The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  An odd way of putting it. “Get together as in come home?”

  “Yeah . . . of course.” He kissed her, somewhat perfunctorily. “Thanks for being here, Sid. We’ve got a lot to celebrate and I look forward to doing that.”

  “Me too. Have fun and we’ll talk later.”

  She watched as he strode off, a lift in his step she hadn’t seen in a long time. As the family headed toward their cars, Hermes gave her a hearty wave before turning to pull Vanessa close. Delores wrapped her arm through Chris’s, creating a cozy family picture. Sidonie wanted to run after them shouting, “Wait, I changed my mind. Take me with you. Please take me with you!”

  But she didn’t.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  THREE DAYS LATER CHRIS WAS STILL IN HYDE PARK. Sidonie went through the motions of her life while wondering what her life was beyond the state of waiting for Chris—for him to heal, for him to be adjudicated, for him to come home. The realization that she’d reduced herself to little else struck her as pitiful.

  Work had become drudgery. Nothing dramatic, but the air had gone out. This was new. Even during the worst with Theo, escaping to The Church had been a respite, a place to engage and connect away from the angst of her marriage. That it was devoid of such uplift now didn’t bode well.

  Mostly she was lonely. Besides Karen, who’d once again become her rock, she kept everyone else at a distance. It was all too much and too hard to explain.

  Though still there was Patsy, who remained committed to the goal of reengagement.

  They hadn’t seen each other since their delicate détente. They’d spoken several times in recent weeks, mostly to discuss matters related to the potential new investor, but Patsy was reluctant to invite herself back in and Sidonie wasn’t sure she wanted her there. Yet.

  She did email the good news of the trial. They traded phone messages, but now Sidonie wanted to talk. She didn’t care what it did or didn’t mean. She was relieved when Patsy picked up.

  “Hey, Sid. What’s up?” Her voice was tentative, as it usually was these fragile days.

  “I just realized it’s almost Christmas and I have nothing on my calendar,” Sidonie lamented. “I remember months back thinking how fun this holiday was going to be.”

  “No word from Chris?”

  “Not about coming home.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Sid.”

  “I guess he’ll be spending Christmas at his mom’s.”

  “That sucks. What does it mean, all this staying away?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing good.”

  “You think?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Maybe he’s still dealing with his shell shock and just isn’t ready to deal with yours yet.”

  That seemed astute. “Maybe. I keep hoping that now that he’s got a clean slate, he’ll get happy again, and decide happiness is best served with me by his side.”

  “Give him time. At least the trial’s over. You guys can put that behind you.”

  “Absolutely. That’s the main thing.” Her joy and happiness clearly less main. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

  “Not sure. I’ve been seeing this guy for the last couple of weeks and we talked about some fancy brunch shindig. Not sure I want to get all that civilized, but I’ll be damned if I go down to Urbana. Unless you want to do something . . .” Patsy said hopefully.

  Sidonie reflected on how strange it was that their relationship had reorganized so that Patsy could be dating someone for weeks and have no reason or opportunity to share it with her. Karma.

  “I’ll probably just go over to Karen’s, eat too much catered food. Sarah will sing, Josh will drink. It’ll be loads of fun, though not enough to turn down a fancy brunch.”

  “Probably not.” Patsy laughed. “Listen, let’s both have a nice Christmas no matter what we do, then we’ll ring in the New Year by getting this new deal closed. Chris will come home, and all of us will finally start moving forward with our lives, old acquaintances please be forgot!”

  Sidonie finally smiled. “Sounds good, especially since there’s a few old acquaintances I wouldn’t mind excising.”

  “Frank still being an asshole?”

  “Not an asshole. We just see things differently.”

  “An elegant way of saying ‘asshole.’ Have you found a new sound guy yet, or are you hoping Chris changes his mind now that he’s been freed at last? Wait—was that insensitive?”

  Sidonie felt a twitch, but decided on equanimity. “Borderline. We’ll let it pass. I have no idea if Chris will change his mind, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I’m hoping we can talk about it when he gets home. I haven’t found anyone yet, but I do have some interviews set up.”

  “Oh, speaking of: I wanted to ask if you still have those boxes of photographs I left in your garage a million years ago. Remember those?”

  “I do. I assume I still have them. Why?”

  “I’m going to use some of those old photos for our pitch presentation. They’re all on film so I have to get them scanned. Can I come by and pick them up sometime tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Just text first. I’ll have to find them.”

  “Will do. Now go relax, try to find your positive self again, okay?”

  “I’ll do my very best.”

  “And Sid?” Patsy paused.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for calling. I like that you thought of me.”

  “Me too.”

  Baby steps.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  HE STOOD IN THE DRIVEWAY OF HIS MOTHER’S HOME AND peered down the well-lit street. Even with cars passing and a smattering of nighttime pedestrians, it struck him that he was afraid to take the walk he’d set out to take. It was dark out there and people had strange notions. They saw things and thought things; sometimes they got things wrong. Those simple mistakes could change a man’s life, take a man’s life—irretrievably destroy a man’s life.

  Though he had his own back. He could grasp it and feel it a thing of pulsing possibilities again, freed from the weight of pointed fingers and twisted perceptions about what his face resembled or who he might be. It was his to protect and keep safe; he would never again be so cavalier about it. He was informed now by caution and wariness, by what was and was not necessary.

  Walking down this street, at this time, in this moment, was not necessary.

  When he came back through the foyer, Vanessa, reading in the living room, looked up. “That was quick.”

  “Suddenly felt tired.”

  Her gaze rolled over his face, seeing the lie and knowing why he told it. She’d seen that lie in too many faces. The lie to hide unease, the abdication of free choice. She hoped her brother would recover from its hold sooner than others did.

  “Hey, I’ve got some news,” she said, actively shifting the subject.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m moving back home. We’re going to give it another try.” Her smile radiated, making her briery edges melt in the warmth. He couldn’t help but mirror it.

  “Wow, Ness, that’s excellent! I’m so happy for you guys. What happened?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” He sat on the couch. “How so?”

  She put her book down. “Watching you deal with everything you were going through . . . made me think about Daddy and Jefferson.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He nodded somberly.

  “Then I got thinking about me and Mom . . . Hermes in the mix, feeling how we all click, how our family always takes care of its own. I realized I didn’t want to lose that. Didn’t want to lose him.”

  “You know how I feel about Hermes.”

  “I do. But I had to figure out what to do about me. I’m not wrong to feel righteous in my anger, to use that anger to push me, to fire me up to do the things I do. But at the end of the day, I do want more than that, more than that anger. I can’t lose my kids, and I don’t want to lose my husband. I don’t know if I can find the balance Mom always talks about, but I�
�ve got to try. I’ve got to. So I made the pitch and he threw the doors open. I’m walkin’ through ’em, big brother. Wish me luck.”

  She smiled again and he grabbed her in a bear hug, squeezing so hard she squealed, and they pushed and shoved each other with the silliness they’d often felt as children in this very room. The moment felt nostalgic, rare yet familiar.

  When she finally pulled away and got up to leave, she looked back and said: “And by the way, Sidonie is all right.”

  The poignancy of the statement, at this particular moment, struck him. “Where’d that change of heart come from?”

  “Not so much a change of heart, more a change of perspective. I never didn’t like her. But I don’t know . . . watching her struggle with your shit, in so over her damn head but still treading water like a sailor. I liked that. She’s tougher than she looks. And there was this one night at her house—Hermes and I got into something, and after he left, she sat with me on the deck. Didn’t say much, no judgment, not a lot of bullshit this and that—just kept me company. I liked that too. She’s good people, Chris. Made me want to be less judgmental. I still don’t think she’s right for you, but she’s good people.”

  She was. Yet he was here. At his mother’s.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  FOURTEEN MILES NORTH, WRAPPED IN HER WOOL PEACOAT, a scarf tight around her face to ward off the cold, Sidonie brushed snow from the bench across from the opened garage and sat down. She stared upward and thought, as she always did when she tilted toward the sky, about Jovana Stanton and her poetic words. Yet on a night like this, when she felt so alone in the ancient, humbling universe, Professor Stanton’s cosmic optimism seemed far away.

  Chris wasn’t moving back home; she could feel it. Or maybe she was just scared he wasn’t. She didn’t know. He’d called several times since the trial, four to be exact, chatting each time for fifteen minutes or so. He sounded better—lighter, less coiled—but while she was happy he was finding equilibrium, the sting of his needing distance to do so remained hurtful. He exhibited no urgency to come back to their home . . . or her. She wanted to ask why, but something always stopped her, an innate sense that pushing him would be unwise; that presenting herself as needy would translate as pressure.

  Part of her did feel needy. But that wasn’t the impelling reason for wanting him home. She wanted him home as anyone would want their partner home. She wanted him home as the woman who loved Chris Hawkins, who’d built a life with Chris Hawkins, who’d survived a trauma with Chris Hawkins would want him home. Because she loved him, she missed him, and, yes, she needed him. Simple and logical, she thought. Though, evidently, not so for him.

  Seasonal timing added to her chipping angst. She had hoped they’d celebrate Christmas, her favorite holiday, together, decked in the joy of knowing they’d been unburdened, that everything was open and available to them in the new year to come. She’d imagined kissing him on New Year’s Eve, toasting new chapters of their enduring and deepening relationship, healing in the prescription of love and happiness. That no longer seemed inevitable; in fact, it seemed unlikely.

  He texted an hour earlier suggesting he’d come by in the morning, pointedly emphasizing it was “just a visit.” They’d have breakfast and catch up, he wrote, “see how it feels.” She acquiesced, greedy for more but accepting it as a step in the right direction. She hoped he would be warm and open, exhibiting some semblance of his earnest, adoring self. She hoped they’d get past their awkwardness to make love, to find a way back to that intimate place they’d visited so often and found so connective and empowering. She’d be patient, whatever he offered, but she hoped.

  The wind took a hard buffet past her, sending shivers that refocused her on the task at hand. She’d come down to look for Patsy’s photography boxes. She flipped the light on in the garage to be reminded that a fair amount of space had been co-opted by Chris’s sound equipment. “Damn.” She sighed. This would make finding two relatively small boxes more of a challenge, but with Chris coming by in the morning, she wanted to get it done.

  She pulled out a heavy duffle bag of cords, shoved a large monitor aside, and ferreted through a metal cabinet filled with microphones and stands. Nothing. Patsy’s boxes were likely on the higher shelves. She climbed atop a stool, and with some heft, pushed aside a stack of small black Anvil cases, catching a flash of something pink.

  Pink?

  Incongruous.

  She arched up on her tiptoes and reached back to grab the anomalous object.

  A pink backpack. A girl’s backpack. The checkered material in various shades of pink was adorned with flowers; a small felt owl was clipped to the zipper. It was flattened from being shoved behind the cases, but when she shook it open, she found a stack of spiral binders, a handful of scrunchie hair ties, and a pair of designer sunglasses. There was identifying information on the notebooks: Samantha P— Mrs. Bradshaw—8th Gr. Homeroom.

  A cold shudder crept down her back. Why was this here?

  Sidonie stepped down, the backpack in her hand, and sank to the stool, her mind a babel of competing questions: Why was this here? Why was it hidden behind Chris’s equipment? Who was Samantha P and why would Chris be in possession of her belongings?

  As if an electrical switch flipped on, her body started shaking. Her mouth got so dry she could barely swallow. She stared at the pack and felt dread descend.

  There was no explanation that made sense. None. For some reason Chris had taken and kept this pack, hidden this pack, a pack belonging to a girl in the 8th Grade class. That would make her . . . thirteen.

  Thirteen years old.

  The age of the girl who’d been raped in the building where the police claimed they’d found Chris’s fingerprints.

  A cry of “oh God” escaped her lips before she could stop it. Sidonie was horrified that her mind went there, but that’s exactly where it went. What should she do? She couldn’t put it back; she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t found it. But the last thing she wanted was to stir up more drama, more turmoil, especially after everything they’d all been through.

  She glanced around as if terrified someone might see her, might point a finger and shout, “That’s the child’s backpack, that’s evidence!” She stood still long enough to calm the clamor in her head, to allow less hysterical options to take hold. You don’t know what this means. It may mean nothing. Wait until you have more information.

  Yes. That would be her tack. She’d wait to talk to Chris and certainly he’d have a rational explanation. She went upstairs, threw the backpack on the counter, and sat in the living room, trying to calm herself. What was it Chris always did? Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . breathe in . . . breathe out . . .

  Her eyes popped open. What if she had been tricked? What if he wasn’t who he seemed to be? What if the cops were right when they said she could be mistaken about him?

  As much as she’d resisted giving those insinuations a moment of her time, a perverse thought flashed by and snagged: What if he’d just gotten away with something horrible simply because of absent witnesses and unexpected good luck?

  It was just a flash, so ephemeral it didn’t fully form . . . but long enough to make her gut churn.

  She never did find the photography boxes.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  JOGGING UP THE STEPS OF THE TOWNHOUSE, CHRIS FELT the anticipation of hope. Hope that there would be good coffee and scones from A Taste of Heaven; he missed those. Hope that Sidonie would have reconciled with his need to spend time away, and would be open-armed and conciliatory. Hope that she would smile and press her body against his as she welcomed him home. Hope that they would make today a new starting point.

  What he didn’t anticipate was everything that happened.

  He saw the pink backpack the moment he walked through the door. It was propped on the living room chair like an exhibit, with Sidonie seated across from it with eyes swollen, her face a mask of suspicion. He had no idea what narrative he’d just entered, but h
e could see it was fraught.

  “Where did you find that? I forgot all about it.”

  “You’re not going to deny you have it?”

  He looked at her, puzzled. “No, why would I? Where was it?”

  “In the garage, crammed behind all your stuff, way back in the corner of one of the high shelves. Clearly I wasn’t meant to find it, though I don’t know why you’d leave it there if that was true.” The monotone of her voice was chilling.

  “Because it’s not true.” Intent on getting through this minefield without detonation, he kept his voice modulated. “But I did completely forget about it in the craziness of the last few months. I found it at a bus stop on one of my walks and threw it in the back of the Jeep when I got home. My plan was to leave it at the club. I called the number, but never heard back, and then I just forgot about it.”

  “What number?”

  “There was some ID card thing, like a luggage tag. It was clipped to the handle. I took it off, had it in my pocket when I got to the club, so I called from there. Talked to some kid, said I’d found the pack. I planned to leave it with Al behind the bar, then everything blew up and I just forgot about it.”

  “If you called, why didn’t anyone come and get it?”

  “I don’t know. Clearly it wasn’t that valuable to them.”

  “Where is that number now?”

  “I have no idea, Sidonie. This was a long time ago and it was not a priority for me, at all, certainly not with everything else going on.”

  She felt a shift in her mental posture, but was compelled to continue. “Okay, so you called and left a message but somehow the pack ended up in my garage stuffed as far behind a stack of Anvil cases as it could possibly get. Why does that seem strange to me?”

  “I don’t know . . . there’s nothing strange about it. It was in the back of the Jeep. Stuff got thrown on top of it. At some point, I had to clear out the Jeep to haul a bunch of equipment to an Alchemy gig, so I shoved whatever was in there anyplace I could find in the garage. There was room on those top shelves. Obviously I threw the pack up there at the same time. Why am I explaining this like I’m a suspect or something?”