Cornflakes

By Christiane Tann

A race for victory may just turn into a race for life itself.

William Lucky stumbles into the chance of a lifetime when he meets racing car owner, Mr. Lovitz, and wins the most prestigious racing event of the year 1924, the Indy 500 at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. His fame expands and soon, he no longer remembers a time whe

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christiane wranja
• Release date: Apr 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838532567

Book preview

Part One

Fall 1916

I stared at my wide-spread fingers as if I were seeing them for the first time. I had always thought that I knew my hands, that I was able to describe every detail, every mole, every scar, every freckle: the knobby knuckles, the bitten nails, the thumb on my left hand slightly larger than its counterpart on my right.

But those digits were not the calm, steady, and trustworthy fingers that had helped me dismantle and put together many a machine; the hands of someone most likely to become an engineer. These were the hands of a worrier, and their non-stop shaking expressed the turmoil I felt inside.

On a raised platform and nestled into a waterfall of lilies, roses, and carnations sat the cherrywood coffin. My eyes had not dared a peek, but my imagination knew exactly what they would find there, dressed in a powder-colored silk gown, curly-haired head resting atop a fluffy white pillow.

I did not dare envision her face. The last time I had seen it, it was covered in startling crimson.

My father stood next to me, straight back, hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture of appearance rather than comfort. We had not exchanged a single word in days. The last time he had seen her face, it wore a wide smile and dimples.

This is not your fault. Her last words, uttered in a whisper, sincerity shimmering in her eyes for a moment, before they dimmed. Listen to me, William. Everything’s going to be okay. This is not your fault. Promise me. Yet, I knew them for the lie they were. All was my fault.

There were no tears in my eyes, no lines of sorrow on my forehead. My face was a mask chiseled from marble, but those strange fingers seemed to cry every pain I felt.

The minister started the sermon, and the sobs surrounding me turned into mournful whispers, a monotone noise vibrating in the background. I could not make out a single word.

Maybe it was better that way.

Maybe I was no longer deserving of the holy words whispered in this small brownstone chapel. The rays of sun streaming in from the large windows illuminated everyone’s face but mine. Instead, I seemed to be carrying parts of the gothic brick construct on my sagging shoulders.

Maybe this was my new life: me, my strange, shaking hands and nothing else. For I knew that their shaking was the burden I would carry with me. Always.

March 1924

Lucky

It was only a second too late that I noticed the girl in the drop-waist dress walking my way, whimsical cocktail in hand. I grimaced at how unsuitable my nine-to-five Oxford bags and red suspenders looked at this fancy do and cursed Hobbs for taking me here. My best friend had left me to my own devices to chase after one skirt or another.

A blink of an eye later, there was a large wet stain on my crisp white shirt.

Oh my, Mr. …? A dainty hand flew to red-colored lips.

Lucky. William Theodore Lucky... the third. I stammered as if I was not all too certain that this was indeed my name. In my defense, it was a name like a Sunday suit. One you brought out on very few occasions, and that never quite fit all right. Everyone just called me Lucky.

Oh, my apologies, Mr. Lucky, how very clumsy of me. Right onto your shirt, too, she rambled, shaking her head, feebly trying to remove the stain by patting it.

It’ll dry, I replied helplessly.

Let’s get you a new drink, Mr. Lucky, that’s the least I can do. The girl stared at my glass in disgust. I glanced as well. Some of her spilled drink had mixed with my whiskey, and even though I did not understand the fuss, I followed her through the downtown hotel suite, which was ridiculously spacious and crowded at the same time. Everyone hot in town was dancing to the latest Paul Whiteman record, which had the gramophone running out of breath. Snow-white cocaine was passed between those taking a break from dancing. I never had a taste. It was an indulgence for the rich and famous, and I was nzeither of those things.

At the other end of the grand drawing room waited an impressive selection of opened bottles, and my new lady companion reached for an amber liquid. Bourbon?

I nodded and located a Lalique bowl that was filled with ice cubes. Ice?

Please.

I poured a rather generous amount into two tumblers. There you go, Miss—?

Holden. Astoria Holden. She extended a gloved hand.

Shall we grab a seat, Miss Holden? I could not recall having ever talked to a beautiful lady before. None that was not dangling from Hobbs’ shoulder like an accessory, at least.

Her head turned, and a vibrant smile lit up her face. That’d be swell, Mr. Lucky.

White flowing curtains gently hugged a cluster of equally white couches and chairs that sat squeezed against the wall. There was a free chaise, and Astoria Holden sat down, closing her eyes. What do you do, Mr. Lucky?

My mouth opened and closed, but my brain could not think of a proper response. I spent my days with my nose pushed so deep into neatly written numbers that they almost crawled up my nostrils, but big careers were hardly made behind crammed old desks with noses attached to folders, making love to them. Revealing my ill-chosen job might give a wrong perception of my personality.

I downed some more bourbon, hoping to find a suitable answer within the alcohol.

Miss Holden, in the meantime, seemed to have forgotten all about her question. Her attention had shifted to something outside the window, and I used this moment to study her face. Her cheekbones were prominent, and a hint of red color dusted the glowing apples. Her lashes were very long and very black, contrasting nicely with her honey-colored hair.

Have you always lived in Chicago? She asked with the expression of someone who did not expect an answer other than yes. As if there was no other place.

Born and bred in Detroit, I replied. My shaking fingers forced me to put the tumbler aside. Henry Ford’s assembly belts and I had too many disagreements, and there simply aren’t any other careers in that automobile-crazy town.

I never understood automobiles, Miss Holden remarked, but I’d fancy driving one. My brother owns several, but he claims they weren’t built for ladies. Her glimpse shifted to Howard H. Holden, who stood surrounded by his usual crowd of goons and sycophants, his tommy-gun carrying bodyguards looming grim-faced in the background. Even though I had noticed the identical last name, I had not made a connection until this moment. What a fool I was.

I’d be glad to show you how to drive, I gushed, my voice shaking as I tried to comprehend that I was talking to the sister of the biggest fucking cheese in Chicago.

Oh, how swell, Miss Holden exclaimed. The tumbler of whiskey was dangling from her fingers, and I feared she might drop it at any given moment. I slowly removed it from her slight grip when I felt a shadow towering over me.

Astoria. The voice was as sharp as the pinstriped suit the man was wearing. A fashionable fedora adorned his head, and his shoes were covered in crispy spats. Rudolph Valentino himself could learn a thing or two.

Howard, Miss Holden answered in a bored tone.

What do you think you’re doing here? Howard H. Holden asked.

Socializing, talking, laughing, making friends… Miss Astoria drawled.

You shouldn’t be dawdling with dewdroppers, he huffed, and the man next to him with the enormous cleft in his chin nodded. I knew this face from somewhere. Astin. Some New York ex-pat who made a career of following Holden around like a lost puppy.

I thought I saw Miss Holden’s cheeks redden slightly. Her brother turned his attention to me. I don’t know you.

I should have jumped out of my seat, should have paid the appropriate amount of attention. Instead, I found myself trapped in an intoxicated body that failed to behave. Finally, I extended a shaky hand. Lucky. William Theodore Lucky the third, I slurred and was embarrassed by it.

Lucky, Holden spat. Never heard of that name. He turned to his sister, I think it’s time for you to leave.

Astin nodded as if in agreement.

I as just starting to enjoy myself, brother dearest, said Miss Holden, who had not even bothered opening her eyes. Let me have some fun.

The snarl on Howard H. Holden’s face morphed his otherwise handsome features into a grimace straight out of a nightmare.

My apologies, Mr. Holden, My stupid brain had decided to intervene. We only talked for a short time. It was in no way my intention …

I couldn’t care less about your intention, Loopy

Lucky, Astoria Holden chimed in.

Excuse me?

His name is Mr. Lucky, not Loopy, Howard. You should start learning it. I intend to make his acquaintance.

Holden quirked his eyebrow. Astoria, you’re leaving now.

Trying to get up, I stumbled, and accidentally brushed across Miss Holden’s chest. Howard H. Holden killed me with his eyes, the vein on his forehead pulsing like an upbeat jazz number.

Faster than a lightning bolt, I scratched myself off the couch. My apologies, I … I … I stammered, carefully eyeing Holden’s armed sidekicks, who were glaring in my direction.

Get out, and never show your face again. Holden looked like a raging bull with flared nostrils, balled fists, and a twitching eye.

Howard, stop! Astoria Holden screeched, and her voice was even more menacing than her brother’s. Stop your caveman behavior this instant. I’m not some damsel in dire need of a rescue.

Sudden pain burned my left eye, and my nose made a cracking sound before I stumbled backward and felt blood trickling down to my lips. I wiped it away with my shirtsleeve, stunned by the amount of redness. I considered balling my fist and defeating my honor, but in no universe would I have a chance against the giant in front of me.

At the same time, Astoria jumped to her feet and gave her brother a shove that caused him to land on his back. A pair of keys fell from his pocket. Holden looked at them for a moment, and a grin spread on his face as he made a show of picking them up.

My newest ride, he remarked in a kind of careless voice that revealed he did indeed care very much. A Mercer Raceabout. He looked around the room as if to establish whether his words left the desired impact, jiggling a set of keys in his hand. Just got it last week, a true sportsman. One of the fastest vehicles there is. Up to ninety mph an hour. His eyes swirled around the room again, ready to collect the ooohs and aaahs from the crowd.

Images from this morning played in my mind like a motion picture—but with sound effects. Screeching tires, blaring horns and a giant of a yellow sports-mobile with a sturdy steel hood and elegant silver frame, whose driver had lost control. A Mercer Raceabout. New on the market, with only a handful of vehicles sold. It must have been his machine. This car was as individual as a fingerprint.

Raceabout, aye, I heard myself saying. In bright yellow, I assume?

What about it? The keys kept jiggling in his hand.

Oh, nothing at all … It’s just … I took a deep breath, I wouldn’t brag about a machine I can’t handle. Tell me, Holden, how did it feel to lose control this morning on Michigan Avenue Bridge? To emphasize my words, I nodded toward the window on the left, from where said bridge was visible. How many vehicles did you almost hit with your prized Raceabout? Was it ten? Fifteen?

Holden’s glare intensified and all conversations around us stopped. The skin on my neck started to prickle, and with sudden sober consciousness, I regretted what I had just started.

Holden remained eerily calm, and this was even more terrifying than any violence. Tell me… Loopy… What is it that you’re driving? A horse carriage? That got everyone laughing. My glance shifted to Astoria, who stood with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms, lines marring her forehead. She was not looking at me but eyeing her brother.

I squared my shoulders. A good and reliable Ford T.

A Tin Lizzy. Holden laughed. They do about what? Five miles an hour? He clapped me on the shoulder. Why don’t we go and find out who the better driver is? You and I, up to the Drake.

It was getting close to midnight, but the automobile race seemed to be the big social event of the night. The lazy sound of big, fat raindrops faded to background noise and the eerily black river grumbled as if it had been woken up by the sound of a thunderclap. A total of five vehicles stood lined up, led by the yellow Mercer Raceabout and backed by my black, bulky hooded Model T. Engines bellowed in anticipation, as five pairs of hands tried to tame buzzing steering wheels.

The power of twenty racing horses roared underneath my hood, which was nothing compared to the Mercer, it held about seventy roaring beasts beneath its sunshiny armor.

There was the signal.

Simultaneously, five accelerators were pushed down hard, and five vehicles thundered forwards in various levels of speed. Engines howled, and the tires left bold black signatures.

In the distance roared the Mercer, speeding as if its life depended on it. Rain was pouring so hard that it became difficult to see the road ahead.

I lit up another cigarette, and pulled into Upper Boul Mich. It was mainly construction land, but one new skyscraper after another had started to shoot from the ground in the former swampland, all just as lavish as the shops they carried inside. Chicago was a city reborn.

My nervous nerves calmed a little, and my foot became a sturdy rock, pushing the pedal for maximum speed. I was sailing past a 1912 Cadillac with a canvas roof high enough for a grown man to stand underneath, but everything else would have been an utter embarrassment. They did not know how to put velocity into a vehicle twelve years ago.

But it was not enough.

C’mon! I shouted, though my engine failed to listen. I pressed my foot down harder, and with a bit of heavenly interference and hellish cuss words, the Lizzy slipped past the advertised forty-five mph.

The Mercer was able to do ninety mph, but Holden seemed to be too much of a coward to go full speed. His estimated sixty mph speed increased the distance between our vehicles but led me to believe there was a chance to keep up.

The rain drummed on my windshield and my canvas roof like a marching band. Cursing, I slowed down as Upper Boul Mich started to impersonate a mirror, reflecting a sleek copy of the speeding T and the surrounding high rise brownstone buildings. There was a trail of trotting vehicles ahead, all of them visually impaired by the pouring rain. The steering wheel wanted to slip out of my hands and navigate in all kinds of directions, but my hands had turned into steady white-knuckled rocks with no mercy. I clenched my teeth down to their roots, as my vehicle and I fought a battle of egos, distracting me enough to forget about Holden and his Mercer for a few moments.

The breezing wind tried to steal control of the speeding machines more than once. Navigating left and right, I did not care about anything but the slowing Mercer ahead of me. From my peripheral vision, I saw Hobbs’ red limousine submitting to the weather.

Position three.

My eyes swirled, but my foot remained steady, and my hands gripped the steering wheel. I was unwilling to slow down even a little and closed the distance to Holden.

I was almost level with Astin and his green monstrosity. A Bentley, I think, European for sure. I cut into his lane, forcing him to brake hard.

Second place.

Further down the mile, a taxi slithered in front of a family vehicle, which looked so old I almost expected to find a horse in front of it. The automobiles smashed into another, sliding across all lanes. Black lines burned into the tarmac.

Instead of slowing down, my full attention was on the accelerator, pressing it down harder, harder, harder. I climbed past fifty miles. A street light showed the eager expression on Holden’s face. He would not accept defeat by my inferior machine. The T was no match for the Mercer but seemed to have fewer difficulties pirouetting around the broken automobiles. We were eye to eye when the gap between the fractured vehicles funneled to one lane. I flew along at breakneck speed. Faster and faster, wilder and wilder, through puddles of dirt and rain.

The accelerator crumbled underneath my heavy foot, and the engine cried a song of victory against the whip-like slashes of rain. The Mercer sped up, fighting, demanding pole position through the narrow gap. I bent forward, knowing perfectly well that my body’s angle would not do anything to increase the speed. I growled. I pushed. I gritted my teeth. I did not brake.

The Mercer slowed down.

In the moment of distraction, I slipped past the better and faster vehicle. The Mercer was rolling behind me, and even the engine had a defeated ring to it.

The Drake’s majestic front arose in the distance, marking the end of our race. The wide-spread brownstone must be one of the most luxurious hotels in town and one of the very few not owned by Holden.

Spurred on by impending victory, I continued to needle through traffic. With my pounding heart and rapid breath, I drove like a drug addict. My feet burned with the need to slam down harder on the accelerator. The engine wailed with exhaustion, and I knew that if I did not slow down now, it would be too weak to get me home at the end of the night.

I did not care.

Steam was evaporating from my hood, and I prayed the engine would last for another five hundred yards. That was all I needed.

A pair of brightly lit eyes attacked me from behind, and I knew this was the Mercer, trying to shorten the distance between us.

Two blocks to go.

That was the moment I truly realized that it was possible to beat the Mercer. With my five-year-old Tin Lizzy!

My competitive streak increased to never-been-there-before levels, and I turned into an animal behind the wheel. The engine boomed, and I bawled along with it, beating my way through the blinding weather.

One more block.

The Mercer seemed to remain distracted by the romping rain as the distance between the vehicles increased again.

My engine gave another loud growl, but then a cloud of steam cloaked me in a blanket of black cotton candy. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, I chanted, with my foot torturing the accelerator, but could not stop the decreasing speed.

Winning was feasible. If only my machine would survive for another couple of breaths. The engine rattled as if wanted to burst out of its containment, a sound short of an explosion.

Holden was only a split second behind me, then up to my bumper, then almost level with my tank.

Two yards.

I was almost there, the Drake’s sign singing to me, but there was nothing I could do. The T crept at snail’s pace, and the engine rattled louder and louder until it sounded like an approaching train.

One yard.

The Mercer was level with my door, then my dashboard.

The superior machine had come in just a foot short of me, and I flew from my vehicle seconds before the T burst into flames. The fire devoured tons of steel in only a few moments, despite the still pouring rain.

Holden stopped his Mercer, spat at the ground, then drove off. I stood there, grinning like a fool because this was the best moment of my life.

The rain drummed a crazy rhythm on my forehead. I felt the chilling wind inking a tattoo of goosebumps into my arms. I must have lost my toes somewhere because I could no longer feel them supporting my feet as I stumbled more than I walked to my boardinghouse.

The T was burning to its death, but there was nothing I could do to fix it.

Perhaps I should have reported it, but this was Chicago. Police did not do shit unless you paid them a hefty bribe.

Nina

I looked at the claw foot bathtub and felt a sense of dread. Droplets of sweat clung to my forehead, to the tiled walls, and to the tiny window that showed a blurred view of the apple tree in our backyard. How I had loved to climb it when I was a child.

I had been pouring one pot of boiling water after another until the tub was filled to the brim with vicious bubbles. Beside the tub stood a cocktail of turpentine and gin, and my lips pulled down in disgust. The smell was almost unbearable. My gaze shifted back to the window and the reminder of a childhood lost.

Taking one deep breath, I undressed, then stuck my toe into the hot water.

Ouch!

All of my senses urged me to withdraw from the boiling bath, but instead, I clenched my teeth and continued. The water felt like a sea of sharp razor blades as first my ankle then my calf entered the water, immediately turning bright red. Biting down hard on my lips, I stopped myself from screaming out loud as I put my second leg into the water. My heart raced. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I slowly unclenched my lips and reached for the tumbler. Dear god, help me, please, I prayed, though I was sure he no longer listened not to someone like me and swallowed the awful concoction.

Another deep breath, then I sank into the tub. The feeling of sharp razor blades attacked my sensitive skin from all sides. My vision blurred until the only thing I saw was hot white lightning bolts dancing on my lids. My mind escaped me once again, finding solace in memories of happier times. They appeared abstract to me, and it was hard to believe that this had really been my life until a few months ago.

Counting to twenty, I tried to hold out while I felt as if I was being burned alive.

One … deep breath. Two … deep breath. I tried with all my might to hold onto happier times: the set of swings my dad had mounted last summer, the scent of harvest-ready apples in the air …

Three … I felt nothing but the pain biting through my skin like a school of piranhas.

Four … This was exactly what I deserved. Hell will not be any cooler …

Five … I could no longer breathe. My chest felt like I was bathing in melting tarmac rather than water. I balled my fists and toes, forcing my mind to hold on to the fragrances and the swings, but I could not do it. I could not take it any longer. The scene in my head evaporated and I jumped out of the water, gasping for air, coughing, heaving. Weakling.

The cold air chilled my over-sensitive skin, and I reached for my bathrobe. The soft fabric felt like sandpaper on my scalded skin. With slow steps, I made my way to my bedroom, where my friend Martha was waiting.

She quirked an eyebrow. That was quick. Are you sure you stayed long enough?

I could not answer. I shook my head and allowed tears to stream down my cheeks until my face was as blotchy and red as the rest of my body.

Come here, Martha soothed. Let’s put some talcum powder on you. You look nasty.

I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. There were blisters on my stomach and my legs, but they were the least of my worries. I’m such a dumb Dora, I muttered in defeat.

Aw, don’t you worry your pretty little head. There’s still another option.

I nodded. I knew there was an alternative. The last resort option. The one thing I had hoped to avoid.

Martha patted my cheek. "Oh,