by Tom Hogan
In March National Public radio approached her about participating in its “Women and Politics” series. It would be by phone—no travel involved, no discussion about where she was living or what she was up to unless she wanted to volunteer that information. As she said to Pete one night, if she wanted to gauge the interest in her—and the possible price to pay—this was the right place to begin.
They were lying in bed late at night. The sound of Harry’s deep, rattling breathing from the other room—the result of a spring cold—formed the backdrop of their conversation.
“It’s not testing the ideas that worries me—I’m actually looking forward to that. It’s how this fame thing pulls at you. Last week I received a letter from a woman who had been beaten by her husband. While she was in the hospital she read Carol’s article and interview, and she just wanted me to know that people like her need people like me to make them strong, to let them know there are alternatives to staying and being someone’s anger receptacle.” She leaned her head against Pete’s shoulder. “What do you do with something like that?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered over the top of her head. “But I’ll tell you this—I watch you working with Carol and sparring with William and it’s clear that you’ve got an itch that you need to scratch.” He paused. “How’s that for a folksy metaphor?”
She smiled into his chest and was quiet for a long while, her fingers tapping gently against his shoulder. “Speaking of folksy metaphors, when I think about getting back into the ring…” She sat up. “I don’t think you understand the country that’s down the hill from us, Peter. It may look a lot like Canada, but it’s not. It’s unjust and it’s violent. It doesn’t play fair.”
Pete was quiet for over a minute, making Harry’s clotted breath even louder. “As much as I learned by growing up in Canada, there comes a time when ‘remote’ loses its charm. I was getting ready to move down to someplace like Vancouver or Toronto when I met you. I was happy to delay my departure and introduce you, the city girl, to my world. But after a while—especially after Harry started walking and talking—it felt like, if we stayed up there it would be for the wrong reasons. We’d be hiding out. That’s not how I want to live. Or how I want our son to grow up.”
“I know. But we’ve got a great life right now. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“You won’t.” He motioned around the cabin with his free hand. “Up here is like the best of Canada. The woods, the hard work. That’s what I can teach Harry.”
He pointed out the window. “But down there, the injustice, the stacked systems, the people that get trampled—that’s a war. And what you can teach him is how you stand up for what you believe and fight back when you’re in the right. That’s something that only you can teach him.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Do the radio show, see how it feels. This cabin, Harry and me—we’ll always be here.”
The interview went off without a hitch. Pete sat with her in The Gimp’s upstairs office, sketching throughout the interview, reaching over and patting her hand occasionally. Donna listened to the questions from the three-person panel and thought carefully—the pauses almost uncomfortably long—before responding.
An hour later they were downstairs drinking with Josh and William, who had listened in on the radio in William’s cabin. “How did it sound?”
“I thought it went well,” Josh said. “You sounded comfortable. Were you?”
“Yeah, but you heard the questions. It was as if they were afraid that if they asked me anything tough, I’d go back into hiding. I’m sure that will all change, if I stay in the game.”
“Do you think you’re going to?” William asked.
“It depends. Pete and I have a lot to discuss. But it may not be my call, anyway. I may be yesterday’s news.”
Josh and William looked at each other and smiled. “Didn’t you listen in to the program after you hung up?” William said
“No. Why?”
“Because the switchboard was flooded and they had to cancel the rest of the show to discuss whether you were back—and if you were what that meant to both the women’s movement and to the political left in general. So I wouldn’t worry about your relevance, honey.”
After the radio interview, the offers poured in—from newspaper columns to talk shows to a speaking tour that her agent said would net her over a hundred thousand dollars. She turned them all down, focusing on the project with Carol and ignoring the calls from her agent until he gave up.
The invitation that got her out of Moetown came from the Illinois Bar Association, inviting her to deliver the keynote to their June convention and participate in a panel on legal reforms. “It’s been four years since I’ve been in a courtroom, six since I’ve argued any case of legal significance. It’s nice that they still consider me one of their own.”
“Pete and Harry going with you?”
“No. I thought I’d bring Josh. He’s my best critic, and besides, the panels are on legal reforms. Don’t tell him, but the head of the bar wanted to know if I knew how to get in touch with Josh, that they wanted him on two of the panels.”
“Think he’ll do it?”
“Not a chance. But maybe, once he gets there and sees and hears for himself, then maybe.” She smiled wistfully. “Nah, he won’t. But it’s worth a try.”
Donna spent the flight to Chicago polishing her speech and leaning over to where Josh, headphones on, was trying to watch the movie. She tapped the pad of paper to indicate the change; he read it, scribbled a comment, then went back to the movie. After the fifth interruption, he took off the headphones and turned to her.
“You worked two weeks on it. Carol and William were your test audience, and the three of you agreed it was one of your strongest pieces to date. So why change it?”
“You can always improve on something. Some of my best jury summations changed on my way to court.”
“Maybe. But these aren’t improvements—they’re additions.”
“Thanks for the helpful critique.”
“Then don’t ask.” He went back to the movie. Donna read through the speech one more time, then turned the page over and took a nap.
Following the Association’s instructions, they collected their baggage and headed to the ground transportation area. Waiting there was a black Cadillac, its rear windows heavily tinted. Standing next to it with a sign saying “Donna F.” was a woman dressed all in black—slacks, turtleneck and chauffeur’s cap. Seeing Donna and Josh, she moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk.
“Here, let me take those,” she said, hoisting Donna’s, then Josh’s, carry-ons into the trunk. Then she extended a gloved hand. “Alexis Baldwin,” she said in a low, slightly hoarse voice. “I’ll be your driver while you’re here.”
“Donna Fairchild. And this is Josh Clements.” The driver shook hands with each, a strong grasp and two quick pumps. Then she moved to the curbside, opened the door and ushered them in.
As they settled into the back seat, the driver moved into the airport traffic. As they exited the airport, she leaned her head back slightly. “They’ve got you downtown, just off the loop. Your hotel’s two blocks from where you’ll be speaking. Should take us half an hour in this traffic. There are local newspapers in the seatback, French Roast in the thermos.” She passed back two coffee cups. “The doors have trays in their panels. Just pull down and out.”
Donna took the cups as Josh pulled out the trays. “Thanks. I love French Roast.”
“That’s what your agent said.”
“My agent called the Bar Association?”
“I called him. When I heard you were speaking, I called the Association—I do a lot of work for them—and asked for the assignment.”
“Do you mind my asking why?”
“Your book made a difference during a difficult time in my life. I wanted the opportunity
to thank you.”
Donna bowed her head slightly in embarrassment. Josh leaned and punched her lightly in the arm. He started to say something but stopped as he saw the driver’s eyes on him, no warmth to them.
“I’ve got a message for you from Kevin Schreiber, the president of the Association,” she said, her eyes returning to the road. “He was planning to take you both to dinner.” Her eyes flicked to the mirror, where she saw Donna shrug. “At any rate, he can’t make it and wants you both to accept his profuse apologies.”
They reached the exit booth for the airport, where there was a line. The driver put her foot on the brake and turned around. She had a short, blunt nose. Her hair was hidden under her cap, though her eyebrows were a brownish-red. Her skin was young and relatively unlined, but the eyes had age to them.
“The truth is, he’s working on his opening speech and your intro. He’s taking this very seriously, especially since some of his partners said you were going to blow him off the stage.” Her raspy voice moved into a soft chuckle. “Kevin knows I’ve read your book and so he tries out his latest version every time I come by the office to pick up a fare. And each time I just shake my head and tell him to keep trying.” She smiled. “Actually, a couple of them have been pretty good, but Kevin’s pretty full of himself, so it’s nice to take him down a peg or two.”
She turned back as the car behind her honked. “So anyway, Mr. Schreiber apologizes profusely and wants me to tell you that there’s a table reserved for you tonight at The Barrister’s Club. Everything will be on the Association’s account.”
Donna looked over at Josh. “Do we want to eat in The Barrister’s Club?”
“I don’t know.” He raised his voice. “Do we want to eat in The Barrister’s Club?”
“Do you want a brief review of the menu or should I just tell you no?”
Donna smiled. “Just tell us no.”
“Then no.”
They rode the next few miles in silence, Donna skimming the paper and Josh looking out the window at the approaching skyline. When Donna got to the entertainment section, she called Josh’s attention to the nightly calendar. It was Monday night and most of the blues clubs they had heard of were closed. They began looking at the movie section, which was equally disappointing.
The driver called back, “Are you two interested in hearing some blues?”
“We were,” Donna answered. “But it looks like the pickings are slim.”
“Not necessarily. The places in the paper are mainstream, but there are a couple of local places down on the South Side that are open tonight, if you’re interested.”
“How do we find out about them?” Josh asked.
“From me. Like I said, I’m your driver while you’re here. That includes tonight.”
“We don’t want to put you out,” Josh said. “We’ll just take a cab.”
“I asked for this gig, remember? And besides, you don’t go Southside unless you know what you’re doing. Trust me on this one.”
Josh started to reply, but Donna put a hand on his arm. “She’s right,” she whispered. “We don’t know where we’re going. This is her town.”
“Let’s just get the name from her. We can take it from there.”
“How often have you been to Chicago?” She looked at him. “Case closed.” Donna turned to the front seat. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Alexis. Baldwin.”
“Alexis, let’s do this. You pick a restaurant—something we wouldn’t get back in California. Then we’ll go to whatever club you recommend. And if it makes you feel any better, we’ll stick Mr. Schreiber with the entire bill. How does that sound?”
“What kind of food do you like?”
Donna looked at Josh. “Anything except French,” he said.
Dinner was ribs. They sat in the oaky smoke of “Lonnie’s Down-home BBQ”, large napkins tucked under their chins, eating from a common platter piled with thick slabs of black-brown meat dripping a honey-thick sauce. Flanking the platter were large bowls of cole slaw and baked beans. The waitress, a thick black woman in a hairnet and splattered apron, filled the plate and bowls whenever they sank below the halfway mark.
Donna gestured around the restaurant with a half-eaten rib. “Not the Barrister’s Club, I’ll give you that. They seem to know you here.”
Alexis motioned to her full mouth. She swallowed and washed it down with a quick swallow of beer. “I eat here at least twice a month, sometimes more.” Out of uniform, it was clear that Alexis was in her mid- to late-thirties. Her hair, freed from the cap, was a thick auburn with shots of grey. It collected at her shoulders, framing her face and neck. Her eyes were large and serious, her face strong-boned. Her mouth was set in tight, unforgiving lines.
Josh surveyed the restaurant. “Tough turf for a white girl. Ever have any trouble?”
“Early on, a couple of times. But the owners know me, so they helped me draw the lines.”
He nodded towards the street. “The car can’t hurt your image any.”
“Tell me about it. A Caddie with a mobile phone antenna. It screams pimp or dealer. Either way, no one’s going to mess with it.”
“Is everything in your company Cadillacs?” Donna asked.
“That Cadillac is the entire company. I’m a solo operator.”
“Gypsy?” Josh asked.
“Licensed. Chicago allows solo operators. There aren’t many of us, but we’re legal.”
“Not prying,” Donna said, “but if this were What’s My Line?, ‘cabbie’ would be a helluva long way down my list.”
Alexis shrugged. “Just how things worked out.” She nodded at Donna’s plate. “How do you like your ribs?”
They left the restaurant shortly after ten. Alexis, who had switched to club soda, gave them an hour-long tour of the city, telling them that the club they were going to didn’t get going until eleven at the earliest. She gave them a profile of each neighborhood, passing by Comiskey Park, which Josh said was wasted on him, but that Clark would have died to be in his place.
The streets turned darker and the population blacker as they headed south. The tour ended in front of a small club on a side street. A weak neon light marked the club as ‘Reggie’s Place’, setting it apart from an otherwise dark string of houses and closed stores.
Alexis parked the car across the street and two doors down from the club, then guided Josh and Donna ahead of her. As they exited the car, the music pushed out the club’s half-open door, creating the only sound on the darkened street. Alexis slid around in front of Josh and Donna as they entered the club and handed the bouncer a twenty. She ushered them in, waving off Donna’s money. “You get the drinks.”
The only whites in the place, they collected stares, most of them curious, a few hostile. They made their way to an empty table in the rear and shouted their orders to the waitress—beers for Donna and Josh, Alexis staying with club soda.
The music filled the club, muffled slightly by the brick walls. The bass lines moved along the floor and up the chair legs, slinking into the listeners’ bones. The guitarist, who seemed to be a local favorite, played long, rolling solos with his eyes closed, leaning back against the wall at times. The drummer was clearly a fill-in, unimaginative in his playing, often leaning over his drums to get his cue from the bass player.
The set list shifted between drawn-out slow dance numbers and driving blues pieces. The crowd, over a hundred as midnight approached, filled the dance floor and called out requests at the end of each song.
After they had been there an hour, Alexis leaned over to Josh. “Want to dance?” She cocked her head at the dance floor in case he couldn’t hear her.
Josh glanced over at Donna, who had turned her attention to the floor, a grin on her face. He looked back at Alexis. “I don’t dance.”
Her face took on an annoyed
look. “Ever? Or just when you’re the only white boy?”
“Ever.” He turned his attention back to the stage.
An hour later, as the band moved into its final set of the evening, a young black man came over to the table and asked Alexis to dance. She looked at Donna and Josh briefly, then nodded. The song had a light, quick-step beat, the dancers moving in tight knots, restricted by the size of the dance floor. Her partner was a good dancer, matching Alexis’s movements so that they looked like a couple.
Alexis danced with an easy abandon, her eyes half-closed. Her movements had a relaxed sensuality that grew as she played off the music and her partner’s movements. As the song ended, she leaned forward to say something to her partner. He said something back, but she shook her head, nodding towards Donna and Josh. But as she started to leave, the guitarist swung into the next song, sending forth a single screaming note that seemed to dangle over the crowd. Her partner smiled and put up a single finger. Alexis considered for a moment, then nodded.
The one suspended note slid into a slow bluesy number. The other couples moved easily into tight pairs, gliding in slow half-circles. Alexis paused for the briefest moment, but her partner took her hand in his, wrapping his other arm around her waist.
They danced easily at first. Her partner moved carefully, talking to Alexis as he guided them within their small radius. Every few moments she leaned back and looked up to respond to whatever he had just said.
But halfway through the number the mood changed. Donna, who had been watching the dancing, her fingers tapping against her glass, an easy smile on her face, suddenly tightened. She nudged Josh, whose attention had been on the guitarist, and nodded towards the dance floor.
The man’s hand had slid from the small of Alexis’s back and was now moving lazily between her buttock and thigh. She started to lean back, but he drew her closer, tucking her head into his shoulder as they danced. Alexis’s body stiffened.