Painted Black, page 8
“If Lexie does go back there,” Keisha said, getting in and leaning across the seat to unlock Jo’s door, “you just made sure that woman won’t have a thing to do with her.”
“Good,” Jo shot back, but she got in the car anyway, slamming the car door. “Lexie was right. She is better off on the streets than with that woman. Living with that woman must have been like....like....”
“And living on the streets maybe got Lexie killed, Jo,” Keisha said quietly. “You forgetting that?”
Her words brought a measure of calm, but did not change Jo’s mind. “There are some times you only have two bad options to choose from, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Who are we talking about now, Jo? Lexie? Or yourself?”
Jo turned the key and put the car in gear. “We’re talking about everyone, Keisha,” Jo said quietly as they pulled onto the street. “And that’s the whole problem.”
Chapter 17
Bitch. He’d recognized who she was. The reporter who wanted to meet with him. All that trash about Lexie when she really just planned to turn him in.
Now what? Fuck it, just fuck the whole thing. What could he do anyway? Nothing, that’s what. Just like always. Take care of your own self, if you can do that much. Fuck the rest of it.
But he couldn’t get over feeling so shitty. His head buzzed. Anger burned just below the surface. And why, oh why, did he have this sick spot at the pit of his stomach? Maybe he knew. Word on the robbery last night had hit the street. Every version he’d heard so far had one thing in common. Nobody said nothing about any female picked up by the cops. So that meant Lexie’d gotten away, or it meant … well, she hadn’t.
His stride became a half run, then a full jog, arms swinging at his side, breathing evenly, pacing himself like when he’d been in track. God, ages ago. He ran till sweat made his shirt stick, trickled down his hair, into his eyes. Then, heart thumping, he stopped. Taking great gasps of air, he leaned over, hands on his knees. The rush of blood throbbed in his ears.
Only one thing he could do now. Not go to that trumped up meeting, no way. That was a trap, he knew now. He was in this on his own and he had one shot, a slim shot, but screw it. All or nothing. He’d haunt that screwball until he either got an answer or got his ass dumped in Lake Michigan. Right now it didn’t seem to matter much which one it was.
He passed his squat as he walked up School, and found himself followed by the tomcat that sometimes shared his space with him. Chris bent down to scratch his ears. Cat rubbed his head against Chris’s shins with a six-cylinder purr.
“Too bad I can’t feed me as good as I do you,” Chris mumbled as he pulled out the plastic wrapped hot dog chunk he’d saved from lunch at the center.
The cat answered with an impatient and bossy yowl, then set upon the food with a rumble in his throat loud enough to be heard over the roar of the “L.” Chris tied his hair back and jammed a White Sox cap on his head. Not much of a disguise, but better than nothing. Then, unwrapping the candy bar he’d bought that morning, he hefted the bag onto his right shoulder and took off down Sheffield.
When he reached the alley behind the funeral home, he poked his head around the corner to check for any unusual activity. The cat had caught up to him and crisscrossed at his feet, bumping the boy’s calves with his head. The alley stretched empty toward the opposite street. There was a funeral scheduled that day, he’d seen that in today’s copy of The Reader. Everyone should be too busy to notice him painting in the alley right outside.
His head was quiet as set up. No fear, no thinking about the consequences, no remembering Lexie’s laughter, or tears. Life sucked. So what. Get over it.
He started with black, as always, wide arcs of spray paint that would serve as a backdrop. Then he muddied the other colors into the spray before it had a chance to dry, until they lost their primary hues and formed new depths of black and gray.
He worked inward from about six feet away from the entrance, moving slowly closer to the window next to the door. At first he worked mostly on instinct, his senses tuned to his environment, alert for cries of outrage or recognition. But soon the images took him over, like they always did. He became lost in the world on the wall. An alley painted in an alley, slanted to give it depth. Shadowed doorways and hulking shapes ended in a single spot of color: the crimson rectangle of a door with no handle.
Music had been playing in the back of his mind while he painted. Something hard rock, an electric guitar twang that made him cringe at the memories it brought back. He never understood why his mother listened to rock music by guys old enough to be his grandfather. His mother used to play that song over and over, lost in a funk, beer cans all over the coffee table, some on their sides dripping stinking pools of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Lyrics about how all the colors were gone except the red of a door. Someone wanting even the red door to be painted black.
Those nights he’d know she’d lost her job again, or the latest boyfriend had walked out on her, or some other deep dark sadness had taken her over. Those nights he left her alone, tried to keep the little ones from bugging her.
The first painting he’d ever done had been in bright poster paints. Mostly he just remembered the colors: yellow, green, blue, red—lots of red. It was just before Mother’s Day and the teacher had helped all the first graders wrap their poster board-framed masterpieces using butcher paper and lots and lots of scotch tape.
His mother was still at work when he got home from school, but he couldn’t wait till Sunday. The babysitter promised that if he went to bed early, she would leave the present in the middle of the kitchen table where his mother would be sure to find it when she returned home from her double shift.
The house was empty in the morning, but he didn’t worry. She always left early on Saturdays to work part-time in the coffee shop downstairs. A bowl of cold oatmeal waited for him on the kitchen table. The saucer she covered it with always left a circle pressed into the congealed mush. With enough sugar and milk it would taste great despite how it looked.
Other than that, the table was empty, the present gone. He found the wrapping paper by digging in the trash, but not the picture. Afraid to ask in case she hadn’t liked the gift, he waited about a week to see if she would say anything. Then one night he came home to find her crying. She was going to have a baby, she said. He would have to be a little man about it and help her around the house more. He never asked about the picture after that.
Now he mostly painted with spray cans—sometimes stolen, sometimes found half empty in dumpsters. But he also collected anything else he found. There was a hardware store over on Ashland that mixed paints for people and if he got there early enough on a Thursday morning he could pick and choose from the cans they threw out. He would pry their lids off with the broken blade of his pocket knife, then scrape the thickening paint into an empty pickle jar or something. Usually this method produced strange shades of muddy off white or unusual browns and grays, but that was all right. He seldom painted in color anymore.
Except for red. He still had a thing for red.
Stepping back, he looked at what he’d done so far and noticed, finally, how late it was. Early dusk made even darker by the clouded sky. Except for cars passing on the street at either end of the alley, there’d been no movement, no distraction. No reason to be alarmed.
No reason to wait anymore either. Fish or cut bait, his mom used to say. Shit or get off the pot. Fuck or be fucked.
Unfortunately, it was too dark inside to see much through the window—although he recognized the small points of light shining on the chambers. The lock on the back door didn’t look too solid and the window looked easy to break. He took his knife out of his pocket and fanned open the blades. As he fingered the thin punch tool he considered his options. If there was anything he could do, he knew he would find out inside.
He glanced down the empty alley to the right and left. Listened. Glanced at the second floor windows above him. No sound, no movement.
He leaned over the door knob and fumbled with the punch tool. Tongue between his teeth, he concentrated on the feel of the tumblers, taking his time. You had to find … just … the right …
A flash of pain at the base of his skull. His head cracked against the door. Teeth cut up his tongue. Blood, bitter and salty. He heard Cat yowling. He turned—tried to turn, but a kidney punch brought him to his knees. A kick doubled him over. He kicked back, rising and running at the same time.
A body slam knocked the wind from him. His hands broke the fall and the knife he still held clattered from his fingers. He kicked and crawled, found the knife, swung it back. Missed. Swung again.
The man cursed and the grip on Chris loosened. He tore free, rolled away, scrambled on hands and knees for a jagged break in the corner of a fence. The rough boards caught on his clothes as he scraped through. Splinters raked his back.
Coward. The word mocked as he jumped to his feet and ran away. Tears mixed with blood wet his face. Coward again.
Chapter 18
The visit to the south side had not helped Jo’s mood much. Except now it wasn’t just Lexie Green and Tommy the Brit and Chris she brooded about, but Patrick Delaney Sullivan as well. Because her visit to Lexie’s mother had convinced her there was one more thing she had to do. Something that risked opening doors she’d vowed to keep tightly locked.
It was only 4:30 by the time she and Keisha returned to their apartment building, but it was already starting to darken up outside. Closing the door to her apartment without turning on the light, Jo checked the answering machine. Only one call waiting. The fluorescent digits of a 309 area code blinked red on her Caller ID. A flash of anger brought back a memory of the scene with Lexie’s mother, although she knew her rage had nothing to do with that at all. She deleted the message without playing it back.
Jo had time to kill before meeting Jack and Chris. Sitting and brooding was not going to improve her mood anyway. She might as well get it over with.
She pulled the address book out of her desk drawer and opened it to the B’s. Chelsea Bates. 815 555-1964. Her cousin, a nurse living in Rockford.
If she was lucky, Chelsea wouldn’t be home yet. All she’d have to do was leave a message asking Chelsea if she could find out anything about a nurse named Thelma Thornton. She could avoid a long one-sided conversation with her cousin.
She walked to the window as she dialed her cell phone. Three rings and no answer. Jo relaxed. The fourth ring broke off and Jo opened her mouth to begin the brief but upbeat message she’d already half formed in her mind. But instead a voice that was clearly not electronically recorded said, “Hi. This is Chelsea.”
For one panicked instant, Jo almost hung up, but then realized if Chelsea recognized her number, she’d end up looking pretty stupid.
“It’s me—” Jo said, with a high pitched cheerfulness that she hoped sounded more genuine to her cousin than it did to her. “—Jo. I was afraid you wouldn’t be home.”
How appropriate to recall the childhood chant: Liar, liar, pants on fire. Chelsea’s mother was Jo’s paternal aunt and so there had been many childhood holidays shared at Grandma Sullivan’s brownstone.
“Jo?” Chelsea’s voice sounded almost shocked. That was when Jo realized it had been over five years since they’d spoken. “What’s wrong? Is it your Dad? Has something happened?”
Her words threw Jo headlong into a subject she’d hoped to avoid, and sparked a panic that resounded as loudly as the clock tower bells outside.
“No,” Jo answered carefully. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Oh, thank God.” Chelsea’s sigh of relief rasped from the phone’s earpiece. “When I heard your voice, I thought maybe—How did his surgery go? Mom was so worried when she called to tell me. I guess I thought something had gone wrong, that’s all. He’s doing well, then?”
Jo had only a second to remember the deleted phone message, the unexpected letter from Iowa, the rasp of the garbage disposal tearing the unopened envelope to shreds. Surgery? For what, a heart attack? The words should bring some emotional response from her, shouldn’t it? It seemed wrong to feel nothing, to pick carefully through her head for words that would sound appropriate when she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about.
“Well, you know Dad,” she started slowly.
Chelsea took up the thread just as Jo had hoped. “He’s fighting this all the way, hey? Ornery old bugger.” There was amusement and an undercurrent of respect in Chelsea’s tone. “But lung cancer. Who’d a thought, you know? It’s not like he’s a big smoker. Well, a pipe once in a while.”
With her words, Jo had an olfactory flashback that almost made her glance back in a panic to see who was behind her. The scent of Cherry Blend pipe tobacco, the White Sox on the TV, the clink of dishes from the kitchen and a cozy bedspread tent draped over the card table on a Sunday afternoon. Playing with her Barbie dolls. Barbie dolls—God, she’d been so young then, so contented, so damn trusting. Anger drowned out the wrench of nostalgia.
“You’ve got the word just about right, Chels. Ornery. But no, that’s not why I called.” She hurried her words now, not wanting to give her cousin time to push any more hidden buttons, wanting to get this frigging conversation behind her so she could get on with her life. Get on with her forgetting.
“This call is work related, I’m afraid,” Jo went on. “Sort of anyway. I’m doing a story on a missing street kid and want to contact her immediate family members. I found out from her mother that there’s an aunt who’s a nurse in a hospital there. Rockford, I mean. So I thought—long shot, I know—but since you work at Rockford General maybe you heard of her or could find out for me. Not a big deal, understand, I just want to find out if maybe the girl’s living there and just didn’t tell anybody. Or called or something. You know, a runaway. She’s had kind of a shitty home life, see.”
Jo stopped for a breath and could almost see the surprised look Chelsea must have on her face.
“The name is Thelma Thornton,” Jo continued. “T-h-o-r-n-t-o-n. You don’t happen to know someone at the hospital by that name, do you?”
Chelsea didn’t answer immediately, like she waited for another deluge of words, or was recovering from the last one. Or maybe she was just thinking, because her answer came out slow and thoughtful.
“No, no, I don’t think so anyway. Do you know what department? Is she an RN or LPN?”
“God, Chels, I don’t know. The mother wasn’t being a damn bit cooperative. Kind of a bitch, you know? I’m lucky I got a last name out of her. Is there any way you could check, maybe ask at other hospitals even?”
“Well, I do know someone in the HR department ….” Her voice trailed off as she thought about it. “Sure, no problem. I can ask around anyway. What’s your number? I can call you.” The voice faded and grew strong again as her cousin reached for a paper and pen. “God, I can’t believe I don’t have your number somewhere. You’d think Mom would have it. You’re still in Chicago, right? Mom said …”
The next few minutes were taken up with exchanging information about what was happening in their—mostly Chelsea’s—lives. Chelsea was expecting again—Jo didn’t remember whether the two-year-old mentioned was a boy or a girl—Aaron, or Erin, how the hell could a person tell from that? And Tom, vaguely identifiable to Jo as Chelsea’s husband, had decided to run for alderman.
“Can you imagine Tom an alderman? Didn’t your dad used to cover the political news, such as it was, when he worked for the Chronicle?”
A startled pause followed Chelsea’s question as if she’d just realized what she’d said. The Chronicle had “pensioned” Pat Sullivan off the payroll when the hubbub of the trial finally died down. The relief the company had felt might have been an audible sigh.
Jo did sigh when she finally managed to bring the conversation to an end. Walking to the window, she looked down at all the heads walking below her. In Hyde Park, she knew three families fairly well. One was from Mississippi, one from New York, and one from Tanzania. Diverse cultures intertwined and thrived here like they never could in the prominently white, middle classed Quad Cities of Jo’s youth.
But maybe not so very different, she thought, as a family came walking around the corner: a mom, a dad, and two kids. The little girl, about three, sat on her father’s shoulders, her fingers laced tightly under his chin. His large, strong hands held her pink and white clad figure securely, and he looked up at her with a laugh as she said something with an animated, childlike fervor.
A heaviness had settled in her chest, making breathing difficult. Two words. That’s all they were—two words.
Lung cancer.
Chapter 19
Jo’s watch read 6:05 when she reached the end of the peninsula-like jut of land housing the Adler Planetarium. Many of the tourists had cleared out for the day and love-birds wanting to neck by the light of the impressive skyline wouldn’t show up until later.
Apparently the illusive Chris hadn’t shown up yet either. Jack Prescott, however, stood by the rail bordering the drop to the lakefront. He had seen her approach and now waited, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, while she walked up to him.
“So?” she said when she stopped in front of him. “Where is he?”
“Relax, will you? He’ll be here. It’s not easy to be prompt when you don’t own a clock or a home to keep it in.”
“At least you made it on time,” she conceded.
“I’m not homeless. And I’m not sixteen. He’ll be here,” he said again.
Jo leaned against the rail a pace or two away from Jack, facing down the road so she’d catch sight of Chris right away. The day was closing down with a promise of winter snows to come. The smell of fish and wet sand mingled with the breeze.
“We can wait in my car if you like,” Jack offered. “I’ve got a thermos of coffee.”
“My mother told me never get in the car with strangers,” Jo said, though she didn’t feel the least afraid of him.
