April 6th, 1920 - Detroit, Michigan
Mordecai sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at a small crate at his feet that was filled with glass bottles. One had cracked in transit. It had a slow leak from the bottom that leaked its contents into the box, drop by drop, and the bright scent of gin wafted from the spillage. There was always one like this in every crate. He had grown used to the smell permeating the air in whatever room the bottles were hidden in. His mother, on the other hand, lectured him every time she caught a whiff. She had become more and more attentive since her husband's death; for every affectionate gesture she was now unable to give to him, she fussed over her son just that much more.
Mordecai would admit he hadn't been very appreciative of her attention. He was nineteen now, twenty in a few days, and he had been acting as the man of the house since he inherited the role at seventeen. He was not a child that needed to be fawned over, and he was certainly not incapable of being the figurehead he promised his father he would be. All he needed were opportunities to show the world what he was capable of. Prohibition had created those opportunities, but they were ones she couldn't see past her religious fervor to embrace. On a typical evening Mordecai would be waving away cigarette smoke as he navigated some dingy basement bar, trying to sell bottles to the addicts and alcoholics that congregated there. Selling kept the lights on, so he continued despite her many warnings on morality.
But tonight was different. The bedsprings on his hand-me down bed creaked as he stood up and slid the crate of illicit drinks back underneath it. His thoughts turned to the mystery of his plans for the night; he didn't know yet what he was getting into. But as he looked at himself, the clothing he had been asked to wear, he made a guess: Dark fabrics that blended into the pitch blackness of night. Heavy boots for stomping over hazards, such as broken glass. A bandanna tied in a way that partially concealed his face, and a flat cap to hide the distinctive dark curls that sprouted from his head. An outfit suited for a robbery.
He looked out of his bedroom window to the streets below. It was early enough in the morning that rare stillness had taken over the usually busy section of his neighborhood, save for a pair of vagrants desperately trying to find warmth in the frigid April weather. Mordecai considered himself lucky compared to them, but not by much better. He and his mother scraped out an uneasy existence in their tiny apartment, in a rickety tenement, crammed into an overcrowded slum, in a blighted corner of American life that had been forgotten beneath the capitalist roar of Motor City’s industrial growth. All it would take was one bad day to put them out on the streets, shivering in the cold like the poor souls outside his window.
There was worse he could do than robbery, he told himself. Some people would commit murder out of petty anger; stealing a few trinkets to feed his family wasn't sinful in the grand scheme of things. He reminded himself that there was worse life could do to his broken little family if he didn't fight to protect it. And for that matter, he wasn't even sure that he would be robbing anyone tonight - his employer simply told him to show up at a meeting point for more details. Still he lowered his head as if bowing before a king and began to mutter a prayer softly to himself in the loneliness of the cold room.
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Through the prayers of the Theotokos, have mercy on us.
With his plea for forgiveness voiced to the heavens and moral compass neatly tucked away, Mordecai exited his room. He tiptoed as best he could towards the front door, past his mother's bedroom, but his heavy boots made it difficult to stay quiet; then there was the jangling of house keys as he fumbled and dropped them to the floor. He stopped and listened carefully for any movement from her bedroom. After a few moments of silence he snatched up the keys and made for freedom.
"Where are you going at this time of night?"
Mordecai froze. He looked back to see his mother leaning against the doorway of her room, drowsily glaring at him with her arms crossed. He could just barely make out her expression in the dim light cast through the window from the streetlamps outside, but it was not necessary to see her to know her displeasure. Everything he needed to know was clear in the tone of her voice, as dour and matronly as the woolen nightgown she was wearing. She had asked him in Greek, but her tired voice carried a weight that would be understood in any language.
"O-Oh, you know. Boxing practice," he replied in english. He forced a bright smile onto his face as her eyes flicked questioningly to the clock near their front door, and he continued with, "I know, I know. It's early. My trainer wanted to get in a bit more practice before my next-"
"Why do you insist on lying?" She bluntly interrupted, again in Greek.
Mordecai said nothing in response. The smile faded from his face; he knew he had been seen right through as she pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "What sort of boxing practice needs boots and a face covering?" She gestured to his clothing before crossing her arms once more.
“Oh, you know. It’s…cold this time of year,” he mumbled, his blue eyes cast to the floor. For all his bluster, he still wilted when faced with her disapproval. He had switched to Greek mid-sentence, fumbling over the somewhat foreign words but sensing his mother's preference in the exhausted way she had questioned him.
Mrs. Petrou mutely let his deceit hang in the air when he finished speaking. She knew her son well enough to know that if she couldn't get him to be honest, the discomfort of total silence would pry the truth from. Sure enough, Mordecai began to wring his hands in worry as the awkwardness grew. When he began to finally speak, his voice matched his mother's, soft yet resolute.
"I've already told you. The factory ain't paying what I want, even with the bonuses I get, and the prize money from the bouts I've won only lasts so long. So I picked up some work from...uh…"
"From your so-called friend that makes gin in his home? The one I told you months ago to stop speaking with?"
"No no - from Mr. Luceria. You know, the guy that helped us out after dad died?"
She narrowed her eyes, and the expression conveyed a complexity that Mordecai, for all his worldliness, could not understand. He and the other young men in his neighborhood idolized local entrepreneur Vernon Luceria as a living legend that clawed his way out of the endless toil of poverty, yet never forgot where he came from. He appeared to be an upstanding man, giving to the needy, advocating for the rights of women, and keeping young punks off the street by finding them meaningful employment. But to those not awestruck by his charity, his kindness was a blatant diversion. Suspicions surrounded the success of his businesses. Rumors of a less than godly past trailed behind his every move. But before the whispers of foul play could become a roar for the truth, they were always quashed - sometimes, alongside the careers of the people who uttered them - by the cavalcade of politicians, lawyers, and accountants that had conveniently gravitated around the powerful entrepreneur. There was ruthlessness behind Vernon's smile, and Mrs. Petrou was willing to bet there was blood on his money too. Not that her dangerously well-intentioned son would ever care about things like that, not with the weight of poverty looming over his young head.
Her expression softened as she quietly said, "Mr. Luceria isn't the man you think he is, dear."
"You worry too much. He's the reason I managed to finish high school, you know. He even got me my factory job,” Mordecai explained, still wringing his hands while he continued to botch his mother’s native language. He took after his mother in more than just appearance, and her gentle stubbornness shone through his voice as he continued, “Also, he's been helping me pay for boxing lessons lately. A guy like that can't be all bad, right?"
"So what is he paying you to do tonight, then?" She gave him a hard look from head to toe.
"Hauling stuff, I guess?" he croaked, eyes cast to the floor. It was at least partially the truth, but he could feel his mother's gaze boring holes into his flimsy verbal defense. "Honest, I don't know. He's paying me really well for whatever it is. We'll be set for the next two months after tonight."
"My sweet boy," she cooed, taking his face into her hands. "I know it may not seem like it, but you are doing plenty for us already. We can get by."
"I don't want to just get by. I want to make things better for us- for you," he pleaded.
“But at what cost? Your life? Your eternal soul?” She affectionately admonished him. "Lord in heaven, I would rather you be sneaking out to meet a girl at this point. Even if it's that godless witch Lucille…"
Mordecai cringed and pulled away, shaking his head. "Most girls ain't worth the trouble. Especially her."
"And this is?" She asked, incredulousness creeping into her voice.
"Unless things magically get better for us - yeah. It is."
A tense silence fell over the room. Mrs. Petrou tossed a hand through her hair before placing it on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly as she took a deep breath.
"I'll be back home before you know it. I promise," he said.
"Your father would not have approved of this."
"Dad told me to take care of you," he meekly muttered back.
“Just…go,” she finally sighed out. She let go of his shoulder and turned back into her room.
“I- I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Just come back alive, you foolish boy,” she called from the other room.
For just that moment as he watched her weakly shut the door in his face, Mordecai considered abandoning his plans for the night. They had done this song and dance many times over, at one point over his absence from schooling and his choice of friendships, but more recently over his fixation on the so-called American dream. It was a dream his father had at one point before illness dashed it to pieces, and one that Mordecai had kept close to his heart. Now more than ever that dream was his guiding purpose, as their situation had become more dire than she realized. He hadn't had the heart to tell her that he'd been laid off from his factory job a month ago - some innovative new process had cut down the need for so many workers, and Mordecai was one of the many men that was laid off. His brow furrowed remembering that day, the raucous din of shouts from underpaid employees being handed their pink slips and shown the way out without a second thought. His mood began to sour at the unfairness of it all. But then the sound of soft, desperate prayer drifting from his mother's room urged him to move forward. He gave the laces of his boots one last urgent tug before taking his leave, rushing out into the cold night before the mournful sound could rob him of his conviction.