The hard-hat guy sets me down on the pavement and crouches in front of me. You telling me the truth that you been in there recently? Mother rushes over to us.
I cry and cough. He could be in there. Please, pretty please, I say.
This better not be some kinda prank. He points at me.
How dare you? says Mother.
I’m telling the truth, I say.
He stands and puts his hands on his hips. Shit. He walks over to a group of men and talks to them. They look at us and at the building. Then they all go to Jim’s secret entrance and file in one at a time.
Mother and I sit on the curb and wait. She holds me, rocks me, and hums a little. Now that I’ve started crying, I can’t stop. A fire truck arrives and some police cars.
It starts to get dark. A policeman walks up to us and asks Mother a lot of questions. What does Jim look like? What was he wearing last time you saw him, on and on. And what was he taking pictures of exactly?
Mother looks at me.
The railings, windows, little beautiful things, I say.
He frowns at me and says, I see.
He tells us to go home and promises to let us know if they find anything. I seriously doubt that your boyfriend is in this building, ma’am, he says as we begin to leave. Mother looks at me and nods, trying to smile. I look away.
At home we sit in the living room with the lights off. We don’t want to see or talk or eat or anything. We just wait.
Hours pass and the apartment is almost black. The only light is the light leaking in from the street and the flaring tip of Mother’s cigarette.
Then there’s a knock on the door.
We don’t move.
Mother breathes heavily. Then she bends over, holds her head, and makes a sound.
I walk toward the door, stop to turn on a lamp, and open it. It’s the policeman who talked to us. He turns his hat in his hands.
He seems to not know what to say. We just look at each other. He swallows. Is your ma here?
I am frozen.
He steps closer. Sweetie, is your ma home?
I hear her get up and take a few steps toward us but not all the way.
He looks at her and thinks very hard about every word he chooses. Ma’am. We have uncovered . . . a man we believe to be your friend. There is a chance it’s not. But he fits the description you gave me exactly.
She moves silently back into the room.
I’m sorry, he says, looking down at me. He shakes his head and walks away.
I stand there staring at the hallway for a long time while Mother makes terrible, painful sounds in the dark. In between, when she’s catching her breath, I hear the hallway lights buzz. I can’t shut the door. I will wait forever. And watch. I will stand here all night.
CHAPTER 52
ALL THE NEXT day, Mother doesn’t leave her room and I stay home from school. In the afternoon, I sit at Mother’s desk and write a note to Look magazine telling them what happened to Jim. I think it’s their fault, though I don’t say that. I place the note in his box of photos and take it downstairs. Sal is at the front desk, so I ask him how to get to the post office.
You need to mail that?
Yes.
You got money for postage?
I look at the box, uncertain.
Let me take it for you. He reaches out to take the box.
It’s very important, I say, before I let him have it.
Okay, kid.
Thank you, Sal.
I go back up to the dark apartment and sit. Sister shows up around four.
Why weren’t you in school? Are you ill? She walks in and turns on a light. What’s going on here? Honey, talk to me.
I stare at her. Her face gets stern. Sophia!
I want to tell her and believe I can somehow divide the pain if I can tell her but I cannot speak.
What on earth, she says to herself as she walks into Mother’s room. I stand in the hall and listen to them, to the clock on the shelf, to the horns on the street. I walk to the window and it’s the same as always—cars, yelling, honking, wind, the El—like nothing has happened, like everything is fine.
Sophia, says Sister when she eventually comes out. Her eyes are red and her voice shakes. I would like you to gather up some things. You’re going to stay with Rita and me for a few days. Mama needs to rest. She walks into my room and pulls my blue-and-green-flowered suitcase out of my closet.
Help me, she says.
I hand her my uniform skirt, blouse, and shoes, and my nuclear-fallout book. I start to hand her the Heathkit from Jim but decide I want to hold on to it.
Before we leave, I check on Mother. She’s barefaced with all her freckles showing.
Just a few days, she says. You need to be taken care of right now.
When we arrive at Sister’s apartment, Rita says, I just heard.
Can I speak to you alone? says Sister.
After talking awhile, they come out of the bedroom and Rita walks to me with her arms open. She hugs me, sniffling. Sister stands nearby with her eyes closed.
Are you talking to God? I ask her.
She nods and I stare at her. There is no such thing, there is no such thing, there is no such thing. Sister opens her eyes and looks at me like she heard my private thoughts. I look away.
Do you have a bomb shelter here? I ask.
Sister and Rita look at each other. Sister shakes her head no but Rita stops her.
Of course it does, says Rita. Come with me. She grabs her keys and we leave.
I follow her down several sets of stairs and through a door. It’s dark. She flips on the light and there is a long aisle lined with cages, each cage has a padlock on it. We walk down the aisle, looking in the cages. They are full of stuff, some more than others. Furniture, boxes, lamps, a few lanterns, rolled-up rugs, Christmas decorations, crates of records.
What is all this? I ask.
Stuff we might need, says Rita. After the bomb.
I look into the cages. A box of toys. A bassinette. A guitar case.
Do you feel better? says Rita.
I don’t know how to tell her that I will never feel better for the rest of my life. She rests her hand on my back. Let’s go back upstairs. Bomb shelters do nothing for the spirit, do they?
Sister makes noodles and butter and I eat three helpings. She asks, When did you last eat? I shrug.
The apartment is small but there is a large closet. I take Jim’s Heathkit into the closet with me and rest my hand on it. I just sit there and listen to myself breathe.
CHAPTER 53
MY FAMILY—MOTHER, Sister, Rita, David, Laura, Hilda, and the people from the Blue Angel—take up one whole row at the funeral home. Jim’s body is in a casket in the front and people walk in and go straight up to see him. I want to go but I’m sitting in the middle of the row and everyone is arguing in whispers about whether or not it’s right to let a child view the body. Sister is on my left and Mother is on my right. Sister rests her hand on my leg. Whatever they decide, if you move, I will catch you. You are not going up there.
I want to see him, I say.
Look at me. He is not there. We are spirit and light and love. That is what we are. What is up there is just a body.
I push her hand off my leg and think of Jim’s mustache and glasses and his crooked bottom teeth and the little stains on his fingers from cigarettes and the way his hair went every which way. I never know what you’re talking about, I tell Sister without looking at her and hide my face with my hands and cry.
Toward the end of the little service Mother walks to the front, resting her hand on the end of each pew as she goes, like she might fall down.
Sister closes her eyes like Mother is going to sing a prayer for us. Mother sings, “Black is the color of my true love’s hair. His face so kind and wondrous fair. The purest eyes and the strongest hands. I love the ground on where he stands.”
The sad in her voice pulls the sad out of me, out of all of us.
&nb
sp; After the service, I stand with Mother in the parking lot.
I could come home with you, I say.
She puts her hand on my shoulder, which means no. You need more than I have right now.
No, I don’t. When did I ever need anything? I raise my voice. She hugs me.
Soon, she says. Be patient for me, okay, kitten? I watch her walk away and she seems unsteady, like her heels are too tall or her dress too tight. David catches up to her but she waves him away.
Back at the apartment that afternoon, Sister and Rita decide I should go to school. When I get there the next day, Elizabeth has a thousand questions. Please don’t make me talk about it, I say to her.
I’m sorry, she says, resting her hand on my arm, thinking about what to say next. My mother has raised the ban on our friendship. Temporarily. So that’s one good thing.
Elizabeth stays right by my side, like she’s guarding me. She doesn’t leave my side for days.
One day while I’m at school, Rita shoves all the coats and wraps in the closet to the back, pushes the hatboxes to the side, puts a cushion on the floor and a small lamp, and makes a little desk out of a stack of photography books. Stay in there as long as you like, she says. I go in and look around. I like my secret room but it also seems to mean that I’m going to be here for a while, which nobody has actually said out loud. I look at my Heathkit and I want to put it together so bad. I just know if I can build that radio, I will be okay. I just know it and cannot wait another day.
Rita is smoking on the couch. I grab the instruction booklet for the Heathkit and put it in front of her face.
Yes? she says.
Can you help me figure this out?
She squints at it like it’s something dead.
No, darling, I cannot. You know I don’t do these sorts of things.
Can’t you try? I ask.
Why are you asking me? Why not Idalia?
You’re the only man in this house, I say, resting my finger on the head of the dad on the cover of the Heathkit manual.
I feel Rita staring at me. I wonder if she’s breathing at all. Neither of us moves for a while.
I know what you’re doing, she says.
I’m not doing anything, I tell her.
You’re mad.
I am not, I say.
CHAPTER 54
ON WEDNESDAYS, AFTER school, I go to Elizabeth’s house on the South Side, where all the Negro folks live. Sometimes Mrs. LaFontaine fixes my hair. It’s the first time my hair has looked good in my whole life.
Mr. LaFontaine says, How’s that Heathkit coming along? and Mrs. LaFontaine gives him a sharp face, like no one is supposed to say anything that will make me think of Jim.
Not so good, I say. The diagrams are hard.
Oh, not really, he says, tossing a yellow notebook on the table and sitting down in front of it.
He draws a diagram that makes more sense to me than the one in the manual. Then he explains what all the parts do—resistors, capacitors, diodes, transistors—and how to read the chart so I know where they go.
Is this what sociologists do? I ask him.
He thinks. In a word, yes.
I work on the radio as soon as I get home. Sister peeks in to see if I’m doing my homework and just smiles when she sees that I’m working. She and Rita have an argument about how I’m falling behind and how they’re responsible for me now.
Sister says, Let her do what she needs to do.
You coddle her. Did that go so well with Naomi? No, it did not, Rita says as she marches around the apartment in heels, watering the plants with a bright pink watering can.
The buzzer sounds.
Oh, what now, says Rita.
She pushes the intercom button and says, Yes?
It’s me, darling, says Mother’s muffled voice.
She’s come for me, I think, running to the door.
Rita pushes the small black button on the brass plate.
When Mother walks in I feel my body lean toward her like she’s a giant magnet and I’m a shard of steel. She rushes me with her arms open wide. God, I miss you. She takes my head in her hands, kisses my face, and smells my hair. I know by her voice that she’s not here to take me home.
Are you taking me home?
Soon, sweetie, says Mother. Real soon.
I brought you something, she says, her voice a little hesitant. She reaches into a yellow envelope and pulls out a magazine and hands it to me. I take it. It is Look magazine. Jim’s Look magazine, and there, on the cover, is the picture of Mother in the blue night-sky dress, her hair big and stiff, all her makeup on, crouched down holding me by the hips, looking up at me like she loves me. “Chicago’s Beating Heart,” it says above our heads.
It came in the mail today with a note from the editor. He said the story was just going to be a little article in the back, nothing much, but when he heard what happened to Jim . . . She stops and can’t continue, holds a small, embroidered handkerchief close to her face.
Sister and Rita stand behind us and look over our shoulders. We all stare at the cover in silence.
There’s more inside, says Mother.
No, I say, standing up. I don’t want to see it yet. I can’t start to look now, look again, at us, at what used to be our life.
You don’t have to, says Mother. This is yours. She sets the magazine on the table. Someday.
Sister brings her coffee.
Rita says, We’re talking about coming to see you this Saturday. It is your last show, this Saturday?
It is.
Well, we’ll be there, then.
We wouldn’t miss it, says Sister.
You, too? Mother asks me.
I don’t know.
I would love it if you came. I need you in my wings. I really don’t do so hot without you.
Okay, I say, wanting to be there for her.
Rita says, Darling, why don’t you show Mama your office?
I walk to the closet, Mother following.
I open the door and Mother steps in and squats on her haunches. Oh, look. Is this the kit Jim gave you? She reaches for the Heathkit plate, which is lying on a sheet of newspaper.
Don’t touch that.
Sorry, she says. It makes me so happy you’re working on it, it really does. We’ve got to keep him alive however we can. He made me a better person . . . Her voice trails off.
I can’t stop crying, I say.
Me neither. She looks up and the fixture lights her face. It seems wherever she is, a spotlight appears.
I wish you would take me home.
She thinks. I’ve got to get through this weekend. Then I have to find a new gig, really pound the pavement, you know? I just want to be a little more settled.
You won’t even know I’m there, I—
Sophia, no. I said no. Not now. I just can’t.
I wait a little while for her to change her mind, then I sit down on the floor and look at the diagram.
Oh, I almost forgot. She pulls a brown paper sack out of her bag and hands it to me. Some batteries. For your little radio? And some candy. Atomic Fireballs and Mary Janes.
Thanks.
Don’t be sore at me, kitten, she says. We’ll be together again soon. Real soon.
CHAPTER 55
AFTER SHE LEAVES I get the Look magazine and the soldering iron and take them into the closet, closing the door behind me.
Rita says, You’re being careful with that, right?
No, I say. I’m melting all of the shoes.
I lean the magazine against the wall, the cover facing it. There is an ad for a Plymouth Barracuda on the back, a happy couple standing by it.
While I wait for the iron to heat up, I pick up the magazine and flip through until I find the article. At the beginning is a little blurry black-and-white photo of Jim. I look at it a long time and it makes me smile. I pretend to fight with him, whispering, Be quiet. No, YOU be quiet; no, YOU be quiet.
I fold the magazine on itself and lean it a
gainst the wall so Jim is watching me.
I can do it myself, I tell him.
The iron heats slowly. I hold my hand above it until I think it’s hot enough. Then I press some of the wires between my forefinger and thumb to flatten them and push them through the holes; they come out the other side of the plate. I touch the iron to a piece of solder until it softens into a small glistening bead, which I drop between the wire and the plate, holding still until they harden. With Jim watching over me, I work a long time.
Finally, Rita taps on the door. I’m unplugging you, she says.
I set the soldering iron on a small ceramic stand Rita gave me. She said it was for resting chopsticks but when do I ever get to use chopsticks?
I wait for it to cool. I never leave the closet until the iron is cool. I imagine these rules for myself and imagine Jim telling me the rules with a cigarette in his lips.
I pick up the magazine again and turn the page and there we are, all of us, Elizabeth and I, Rita standing with my birthday cake, and Sister and Mr. LaFontaine looking seriously at each other, Mother in the middle of everything, her mouth open in laughter or singing, shining like a sun at the center of us all. Everyone but Jim is in the picture and it takes up two whole pages.
I put it down, make myself into a ball, and hold my face in a coat that’s on the floor and scream into it as loud as I can, stopping only to breathe. I scream as loud and long as I can, kicking the wall of the closet as I do. I scream and cry. Sister rushes in and tries to get close to me, saying, Baby, baby, but I keep kicking, so she can’t get anywhere near me. Then Rita is there telling her to leave me alone. Let her do this, Rita says, and I do it until I feel like I can’t move anymore. They wait for me outside the closet, and when it’s over, they put me to bed and Rita holds me tight until I’m asleep.
The next day after school, I go back to the closet to look at the rest of the article. There are pictures of the Armory, the church on Belden, all the old places now gone. There are more pictures of Mother—onstage, in the dressing room, at our home—smiling, singing, worrying. There’s one of me sitting on a cooler at the grocery store, handwritten signs hanging above my head: GRAPES 14¢/LB. GREEN PEPPERS 5¢ EACH. And a broken egg on the dirty floor. There is a photograph of Mother backstage, her hands on her hips and her head down. Underneath it the sentence reads, The struggling artist takes a breather backstage. In the bottom corner of the photo, I can see one of my feet.
Last Night at the Blue Angel Page 25