Children of Chicago

by Cynthia Pelayo

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Am I? Why are you here?” He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, waiting for an answer. “Go on...”

  “Fine. I’m here because I want to know why when you saw that graffiti on the ground the other night you started shouting. Officer Guerrero said you looked terrified. Do you know who wrote it? Did you write it?”

  His face did not give anything up. He sat back up, leaned toward his notebook, picked up his pen and continued writing. Lauren knew he could not be forced into answering what scared him that night. Maybe it was not the graffiti. Perhaps it was the shock of it all. After all, he did say he was running late that night. Lauren knew it was true. She checked out his story and verified with surveillance cameras along the route he took the train that night. Who knows? If he had been there, maybe he would not be here right now. Perhaps he would have gotten shot and killed instead of Hadiya? It was traumatic for so many reasons. Still, she needed to know what spooked him.

  “And what do those words combine to say?” She distracted from the topic that hung overhead, and instead focused on what they were supposed to be doing, working on his writing.

  Jordan ignored her.

  “You know, those words that you’re writing right there,” she tapped the page. If he got aggravated, then so be it. It would at least force him to continue talking to her.

  He pulled the notebook back away from her, set his headphones back carefully over his ears and the music increased in volume. He fell away into his world. For the next few minutes, he wrote furiously. Every now and again, in that space between one song and another she was able to edge in a question. Maybe he would shake his head or nod, or nothing. They went on like that for the rest of the time they had together, Lauren asking whatever snippet of a question she could manage within those seconds of silence.

  At the hour mark, her phone vibrated.

  Jordan lowered his headphones off his ears, setting them to rest around his neck. “Wow,” he said. “You really don’t want to be here, do you? You even got an alarm and everything to tell you when you’re done.”

  “You’re wrong about me. You think you know me, and you don’t, and plus” she picked up her phone and waved it at him. “I’m a homicide detective. I can’t ignore my job, or more people die. I have to stay alert. That’s what being responsible is.”

  Jordan ripped two pages out of his notebook and set them on the table. “What are you going to say next? That you understand me? That you’ve been in my shoes? All of that nonsense in order to build trust.”

  Lauren could feel her nostrils flare then she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I do understand you.” She opened her eyes and glared at him. “My sister was killed when I was about your age.”

  “Damn,” Jordan said. “Sorry.”

  Lauren’s alarm sounded again, another reminder that their time was over.

  “The alarm...”

  “To remind me when to get back to work and for you to get to school.”

  He gave her a look that said he did not believe her.

  “What’s that look for?” She asked.

  “You’re a cop.”

  “And?”

  “Cops don’t have a start or stop time. It’s like what you are. It’s like your identity. Hell, it should be added as a race option on the Census. White. Black. Cop.”

  Jordan stood up and pushed his arms through the straps of his backpack. Lauren followed.

  “Here,” he shoved the sheets of paper that he wrote during the hour into her hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “Words on a page.”

  She let out a breath. “I see that.”

  “A speech I need to give this Friday. Let me know what you think about it tomorrow.”

  He wanted to meet with her again? She thought this first meeting was a disaster.

  “I’ll help, with what I can.” She scanned the pages “What class is this for...” She thought about what kind of classes people took in high school. “English, history, composition...”

  “Hadiya’s funeral.”

  Jordan gave her a nod and then walked past her. Without turning around, he said, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Just one question, Jordan,” she called after him, soft enough so as not to distract the rest of the people who were ending their tutoring sessions.

  He stopped. “Fine,” and turned around to face her.

  “Do you know who left the graffiti? Pied Piper?”

  “I really wish I did,” he shrugged, as he clutched the front straps of his backpack. “but I don’t.”

  She believed him. Before he opened the door, he said without turning around: “If you want any more of your questions answered, tomorrow at least try to be on time.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Who is it you see in your room, Fin?”

  Fin kicked her legs under her chair, swinging them back and forth. She was tired of being asked questions. She was tired of being here. She was just so very tired.

  They were seated in a small white room. Fin on a cream-colored sofa chair directly across from Ruth. Ruth introduced herself as a doctor. Ruth asked a lot of questions.

  “I don’t see anything in my room,” Fin muttered. Her hair was slick and oily.

  Ruth leaned forward. Fin looked away from her to the small white table beside her. There were colored sheets of construction paper, markers, and crayons. She wanted to reach out and start drawing, but she did not want to be asked questions about what it was she was drawing and why. So, she just looked at the supplies and drew something in her head, something dark on green colored sheets of paper. A scene with looming trees. A tall man. A little girl being led away into the forest.

  Something clattered in the hallway and then there was a scream. Ruth reached for her phone in her blazer pocket, but stopped herself from dialing when the noise ceased.

  “You can ignore that,” Ruth said. “Sometimes people get very upset being here.”

  “Then why should I even be here if it’s an upsetting place?”

  “Because we want to make sure people get better. We want to make sure people get the help that they need, and that’s what we want to do for you. Sometimes though, it’s hard getting help. It’s hard to make changes that can make you better.”

  Fin looked back down at the paper and then to her hands, fighting the urge to pick up a black crayon and scrawl a picture of the man. In her mind, his arms were reaching out for her. She knew he was waiting for her, somewhere she could taste the earth in the wind, acidic and bitter, where she could hear the creaking of branches, and rustling, rooting, and scrabbling of critters among the leaves, and where she could breathe in deeply, wild mint and rotting wood. In the shade, or sun-dappled leaves, between the fallen twigs, and along the moss he was there. He was always there. If Mo had just moved a little faster, spoken a little less, then they could have met him, and everything would have gone on just like it should. Just like when she had met him the first time.

  Fin wondered if she should tell Ruth everything, but then she quickly thought: why would she? Ruth should not be so lucky to know about the man. Fin knew he could get rid of anyone who was making life difficult for you—for a price of course. The price of a life. A life in exchange for peace. What Fin had recently learned, however, was that the man could come back, and if he came back, that meant he needed someone else, another price for continued peace. She did not know he would come back so soon. She did not tell Mo that he would come back. Mo came to her asking for help, asking for a way to kill the man who had robbed his father. So, she told him about the Pied Piper. She just did not tell Mo what he was getting himself into.

  “Fin...” Ruth said to get her attention.

  Fin looked away from the paper and the crayons. “Where is Mo?”

  “He’s safe.”

  “Where is he?” Fin could feel herself standing. Her arms shaking. What did Ruth mean Mo was safe? Wh
ere was he?

  Ruth raised a hand and motioned for her to sit down, and she did. “He’s in a place, almost like this but not quite. He needs less help than you right now. He’s safe. Trust me.”

  Fin scanned the walls in this room. She wondered how long she had been here. She had not paid much attention to the time, or to daylight, or to the hours she slept.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Not long. Do you remember what happened? At Humboldt Park?”

  “Can I see Mo?”

  “No,” Ruth said firmly. “Maybe you can tell me what you want to say to him?”

  “And you’ll send him my message?”

  “No, I mean, instead of telling him you’ll be telling me. Is that okay?”

  Fin took a deep breath. She was not going to share anything with Ruth. She did not like Ruth. She did not trust Ruth.

  “I’m hoping you can eventually tell me things. That’s why I’m here, Fin. You can talk to me.”

  Fin stomped her feet on the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruth asked.

  “I have to turn in my paper for English class.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that right now. Your parents know you’re here and I’m sure your teachers have been notified.”

  “I don’t have to turn in my paper?”

  “No, you don’t have to worry about that right now.”

  Out in the hallway, there was the sound of footsteps. They grew louder, and then just as she thought someone was going to enter their room the sound of the footsteps faded. Fin looked to the small window in the door. The man’s face appeared, and just as she opened her mouth to call to him, to tell him she was sorry and to give her another chance, he disappeared.

  Tears filled her eyes. “Why did he leave me?”

  “Mo didn’t leave you,” Ruth said. “We need to keep you both safe, and we need to understand what happened.”

  Fin cried into her arm.

  “I heard you didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Fin wiped away at tears.

  “I’ve been told that voices were coming from your room last night,” Ruth said.

  “Is it wrong to talk? We’re there in the room, and there’s nothing to do, and sometimes we can’t sleep, so we talk.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t see anything in your room?”

  “There’s nothing in my room!” Fin shot back. “There’s just my roommate.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Things. School. This place.”

  “Did you talk about what happened at the park?”

  “No,” Fin looked at her fingernails. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  Sounds returned to the hallway. A low, moaning screech. It sounded like an owl. Fin closed her eyes, listening, trying to make out what the man was trying to tell her.

  “What do you think about that?”

  She opened her eyes. “About what?”

  “I asked about meeting again this evening?”

  Was there any option to say no? This place was filled with doors, a door that closed in front of her, behind her, each of them clicking shut, an attendant on the other side making sure the handle did not budge. What was this place? She was never told. Just white walls, fluorescent lights, a thin pad that rested on a box that served as her mattress. A tray of cold food brought to her. In the hallway, she listened for life. She wondered if her room was the secret chamber in “Bluebeard,” or the room in “Fitcher’s Bird”? If someone opened it, would they find a bloody basin in its center with dismembered body parts within? Would those parts be hers?

  “There’s very little else for us to discuss,” Ruth said. Perhaps it was a way to guilt Fin into providing more information, but she was not going to fall for this trick.

  “Is there a bloody basin in my room?”

  Ruth’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just a fairy tale. Can I go to my room now? I need to talk to my roommate.”

  “Right.” Ruth’s eyes darted from side to side and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to spin the thoughts in her head together. “We’re just about done here. We can get you back to your room. First, can you tell me what you and your roommate were talking about just as I approached the door earlier? It almost sounded like you were arguing about something.”

  “No...”

  “No, you weren’t arguing about anything? You sure? You don’t want to talk about it?”

  Fin did not answer Ruth. Ruth would just continue to ask another question and then another, an endless loop of silly questions. She only wondered how much longer she would be here; how many more minutes, hours and days. She missed her bedroom at home, her paintings and her artwork. She painted the forest around her and within her the forest lived.

  “Can I have some art supplies for my room?”

  “I can ask about that.”

  “When can I go back home?”

  “I’m going to be honest, Fin. You may be here for some time. We want to make sure you are comfortable. I will ask about the art supplies. What is it that you like to draw?”

  “Trees. People. Houses. I like to make dollhouses out of paper and place them in forests I create.”

  “I know it’s scary to be here. It’s a lot to take in. It’s a strange place, but I can tell you that you are safe here.”

  “Is Mo safe?”

  “Yes, he’s safe. I promise you, you are both safe.”

  Fin knew that was not true, but Ruth could not possibly see the danger that Fin and Mo were in.

  “Come on,” Ruth said. “I can walk you back to your room, and we can talk tomorrow then since it sounds like that will work out better.”

  Ruth stood up and walked to the door. Beside it was a button she pressed. This alerted the attendant out at the big desk that their session was over. Ruth opened the door and asked Fin to follow her. Fin’s room was down the hall. They walked in silence, Fin shuffling her feet along.

  They passed the large desk. The woman seated behind it followed Fin with her eyes. The hallway was silent except for the sound of their footsteps along the laminate floor. The lights overhead were a sickly yellow that bathed the walls, floor, and ceiling in a muted beige light. They passed doors on their right, each with a three-digit number and a thin window.

  “Here you are.”

  Fin took a peek in her room. There in the center was a basin, and piled and stacked up high and overflowing to the floor—small fingers and bones, detached little arms, and tiny feet, bloodied and bruised and putrifying.

  “I guess we all wash ourselves in blood,” Fin said.

  Ruth’s eyes darted from Fin to the window, pushing past the girl and looking inside, seeing nothing. “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah, just tired.”

  Ruth unlocked the door, and Fin stepped inside and made her way over to her bed. She sat down on top of her bed. Crossed her legs and started speaking rapidly.

  Ruth returned to her office, which was located three floors below Fin’s room. It was time to call Fin’s parents and provide them with an update. This was the part Ruth always dreaded. The phone rang several times, and then a breathless voice answered on the other line.

  “Hello...” A deep inhale followed by an exhale.

  “Yes, Mrs. Wills? This is Dr. Ruth Margraff. Do you have time to talk now? I’ve been working with your daughter.”

  “Right,” she paused. “Lindsay, you can call me Lindsay.”

  In the background, Ruth could hear the movement of plastic bags. The jingle of car keys. A baby babbling.

  “Is she okay?” Lindsay asked, and then she released a sob. “That’s a stupid question. Everything’s not okay. My step-daughter...what did she do?” Lindsay cried softly.

  “Our session went well, but I was wondering if I could
ask you a question. I know the last few hours have been traumatic for all of the families involved, but I need to know if Fin has been diagnosed in the past with any conditions. These are all things that we need to talk about and consider.”

  “I filled out a list for you all. Vaccines she got when she was smaller...broken arm when she was like ten. Pneumonia when she was eight or something. I’d have to go back and check. Her mother kept good records, but I’d have to check to be sure. My husband has them around here somewhere.”

  “And how old was Fin when her mother died?”

  “Oh,” Lindsay started. “That was just last year.” The baby’s babbling returned. The rustling of bags. The sounds of the phone being muffled, a mother on the other end trying to manage.

  “I’m very sorry, I didn’t know it was that recent.”

  “Her parents were separated for a few years, and her mother got swept up in a wave on North Avenue beach. It was hard for Fin,” Lindsay blew her nose on the other end of the line and tried to calm the babbling baby. “I’ll talk to her dad when he gets in from work.”

  “Thank you, and just to be clear, I just want to be sure we are not missing anything else that may be important...”

  “Important?”

  Ruth was not only making this phone call on a medical capacity. She was calling as a legal representative on Fin’s behalf. “Is there a family history of illness that we should be considering?”

  “Family history?”

  “Is there anything else that we should consider? A history of any family members with mental illness? If Fin does not have any previous diagnoses, that is.”

  Quiet.

  “Lindsay? Are you still there?”

  “Her mother drowned. It was traumatic for her, and her dad... I know her dad remarrying again must be hard on Fin. That’s stressful enough on a kid.”

  Fin had been through a lot in the past few years; her mother’s death, a stepmother. The call ended and Ruth leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. One of the fluorescent bulbs behind the plastic panel had burned out days ago, but she did not report it to the facilities’ manager. She enjoyed sitting in the dim light with her thoughts.