Chicago Stories: West of Western (22 page)

When she'd devoured two rolls and was licking the latte foam and icing from her lip, he handed her one of his aprons and she wrapped it twice around her waist.

“Now, attend to me,” he said, rapping the counter with a wooden spoon. “You shall serve your mother a simple, light, but delectable meal. We will assemble it here, you can put it in the refrigerator when you get home and pop it in the oven to bake when your mother arrives.” He was all business as he set out the ingredients on the long counter in order of use, explaining each as he laid them out.

By nine-thirty, Andre's immaculate kitchen looked like Phuket after the tsunami, but Seraphy had a cold lemon soufflé to chill for dessert and Andre's special strata with layers of buttered French bread, spinach, red pepper, Emmenthaler cheese and prosciutto resting in a custard rich with eggs and cream, to bake for the main dish. He found a small box in which she could carry the food and her notes, and packed the dishes between rolled-up dish towels.

“Weight the strata with a plate and refrigerate it until time to bake or the layers won't stay separate. If you start it about eleven-thirty, that should be long enough. And don't forget the fresh mint for the top of the soufflé,” he said. “I'm sorry, but I have to go now.”

“I can't think how to thank you, you've saved my life.”

“Call and tell me how delighted your mother was and that she thinks you're a genius,” he said and smiled as he hustled her down the stairs. “Richard said he didn't need your first-born right now, maybe later.”

“You're a genius. Mom's really nice. I don't know why it scares me so much to have her come to see my new place.”

“Mothers and daughters,” Andre scrunched up his face and frowned slightly. “You think she will judge you and you are afraid to not be good enough. The technical term for that is, I think, a crock of shit.” He closed the door behind her.

Holding the box with the casserole and soufflé dish in both hands, Seraphy couldn't see the sidewalk. Two steps from her doorway her foot came down and rolled. She recovered, but the casserole shifted alarmingly. Once inside, she stashed the dishes in the refrigerator and ran back to see what had almost caused her to fall.

Bullets from the drive-by peppered the sidewalk in front of her building. Hollow points. Good thing she could get rid of the evidence before her mother arrived. She had just stuffed the bullets in a baggie when Bronko came around the corner.

“Paint done.”

He spoke from behind her left shoulder. Guilt washed over her. He had said an hour, what, almost three hours ago?

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I had so much to do I forgot about you.”

Bronko said nothing, turning to lead her around to see the garage door.

He must have seen the bullets. She considered asking him if he knew anything about the shooting, but by the time she followed him back to the alley, decided not to bring it up. Bronko hardly spoke at all and even if he knew anything, she knew he wouldn't tell her.

“ Door fin-ish.”

Sporting freshly-painted black enamel, the garage door shone pristine in the morning sun. No trace of the bloody woman or her assassins remained.

“Is good?”

“It's excellent, Bronko.” She smiled. “Much better. My mother's coming in a little while and I'm glad she won't see that. Thank you, and thank Mischa for me. Wait here, I'll run up and get your money. One hundred fifty dollars, right?”

When she returned with the cash in an envelope, Bronko counted the money and smiled.

“Is good. T’ank you.”

Chapter 19

Eleanor parked her
Mini across the street, climbed out, and paused to look at the converted workshop. In her worn jeans and faded sweatshirt, her silver hair pulled back into a ponytail low on her neck, at sixty-two Eleanor still had an unconscious elegance that made her daughter feel awkward and disheveled in comparison. Watching from the window, Seraphy smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, and ran down to throw open the front door.

“Seraphy, babe, I love her!” Eleanor cried, wrapping her daughter in a long embrace. “She's really beautiful, such elegant lines. Tony never told me.”

“You know Tony, unless I had garlands of food dangling out every window, he'd never notice anything so mundane as a building. Mom, Come on in. I'm so glad to have you here.” In spite of her insecurities, Seraphy was glad. She wound her arm around her mother's waist to pull her inside, but Eleanor shook herself loose and stepped back.

“Wait, Fee. Come, walk around with me,” said Eleanor. “I want to see the outside before we go in.”

She insisted on crossing back across Rockwell so she could get a long view of the façade from the other side of the street. The usual three ladies sat like ancient deities and stared at the mother and daughter. Eleanor smiled briefly in their direction, then proceeded to the alley and examined the garage and the back of the building, as unconcerned as her daughter with alley litter and shabby neighbors, and as delighted with the building. Seraphy followed, blessing Bronko for getting the garage door finished before Eleanor arrived.

“Do you really like her? Don't just be polite.” Back at the front door, Eleanor had missed no detail of the exterior. Say yes, Seraphy's eyes pleaded.

“What do I have to do to convince you, you silly creature?” Eleanor leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I fucking love her,” squeezing her waist to emphasize her statement.

Inside, she admired the ten-foot windows in the workshop and the wide iron stairs to the loft, and the tense muscles in Seraphy's neck and jaw began to relax. The kitchen timer upstairs binged and she ran to throw the casserole in the oven and check the lemon soufflé in the refrigerator. Eleanor continued to explore on her own. Seraphy caught up with her a few minutes later in the bedroom at the far end of the loft.

“I so love these rooms with their old glass half-walls, everything's so light. So clever of you to keep them, to manage both an open feel for your loft and a sense of privacy. Beautiful,” Eleanor said, looking around the bedroom. “Is this where you're thinking of putting Grandmother Pelligrini's hope chest? I'll get Tony and his gang of three to bring it over tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh. These four rooms were offices. I intended to open it up, take out the walls, but when we got all the crap out and I saw the way the sun shone through the loft, I decided to keep the rooms separate.”

“Brilliant. This way you have room definition and light both. Wonderful, Fee. These are, what? Bedroom, guest room, library/study, and um, exercise room? I like that you don't have too much furniture, too. Your floors are gorgeous.” She ignored the ersatz kitchen and industrial-green bathroom at the other end.

Seraphy smelled coffee as the espresso machine finished its cycle. “Is it too late for cappuccino? Come and let me show off my espresso machine. I know it's embarrassingly yuppie, but it makes the real stuff,” she said, leading her mother back to the living area. “Check out the couch while I put everything together. It's the only furniture I bought. So far.”

Once established on the couch with cappuccino in hand, Eleanor looked at her daughter and smiled. “Okay, Fee, you can relax now, I love your place.” She tasted the coffee and nodded approval. “Perfect. So, tell me about the neighborhood.”

“I moved in last Saturday,” Seraphy began, and told about meeting Richard and Andre, Mischa, Katya and her baby, the artists and actors in the church, George, and Jaime from the bodega. “And that's all the neighbors I've met, I think,” she said, conveniently leaving Mario and Sister Ann for another time.

“That's pretty damned good for one week. It sounds like an interesting neighborhood. Have you met your next-door neighbors yet?” The kitchen timer dinged just in time to save Seraphy from trying to explain Sister Ann.

“Later, that's our lunch.”

Andre's strata looked and smelled perfect, even better than promised. Cut in wedges and served on white porcelain plates, all bright layers of green and red and gold and creamy white, Seraphy thought it a dish to make even Martha Stewart green with envy.

“Oh, Fee, it's so pretty I almost don't want to eat it. But somebody's gotta do it.” Eleanor picked up her fork.

In the event, the two of them ate the entire strata, talking family between bites. Whether it was the butter and eggs and cream in the strata or reliving familiar family stories, Seraphy relaxed and began to wonder why she'd ever worried about having her mother visit.

“Oof.” Eleanor pushed her plate away and leaned back in her chair. “I probably shouldn't have had that last piece. But it was sooo good. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“I have to confess, I had help. You remember I told you about the guys next door? Andre's a fabulous cook and he's teaching me. This is from my first lesson. It's easier than it tastes. You really like it?”

“Just don't give me the recipe, no matter how much I beg and whine. I'd end up gorging on it and be as big as a house by spring. Let's keep it for special times.”

Why did she always say the right thing?

“Dessert next. Andre's cold lemon soufflé.”

Forty-five minutes later, Eleanor unbuttoned her jeans and leaned back into a corner of the couch. “Where was I? So your Aunt Rosa left on a cruise with the dance instructor she met on the internet and the last we heard they were in Bali and planning to get married there.”

“Aunt Rosa? I thought she was going to something called Yoga Retreat for Seniors? She's got to be seventy.” Aunt Rosa with a dance instructor? Aunt Rosa, orange hair, bad knees, two hundred pounds and counting?

“Seventy-two last March. Apparently Guido's tango, knees and all, was more interesting than Yoga for Seniors. Don't worry, Rosa's money's all tied up in a trust. Guido's in for a shock. Maybe I'll have just a bite more.” Eleanor reached for her dessert plate.“God, Fee, if you ever get tired of messing about with buildings, you can open a restaurant. I haven't had such a lunch, ever. My thighs will never forgive you.”

“I don't usually cook like this, but I'm working on it,” said Seraphy later as she loaded the dishwasher. “You'll have to come over more often. I might even have kitchen cupboards by Christmas.”

“I'd love to—will you cook like this again? And let me bring wine, at least.”

“If Andre will share another recipe or two.” Seraphy looked across the room into her mother's eyes, eyes the same silver as her hair. “Thanks, Mom, for everything.”

“
De nada
,” Eleanor waved the thanks away. “You done with that? Come. Sit.”

When Seraphy had settled into a corner of the couch with her legs tucked under her, Eleanor pulled herself up and said, “Now tell me about the next-door neighbor that you so carefully neglected to mention before lunch.”

She should have known Mom would notice. Seraphy got up and stretched, then resettled in a corner.

“The two-flat belongs to an old Marxist ex-nun, a 1960s leftover, the neighborhood holy terror. The night after I moved in—last Sunday—I was putting the trash out about eleven o'clock when she caught me in the alley,” Seraphy grinned. “My garage door rolled up and all of a sudden there she was, greasy hair, smelly, ragged, yelling at me about the bloodsucking rich displacing the worthy poor and so on and so on.” Seraphy looked at her mother, “You should have been here. All that propaganda from the late sixties and seventies, sister Ann spitting and throwing her arms around.”

“I can imagine. Sounds like the old New Left.” Eleanor finished her espresso.

“She called me a bitch, among other things. I didn't have a clue who she was and was trying to figure out how to keep her from pushing her way into the garage. You should have seen us, shoving the those big toters back and forth. I was saved by a man coming for her as I was lowering the door. I didn't know then she owned the building next door. I really thought she was a bag lady.”

“At least she's not boring.”

“No,” Seraphy shook her head, “definitely not boring. Later, when I met Richard and Andre, they told me she calls herself Sister Ann and was a Caritas nun back in the seventies. Richard thought she had been thrown out of the order, but he didn't know how she landed here. She lets homeless guys sleep in the second floor apartment.”

“Caritas Sisters, I vaguely remember them from your school days,” Eleanor said, her voice thoughtful, reaching for the memory.“They had a peculiar reputation even then, far more involved in politics than the church liked.” She looked across the loft, her voice soft as she remembered. “Give me a minute . . . some nuns were raped and killed, and a few years later, several priests executed. In some quarters it was fashionable to mix leftist politics and religion . . . liberation theology.” Eleanor leaned back and frowned at the ceiling while Seraphy refilled their cups.

“Okay, I know where I heard about it.” Eleanor sat up. “You and some of your friends decided the nuns who'd been killed had been holy martyrs. I remember you little girls in black armbands, you had pictures from magazines taped around your mirrors, and you lit candles and so on. Mother Barbara—you remember her, the principal from your school—called us parents into her office one day and explained to me and the other parents—quite firmly, I might add—that the Sisters of Hope did not feel that our daughters should idealize those who abandoned their vows for politics.”

“The Caritas nuns were involved in revolutionary movements? As what? Surely not as fighters?”

“Some of them were, I think. Of course we all went right home and started trying to find out just what they were up to, but I never knew details, just that the Caritas Sisters were radicals. You and your friends moved on to other things once the publicity stopped.”

“I don't remember any of that, but I wish I did. Sister Ann's still spouting old slogans and she's passionate enough. Now I'm really curious.”

“Well . . .” Eleanor started to sip her coffee, quickly put it down.

“Well what?” Seraphy tasted her coffee and made a face. Cold. “Ugh.”

“You won't find much on the internet. The church put a lid on immediately. A little about the orders and their good works, maybe. But do you remember your Aunt Bennie?”