The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  “Ah, thanks, I would, but I’m up real early tomorrow. Another time?”

  “Cool, cool.” There was a pause.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nah, just goin’ through some shit with Jordan . . . don’t really dig the idea of walking into that buzzsaw just yet.”

  Chris crossed the street to head back to the townhouse. “What’s going on? I’ve got a minute.”

  “Just, you know, she . . . I dunno. She was all into this living together thing, excited about bringing her stuff in, hanging pictures, acted like she was real pumped about it. Now she’s like, ‘I’m bored.’ Says she hates her job, says it’s beneath her—”

  “What does she do again?”

  “Receptionist at a dental office. No big thing, sure, but it ain’t scrubbin’ floors at the bus station either!”

  “No, but maybe she—”

  “When she’s home, all she does is watch TV, and not that I expect her to cook every night, but never? I cook more than she does! The rest of the time she’s either hanging with her friends, moping behind a magazine, or trying to get me to party with her. It’s wearing me down, man. It’s really wearing me down.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  “Yeah, but you know how she is. I keep telling her if she’s not happy with her job to figure out what she wants to do and go get it. I even tried brainstorming with her one night, but she just sat there flipping through a magazine. Fucking crazy, man! And the thing is, I hang with all these fine sisters at work who could not be more opposite and it’s got me thinkin’. They’re driven, you know? Really focused on building something for themselves, and, to be honest, it’s making me see Jordan in a different light. She’s just . . . I dunno . . . just young, I guess. Just young.”

  “Come on, D, it’s not like you didn’t know that.”

  “I know, I know . . . that’s on me.”

  “Are you messin’ around with any of those fine sisters at work?”

  “NO. Hell, no! Not that it hasn’t crossed my mind. There’s this one, Jackie—drop dead, man, crazy smart. We sit at lunch talking about markets and high current income funds and she knows her shit so good it drives me crazy. And sure, if I was free, I’d definitely be makin’ a move, but I do love Jordan and I am tryin’ to make it work. But here I am, hustling you to come out with me ’cause I don’t wanna go home. That ain’t a good sign.”

  “Maybe you’re just romantically dysfunctional,” Chris said dryly.

  “Hah—I see what you did there!” Diante laughed. “You could be right, man.”

  Chris noticed a couple—white, middle-aged, well dressed—approaching from the opposite direction. He felt more vulnerable on the phone, yet their body language suggested they were wary of him. The woman stealthily grabbed the man’s hand as they approached, their pace quickening as they veered away from him. Tick. He made a point of smiling as they passed. They smiled back. Everyone moved on safely. Nightlife on the streets of Chicago.

  “Hey, you still there?” Diante asked.

  “I’m here, I’m here.”

  “How are things goin’ on your end?”

  “Good, real good. We’re throwing a party in a few weeks. You’ll be getting an invitation.”

  “Cool, man. I’ll definitely come by. Don’t know about Jordan . . . you know her.”

  “She still hatin’ on me?”

  “Yeah. She’s convinced you’re trying to push me away from her. It’s like she’s on a loop. I think it just gives her reasons to keep fightin’ with me . . . I dunno. Fuck! Anyway, what about Sidonie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she cool? I mean, obviously she’s cool, but you know—is she cool with you, cool with her life, has a plan, has stuff she wants to do? Or is she waiting around for you to come home and make her happy?”

  Chris laughed. “You seriously need to spend time with her if you have to ask that question! She’s one of the most driven people I know. Kicks ass at the club, and that ain’t no small thing. Plus she’s putting the pieces together for her own place. She squeezes me in where she can.”

  “For real?”

  “Nah . . . we’ve got a good thing going, a good rhythm.”

  “Then you are one lucky brother, brother.”

  When he got home minutes later, Sidonie was still at the computer. She looked up and smiled, and it struck him just how right Diante was.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  A MAJOR KERFUFFLE WAS BREWING AT TABLE #1. THOUGH guests were not yet being seated, Mona Perez, aide to the mayor, waved a place card in Sidonie’s direction with marked urgency. Mona was tasked with ensuring that the mayor’s public appearances proceeded smoothly, and it seemed having a certain city councilman at Table #1 was not smooth. Despite the fact that all seating arrangements had been approved only two days earlier, this particular fellow had piqued the ire of the mayor within the last twenty-four hours and was to be banished.

  Like the pro she was, and with nary a blink, Sidonie, decked in a smartly cut Jones of New York tux, her hair swirled in some fabulous do that got all the men smiling, exchanged the offending card with some lucky attendee’s from Table #13. With a quick smile, concerns were allayed, concluding with Mona at the bar happily sipping a rum daiquiri.

  Saturday had rolled in with much fanfare, and everyone and everything at The Church gleamed, ready for the big show. Still, and despite the night’s myriad demands and distractions, there was considerable chatter about the invitations that hit their mailboxes earlier that day—Chris and Sidonie’s party was shaping up to be the must-attend in-house event of the year.

  As the smartly dressed crowd, inclusive of the mayor and his entourage, slowly made their way from the foyer to the bar area, Sidonie buzzed with the slightest edge of anxiety, a result, no doubt, of the inherent pressure of this weighted event. She swept through each room, liaised with each manager, and checked each prep item off her list, calming herself as the approaching hour of production came into tangible form.

  She smiled when Frank flew by in a tuxedo. They’d all agreed to gussy up for the evening—even Jasper was wearing black dress pants and a vintage tux jacket—and as each staff member found a moment to model their attire, she again noted the goodwill flowing amongst this team she’d assembled. When Al gave her a thumbs-up from behind the bar, resplendent in a paisley jacket with a big red bowtie, she shook her head, laughing. This was going to be a good night.

  She wasn’t aware that Chris hadn’t checked in until her phone rang and she was stunned to see his name. “Where are you?” she almost yelped. “I didn’t even realize you weren’t here!”

  “Goddamn Jeep! The temp light came on about ten minutes ago and when the gauge shot up, I had no choice but to stop. I’m parked on some random street—don’t know which one but it’s not far from the club. I’m waiting for the radiator to cool down enough to dump some water in, at least enough to get there.”

  She looked at her watch with panic. “Chris! It’s five twenty. Your whole team is waiting for you!”

  “I’m well aware of that, Sidonie. I’m doing the best I can. I should be there in half an hour at the most. All I know is, we are buying me a new car on Monday.”

  “Okay, fine. Grab a Lyft if you have to but get here as quickly as you can.”

  “I will. Tell Jasper to pull up all the cues and start refreshing them with the guys, okay?”

  “Just be careful. I want you here in one piece.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

  When the head waitress approached with a request from the kitchen, the distraction pulled Sidonie away from the main floor and her bubbling concern. By the time she wrapped up issues related to proper staging of the appetizer service, and alerted Jasper that the mayor would be speaking from his seat rather than the stage, Chris rushed in from the employee entrance, sweat pouring, navy sport coat over his arm and a harried look on his face.

  She grabbed him as he flew past. “Everything o
kay?”

  “Yeah, got it here. Sorry about that. Obviously I let this car thing go on for too long.”

  “It’s all right. We’re okay with time. I’m just glad it made it.”

  “No kidding! Luckily there was a hose where I stopped—just filled it as much as I could and limped over. It will be leaving on the back of a tow truck, I promise you that.” He shook his head. “Okay, off to the booth. Let’s have a great event and I’ll check in with you later.” He leaned in for a quick kiss and was off.

  That was the last time Sidonie took any particular notice of him until the world turned upside down.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  BY TEN THIRTY THE HIGHLIGHTS OF THE EVENING HAD concluded, but every room of the club remained packed with celebratory patrons. The scheduled speakers had all been brief and articulate, the auction raised an astounding sum, and the mayor wheedled and cajoled further support from the deep-pocketed corporate leaders in attendance. As he and other elected officials slowly made their grand exit, with much stopping and shaking of hands along the way, and with the senior demographic largely peeled off in early departure, the younger crowd jammed the dance floor as the music got louder and drinks flowed.

  Frank walked along with the mayor, working his own charm offensive as he moved from table to table making new friends, and the floor staff was playful and relaxed now that the major service portion of the night had concluded. Al and his team were slammed behind the bar, but he was in full-performance mode and enjoying every minute of it. He had just finished placing a gimlet in front of Sidonie, who sat with Mona Perez discussing the timely arrival of the mayor’s limousine, when Jasper bolted up.

  “Sid.” He leaned in to whisper. “You need to come with me.”

  With one look at his ashen face, she turned to Mona. “Mona, the head valet just texted that the limo is being retrieved. Could you give me a moment and I’ll walk with you to the foyer?” Mona, distracted by the fresh daiquiri Al placed in front of her, nodded.

  Sidonie swung back to Jasper. “What is going on? I’m trying to—”

  “Just come with me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her through the clotted crowd toward the employee entrance. There, incongruously and alarmingly, two uniformed police officers stood inside the door, faces fixed and inscrutable in the dim exit light. Sidonie felt an immediate clutch of trepidation.

  “Officers, can I help you? We’re planning to escort the mayor out the front entrance—”

  The shorter of the two spoke. “We’ve got a situation outside and need to verify if anyone here knows a tall, black man wearing a navy jacket who claims he’s an employee.”

  As if jabbed by an electric prod, Sidonie bolted past the two officers, leaving Jasper to stumble through confirmation of Chris’s identity.

  Bursting through the doors, she entered an alternate universe that came at her like frantic jump cuts from a hand-held camera: a cacophony of noise and lights, the squall of voices; surging bodies emanating an acrid mix of threat and rage. At least five patrol cars were jammed into the back parking lot, seemingly from every angle, with lights flashing and the occasional burst of sirens. A crowd of about twenty people, mostly white with a few faces-of-color mixed in, undulated on the sidewalks and adjacent street, craning through the fence, some hollering invectives, others holding up phone cameras. All that was missing were the pitchforks. The focal point of their wrath was initially unclear to Sidonie, who tried frantically to grasp the situation in the midst of pandemonium. When someone shouted, “That’s him, that’s the guy!” she spun around like a madwoman.

  There, in the swirling, violent center of mayhem, on his knees and surrounded by a cadre of police officers, was Chris, his face glistening with sweat, blood streaming from his mouth and nose. His jacket was ripped and dirtied; a brawny blond cop behind him had his fist curled in Chris’s hair, pulling his head back in a constraining hold.

  In that split second, Sidonie’s psyche shattered into a million different pieces, taking with it all rational thought. “What are you doing?!” she screamed, thrusting herself into the melee. Faces turned her way, offering no response. She shoved toward Chris, hips and elbows of the burgeoning crowd jutting her this way and that, while repeating her howling question: “What the hell are you doing? He works here!”

  Chris appeared to hear her over the din. He turned blindly in her direction, bellowing: “Sidonie! Tell them, tell them I—” Before he could make eye contact, he was slammed to the ground, one cop planting a knee on his back while the others converged, guns drawn, night sticks making violent contact. The crowd surged, one voice after another rising in a Greek chorus of taunts:

  “Kick his ass!” brayed a man in a Lynyrd Skynyrd hat.

  A small woman, incongruously wrapped in a bathrobe, screeched, “That’s the bastard. I seen him, I seen him a few times!”

  “Keep your filth out of our neighborhood, you piece of shit!” another woman echoed.

  A black man, his phone camera focused through the slats of the fence, hollered in counterpoint, “What are you gonna do, shoot him? You gonna fucking shoot him? I’m filming, you motherfuckers, I’m filming you!”

  In the stutter-stop unraveling of this horrific moment, Sidonie’s eyes darted from their twisted faces to Chris being manhandled by the police, and she could not fathom the level of vitriol. What happened? They couldn’t possibly mean Chris, could they? What were they yelling about; what was going on; what did they think he’d done?

  As she got within feet of the storm’s eye, repeating her futile protestations to stop—stop beating him, stop hurting him, stop mistaking him—she suddenly felt herself yanked backward. A burly female officer had grabbed her arms from behind, and was rousting her in the opposite direction so quickly Sidonie almost tripped over the rustling feet in her path. She was shoved against the brick exterior wall of the building, her face scraping the rough-hewn surface as the officer slapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  “What are you doing?” Sidonie cried out. “I’m the manager here. That man is my employee. I was just trying to—”

  “Ma’am, you can explain all that down at the station. Right now you’re interfering with police business.” The officer pulled her toward the patrol car closest to the side street, and as she was shoved into the back seat, Sidonie could hear Chris’s voice keening her name from the bowels of bedlam.

  Senses scrambled, disorientation complete, she glanced despondently out the window . . . to see Frank, about two hundred feet away near the front entrance to the club, standing with the mayor at the valet station, his back angled as if to block notice of what was happening around the corner. As the cruiser pulled out of the lot to make a left, thankfully away from the club, Frank turned slightly and, for a brief moment, caught Sidonie’s eye. Neither registered emotion. He shifted quickly toward the mayor, taking his elbow to usher him away from the madness and closer to the parked limo, where Mona stood holding the car door open.

  Sidonie could only close her eyes as the police car sped away in the opposite direction.

  FORTY-NINE

  IT HAD BEEN A SIMPLE MATTER. HE NEEDED WATER FOR the Jeep. Just enough to get it to the club. There was no time for Triple A, a Lyft might take too long, and there was a hose right there. Not tucked under a bush, not attached to a reel, but stretched down the narrow sidewalk between two houses, almost to the public walk.

  He considered knocking on the door of the house to which it was attached, but there were no lights on, and no one appeared home. Since he couldn’t imagine anyone begrudging him a quart or two of water in a situation that demanded urgent response, he decided to help himself. He walked up and turned on the spigot; stretching the hose the final few feet to his car, he carefully filled the sputtering radiator, still warmer than advised for such an emergency fix. When done, he rolled up the hose and neatly deposited it near the spigot.

  As he turned to walk back to the Jeep, he glanced left toward the window of the adjacent house. He caught the flutter o
f lace curtains, the glint of a female profile. He reflexively smiled but there was no eye contact, no other movement, so no thought followed the moment. He got in the Jeep, started it, and carefully moved on, pulling behind the club into the employees’ parking lot about twenty minutes after his call to Sidonie.

  FIFTY

  EVERY LITTLE SWALLOW, EVERY CHICKADEE, EVERY LITTLE bird in the tall oak tree—

  The patrol car took a sharp right and Sidonie, unable to keep balanced with her hands cuffed behind her, tilted hard into the door, her head knocking the window.

  “You okay back there?” asked the passenger side officer, his pale face strobed by the passing streetlights. She didn’t respond.

  Handcuffed in the back of a police car at eleven ten on a Saturday night was a happenstance Sidonie could not have anticipated in any real or imagined version of her life. The cuffs hurt, her face hurt, her heart hurt, and she was queasy, both from the movement of the car and the gut-wrenching turn of the unfathomable evening.

  The wise old owl, the big black crow—

  She’d been hustled to the cruiser without a moment to alert anyone inside, leaving her churned about the concerns this would surely stoke. The look on Frank’s face as he watched her being hauled off in a police car was both inscrutable and damning, and it made her nauseous just thinking about it.

  More critically, she had no idea what was happening with Chris— where he was, what condition he was in, why he’d been beaten and likely arrested . . . or possibly worse. She had no idea why he’d been out in the parking lot in the first place; she hadn’t noticed him leave the club at any point during the evening. The aberrance of the entire situation was so absurd it triggered dissociative thinking that left her inexplicably ear-worming “Rockin’ Robin,” over and over.

  Flappin’ their wings singin’ “go bird, go,” rockin’ robin . . .

  She hadn’t said a word to either officer since she’d been shoved in the car, so after about fifteen minutes of maneuvering through traffic, the passenger side cop looked back again.