The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  Sidonie remembered feeling that way. Being with Theo made her understand for the first time how institution could logically be linked with marriage. She’d always thought the word made cold and clinical the ultimate romantic gesture of matrimony, but she discovered marriage was an institution. It had its own hum, its own rhythm and energy. It was something both inside and outside a couple, both within and around them. It was ephemeral and intangible, yet as alive as skin and muscle and sex and emotion and the very air coursing in and out of breathing lungs.

  And when marriage was gone, the institution was gone. The heat, the electricity, the foundation; it all shifted and changed until it finally disappeared, leaving one standing on . . . ground. Just ground. Alone. Detached. Solitary. Nowhere to lean.

  Unlike the couples she now saw every damn day of her life.

  A fire truck roared by, snapping Sidonie’s gaze from the attractive pair cooing across the way. She ceased her inner grousing at their public display of affection and, instead, took in the gaggle of other folks in view, finding comfort in the random loner, the elderly dog walker, the solitary book browser.

  This was a popular market typically opened only during the temperate months, but on warmer days of colder seasons they sometimes popped up in defiance of winter, as they had today. Sidonie met her older sister Karen every Tuesday during the more manageable seasons, and this was a perfect halfway point when they did. It also boasted a kiosk that served the best brew in Chicago, where Sidonie was now perched. Waiting.

  She looked at her phone for the fifth time since she’d arrived. Nothing. Dammit.

  It wasn’t Karen’s call she was anticipating; given her sister’s propensity for lateness, there was little expectation of that. It was Chris Hawkins. Sidonie was disappointed that he hadn’t gotten back in touch about the job. She expected a text yesterday, but, if nothing else, sometime this morning. It had now been four and a half days, and she’d presumed the urgency expressed would have compelled a quicker response. Not a good sign.

  She also had to acknowledge that she’d been looking forward to talking to him, probably more than she was willing to admit. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was the novelty of a new person. Someone to alter the landscape, be interested in stories already told, shift the status quo. Maybe it was just the prospect of a more amenable sound team at the club. Maybe it was the buzz that happened whenever their eyes met.

  No, it wasn’t that. There probably wasn’t any buzz. And if there was, it was probably all in her head: a desperate woman looking for attention from a capable, intelligent, brown-eyed man with sound skills. Interesting to consider, though. If there was a buzz.

  She’d briefly dated a black man in college, so there was no cultural resistance to the idea of “intermixed coupling” (as a dorm mate had deemed it). There’d just never been occasion to explore it again. Frankly, she’d had little interaction with any persons of color throughout her younger life, at least until college. Growing up in the homogenized suburb of Palatine, north of Chicago, she and her sister attended schools largely populated by kids from white families. And while neither of her parents expressed overt bigotry, there was implicit expectation that she keep romantic ties within her own race, a notion made verbal when her father met said college boyfriend and remarked, “He’s a nice enough fellow, but why do you want to get into the complications of all that?” She wasn’t sure what “all that” meant, but hadn’t queried further. The circumstance never came up again.

  Until this moment, as she pondered why she was so keyed up about Chris’s response.

  It had to be the job, this interest, because he didn’t fit any previous paradigm of who she’d normally be attracted to, who she might date or potentially fall in love with. Though she wasn’t sure why. And certainly she wasn’t even thinking about him that way anyway. But if she were, the truth is she’d dated and fallen in love with a variety of types over the years, so why Chris, beyond race, seemed outside the scope was confusing.

  She’d guess he was younger, and she’d never been attracted to younger men. Maybe that was it. And though he had his own business and was clearly a well-respected man, he had a sort of scruffy, techgeek presentation she wasn’t used to. Theo always looked like he’d just stepped off a photo shoot, and, to be perfectly honest, she’d liked that, so maybe—

  “I’m here, I’m here!” Karen rushed up in a lather of familiar apologies—the traffic, her clients, the unexpected phone calls; the usual. Natty in requisite designer wear, sun-tipped coif smartly windblown, Karen was constructed like the quintessential TV lawyer. Two years older than Sidonie, and ten years into a partnership at the prestigious downtown firm that courted her away from a career in criminal defense, Karen led an impressive life in an impressive setting: gorgeous home in Logan Square, tense but enduring marriage to Josh Ritmeyer, a corporate litigator at another firm, and a fourteen-year-old daughter named Sarah who was charming, entitled, and working toward becoming “exemplary and accomplished,” as Josh remarked at her middle school graduation.

  “Why do you look so depressed?” Karen inquired, now set with a latte and chocolate croissant.

  “I am depressed.”

  “Why?” The response made clear just how out of sync the sisters had become.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . still smarting from the divorce, still have a stressful job, still drowning in loneliness and lack of joy. But, hey, how are you?”

  They’d spent long, meaningful hours talking when Sidonie’s pregnancy was lost and as her marriage crumbled, and Karen was exceptional at authentic solace and attention. In fact, she’d literally saved Sidonie during those dark times, bonding them beyond usual sisterhood. Lately, however, they’d talked less. With no new dramas and little change in her life, Sidonie had kept largely to herself, leaving Karen detached from the subtle nuances of her suffering.

  “I’m sorry, Sid. Truly. Has it been that long since we got together?”

  “Since right after the holidays.”

  “Well, that’s too damn long. I didn’t know things were so rough, honey. I thought you were past the worst of it. I would’ve checked in more often if I’d known.”

  “You couldn’t have known. I’ve been busier than usual and haven’t felt much like talking. It all feels so unfixable.”

  “Nothing’s unfixable.”

  “Theo’s been calling.”

  Karen stopped chewing and wiped her mouth. She was not fond of the man. “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. I never answer. Never call back.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. He’s toxic.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen, I went over the information Patsy sent last night and I think this group is promising. I’m not sure about the depth of their capital, but once they throw an offer, I’ll be happy to look at it.”

  “Thanks, that’d be great. I really appreciate you helping us out with all this.”

  “Happy to do it. Listen, I don’t have much time today and we need to talk about something else.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Not ominous, just surprising. Mom’s moving to Florida.”

  “With Steve?”

  “Of course with Steve! Why else would she go?” Their mother, Marian Frame, had been a divorcée since the girls were in high school and their father left with an aging ski instructor from Wausau, Wisconsin. After a long dry spell in which men, as a gender, were banished from her life, Marian met a welding inspector named Steve Banasiak two years ago and had been dating him since. Steve spent half his time in Florida where his employer was headquartered, which made the concept of Marian moving south not entirely unexpected. Still, Sidonie never figured her mother for life-changing decisions.

  “I’m stunned. I thought she hated Florida.”

  “She does. But she loves Steve, and he’s been given an ultimatum to either move to Florida or lose his job. She’s making the adjustment.”

  “Does Dad know?” Their father had rema
ined a distant and largely uninvolved factor in their lives since his move north, which made the question an odd one.

  “Fuck Dad. He has zero to do with this,” Karen snapped.

  “I know. I don’t know why I asked that.” Chagrined.

  “Me neither.” A beat, then Karen reached over and patted Sidonie’s hand with a forgiving smile. “Anyway, that’s her big news.”

  “Wow. When did all that happen? I haven’t heard a thing about it.”

  “She called last night, the first I’d heard of it myself. Said she needed a lawyer’s perspective—I have no idea why, since the condo is paid for and will fly the second she puts it on the market. She has plenty of money, absolutely nothing to worry about, so I think she’s just nervous about making that kind of commitment.”

  “Well, yeah! It’d be one thing for her to move in with him here. It’s a whole other deal to relocate someplace she doesn’t like, to live with a guy for the first time since Dad, with neither of us around!”

  “Trust me, she’s as worried about all that as you are. But the woman is only sixty, she’s got lots of life left, she hates snow, and she loves Steve. She deserves a new chapter.”

  “She does,” Sidonie glumly agreed. Great. Another person leaving her life.

  “And she did tell me to share this when we got together today, said for you to call her this weekend, so you haven’t been forgotten.” She punched Sidonie’s arm.

  “If that’s the best I get, so be it.”

  “Well, I am her favorite.” Karen grinned.

  “But I’m her baby, which trumps favorite.” They both laughed. It was an old joke.

  Karen stood up. “Okay, got to go.” She looked around. “Have I told you how much I love this market?”

  “Yep.”

  “Probably be under four feet of snow next week.”

  “Yep. Have I told you how much I hate winter?”

  “Every winter.” Karen laughed.

  TEN

  THE DRIVE FROM STATE STREET TO HYDE PARK, WHERE his mother still lived in their family home, was slow going, giving Chris time to ponder recent conundrums. He’d spent several hours going over his accounts and scheduled jobs, assessing projected budgets, and who and what would be needed for each upcoming gig, and, as Diante advised, came up with a number to present to Sidonie. It was significant, but since negotiations had to start somewhere, he figured he’d throw it out and see where it landed.

  As he made his way through the glut of construction cranes and late morning traffic, familiar streets rolled into view. The dusty alleyways and corner playgrounds where he’d spent countless hours of his youth always stirred a rush of nostalgia. Memories entwined in this part of the city were deep and of every kind, some more painful than others, but all poignant and enduring. Pulling up to the curb in front of the home where his parents raised him, his older brother, and younger sister, reminded him, always, of how lucky he’d been.

  While some areas south and west of the neighborhood were brambly with crime and blight, not much about this pocket surrounding the University of Chicago, where his mother had been employed her entire adult life and worked still, had changed. With its unusually robust campus police force, and wealthy, prestigious demographic, Hyde Park was a kind of island in the midst of encircling urban grit. The small bungalow his parents purchased shortly after they married was blocks from the more affluent neighborhoods immediately adjacent to the campus, but was, still, a haven of relative peace compared to the streets where many of Chris’s friends and classmates had lived not all that far away. The tidy brick house, a survivor of the city’s “urban renewal” program of the 1950s and ’60s, was surrounded by well-treed curbsides and similar, smaller homes, many of which sufficed now as student housing. It remained pristine and well cared for, his father having been a remarkable landscaper and his mother the fastidious sort. She ran her household like she ran the administration office at the university, taking collective pride in belonging to the community best known as the home of Barack Obama.

  Grimy snow resistant to the warmer days of approaching April crusted the front stairway. Only visitors used those steps, his mother typically coming through the side door from the garage, so Chris took a moment to clear the slush away with the porch broom. As he moved up the steps, his eyes caught sight of his mother reading at her favorite chair near the front window. The view comforted him.

  Delores Hawkins was an old-fashioned kind of mother. Short, plump, traditional; even at only sixty-two she seemed older, a throwback to maternal figures who always wore dresses and had coffers filled with good food no matter who was or wasn’t around. Maybe it was the job, a position that gave her tremendous responsibility and made excellent use of her organizational efficiency, but there was rarely anything messy or discombobulated in Delores’s world.

  “Honey!” She leapt up with a smile as Chris came through the door. “I wasn’t expecting you. What a nice surprise.” She wrapped him in a quick hug and before he could say a word, turned toward the kitchen. “Let me put a little snack together. I just picked up some of those crescent rolls you like.”

  “No, Ma, it’s okay, I just ate. I came by because I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh, all right.” She sat down, smoothing her skirt with the attentive posture of a student. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “Actually, there’s a lot of good stuff going on and I wanted to run a few things by you.”

  Delores had been a pivotal advisor during the many months of putting Sound Alchemy together, and with her business acumen and prodigious common sense, Chris often relied on her insight. He explained the offer from The Church, laid out the complications of running his own business simultaneously, and itemized the reasons why there was value in taking the job regardless. She nodded throughout.

  “I think Diante’s advice is right on the mark, son. I also think you need to stipulate that a reasonable opt-out clause be written into your contract in the event it becomes impossible to manage both situations. The one thing I don’t want to see you do is jeopardize your business after everything you’ve put into it.”

  “That’s exactly my concern, so good point.”

  “When are you going to discuss it with them?”

  “Tonight. I’ll text the head manager, the woman who made the offer, and see what she thinks. We’ll go from there.”

  “Does that leave you time for dinner?”

  “Actually, no. I’ve got to get downtown to meet with a few of the techs I might hire. But I do have one more thing to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Diante’s decided it’s time to try love again. He’s got his girl Jordan moving in and he wants to do it without me around.”

  “Ah, sweet Diante.” She smiled, remembering the wild little boy who shared Chris’s childhood adventures. “From the rake to the romantic! I love that he never stops trying.” She gave Chris some notable side-eye, which he deftly ignored. “And I don’t think you can blame him for wanting the place to himself. If he’s ready to make that kind of commitment with a woman he loves, the man needs his privacy.”

  Chris could barely keep from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not so sure about the love and commitment part—he’s probably not so sure about the love and commitment part—but whatever it is, I need a new place to live. With everything going on right now, I won’t have much time to look, so would you be okay with me bunking here for a few weeks?”

  “Of course, sweetheart, this is your home too!” She beamed as if he’d just given her a Christmas present. He couldn’t help but warm at how easy she made things for him. Then she added: “It’ll be so wonderful to have both my kids home for a while!”

  Not good news.

  “Vanessa’s here?”

  “Yes . . . at least every other week.” Delores shook her head, lips pursed. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, son, but she and Hermes have separated.”

  Chris was genuinely shocked. “
Wow. What happened?”

  “I don’t know—she’s not telling me much. But it seems neither of them wants to shift the kids in and out of the house, especially during the school year, so they’ve worked out this convoluted arrangement where he spends one week with them and she spends the other. He has an apartment downtown, and she comes here on the alternate weeks. It’s a very tense situation and I can’t do anything but pray for them all.” She sighed deeply.

  “That sounds . . . stressful.”

  “Oh, honey, you cannot imagine the state your sister’s in!”

  But he could. It didn’t take a separation, a financial crisis, or any other kind of catastrophic event to stir Vanessa’s frenzy. She was always perched somewhere near the edge.

  Chris and his younger sister did not enjoy a convivial relationship. From childhood on, they’d had little in common, with personalities so disparate as to be combustive. While he faced life with his mother’s openness and father’s equanimity, Vanessa was all taut surfaces and sharp angles, ever ready to pick a fight. Growing up on the south side of Chicago, even Hyde Park, didn’t make it easy for a scrawny black girl with big ideas and a bigger mouth, and her journey to adulthood had been a battlefield of schoolyard tussles and fractious relationships. Now a social worker who spent most of her time at a battered women’s shelter not far from the Calumet Heights neighborhood where she and her family lived, she’d become very involved in a local chapter of Black Lives Matter, finding a seamless merge between the two causes. Her activism was admirable, often inspiring, but the causticness of her frequent lectures to Chris about his lack of political involvement was tiresome. He did not relish her particular energy at this moment of his life.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know she and Hermes were having trouble.”

  “Neither did I. Not till she showed up about a month ago with her suitcase in hand and bags under her eyes, insisting I keep it to myself. I hope you’ll forgive me for not saying anything sooner.”