“The paintbrush!” Brittany exclaims.
Pat laughs and nods. “Yes, the paintbrush.”
“The Paintbrush” hangs on the wall in Pat’s home painting studio. It was presented to her by the Reverend Alvin Jakes at the conclusion of the first Lawndale rehab project she worked on. It’s engraved with her name, the address of the house, and the date of completion.
“You’re taking Dad to Lawndale?” Brittany asks as I pull away from the stop sign at the end of Liberty Street.
“Yup. Something to keep his mind off everything else that’s going on.”
Brittany frowns. “Is it safe? Isn’t that one of those inner-city neighborhoods?”
I can all but hear her mother’s sneering characterization of “colored communities.”
Pat sighs heavily. “I hate that inner-city tag. Lawndale is a west-side neighborhood that has suffered through some tough times, kiddo. Almost every employer there pulled out after the riots in the late 1960s. That left most folks out of work. That’s what put Lawndale into a death spiral. Reverend Jakes and others have been working to turn it back into a safe and vibrant community.”
“Pat’s been telling that story in the Tribune for years now,” I add. “Reverend Jakes told me that they probably couldn’t have kept their funding flowing without her help.”
“I’ve played a very small role,” Pat scoffs.
“Riiight,” I retort with a sidelong glance at her. She won a local reporting Pulitzer Prize for one of her stories about Lawndale. The paintbrush suggests she’s played a more practical role, as well.
“Are there gangs and stuff?” Brittany asks.
“There’s crime,” Pat allows. “But not as much as there used to be.”
“You’re safe, though, right?”
Pat turns in her seat to make eye contact with Brittany. “It’s not like I’m out wandering the streets at night or dealing drugs. I’m working with people in the community, so I’m cool with the locals.”
“How did you first get involved?” I ask.
Pat smiles at the memory. “I did a story about a church named Calvary New Life that works in the community. Reverend Jakes’s church, as a matter of fact. One thing led to another, and next thing I knew, I had a hammer in my hand.”
“Like, what do you do there?” Brittany asks.
“We fix up old houses so families can move in. That’s how they reclaim the neighborhoods. The families and church work together to chase the troublemakers out. It works well.”
“Sounds cool,” Brittany says as I ease the car to a stop in front of Jocelyn’s house.
Pat shifts her gaze to me. “Assuming your old man finally knows one end of a hammer from the other, we’re going to put him to work.”
“One end has a big clawlike thing, right?” I ask.
Pat chuckles. “There might be hope for you yet. You, too!” she adds to my daughter.
“Yeah. Right!” Brittany laughs as she pushes the rear door open and hops out.
“Don’t forget that we’re picking up Deano this afternoon!” Pat shouts after her.
Brittany replies with a thumbs-up and an enormous grin.
“Quiznos?” I ask Pat after Jocelyn lets Brittany in.
“Sure. Music?”
Dinosaur that I am, I still load discs into the Porsche’s CD player. I browse the collection and select one I think she might like. Pat settles back into the supple leather seat and closes her eyes while she listens. We drive the next couple of miles without speaking. About halfway through a track called Tattoo’d Lady, she starts rummaging in the glove box and comes up with an empty CD case.
“Is this what we’re listening to?”
“You bet.” Rory Gallagher. Tattoo. For my money, his best album, showcasing the eclectic range of his musical influences.
“This is great! How come I’ve never heard of this guy?”
“He was a lot bigger in Europe than he ever was here,” I reply.
“How come?”
“He refused to release singles, never whored himself to a record label. Plus, he died years ago when he was only forty-seven.”
Pat frowns. “That’s too bad. How did you hear about him?”
“Amy.” The crown jewel of my sister’s meager estate had been her prized record collection. More so than whatever was on the radio when I was in my adolescence and early teens, hers was the music I grew up on. I’ve still got her LP records, which have been safely tucked away for years and replaced with CDs.
“God, I love that song!” Pat exclaims as she hits replay, dials the volume higher, and settles back to listen for the rest of the drive to Quiznos.
“Drive-through?” I ask while turning into the parking lot. This is the only Quiznos I know of that has a drive-through.
Her eyes don’t open. “Perfect.”
I ease into line behind a single car. Guess nobody expects to find a drive-through Quiznos.
“Nine-inch meatball,” Pat tells me before I ask.
I’ve never tried one, so I place an order for two meatball subs. Sandwiches and sodas in hand a few minutes later, we pull into an empty spot in the parking lot and let Rory serenade us while we eat. The sub tastes every bit as good as its savory aroma promised.
“That was damned good,” I say happily when I finish, ball up my napkins in the wrapper, and toss it all at the garbage bin outside the car window. I miss.
Pat hands me a napkin and points to a spot on her chin. “You missed a spot, Valenti.”
I wipe the tomato sauce off, collect Pat’s waste, and climb out of the car to stuff everything into the trash container. Then we set out for Lawndale.
“How’s it going with Britts at your place?” I ask after we turn north on Cicero.
Pat groans. “What’s with the superhero movies, for God’s sake?”
Brittany is in a superhero movie phase.
“I’m enjoying the break from them,” I reply with a laugh.
“She’s been coming up to the studio and sketching while I paint,” Pat says. “She’s pretty good.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“Turn left here,” Pat tells me after a fifteen-minute drive. “Pull in behind the pickup truck.”
We’re outside a tiny old bungalow sitting in the middle of perhaps the most woebegone excuse for a lawn I’ve ever seen.
