Milwaukee Noir

by Tim Hennessy

  “No way,” said Janie. “It’s such hard work to get our yards to where they are.”

  Erin said, “But don’t you see a connection? It’s as clear to me as the nose on my face.”

  “I’ll tell you what connection I see,” said Kitty. “Everyone is sick but Leif. Don’t you think it’s strange that he’s the only boy in Whitefish Bay who hasn’t had a single seizure this summer?”

  The women nodded. It was strange.

  “That’s because I don’t use that stuff,” Erin said.

  “He’s poisoning our boys,” said Kitty.

  This wasn’t something they’d discussed before, although now that Kitty said it, the mothers had to agree: it made perfect sense.

  “We’re on to him,” said Maureen.

  Erin tossed her magazine into a used Sendik’s plastic red grocery bag, and the women all thought the same thing at once: She doesn’t even have a decent beach bag!

  “That son of yours is up to no good,” said Annie.

  Kitty said, “I’ve put it together. Your boyfriend Cory—”

  “Cody.”

  “He just wanted to get some business from us. He got Leif to poison our boys and have you blame it on our lawns so we’d have to ‘go natural.’ This is part of your gig.”

  “My what?”

  “The gig is up!” said Annie.

  “I would never. Cody would never. Leif would never!”

  “You’re all just trying to make a profit off of us.”

  “God, you’re sick, you’re all fucking sick.” Erin stood up and folded her chair under her arm. “Each and every one of you.”

  Marci said, “We’re sick? Your husband didn’t die from a fireworks accident, that’s what I heard.”

  “Cody poisoned him too,” said Maureen.

  Annie pointed right in Erin’s face. “You’re a black widow.”

  “You’re a weed, that’s what you are!” spat Kitty. “And you don’t belong here.”

  “Go to hell.” Erin marched away, the wooden soles of her Dr. Scholl’s clomping on the concrete path that led up the bluff, a sound like Leif’s mallets against the keys.

  * * *

  The next week was Leif’s big performance. Nobody from the village would dare go see him play, and they forbade their boys from going too. Still, the boys gathered together in Kitty’s basement and watched it on the local cable access channel. The mothers, who were upstairs, gathered around Kitty’s granite peninsula countertop, plotting their next move. When the boys started cheering for Leif, they decided to wander into the basement to see what all the fuss was about.

  There Leif was, in the center of the stage, in front of all the other musicians. He didn’t look like the Leif they knew. It was the first time they’d ever seen him in a dress shirt and tie, with a shiny red vest and a nice pair of slacks. There were no rings on his fingers, and his Caterpillar boots were replaced with black dress shoes. He must have been wearing contacts; the eyes he’d hidden behind his tinted glasses were revealed as penetrating, as green as their lawns used to be. The women felt chills run through them; it was like he was looking right at them, like he saw everything.

  The boys came to life when the music began, although Channing drooled out of one side of his mouth and Connor had a constant twitch. They were mesmerized as Leif moved through the piece. They knew it well and commented like sports announcers on the series of cadenzas, accompanied first by the violins and violas. When the flutes and oboes made everything “weird,” as Maureen said, the boys explained the Japanese and Armenian influences on the piece and how the musicians are expected to improvise on a series of notes.

  The mothers wanted to dislike the music, and they did at first, but they couldn’t help but get caught up in a sort of spell. The song was strange and haunting, soulful, even beautiful. It grew and grew, building on itself, and Leif seemed somehow to expand beyond what they knew of him, and what they thought they knew of boys and life.

  Now they saw what Erin meant when she said that the music went through Leif; he was just a vessel. The song was like a story; it transformed from the light, tinkling sound into a march, then a crescendo. They were transported. The family room, recently painted in brassica, an eggplant color Kitty had told her husband wasn’t actually purple, disappeared. There was just the music, just the moment.

  Leif made them aware of a certain kind of frightening beauty, a transcendence—something they could tell was really, really important and meaningful. Maybe if that moment lasted even a few seconds longer everything would have been different, and the song would have been enough to change them somehow. But then, his arms raised high over his head, he froze like a zombie, his face contorted into a horrible grimace. His mallets slipped out of his hands and tumbled onto the keys. His whole body began to jerk and convulse. Of course, everyone knew what a seizure looked like after watching the boys succumb to seizures all summer, but for just a moment they thought perhaps this was what the music was supposed to do. Maybe, they thought, Leif was caught up in rapture. But then he collapsed.

  * * *

  While Leif was at his rehearsals, the mothers had snuck over to Erin’s house and entered a backyard that Kitty called Jurassic Park. “I couldn’t live like this,” said Annie. “It’s so . . . disorganized.”

  “This is a project,” said Maureen.

  Under the thick canopy of Kentucky coffee trees and sugar maples, they pushed away the damp stalks and branches that gently grazed their legs. They discovered mayapples and umbrella plants and sprawling butterbur with kidney-shaped leaves as big as their boys’ backpacks. Sunny yellow black-eyed Susans seemed to watch as the women squirted the colorless, odorless chemical potions their husbands had made. The flowers on the squash plants wilted, and the cigar-sized hornworms lost their grip, falling off the tomato plants into the yarrow. The chemicals had burned several small holes into Leif’s and Erin’s hammocks.

  “We were just trying to show Erin how wrong she was,” said Kate.

  “It’s not like we tried to poison Leif,” said Kitty.

  “This stuff is perfectly legal,” said Janie.

  “And perfectly safe,” said Maureen. “If it were that bad they’d ban it, but you can slap down your credit card and buy it at the Ace.”

  “It’s not like he died,” said Annie. “He’ll be able to play again someday. Once the tremor lets up, he’ll get his rhythm back.”

  “Epilepsy,” said Maureen. “I’ll bet that’s what it was. All those lights on him probably brought it on.”

  “A shame,” said Kitty. “He had such a rare talent.”

  * * *

  Erin had taken one look at her yard and knew what had happened, but she couldn’t prove anything, and the village police didn’t get worked up about Erin’s crazy pesticide theories. They had better things to do, like give speeding tickets to African Americans who drove through the village.

  The new zoning ordinances the women had fought for went into effect, and Erin’s house was deemed a nuisance and condemned. Erin had to sell Leif’s marimba to pay his medical bills. She and Leif packed up the Saab and moved to a random town in some random part of the state.

  “Whatever,” said Kitty.

  Still, it felt like Erin and Leif haunted Whitefish Bay with every weed that sprouted in their yards after they left, each one more aggressive and noxious than the weeds they’d seen before: first, the wild parsnip that caused streaky red rashes, then the hogweed with leaves that were three feet wide, and poison sap that could burn and blind.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve got this,” said the husbands, who donned hazmat suits that made them feel like police in antiriot gear. They power-sprayed stronger chemicals through wider hoses and special nozzles.

  The boys were gone, no longer boys. Their hammocks hung limp in the lingering mist.

  TWO CENTS

  by Shauna Singh Baldwin

  East Town

  A man of 6'4" needs a sturdier railing to climb the seven stairs from
John Hawks’s pub by the river. Even with the cane Ev makes him carry.

  Used to be 6'4", that is.

  At the top now.

  Helmut straightens. Crick-crick, say his vertebrae.

  Those vertebrae oughta be more relaxed after two Christmas toddies, but by golly that Hawk and his buddies . . . young, ignorant. They aren’t thinking about what they’re asking for, come January. So it will be a long four years. Maybe eight, ’cause people won’t want to switch horses midstream.

  Ach, wasn’t he like them once? Wasn’t Chamberlain? But like he told them, this time there’s no superpower that’s going to land troops on a D-day, nor bomb them to smithereens to save them.

  The clouds are white ovals forecasting snow, and dusk is dissolving the radiant blue over the high-rises. That Irish coffee’ll keep him toasty in his parka. His car’s in that lot near the arcade that used to be a Gimbels Brothers department store.

  What year was it that he parked cars in that lot? Who cares now when those cars got parked. Or who complained about it (and man, did those downtown bankers complain). All he knows is: it was several years before he met Ev.

  Ev says never to act like he did the first day they met. Like it wasn’t her fault. If she hadn’t come sashaying past that Gimbels window he was decorating, he wouldn’t have vaulted over a brass bar, the better to see her apple-shaped butt. To this day, he can hear the crash of plate glass and the tinkles as every mannequin rocked on its pedestal. And Ev’s high coo, “Are you all right?” (Her voice is more practical now, but warmer than the froggy voices of young gals.) Helmut said he was fine, though his heart was boinging all around. Then he nearly passed out from the touch of her gloved fingers at his temples—kind gals like Ev, they wore gloves. Titanium white, with just a tinge of cadmium yellow—he thought of that shade whenever she served anything topped with good old Cool Whip.

  Light in dark. Streetlights shining up to the bridge, then continuing on the west bank. And every light source casts a shadow. Like there’s some darkness hidden within light—those restaurant windows stretching away along the RiverWalk. Yin-yang. The bridge: one filbert brushstroke to suggest its metallic green.

  Ev says that wasn’t the first time they met. She says they met at a train station when they were only nine or ten. She says she was with her mom, he with his, and he reached over and took her hand. He doesn’t remember that, but one of his teenage paintings does show those children. He won a prize for it; it still hangs in Bayview High School. Ev thinks it really happened.

  Mother called that painting sappy; got so afraid her youngest might be gay she made him join Golden Gloves after that prize. Renewed his membership every time he won another art prize. Helmut never took to boxing, but after that morning at Gimbels he would have fought anyone and everyone for Ev if he’d had to. Even August Jr.

  Oh yeah, he finally hurt his brother real bad soon after he met Ev. Popped him with his one-knuckle. The shoken zuki, hard as John L. Sullivan, like his dojo master taught. So hard, he had to catch August Jr. quick before his head hit concrete. Which could have killed him, just like if Helmut fell today on the sidewalk here.

  When Helmut caught him, the coat came away in his hand, and there was Emperor August with his fancy suit split right up the middle, and his white shirt showing up pink skin. Helmut sure hit him good that day. The taxi horns in An American in Paris kept blaring as August Jr. sailed off the porch for saying Ev was a dumb Polack. Said it right in front of Ev’s dad, who was a dumb Polack but always thought Helmut was a dumb Kraut.

  So it was Uechi-Ryū, not boxing, that took care of August Jr. That’s how August Jr. finally quit beating him up.

  The river runs Prussian blue between ice floes all along its banks—Ev would remind him to hold the railing when he gets to the Plankinton Street bridge. He’ll stay to the right, on the side of the cigar store and the Riverside Theater, to say hello to Gertie. Kids these days only remember Gertie the statue. Helmut remembers the brown-feathered duck with the liquid eyes who sheltered her babies under this bridge during the war. He and August Jr. took a streetcar downtown just to see her.

  August Jr. was already full grown back then. About six feet, same as the guy in the hoodie coming toward him on the bridge. Tougher than Helmut, but Helmut was catching up. He had to. He and August were the only two German kids in a Polish school.

  Oh man, when Hitler invaded Poland. August fought the crap out of three crazy kids armed with crowbars to break his legs, and Helmut fought the crap out of six kids who jumped him that day. Helmut got home with a smashed nose, and there was his Uncle Margraff hunched over German radio. Uncle told August Jr. and Helmut to clean up. He said everything would be fine as soon as Hitler invaded America to save the Germans. August got so mad he was German, he pulled the whole sink from the wall. And Helmut remembers himself standing there, blood soaking his only school shirt, wondering, Save us? Who can save us?

  Jesus was supposed to be the answer. Jesus was the answer to everything for Mother. Jesus had a helluva lot on his hands back then, trying to save all the German and Polish guys who quit fighting one another to sign up right when Helmut did and go fight the same son of a bitch.

  Jesus still has. Only now, Jesus, how about looking after this old gumba? Because there’s a dark guy in a hoodie, almost as tall as the carved and painted Indian standing outside Uhle Cigars. Which means almost as tall as Helmut. The dark guy’s footfall clangs softly on the metal bridge.

  The guy in the hoodie doesn’t know Helmut used to do the shomen geri, a kick high as his own ear, or a spear-hand nukite so hard he could bring down August Jr. Well, at least Ev is at home and can’t feel his arm trembling, his grip tightening on his cane. He’s facing forward, feeling the rush of the river below. The carved Indian facing the street looks like he knows but won’t tell Helmut what hue of white the snow dust stippling the air is. Good thing none of the guys at the ad agency can see him now. Good thing Ev can’t see Helmut now. She’d see he is feeling lightheaded. Should he continue?

  A knowledge bubble rising within says kicking or punching is out.

  The railing feels solid beneath his fingertips. If the guy comes at him sideways, maybe he can back up against it, real sudden, real quick. Theoretically, the guy would fly past.

  If he comes at him straight, you can bet there’ll be two guys in the drink, ’cause Helmut isn’t the kind to let go.

  The dark guy trades places. It takes Helmut a second to realize the man is now behind him, walking.

  Is he looking back? Turning? What if he’s coming up behind Helmut, about to take him in a choke hold from behind? Helmut will flip him over his shoulder and shout, “Harrrgh!” and slam him to the ground. And a look of surprise will wash over his face like it did for August Jr. the day Helmut said, “No, no more money, go find another patsy.”

  The black guy could be coming up behind him, stealthy and quiet as a thief. Tiptoe, like August Jr. must have when he stole the money Ev gave his kid for cutting grass—she called it mowing the lawn. And the black guy could be thinking as August used to, that he could just get away with anything because he always did.

  Move forward.

  He tries to catch up with the clanging of his cane.

  Had there been a flash of white in the hoodie? August Jr. used to smile whenever he was caught. A smile that said, What, you were expecting something different? or, You have to forgive me—it’s my nature. No, there had been no smile.

  Doesn’t anyone teach kids to smile at their elders these days?

  Maybe he didn’t smile because, unlike August Jr., he probably knew he’d never get away with whatever he might be planning to do to Helmut.

  Are those footsteps? No sound. The black guy must be wearing fancy sneakers. The Michael Jordan kind: dark cadmium red, lamp black, and white.

  He listens for breath. Like he had when August was lying there, out cold. Remembering how he worried if he’d killed his brother this time and how he would explain it to Mother.
<
br />   There’s none, only stiffness in his neck from holding himself tall as he did in the Air Force. Which he joined because he could not shoot to save his life or anyone else’s, so it wouldn’t do him any good at this moment to have—or not have—a gun.

  Helmut stops, draws his collar up. The rush of the river seems to have stilled. Snow swirls lazily on the road; the wooden Indian looks like he has better things to think about than notice. The roll of the marquee on the Riverside Theater is still. Now he can barely read the name of some rapper who, like Helmut, probably never finished school. (Artists never finish school, he told Ev. She believed him—or at least she never said he should have.)

  All the kids should be out on the street at this hour. People gotta work tomorrow. C’mon, isn’t closing time only a few hours away?

  The black guy could be following him, getting closer. He might need someone to take him back to Ev. She’ll know what to do.

  Ev always knew what to do. Would call up and schmooze people Helmut completely forgot right after he delivered on time—he never missed an ad deadline. If she were here, she’d turn and say something nice that would just stop that guy.

  Helmut could too, if he could get the words out. Because he knows exactly where that young man is right about now, in his life. Nothing working out, no one making any more jobs. Computers taking over the ones you could have had with no college. He might tell him how he’d had to retire from ad agency work because his hand was too large to ride the back of a mouse, his eyes couldn’t focus on a screen. He wants to tell the kid, I get you. I was like you at your age. I’m like you now.

  But the black guy is probably just like the Polish kids in school. Probably only sees a white guy, a Kraut.

  They say only your mom cares a rat’s ass who you are.

  Not Mother. Nicknamed him Two Cents, ’cause she said that’s all he would ever be worth. That black kid probably had some teacher say the same. But his mom would never call him Two Cents—no way. His mom probably worked her ass off for him. But that black kid is probably living without his dad like Helmut did at his age, ’cause who would want to live with August Sr.? Not Helmut or August Jr. A guy who’d leave his wife and go off with her sister. Ev says Helmut should trash the newspaper clipping now. But that’s all he has of August Sr.