The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “Is it? Then, tell me, why don’t all my people get to make any choice desired? Why are they still dying in larger numbers at the hands of police, incarcerated in larger numbers? Why are they struggling in an economy that doesn’t give a fuck about pulling them out of poverty? Is it right for one person to exercise his freedom when so many don’t have theirs?”

  “So Chris should sacrifice his personal life for the cause of—”

  “Shouldn’t he? I am. Even my own husband, a proud black man, thinks I’m too strident, too fixated on these issues, so much so that he’s divorcing me. How about that sacrifice? But my own brother shouldn’t play his part?”

  Sidonie, perilously close to losing her cool, stood in defensive posture. “Maybe he is playing his part and it’s just a different part than you think he should play. Maybe we’re all doing the best we can to move society in a more progressive direction—”

  Vanessa started slow clapping with a sardonic smile. “And now you want a pat on the back for doing the best you can? A cookie for not being a racist? For being a nice white girl who’s so colorblind she’ll even date a black man?”

  Sidonie finally snapped, leaning toward Vanessa with barely contained anger. “If you think my being with Chris has anything at all to do with showing how not racist I am, then you don’t know him any better than you know me. But actually, I think we’re done here.” She walked to the staircase and called up: “Chris! We need to get going please!”

  Vanessa’s expression conveyed discomfort at the potential of her mother and brother intervening in this tête-à-téte, but she was all in and couldn’t stop. “Look, if the truth hurts your feelings, then maybe you need thicker skin. It’s not my job to not offend you. It’s your job— it’s all our jobs—to change the damn narrative. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Sidonie actually slammed her foot down. “That’s not all you’re saying, but there’s nothing more I will say tonight. I love your brother, he loves me. That’s separate from the very real issues of racial politics in America. This isn’t about racial politics—it’s about two people who love each other. Period.”

  Vanessa stood, wearing her exhaustion like a pall. “Okay, I throw in the towel. I could apologize, but . . . this is my life. I’m worn out. I don’t have the energy to make this easy for you, to make it any less harsh. Our reality is harsh, and we’re fighting it from every angle. If you really want to get ‘woke,’ to be a true ally, a worthy accomplice in this movement, I would welcome you. As for you and my brother . . . I . . . I think I’m going to throw up . . .”

  Before Sidonie could react to the remark, she realized Vanessa meant it literally. Just as Chris and Delores descended from upstairs and walked into the parlor, Vanessa raced to the kitchen and vomited into the sink.

  FORTY-TWO

  THE EVENING LOST ITS ABILITY TO BE ANY MORE THAN A mixed bag after Vanessa’s diatribe. Delores struggled to assure Sidonie that her daughter “really could be a lovely person,” even if, as Chris interjected, one lacking manners, decorum, and the ability to hold her liquor, but all efforts to bring what had been a fine event to a more positive conclusion faltered. Still, Sidonie couldn’t deny the larger impact of Delores’s warm welcome and the thoughtful, engaging conversation that had woven throughout the night. Plus, as she made mention to her chagrined hostess, the cobbler was transformative.

  Chris, however, was incensed. “Fuck Vanessa!” he railed on the drive back to Andersonville. “I swear to God, she’s like that asshole kid who’ll say anything just to get a rise out of her parents.”

  Sidonie’s impulse was to defuse the situation. “But it’s not like I didn’t expect it. Actually, after everything you’ve told me about her, I was afraid she’d roll in with a flamethrower. I think I got off pretty easy.”

  “She needs to keep her shit to her damn self. I might even have more respect for your mother—if nothing else she understands the conflict and doesn’t try to shove everyone’s face in it.”

  “Let’s not get carried away. My mother is less about understanding and more about cowardice. At least Vanessa has no fear of speaking her mind. There’s something courageous about that. And, come on, she’d been drinking because she did get served today, so you’ve got to give her at least a little break.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He was not swayed.

  “Plus, and I say this honestly, she made some really valid points. I’m hoping after we get to know each other a little, she’ll see me as more than just a nice white girl who stole her brother.” She playfully leaned in to kiss his cheek, but Chris couldn’t let it go.

  “It’s disrespectful to you, it’s disrespectful to my mother, and it’s really disrespectful to me. I’m gonna have to change some things up before we go down there again.”

  “Like what, demand Vanessa not be there?”

  “Maybe! Or at least demand that she keep her mouth shut, or maybe remember the good manners our mother taught us.”

  “Chris, I understand and that’s fine, but I think we need to rise above rather than play into her divisiveness.”

  “Fuck rising above.” He said it so vehemently Sidonie had to suppress a smile. When he glanced over and caught her expression, they burst into laughter.

  Sidonie, determined to end on a good note, added: “And, really, the rest of the night was so wonderful. Your mom couldn’t have been nicer. I really enjoyed the whole thing—the dinner, the conversation, the cobbler . . . oh, my God, the cobbler.”

  “You really had a moment with that cobbler, didn’t you?”

  “My mother’s big dessert is Entenmann’s and boxed ice cream—” Woot, woot! The blue lights of a patrol car flashed behind them as they took Fifty-Third Street toward Lake Shore Drive, the siren bursts loud and jarring.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  The rush of adrenaline—sudden, familiar, dreaded—hit Chris like a rock. He took a deep breath, then another, as he carefully set his right turn signal to move into the slow lane.

  Sidonie’s heart went from normal to pounding so fast she unconsciously reached for her wrist, convinced the count was precipitous. A sensation of terror swept over her, fear that, this time, something life altering really could happen. Something painful, something deadly.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Chris kept his hands on the steering wheel and slowly, carefully, edged as close to the guardrail as he could.

  He looked at Sidonie. “Please don’t say a word, okay?”

  “I won’t,” she responded, her mouth dry.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  In a roar of acceleration, and just as Chris leaned across to reach for the glove box, the patrol car flew past in a flurry of dust and debris, tearing down the road in pursuit of whoever it was they were after.

  FORTY-THREE

  THE “FRAME/HAWKINS URBAN RENEWAL PROJECT,” AS CHRIS jokingly called his renovation effort, was complete: he’d added a striking sectional to fill out the living room; the multicolored palettes of each room perked the general ambiance, and lights and artwork were set to highlight the high ceilings and gallery-like walls. Sidonie was delighted. The townhouse had never been so smart and stylish, and she was overcome by the urge to celebrate.

  “We’ll crack champagne bottles and raise a glass to feng shui!” She laughed.

  “Okay. And when would we do that?” Chris countered, glancing over the calendar on his phone.

  It was a relevant question; there wasn’t much give in either of their schedules. It was that time of year—kids back in school, the holidays approaching—when the business of entertaining hit high gear and The Church kept them both extraordinarily busy. Sound Alchemy, riding on the wave of Chris’s expanding reputation, was booked enough that more hires had been necessary, along with discussion of an additional van. They had yet to arrange the discussed dinner with Mark and Alice; Diante’s invitation to join him and Jordan for a night out had been put off; Sidonie skipped a few Karen lunches; and there�
��d yet been a return to Hyde Park. They were busy.

  “Let’s do it on a Monday when we’re all off,” Sidonie suggested. “We’ll just set a date and whoever can get here, gets here. Come on, we need to show this place off and we need a little fun!”

  Chris, pleased that his contribution had so elevated her mood, finally acquiesced. “Fine. What Monday?”

  “How about the Monday before Halloween? We’ll make it a theme.”

  “I’m not wearing a costume,” he groused.

  “You’ll feel left out when everyone else does. And everyone else will.”

  “I’m comfortable being an outlier.” He grinned.

  “We’ll just see . . .” She marked the date on the kitchen whiteboard. “There! That gives us three weeks. I’ll manage the invitations, you wrangle the menu. And now I’m heading out for a walk,” she said, twirling a scarf around her neck. “The trees are starting to turn, and if there’s any perk to living in the Midwest, it’s autumn leaves. Wanna come?”

  “I do, but I can’t. I’ve got a meeting with the team over at Univer-Soul Circus, and since I’ll be in the neighborhood, I’m stopping by my mom’s. Oh, hey, I’m looking at some SUVs over the next few days and if you’ve got time I’d like you to come along.”

  “So let’s make that car date.”

  “Which gets us back to schedules—what time do you have this week?”

  “After today it’s nuts for me, but maybe next Monday? Tuesday? Pretty open either day, though I do have my Karen lunch on Tuesday and I can’t miss another one. Oh, and Monday I have a hair appointment, but I think it’s later—”

  “Okay, okay.” He laughed. “We’ll reconvene over the weekend. But I have to make a decision real quick—the Jeep is definitely on its last legs.” He leaned in and kissed her. “I’m putting car date on the calendar for next Monday.”

  SIDONIE STEPPED OUTSIDE to be wrapped in crisp afternoon air and the iconic, nostalgic sensation of Midwestern autumn. Early Halloween decorations sprouted here and there, and the trees were melding into shades of orange, yellow, and red, their fallen leaves crunching in cadence with passing footsteps. Fireplaces set to ward off the encroaching cold sent smoke wafting from chimneys, dusting the scene with musky, memorable fragrance, and the golds and off-whites of windows lit early on these shorter days made for a luminous setting. As much as she loved spring, this time of year was Sidonie’s favorite, aided by her childlike anticipation of the holidays to come.

  She sauntered down the sidewalk, swinging her bag with teenage sass, a bounce in every step, as her thoughts turned toward the upward trajectory of her life. The rough spots had been smoothed, the ones remaining had diminished in their impact. Vanessa had sent a group email—to Chris, Sidonie, and Delores—apologizing for her drunken rant. The apology was accepted (with “boundaries to come,” according to Chris), and Sidonie hoped a future one-on-one would help traverse the chasm that lay between them. Her mother continued to pretend all was well on that front—which was fine with Sidonie, who found Marian’s graceless rationale for avoiding meaningful conversation to be transparent. The only negative was that, after the investors for the restaurant ultimately pulled out (claiming “costs not in sync with our current goals and resources”), there’d been no further action on the project, likely a result of her and Patsy’s continuing estrangement.

  But Sidonie didn’t care. She didn’t want to care. She didn’t want to think, talk, listen, or explain. She wanted only to feel. The holistic embrace of Chris’s love, the nerve-tingling experience of his sex, the overwhelming pull of his desire. She wanted to believe, for as long as was possible, that life was meant to be lovely, that she, even she, could expect and demand encompassing joy. It had been too rare for too long, and now that she had it she was greedy as a child, unwilling to set it down or share it with the unappreciative.

  Patsy, however, was operating on a decidedly different agenda. Her calls, texts, and emails pleading her case, referencing their long friendship, even, at times, berating the intransigence of the situation, were relentless. Annoying. Guilt inducing. Sidonie refused to engage. She rejected the distraction, the demand for her attention. She wanted Patsy to disappear for a while, long enough to dull the sting of her transgression. Some disagreements needed time to season; this was one of those.

  Her phone vibrated. Karen.

  “You cannot believe how gorgeous it is in my neighborhood,” Sidonie exclaimed. “I’m actually taking a walk for absolutely no reason other than to revel in it all!”

  “Hey, Sid.” It was not Karen. As if magically conjured, Patsy was on the other end.

  “Wow. Is Karen lying in a pool of blood somewhere?”

  “I had to get creative. We met on business and I grabbed her phone when she stepped out to the bathroom.”

  “That’s invasive.”

  “These are desperate times.”

  “Is it impossible for you to take a cue?”

  “I took the cue. I’m now trying to change the script.”

  “If I wanted this conversation, I would have returned one of your other billion calls. Stalking does not improve rapport.”

  “Fuck rapport. I’d just like some nod to the years we’ve put into this friendship. I think I deserve at least that.”

  A beat.

  “Possibly.” Sidonie’s lack of enthusiasm was palpable. Patsy was undeterred.

  “Can we meet and talk, Sid? Please. If you still hate me afterward, then we’ll call it a day.”

  Another beat.

  “Fine,” Sidonie acquiesced.

  “You wanna come by the kitchen?”

  “No. Someplace neutral.”

  Patsy sighed. “Really?”

  Sidonie didn’t budge. “If you want to do this, meet me at the Starbucks near the club in an hour.”

  “Fine. Enjoy your leaves.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Camera is focused on three police officers, faces terse, guns pointed at Chris, who sits cross-legged on the ground, sweating, forehead scraped and bleeding, head bowed, chest moving up and down with agitated breaths.

  “Why don’t you take him upstairs and unlock the damn door with his key?” Alice’s exasperated voice calls from behind the camera. “That should prove he lives here!”

  A fourth officer moves into frame, stares directly at the camera. “Ma’am, I cannot emphasize enough how you need to step back and shut up.” He fixes her with a heated expression. He turns to Chris. “Do you have keys to this house?”

  Chris turns toward the camera, eyes grimaced in pain, and nods. As he reaches his hands slowly toward his pocket, another police officer yells from off camera:

  “Move your hands away from your pocket! Now! Now!!”

  Two guns are pointed within inches of Chris’s head as another officer swoops in to grab the hand reaching into his pocket.

  The video pauses—

  Patsy leaned back in the chair, Sidonie’s phone in her hand, visibly shaken. “I can’t watch any more of this.”

  Sidonie took a sip from her latte, affecting an almost detached air. Nothing about Patsy’s reaction softened her, her face set and hard. “Exactly. And guess what triggered that madness?”

  “Don’t make me guess.”

  “Words. Someone’s words. The words of a hateful neighbor who decided there was something to be gained from calling the police and accusing Chris of vandalism. Her words caused him to be terrorized and humiliated in a situation where one wrong move could’ve gotten him killed. Words can be damn powerful, can’t they?”

  Patsy squirmed in her chair. “I get it, Sid, I do . . .” Her eyes welled up. “And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Poor Chris. I can’t even imagine what he went through. Motherfucking cops. Motherfucking Sandra.”

  “Yes. Motherfucking Sandra.” Sidonie looked away, sensing there was no way to get past what she felt. Which was nothing. In this moment she felt nothing for her old friend. Nothing but the feeling that Patsy was no longer an integral, essent
ial part of her life. And even that reality was met with emptiness. Which was strange, really.

  Patsy watched the subtle, shifting expressions on Sidonie’s face, and could feel the opportunity for mercy slipping away. “Sid.”

  Sidonie looked back, eyes flat.

  “I know you well enough to know where you’ve gone with this,” Patsy said. “I know the door is almost completely shut and I’m on the outside. And I get it. I do. I don’t blame you. But when I think about what you just showed me, think about what goes on out in the world, then think about what I said, I want to puke. I mean it. I’m not kissing your ass, I’m not pandering. I want to puke out of pure shame.” She stopped to dab a napkin to her eyes.

  Sidonie remained unmoved.

  “I’ve thought a lot about what I said, Sid, and, for the most part, I got nothin’. It was indefensible and unforgiveable. But I want you—I need you—to forgive me anyway. So I’ve tried to figure out why I said it, what part of me, consciously or unconsciously, went for those particular words.”

  Patsy was having a hard time getting her current words out. Tears streamed down her face and she had to stop to take a slug from her water bottle. Sidonie kept silent, both women ignoring the occasional glances from nearby customers.

  “I hate to get all ‘family of origin’ on you,” Patsy continued. “I know how trite that sounds, but it really is the foundation for all this. The way my dad used language—it was couched in humor, sure, but later I realized it was just outright racist. At the time it never struck us kids as anything but funny. So when he’d call our black garbage man ‘a trash coon,’ or see black families picnicking and say things like, ‘Let’s go steal some of their fried chicken and watermelon,’ we thought it was a riot.” She blew her nose again. “And I went right for that bullshit cliché, didn’t I?”

  Sidonie looked away, but Patsy peered at her so directly a response was unavoidable. She looked back and said dryly: “Yes, you did.”