by Claire Adams
My grandmother, Eleanor “Sally” Fraser, was a lifelong resident of the yards and had met my grandfather, Colin “Bull” Connor, at a dance sponsored by one of the Irish Citizen’s Society groups in the area when they were both fourteen. She often said that she’d found him handsome, but much too shy, and he’d always laughingly protested that he wasn’t shy, just overwhelmed by her beauty and brains. They’d married not long after they both turned 18.
Gram and Pop had tried for years to start a family, but when, month after month, nothing happened, Pop encouraged Gram to go to school and get an education. Around this time the University of Chicago was suffering from a drop in enrollment and had just begun to implement the urban renewal plan in Hyde Park. The university wanted to attract a wide range of students, so Gram applied and was accepted into their education program. The university offered them a prefab home in the married student housing area off the Midway, but Pop had put his foot down and said there was no way he was going to live in anything less than his own home. That summer, just before Gram started school, Pop put a down payment on a cozy, tan-stone house on Wolcott Street where they would spend the rest of their lives.
Gram later said that the reason Pop refused to move into student housing was because he didn’t want to come home from the stockyards to groups of hoity-toity students who had no idea about what it was really like for the working-class. Gram would always gently remind him that many of the students at UC were young people like themselves, but Pop would have none of it. To him, the university world was out of his reach, but he never begrudged Gram her education. She earned her degree in 1955 and went on to become a librarian in the Chicago Public Library system.
I shifted restlessly in my seat as I scanned the new businesses being built on 47th Street. Back when I was a kid, these stores were owned by neighborhood residents, and, like it or not, we kids were always being watched by someone’s parents. Gram, who was a tough woman, would often stand in front of the library on 47th and call out to the kids passing by trying to order them to come in and check out a book. She knew how rough the neighborhood could be on kids who gravitated toward books, and she tried to encourage them despite the obstacles.
Now the street was lined with chain stores and moneylenders who preyed on the working poor who had lost jobs as corporations moved their business to locations where the work could be done more cheaply. It pissed me off that the neighborhood kids were missing out on the community environment I grew up in, but I understood that business was business and that only the strong survived.
I’d vowed to sink money into helping rebuild businesses in the community once Finn and I had made some money, but by the time I’d made it, the neighborhood had become a victim of poor schools and a lack of steady jobs. When I’d been awarded the NFL franchise, I’d made it part of the contract that the new stadium would be built in Canaryville so the jobs and tax revenue would benefit the community. So far, I’d kept my promise, but in order to see any real progress, the Storm was going to have to hit the ground running and make the playoffs if it was going to be the base of the community. Now that I’d fired Tony, I was worried about how I was going to make up for his stupidity. Finn was right: we needed a media buzz around the team and dating Payton would be the first step in creating that buzz.
The driver took a left onto Wolcott and I smiled as I saw that Gram was still sitting out on the front porch with the light on, talking with a group of young people who’d regularly gravitate toward the house. Sometimes she’d feed them, but more often than not, she’d just listen. The kids on the porch looked out at the street as the car pulled up to the curb, and several came sauntering down the stairs to greet me.
“Dax, my man!” one of the boys called as he raised a hand and offered a high-five. I slapped his hand, and then shook it as another boy offered a hand.
“How you doing?” I asked as I shook it and then gave him a half-hug and a slap on the back.
“Good, good,” the first boy answered. “Your gram is telling us all about what it was like back in the day in this neighborhood.”
“Yeah, she’s got a lot of good stories, doesn’t she?” I said with a smile as I looked up and saw Gram grinning from ear to ear as she stood up and moved to the top of the stairs.
“David Michael Connor, get up here and give your Gram a hug!” she called as she held her arms out. I bounded up the stairs in three steps and wrapped my arms around the tiny woman and hugged her tightly. Quietly, she scolded, “You’ve been gone too long!”
“Sorry, Gram,” I whispered. “Business called.”
“Pshaw! Business!” she spat as she backed away and held me at arm’s length to get a good look. “You look thin.”
“You always say that,” I laughed.
“I’ve got some supper on the stove,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the front door. She walked a few steps and then turned around and said, “I need to feed my grandson, now, but you kids come back tomorrow and we’ll pick up where we left off!”
The kids groaned in disappointment before calling out, “Okay, Mrs. Connor,” “We’ll be back,” “‘Night Mrs. Connor!” and then disappearing into the darkness.
“I really should feed those children,” she muttered as she pulled open the front door and shooed me inside. “Tomorrow I’ll get a list together and get to the grocer.”
“Gram, tell me what you need and I’ll have it all delivered,” I said urging her to let me take care of things. She’d not yet gotten used to the fact that I had more money than I knew what to do with. I’d offered to buy her a new house, but she’d refused to leave the home she’d shared with Pop, telling me that it was where she lived her entire life and it was full of memories that couldn’t be transferred to another house, no matter how expensive it was.
“Don’t be silly; I can get to the store tomorrow and buy my own damn groceries, David,” she scolded as she waved at the table before grabbing a plate out of the cupboard and filling it with food she’d kept warm in the oven.
“How did you know I’d be coming by?” I asked, watching as she scooped chicken, potatoes, and a side of broccoli onto the plate before popping it into the microwave for a few seconds to warm it up. The microwave and a merlot-colored front-loading washer and dryer had been her only requests when I’d asked her what she wanted and told her I could give her anything in the world.
“I didn’t. It’s a habit that I developed when I first married your grandfather and didn’t know when he’d be home from the yards,” she said. She looked at me with a confused expression, “But you know that already. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, why?” I asked as she set the plate in front of me.
“Son, do not bullshit me,” she warned with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not bullshitting you,” I laughed as I picked up my fork and shoveled the food in.
“Slow down! You’ll make yourself sick!” she chided, but the smile on her lips told me she was happy to that I liked the food. She poured herself a glass of tea and sat down next to me. “Tell me what’s going on and why you’re here.”
“Can’t a guy just come visit his grandmother without getting the third degree?” I asked.
“No, he can’t. Spill it,” she ordered as she brushed some invisible crumbs from the flowered tablecloth. I loved coming home to Wolcott Street, not only because it felt familiar, but also because nothing in the house had changed since I was a kid. The living room furniture was still in the same position as it had been when Pop had come home from the yards and sat in his chair with his feet up to watch a Red Sox game, and I still sat in the same spot at the worn, oak dining table where the three of us had dinner every night.
“I miss Pop,” I blurted out.
“I know; so do I,” Gram said. “It’s too quiet around here without him.”
“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” I said, looking down at my plate and grinning.
“You are a bad, bad boy!” she laughed as she
swatted my shoulder.
“I need to talk to him about girls,” I said as I scooped up the last of the potatoes and shoved them in my mouth.
“And what? I’m chopped liver?” she said acting offended. “I’m a girl.”
“I know, but it’s not the same thing, Gram,” I said trying to diplomatically maneuver my way around the conversation. “Pop knew things.”
“He knew nothing!” she protested waving her hands at me in mock disgust. “I taught him everything he knew about girls!”
“That’s what she said,” I muttered.
“And you think I don’t know what that means, young man?” she laughed. “You see the crowd I hang with. I know things.”
“Gram, I fired my GM today,” I blurted out. “No one thought it was a good idea, but I did. He wasn’t doing what I thought needed to be done to build the team in a way that made sense to me. Then tonight I stopped by Black Jack and met a woman who I think I want to date, but I’m not sure it’s a good choice.”
“Why? You want to sleep with her?” Gram asked, giving me a skeptical look as she gestured to the plate and the leftovers. I nodded and she got up to fix another plate for me.
“Well, she did put the moves on me in the bathroom,” I admitted.
“What on earth were you two doing in the bathroom together?” Gram asked.
I told her the whole story of how we’d wound up there together and how we’d been interrupted before anything had really happened. She shook her head as she listed, but she didn’t interrupt me. When I’d finished, I looked up at her and said, “And there’s one more thing.”
“Something else?”
“She’s the granddaughter of George Halas,” I said. Gram dropped the plate she was holding and the food splattered out across the linoleum. I shout out of my chair yelling, “Gram!”
“Thank God for Corningware,” Gram said as she stood in the middle of the mess, watching me pick up the larger pieces and then clean up the rest with paper towels. I wiped her feet clean of the potato and broccoli mixture and then led her over to her chair. Once seated, she looked at me and said, “Boy, you do have some nerve. You do realize you’re playing with fire, don’t you?”
“I don’t know, Gram,” I said. “I think she’s smart and tough. She reminds me of South Side girls in a way.”
“She’s not, David,” Gram warned as she took a drink of her tea and then set the glass back down. She gave me a concerned look as she said, “You’re going to get yourself in trouble by doing something foolish by trying to impress her, David.”
“I’m not a teenager, Gram!” I protested. “I’m a successful businessman who knows what he’s doing! And I’m not trying to impress a girl I just met this evening!”
“Mmm hmm,” she said raising her librarian’s eyebrow. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“I need your support,” I said defensively, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Don’t go getting your hackles up,” she said patting my arm. “It’s been my job to look out for you ever since your parents disappeared, and the responsibility doesn’t lessen because you’re all grown up. I’m just worried that’s all. She comes from money, David, and that’s whole different world. You saw that at the ceremony when you got the team.”
“I’m surprised you remember that,” I said giving her the side eye.
“Oh please, I’m perfectly aware of everything I said or did that night,” she laughed as she swatted me again. “I just like a good cocktail every now and again. And I won’t deny that those football players are nice to look at!”
“Gram, I really think I want to date her, and if, in the process, I can generate some good publicity for the Storm and increase the chances that we’ll be able to draw bigger crowds at the stadium when the season starts, so be it,” I said, turning serious. “She’s smart and she likes football; at least I know that already.”
“David, are you sure you want to date her for the right reasons?” Gram asked skeptically. “What do you know about her family?”
“Jesus, Gram, she’s a Halas! What more is there to know?” I said, irritated that she was questioning me, and that the questioning was creating some small cracks in my carefully constructed façade.
“I know you will do the right thing,” she replied, looking over at the portrait of Pop hanging above the mantle before softly adding, “You’re a good boy, David. I know other people have questioned your motives and methods, but you’re a good boy, and I know you’ll do what’s right.”
“What do you think Pop would have said?” I asked quietly.
“I think he would have said the same thing. Do what’s right,” she said smiling. “But I think he probably would have also added his two cents on the girl matters. Not that his advice would have been any use whatsoever.”
“Gram!” I laughed as I took her hand and squeezed it tightly. “All I know right now is that she seems like someone I’d like to date. I’ve always trusted my gut instincts, and they’ve never let me down.”
“I love you, sweetheart,” Gram said, squeezing back. “If you think this girl might bring you happiness, well, then who am I to stand in the way? And I just want to see you happy.”
“I know you do, Gram,” I said leaning in and kissing her cheek. “I know you do.”
“Do you want some more supper?” she asked as she pushed herself up from the table and walked to the stove.
“Love some,” I smiled as she pulled out a clean plate and loaded it up with a second helping of everything.
Gram gave me a curious look as she set the plate down in front of me, but then shook her head and moved back to the sink. I knew she knew me well enough to know something else was going on, but she was also smart enough not to ask questions about things she’d rather not know. Secrets were a hallmark of my family, and for once, I was questioning whether keeping a secret from Gram was a good idea.
Chapter Eight
Payton
I woke up the next morning with the sun streaming in through the open window and realized I hadn’t closed the curtains before I fell asleep the night before. The warm rays felt good, so I threw off the covers and stretched out on the bed, soaking them up as I recalled the previous night.
Dax Connor was definitely a person of interest, but I wasn’t sure if he was one of those guys whose fragile egos could handle a little challenge. I wanted to see him again. Actually, I wanted to do more than just see him, but seeing him would be a good start.
My phone rang as I was pulling on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. On the other end was my lifelong best friend, Val Hanna, who said she was on her way with coffee and bagels, and that she would be there in 10 minutes. When she arrived, I buzzed her up and left the front door propped open. It was a habit that Val scolded me for every time she visited.
“Jesus, PG-13! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times not to leave your door open!” Val scolded as she breezed through the door arms full of coffee cups and a bag full of bagels and spreads. She used the nickname she’d cleverly come up back when we were in 7th grade because she knew I would be annoyed.
“And as I’ve told you a thousand times, there’s nothing to worry about in this building,” I grumbled, leaning in and kissing her cheek as I took the bag and went into the kitchen to unload it on a tray I’d set up.
“There is always something to worry about, girl,” Val called from the living room. When I emerged with the tray, she looked me up and down and said, “You look rough. What happened last night?”
“Gosh, thanks, friend,” I laughed as I set the tray down on the glass coffee table and accepted a cup of coffee from her before curling up in one corner of my large, L-shaped sofa. Dressed to the nines in a flowing Gucci top and tight, black jeans paired with black, gladiator Louboutin sandals, Val perched on the edge of one of the square leather chairs across the room and eyed me suspiciously.
“I’m serious; spill it,” she said, settling back as she sipped her coffee, looking lik
e the epitome of the Chicago socialite.
Born and raised on the South Side, Val clawed her way up from an impoverished beginning. She spent the first five years of her life being shuttled from relative to relative before the state finally put Val and her siblings in foster care. Val was whip smart, and attended the same private schools as I had, but on scholarship. Despite her brains, Val had never been driven to do more than the minimum necessary to maintain a respectable B average. Val was a hustler and she did exactly what she needed to in order to slowly but surely move herself up the ranks in school, but never attracted more attention than necessary.
She and I roomed together at Northwestern where she earned her degree in English literature and spent most weekends in the city without me. She would come back at the end of the weekend full of tales of adventures she’d had, but I always suspected that a large portion of the stories was edited out. Several times over the course of our friendship, I’d asked her why she didn’t want to do or achieve more, and she’d patiently explained that maintaining mediocrity meant that no one put unreasonable demands or expectations on her, and that any kind of achievement was then celebrated. As she’d gotten older and revealed her true intentions, her logic had made more sense to me.
“My mother issued an ultimatum and I went out drinking afterwards,” I shrugged.
“What the hell?” she said sitting up a little straighter as she shot me a questioning look. “What bug’s crawled up Joanna’s ass now?”
“She told me I have a month to find a suitable husband and get to work planning a wedding and then popping out heirs to the Halas throne,” I sighed, sinking into the taupe, microfiber embrace of my couch. I sipped the hot, dark coffee as I looked to Val for sympathy. When she said nothing, I continued, “She said it’s either that or I’m going to lose my inheritance and all support. Including this apartment.”
“So, get to work, babe!” Val said enthusiastically. “Hustle, hustle, hustle!”
