by Leo Gher
“Going nowhere,” Katie replied, then reached for a tissue from inside her purse, placed it on the counter, and set her coffee down. “For 50-year-olds dating is not much fun.”
“You’re not 50,” Julia chided. “If you were, I would be 50, and I’ve got a year to go before that, sister!”
Katie laughed, “Okay, 49 then.” Katie Moynihan had only recently started dating again, and courting the second time around was different. The emotional ups and downs of 20-somethings had long since passed. Now she was looking for a homebody, someone reliable, someone who would take her to church on Sundays. “We’re on and off, Rico and me,” she said, “mostly off.” She poured a little cream into the hot coffee. “He’s a pharmaceutical salesman, you know, always on the road.” It reminded Katie of her former husband. That one was forever gone. Tom’s globetrotting took him overseas for extended periods. Katie resented the travel and the lack of family life. She felt like a single mother, raising an only child. Even in the good times, Tom and Katie’s thirteen years of marriage had been rocky.
“Does Rico have a regular route?”
“No,” Katie replied, “But it’s mostly the Midwest. He drives to Wisconsin and Iowa, but often flies to Memphis, St. Louis, and Kansas City.”
“Doesn’t leave much time for dating, does it?”
Katie shook her head, blew across her hot coffee, and then took a sip. Before answering, she thought about Tom, and then about Rico. “He is usually home on the weekends, but not always.”
It was clear that the romance was going nowhere, so Julia turned her attention to family gossip and their older sister. “You seen Sonia?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Sonia is still working at the Jewel on Kedzie,” she replied, “but Mike is laid off again.”
“Machinists can hardly keep a job these days. Mike’s so experienced and knowledgeable. He’s done it all – milling, turning, grinding, keyseating, polishing – but robotics has changed everything, and that union is no damn help. What’s a regular guy supposed to do?”
“Boeing doesn’t hire full time anymore, just temporary if that. It’s mostly contract work nowadays,” said Katie. “You can’t put anything away if you’re stuck in the gig economy.”
“So, no prospects, then?”
“Sonia says he wants to start his own business,” Katie said, and then added nonchalantly, “I invited them to Easter Sunday brunch.”
Julia was surprised, and more than a little irritated, “Gee whiz, Katie. They are such bores.”
“In-laws, Julia, in-laws.” Then she countered her sister’s faultfinding demeanor, “What do you mean ‘such bores’?”
Julia said, “I mean Mike is a bore. He’s always whining: ‘the working class gets no respect, gov’ment is no support, Christians takin’ the brunt of things.’ All that crap, he just won’t shut up. Gets tiresome.” She looked at her watch again. It was 11:25, and still no Jake. “What kind of business?”
“He wants to open a hardware store.” Katie and brother-in-law Mike Bedrosian had recently had a long conversation about life. “He says he knows everything a working man needs to know, but he doesn’t have the money.”
“What does Mike know about running a business?” Julia asked.
“He’s always sayin, ‘I understand more than those shit-head
college kids.’”
“Just BS.”
“Says he has a special way to get the money. At least Sonia is working.”
“Special way?” Julia replied, “Sounds unlikely.”
“Some scheme with the FAA, I suppose.”
“Just what is the FAA?”
Katie wasn’t sure, “Jake calls it the Freedom Army.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Survivalists. You know, the self-defense crowd.”
“Jake still a member?”
“Don’t think so, but Jake doesn’t tell me much these days.”
Julia thought she’d seen the Freedom Army on some watch-list, but didn’t want to pursue the rumor. “What about Jake and his girlfriend?
“Lindy?” She took another sip of coffee. “Jake’s love life is like his mother. He’s on and off with Lindy.”
Endlessly curious about ethnicity, Julia asked, “What kind of name is Lindy?”
“It’s Albanian or Armenian, same as Mike’s. He is her uncle, you know.” She spelled it out, “It’s Melinda Bedrosian. That’s her full name.”
Julia quickly responded, “Makes a big difference.”
“How so?” Katie asked.
“Albania is a Muslim country, Katie, and Armenia is Christian. Bedrosian is definitely an Armenian name.”
“Catholics then?”
“Not exactly,” said Julia. “They have their own church, the oldest in the world.”
Katie was insulted by her sister’s innuendo, “Can’t be older than the one in Rome. Peter’s church was first.”
Julia again turned to search the pick-up zone in front of the mall entrance, but her nephew was nowhere in sight. “Where is Jake?”
Ignoring her sister’s bellyaching, Katie said, “Something’s up, you know.”
“What?”
“With the boys; they’ve got something up their sleeves.”
“You know this how?”
“I think it’s about going to college,” Katie said.
“I’ll corner Denis,” replied Julia. “He can’t keep anything from me.”
“They’re planning to surprise us on Sunday at the brunch.”
Julia shrugged her shoulders, and then looked beyond the plate-glass window one last time. It was 11:40. “Where is that Jake of yours?”
14
Crow
When Crow had left the nest nine days earlier, his mother was doing laundry on the back porch, and his father was at work. It seemed so simple at the time. Wearing a black trench coat and toting a medium-size suitcase, Crow came down the staircase, stepped into the living room, and yelled at his mother, “I’m outta here.”
Alice Duda rushed through the kitchen, ready to argue with her son. But she could see that he was in a fidgety state. She worried that something she might say would set him off, or make him angry, so she said nothing. When he finished his unfriending speech, he placed a small piece of paper on the hallway bureau, turned away and walked out of the front door for the last time. He was pleased with himself.
Alone in the house, Alice glanced back toward the kitchen where her husband often sat drinking coffee. She blamed him for everything. Why wasn’t he here? she thought. Carmen was the one who had all the answers. Let the boy go, Alice, she remembered the sound of his castigating wails. He’s 19, and he’s got a job.
Finally, she said out loud, “Troubled boy.” Typically, she had never said that to her husband or anyone else. Then Alice walked to the bureau and picked up the slip of paper expecting some sort of an explanation: a lament for lost love or a rant against a neighbor, something he often did when he was fidgety. No, it was only an address. She imagined walking there in the night, and it sent a shiver down her neck. After thinking that, she folded the paper neatly and tucked it into her dress pocket. Alice Duda was a mother in need of comfort, and so she walked to the front room window and looked outside to the street. But there was nothing there to ease her pain.
These days, he called himself Crow, but Alice didn’t know why. He tried to explain it once, “A raven is beautiful, the cleverest of all birds.”
“Cleverest of all what?” she questioned. The odd logic didn’t make sense. Alice continued to stare at the street until Mr. Czasik, who was walking his dog, came into view. The boy is gone, she resolved. So, she let the window curtain fall back in place, then looked at her hands. They felt sweaty and dirty.
Sometime around sev
en pm, Alice Duda decided to call her husband. The phone rang over and over, and just as she was about to hang up, someone picked up. Inexplicably, there was no voice at the other end. “Carmen,” she said, “Carmen?” Then she heard him talking, “Carmen, you there?” But there was still no response. She began talking anyway, “Carmen, the boy is gone.”
“Alice… What?” The man on the other end growled. “Who’s gone?”
“He left about an hour ago. Didn’t say a word,” Alice Duda glanced down at her pocket, “just handed me this piece of paper.”
Carmen Duda, Sr. had an inkling of what she was talking about, but he did not understand the details – he never did, never wanted to. “What paper?” You’re not making any sense, Alice.” There was a moment of silence, “You there, Alice?”
“I am,” she slurred. “Carmen’s gone, moved out. He came down about an hour ago – dressed in that outfit he wears, that damn black outfit he wears. He gave me this paper. He didn’t say anything.”
“For Christ’s sake, Alice, I thought something was really wrong… like he hurt you or something. Why do you get so worked up over this crap? Stupid.”
“I was worried, and I thought you should know.”
“You don’t see me flying off the handle,” he said. “You’ve got to be calm and logical. Now, tell me again. Where’s he gone?”
Alice wanted to explain, but she didn’t think her husband would listen. “What’s the address, Alice?” She read it aloud. “For Christ’s sake, that’s only eight blocks away. You’d thought he moved to Alaska. Hell, quit worrying. He’ll be back in a few days. You’re being stupid, Alice.”
It was hard between them nowadays. Maybe Alice and Carmen no longer loved each other, or perhaps they were just too old and had forgotten how to care. Whatever it was the Dudas no longer tried to understand, let alone comfort each other. Maybe it was the city, the damn city, the accursed South Side.
“You don’t think it’ll happen again, do you?”
“Hell no. He’s all right. The doctors said he was all right. They released him, didn’t they?”
Alice persisted, “But he’s on that list.”
“Stop worrying, will ya,” said Carmen. “I’ll be home in an hour. Make some supper, will ya? Do something to ease your mind. Give it a think.”
After a moment, Alice heard a busy signal. Her husband had hung up. Ease your mind, that’s what he said. She stopped at the hallway mirror to check her hair and makeup. Quit being stupid; that’s what I’ll do. As she entered the kitchen, she pinned the note onto her magnetic board, and then went to the coffee maker. There was a half-cup left from the morning pot. It’ll be okay. Then she pressed the one-minute reheat on the microwave, and said out loud, “Quit being stupid. That’s what I’ll do.”
Like her son, the 55-year-old was a frail soul and dealing with stress was not easy. She put a hand to her mouth as if that would, somehow, ease her worrying. Next, she turned back toward the hallway where her husband would be arriving soon. “Supper,” she said, “I’ll make a nice supper for Carmen.”
Guns! She agonized, had he taken any with him? That is silly, she fussed, he would have hidden them under that damn, black trench coat he always wore. For the past year, her son had been stockpiling guns. Why? She stewed. But she had no know idea why. Alice replayed the boy’s exit. Was there something she’d missed? Under her breath, she cursed, “Goddamnit, Carmen, it was your idea: make him responsible, make him a man.”
Then the unthinkable crossed her mind, would he harm that boy? The thought didn’t last long. “Supper, I’ve got to make supper for Carmen.”
Ten days had passed; so many days to think about all the things that bothered him. Crow had made a resolution. It was time to confront Greg.
He had skipped two full shifts of work to make his plans. H&R eGames doesn’t matter, he thought, I will never work there again. He detested everyone who worked there because he was the butt of their jokes, day after day. “Goth boy,” they would squeal, “darkwave wannabe.” They hammered away, driving him into the back alleyways of his mind.
Crow’s apartment that Saturday morning was entirely gloomy. He had pulled down the window shade, and the door to the bathroom was closed. Still groggy, he propped himself on his elbows, straining in the blackness. The only light in the room was his clock on the nightstand. It was flashing on and off, red PF, PF. The PF signal didn’t process; nothing was processing. Then Crow fell back onto the pillow and remained still for a long time. But he could not get back to sleep.
“Power failure.” He reached over and hit the reset button, and the alarm began its annoying buzz-buzz-buzz. Next, he started slapping wildly in the darkness, but he could not find the snooze button. Finally, Crow sat up, the old bedsprings shrieking at his repellant flailing. In frustration, he reached over, grabbed the clock, and yanked it out of the electrical socket. The riling shrieking stopped.
Still groggy, he wondered, why so dark? The commotion had ruffled the window shade, and a crease of light streamed in. Crow could see his “stakeout chair” a few feet away and thought of the boy. Suddenly angry, Crow ran a hand through a gnarly head of hair, threw off the bedcover and scuttled to the window. He raised the blind and then strained to see. The light was so intense that Crow had to cover his face and squint. He was an odd sight: a smallish figure in white briefs, framed in the 10 o’clock morning glare. Reinforcing the peculiarity of the moment was the ink design on Crow’s back. As the light evened out, the tattoo, a torso-length raven perched on the threatening thorns of a rose bush, became visible.
Below was dingy Chicago. Here, hundreds of factories and foundries had once pounded out industrial steel, machine parts, and cars, but now it was mostly abandoned. A haze had settled in. An early winter rain had stirred up decades-old rust and soot and stink. The gutters of the street were choked with black waters, newspapers and old winter cinders.
As he stared down from his four stories high studio apartment, Crow seemed to be the only player in this silent movie scene. There were no people or cars or buses on the move. Apparently, the 19-year-old was searching for someone he thought would pass by. Time passed. “Goddamnit, I must have missed him,” he cursed.
Everything in Crow’s world had changed. As he returned to his nightstand, a lone fly buzzed in front of his face. It had been drawn to the outside light. Irritated, he batted twice at the creature. Crow watched quietly as the fly banged against the windowpane over and over. But there was no escape for it.
Then Crow spoke to it, “My precious, I accept and so must you, that there is no way out.” Slowly, steadily, he moved an open hand toward the annoying pest, and then with a nimble snatch, jerked it out of the air. When he opened his fist, the fly was dead. He brushed it away and then walked to his closet to dress.
Crow’s mind had turned to the Pere Marquette Mall. It was only a short walk away. Today, he would go to the donut shop where the boy worked, and challenge his Gregory face to face.
15
Nightmare
“Murdered?” Father Wysocki stumbled over the word. “That’s a serious charge, Jake.”
“Murdered, I’m sure of it,” replied Jake
“Go on.”
“Rasuli said he would pick us up the next day about 10 am, and then we were supposed to drive to Gobustan. But he was late. No one knew why.”
“I thought you were in Baku?”
“It’s a suburb of Baku. The Kedars have a summer cottage in Gobustan,” Jake said, “and that’s where the party was being held.”
“Okay.”
“It was cloudy that morning, but the rain had stopped. As I said, Rasuli was late. Once we got on the road we hit a traffic snag, a military convoy blocked our way. Rasuli got out of the car. I think he was searching for a route around the blockade. After he got back inside, I could see he was upset, as if being late was a big problem.”
“Tom and Sam were preoccupied,” Jake described. “They were chatting about an old tower we had just passed. I think it was Old Town Baku. After the traffic cleared, Rasuli started driving like a maniac until he got to the Gobustan turn-off. We slowed down at the light. Suddenly, there was an accident. We were rear-ended, and I hit my head on something.”
The priest interrupted, “Anyone else hurt?”
“I don’t know. I was groggy.” Jake leaned forward toward the priest: “Rasuli started to pull off the highway, and my father said something like, ‘Why are you getting off?’ Then I noticed a delivery van in front of us. It started backing up. At least I think it was backing up. Maybe we were traveling forward. My recall isn’t precise.”
Out of the blue, there was someone gently rapping on the confessional door, “Father Wysocki, it is Sister Justine.”
“Yes, sister?”
“There’s a long line of people waiting.”
For a brief moment, the priest was baffled. Then, “Go get Father Maris. Explain that I need help.” There was no immediate reply. “Sister Justine, did you hear?”
“Yes. I was just telling those waiting that I will fetch another priest.”
“Okay, woman, go.” Wysocki waited for an answer, but there was none. He turned back to his charge and said, “Sorry, Jake. Your story is important to me, go on.”
“We crashed into the rear of the van, or maybe it crashed into us. I can’t be sure. It was so long ago. I screamed, ‘Look out.’ But it was too late. In lockstep, the three vehicles paraded off the road. I thought that unusual. I wanted to get out, but my father told me to stay inside. Something was wrong. That’s when they launched the attack.
“Two men were coming our way, angry. I remember someone yelling, ‘You bastard!’ My father was in the front seat. When Tom got out, he was facing the men coming from the front. I don’t know why, but I turned to the rear and saw a boy approaching fast. He had a knife in his hand. I screamed, ‘Dad, behind you.’
