The Whisper Sister by Jennifer S. Brown: Excerpt
The author of Modern Girls delivers an atmospheric coming-of-age story set in Prohibition-era New York, tracing one immigrant family’s fortunes and a young girl’s journey from the schoolyard to the speakeasy.
The streets of New York in 1920 are most certainly not paved with gold, as Minnie Soffer learns when she arrives at Ellis Island. Her father, who left Ukraine when Minnie was a toddler, feels like a stranger. She sleeps on a mattress on the kitchen floor. She understands nothing at school. They came to America for this?
As her family adjusts to this new life, Minnie and her brother work hard to learn English and make friends. When her father, Ike, opens his own soda shop, stability and citizenship seem within reach. But the soda shop is not what it seems; it’s a front for Ike’s real moneymaker: a speakeasy.
When tragedy strikes the Soffers, Minnie has no choice but to take over the bar. She’s determined to make the speakeasy a success despite the risks it brings to herself, her family, and her freedom. At what price does the American dream come true? Minnie won’t stop until she finds out.
EXCERPT
February 29, 1932
When Mama fretted about us contracting polio, a streetcar crushing our limbs, a fall down the stairs, or whatever other tsuris she might invent, I threw her own words back at her: if you’re fated to drown, you may die in a teaspoon of water.
Maybe this was meant to be.
Maybe I was his teaspoon of water.
As if nothing were amiss, I asked, “A drink to seal the deal?”
He grinned and took a seat. “What’s the special?”
“The Whisper Sister.” From the well, I picked up a bottle. The bottle. The label read Sam Thompson Pure Rye Whiskey. The label lied. I poured a few ounces into a shaker, twice the alcohol I’d normally serve. Before I set down the bottle, he grabbed my arm. My heart sped up so much I couldn’t hear the phonograph over the sound of throbbing in my chest.
“You’ve always been stingy with the pour.”
I added another ounce.
From a jar, I spooned a generous heap of honey. Three dashes of Bénédictine and a splash of cognac. I cracked an egg, the yolk dancing from shell to shell as the whites streamed into the shaker. After scooping in ice, I closed the lid and shook it vigorously so the honey dissipated and the liquor chilled. The colder the booze, the harder it was to discern the bitterness of the alcohol. I set a strainer over a cocktail glass and tipped the drink in. The egg white floated on top, a creamy coda. I twisted in a lemon peel before sliding the poisonous concoction across the oak counter to his outstretched hand.
The cocktail would be delicious. Even if the bane had a scent or taste, it would be undetectable. I couldn’t be sure it’d do the job: wood, or methyl, alcohol could simply blind a person or make him ill. But if you imbibe enough, death is a risk—or a benefit, depending on which side of the bottle you’re on.
From my personal bottle of Old Forester—the real stuff—I poured myself a glass. Always straight bourbon for me. I slid his cocktail toward him and lifted my drink.
“To our understanding,” he said.
“To our understanding.”
He closed his fist around the glass, flashing me that half smile. For a moment, I thought to knock it out of his hand, to blame clumsiness and mix him a proper one.
But I didn’t.
In two swallows he downed his drink. “Nice tang,” he said. “Though maybe a bit more honey.”
I stood frozen before realizing he meant me to make him another.
I forced a smile and began pouring.
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Jennifer S. Brown has lived on three of the four corners of the U.S. (Miami Beach, New York, Seattle) and now calls the suburbs of Boston her home. She has a BFA in film & television from NYU and an MFA in creative writing from the University of Washington. Jennifer loves writing historical fiction because the research lets her live vicariously in another time and place. You can find Jennifer on Instagram at https://www.instagram.com/brownjennys/ or at www.jennifersbrown.com.
Category: On Writing
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