by Gabriel Bump
“I was taking photos that night. And it was just like today. I thought I’d go out there and join the struggle, join my brothers. Just like today: cars on fire, shop windows broken, running, screaming, crying, sadness, fear, disbelief, anger—all that rolled into one roving blaze. I hid underneath a car for three days.
“After Bobby Kennedy got killed, your grandma got a modeling job in Chicago. She wanted a friend and babysitter to move with her. You know, back then, it was just me and Catherine and your mother, all day, every day. We didn’t have any other friends. We didn’t want any. When Catherine moved, of course, I was going to move with her. We were platonic vagabonds.
“We moved to South Shore August 1, 1968. The Democratic convention came to Chicago three weeks later.
“I was babysitting your mother,” Paul said. “And I thought I’d just pop up to Grant Park, you know, say what’s up to some friends, yell a little, get back home in a couple hours. Two hours, tops. I left your mother with our neighbors, these Jewish folks down with the struggle. Old Communists. Fuck Nixon. Fuck Vietnam. That kind of thing. And I went up north. Mayor Daley unleashed those cops on us like Hades unleashing Cerberus. I got the fuck out of there.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“My point is: stay out of it,” Paul said to me. “There’s enough trouble waiting for you. Don’t go looking for it.”
“Jimmy’s not dead,” Grandma said to Annette.
We picked at our eggs. Paul stood up to get more wine from the basement. Grandma made him sit down. Annette went into the living room. Janice was frozen and unresponsive. I was drunk and dizzy.
“Look what you did,” Grandma said to Paul. “You’re torturing that poor woman.”
“This isn’t anything,” Paul said. “This is Romper Room.”
Annette told us all to come quick.
“Hurry,” she said. “They’re coming right for us.”
Our street was on TV. Outside our window helicopter searchlights weaved. The TV shook. They cut to the news anchor.
“Again, we remind all South Shore residents to stay inside,” he said.
Breaking glass and car alarms. They went to commercial. Lexus had a sleek new hybrid that got fifty miles per gallon on the highway.
“Claude,” Grandma said. “Take Janice and Annette to the basement.”
Grandma picked up her wooden plank, told Paul to grab a knife, and walked outside.
After five minutes Paul came running down the stairs empty handed.
“It’s about to happen,” he said.
“What about Grandma?” I asked.
“It’s a nightmare up there,” he said.
Annette pulled Janice into a closet. Paul tried to push me into a corner. I slipped under his arms and ran upstairs. Paul was right. It was a nightmare. The front door was open. Grandma stood on the porch with her wooden plank raised like a bat. I picked up the knife Paul had dropped on the carpet and joined her.
A teenager stood in front of our house with a glass bottle aimed at Grandma.
“Try it,” Grandma said. “I’ll split you down the middle.”
He broke the bottle on the sidewalk and took off laughing. Grandma turned around.
“If you’re going to help,” she said, “don’t stand back there.”
She made room for me at her side. The riot moved like a herd. I saw someone get trampled. I saw someone pull shoes off a lifeless body. I saw cops cursing a handcuffed boy. I saw a cop drop his riot shield, take off his helmet, and run toward the lake. I saw despair unbound.
“If someone gets close enough,” Grandma said, “don’t hesitate to use that.”
I didn’t have to kill anybody. Grandma didn’t kill anybody either. We didn’t leave our house for two days. As promised, Bush sent in the National Guard. Janice slept in my room, Annette in Grandma’s. Paul stayed in the basement. I slept under a large blanket in the living room with Grandma. The fighting erupted in random spurts. We slept in shifts. I thought Janice would look at me like I was a hero. But she wouldn’t talk to me, or anyone.
When it was safe enough, on the third morning, I went with Grandma to Annette and Janice’s house. Annette and Janice stayed back. They didn’t want to know how much they’d lost. They didn’t want to find Jimmy’s body on the street. Paul stayed back.
On the walk we passed reporters sifting through the wreckage like archaeologists. SWAT members with assault rifles were at every corner.
Without any bombs dropping, the neighborhood was bombed out. Most street-facing windows were broken. A few cars were turned over, blackened with fire. Thin saplings had been torn from the earth; bushes were reduced to twig piles. Overhead, the trees, somehow, had lost their lowest-hanging leaves. Those same trees had deep scars in their old bark. We were now used to the sounds around us. We didn’t flinch when, somewhere up the street, a man wailed and cursed God. We remained calm when a helicopter sped toward rapid gunfire.
“Can you believe people?” Grandma asked me.
“Huh?” I asked.
“All this destroyed nature,” Grandma said.
She stepped over a trampled squirrel.
From the sidewalk, Annette and Janice’s place was a ruin. Of course, the windows were broken. Bullet holes dotted the facade. Their front lawn, somehow, had been stripped and was half dirt.
“You ready?” Grandma asked me at the front door.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Same,” Grandma said, turned the key Annette had given her.
Even in daytime, the foyer was dark. Bird shit and awful smells covered the furniture and walls. Bullets had found their way inside and exploded picture frames and vases.
“Their rooms are upstairs,” I said.
“Move,” Grandma said.
We hurried to the second floor.
The destruction didn’t extend up there. On the landing, however, we heard barking, then whimpering, then barking.
“There,” I said, pointed to an opened door.
“Careful,” Grandma said.
In the bedroom, on a king-size bed, the two dogs were curled into one mound. The little dog was tucked into the big dog’s stomach. Family photos were on the dresser, nightstands, blown-up large and hung on the walls. The dogs growled when I tried to get close. The little one showed her teeth. They seemed unhurt, just thin and scared. Grandma joined me. They didn’t growl at her.
“Poor babies,” Grandma said. “Come here, poor babies. Come.”
First, the little one unspooled from the big one, jumped down, and ran into Grandma’s arms. Grandma scooped her up, and the big one jumped down too, rubbed its large black head against Grandma’s calves.
“What now?” I asked.
“Find some garbage bags,” Grandma said. “They need clothes.”
The fridge was ajar and empty; cabinets were opened and cleaned out; flies formed a cloud over the rotten trash can; I found a dead rat on the stove, uncooked, bloated. Under the sink, I found garbage bags and sprinted upstairs.
Grandma was on the bed, on her back, with a dog on either side. She rubbed their heads and shushed their whimpers, calmed their growls when I entered.
“What now?” I asked.
“Find Janice’s room,” Grandma said. “Fill a bag.”
Janice’s room was up the hall, a KEEP OUT sign drilled into the door. Once, I had a dream about her room, in which we had sex on silk sheets underneath a lace canopy. In my dream, there was a hot tub near the bed, a sunflower patch growing downward from the ceiling.
Standing in her open doorway, in reality, I smelled musk, dried sweat. Her clothes were arranged in piles across the floor. There were posters of faraway cities, European and Asiatic. On a small desk, textbooks still wrapped in plastic were stacked up to my chin. From her window, I saw their backyard: a destroyed garden and caved-in garage. Her bed was unmade. I climbed in. Her sheets were hard and made me itch, the musk’s source. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and rubbed my head into her pillow.<
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Grandma and the dogs woke me up.
“Whatever you’re doing,” Grandma said, “cut it out and get moving.”
We filled the garbage bags with clothes and underwear and went back. The dogs, without leashes, stayed at Grandma’s side.
At home, Annette and Janice tried to pet their dogs, but they stayed at Grandma’s side.
The final body count was twenty-six. Some cops. Some Redbelters. Of course, Jimmy and people like Jimmy. Trapped people that were looking for a place to run and ended up in the crossfire. Jimmy was shot three times. Janice had to identify the body in our high school’s gym. They had the bodies lined up across the basketball courts. Jimmy’s was close to the free-throw line.
There was a mass memorial in Grant Park that no one in the neighborhood could go to. The buses weren’t running. And it was after curfew.
In the following weeks, everyone talked about South Shore. Grandma kept the news playing. Reporters talked about brutal police and our militarized state. Senator Obama vowed to take legislation to Washington. He said he would help us rebuild and reconstruct. Jesse Jackson walked around with camera crews. Grandma said he used to live in South Shore; Grandma said he was worse than politicians. Bush even visited. He gave a speech at our high school and the teachers booed. Mayor Daley handed out turkeys on Thanksgiving.
Big Columbus disappeared, sent videos to CNN. In one of them, while he spoke against police states, his followers shot human-size cardboard targets in a flat and barren field. They were sweating through military fatigues. They looked unwell, sick and thin.
Officer Baggs got promoted to sergeant.
After a month, the news moved on. Haiti fell into another civil war. A tsunami poured over Japan. School started back up. The National Guard left. The Red Cross moved on. Families that still had homes threatened to move away but didn’t. Jesse Jackson and Senator Obama disappeared again.
Christmas came without presents.
By that point Janice had taken over my bed. I had a cot that my feet hung off of. Annette had a room in the attic that she hated because it was filled with spiders and dusty books. The dogs slept with Grandma.
I would try to kiss Janice at night. Or I’d reach my hand over to touch her thigh.
“Not now,” she would say. “Try again tomorrow.”
For New Year’s, Paul bought everybody their own bottle of champagne. When the champagne was gone we sat on the living room floor and picked at a chocolate cake.
“Do you think Claude and Janice will get married?” Annette asked.
“Why not?” Paul said. “They could both do worse.”
“Yeah,” Annette said that Christmas. “If they got married Janice would never leave South Shore.”
“Claude’s going to make a difference in this world,” Grandma said.
“Both of their parents are awful,” Annette said.
“My daughter’s not awful,” Grandma said. “She’s just ridiculous.”
“Should we talk about our ruined lives?” Paul asked.
“Do you have any answers?” Grandma stared at Paul and he looked away.
“I’m just saying,” Paul said to the carpet.
Vacuum
After a year, Annette couldn’t take it anymore.
“I feel his ghost,” she said. “I feel it all the time.”
Some nights, I could hear her in the attic, pacing, crying, talking to the walls and spider webs. Some nights, she screamed in her sleep. We would take turns, run upstairs, shake her awake, sit at her side. When she screamed, the dogs barked. Those nights it felt like we were under attack again. All that noise and hurrying feet.
She had to leave South Shore.
She met a man with four daughters. This man got a job in California.
Grandma and Annette argued in the attic. Janice, Paul, and I listened through my ceiling.
“And Janice?” Grandma said. “What about Janice?”
“She’s happy here,” Annette said.
“No one’s happy,” Grandma said.
Someone dropped something heavy above our heads.
“I’m taking the dogs,” Annette said.
“You’re what?” Grandma asked.
“They’re Jimmy’s dogs,” Annette said. “They’re all I have left.”
“What about Janice?” Grandma asked again.
“They’re my dogs,” Annette said.
Someone stomped, over and over, above our heads, in a circle, over and over.
The next morning, Annette leashed the whimpering dogs, put her packed bag at the front door. Janice packed her own bag, blocked Annette’s exit. Soon, Annette’s ride would pull up.
“Can’t I come?” Janice said.
“You’ll just remind me of him,” Annette said to Janice.
Grandma pulled Janice away from the door, took her place, stood before Annette. Paul and I watched from the kitchen, poised to join. Grandma bent down to pat and shush the dogs, tell them she loved them.
“Leave,” Grandma said, without looking up, to Annette. “Now.”
Annette dragged the unwilling dogs outside.
On the curb, Annette waited for her new life. Snow swirled around her. A sleek new Lexus hybrid pulled up and took her to a different place. Who knows whether that place was better.
Janice moved into the attic.
The riot took the romance out of us. We all came out less full, drained. We all felt Jimmy’s ghost.
When Big Columbus disappeared, he didn’t take the drugs with him, or the guns, or his child soldiers, my classmates. He took the organization with him. The corner boys and girls lost direction. The cops moved in, stationed more undercovers at the bus stops, in the parks, in the apartment-building courtyards. Arrests were up. Still, arrests weren’t the problem.
Gangs from other territories tried to claim South Shore. Both nations, Folk and People, wanted to supply South Shore with dope and guns. Even the Hispanic gangs from Logan Square, Pilsen, and Humboldt wanted some action—MS-13 and Latin King graffiti showed up in alleyways. In the resulting struggles, seventy people were killed in July; most of them were kids my age; too many of them were just in the wrong place at the wrong time heading in the wrong direction.
“What do you mean ‘leave’?” Janice asked. She craned her head out my open bedroom window, looking for a gunshot’s origin. I watched her from my bed.
“Leave,” I said. “Like go.”
“But where?” Janice asked. “But how?”
“College, probably,” I said.
Janice fell back in the window when another gun went off, and then another, and then three more.
“Think they’re down by the beach,” Janice said.
“I can’t stay here anymore,” I said.
“It’s always been bad,” Janice said. “When hasn’t it been bad?”
“Who wants to live like this?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Like, crazy, unpredictable, like anything can happen at any moment.”
“You’re just dramatic,” Janice said. “You’re just grappling with existence.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Grappling with existence is stupid,” Janice said.
“The city’s going to close Crispus Attucks next fall,” I said.
“Why do you care?” Janice asked.
“What if we’re next?” I asked.
“Nothing’s changed,” Janice said. “You could have gotten shot walking down the street last year, two years ago, thirty years ago. Nothing’s changed.”
“Maybe Big Columbus was right,” I said.
Big Columbus looked at history and understood loud people could make a difference, radical decisions could change the world.
“Him?” Janice said. “You think Big Columbus was right?”
“I think so,” I said, and swallowed hard. “He wasn’t given a chance.”
“A chance?” Janice asked.
“To prove his point,” I said. “To help the communit
y.”
“He’s a murderer,” Janice said. “He sells drugs.”
“He didn’t have a choice,” I said.
“Everyone has a choice,” Janice said.
“We have a good family,” I said.
“Big Columbus took my family,” Janice said.
“We have each other,” I said.
“Big Columbus ruined my life,” Janice said.
“We have opportunities,” I said. “Not everyone has opportunities.”
“What opportunities?” Janice asked. “What are my opportunities?”
“You could leave,” I said. “Most people can’t leave.”
“Leaving won’t make me happy,” Janice said. “Leaving won’t make you happy.”
“It might,” I said.
“Want to know about happiness?” Janice asked.
“I want to try,” I said.
“If I had the chance,” Janice said. “I would go back in time and kill them.”
“Who would you kill?” I asked.
“All of them,” Janice said. “Every Redbelter. I would bring them down.”
“You couldn’t,” I said.
“Don’t you understand?” Janice asked. “You’re wrong about everything.”
Janice stuck her head into the summer breeze. She watched the ambulances and cop cars holler past. I felt two massive forces pulling me in separate directions. I had to leave Chicago. I watched the blue and red lights flash against Janice’s face. If she could time travel, I would go with her, do anything for her, except stay.
Chester Dexter and Renaissance
Sophomore year, after the bloody summer, after reading a flyer in the cafeteria, I joined the school newspaper, Pantherbeat. The flyer promoted journalism as a great way to see the world outside South Shore, expand your horizons.
After I told Grandma, she went up to her room and came back with a book.
“Here.” She threw a copy of Mike Royko’s Boss at my chest. It dropped on my spaghetti.
“That’s going to be you,” Grandma said. “A journalist. A man of the people.”
Paul applauded the prediction. Janice groaned at the sink and ran the garbage disposal until there was nothing left to shred.