Chicago Stories: West of Western (23 page)

“Aunt Bennie? Dad's sister?” Long black robes and a crisp, almost harsh voice. “Not really. That's odd, now you mention it. Dad's family always turns out for everything, but Aunt Bennie never shows up, does she?”

“Do you have any hot coffee in that pot?”

“Keep talking while I make some fresh. I can hear from the kitchen.”

”You were too young at the time to understand, but it was a huge scandal in your father's family. Bennie was a Benedictine nun, Sister Benedicta, and the superintendent of a girls’ school when she suddenly left that order. Shortly afterwards she married the widowed father of one of her students, and had a baby four or five months after that. The family crucified her. You can imagine.”

“Big time. Wow. A baby—another nephew? Niece? Where are they now?”

“Bennie's the only one left. The baby died of SIDS and her husband went into a classic mid-life crisis and drank himself to death. Your father's family wouldn't speak to her. Now she lives alone in Evanston and edits textbooks.”

“That's sad. I don't remember any of this.

“I wouldn't call Bennie sad, exactly. The reason I brought her up is that back when she was a very young nun she had a brief fling with liberation theology and joined the Caritas Sisters for a time, before she became a Benedictine.”

“All I remember is the long black habit, very traditional, very scary. I thought she was about nine feet tall. She terrified me.”

“That was later, after she got over her leftist fling and fled to the Benedictines, very repentant. Her long black robe period. Your father's traditional family never let her forget either the Caritas Sisters or the baby. Still, Bennie could tell you more about the Caritas Sisters than anyone I can think of. If she would. Bennie's not an easy woman.”

“You really think I could ask her?”

Eleanor stood up and stretched. “I don't know why not. I never joined in the family stoning and you were too little. I've got her number at home.” She yawned. “I'll email it to you. Now, my dear, I've really got to use your bathroom.”

While Eleanor was gone, Seraphy sat in a daze, trying to picture Sister Ann as a twenty-year-old nun. Somehow it was easier to imagine her in khaki pants and a man's shirt, carrying an Uzi and hanging out with the rebels.

“Look, I actually got my pants buttoned. You look like you've been bewitched.” Eleanor was back and had found fresh cups of latte.

“Just thinking about Sister Ann. I haven't told you yet about the second time I saw her.”

Her mother handed her a cup and sank back into her corner of the couch. “More to the story? So tell me.”

“I was coming home and passed her lying on the sidewalk in front of her house. She fell and sprained her ankle. I first thought I'd help her inside, and did, with her grousing at me all the way. By the time we got inside and I got a good look at the ankle, I realized it was worse than a simple sprain—” Seraphy told her mother about taking Sister Ann to the emergency room and getting dragooned into caring for Maria.

Eleanor listened without a word, her eyes widening as Seraphy described the apartment and her discovery that the dying child was pregnant.

“Dear God.”

“Mom, it was horrible. The dirty, desperate apartment, the smell. But the worst was Maria. I thought I was going to throw up when she pulled back the sheet and showed me her belly. Fourteen, pregnant, emaciated and dying.” Seraphy shuddered.

Her mother's beautiful face darkened and wrinkles appeared around her mouth.

“I almost lost it. All I wanted was to call 911 and get her out of there.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Good question.” Seraphy stared into her cup and thought. “Well, I didn't know how or why she was there. I just assumed she was Sister Ann's granddaughter or niece or some relative.” She looked up over the rim of the cup. “All I could think was to do what she told me to do and hope she'd be home soon.”

“Works for me.”

“Then when I got Sister Ann home from the ER and she told me the story, I really didn't know what to do. I couldn't sleep or think clearly. I had about decided to call you for advice when Brother Edwin arrived and took over.” She put the empty cup down on the end table. “I still keep thinking about Maria. There must be something I can do.”

The loft was quiet while mother and daughter considered Maria and her keepers. Finally Eleanor looked up and said, “I think you did the right thing, Fee. St. Luke's Brothers operate the best hospices. Brother Edwin will clean the place up, and even if it's a shambles, Maria has someone who cares, rough as Sister Ann may be. Brother Edwin will provide for her while she lives.”

“Her bones are like sticks, Mom. And her face—”

“Yes. But there are other issues here, too,” said Eleanor. She took a breath. “Maybe you can do something about them. Maria's loathsome father, for a start. And that scum—Tito, did you say his name is?” Her face was taut, she bit off the name. “Someone has to do something about them.”

“Tito's dead. Somebody shot him.”

“Good riddance. As for you being haunted by this, that will pass. I'm proud of you.” She reached and turned her daughter's face to her. “You done good, kid.”

Chapter 20

“Welcome, you two.”
Seraphy opened the front door to Nika and Peter just after four o'clock. “Come in, I'm glad to meet friends of Diego's.”

“Hi. I'm Nika and this is Peter and you're just like Diego described you.” Nika looked the way she sounded, blond, relaxed, and smiling, athletic in jeans and navy sweatshirt.

“Tired and confused?” And that's no joke, thought Seraphy. Now the tension of her mother's visit had dissipated, she had to fight to find energy to greet her new clients.

“Charming and professional,” said Peter, smiling. Almost a foot taller than his wife, Peter had the thick light brown hair and hefty build Seraphy was coming to associate with Eastern European ancestry, and looked even heftier than he probably was in an Irish fisherman's sweater and tan corduroy slacks. “Actually, he said you were a classic Black Irish beauty with brains.”

Seraphy laughed and waved them in. “Wow, who said gallantry was dead? I'll take that, thanks.” She took their coats and gestured to the workroom on the right of the door. “Since we're down here, please look around. I tried to keep the spirit of the original building—for instance, this is the original draper's bentwood coat rack. I found it under the stairs and just cleaned it up. This floor was the warehouse and a workroom for the business, now it still is, in a way. Garage there, workshop on this side.”

“It's perfect,” said Nika, looking around. She ran her hand along the workbench along the north wall, checking out the router and lingering over the small lathe and miter saw. “We had no idea you could do anything with this place, did we, Peter? Well, no one did, it sat empty for years. This is great. I'm so jealous. I've always wanted my own miter saw.”

Peter chortled and Seraphy gave Nika a questioning look.

“Diego didn't tell you?” Nika said, “Figures. I'm an art historian by day but a painter by night, and I've always wanted to make my own frames. Right now I'm exiled to the garage because Peter complains I stink up the house. There's not much power and it's damned cold out there in the winter with just a space heater. But I'm moving up in the world: the attic's going to be my studio.”

“Spoiled brat,” Peter said, wiggling his eyebrows. “I know painters who actually
live
in garages. At least, I let you sleep in the house. You know, Seraphy, Nika's a wife with privileges.” He turned and gestured at the stairs before Seraphy could decide whether he was serious. “Are these railings original?”

“Yes, wire-brushed and painted,” she said, wondering how much truth underlay his joking. Nika looked like she could stand up for herself. Peter seemed pretty aggressive, but then he was a lawyer. She'd have to be sure they had a clear understanding where their mutual responsibilities lay.

“We might have a place for stairs like that,” said Nika. “You think we could find a set?”

“Maybe, at Salvage One or Architectural Artifacts. Just be careful not to fall in love with something that won't fit. Take your specs with you when you go hunting.”

Upstairs, Seraphy gave them a tour of the loft, then, unsure exactly what more her potential clients needed to see, she stopped and gestured to the couch.

“Now for your reward. Have a seat while I get things together.” Peter opted for the kitchen table.

“Like old friends who just drop in,” said Nika as they sat. “I like your place, keeping what's good and not going all trend-of-the-day luxe. Could Diego and the others come for a tour sometime? We've all done most of our rehab ourselves, and we didn't know what we were doing. Peter and I have the house, there are four studios in the old school, and Diego has the church. I think the others would agree that it would be worth it for the condo association to hire you as a consultant, if you would. In addition to our commission.”

“About time those flakes realize we need professional help,” said Peter the attorney. “Seraphy, we've made some expensive, and ugly, mistakes. Partly because as a condo association, we couldn't afford good advice and partly because we didn't know enough to know they were mistakes until after the fact.”

“Besides, with people starting to rehab in the area,” Nika said, scrunching up her nose, “the city's beginning to take notice and building inspectors are prowling around.”

“Maybe we could trade tours.” Seraphy had seen the compound, made up of a large red brick church, the adjacent double lot with two-story parochial school across the back, and Nika and Peter's parish house closing the last side of the courtyard. She was at least as curious about their units as the artists were about hers. She brought plates of lemon soufflé to the table and added large lattes in white china mugs.

“Oh Yum. Is this all for us?” asked Nika, her eyes fixed on the dessert.

“Of course. Actually, I suppose I have to confess that Andre from next door taught me how to make lemon soufflé so I could impress my mother. I hope you don't mind leftovers.”

“Surely you jest.”

“About taking you on as clients,” Seraphy said as she handed round the dessert plates, “I work for Jerrod & Etwin, so I'd have to do anything like that evenings or weekends, but I'd enjoy it.” An image of the church compound surfaced in her mind as she spoke and she wondered again what the condos were like. “Does Diego have the whole church?”

“Diego and his friend Rex, yes,” said Peter. “Diego was the one who discovered the church compound years ago, when it had been abandoned by the congregation, and rounded us all up to buy in, so he got first choice.”

His friend Rex? What kind of friend? Probably the close kind. Diego was much too good to be running around loose. So what? She could still look.

“They have the church but they've not done much with it, more camping out than rehabbing. They sleep in the choir loft and eat in the vestry. Mostly they use the nave for rehearsals, I think. Rex has a small dance troupe and Diego works between acting gigs with young actors from the storefront theaters.” Peter put his cup down, sampled his dessert, finished it off in a few bites and looked for more.

Seraphy laughed and handed him the soufflé dish.

“Leave some for me, Peter,” protested Nika.

“Do I see an espresso machine?” When Seraphy nodded, Peter asked, “Is that how you made this latte? Would you teach us if we get a machine? This is wonderful.”

“Sure,” taking the hint, Seraphy got up to recharge the coffee maker. “We Pelligrinis have a special coffee gene. We're all fanatics.”

“Is it catching?” Nika waved at Peter, “because I think Peter just caught it.”

“Nah, I've just hidden my lust all these years, my dear, but at last I must confess. I'm a closet coffee fiend. I've blown our future children's college funds at Starbuck's several times over.”

“There's a Twelve Step program for that,” Seraphy said over her shoulder. “I think they meet at Denny's.”

“Friends of Juan Columbo, I know. I had thirty-one days, but fell off the wagon at Starbuck's. I admit I'm powerless over my addiction.”

Seraphy laughed. “My neighbor, Sister Ann, must hate you. I'd hardly moved in when she caught me in the alley and yelled at me to get out. Called me yuppie scum, and she doesn't even know about the espresso machine.” Peter nodded, grimacing.

Nika said, “Sister Ann's the best street theater around, totally off the wall.” She swallowed the last bite of her dessert and added, “ Diego's been threatening to send his students out to study her.” Seraphy laughed at a sudden vision of a spitting Sister Ann surrounded by earnest acting students.

“She's got one point, though,” said Peter.“We don't want the character of the neighborhood to change too much, either.” He and Nika exchanged glances. “I guess that sounds like the Colorado thing—everybody wants to be the last person to move there and claims the other newbies are ruining the place.”

Nika nodded. “We've got texture and variety here. And we like the new immigrants among us, all they want is a place to live and work.”

“Like Katya and her baby.” Seraphy added sugar to her latte.

“You've met Katya? I'm surprised. She never talks, or at least not to me,” Nika said.

“To me, either. I ran into her and Sasha on my way to the bodega.”

“Jaime's bodega? On California? Isn't Jaime great? That smile? We go there, too,” Peter said. “Well, for some things. Watch out for the home-made salsa. We call it Jaime's Revenge.”

“As in Montezuma's Revenge?” Seraphy asked, smiling. “Thanks for the warning. On another topic, did you hear about the raid on the drug house on Augusta yesterday? Richard and I watched from our roofs, but it wasn't very exciting, just seemed to peter out. So to speak.”

“It may have looked that way, but it was one of the better ones,” Peter said, and showed his teeth.“It was supposed to be one of those harassment raids that end up in building court, until one of the fire inspectors checking for carbon monoxide leaks came across a large stash of product in some old heating ducts and called the feds in.”