The October Amaryllis: Everything Has a Cost

Chapter 18 - March 13th, 1931 3:15 P.M.

“How ’bout a cigarette, Dave? They’re menthol, good ol’ Lucky Strikes,” Delilah said, waving her hand around my face. I had become very distracted in my thoughts and went into my often dissociated state of mind. The only thing I knew was that I was missing something deep down. Something was bugging me, but I did not know what exactly it was. This was essentially a repeat of my first situation, except I didn’t have any clues to help me this time.

“I’m okay, thank you,” I said, smiling awkwardly.

“You look rather upset; what’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

“It’s stupid. Let’s skip that subject,” I replied, shaking my head.

“Please, Dave?” she asked with pleading eyes.

“This police officer blamed a soup kitchen being burned down on the Jewish people. He said that Mr. Ford had the right ideas for dealing with them,” I half-lied. I’ll admit that it upset me, but that wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. I was more upset by Madelynn than anything. I wanted her back so badly that it hurt.

“He what?! They blame us for everything!” she nearly roared with her face contorting into a twisted expression of rage.

“Delilah, I do not believe the lies that society has spoken. They just want a scapegoat for problems they have created themselves. Do not let them bring you down; they do not matter,” I said, hugging her tightly. Her uniform smelled awful from all those cigarettes, but her warmth felt welcoming.

“You’re a great person, Newman; I truly feel like I found a kindred spirit in you,” she said with a genuine smile. She flicked her cigarette, and all the ashes fell on her uniform.

“I appreciate that, Andrews. So tell me, what d-”

“What do you do for fun?” she interrupted, putting her elbows on the table. It amused me to no end seeing my grandmother act like she was seven. If I recall correctly, I put my elbows on the table when I was little. It would constantly lead to me getting scolded in school and at home. I was pretty crazy as a child. To be honest with you, I was like a ticking time bomb.

“I read a lot, especially science fiction,” I said, trying to think of books that had been written by 1931. It wasn’t a complete lie; I actually read many science fiction books, but rarely ones from that age. For example, I had read Jules Verne and H. G. Wells before. One of my favorites of all time would have to be Dune by Frank Herbert, though.

“How nice. Do you know that one story with the giant tripod robots?” she said, getting excited suddenly. She reminded me of a child at an amusement park.

“Ah, you must mean War of the Worlds?” I said, smiling. That book was excellent. I can’t even imagine how crazy it must have been to read it back then; it was way ahead of its time.

I nearly asked her if she remembered the big scare that happened with the radio adaptation but held off on it since I remembered it didn’t happen until 1938. Apparently, people thought there was an actual alien invasion because of it. I’d have killed to have seen the result firsthand; I’d probably have been laughing in the background as horrible as that sounds. I mean, seriously, how stupid can one be? I’d sooner believe the earth is flat than believe that an alien invasion is taking place.

“That’s the one! I remember when I read it, it blew my mind. I mean, how can someone create something so beautiful?” she said, blowing her cigarette smoke in my face by accident. My eyes stung, and I felt like I was going to die for around five seconds.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I-I,” she said profusely, apologizing.

“It’s okay, Delilah; I’m just rarely around smoke, is all, so my lungs are susceptible to it. As for your question, I think every writer is a little crazy in the head and sees the world differently than most,” I said, trying my best not to cough my lungs out due to all the smoke in the room. I felt like I was on the verge of either vomiting or passing out; I had never been around so much smoke in all of my life. I bet at least some of the smokers in the room were doctors who didn’t know any better yet.

“Ha, I like that! You know, I wanted to be a writer once, but my family kept telling me that women aren’t meant to write books. I mean, if the Brontë sisters wrote books, then why can’t I? They want me to be a homemaker and pretend that everything is always alright,” she said, sighing.

“Why do you let them stop you? If you want to write, then I say go for it,” I said, smiling supportively.

“It’s not just that; I’m also not a very creative person. I mean, I’ll never reach the ranks of the greatest writers, so why even bother trying?” she said, sighing and proceeding to chain-smoke. I’m telling you, she smoked more than Holden Caulfield.

Hello there, Miss Nicotine.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself; you don’t have to be among the greatest to still be good,” I said, patting her on the shoulder the same way she did to me.

“I suppose you’re right… Anyways, enough about my struggles. There’s this book that I want you to read. Many people don’t like it or even know it, but it’s terrific, in my opinion,” she said, getting all excited again. It was as if she was on a constant sugar rush.

“What would that be?” I said, nearly calling her grandma at the end. I could barely control my speech due to how paradoxical this whole situation was. Never in my life did I ever think that I would be talking to my great-grandmother while she was the same age as me.

“The Great Gatsby. The way F. Scott Fitzgerald writes is gorgeous, and the symbolism is amazing. I really liked how he talked about T.J. Eckleburg; I found him almost like God watching over everyone. Have you ever read it?” she asked curiously.

“Indeed, I have,” I replied with a tiny smile. It’s a good thing I have high school English!

“No way! Who’s your favorite character?” she asked, nearly jumping up and down from happiness. Her happiness amused me to no end.

“Probably Nick, to be honest, he was one of the nicest people in the book, I mean, and a lot of them weren’t exactly… understanding,” I said, remembering Tom.

“I liked Nick a lot too, and I felt bad for Myrtle. If I had a husband like Tom, I would have killed myself. I mean, can you imagine living with someone like that? It would be aw-”

“You won’t; I promise,” I said, smiling slyly.

“Promise?” she said, nearly pleading with me.

“I promise. Now let’s get out of here before my lungs collapse. We’ve got an entire city to explore.”