The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “I want to talk.”

  “I don’t. What else? Do I owe you money? Do you owe me money? Are you in prison? Is there a death in the family? Do you have a terminal illness? What? I’m very busy.”

  “Jesus, Sid, I get it! You hate me—”

  “I don’t hate you. I’m just over you, with nothing left to say.”

  “I have something left to say. It may not change one ounce of what you think of me, but I owe you an amends and I want to make it.”

  Sidonie’s eyes rolled. While she was always supportive when an addict—any addict—reached out for help, Theo’s particular brand of roller-coastering rehab over the years had left her largely immune to his amends and apologies. Still, she figured it was only charitable to extend the benefit of the doubt.

  “Okay, Theo. That’s fine. I accept your amends—”

  “I haven’t made it yet.”

  She took a beat, annoyed with the pace of this call. “Fine. Please go ahead and let’s get this done.”

  “I’d like to see you face-to-face. I feel like doing this over the phone is chicken-shit. Can I take you to lunch today? You gotta eat . . .”

  Sidonie had the feeling that, in his earnest state, Theo was going to draw this project far beyond what she was willing to endure. Odds were good giving him one hour was her best bet.

  “Fine. Meet me at Charlie’s at one.”

  “Can I swing by and pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll see you there.” The last thing she wanted was for those at the club who’d known of her situation with Theo—Al, Jasper, Frank— alerted to his reemergence. Questions and advice would surely follow and there’d been enough of that during the divorce.

  LATER, SEATED ACROSS from the only man she’d ever married for the first time in over a year, Sidonie couldn’t help but notice that Theo was thinner and looked pale and somehow empty, as if the life force had been sucked out of him. Maybe it was giving up drugs. Maybe he was sick. But whatever it was, he was still the best looking man she knew and, despite no longer loving him, she couldn’t help but feel a trace of emotion. She ordered a small salad and gave him the floor.

  “You look great, Sid. You must be doing well.”

  “Thanks. I am. Listen, I don’t have much time—”

  “This is all it is: I wanted to say that I’m sorry, really sorry, for what I put you through. I was an unbelievable prick, in every way a man can be a prick, and I honestly regret every minute of it. I’ve been clean and sober for eight months. I go to regular meetings that I’m vigilant about and will continue to be vigilant about, and I’m doing everything in my power to fix everything I broke. You, of course, being the most important.”

  “You didn’t break me, Theo. I’m not something for you to fix.” She noticed him check the urge to sigh.

  “I know, Sid, I know. I just meant what I broke between us. I want to fix that.”

  “I don’t think that can be fixed.”

  “No . . . I know. But maybe. . . maybe we could let go of it all and find a different way to be friends.”

  His sincerity was novel, but still . . . friends? “Or maybe we could just get on with making the best of our lives from a distance.”

  He took a pause as if weighing the option. “If that’s the best we can manage.”

  “I think it is, Theo. But thanks, seriously. I imagine that was hard for you.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t. It’s something I’ve wanted to say for a long time. And I mean it, every word, even if it sounds sort of trite.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Sidonie, you were such a good friend to me, a good wife, and you put so much into our marriage when I didn’t. I don’t know how to make up for that. I guess I can’t. But if there is any way, or anything I can ever do for you, I’m there. If you need anything, want anything, just call. I’m working for a multimedia company in Highland Park. I’ve got a new condo. I spend my nights going to meetings, my days going to work. That’s it. No girlfriends, no partying, no hanging out with the old gang. I’m like a monk now and I plan to keep it that way.”

  She finally smiled. “You’re allowed to have a life.”

  “I know. I’m just not ready. Anyway, call me if you ever want to talk or grab a cup of coffee. Mostly, just know I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that. You didn’t deserve an asshole like me.” He stood up. “And now I’m going to leave so you don’t feel the need to make conversation. Thanks, Sid. I’m glad things are going well for you.”

  With that, he put a fifty on the table and walked out.

  REHASHING THE EVENT left Sidonie sad and conflicted. His presentation had surprised her. She’d expected more pleading and begging for forgiveness, more histrionics. That was his usual way. What she got was a mature, undefended apology from a man clearly trying to rebuild his life.

  Dammit.

  Without him to hate, without that comforting wall of rage to lean on, what did she have of her marriage? The heartache of losing the only pregnancy she’d ever had? The ache and embarrassment of their raucous, vile battles, too often fought in public view? Remnants of betrayal and shame? Hating him gave her focus. Now she had nothing but regret.

  For some reason pondering Theo led to thoughts of Chris. She sat up, startled. Why did that happen? What did it mean? There was no parity there. Chris was not a man with whom she’d have a relationship. Yet his face popped up, followed by a feeling of . . . what? Some harmonic of desire? Not sexual desire, surely, but what? A desire to connect, a desire for friendship? She didn’t know. It was confusing.

  She’d thought often of the day he intervened during Troy’s assault. It thrilled her, Chris’s impulse to defend her, to keep her safe. Likely it was just male conditioning, the response of a good man to a woman in peril, but it happened to her, and it had been him, and that put something between them. It bonded them.

  She could tell he felt it too. She often looked up to find him gazing her way. She felt his concern when rowdy customers got too close for comfort. He always asked if she wanted coffee when he was grabbing a cup, if he could get her a sandwich when the Cuban truck rolled around. Al even teased her one night—“Ooh, I think Chris has a crush on someone!”—but she ignored the comment as she ignored most things Al said.

  Certainly she knew that even if she was interested, it was completely inappropriate for her to even flirt with the idea of flirting. As good as it might feel, as fun as it might be, it was misguided given her position at the club. Besides, she was (pretty) sure it wasn’t about being attracted to him. It was about being attracted to his kindness. His calmness. His thoughtfulness. She didn’t know many men who led with those traits.

  A new thought popped up—what would happen if she called? How would he be on the phone? Would he be one of those guys who could sit for hours, phone tucked close, rambling from one topic to the next while both parties fought sleep and a sense of intimacy pervaded? Probably not. Given how selective he could be in conversation, it was hard to imagine Chris being a phone chatterer.

  She checked the clock: twelve thirty and still hot enough to make sleep impossible. He was working at the club tonight; he’d likely still be there, or, if they’d already wrapped, just leaving and in transit. She picked up her phone, found Chris’s number, and texted:

  I know it’s late and this is random and probably ridiculous, but if you’re still around and as uncomfortable as I am, wanna meet for some lemonade at that coffee shop near my house? It’s got epic air-conditioning!!!!

  Five minutes; nothing. After ten, she dragged herself upstairs and back to bed.

  EIGHTEEN

  AS SIDONIE SENT HER TEXT, CHRIS WAS RIDING THE ELEVATOR up to Diante’s condo, intent on picking up the three remaining boxes he’d left during the move. It was late, he’d just finished at the club, but he still had a key. He’d texted Diante before heading over and was assured Jordan was out with her girlfriends.

  But either he’d misread the text or Diante was misinformed, bec
ause when he turned the key and opened the door, Jordan was perched on the couch, looking anything but pleased at his arrival.

  “You don’t knock?” She got up and sidled to the door. A stunning woman with a face and body most men would find worthy of sacrifice, she generally appeared vexed when Chris was in her presence. He wondered if it was something about him specifically, but also considered it could be her resting expression.

  “Sorry, Jordan. I texted Diante. He said you were out.”

  “And you think you can just come in here any time I’m out?”

  “No, but if Diante gives me—”

  “Let me just state that, as the person who lives here now, I do not appreciate you walking in like you’re the person who lives here. You do not live here anymore.”

  He rarely inspired this level of bitchery in women—except, perhaps, his sister—so it was possible this was Jordan’s permanent state. God help his buddy.

  “I’m well aware of that, Jordan, so my hope is to do what I came here to do and never have to bother you again. Or should I come back another time?”

  She huffed deeply. “Just get it over with, whatever you’re doing.”

  As he walked from the foyer, he couldn’t help but notice the newly appointed living room. She’d turned the place from a man cave into something Home & Design might appreciate.

  “Wow! Doesn’t even look like the same place. You’ve got some skills, girl!” He figured flattery might ease her ire. It did, if briefly.

  “Thank you. Nice of you to notice. It was a lot of work, especially after you two left it like ass, but I take pride in where I call home. So . . . why are you here? I’m surprised Diante even lets you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lets you come over, what with your sabotaging behavior and all.”

  “What are you talking about?” He honestly had no idea.

  “Really? I wasn’t going to mention it, but he said you were an asshole about leaving. Made a big scene, spilled beer all over his stuff and everything. Said you thought he was stupid for allowing me to move in.” By now she’d worked back to her previous state of vexation. Quashing the ramp-up was critical.

  “Jordan, I love my boy, but that is categorically untrue and if that’s what he told you, he and I have very different memories of how it went. Yes, I accidentally spilled beer on one of his magazines, and, yes, we did discuss his readiness to leap into a committed relationship—”

  “We’ve been in a committed relationship, so what was your point?”

  “I meant live-in relationship. But, hey, turns out he was, you were, it’s all good, and I wish you both the best.”

  “Uh-huh.” She looked unconvinced.

  Chris was overcome by annoyance and exhaustion. He turned toward the bank of closets near the kitchen. “Listen, I left some boxes here, so I’m just going to grab those and get on out. It’s been a long day.”

  She sashayed over to the closet, flung the doors open, and stood watching as he pulled out three large boxes.

  “This will take a couple of trips, Jordan.”

  “Then you better get going. It’s past my bedtime.”

  With his unwieldy cargo and the slow elevator, it took a good fifteen minutes going between the floor and parking levels twice. As he picked up the last box, sweat dripping down his back, he turned to say goodbye. Jordan stuck out her hand, palm up.

  “Really? A low-five?” Chris laughed, incredulous.

  “No, loser, the key. You won’t be needing it anymore.”

  Right then, right there, Chris was stunned to realize he felt the tick. Standing with a black woman, a sister, he felt the tick, loud and clear. He took a long breath in, a slower one out, with Jordan staring at him as if he were a madman. Before she could retort, he set the box down, pulled the key off his ring, slapped it to her palm, picked the box up again, and walked out. She slammed the door closed behind him.

  When he reached the elevator, in a flash of improbable timing, the door pinged and Diante stepped out. “Chris! My man! Glad I caught you. You got everything you need?”

  “Why are you making trouble between me and your girlfriend?”

  “What happened?” Diante looked genuinely concerned.

  “First of all, you said she was out.”

  “Ah, she must have called it early.” Diante held the elevator door as Chris got the box situated. “Sorry, man. She does not like you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She . . . well . . .” Diante shifted his position. “She thinks you’re ‘romantically dysfunctional’—her words, not mine. Says you can’t keep a relationship together so you’d rather I stay single so you’ve got someone to hang with. I know, that’s some crazy shit.”

  “I’ve kept relationships together.” Chris felt oddly defensive.

  “Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s been a while. But hey, whatever, that’s none of our business—and I told her that, but she won’t let it go. Thinks you’re not for her.”

  “Not for her? What the fuck does that even mean? But maybe it’s understandable, since you told her I was ‘an asshole about leaving,’ dumped beer all over your stuff—”

  “She took that out of context.” Then he paused. “But beer was spilled . . .” He gave Chris a wink.

  Chris remained unamused. “Look, I won’t be coming around again, believe me, but in the meantime, do me a favor and don’t trash-talk me to your girlfriend. Got it?”

  “I got it, I got it.” Diante’s chagrin was clear. “Sorry, man. It was just one of those nights when she was pitching a fit and I thought if she saw how much I wanted her here, so much that I’d even go against my best boy’s judgment, she’d ease up on me.”

  “So you threw me under the bus because you’re too much of a pussy to handle your own woman?”

  “Naw, it’s not like that, it was . . . well, yeah, might be a little like that.” He grinned.

  Chris pressed the down button.

  “Sorry, man, really.” Diante blocked the door from closing. “We had a rough start and I don’t know why I went there. Was feeling evil, I guess. I’ll fix it with her.”

  “Do, don’t, I don’t care what Jordan thinks. I just want you to be straight about me, okay?”

  “I’m straight, for real. We good?” Diante reached out for a fist bump.

  Chris didn’t return the gesture. “I’ll let you know later. Just go deal with that mad woman of yours.”

  Diante grinned. “She is crazy, but, ooh, even you gotta admit, so fine—”

  The elevator door slid closed as Chris stared at him, shaking his head.

  NINETEEN

  WITH THE STOP AT DIANTE’S, CHRIS DIDN’T GET DOWN TO his mother’s until two thirty. A glance at his phone alerted him of Sidonie’s missed message, which left a sting of disappointment. It was too late now for anything but getting boxes stashed and himself to bed.

  He opened the garage door as quietly as he could, but the grate of rusty joints echoed in the still of the hour. He stacked the boxes next to his old Jeep Cherokee, leaving just enough room for his mother’s car between his and his sister’s belongings. Carefully pulling the door shut upon exit, the unavoidable squeak was followed by the glare of the back porch light popping on. Vanessa stuck her head out the door.

  “What’s with all the racket?” She looked ornery.

  Chris had managed to skirt around his sister in the time he’d been at the house. Occasional bumps in the hallway, passing hellos and goodbyes as he came or she went, but long conversations on topics that triggered contention were assiduously avoided, and very little social time ensued. This moment, however, seemed inescapable.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Yes, you did!”

  Chris trudged up the steps. “Sorry. Guess that could have waited till morning.” He brushed past her into the kitchen. She closed and locked the door.

  “Nah, you didn’t wake me up. I was up. I can’t sleep and my room is a furnace. Damn air cond
itioner is pathetic.”

  “It is a steamer tonight.” Chris stood at the refrigerator, sweat rolling down his cheeks. Pulled out a soda, drained it before sitting down at the breakfast nook. He noticed her dripping glass of iced tea, the bottle of brandy, and a very full ashtray. “You’re smoking again? In the house?” Delores enforced a very strict no-smoking policy.

  Vanessa plopped across from him. “Nope.” She lit one up, waving smoke through the cracked window. “It just looks that way.” She gave him a sardonic grin and inhaled so deeply Chris expected asphyxia to follow. Instead, she exhaled with ease and poured a large shot of brandy into her tea, downing it in a hearty gulp.

  “Livin’ the dream, huh, sis?”

  “Oh, yeah . . . me and Ma, we girls like to party all the time.” Her laugh was bitter.

  Chris studied his sister, pondering her journey to this grim moment. Vanessa had always been a pugilist, a scrapper, never one to back down from a fight or refuse a necessary stand, and the price paid had been harsh. In her early years, like most young girls, she spent time in tight circles of friends reveling in fashion and music and the giggling pursuit of boys, but by college she’d shed what she called her “cultural baby fat” to become a bona fide activist, joining every social justice and human rights club on campus. An outspoken leader, she’d found the niche that drove her professional aptitudes from there. Meeting and falling in love with Hermes was almost an anomaly, tender departure from “the work,” as she framed her focus. But once beyond early romance and true maternal devotion, peace was harder to find. The struggle had taken its toll: thinner than usual, her face lined and weary, she was a portrait of discomfiture and defeat.

  Chris felt guilty for not making more time to connect. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Things still pretty rough?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Is it just the situation with Hermes?”

  “That’s the foundation. I hate being away from my kids.” Tears sprang but she shook her head fiercely to stanch the flow. “We’ll figure it out.”