by Jackson Neta
I pointed at the yellow brick bungalow next door as we walked by. “Saw our neighbors yesterday as we were moving in. Sign on the side of his pickup says Farid’s Total Yard Service. Might be Middle Eastern or something.”
“Mm, maybe.”
I could tell her mind was someplace else. “Nice little house. Maybe we shoulda kept looking until we found a single-family place like theirs.”
“What we better do is figure out what we’re gonna do with what we’ve got. Harry, we gotta talk about Rodney! You heard what DaShawn said this mornin’. I keep wondering if that’s God’s answer to our downstairs apartment—”
“What? God’s answer? Aw, I don’t know, babe. We were so sure he led us to buy this place as a way to take care of Mom—and now look. Can’t believe you’re suggesting ‘God’s answer’ might be for Rodney to live here. That was just DaShawn shootin’ off his mouth.”
“You didn’t let me finish, Harry. I wasn’t saying we should get sucked into it just because DaShawn threw out the idea. We need to talk and pray about it. If the answer is still no, we should make that clear before expectations gain momentum. The last thing we need is for DaShawn to get all revved up over the idea and then we have to shut him down. We do need God’s answer here.”
“Well, we need somethin’, that’s for sure. ’Cause we can’t cover that mortgage on our own.”
After passing another tidy bungalow with its drapes pulled—seemed like everyone’s drapes or blinds were pulled—we came to the cul-de-sac. I stopped and swept my hand toward the big, new house that took up the whole end of the street. “At least we don’t have to pay his mortgage. Can you believe that thing?” All the other homes on our street were modest brick bungalows of one sort or another except for our greystone and a redbrick two-flat on the other side—classic Chicago neighborhood. “What possessed someone to build an enormous house at the head of the street? It’s out of place. Doesn’t fit.”
“Who knows? Maybe he grew up here and got rich and just wanted to come back to the old neighborhood. Wouldn’t that be better than fleeing to the ’burbs the minute they make it?” She pulled on my arm. “Come on. It’s cold just standing here.”
I looked back over my shoulder as we started down the other side of Beecham. “Yeah, but did you check out that big black Lincoln in his drive? Maybe he’s a Lincoln lawyer like the guy in Michael Connelly’s novel.”
“You and your detective books. We were talkin’ about what we’re going to do with our first-floor apartment. And I think . . . maybe we should consider Rodney—it could be temporary, at least until we know what’s going to happen to your mom. He seems very cooperative. Except, what’s with him callin’ you Harry all the time? I thought he was callin’ you Dad.”
“Ah, don’t mean nothin’. Just street talk.” But I had to admit I’d liked it when at first he was calling me Dad.
“Well, if you say so. And you know, it might be good for DaShawn, havin’ his dad around.”
I gave her a skeptical look, but I knew what it meant when she started spreading her mother-hen wings. I drew in a deep breath. “Aw, I don’t know, Estelle. Too many maybes. Yeah, he’s clean—but how long is he going to stay that way? And what if Rodney doesn’t get a job and can’t pay his rent? Then we’d be stuck. We’d have to kick him out so we could get someone else in there. Could get real nasty.” I shook my head. “Just wish we weren’t dependent on that rent money.”
She loosened her grip on my arm and moved away slightly so she could look at me. “So, what would we do if we didn’t need his rent money? Just let him keep on livin’ there without payin’ rent? He might need some tough love, Harry. Whether we needed the money or not, he needs to take responsibility for himself.”
I scratched my chin, thinking about what she said. “Well, you’re right. If we had to kick him out, it could make a world of difference why we did it. Would we be doing it for his sake because moochin’ off people ain’t right? Or because we’re desperate for the money? Hear what I’m sayin’?”
“Well, yeah, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
When we were halfway down the other side of the block and she still hadn’t finished her sentence, I prodded, “But what?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Estelle, think about it. Are you really open to him livin’ below us?” I remembered what she’d said about family when she was talking about caring for Mom, but Rodney was a whole other ball of wax.
She heaved a sigh. “Well, you’re right. If we end up squeezin’ him because we’re bein’ squeezed, then it’s not a good idea. But, Harry, maybe he just needs a second chance. He seems to have a decent attitude, better than how you’ve painted him in the past.”
I cleared my throat in a conspicuous way. “More like third or fourth chance.” But I felt guilty the moment I’d said it. After all, God had given me a second chance in so many ways—a second chance at love, a second chance to be a father to my grandson. Still. “I’d like to, Estelle. I really would, but has he really changed? Or just become a better con artist?”
“Well, you’re the cop, Harry. Thought you could read cons from a block away.”
I hunched my shoulders as the gusty wind picked up. “Yeah, but there’s a reason doctors don’t operate on family members. When people are too close, your vision gets blurry. Whadda they call that—myopia?”
We’d reached the end of the block. The cross street was one way going west. Kind of a pain navigating one-ways to get into your own block—especially one with a dead end. As we crossed Beecham and headed back up our side of the street, Estelle pulled me back into our conversation.
“What would we have to do so we could be more objective, so we aren’t caught in the middle?”
“Financially?”
“Mm-hm. That seems to be where the rub is.”
I thought for a moment. “I s’pose we could set up clear expectations for Rodney, and to protect us financially, guess I could go back to work. Maybe I could get my old doorman job back at Richmond Towers.”
“Harry! You were bored silly at that job. Why not the Chicago Police Department?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Might have to take a cut in pay, maybe even in rank, but mostly it’d depend on whether they’re hiring right now. The whole city’s pretty much under a budget freeze, ya know.”
She sighed. “Well, let’s pray, Harry. Let’s pray about it.”
“Right now? Out here in this?” I waved my hand at the bare trees creaking in the icy wind.
She giggled. “No. I’m freezin’ to death. I mean tonight, before we go to sleep.”
That was more like it. We stepped up our pace and were almost home, when Estelle gripped my arm and jerked me to a near stop.
“Don’t look now, Harry, but that’s the second time it’s happened.”
“Happened? What happened? What’re you talkin’ about?”
“The blinds. Everyone on this street has their blinds closed or their drapes pulled. But somebody in that house right there—our neighbor—was peekin’ out watchin’ us until I noticed ’em. Then they jerked the drapes closed.”
“Estelle,” I moaned, “so what? Someone watched us walking by and felt embarrassed that you noticed ’em and closed their drapes. What’s the big deal?”
“Yeah, but that’s the second time. It happened when we passed that house right over there.” She pointed at the house directly across from ours. “It’s creepy.”
“What if their drapes were open and they just happened to watch us pass? Would that bother you?”
“Of course not. It’s just that . . . they obviously didn’t want me to see them watching.”
“They’re probably just curious—wondering about the new neighbors.”
“Maybe . . .” We started walking again and turned onto the walk up to our house. “Then I know what I’ll do. I’m gonna go around and meet everybody. Bible says if you want to have friends, you gotta show yourself friendly. So I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna b
ake cinnamon rolls for everyone on this block.”
“Estelle, we’re not even settled in yet.”
“Well,” she said, hustling up the stairs to our unit, “maybe not tomorrow, but I’m still gonna do it.”
Yeah, I thought, Estelle feels creepy when people peek out at us, but I feel queasy over whether we can afford this place.
Had God really given us this house? If so, why were we suddenly in over our heads?
Chapter 8
I had almost drifted off to sleep, having little half dreams about how to mount that basketball hoop on the back of our garage. But it just wasn’t fitting together the way I wanted it to.
“Harry? Harry!”
I opened my eyes. “Huh?” Everything was turned around. The window should be at the foot of our bed, but the dim glow of a streetlight came through Venetian blinds at my side.
“Harry, you awake?”
“What . . . ?” I raised myself up on my elbows and remembered we were in our new bedroom. I turned toward my wife’s familiar shape, smelling faintly of soap and powder. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter, honey, but I was just thinking . . . several weeks ago, at the Manna House Valentine’s party, didn’t you say someone from Amtrak Police called and wanted you to come work for them?”
I sat all the way up. “Amtrak? Oh, yeah, Gilson called me, but—” I choked off my words and blew out a long breath. “It’s the middle of the night, Estelle. What’s the clock say?”
“Um . . . eleven thirty, but I couldn’t sleep, ’cause I been thinkin’, if it would make a difference for us to have the money to cover the whole mortgage ourselves, maybe you should take that job. Better than bein’ a doorman. You don’t much like being retired, anyway. And then we wouldn’t be caught between Rodney’s behavior and the bank.”
I flopped back onto the bed and yawned loudly. “Not so sure it’d be better than that doorman job. At least no one woke me up in the middle of the night. Now go to sleep, Estelle. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay. Just think about it.” She turned over, and within minutes I heard her breathing transform into the steady slowness of a peaceful sleep.
But no such luck for me. My mind started skittering like static electricity . . .
Okay. The reason we needed someone to rent our downstairs apartment was because Mom couldn’t move in. The image of her lying up there in the hospital giving me her crooked smile floated through my mind. Was she feeling lonely? I should visit her more. But how could I? We’d just bought a house that needed a lot of work, and I’d have even less time if I got a job.
Of course, she’d been living alone for years and never complained of being lonely. At least now she had a roommate and nurses on duty to help her. Had to admit, though, at almost ninety, she had to be approaching the end of her life. Her best friend, Ethel, had died right after Thanksgiving. I really needed to prepare myself for that. A physical ache pulled at my heart, thinking of her passing. Sure hoped some of us would be there to hold her hand and pray with her when she went home. It’d be terrible to be completely alone.
How stupid we’d been to base our whole plan for this building on her moving in! Which was why I didn’t want to base our future on Rodney’s performance either. Not good!
I flopped over on my other side. I needed to get some sleep.
What got me goin’ here? Oh, yeah, Estelle asking about that call from Gilson. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to work for Amtrak. We could sure use the money. And she was right; with more financial stability we could give Rodney a genuine second chance. Maybe this was the time. I wasn’t really worried about him holding down a job as long as drugs were out of the picture. He’d been a good worker ever since I got him his first job at age twelve helping our building manager for thirty minutes a day, picking up trash, sweeping the back stairs, or washing the door windows.
It was the drugs that did him in, and I didn’t want them under our roof. We had to think of DaShawn. He was getting to the age where it’d be a big enough temptation to him too.
I rolled the covers off me and went to the bathroom, got a drink of water, and shuffled back to the bedroom. Careful not to disturb Estelle, I crawled back into bed. She was turned away from me, so I spooned up behind her, resting my hand on the curve of her hip. I lightly kissed the back of her neck. Maybe a little lovin’ would get my mind on something different . . . if not calmer. She moaned contentedly and wiggled a little, then sank back into the steady breathing of a sound sleep.
Hmm, maybe another time. But I was realizing it might not be as easy with a guest in the house.
Rodney . . . yeah, the drugs did it. That’s when I knew I was losing Rodney. I had just transferred from the CPD’s K-9 unit—where, of course, I did some drug interdiction with my dog—to the Special Ops Section. The elite SOS unit supposedly targeted drugs, the lifeblood of the gangs. I wanted to get the scumbags who’d stolen my son.
I’d given the SOS a hundred percent, and we were making a real difference too—a difference, that is, until my boss, Matty Fagan, got greedy. My thoughts drifted back to the mess he’d created and the day I’d finally decided to blow the whistle. It’s not easy to cross that thin blue line, and, as with most officers who decide they must do it, it was a career ender for me. You don’t go against your own—not even for a righteous cause—without paying a price. The first installment for me was being asked to take early retirement so I could be “put on ice” while Internal Affairs prepared the case against Fagan. But even when the court case was over and Fagan had been sentenced, I knew better than reapply to the CPD.
Now Gilson had reached out to me, inviting me to join him at Amtrak.
Ahh! . . . this wasn’t working. I was right back into the same loop. I’d never get to sleep at this rate.
I started to ponder those harebrained ideas Captain Gilson had spun to interest me. They might be a figment of his creative imagination, as he’d called it—but what if some kind of detective role were possible? Perhaps my career in law enforcement wasn’t over, after all. If I could become a K-9 detective with a drug-interdiction dog that I brought home at the end of the day . . . oh man! I’d have our place covered. Neither Rodney nor DaShawn could get involved with drugs without me being immediately alerted.
Of course, the dogs weren’t for personal crusades. In fact, there was probably some regulation against doing what I envisioned. But hey, if that dog just happened to draw down on a stash or even some weed in someone’s pocket, well . . . And if that didn’t happen—I surely prayed it wouldn’t—at least I could sleep without worrying that something bad might be goin’ down under my roof.
Yeah, I could sleep without worrying . . .
Estelle’s steady breathing calmed me like small waves on a beach. It was all I could hear in this quiet neighborhood, so different from the noisy blocks around our old apartment. I was close to drifting off . . . but a cloud still hovered at the fringe of my consciousness. Even if Rodney and DaShawn were straight, even if the finances on the house got covered, something still felt wrong with my world, something that cast a shadow over every joy. What was it?
My mother. She was near the end. I didn’t want her to go, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
Monday morning, I walked DaShawn to the corner a couple blocks south to catch the city bus. He didn’t want to be seen with me, but this was the first day going to school from our new address, and I wanted to make sure he caught the right bus. As the bus pulled away from the curb, I was startled to notice that The Office, a friendly neighborhood bar, was just three doors west of the bus stop. I’d gotten myself in trouble there more times than I could count. So why had its proximity completely slipped my mind when we were deciding to purchase a house not more than a five-minute walk away? Was my subconscious setting me up with temptation? I would not yield. I would tell my Yada Yada brothers and Estelle about it to get it out into the light so God could help me.
But when I
got back to the house, I lost myself in the day’s events. Rodney had gone out to find a phone store that could reactivate his phone. “Got to get a newspaper too, snag me a job,” he’d told Estelle.
Sounded good, but I knew how hard it could be for anyone who’d been “inside” to get a job. He was going to have to find someone who had a connection and would take a chance on him. Maybe Peter Douglass needed help at Software Symphony. I’d check.
“Estelle, let me do those dishes. You’re still trying to set up the kitchen.”
Her eyes went wide. “And . . . ?” We shared a lot of household chores, even in the kitchen, but it wasn’t very often I volunteered out of the blue to do the dishes.
“And nothin’. Just thought we might talk about what you said last night.”
“Uh . . . and what was that?”
I dumped the coffee grounds in the trash. “You know, the Amtrak idea.”
“Oh! I was so sleepy, I nearly forgot.”
Then why didn’t you save it till this morning and let me sleep? But I didn’t say so.
I scraped the last of the bowls and put them into the dishwasher. “Well, being a cop isn’t an easy job. In fact, maybe the only thing harder than being a cop is being the wife of a cop.”
“Not a husband of one?”
I tossed her a grin. “That too, I guess.” My old partner, Cindy Kaplan, had never married. Maybe she was smart. “Anyway, the Amtrak scene might be a little different, but . . . police work is police work. And”—Did I really want to say this?—“I basically lost my first marriage over it.”
Estelle gave me the eye. “I thought it was because of your drinkin’.”
“That too.” I raised my hands. “I’m not blamin’ my drinkin’ on my job, but the stress of the job was certainly part of my home problems. I let the job come first. Wasn’t there for Willa Mae, wasn’t there for Rodney when they needed me most. Brought home all the tension—if I hadn’t drowned it before I got there.”