The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  At one point she complained to her boss, but he told her if she wanted to be choosy about her clientele, she should get a job selling something nicer than hamburgers.

  Sanchez said Marble didn’t visit Fatso’s the night of the attack. She saw him later, on her way down Rice Street. As he approached, she recognized him and started for the other side of the street. She hadn’t stepped off the curb before he headed her off and hit her twice: a one-two, chest and face. Broken rib, black eye.

  The motive is unclear because he didn’t filch her bag or feel her up—no robbery, no sexual contact. He just stood over her on the sidewalk. Sanchez said he studied her “like a bug.” And then he left her there.

  Just like he did with me.

  When I talked to Sanchez, she acted like I was the one who assaulted her. She was defensive, almost defiant. I guessed she’d been over the incident so many times that her own story made her too afraid to fight him. I did get her to admit she didn’t do anything to deserve the attack, and that she didn’t want to go to court and face “that monster.” I told her if she didn’t take him to court, it might happen to someone else. She declined.

  I hope she’ll change her mind when she finds out it happened to me.

  I park outside her apartment on West Fourteenth Street just before ten. I thought about calling, but I don’t want the safe separation between us to make no easy for her. I leave my star and my book in the glove box and change into runners. I want her to see me, not an authority.

  The girl who answers the door is on her way out, and she is not Rosalind Sanchez. She wears black skinny jeans and a black tank and her dyed-black hair is a precise frame for her catlike face.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Rosalind.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Do you know when she might be back?”

  “I’m Rosie’s roommate. Not her mom. I don’t keep tabs.” The girl locks the door, both of us outside of it. “I’m late for class.” She fakes a smile and departs in long strides down the sidewalk. Catwalk.

  “Nice attitude,” I say.

  She glances back, cuts me a look.

  I let it go. I don’t know why pretty young girls get so mean.

  I go back to the car and call Sanchez. She doesn’t answer. I don’t leave a message.

  I hang up and call Andy.

  “Gina: I was just about to come visit.”

  “Just in time. They let me out last night.”

  “No kidding? How do you feel?”

  “Starved. Can I buy you lunch?”

  “I’m off lunch.”

  “What, you’re on the no-food diet now?” The last one was no-carb. Which meant no beer. It didn’t last.

  “Protein shakes, baby.” Andy uses baby like an exclamation point, and he says it to everyone, so I don’t take it as a slight.

  “What are we talking?” I ask. “Steak through a straw? I might be hungry enough.”

  “Why don’t you come by the house and I’ll fix you one? I’m sticking around today. I got carpet cleaners coming.”

  “Okay. Tell Loni I’m on the way.”

  Loni is a six-pound fluffball dog. A Bolognese. She was Donna’s. Donna was Andy’s wife. Cancer got her, quick and unsentimental, about a year ago. I tried to be there for Andy, but he said I’d just be one more person who’d say they don’t know what to say. He was right.

  Loni’s got what’s left of Andy’s heart. That’s why the carpet cleaners. The day Donna died, the dog started peeing in the bedroom. At first, Andy thought she’d become incontinent. Tests turned up nothing. The vet theorized that Loni was depressed and gave her antidepressants. Those improved the dog’s demeanor, but made her preference for the bedroom even stronger. Andy tried enzymatic cleaner and tin foil. Then chemical deterrents. Then reward training. Then he put her food there; she peed on that. Next, he tried locking her out; she spent the night scratching at the door. When he tried locking her up, she spent that night scratching herself. He’s ripped out the carpet. Twice.

  And, Loni’s got no competition. I know this because his hot young girlfriend sleeps in the spare room when she stays the night.

  On my way up to Andy’s I try Metzler again. I don’t leave a message. After that I call headquarters and get put through to the Medical Section. I tell the operator who I am and ask to speak to my case manager.

  I get voice mail. “Hello, this is Elaine Brille at extension 15539. I’m out of the office today. Please leave a message and I will return your—” I’m not going to bitch on record, so I hang up.

  I turn off the main drag early and cut through the neighborhoods. Andy lives in Edison Park, home of the Cloverleaf. I won’t drive by the bar. Of course that doesn’t stop me from wondering about Tom.

  When he left the first time, in January, it was a trip to Atlanta to scout a lease. He’d wanted to open another Cloverleaf for a while, and the deal seemed like a sure thing. He said he’d split time, here and there. I didn’t like the idea because I didn’t want a part-time boyfriend, but I didn’t say no because he never signed up to be a full-time dad. Funny, how I thought we could make it work.

  During his second trip in February, I discovered that the broker he hired in Atlanta was an old girlfriend, and that Tom’s plan was to split time between us, too. Funny, how he thought we could make that work.

  I spent Valentine’s Day putting all his shit in the basement, and celebrated with Isabel and a two-pound bag of M&Ms.

  In March, Tom left me a voice mail—the deal in Atlanta, and likely the deal with the old girlfriend—went bad. It wasn’t a call to apologize, though. He just wanted to tell me he thought we should sell the house.

  I called him back, said, sure thing.

  We haven’t yet come to terms.

  Andy is outside his place smoking a cigarette when I pull up.

  “They let you drive?” He always has to say something stupid like that when he gives me a hug.

  And I always have to say something like, “Try not to slobber on my shoulder.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay, G.”

  I smile; I want him to think I am. “How about that shake?”

  He responds by rocking his hips in a move that is one-hundred-percent white guy and should be even more embarrassing, but he plays it through, well past the joke, and he takes such joy in it that I actually find the whole thing kind of sexy. I say this with nothing but platonic love. And also a head injury.

  He stomps out his cigarette and I follow him up to the house.

  Inside, Loni gives me the stink eye from her perch on the back of the couch. I’m not a threat, but I’m not Donna, either.

  “Hi, Bologna,” I say. “You know, you remind me: I have to pee.”

  Andy says, “Make sure you put the seat back up.”

  I duck into the bathroom.

  I sit on the toilet and look around. The tub is filthy, but must be functional, since a damp towel hangs from the shower curtain rod. Andy still hasn’t painted, or replaced the mirror. He started the renovation when he went on furlough, a few months after Donna died. It’s been at least six months since furlough. This is the only bathroom in the house. When I’m through, I try to wash my hands, but the faucet doesn’t work. I look at a blank wall. I don’t know how he can stand it. He can’t see himself.

  In the kitchen, Andy’s filling a fancy blender with soy milk, almonds, sugar-free maple syrup, and protein powder. He smokes while he does this.

  I get in the way to wash my hands. “You’re a real advertisement. I don’t know for what.”

  “The Vitamix sells itself. I can make avocados into ice cream with this thing.”

  “And here I didn’t think you could fuck up fudge marble.”

  “It’s healthy.”

  “So is an apple.”

  “If cynicism is the key to longevity, you’re going to be one hell of an old lady.”

  “Cynicism is no match for secondhand smoke.”

  He runs the blender.

  Wh
en he’s done I tell him, “I went to work today.”

  “To prove that you sustained significant head trauma?” He coaxes the goopy brown mix into a tall glass.

  “I thought you would be impressed.”

  “Nope.”

  “Iverson wasn’t, either.”

  “C’mon. She’s trying to protect you. The press gets this? You know how they love to string us up. You’ll be the bad guy. The loose cannon. The white cop who went after the unarmed black. Iverson can’t risk the attention. She needs this filed and forgotten.”

  “Then how come she wants me to testify?”

  Andy takes a strong drag from his smoke. After he blows it out he says, “Well, either she wants to do you a solid, or she wants you gone.”

  “She says she’s on my side.”

  “Then you’re fine.” He puts a straw in the glass, hands it over. “Try the shake.”

  I do. It’s awful. “Listen,” I say, after I manage to swallow, “I’m walking a real fine line between being tolerated and being terminated. I need to show Iverson I’m real police.”

  Andy stubs out his smoke. “I get it, Gina. I’ve chased plenty of bad guys during bad times. That’s why I get it. Because I used to be like you. I used to think it was my job to fix other people’s problems. But now I know that was just a real good way to ignore my own shit.”

  Andy’s phone buzzes and when he checks the display, his expression falls somewhere between curious and resigned. It’s probably a text from the girlfriend.

  “Whose problems are you fixing now?”

  He puts down the phone without responding. “Mine. All mine.”

  I think about his bathroom. I hold the thought. “Marble is my problem. I need to find him.” I think about another sip of the smoothie. The thought is as far as I take it.

  “You can’t do anything, Gina. If Iverson wants you to testify, there’s no room to fuck up between now and then.”

  My phone’s the one that buzzes this time. It’s a call from a number I don’t recognize. Maybe Metzler from some hospital. Maybe Elaine Brille from an extension. Maybe, just maybe, Rosalind Sanchez.

  “I have to take this.”

  When I step into the front room, Loni gives me a dismissive look and titters into the kitchen.

  “Simonetti,” I answer.

  “Hello, Gina? This is Calvin. From Sacred Heart?”

  Holy shit. “Hi.” I hear my voice and it doesn’t sound like me so I don’t know what else to say.

  “You told me to call, about Kay St. Claire? This is left field, but she needs a ride.”

  If I can’t get Sanchez to talk, St. Claire is my only hope. “I’m on my way.”

  I hang up and go back into the kitchen and find Andy slicing avocados.

  “You’ll love the ice cream,” he says.

  “Kanellis. I don’t need ice cream. I need help.”

  Loni scratches at his ankles and he picks her up and hand-feeds her a chunk of avocado. “I’m sorry, Gina. I can’t.”

  “Says the one who got me into this.”

  “Now I’m saying you should get out.” Loni licks his face and I want to knock them both over like one of Isabel’s paper-block towers.

  “I’ll get out of here,” I say, and I make for the door. When I get there I say, “I hope that bitch pees on your pillow.”

  6

  Having been through Sacred Heart’s disorganized discharge process yesterday I figure I have plenty of time to stop for a taco and guacamole at L’Patron on my way back through the city. I try not to think about Andy as I sit in my car and stuff my face. Avocados, I’d like to tell him, were meant for this.

  I’m parked in the hospital rotunda when a dozen hospital staff members exit the building carrying matching cardboard file boxes packed with personal items, the telltale sign of a layoff. Three gentlemen in suits, who must be either private hires or Feds, herd them away from the entrance. I see James Novak, the CEO, just inside. He looks displeased. Though I can’t imagine anyone actually wants to choose a hospital, the situation can’t be good for business.

  Most of the staff wander a similar path to the parking lot; some stop to commiserate. I recognize my nurse Victoria. She turns to another woman in scrubs and they hold hands and whisper and wipe tears until one of the suits tries to urge them along.

  Victoria gives the woman a hug and gives the suit the finger.

  Behind the suit, Novak is there, stifling a grin.

  Mine’s not stifled.

  Amidst all the sad so-longing, Calvin wheels Kay St. Claire outside. I jump out of the car and hope he doesn’t see me check my teeth for shredded beef.

  When they roll up, St. Claire sees me and asks, “Is this the car service?”

  “As you requested,” Calvin says.

  “I’m Gina,” I say, to see if my name rings any bells.

  “Gina,” she says, and she seems pleased. She obviously doesn’t remember me and she doesn’t mistake me for anybody, either.

  I help Calvin help her into the passenger seat. He smells nice. She doesn’t. I buckle her belt.

  “Here are your walking papers,” Calvin says to her. “You’re probably the only one happy to be getting these today.”

  Kay tucks her discharge forms squarely into her giant purse and when I close the door and step onto the curb to have a quiet word with Calvin, she gazes out the passenger window, like there’s something scenic about Sacred Heart’s apparent lack of heart.

  I say, “I forgot my chauffeur hat.”

  “It was the only thing I could think of,” Calvin says. “Her caregiver doesn’t drive. She refused to let her daughter come. I knew she wouldn’t agree to a police escort. And as you can see, we don’t have the resources for a hospital chaperone at the moment.”

  “Budget cuts?”

  “No budget to cut. The state stepped in this morning. They say this place has millions in unpaid bills on account of the low-income patients. The state offered some money to stay up and running in exchange for some restructuring. It’s looking more like a demolition to me.”

  “What about you? It’s pretty brave to run outside hospital policy right now, isn’t it? What if St. Claire finds out you lied?”

  “Paperwork right there in her purse says this is a police escort.”

  “That means I’m the one who has to lie.”

  “You’re a detective, right? Isn’t lying what you do? To get people to talk?”

  “I see the department’s reputation precedes me.”

  “Well, you don’t have to lie—”

  “One six five—” Calvin’s radio cuts in, “security to Northeast Four, station fourth floor northeast, a former employee is attempting to leave the premises with hospital property—”

  “One six five, responding,” Calvin says. “You got her?” he asks me; it’s clear he’s got to go.

  “Okay.” But wait: “The number you called from earlier—was it a hospital line?”

  “My cell.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch. To follow up about St. Claire.” I had to tack on that last bit; I got shy.

  “I don’t need to know about St. Claire,” he says.

  “Oh. Well.” Shit.

  Then he says, “You should call, though.”

  I smile and I leave it at that because that’s exactly where to leave it.

  When I get in the car St. Claire says, “This is a nice car.”

  “Thank you.” She obviously hasn’t noticed the car seat, the ever-lingering odor of sour milk, or the pervasive stickiness. I just hope she doesn’t ask for music because the radio doesn’t work and the only CD I’ve got is Green Gorilla Monster & Me.

  I key the ignition. “Where to?”

  “Thirty-twenty-four North Racine, please.”

  “Lake View?”

  “No, you can’t see the lake from there.”

  I was talking about the neighborhood—Lake View—because there are at least four hospitals in between here and there. I don’t get why
they’d transport her all this way. It’s got to be some insurance thing.

  I head north on Kedzie over some rough blocks, liquor stores and liquor drinkers on every other corner, the street as acceptable as anywhere else to congregate. Kay looks out the window; in its reflection, her face is blank.

  At a stop sign, three boys hanging out on a broken bike rack are a picture of summertime boredom, the bills of their hats pulled crooked, a bag of barbecue potato chips and a palm-passed joint the only things on deck for the afternoon. They watch us stop, and go, though I’m sure we are a blur.

  “Where are you taking me?” Kay asks.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “This isn’t the way.”

  “Should I take a different route?”

  “You should let me drive. I have a perfect driving record.”

  “I don’t think that’s within company policy.”

  “I would pay you.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “I don’t think you know where you’re going.”

  “I can show you,” I say, pulling up a city map on my phone.

  She refuses. “I don’t understand those devices. I don’t like this.” She starts to look panicked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Gina,” I say.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home.” I crack my window. Thanks to Isabel, I’ve learned to curb both endless repetition and potential meltdowns by offering seeming opportunities, so, “You know what? It’s nice outside.” I roll down her window. “Look. The breeze is nice. It’ll help shake that hospital chill. And here”—I turn into Humboldt Park—“I’ll cut through the park. We can chase the breeze.”

  “The breeze?” Kay asks, like it’s a questionable concept. But she reaches her arm out the window, lets her fingers swim in the air, and seems to shift mental gears. She says, “I started driving when I was thirteen years old. My daddy’s tractor first, and then his car.”

  I guess toddler logic worked. I think about using it to gently broach the Johnny Marble subject, so I don’t sound like a cop. The thing is, toddlers aren’t gentle about anything. They’re just honest. So, what the fuck.