September Song

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Unfortunately for CBS, it was a live interview, so they couldn’t edit it to make Walter seem triumphant. When he returned to the CBS headquarters he apparently expected applause for having disposed of the Mayor. It is hard to understand how he could have, but he did. He was greeted with boos and catcalls. Alas, his defeat did not make him question his assumptions about Chicago.

  Earlier in the day I had spoken on the phone with an exhausted and disillusioned April Rosemary. Senator McCarthy was a fine man, he’d studied to be a monk, he supported peace, he was the first one to run in the primaries, he should be President. In a democracy, I said, you need a majority of the votes—Rosie the ex-radical and ex-liberal falling back on the high school civics course I had denounced when I had been her age.

  “It isn’t fair,” she argued stubbornly.

  “What about his comments on the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia?”

  “Doesn’t America already have one war? Isn’t one war enough?”

  “Kind of hard on the poor Czechs … Can we give you a ride home tonight?”

  “That would be wonderful, Mom. I’m asleep on my feet.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “Wonderful!”

  Driving down in my Benz, I thought about the shift from the angry radical who was willing to write off the Czechs to a grateful daughter who wanted to ride home with her parents.

  “If I were her age today,” I said to Chuck, “I’d probably be as bad as she is.”

  “Much worse,” he said with a laugh.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “I had no common sense at all, just a loud Irish mouth.”

  “And good taste in men.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  I was driving because Chuck is not the world’s best driver and he claims to freeze up at the wheel of an expensive car. I think he’s lazy. Still, I’m not about to trust him with the Benz.

  It was another sticky night without a hint of a breeze. The faint aroma of tear gas still hung in the air. Many of the protesters had left already, their work done. The Guard, hot and tired, stood listlessly in a line that didn’t look very military. Cops walked around, fingering their clubs as though they were waiting for another hippie head to bash.

  “Why does Daley continue to support these goons?” I asked.

  “Probably figures that when your back is to the wall, you don’t give an inch. There’ll be a reckoning afterward with the cops that lost it, but it will be done very quietly.”

  “You’re going to give him your pictures?”

  “Turned the prints over to Vince this afternoon.”

  “Not the negatives, I hope.”

  “I never give anyone the negatives, Rosemarie my darling … I’m thinking of an exhibition next year called 1968—Year of Violence.”

  “What a great idea!”

  “And the year still has four months to go!”

  The fifteenth floor of the Conrad Hilton was quiet. Vice presidential voting was not very interesting, especially since TV had said that the presidential nomination was worthless after the “Battle of Chicago.” Many of the McCarthy volunteers, some of whom had been with him since the first days in New Hampshire, had not left.

  Our daughter proudly introduced us to her young colleagues. She told them, with a perfectly straight face, that we had been with Dr. King at Selma. Chuck turned on his very considerable charm and I tried my best to keep up. We were both, perhaps foolishly given the venue, wearing shorts and tee shirts. One of April Rosemary’s friends said that we looked more like an older brother and sister than a mother and father. Chuck went through his usual dippy line about being a child bridegroom.

  Then the doors of the elevators swung open and a dozen cops in hard hat helmets and without name plates charged into the lobby of the fifteenth floor like the troops of Genghis Khan. The “Battle of Chicago Part II.”

  Kids, screaming in agony, fell to the floor. Chuck’s power drive clicked away.

  “Get the fucker with the camera,” a black sergeant shouted.

  “He means you, Chuck,” I gasped.

  My husband looked up, saw a cop with a billy club raised over his head closing in on him, and flipped the camera to our daughter.

  “Get out of here, kid,” he ordered and turned his shoulder to deflect the cop’s blow. The cop, a sneering little Mick with a whiskey nose, swung again, this time hitting the side of Chuck’s head. He collapsed to the floor in an untidy pile like a discarded Raggedy Andy doll. Remembering the scenario from Marquette Park, I jumped on the cop, scratching, screaming, kicking, clawing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that we had created enough of a diversion for April Rosemary, who was running down the corridor toward the stairway to the first floor. We had saved the Nikon and the film in it. Big deal!

  I wasn’t as lucky as I had been in Marquette Park. Another cop, a burly Italian, pulled me off his buddy and pounded his club against my chest. He was aiming for my boobs but missed. Still a sharp pain sliced through my torso, like I had been jabbed by a lance—not that I have ever been jabbed by a lance.

  “Fucking rich bitch, I’m going to smash your face.”

  The cop I had clawed kicked me a couple of times in the stomach. I thought he might kill me. Curiously I was not afraid to die. All the guilt and all the obligations would die with me.

  “Let’s do her face,” the Irish cop said. “Smash it to pieces.”

  “Yeah, that would beat fucking her.”

  I thought of poor Chucky trying to get along without me and wanted to live. I reached into the pocket of my shorts and pulled out my Mayor Daley ID.

  “Geez,” said the Italian, “she works for the fucking Mayor.”

  “What the fuck is she doing here?”

  “You’re dead, you fucking asshole,” I said through my clenched teeth.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the Italian said. “She doesn’t know our names.”

  Yeah, asshole, but we have your faces on film.

  “We ought work her over a little bit more …”

  “You want the Mayor up your ass? Let’s get out of here!”

  So I was spared to live a little longer with my normal face for whatever that was worth.

  Chucky stirred next to me. Out like a light when I really needed him.

  “Rosemarie …”

  “Ribs,” I muttered.

  We struggled to our feet and, his arms around me, stumbled toward the elevators. I cried out with each step.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said the black sergeant.

  “To the hospital. My wife is badly hurt.”

  “You’re not going to any fucking hospital, you’re going to the fucking lockup.”

  I showed him my ID.

  “You’re dead, you fucking asshole,” I informed him.

  “What the fuck you doing up here throwing things out the window?”

  He backed off, turning his face away so we might not recognize him again.

  Chuck pushed the button for the elevator. As we waited for the door to open, he pulled Trudi’s Leica out of his pocket, leaned against the wall, and quickly fired off most of the roll. If in his woozy state he could still take pictures, a lot of cops were in deep shit.

  ’Scuse me, I meant hot water.

  Then the elevator door opened. We lurched into it. Chuck leaned against the door so it would not close.

  “Hey, Sarge,” he yelled.

  The cop turned around, his face twisted in a hellish glare.

  “Smile for the birdie!”

  Chuck fired off three quick shots and sergeant rushed toward us. Then the elevator closed in his face.

  “Damn,” Chuck said sleepily. “I could have got one more just as the door closed.”

  “I’m hurt,” I groaned.

  “I’ll take you over to Mercy Hospital right away.”

  “NO! I want to die near home! Take me to Oak Park Hospital!”

  Dumb idea. Chucky, however, is used to doing what I tell him to do.


  We should have taken a cab. Instead we stumbled and bumbled toward the garage where the Benz was parked. We couldn’t find it. So we argued about what floor it was on. I was right, naturally.

  Then we argued about who should drive the car. I’m afraid that, because doubtless of the bad influence of the cops we swore at each other, so I will not repeat the exact words. In effect I told him I was not about to risk my Benz with him at the wheel. He insisted that with my broken (as he diagnosed the situation) ribs I couldn’t even turn the wheel. I replied that even with banged-up ribs I was a better driver than he was. He responded by saying that he would wrestle me for the keys. I gave in.

  He was right, for one of those rare times, though I never admitted it to him.

  We both were patently out of our minds.

  The Lord God must have assigned some of his most skillful angels to protect us as we weaved down the Congress Expressway to Harlem and then up Harlem to the hospital.

  Finally, we dragged ourselves into the emergency room.

  “What happened to you two?” demanded the resident in charge.

  “My wife hit me over the head with a rolling pin and I had to fight back.”

  I laughed. Mistake. The lanced jabbed my body again.

  “A confrontation with Mayor Daley’s cops,” I said through gritted teeth.”

  They took all kinds of X rays, gave us painkiller pills, and then took more X rays. I remembered, in the nick of time, the camera in Chuck’s pocket.

  “Has someone left a Mercedes outside with the engine running?” a nurse asked.

  “My wife did,” Chuck said.

  They told me that my ribs were badly bruised but neither broken nor cracked. Chuck had lacerations on his head but no concussion. They bound my torso up like I was an Egyptian mummy. It appeared that neither of us had any internal injuries.

  “The Mayor’s thugs are losing it,” I muttered. “Okay, Chucky Ducky, lets go home.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said the very young nurse who had tied me up. “Not with all those painkillers in you … You were crazy to drive yourselves out here. You might have had internal injuries …”

  “Oh,” we said in unison.

  “Rosemarie, my darling,” my husband mumbled, “maybe you should call the kids.”

  “Good thinking,” I said. “They can come and pick us up.”

  On the third try I managed to spin the right numbers.

  “O’Malley residence,” said a businesslike voice which sounded much like my own.

  “Hi, honey, Mom …”

  “MOM! Where are you!”

  “Oak Park Hospital. We’re both okay. They won’t let us drive home because of the painkillers they’ve given us.”

  “PAINKILLERS!

  “No big deal. Do you think you and Kevin can drive down in the Mustang and pick us up?”

  “SURE!”

  “Then call Aunt Peg and tell her to tell Uncle Vince that we are going to sue him and the Mayor for every penny in the city treasury.”

  “I already talked to Uncle Vince, Mom, and told him about the pictures. He’s coming over.”

  “Oh … Did someone develop the pictures?”

  “I did, Mom. I had to do some special stuff to bring them up because of the low light level. They look fine.”

  “Where did you learn to develop film?”

  “At school.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ll be right down, Mom.”

  “I am drugged,” my husband said, “and I imagine things. Our daughter didn’t mess with my film, did she?”

  “Of course she did, dear. What else would you expect? It’s in her genes.”

  “Oh,” he said, then dropped off to sleep.

  Almost instantly our two eldest were on the scene, in charge of the whole operation.

  “Seniority counts,” April Rosemary announced. “I’ll drive the Benz home, bro. You can take my Mustang.”

  “Our Mustang, Sis … Mom, I should drive the Benz, I’m a better driver.”

  “You are not!”

  “You can do it the next time we’re in an emergency room, Kev. She’s older.”

  “Rats!” he said, with a good-sport shrug of his shoulders.

  In the car, our daughter gave Chuck the prints she had made.

  Did everyone in the family have secrets?

  Her father looked at the prints with the best critical frown he could muster in the circumstances.

  “Couldn’t have done any better myself, kid. You’ve inherited the family talent.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said happily.

  “Tell you what, kid. There’s some more film in my Leica.” He fumbled in his pockets for Trudi’s camera.

  “It’s in my purse. You almost left it at the hospital.” I turned my purse over to my daughter.

  “Yeah … anyway … there’s some more shots in it. Why don’t you develop them too. The light’s probably even worse …”

  “Now, dear,” I said. “Please drive us home.”

  “Stop at Petersen’s,” my husband insisted. “Your mother and I need a couple malts to keep us going.”

  “Dad”—April Rosemary giggled—“it’s closed at this hour of the night.”

  “Make them open up … We’re special customers.”

  Then, because with the bandage on his head and the wrappings under my tee shirt we looked like walking war wounded, he began singing “Lili Marlene.”

  “It’s lucky Dad doesn’t drink much, isn’t it, Mom?”

  We were so very close that night. Afterward I wished with all the power of my soul that we had been able to preserve that closeness forever.

  “He is cute, isn’t he?”

  Peg and Carlotta were waiting for us as our older children helped us into the house. Jimmy and Seano rushed to the door, ready for a fight. Phil Sheridan’s cavalry riding toward the Shenadoah. Moire was sound asleep.

  “Don’t hug Mom,” April Rosemary ordered. “Her ribs are badly broken.”

  “Bruised,” I said in a tone of voice which must have sounded pitiable. “You can hug Daddy, it’s only his head.”

  “Rosie!” Peg screamed in horror.

  “Aunt Rosie!” her daughter echoed her.

  “I gotta develop some more film.” Our daughter rushed for the basement.

  “The kid has some talent,” Chuck admitted, a benign—and drugged—smile on his face.

  “Everyone knows that, Uncle Chuck,” Carlotta informed him. “She took all the pictures for our yearbook.”

  And never told us a word. Why are there so many secrets?

  Vince was coming from City Hall. We would wait for him. I wanted in the worst way to collapse in my bed. However, my husband was quite incoherent, if very funny, and it fell to my lot to tell our story

  “Those bastards!” Peg exploded.

  “Not in front of the children, Peg,” Chuck warned her.

  We ignored him like we usually do.

  “Does it hurt much?”

  “I’m all doped up so I don’t feel anything. I’m not even angry at the poor goons.”

  “Fucking goons,” Chuck cut in.

  “Not in front of the children, Uncle Chuck,” Carlotta warned him.

  I showed her the pictures. As usual my husband, under extreme pressure, proved himself a genius. There were five or six shots that were front-page material.

  “Well, Vince had better do something about this!” Peg said, her lips a thin, dangerous line.

  “Or we’ll divorce him,” Chuck added.

  The doorbell rang, Carlotta let her father in.

  “Daddy, you better do something about this!”

  Vince was ashen. “The Mayor is horrified. He asked me to express his personal apologies. He will talk to you eventually. It was the first he heard of the raid on McCarthy’s headquarters … My God, Rosie,” he added as he looked at the pictures, “this is awful!”

  “All cops’ heads on silver platters!” Chuck demanded, an
d then fell asleep.

  Vince sank into a chair and slowly and carefully reviewed all the pictures.

  “You could get indictments on the strength of these pictures alone,” he murmured. “There’ll be no problem putting a name on these dolts.”

  “Uncle Chuck says they’re fucking bastards, Daddy,” Carlotta observed.

  “Uncle Chuck is always right.”

  April Rosemary burst into the room waving a handful of prints from the Leica roll.

  “Wait till you see these, Uncle Vince!”

  Vince sifted through the prints and slumped into the chair.

  “This sergeant is about to swing his club at Chuck! Look at that evil face! What stopped him!”

  “The elevator door,” I said. “Boy genius wanted to get one more shot. Thank God the door closed in time.”

  “Rosie”—Vince took a deep breath—“candidly you could file a complaint with these pictures and the State’s Attorney would have to indict these guys!”

  “Uh.”

  “Moreover—and I continue to abuse the rules of conflict of interest—you could sue the city of Chicago for tens of millions of dollars.”

  “We don’t need or want the money,” I said. “I don’t want to embarrass those men’s poor families.”

  Bleeding heart liberal, huh?

  Or maybe only a Christian.

  Anyway, I couldn’t believe I’d said that.

  “Make a deal with the Mayor,” Chuck said, waking up suddenly. “See that these guys are punished. We don’t care how and don’t want to know. If it ever happens again before the statute of limitations runs out, we’ll sue for so much that we will take away his home in Bridgeport and maybe the church down the street too.”

  “Do you mean that, Chuck, or is it the Empirin and Tylenol talking?”

  “Gotta defend the city against Cronkite.”

  He closed his eyes again.

  “Rosie?”

  “I’m in.”

  “The Mayor will be very grateful.”

  “He damn well better be.”

  “Kid ran like Gayle Sayers with the camera,” Chucky said, his eyes still closed. “Then came back here and did the prints for us. Genius genes.”

  1969

  23

  “How you doing?” My husband, bright and lively and elegant in the dressing gown I had bought him which he never wears, handed me my morning cup of coffee.