Trusting Evil

by Mary Leo

  Joliet was just a city on our way to Springfield and New Salem, Lincoln’s hometown. We walked through log cabins and listened to various lectures about Lincoln from people dressed in period clothing. I loved it and spent my lunch money on a book about President Lincoln. Couldn’t wait to show Dad and tell him all about the day. Never had so much fun while I was learning something.

  I flew up our front stairs, all spun-out from the day and a neighbor met me. She said, “Your father has suffered a heart attack.” Never forgot those words, “has suffered a heart attack.” Made my insides boil. My mother and I spent the entire night at the hospital, pacing mostly, praying for a miracle, staring at my father’s irregular heartbeat on the heart monitor, and catching a few catnaps on hardback chairs in the waiting room. I didn’t get the chance to show my father the book on Lincoln, or tell him how happy I was he’d convinced me to go because the next morning he died from a second heart attack.

  I threw the Lincoln book in the trash in his room.

  The Captain pulls into a driveway of a small, white bungalow. Two little girls, about ten and twelve with dark hair, bright-colored shorts and shirts, run out to meet him, thrilled that he’s home. Like he’s been away on a long trip. A young boy, of the same age group, rounds the corner on a skateboard and joins the celebration of Daddy’s return. He leans over and gives each one a bear hug. They all talk with that excited chatter kids have when they want a parent’s attention. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying but I can hear the tone of their voices. High-pitched innocence. One of the girls takes her dad’s hat, the other his lunchbox. The boy takes his dad’s hand. Reminds me of an episode of Father Knows Best whenever Robert Young came home. Wonder which of the girls is Princess?

  After a while the screen door opens on the small front porch and a woman in a wheelchair rolls out. Somehow she doesn’t fit the image. I don’t think Jane Wyatt was ever chair-bound. This wife serves as a reminder of reality. Always there just beneath the surface, waiting to squeeze up through the euphoria. Teaching the world a lesson.

  The kids and dad slowly make their way up the six front steps to where mom waits with a different kind of enthusiasm for this man’s return. More of a relief that her husband is home for the night. I’ve seen that happiness before in my mother’s eyes every time my father walked through our front door. Captain Bob leans over in the midst of his children’s chaos and says something to his woman and then kisses her gently on the lips. They smile and hesitate for a moment, looking at each other, rekindling that fire that obviously has never gone out. In my mind I can picture them on the dance floor at Bud’s. The two of them, kissing and whispering. Laughing, just like Dottie said. He’d have to hold her up now, tight in his arms to twirl her around, but I bet a man like that would do it. A man like that would do anything for his woman. A man like that…

  I can’t watch anymore. I start up my car, push in the lighter and drive away.

  Have to talk to Mike.

  Chapter Sixteen

  July 12, 1966

  My mother was in a good mood when I finally returned home from Sharon’s cousin’s house (probably from watching Green Acres, her favorite TV show) and after a little whining on my part, she agreed to let me sleep over at Sharon’s one more night. Perhaps a post-birthday gift.

  “About this weekend,” she said while she served up dinner, “why don’t we go uptown and get that Mary Quant dress you wanted for your Beatles concert. And some textured stockings and a pair of those cute little T-strap shoes you like so much. How’s that?”

  “What a gas! Wait until I tell Lisa and Sharon. They’ll be so jealous. Thanks, Mom,” I squealed and hugged her so tight I couldn’t breathe.

  “You got a card from your Aunt Betty,” Mom said as she handed me the small square envelope.

  Aunt Betty was my Grandma Rockett’s sister. She lived on the North Side. We didn’t see her much since Dad’s hours changed and he worked weekends, but she never forgot me. Every birthday and holiday she sent me a card with five dollars and a pink hankie.

  “Great, now I’ll have money for stuff,” I said as I ripped open the cream-colored envelope.

  When I opened the tiny card, sure enough there was my five dollars tucked inside a pink lace hankie. I had a drawer full of pink lace hankies and old piano sheet music that she kept sending me even though I couldn’t play one note.

  Mom and I didn’t sit and chat for very long since I had to get back to Sharon’s. There was a Beatles radio special on WLS and I didn’t want to miss it. I gobbled down some instant mashed potatoes and part of a dry pork chop then got up to leave when she started in on warnings and promises.

  “It’s supposed to rain again tonight. I don’t want you sleeping out in that tent if it does. Promise me you’ll sleep inside the house tonight. Besides, it’s too dangerous out there all night. Your dad doesn’t want you sleeping outside anymore. Promise me, or you can’t sleep over.”

  Now, there were promises and then there were promises. Usually, when my mother made me promise, I would find a way to keep it and still do what I wanted, but this was a tough one.

  “I promise, Mom.”

  “You promise what?” Apparently, Mom was catching on to my act.

  “I promise that I won’t sleep out in the tent tonight in a rainstorm.”

  “Thank you. You can go now,” she said. I kissed her good-bye, grabbed a change of clothes, stuffed them in my green purse and ran out the front door.

  By the time I got to Sharon’s, she and Lisa were already in the tent setting up our radio and our blankets for the night. It was somewhere around eight o’clock because the Beatles radio special was just about to start.

  “Where were you? They just interviewed Ringo and you missed it,” Sharon taunted.

  “But it’s not even time yet,” I shot back.

  “Yeah, and you missed Wolf, too. Lisa talked to him.”

  “What?”

  “Yep,” Lisa said. “And he’s agreed to meet us later to take our letters to the Beatles. He knows them personally. He and John’s father were on a ship once. He knows John’s home address and he’s going to take our letters and send them directly to John’s house.”

  “Are you telling the truth?” I couldn’t believe that she had actually spoken to him and all our fantasies about this sailor had been true.

  “It’s a sin to lie,” Lisa warned.

  “That never stopped you before,” I countered.

  “Just for that, maybe I won’t give him your letter.” Lisa gave me a smug little smile. “Besides, maybe three letters are too many for him to deal with. Two letters are easier to tuck into a suitcase.”

  “I’m sorry. What time are we supposed to meet him and where?”

  “About midnight, right out front,” Sharon said with obvious sarcasm. “That is if you’re not too chicken to meet with him. He’s got a crush on you. Said he’s been watching you and he wants to meet you. We told him we didn’t know if that was possible because you probably wouldn’t even show up tonight.”

  “What do you mean? I’m here! I’ll meet him.” I was almost yelling now.

  “You say that now, but I bet when it’s time, you won’t go near him,” Sharon said.

  “And everything depends on you,” Lisa stated.

  “What?”

  “Well,” Lisa continued, “he said he won’t deliver the letters unless you give him a kiss and I told him that you never even kissed a boy and he said all the better.”

  Sharon turned up the radio just as Help screamed over the airwaves. Never before had I identified so closely with a song. The lads were singing just for me.

  After that, the conversation died. We became Beatles worshipers again, crying over the radio interviews with Paul, John, George and Ringo. We never once discussed Wolf. Matter-of-fact, they forgot all about him, which was a good thing, because I sure wasn’t about to give some strange man, with a pitted face and tattoos on his arms, a kiss. Even if he did have John Lennon’s h
ome address.

  The night wore on while we wrote our love letters and slipped in and out of our stories: Paul and Sharon riding horses with the Queen, John and Lisa holding a sit-in with the press over John’s “more popular than Jesus” statement, and Ringo and I relaxing at the Shore.

  The rain started sometime around eleven. Unfortunately, I remembered my promise. I caught Sharon’s mom just before she went to bed and told her about it. She reluctantly ordered us to take down the tent and to bring it, and ourselves, inside. Her mom didn’t like all three of us sleeping in the house because we inevitably woke up her husband with our giggles, but she didn’t like to go against the wishes of one of our parents either, so she made an exception. However, she wanted the tent to be brought in for some reason. Probably our punishment for forcing her to take us inside.

  Sharon’s mom went on to bed and Sharon decided, after a brief unsuccessful attempt at pulling up one of the stakes, that the tent would have to wait until morning. She figured we would get up really early, before her mom, and take it down then. We all agreed as we quietly made our way through the house, past her parents’ bedroom and up the stairs to Sharon’s cozy attic hideaway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  September 10, 1987

  Bud’s Place pulsates with more activity than it’s probably seen in years. Bikers, prison employees and most of the crew all seem to be spinning in some high frequency. All plugged into the same outlet, waiting for the verdict, whether the movie will be a go or a go home. A layer of tobacco smoke mingles with the distinctive scent of pot making the whole place appear surreal. Like it’s the early seventies and I just walked into a party down on Rush Street. I try to look for Mike in this mixed bag, but it’s impossible. The jukebox rocks to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun and I’m thinking of the irony of it all.

  I order a drink from a young guy behind the bar who looks like he’s overwhelmed. I throw him a five for a tip and he throws back a smile. Gives us both a momentary charge.

  Finally, I spot Mike sulking in a back booth, staring at his glass of milk. He sits with some of the crew—the blonde from the other day and two guys in suits.

  I push my way through, giving a nod and a grin as I go.

  “What the hell is all this?” I ask Mike when I finally reach him and slide in tight. Everybody else at the table seems to be having their own conversation. They ignore me.

  He shouts, “We’re still waiting for the warden’s decision.”

  “I thought that would be resolved by now,” I yell back.

  He leans in close, “Can you hear me, Carly?”

  I nod my response.

  “I’m sorry for what I said today. I should have known better, should have known it wasn’t you. I’m just frustrated, I guess.”

  Mike looks all sorrowful and sad. Like my father looked after he stayed out all night drinking, or after he’d slap my mother. That last year. The year before he died. Confused over his emotions. Sick over what he saw in that townhouse. Mike has the same look, misery brewing on the inside, lies and violence on the outside with momentary regret covering up every action, every word. I accept his apology. Besides, I might be able to use his guilt to my advantage.

  “Let’s just let it go. Any news so far?”

  “Not from the warden, but rumor has it that nothing really happened. The screwing couple, a nineteen-year-old prop girl by the way, who actually looks a lot like you, didn’t quite get it on. Only in the fondling stage, but the warden won’t budge. Too many bad memories from the last picture that was shot there—worse than kinky sex, one of those really bad guys escaped. Apparently, he held onto the bottom of one of the trailers until he was far enough away from the prison and dropped on the street at a stop light. Never caught the guy. Plus, more bad news. One of our inmate extras is in lockup for wearing five pairs of jeans.”

  “How did he even walk? And where did he get them,” I ask, laughing at the visual.

  “Wardrobe, I guess. I don’t know all the facts, but he was in the scene they shot today and I can’t find anybody who looks enough like him to take his place. That’s if we get back in.” Mike sighs.

  “Not looking good, is it?”

  “Worse. They’re thinking of cutting the scene entirely. We stand to lose a nice chunk of change if they do.”

  “Where’s Dottie? I need another one.” I look around, almost relieved that we might not be going back inside, but finding myself disappointed at the same time. The Captain will have to find some other fool to interview that monster.

  “Did you hear me?” Mike asks, trying to focus my attention.

  “Yes. I don’t care.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out, obviously annoyed over my lack of concern. I spot Dottie among the crowd and wave for her attention. She looks over and winks. I motion for two more. “Gotcha, hon,” she yells.

  Mike drills me about what I just said. “You want to clarify?”

  “I’ll get by. Have some money saved. Does everything I say have to be a problem?”

  “No. I just can’t figure you out. When I tell you to go home ‘cause you’re nuts over the place, you tell me you want back in. When I tell you we may not get back in, you tell me you don’t care. Money’s not important…you…the queen of expensive cars. What’s going on?”

  Mike can’t handle indecision. One of those people who wants definite answers and once he gets an answer, he expects you to stick to it, no matter what.

  “Got some stuff to work through.” I sit back in the booth, trying to relax, trying not to let Mike get to me. “Saw Captain Bob’s kids today—two girls and a boy. The boy looks just like him. Must be rough working in a place like Stateville all day, dealing with high-risk inmates. Realizing that the inmates more or less run the place. Then trying to forget about it when you go home at night. Has to wear on you after a while, don’t you think? Might make you want to take some risks.”

  “Okay, now we’ve got risks involved. There’s something going on. You going to tell me or do I have to guess? I’m very bad at guessing these days.” He gives me a sheepish grin.

  “Eventually. When the time’s right.”

  Mike sits back, all frustrated. His patience thin.

  I tell him, “You need a real drink. You’re too edgy.”

  “You’re right. I am edgy. Crazy edgy. It’s you, ya know. I could hire a dozen people to take your place.”

  “Why don’t you? Sure would take a load off my ass. Where’s Dottie with my damn drink?” I look around the room, agitated over the conversation. Wanting my drink.

  “It must be some kind of enabler syndrome I’m tangled up in. I read somewhere that there’s the dysfunctional person and the enabler. Since I’m functional, you must be dysfunctional and hence I enable you to remain dysfunctional. Maybe it’s time to let you go. Like that sixties poem by Kahil Gibran…let them go and if they come back to you…I don’t remember it, but you get my drift.”

  Suddenly the group we’re sitting with starts making moves to get out of the booth. We slide out to accommodate the mass exit. Mike purposely focuses in on the backside of the blonde. She turns, puts on a devilish little grin, and walks away. He’s momentarily spellbound. “Now, see, that’s a functional woman. Someone I could have an actual relationship with. Who would treat me nice and we could make love every night, like bunnies. I bet she’s not obsessed with Captain Bob.”

  We slide back into the booth, sitting across from each other. I blurt out, “He wants me to shoot a video about how easy some of the prisoners have it on the inside.”

  Mike sits back. “What’s this all about? You don’t know the first thing about that stuff. Did you tell him to contact the Film Commission?”

  Not the kind of film he’s looking to make. This would be strictly underground.

  “Sounds like something you don’t want any part of.”

  “I don’t know. He says he wants to make some changes.”

  “What kind of changes?”
<
br />   “Inmate kind. Guys that have it too easy.”

  “Sounds like a warden problem if you ask me.”

  “Warden won’t know till the video’s on the street. No one will—just you, me, the Captain, Speck and a gang member.”

  Mike’s forehead furrows. “Did you hear yourself? You want to film Richard Speck and a gang member. How many of those did you have?” He points to my glass.

  “One, and I’m dead sober.” I give Mike the rundown. He listens like this is a movie we have to cast and I’m breaking down the important scenes. Feels good to let it go. To finally tell him what I’m planning. Exciting, even. Like I’m somebody important who can actually right a wrong. A soldier for a cause. A knight for the Round Table. King Arthur fighting for justice.

  When I stop talking, he sits there for a minute, watching me as I light a cigarette and pull in the smoke. “And you said no, naturally,” he says with confidence, a little grin on his lips.

  “I said yes, naturally. Just have to find a way to lift a camera for a couple hours. Should be easy enough. I think I saw your little blonde friend with one on our first day.”

  Mike leans across the table to get right in my face. Anger rages in his eyes. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Richard Speck and a gang member? This whole thing is so totally dangerous, not to mention illegal. Do you realize how much trouble you can get into? First, for stealing, which if Tiffany finds out and reports it, we’ll be caught in a lockdown until they find both the camera and you. Second, there has to be some law you’re breaking by filming a convicted felon inside a prison without the warden’s permission. And third, you hate Speck. You’re scared of Speck. You vomit at just the thought of Speck. What the hell are you thinking?”