Calumet City (20 page)

I’ve imagined each of these years. During high school I made him a football player with muddy elbows and tousled hair. He was a B student who could have done better and still has the girlfriend he’s adored since they were sophomores, and a younger sister he helps with her homework. John was born in the fall and I’ve made fall his favorite season; his mother loves it too and used to rake and burn the leaves with him every Saturday when the city would still allow it. They’d stand there, leaning on their rakes, mother and son, dressed in crewneck sweaters and crisp fall air, only the sweet smoke from the oak leaves separating their smiles.

Halloween was big in the suburbs, two nights instead of one, and it wasn’t scary.

Each year that I’ve made this drive, my vision of John got a year older, still boyish—I think he’ll always be—but more mature. Four years ago I settled him on Northwestern to be close to home and because it was the best university in Illinois. In my dream he graduated this May, with the mortarboard hat and gown. There were joyous pictures of John and his family, a day they’d all worked for him to have. At night sometimes, I can feel the warmth of his cheek on mine.

Because he doesn’t know me, he’ll never have to know about his real father, what he was. He’ll never have to wonder, like I have, if any of that sickness was passed on. He’ll never have to read the papers or check the arrest sheets to see if one of our young, current deviants matches Roland Ganz’s old MO. And John won’t ever have to apologize—to the mirror or anyone else—because his mom was what she was. Me.

I catch the light at Howard Street, Chicago’s border with Evanston. At Howard these two cities are identical. The farther north you travel the more they differ. I know only two things about Evanston—there’s an elm tree across from Le Bassinet’s small parking lot; and from under that tree—staring at Le Bassinet’s arched front door—Evanston seems safe and clean and the best place for John to have grown up. It is so far from Calumet City that maps could not connect the two.

But now I have to walk through those doors and risk poisoning John’s past and maybe his future to save him. My career as a police officer will end shortly after that conversation too, giving IAD and the FBI all the admissions they require for the first half of their charges. No more commendations and citations and pats on the back from the boys I work with. No more appreciation from the civilians I assist, only lawyers and courthouses…and maybe prison. And I deserve it.

After I save my son, I will kill Roland Ganz. I won’t be blackout drunk; I won’t ask for strength or forgiveness. I never named Roland Ganz and he will not tell the world that he is John’s father. Roland and I will end us and his threat to John wherever it is that we meet.

   Inside, Le Bassinet looks nothing like I imagined. A gingham-draped baby grand piano takes up most of the tiny lobby; to the piano’s left a fireplace mantel is lined with baby pictures. The wood floor has a throw rug and two cozy chairs. I smell cinnamon and see a receptionist smiling from a bolt-hole cubicle. She has an eighteen-inch fir tree on her counter and gray hair tied with a ribbon. The walls around her are limestone and quiet, but not churchy. Bing Crosby’s crooning floats out of a hallway lined with more photographs.

"Ah, hi. Do you have a post-adoption department…or anything?"

She doesn’t react like I expected, given my clothes, Southside accent, and a request that must almost always come from women or men who long ago abdicated their responsibilities. Instead, she smiles wide like grandmothers on TV, holds a finger up between us, and reaches for her phone. Sweat forms under my shirt. She lowers the phone and says, "Ms. Meery will be right with you."

The woman who greets, then seats me in her office is exactly what I fantasized. I wanted her to have kind eyes and slow hands, and she does. I also wanted her to have a keen sense of honesty and the strength to challenge if honesty wasn’t present. I wanted her to have placed John with the right family. All these years I was too self-conscious to leave my car, choosing instead to sit and hope. I don’t feel self-conscious now; I’m afraid in a very different way. I’m also very, very angry.

"My name’s Patti Black."
Bury the anger, hide it
. "I gave you my son on October 19, twenty-three years ago. I have to find him; he’s in…serious jeopardy."

Ms. Meery nods small and keeps her hands folded.

"I’m a Chicago cop, Ms. Meery. We have information that John—that’s my son—may be the target of a kidnap-murder attempt."

Ms. Meery’s eyes widen. "My goodness. But we haven’t been contacted by the police."

I cut my eyes and wish I hadn’t. "It involves a city and federal investigation that can’t be made public until the perpetrators are caught. You may have seen some of it in the papers earlier in the week."

"
My, my
. I’ll get the director."

I raise my hand. Hers hesitates above her phone, but her eyes stay with me. This is it, if I can do it, the end of my career, the beginning of my trip to prison. Deep breath…I tell Ms. Meery my story, the parts that I can say out loud, alternating between telling it to my shoes and my hands and the walls and the back of my eyelids. It’s a whisper in some places and broken sentences in others.

I open my eyes and Ms. Meery hasn’t left the confinement of the small desk that separates us. I pause to breathe, to force myself to continue, and catch her expression, one I’ve seen on relatives of children who aren’t coming home. She’s trying hard to hear but not touch, and I don’t blame her. When my story’s finished, I can’t look at her. My cheeks have silent tears but I don’t wipe them. I sit straight and breathe deep until they stop. It’s important that Ms. Meery believe I’m not crazy; vital that she participate in this felony, one that could, and likely will, end her career here, one that may send her to prison when I kill Roland Ganz.

The silence between us lasts until I break it with a glance. The glance carries no hate, although hate is there in equal parts with shame and fear. Ms. Meery is far back in a chair that now seems too big for her, like she’s been hit once and might be again. I can’t change what I said or how it sounded; I can just try to look "okay" and know that I don’t.

"I’m so, so sorry," says Ms. Meery.

Calm, benign, not crazy…"Yeah, well, there it is."

"If it was a closed adoption, we just can’t…" Ms. Meery smiles an honest smile that doesn’t remove the helplessness from her eyes. "And I think you know that."

"Know what?"

"I’m so sorry for what happened, but Illinois law does not allow—"

"John’s in danger.
Real
danger. No ’law’ is going to protect him from—"

"I could check with the legal department. Possibly the courts could…"

"Court won’t work." My voice has too much timbre, too much street. I should’ve flashed my star when I said I was a cop. "We gotta do it now."

Ms. Meery eases her chair away from the desk, away from my tone more than my words. I lean closer, too close, like a crazy, desperate person would. "Listen to me, okay? My story…I’ve never told anyone else. It’s probably not new to you, but—"

"It’s not new…Officer Black…Patti." Ms. Meery smiles sad and tiny and doesn’t get any closer. "Other than the current threat, of course. We hear threats, frightening ones from time to time, but to my knowledge they never—"

A woman appears at the door on my left, acting familiar, like she might’ve been listening in the hall. She’s twenty years older than Ms. Meery and smiles as she takes a seat beside me. Her clothes are expensive, her demeanor aristocratic but not pushy, and she leaves her glasses on her chest dangling from a silver chain. Ms. Meery introduces her as her superior, Mrs. Trousdale, the agency’s codirector. We shake and I start into the story again.

It’s no easier the second time. Mrs. Trousdale stops me with a knowing smile and covers my hands with hers. "I know, dear, I know."

I smile, knowing she doesn’t, but happy that it’s going well.

"It’s just that we can’t." The smile suddenly looks like Prozac. "As a police officer," she glances at Ms. Meery, "I’m sure you understand."

My hands free themselves. Ms. Meery has the better smile of the two but no words. I press too hard, "They’re going to
kill
John, Mrs. Trousdale. That’s worse than whatever secrets you and I may not want John to know. Dead’s forever."

"We’re very sorry." And Mrs. Trousdale rises to leave. I grab her wrist. She tugs, but I don’t let go. "Please, Officer Black, you’re hurting me."

I stand, adding grip that rolls the muscle in my forearm. "Roland Ganz is going to kill John. After he does his same God and semen fantasies to him that he did to me. I’m not gonna let that happen, and you aren’t either."

Mrs. Trousdale tries to stretch away, lengthening her arm to the shoulder. Ms. Meery rises to help, "Please, Patti, Officer Black—"

Mrs. Trousdale tugs again. When that doesn’t free her wrist, she yells,
"Donna! Donna, 911."

Ms. Meery pats at me. "Let her go; we’ll talk more, you and I."

I don’t, then do, and Mrs. Trousdale stumbles backward into the door, holding her wrist. Ms. Meery waves her out before Mrs. Trousdale can say what’s on her face. My pistol’s visible on my belt, but so is my star. Neither look believable or promising if all you see are polite detectives or pressed uniforms. Ms. Meery is staring at the pistol.

"I’m a TAC officer, should’ve said so; this is plainclothes for the ghetto. I don’t want to hurt your boss—I’m not
going
to hurt her—I just want to find John. Right now. Today."

Ms. Meery pats again at the air, trying to get me into a chair. "Please. Please."

The Evanston police are likely on their way. I need to make a decision. Now.

Ms. Meery adds, "I know who you are, I do. The
Herald
article on Tuesday. Quite flattering, even if the picture wasn’t." She smiles scared and through her eyebrows. "I’ll try to help. But it won’t be till tomorrow, first thing. And you can’t say anything to anyone. I’ll lose my job."

"No." I’m standing again. "Get up. Gotta be now."

"The records vault is already locked. No one here has a key—"

"Bullshit."
My hand is very close to the Smith.

Ms. Meery shies. "It’s the truth."

I ghetto-stare her, know I’m already out of time and don’t lie. "If I trust you and this is bullshit, my son will die. Understand? I’ll be a step or three beyond crazy and you’ll be…"

She nods as small as possible and says, "The security on the records vault is, is…like a bank. Our codirector takes the keys to the outer doors. She and Pinkerton have the only combination that supersedes the time lock."

I stare till I decide to believe her. "What’s your codirector’s name?"

"Mrs. Elliot. Marjorie Elliot."

"What time in the morning?"

Ms. Meery shies again. "Nine?"

"This is the most,
the only
important thing I’m going to do before that story I told you falls in on me. You need to decide right now if you’re lying. And trust me, it’ll be better ’cause I’ll walk down the hall and your boss will be the one who faces this."

No hesitation, no eye shift. I believe her when she says she’s going to help. "Please, Officer…Patti, fourteen hours until it opens, two more to be safe, three at the latest. Call me first." She trembles me a card with her direct number on it. "Better go, I believe Mrs. Trousdale will call the police if Donna already hasn’t."

"Where’s the vault?"

Ms. Meery shakes her head. "You can’t. It’s locked. Three doors, I think."

"Where?"

"In the basement."

"Any outside doors to the basement?"

Ms. Meery shakes her head. "You can’t. No one can get in till tomorrow."

I hear the words and stop long enough to think she may be right. For sure she’s right about her boss calling the cops. "Okay." I start to ghetto-stare her again and stop. We share the moment until I speak. "Thanks. You’ll be in danger for doing this. I’ll do what I can to help, but…I’m saving my son. First, I’m saving my son."

The two secretaries in the outer office are talking near an open back door and staring at the hall as I make the too-fast exit. They hug the doorframe but don’t look away, a guarantee that the cops are en route and that Mrs. Trousdale has left the building. As much as I want to see the basement, I need freedom and time more.

   I beat the Evanston blue-and-whites by less than a minute. They fly past as I make the light at Church Street. I’m too calm, too cold to be okay—a stranger knows my story; I know my story; I’m changing into someone I don’t know. The blue-and-whites keep going in my mirror. My phone vibrates. I mash the gas and answer. It’s the PI, Harold J. J. Tyree.

Harold says he and I have to talk, right now.

"About what, Harold?"

"Oh, you know, baby." Harold’s using a sweet-pimp voice. "You know."

I loop three civilians doing the speed limit. "I don’t know shit, Harold, other than you came by the L7, and not long after that an SUV tried to pin me in an alley."

"Baby, I don’t know nothin’ about that."

"Uh-huh." Mirror check. "So what do you want?"

"You know."

"Harold, I’m driving a slow car at high speed and need to concentrate. Tell me what I know or bother another white broad."

"Annabelle and Roland."

My jaw clamps and I and check the mirror; Harold has just been called up to the majors. "Meet me on the corner Forty-fourth and Halsted in an hour, by the Amphitheater, standing alone, hands out of your pockets."

"Why there? We can do it—"

"We can do it where I say or fuck you. Amphitheater in an hour.
Alone,
Harold, or I’ll make sure that neighborhood makes you Rodney King."

Harold agrees.

I adrenaline-dial Sonny, now positive that Harold J. J. Tyree did the B&E on my duplex and has high hopes of setting me up for another rundown/kidnap attempt. He and Roland and whiteboy Idaho Joe will grab me because they think I know how to find John. They get two for one, mother and son.