The Five Dollar Mail Book 3: The Road Home

98: Blood and Whiskey

Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Wash made of found images by me. All graphics by me.

Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Wash leaned back in the porch rocker, resting his head against the wooden backrest and hooking the balls of his bare feet over the porch rail. He gazed out over the quiet darkness of the yard, breathing in the scent of earth and water. A whippoorwill hooted somewhere down by the banks of the Green. He loved being out here, out in the big, empty West, away from the noise and the stink and the desperation he'd known before. He'd never go back. Not even kicking and screaming. He had never, not even for a moment, ever been homesick for the place he was from, the place that he had somehow managed to call home.

He had no yearning for the Five Points. It was the loss of the love he'd found there that had left the raw spot inside him. Wash figured that the loss of Dorcas would always be painful, and he'd made his peace with that. Part of him cherished that twinge of hurt, because it reminded him that love existed. And once, in another life, it had been his.

Losing her had nearly destroyed him. Looking back, he marveled that he'd survived that heartbreak, that here he was, still breathing. He had nearly died that night, knifed and left to bleed out on the dirty cobblestones of Cross Street. He remembered that the pain had barely registered in his brain. His most haunting memory of that night was the wrenching fear for Dorcas, and how utterly unable he'd been to get up and find her in the chaos of the fighting and the fire and the gunshots. His bleeding, dying body had failed him, and all he could do was lie there as his vision faded and night and cold overwhelmed him. In his anguish, he had welcomed the darkness, and remembered with crystalline clarity how heartsick and cheated he'd felt when he opened his eyes and realized he wasn't dead.

He slid the silver flask from the pocket of his unbuttoned shirt and uncapped it. He took a sip, feeling the welcome burn of whiskey through his chest and nose.

What they'd had, he and Dorcas, had been the best thing in his life. And that would never change. He'd always have it, that little drop of fresh blood seeping from the patched crack in his heart, reminding him that love and pain and life are knotted together so tight they can't be picked apart. It was alright. Life goes on.

He crossed his ankles on the rail, rocking the chair slowly in the darkness, thinking about the conversation he'd had with Miss Sullivan. He'd been utterly stunned by the things she'd said, completely unprepared to learn that she'd committed a crime and had to slip away before she had gotten caught. That she'd lost a beau, and had to make some hard choices to make sure people she loved were cared for and safe. But mostly, the thing that had him gobsmacked the most, was the fact that they actually had more in common than he would have ever dared to guess.

Aye, life goes on, sure. But it can't be going in the direction it's going, he thought. I can't be thinking about me teacher this way. He pulled his legs off the porch rail and set his bare feet solidly on the porch floor. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang down. She sidles up next to me, the way she does, looking over me shoulder, and all I can focus on is the sweet rustle of her petticoats and the smell of her hair. I look into my book and all I can see are her eyes. And they are full of secrets, so they sodding are. He sighed, shaking his head. And magic.

Her dark eyes had been so bright, so warm in the lamplight as she confessed to him what she had been hiding. She had always been so guarded, so chilly before, but her trusting honesty had completely undone him. His rusted, creaking heart had ticked like a new gold pocket watch. You can't keep doing this, Jargie Fecking Washington. This isna going to end with anything but a goodbye and a need for more whiskey, and you sodding well know it. Embezzlement or no, she's a proper lady, so she is. With money and schooling. And you... He took another bracing pull from the flask, giving it a little shake to see how much whiskey remained. You're a gormless sodding thug from a cesspit filled with blood and shite. Best walk away while you still can, me boyo. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. While you still have some shred of your dignity. The last thing she needs is the likes of you playing the heartsick schoolboy.

He considered how he would continue his lessons. He had no intention of letting Louise down. But sitting alone with Miss Sullivan in the evening was becoming more than he could bear. And after tonight...I just can't take it anymore. He figured he could use what he had already learned and continue his lessons alone. Maybe Saint or Tommy or one of the lads could help if I have a question. I'd rather try that then throw out the whole project. And sweet Rosie would never forgive me, sure, if I didn't at least try.

There was a chill in the air that hadn't been there before. Wash pulled his unbuttoned shirt over his chest and folded his arms in front of him. He had known when he'd first started his lessons with Miss Sullivan that ending them was something that was going to have to happen eventually. He hadn't really thought about the idea that it might be himself who was the one to end them.

I'm going to have to tell her, so I am. That next lesson will have to be me last.

His heart was bleeding again. He tipped up the flask and drained it.

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