author’s Notes

About The Author

Madam Belle Brezing in black dress

DEDICATION

I dedicate this novel to my mother, Peggy Kingsley Price, whose love of poetry and history ignited a fire in my imagination as a child and who still today inspires me to seek portals to Wonder and Magic. I write because she gave me a powerful wand – the gift of believing in my dreams.

And also – to my father, Charles Price, a peacemaker, whose wonderful sense of humor and wisdom (often shared on scraps of paper with a bag of peanut M&M’s) reminds me not to take Life, or myself, too seriously… and always to speak my Truth.

NEW YORK TIMES

Front page

Died. Belle Brezing. August 11, 1940. Famed Ky. bawd.

LIFE MAGAZINE (August 1940) paid tribute to Miss Brezing, whose house of pleasure on Lexington’s Megowan Street was known as the most orderly of disorderly houses.

LEXINGTON HERALD NEWSPAPER (July, 2013)

"Belle Brezing was the model for Belle Watling in Margaret Mitchell’s novel Gone With the Wind."

Child Belle, about eight years old

One small star . . .

Willie always says that lightning bugs are the eyes of angels watching over us. And if you catch one, ya got to let it go – so it can give its light to a star. Then when you get to that bridge between heaven and earth, the lightning bugs will be waiting there for you. I reckon when I get to that bridge, Jesus and the lightning bugs and Willie will be there waiting for me – waiting for me to give my light to one small star.

Child-Belle, age 8

June 1868

59 Megowan Street

Belle’s last paperboy . . .

Belle Brezing belongs to my childhood in the same way as B&B Bat suckers, tiger eye marbles and Moon-pies. Like those things I bought with the two pennies I was supposed to put in the basket at the First Methodist Church, Belle Brezing was deliciously decadent. A comfort food thinly disguised as forbidden fruit. And in the summer of 1940, with the Great Depression breathing on our heels and another war in Europe looming on the horizon, a lonely paper boy needed as many comfort foods as he could muster up. That summer gave us Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz at the picture shows and a new roller coaster at Joyland Amusement Park -- the Wild Cat.

Belle Brezing left this world the summer of 1940. But I believe her spirit lives on in that roller coaster. Fast. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Belle Brezing was a roller coaster in a fancy Charles Worth gown.

But at six a.m. on August 11th, Belle Brezing was still very much alive. I know because I was Belle’s last paper boy.

Gil Mabon

August 1940

INTRODUCTION

The Paperboy

Cicadas sing in the coming dusk. Fireflies pulse, then, like magic, melt into stars. It is hot. Powerful hot. The air is liquid and sultry, hanging like rain soaked laundry in a sky too tired to spit rain. Not a lick of wind stirring. Only heat lightning. Angels puffing on fat cigars. The only sound is the eerie clattering of the cicada wings. And the painted ladies of Megowan Street loom large – over-dressed, over-rouged and powdered in the dusk; they wait as street magicians to show their tricks - their flawless beauty - in the shadows of night.

Sometime after the cicadas tire of their ceaseless chatter and the wind has faded down to a whisper, twilight illumines the garden of a once grand Victorian house with a second floor sunporch. (59 Megowan). Bathing the roses in a light that hints of something hauntingly beautiful but lost. And in this twilight, another sound rises above the stirring of creatures whose playground appears only in the time of shadows. It is the distant sound of whistling. The kind of whistling that comes straight from the heart of a loyal, fearless paper boy.

Only a street away from Megowan, Gil Mabon, skinny and freckle-faced, flies past the town’s 5 & Dime store on his bike, tossing papers out with a practiced grace. A lone maverick on a pony made of tin, he straddles his seat, kicks out his legs and flies. He catches his reflection in the glass windows of a florist shop where a sign, in large, sprawled script, reads Yep, these are Pete’s pups. And seconds later, as Gil pedals hard and fast, taking the turn at the corner of Limestone and Main, he slows, saluting the stray dog staring at him from a cardboard box. Gil winks at Smiley Pete. The dog, with a black patch around one eye, winks back– expecting the hard cinnamon biscuit, broken in half and then tossed from the paperboy’s hand. It is their morning routine.

Gil rides on, spinning figure-eights through the rising mist. He flies past the Kentucky Theatre where Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz are on the marquee. Then he makes his way to the corner of Megowan and Main where another paper boy, taller, with a cap pulled down over his eyes, waits.

Tinsley, call it. Gil straddles his bike; his short legs barely hit the ground.

I ain’t callin’ it, Cotton.

Heads or tails? Gil takes a coin out of his pocket and jangles it, tossing it high.

Tinsley shakes his head. Jest hit the porch with the paper and run.

Call it.

There’s no way I’m callin’ it because I ain’t going up there. Tinsley slips a B&B bat sucker on top of the paper he pulls out from the pile. He ties it with a string.

Heads or tails.

She’s still up there. The older boy moves towards his bike.

Who? Gil flips the coin, back and forth. Feeling the fear as the sweat heats up on his hands.

Tinsley’s voice drops low, Belle Brezing.

Suddenly, white heat-lightning splinters the sky. Tinsley swallows his gum.

Gil scoffs his shoe in the dirt; dust rises. Ah, it’s jest heat-lighning. Jest call it, Tinsley. He tosses up the coin. It sails high. Ain’t nobody seen her for twenty years.

Oh yeah, then who you think you’re delivering the paper to, yeah? Ya ever think about that? Who’s reading the paper?

Heads or tails? Gil stares into Tinsley’s eyes.

Heads. Tinsley suddenly swerves his bike and shoves a newspaper at Gil who catches the paper and drops the coin. Tinsley takes off; Gil gets off his bike, leans down and picks up the coin.

Tails. His voice catches as he slips the coin into his pocket and for the first time brings out a tiger-eyed marble. Then he mutters under his breath, I ain’t scared of her; and besides I got something I got to do. He places the newspaper in the bike basket – real gentle like; then he takes out a small bundle of letters. This is for you, Uncle Billy. He tucks these inside the newspaper. And in a low, solemn voice he says, All right, lets’ do this. He unwraps the sucker and sticks it in his mouth. Ah shucks, horehound. He spits out the candy, wipes his mouth and slowly turns his bike up the hill.

At the top of the hill, a red brick Victorian with a second floor sun porch rises up. Overgrown with roses, the garden boasts a trellis, with a small seat. And on the lawn, silky and mist-enshrouded, there are some tables. A sign in the yard says AUCTION. Gil is drawn to the tables. The boxes and spilled out belongings (lace napkins and old shoes, dusty books and tarnished jewelry) appear surreal in the morning mist. He sets down the bike, forgetting the paper and glances at the initials on a crate: BB. Something about the box gives the paperboy the shivers and he backs away.

Gil makes his way through the tall grass towards the porch. For a split second, he considers just throwing the paper up onto the house porch, but changes his mind. Curious, he climbs up onto the dilapidated porch; the railing isn’t worth holding onto a lick. The rotting floorboards creak beneath his footsteps; he glances at a stained glass window and suddenly remembers the newspaper (with the letters folded up inside) left in the bike’s basket. He’s about to go get it when the front door opens and a caramel colored hand reaches out and grabs his wrist.

Boy, git in here and eat you some flapjacks.

Gil stares up into the sizzling black eyes of a woman wearing a scarlet turban. He knows then that he doesn’t have a chance of turning around.

You like flapjacks?

It isn’t really a question. Miss Flora, who is about as tall as she is round with gold bracelets jangling on her plump wrists, escorts the paper boy inside. And in that moment, time slides to a sudden stop. Gil has to remember to breathe. They walk into a front hall with a staircase that’s missing some steps. He catches his reflection in a parlor mirror, off to the left. The room dazzles. Everything is gold with accents of red. But it is a gold that has long since lost its luster. At the tall windows, heavy curtains hang down. Velvet and hinting of secrets kept in their heavy folds. There is a chilling sense that time in this once grand parlor has stopped.

Gil sneezes.

Bless you. I ain’t had a chance to dust yet.

No ma’am, it ain’t that. I think it’s goin’ rain.

She turns and looks at him. Hard. It ain’t goin’ rain till morning. Something in Miss Flora’s eyes gives Gil the shivers. He catches on that Miss Flora is not really talking about rain. She runs her tongue around her mouth, puffing out her cheeks. A curious gesture, Gil thinks. He follows her – trying not to stare through the beads hanging down – separating the hallway from the parlor; but in the parlor there’s a life-size portrait of a nude above the mantel. And it’s like a magnet or one of those funny mirrors in a circus side-show. He can’t not look.

And so he stares. He’s never really seen a naked woman. He’s surprised about how white her skin is – and well, she’s kind of fat. Gil catches Miss Flora eyeing him. She’s got eyes in the back of that red turban he figures. Maybe she’s some kind of circus gypsy. Gil blushes. He thinks for a second that she’s smiling at him with those eyes. She ushers Gil through another door into a kitchen.

He smells the wonderful, delicious intoxicatingly rich smells of a distant time. Smells of fried bacon and warm syrup and skillets frying up grease. It is a memory that hurts and so he doesn’t go there. Instead he slips off his cap, staring at the ladies who are just now comin’ into focus. They wander into the kitchen, dressed in skimpy negligees and silky things that don’t cover much of anything. One of the girls, tall and black-haired, lights a cigarette. Others sit at the large oak table, sipping their first cup of Sunday morning coffee. Gil, mesmerized, blushes.

Girls, this is… ? Miss Flora turns to the paper boy.

Gil. He’s surprised at the sound of his own voice. He figured maybe he’d left it outside, with his bike and dag-gone it – where’s the paper? He’ll have to look for it. But not now.

Gil’s from over at the Short Street Orphanage. Where’s that other boy?

Ah, well… Tinsley’s probably wondering where I’m at. Gil tries to figure out where to look so he won’t be lookin’ at bare flesh. Flesh that’s different shades – the color of coffee or the liquid amber of sweet tea, and the caramel color of delicious butterscotch toffee. A hand, with red nails, reaches in front of his plate, picks up a slice of bacon. Her skin glistens, like cracked walnuts drenched in September sun. Gil glances at his hands, still ink-stained and decides he looks kind’a pale. Too white. He puts his hands in his lap. Then realizes that he can’t eat; so he slowly reaches for a fork.

Too scared, huh? Tell ya not to go up to that bad house on the Hill? Miss Flora laughs. It’s a deep infectious laugh. Gil, you’re acting like you’ve never seen a flapjack before. Lets’ get some of that ink off your hands. Miss Flora lifts Gil up onto the edge of the sink, washes the ink off of his hands and then gestures over to the table. Sit. She puts down a plate filled with steaming hot flapjacks. Butter and syrups on the table. Pass the bacon to Gil, Sally.

Gil sits. Staring at the plate in front of him. Someone passes him a plate piled high with bacon.

Mornin’, blue eyes. Ya want some bacon? I’m Sally.

Uh, mornin’, ma’am. Gil says this without looking up. Sally, a ginger-haired young woman with freckles, moves in closer; he can smell the bacon she’s eating. She leans an elbow on the table, looking into his eyes. He glances up; Sally nibbles the bacon then licks it, like she’s licking a lollipop. It makes Gil’s cheeks tingle. She is intoxicatingly beautiful and practically naked.

Another whiff of perfume and then a voice, Gilbert, you goin’ down to First Methodist? Maybe I’ll see ya after I git my face on. Gil glances at another girl, smaller, in a cream negligee with roses. I’m Rose.

Miss Flora puts down another plate of flapjacks, motioning to the girls. Eat up.

Baby, you got the bluest eyes.

Leave the boy alone, Rose. This comes from a larger, darker skinned woman. She lifts her leg up onto a chair next to Gil and laces up her shoe. He’s never seen a shoe quite like the one she’s lacing; it’s gold and has open toes and black laces.

Where’d you get those shoes, Lacey? Rose glares across the table at the expensive and very sexy shoes.

She won’t be needin’ em any longer. Lacey licks her fingers, wetting the laces so they tie up nice and tight.

Gil picks up a fork; he considers asking for the syrup. Changes his mind.

Miss Flora, Lacey’s stolen Miss Belle’s slippers.

Miss Flora, at the stove, pours grease into the iron skillet. I know I didn’t hear you right cuz none of my girls would be stealin’ from . . .

They were out on the lawn. With the other auction stuff. Why should some skinny white lady git Miss Belle’s slippers?

Those came from an admirer in Paris. You put them back. Rose’s voice quivers. Miss Flora… Rose stands, hands placed firmly on her slim hips. Lacey puts her leg down off the chair and faces Rose. Gil stares at his plate of flapjacks, now swimming in – nope, drowning in hot, bubbling maple sugar. Put ’em back, Lacey!

I ain’t goin’ put ’em back. What – ya’ll don’t git it do ya? The skinny white girls got folks lookin’ out for them. They got lawyers and politicians – making sure they don’t turn tricks no more neither. Look at us. We’re the poor colored girls who’ve got to turn the tricks cuz the law protects the skinny white girls’ asses. She glances at Gil. . . . ya know, from being respectable seamstresses. So now it’s Miss Flora and a house of colored girls. Colored bathrooms. Colored drinking fountains and colored girls turning tricks for the white boys. She blows rings of smoke – staring at Miss Flora. You know I’m right. And Miss Belle’s been up there on that sun porch with all them scraggly black cats – makes me want to scream something fierce. She practically swallows the smoke she’s puffing so hard and fast. So - what are you goin’ be able to buy out there when they get that Auction goin’? Huh?

I’m goin’ buy Miss Belle’s bed. But she ain’t dead yet.

Well, I ain’t buyin’ nothin’. I saw these first and I’m takin’ them.

Rose rises up on tip-toe; her fingers shape into a small fist, Miss Flora!

She’ll put em back or she won’t eat. Miss Flora spits the words; grease crackles.

Furious, Lacey kicks up her leg and unties the strings on the fancy slippers. I don’t care if I eat your flapjacks or not; they got flies in ’em.

Gil puts down his fork.

They come in with the fan – jest swooshes ’em right into the batter. Lacey is getting even. Miss Flora’s face is about to explode. She smacks at a fly on the counter.

Lacey, dangling the expensive pair of slippers, raises an eyebrow with a I told ya so expression in her eyes.

Another younger woman, Lily May, wanders in; raising her arms over her head, she stretches, exposing her bare thighs. Rose, sitting, introduces Gil.

Lily May, this is Gilbert. From over at the . . .

Lily May sits down next to Gil, Mornin’. She takes a flapjack, reaches for the syrup. He glimpses a flower tattooed on her breast. Shew, it’s hot. Oh, ya want something to drink? She says this very casually, and Gil wonders if she’s asking him. Lily May reaches for