“Writing?”
Elizabeth must have heard the hesitation in Lauren’s voice. “I’m so sorry. Is this too much too soon? Earle mentioned your father. I’m sorry. Are you sure this is what you want to do? We can always do this at a later time. Winter session or spring session? Another student?”
No, neither would work. She needed to get close to Jordan, to know why he panicked when he saw the graffiti.
“No, this will be good,” Lauren said. “I can do this. I can help tutor. I mean, mentor.”
“I’m sure he’ll be pleased. Life has been hard for him. All of us, it sounds like. I’m sure he will be happy to have you.”
Lauren really hoped so.
They agreed that Liz would speak with Jordan, and if all was well with him, their first meeting would be at the center just after 7 a.m. this morning.
After she hung up, Lauren heard the familiar tone indicating an email had come through. When she checked, she found a message from the funeral director at Rosehill Cemetery. Everyone seemed to be getting to work early this morning. He started the email by saying this is the second time he had emailed her, and he needed instructions soon. He asked if she could call this morning because that would prevent any potential delays. Armando’s tombstone would be ready in the next few weeks. He needed to know how the epitaph for the tombstone should read. In the email, he provided Lauren with an example, the text inscribed on Diana’s headstone.
Diana Medina
Wife. Mother. Musician.
Her father’s could include the Chicago Police insignia and read:
Armando Rodriguez Medina
Husband to Diana
Father of Lauren and Marie
She did not reply. Why did he have to use Diana as the example?
Lauren stood up abruptly, her chair nearly falling onto the hardwood floor. The temperature in the house had quickly grown warm as hot air howled through the vents. She poured herself more water from the tap. When she’d lived with Bobby at least she had been away from this house. This place rattled things in her memory that she hoped had been resolved long ago. Even from the spot of where bodies are buried grass and flowers grow, showing that buried things were still connected to the surface somehow. Long, jagged shadows stretched across the white walls of the kitchen. Lauren did not believe in hauntings as much as she did in regret, and in this house, she felt nothing but regret, and nothing but loss. This house was infested with sorrow.
This house was not haunted. She had known that for some time. She was the one who was haunted by her own actions…inactions—all of which converged here in this house. Things were good, for a while. Her father’s death, however, had rattled the locks on what should have remained forgotten. There was nowhere to go. There was no one to text, message, call or email. There was nothing to preoccupy the time with except the dead.
Lauren looked at her phone again, willing for someone to come to her mind to call. She needed to distract herself, but there was no one to talk to who was not involved in this. It was her own fault. She had pushed everyone who came too close until they fell off and disappeared from her life. Yes, Bobby still lingered here or there, but he kept his distance. Her most treasured friendships were with the dead. Whispered questions: asking who took them, killed them, and sometimes they answered. Sometimes there was a hint, a call, a witness who came forward, and sometimes there was justice, but many times over the years there was nothing. Silence in life as in death. No one to confess. No one to arrest. No one to prosecute leaving a murderer to kill again, and a family forever asking how.
Lauren looked at the time. There was no one to turn to for help. There was nothing to do but get ready and meet with Jordan. Just as she rose from the kitchen table to head to her bedroom, she heard it. A hiss. It was intense and then it was gone. Lauren rubbed her eyes. She was not going to do this to herself again. She was not going to allow the anxiety of being back here drive her into seeing and hearing things again.
“That was nothing,” she whispered under her breath. “Your father’s dead. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep well. You have to get ready, and you have to go. That was nothing.”
The sound erupted again. A flash of light from the hallway. A hiss. Then gone.
Rats. That’s all she could think of. It was just rats. Pests who crawled into the walls, scratching at boards, sniffling blind in the darkness, searching for something to eat.
She would call an exterminator. They would come. They would take care of her problem.
“Rats,” she said and then laughed to herself. Rats had always been the core of her problem. Her stomach cramped. Her feet were stone. She did not want to move. The noise was coming from the first floor bathroom a few feet away. The sound quickened.
Snap.
Hiss.
Snap.
Hiss.
Lauren’s nostrils tingled. There was a sharp scent in the air. Something pungent, burning. With dread, she moved toward the door. Another snap and hiss, and now a crack.
Snap, and hiss. Hiss and crack. Snap and hiss. Hiss and crack.
Lauren took hold of the doorknob and pressed her forehead against the door.
A rat. It was just a rat.
Snap. Hiss. Crack.
“Just stop. Please. Just stop,” she pleaded with herself, willing herself to stop hearing the sounds coming from the bathroom down the hall. Pleading with this house to just lie still. She placed her hand on the cold, metal doorknob. She thought maybe she should call the exterminator now. The person was more skilled than she would ever be in catching rats. A rat-catcher. The smell of something burning hung in the air.
Snap. Hiss. Crack.
She turned the doorknob.
Snap. Hiss. Crack.
She pushed the door open slowly.
The bulb burst on, glowing bright, brighter, bathing the room in white, and then it flickered out. Darkness.
Snap.
The light behind her in the hallway cast enough glow for her to see something in the mirror. A hand in the mirror displaying a single matchstick.
Snap.
The tip burst into a flame.
Hiss.
The hand moved closer to the mirror’s surface.
Crack.
Etched into the mirror’s surface was the name, that name that pained her. The name that cursed her.
Pied Piper.
When she looked into the now distorted glass she saw herself, but years younger, snapping a matchstick, the crack as chemical erupted to flame, and the soft fiery hiss as it was extinguished once a single white taper candle wick was lit.
Her younger self’s lips moved in the glow of candlelight, but there was no sound.
CHAPTER 14
She flashed her lights, blared her horn, and hit the gas as she took the red light. Lauren sped down Central Park. It was just before rush hour, and so the major streets were not congested. They would be in the next hour as people pulled out of their neighborhoods heading either east towards downtown to work in one of the city’s many ivory towers, many of which with open-spaced industrial seating, endless snacks and luxury coffee to attract a younger workforce. While others drove north, south or west for a reverse commute to a suburb with corporate campuses with gray offices lined with cubicles.
Once Lauren hit Fullerton Avenue, she made a sharp turn, heading east. Tires screeched. No one dared honk at her, because no one honked at the police. The car lunged forward, ignoring another red light. She was almost there, and if she needed to park in a tow-away zone, she would. She was late, very late, but Liz had not called telling her that Jordan did not want to work with her. That was at least a positive sign. Now, would Jordan even talk to her? Would he even know anything?
She approached the building. She had passed it multiple times, but never been inside. She parked a half block away, in the only available spot. She turned off the car and then glanced up in the rearview mirror. She regretted doing that as so
on as she did it. Deep, purple-black bags beneath her eyes indicated she no longer had a relationship with sleep. Her skin was pale and dry. She was not eating well. Her hair was pulled back in a wet ponytail. She’d had no time to dry it. Her body needed better sleep, better food, but she needed to be here right now.
Lauren readjusted her ponytail, and then leaned over and reached for the glove compartment. She found a breath mint and crunched down on it as she drank back black sour coffee from her tumbler.
Once inside, she found Liz who greeted her and took her to a large room that looked like a classroom. There was a whiteboard and a wooden desk in front of it. Bulletin boards decorated in bright colors, inspirational quotes and a daily, weekly and monthly schedule lined the walls. Long conference tables were arranged in three large squares, and scattered throughout the space were adults with students, laptops in front of them, or books, or sheets of paper. Everyone working on their own assignment.
In the far back corner were several large bookshelves that created a private reading nook, shut off from the rest of the activity in the center.
“This is the space,” Liz announced. “If you need anything just let me know. We have laptops in back. We have a small library. We’re slowly building it up with the help of volunteers.”
Lauren saw Jordan seated in the corner across from the library, away from the conference tables, at a private table for two. He gave Lauren an annoyed look, then looked to Liz as if to say, “Now what?” Liz shook her head in that gentle way that said, “Stop it.”
“There’s Jordan,” she said in a sing-song way. Every time Lauren spoke to Liz the woman seemed to be in an exceptionally bright mood, cheery, and optimistic. All of the things Lauren was not.
“You’re late,” Jordan said without looking up from writing in a notebook. “I’ve got to be at school by nine.”
“We’re done here at eight then?” Lauren looked to Liz who nodded enthusiastically.
“Jordan is very happy you are here.”
Jordan looked up, his face twisted in a look of confusion. “Not really, but you said it’d be hard to find a replacement this term, so here we are.”
Liz’ eyes widened. “Jordan, you are very funny.”
“Ms. Liz, are you serious right now?” Jordan said as he tapped on his smartphone, glancing at a text that had just come through. “My mentor’s a cop. She’s late, and honestly, how do I know this doesn’t have anything to do with Hadiya?”
Liz gave a nervous laugh. “It doesn’t, Jordan. Right, Detective Medina?”
“Lauren...” Lauren interrupted. “Just Lauren is fine.” Lauren figured this should have been part of Liz’s job, introducing Lauren just as a regular adult, one with a passion for education and mentoring inner-city youth. Lauren herself grew up in the city, learned to be street smart at a very young age, and while she saw many young people fall through the cracks, or worse, she continued moving forward through college and into a career in law enforcement. Yes, fine, she was Detective Medina. Yet, it was Liz’s job to solidify Lauren into this role, the role of a mentor. This slip-up, of calling her Detective Medina in front of Jordan could make him nervous and so uncomfortable with the situation that he could cancel the entire arrangement.
“Right, Lauren. Sorry. Let’s make that clear. She is Lauren, your mentor when she is here.” Liz directed the conversation elsewhere. “Lauren is a great writer.”
Lauren did not know where Liz got that idea from. Jordan was staring at Liz, with his mouth wide open, and right as he was about to say something Liz cut in.
“Earle Washington, one of our board members who just retired, told us about your literary studies, Lauren. An English honors graduate from Loyola University and a Master of Arts in Literature from Northwestern University. That’s very impressive.”
“Yup,” Jordan cut in. “Impressive. Look at what she’s doing with those degrees now.”
“Exactly, Jordan,” Liz said. “She is here right now with us.”
“Really?” Jordan mouthed to Liz.
With a smile Liz said, “I’ll leave you both to it.” She leaned in close to Lauren and said, “Thank you again.” Then, she was gone. It felt like Lauren was here alone in this room, with this boy who had just lost his best friend, and who did not trust her at all. It was as though the chatter among the tutors and mentors with their students faded.
“Do you mind?” She motioned to the chair across from him.
“You’re here already,” he said as he held onto the headphones that were wrapped around his neck.
“Looking forward to working with you,” Lauren said as she took a seat.
Jordan did not look up from his phone. She could see he was selecting music. He tapped on play and sound flowed from his headphones.
“You’re not really going to put those on now?”
Jordan lifted the headphones up over his head and set them on his ears. He increased the volume. He looked away from her, probably as upset as she was that they were both tangled in this arrangement. She looked around the room, and everyone else seemed engaged enough in what they were working on that no one seemed to notice that they were not working on anything together.
She took her phone out and sent Washington a message.
“This tutoring thing is working out great. Life changing.”
He replied.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have an attitude problem?”
Jordan reached down for his blue backpack, a quote written across it in marker. It took a moment for Lauren to take in all of the words as they stretched across the fabric.
“That’s the ideal meeting...once upon a time, only once, unexpectedly then never again.” —Helen Oyeyemi
“You read a lot?”
Jordan shot her a look and shook his head. “Shocking, isn’t it?” The music level increased.
It was a stupid question, she knew it as soon as she asked it, but that is not what she meant. She was just trying to learn something about him, establish trust, rapport, to connect on some level. She wanted to tell him that she too would wake early before school to read, study, and practice. That she too would take the bus, and then the train to get to school. After Marie and then Diana, she would sometimes spend hours on the bus or trains, discovering new stations and routes, checking off each one as they passed. There were one hundred and forty-five train stations in Chicago and seven suburbs that bordered the city, and she had visited them all. Founded in 1947, the Chicago Transit Authority—CTA—felt like a safe place for her to be, because there she was constantly moving. And if she was moving she believed that her life could not catch up to her.
Chicago had operated some sort of urban transit system as far back as 1859, but then it was operated by a combination of horse, cable and electric streetcars. The various lines had all been consolidated throughout the years, many of the routes were eliminated but still, many of those old age routes remained and Lauren thought of that each time she rode the bus or train. Sometimes a pothole would open up in the city revealing cobblestones and the steel line remnants that streetcars transported people along. When Lauren would come across one of those spots in the street, even if it was damp with rain, or sprinkled over with frost, she would kneel down and touch the cobblestones or steel line, thinking that somehow she could be transported within that moment to a time when this city bustled with such vibrant energy as it grew. She never did complete her goal of traveling all of the bus routes, but one day she would complete her intent, checking off each of the 12,000 bus stops.
Jordan swapped out the notebook he was working in for one with a green cover. He flipped through pages of carefully handwritten text. His penmanship was precise, all of the letters written in neat capital letters resting not on the ruled line, but within the white space center. Lauren had only ever seen text so carefully arranged on a printed page. Jordan found a blank sheet and proceeded to write in his careful print. When the music cut out, that moment in between
the end of one song and the beginning of another Lauren asked loud enough so he would hear: “What are you writing?”
Without looking up, he said “Words. In English.”
“He hates me.” She typed furiously to Washington.
He responded.
“You should be used to people hating you.”
After a moment Washington followed up his text with;
“That’s a joke, you know?”
Washington was not helping.
Before she texted him back saying, ‘You don’t have to be an asshole’ she slammed her phone face down on the table.
“There it goes,” Jordan pulled the right headphone off his ear.
“There what goes?”
“Brutal honesty,” he pointed to her phone on the table with his pen. “You don’t want to be here, but you’re here to ask me more questions because I didn’t want to answer your stupid questions the other night. Nice to finally meet you.”
“That’s not fair. I do want to be here.” Even to her, her words didn’t sound believable.
“You’re a horrible liar, Medina.” He continued writing, but the right headphone was set just off of his ear. It was something. A small gesture that he would at least try to listen to her.
“Call me Lauren,” she reminded.
“No way, Medina,” he said. “You’re here because you want something.” He stopped writing and waved his pen at the people in the room. “You see all of these adults here? They don’t want to be here either, but it makes them feel good...like, coming out and volunteering with some inner-city kids a handful of times a year places a bandage on the rest of the year when they just don’t care what happens to us out here.”
Children of Chicago Page 14
