The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  She moved to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, roiled in the contradiction of what she was feeling. Clearly he hadn’t yet made the connection to what those feelings were . . . or was pretending not to.

  Chris observed her with alarm. “What is going on, Sidonie? I’m lost.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What does that mean? You think I’m lying to you?” His voice ratcheted up. “Why would I lie about this? What possible reason would I have to lie about some kid’s backpack?”

  She took a pause before responding, and in that moment, as if light suddenly dispelled the murk of this conversation, he was hit with it: the lethal thing she was hinting at.

  “Wait, you think this pack belongs to that kid? The one from the nonexistent fingerprints? Are you fucking kidding me, Sidonie?” His arm swung through the air and the water glass on the counter flew across the kitchen, shattering against the wall.

  It was a shocking moment. She’d never seen him display any physical rage, and it scared her, particularly in this freighted circumstance. “Chris, you need to—”

  “I need to what? What, Sidonie? Accept that my girlfriend—my fucking girlfriend—thinks I raped a thirteen-year-old girl and then kept her backpack as—what? A trophy? What kind of monster do you think I am?”

  “I don’t . . . it was . . .” She stumbled for words she couldn’t find, his rage disorienting her.

  “If you honestly think any part of me could do that, could be that, then everything we had, everything we shared, was utter bullshit. After what I’ve been through, after what you’ve been through, how can that be where you went with this? How can you not know me well enough to know that could never be me?”

  The profound and unfathomable weight of that statement hit her.

  “But I do know that!” she cried out. Which was true. Because in the illumination of morning, it was insane, really, how utterly implausible the scenario was. But she’d spent an interminable night wallowing in unimaginable imaginings, and it was hard to make the pivot quickly enough. “Chris. Listen. Of course I don’t think you raped anyone. I could never think that about you! I just found this girl’s backpack and it seemed odd that—”

  “No! Just stop!” He refused even one second of her equivocation. Too much had transpired, too much had been endured to reconcile her capitulation, however temporary. It was a tipping point.

  And she knew it. She’d crossed a line, probably irrevocably. Panicked, she moved toward him. “Chris, I’m sorry. I don’t know why any part of me went there. It was just a fleeting, weird, terrified moment when I—”

  He held up his hands as if to ward her off. “No. I’m done. I’m done.”

  His voice had a dreadful stillness to it. Then he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. She screamed as clots of bloodied plaster splattered across the counter. When, startled by his own impulse, he stopped and turned back to her, the fear in her eyes froze him. Enraged him.

  “I’m not going to hit you. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but I guess if you thought I could rape a child, you have no idea who I am.” The darkness of his expression shook her to the core. He turned and stormed out the front door, slamming it hard behind him.

  Sidonie’s phone immediately rang. Alice. She didn’t want to pick up, but knew there was no choice.

  “Sidonie, are you all right? My God, I didn’t know what was going on! I heard all this yelling and wanted to be sure you were okay.”

  “I’m okay. Chris and I had a big fight, but I’m okay. I think we’re both just really fried from everything, but it’ll be fine. Thanks for checking.”

  “No problem. And I promise I wasn’t being nosy. I just wanted to check in before Sandra called the fucking police.”

  As the assuaged Alice hung up, Sidonie flashed on the horror of that possibility. The idea of police showing up at her door right now, in this moment, was intolerable. She quickly pulled up Sandra’s number and called. It rang and rang; she hung up before it went to voice mail, not caring what Sandra might guess was behind the missed call.

  As she took in the plaster and glass strewn everywhere, it struck her that nothing in this house was more shattered than her heart.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  CHRISTMAS WAS FUNEREAL. THERE WAS A SLEETY BUMPER-to-bumper drive to Karen’s, an uninspired gift exchange, followed by an obligatory call to their father—brief, generic, and bereft of real feeling. Thankfully, Marian and Steve were on a Christmas cruise to the Caribbean, though they did send an awkward reggae-themed text and photo.

  Since it was just the four of them (Patsy ultimately chose the fancy brunch shindig with the mystery boyfriend), Karen, Josh, Sarah, and Sidonie took a town car to a five-star restaurant downtown, which provided a requisitely festive, delicious, and very expensive Christmas dinner. Table conversation centered largely on Sarah’s upcoming spring break trip to upstate New York where she’d be interning at a farm co-op. No one asked about Chris.

  After the driver dropped them back at Karen’s, Sidonie decided to forego Josh’s traditional après-dinner mulled wine. With snow now falling in earnest, and ice making the traversal of streets and sidewalks a challenge, it seemed wise to start the trek home. As Karen walked her carefully to her car, a quick slip almost brought Sidonie to her knees.

  “Goddammit!” she snapped. “Have I told you how much I hate winter?”

  “Yes,” Karen responded dryly. “Every December through March.” When she looked over at her sister, she saw authentic angst. “I know Christmas was awful for you, but times will get better, sissy, I promise. Chris will come around.”

  “I don’t think so. I pretty much made sure that won’t happen.”

  Karen frowned. “Why? What did you do?”

  Sidonie looked up, squinting to keep the snow from getting past her eyelashes. “I refuse to obliterate whatever semblance of holiday cheer we’ve managed by getting into all that right now. But I do have a favor to ask—a really big favor, actually.” The plaintiveness of her voice stirred Karen’s reflexive protectiveness.

  “What can I do? Tell me.”

  “Can you get any information on the fingerprints they brought up during Chris’s case? Find out if they actually exist, if they were really connected to a rape case with a thirteen-year-old girl, or if they ever caught anybody . . . even what the girl’s name is?”

  Karen was taken aback. “Wow. That’s some to-do list! And what’s this about? The case is over.” She suddenly frowned. “Did someone come at you guys with something else?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just feel like we’re—like Chris is—still vulnerable to suspicion if that’s not cleared up.” The knot of guilt in her stomach turned. “I want to be absolutely sure nothing could come at us—ever again.” That sounded plausible enough to preempt further explanation. It also deflected from her own shame and anxiety on the topic.

  Karen remained unconvinced. “I’m not sure what that means or what could come at you, but, first off, it was sexual assault of a minor, so the girl’s name is off limits. Secondly, the justice system is notoriously slow during the holidays, so not sure what can get done before the new year. But I’ll check with my pal at the DA’s office, see if there are any details she could share.”

  “Thanks . . . whatever you can do.” She smiled wanly, hoping to cover what had now become a chronic state of panic. She looked around at the swirling, billowing snow. “Wow. A white Christmas.”

  Karen put an arm around her and pulled tight.

  EIGHTY

  THERE WAS NO WOUND BECAUSE HE WOULDN’T LET HIMSELF bleed. There was no heartache because love and its tender ingredients were buried too deep for access. Chris immersed himself in work, and let that be the needy child of his attention.

  Sound Alchemy, once again his sole focus, had sprouted branches of opportunity while he was managing both jobs, and his goal was to take full advantage, to build his company and the protective shield of its success. I
t felt good, like working a muscle that had atrophied; the demand on his time and energy offered distraction from thoughts of Sidonie.

  But still he thought of her, as if his mind refused to cooperate with her banishment. He’d notice someone in passing who reminded him of her. He’d hear a song they’d sung together and sweet memories would flash. He’d lie in his childhood bed and long for her, dream of her touch; imagine her mouth on his, the lushness of her body.

  Then he’d remember her face the day she confronted him. The revelation of what she’d allowed herself to believe, even for a moment. It was a betrayal neither of them could transcend, that he knew.

  Which meant the plates shifted once again as a new formation of life took hold. A new living situation, new job scenario; the old, familiar sting of loneliness. It was an arduous process, this cyclical realignment, making Jordan’s dismissal of him as a romantic dysfunctional seem not all that misguided.

  He was onstage at the Kennicott Park field house setting up for a small wedding when Hadi Bashir, one of his best guys who often joined The Church team when additional personnel were needed, approached.

  “Hey, Chris, wanted to check with you about something, make sure I wasn’t stepping out of line.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You know they’ve been interviewing people over at The Church to replace you, right? It’s my understanding you quit the job, they didn’t fire you. Is that a fact?”

  “Yeah. It was my decision. Why?”

  “Cool. I have too much respect to put my name in the mix if they fired you, but if it was your call, and it wouldn’t be a problem between us, I was thinking of checking it out. I love this gig, man, but I got a little boy coming and I gotta get a full-time thing, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sure, but don’t we keep you pretty busy?”

  “You do, but not every week, and I think it would be better for my family if I was settled in something regular. We don’t live too far from Old Town, so my wife would be real happy if I got located somewhere easy.”

  “I get it. And hey, it’s a good gig, they’re a good group of people, so if it’s something you want, go for it. I got no problem with that. Thanks for asking.”

  Hadi grabbed him in a handshake. “Absolutely, man. And I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna get it, so don’t write me off too soon!” He laughed nervously.

  “You got a gig here as long as you want.”

  Hadi jumped down and crossed the room toward the door. Chris watched him go, thinking it was ironic: feeling jealous of the man looking to take the job, and work for the woman, he’d just forsaken.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  SOUND PEOPLE IN CHICAGO WERE QUITE THE CONFEDERATION. Almost everyone Sidonie interviewed either knew or had worked for Chris, expressed professional awe of Hermes, or was on a friendship basis with Jasper. Even the women she interviewed came with one or more of those connections and, as with any artistic community, there was a cultish sense of loyalty and camaraderie amongst them. Hiring one was difficult, however, because none stood out quite like Chris.

  As she sat in her office mulling the list of candidates, a text came in; Frank wanted to see her in his office. Odd; whenever she got those texts now, her heart sank. She headed over.

  “Hey, kiddo, have they got the New Year’s decorations down yet?” One of Frank’s quirks, which she used to find endearing, was outdated holiday flair.

  “Yes, all down, packed away until next year.”

  “Good girl! What’s the latest on the search? Have you locked in on anybody yet?” Frank had reverted to his more congenial self since Chris left, and while relieved to be on his better side, Sidonie resented the reason.

  “I have two people coming in for second interviews: Hadi Bashir, who worked here when we needed additional staff, very good, knows the room—”

  “One of Chris’s guys, right?”

  “Yes, one of Chris’s guys, and this amazing woman, Natalie Herrera, who ran the boards at Second City for years. Both good, both great choices, and nice to pull in some diversity either way we go.”

  “That’s fine. I have an idea I want to run by you as well, and I need you to keep a very open mind. As ideas go, it’s a bit of an outlier.”

  “Oh, brother.” She sat down and sighed deeply. “Does one of your kids want to follow in Daddy’s footsteps?” she teased.

  “I can’t decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.” He laughed. “And no! But listen, Sid, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and it’s time we discussed it.”

  “The lead-up is scaring me.”

  “Troy.”

  “What?”

  “Troy. He and I have been in conversation over the last couple of months. He’s been clean and sober since you last saw him—what’s that now, seven, eight months? He’s ready to do whatever needs doin’ to fix things between the two of you and—”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Okay. What exactly does that mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. I will not work with Troy. Ever. I’m glad he’s clean and sober, I wish him well, but I won’t put the club, or myself, at the mercy of someone who can get stupid and violent and then write it off to his personal problems.”

  “I get it, I get it—”

  “I don’t think you do, Frank, or you wouldn’t be suggesting it.”

  He sat back. The shadow that crossed his eyes reminded Sidonie of when they’d discussed Chris. It was portentous and unyielding, and she didn’t like its implication.

  “Let me remind you, Sidonie, this is a democratic search for a new sound manager, not a fiat from your department. I believe I get some say in this.” There was sarcasm in his tone; she noticed it only because he rarely went there.

  “First of all,” she retorted, “I don’t understand why you’d drop this on me now, after I’ve spent weeks meeting with people and zeroing in on two excellent candidates. If you were just going to overrule me with this idea, why did I bother putting in the time?”

  “I’m not overruling anything. I wanted to give it ample consideration before I brought it to you. Do you think I’d put the club at risk if I didn’t think Troy was ready to come back? I’ve spent a lot of time discussing the situation with him, laying out the boundaries, and he gets it. He’s humbled and ready to start at the bottom to rebuild his position here.”

  “He doesn’t have a position here.” The idea that Frank had been discussing this with Troy behind her back infuriated her but she kept that in check for the moment.

  “If you can put aside your rancor for two minutes, you might realize this will make things easier for you. There’s no learning curve. He knows Jasper, he had a decent rapport with the staff, and we can start him off at a lower salary, let him prove himself again, let him work to get back to where he was. Seems win-win to me.”

  She stood up, suppressing every thought and feeling perched at the edge of her psyche. “I’ve made clear how I feel, Frank. If this is a top-down decision and I have no say, you let me know. If I do have a say, I will give it the serious thought you’re requesting. But I do need to go right now.”

  “It’s certainly not a top-down decision, and I do want your input, so please do me that favor. Let’s plan to revisit this and make a decision by the end of the week, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  She fled from the room and found herself in the dusty confines of the little sound office behind the stage. She’d frequently availed herself of its privacy on days when Church life was particularly trying. When Chris was around, it had made a seductive stop for their occasional and passionate rendezvous. Sitting there now, with the door shut and the light dim, she wanted to turn the lock and never come out.

  Her life was stuck. In every way.

  Efforts to get the latest investor meeting set up had been stymied by holiday schedules, and now Patsy was out of town on some prestigious cooking show in Los Angeles. Karen’s attempt to dig up further information on the fingerprints had been fruit
less, inspiring the cliché, “It’s sometimes best to let sleeping dogs lie,” but Sidonie had already decided it was a fool’s errand.

  And Chris . . . he’d come back to the townhouse when she was at work the Wednesday after their fracas. His left his closet empty and the holes in the wall plastered and sanded. A paint can and brush were left on the counter with a note: “The plaster needs to fully dry. I can either come by later to finish up, or you can do it yourself. Text me and let me know what you’d prefer. CH.” The impersonal nature of the note slayed her. Even the air in the house felt different, as if his energy, his life force, had truly left the building. She’d cried most of that night . . . and many thereafter.

  Yet here in this musty little room, the floor cluttered with remnants of past events, the worn black walls a testament to years of sweaty men leaving notes and putting out cigarettes, she could find him . . . feel him. The air still held his breath, and, like fossils from another era, each item left behind told of his erstwhile presence: a napkin with “phantom power, channel two” in his handwriting tacked to the board, the dirty coffee cup he always used, an Excel sheet of Sound Alchemy gigs from previous months. She felt like she was peering over a gravesite, and her heart broke for the two millionth time.

  Al’s voice could be heard in distant conversation with Frank, likely out on the dance floor, and she did not want to exit this cocoon until they were gone. She swirled around in the chair, absently sifting through old magazines and stacks of paper. She pulled open the drawer on her right to find a staple gun, a canister of paper clips, and a baggie of Velcro cord ties. The drawer to the left held a pack of empty manila folders, bent and brown with age—she thought about how someone was going to have to clean up all of this for the next manager. The middle drawer revealed a Miles Davis CD, a pack of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum, and—as she shoved aside a stack of random schematic charts—pink.