By Shaelyn Ryan
There ain’t no place I’d ruther be than here in Happy Valley. Folks call it that ‘cause o’ me. I brings ‘em the moonshine, and the moonshine brings ‘em the happiness. I makes it right here, in the basement o’ my house, and then I sells it to folks who can’t get a doctor’s prescription fer liquor, and we all has a grand ol’ time together, drinkin’ and makin’ merry. It ain’t my favourite thing to be runnin’ the place; I’d ruther be a customer. But, the folks around here need me, and I need them to make my money, so we gets along jes’ fine.
Tonight, I sees a couple o’ new faces in my grand livin’ room. There’s a gaunt, grey ol’ fella sittin’ on my new burgundy couch, his head droopin’ low into his drink. I’d hadda top up his glass a few times already. He’s a right mess, he is, I’m sure of it. He ain’t spoke a word since he got here. Near the back o’ the room, there’s a few ladies chattin’ away. Before prohibition, and before startin’ up my speakeasy, I never thought that so many ladies would be comin’ to me fer a drink. I always thought they jes’ didn’t like drinkin’.
Just as I’m walkin’ o’er to what’s-‘is-name on the couch to pour him some more o’ my famous moonshine, a new lady walks in, all careful like. There’s a man on ‘er arm, and as soon as they gits inside, he drops her like nothin’ I ever seen and comes o’er fer a drink, carryin’ the sweet smell o’ the lady’s perfume with ‘im. It’s hard to see ‘is face on account o’ the lights burnin’ low. I oughta buy some new bulbs.
I pours ‘im ‘is drink and stops to watch the new lady fer a minute. She don’t look around much, but she seems to be enjoyin’ the music alright. There’s a couple fellas in the far corner playin’ on instruments, and her head’s turned towards them. I see her face light right up when the sax-o-mo-phone starts honkin’. She’s a strange girl; sorta homely too. She ain’t dressed like t’other ladies around, neither. She’s wearin’ an old-timey dress like my own gramma used to wear: long an’ plain, an’ an awful dull shade o’ yellow. I shakes my head and turns away.
Gruntin’ starts risin’ up from the couch, and I looks down to see the ol’ fella sittin’ there, wavin’ his empty glass in my face. I tells him to be patient, and grateful. After all, I don’t gotta give him anything. Sometimes, I gets sick o’ servin’ people, but until all this prohibition nonsense stops muckin’ things up, I feel it’s my duty to keep Happy Valley happy. So, I tops up ‘is glass.
As the night goes on, I gets a little tipsy meself, but not too much. My cat, Scotch, musta noticed me drinkin’, ‘cause he comes runnin’ outta my bedroom like a shot, lookin’ to make trouble. Outta the corner of my eye, I sees ‘im run across the floor and o’er the fella on the couch, knockin’ his drink outta his hand. He gives out an awful shout, an’ I leaps o’er ‘im too, arms outstretched. I brings the couch down with me when I lands heavily on the wood floor.
Before I can catch ‘im, Scotch runs down under the table an’ climbs up into the lap o’ the new lady in the plain dress. Quick as a flash, I snatches ‘im up and apologizes to the lady, givin’ Scotch a right smack on the head. The lady starts laughin’ an’ askin’ if she might pet Scotch a little before I takes ‘im away. Strange girl. She won’t even look at my eyes when she asks me.
She’s diff’rent alright, but I figger she can’t do no harm, so I hands her Scotch by the scruff o’ his little black neck and leaves. The couch fella is signalin’ with ‘is glass agin. Boy, I hates prohibition.
---
I must be quite a sight to behold around here, for it’s not often that someone like me comes into Happy Valley. My husband had heard about it from a friend, and he wanted so desperately to go that I couldn’t say no. Why he’s dragging me along, I have no idea. There’s no happiness in Happy Valley for me.
I shuffle awkwardly through the door, and I nearly trip over the step, but my husband catches me. He leads me over to the left a couple paces and sits me down in a rough wooden chair. I think the floor’s wooden too, but I can’t tell for sure without taking my shoes off, and even in a place like this, that would be horribly impolite.
I often get the feeling that people are watching me, but of course I can never tell. Perhaps I’m simply self-conscious, but I can feel it now. I just know that someone’s staring at me. I try not to frown. I hate not knowing. I used to be able to see everything. I was so observant, too, so observant. I try to pay attention to my surroundings now, but I know I’m only getting half the picture, maybe even less. I miss being able to see.
Nevertheless, I am content enough. A band from somewhere off to my left starts playing, and I turn my head towards the sound. I try to pick out the instruments present. Guitar… saxophone… or is it clarinet? No, it’s certainly saxophone. I smile. At least I can still enjoy the music.
The smells are something else entirely. The stagnant air is sticky and warm, and the scent of alcohol has permeated it right through, so that my every breath is filled with it. Slowly, I am getting used to it.
I consider asking the owner of the speakeasy for a drink to satisfy another of my remaining senses, but I refrain. I don’t generally drink, though I can hear the owner bragging about the quality of his moonshine. His voice is gruff, but cheerful, and there’s something in his words that I can’t help but like, even if he is breaking the law.
A loud grunt erupts from ahead of me, and my head snaps towards it. It sounds like that of a wounded animal. As I listen, I can hear the owner mumbling about patience and gratitude. Someone is obviously quite drunk.
Ignoring the shouts and laughs of the people around me, I run my fingers along the table. There are deep scratches in the wood, and a cool puddle of what I assume to be moonshine to my right. I withdraw my fingers and bring them up to my nose. It certainly smells like moonshine.
I have mixed feelings about this whole prohibition business. People will always find ways to get their hands on alcohol of some sort. My husband had a doctor’s prescription for it up until yesterday. He tried to get another, but Dr. Miller says he’s alright, and doesn’t need it anymore. Of course, he never really needed it in the first place. I swirl my finger around in the puddle of moonshine, and the music slowly fades out of my awareness. I miss the way things used to be. I miss the way my husband used to be. I think he liked me better before I went blind.
A hiss and a shout draw my attention back to reality, and a heavy object crashes to the ground. I haven’t the faintest idea what it might be, but that same loud grunt erupts again, and the owner is shouting. Something soft brushes against my leg and makes its way into my lap. I laugh. There’s a small cat purring softly on my knees, and I pet him. He’s a very soft little thing, and seems awfully out of place among the loud, rowdy drinkers. I wonder what colour he is.
The voice of the owner of the speakeasy gets closer by the second, and I can tell by the sounds and the movement of the air that he’s rushing towards me. I feel the warmth of the cat disappear from my legs and his tail brushes my face. The owner starts flinging apologies at me in his rough way, and the cat gives a little squeak as though something’s hurt him.
I don’t want the cat to go away, but the owner seems adamant that he shouldn’t be out among the drinkers. He points out the damage that the poor little thing has just caused. I giggle. Imagine a little cat making all that noise! Surely it hadn’t been him who had caused such a disturbance.
Meekly, I ask the man if I might hold the cat just a little longer. I want to ask what colour he is too, but I daren’t let on that I can’t see. I think it’s better to assume that no one can tell, as it gives me a better chance of being treated normally.
There’s a pause, and the owner drops the cat back into my lap. I begin to pet him again. I think he’s an orange cat, or maybe white. I smile as I feel his soft fur between my fingers. Perhaps there is some happiness in Happy Valley after all.
---
Happy Valley! Pah! I laugh at the notion of somewhere happy existing anymore. This place is a hole. The walls and floor are wooden and scuffed, and I swear the ceiling looks like it’s about to cave in on top of me. Maybe that’s just the moonshine.
The only colours in this place are the clothes of the people all around me. Reds, blues, greens. I came here to drink, and my senses are being assaulted. It’s too bright in here, too. Well, they say that drinking dulls the senses, so I guess there’s still hope to shut it all out.
There’s a band playing in the corner, and I can feel the vibrations of the music in the couch where I’m sitting. I’m just glad I can’t hear it; it probably sounds terrible. I take another long swig of my drink. The white moonshine slips over my tongue and down my throat. The stuff burns like Hell, and it tastes the way rubbing alcohol smells, but I’m starting not to care.
I go to take another swig, and my glass comes up empty. I wave it at the bartender, and he starts coming over. I hold up my glass and wait silently for him to fill it up. I haven’t spoken to him— or anyone— yet. I’m pretty sure he can tell I’m deaf, so he may as well think I’m dumb too. I don’t feel like talking.
I’m still waiting. I can’t feel him pouring anything into my glass. I look up. He’s not even coming towards me anymore. I follow his gaze and finding him staring at the door, where a youngish looking couple come trundling in. The woman’s perfume starts to stink up the whole place, and her partner carries it with him as he walks past me to the bartender. It’s suffocating, and I wish I had more moonshine to wash it away.
I grunt, hoping that I’m being loud enough. The bartender walks over and pours me another drink. I can see his lips moving. I guess he doesn’t know that I can’t hear him. Well, it’s his words he’s wasting.
Of course, I could understand him if I wanted to. Dana used to make me practice reading her lips all the time, and I got pretty good. None of that matters now, though. Now that she’s gone, there’s no more point in seeing what people are saying. Like I’ve been saying, even Happy Valley isn’t happy now that she’s gone. I hiccup.
She died just yesterday, right in my arms. It was consumption that did it. She said something to me before she closed her eyes for good, but I still can’t figure out what it is. I’ve been trying ever since, but nothing comes to me. I try and play the scene over in my mind. I close my eyes against the onslaught of gaudy, colourful people all around me.
Nothing. Still nothing. I down some more of my moonshine. I don’t notice the taste or the burn anymore. The couch feels funny though. I open my eyes and look down. There are springs poking up out of the cushions, and the fabric is fraying. I feel like I’m sinking into it more and more the longer I sit. Oh well. I should just let it eat me up completely. Then I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Not about life without Dana. Not about anything.
I close my eyes again and bring my glass up to my lips, where it’s knocked from my hands and onto the couch, spilling its contents all over the place. A big black cat leaps up on the back of the couch and jumps off again, and I shout after it, forgetting that I’m trying to pretend to be dumb.
Just when things can’t get any worse, they do, and that stupid bartender leaps over me after his stupid cat and tips the couch over on its back. I fall with it, and feel it thud against the ground. It must have made a pretty big crash.
I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling. I move my head a little and can see the bartender talking to that smelly woman. He hands her the cat and she just takes it and starts petting it. She’s got a weird look in her eyes, like she’s always looking past whatever’s in front of her. She’s not a bad looking broad, but the smell of that perfume kills me.
I turn my eyes back towards the ceiling. The back of the couch is even less comfortable than the part you’re supposed to sit on. My moonshine is all over it and the floor. And Dana, my wife, is dead. I wish someone would tell me where all the happiness in Happy Valley’s gone. I can’t find it anywhere.
Shaelyn Ryan is a young student at Queen's University who is particularly fond of history, long books, pirates, fictional doctors, and the vernacular. She has written and self published two novels, which can be found at her website.
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