“That Thing You Do?” Curt jumped in.
“Right. The Wonders.” Dena glanced at the others. “We’re not them. We’re in it for the long haul. Think about it. We’re only at the first step. If . . . no”—she shook her head—“when we succeed, and he’s gone, there’s going to be a shitload of cleanup to do. He gutted the State Department, the EPA, the diplomatic corps. He’s allowed cabinet members to cash in big-time just because they can. In fact, whether they’re pocketing thousands from lobbyists or sucking the government’s tit, it’s the most corrupt cabinet in history.”
“Including people who get a cut of the action? Like your father?” Ruth said.
Dena shot Ruth a fierce glare. “Yeah, okay. Like my father.” She shifted her tone. “But bottom line, you can’t argue about how dangerous fracking is. It’s caused earthquakes all over Oklahoma. It poisons the water. Kills animals and wildlife. Gives everyone cancer. And the producers are lying about it. They completely deny it’s happening! It’s incredible. Why not expand solar? Wind power? Even that algae crap they’re exploring? The Resistance can handle this. It’s part of our agenda.”
“Your agenda,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry, Dena, but I can’t support you on this one. It seems a little outside our box.”
“I thought our box was supposed to be open and flexible,” Dena said acidly.
DJ raised his hands. “Okay. Hold on.” He was a natural peacemaker. “Why don’t we put it to the group? You could do a post and see how people react.”
Dena bit her lip. “We could do that.”
“And if people want to adopt it, we go ahead. You find venues to speak. You start enlisting environmental allies and all that.”
Ruth cut in. “But if we take on fracking, what’s next? Someone will want to talk about the Middle East. And then someone else will want to talk Me Too. Then gun control. Before you know it, we won’t be the Resistance anymore. We’ll just be another progressive Bernie Sanders group.” She paused for what Dena thought was effect. “And you know how that turned out.”
Adrenaline pounded Dena’s heart. Ruth was becoming a little too assertive these days. Insinuating her opinion into just about everything. Then again, she was smart and thoughtful, she got things done, and she listened to Dena. Most of the time. Dena managed to keep her mouth shut.
“I don’t know, Deanie,” Curt said, using his nickname for her. His affectionate manner calmed her, even though she realized it was deliberate. “Ruth’s got a point. Our mission is to impeach or see him resign. We’re getting closer. The special counsel is making inroads.”
“Impeachment is never gonna happen,” Dena said. “Most of the Republicans are complicit, for fuck’s sake. They took Russian money.”
Curt ignored Dena’s comment. “But I think DJ’s got the right idea. If we’re truly a democracy, we should test the waters.”
This time Dena didn’t hold back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think all three of you are a bunch of pussies.”
The others exchanged glances. Ruth cleared her throat. “Dena, we’re just trying to protect the integrity of ResistanceUSA.”
“I get that.” Dena took a swig of beer from her mug. She sat back. “Okay. You’re right. All of you. I’m sorry. It just seems the bigger we get, the less nerve we have. We spend hours discussing process, not politics. Who’s going to schedule the moderators, how best to get the word out. We fricking sound like corporate executives. What happened to our passion, our courage to speak out against the injustices?” She gazed at the row of bottles stacked up along the mirror behind the bar. Dusk was settling, and beams from car headlights passing outside shot light through the front window, making the bottles glow with amber, blue, and yellow sparkles. Dena slipped out of her chair and headed to the bar. “I need something stronger.”
The others didn’t stop her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Five Months Before the Demonstration
An hour and four shots of Jim Beam later, Curt and DJ had left, and Ruth joined Dena at the bar. It was after five, and the place was filling up. A group of four men came in and commandeered a table in the front. The bartender, a woman, served them pitchers of beer and plates of wings, mozzarella sticks, and meatballs.
“That crap will rot your gut.” Dena watched the bartender carry a tray of baby sausages to their table.
“I doubt they care,” Ruth said.
“On the house.” The bartender placed the sausages in the center of the table.
Dena polished off her shot of whiskey. “So how come they get special treatment?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Let’s find out.” She swung the barstool around.
“Dena, you’ve had a few. Give it a rest.”
“See?” Dena grabbed the edge of the bar to steady herself. “That’s exactly what I was talking about. You guys are losing your rage. I’ll give it a rest when those mobsters are out of the White House.”
Her eyes were not entirely focused, Ruth noticed.
“You know I’m right.”
Ruth blew out a breath. “Philosophically, of course you are. But realistically, we can’t add fracking to our list. We don’t have environmental experts. Christ, we don’t even have an energy platform. People won’t take us seriously. They’ll call us a bunch of whiny kids.”
“They don’t say that about the Parkland kids. And they’re standing up to the NRA, for God’s sake.”
“They’re a decade younger than us. And they’re fighting for gun control. More people care about guns than fracking. Most people probably don’t even know what fracking is.” Ruth hesitated. “Just because you hate your father is no reason for political action.”
Dena belched loudly, not even trying to suppress the sound. “Where did you get that idea?”
Ruth sighed. “The night when we were applying for the permits? Remember? You told me the whole story.”
“Nope. Can’t say that I do.”
“You were drinking then, too.” Ruth eyed her.
“You just don’t want to spread your wings, Ruth. You’re all cowards.”
A chortle made Dena twirl her barstool and check out the men at the table. One of the men looked big and solid and wore a handlebar mustache that was perfectly groomed. He wore something on his head that resembled one of those Arab scarves. A keffiyeh, she thought. A second man, leaner and lankier, wore an army fatigue jacket over jeans. The remaining two, jackets off, showed off arms covered with tats. Loud guffaws interspersed with murmurs punctuated their conversation.
“You gotta have guts,” Dena said, her words sloppy. “How much you wanna bet I can convince those guys to rally to our side?”
Ruth looked them over. “Dena, stop playing games. Let’s go home.”
Dena shook her head. “Told you I was gonna convert one or two. Watch.”
“Come on, Dena.” Ruth took Dena’s arm.
Dena shrugged it off. “Fuck off, Ruth.”
The bartender came over. She had a heart-shaped face, prominent chin, brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and a muscular build that said she was strong enough to manage rowdy customers. Now she smiled. “You’ve been going at it pretty good for a while. How ’bout a cup of coffee?”
“No fucking way. I’m on a mission to save our country.”
The bartender stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. “Can’t blame a gal for trying.”
Dena slid off the barstool and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
Dena tottered. Ruth squeezed her eyes shut, thinking, Here we go.
Dena approached the table. “Hey, guys, how y’all doing this evening?”
The men stared at her as if she was an alien who’d just parked her spaceship on the street.
“It’s okay. I won’t bother you.” She giggled. “Too much.” She glanced at the guy in the fatigue jacket. “You in the service?”
“Not anymore.” He gave her the once-over. His expression softened into appro
val, Ruth noticed. She couldn’t disagree. Dena was pretty. And sexy. At the same time, though, the guy with the Arab headgear shook his head at Fatigue Jacket.
Dena didn’t notice. “Where’d you serve?”
“Iraq. Two tours.”
“Best shot in the platoon,” one of the guys with tattoos said.
She nodded. “You all serve together?”
Arab Scarf shot Dena a cool look. “I don’t want to be impolite, miss, but we’re in the middle of something here.”
“Oh. You want me to get the hell away from you.” Dena swayed.
He plastered on a fake smile. “You said it, not me.”
Dena slipped a hank of hair behind her ear. It was a Veronica Lake move Ruth knew meant she was flirting, trying to seduce, make herself irresistible.
“I’ll go. But I want to tell you something. I’m involved with—um—a political group. We’re gonna kick the president out of office. I mean, he’s fucking destroying our country day by day with his corruption, lies. Yeah, and treason. Playing fast and loose with the facts.” She looked at each man in turn. “He fucking decimated the State Department. And the EPA. And ya know what? If Mattis wasn’t there, we’d all be dead from World War Three. You’re military guys. We need you. The country needs you. Will you join us?”
A disconcerting silence was her answer.
Dena glanced at each man in turn. The only ones who made eye contact were Fatigue Jacket and Arab Scarf.
“You got the wrong crowd here,” Arab Scarf said.
“Are you kidding me?” Dena said. “You voted for him?”
“That ain’t none of your business, lady. Now, get the fuck away from us.”
Ruth suddenly appeared at Dena’s side. She grabbed her arm. “Let’s go, Dena.”
Dena yanked her arm away. “I’m not finished.”
“Hold on, man.” Fatigue Jacket cut in and flashed, of all things, a smile at Dena. He yanked a thumb at Arab Scarf and said in an apologetic tone, “He’s got a short fuse.” He looked eager to hear more.
Dena picked up on it. “Is that right?” She gave him one of her hundred-watt smiles. “And who are you?”
“I—I’m Scott.”
Dena looked him over.
He wasn’t bad-looking, Ruth thought. A heart-shaped face, long shaggy hair, bushy eyebrows, but his brown eyes were soft. Not really Dena’s type. Then again, who was?
“And what do you say, Scott?” Dena purred.
“I don’t give a shit who’s president. They’re all crooks.” He cocked his head. “I just want to get away. I did two tours, saw my buddies get blown up. Didn’t make fuck-all difference. We get what we deserve.” He took a swig of beer. “First a nigger president, now a crook. Me? I just want off the grid.” He glanced over at Arab Scarf, whose arms were now folded across his chest.
Dena gasped. “Scott! Did you just say the N-word?”
Oh crap. Ruth braced for all hell to let loose.
But Scott didn’t cede any territory. “What else you gonna call him?”
Dena drew herself up. Cleared her throat. “How about President Obama, for starters?”
The group broke into laughter.
“You are the worst kind of coward, you know that, Scott?” She pointed her finger at him. “Oh sure, you complain, call people names, but when push comes to shove, you want out. Run the other way. You’re just another garden-variety racist.”
Scott’s face turned crimson.
Arab Scarf cut in. “Okay, lady. It’s really time for you to leave us alone.”
But Dena kept her finger pointed at Scott. “Right-wing zealot . . . what the hell am I saying? You probably don’t know what the word means. Get off the grid. Jesus Christ. You might have fought for our country in Iraq, but the stakes are way higher now. And you’re quitting. He’s a dictator. Do you know what that means? And all you want to do is escape? I don’t know about the rest of your buddies, but you, Mr. Scott, are an asshole.”
Ruth grabbed her again. “We’re leaving now, Dena.” She turned to Arab Scarf. “I want to apologize for my friend. She—”
He waved her off and turned toward the bartender. “Kitty?”
The bartender, who was watching it all, tipped her head to the side.
“Get her out of here.”
“You got it, Jerky.”
“Jerky?” Dena scoffed. “Figures. He’s a fucking jerk.”
The woman came over and grabbed Dena’s arm. Dena finally sagged and let herself be walked out. At the curb, the bartender leaned over to Ruth. “It’s probably better if she never comes back here, you know what I mean? The boys hang out here all the time.”
“I’m really sorry. She’s plastered.”
“You don’t say.” Kitty looked at Ruth. “Get her home and let her sleep it off. The corner’s not bad for cabs. Have a good night.” She headed back to the door.
Dena was muttering. “Soldiers . . . what pussies . . . Get off the grid. Holy crap.”
“Wait,” Ruth called out to Kitty. “We didn’t pay you for the shots.” She fished in her bag.
A pained, weary look came across Kitty’s face, as if she wanted to wipe her hands of the entire matter. “Don’t worry about it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Present
Sheridan Road is home to both the priciest and the shabbiest buildings in Chicagoland. Mansions line streets from Evanston to the Wisconsin state line, and expensive apartment buildings form canyons from Lake Shore Drive south to the Field Museum. In between, though, are modest neighborhoods and even pockets of blight. Rogers Park, just south of Evanston, is on the modest end, and that’s where Georgia was headed the next morning.
When she turned onto Morse Avenue from Sheridan, she recognized Katherine Jarvis’s building right away. She’d seen it on the news. Tucked away a block west of Sheridan, a pair of three-flats were flanked by taller apartment buildings. One of the three-flats had been renovated and sported a bright red door and tidy lawn. But Katherine Jarvis’s building was marked by peeling paint, uneven porch steps, and windows lined with a sludge of filth that looked baked in.
She parked, trudged up the rickety steps, and entered the vestibule, a tiny room with mailboxes on one side. “Jarvis, K” lived in 1B. She hit the buzzer and waited a full minute. Nothing. She buzzed again. Still nothing. Jarvis wasn’t there. Georgia was disappointed but not surprised. She probably had a job. Georgia went back to the Corolla and settled in to wait.
Clouds scudded across the sky, creating two distinct climates that vied with each other. When the sun hid behind the overcast, it was a dreary late winter day in Chicago. But when the clouds parted, the sun was a cheerful harbinger of daffodils and warm weather. The dichotomy reflected Georgia’s mood.
While she waited, she called Katherine Jarvis’s cell, which she’d found online. It was disconnected. Her Facebook page had disappeared too. She couldn’t blame her. After all the press coverage and tumult and invasion of her privacy, her life had to be a mess. She probably hadn’t had time to mourn her brother. Still, she might have switched to an unlisted number. Georgia would continue to stake out her home.
She checked her messages. Two voice mails. One was a telemarketer. How did they get her number? Did they buy lists from phone providers? Had to be a scam. She should look into it. Someday. She deleted the call.
The second call came from a number she didn’t recognize. She clicked on the replay.
“Georgia, this is JoBeth. Vanna and I have been trying to find you. We want to talk. I’m thinking of staying here in Chicago. I could take care of Charlie while Vanna finishes school. Peaches, you’ve done a wonderful job with Vanna. She’s matured. Thoughtful, thinking ahead. That’s all because of you. Please call us. I know you miss Charlie. He’s something, isn’t he?” Her chuckle sounded nervous. “Anyway, think about it. I love you.”
Georgia stared at her cell’s screen. She hadn’t been JoBeth’s “peach” for twenty-five years. Then, like the mo
ttled sky that intermittently blotted out the sun, Georgia’s mood swung. Her mother was bouncing her on her knee. She couldn’t remember when or where she was, but a recording of Ray Charles warbling “Georgia on My Mind” in his gravelly voice played in the background. JoBeth sang along. Georgia felt safe and protected. And loved. But the song’s mournful lyrics sparked a twinge of regret too. An omen of things to come? Georgia deleted the number. She was on the outside. Even if it was her own choice.
By ten that night Georgia decided Jarvis’s sister wasn’t coming home. She drove back to Evanston. She was back the next morning before eight with a steaming latte. Still no answer when she buzzed. She bundled up in her car to wait.
Twenty minutes later, a young man burst out of the vestibule and down the steps to the sidewalk. Checking his cell, he hurried toward Sheridan Road. He waved to hail a passing bus, but the vehicle didn’t stop. Georgia climbed out of the Toyota.
He dug out his cell and tapped a few keys. Calling an Uber? If so, she had about five minutes before it arrived. She jogged to the corner. His back was to her.
“Hey, sorry to bother you. I know you’re late.”
“How did—” Jarvis’s neighbor whirled around. A quilted North Face jacket, khaki pants. Wavy brown hair, a cleft chin, round, suspicious eyes.
“I saw you come out of the three-flat down there.” Georgia gestured toward the building.
Those round eyes narrowed. “Are you stalking me?”
Everyone thought the world revolved around them. “I’m looking for Katherine Jarvis.”
“Oh.” Comprehension dawned. He studied her. “You don’t look like a reporter.”
“That might be because I’m not.” She hesitated. “We were friends in grade school. I wanted to see how she was doing.”
His eyebrows arched, as if he didn’t believe her. She didn’t blame him. It was a lame pretext.
“Do you know where she is?” she asked.
“You really don’t know her, do you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you did, you’d know everyone calls her Kitty.” He drew himself up. “And you won’t find her.”
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