Set the Night on Fire

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  “I trust you boys were well fed.”

  Teddy cleared his throat. “Chassie cooked a great meal.”

  The judge nodded and focused on each of them, lingering first on Payton, whose hair was in a ponytail and who was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. “You are who?”

  “Eric Payton.”

  The judge puffed on the pipe and slid his eyes to Dar. “And you?”

  “Dar Gantner.”

  “I’m Casey Hilliard,” Casey said when the bushy eyebrows lifted in his direction.

  “And you are all friends of my son?”

  “We work together,” Payton said.

  “And where would that be?” He blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “In Chicago.”

  The judge looked at his son. “I see. So that’s where you’ve been?”

  Teddy swallowed.

  “I assume you were at the convention?” When Teddy nodded again, he asked, “Did you get arrested?”

  “No.”

  Judge Markham scanned the rest of the group. “Did any of you?”

  “Dar was busted twice,” Payton offered.

  “I see.” Markham looked back at Teddy. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

  Teddy’s face reddened. He looked at the floor. “I … I was going to tell you …, ” he stammered.

  Judge Markham put down his pipe. “What sort of work are you doing?”

  “We’re social activists,” Payton said.

  “Social activists,” he said disdainfully. “And that entails what exactly?”

  Casey tried to make eye contact with Teddy, but Teddy kept staring at a spot on the carpet. Payton’s eyes were veiled as well. Only Dar looked back at the judge, as if he hadn’t expected anything except hostility. A warning bell went off in Casey’s head.

  “There’s a powerful movement out there, Judge,” Payton was saying. “Young people won’t tolerate a repressive society.”

  Markham picked up a bottle of vodka on the edge of the desk and poured two fingers into a highball glass. “In what way is society repressive?”

  Here it comes, Casey thought.

  “The capitalist system,” Payton said, “with its focus on progress and the accumulation of wealth, is inherently repressive. In fact, we do ourselves a disservice when we use the word … ‘progress.’ What we’re really doing is exploiting our resources, people, and power. The prime example of that is the war in Vietnam, which … ”

  “So progress is undesirable?” Markham smiled mirthlessly. “Somehow I think you’d have a hard time selling that to most Americans.”

  Payton turned to Dar with a look that said he needed help.

  Dar jumped in. “Judge Markham, have you heard of the philosopher Herbert Marcuse?”

  The judge’s eyebrows knit together. “Of course.”

  “Well,” Dar continued, “Marcuse says that progress breeds guilt. He says it actually inhibits happiness and fosters a sense of alienation. All it does, he says, is perpetuate and rationalize the prevailing system.”

  “And what does Mr. Marcuse suggest we do?” Markham asked. “Become Marxists?”

  “Not at all. He’s as unhappy with communism as he is with capitalism. He believes in a true socialist society.”

  “And how are we to achieve this?”

  Dar didn’t like patronizing questions, Casey knew. Still, he answered with only a splash of contempt. “Marcuse advocates something called the ‘great refusal’—an attempt to foster oppositional thought and behavior through radical thinking.”

  “I see.” Markham tossed down more vodka.

  Payton tensed and tapped his foot, as if he was gearing up for a fight. But Dar remained calm. Unflappable. Dar’s cool and Payton’s heat made for a potent mixture. Meanwhile, Teddy didn’t say a word. But this was his father’s turf. That would crimp anyone’s style.

  The judge cleared his throat. “Interesting. But there’s a significant flaw in your analysis.”

  Careful, Dar, Casey thought. The old man is baiting us.

  “Where do you think oppositional thought and behavior leads?”

  Dar cocked his head. “Ultimately, to change.”

  “No.” Markham shook his head. “It leads to violence. And crime. I’ve been on the bench for years. Before that I was a prosecutor. I’ve dealt with vast numbers of men—and women—who ‘practiced’ oppositional behavior. In every case, there’s a stiff price paid. Their lives are ruined, their families’ too. Oppositional behavior leads to retaliation, punishment, and more repression. Not change.”

  “Bullshit!” Payton fired back. “That’s because there hasn’t been a model of what could be. Over time, as more of the populace becomes … ”

  “When you’re perceived as a hooligan hell bent on destruction,” Markham said firmly, “you don’t do yourself—or society—any good. You’ve simply unleashed your innate impulses toward aggression. And those, as Konrad Lorenz pointed out, are what man needs to control if the species is to survive.”

  I’ll call your Marcuse and raise you a Lorenz, Casey thought.

  “We’ve tried to work through the system,” Payton said passionately. “But the system has abandoned us. This has been the bloodiest year of the Vietnam War. How much longer do we beat our heads against the wall?”

  “What would your father say?” The judge picked up his glass.

  “My father ran out on us when I was five.”

  “What about yours?” He turned to Dar.

  Dar hesitated. Then he said quietly, “My father killed himself when I was fourteen.”

  Markham froze, his glass in the air, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry.” He put the glass down.

  “He really is,” Teddy said.

  “You don’t need to rescue me, Ted,” Markham said. “I am a public servant. Offering my views on what makes society work. Public service is a Markham family tradition. We’ve done more for … yes … progress … than many others.”

  He means us, Casey thought.

  “And we will continue to.” Markham leaned back. “On that note, gentlemen, if you’ll forgive me, I would like to talk to my son for a moment. Privately.” He paused. “This has been a fascinating conversation.”

  Payton raised his eyebrows. Teddy gave him a brief nod. Dar, Payton, and Casey put on their coats, went outside, and strolled down to the beach. Though a thin layer of clouds covered the moon, it shed enough light to see.

  “Well, he was a trip.” Payton fished out a joint and lit it.

  “He’s dangerous,” Dar said. “Smart, articulate, and arrogant.”

  Casey said, “I can see why Teddy doesn’t want to stick around.”

  Dar turned to them. “Have you really talked to Teddy? Do you know what he stands for? I tried once but didn’t get far. I just couldn’t get a reading. He was … well … slippery. I got the feeling he was telling me what I wanted to hear.”

  “Don’t worry.” Payton brushed it off. “Teddy is fine. He’s part of the solution. It’s his father who’s the problem.”

  Casey stared at the lake, the choppy waves forming whitecaps visible even in the dim light. He didn’t know if people were problems or solutions. All he knew was that a thick layer of ice would soon cover much of the lake’s surface, turning it into a frozen, deceptive calm. Underneath, though, the water would be churning, cold and heartless, threatening to pull them down.

  TWENTY–EIGHT

  The crowd on Maxwell Street was smaller than usual. Then again, it was a chilly November day. Most of the fair-weather shoppers were gone, but the merchants still showed up, and Alix felt lucky to find a space. She didn’t have a stall and didn’t want one—she didn’t have the money—but she was able to muscle a table into a spot between an appliance dealer and a couple who sold leather goods.

  She was by herself today. At first Rain had come with her; Dar too, once he was back from India. But Rain was doing layout for The Seed, and Dar was in Wisconsin. Alix didn’t mind. The routine was familiar—she�
��d even mastered the El—and she was starting to enjoy the independence that came with making her own way. If her parents could only see her: the girl who’d gone to prep school and cotillion, raised to wear white gloves and diamonds, selling jewelry on Maxwell Street. The irony was it wasn’t so far-fetched. Her father, a self-made man, had earned a fortune in retail. She was just following in his footsteps.

  She gazed down Maxwell Street, checking out the faces. Blacks, whites, Orientals, hippies, vets, all hoping to snag a bargain. Maxwell Street was the Ellis Island of Chicago, a place where, for over a hundred years, newcomers poured in to buy and sell and deal and barter. The cheerful chaos, somewhere between a church bazaar and a street festival, was especially active on Sundays, when stalls lined both sides of the street. They said the end of Maxwell Street was coming, that Mayor Daley had sold the land to the university, and the university would be expanding. Alix hoped not. Everything was so cheap and available here. As long as you didn’t ask what truck it fell off.

  She nodded to a Blues guitarist playing a riff as she set out necklaces, rings, and bracelets. She’d been using silver and 24-carat gold wire in her designs, often incorporating a variation of a Celtic knot. Then Bobby showed her a ring made of several bands that seemed to be braided together but could be separated at will. She’d tried casting her own version. If it sold today, she’d make more.

  By afternoon she’d sold a few things, including the ring, and she was famished. She made it a habit to try something new every weekend. Grilled sausage, fresh-baked pastries, gyros, food she’d never find in Indiana. She asked the owners of the appliance stall to watch her table while she went to Nate’s Deli for a pastrami sandwich.

  The wait was longer than she expected, but finally she exchanged a smile with the black man behind the counter, and headed out with her bag, inhaling the tang of pastrami and pickle. Halfway across the street, she spotted a man with dark hair in a denim jacket and jeans at her table. He’d been lurking earlier, she recalled, watching her surreptitiously. Now he looked both ways, scooped up a few necklaces and rings, and stuffed them into his pocket.

  “Hey!” She yelled. “Hey you! Stop! That’s my jewelry!” She started to run.

  The man spun around. A kid, not a man. Fine black straight hair tied back in a ponytail. An impossibly high forehead and cheekbones. But a baby face. He couldn’t be more than fifteen. When he saw her, a look of panic broke across his face, and he bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Stop him!” Alix shouted. “He’s stealing my stuff!”

  Two beefy looking men near the appliance stall took off. The kid wasn’t fast, and they managed to tackle him before he’d gone very far. As they piled on top of him, Alix caught up. A crowd started to form. The kid’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his breath came in short little gasps.

  She grabbed one of the men’s shoulders. “You can get up. He’s not going anyplace.”

  The guy threw her a look, then planted himself more heavily on the boy. A muffled moan escaped the kid. He was having trouble breathing. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Right on. That’ll show the punk!”

  “Really, thank you,” Alix repeated. “I can handle it from here.”

  The guy refused to get up. “Goddam Injun,” he hissed. “Never shudda let ’em off the fuckin’ reservation.”

  Alix remembered a discussion in the apartment about hippies and Indians. Payton claimed they were natural allies. The tribal culture could teach them how to live close to nature, how to barter, thus bypassing a materialistic society, how to chew peyote for spiritual gain.

  “Sure, Payton,” Teddy had replied. “Try selling that to the tribes up north. Most of them are unemployed, sick, or alcoholics. I bet they’d just love to hear how much like us they are. Shit. The government screwed them more than the blacks.”

  The discussion became heated, Alix recalled. She had to calm them down by passing the hash pipe. Which, Payton said, only proved his point.

  Alix tugged again at the man holding the kid down. “He can’t breathe. Let him up.” This time the man slowly rolled off and stood up, brushing himself off. The kid didn’t move.

  “I’ll get the cops,” the other guy said, pointing to one end of the block. “They’re down there.” He started down the street.

  The kid turned his head to the side. He was coughing, and Alix saw scratches on his face where he’d hit the asphalt. Fear still contorted his face, but something else was there too. Guilt. He was ashamed of himself.

  She made a split-second decision. “No cops!”

  The beefy guy whirled around.

  “It’s okay. I just want my stuff back.”

  The guy tried to talk her out of it, but she stood her ground. She thanked both men and offered them a necklace. They refused. One of the guys still looked like he wanted to beat the kid to a pulp, but after a while he walked away. The crowd started to disperse.

  The kid was still on the ground, but he was breathing more easily.

  “You can get up,” Alix said.

  He didn’t move.

  “It’s all right.” She started to pull him up. He struggled awkwardly to his feet. Underneath his thin denim jacket he was wearing a t-shirt. His jeans were threadbare, and he was so skinny that his face looked too big for his body. The bruises on his cheeks were already turning purple. He started to shiver.

  The guilt Alix thought she’d seen on his face turned into a dogged, almost defiant expression. It was the look a kid on the outside would throw. A kid who’d been ignored or bullied but wouldn’t allow you to pity him.

  “I’ll take my things now,” Alix said.

  He fished his hands into his pockets and came up with the chains, which he handed to Alix.

  “And the rings.” He dug them out of his pocket and dropped them into her hands, refusing to look her in the eye.

  Alix put them in her bag. One of the stragglers in the crowd called out. “Lady, you should press charges. Can’t have trash like him thinkin’ he can get away with it.”

  Someone else said, “What do you expect? He’s an Indian.”

  The kid flinched, but the wind hurled a chilly gust their way.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. He didn’t answer.

  “I’m Alix,” she continued as if they were having a friendly chat.

  His back straightened, but the movement caused him to cough.

  “I’m not gonna call the cops.”

  The few remaining bystanders melted away. It was just the two of them.

  “I just didn’t want you to rip off my stuff. I paid for the materials, and I worked really hard on the designs.” The moment she said it, she wondered why she sounded defensive. He was the thief. She’d done nothing wrong.

  When he still didn’t answer, she shrugged. “Well, I’ll be going now. See you around.” She headed back. She didn’t feel like sticking around. She was folding her table when a reedy voice called out.

  “Billy.”

  She looked up. The kid was in the middle of Maxwell Street, hands in his pockets.

  “My name is Billy Two Feathers.”

  TWENTY–NINE

  “Rosebud,” Billy said between spoonfuls of pea soup. “I grew up on the Rosebud rez.” They sat on a stoop on Maxwell near Halsted. The buildings sheltered them from the worst of the cold, but the wind still whipsawed, making Alix sniffle. She’d gone back to Nate’s and spent most of her day’s earnings on soup. From the way Billy was spooning it down, this was probably his first meal in days.

  “South Dakota, isn’t it?”

  “Right. I’m Lakota.”

  “I don’t know much about Indians,” Alix said apologetically. It was an understatement. The only thing they’d taught her in Indiana was that Indians were kind, gentle creatures who’d shared their corn—no, maize—with the Pilgrims. “When’d you leave?”

  “Last summer.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother died. And my father … well … ” He shrugged. “My uncle tol
d me if I wanted to survive, the best thing would be to get away. My brothers and sisters, too.”

  Alix had a brother, Phil, but they weren’t close. He was five years her senior and five years was tantamount to a generation during the Sixties. She was envious of people who came from large families. “Why Chicago?’

  “I know some Lakota here. Up on Montrose.”

  Alix studied him. Something about him—his voice, maybe, so clear and matter-of-fact, or the way his eyes were like magnets, drawing her into his thin face—reminded her of Dar. Or maybe it was his acceptance, at such a young age, that life was full of pain.

  “Are you staying with them?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah.”

  As he scooped up the last of the soup, a little color crept back into his cheeks. For some reason, that made her happy.

  “Your stuff isn’t bad,” he said, motioning toward her jewelry.

  “Thanks.”

  “But it could be better.”

  Alix was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  Billy wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. “You need to work with stones more. And real metal, not just wire. Like that ring you had earlier. Try silver. It’s easier than gold.”

  She felt the stirrings of professional jealousy. “How do you know?”

  He leveled her with a “how dumb do you think I am” look, the kind only a fifteen year old can master. “My mom—before she got sick—made jewelry. I helped.”

  “Is that so?” When he nodded, Alix thought about it. “Maybe you could help me.”

  “You mean like a job?” When she nodded, he cocked his head. “How much can you pay?”

  “More than you’ll get stealing.”

  Billy showed up at the apartment a few days later. Rain was suspicious, especially after Alix told her how they’d met, but Dar said he’d hang around to make sure Billy didn’t rip them off. Aside from an unusual interest in their food, which he eagerly consumed when invited, he didn’t exhibit any sticky fingers.