'Just a little,' she said. 'When we finish eating.'
He sat, defeated, at the table, thinking about the white of the dead woman's nightgown, how he would capture the shadows and shade of that bloody gown. A commercial blared beyond the door and a woman with the voice of a young girl shouted a promise of forever clean teeth.
Onions, sausage frying. His mother cracking, stirring eggs and adding salt, salt she shouldn't eat. She selected a clove of garlic and shuffled for her garlic press.
Take the television and the taste of my food and what do I have left?' she had asked more than once.
'No one's taking your television,' George always said.
'You never know,' his mother answered.
At the kitchen table, a small, square-topped collection of mismatched boards his grandfather and father had made, George folded his blue hands and tried to think.
Could the police find him? Maybe. Maybe not. There were no fingerprints on the toolbox or in the kitchen of the Roziers' house. But you didn't know anymore. It might not be fingerprints. They had machines, tests, gadgets, science.
Would they think he had killed the woman if they found him? Yes.
Would they believe what had happened when he told them? No.
And the murderer. George had seen his face and he had seen George's. Would he try to find George? Could he? George's name wasn't on the toolbox.
Wanda Skutnik hummed 'Jezebel' softly as she worked, occasionally interrupting the hum with a few words she remembered.
'If ever a devil was born, without a pair of horns, hmm, hmm, hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. You know Frankie Laine is almost dead. Heart. I saw his picture. Is he a Negro?'
Maybe I should call Rozier, tell him I won't talk to the police, tell him I don't want anything, just to be left alone. I leave you alone and you live with what you did and you leave me alone and I live with what you did. Can't bring her back.
'He couldn't find me,' George said.
'What? Gregor, you said? Frankie Laine couldn't find you?'
The frying pan sizzled and steamed.
'Nothing, Ma. Just something else.'
He was hungry now. Garlic, onion, and sausage hungry. Two slabs of bread hungry. George would eat quickly and get back to the painting.
'Ma, how you feel about maybe going to visit Tommy?
You and me. We just pack, take off. Don't tell anyone where we're going.'
Wanda turned completely around, ignoring the almost-finished meal simmering behind her.
'Gregor, you in trouble again?'
'No,' he said, shaking his head. 'There's a dealer in Seattle interested in my paintings. Could mean a lot of money.'
Her wide deer eyes found his. He forced himself not to turn away.
'I'll ask Dr. Swoboda.'
'We're not taking Dr. Swoboda,' he said.
Wanda laughed.
'Get the plates and Coke,' she said happily. 'We can talk about it.'
In Which a Door Closes
'He got somethin'. Scared we seen it. I tell you straight out. Seen it in his face. You did too. Tell me yes. Tell me no.'
'You mean the ghost in the window?' Dalbert said.
'Straight out,' Lonny said, shaking his head emphatically. 'He's a fuckin' doctor. No lie. He's got somethin' worth somethin'.'
'The white guy we seen from the el yesterday?' asked lago. 'In the blue shirt. Doctor or somethin'?'
'The same,' said Lonny. 'I showed him the blade and he shit nickels. No lie. You seen.'
Dalbert shrugged, a what-the-hell-we've-got-nothing-better-to-do shrug.
Lonny Wayne, Albert 'Dalbert' Davis, and lago Simms sat in the Wayne apartment on Thirty-eighth. The view from the window was four square blocks of flattened rubble. Some said the city had leveled it to put in more public housing. Others said a trade or grade school was scheduled, but it looked more like a buffer zone between the ghetto and the hospital beyond. Lonny spent hours at the window fascinated by the emptiness, the children, and the garbage sifters turning over rocks and hoping for rats, sometimes even during the day. The Dysan brothers on six were all the time shooting rats from the window. Crazy mothers, Lonny thought, could kill someone. One rumor was that a new hospital was supposed to rise from the ashes, but Michael Reese Hospital was only a few blocks away. The four square blocks had been leveled more than three years ago.
'I say he got shit on toast is what I say,' lago said.
'An' me and Dalbert say we gonna take him and break him. He won't give us no trouble. Fuckin' A, all we gotta worry about is him havin' a fuckin' heart attack.'
The apartment had two bedrooms, one for Lonny's mother and father, who were off working all the time in that damn suitcase factory for the damn Jews. The other bedroom was for Lonny's sister, but since Charletta was off at college in Urbana, Lonny had moved from the living room couch to Charletta's room, at least when she wasn't back on vacations.
The living room was big, the furniture old and heavy and ready to say, Sorry. No thanks. I've had enough of sagging and struggling under your feet and asses. I give up.
There was a photograph of Charletta and Lonny taken four years ago. Lonny hated it. The kid hi the picture was all smiling teeth and no hair.
Lonny looked at the television. It was a Yogi Bear cartoon. The sound was turned off but lago couldn't keep his eyes from the screen. Lonny turned to the window, looked out, and watched five little kids trekking over the rocks.
One day, last year, in the summer, a crazy old bum had built a little shack out of bricks and four rusted slabs of metal. The bum had made it through the first night, but on the second someone had kicked the place to shit and taken the bum's clothes and whatever else he had.
Charletta had been home for the summer, going to school at the U of I off the Dan Ryan, and Lonny had been sleeping on the couch with the window open. The bum's screaming woke him up. There wasn't much light to see by, but Lonny had seen two, maybe three figures running away and laughing. He would have swore one of them was lago, but it was none of Lonny's business. He didn't even know lago very well back then. The bum had danced around howling for what seemed like an hour, Lonny had closed the window and covered his head, but it hadn't done much good. Then the howling had stopped and Lonny was sure the bum was crying.
God, Lord Almighty, Lonny wished at the time and still did that he had been one of those three or four figures in the night.
Rap sheet summaries:
Lonny Wayne, 18, six feet one, 190 pounds. African-American. Distinguishing characteristics: wide space between his top front teeth, pink knife scar on his right arm running from elbow to wrist, small dark scar shaped like a lightning bolt that runs through his right eyebrow. High school dropout. Arrests: sixteen, for crimes ranging from shoplifting, assault, and robbery to damage to a stolen vehicle. Convictions: none. Residence: mother's apartment.
Albert 'Dalbert' Davis, 19, five feet eight, 202 pounds. African-American, Hispanic-Native American. Distinguishing characteristics: looks like a very dark Native American. Arrests: twenty-one, for crimes including attempted rape, breaking and entering, assault with intent to kill, armed robbery, and trafficking in stolen goods. Convictions: two, both for breaking and entering. Served eighteen months in the youth correction center in St. Charles. No known address. lago Simms, 14, five feet five, 140 pounds. African-American. Distinguishing
