A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m home an hour later after a stop at the Cedar Heights Village Hall to charge the tax arrears and penalties to my credit card. We’re on track to be pretty much broke in another month—maybe two if we’re lucky. Thankfully, there’s the possibility of a job on the horizon. Gavin Townsend is optimistic, so I’ve allowed myself to get my hopes up a bit. Even that little pinch of optimism vanishes when I recall the painful image of Pat’s perplexed face disappearing behind the Daley Center elevator doors. My angry outburst about Amy’s story was out of proportion; I was hurt as much as I was angry. The thought of having a friend had been comforting.

  A late lunch of leftover stir-fry is in the microwave; an empty afternoon and evening yawn in front of me. A lazy afternoon puttering around the house and yard in the undemanding company of Deano promises some welcome downtime. I’ll hang out with Brittany after school. Given her fondness for animals, maybe a jaunt to the Lincoln Park Zoo? With any luck, the world will look brighter by bedtime.

  Then the telephone rings.

  “This is Mrs. O’Connor from St. Aloysius School. Is this Anthony Valenti?”

  I think back to registering Brittany and recall Mrs. O’Connor as a pleasant middle-aged woman in a frumpy dress. “It is.”

  “Is Brittany at home?”

  “No, she’s at school. Isn’t she?”

  “There was an incident between Brittany and her English teacher at the start of fourth period,” O’Connor says. “Brittany was asked to report to the office. She seems to have left the school instead. We’re looking for her now.”

  I snatch my keys off the counter. “How long ago was this?”

  “No more than twenty minutes.”

  The front door crashes open and footsteps thunder through the living room, solving the mystery of the missing Brittany. Her bedroom door slams shut.

  “She just walked in.”

  “Thank the Lord!” Mrs. O’Connor exclaims before she speaks to someone in the background.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I ask.

  “Just a moment,” she replies. I rock impatiently from foot to foot while I wait, anxious to get off the phone and see what’s up with my daughter. Mrs. O’Connor finally comes back on the line seconds before I hang up. “Father Ramone would like to see both of you.”

  “When?”

  A brief consultation at the other end of the line ends with, “This afternoon?”

  “Let me talk to Brittany first. We’ll be down afterward.”

  “I don’t want to talk!” Brittany howls in response to my rap on her door. I push it open anyway. She’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of her unmade bed. The haunted face looking back at me suggests the hounds of hell have come for her.

  “The school called. What’s going on?”

  “I hate that place!”

  “What happened?” My question is met with stony silence. “We’re going back to speak with Father Ramone. Do you”

  “I’m not going back!” she explodes.

  I pluck her sneakers off the floor and toss them to her. “This isn’t debatable. We are going back. Are you going to tell me what happened or let Father Ramone explain?”

  She yanks on her shoes in a fit of temper and drags herself off the bed. “Who cares? He’ll just take her side anyway.”

  “I’d like to hear your version.”

  She shrugs and pushes past me with a look that could melt a glacier. Car keys in hand, I follow her out of the house. She doesn’t say a word until we pull into the school parking lot, then turns on me. “I called her a miserable old bitch and told her to get out of my face.”

  I twist the key in the ignition to kill the engine. “You what?”

  “You heard me,” she snaps while hopping out of the vehicle.

  “I did but I don’t believe it,” I mutter as I scramble out after her.

  “Believe it.” She spins away and slams the car door before stomping inside.

  Father Ramone, swathed in the robes of his vocation, is waiting for us. A puff of Old Spice aftershave tickles my nose when he glides forward to fold his soft hands around mine. “Thank you for coming.” The priest’s cocoa-colored eyes, buried deep within the fleshy folds of a clean-shaven face, shift to study Brittany, who stands rigidly with her eyes fixed on the floor. “Your disappearance upset everyone. Thankfully, by the grace of God, our prayers for your safe return were answered.”

  Given that Brittany came straight home, the melodrama seems overdone.

  The priest steps aside and waves us into his office. “Come, let us talk.”

  We settle on a chrome-framed vinyl couch that would be right at home in a Goodwill store. The only items breaking the monotony of the off-white walls are a graphic crucifix flanked by a full color portrait of the Pope. The priest rolls a ratty office chair from behind his desk and parks it in front of the couch, then leans forward to cover Brittany’s hand with his. She stiffens at the touch but doesn’t move her hand or look at him.

  “Brittany told me what happened,” I say when Ramone looks at me. “I’d like to know why.”

  Father Ramone settles back in his seat with a heavy sigh and turns his gaze on Brittany. “Did you tell your father exactly what you said to Mrs. Griffin?”

  Brittany’s eyes remain glued to the floor. “Yeah, I called the old cow a bitch.”

  “You know better than to swear at teachers!” I snap.

  The initial shock that registers in her eyes when she looks up quickly mutates to fury and a wordless accusation of betrayal. “Are we done now?”

  “No, we’re not,” I retort. “Tell us what Mrs. Griffin did to you.”

  Brittany replies with barely suppressed rage, “One of the kids told me that Griffin’s brother is a cop. She glares at me through every class. She talks to me like I’m garbage. It’s bad enough I have to deal with crap from kids—do I have to put up with it from my teachers, too?”

  “I know this is a difficult time for you but none of our St. Aloysius family would mistreat you,” Ramone says solicitously.

  “I’m no part of your precious family,” Brittany fumes. “Your family hasn’t wanted me here since the day I showed up.”

  The degree of hostility and pain in my daughter stuns me. Pat’s caution that things at school were bad rings in my ears, a warning I failed to heed. Who knows how different things might be today—on a number of fronts—if her father talked less and listened more?

  “Ever since Papa shot that cop,” Brittany continues, “I’ve had kids taunting me—cop-killer this, cop-killer that. I’m sick of it!”

  Father Ramone turns to me. “St. Aloysius draws students from the working class, many of whom are the families of police officers and firefighters. What happened is their worst fear. When kids are scared, they act out to express their fears and anger.”

  “O’Reilly’s son goes to school here, doesn’t he?” I ask.

  Ramone nods.

  “You know he’s threatened my daughter?”

  “He’s angry and confused about the death of his father,” he replies with an almost imperceptible shrug. “He may act out on occasion.”

  “Act out? A delinquent threatening someone isn’t the same as a toddler throwing a tantrum, Father. What have you done to punish him and to protect Brittany?”

  “I believe it is best to allow children to express their anger,” Ramone replies calmly. “We do not believe it is being directed at Brittany.”

  “Who do you think it’s directed at?”

  He doesn’t reply. Mindful of my admonition to Brittany about profanity, I bite back my suggestion that the good Father pull his head out of his ass. “It didn’t occur to anyone to monitor the situation?”

  “We must consider the welfare of the child.”

  “I wish you’d said each and every child, Father,” I reply icily.

  “I will ask the staff to watch more closely upon Brittany’s return.”

  “So, she’s being suspended,�
� I say. No surprise there, I suppose. “For how long?”

  Brittany looks from Ramone to me. “Nobody cares what Mrs. Griffin did to me?”

  “She did nothing to you,” Ramone says with finality.

  Realizing that prolonging this is pointless, I get to my feet. “We’ve all spoken our piece now, Father. We’ll be on our way.”

  The priest rises and extends his hand. “That might be best.”

  “When can Brittany return to school?”

  He ponders the question for a moment. “One week from Monday.”

  The Porsche is silent all the way home. Brittany simmers in the passenger seat while I’m lost in thoughts of where I’ve gone wrong as a parent.

  “I’m not going back to that dump,” she announces as soon as we walk into the house.

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, we won’t ‘see,’ Dad. St. Aloysius is history.”

  “We can’t afford private school right now.”

  “So? Send me to a public school!”

  “Not in Chicago, honey. You’ve seen them. No way.”

  “Another Catholic school then.”

  “St. Aloysius is the high school for this parish. It’s that or nothing.”

  “Then it’s private school or no school. I’m not going back to that shithole.”

  “Maybe we can swing something once I’m working.”

  Brittany goes ballistic. “Then get a damned job already!”

  I bite my tongue as shame overwhelms my initial burst of anger.

  “Maybe I need to talk to Pat,” she says. “Someone who understands me.”

  “Pat’s out of the picture.”

  “What?”

  “We had an argument.”

  “About what?”

  “She wants to write about how Amy died.”

  “So?”

  “What if that’s the only reason she looked me up?”

  Brittany’s voice edges toward hysteria. “Jesus, Dad. She’s the only friend I have in this shitty city!”

  I shrug helplessly. Her words and the realization of how true they are cut deep, but not as deep as her follow-up explosion.

  “Sometimes I hate you!” she screams with her face contorted in fury.

  She marches straight to her room and I head for mine, snagging the cordless phone as I go. Whether she wishes to acknowledge it or not, Michelle is still Brittany’s mother and she can damn well pitch in. While the line rings in Brussels, I decide that I’ll beg for money if I have to—whatever it takes to get our girl into a private school.

  Michelle picks up after three rings. “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  A pause. “Do you know what time it is here?”

  “No.” Four thousand miles, several time zones, and an ocean of acrimony separate us.

  “I’m trying to have dinner,” she announces, as if I’m a telemarketer calling at an inopportune moment. “Did I give you this number?”

  “Brittany has it.” I’d asked her for it after being told not to call Michelle at work.

  “What do you want?” she asks impatiently.

  I fill her in on the afternoon’s events.

  “What’s going on there? She told me there was an altercation with another student a week or two ago.”

  “That was just kid shit.” Does Brittany talk to everyone but me?

  “I’m glad you’re taking it all in stride,” Michelle snaps. “This whole idea of running home to Chicago isn’t working out very well for Brittany though, is it?”

  I’m in no mood for Michelle’s scolding or cheap shots. “She won’t go back to St. Aloysius. We need to get her into a private school.”

  “We? You’ve found a job then?”

  “Not yet,” I admit while holding my phone in a death grip.

  “Then how do you plan to pay for private schooling?”

  “Her mother works.”

  Michelle’s tone turns frigid. “I will not support you, Tony.”

  “I’m not asking you to support me. I’m asking you to help with your daughter’s goddamned education. Is that unreasonable?”

  “How much will you be contributing?”

  “Once I’m back on my feet I’ll pay for it all myself. Right now, we need some help.”

  “Hopefully you’ll find a job soon. Until then, we’d best consider Brittany’s options. Let me talk to her.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. I’d like to speak with my daughter,” she replies in her “I will brook no argument” voice.

  “What about school? We haven’t made a decision.”

  A long-suffering sigh crosses the Atlantic. “Let me speak with Brittany first.”

  “Damn it, Michelle—”

  “Now, Tony.”

  “Hang on.” After tossing the phone onto the middle of the bed, I set out for Brittany’s room. I have to pound on her door to be heard over the music blaring inside. The volume dips but she says nothing.

  “Your mother’s on the phone.”

  The door swings open immediately. The smile on her face, coupled with the light shining in her eyes, are like a knife to the heart when she excitedly asks, “Mom’s on the phone?”

  “That’s what I said,” I reply dejectedly.

  She stares at my empty hands. “Where’s the phone?”

  “On my bed,” I reply with a wave down the hall.

  She’s gone before I take my next breath. I follow Brittany back to my room and lean on the doorframe to listen to her end of the conversation.

  “I’m sorry about swearing, Mom, but these people are sooo nasty… all of them—the kids, the teachers, even the priest. They act like I shot the stupid cop.”

  The anguish in Brittany’s voice almost brings me to tears.

  Her face lights up as she listens to her mother’s response. “Really? Can I do that? When?”

  I start to worry.

  “Too cool!” she exclaims before asking, “What about school?”

  They can’t be discussing what I think they are. I step across the room and hold my hand out. “Give me the phone for a minute, honey.”

  She ignores me. “You’ve got room?”

  “I said give me the phone, Britts.”

  After she turns away, I snatch the phone out of her hand. “What the hell are you up to, Michelle?”

  “She’ll be better off here with me.”

  I bite off my angry reply and take a deep breath. Brittany hasn’t exactly been putting up an argument. If I’m honest with myself, the school troubles and the O’Reilly kid lurking have left me a little on edge. Maybe a break from Cedar Heights isn’t such a bad idea. “What are you thinking?” I ask. “How long?”

  “As long as it takes her to get over this.”

  “A week or two away probably wouldn’t hurt. Give me a few days to think about this and kick it around with her.”

  “Two days, Tony. Call me back in two days.”

  Brittany is staring at me, her expression suspended between residual anger and excitement about escaping Cedar Heights. My heart sinks at the prospect of losing my daughter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I arrive at the Cook County Jail almost two weeks later to visit Papa in an attorney-client conference room. After a drawn-out battle, Mike has persuaded his office to list me on the defense team roster at the jail. He assures me this will be a huge improvement from seeing Papa in the public visiting pens. Despite this welcome development, I’ve been bitchy all morning. Taking the dog out for his morning walk and finding all four of your $600 tires slashed wide open can set you on the road to bitchy in a hurry. This kind of crap didn’t used to happen on Liberty Street.

  A bored jail guard sitting behind a glass partition glances up and asks how he can help me, managing to do so without conveying the slightest interest in being of assistance.

  “Tony Valenti. I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Francesco Valenti.”

  He taps on a computer keyboard before issuing a little gru
nt, then points at a clipboard sitting on the counter on my side of the glass. “Sign in.”

  I record my name and the time.

  He reads it and frowns. “Got some ID?”

  I hold out my brand-new Illinois driver’s license.

  He studies it and grunts again, then picks up a phone and punches in a couple of numbers.

  “Taylor at security. I’ve got a Tony Valenti here to see the cop-killer in an attorney room at eleven.” He shoots a pointed glance at his watch and cuts his eyes to me after he hangs up. “Cuttin’ it close, pal. Don’t make a habit of it.”

  Screw you, pal. See how punctual you are when someone slashes your tires.

  The guard fishes a visitor card out of a drawer and records the number beside my name in the visitor log before he drops it into a slot that he spins around to face me. “Wear that around your neck at all times.”

  I slip the lanyard over my head while a buzzer signals that he’s unlocked the door.

  “You hear me?” he asks as I enter. “Wear it at all times.”

  I nod. May a thousand piranha devour your testicles in the bathtub, big guy.

  I head inside. Seeing Papa wasting away through a sheet of Plexiglas hasn’t prepared me for the physical shock of embracing his emaciated body. The birdlike grasp of his fingers clinging to my shoulders startles me. His once-powerful hands had unwittingly left me squirming in discomfort many a time when we horsed around during my childhood.

  He finds his voice first. “Is good to visit here. This room is much better.”

  “It certainly is.” I make a mental note to thank Mike Williams once again.

  Papa nods toward the door. “Williams, he say I should no talk out there.”

  “He’s right.” The guards are trained to hover and eavesdrop on the detainees in the public visiting areas. Anything damaging they “happen” to hear is admissible at trial—yet another thing about criminal law I’ve either forgotten or never knew. The list of such revelations is uncomfortably long.

  Papa sinks into a chair and props his elbows on the table. Anguish seeps from every pore. I slide onto a chair and cover his hand with mine. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk now, Papa.”