Set the Night on Fire

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  They were obligated to report it to the Chicago Health Department, the doctor said. “But that isn’t a bad thing. They can set you up with the MTS.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Municipal Tuberculosis Sanitarium. He needs to be insti-tutionalized while he’s recovering.”

  “In a hospital?” Alix asked.

  “That’s his best chance for a full recovery,” the doctor said.

  “How much does it cost?”

  “I don’t know, but I think they have a sliding scale.” The doctor wrote down the name on a scrap of paper. “There’s probably a waiting list, though. What about a private sanitarium?”

  Dar and Alix exchanged glances. “I … I don’t know,” Alix said tentatively. “Even if we could afford it, Billy hates hospitals. He’d probably run away.”

  The doctor paused. “Well, there is another possibility.” His tone made it clear he didn’t think it was the best solution.

  “What’s that?”

  “The MTS and Chicago Health Department have clinics around the city. He could go there for his medicine. They’ll make sure he takes it, and they’ll supervise his overall health.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Alix said.

  The doctor rubbed a finger below his nose. “He’d have to go there every day for eighteen months, you realize.”

  Alix’s eyes widened. “Eighteen months?”

  “That’s the standard course of treatment. There are some new protocols that are only six months, but they’re not available yet.”

  “He can hardly take medicine for eight days, much less eighteen months.”

  “It’s either that or a sanitarium.” The doctor handed over the slip of paper. “You’d better get him on the waiting list.”

  While Alix was still processing the information, Dar asked, “How contagious is TB?”

  The doctor inclined his head. “It’s not as contagious as people think. It can be spread by coughing and sneezing, but you can’t spread it by touching, for example. Still, you need to take reasonable precautions. Wear a mask when you’re with him … actually, he should, too. Wash your hands after being with him. Keep him quiet and isolated in a room with good ventilation. And keep the door closed. And make sure he always uses a tissue when he coughs or sneezes. Once he’s been on the medications for a few weeks and the active part of the disease goes into remission, he won’t be contagious.”

  “Do you have any idea how he got it?”

  “Probably on the reservation.”

  “His mother died last year, but he never explained why. I thought it was cancer. Now I wonder if she had TB,” Alix said.

  “It’s possible. It’s also possible he’s been infected since birth. Most people who are infected don’t develop symptoms, and their X-rays remain negative. The disease only turns active when the individual’s immune system or general health is compromised. Like it might be on the rez.” The doctor paused. “And there’s always the chance it might have become active in the past and was misdiagnosed as a cold or flu.”

  Alix recalled their trip to the ER. “Or bronchitis?”

  “Get him out of here,” Payton demanded when Alix told them about Billy’s TB. “And burn the fucking mattress he’s been sleeping on.”

  “But he’s not that contagious,” Alix began. “And I’ll make sure … ”

  “Payton’s right, Alix,” Casey cut in. “Billy can’t stay here. It’s not fair to the rest of us. Even if he’s not contagious.”

  “But we have no idea when he’s going to get into the MTS. Where’s he supposed to go?” Alix asked.

  “If we’re lucky, he can hole up in his room at the boarding house,” Casey said soothingly. “We’ll do everything the doctor says.”

  Alix turned to Dar. “That’s not good enough. He needs to be in a private sanitarium. I’m going to call my father.”

  Dar stiffened. The phone calls she’d made to her parents over the past year had ended badly—her father had been full of dire predictions about her “drug-crazed, hippie” lifestyle. He reminded her of that.

  “But this is different. It’s for Billy.”

  “He doesn’t know that, Alix. And he’s been looking for a way to drag you out of here. The minute you ask him for money, you’re giving him power over you. What if he puts conditions on it?”

  “Like what?”

  “What if he won’t give it to you unless you go back to Indiana?”

  “He can’t make me.”

  Dar shrugged. “And you can’t make him give you money.”

  Alix massaged her temples. “So what do we do? Billy needs help.”

  “I have an idea. Give me a day.”

  “That’s about all we have,” Alix said more sharply than she’d intended.

  Dar spent most of the next day on the pay phone at the corner of North Avenue. He came back looking dejected.

  “Where were you?” Alix asked.

  “Trying to talk to the BIA.” At her puzzled look, he added, “The Bureau of Indian Affairs. But, between getting transferred to people on vacation, and those who didn’t know what I was talking about, I didn’t get far.” He squared his shoulders. “The only thing to do is to show up down there.”

  “Where?”

  “At the BIA field office.”

  “Billy can’t go. He’s too sick.”

  “I’ll go by myself.”

  Alix softened. “If someone looks after Billy, I’ll come too.”

  Casey agreed to watch Billy, and the next day Dar and Alix took the El downtown. The BIA office was tucked away on the seventh floor of a faceless government building in the Loop. They would have missed it altogether if Alix hadn’t noticed a small sign halfway down a long hall.

  The door opened to a windowless room with no pretense at decoration. Two men sat behind standard issue metal desks covered with paperwork. One of the men, whose five o’clock shadow was noticeable though it was well before noon, looked up.

  “Yes?”

  Dar pointed Alix to the chair beside his desk and made her sit down. He stood behind her and explained the situation. The man listened without interrupting. Dar finished by saying, “So we’re looking for some financial help so he can be admitted to a sanitarium.”

  Alix stole a glance at the other man, who was leaning back in his chair, listening.

  The man Dar had talked to cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, you’ve reached us at a difficult time. Our programs are in transition.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “BIA used to have jurisdiction over every aspect of Indian affairs, but Congress ‘reassigned’ some of our duties. Indian health care, for example, is now the responsibility of HEW. Health, Education and Welfare.”

  “Which means what?”

  “You’ll need to talk to them.”

  Dar took in a breath. He was trying to stay calm. “And where are they?”

  “In the Government Services building. Across the Loop.” The man frowned. “Although, as far as I know, most of the Indian programs are on the rez. There’s not a lot going on here.”

  “So what do we do?”

  The bureaucrat opened a drawer, withdrew a pencil, licked it, and started writing. “Try Medicaid. The state of Illinois gives medical care to children through AFDC—Aid to Families with Dependent Children. Is he your son?”

  “Well …, ” Dar began.

  Alix cut in. “Yes.”

  The clerk threw them a skeptical look. “I thought you said he was Indian.”

  “He is. Lakota Sioux. He’s adopted.”

  “I see.” Alix knew he didn’t believe her. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you’re on welfare, you can get Medicaid.”

  “We’re not on welfare,” Alix said.

  “Oh.” He pursed his lips. “Well, then, I … ”

  “How long would it take to sign up?” Alix asked.

  He tapped the pencil against his desk, then opened the drawer and dropped it back in. “I wouldn’t know.�
�� He slid the drawer closed. “Not my department.” He scraped his chair against the floor and stood up.

  Alix stayed in her seat.

  “Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he said in a clipped tone that clearly indicated the meeting was over.

  Alix didn’t move.

  “Alix.” Dar prodded her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  “No, not yet.” She looked at the bureaucrat. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

  An irritated look came over his face. “I’m sorry, but there’s … ”

  The man at the other desk cut in. “There is one other thing.”

  “What?” Alix twisted around. A photo sat on his desk, he and a woman grinning at the camera, the woman cradling a baby. A good sign.

  “We have a relocation program. For Indians between eighteen and thirty-five. If he wants to join, we could help him with transportation, job placement, and subsistence funds until his first paycheck.”

  Alix deflated. “He’s only sixteen, and he can’t work. He has TB.”

  “But that’s what I’m saying. If he relocates formally, and we can look the other way when he fills in his age, he might be able to get health benefits.”

  “He needs help now. Not in two months or whenever the paperwork goes through.”

  The man spread his hands. “Then I’m sorry. I just don’t have any advice.”

  Alix and Dar walked past Kerr’s State Street store on their way back to the El. The windows, festooned with artificial autumn foliage, featured manikins dressed in earth-toned fashions. Alix looked away as they passed, but Dar gazed silently at the building with an odd expression, almost as if he was seeing it for the first time.

  They didn’t speak on the El back to Old Town. It was only after they took the steps down to the street that Dar said, “I’m sorry, Alix. I tried.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

  He took her hand and gently removed it. His expression darkened. “If you still want to call your father …,” he paused, “ … go ahead.”

  Alix hesitated. Then she said, “I already did. They’ll be here tomorrow. They want to have dinner.”

  Alix wasn’t surprised her father suggested a steak house—he was a meat-and-potatoes man. But she was a little surprised he’d chosen Gene and Georgetti’s. His tastes ran more toward Bing Crosby than Frank Sinatra, and she didn’t think he would like a place where anyone from the mayor to a mob boss might drop in. It wasn’t until she was nearly there that she realized he’d probably chosen Gene and Georgetti’s because he didn’t want to be seen at the fancy, white-bread establishments he usually went to in Chicago—that he might be embarrassed at his daughter—and her boyfriend.

  Tucked away under the El tracks, the restaurant was loud, rambunctious, and crowded. It sported lots of paneling, celebrity pictures, and a high-gloss bar, all rendered a little hazy by a curtain of smoke. Alix gave her name to the maître d’.

  “Ah yes.” He spoke with an Italian accent, stretching the word “yes” into two syllables. “They’re already here.” He pointed them upstairs.

  They went up to a room of tables covered in red and white tablecloths. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling. Her mother’s face lit up when she spotted Alix. She rose and threw open her arms. “Oh darling, it’s been too long!”

  Renee Kerr had given Alix her cloud of blond hair, light coloring, and slender build. She wore a conservative pink suit. St. John, probably. You could never go wrong with St. John, she always told Alix. She was pretty but had a slightly vacant look, as if she wasn’t quite plugged into life. The look disappeared when she was with Alix, but tonight Alix thought she looked even more remote. For the first time since she’d moved to Chicago, Alix felt a pang of guilt.

  Alix turned to her father. Sebastian Kerr was a big man just turning to flab. Since she’d seen him last, his waist and chest had thickened, and his cheeks were forming soft jowls under his chin. His starched collar bit into his neck, but his tailored suit and tie looked new. Thin strands of gray hair were brushed back from his face. Only his eyes, a cold blue, were hard.

  Alix kissed him on the cheek, then smoothed out her secondhand black dress. She’d borrowed an iron from a neighbor, but she wasn’t used to ironing her own things and hadn’t done a very good job. She’d tried to press Dar’s clothes too, which she’d picked up at Goodwill. He didn’t want to wear a tie and jacket, but she’d insisted—they had to make a neat impression.

  She was aware of her father checking them out, taking in their clothes, their shoes—scuffed secondhand heels for her, sandals for Dar—and Dar’s hair, which though shorter than before, still hung below his collar.

  “Alix, you’re too thin, darling,” her mother blurted out. “You must have lost ten pounds.”

  “I’m fine, Mother. I eat vegetarian most of the time,” she lied.

  “Well, maybe you should change your diet,” her father said. “Eat more wholesome things like bread and meat.”

  “It’s the processing, Daddy. Manufacturers add all sorts of things to bread and meat that aren’t good for people.”

  “It’s good enough for most people.” He motioned to a waiter in a black jacket and bow tie a few feet away. “Two vodka gimlets.”

  He didn’t ask her mother what she wanted, Alix thought. Just ordered for her. She’d forgotten that.

  Her father focused on Dar. His probing gaze, always measuring and assessing, more than compensated for her mother’s detachment. “I don’t suppose you want a drink.”

  “No sir, but thank you.”

  Her father broke eye contact with Dar, as if he couldn’t stand to look at him. Folding his hands on the table, he frowned at Alix. “Did you hear about that carnage out in California a week or so ago? The movie star murders?”

  “Sharon Tate?” Alix asked.

  “That’s the one. Apparently, they found the word ‘Pig’ scrawled in blood in her house.” Her father’s expression turned icy. “They’re saying a bunch of hippies did it.” He glanced coldly at Dar. “And then there were those thousands of people who went to upstate New York for that concert. No bathing. No plumbing. Just rain, mud, and drugs.” He waved a hand. “I tell you, our society is falling apart. There are no limits any more.”

  “I agree, sir,” Dar said. “About the horror out west.”

  Her father’s eyebrows shot up.

  “But Woodstock …,” Dar smiled, “ … was unique. They say over half a million people showed up, but there was no violence for the entire weekend. We would have gone ourselves if we could have.”

  Kerr’s eyes narrowed. The waiter brought their drinks. Alix’s mother and father lifted their glasses at the same time and took a sip. The waiter passed around embossed menus in thick leather folders. Her father ordered a sixteen-ounce steak for himself and veal medallions for her mother. Alix ordered fish. So did Dar.

  When the waiter left, Alix’s mother leaned in. “Alix, do you remember Steven Frederickson? He was a year or so ahead of you in high school.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, he was just accepted to Harvard Law School. His parents are thrilled. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “That’s lovely.”

  “And what do you do?” her father asked Dar. “Are you in college?”

  Alix tensed.

  “Not any more, sir. I went to the University of Michigan, but I’m not sure formal education is what’s important. At least for me.”

  “And what is?”

  “I want to create a better social order. One that provides the services people need from their government.”

  Her father’s expression tightened.

  A new round of drinks arrived with their food. Her father concentrated on his steak, but her mother filled the gap with chatter about neighbors, the coming fall fashions, and old school friends of Alix’s. Alix tried to appear interested, but she was aware of the tension around the table, and her stomach clenched. She hardly touched h
er meal.

  When the waiter finally cleared the dishes, her father folded his hands on the table again. “Now, tell me why you need money for a hospital.” His eyes were veiled. “You’re not … pregnant?”

  Alix flinched. A muscle worked on Dar’s jaw. “No, Daddy. It’s something else. There’s this young boy. Well, a teenager. We’ve been … kind of … mentoring him. He’s Indian, and he’s sick. He has TB.”

  “Oh my god. TB?” Her mother’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not … interacting … with him, are you?”

  “Of course we are. But that’s not … ”

  “You can’t do that!” Her mother’s voice was shrill. “ You … you’ll get sick yourself. Alix, darling. You must stop. Use your common sense.”

  “I’ve done a lot of reading, Mrs. Kerr,” Dar cut in. “And we talked to his doctor. TB isn’t really as contagious as you might think. Especially if it’s not in the acute phase. Believe me, we’re taking reasonable precautions.”

  “Reasonable precautions?” Her father’s voice went cold. “You have no formal education, yet you’re making medical pronouncements about TB?”

  Dar kept his mouth shut.

  “Do you have a job at all?” He didn’t wait for Dar’s answer. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” His knuckles turned white. “I did not raise my daughter to live … in squalor.”

  “She doesn’t.” Dar put his arm around Alix. “Your daughter has created a home for all of us. She is one of the most generous, beautiful women … ”

  Sebastian registered Dar’s arm motion and leaned forward. “Don’t talk to me,” he scowled, “ … as if we’re on the same level, discussing an employee at one of my stores. This is my daughter. You may have happened to catch her fancy—for what reason I can’t fathom—but I will not permit you to talk to me like that.”

  “Daddy, stop.” Alix threw up her hand. “This isn’t about Dar. Or me. Billy needs to be in a sanitarium. We don’t have the money. I need to get at my trust fund.”