by Paul Cwalina
“Oooh, sounds intriguing,” she said, somewhat excited.
We exited the museum and she locked the doors. As we walked across the plaza to the parking lot, she slipped her hand into mine. It felt nice. I opened her door and she got in and I worked my way around the car, got in and started it. “So, where are we going?” she asked.
“City Hall.”
“Haven’t you had enough of that place all week?”
“Oh, it’s never enough,” I said
“And I’m the weird one? Yeah,” she said sarcastically.
We arrived at city hall and climbed the front stairs to the main entrance. As you enter city hall, there is a cavernous hallway. On the west wall, were portraits of every mayor that served the city going all the way back to 1900. I slowly reviewed the portraits as we walked, looking for the one I wanted to show Chelsea.
I found it, then said, “Close your eyes.”
“Ugh, I hate this,” she said in a deep, mocking voice.
“Always the comedienne, huh?”
She chuckled, closed her eyes and pleaded, “Take my hands. Take my hands.”
I did and positioned her in front of the portrait of Henry Schmidt. “Okay, open your eyes.”
“Handsome man. Who is it?”
“Look at the name.”
She put her hand over her mouth and her eyes grew wide. “Is that Elena’s late husband?”
“Yes, it is,” I replied.
“Wow. She never said anything like this about him to me.”
“Really? I wonder why, since she’s awfully proud of him.”
“Perhaps she knows about me and politics,” Chelsea said.
“Well, then, here’s something you can talk to her about the next time you see her. By the way, I have the honor of being the youngest mayor in the history of the city. Guess who was the youngest before me.”
“No...Henry?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “He’s also the one that helped establish the Schmidt Art Museum by re-zoning that whole block, putting together a coalition of businessmen to support an arts district, securing state and federal grants and expanding the surrounding tax base to make up for the future loss of revenue from the now tax-free arts district. It was and continues to be quite the balancing act, but worth it because it continues to bear fruit. And that, my apathetic friend, is why you should vote.”
“Wow. I had no idea,” Chelsea said.
“If there was some daylight left, I’d show you reason number two why you should vote.”
She looked at me and said, “Well, I heard a rumor that there’s going to be some daylight tomorrow.”
“Stop. Maybe another time. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow. The last thing anyone wants to do is be outside with someone,” she said sarcastically.
“Knock it off.”
“Okay, but that’s kind of cruel telling me there’s another reason to vote and then not telling me what it is.”
“Unbelievable,” I said, exasperated. “Fine. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Great. It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I insisted. “I’m just going to show you something. It will take less than an hour.”
“Alright, but if it goes over an hour, it’s officially a date, right?”
I shook my head. “Maddening. Fine. What are we doing the rest of this evening?”
Then I had a light-bulb-over-the-head moment. That’s why she wants to go tomorrow. It’s a way to get me to stay over tonight at her place tonight. Finally.
“I don’t know,” she said, thinking. “There’s nothing I can think of that would be better than watching you discover that Vermeer painting.”
“There is seriously something wrong with you. I can think of a million things better than that.”
“Well, I can’t. Your reaction and look on your face were precious,” she said, glowing.
“I suppose it was similar to yours learning about Henry Schmidt.”
“I’ll buy that,” she said.
“So, are we done for the night?”
“No! Buy me a drink you big oaf.” she said and playfully slapped my arm.
“Oaf? Did you really just say that?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me,” she said, laughing.
“I’ve heard ‘oaf’ and ‘bees knees’ in one week now”
She laughed, “Who said ‘bees knees’?”
“Diane,” I answered.
“Oh, I needed something to bust her about. That’s gold. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Please, by all means, give it to her good.”
“So, where are we off to?” she asked.
I thought quickly for a place to go. The blue tips of her hair suggested that she wasn’t the sports bar type. There were too many ghosts-of-one-night-stands-past in the Good Knight and I wanted to be sure we wouldn’t be seen by Sarah or her friends. I finally suggested the Majestic, a slightly upscale cocktail place that usually had a jazz duo or trio for entertainment.
We sat a chrome-top pub-style table. Chelsea enjoyed a couple glasses of white wine and I had my favorite cocktails. We did our best to expand on our past conversations. Having broken the ice with regards to both art and politics, we found it a somewhat easier endeavor.
The wine was starting to have an effect on Chelsea. She wasn’t drunk by any stretch of the imagination, but her eyes glistened and her reactions were slightly delayed. It was a little after ten o’clock when she said she needed some air.
Score. Finally.
We got up from our chairs. “I’ll drive you home,” I offered.
“Home? All I said was that I needed some air,” she said. “What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing...I...”
“Did you think I meant sex?” she said with growing anger. “Is sex like air to you that you would get them confused?”
“No...I...” I struggled to say and felt my face turning red. “I’m sorry...I just...”
Chelsea grabbed me by the arm and poked her finger into my chest. “Look, buddy, I’ve only given that to one guy and there’s only going to be one more. And I’m not so sure it’s going to be you. You got that?”
I just stood there speechless. I could only imagine the look on my face.
She continued, “What is wrong with you? Do you see these arms? These legs? These lips? They are completely unique to me. Nobody can look into your eyes with these eyes, nobody can kiss you with these lips. Nobody can whisper into your ear with my voice. Everything I have to offer is mine and only mine and it’s precious to me and it should be precious to you. You can’t get what I have to offer from anyone else and you want me to just give it away like it’s air?”
She put her clutch purse down hard onto the table and sat back down. She buried her face into her hands. I stood there for a minute and then sat back down across from her.
We just sat there silent for a couple minutes.
Finally, she broke the silence. With her hands still covering her face, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying my best to be comforting. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. We should go,” she said softly and got up from her chair.
The drive back to her place was spent almost completely in silence.
Chapter Eight
Recalling the outburst from the previous night, I wasn’t sure if we were still getting together the next day, so I sent Chelsea a text around 8:30am asking her if she still wanted to see me. She apologized again and said yes, that she still wanted to see me. I felt like apologizing also, but I couldn’t think of why I should.
It was twelve-thirty exactly when I pulled up to the big, well-kept Victorian home at the top of the hill and parked the car. I opened the gate and quickly walked up the long sidewalk past a running fountain and up the old, but rugged wooden stairs. I pressed the second floor doorbe
ll, put my hands in my pockets and looked around at the property and the neighboring homes. The lawn was lush and emerald green and perfectly edged. The owner must care deeply about the property, I thought. I drew a deep breath through my nose. The air was thick with the aroma of lilies and hyacinths which surrounded the front porch.
It took a minute or two, but I heard her coming down the stairs, her shoes loudly echoing as they struck what sounded like wooden stairs in the stairwell. She opened the door and somewhat excitedly she said, “Hi!” as if last night never happened. She was carrying a picnic basket.
“Hi...what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the basket.
“It’s a picnic basket, silly.”
“I can see that. Why are you bringing it?”
“You don’t see the silliness of that question?”
“Humor me.”
“Lunch, you goof. What else would it be for?”
“I’m only here to take you to see something. We didn’t say anything about lunch.”
“Oh...,” she said then paused. “Well, if you want me to put everything back, I will. It took me about an hour to prepare everything, but it’s ok. I can just go back upstairs and put everything back into the refrigerator and pantry and cupboards.”
I sighed, giving in to her guilt play. “No...just bring it.”
“Great! I love picnic dates, “ she said, before walking down the wooden stairs to the walkway.
“It’s not a date,” I said to her while still standing on the porch. Then to myself, shaking my head as I watched her walk down the front walkway, I said, “Maddening.”
I caught up to her and opened the car door for her and then walked around the car and got in.
“So, where are we going?” she asked with great expectations, I’m sure.
“Cemetery.”
“Are you serious? A cemetery?”
“You heard me,” I said, somewhat sternly.
“Diane never told me you were such a romantic. Be still my heart,” she joked.
“I’ll turn this car right around, young lady.”
She smiled. “No, no...I’ll be good.”
“Forgive me for having doubts about that.”
We made some small talk along the way, then pulled into All Souls cemetery and began to slowly drive along the narrow, winding road.
“So, why are we here?” she asked. “Do dead people vote?”
“Only in Chicago,” I joked but it went over her head. “As for why we are here, you’ll see.”
Then she mocked me, again, in a deep voice, “You’ll see.”
I made one more bend to the right and we arrived at the spot at which I had arranged to meet someone. Standing near a grave was a man in his eighties, wearing a baseball cap, bomber jacket and an old pair of brown dress pants and brown shoes. His gray hair stuck out from his cap in the back and rested on the collar of his jacket. He was looking down on the grave as we approached.
The sound of our car doors opening and shutting caused him to turn his attention toward us. Chelsea grabbed my hand and we walked toward him.
“Mr. Makarevich?” I said.
“Mayor, how are you?” he said and extended his hand
I shook it and said, “I’m just dandy. Good to see you. Thank you for meeting us here.”
“My pleasure.”
“Sir, this is Chelsea. Chelsea, this is Frank Makarevich.”
He took off his cap and shook her hand, “Miss, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“Awe, thank you. Very nice to meet you,” she said genuinely.
“You’re too pretty to be with him. Are you being held against your will, Miss?” he joked.
Chelsea smiled widely. “No, sir, I am more than willing,” she said and looked me right in the eye. I hung my head and shook it.
“You can call me Frank, Miss.”
“Okay, I will,” she said proudly.
“Frank...” I said before he interrupted me.
“Whoa. I didn’t say you could call me Frank. Just her.”
We both laughed lightly.
“Fine. Mr. Makarevich, this lovely young lady hasn’t voted since she was eighteen years-old...and even then she did it reluctantly,” I said and felt Chelsea’s eyes turn toward me at the word ‘lovely’. “Could you tell her why you - and I - have voted in every single election since each of us was eligible to vote?”
“I’d be happy to,” Frank said, knowing ahead of time that this was coming. “Miss, let me ask you something. Do you remember what you were doing when you were twenty years-old?”
“I was in college.”
“So you were studying? Enjoying being with your friends? Maybe going to a party or two?”
“Or three,” she joked.
“Or three, yes. It was a pretty care-free time in your life, wasn’t it?”
“Sure was, especially compared to today.”
He pointed to the headstone of the grave at our feet. “This is my brother’s grave. He was a number of years older than me...eight to be exact. He passed two years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Frank,” Chelsea said.
“Thank you, Miss, but he lived a good, long life. No need to be sorry. Anyway, when John was twenty years-old, he was on a transport boat headed for the beach at Normandy. Certainly not where he would have chosen to be if he had a choice. He would have loved to have been going to a party in our hometown, instead, or even studying for a college exam, I’m sure. Now, imagine, instead, you’re in the army and are sitting in a makeshift barracks in a foreign country one night being briefed on a mission you would be going on the next day. Then imagine your platoon leader basically telling you that many of your fellow soldiers or maybe even you may die the next day. What would you do if you had someone say that to you?”
“Run away,” Chelsea said, half-jokingly.
“Yeah, well, as you can imagine, that wasn’t an option. They didn’t run and they wouldn’t have even thought of doing that...because there were honest-to-goodness madmen in the world with too much power and they weren’t going to stop until they had all the power in the world. They were dictators who wanted nothing more than to have the entire world under their control. Anyway, the next day, there was my brother along side hundreds of others on his boat, with his gun, ready to land and secure the beach...to take it away from the Nazis. And every guy on that boat knew what was waiting for them as they approached. They knew the Germans were waiting for them with their guns and grenades and everything else. But that didn’t matter. Freedom itself was at stake, Miss. Do you understand that?....freedoms that we take for granted far too often nowadays...freedom to worship, freedom to question your government, freedom to change your government through protest, debate and voting...freedom to speak your mind...freedom to come and go as you please. I bet you take them for granted like so many others, Miss.” He looked to Chelsea. She was at a loss for words, so she just nodded her head.