Only June remained optimistic, reassuring her guests that the storm would blow over, as she handed out as many towels as she could find so her guests could dry off. “We’ll be outside dancing in the moonlight before we know it,” she told them cheerily. But she was wrong. The rain only became more intense as the evening wore on, and the partygoers hunkered down inside the Friedman house, continuing to enjoy each other’s company while eating and drinking as before.
So the guests made the best of the situation and didn’t miss a beat, except, of course, the beat of Craig Goldstein’s drums and the Timekeepers’ music. Several folks suggested that we set up inside. But the house was packed, leaving little space for us to perform. No one seemed to mind the lack of music, however. Everyone was having too good a time.
I was starting to panic about what I should do since I was supposed to meet the girl when the party ended—and she would know the party ended when the music stopped. But we had not planned for this. What if she thought the party was over and was getting drenched in the rain waiting for me right now? But she had to realize that it was because of the rain that we were no longer playing. But still, what if she was out there?
I decided I couldn’t take that chance. I mumbled something to Benny about needing to get home. Before he could stop me, I bolted out the back door into a solid sheet of water, trying to make my way to the willow, where I would find the dark hint of trail that led into the woods. What was easy to spot in the sunlight when the girl had shown it to me less than an hour earlier was now almost completely obscured in the storm-darkened woods. But as I squinted through the raindrops pelting my face, I managed miraculously to find it. I paused for a moment to catch my breath and then concentrated on the meandering path underfoot, my sodden clothes and shoes sloshing as I went.
The trail seemed to go on and on, endlessly. I didn’t think the distance to the girl’s house could be this far, but all of the twists and turns probably quadrupled it. There must have been a major temperature differential between the ground and the air brought on by the storm’s sudden onset, because at a certain point I encountered a dense cloud of fog hugging the earth directly in front of me. When I finally made my way through the thick mist, I could make out some faint lights in the distance through the overhanging trees. It was the backside of a towering house—probably the girl’s, I thought—but I didn’t see her.
I finally came to the end of the trail, where it opened up into the backyard of the dimly lit bastion. But with nobody in sight, I figured she was not foolish enough to wait outside in a torrential downpour just to see me. I was about to retrace my steps back to Benny’s when I heard a voice, barely above a whisper, coming from behind some trees to my right.
“David, I can’t believe you came!” she said as she materialized in front of me.
She was as beautiful then as she’d been beneath the willow, dressed now in a pink fleece robe drenched with rain.
“I decided to wait here,” she explained, “where the rain can’t get through at all.” Then holding up her arms to show me how wet the sleeves were, she looked up at the broadest of the sheltering trees above her and remarked, “Too bad my backyard doesn’t have one of those. I might have stayed a bit drier getting to the woods.”
“Why didn’t you take an umbrella with you?” I asked, struggling for something to say.
“I know,” she replied. “It was stupid not to. I didn’t want to wake anyone, which explains why I’m still wearing this robe; and the closet door where we keep our umbrellas…well, it creaks a lot.”
She was lovely beyond words. I joined her within the dense stand of trees that had sheltered her from the rain, which still hadn’t let up. We huddled there together, and we talked for hours—about everything and nothing.
“You don’t go to Niles West, do you? It’s a big place, but still, if you did, I think I would have noticed you in the halls.”
“Niles West?” she replied, eyes huge with wonder.
Could it be she’d never heard of the local high school? “You must go to Queen of All Saints, then.” That was the Catholic high school I thought all of the Towers kids attended.
“I don’t go to any school,” she replied breezily, as if it were perfectly natural. “My father teaches me at home—it’s one of our religious practices.”
What religion could this be that didn’t advocate formal education? Part of me was thinking, Sign me up! But another part was hoping this didn’t mean she was too weird for something between us to work out.
I decided to leave the subject alone for the time being and just let our conversation drift. She had a charming naïveté about her and a wonderful outlook on every conceivable subject, including the rain, because, as she explained, “It is, at the same time, the most spectacular and the most frustrating thing. It is so beautiful and pure, but I thought it would keep you from coming—and if it had, I might always hate it for that.”
How could I resist words such as that!
At one point, when she drew up the sleeves of her robe to squeeze as much water from them as she could, I noticed a delicate silver bracelet dangling from her right wrist. It appeared to consist of a series of engraved numbers suspended like charms from the silver chain.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to her wrist. “Are those numbers?”
“Yes,” she replied proudly but without a hint of arrogance. “It’s something my father devised. Seven stands for seven continents. Then one, for one people. Three stands for three races. Then one, for one people. One then stands for one God; and finally, one for one people—one God watching over one people.”
“Seven, one, three, one, one, one,” I repeated. “Your father sounds pretty enlightened.”
“Oh, I think so. He can explain things—I don’t know—he can explain things in a way that makes sense of everything, of the whole world. He’s the leader of our religion. It’s called Truce of God.”
I was spellbound and bewildered at the same time. Until now, I had thought there were basically five religions, composed of Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists. I’d never heard of Truce of God. I didn’t know if it was part of Christianity, like Protestants or Methodists were, or something totally different. While I mulled this over, a new voice pierced the moment.
“Mary, are you out there?” a woman’s voice called out plaintively. It was coming from somewhere inside the house, probably through an open window. I presumed it was the girl’s aunt. “It’s late and it’s raining, honey. Please come inside.”
I noticed a flicker of concern on the face of my enchanting companion.
“I’d better go,” she told me, as she hastily tried to climb over a branch that separated our protected area from the trail. She tripped in the process and tumbled to the ground; but before I could even respond or help her up, she righted herself and started running toward the house.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” I called out, not sure she could hear me since she had covered so much distance so quickly.
She stopped and turned, her long hair dripping from the rain that had hit her like a waterfall when she reached the open space of her backyard. “Of course. I would love that.”
At least that’s what I thought she said—since she was pretty far away from me by then, and there was the sound of the heavy downpour to further obscure her words. Still, I’m sure that’s what she said. It’s precisely what I would have wanted her to say if I’d controlled the script. But before we could set a time or place, she dashed back to the house, and I lost sight of her through the trees.
Chapter 6
July 24, 1966
I spent a sleepless night anticipating my rendezvous with Mary. I was worried because her aunt knew she’d snuck out the night before. Maybe she wouldn’t let her see me as a consequence. I tried to comfort myself with the fact that she didn’t sound upset with Mary, just concerned about her being out late in the rain. It shouldn’t interfere with our meeting—I hoped.
Since Mary h
ad to run off in such a hurry, we never had a chance to set the time or place. But I assumed she expected me to come to her house and that noon was a respectable time to make my appearance on a Sunday.
I drove my mom’s Bel Air over the same streets I’d taken to get to Benny’s the day before. I marveled at how much my life had changed in less than twenty-four hours. The day before, our band had never played in front of an audience. Now we had a successful performance under our belt. The day before, I’d felt nearly like an extraterrestrial visiting the Towers. Now I felt almost at home there. But clearly, the biggest change was the fact that the day before there had been no Mary in my life. And now there was.
I parked the car in the same spot as the day before. Why change anything? My biggest fear was that Benny or his parents would notice me parking on their street and wonder what I was doing there if it wasn’t to see him. I didn’t want them to know what I was up to—not yet, anyway. Not until I’d gotten to know their neighbor well enough so that Benny’s tendency to gossip couldn’t spoil anything.
As I walked up the driveway to the looming fortress, I heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the side of the house. It was almost musical, with its pitch moving randomly up and down, but in increments of such small magnitude I was unaware of any musical instrument that could have produced it. As I got closer to the source, it became apparent that two voices were involved in this wobbly incantation. Almost as if one were following the direction of another—a female voice following the lead of a male.
Curiosity got the better of me. I veered off the driveway and drifted toward the open door at the side of the house close to the source of the sounds. I decided to take a stealthy peek inside. While I was waiting a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the inky blackness, I suddenly felt myself being yanked roughly from behind by the collar of my shirt.
When I turned around, I was staring directly into the coarse white beard of a broad and meaty man, at least seven inches taller than my six-foot frame. When I looked up into his eyes as he released his grip, I noticed they were bloodshot, as if he’d been crying—or maybe drinking. His facial mien, especially his bulbous, bumpy red nose, gave me reason to suspect he was an alcoholic. But his eyes conveyed an alert and lucid intelligence I doubted any active alcoholic could muster. I also observed that he was clad in a purple silk shirt large enough to qualify as a bed sheet.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice shaking with rage. “This is a private residence. You are on private property.”
“I know,” I replied forcefully, my adrenaline pumping from being manhandled by this giant. “I’m here to see Mary. I wasn’t trespassing.”
The man stared at me incredulously. “Mary?” His eyes almost bugged out of his head. “Are you trying to make a joke, son?”
I had no idea who he was or why he was being so belligerent with me. While it crossed my mind that he could be Mary’s father, he looked too old. Old enough to be her grandfather, if anything. But Mary had told me the night before that she lived with her dad and her aunt and that they were her only relatives. So I was clueless as to the identity of this bearded behemoth.
Just then, I saw a woman emerge from the doorway I’d been peeking through. She was middle-aged and frail, her graying hair pulled back tightly from her face with a single barrette. She was grasping a triangular object in her right hand.
“What is it, Randolph?” she asked her purple-clad companion. “What does the boy want?”
Randolph looked anxiously at the woman, who I presumed was Mary’s aunt. “He is asking to see Mary, ma’am. I have told him there must be a mistake.”
The woman remained where she was and held the object up to her eyes and gazed at it for a moment. Then she walked toward me slowly and positioned herself between me and Randolph. She was much shorter than either of us. Her eyes, boring right into me at that moment, were no higher than my chest. She hesitated before speaking, as if she had to carefully gather her thoughts first.
Finally, she spoke. “Mary is not here, young man. She has gone to a retreat.”
I was confused and upset. “Really?” I questioned. “But she told me to meet her…today. When did she go?”
“Excuse me,” Randolph interrupted, “but why should that be any concern of yours?”
“Because,” I explained, trying to hold my ground, “I just saw her…last night. She didn’t say anything about a retreat.”
During this exchange the woman ignored us while she lifted the talisman high above her head. She followed its movement with her eyes and paused when it was directly overhead. She then uttered something unintelligible to my ears.
Turning toward me, she declared, “Mary doesn’t want to see you. She told me, ‘Don’t let that boy come over, Auntie. I don’t ever want to see him again.’”
I was stupefied and crushed. I had tasted rejection before, but this was different. Mary had seemed incapable of deceit, and I had so fallen for her. I needed to leave before I broke down right there, in front of her house. When I turned abruptly and started walking away, Randolph followed a few steps behind, as if to make sure I didn’t change my mind and make a mad dash for the towering citadel.
He didn’t need to follow me. I had no intention of going back—ever.
Chapter 7
April 11, 1989
I arrived at Berghoff’s at 11:45 a.m., fifteen minutes early for my lunch with Michael Eisenberg. Since the Berghoff refuses to take reservations, the line of diners waiting for tables can be ridiculously long if you show up at noon. I expected Michael would prefer the basement section of the historic Chicago eatery with its sit-down, off-the-menu dining. The main floor is simply a bar, with fare limited to sandwiches of carved turkey and corned beef that the patrons are required to eat standing up.
I descended the circular wooden staircase and glanced, as I always did, at the paneled walls lined with photographs of Chicago’s bygone era: street scenes of peddlers riding their horse-drawn wagons, portraits of cigar-smoking politicians who frequented the restaurant in decades past, and the like. Although I had traveled down these stairs many times, these depictions still evoked in me a strong sense of nostalgia—as if I were being joined with an earlier time.
I expected Michael to be late. The federal building where he worked was only a block away, but he was one busy guy. I figured I would save us a table and nurse a glass or two of Berghoff’s homebrewed ginger ale until he arrived. So I was rather surprised when I reached the bottom of the stairs to find him already there, waiting for me.
“I got us a special table,” he told me. “Far from the madding crowd.”
“I guess being the US Attorney has its perks,” I acknowledged.
The maître d’ escorted us to a small private room I didn’t even know existed, leading us to the only booth—an upholstered set of opposing benches that could seat at least eight people.
“Are we expecting someone else?” I asked him, bewildered by the size of our accommodations.
“No, David. I don’t have social lunches with anyone but you. You should know that by now.”
“If that’s what this is, then why so big?” I said, pointing to the table.
“Because it’s the only booth in the room. I love the food here—but you have to admit, they pack you in kind of close in the dining room. I hear enough about other people’s problems all day. I don’t want to overhear a million conversations when I’m eating.”
I took Michael’s explanation at face value and dismissed his reasons as nothing more than that. We sat down and immediately gave our drink order to one of the formally attired waiters: two ginger ales.
“How are Michelle and the girls?” I inquired, attempting to engage in small talk. “Keeping out of trouble?”
“They’re all good,” he responded without elaborating. “How about you, David? Seeing anyone?”
“There are a few potential candidates. Nothing serious, though.”
“So I shouldn’t start planning a bachelo
r party?”
“No, plan one. Build it and she will come.” I assumed he had seen Field of Dreams, which had been showing in local movie theaters a few months earlier.
Our ginger ales arrived, and we ordered our entrees: two wiener schnitzels, the house specialty.
After some more chitchat, the food arrived. I started eating right away, but Michael seemed preoccupied and toyed with his veal cutlet.
“You must have thought it pretty strange when we talked yesterday and I brought up the Montgomery girl.”
“No, Michael. Not strange at all. I was actually expecting a call from you asking about someone I met only once in my life and haven’t seen in twenty-three years.”
Michael gave me that serious, deliberative look I remembered all too well from high school, when we were debate partners in the heat of competition.
“An important scientist has gone missing, David. We think it may have something to do with the girl’s father.”
I was already prepared to hear something strange from Michael regarding Mary’s father. After all, he’d told me over the phone that Montgomery was a suspect in something important enough to be on the US Attorney’s radar. But I’d been expecting to hear that he was wanted for tax fraud or something equally mundane.
“Really?” was all I could think to say. “As in kidnapping? Or murder? Not the typical crime for someone who once lived in the Towers.”
“That’s true. Sometimes you just never know what people are capable of.”
“Why do you think he’s involved?”
“I’m not at liberty to share all the details, David. The scientist’s name is Dr. Emil Whidden. He’s been missing for several months now.”
When the Past Came Calling Page 3
