I dressed in jeans, broken-in running shoes and a mint green pullover sweater. It was still unseasonably warm for mid-December in Chicago, so I could plan to leave the stocking cap and gloves behind. I kissed the family goodbye—they were going to head over to the mall for some shopping with the throngs.
Even though Jen had shot me down, I had an idea of where the new agency would set up shop. From my myriad trips to Big Apple Finer Foods, I’d noticed a facility named Store Your Things and figured I’d rent out a climate-controlled unit to house our laptops, dry erase boards and wet bar. Seemed reasonable. Close to the house, too. I pulled out the Yellow Pages—because I try to thwart technology at every chance I get—and I called them from our landline later that morning. A guy named Augie answered the phone and said he ran the joint and would be nice enough to show me around at 1:00 p.m. They had various sized units, most of which were climate controlled.
I let the dog out into the small back yard and stepped back inside and poured myself a second cup of coffee. This time in a to-go cup. I stood there looking outside the storm door in our mudroom while Addison did her business. I glanced down at my Cubs wristwatch. It was 12:42 p.m. I let Addison back in, offered her a treat that she gladly accepted, and then grabbed my keys off the hook on the wall hanging to the right of the door. I was on my way to Store Your Things and to find a proper workspace for the Whitman Brothers Agency.
It was close enough to crawl there in ten minutes. I opted to walk upright and cut the time in half. Store Your Things was built like a high-rise apartment as opposed to your standard, one-level holding warehouse. I entered through the front door and a little bell rang to announce my arrival. I wondered if that was how Augie welcomed all of his potential clients or if I was receiving preferential treatment.
Augie was a big lug. I could tell even when I walked in to find him bent down on his knees with his back to the door. He talked over his shoulder at me. “Mr. Whitman?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll be right there. Just need to refill these padlocks right quick.”
“Take your time. I’m in no big hurry.”
I clasped my hands behind my back and perused the inventory of broken-down boxes of various girths, bubble wrap, and shipping tape. I pretended to act like I cared about what products he sold. Isn’t that how life goes? I feign interest in whatever you’re doing and you extend the same courtesy to me?
Augie stood up and I got the full extent of his size. He wiped his hands off on the seat of his pants and walked in my direction. His hair was sandy brown and thinning. His ears were quite large, yet his nose and mouth were on the small side for such a large man. His eyes were kind and the color and shape of Milk Duds. He was the clean conscience type. “Thanks for your patience. Now, what can I do ya fir?” he asked and stuck out a hand.
I shook it and then scratched my freshly-shaven chin with my index and middle finger.
“Well,” I began another ruse, “I recently lost my mother and we need a place to store some of her things until my sister and I can sort it out with the estate lawyer.”
He’d clearly heard a million similar stories, so it didn’t faze him in the slightest. “Sure. Sure. And my condolences. It’s never easy to lose a loved one. What did you have in mind, size-wise?”
“She did have a lot of things. Might be best to go ahead and nab one of your largest units. I’d rather have a little extra space than not enough, ya know?”
“Sure. Sure. I gotcha. That’ll be our fourteen foot by sixteen foot unit. She’s two hundred sixty-four square feet and’ll run ya four hundred and sixty-four a month. Does that work for ya? Need’n to see it first?” The phone rang in the distance. “Hold that thought,” he said. “I ain’t got no help today, so I’d better grab that.”
I nodded in agreement as he lumbered away. When he returned I pretended like I was still deciding if the largest unit would work for me. Of course it would. The price was fair, and if Vinny, Murph and I were going to spend any amount of time in there together, we’d need as much breathing room as possible.
“So, Mr. Whitman. You thinking you want the unit?”
“Please, call me Bear. And yes, I’ll take it as long as it’s climate controlled.”
“Wait a second.” His eyes darted to and fro. “Bear Whitman. You’re Bear Whitman? Holy smokes! I’ve heard of you. I’m a fan of yours. I love your moral compass. As a man of faith, it’s nice to know there are still good folks out there.”
I hoped he didn’t see my full-body dry heave when he tried to compare me to someone with a moral compass. Truth was, I was barely holding on to any sort of normalcy in any area of my life.
I just nodded and said, “Thank you, Augie.” For good measure, I added, “This is the day the lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
He lit up like a Christmas tree. “That’s my favorite psalm! You know what?” He looked me up and down. “I’ve got a unit that I usually don’t rent out. It’s not listed on the price sheet or inventory. It’s up on the top floor. I call it the ‘penthouse unit.’ It’s almost like a little apartment. It’s twice as big as the one you were gonna get, but it’d be an honor to have you take this one. Same price as the other’n at four hundred sixty-four. Not only climate controlled but has a little urinal in there and some soft fluorescent lighting overhead and electricity. You want that one?”
Of course I did, but didn’t want to seem too eager. “Ya sure, Augie. Don’t want any preferential treatment.” Even though I loved every second of said treatment.
“Sure! Let me show it to you. It’s unit four-oh-eight. I’ve actually got three sets of keys to it. Does this all sound good to you?”
“It truly does. What an incredible offer you’ve made me. What do I owe you for a down payment?”
He shook his head. “Normally first and last’s plus a deposit of five hundred, but, why, it’ll be our little secret. Just need December’s payment and a credit card to set up monthly billing.”
“Wow, Augie. How generous of you. I only carry cash these days though since the last time my identity was stolen and bank account hacked. I tell ya, it’s tough being a low-level celebrity out there.” I winked. “Would it be alright if I paid cash in the amount of one thousand dollars to cover the first two months?”
“Well, that’s not necessary. Besides, you’d be over-paying by seventy-two dollars.”
“Give the overage to your favorite charity.” I insisted with a smile.
“If you say so, Mr. Whitman. I mean, Bear.”
“Splendid. Let’s pop in and see the unit so I can get a quick lay of the land before I drop off the first round of items. Okay?” I pulled out my tri-fold Velcro wallet and handed him a semi-crisp stack of ten one hundred dollar bills.
“Right this way, Bear.”
NINE
After I got my tour of the new Whitman Brothers Agency with Augie— which I had to say, would be a nice little workspace once we got some furnishings in there—I took a walk down an alley. I liked alleys. Bums everywhere. Piss and vinegar in the air. These are my people. I texted Vinny and told him to meet me at Forest Park Emporium. I wanted to get moving right along on the furnishings. I made it back home at just short of 2:00 p.m. and had a tall glass of water before I jumped right into the White Squall, fired her up and drove the expected 32 minutes to 7345 Madison Street in Forest Park. Although with the holiday and Friday traffic, I figured I’d tack on an additional 15-20 minutes of drive time. I settled on some low-volume holiday tunes. There was Frank Sinatra singing “Silent Night,” then we had “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” by someone I didn’t recognize. I glanced out the window to my left to see Navy Pier as I drove south on Lake Shore. Plenty of runners and bikers out that day due to the insanely warm weather. I could see Soldier Field to my south and east before I exited onto 290 West towards the antique shop. The football gods finally smiled on my team this year. We’d clinched the NFC north with two weeks to go and cemented our first playoff
berth in eight seasons. I had expected another losing campaign since we had a rookie head coach and a second year quarterback. But, boy, these guys are fun to watch. That defense was legit, the offense was coming around, and the city was abuzz with Bear fever. My favorite form of fever.
The traffic was atrocious. It took me forty-nine minutes, door-to-door. It was three o’clock on the dot when I arrived. Vinny had texted a few minutes prior and said he was trapped at Harlem Avenue and Franklin Streets. But he’d be there directly. He showed up ten after. That gave me time to pop into Healy’s Westside for a quick Guinness and a chance to catch my breath. The tavern was located right off of Madison and Circle Avenue and a mere 262 paces from Forest Park Emporium. I snagged a parking space right up front because I was a lucky son of a bitch and walked east down Madison and up the steps into Healy’s. I texted Vinny my whereabouts.
I ordered up my requisite Guinness from Keith the bartender with his jet-black hair and took a peek at the television above the bar. A bombshell had just been dropped on yet another archdiocese of the Catholic Church. This time in my home state. Motherfucker. The new report, leveled by Attorney General Lisa Madigan, found that the number of priests accused of sexual abuse versus children in the state of Illinois was far higher than originally thought. Upwards to 690. Holy shit. I had been thinking about ordering some onion rings two seconds before I’d read the headline, but now my appetite had vanished. I grew up in the church. As far as I could tell, no one I knew specifically was affected, but you always heard rumors. Always heard speculation, but you were chastised and criticized if you attempted to talk about it or uncover the truth.
I left the church long ago with have no intentions of going back. All of these abuse accusations should sicken the parishioners past the point of offering the typical excuses of “Well, God will have his judgment,” or “They’re just men, they make mistakes, too.” Fuck that. These are children. It could have been my children. A baseball bat across the face would be my initial reaction. Not an excuse parade. I was beginning to wonder if the crimes or the cover-up was the bigger issue. If it were up to me, I’d start over by burning every Catholic Church in the world to the ground with every priest locked inside and see if their God would offer reconciliation and save their souls before they were charred beyond recognition. I’d guess that to be a negative. Organized religion is a sham. I’m making t-shirts that claim as much.
Vinny came into Healy’s from my right as my blood pressure was on the rise. I nodded up to the TV screen.
He shook his head. “Yeah, I heard on the way over. Cocksuckers. They oughtta hang them in the streets and cut their cocks and balls off.”
I asked Keith to turn the channel to a college football bowl game or something less controversial. He obliged then asked Vinny for his drink order.
“Just a water for me, thanks,” he replied.
I was a bit taken aback since Vinny never shied away from a mid-day cocktail, or mid-morning cocktail for that matter. But I didn’t press. Maybe he was trying to get his life in order, as he’d mentioned.
“So,” I said, “I’ve got the office space all lined up. I know we’re mostly out in the field, but we’ll need somewhere to meet up and unwind and go over our plans.”
He looked distant.
“What’s up, man?” I asked. “Why the long puss? This priest thing?”
“That’s part of it.” He sighed. “So I’m over in Lincoln Park this morning doing my normal walk and I brought one of the bums breakfast. Before you say anything, yes, I do nice things for total strangers sometimes. Don’t tell a fucking soul.”
I nodded with pursed lips in understanding.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I bring this cocksucker a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and hash brown from McDonald’s.”
“Wow, that’s generous of you. What’s his name? Are you two an item now?”
“I don’t know his name. I don’t care. It makes ME feel like less of a prick when I do something nice for someone. Anyway, as I’m walking away, he says, ‘Hey, you forgot the OJ.’ I turned back around and said, ‘Excuse me?’ And again he says, ‘You forgot the OJ. Isn’t this supposed to be a meal?’ Well, that sent me over the edge. I fucking lost it. He was sitting on a bench there and I just bee-lined over to him and punched him in the face and took back the food and smashed the sandwich on his forehead and threw the hash brown as far as I could. What a prick. There were witnesses though. I need to find a way to redirect my anger.”
“Yeah, it does appear that way. Can you get back in to see your shrink in the next few days? Does he see anyone on the weekends?”
“I stopped seeing that guy six months ago. I need to find somebody else. Maybe a chick this time. They seem to have a better grasp of how to treat me. I’m too cautious with the guy therapists. With ladies, I dive head in. They can see through my bullshit and hold me accountable. Maybe I’m just trying to impress them or some shit?”
“Whatever the case, I’d strongly consider going back,” I said. I guzzled the last quarter of my stout and dropped a twenty on the bar and stood up to head towards the exit. Vinny followed suit.
**********************
We slowly walked back towards the antique shop. The sun was bright. According to the flashing sign located at the drugstore up the block, it was a balmy forty-seven degrees. Damn near unheard of this close to Christmas in Chicago. I could hear the faint sounds of someone blasting Jeff Buckley out of their stereo.
"Have you seen the new chick at the Five Guys down the block from you?" Vinny said.
"Yeah, the lesbian?"
"Right—with the long black hair and sleeve of tats. I was in there the other week."
"And you didn’t stop by?” I asked. “What's it matter anyway?"
“Just making conversation. I saw this special on PBS last night about Nuremberg. Say what you want about Hitler, but he was a fucking helluva motivator.”
“If you say so.”
We made our way inside Forest Park Emporium to grab some wares for the new office. We were helped by an older gentleman named Ronny. Probably sixty-two or three. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a Merlot cashmere sweater and light brown corduroy slacks. He had the temperament of a mortician. However, with his help, we were able to attain a sturdy mahogany wet bar, an oval mirror to hang above it, a small, round table with four retro-looking chairs adorned in orange fabric, and a tall floor lamp. The total was eight hundred and fourteen dollars. I paid in cash as usual. Ronny helped us load up the majority of the haul into the bed of Vinny’s truck. We put the mirror and two of the chairs in my van. We both thanked Ronny for his assistance and I greased him with a fifty-dollar bill as we shook and said our fare-thee-wells. I had Vinny follow me back to the storage unit and drop off all of the newly acquired furnishings. He was kind enough to have brought along a bottle of Jameson and a few cocktail glasses to adorn the new wet bar. We stood together in the relatively odor-free storage unit and drank a toast to new beginnings while also honoring the passing of Grandma Bella Bella. We discussed what time we would be arriving the following day for the wake, which was scheduled to run from two until five in the afternoon. It would take place at the church Bella Bella most recently attended—Saint Clement off of North Orchard Street and West Deming Place. I vowed never to step foot into another Catholic church again with this latest sex abuse scandal, yet I had to show my admiration for my dear Bella Bella.
TEN
My brood and I arrived at Bella Bella’s wake at precisely 1:55 that afternoon. Murph and Maggie and their kids would be there around two thirty, Murph had texted earlier. Per our discussion yesterday, I knew that Vinny planned to be there with his crew around three o’clock and would stay for the duration. Ginny and her kids got there five minutes after my crew. Ma had been there for over an hour and let me know I was late, even though I was technically on time and there before any of my siblings. We all dressed the part of mourners in our black and gray clothes. Folks were already starting to fil
e in to commiserate and pay their respects at Saint Clement. Most people these days had their wakes in funeral homes, but Grandma Bella Bella’s wishes had been made abundantly clear in her will. The mysterious A.W. had signed off on them only a few days prior. I vowed that I would find out who this clown was one way or another.
Once Murph and Vinny arrived, I nabbed them after we got our collective families together so the three of us could talk a little shop in the sacristy away from listening ears. Normally we wouldn’t be so comfortable in a church, but Vinny and I go way back with Father Jimmy Hollis. He was a friend of ours as we grew up in the old neighborhood. Vinny and I went our way in life; Jimmy went to the seminary.
Murph, Vinny, and I walked down the main aisle and up onto the altar. When we arrived at the sacristy, which would have been listed as ‘stage left’ had this been a production of Cats, the door was locked. I rapped twice on the solid oak portal. Father Jimmy answered with a look of consternation. He turned around and walked away, yet was gracious enough to leave the door open for us to enter.
“Something on your mind, Padre?” I asked.
He nodded his head in the direction of the tiny television screen on the countertop. “That.”
The local station was muted but we could all read the captions about the sex abuse scandal. Below that, though, I caught the ticker sliding by: “Reputed drug kingpin Ty ‘Chill’ Willis’s body has been found in Lincoln Park. His head, however, has not been recovered.”
Say Goodbye Page 4