Set the Night on Fire

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “Probably because he dropped out after his freshman year, and he didn’t want you or Danny to follow in his footsteps.”

  “Why did he drop out?”

  Val didn’t answer for a minute. “I really don’t know, darling. All I know is that he … well … he did other things.”

  “What things? Where?”

  Val motioned to the waiter for another glass of wine. “Actually, he was living here in Chicago.”

  “Chicago?” Lila was stunned.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he drop out of school because he met my mother?”

  Val shook her head. “He met her here.”

  “In Chicago? Are you sure?”

  “I was about to marry Harvey—that was hubby number one—but … your father would call every once in a while, and we’d talk.”

  “About what?”

  A vague look came across her aunt’s face. “Oh, you know. This and that.”

  A wave of suspicion rolled over Lila. “What was he doing in Chicago? Does that mean my mother was here, too? I thought she was from Indiana.”

  “I guess she was, but … as I said, they met here. I’m sorry, doll face. I just don’t know any more.”

  The waiter brought Val another glass of wine and asked Lila if she wanted more iced tea. She waved him off. “When exactly were they here?”

  Val’s eyes got distant as she tried to work it out. “Let’s see. I married Harvey in ’69, and that was right in the middle of it. It must have been the summer of ’68 through about ’70.”

  “We were born in May, 1970.”

  “I know.”

  “There has to be someone who knows about my mother and father and what they were doing here. Two people don’t exist in a vacuum.”

  “I know you want answers, sweet pea. But I don’t have any. And I don’t know who would.”

  “What is it about our family?” Lila fumed. “Why are there all these secrets? No one ever talks … talked to anyone. ” Her voice rose, “When I have a family, I’m going to …” She cut herself off. She didn’t have her own family. And her prospects of having one were dim.

  Val’s expression said her aunt knew exactly what Lila was thinking, and that she empathized with her. The hot achy feeling in Lila’s throat came back.

  “Lila,” her aunt said. “All I know is that your mother died giving birth to you and Danny. A few weeks later your Daddy showed up at Gramum’s in a cab with the two of you in his arms.” She drained the last of her wine. “Hey! Did I tell you about my itinerary after BA?”

  Lila walked home, sifting a multitude of thoughts. Was she prepared to take on a search for her mother’s family? What if she discovered her mother was a heroin addict? Or a thief? Or a prostitute who’d stopped taking her birth control pills? Maybe her mother’s parents were so dysfunctional that she’d been forced to escape their clutches before she, too, was destroyed. No. Better not to go there.

  She headed south to Church Street. Half way down the next block, she stopped at a bookstore featuring a display of Frank Rich’s new book in the window. Rich wrote for the New York Times. Lila thought he could be pompous, but his heart was in the right place. She was debating whether to go in to buy it when she was distracted by a reflection in the window. It was subtle, more an impression than an image. Behind her, almost out of her field of vision, something—or someone—moved. A presence had been there, now it wasn’t.

  An icicle of fear slid up her spine. The day was still overcast; the reflection might be warped. She pulled up the collar of her jacket and focused on the glass. She saw the outline of buildings across the street, a few cars passing. She heard the whine of a motorcycle revving its engine.

  She flicked her eyes back to the display. Frank Rich grinned at her from half a dozen book covers. She was an adult. A professional. She made important financial decisions. Whatever demons were plaguing her, she wouldn’t let them win. Aunt Valerie would never allow herself to feel intimidated. She would laugh in the face of danger. Lila mustered her courage. Whatever was out there, she would deal with it.

  She spun around. No one was there. No pedestrians on this side of the street. No one entering or exiting the stores, no one getting in or out of a car. No one across the street, either.

  She’d passed an alley a few yards back. If someone was tailing her, they might be lurking there. She trotted back to the alley and peered in. A few blue dumpsters. The musty smell of rotting garbage. Cracked concrete. Garage doors, all of them closed. The sound of the receding motorcycle. Otherwise nothing. Except the snow. It had started in earnest, big flakes whispering down, coating everything with white.

  TEN

  The Cherokee Lounge was a place that catered to people who lived below the radar—people who didn’t want others to know who they were or where they were going. Maybe they didn’t know themselves. Tucked away in the suburb of Schiller Park, it was a brooding, dark bar with blue and red neon signs on the windows, one of them buzzing as if it might take off from O’Hare, only a few miles away.

  Dar nursed a beer. This was the second night he’d come in, but nothing was different from the first. The same people at the bar, the same haze of cigarette smoke, the same roar of airplanes shuddering the walls and quivering the glasses. He could feel the apathy in the air.

  He’d rented a room in a nearby boarding house. Told the owner he’d been laid off from the O’Hare baggage detail, and his wife kicked him out. The woman eyed him, clearly not believing a word, but rented him the room anyway. Everyone needed cash. He found another job washing dishes, this time in a cafeteria. He hoped it would buy him enough time to figure out what to do next.

  He’d spent the afternoon on the computer in the library and discovered that Casey Hilliard had perished in a house fire a few weeks ago. One of the twins, the boy they called Daniel, died in the fire with him. The girl, who wasn’t at home, had survived. The news had sent a shockwave through him, and he hurried to a pay phone to call Rain.

  He didn’t reach her. A distraught man who said he was her husband told him that she’d been killed in a freak car accident on I-94 in December. She was driving back from Illinois when her car unexpectedly swerved off the highway into a ditch, rolled over, and caught fire. The police speculated she’d fallen asleep at the wheel.

  “Were you a friend?” her husband asked.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Dar replied and hung up. He’d started to shiver as if he’d stepped naked into a bathtub full of snow.

  Now, hunched over the bar in the Cherokee Lounge, he tried to make sense of the events. An analytical, scholarly mind was one of his strengths. Not like his father, an auto worker with over thirty years on the line, much of it as UAW shop steward. They’d fired his father during a particularly brutal strike, and his subsequent unemployment destroyed him. Men like Will Gantner didn’t lose their jobs. Dar, fourteen at the time, was furious. How dare Ford steal his father’s self-worth? He tried to tell his dad he could do better someplace else, but six months later his father hanged himself in their basement. Dar vowed never to depend on a corporation for anything.

  Now he slid his glass of beer around on the bar, avoiding the whitish stains embedded in the wood. He’d come back to Chicago, called Teddy, met with Rain. He wanted to visit Casey, but went to Michigan to see Philip Kerr. He came back to find someone had rolled his room. Then, a few days or weeks later, Rain died in a car crash, Casey in a fire. Logic told him the string of events was not a coincidence. The link between them was his return to Chicago. He closed his eyes, feeling a weight settle on his shoulders.

  When he opened his eyes, he noticed a woman a few feet away. She was wearing a heavy black sweater, jeans, and work boots. Working her way through a double scotch, she was trying too hard to be casual. She had to be on the other side of forty, maybe even fifty. Her hair was unnaturally auburn and pulled back low at her neck, but aside from a little thickness around her middle, she’d kept herself trim.

 
; He studied her face. It was a sweet face, with a widow’s peak at her hairline, a small nose, round cheeks, and eyes that looked tired but honest. He kept gazing at her until, as if he’d sent out a magnetic beam, she looked over.

  Usually when someone noticed him, he’d avert his face, hoping to fade into obscurity.

  For some reason tonight, though, he didn’t. They locked eyes. Her cheeks colored, and he saw the beginnings of a smile. He felt suddenly awkward. How long had it been? Almost forty years? He felt a stirring in a part of his body that he’d thought was permanently numb. Christ. What was he supposed to do?

  A deafening roar reverberated through the bar, and a series of vibrations splashed beer and liquor on the counter. Dar glanced around worriedly, wondering why no one else seemed to be bothered. The woman who’d been eyeing him pointed a finger upwards. Dar looked at the ceiling, saw the light fixture sway, and realized it was a plane coming in low for a landing. He settled back on his stool, feeling heat on his cheeks.

  The woman waited a decent amount of time, then said, “With all the taxes we pay, the least they could do is change the flight path, don’t you think?”

  Dar gave her a brief nod.

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you,” she said.

  Puzzled, he stroked his chin. He’d started to grow a beard when he got back from Michigan.

  She shook her head. “It’s a joke.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t sure he got it, which made him feel more awkward.

  But she vacated her stool and plopped down on the empty one next to him. “I’m Cece.”

  “Dar.” He extended his hand.

  She took it with an amused expression that made Dar think the people she knew didn’t shake hands. Her skin was warm and soft. “What kind of name is Dar?”

  “It’s short for Darwin. As in Charles.” She shot him a blank look. “The scientist who discovered evolution?”

  “Oh.” This time, she nodded as if she got it. Dar wasn’t convinced. Then again, if she didn’t, they’d be even.

  He stood there, wondering what to say next, when a man who looked like he was twenty years and thirty pounds past his fighting weight bellied up to the bar. “Hey, doll.” He insinuated himself between Dar and Cece.

  “Evening, Judd,” Cece said.

  “This guy hassling you?” He yanked a thumb towards Dar. “’Cause if he is … ” He let his voice trail off. Cece shook her head. “You sure, babe? ’Cause you know I’m here to look out for you.”

  “I can look out for myself, Judd.”

  “I’m not so sure.” He eyed Dar suspiciously. “We don’t need no strangers around, do we?”

  “Judd.” Cece’s voice went hard. “It’s all right.”

  The guy was shorter than Dar, but twice as wide. He faced Dar. “I dunno. Maybe you’d best be on your way, mister.”

  “Judd,” Cece threw out her hand. “Stop!”

  But Judd stood there, his chin jutting out, glaring at Dar.

  Dar slid off his stool, hoping his six feet would compensate for Judd’s brawn. “The lady thinks it’s all right,” he said softly. “I’d do what she says.”

  Judd stared, looked Dar up and down. Then he backed off. He raised his index finger at Cece as he retreated. “You need somethin’ honey, you just call.”

  “I will.” Cece watched him go with a straight face. Then she turned and flashed Dar a grateful smile. He smiled back.

  Ten minutes later Cece made a show of checking her watch. Dar looked at the wall clock. Almost eleven. She swiveled towards him and looked him over again.

  “Okay,” she began. “Here’s the deal. It’s gonna keep snowing, and it’s gonna be a long, cold night. We could sit here and bullshit each other for the next half hour, or we could go back to my place now.” She tilted her head. “I have a bungalow in Franklin Park.”

  Dar thought about how long it had been since he’d touched soft skin, pressed his lips against a willing mouth. And now, it seemed so easy—so available, just for the asking. He didn’t know where Franklin Park was, but he chugged the rest of his beer and followed her out.

  ELEVEN

  She’d been a perfect lover, especially when he climaxed right away. She could tell, in that indefinable way women have, that he’d been starved. The second time she took her time, moving her lips slowly over his cheeks, his lips, his chest, his cock. He lasted longer that time, and by the third time the pupil became the teacher. His mouth found her breasts, the soft folds of her stomach, the damp, dark cleft between her legs. When she locked her legs around him, he drank her in, and when he felt her arch up, forcing him deeper, her fire engulfed him. When she finally came, moaning, calling out his name, he thought his head—and the rest of him—would explode.

  Now, as he woke up, drowsy and warm beneath a heavy quilt, a long-forgotten peace lulled him. He looked around the bedroom. It was tidy, with hardwood floors and flowery wallpaper he could do without. He recalled her saying, with pride, that she had three bedrooms and a full basement, which meant there was plenty of space. He saw no evidence of kids or pets.

  Cece was still asleep, her back to him. He lay quietly, savoring her warmth, her scent, her femaleness. Then he turned and glanced out the window. Three inches of snow coated the window sill, sparks firing in the morning sun. A good sign. He slipped his hands behind his neck and stretched. Cece stirred. When he dragged his gaze from the window, she was looking at him. Her eyes, somewhere between hazel and green, held a serious expression. He smiled uncertainly, but when she didn’t return it, he tensed. He wondered whether to say something.

  She pre-empted him. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”

  “What makes you say that?” He flicked his eyes to her neck. Her carotid pulsed at her throat. Ba-boom. He touched his fingers to it. She lifted her head to give him more. A simple act, but it spoke volumes. She trusted him. He wondered why.

  “You look … hunted,” she said.

  He wanted to ask what a hunted man looked like, then decided he didn’t want to know. She stretched again, revealing more of her neck. He ran his fingers up to her chin, the side of her cheek, past her hairline to the tip of her forehead. So soft: her skin, her hair. He felt himself harden again. He rolled on top of her.

  When they finally got out of bed, the floor was colder than he expected, and he hopped across it, triggering a giggle from Cece. She had a nice laugh. Musical. He dove back in.

  “We should think about getting up,” she said. “I have to go to work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a claims supervisor for an insurance company. Used to be a nurse, but I didn’t like the hours.” She shrugged. “It’s a paycheck.”

  “Where is your office?”

  “Not far. River Grove.”

  Dar nodded, although she could have been talking about California. He had no idea where River Grove was.

  She got out of bed, pulled on her socks, and padded downstairs. He heard a spray of water in the kitchen followed by the clang of dishes and silverware. A few minutes later, the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafted up. Dar got out of bed, threw on his pants, and made his way down to the kitchen. Cece smiled. Opening a drawer, she took out paper and pen and scrawled something. She handed him the paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “My name and phone number. My last name is Wainwright.”

  “Cece Wainwright.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Dar Gantner.”

  She stuck out her hand and giggled again. “Nice to meet you.”

  He raised her hand to his face and guided it down his cheek.

  “You keep doing that and I’ll never make it to work.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  She gently pulled her hand away. The coffee was ready. She poured it into mugs, then, without asking, dumped a truckload of sugar in both. She held out the mug to him. “What about you? Where do you work?”

  He sipped the coffee. It was so sweet his tee
th itched. He set down the mug. “I wash dishes at the cafeteria. And I don’t like sugar in my coffee.”

  She pretended to pout. “Is this our first fight?”

  “Just a request.”

  She hesitated, then dumped out his mug, poured more coffee, and handed it to him. “You’re a dishwasher?”

  He kept his mouth shut.

  Then, “How long were you inside?”

  He took a sip of his unsweetened coffee. “I need a favor, Cece.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need to borrow your car.”

  Her eyebrows rose sky high.

  “I’m not going to steal it.”

  “And I know that because … ”

  He looked at her, his mind full of unspoken pleas, rationales. He broke eye contact. “You’re right. I did have some trouble. And it looks like it’s finding me again. But I’ve never been a thief.”

  “You did time.” He nodded. “A lot, by the looks of you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I told you. You have the look.” She cupped both hands around her mug. “I can find out who you are and what you did. We have claims investigators, remember? They find out all sorts of things about people. All I have to do is ask.”

  “I’ll make it even easier for you. I’ll give you the name and number of my parole officer. If I don’t come back with your car, you can have me thrown in jail.”

  “I just might.”

  “But just remember … if I’m in jail, I won’t be able to tell you how beautiful you are and how you saved my soul last night.”

  She looked as if she wanted to smile but was holding it back. “Are you always such a smooth talker?”

  He smiled.

  “How long since you’ve driven a car?”

  “About forty years.”

  Her mouth opened. “Are you crazy? Where do you need to go?”

  “Winnetka.”

  “You have a driver’s license?”

  He kept his mouth shut.

  “Christ! If I do let you borrow it, and assuming you don’t total it, when were you planning to bring it back?”