The South Side Tour Guide

by Shelter Somerset

  “Never considered that,” Arty said, peering outside the window, where a truck careening down Main Street shook the diner. “He does that strange crime tour business, doesn’t he? The one where he takes people into the ghetto?”

  Harden flexed his menu and continued reading, although he paid scant attention to the itemized offerings. “With the economy the way it is,” he said, clearing his throat, “people have to make do with creative ways of earning a living. He’s not so different from any of us at Marshall. Look what we’re trying to sell.”

  Arty turned away from the window, his eyes flashing above his menu. “Corn has its share of controversy,” he said, shrugging and smirking. “Not too long ago the big hoopla was genetically modifying corn to become insect resistant. Now, it’s standard practice. The whole world eats the beef and drinks the milk from livestock that feed off that corn. See? The world hasn’t stopped rotating.”

  Harden glanced up toward the fluorescent lights. No, he wanted to say, just seems like it has.

  The waitress took their orders and they ate, bantering back and forth about work and family, yet after they had discussed Andy’s unconventional career, Harden’s mood seemed to have settled into a dark channel.

  His somber spirits shadowed him into November. The gray days, the fallow, tawny fields, colorless and cold, always left a hole in his spirits. This time, they pressed heavier on his shoulders. Thanksgiving dinner at his mother’s failed to improve his disposition.

  It was the family’s first Thanksgiving without Dad. Mom wore a plastic smile most of the day, ensuring everyone had enough to drink and snack on before the feast. She had accepted Dad’s passing quietly, settling into a private bereavement, as was her way.

  Harden suspected she relished the extra attention from friends and family. And indeed he and his brothers had spent added time with her since Dad’s death. Once or twice a week, Kamila would stay later so that he might swing by the Duncan house after work. Lance, the eldest, shouldered the brunt of the responsibility. Thank God! And Mom had her Health Foundation job, which kept her busy alongside attentive coworkers.

  Jordan did not show for Thanksgiving, since he had already made the trip from Kansas City in September. He promised to come up for Christmas instead. The rest of them played Hearts while Damon and the kids let loose downstairs, waiting for the turkey to cook. The snug house, warm with delicious aromas, held them in a weary reception of death and time’s passing.

  The family adopted Dad’s demeanor. Not a fan of mawkish sentiments, Dad had dealt with issues—not feelings. His name, spoken in passing, was usually followed by a gentle sigh, and the subtle silence would shift to louder voices—usually Lance’s—calling for another beer or more smoked chickpeas.

  After the abundant meal, Harden walked off his stretched belly by wandering to the garage. He peered around the chilly, empty room, which Dad had used more as a den. It still reeked of his Don Diegos. Harden could almost see the yellowish smoke brushing the ceiling.

  Back inside the house, Lance scooted over to make room for him at the Hearts table. Mom dealt the cards, squared her hand, and fanned them before her eyes.

  “You still seeing that Lucinda girl?” she asked Harden.

  Harden peered over his hand and inhaled. “I was never seeing her, Mom. We went on one date nearly two months ago.”

  “I worried she was a bit young for you,” she said, swapping one card’s position for another. “But she seemed nice enough. It was thoughtful of her to have brought a pie over for your dad’s funeral.”

  “I wish I had her figure,” Holly said toward her cards.

  “I never liked skinny girls,” Lance said.

  Holly huffed. “You saying I’m fat?”

  “Yes,” Lance said, his eyes tacked on his cards. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re a big, fat tub of lard. Now pass your cards.”

  Everyone chuckled, and they had played two more hands when, to Harden’s surprise, someone else other than the kids again mentioned Andy. This time, Mom.

  “You heard from him lately?”

  “Not in a while. He texted condolences for Dad.”

  “Men are like that, aren’t they?” Mom said, examining the cards Lance had passed her with a scowl. “Women send flowers or bake pies, men text. How did a man send his good wishes before the invention of the cell phone?”

  “Most men are married,” Holly said. “Their wives do things like send flowers and greeting cards on their behalf.”

  Mom held her hand closer to her chest and glanced upward. “I wonder if the sentiment is the same. I mean, between a bouquet or a greeting card and a text message?” She made a grunting noise, shrugged, and refocused on her hand.

  Harden played one more hand, then stood and stretched, hoping to dodge the inevitable. His mom flashed him a pained expression. He’d taken from her one of her glories—the right of a mother to poke into her children’s private lives.

  But Harden did not wish to discuss his empty love life or who might one day send greeting cards and well wishes on his behalf. If she only conceived who he’d been thinking of since August, she’d most likely fall off the chair and chip a tooth.

  Harden’s self-revelation still failed to shock him. He smiled inwardly, drawing strength from the image of the two of them making love. He turned away from the card table, carrying with him the flush on his cheeks.

  December fifth was Harden’s thirty-eighth birthday. His face hurt from grinning after reading Andy’s text message, the first he’d sent since responding to the picture of the kids in their Halloween costumes Harden had sent him on his cell phone.

  He’d written a simple greeting: Happy bday, Harden.

  Andy had taken the time to spell out and initially capitalize his name. A small gesture, but one Harden noted and appreciated. Andy possessed an old-fashioned spirit, but he eschewed sentimentalities like exclamation marks.

  “We’re a society full of empty affection,” Andy had once told him a few years after they’d first met. Harden had grown to value Andy’s unusual philosophy.

  Christmas season made him consider driving to Chicago to visit Andy and show Mason and Olivia the bright lights. But the more he pondered the idea, the less he imagined following through. Besides, what if it snowed? Passage through northwestern Illinois and its anomaly of uplifts could be treacherous for the kids. Andy had also stopped texting again. Harden supposed he’d encouraged Andy to stop. Other than the picture of the kids, Harden had never once sent him a spontaneous text. He only responded to Andy’s.

  “Daddy?” Olivia said, sprawled before the decorated spruce tree a week before Christmas. She was doodling in her pad, and the soles of her stocking feet paralleled the ceiling.

  Harden was watching the Sunday afternoon football game and nursing a beer on the sofa. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “Is there really no such thing as Santa Claus?”

  Harden squirmed. How he hated that question. Four years prior, he had faced the same dilemma with Mason. He’d struggled for diplomacy, not wishing to crush childhood fantasies. They would have so few once they attained adulthood.

  After taking a sip of beer for courage, he said, “What do you think?”

  “I think there is, but Christina and Natasha said he’s made up.”

  “Some Santas are made up, but somewhere out there, there might be a real one.” A little bit of truth, a little bit of lies. Kind of how Harden approached hawking ethanol. And maybe everything else in life.

  “I thought so,” Olivia said, her pencil point flowing over her doodle pad. She remained quiet several seconds, and Harden hoped her Santa quandary had ended. Then she said, “That Santa you took me to at the shopping mall, that was a made up one, wasn’t he?”

  “That one was fake, yes.”

  “But I told him what I wanted for Christmas. How will the real Santa know?”

  “All the fake shopping mall Santas work for the real one. They report to him what the children have t
old them.”

  Olivia’s hand stopped moving, and she rotated her eyes upward. Harden was pushing it. Even for a seven-year-old, too many lies induced skepticism. He snickered under his breath. “Somewhere out there, a real Santa listens to your dreams. There’s a Santa for us all, okay, sweetheart?”

  Later at dinner, Olivia recounted what she’d learned about Santa to Mason. Maturing each day, Mason gave Harden one of those “whatever” looks but pursed his lips.

  “Sounds pretty good to me, Olivia,” Mason said, using a “big brother” patronizing voice, perhaps for the first time.

  The kids were growing faster and faster, and they were piecing together more of the world spiraling around them, including the dubious existence of Santa Claus. And what if Lillian gave them troubles now and then? Mason no longer viewed his father as the ogre trying to keep their mother away from them.

  “You don’t have to protect me anymore, Dad” was his new phrase whenever Harden lectured him. “I understand. I know you love me. I love you too.”

  At that exact moment, ruminating on the kids’ maturing and the characteristic fears of an unpredictable tomorrow, Harden heard the crunch of gravel from the driveway.

  He peered out the window at a dusty black van pulling to a stop alongside his Jeep. The front yellow brake lights disengaged, and Harden could tell whoever had arrived had come on purpose. His heart quickened. He found himself standing, cocking his head.

  Please, not Lilly. Please, not now. Not another Christmas disaster like last year.

  The door opened, and a foot wearing a sneaker appeared. Olivia jumped from her chair, nearly upsetting her milk, and rushed for the front door.

  Mason raced after her, leaving his half-eaten hotdog looking dejected.

  As if in a trance, Harden followed, unable to move faster than a shuffle. Somehow, he made it to the storm door. Olivia was jumping up and down, eager for Andy to lift her. Harden watched, willing his feet to move. Eventually, his legs carried him across the threshold and onto the porch and miraculously down the five steps.

  Olivia slid from Andy’s arms. He patted her butt, whispered something into her ear. Giddy and smiling, she ran past Harden inside the house. Andy’s gaze stopped Harden. When Olivia reappeared outside wearing her boots and purple winter coat, Harden and Andy had still yet to move closer or speak.

  “Are you here for Christmas, Uncle Andy?” Mason asked.

  Andy, staring at Harden, said, “If you want me.”

  “We want you,” Olivia said, dancing a little girl’s two-step.

  Their voices roused Harden. He inhaled and trusted that his voice would not waver. “Surprised to see you,” he said finally.

  “Hope you don’t mind me popping up unannounced this close to Christmas.”

  “You’re taking a holiday break?”

  Andy stared, his eyes like blue carnations set against the pallid landscape. He inhaled the country air that Harden felt enter his own lungs, and turned to face the kids, eager and thrilled. “Who wants to help me carry some of these presents Santa left for me?”

  Andy slid open the van door, and Olivia’s jaw dropped. She looked to Harden, who stood a few paces away, observing and absorbing. Digesting the sight of Andy Wingal again, interacting with the kids, as if he’d never left. Harden smiled and nodded, giving his consent to his youngest. Andy hoisted Olivia into the van, placed a hand across Mason’s back. Natural gestures, as pure as the bending of the elm and oak branches in the breeze.

  Olivia and Mason hopped out of the van. Armfuls of gifts blinded Olivia as she passed Harden. “Careful with the steps, sweetheart.”

  Mason, doubling her gift count, walked at her heels. “I got her back,” he said.

  Alone with Andy, Harden moved closer. He caught a whiff of Andy’s woodsy scent, the soap they’d often used when they’d showered together. His face heated against the nippy December air.

  “You sure you’re okay with me being here?” Andy said, almost too bashfully for Harden to take. “You don’t have other holiday plans?”

  Harden tightened his lips. “We were going to spend the night at Mom’s Christmas Eve, but we can go in the morning. Lance and Jordan will be there. No one will mind.” He retrieved Andy’s duffel bag from the van. “Did you find us okay?” he said, walking with him toward the house.

  “Remembered every square inch, of course,” Andy said, his voice in tune with Harden’s light sarcasm. “Didn’t even need the Magellan.”

  “Hit any snow?”

  “There were some flurries west of Freeport. Other than that, a smooth ride.”

  “We’ve been dry as a bone here.” They climbed the stoop. “What made you decide to drive out?”

  “Long story. Will bore the pants off you.”

  Harden stopped before opening the door. “Are you here only for Christmas?”

  Andy looked penetratingly into his eyes. He was trying to convey a message to him, unspoken words intended for the two of them. Harden allowed one side of his mouth to rise. He turned for the door and gestured Andy inside.

  For what seemed an eternity, they stood at the bottom of the steps. Sweat built on Harden’s palm from clutching the handle of the duffel bag. He was unsure in which direction to move. The basement or his upstairs bedroom?

  Mason and Olivia were placing Andy’s gifts under the Christmas tree, their knees tucked under their bellies and their bottoms sticking out. Mason jumped to his feet and scurried over to them in the foyer. He grabbed Andy’s duffel bag from Harden and began to haul it upstairs.

  “What are you doing, Mason?” Harden’s eyebrows almost brushed his hairline.

  “I want to get Uncle Andy settled so he can fix my new app,” Mason said. “Hurry up.”

  Harden and Andy swapped looks. Andy shrugged and, patting his laptop strapped across his shoulder, climbed the stairs. Shaking his head, Harden followed them to the master bedroom.

  Chapter 31

  “TO YOUR left is one of the few basilica cathedrals located in a small town anywhere in the world,” Andy said, pointing to the Catholic church with the two towering steeples that could be seen rising above the cornfields miles outside of town. “Usually you find churches like that in large cities, like Chicago or Paris, France. It was built in 1889 to meet the needs of the Germans and Scandinavians immigrating into the area.” He parked across the street and allowed his latest group of tourists, mostly retirees, to ease out of the van and snap photographs of the impressive Gothic structure and the panorama of “Main Street.”

  Leaning against the van, he propped his Oakleys atop his head, folded his arms across his chest, and waited for his passengers. The twitch of a smile tickled his sun-warmed cheeks. Not as exciting as his old South Side tours, but a wholesome and gentle affair. His emerald-green van with the words “Andy Wingal’s Iowa Tours,” stenciled in gold to emulate sunshine, on both sides and the back still made him chuckle. He had had the detailer repaint the entire van and replace the silhouette of the gun-toting criminal with the profile of lavender cornstalks. The bullet indents had been turned into stamen for yellow flowers.

  Business was slow the first two budding weeks, but he expected an uptick after Memorial Day. The local press had given him a write-up and more interested tourists were calling or e-mailing. He hoped to encourage Skeet’s old acquaintance, a reporter with the suburban Chicago Daily Herald, to write a story about his new tour venture. Chicagoans, eager to escape urban sprawl, might find a farm-belt weekend with a gregarious tour guide to their liking.

  He peered along the cathedral’s massive twin steeples. Same church Harden and Lilly had wed in. Other than a subtle pinch in his gut, the recollection failed to bother him. He looked away and inhaled the crisp April air. The corn outside of town had already reached knee high and was turning a richer shade of green each day. How nice to see the landscape fill again, after a snowless winter which had left blank, wan fields.

  One by one, the tourists meandered back to the van. Andy aided th
em inside and prepared them for the next stop, another small town with a soaring cathedral a mere five miles away. The cathedrals of western Dubuque County towered even above the silos and grain elevators. He explained how the Catholic immigrants had wanted to build churches that duplicated what they’d left in the Old Country. After that, he herded them again into the van and set off for his tour’s grand finale. Like he had Chicago’s South Side streets, Andy had learned the rural back roads in no time. He switched on his GPS only when passengers requested a special detour.

  He turned down the famous touristy site’s long driveway and waved to a man riding a lawnmower. The man waved back. He’d recognized Andy by then. Andy had brought them a dozen tourists, the most popular destination on his tour, and the proprietors were more than thrilled. Andy grew to find the tour boring, but he did enjoy absorbing the rolling landscape while waiting for his passengers to experience the place.

  Sitting in his van alone, his cell phone dinged. Mason had texted he was about to start his baseball team’s first practice. How fitting, Andy reflected, looking over the celebrated baseball diamond surrounded by cornstalks made famous by the Hollywood film. Nice that Mason trusted him enough to share his excitement. He had sent no mass text either. Mason had addressed him “Unc Andy.”

  “How long you going to stay with us?” Andy recalled Harden asking him after the kids had torn open their gifts Christmas morning and they’d stood shin-high in shredded wrapping paper and gaping boxes.

  Andy had shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not too long.”

  Andy had attended Christmas Mass with the Kranes. He hadn’t wanted to feel like one of those leftover Christmas gifts that sit under the tree until after New Year’s. His first time in the pews with Olivia and Mason between him and Harden had evoked a sense of purpose for Andy. Harden’s mother and two brothers had sat in front and behind them.

  Later, at the Duncan house, Andy had continued to participate in the family fun, refusing to allow his misgivings to ruin the festivities. Jordan’s children had warmed to him, and the two middle sons had called him “Uncle Andy” more than once. Holly and Jordan’s wife, Courtney, had even begun to prefer his company. Three “in-laws” seeking each other’s solace in a cauldron of relative strangers.