A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

“I dunno. Long enough so I don’t hafta go to St. Aloysius or live in Papa’s house. I’m not liking all this court stuff, either. Maybe when that’s over.”

  This is the first time she’s mentioned the trial as a factor in her return. “It could be months before the trial ends.”

  “No hurry,” she says with a shrug. “Pat and Mom make Europe sound like an adventure—tons of stuff to see and do.”

  “Your mother will be working. You know the kind of hours she likes to put in at the office.”

  “Yeah, I was kinda worried about that, but Mom said she won’t be working so much. We’re gonna have lots of time together.”

  Now, there’s a broken promise just waiting to happen. I keep the thought to myself.

  Brittany leans close and puts her head on my shoulder when they announce general boarding. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Why?”

  “I just realized that I wasted most of our last couple of hours together.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “And I’m sorry for being kinda bratty.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Britts. I haven’t been at my best, either.”

  She doesn’t argue but she does tear up. “I’m gonna miss you, too, y’know.”

  I brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. “I know.”

  “It’ll be easier for you with me gone,” she says bravely. “You can stay in Papa’s house and save some money.”

  She’s probably right. But. “None of that matters as much as having you with me.”

  “I know,” she mumbles through a sniffle.

  With Brittany on her way to Brussels, my first dinner alone on Liberty Street is reheated Chinese from lunch, washed down by one of a six-pack of Stella Artois I picked up on the way back from the airport. The Belgian brew is a rather pathetic attempt to cling to my departed daughter. After discovering that beer definitely isn’t the beverage of choice with Chinese food, confirmed by a second bottle to validate the experiment, I load the dishwasher and toss the final remnants of lunch into the garbage. Then I tie off the garbage bag, lug it to the back door, and follow Deano outside.

  Where I stop dead.

  Amy’s mural shimmers under a luminescent full moon, as if she has just now applied the final strokes and stepped away with a wet brush in hand. The vision takes my breath away. No matter where life has taken me and whatever shit it has dealt out in the process, the backyard of our home on Liberty Street has forever remained an enchanted icon of warm childhood and family memories. Here, Amy, Frankie, and I once ran and played with the reckless abandon of youth. This is the sanctuary that Francesco and Maria Valenti devoted themselves to creating over the years. Stands of Papa’s prized tomato plants have for years untold been planted along the north fence, hugging it for support while they bathed in the nurturing rays of the summer sun. Mama’s rose bushes splashed annual bursts of red and yellow and pink over the carefully arrayed milieu of her rock garden. Desperate to keep any remnant of Mama alive, Papa lavished this year’s crop of roses with the love and care usually reserved for his tomatoes. In the center of it all stands a two-foot tall stone Hummel boy fully decked out in lederhosen and rucksack with a feather tucked into his peaked cap. He pours a bubbling stream of water into a half-barrel from spring until autumn. I’ve never quite figured out what a German totem is doing in our little slice of Italy, but Mama must have had her reasons. I should have taken an interest and asked while I had the chance.

  A cloud crossing in front of the moon wipes the color and vitality from the scene. With the water shut off for the winter, a lonely drop of dew glistens on the cap of the Hummel boy before it falls on his empty watering can. Papa had cleaned out the tomato plants after the first frost but couldn’t bring himself to prune the flowers from Mama’s rose bushes. The final petals appear heartbreakingly forlorn in their wilted frailty. When the freshening breeze gently rocks the ghosts of Mama and Papa back and forth in the swing beneath the Hawthorne tree, I’m hammered by the realization that I am now well and truly alone in this house.

  I slam the bag into the garbage can and smash the lid back in place, fuming at my daughter, her mother, my father, Pat O’Toole, and the whole horseshit universe in general. I pick up the lid and give it a final satisfying crash into position. A wet nose on the back of my hand reminds me that I’m not completely alone. Deano’s sad eyes echo the emptiness of my soul. I scratch the crown of his head and head back inside with the dog at my heels.

  As always, the cabinet above the stove holds a bottle of Nonino Grappa. The Nonino is a greatly refined version of the barnyard grappa Papa had grown up with, which Mama derided as peasant rotgut when she finally banished it from our home. I fill a water glass with a healthy shot and meander into the living room with the glass in one hand and the bottle clutched in the other. While I gaze at the pictures and keepsakes of the past, I brood over how the unfathomable twists and turns of life have led me to the dead-end of tonight. Then I head off to wander through the house.

  After arriving unsteadily in the living room sometime later, I slip an old Dean Martin LP of Mama’s onto the turntable of an antique RCA console stereo. The stereo, an obsolescent atrocity in the eyes of serious audiophiles, has occupied the same corner of the living room for decades. As Deano’s mellow baritone croons “Memories Are Made of This,” I study a fading family photograph of my parents, me, and Amy. The picture was taken while Amy was visiting during her senior year at the University of Illinois; it was her last Thanksgiving at home. We’re all younger and smiling, still filled with hope for the future. There’s no hint here that our family would soon be dealt the bitter loss of Mama and Papa’s second born and, if I’m honest, far and away the best of their children. Alongside this picture hangs a blissful depiction of the whole family on a Christmas morning many years earlier. Everyone seemed happy in this shot, taken while we were still in grade school. Such good years they were—so filled with love, joy and the certainty that, whatever the future held, we’d see it through together. A crushing, desolate loneliness settles over me while I sink deeper and deeper into the bottle of grappa.

  My wanderings take me to the doorway of Amy and Brittany’s empty bedroom. I picture my daughter as she was last night, snuggled under the covers a few minutes after I’d tucked her in—an indulgence she’d allowed me on her final night at home. Then, as now, the only light in the room spilled in from the hallway. As quietly as I had last night, I step inside and settle into a well-seasoned armchair wedged between the dresser and closet. Many an hour had been spent sitting beside Brittany’s crib or bed back when life was simpler. My mind’s eye conjures up images of her as a sleeping infant and as the rambunctious and precocious toddler she became, a child who fell still only when asleep… and sometimes not even then. I steal away when the nostalgia gives way to a gathering melancholy.

  After dropping the now empty grappa bottle into the recycling bin, I stumble back to the living room and collapse onto the sofa. Brittany is on her way to a new life, my parents are lost to me, my career is shot, and my broken shell of a marriage has finally shattered. What have I got to look forward to? What the hell is the point of even trying to move forward? It’s probably a good thing that Papa’s gun isn’t in the house tonight. How easy it would be to resolve my future if it were.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Winter launches its first serious assault on Chicago forty-one days after Brittany’s departure—not that anyone’s counting. The blizzard’s fury and resulting Friday traffic crawl remind me of a couple of reasons I fled south. Pat O’Toole called unexpectedly yesterday to suggest going out tonight for a quick dinner. It will be our first visit since Brittany left. Pat’s due to arrive at seven. I eventually snowplow into the driveway with fifteen minutes to spare after a workday every bit as vile as the weather.

  I hustle toward the house with a wary eye on the roof. It’s smothered beneath the first eighteen of twenty-four forecast inches of snow and looks capable of unleashing a catastrophic avalanche
at any moment. I pause to look up and down the block after muscling through a mountainous snowdrift to reach the front door. The winking holiday lights and festive decorations look to be in season for the first time since they sprouted after Thanksgiving, but even this winter wonderland isn’t enough to nudge me into a festive mood. Most years, I slip into Christmas mode by the end of Thanksgiving weekend. This year, I just want it over with. I turn my back on the scene, scoop a handful of envelopes and flyers out of the mailbox, and go inside. Deano struggles up from a floormat to greet me with a few desultory wags of his tail while I sweep snowdrifts off my shoulders. I sigh and drop the mail beside the door, grab his leash from the closet, and drag the old bugger out to do his business. At least he doesn’t linger. We’re back inside within a minute or two.

  I dump the mail on the kitchen table and head for my bedroom to get changed. I’m back two minutes later in a sweater and slacks, tumbler of Maker’s Mark bourbon in hand. I’ve returned to my university bourbon of choice after drinking stupid expensive brands during the high-flying days in Atlanta. Maybe I have a crappy palate or something, but I can’t tell the difference. Only two of the envelopes on the table merit my attention. One is from Butterworth Cole and the other is from the Village of Cedar Heights. I suspect both contain invoices. I gratefully set them aside unopened when the doorbell rings.

  Pat’s smiling face greets me when I open the door. The ends of her hair hang below a red ski cap, curling up on the collar of a forest-green knee-length wool coat. A red knit scarf is wrapped loosely around her neck, its ends dangling almost to her waist. She claps a pair of matching red Santa mittens together and laughs with delight. “Isn’t it great?”

  I wave a hand toward the Rockwellesque streetscape beyond her. “This shit?”

  She pauses long enough to catch a fluffy flake on her tongue. “Pretty as a post card, isn’t it? I can almost hear the tinkle of muffled sleigh bells and picture reindeer prancing through the snow.”

  “It took me the better part of three hours to get home from work,” I grumble.

  “Don’t bitch about the traffic, Mr. ‘I Won’t Ride the L,’” she says, referencing my stated distaste for the iconic Chicago rapid transit trains. Then she breaks into song and starts to spin like a top with her arms outstretched. “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? In the lane, snow is glistening—a beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walkin' in a winter wonderland.”

  Her antics prompt a grudging smile from me. “You’re happier than a pig in poop, aren’t you?”

  She laughs. “Where to for dinner, Mr. Grumpypants?”

  “Not too far in this weather.”

  “What’s close that you like?”

  The nearest thing I can think of is a pizza place a mile away. “Lou Malnati’s?”

  “Perfect! Nothing like a little pizza and eggnog to put a gal in a festive frame of mind.”

  “Your car or mine?”

  “Who’s got the snazzy car with the big fat tires?”

  I work my feet into a new pair of winter boots, then grab my keys and a leather coat before wading onto the front porch. The Porsche is already wearing a fresh inch of snow. Not for the first time, I wish there was room in our backyard garage, but Papa’s old Buick and woodworking tools take up all the space.

  “I hate to sour your cheery mood,” Pat says while she watches me sweeping snow off the car.

  “But?”

  “The village has put Liberty Street and Independence Park redevelopment on the agenda for the January seventh board meeting.”

  I suspected this was coming but it’s still a sucker punch in the pit of my stomach. I doubt our little victory over the eviction notice will stand in the way of a full-fledged redevelopment plan for the whole neighborhood. Of course, I don’t know shit about most aspects of law, so that’s just another uneducated guess from Tony Valenti, Esquire, Ignoramus-at-Law.

  “I’m sorry,” I say while we sweep snow off the car. “I was way out of line about Amy. I should have been thanking you for your help and friendship.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing your appreciation.”

  “I do a lot of stupid things.”

  Pat doesn’t argue the point and we fall into an uneasy silence. She’s probably reflecting on what an ass I am. At least she’s speaking to me.

  She eventually sighs. “Sorry. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  “What am I going to do to save the house?” I ask after we get in the car.

  Pat pulls off the ski cap and shakes the snow out of her hair. “What did your folks do?”

  “Got help.”

  “So, get help.”

  “Mr. Rosetti will know what to do. Mind if we stop on the way?”

  “Nope.”

  We pull into the shoveled Rosetti driveway a minute later. Mr. Rosetti answers the door and waves me in.

  “Hi, Mr. Rosetti. How are you?”

  “Fine, Anthony. And you?”

  “Frozen and missing Atlanta more every minute.”

  He rewards my lame humor with a tight smile. “I should have stayed in Florida. Perhaps the time has come to move down there.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods. “How can I help you?”

  “Have you heard about the redevelopment hearing?” His blank stare is answer enough. After I fill him in on the details I have from Pat, he asks me to wait and disappears deeper into the house. He returns within a minute and presses a business card into my hand. I glance down at it: The Citadel Foundation. Teresa Keebler-Jones, Director.

  My eyes rise to his. “I should talk to her?”

  “She helped us two years ago. It is your fight this time, Anthony. Teresa will help you.” Then he surprises me by reaching to open the door.

  “Thank you,” I stammer as I step outside.

  “You’re welcome, Anthony,” he says while pulling the screen door closed. I walk back to the car pondering the unwelcome ramifications of his seeming indifference. Mama told me that Mr. Rosetti had been a tenacious battler against the village in the last effort to turn Liberty Street into a shopping mall. I wordlessly hand Pat the business card after I clamber back into the warmth of the Porsche.

  She reads the card and passes it back. “She can help?”

  “I hope so,” I mutter while tucking the card into my shirt pocket. After backing into the street, I begin inching toward Malnati’s by keeping my tires in the tracks forged through the snow by other vehicles. We haven’t seen a snowplow yet. I doubt we will anytime soon.

  “Tough day?” Pat asks.

  “Typical bullshit day.”

  “Tell me about this job. What are you doing?”

  “It’s with a law firm, handling one of their corporate accounts. Blowing off complaints and lawsuits from customers, fighting with the lawyers of other firms so we can all pile on billable hours to justify our salaries. Typical corporate law.”

  “Try not to sound so excited.”

  “It’s a job.”

  “You sound like an everyday working stiff, Valenti.”

  A billboard advertisement we pass for the St. Petersburg exhibit at the Field Museum reminds me of Pat’s outing with her niece and nephew. “How did it go at the Field?”

  “Great! The kids loved it.”

  “As much as you?”

  She grins. “Maybe not that much.”

  We arrive at Malnati’s after a ten-minute drive. I was right about a dearth of snowplows along the way. The parking lot behind the restaurant hasn’t seen a shovel or plow, either. Aside from several imposing snowdrifts and two cars, it’s deserted.

  “Let’s hope the cook was at work before the storm hit,” Pat says while we trudge through a Himalayan-sized drift between the parking lot and the entrance.

  A waiting hostess greets us and leads us past a sea of empty tables covered in white and red checked tablecloths before seating us at a red and black booth for two. “Your server tonight is Madison,” the hostess tells us brightly. “
She’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time with the kids?” I ask Pat after the hostess leaves.

  “My nieces and nephews?”

  I nod in reply.

  “As much as I can. It isn’t enough but I do my best. The worst is my nephew up in Canada. I only see him once or twice a year.”

  “Whereabouts in Canada?”

  “They’re out west in Calgary. My sister married a Canadian she met in college.”

  The waitress announces her arrival with a hearty, “Hi! I’m Madison! I’ll be your server this evening! Can I start you off with a little something from the bar to warm you up?”

  I order my second bourbon of the evening. Pat, being the designated passenger, asks for a cup of hot chocolate. I bitch about work while we wait, then smile at the ribbon of foam that appears on her upper lip after her first sip.

  “So, tell me about this attack of conscience you seem to be having,” Pat prompts. “You’re suggesting your work has no redeeming social value?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Wow. I’m fascinated by the concept of a conscientious lawyer.”

  I wave a hand in dismissal. “I’m just questioning the worth of what I’m doing.”

  She settles back and studies me for a moment or two. “Not a road you’ve travelled before, is it?” After I shake my head, she adds, “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

  “Could be… and that’s all of that intriguing little topic we’re going to discuss, Dr. Freud.”

  We’re still chuckling when Madison! arrives with our pizza and two squat glasses of ice water in wide-mouth mason jars—authentic Italian mason jars, I’m sure. “Can I get you guys anything else?”

  Pat shakes her head in response to my questioning gaze. “No thanks,” I reply as the waitress transfers a slice of deep dish onto each of our plates. The zesty aroma of sausage, pepperoni, spinach, and heaps of mozzarella cheese stirs my dormant appetite.

  “Enjoy!” Madison! exclaims before she departs.

  That’s easy enough to do. I like Malnati’s. We down a couple of enormous slices each while chatting about her day at the Field Museum and her plans to visit St. Petersburg. “Good pizza,” I announce a little later while pushing my plate aside.