Would You Fancy That...

Milton caught a glance of his wife from across the room but pretended not to notice. The young woman’s considerable frame barreled through the crowd. Her thick legs bobbled beneath her dress and he couldn’t help but think that they resembled two toddlers wrestling beneath a bed sheet. The pigeon bust of her gown squeezed her bosom in a manner that was less than appropriate. However, her neck was draped with enough beads and pearls to choke a walrus so concealing her breasts was not an effortful task. Milton, however, knew that they were there—the rotund and gelatinous monsters that haunted his nightmares. He turned away as Lottie poured herself through the doorway and out onto the street.

It was strangely warm for a January night in Boston, hot even. Lottie’s heels clicked on the cobblestones below them. She took a left onto a side street. As she turned the corner the smell of salt and hickory filled her nostrils. She began to quiver. She could see Enzo in the distance. He was sitting on the stoop smoking a cigarette. The swirls of smoke rose towards the red awning above him that read “Vanzetti Butcher and Delicatessen.” A soft, butter-colored glow streamed through the open doorway, bathing him in light. Enzo looked up and his teeth seeped through his lips. “Il mio tesoro!”

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Enzo Vanzetti’s family reached Boston in 1911. Eight years later, they ran the most recognized butcher shop in the North End. During holidays, the demand for Vanzetti sausage, prosciutto, and coppa was so uncontrollable that barricades had to be set up to manage the crowds. It was last year that Lottie was first drawn there. Whether it was a scent, a feeling, or providence, something had summoned her. Regardless of motive, she shoved into the queue and pressed herself amongst the other squirming bodies. Moments later an unfamiliar hand pulled her from the horde. A voice whispered, “Quello bello. Pezzetto dolce. This way.” She couldn’t understand most of his words but the man’s breath smelled of fresh sweetbreads. She followed eagerly. The hand yanked her through an alley and into a side door. Bristled pigs hung by their hinds from glittering hooks, livers and kidneys covered scarred countertops, and sheets of white paper dangled delicately from suspended rolls. It was the loveliest place Lottie had ever seen. Without a word, Enzo pressed his lips to hers and she devoured them with her own, sucking them in like meat pudding.

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Lottie Brogan was an only child and her mother had passed during childbirth. When Lottie was a girl, her father, George, owned the Purity Distilling Company. Business was lucrative. Molasses was a valuable commodity; it had fueled the Slave Triangle and kept the local saloons in booze. George’s pride and joy, a titanic white tank, towered 50 feet above the city. Its 90-foot-wide belly bubbled with over 2,500,000 gallons of the fermenting liquid. George and Lottie would often climb to the rooftop of their building just before sunrise. As the sun spilled over the gleaming structure George would whisper, “Lottie, have you ever seen anything sweeter?” She was sure she had.

George took care in finding Lottie a “suitable partner.” He liked the idea that Milton’s family had money. He also noticed Milton’s “business sense.” Lottie only noticed the disgusted looks Milton shot her. Regardless, Milton pursued her hand ravenously. Lottie succumbed to her father’s wishes and George died only weeks after the union. Milton inherited everything and grew greedier by the day. His insatiable hunger for wealth led him to increase production. He filled the tank to capacity. Caramel drips started seeping from the seams. Instead of building an additional holding tank he painted the structure brown to hide the evidence.

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Enzo stood up and motioned to Lottie excitedly. The shop was closed at such an hour and the two were left only with carcasses and appendages. Enzo ran his fingers over a slab of ham and Lottie inhaled the deep maple. He pulled a shiny butcher knife from his boot and held it out. Lottie seized it readily, grasping its smooth handle. Enzo stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and bringing his hands to rest atop hers. Together they sliced the lump of pork into beautiful, pink wedges. Next, they moved into the attic. The ceiling of the awkward space was hung thickly with a myriad of salty, cured meats in various stages of dehydration. The hunks would dry for months, sometimes years. Enzo always reserved the best pieces for Lottie. On this warmest of winter nights, the two sweated contentedly amongst the brining barrels and the shriveled pork chandeliers. Staring adoringly at one another, they shared the private morsels.

Suddenly, a wail split the dawn. Enzo and Lottie fell still. It sang out again. The sound was distinctly human yet the syllables were unrecognizable. Lottie rushed down the stairs and out onto the stoop. A figure stumbled down the street.

“Sow! You shtoopid wh-hore.” It slurred. Milton emerged from the darkness. Lottie stood silently and Enzo stepped out beside her. Milton glanced at Enzo and began to laugh manically. “If you’re willing to take her without incentive, you deserve her. At least I got that.” He flailed his arm in the direction of the tank hovering above. Then, as if provoked, a series of pops rang out like machine gun fire. Milton dropped to the ground and covered his head. A few more pops echoed from above. Milton rolled onto his back in time to see the giant structure begin to groan and sway. Stripped bolts fell down like rain. Enzo pulled Lottie inside, up the narrow staircase, and back into the attic. Pressing their faces against the window they saw amber waves pouring from the sky and into the street. The liquid rolled fiercely across the cobblestone, swallowing everything in its path. Boston never smelled so sweet.