“How are they taking it?” Her daughter was six; her son, eight. They were good kids who were very attached to their mother. Chris imagined this was traumatic for them all.
“They’re confused. Angry. Don’t know why any of it is happening.”
“Do you?” It was a strange question, one he regretted the second it left his lips.
“What the hell does that mean? Of course I do! I don’t make decisions that impact my kids on a whim.”
“Sorry, Ness, that didn’t come out right. What I mean is: are you seeing this as a temporary situation, just a break for a while, or are you and Hermes really calling it quits?”
She slumped in her chair, looking small and fragile, an image Vanessa rarely conveyed. Her hair, usually pulled tightly from her face, hung in knotted tendrils as if she couldn’t find the energy to attend their mess. She wore an old nightgown likely found in a bedroom drawer, and her face, slick with perspiration, looked as if it had endured hours of tears.
“I don’t know,” was all she could muster.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay.”
“A boy was shot.” The abrupt non sequitur startled him.
“What boy?”
“His mother, Cheryl, comes to the shelter. She’s one of my cases. Has a rough situation with a live-in boyfriend, but she loves her kid . . . she really loves her kid.” Her voice choked. “And today her kid got his head blown off.”
Vanessa’s job encompassed ongoing involvement with a battered woman’s shelter in one of the rougher areas south of Hyde Park. It was heartbreaking work with a disappointing ratio of wins and losses.
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Just out with some friends at Harsh Park—you know the one up in Kenwood? Same place that girl from Obama’s inauguration got shot? Damn if those motherfuckers didn’t get Cheryl’s boy too!”
“Which motherfuckers? Do they know?” This recurring story, the death of black children, came far too often and was always a gut punch for Chris, who’d spent time playing in many of those same parks as a kid.
“Just some bangers shootin’ it up like it was the wild fuckin’ west. Three kids were hit but only her boy didn’t make it.” Vanessa couldn’t stop her tears now. “I’m tired, Chris, so damn sick and tired. So yes, I get upset, I get stressed, and it’s hard to let it all go when I get home, hard to enjoy the little things like Hermes wants me to. He says my anger is impacting the kids, and you know what I say? Good. It should impact the kids! They should know what’s going on in this world, in this city, amongst their less fortunate brothers and sisters. We have a black son! That boy has got to know what’s out there for him—his life literally depends on it! But the man just hums to himself and says we should focus on the positive and teach them to be good people, as if that’s a suit of armor.”
As she stopped to take another deep inhale of her cigarette, Chris grabbed the opening.
“But, Ness, I gotta throw in for the guy here. I know, because I’ve talked to him about it—he’s laser focused on teaching your kids how to deal with the world. He’s not brushing it off. I think you know that.”
“I do. I know.” Her voice softened. “And I want that for them too: to be positive and happy . . . but mostly I want them alive! I don’t want to be the bitch railing on about safety and danger all the time. But then I think of that little boy, not much older than our own son, lying in the dirt next to a filthy trash can, his precious head all torn up, his mother screaming his name, and I . . . I . . .” She broke, raw and anguished.
Chris got up to put his arms around her and she held him close, soaking his shirt with her tears.
TWENTY
THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED WITH NO CLIMATIC RELIEF, torpid air forcing every fan in the Hawkins house to do what it could to aid the wheezing, failing air conditioner.
“Ma, we gotta get that repair guy over today. It’s nuts in here.” Chris, scrambling eggs at the stove, was already dripping.
“I know, I know. I wanted to put it off until my vacation, but this is unbearable. I’ll give him a call this morning.” Delores was busy getting coffee started.
“Well, it is a fifty-year-old air conditioner.” Vanessa walked in looking as bruised as the night had left her. She plunked to a seat at the table. “I think you’ve gotten your money’s worth.”
“Good morning, daughter.” Delores bent down and kissed the top of Vanessa’s head.
“It is morning, that’s true.” Vanessa patted her mother’s cheek. She turned to Chris. “Thank you, brother, for listening last night. I appreciated it.”
Delores smiled softly. Chris brought the pan over from the stove to distribute eggs amongst their three plates. “Glad I could help.”
“You did. And I have another favor to ask.”
A beat. “Okay.”
“My BLM group is sponsoring a rally in the park this Friday night, a celebration of this little boy’s life and whatever call-to-action speakers we can bring to the stage. We’re looking to grab some news coverage, so we’re trying to get as much media out there as possible. The whole thing’s growing as the day goes by. I’ve already had ten phone calls this morning. We’ve got a stage setup promised, but the guy who was going to do sound just bailed. I know how busy you are, I know it’s only a couple of days’ notice, but this is real important to me. I need you to come and help us out.” She looked at him with pleading eyes and the whiff of expectation.
He stepped back to the stove, trying not to feel manipulated. “Ness, I wish I could, but I’ve got Melissa Etheridge at the club that night, on top of two big Alchemy gigs to oversee. I’m already spinning more plates than I can handle, so I can’t take it on. I’m sorry.”
Delores poured coffee for all three, her face set in neutral repose. She was familiar with her children’s trigger points and knew this conversation was likely headed nowhere good.
Vanessa shifted in her seat. “Okay . . . you’re busy, we’re all busy, everybody’s busy, but sometimes you have to step up and put your busy life on hold for a minute. Do something important and essential for the sake of a dead child, for the sake of your community, for the sake of the entire fucking welfare of humanity.”
“Vanessa.” Delores warned. “That will do.”
“I know you hate that language, Mother, but sometimes a point needs to be punctuated.”
“You can punctuate without vulgarity.”
Vanessa glared like a petulant teen. “So, you have no problem letting him off the hook to always focus on what’s best for him, never thinking about the greater good or how he might contribute to something outside himself? Is that right, Mother?”
Delores stiffened, but before she could say a word, Chris slammed the frying pan on the stove, startling everyone. He turned to Vanessa with a hard glare.
“See, this is what you do, Vanessa! You take all the goodwill we manage to scrape up between us, and you spin it and twist it and bash the shit out of it however and whenever it suits you, which is usually when the causes of your life don’t jibe with mine. And I get it! I get it, sister! What you do is important. I support it, as I support you, and if and when I can help, I’m there. But right now I’ve got all I can handle, all I can do, and that’s a lot. A damn lot, sister! I’m on my own path, fighting my own battles for my life—yes, my life—because my life is as important as yours, as Ma’s, as your battered women, as the kids dying in the park. I’m a black man who’s built his own business, who employs other black men who need jobs, which allows them to support their families and help keep our community strong and healthy. That, right there, is my contribution. It may not be as noble as yours, but it’s what I can do, it’s what I am doing, and I’ll be goddamned if I let you make me feel small for doing it!”
He grabbed his bag, bent to give his mother a kiss, and left, slamming the wooden screen door hard behind him.
TWENTY-ONE
CLEANING CREWS MOP
PED THE FLOORS THROUGHOUT THE club, a weekly event that kept cleanliness high but did little to blunt the classic scent of beer and alcohol residue endemic to bars the world over. Al claimed it was his “favorite perfume,” made all the more pungent by summer heat, but Frank remained less enamored, doing everything he could to rid this particular bar of its redolence. At the moment that meant tables, chairs, and barstools were scattered everywhere, with yellow Wet Floor sandwich signs strategically placed.
Chris came through from the employee parking lot, still churned from his clash with Vanessa, and found himself annoyed by the clutter, dodging through the obstacle course on his way to Sidonie’s office. Patsy was seated at the desk when he walked in.
“Well, hi there! I’m Patsy, Sid’s partner in crime. If you’re looking for her, sit down. She’ll be back in a minute.”
He sat, wondering who this ebullient woman—with the short red pigtails and odd jacket—was. “I’m Chris, the sound manager.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard so much about you! Nice to finally meet you, Chris.”
“And you.” He thought of asking what she’d heard about him but decided to move on. “What’s the crime the two of you are partners in?”
“She hasn’t mentioned it to you?” Patsy’s eyebrows rose.
“I’m not sure. Depends on the crime.”
“That girl is so tight-lipped! I guess she doesn’t want Frank to get all twitchy.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Sid and I have been working on some plans. She hasn’t said anything to you?”
“She mentioned something about a club, was a little cryptic about it. I haven’t heard too much beyond that.”
“That’s so like Sid! Anyway, I’m the chef, she’s the brains. She tends to be cynical and all ‘we’ll see,’ so I’m also the cheerleader. We’re meeting with potential new investors soon, which is why I’m here getting a check for the blueprints we’re having sketched out.”
“Wow . . . you’ve already got a place?” He found himself modulating his voice in accord with hers.
“An idea of a place. So these will be an idea of how we’d put it together if we actually got the place.” She giggled.
“That’s exciting. I didn’t realize it was that far along. Sounds like she could be striking out on her own soon.” Which surprised him. She seemed so dedicated to The Church.
“Who knows? But it’s been a dream since college, so we better get going if we want to launch before we’re too feeble to run the damn thing.” She laughed.
The idea of their launch left him oddly deflated. “What’s the timetable?”
“No idea. It’s hard to get any place started in Chicago. Competition is fierce and success ratios are deadly. Investors get skittish. We’ve been close before but nothing panned out. Hopefully this time will be different.”
“I wish you luck. I know what it’s like starting your own business.” Chris stood up. “Well, I’ve got to get going, so just tell her I’ll check in later. Nice to meet you, Patsy.”
“Likewise.” She waggled her fingers.
Just as he walked out and pulled the door shut behind him, Sidonie came from the kitchen. “Hey you, paying me a visit?” she asked playfully.
“I was. Wanted to say I was sorry I missed your text last night.”
“No, no, please.” She laughed, embarrassed. “Forget I ever sent that. I think I was out of my mind with the heat. I shouldn’t have bothered you so late.”
“I was actually out, over at Diante’s getting the last of my stuff, and by the time I checked my phone it was too late. I would have loved to have met you.”
His smile threatened to trigger a blush she wouldn’t be able to hide.
“Well, maybe next time. Hopefully the heat will break and I’ll actually be able to sleep.”
“I just met your partner in crime in there. You mentioned your project, but I didn’t realize things were so far along.”
Sidonie glanced around to see what personnel might be nearby. The place was largely empty. “It’s all very under the radar around here. Frank has some vague idea, but I don’t talk about it much. It’s been a long slog and I don’t want him getting prematurely worried about me leaving. And, honestly, some days I’m not all that enthused. Others, like lately, I get excited again. I guess having new investors interested has that effect! Anyway, I’ll share more of the details when we can talk privately. You never know, it might actually happen one day.”
She smiled with an expression Chris hadn’t seen before: Lightness. Optimism. It suited her.
“I hope so. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me last night.”
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . you seem a little down.”
“Nah, just life. I’ll check in with you after the show, okay?”
As he walked off toward the stage area, Sidonie made note of how much she looked forward to him doing that on a nightly basis.
TWENTY-TWO
DESPITE PREDICTIONS OF SHIFTING TEMPERATURES AND cooler lake breezes, disappointment reigned as night made no significant improvement over sweltering day. Sidonie sat in her vintage Audi in the parking lot, sweating and irate, making her third attempt to get the engine started. The alternator light kept popping on, indication that lack of timely automotive maintenance had finally played its karmic hand.
She’d been at the club all day, she was bone-tired, and she did not want to wait for a tow. She got out and stomped back inside.
Chris stepped out of the men’s room just as she walked in. “I thought you left.”
“My car won’t start. Do you have jumper cables?”
“In the van. But I’m driving my Jeep tonight. Sorry.”
“No problem. I’ll check with Al.” She walked to the bar; after a brief exchange, she came back, shoulders slumped. “He doesn’t have any either. Ugh.”
“I can give you a ride home,” Chris offered. “If you have a way back in the morning, you can call Triple A then. Or I can grab my cables and take care of it when I get in tomorrow, probably around two.”
“Yeah? That would be great. I can always get a Lyft in the morning.”
“As long as you don’t mind the Jeep. I just pulled it out of storage, so it’s filthy, and currently filled with sound equipment.”
“If it runs, we’re good.” She laughed.
AS THEY MADE their way through traffic, a blessed breeze picked up; the mood was comfortable, easy. He tuned the radio to his favorite jazz station, and they both moved in rhythm to the music, smiling at each other from time to time. When he made the turn onto Clark from Lincoln, rejecting the more direct route via Lake Shore Drive, she was pleased; it suggested he was looking to maximize their time together.
She leaned back and relaxed, her eyes gazing out the open window. Making their way past Wrigley Field, which, luckily, was dark tonight, the view was quintessential Chicago: lights, color, the palpable sense of energy. It was a panorama Sidonie never tired of. As much as she dreamed of places with less congestion and easier weather, this city, with its deep history and unique Midwestern urbanity, held her heart.
Chris stuck his arm out the window as if to gauge the air temperature. “Sorry about the air-conditioning. I’m still trying to decide if I should fix this beater or break down and get a new one.”
“I’m fine,” she remarked gamely, her face agleam with perspiration. “It’s still better than sitting in the parking lot waiting for Triple A!”
“I heard cooler temps might be coming in.”
“Wishful thinking,” she said, laughing. “But let’s hope you’re right. I’m so done with this heat.”
“You and me both.” He sighed and grew quiet again.
She looked over. “Are you okay? You seemed stressed earlier and I wondered how things were going with balancing your work situation?”
He liked that she asked. “The first few weeks were a little rough, but the new guys are all good so we’re ge
tting it worked out.”
“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want our arrangement making things too hard on you. Is Andrew doing okay?” Andrew had often been needed when Troy was busy imploding; these days he shadowed Chris like a puppy.
“He’s a good kid. Eager to learn, very focused. I think he wants to take on more—”
Woot, woot, woot!
The staccato blast of a police siren signaled the presence of a squad car behind them, its strobe swirling in chaotic blue.
Sidonie turned back to look. “Is that for us?”
Chris glanced in the rearview mirror. His jaw clenched. Tick, tick. He steered toward the shoulder, hoping they would fly by. They didn’t, pulling right behind.
“Goddammit . . .” he said under his breath. He reached into the glove box to grab his registration and insurance card.
After what felt like an interminable wait, two white officers slowly approached, one on each side of the vehicle. Hands on guns, flashlights were angled first on Chris’s face, then Sidonie’s, alternately scanning the interior of the car.
“License and registration, please,” the driver’s side officer barked at Chris.
Chris handed both documents through the window. “What’s the problem, officer?” Tick, tick . . .
Without response, the officer walked back to the patrol car while the other remained stationed at the passenger side, his flashlight holding them both in its beam. Sidonie felt anxious but since this was clearly some kind of mistake, she presumed it would conclude quickly. Chris kept his mind blank, his focus forward, breathing in and out.
The first officer reapproached and handed back the paperwork while giving Chris a fixed stare. “Do you know why I stopped you?”
“No.”
“Looks like you’ve got an obstructed rear view with all that equipment stacked up in your vehicle.”
“Actually, it’s purposely packed so I can see fine—”
“What is all that stuff?”
“Sound equipment.”
“Did you steal it?”
The Alchemy of Noise Page 8