The Nix(127)

Henry and Samuel sat in a booth holding menus—large, laminated menus, dynamically colored and complexly subdivided, roughly the size of the Ten Commandments in that one movie about the Ten Commandments. The food was pretty standard chain-restaurant fare: burgers, steaks, sandwiches, salads, a list of inventive appetizers with names involving whimsical adjectives, e.g., sizzlin’. What allegedly set this particular restaurant chain apart from others was that it did something weird with an onion—cut it and fried it in such a way that the onion unfurled itself and resembled, on the plate, a kind of desiccated, many-fingered claw. There was a Rewards Club one could join to earn points for the eating of such things.

Their table was cluttered with the several appetizers Henry had already purchased with his company’s credit card. They were here doing “field research,” as Henry called it. They sampled the menu and discussed which items had frozen-meal potential: golden fried cheddar bites, yes; seared ahi tuna, probably not.

Henry noted all this on his laptop. They were digging into a plate of miso-glazed chicken skewers when Henry finally asked about the topic he was eager to discuss but trying hard to seem indifferent about.

“Oh, by the way, how’s it going with your mother?” he said in this dismissive way while sawing at a chicken chunk with a fork.

“Not great,” Samuel said. “Today I spent the whole afternoon at the UIC library, going through the archive, looking at everything they had from 1968. Yearbooks. Newspapers. Hoping to find something about Mom.”

“And?”

“Zilch.”

“Well, she wasn’t in college very long,” Henry said. “Maybe a month? I’m not surprised you can’t find anything.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“When you saw her, at her apartment, did she seem, I don’t know, happy?”

“Not really. More like quiet and guarded. With a hint of hopeless resignation.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Maybe I should go see her again,” Samuel said. “Drop by sometime when her lawyer’s not there.”

“That is a terrible idea,” Henry said.

“Why?”

“For one? She doesn’t deserve it. She has given you nothing but problems all your life. And two? The crime. It’s way too dangerous.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Seriously! What’s the address again?”

Samuel told him and watched as his father typed this into his laptop. “It says here,” Henry said, staring at his screen, “there’ve been sixty-one crimes in that neighborhood.”

“Dad.”

“Sixty-one! In the last month alone. Simple assault. Simple battery. Forcible entry. Vandalism. Motor vehicle theft. Burglary. Another simple assault. Criminal trespass. Theft. Another simple assault. On the sidewalk, for Pete’s sake.”

“I’ve been there already. It’s fine.”

“On the sidewalk in the middle of the day. Broad daylight! Guy just hits you with a crowbar and takes your wallet and leaves you for dead.”

“I’m sure that won’t happen.”

“That did happen. That happened yesterday.”

“I mean, it won’t happen to me.”

“Attempted theft. Here’s a weapons violation. Found person, which I think is a goddamn kidnapping.”

“Dad, listen—”

“Simple assault on the bus. Aggravated battery.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll be careful. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want? Great. Then don’t go. Don’t go at all. Stay home.”

“Dad.”

“Let her fend for herself. Let her rot.”

“But I need her.”

“You do not.”

“It’s not like we’re going to start spending Christmases together. I only need her story. I’m going to be sued by my publisher if I don’t figure it out.”

“This is a very bad idea.”

“You know what my alternative is? Declaring bankruptcy and moving to Jakarta. That’s my choice.”

“Why Jakarta?”

“It’s just an example. The point is, I need to get Mom talking.”

Henry shrugged and chewed his chicken and made notes on his laptop. “You see the Cubs game last night?” he said, still staring at his screen.

“I’ve been a little distracted lately,” Samuel said.

“Hm,” Henry said, nodding. “Good game.”

This was how they usually related to each other—through sports. It was the topic they fled to whenever conversation lulled or became dangerously personal or sad. After Faye left, Samuel and his father rarely talked about her. They grieved independent of each other. Mostly what they talked about were the Cubs. After she left, both of them found within themselves a sudden and surprisingly powerful and devotional all-consuming love for the Chicago Cubs. Down came the framed reproductions of incomprehensible works of modern art from Samuel’s bedroom walls, down came the nonsensical poetry broadsides hung there by his mother, and up went posters of Ryne Sandberg and Andre Dawson and Cubs pennants. Broadcasts on WGN weekday afternoons, Samuel literally praying to God—on his knees on the couch looking up to the ceiling—praying and crossing his fingers while actually making deals with God in exchange for one home run, one late-inning victory, one winning season.