LIGHTEN UP

 

He had a thing about height, maybe that was why he walked on his tippy toes.  After he became Director of Organizing for the teachers' union, every person he hired was shorter than he.  I predicted that before long we'd have an entire staff of Munchkins.

Don may have perceived me as the Wicked Witch.  I'd stolen his job, a job he'd been promised  by an organizational blowhard who'd had no authority to promise anybody anything. Don had done all of his scut work for years with the understanding that, whenever the windbag got promoted, a sure thing since he was the boss' best friend, Don would fill his shoes.  Lo and behold, when Blowhard became Director of Public Relations, not only did his lackey not fill his boots, the new hire wore high heels.  Without realizing it, I'd tripped a landmine of cronyism and disrupted the perfectly laid plans of mice and Neanderthals.    

In an effort to assuage their self-imposed humiliation, Blowhard and Don decided to make it impossible for me to function in my new position.  Rumors were planted, my office locks changed, calls went unreturned, meetings were scheduled without my  knowledge--a special welcome for a broad who dared join an all male staff whose salaries were funded by the 75% female membership.  I hoped that eventually the good ole' boys would tire of their pathetic pranks though I suspected Don would someday try to even the score, but I'd been hired to do a job so I didn't waste time lamenting  my Y chromosome deficit.

Over the years the organization grew, and Don became my colleague.  He was a hard worker, and  put in a lot of time as the leader of our Short Stop Club.  Once before handing over the baton to our boss at a staff meeting, Don made an introduction that would have made Trump blush.  "I would like to introduce the man, no, 'man' is too ordinary a word--the brilliant mind that conceived this dazzling strategy that is so far ahead of its time I can only assume it was divinely inspired."  Soon after he was appointed Director of Organizing. 

Don prided himself on closing the bar at 3 a.m. with the big bosses, and being the first one at breakfast to hold a table for his Union brothers who shared a proclivity for women who knew their limitations.  Though proud to be a man's man, he showed his soft side by wearing ties that had images of children and little red schoolhouses symbolizing, he said, that the teachers' union cared about kids.  He once registered for a right-wing mailing list, an example of his stealth intelligence-gathering technique, using the moniker Miss Ura Phule.   

He and his cohorts found countless ways to make their mark even venturing into the world of art.  The fearless chiefs would round robin elected positions in labor federations, pick up inumerable bar tabs, sponsor softball teams, subsidize holiday parades and, before long, one or another would be nominated as "Labor's Man of the Year."  Of course, then there'd be a dinner to honor the recipient (our organization would buy all of the tickets) and the honoree would be presented with a commissioned portrait of himself at the gala.  It was not long before Union headquarters resembled a wing of the National Gallery.

After several of those fiascoes, we needed more wall space for the big guys' portraits, so the troglodytes moved into their Bob-the-Builder phase.  Wages, hours and working conditions took a backseat to expanding the organization's real estate portfolio.  Discussions about property surveys, grading permits and blueprints, …I'm thinking 35-50,000 squares--maybe $5-$10 mil…kept the honchos occupied.  Upon completion, the buildings were named after our dead leaders.  The leaders with a pulse settled for  naming rooms after each other.  Meetings were held in the Baley Conference Room, brass plaques on doors were inscribed with Brum Lounge or Surner Parlor. 

When the good ole' boys were not ensuring their places in labor history, they were impressing each other.  Per Blowhard's insistence, Don dutifully addressed him as the Godfather.  Having grown-up in a neighborhood that afforded one a ringside seat to questionable characters, I was appalled that anyone, let alone teachers' union staff, would throw around such epithets, but Don's management style, illustrated by his use of a six-pack as a doorstop, circumvented judgment and good taste.

Once one of the field staff Munchkins went on a membership recruitment assignment for our national organization.  Mike,  who'd been hired for his stature and not his IQ, flew out of O'Hare forgetting his luggage at home.  At the next staff meeting, Don set the stage to make the most of his lapse.

"In the event Little Tykie, I mean Mikey,  ever runs off without his luggage again, we are presenting him with an already packed suitcase to be kept at his desk in case of emergency," said the Master of Ceremonies. "Stand up, Tykie, so we can review the contents of your luggage that will help you organize the ladies…oh, sorry, little guy,  I couldn't tell that you were already standing. Hop up on a chair so you can get a better look at what's in your emergency gear."

"His stiletto shoe-lifts will pierce the upholstery," a colleague, who had left his wife for a stripper he'd met on an assignment, shouted. "Bring him up front."

"You guys are fucking crazy," the absent-minded unfortunate gamely laughed as someone actually scooped him up and carried him to the front of the room.

GOIN' TO GRANDMA'S was printed on the mini crimson suitcase.  Piece by piece, clothing and toiletries were extracted and hoisted into the air, their purposes described in salacious detail--Big Boy Superman underpants, toddler, high-heeled Roy Rogers boots, an airline-sized bottle of Jack Daniels and  Spiderman comic books.  Since the staff  fancied themselves lady-killers, condoms, a dildo and a thumb-sized copy of the Kama Sutra were packed as well.  One of the brothers, who talked about dames like some demented Humphrey Bogart throwback, contributed a bb gun, knock-out drops, handcuffs, and a  blindfold just in case Tykie ran into a recalcitrant prospective member.  The piece de resistance, to be used only in the event Tykie didn't get lucky, was an inflatable sheep.

The sheep, donated from a staff member's  personal collection, was a huge hit. 

"Don," I  mentioned over lunch, as the sheep's former lover told our tablemates where they could purchase their own inflatables, "this morning's presentation was beyond the pale.  I found it offensive."

"The guys were just having a little fun," he said.  "Lighten up." 

 GRAVE SIGHT

When I was eight years old, my Italian family's field trips to Mt. Carmel cemetery were mandatory pilgrimages of faith and tradition.  While my sister and I picked dandelions and played he loves me, he loves me not, my parents pulled weeds and trimmed the grass and my brother sorted out the family tree.   I saw the occasional bunny hop past, as we did our own version of grave-hopping.

It was only natural then that when a friend said, "I forgot today is Mother's Day so I have to cancel our walk and run to the cemetery," I considered joining her.  But then I remembered that my mother considered trips to the graveyard a waste of time, and she'd be more pleased if I got some writing done. 

As a little girl, I remembered checking out the mini-mausoleums, Lilliputian houses of the wealthy, that were mixed in with the tombstones of the less well-off and the tiny stone "pillows" of those not inclined to go for broke.  If the people buried in the little granite houses are so rich I asked my mom, why didn't they build bigger houses?  They don't need a lot of room, she said, they're not going to be doing much in the way of entertaining.

Mother's Day and Father's Day, and sometimes Memorial Day, too, would find us on our knees in Section H, Block 12, Lot 115 praying for the poor souls though I was pretty sure they had all gone straight to heaven.  Just wait 'til I climb down from this stool my mother would threaten from her polishing perch when my brother would burst into his creepy Boy Scout ditty …the worms go in, the worms go out, the worms play pinochle in your mouth.  At some point my sister and I would put in some pout-time because, despite his inappropriate singing, my brother was the only one who got to lug the sprinkling can to and from the graves because the spigot was down by the road.  But even with all of the silly antics, I didn't really like visiting the dead.  The looks on my mom's and dad's faces always made me sad, and I would inevitably wipe a sniffle on my sleeve. 

While she shined the little ceramic portraits of her mother, father and brother with her hanky, she'd admonish me out of dad's earshot, "Don't cry," even though I'd see teardrops dribbling down her own cheeks when she leaned over to kiss my Nonna's picture.  "Daddy likes to follow this ritual out of respect, but if you honor people when they're alive, buy them flowers when they can smell them, you don't need to waste time on your knees at a gravesite.  Besides, "she'd add, "they're in your heart. There's nothing here."

Ever the pragmatist, she seized learning moments as we tip-toed through the tombstones.  "Brush up on your math," she'd say, "subtract their birth dates from the date they died.  Do you see that Nonno died in 1918--he died in the Great Flu Epidemic.  Look it up when we get home."  So I wasn't surprised when she chose a very non-traditional, but ever so practical, exit strategy.

Her decision to be cremated shocked those who needed to know--they'd be deprived of the sacred tradition of trooping to Mt. Carmel on every freaking holiday with a sprinkling can--but she blew off the criticism.

There were no more available plots at the family grave-site where my father was buried, and she wanted to be with him--moving him was out of the question, too macabre and expensive. She opted for cremation, and her urn would be entombed over his coffin. I wonder if the fact that she'd be on top factored into her decision. I imagine my Dad was conflicted when St. Peter apprised him of the fact that she'd be sharing his space--happy to have her near-by, not so happy with her superior position, but for once, he couldn't say a damn thing.  

He had been gone for over a decade when her health started to decline.  One day she announced that she was moving out of state to live with my sister.  You've been my angel for the last decade, she said, now it's your sister's turn.  A year later she passed away.

My sister saw to the viewing and the actual cremation--thank God for that. Had that piece been entrusted to my distracted self she might still be waiting for her little gold-domed repository.

Anyway, my brother picked her up from my sister's, and delivered her to me for her final journey to Section H, Block 12, Lot 115.

It was at this point in my reverie that it occurred to me that my mother would have been incensed had I wasted my time with Rosie on her cemetery jaunt because she's not there.  I don't mean in the existential sense--my mother really is not there.

She is still in my curio cabinet.   

I'm sure she is ambivalent about her predicament.  On the one hand, she is in a lovely living room decorated in a style very similar to her own with lots of company and laughter in the house. On the other hand, I, her hard-headed daughter, did not follow her instructions.

But on second thought I realized that if my mom were here to record a new tape she'd say, "Don't worry about the cemetery thing.  You brought me flowers when I could smell them.  Get on with your writing.  I told you where I'd be."

OUT OF RESPECT

I've had my share of culture shock as I traipsed through Europe, the Americas and the Middle East, but nothing could have prepared me for my first encounter with a burqua-clad woman on a flight from Rome to Beirut. Not pictures, not books, not stories--nothing could have prepared me for the searing image of the ghostly apparition.

A fastidiously groomed man in a Savile Row Suit, Gucci loafers and a Rolex guided the ethereal shroud to its seat. Swathed head to ankle in a voluminous black cover replete with a  plastic  Darth Vader-like screen masking its face, it seemed like a character in Night of the Living Dead.

When the meal was served, her gloved hands flipped part of her veil forward creating a mini-tent under which she ate. Except for her feet, you would never have known it was a person--no arms nor legs, no skin, no voice.

I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed; though I'm not sure which part of the scene prompted my visceral reaction.  After all, growing up with nuns exposed me to some very unusual attire, and the religion I was steeped in routinely vilified women as "occasions of sin" so it wasn't as though misogyny was exactly foreign to me.

Maybe it was the proud, pristine peacock steering the faceless, formless figure down the aisle. Maybe it was the beautiful faces of their children who accept that, at puberty, boys become men and girls disappear. Maybe it was the realization that a change in geography could make any woman, myself included, an erasable nonentity. Maybe it was the neon-bright jelly slippers that flashed from beneath the capacious black robe. Whatever it was, it overwhelmed my heart.

In Beirut, I shared the encounter with my Egyptian friend, Mohsen. "Ah, yes," he explained, "Our culture respects virtuous women, that is why we require the burqua."

Oh. My. God.

Years later, my daughter told me about helping to plan a Take Back the Night rally on campus.

"Hundreds of students," she explained, "will protest violence against women. We're going to chant 'Yes means yes, and no means no! However we dress, wherever we go!'   It's about victimization," she declared, "about empowerment, too. But really, Mom, I think it's about respect, don't you?"

"Yes, Lia, it is about respect," I replied, flashing back to the image tattooed to my soul so long ago. "We Americans don’t always get it right, but we do keep trying."

THE PLANET GOT A RAVE REVIEW

Fueled by the renewed energy of my summer hiatus, I again entered the revolving door of Teacher Personnel.   Somewhere in the Windy City, I was certain a school existed where students were not hostages and the principal knew his teachers by name.   From a map studded with pins, each of which indicated a teacher vacancy, I spotted a prime location.  

The beckoning pin was almost floating on Lake Michigan, just a hop from Chicago's Gold Coast where privileged kids enjoyed advantages that dwarfed their skyscraper abodes.  The Magnificent Mile shopping Mecca beckoned from the east, Rush Street, haunt of hipsters, was a mile south and Lincoln Park, a miniature of New York's Central Park, was a stone's throw north.

"Excellent choice," the personnel advisor said, as I handed her the marker of my promising future.  "It's an Educational Vocational Guidance Center.  Sign this form; assignments are irrevocable.  Good luck!" 

A week later I reported for duty at the oldest school in Chicago, a weathered landmark which lent a bit of architectural romance to my vision, and reinforced my belief that I stumbled on a gem of a job.  The center of the stone stairs was worn by the pounding of thousands of Buster Browns, and the dings and dents in the vintage hardwood floors added to the charm.  The main office had old-time, school-house pendant light fixtures suspended over a shiny mahogany counter where employees signed in; a note next to the sign-in sheet announced that there were coffee and rolls in the teachers' lounge and a staff meeting was scheduled at ten.

Over a donut I met my fellow provisional teachers, both men new to the system.   The first had graduated  Princeton, and looked the part right down to his penny loafers.   The other had just completed his doctorate at the Chicago Theological Seminary, and was awaiting ordination. 

"The woman in Personnel gave this place a rave review," said the Doctor.

"Yeah, she said it was a great choice," said the Princetonian, dusting powdered sugar off his silk, Ivy-league tie, "but I noticed a lot of vacancies."

A man eavesdropping commented, "I don't suppose one of you brain surgeons thought to ask why there were so many empty slots?  Trust me; you won't make it through the year."

"How long have you been here?" asked the minister.

"Fifteen years, but there aren't too many job openings for alcoholics.  Don't ever light a match near me."  His buddy guffawed.  "Like you could pass a breathalyzer," Mr. Doomsday snapped, but he was cut short by the arrival of a man who asked that new teachers come to his office.

 "My name is Mr. Sharp. Elijah Sharp.  I'm the assistant principal.  So what do you want to teach?  You're on provisional certificates with no teaching credentials so you can teach anything."

"A college degree with no teacher training qualifies one to teach in all subject areas?" Dr. Divinity asked. 

"Yep, pick whatever you want, we need everything.  One of you guys want Math?  I know women are no good at numbers."

"I'll teach Math," Princeton volunteered.

"Good. Room 204."  He turned to Divinity, "You look like a scientist.  Room 208.  And you, Baby, Language Arts, 301.  Now for policy.  I'm in charge of discipline.  If a kid is causing big trouble, send him down with a note; our intercom is busted.  Don't send somebody down for petty nonsense, I'll send him right back."

"What's considered petty nonsense?" Divinity asked.

"Cursing, fighting, threats, pranks, refusing to work--you get paid to be in charge of your classroom."

"What constitutes a serious issue?" asked Princeton.

"Weapons.  And only if you see one.  If they say something like, 'I'm gonna blow your head off,' ignore it.  They talk tough.  But if you actually see a knife or gun, send down a note," he said.  "And no smoking, but again make sure you actually see the kid with reefer.  Sometimes the smell comes from 311 where the street people hang.  Keep classroom windows locked.   We had a kid who was pushed or fell depending on whose story you buy, from the second story last year.  He lived, but he's pretty messed up.  Any questions?  If not, staff meeting at 10."

An attractive, forty-something woman sat down next to us as we waited for the staff meeting to begin.  "Hi, I'm Renee Cross, the librarian," she said.   "You must be the new teachers."  I didn't know what signaled that we were newbies--Princeton's eye twitch, Divinity's knuckle-cracking or my hair-twirling. 

At 10, there were only six of us in the lounge, and two were custodians scarfing down the last of the coffee cake.

The principal entered and launched into a Welcome to the Family speech.    "Yeah, the Addams Family," a late arrival shouted as he headed to the buffet.  "Hey, who ate all the eclairs?"

"Probably fat ass Fred.  Pat him down," Doomsday ordered.  Two men lifted one of the custodians out of his chair, and began rifling his pants pockets.

"Hey, I found a Long John," yelled a poster child for decaf.  "Oops, this isn't a sweet roll, but I'll bet his girlfriend thinks it's one."

The Principal droned on to the finale.  "And, in the words of Dr. Seuss, 'Unless someone like you cares a lot, nothing will get better.'  Now go get 'em."

 Princeton's blinking was now a full-fledged tic.  Dr. Divinity's clenched jaw suggested he needed to find a parsonage ASAP.

"Don't let those antics bother you," Renee said.  "Some teachers behave worse than the students.  We'll  go to the Bowl & Roll for lunch, and I'll give you the scoop."

"Nice perk, being surrounded by good restaurants."

"Not  exactly surrounded, Cabrini-Green is two blocks thataway," she pointed.

"The housing projects?"

"There's only one Cabrini-Green, the greatest failed social experiment in history, and we get the student casualties from the project's schools--fourteen year-olds reading below third grade," she said.  "But things get tricky because Chicago principals get paid by the head; they don't want their numbers to go down so they transfer kids to us only when their behavior is totally off the wall."   

Just then the Dr. Seuss enthusiast bellowed from his office, "Move it, folks, I expect appropriate bulletin boards by 3 o'clock!"

"Renee, what's with appropriate?"

"Last year the Shop teachers jig-sawed a life-sized nude and painted WELCOME BACK on a fig leaf."

 A woman, with what looked to be an active blonde beehive, was unlocking 304.  "Hi," I said, "I'm the new Language Arts teacher."

"I'm the music teacher.  Good to have company up here, half the rooms are empty, and no one except the kids and derelicts ever come up to the third floor."

"Derelicts?"

"Addicts, gangbangers--they hang out in 311. The room can't be locked because of the fire escape so all of the dregs in the neighborhood congregate there.  Steer clear," she warned.  "Can't talk now.  I have to see if I got any of the instruments I ordered.  There aren't many musical arrangements for kazoos."

"Kazoos?"

"Yes, our trumpets were stolen, the piano has no pedals, the guitar has no strings.  Mostly we watch videos--Sound of Music, My Fair Lady."

I decided to check out the 311 halfway house before the squatters commandeered the area.

"You haven't been assigned to 311, have you?" a man, in a Mr. Rogers' cardigan, inquired as I exited the room.

"Oh, no, just checking things out." 

"Well, take a peek, then skedaddle.  The room gets packed when it's cold out; you can get high just walking down the hall.  By the way, I'm Louis Picaro, the art teacher.  Everyone calls me Picasso.  If you need anything, I'm in room 309."

"As a matter of fact, I do need bulletin board materials." 

"Well, someone ripped off my art supplies, but I'll share what's left.  Use newspaper for  background and it'll be good through Christmas.  Staple up paper plates, and tomorrow they'll draw their faces and print their names underneath, that way they get to know each other.  In October, have them draw their faces on jack-o-lanterns..."

"You're kidding?  Pumpkins?"

"Pumpkins, and in November, a giant turkey--they write what they're thankful for on the tail feathers."

The turkey-feather gratitude list was the last straw.  I backed away to find Renee.

"I met Picasso and Beehive," I said.  "Beehive told me about thieves and addicts and kazoos and squatters.  Picasso gave me bizarre bulletin board tips." 

 As we walked to the restaurant, I asked her why she was teaching at the Center. 

"Without getting too kumbaya on you, let's just say I believe in giving back." 

"I understand trying to make a difference, Renee, but swim in a toxic pool, and you gulp poison."

"Sure, some teachers get warped, but there are good ones too, and a lot of nice kids. Chicken or egg?  Politics, incompetence, social conditions, it's all in the water, but we can't just give up."

I liked Renee; she'd been around the block, but she didn't seem jaded. 

"Okay, I'll try to swim with a snorkel," I said, "but I need the Cliff Notes on how this place operates."

By the time we left the Bowl & Roll, I was cycling between concern and curiosity, and running into Mr. Sharp upon our return magnified both. 

"Hey, Baby, forgot to mention, no one enters the building before 8:30--safety issues, and staff vacates at 3:15 sharp; NEVER linger after school."

"But what if a student needs extra help or I have to hold a parent conference?"

He looked at me as though I'd said but what if I have to convene a NATO Summit?

"Girl, kick off those red slippers, and buy you some combat boots.  You're on a different planet now."      

WED OR DEAD

                                        

In our house, a girl, no matter how old, left her parents' home either wed or dead. Since I was neither, my father created a third category, running away, defined as a daughter's act of shameful rebellion, betrayal, ancestral treason.

My father often referenced "...the time she ran away."  Those unfamiliar with the saga would raise their eyebrows in puzzlement; others, accustomed to his histrionics, would sigh. 

After college graduation, I lived at home while I taught and saved to fund a dream trip, a summer in Europe. After my travels, I intended to get an apartment, though I had no idea how I'd make my escape. While going out on my own was as much a part of my here I come, world plan as my European tour, I knew the subject would be inflammatory; it took little to ignite conflagration.

With dorm living, a college degree, travel and a good job under my belt, I felt equipped to leave the nest despite my father's opposition.

 After way too many dinner table wars, the lines were drawn--it's my life versus over my dead body. The rhetoric was hot, mine trumpeted independence, his loaded with dire predictions. You'll be mixing with strangers, you're putting yourself in harm's way, there are drug addicts out there, you could get mugged and robbed, he prophesied. Men will hit on you, he said. That particular caveat I hoped went from his mouth straight to God's ear, but the other warnings I packed away in the if you cross your eyes, they will stay that way category.

My brother got wind of the escalating hostility, and suggested an unusual strategy. 

"Pack your bags and go. He's never going to give you permission, if that's what you're waiting for, so just do it. You're not a hostage."

I could not have been more astonished had he suggested I hook up with a Satanic cult.  Perhaps because of his gender, my brother never internalized the fact that females in our house were subject to different rules, some made up on the spot. True, I wasn't physically captive, but just walking out, the notion that I could just do it, was unfathomable. My college girlfriends went out on their own, but that was because, according to my father's script, their families didn't care, didn't value their reputations, were shameless and amoral.  After awhile longer under my father's thumb, some of those attributes sounded somewhat appealing, and the seduction of independence trumped fear.

I ran away.

Impervious to the warnings that I was risking my life, asking for trouble and tempting fate, sharing a flat with Beth, a college acquaintance, whose paramour had walked out of her heart and out on their lease, seemed perfect. I needed to bring nothing more to the furnished apartment than my suitcase, two boxes and three garbage bags of earthly possessions. Soon though, I discovered, that part of Beth's emotional healing involved bringing home strangers she met in bars. Mornings, I was afraid to walk out of my bedroom not knowing if she'd run off to work leaving her man of the hour eating breakfast at our table. Facing a potential Mr. Goodbar was terrifying, particularly after I overheard a colleague say that she'd awakened one morning to find that her one-night stand had absconded with all of her jewelry. Accused by Beth of not understanding how one recovers from a shattered  romance, I took to locking my bedroom door at all times, and being alert for strangers in our shower. I slept over at a friend's apartment on nights when the prospect of Beth mending her broken heart seemed likely.

Thrilled when the lease expired, I signed on with Carri, a dorm friend, whom I knew to be neither desperate, needy, nor prone to falling in love with strangers after two drinks. The only problematic part of our living together was the fact that we were both very messy, our preferred description--not dirty messy, not disgusting messy,  just sloppy spirits who thought housekeeping  a waste of time,  slackers who used chairs as closets,  and figured college diplomas immunized against household drudgery. Reading won hands-down when the alternative was vacuuming, and we didn't own anything worth polishing so we, like Thing One and Thing Two, were comfortable in our little pigpen littered with newspapers, running shoes and lesson plans.  

One day I returned from teaching unable to unlock the front door. After ten minutes of fiddling with the key, I called our building janitor, who showed up an hour later with his nine-year old clone, disgruntled that I'd interrupted his happy hour.

I tell you, Helmet, womens stupid, always trouble, I heard him grumbling to his son as they climbed the stairs to find me sitting on the floor outside my apartment.

"Mr. Hormet, my key's not working," I said. "The door won't open."

He jerked my key ring from my hands, and proceeded to lecture me on the art of unlocking a door.  He had no luck either.

"Door bar," he barked.

"Can't be, I was the last one out this morning, and I locked the door."

"Door bar, maybe burglar home," he guffawed. "Helmet, go back door!"

Within minutes, Helmet appeared in the doorway crowing, "The back door was wide open! Your house is wrecked!"

"See," Mr. Hormet triumphed, "I tol' you robbed!"

"Oh, God," I shrieked, "What happened? What the hell happened?"

"You been robbed," Helmet screeched, delighted to be a player in the drama. "I discovered the crime. I'm like a detective--you have to tip me!" His father concurred, "Yeah, big tip!" The notion flashed through my mind that Mr. Hormet might be the culprit, but just as quickly I realized that he could never stay on task long enough to cause such destruction. 

I surveyed the wreckage. The apartment was a catastrophe--drawers dumped,  closet contents strewn about, furniture upended, pictures ripped off walls, potted plants smashed-- ruined, destroyed, trashed. Couldn't someone tell from our thrift-store decor that this was not a Gold Coast apartment, that we had nothing of value?

"How could this be," I lamented to the officer who responded to the 911 call. "Nothing here is worth stealing."

"Even a camera or a radio is a jackpot for a drug addict, Miss. It's $20.--more than he had before he picked your lock."

As I sat in tears, the detectives arrived to dust for fingerprints. Within a four square block area, we have 300 break and enters a day, one of Chicago's finest commented, as he sprinkled white powder over the crime scene. I wasn't sure if that statistic was supposed to make me feel less special, or if he was saying welcome to the big city. 

And then, almost worse than the burglary, my detested neighbor walked in the door. She had dropped by on a few occasions ostensibly for the proverbial cup of sugar, but her grilling intrusiveness suggested she was some kind of government informant on a covert operation. Just tell her we're diabetics the next time she comes looking for sugar, I had told Carri, don't let the busybody in. Now Torquemada was standing in the middle of the crime scene, her head swiveling, eyeballs spinning as though she was on an intelligence gathering mission.

"Whoa, this place is a real mess," she announced, as she sauntered around assessing the disaster. "Looks like you girls got wild and crazy in here."

"No, a junkie made a housecall," I said.

"Well, he probably wanted to surprise you with a home-cooked meal. The kitchen sink is filled with dirty pots and pans. Then again, maybe he was starving after his futile search for valuables." Unable to go for her throat due to the presence of the evidence technicians, I replied in my best Eliza Doolittle voice, "Oh, Darling, those dishes are from a dinner party we had last summer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must ask you to leave so I can inventory our loss."

Carri came up the stairs just as I was hustling the yenta out the door.

"Don't get scared, Carri, everything is okay, but we were robbed.  My dad is now three for three." Carri surveyed the living room then dashed to her bedroom.

"Oh, no, the bastard stole my opal ring, my birthstone!" she wailed. "Oh, god, he got my add-a-pearl necklace too."

"Don't feel bad," I said, "he got my Confirmation watch and my grandmother's cameo."

"Well, ladies," the detective interrupted, "we've done about all we can do here. We got a few prints, but they're probably yours," he laughed. "Doesn't really matter though, we never catch anybody anyway. We dust just to make the victims feel better."

"Makes them think we're on top of things," the other Dick Tracy chuckled, as they beat it out the door.

It was getting late, the circus was over, even Helmet and Mr. Hormet had gotten bored and left. Carri and I cleared a space on the sofa to commiserate. 

 "He cut the cord on my Princess phone," Carri grieved. 

"He got my debate medals," I said, "Let's call it a day. We can clean this dump over the weekend."

"How can we live this way for three days?" Carri yawned.

"We've lived this way since we moved in," I said only half-exaggerating, "except for the time your mother visited. By the way, I'm sleeping on the floor in your room. My bedroom door doesn't lock."

"The floor in my room?"

"Yes, I'm sleeping on your floor in case the creep comes back tonight for something  he couldn't carry. My father said criminals often return to the scene of the crime."

"Your father's not infallible. He said guys would be hitting on you, and that hasn't happened. Are you thinking the dope fiend will come back for your class ring?"

"I'm worried he might come back for more stuff. Your add-a-pearl necklace only had seven pearls, remember?"

"I know I got it when I was born, but then my sister came along and my mother got too busy to order pearls," she said, turning out the light, as I nested on the floor in my down quilt.

"Carri," I murmured in the dark. "I'm sorry about your necklace."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Someday we'll have diamonds that will dazzle even that bitch upstairs."

The room fell silent as I visualized my drop-dead engagement ring. Then in a soft voice, as though Miss J. Edgar Hoover might be listening, Thing One asked, "Thing Two, how did you realize that the apartment had been ransacked?"

"Well, my bike was gone," I whispered. "It was chained to the radiator in the living room, and I noticed it was missing." 

SHE'S DONE

My dad said I had to be a little fish in a big pond in order to grow, that I needed to make some new friends, expand my horizons, leave the old neighborhood and interact with girls whose ambitions transcended beauty school.  So I was exiled to a high school that required three bus transfers, a place where I wouldn't know a soul.  Study on the bus ride my mother said, learn to navigate the city--like I was supposed to be some kind of Christopher Columbus in search of a new world.

Soon I was trudging to the 26th Street bus, but not before I'd sneak under our porch and ditch the embarrassing book bag and, if it had snowed, the humiliating boots my father insisted I wear.  It was bad enough that the nuns required us to wear hideous black crepe-soled shoes so as not to scuff the tiled floors, but I drew the line at the mukluk look.   

My new girlfriends could have been my cousins, though their names didn't end in vowels. They were first generation, European progeny who didn't eat meat on Fridays, and worried about going to Hell.   I translated Caesar's  Gallic Wars with the best of them, and even had a leg up when we studied the Renaissance masters, thanks to my ethnicity.  The curriculum on sexuality was limited to the dissection of frogs.  A couple of sluts, a new word I added to my expanded vocabulary, gossiped about French kissing, and one warned me to stay away from lesbians.  I thought lesbian was a nonsense word akin to jabberwocky.  While many of my new classmates' aspirations were not limited by gender or tradition,  the One True Faith, like a great cement ankle bracelet, detoured us from the real world.

Until I met Linda.

My new friend was sweet and funny with a face and figure that made our flying-monkey uniform almost attractive.  She lived three parishes away on the other side of a viaduct which separated our neighborhood, the other side, as we referred to it, was a smidgen more cosmopolitan, but, thanks to both of us being kept on short leashes at home, we were on equal footing when it came to worldliness--one crepe-sole rooted in parochialism, the other inching toward adventure.

One Monday, a not so exuberant Linda flashed her student pass at the bus driver, and flopped into the seat beside me.

"My life is over," she stage whispered. 

"Let me guess.  Your dog ate your science project."

"This isn't a joke.  I'm done.  My life is a disaster."

 "What happened?  Did you fight with your mother?  Are you sick?"

"Worse.  I had a horrible date Saturday night."   She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her flying-monkey bolero.  "I wish I was dead."

"You're crying over a boy?  Are you kidding me?"

"I'm not kidding.  He's awful--crude, cocky, crazy-mean, and now I'm his girl.  My life is ruined.  I should just finish myself off."

"Stop the drama.  I don't get it.  This was a first date with a jerk who asked you to be his girlfriend?"

"He didn't ask me.  He said, 'I been watchin' you, and I like you.  You're my girl now--you only date me.'  But I can't stand him. He's disgusting, he's not even cute, he gives me the creeps, I'm afraid of him."

"One date, and he thinks he owns you?  He's a nut--just tell him to drop dead when he calls, tell him you're not interested."

"Not interested?  You don't understand, that's the scary part," she whispered.  "He's connected."

"Connected?  Connected to what?  He's 17 years old, tell him to get lost, or your dad will kick his butt."

"Lower your voice," she hissed.  "You don't get it.  My dad can't help me.  He'll kill my dad, my mother too--he's a hit guy.  He's mobbed up."

"Oh, knock it off.  You're being ridiculous--he's seventeen; he's a punk.  You can't be a mobster at seventeen," I said.  "Don't be afraid, the sicko is just trying to scare you."

The bus pulled up to the curb of our school.  Linda was in a daze, and didn't move;  the peter-pan collar of her blouse was damp from tears. 

"C'mon, Linda, we're here.  Let's go.  We'll figure this out,"  I said, as we headed off to translate another chapter of Caesar's Gallic Wars.

That night at dinner, I told my girlfriend's story.  "She had one date with this goof, and he thinks he owns her.  Did you ever hear of such craziness?  She thinks her life is over."

I expected my dad, who was afraid of no one, to say that the guy sounded like a loser, that she should just tell her father.  Instead he said, "Eat. Your food is getting cold." 

I turned to my brother.  "Maybe you know this jerk.  His name is Eddie Garren."

"He's a creep," my brother said, "a real bad guy, hazardous to her health."

"Get serious," I scoffed.

"No, you get serious," my father snapped.  "Your brother's right, be alert; stay away.  She's done."

I found a new route to school.  Every now and then, I'd bump into Linda, but I'd keep my distance, avoid her at lunch, always too busy to talk.  I knew she understood.  We both understood.  I had to stay on course; expanding horizons was a full-time job--be alert for bad influences, steer clear of hazards.  She knew from that first encounter that she was in trouble--that gossip, loneliness and fear would be her new companions.  That coming undone was part of a life unraveling when you're toast.

I trained for debate and symposiums, joined clubs, concentrated on my GPA.    Over time, I settled into the big pond, and even got to be a decent sized fish. 

I lost track of Linda, though I'd heard that she'd married the psychopath.  Occasionally I'd see the monster's name in the news, but it wasn't as though I was following his career. 

Then in December, 1999, Chicago headlines announced that Eddie "the Little Guy" Garren, a reputed top mobster, was shot and critically wounded in the alley behind his home as he headed to the funeral of an underworld associate. 

Garren had been released only days before the shooting from federal prison after being sentenced to 25 years for masterminding an  armed robbery.   At the time of his sentencing, he had been arrested 58 times as an adult and convicted 13 times. He had attained special criminal status under a federal law known as the "Dangerous Special Offender Statute."

He never recovered, and died one month later in January, 2000.  His obituary described him as a hit man, master thief, robber, hijacker, fence, juice collector and rapist.  He was survived by two sons and Linda.  A half dozen years later, his eldest, Edward, Jr., testified in Chicago's  infamous Family Secrets trial that his father had trained him to follow in his footsteps as a burglar and bookmaker.

She was done from the start.

WORRIED ABOUT THE SOFT SPOT

I'd held a baby only once before when I begged my mother to let me hold my brand new cousin.  "First wash your hands, then sit on the sofa," she ordered.  She put Laura in my arms and knelt in front of us.  "Hold your thighs together so you make a lap.   Support her neck, prop up her head, keep your arm under her body, don't breathe in her face.  Careful when you kiss her, watch out for her soft spot." 

"What's a soft spot?" I asked.

"It's the part of her head that covers her brain.  Now lower your voice or you'll startle her."

Laura started to wail.  "Here, take her back, babies have too many rules.”

I steered clear of babies after that and then it happened again.

"Here, my phone is ringing, hold her for a second," my neighbor Lucy said as she thrust her baby, Kiki, into my arms. I was only five years old, a tiny kid myself, sitting on the stoop and munching on a Snicker's.   

I pressed my thighs together to make a lap like I remembered from Laura and, poof, just like that, Kiki flipped out of my arms.  I gripped her ankle; her pink rubber pants flashed the whole neighborhood.  Clutching her leg, I hoisted her up to eye level.  Lucky thing her brain didn't fall out of the soft spot.  When I flipped her right-side up, she looked okay.  Her face was as bright red as a flaming-hot jawbreaker, but her bonnet was still stuck on her head, and she wasn’t bleeding.  

"Kiki," I scolded, "you can't just do a somersault whenever you feel like it."  Kiki was screaming and not paying attention.

"I don't know why she's crying, maybe she missed you," I lied to Lucy, who hadn't seen her baby bungee-jump from my arms.  I was glad Kiki couldn't tell her mother that she was twirling around upside down and almost bounced on the sidewalk.

Over the years, worrying about Kiki's brain caused me many sleepless nights.  My brother's friend, Stevie, went to the hospital after he jumped off his garage roof while playing Superman. My brother, who was very smart, said Stevie had a concussion which meant his brain got jiggled in his skull.  Even though Kiki hadn't  hit the ground, I knew her brain had a good jiggle.  Would she grow up to be normal? 

"Whatever happened to Stevie after his concussion?" I asked. 

"He got in trouble for playing on the roof, and his dad punished him."

"I mean what happened to his brain.  Did he like start acting weird?"

"You're weird," my brother sneered, as he rode off on his Schwinn.  "Something's wrong with your brain."

So all I could do was spy on Kiki to see if her brain was working right.  Every time I'd see Lucy with her in the buggy outside, I'd push the mosquito netting aside and peer at her little bald head.

"How is she today, Lucy?  Has she started to talk yet?"

"Oh, Sweetie, she won't be talking for a while. She's still too little."

I wanted to tell Lucy that, thanks to me, Kiki might never talk.   I worried that she might get stuck in kindergarten for a couple of years because she had trouble learning then she'd end up like Butchie, down the street.  My brother said Butchie was slow because he'd been dropped on his head when he was a baby.  Butchie had to repeat second grade twice.

Being on the alert for signs of brain-damage was complicated by the fact that Kiki's family was strange to begin with--I mean, her brother's name was Jujube.  Jujube!  All the boys in our neighborhood had names like Joey or Junior--no one was named after candy that you bought when you went to the movies.  On top of that, Jujube's ears were lopsided, and he kind of looked like he might not make it past fifth grade. To further complicate matters, Kiki and Jujube had different fathers because my brother said Lucy was divorced which meant she traded in her old husband for a new one.   So it was going to be hard to know if Kiki was goofed up because of me or her loony tribe.  I worried that I was going to have to take the whole blame if Kiki didn't turn out right, if she couldn't spell or add or subtract.

When I was seven, my Nana died and we moved into her old flat six blocks away.  Though I didn't change schools, I did lose track of Kiki.   I always prayed, though, that she turned out to be normal and that someday I could tell her it was an accident and please forgive me.  I dreamed of explaining to Kiki that if she had brain problems it was partly her fault for acting like a kangaroo.

Kiki's caper set me up for a life of chronic worry, but, in fairness to her, I did go to Catholic schools where hijacking cerebellums and embedding neurons of fear was an art form. 

At the age of seven, my First Confession, the day before my First Holy Communion, kicked off a deluge of anxiety when I toddled into the black hole of a confessional. A weekly Examination of Conscience required searching out every sin committed in thought, word and/or deed, by acts of commission or omission, intentionally or accidentally, either consciously or unconsciously, in rain, sleet or snow, in sickness or health, pre-conception or postmortem. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned..." was my Saturday afternoon mantra, a ritual that was supposed to "...stop God from crying over all the bad things you did during the week," said Sister Perpetua.  I thought God must be nuts to cry because I'd rolled my eyeballs at my mother when she told me to dry the dishes.  But just after I thought about the possibility of God being cuckoo, I realized the thought was sacrilegious so I'd wait in church all afternoon until the priests changed shifts and the refugee Croation priest, who spoke almost no English, came on duty.  No matter what you confessed, he'd say, "Okay, tree r fodders, tree Hey, Marys. Go."

That I accomplished anything in school was astounding seeing that I was so busy dissecting, analyzing and seeking second opinions from my girlfriends on the gravity of my sins.

"Josephine, I know snitching is a sin, but what if I snitched on my brother because I heard him use a swear word?  I don't think it's a sin because it did stop him from saying hell."
"Well, you just committed a sin yourself because you said the "H" word," said the pint-sized Elmer Gantry.  "Plus snitching is a sin no matter what your brother did."

"Another sin just because I said the "H" word?"

"Yes, but it’s just a Venial--you only go to "H" for Mortals," she said. 

I ran to Confession, and was relieved when I smelled beer through the little screen which meant Father Alky was on the other side.  He probably didn't know what rolling eyeballs were since he too had language limitations.  But then I worried that if he didn't understand me, his forgiveness wouldn't count so I added yet another sin by lying that I'd left my prayer book in the pew and fled.

I ran across the vestibule, and got in Father Steve's line.  He had escaped the Communists too and his English was not the best, however, he was up on the latest sins.  Sometimes you'd be waiting your turn and you'd hear him bellow, "YOU DEED WHAT?"  Within minutes you'd see a blubbering eight-year old exit, and run down the aisle with his jacket pulled over his head hoping not to be identified.  One time Peter Manzino crashed right into the baptismal font as he tried to make a break for it.  Sister Praxeda caught him and dragged him back to the box.  Pushing Peter to the front of the line, she made him go in and confess that he'd broken the baptismal watering hole.  This time Father Steve's "YOU DEED WHAT?" shook the choir loft.  I went in right after Peter, and the kneeler was all wet.  I pretended it was holy water. 

Over the next few years, my repertoire of sins expanded.  Envy, wrath and eavesdropping reared their heads when my brother turned sixteen and got his first part-time job and a paycheck.  His tales about the shoplifters, quick-change artists and crazy customers caused me to covet his exciting life.

Then came the day I had long prayed for:  a Kiki update.  Her mother popped up at my brother's store.

"Ma, remember Lucy, our old neighbor--Jujube's mom?  She came shopping today."

My Dumbo ears flapped at the mention of Lucy's name. 

"Oh, I haven't seen her in ages.  How is she?” my Mom asked.

“She’s fine; she has a new husband and another baby.”

“How’s Kiki?” I blurted.  "Is she alive?"

"Well, yeah," he said with a 'you are such a knucklehead'  look.  "Most people are still alive in fourth grade." 

"I meant to say is she normal?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, "but they don’t call her Kiki anymore—she’s Katherine, and Jujube only answers to Jerome.  He’s studying to be a detective.”

“Good for him,” my mother said.

“Yeah, it is, but Lucy’s really braggy.  She said detective like it was a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” I chimed in.  “She probably thought that with his uneven ears he’d never make it through school.  But what did she say about Kiki?”

“Katherine,” he corrected me, and turned back to Mom.  “Mom, do you ever brag about me?”

“No,” she said as she greased a pie pan.  "Your father and I don’t believe in it.  We expect you to do well, and we don't need to advertise."

“I get it, but I’d appreciate a little bragging once in a while.”

I agreed.  “You could at least say something like my daughter is very intelligent.”

“Ma can't say that because she doesn't want to lie,” he smirked.  And then he dropped a bit of gossip that was intended to make me jealous, but instead took a ton of weight off my heart.  “Lucy said Katherine got to be May Crowning Queen because she got straight A’s.”

“Straight A’s?” I screamed, "You're kidding! Kiki, straight A’S—May Crowning Queen--wooohoo!"  Bubbles of shock, disbelief, gratitude and relief fizzed in my head.  "That’s the best!  I can't believe it!  Go, Kiki, go!"

“Mom, she is psycho,” he said, his mouth twisted like he was sucking on a dirty sock.  "I'm positive that one day when you weren't looking, someone dropped her on her head."