Our family has been living here since forever. My grandma once owned a tavern on the corner of Sixty-first and Dunham. She had a television before there was programming. Locals came from miles around for Friday night wrestling and ten-cent beers. There’s a scrapbook in Grandma’s pantry with a zillion black-and-white photographs. People sat outside on picnic tables and ate corn on the cob, waiting for the sun to go down. It was so folksy even Norman Rockwell would puke.
The place deteriorated in the fifties when happy hour became the home of unhappy social outcasts. One night someone got stabbed in the bathroom, and a few weeks later a fire finished off what was left of that sagging beer-soaked timber.
Grandma’s mom’s mom was the wife of a German blacksmith who never came back from the Civil War. She took up with a local Indian trader and had a second litter. I’m a descendant of that batch. I’m not quite a half-breed, but I’m just as much an Indian as Cher.
The porch light went out. I crossed the yard and slipped back into the house. The astronaut’s spaceship was still parked in the driveway. I went upstairs, pulled the covers over my head, and curled up into a ball, hoping tonight never happened and tomorrow would never come.
BREAKFAST
I woke up with a splitting headache. The sweet scent of coffee and buttered toast drifted up the staircase. I could hear Mom tooling around the kitchen. My hair still smelled of smoke and my hands had grease on them and then I remembered the car battery and the shattered window and wondered if the police had already stopped by. I was a little nervous about heading downstairs, but at the same time, I was anxious to know, Did I kill them?
The morning light had the appearance of a sky viewed from the bottom of a sink filled with dirty dishwater. The aspirin bottle was nearly empty and I had the sinking feeling that I’ve eaten practically every one. I drifted down the stairs, floated into the kitchen. David was still sleeping. Mom was reading the Tribune.
“There’s coffee made. Do you want some toast?” She jumped up, ready to serve me, like some bored waitress hungry for a two-dollar tip. I made her sit back down, got the coffee myself, added two scoops of sugar and lots of milk.
“How was the movie?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“What was it about?”
“A murderette rock star and her road-kill husband.”
“I don’t want you seeing so many R-rated movies!” she said, trying to be a mother.
“Mom, life is an R-rated subject.”
She knew she was full of shit, but she had to go through the motions, being a dad as well as a mom. I didn’t dare ask her what she did last night; just the thought of her twisting in the sheets with that lanky astronaut sent shivers up and down my spine.
“Anything good in the paper?”
“Just the usual mayhem. I sure miss Monica.”
I took a big gulp of coffee, sat down at the table. My throbbing head simmered into a steady grind.
“There’s a big oil fire down in Lemont.” Mom held the paper up so I could see the picture. “That’s probably the first time Lemont ever made the front page.” She laughed to herself, then set down the paper and took a deep breath in preparation for another page from her scrapbook of life lessons. They’ve been getting progressively religous in tone ever since she started her interplanetary voyages with the astronaut. Mom’s been invading his cosmic world, anxious to make a splash landing.
“I have a surprise,” she said, pushing a black velvet ring box in front of me. “Open it.”
I lifted the tiny lid, and sure enough there was a crystal-clear rock set in a wide silver band sparkling like the first day of spring and all the promises of life. I looked at the wrinkles fanning out from the corners of my mother’s eyes, swallowed all the smart-aleck comments perched at the edge of my tongue. If there was ever a time to contain my inner thoughts, this was it.
“Dan wants to marry me!” she said, hardly able to breathe. She drank the last of her coffee, kept her eyes locked on my facial expressions, waiting for the slightest inkling of approval. I felt a million rain clouds perched right above my head and lightning blasting the perimeter. When I stared into my mother’s eyes they were a dreamy mixture of hope and mushy thoughts about her man of the hour. I fast-forwarded into the future: new neighborhood, new school, new Dad, new rules, new life.
“Does David know about this?” I asked.
Mom shook her head.
“Does Dad?”
She shook her head again.
I was the testing ground, just like the sands of Nevada. Scorched earth.
“It’s kinda sudden,” I said, not wanting to break Mom’s heart. I wanted her to be happy. I had to tread softly. I didn’t dare flinch or say what I felt. I picked up the box, looked at the diamond carefully.
“It’s awfully big,” I said.
Mom nodded and cracked a little smile, like she was embarrassed.
“Does it fit?” I asked. “Try it on.”
I pushed the velvet box back toward her. She quickly opened it and slipped the ring onto her left finger, then held her hand toward me. We both stared at the glittering rock. The basement door popped open and Sir Gloomster shuffled into the room, smelling like three days ago. He slumped into his chair, reached for the Frosted Flakes, and filled a bowl. Mom got up and fetched the coffee.
“Notice anything different?” I asked him.
He looked around the room as if the wallpaper had been replaced overnight. He tasted his cereal, trying to recognize a new flavor, shrugged his shoulders, gave up.
Mom poured his coffee so her hand was right in his face. He couldn’t miss the diamond. David stared at it, and at first he didn’t say anything, not even a smirk. I tried to imagine what new damage was settling into that frostbitten skull.
“That’s a nice ring, Mom.” He took a sip of coffee. “Where’d ya get it?”
Mom took a deep breath. “Dan gave it to me. He wants to marry me.”
My brother stared into the bottom of his cereal bowl like he wanted to stick his face in it and drown. He looked up at Mom, tried seeing her, but obviously couldn’t.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Do you love him?” I asked.
Mom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I don’t love him like I loved your father. It’s different, but I’m a different person.”
“Don’t you have to break up with Dad first?” David asked.
“I haven’t said yes yet.” Mom leaned away from the table. “I just thought I’d mention it, to feel you guys out a bit.”
“How do we feel?” I asked.
“Hesitant,” she said. Mom’s face was torn wide open. She reminded me of one of those paintings of little girls with incurably sad eyes. “I want to ask a favor of you.”
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“Will you go to church with me tomorrow morning?” She smiled a big happy smile, like, won’t it be fun?
“You’re getting married tomorrow?” David asked.
“No, no, no, no. Dan invited me. I just don’t want to go alone.”
I slouched in my chair, hoping this was just a phase and not some new Bible-thumping mom I was going to have to deal with.
“Do we have a choice?” David asked.
“I’m giving you one aren’t I?”
“What time is church?” I asked.
“Nine o’clock,” she said.
“In the morning?”
“It’ll be over before you know it. Who wants more toast?”
DAIRY QUEEN
A timid sun bled through the hazy overcast, the air smelled like compost and bug spray, humidity made everything nice and sticky. Six-foot weeds drooped over both sides of the narrow bike trail, some with fuzzy tops, others draped with wide brown leaves. The path’s chalky white gravel rattled against the rusted fenders of my Western Flyer. I coasted along, trying to digest the concept of a new dad. I guess I never realized that your relatives
could evolve. Tossed into a soap opera with a total stranger, it’ll be like camp that never ends. Here a dad, there a dad, everywhere a dad, dad.
The path cut through a swatch of weeds and spilled into the Green Knolls shopping mall, a geographical armpit at the corner of Sixty-third and Main. Foremost Liquors had windows full of white paper signs advertising cheap six-packs and discount vodka. Lawn ornaments and pallets of wood chips surrounded the doorway of Ace Hardware. A soldier was smoking a cigarette outside the armed forces storefront. The Hobby Barn was barren. I stopped at the Dairy Queen and filled out a résumé, used Tracy as a reference, Mom as a past employer, and listed boy watching as one of my hobbies. I have to get a job this summer. Money is my only hope.
Outside the DQ I saw the mechanic’s purple Dodge Charger parked beside the Steakhouse. I pedaled across the lot and locked my bike around the flagpole, then went inside. The room was decorated with wagon wheels and various other western memorabilia. There were picnic benches in the center room and a smoky effervescence that reminded me of a camp-fire. Bobby was sitting in back, hunched over a hamburger and fries. I picked up a yellow plastic tray and slid it down the silver rail, stopping in front of the beverage dispenser to fill a paper cup with iced tea. I paid the cashier, then took a deep breath and slowly cruised his table. His face was buried in some gear-head magazine, totally absorbed by an article about tires. Long dark bangs curled over his skyscraper cheekbones, his lips were purple, as if he’d been sucking on a Popsicle. He didn’t look up, so I sat down across from him, squeezed some lemon over my ice cubes, stirred the citrus into the tea with my pinkie finger.
“Mind if I sit here?” I asked. When he looked up I stared right into his eyes, just like the first time we met, hoping he’d pick up where we left off.
He shook his head and mumbled “mmmnbrgh” with a mouthful of food, then picked up the ketchup bottle and shook more onto his plate. Twisting off the white cap and smothering his fries, he reminded me of a European movie star playing a cowboy. His elegant features clashed with his rough gestures. He seemed somehow miscast as a mechanic. He was too shiny for his job.
I took a long sip of tea while watching him chew. “I saw your hot rod outside. You drive here? I mean, you only work across the street.” I pointed with my thumb.
“I know,” he said, still trying to swallow. “Habit, I guess.” He took another bite of his hamburger, stuffing in french fries between gulps of soda. Now he was looking at me, noticing me, trying to place me. He had the biggest brown eyes. “How did you know I work across the street?”
“I buy gas sometimes.”
“Oh yeah, you’re the girl who always buys a dollar’s worth of gas. I didn’t recognize you without your car.” He took another bite, looked back at his magazine.
I started to feel annoyed. He wasn’t making this very easy. I thought that once I laid myself on a silver platter for him, he’d respond with a few lines of yummy tease or scalding words of affection, but instead he acted like a Frisbee had landed beside his beach blanket and now he was annoyed about having to stand up and throw it back. He took another bite of his hamburger and turned a page of his magazine.
“I heard the world is gonna end in a few days,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” Bobby didn’t look up. “Where’d you hear that?”
“My grandma saw a television special about it. She’s got a satellite dish so big it picks up channels you’ve never even heard of.”
“So why is the world ending?”
I took a sip of my tea, thinking up an answer. The clouds shifted and a scrap of sunlight fell through the window. I looked outside and remembered the petroleum fire. “I think it has something to do with that fire down in Lemont,” I said.
Bobby looked up from his magazine like he didn’t believe me but was still willing to play along.
“Have you seen it?” I asked.
“No.” He set down his burger and leaned back in his chair.
I reached over the table and took one of his french fries and dipped it in the ketchup. “I sure would like to know what the end of the world looks like.”
“I doubt anyone would stop you,” he said.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to go by myself,” I said. “Don’t you want to drive down and see the end of the world?”
“I can’t right now.” He shook his head. “My lunch hour is almost over.”
“What time do you get off work?” I asked.
“I gotta close tonight.”
“What time is closing time?”
“Around ten,” he said.
He looked at me kind of funny and I felt a big raspberry sprout on my cheeks.
“You don’t seem very scared,” he said.
“Of what?”
“The end of the world.”
“Oh that.” I looked over and saw a couple of guys from the party last night walking up to the counter. My heart leapt into my throat. I quickly turned my back to them. I wasn’t sure if they were friends of Chuck or not, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out either. I looked back at Bobby.
“My life is sort of complicated right now,” I said.
“More complicated than the end of the world?”
I looked over and saw the boys pushing their yellow trays down the silver rail, the last in line was the onion-headed one.
“Sorta,” I said, wondering what to do, looking for the nearest exit. “I just remembered something.” I got up from the table. “I have to run. I’ll tell you about it later.” I hurried outside, unlocked my bike, and rode as fast as I could over to Tracy’s house.
PANIC
THE Nelsons’ lawn was completely overgrown; the gutters were packed with leaves; all the planters were still potted with last year’s dead flowers. I stashed my bike behind the bushes and rang the doorbell. Nobody answered, so I tossed a pebble at the window upstairs. When the door finally swung open, there was Tracy, still in her flannel pajamas, holding a can of ginger ale in one hand and a cigarette in the other; her hair was working a serious hangover.
“All right already,” she said.
The house was a mess, several dirty plates were stacked on the paisley-shaped coffee table. Twice as many dirty glasses ornamented the counter space. Clothes were strewn randomly about, and the carpet was buried in newspapers and magazines: the usual chaos. The television was barking a Live Action Report from Chopper 9 about the petrochemical fire in Lemont.
“They say people can see the smoke all the way from downtown Chicago,” Tracy said, pointing at the screen. I fell onto the couch, fanned myself with the TV Guide. Tracy plunged into the big orange vinyl chair opposite me.
“I did it,” I said.
“Did what?” Her eyes were glued to the television set.
“The mechanic.”
“You did the mechanic?” Tracy sat up and pressed her cigarette onto a dirty plate.
“I asked him out on a date.”
“No way.”
“Just now at the Steakhouse.” I took a cigarette out of Tracy’s pack. “We’re gonna go see the fire in Lemont tonight.” I struck a match and lit a cancer stick.
“Well, that sounds like a hot date.”
“It was my idea. I just thought it would be fun, you know, at least we’ll be parked.”
“Why don’t you go to a motel, at least there’s a bed,” she said, mimicking my voice.
I threw the TV Guide at her, propped my legs up on the coffee table. “Have you heard anything about those guys?” I asked.
“What guys?”
“Last night!”
“What’s to hear?” She laughed to herself. “Action speaks louder than words.”
“A couple of Chuckie’s friends showed up at the Steakhouse while I was talking to Bobby. I freaked out. Do you think I hurt him?”
“I hope so.”
“What if they come after us?”
“Did you give him your phone number?”
“Of course not.”
“We
ll how are they gonna find you? He doesn’t even know your name.”
“It’s a small town. They’ll ask around. They might see your car!”
“If they see my car they better duck.” She pulled me out of my chair. “C’mon, you’re making me nervous.”
We went upstairs to Tracy’s room. The shades were drawn, the bed unmade. Red shag carpeting smothered the floor. Her walls were buried with posters of various rock stars and CK boys posing in their underwear. There was a scratched-up desk and matching dresser, both originally painted white, now graf-fitied with swirling rainbows of Magic Marker. She had a collection of old dolls and stuffed animals piled in the corner, which seemed like an installation dedicated to her past life, and a corkboard with souveniers of one-night stands pinned one over another as a celebration of her present one: buttons, bottle caps, concert tickets, dead flowers, even torn-open condom wrappers. Her dresser was brimming with stolen merchandise. Tracy was a kleptomaniac at the mall.
There were three library books stacked up on the edge of her desk. “What’s with these books?” I picked up the top one.
“I have to do that stupid report,” she said.
“What’s it about?”
“Look at the covers.” She nodded toward them.
“So?”
“They all have clouds on them, don’t you think that’s weird?”
“So what’s your point?”
“That is my point. How many points do I need?”
“I’ve heard of Generation X and Bret Easton Ellis, but what’s this big fat one?”
“It says he lives in Bloomington, Illinois. Not much happens here, so you can just imagine what it’s like in Bloomington. He probably has a lot of time to write. Check out the author photo. He’s kind of cute in that thirty-something English teacher way.”
“What’s with the bandanna? Is he in a gang?”
“I’ll speculate on it in my report,” she said.
Tracy clicked open her tape player and slipped in her sleazy-listening compilation. Mancini meets Manson is how I would describe her latest musical tastes. She calls it wife-swapping music.
Downers Grove Page 4