“Go, Cubbies!” shouted another.
The bus parked in a handicapped zone in front of the stadium, where dozens of people milled about beneath the bright red Wrigley Field sign. Across the marquee, the golden words Welcome Hilltop Residents scrolled by. Rose and I waited for everyone to exit the bus, then joined them on the sidewalk and made our way to the gates. Letty was first in line, followed by the Bettys. When Letty reached the checkpoint, she held her arms in the air.
“Go ahead and pat me down, big fella. I ain’t scared. I might even like it,” she said to the man with the ticket scanner.
“That’s right, she ain’t scared,” said Betty.
“Go on, pat her down!” said the other Betty. And then all three cackled and laughed.
Rose and I were last in line. Once the others had passed the ticket and security check, I took a deep breath. Candy and I made eye contact and she winked at me. I winked back.
“My first major league baseball game,” said Rose, smiling up at the stadium.
“Actually, that will have to wait.”
Rose whipped her head around at me. “What?”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Follow me.”
I took Rose by the hand and we raced across the street. I led her down the block as far as possible from Wrigley Field, for we’d never find a taxi there. We wove between people, around kiosks, and past gated beer gardens. We crossed another street, then another. Cars honked at us. Pigeons scattered into the air as we rounded a corner. We passed hot dog vendors, music stores, and at least seventeen Starbucks. Eventually I stopped, walked to the curb, and looked down the street.
“Where are we going?” Rose asked, breathless from running. “What about the game?”
“Have you forgotten? It’s Sunday,” I said between breaths. “This is the surprise part!” I flagged a taxi and we slid into the rear seat. “Now, cover your ears.” Rose put her hands over her ears and I told the driver where to go. Our heads flew back as he accelerated into traffic, narrowly missing another car.
Rose gripped my arm as we slid across the vinyl seat with every lane change.
“Is the surprise that we make it there alive?” she said under her breath.
“Think of it as a hair-raising adventure.”
It took us fifteen minutes to get from Wrigley Field to our destination. We turned onto Michigan Avenue, and our driver pulled over to the curb. I paid him with my tip money, and we stepped into the summer sun.
I took Rose by the hand and led her up a wide staircase flanked by two stone lions.
TWENTY-FIVE
“CHECK THIS OUT!” SAID ROSE AS WE APPROACHED A CHISELED SCULPTURE of a portly nude fellow. She read the placard aloud. “Portrait of Balzac by Auguste Rodin. I’ve read about Balzac. He was a French writer.”
“Oh, nice. Hey, let’s look at this one,” I said, grabbing her hand and walking toward something else—anything besides a naked man with a name that made me think of frank and beans, as Letty would say. Clearly, my art appreciation left much to be desired.
I’d been to the Art Institute before, but it had been a while. Fourth-grade field trip. I remembered thinking it was boring except for the medieval armor room, but today was for Rose, not me. Even though things had been going great since I’d apologized and played the song, I still felt the need to make it up to her. So, having remembered the stack of books about art and museums on her coffee table, I’d been banking on today to blow her away.
We’d only been there ten minutes, and already it had been a huge success.
We stood before the centerpiece of the room, Georges Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte. I looked at the massive painting with my arms crossed, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s interesting,” I said after a while. Those two words summed up my entire understanding of art.
“It’s pointillism,” said Rose.
“Uh-huh,” I said, as if I understood. “It looks like a bunch of dots.”
“Right, it’s just a bunch of dots up close. But when you step back, you get the whole picture.”
We stepped back twenty feet or so to observe, then walked up close again. “Cool,” I said. “So what’s with the monkey in the corner?”
“Who knows? Maybe Seurat had a monkey fetish. Or maybe he put it there so people would talk about it.”
“Like a conversation starter?”
“Right.”
“I wonder how many people have stood right here and had this very conversation?”
Rose turned to face me. “Probably just us.” She planted a quick kiss on my mouth. I puckered at the air as her face went away. “Too slow,” she said, grinning.
We wandered down a long hallway that opened into various rooms on either side. We picked the one that looked the least crowded and walked in. Paintings of naked women and ugly babies lined the walls. We approached one featuring a particularly hideous cherub gazing disdainfully into the middle distance.
“Remember what Mo the psychic said? About you being a painter in a past life?”
“Yeah?”
“You definitely painted this one,” I told Rose.
Rose made a face. “You think?”
“Definitely. You were the premier ugly baby painter of your time. People traveled great distances to meet the famous Rose Santos: Ugly Baby Painter Extraordinaire.”
Rose tilted her head to the side. “He isn’t that ugly.”
I turned to face her. “Are you kidding me? That kid has a severe appearance deficit.”
“This says it’s Cupid,” said Rose, reading the placard.
“The God of Love? No way. That baby’s a poster boy for abstinence,” I said.
Rose gave me a slight elbow to the ribs. “Come on, art boy.”
We split apart in the next room, where I found myself confronted by a painting of souls entering heaven. A guy in his early twenties appeared next to me, twiddling his curled mustache like a cartoon villain. His hair had been shaved on the sides and left long on top, dyed blue, and wrapped tightly in a bun. Circular, yellow-framed glasses—which I’m not entirely sure had lenses—perched on the end of his nose. Cuffed, skin-tight jeans met worn, leather boots, screaming accessory over necessary. I wanted to remind him it was July.
I glanced down at my own ensemble—T-shirt, shorts, and sandals—and decided it was perfectly sensible and efficient. I also swallowed the realization I was becoming my mom.
I continued to look at the painting, watching hipster dude out of the corner of my eye. He seemed like the type of person whose museum behavior had been groomed and perfected after many long appointments with mirrors. Maybe I could learn something from him. I crossed my arms and rubbed my chin, not having a mustache to twirl myself. I wondered how much time should pass before commenting on the painting, or if I should say anything at all. I tried to think of something profound to offer, perhaps a reference to the meaning of life or the existence of God. On the other hand, maybe I could slink away, unnoticed.
“Your thoughts?” hipster dude asked, nodding toward the painting.
Damn. Don’t say it’s interesting, don’t say it’s interesting.