by Mary Leo
We waited.
No movement.
“Ask him another question,” I ordered.
“Ronald, are you there?”
We waited. Lisa asked again. Finally, the bottle cap started moving in no particular direction. She repeated her question.
Circular moves, nothing specific.
“Are you some other spirit?”
The cap shot up to YES. Sharon and I freaked and jumped away from the board.
Lisa said, “Get back here. You’re going to ruin it.”
We obeyed her order.
“Who are you?” Sharon asked.
The cap spelled out Y-O-U-R F-R-I-E-N-D.
She kept on asking it to give us a name, but it wouldn’t. Finally she gave up and wanted to know about the sailor.
“Is the sailor German?”
Y-E-S
“Does he know the Beatles?”
Y-E-S
“Should we give our love letters to him?”
The cap hesitated, as if it were being pulled in many different directions.
“Are you pressing down on the cap?” I asked Lisa who seemed too intent on the bottle cap. I pulled away from the board. “I think you’re moving it on purpose. Are you?”
“No. Stop talking and concentrate. You’re gonna break the mood.”
I put my finger back on the cap and we all waited.
Then: F-I-N-D T-H-E S-A-I-L-O-R
Sharon pulled her hand away from the board. “See,” she said. “The spirit wants us to find the sailor. Now we have to find Wolf and give him our letters. The spirit said so.”
“It just told us to find the sailor. It didn’t tell us to give him our letters,” Lisa argued.
“Oh Lisa, do you have to have every little detail spelled out for you? He said he was our friend.”
“We don’t know that. This spirit could be the devil. I don’t know if I like this whole thing,” Lisa countered.
“What do you mean? What about the German ship? We asked for a sign and we got it. The ship was a sign from God. We all agreed.” I was getting mad. Lisa was backing out of our plans.
The three of us argued like that until Lisa decided to go look for the sailor herself and ask him straight out if he knew the Beatles. When we followed her out of the tent it was around ten-thirty.
We didn’t tell Sharon’s mother that we were leaving the backyard—she wouldn’t have let us go out that late—so Sharon stacked up as many 45s as she could and assumed her mother wouldn’t check on us as long as the music held out. We figured we had about an hour or so. I rigged up some pillows so that the shadows looked like we were sitting inside the tent, and Lisa led us out of the yard without anyone being the wiser.
We three were very clever at getting in and out of places without any adult ever catching us. We did it all the time at McCormick Place—knew the Aerie Crown Theater like our own home. Just last April when Peter and Gordon performed there, we sneaked backstage after the show to get autographs. If it wasn’t for Ringo, I’d marry Peter Asher any day. He’s so fine. That night, we stayed at the Sheraton Hotel and met some of The Raiders in the lobby. Sharon kissed Keith Allison, but she’d kissed a boy before so she wasn’t afraid. Sharon’s older sister had been our chaperone, along with their cousin, Beth. They stayed up in the room mostly and let us roam the hotel. Very cool chaperones.
“Do you think Wolf’s in one of the taverns?” Lisa asked once we were clear of the house. It was really dark out, only a sliver of a moon.
“We could go inside and see,” I answered,
“Yeah, but the bartender will kick us out,” Sharon said.
“Not if we say that we’re looking for my dad,” Lisa argued.
“But what if your dad is in one of the taverns. Won’t he be mad if we’re outside this late?” I asked knowing perfectly well that her father probably was in one of the local taverns and he would be furious with all of us and make her go home.
“You’re right, but we can peek in the windows at least.”
And that’s what we did, for almost two hours. We walked around the neighborhood peeking into tavern windows and telling each other our Beatles stories.
The neighborhood looked eerie at night. It took on a different personality, a different tone. Ominous, especially when U.S. Steel poured slag and the sky lit up like a ball of fire. It was the dirty, old part of South Chicago that didn’t really fit in anywhere. Commercial Avenue wasn’t part of the East Side, nor part of the South Side. Whenever I’d tell someone where I lived they’d get a weird look on their face as if it wasn’t even on a map.
The place had a sort of gray look to it. Mom said it was from all the soot that came pouring out of the smoke stacks from the surrounding steel mills. Most of the men worked in the mills and after a while they developed some sort of lung problem, but the money was good so they kept right on working.
There were no front lawns and very few trees. The houses were mostly two-story apartment buildings with brown brick-like siding. One family would live upstairs and another downstairs or a family would live over their own storefront. Some older storefronts were now converted apartments, with blinds covering the glass windows that used to show off baked goods, groceries or the latest Maytag washers. There were a few catholic churches, rectories for the priests to live in, and a convent for the nuns who taught at Saint Patrick’s, which was the only nearby grammar school. Serbian Hall was the place to hold a wedding reception. We had a shoemaker—who was also the local bookie—a few independent grocery stores, a restaurant or two and a tavern on every corner. It was the taverns that we were most interested in.
“Here comes a cop,” Lisa said and we all ducked into a gangway until he passed. Gangways were scary places. They were the passageways between two buildings and dark as slate at night. I hated them.
“Is he gone yet?” I whined, worried that he could be a friend of my father’s, and terrified about being stuck at the back of the gangway.
“Yeah,” Lisa said and slowly walked out. I leaped ahead, pushing them out of my way.
There was a tavern not ten feet from where we stood. We peeked inside the front windows but couldn’t see anything. A young man came out. At first glance I thought he was our sailor until his face caught the lights of a passing car. He was just a guy from the neighborhood, a greaser type, wearing a leather jacket with his hair combed back in a D.A.
“What’re you girls doing out so late? You could get into a lot of trouble out here alone,” he said.
“We’re looking for somebody. Maybe you’ve seen him,” Sharon said and walked right up to him, as bold as could be. He looked her over from top to bottom. I hid behind Lisa.
“Oh yeah? Who?” His eyes lingered on Sharon’s breasts. She pushed them out and twirled her hair with her fingers.
“A sailor. He’s tall, with a German accent. Has sandy-colored hair and a tattoo on his right arm.”
“Every sailor I ever met got a tattoo on his arm. What’s his name?”
“We don’t know that for sure. We think it’s Wolf,” Lisa said.
“Well I ain’t heard of no Wolf comin’ in here tonight. But I’m here. I’ll be your Wolf tonight.”
Sharon giggled.
“Let’s go,” I said.
The greaser took a step closer to Sharon. I backed up while Lisa grabbed Sharon’s arm.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Lisa ordered but Sharon kept flirting until Lisa pulled hard on her arm.
“You better listen to your friends or you’re gonna get me into a lot of trouble,” he said, as he brushed up against Sharon. Lisa pulled her away.
Finally, Sharon moved away from the guy, giggled and we all ran up the street with Sharon turning back every now and then to wave.
We ran up to the corner, and even thought about going across the bridge to look inside some of the East Side taverns, but the bridge looked spooky at night. The sidewalk from Commercial Avenue up to the bridge ran along a chain-link fence on one side and the other
side was mostly dirt with weeds and gravel. There weren’t very many cars on the street anymore and even though we had each other for protection, I didn’t think we should go.
“Let’s go home. Maybe we can catch Wolf in the morning before he leaves,” I said looking over at the bridge.
“Yeah,” Lisa said, yawning. “I’m getting tired.”
“Oh, you’re just chickening out,” Sharon taunted.
“No I’m not,” Lisa argued. “We can’t find him and Carly’s the chicken ‘cause she doesn’t want to go across the bridge to Pete’s Tap and look.”
“I’m not a chicken. Once we cross the bridge it’s a long way over to Pete’s Tap. It’s late. We’ve been gone a long time. What if your mother is looking for us right now?”
“I don’t care,” Sharon answered. “So we get in trouble. So what! I say we go across and find him. The spirit told us to find the sailor.” She was determined to walk across that bridge.
“I’m tired. Let’s go back,” Lisa whined. “We can take turns watching Pauline’s front porch and when he comes back I’ll ask him if he knows the Beatles. I promise. Besides, we may miss him if we stay away much longer. He probably has to board a ship tomorrow. Let’s go home.”
We were all pretty tired so we went home.
When we got back to the tent and crawled inside, Sharon’s mother appeared to say goodnight with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of milk. She told us to turn down the record player because Pauline might complain about the noise. The stack had just been started again and there was a note next to the record player. I could hardly make it out. “Beth wants you guys to come visit her tomorrow. She has a surprise for you…and stay in the yard now or I’ll tell.” I knew the writing. It was Sharon’s sister, Mandy. She had saved our butts.
While Sharon’s mother continued to give us orders, I peeked out of our mesh window at Pauline’s front porch and who should come weaving into view? Wolf. He was so drunk he actually ran into Sharon’s fence and then held on for a moment to steady himself before he walked the few steps up the sidewalk and then climbed the cement stairs onto Pauline’s front porch. Lisa was busy with the plate of cookies so I couldn’t get her attention, but I got Sharon’s.
We watched Wolf make his way up the stairs. When he finally got to the top there must have been somebody else on the porch because I heard him say, “Damn, there ain’t no girls around here, not even at Pete’s. What kind of place is this?” Then a door slammed.
Sharon and I had to hold each other down. What was he talking about? We were girls. We wanted to yell out to him. Invite him over. Stay up all night and talk about the Beatles, but there was Sharon’s mother making us do something we didn’t want to do. Making us eat cookies. Who cared about cookies at a time like this?
Lisa did.
Chapter Eleven
September 9, 1987
I spend most of the night at Bud’s Place, alone, in a booth, drinking straight bourbon, thinking. Can’t get the Captain out of my mind. Too many questions. What does he want from me? I can’t help him. Don’t know how. Let somebody else do his dirty work. So what if he has three kids and a sick wife. What do I care? That’s his problem, not mine. He wants to blow the whistle, let him blow it. Probably get some kind of award. All that crap about the gangs and the trustees—what do I care?
They run the place, Carly. Speck likes it there.
“So what?” I catch myself talking out loud. I sit back. Have to let it go. I take a deep breath.
Who the hell does he think he is coming to my door, telling me about my past, asking me to help him? Help him with what? Almost as if the prick is trying to blackmail me into something. But what?
Speck is comfortable behind the wall.
At some point, a bowl of chicken soup ends up in front of me, courtesy of Dottie, the waitress. “No more bourbon until you eat a little something, sweet pea,” she says. I obey. The soup goes down easy. Reminds me of my mother’s chicken noodle soup. Always made me feel better. Just the medicine I need to clear away the voices in my head.
When I finish, Dottie returns to clear the table. “Thanks,” I tell her. “For dessert I’ll take a double shot of bourbon.” I sit back in my seat, resting my head on the back of the booth.
“That’s some dessert,” she grumbles. “Let me bring you a nice piece of cherry pie, love. Fresh this morning.”
“No thanks. Just the bourbon.”
She leaves, carrying my empty soup bowl, mumbling to herself. Her frizzy orange hair matches the orange stripes in her blouse; makes me a little nauseous.
I light up my last cigarette to ease my stomach just as the Beatles’ Ticket to Ride jolts the airwaves. The right song at the right moment. Could always count on the lads to help clear things up. After the bourbon, I’m going to O’Hare. Tonight. Catching the red-eye to New York. Wake up in the city that never sleeps.
Mike walks up to my table. “I thought I’d find you here. What happened? Couldn’t bear to leave me?” He slides in across from me, a wide grin on his face.
Just what I need, Smiling Mike, like the Sunday comics, full of anticipation, wonder. Only it was Smiling Jack when I was a kid. Always thought Jack was hokey.
“Something came up. How did it go today?”
“Great, actually. I’ve been talking to some people and this movie is the break we needed. Been thinking about it all day. We should expand and open another office in Hollywood. Maybe start out with a couple TV shows, then gradually move into features.”
Mike pauses. Brain churning. I wonder what goes on up there. Wonder if I should tell him about Captain Bob’s visit. About his proposal. ‘Use it somewhere,’ he’d said.
What would Smiling Mike do?
Probably nothing.
He continues his pep-talk, “You could go out there. To Hollywood. Find us an office. Set things up. Might be just the thing you need.”
“Me? Do I have a sign on my ass that says, ‘I’ll do anything?’ I’m not going anywhere. Where’s that damn waitress? What kind of place is this?” I start to get up. Mike pulls me back down.
He says, “Hang on. I’m not going to force you into something you don’t want to do. It was just a thought. Obviously, a dumb one.”
I lean forward and glare at him. “I don’t want to be told what to do. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Mike is silent for a while. He runs his hands through his hair, looks around then leans back in his seat.
The guy really tries. Tries to do and say the right thing. Sometimes too hard. I guess this is one of those times. I should just leave. Go back to the room, gather up all my stuff and walk out of his life. We’d both be better off. I’m no good for anyone, especially Mike.
Mike says, “We started shaving the men today. They’ve got their own barber. A trustee.”
“Probably butchered his whole family and stuck ‘em in a blender. That’s why he’s the barber. Good with a knife.”
He stares at me. Cocks his head. “If you say so,” he says. I can tell he’s trying like hell to keep me from getting under his skin.
I need to go easy on him. This isn’t his fault. “Sorry. Just don’t like that place.”
Dottie finally brings over my double and Mike orders a glass of house red. She leaves.
I ask Mike, “No dinner?”
“Ate at the prison. Some old Italian mobster does the cooking. It’s pretty good. He’s working on a cookbook.”
It’s almost too much for me to handle. I yell out, “What the hell goes on over there? They let all their most notorious criminals have the run of the place or what?”
Mike is startled by my outburst and gawks at me for a second. “Look, I don’t know what they do or why. I’m trying to have some kind of conversation with you. Trying to tell you what happened today. Can you lighten up a little?”
I put on a smile and tilt my head like some kid’s doll. “Is this better?”
“Much. Thank you. Now, just stay that way for the rest of
the night. Makes me feel like you’re glad to see me.”
I take a drag off my cigarette, blowing the smoke over Mike’s head while singing along, “She’s got a ticket to ride and she don’t care.” Couldn’t have said it better. “You see Speck today?”
“No. Somebody said he drank too much of his homemade hootch last night and got sick. Spent the day in his cell. Why?”
“He makes his own booze? How does that work?” My chest feels tight. I toss down half of my drink. Visions of Speck slide through my head: holding a martini like Hawkeye in Mash, cracking jokes, laughing with his buddies while the war swirls around him. While I hear voices. Their voices…and I do nothing.
“I don’t know. Captain Bob just told me the facts, Ma’am, nothin’ but the facts.”
“Speaking of the Captain, he paid me a visit today.” The words fall from my lips as if I had meant to tell him all along. As if I had planned on telling him. Mike: my confidant, my compassionate partner. The one I turn to for strength during difficult times.
Dottie puts down Mike’s glass of wine. “Got some nice juicy steaks in the kitchen to go with that red, sweetie.”
“What?” Mike asks, puzzled.
“Got some T-bones—”
“I think he’s talking to me, Dottie. He already ate dinner, thanks,” I tell her as I crush out my cigarette in the ashtray. “I need another pack of cigarettes. Can you give me some change?”
“Sure, sweet pea, but what kind do you want? I can get ‘em.”
In the meantime, I can tell Mike is just chomping at the bit. He says, “Are you going to tell me what Captain Bob wanted?”
“Thanks. Benson and Hedges, menthol,” I tell her and hand her a five. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, hon. Captain Bob from the prison?” Dottie asks Mike. He nods. Dottie continues. “He was in here today. Real nice man. Got his troubles though, working at that prison. Makes a lot of ‘em depressed. I’ve known several really nice men over the years that blew their brains out. Gets to ‘em after a while, being locked up with all them devils. Suppose that’s why Bob had all that trouble with Warden a while back. Got passed over for a big promotion. It’s them gangs. Can make a man do things he don’t normally do.”
