Chicago Stories: West of Western (9 page)

But when she turned to leave, the small man behind the checkout counter smiled at her, nodded, and waved her in, his smile so welcoming she couldn't walk away. Short and walnut-colored, the proprietor smiled with his whole face, white teeth balanced by warm brown eyes almost buried in deep, friendly wrinkles. Seraphy was surprised when her heart jumped in response.

She took a deep breath. Mistake. Rotting onion, old lettuce, overripe mango, last week's tomatoes. Cilantro. Cinnamon. She swallowed, returned the man's smile and moved back along an aisle of vegetable bins whose produce looked like it had walked from Mexico. C’mon, she lectured herself, get it together. He's being nice. Don't insult your new neighbors, you've been in third world markets that were worse. Get a grip. Bags of potatoes and rice filled the space under the grubby counters. She watched as a mouse-sized roach slid under a bottom bag. Biggest damned roach she'd ever seen.

Her nose, then her stomach, complained about the heat and increasing odor of rotting meat as she neared the counter at the back. Maybe she could find something, anything, safe to buy, and get the hell out of here. Wilted lettuce, limp carrots, avocados the size of grapefruit—she picked up one of those and jumped as something nudged her other hand. A grubby basket, offered by the little man in the stained apron. He gently took the avocado from her and placed it in the basket, smiling.

“Thank you.” She smiled back, quickly adding three spotted bananas and a mango to the basket. At the end of the aisle she slipped past the meat counter holding her breath, aware that a fat woman in the corner was watching every move. These are your her new neighbors, she told herself, don't blow it by acting like a hygiene-o-path.

A can of tomatoes looked okay, and one of beans, then at the very end of the aisle she spied a shelf piled high with large bags of her favorite taco chips, the ones made in Little Village. Great. She could make salsa and guacamole when she got home. Aware that the old ladies had been sneaking looks out of the sides of their eyes and that two men behind the meat counter had moved to keep her in view, she felt the skin on the back of her neck itch and wanted to run. Instead she grabbed a bag. Salsa. She'd seen fresh cilantro with the vegetables. She went back for it and added an onion and several jalapenos to her collection.

Unloading her basket onto the small, not-very-clean checkout counter, she got another huge smile as the owner totaled her purchases, and forgot her watchers.

“You new here, no?” he asked in heavily accented English. “Welcome. My name is Jaime. Thank you for coming to my store.”

“I'm Seraphy. I just moved in two days ago. Thank you, Jaime.” He smiled again as he handed her the plastic bag, and she knew she'd be back. Jaime's smile was worth any amount of grubbiness.

Chapter 7

Slipping out the
front door into the dark, she stumbled twice on the uneven pavement in the half-block to the corner, sliding around the empty lot and skidding to a stop at a tall iron gate marked 2710. As she straightened up, a door on the side of the building opened, spilling yellow light out into the side passage. Smooth blond hair gleamed as one of her hosts came to meet her.

“I'm Richard,” he said, opening the gate wide. “Did Andre say your name's Seraphy? As in angel? Can that be right? We didn't know, of course, and you do look a little like an angel.” Taller than she, his face was in shadow but she could hear the smile in his voice. Not the voice on the phone, but a nice enough tenor.

“Hi, Richard,” she said, squinting to see him in the half-light, “and yes, my name is Seraphy. Seraphy Temperance Pelligrini, after my great-grandmother. Thanks for inviting me. So far, you're my first and only invitation.”

“Really? Your very first? A virgin? Mmmm, I
do
like virgins.”

He was camping it up and his voice rose and fell, unlike a typical Midwestern drone. She followed his bottle-green velvet jacket along the dim passage to the open door, wondering if he was an actor, sniffing delicately at the faint aroma of garlic and onions that drifted along in his wake.

“But then, you've only been here three days, right?” he said over his shoulder.

“In some ways it feels like forever.” Could this possibly be the keeper of the secret garden? Maybe. Nice clothes anyway, especially the ivory silk shirt gleaming in the light from the door. And he moved like a dancer.

Her host pulled the door shut behind them. They were in a small entry with stairs straight ahead and doors on either side. The top of her head just reached his chin. Nice aftershave, citrusy.

“I'm afraid there are stairs,” he said as she looked up. “Our penance for high ceilings.”

“No problem. My place is the same way.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I forgot to introduce myself decently. Andre's always on me about that. I'm Richard, Richard Kirkland, and that great bear upstairs pretending to cook is Andre Beaumont.” He reached for her jacket. “We can leave our jackets here. Our studios are downstairs and we live upstairs.”

“Studios?”

“I'm an illustrator and Andre sings.”

As she followed Richard upstairs she checked out the railing, the stairs, the walls. Refinished and gleaming in the overhead light, Venetian plaster in delicate shades of ivory and ochre, must have cost a fortune. Definitely went with the Japanese garden, though. Not what the peeling paint of the boarded-up façade had prepared her for. The place is like an oyster, she decided, rough outside, pearl inside.

As she reached the top of the stairs she glanced to her right, stumbled, and missed the top step, gawking. A pearl indeed. From the stairwell to the street front, the second floor opened to a long, high-ceilinged living room. Gleaming dark oak floors, oriental rugs, leather couches, exposed brick walls, oil paintings. A fireplace with an elaborate oak mantel and an actual wood fire. Unbelievable.

“Andre, come out and meet our guest,” Richard called from behind her. “She's quite overcome by our messy housekeeping, but I'm sure she'll recover in a minute and want to meet you.”

“Oh God. I'm sorry, Richard,” she said, snapping her mouth shut and trying to recover her balance. “I'm totally overcome. This is gorgeous. Incredible—and a shock. I don't know what I expected, but not this. Your roommate is Aladdin, I presume?”

Heavy footsteps approached from the rear of the apartment, heralding the arrival of her other host. Andre paused, filling the doorway, the largest and blackest man she'd ever seen. Must be six-four, at least, and weigh what? Three-fifty? More? Okay, a big body to match the huge voice. She tried not to stare.

“More like a geode than a cave,” the giant said. “You know, those rocks with the crystal hollows inside? Ah, Seraphy.” On hearing that voice, her bones had softened and threatened to turn to jelly. “You seem bewildered. Did Richard introduce himself, or even tell you our names?”

Unable to speak, Seraphy nodded.

“Yes? Good. We're delighted to meet you.” Her hand disappeared into his large black paw. She nodded and smiled, trying not to grin like an idiot. It was rather like being held by a large chocolate confection, something rich and dark, a giant truffle, perhaps. Andre's hand was warm and dry, soft pink inside, and held her tenderly. She snatched her hand back.

“We've wondered about our brave little neighbor, venturing into this wilderness. We saw what the barbarians did to your garage door and were afraid you'd retreat east across the great western divide.” Andre gestured toward Western Avenue and sighed dramatically.

“My garage door . . . ”

“The natives are restless again, I fear.” Andre seemed accustomed to shock at his appearance and he waited, looming benevolently, for her to recover.

“I'm glad to meet you,” she said, swallowing. “You have a wonderful voice, Andre. And a beautiful home.” The words tumbled out and floundering, she searched for more. “And something smells wonderful.”

“Ah! The kitchen,” the giant fluttered his hands and spun around on tiptoe. “Richard, give me five minutes.”

“Right,” Richard said and took her elbow. “Seraphy, come over in front of the fireplace. I think Andre's left a scrap or two to keep us quiet while he finishes the real food.”

Following her host across the room, she wondered for the tenth time if she were dreaming. Twenty minutes ago she had closed her blinds so her Section Eight neighbors across the street wouldn't be watching her undress. Took a shower in a bathroom still painted locker-room green. Wondered if she should wear her knife to walk the seventy-five feet to their gate. Now, here, surrounded by all this—could this be real? She dropped into a corner of the big leather couch. A deep breath filled her lungs with hints of Richard's exotic aftershave, citrus, wood smoke and leather.

“Here, try this,” Richard offered, interrupting her wandering thoughts. He poured a pale liquid into small glasses, handed her one and held the other to the light.“It's a Spanish sherry Andre picked up at Sam's last week, supposed to be the big new thing, but I'm not so sure. What do you think?” He handed her a glass.

“I'm afraid I'm not the one to ask, Richard. I'm an idiot about wines,” she said, taking a sip.

“But you'll know if it tastes good and that's all that matters.”

“Oh.” she sipped again, held the elixir in her mouth, and reluctantly swallowed. “It tastes like Spain. I mean, sunny and warm, like Spain feels. Felt. Or at least, like Barcelona.” Jesus, Pelligrini, you sound like a moron. Try again. “That is, it reverberates with memories of Barcelona.” Richard failed to suppress a snicker, and she buried her nose in the glass, wondering if he'd offer more when it was empty.

“So, you like it?” He smiled and held out a plate. “Me, too. Try these little pastry thingies Andre created to go with it. Just puff pastry and fish. And have some more sherry to go with them.”

The tiny half-bite-sized puff shattered and melted in her mouth, leaving a buttery, delicately shrimpy memory. Another sip, another pastry, and she considered asking her hosts to adopt her.

“Richard, are you guys for real? I must be hallucinating. Or have I died and gone to heaven?”

“O puh-leeze,” Richard erupted in a coughing fit that almost disguised his laughter. “When you said that, I had a vision of Andre in a little white slip, his what-evers hanging out, and, with, uh, a halo,” he said when he caught his breath.

“Flitting from cloud to cloud?” She laughed at the image.

“Thank you. Although, I'm not sure about the flitting—probably more like floundering.” Richard waved his arms to demonstrate, then glanced at the single pastry remaining on the tiny plate he held out to her, miming sorrow. The signet ring on his left hand caught the light.

“Hmm. Andre only gave us three each of these, I'm sorry to say. He's afraid we'll ruin our appetites for his masterpiece.”

“Not a problem. They're so wonderful, I don't feel I deserve more.”

“You snooze, you lose.” Richard snatched the last pastry. He tossed it in his mouth, swallowed and licked his lips, preened, and grinned.

“I'll remember that and be quicker the next time.”

“We'll have many next times, at least we hope so. Maybe we could have an all-appetizer dinner some time.”

“Yes, please.”

“After all that drama with the windows and your garage door, not to mention the little brouhaha last night, my dear, we were afraid you'd pack up your bits and pieces and scamper away.” Richard arranged himself on the couch. His demeanor was still pure camp, but the curiosity underneath was real.

“I thought about packing it in, for about a second.”

“We've been
so
excited to see that slum cleaned up. When we saw you moving in, we actually let ourselves hope we might have a civilized neighbor.”

“Maybe half-civilized. I can read, I wash my hands before eating, and I always wear clean underwear.”

“I'm so glad. When Andre found that unspeakable travesty on your garage door, we were positively devastated, terrified you'd run. So distraught and could hardly eat a scrap of dinner.” With the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, he mimed distress, watching her through his fingers. When she grinned, he continued.

“We thought and thought how we could keep you, and even considered seducing you into staying, but,” he gestured with a limp wrist and looked down his nose at her, “as you may have guessed, seducing beautiful women just isn't our thing.”

“Really?”

He sighed dramatically. “And we couldn't figure out how.”

Seraphy sputtered, trying not to lose any of her last mouthful of sherry.“Stop it, I'm trying to drink here.” She swallowed, buying time to come up with a line of piffle of her own. “I believe Amazon has an extensive selection of how-to books.”

”With pictures? Well, yes, darling,” he drawled, patting his hair. “But sooo exhausting. All that huffing and puffing, so undignified. And then, we argued about who would have to do what, you know.”

“You could draw straws.”

“And I lost. I was terrified, it looked like I was for it. I was quite out of ideas. I was just trying to gird my loins when Andre had a brilliant and suggested we feed you instead.”

“Always a good approach,” she agreed, sniffing the air, replete with aromas of baking bread and ham.

“Come along, children. The trough is full,” Andre followed his voice, popping through the doorway from the dining room like an oversized genie. His head nearly brushed the top of the arch as he waved them through with one hand and took his apron off with the other. The dining room was small, just large enough for the round oak table and six battered captain's chairs. Andre had set the table with placemats and large shallow soup plates. A rustic earthenware tureen steamed in the center.

“I thought something thick and sustaining for such a crappy night,” Andre said, dropping a large chunk of golden corn bread in each soup plate and smothering it with lima beans and ham. “Something to warm our innards.”

“Don't bother to be polite, Seraphy.” Richard had lost no time getting into his chair and looked up from his plate. “Nobody thinks about anything but scarfing down as much as possible when Andre's cooking. He feels hurt if you stop to talk.”