They started muttering among themselves, and finally backed a few steps away from us. “We watch you. You bother her, we take care of you.” It was the Latin King again.
“You her grandson? That’s good. We grannies like to know the little ones are looking out for us.” I put my arm around Petra’s shoulder and pushed her onto the sidewalk and up the short walk to the front door.
It felt queer to ring a bell at a place I’d gone in and out of freely for twenty-six years. We listened to the sound die away in the house. After a time, while the Latin King moved up the walk behind us, the door opened the length of a short thick chain and a short old woman peered through the crack at us.
“Your turn,” I said to Petra.
My cousin explained in Spanish what our mission was, but Se?ora Andarra was adamant. We could not come in, no. Perhaps we meant well, but how could she tell? And with only Geraldo out there on the walk . . . no. If her son were home, it would be another story. But too many people wanted to rob you, and told you stories. Petra pleaded and wheedled as best she could in her classroom Spanish, but we couldn’t budge the woman.
We turned around.
“Keep your head up, look confident. You own this sidewalk.”
“What do we do if they attack us?” Petra whispered.
“Say our prayers,” I said, then called out, “Geraldo! Your abuelita is worried about you. She doesn’t like to see you just hanging around, nothing to do with your time. She wants to see you with a good job, not ending up in the morgue like your buddies!”
Geraldo looked from the house to us. I’d been talking to his granny, we knew his name. Of course I was just guessing about what she might have said, but it wasn’t hard to imagine what she might say about a kid like him. Geraldo bit his lip, backed away from us. We got into the Mustang without any other trouble from the gang, although they struck a defiant pose until we turned the corner at the end of the street and were out of sight.
“Gosh, Vic! I was so scared I thought I was going to pee back there. When you hurt that one guy, I was sure the others were going to attack us.”
“Yeah, I wondered about that, too. But in broad daylight . . . And once a bully’s taken a hit, he’s more uncertain of his ground. At night, in an unlit alley, I’d be rat’s meat by now.”
“Could you have beaten them if they’d jumped us?”
“Nope. I could have done some serious damage, but me against five young men, not great odds—not unless you’re a street fighter yourself?”
“Are you kidding? I can use my elbows in beach volleyball, but that’s about it. Could you teach me some moves? If we get in a jam again, I don’t want to be the helpless damsel while you do all the fun stuff.”
I laughed a little ruefully. “I’ve spent my share of time in the hospital after doing the ‘fun stuff,’ but I’d be glad to show you some moves. Every woman needs to know what to do in a tight spot. Eighty percent of it’s mental, not physical. Like just now. I was betting that Geraldo was too afraid of his granny to attack us right in front of her house.”
We drove north in a peaceful silence. I suddenly realized I hadn’t heard my cousin’s phone ring all day.
“I switched it off because I figured it would annoy you if I kept talking, but I’ve been texting here while you drive.” She paused, and then said, “Not to piss you off about something else, but did you ever look at your dad’s stuff?”
“All I found were rubies, his false teeth, and the secret plans for the invasion of Canada.”
“Canada? Why would he want to invade Canada? Why not Mexico, so we could be warm in the winter? Seriously, Vic, did you find, like, diaries or anything?”
“No, darling. Just his old softballs and a White Sox baseball. That might be worth something. It was signed by Nellie Fox.”
“Nellie? A woman played for the White Sox? Daddy never—”
“Alas, sweet P., Nellie was short for ‘Nelson,’ not ‘Eleanor.’ He was a Gold Glove second baseman for the White Sox. Anyway, the ball is so beat-up, it’s full of holes. I have no idea why Tony even had it. Maybe he picked it up for your dad and forgot to give it to him. Peter’s a White Sox fan, isn’t he?”
“We live in KC, so it’s the Royals for us. Poor us. But Daddy keeps a soft spot for the Sox.”
We talked baseball the rest of the way north. As I was dropping Petra off, she reverted to our little encounter with the punks outside my South Chicago home.
“Please don’t tell Daddy about it, okay? He already thinks I’m, like, six years old, without enough sense to keep out of harm’s way. And he thinks you’re this mega-feminist trouble-maker. If he knew I’d waltzed right into danger at your side, he’d skin you for supper and put me in a convent.”
“He’d have to catch me first. And, fear not, you’re safe from the convents: your dad and I never talk.”
23
VISIT A CLIENT . . . AND TALK