The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “A vacation to Florida is not on my schedule, Mom. I think you know that,” Sidonie countered.

  “Nor mine,” Karen echoed. “And let’s get real, Mother. Sidonie’s in a new relationship with a man you pretty much announced your boyfriend would have problems with, so ignore the elephant all you want, but how’s a vacation down there gonna fly?”

  “Let’s please not get into all that again! Isn’t it possible for my two girls to spend some quality time with their mother without any of the men around? How about that? We could have a girls’ weekend, just the three of us. I’ll show you my new town and . . .”

  By now Sidonie had checked out of the conversation, jaw clenched to control words she would surely regret if they escaped. After the trauma of yesterday, she was particularly unappreciative of “the dialogue of smaller minds,” as Karen once described their mother’s tendency toward banal chatter, disappointed that she was solidifying her place in that demographic.

  “. . . and we’ll do some of that great shopping Florida is known for—”

  “That’s not going to happen, Mom,” Sidonie finally asserted. “I’m incredibly busy at work, and in the beginning stages of a very important relationship, so we’ll just have to leave it at that. Listen, I’ve gotta get going—”

  Karen gave her a do you really? look, to which Sidonie shook her head. “Me too, Mom. Have fun getting the place locked down, let me know if you need any papers looked at, and enjoy the, uh . . . well, just enjoy it all.” Her voice was flat, noncommittal; Marian was oblivious.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I will give Sarah a call and we’ll catch up later. Bye-bye.” And she was gone.

  Karen was dumfounded. “Unfuckingreal. She’s so damn afraid to rile her alt-right boyfriend she’s absconded like a thief in the night. Damn, sister, look what you’ve gone and done with your ‘Negro boyfriend’ and all. Shattered the entire family dynamic.” Her tone was bitter as she looked at Sidonie with authentic chagrin. “I’m so sorry. She’s a coward. A coward living with a racist. Quite the couple. I’m not sure when she lost her spine, but it must have been somewhere between ignoring Daddy’s affairs and meeting this regressive redneck.”

  Sidonie’s text alert beeped. “What timing. Chris is on his—” Before she could finish the sentence, there he was. Watching as he loped across the plaza in his jeans and black T-shirt, his eyes bright and smile warm, she felt a surge of emotion. “Hey, you!” she called out.

  He was upon her in a swooping hug. “Hey you, yourself! I managed to reroute my day. I hear the coffee here is real good.” He turned to Karen. “And you must be the big sister.”

  Karen pushed her chair back, stood up, and grabbed him in a hug. “I am so glad to meet you, Chris. You’ve made my sister very happy, which makes me happy, and I hear you’re a technical wizard. I’m not sure any combo gets better for her these days.” They laughed in that awkward-pleasant “just meeting” way, and he joined them at the table.

  After coffee and food were procured, they launched into standard introductory chatter. Chris and Sidonie had earlier decided not to mention the police encounter of the previous day, so excuses were made about his facial scrapes and bruises, keeping the conversation breezy. By the time Karen got through her second Diet Snapple, watches were being checked; Chris was the first to stand.

  “I have to get going, got a couple of microphones to get out to my Shure guy before he closes.” He leaned down and gave Sidonie a warm, meaningful kiss, then reached over to squeeze Karen’s hand with a smile. “Great to finally get together, Karen. I look forward to meeting the rest of your family when we can. Take care, ladies.”

  He was off. Both women watched as he traversed the busy plaza and made his way down the street. Karen turned to Sidonie with a pleased grin.

  “Oh, I like him. I like him a lot.”

  “Yeah?” Sidonie hadn’t realized how important her sister’s approval was, but after their mother’s strange dismissal, it was a much-needed balm.

  “He’s everything you said: warm, uniquely handsome, present, interested. That he’s talented and successful in business is just a bonus. Excellent job, little sister, excellent job!”

  Sidonie couldn’t remember a time when she loved her sister more.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “IS NO ONE INTO THIS ANYMORE?” SIDONIE LAUNCHED without preamble.

  Patsy looked at her as if she’d blurted heresy, but the fact was, twice in two months pitch meetings had been cancelled by the investors, with a third only “penciled” in, and yet neither of them seemed all that bothered.

  “Is that a serious question? I don’t think that’s it—wait, do you?” That Patsy asked was itself telling.

  They’d agreed to meet to discuss strategy, and were now seated in Patsy’s River West catering kitchen, a spit-shiny monument to the gourmet culinary arts currently bereft of kitchen staff. Coffee and fresh cookies were set on the long baker’s table where they huddled with notes and folders.

  “I just sense evaporating momentum,” Sidonie replied.

  “Whose?”

  “Everyone’s? Mine?” So caught up in everything from her mother’s exodus to her progressively more demanding role at the club, mixed with the incessant pull of her budding relationship with Chris, Sidonie realized how infrequently, lately, she’d thought about this enterprise that had held her attention for the past many years.

  And with Patsy largely absent from the conversation—and the city —over the last couple of months, caught up in a dire family emergency involving an alcoholic brother, a third DUI, and a smashed storefront somewhere in her hometown of Urbana, her designated role as project cheerleader had been significantly blunted.

  “Yes, it’s been slow, but evaporation?” Patsy was either feigning surprise at Sidonie’s take, or she truly was.

  “It seems to me that neither of us is as excited as we used to be. You’ve been gone a lot, I’m crazy busy,” Sidonie continued. “And it’s too hard to keep this going on the basis of distraction. Or apathy. Or whatever it is we’re feeling.”

  “Okay, I admit I’ve had all the bullshit in Urbana to deal with, which makes it harder for me to stay on top of things, but apathy is not applicable. I will get back in touch with these guys, and I will find out what’s up with them. I promised I’d take this role on and I will get us back on track, Sid.”

  “If you think that’s realistic. I think we might need to reevaluate our strategy.”

  “Tell me what that means.”

  “The all-eggs-in-one-basket thing could be working against us. Maybe we need to cast a wider net, get the word out more. See if we can stir up other investor interest. It might shake things up a bit.”

  “Or send these guys straight for the door. They were very clear about not wanting to get into a bidding war that ratchets up the numbers. They want first rights.”

  “Say the guys who cancelled our last two meetings.”

  “I know, but there are many nuances to this group and this level of investment. When I talk to them this week—and I will talk to them —I’ll reiterate that our deadline leaves no further wiggle room. I do agree with that.”

  “Okay . . . if that’s the best we can do. Just keep me posted.”

  “Of course!”

  “How’s your brother doing?”

  “He’s a fucking asshole. Seriously. He put three people in the hospital and still acts like he’s the victim. I don’t know why I spend so much time down there fending off disaster. Somehow I’ve become the family spokesperson.”

  “You’re fearless and you’ve got a big mouth.” Sidonie laughed. “Makes you perfect for the job.”

  “Did I tell you my mother ended up in the hospital too?”

  “No! What happened?”

  “Nothing . . . other than hysteria, panic, dehydration, more hysteria, blood pressure—you know the drill. She’s enabled this idiot his entire life and, I swear, the two of them deserve each other.”

  “You’re so har
sh.”

  “I am. But they deserve it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you have to deal with all this stuff.”

  “But I don’t, do I? I could just leave them to their madness and watch the house burn down.”

  “You’re too good a spokesperson for that.” Sidonie looked around the empty kitchen stacked with shiny chrome bowls, endless utensils, and pots of every shape and size. It always amazed her how much equipment was required by a proper catering kitchen. “Quiet today . . . has it been slow lately?” As a sought-after chef who called her own shots, Patsy’s freelance status allowed for contingencies like recurring monthlong visits to dysfunctional families.

  “It’s only quiet because I gave everyone the day off. Actually I’m busier than I’d like to be. But that’s good. I need to keep busy—keeps me from getting too involved in Jerry-Springerland down south. How about you? What’s the latest?”

  Sidonie had not yet told Patsy about her relationship with Chris, much less his moving into the townhouse. Which was strange, considering how long it had been and how close they were. Part of it was the distraction of Patsy’s long absences and the lack of meaningful time together over the last several months; part of it was some intangible hesitation Sidonie couldn’t identify. But there was no rationale she could conjure up for putting it off any longer.

  “Actually, I’ve got some big news.”

  Patsy looked up with wide eyes. “Oh my God—you and Theo are back together!”

  The snap in Sidonie’s neck was almost painful. “What?! No . . . ugh . . . no! Why would you say that?”

  “I just thought . . . since he’s been calling so much.”

  “No. Never. He’s in AA and just wanted to make an amends apology.”

  “Well, that was nice, wasn’t it?” She never stopped trying.

  Sidonie rolled her eyes. “Anyway . . . no. But I do have news on the love front. Chris Hawkins and I have started seeing each other, and he moved into my place a few weeks ago.”

  There was a beat of silence as Patsy frowned, trying to put together who Chris Hawkins was. Then: “The sound guy? That tall, scrubby-looking black dude I met in your office? Are you kidding me?”

  And there it was—why Sidonie had hesitated in telling her old friend about her new relationship. Wrong tone, wrong emphasis; wrong words.

  “No,” she said in a measured voice. “I’m not kidding you. And your descriptive phrasing doesn’t quite capture him or what he means to me, so tread lightly, girlfriend, please.”

  Patsy looked at her, incredulous. “Wait, are you serious?”

  “About which part? The guy or the way you just framed the guy?”

  “Sorry, but I’m just a little stunned. I had no idea, zero idea, he’d be someone you’d even consider, much less move into your home. I mean, he seems like a nice enough guy, and I know you were thrilled he took the job, but come on! Aren’t you fantastically out of his league?”

  The next beat of silence was even more burdened.

  “Let’s see . . . you don’t know the guy, you’ve spent all of five minutes talking to him, and though you do know—because I told you— that he’s built and runs his own very successful company and is incredibly talented as the sound manager of The Church, one of the most prestigious venues in the city of Chicago, you’ve somehow come up with the equation that I’m out of his league. Care to explain that?”

  Patsy was now fussing with items on the table, straightening various papers and folders, sweeping up cookie crumbs. “I don’t know why I said that. You’re right, I don’t know him.”

  “That’s right. You don’t.”

  But Patsy continued fluttering. Sidonie sat back in her chair, silent and sullen. The pause was much too long to be anything but baiting.

  Patsy finally cracked. “Okay, Sid, you can sit there and act all indignant because I didn’t immediately clap my hands, but why would I have ever expected you to pick a guy like that? Let’s not forget, I’ve known all the guys you’ve picked, and, say what you will, he’s quite the departure.”

  “How so, exactly?” Sidonie was quietly seething.

  “He may be nice enough, and good at business or whatever it is, but come on, what’s the pull? Seriously. He’s not that good-looking, he dresses like Mark Zuckerberg, and I know you’re going to take this all the wrong way—but he’s black! Yes, yes, I know you dabbled briefly in college, but really, what do you know about black culture, black guys? What, are you going to start hanging out on the south side, stocking the fridge with fried chicken and watermelon? Listen to hip-hop, discuss whose lives matter, and debate diversity at the Oscars?”

  Sidonie was on her feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She was stunned that her best friend just trumped the obtuseness of her mother.

  “I know, I know, I’m a bigot, you’re so open-minded, blah, blah, blah—”

  From there, Sidonie wasn’t clear how much of Patsy’s diatribe she absorbed. Somewhere after “watermelon” and “fried chicken” a loud whooshing sound descended that only grew as the jabbering continued, blocking out words in lieu of metastasizing anxiety.

  “—but I’m actually not a bigot. I feel for their issues and have nothing against anyone. I’m just trying to make a point here,” Patsy prattled on. “I’ve known you a long time, and I suspect there’s something else going on. Like, some self-esteem issues wrapped up in all this.”

  “What?” Sidonie had now completely lost the thematic arc.

  “Let’s honestly look at the trajectory of things: you were married to one of the best looking men in the city, you were part of a social circle of Chicago movers and shakers, all while running the hottest club around. Then you suffered a miscarriage, the asshole dumped you for a hot babe, you crashed like the fucking Hindenburg, and after a year of crying about what a loser you are, you’re suddenly living with some nebulous black employee who could use a stylist. Maybe you think that’s the best you can do, that’s all you deserve, and, hey, if that’s true, part of me admires that. There’s way too much emphasis on looks and money and status anyway, so if you honestly don’t care about those things, kudos to you, girlfriend! But I think you need to look at it for a minute. I get that you’re lonely, Sid. Maybe you’re desperate, but I’m finding it hard to believe this is the guy you want to invest the next chunk of your life in.”

  Sidonie watched her friend’s arms flailing, the occasional wag of a finger, the intense expressions and articulating lips, but conscious awareness had stepped aside in the rush of disassociation.

  She and Patsy had been friends for so many years it never dawned on her that they did not share some very basic and essential life philosophies. They rarely discussed privilege or race, and had, in the mutual self-absorption of career building, relationships, and family wrangling, largely avoided sociopolitical issues that swirled not only around the world and country, but specifically the city in which they lived. Their lives had not been particularly controversial, their experiences not exceptionally diverse, and the extent of their generalized empathy and compassion stuck largely close to home.

  And while she resisted the idea that Patsy was a bona fide bigot, a person who, like her mother’s boyfriend, would find interracial relationships inherently problematic, she could not deny that the perspectives conveyed in this heated, incendiary lecture suggested otherwise. She also suspected that if Chris dressed like Theo and looked more like Idris Elba, they’d be having a different conversation. The mix of elitism and racism was potent.

  She could see Patsy’s mouth still moving, but the whooshing had only gotten louder; her heart beat faster, her stomach clenched tighter. She picked up her bag, turned toward the door, and, without a look back, raced from the room as fast as she possibly could.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Patsy Gilmore info@patsygilmore.com

  Sidonie Frame sidonieframe@thechurch.com

  . . . My bad behavior

  Sid—

  I know you’re furious with me rig
ht now and you have every right to be. I am so SO sorry! I don’t know what else to say except I’M SORRY. You surprised me with your news, but I should have waited and taken more time to think about my reaction before blurting out all that crazy shit. I know I hurt you and that wasn’t my intention, honestly.

  I think you’ve known me long enough to know I am NOT a racist. I don’t know why I spewed out all those horrible clichés—I think part of it was me trying to be subversively funny, another part was being the devil’s advocate, and the worst part was me being incredibly stupid and insensitive. It was defenseless and in poor taste and I’m sickened by my own behavior. Really, I am. I’ve been crying for hours and I think I will be until we talk.

  Can we write it off to my being exhausted from my fucked-up family situation? It probably really does have something to do with it. I’ve left a couple of messages on your phone and since you haven’t called back, I guess you’re still too angry to talk to me. But when you can, please call. PLEASE.

  I hope you’ll forgive me. And I hope you’ll give me another chance to talk to you about Chris. If you love him enough to invite him into your life and your home, I should trust you enough to know he must be someone very special. I’m an asshole for going anywhere else with this.

  I’m sorry . . . . . .

  xxoo

  P

  — — —

  Sidonie Frame sidonieframe@thechurch.com

  Patsy Gilmore info@patsygilmore.com

  Re: . . . My bad behavior

  Patsy:

  You’re right. I don’t want to talk to you.

  You’re also right that Chris is someone very special. And not just to me. He’s special to everyone who knows him. He’s also someone who has shown integrity and grace in situations that you or I would probably find unendurable. So to hear you reduce him to sickening racist tropes was unforgivable.