“No worries, I get it. I just feel bad for her . . . for all of them.”
“Well, the girl never sleeps, and with all she does on top of raising those two children, I doubt she has one ounce of time for that husband of hers. And Lord knows his schedule is just as bad. That never bodes well for a marriage.”
Vanessa’s husband, Hermes, was a top studio engineer who worked long, unpredictable hours, likely a factor in the separation. He was the person most responsible for inspiring Chris’s passion for the art and craft of sound; he was also someone Chris admired for many reasons, not least of which was his endurance of Vanessa’s many dramas in the ten years they’d been married. Chris would genuinely hate to lose him as part of the family.
“You know, thinking about it now, Ma, it probably doesn’t make sense for me to be here if she’s already having a rough time. You know how it gets with us.”
“I do, sweetheart, but you’re both so busy you wouldn’t be around all that much anyway. And you could make a special effort to keep things simple for the time being, couldn’t you? I would love to have a full house for a minute or two. It’s been so long.”
Beyond his true need for temporary housing, her wistful plea struck a chord. “Okay, all right. I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”
“That’s all we can ask. Now, let me fix you a plate of something.”
Before Chris could again protest his schedule, she was off to the kitchen. He checked his watch and decided there was time for an all-too-rare good meal.
He wandered upstairs to his old bedroom. Other than the absence of outdated high school and college memorabilia, packed away when his mother briefly used the space as her office, the room was remarkably unchanged. It was not, and never had been, a paragon of artistry. With its brown plaid bedspread, variegated shag carpet, and vintage wood paneling, it was a monument to questionable ’70s design trends. But memorable times had been spent in this room—the mythical discovery of masturbation at ten, the titillation of caressing his first naked breast at thirteen; hours with friends playing video games in high school, and the comfort of that carpet when he curled in agony after losing his father and brother after college. The room’s unwavering existence in this house was testament to his private world of growing up and coming back, and it always looked and felt like home.
As he walked back down the hallway, he glanced, as he always did, at the collection of framed photographs collaged across the wall. His eyes went first to the ones who were missing: his father, John, and older brother, Jefferson. Two figures in his life whose deaths still weighed heavy and forever would. They’d died together in a car accident eleven years earlier, when Chris was twenty-three. Just out of college and facing the rest of his life with a mix of thrill and terror, he’d gravitated toward their male pull in ways he never had when he was younger. The three “men of the family,” as his mother liked to call them, took to spending a fair amount of time together while Chris was still unemployed. On the night of the accident—coming home from a White Sox game, hit by a drunk Milwaukee Brewers’ fan—Chris was supposed to be with them. A hard flu had descended the night before, and while his father and brother enjoyed hot dogs and debating balls and strikes, he fevered with disappointment. He never forgot the irony of sickness saving his life while everything around it shattered.
The deaths of those two seminal figures remained the single most devastating aspect of existence for the remaining members of the Hawkins family. Whatever separated them, wherever they scraped and struggled, the loss glued them together in ways that could not be diminished by time, rancor, or disagreement. Looking now at their smiling faces in one photograph after another, Chris felt the always-familiar pull of grief, the piercing jabs of emotion that sprang anew each time he looked at this wall or spent too much time thinking about them. He found the grief reassuring. He still felt something. They hadn’t disappeared. They still had a place here, on this wall, in this house, within this family. In his mind and heart.
He was glad he’d be spending some time at home. He made a vow to extend patience to the one sibling he had left.
ELEVEN
IT WAS A MUCH HIGHER NUMBER THAN SIDONIE ANTICIPATED. On the other hand, it didn’t completely surprise her. She knew Chris would have to manage serious logistics and myriad new expenses to make the arrangement work. But still, Frank was unlikely to go that far beyond Troy’s salary without her making at least some effort to meet with other candidates. She sat in her spare, uninspired dining room, already wording the ad for the employment post as she called his cell.
“Take it,” Frank said, stunning her speechless. “Of course try to knock him down as far as he’ll go, but take it.” He didn’t even hesitate.
“Really? That’s so out of character for you.”
Frank laughed. “I know. But the fact is, we’ve got two of the biggest months we’ve ever had coming up and I don’t want to waste time if we’ve already found the right person. He and Jasper have built-in rapport, he did a great job, he knows the room, and I did some checking around.”
“You did?” That surprised Sidonie as well. Frank typically didn’t get involved in matters of staff, so this should have either annoyed or impressed her. At the moment it did both.
“I just happened to run into a friend of mine downtown, a guy on the charity event circuit, and mentioned the situation, asked if he had any suggestions. Chris’s name was the first to come up, which was synchronistic. Said he’d worked with him on a number of events and thought he was a standout. So take it. I have a feeling he’ll be worth the money.”
Sidonie was pleased. It made life easier. “He and I are set to meet in about an hour, so I’ll get my very best haggle on and you get talkin’ to Troy.”
“Not looking forward to that.”
“No, I imagine you aren’t. Did he call again?”
“He texted an apology yesterday. I haven’t responded yet. Wanted to settle this first. I’m glad we have. Go sign ’im up, kiddo.”
“Okay, I’ll call after—”
“Oh, and I’ve already got a new monitor system coming in tomorrow,” Frank interjected. “If there’s any way Chris can be here to make sure it works for the room, get it set up the way he’d like, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll ask.” She smiled to herself. He wasn’t fooling around.
TWELVE
THEY MET AT A COFFEE SHOP OFF CLARK NOT FAR FROM Sidonie’s block. It was late enough that only a smattering of booths were occupied, and the relative unhipness of the place ensured it would likely remain that way. Which was fine; it was quiet. They both ordered coffee, and Chris decided to indulge in one of the very impressive layer cakes in the bakery display. As he stood at the counter making his choice—there was some conflict between coconut and carrot—she took the moment to peruse him anew.
He was around six two, well built, muscular, with close-cropped hair and a college-student wardrobe, the general effect being one of geeky athleticism. His open face was too asymmetrical to be truly striking, but he was handsome and his large brown eyes did much to warm the pleasant whole. She liked him. He was calm and easy, the exact opposite of the erratic, high-strung man he’d be replacing.
Once he sat down with his coconut cake—“Carrot felt too much like salad,” he said, laughing—they spent the next twenty minutes talking money. She bumped him down a bit, not much, but enough to feel like she’d made the effort. They discussed his contract specifics, all of which she agreed to, and set a time to meet the next day to put the details in writing. After they discussed the incoming monitors, business was done and they were left . . . awkward.
Coffee cups were refilled, the table was cleared, and though there was nothing left to negotiate, neither seemed compelled to leave.
“How long have you been at the club?” he asked, safe entry to further conversation.
Sidonie ran through her resume, from the conclusion of her master’s through her various positions at The Church, briefly
referencing the project with Patsy while keeping details vague. When she queried about his background, he discussed how his brother-in-law had guided him through the many obstacles and confusions of starting his company; how his grandmother put up the investment capital, and his mother helped write the business plan. Before they realized it, two hours and many cups of coffee had transpired.
“I don’t think I’ve talked this much in years.” She laughed. “You are either remarkably—”
Crash!
The front door of the coffee shop was thrown open by a disheveled man in a crumpled business suit, cold air flooding in behind him.
“Hey!” the man bellowed, his pasty white cheeks gleaming with sweat. “Whose piece of shit van is that out there?” Drunk and agitated, everything about his comportment was a cliché, from the rheumy eyes and food-stained jacket, to the greasy, matted hair, and bloated stomach straining against a partially unbuttoned shirt. His level of inebriation clearly stoked the urgency of his mission.
“I said, which asshole owns that ratty blue van in the parking lot?” His eyes flitted over each of the few patrons present. Gazing past a young hipster couple who blatantly ignored him, over an older man doing a crossword puzzle who shook his head, and past a middle-aged woman sitting alone with a piece of pie, he zeroed in on Chris. Like a marauding gorilla, he staggered toward their booth. “Is that your van out there, blocking the whole fucking alley?”
Tick. Chris felt it like a jolt. He took a sharp intake, letting his breath out slowly.
The man glared, shaking his head. “What, you just gonna sit there like a goddamn baboon?” he bleated.
“Okay, that is just completely unacceptable!” Sidonie snapped. “Why would you presume that’s his—”
“Cuz lazy motherfuckers like him leave their crap all over the place—”
“Are you kidding me with that?” Sidonie retorted loudly, her cheeks flaring deep red.
Chris reached out and put a steadying hand on her arm. She stopped. He turned to the panting drunk, jaw set, voice modulated. “It’s not my van. I don’t know whose van it is. I’m sorry you’re blocked, but check with the cashier or the manager and maybe they can help.”
Swaying back a few steps, and after a conflicted pause, the man turned and stumbled back toward the door. The manager, intent on circumventing further customer harassment, brusquely led him outside.
Sidonie looked at Chris, chagrined. “Sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” His hand, still resting on her arm, squeezed gently. “I like that you stood up for me and my vehicle. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a ratty blue van.” He grinned.
She was relieved. “Perhaps that should be a regular interview question from now on: what sort of vehicle do you drive?”
“Yes, well, right now, ma’am, I’m in my very cool polar white Sound Alchemy van, but once I’m working for you, I’ll be dragging my shitty blue Jeep Cherokee out of storage. That oughta rile ’im up!”
They laughed. Then the air went out of their stress-humor. She pulled her arm from under his hand, reaching for a napkin to clear around her coffee cup. “That was . . . bizarre.”
“Life in America.”
“How do you deal with it?” She shook her head. “How do you keep from putting your fist through a wall?”
“You want to sometimes. But you have to keep it in perspective. My father used to say, ‘Take each thing on its own. Don’t let it trigger the entire history of racism.’ Which made sense to me. Keeps things manageable. If I let every asshole get under my skin, I’d be in a straitjacket and I’m strictly a T-shirt guy.” He gave her a doleful smile, still trying to defuse the tension.
She didn’t smile back. “Well, that’s shitty.”
“Yeah . . .”
He signaled the waitress for the bill.
THIRTEEN
HE PICKED UP THE TAB, DESPITE HER INSISTENCE THAT IT was company business, then asked if he could walk her home. Strolling through the trendy Andersonville neighborhood, with its Swedish flair and charming boutique culture, took them from the commercial district of Clark Street to the residential blocks nearby. Chris glanced around as they walked, taking in the ambiance of historic brick buildings and vintage homes surrounded by budding trees and the green of advancing spring.
“Nice neighborhood,” he commented.
“It’s always been one of my favorites.”
“I can see why. Some really great houses. Like that one there.” He pointed to a bungalow with large beveled windows and a wraparound porch set with wicker chairs and tables. “Bet there’s lots of stories to see there.”
She glanced over to the house. “How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It just looks like one of those houses where life would be interesting.” He turned to her. “Do you ever do that thing where you walk by a place and your eye catches something, just some little interaction between people inside, or out on the porch, and for a flash it touches you? That thing of ‘gazing upon life we don’t know and gaining perspective from the view.’ I read that somewhere and it stuck with me.”
“You sound like some of the philosophy majors I knew in college.” She laughed.
“Yeah?” His grin was sheepish. “My mom says I’m just nosy.”
“I’d say you have a unique view of life.” She stopped for a moment, gazing upward. “My thing has always been the sky. When I was a kid, my friends and I would lay out in this vacant lot near our house just staring up, naming constellations, yelling out whenever we spotted a shooting star. We were regular astronomy groupies.”
“That’s an iconic childhood picture,” he remarked.
“Isn’t it?” She started walking again and he kept pace. “During middle school this poetry professor from Northwestern came out to read from her book—she’d just been published and we were thrilled to meet someone famous. But when it turned out her favorite poem was this piece called, ‘I Tilt Toward the Sky,’ I became her little fan girl. Felt like it was written just for me. Her name was Jovana Stanton—did you ever hear of her? She was high profile for about a minute. Oprah even had her on her show once.”
“No, but can’t say I follow poetry much. Or Oprah.” He grinned.
“‘I look to my feet to . . . to keep from falling’ . . . or stumbling . . . or something like that. I can’t remember all the words. Anyway, I still think about her almost every time I walk out the door because I’m one of those people who always ‘tilts toward the sky.’ It’s just a habit now. I even keep the curtains open in my bedroom so I can see the moon and stars at night.” She turned to him with a smile. “So I guess we both have our observational quirks.”
He looked at her with new appreciation. “That’s a nice visual: you wrapped in a blanket, gazing out the open window, stars glittering, moon lighting up the room . . .”
“Now you sound like a cinematographer.” She laughed again. “How did you end up in sound?”
“Hermes. He basically opened up that world to me.”
“He’s your brother-in-law?”
“Yeah. I’d go to his studio and stand at the mixing board listening to him do his thing, and what he could do with great music was undeniable. It was when he worked on something uninspired that he really spun his magic. He has this amazing ability to turn something less, even something completely shitty, into something . . . I don’t know, better. Maybe even great. That was a revelation to me, that transformational power. He calls it ‘the alchemy of noise.’”
“Is that how you came up with the name of your company?”
“With a little spin.” He smiled. “Anyway, I think whether you look up, or look around, or run sound, or whatever you do, it’s about paying attention to what comes your way, you know? You do what you can to enjoy it, or make it better, or even just notice it. It’s a pretty interesting world.”
Sidonie watched Chris as he talked, thinking, He’s the most unusual man I�
�ve ever met.
When they reached a row of relatively new townhouses whose curb appeal included ornate iron gates and brick patchwork exteriors, Sidonie stopped. “This is me.”
“Nice. Which is yours?”
She pointed to the right. “Second to the last. I’ve got a really nice couple on the left and a cranky old shrew on the right, but generally it’s a good mix around here.” She pulled out her keys. “Thanks for walking me home, Chris. I’m really looking forward to working together.” She reached out her hand; they shook.
“Me, too. I’ll be in your office at nine thirty tomorrow.”
“Perfect. See you then!”
He waited as she bounded up the stairs and unlocked the door. A quick wave and she was in. As he headed back to his polar white Sound Alchemy van, he knew he’d be thinking about her the rest of the night.
FOURTEEN
THE STARBUCKS OFF ROUTE 12 HAD TO SUFFICE AS A meeting spot. Cleaning crews were doing a scrub-down of Marian Frame’s condo before she put it on the market, so there was no getting together there.
Sidonie had decided, despite her unwieldy schedule and the unavoidable battle with late morning traffic, to make the drive up from the city. Cold drizzle had begun to fall over the last hour, mucking things up even further, but she was so galvanized by the notion of her mother leaving the state that she opted to brave it all.
Like many northern suburbs, Palatine exuded an insistently beige, generic curb appeal—or unappeal, depending on one’s aesthetics. Growing up there, as self-absorbed as children and teenagers are wont to be, Sidonie rarely took notice of the town’s homogenized ambience and demographics (which skewed disproportionately Caucasian), but every time she returned, after years in the grit and diversity of Chicago, Palatine paled by comparison, literally and figuratively. As she pulled into the mini-mall parking lot, surrounded by more variations of off-white than she imagined possible, it struck her that moving somewhere with a wider color palette might, indeed, offer her mother an epiphanous experience.
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