SuzyQZ Writer

By: Suzy Jackson

We always texted each other when we got home. That’s why I didn’t think anything of it when my phone buzzed after midnight, alerting me to an incoming text. I knew that was about the time Lizzy would be returning to her apartment three towns over. I could picture her pulling into the closest parking space to her door and rushing to the entrance to punch in the security code. That eternity between the safety of her car and the safety of her home would feel like testing fate, an open invitation for evil to come calling, heart pounding, ready to defend herself if necessary with the car keys woven between her fingers. One decisive thunk of the deadbolt and she’d be inside. The typical sigh of relief of a single woman making her way home safely at night. Every female knows the feeling. She’d text me once she was all the way inside her unit and after saying hello to her cat who would be protesting loudly at her audacity to spend time away from her, even a few hours.

Lizzy and I had been best friends since fifth grade. I came across her crying because our bitchy 10-year-old classmates were making fun of her bucked teeth. We made each other laugh like no one else could. Now 15 years later, after puberty and braces, Lizzy was gorgeous and we still cracked each other up on the regular. We didn’t get together as often as we used to. But when we did, there was a lot of laughing until I snorted and she had tears running down her face.

I went to college and majored in English and now wrote for the local paper. Lizzy went to cosmetology school and was killing it as an esthetician to the rich ladies in Hightown.

“Kelly,” my roommate demanded. “You left the freezer open when you went out. I had to drink the ice cream with a straw.”

“Had to,” I replied with a sheepish smirk of apology to Gina my roommate. She was an easygoing school teacher who put up with a lot of spaciness from me with good humor.

“I’m almost done grading papers then I’m turning in. Parent-teacher conferences tomorrow night. Ugh. You can change the channel.”

The TV was blaring commercials, one for a weight loss injection, one for a memory enhancing drug and one of those ubiquitous ads for Famous Last Words®. I thought all of these ads were a sham. A human folly to want to retain youth and live beyond your time. A magic shot or pill or even an implant that lets you leave a parting thought for posterity. 

That last one always got me thinking. Some genius invented an implant in your brain that enabled you to send a dying message with your last spark of life, with that last neural transmission right before your brain shut down or your spirit left your body or whatever you happen to believe. Somehow AI is able to tap into and interpret a person’s brain waves in real time. I wondered how many people’s last words would be “Oh shit!” But the last earnings report from the tech company responsible was in the billions.

Some people were using it to share a description of their mortal transition, to shed some light on what it’s like to wander down the tunnel into the infamous white light. Some used it to let family know they were at peace. You chose a single recipient. I didn’t know any real person who had used it and it creeped me out. 

I gladly changed the channel to one of those singing competition shows. It was good mindless entertainment. My brain had been on overload all day with a deadline for the paper on a story about a local bank’s online accounts being hacked by a teenager. It was the talk of the town and I needed to get every detail right. After blowing off steam over a dinner with Lizzy I was exhausted. My eyelids felt like two 20 pound bags of cat litter and I fell asleep on the couch even before I read her text.

At 3:20 am, the TV still glowing with reruns of Friends I awoke to the sound of my phone vibrating on the coffee table. Gina had thrown an afghan over me and turned the volume way down on the TV before she turned in. I needed to set the alarm on my phone and get into my own bed. What I saw on my phone screen turned my world upside down.

“Greetings from Famous Last Words®. Please confirm your receipt of this message from Elizabeth Murphy.” Lizzy. Oh god. I had no idea she had gotten the implant. Was she trying to tell me?

I swiped my phone screen open and there it was – Lizzy’s dying message to me:

“Janky Guy.” That was it, two words. She knew only I would understand this. It was an inside joke. Janky Guy was what we called guys who were a little off, especially when they flirted too aggressively and gave off a creepy vibe. There was a guy, was that tonight? Oh god. Lizzy. This can’t be happening. My head was a jumble and my fingers shook so hard, I could barely press the button acknowledging receipt of the message. As soon as I did, my phone screen was full of clouds and beams of light– like heaven. I tried to call Lizzy, to see if this was some freaky glitch in this technology, but it went straight to voicemail.

I felt numb and ineffectual, so I sobbed myself to sleep. I awoke four hours later with a jolt of grief-fueled adrenalin. That “I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening” feeling that propels people into going through the motions, taking care of practical matters, before the pain shuts you down completely. I vowed to dig deeper into what happened to Lizzy. 

A blip of denial forced me to drive by her place to make sure I hadn’t dreamed the whole thing up. Sure enough, her apartment entrance was wrapped in yellow crime scene tape and the parking lot was abuzz with official vehicles. The whole scene read foul play. I saw white tape on the ground near her front door. She never made it inside. I vaguely wondered if her sister would come to get Mr. Whiskers the cat.

As a reporter, I could ask questions. Maybe one of my contacts knew something. By now, I was convinced Lizzy had left me a clue. I made a few calls and found out there was a press conference scheduled for that afternoon.

Somehow I made if through the hours leading up to the press conference. I had a few gut-wrenching conversations with some of our friends and her sister. Everyone was left wondering, who would do this to Lizzy? Who indeed. Janky Guy.

At 3:55 p.m. a sizable crowd had gathered in front of the police station where a podium stood at the ready. The sun stabbed through the afternoon sky creating light flares everywhere I looked. A droning insect collective hummed a warning. I saw several colleagues and had my smartphone ready to hit record, my dark glasses hiding swollen eyes. Bring it.  

The police chief, a detective and the mayor stepped up to the mic. The crowd and several TV cameras leaned in. I saw a few of Lizzy’s family members huddled to the side.

“Good afternoon. It is with deep sadness we announce the passing of local resident , 29-year-old Elizabeth Murphy. Our initial investigation indicates unnatural circumstances.”

The words washed over me like I was watching a movie and I forgot to hit record on my phone. Some reporter I was. I scanned the crowd instead. That’s when I saw him. The guy from the bar last night who tried to buy us a drink. He tried to make it a game. If you can guess who I am, I’ll buy you a drink. There was something desperate in his demeanor. But we just wanted to catch up with each other, so we brushed him off gently but firmly. That’s how you have to do it, we’ve learned.

The police chief went on, “We have a full team assigned around the clock in the investigation. So far we have no leads and no suspects. We urge anyone who saw anything suspicious, even if it didn’t make sense at the time, to contact local police. The Murphy family is requesting privacy at this difficult time.”

I would need to tell them about the message Lizzy sent. But for now I couldn’t let Janky Guy out of my sight. I pushed through the crowd toward him. He saw me and started running in the opposite direction.

I tried to flag a cop, but the press was a blockade around them. I sprinted until my chest burned and legs throbbed, closing the gap between me and Janky Guy. He turned and looked back at me. He looked distraught and there was something familiar about him–and not just from the bar last night. As I closed in on him, he turned back toward me once again…before running into the street, smack in front of a speeding autonomous taxi.

A week later, I wrote the article about Janky Guy’s death. I was able to subpoena his long and rambling Famous Last Words® and published it in the article:

“I will never stop loving you, Lizzy. You were the only one who knew I existed, even when I was a scrawny little dweeb. You could relate to being bullied. You laughed at my jokes in science class, then you laughed when I asked you to the ice cream social, crushing my heart. So I transformed myself for you, Lizzy. So much so that you didn’t recognize me in the bar. I became strong, ripped as they say. I saved that text you sent me back then saying you liked me as a friend. The pain I have is like being in a burning building with the only option to jump out of a 10^th story window. So I took you with me. I wonder if you will love me now, in the beyond.” 

Swimming through

A song we used to sing at Girl Scout camp popped into my head yesterday.

Gathered around the campfire, cross-legged on our sit-upons, we’d follow our camp counselor on a melodic, metaphorical journey. We’d encounter obstacle after obstacle in the story-song like good stories do. We’d come across a river, mud, sand, etc. Each time, we’d all sing:

“Can’t go under it. Can’t go over it. So I’ll go right through it to get to the other side” with enthusiastic pantomiming of swimming, stomping, digging through mud, etc.

At least that’s how I remember it.

It occurred to me that’s sometimes how I feel smack in the middle of a novel or whatever I’m writing. I encounter an obstacle. I reach a challenge and I can’t see a way out. I feel stuck. I feel the block.

But I’ve discovered that to get out, sometimes I just write my way through it. I just keep writing. Even if the words don’t feel perfect. Even when I’m void of inspiration. Even when I worry it sucks.

Like the song says, “Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. So I just write through to get to the other side.”

I hope you all find a way to write your way through.  

Write on, writer friends!

Let’s murder FEAR.

I once had a mentor who taught me, “fear is a liar.” A liar, like a person who lies to you. If that is the case, and I believe it often is, then what are these falsehoods Villain Fear has told me and how often have I believed them?

I wonder about the things Fear has kept me from doing and the things Fear has prompted me to do. Fear has been a constant in my life, from my earliest memories of social anxiety or what they used to call “being shy.” As a teenager, I self-medicated Fear and masked it with rebellious bravado.

Fear might be like the people I’ve known who were pathological liars. These individuals would lie about things they’ve done or about things they have. They would even tell you with conviction the sky is green as you are gazing up into the blue. They are compelled to lie about everything. Sometime liars will lie to mask their own troubles and create a false world that feels safer. Fear is like that. Seeking out the comfortable rather than a more difficult truth.

Fear is a complicated villain. 

Fear is constantly whispering something in my ear. Sometimes it tells me not to assert my ideas and just keep my mouth shut. Sometimes it is a harsh editor. Sometimes it disguises itself as someone who used to put me down in the past. Fear tells me that I will fail. Fear tells me I’m no good. Fear tells me not to bother trying. Fear is sometimes the deepest darkest parts of myself, waking me up with cold sweats and a pounding heart. 

Fear is a dangerous adversary.

It is so easy to let Fear win. It’s true that sometimes when you face Fear you take a risk. Now that years of experience have made me better equipped to recognize Fear and look him in the eye, I have found it exhilarating to overcome Fear.

So shall we do away with Fear? After all, Fear has only held us back and caused regret, right? Maybe we plot the perfect murder for Fear. We smother Fear and don’t let him speak. We drop Fear in a bottomless pit to never see the light of day. Or what if we drown Fear in the middle of the ocean? 

But, no. A little Fear can sometimes keep us from harm. The best way I’ve found to do away with Fear is to see him, recognize him and ignore him.

Keep writing, writers!

Who’s afraid of query letters? I am! I am!

There are many resources offering practical tips for query letters. This is not one of them. I am not an expert. I only have enough knowledge to be dangerous. But what I do know is they are a necessary part of the process. What I also have heard is that you will in all likelihood get far more rejections than acceptances. This is apparently also part of the process.

What publishers and agents are looking for

From what I’ve heard in an assortment of workshops, they want a concise summary of your WHAT, including the genre, the word count and the comps. Comps are difficult for me because I have the audacity to believe that what I’ve written is the first of its kind and purely original. But, nope. Not really true. Comps are supposed to be recent. They tell your WHO as in who your readers might be and WHERE this will be marketable. Or another way to say it, what shelf would this go on in a bookstore. Fans of X and followers of Y will love this. You also don’t want to over inflate your novel by saying this is the next Hunger Games meets Twilight meets To Kill a Mockingbird for example. That would be a lot to live up to. I mean, if that’s your story, go for it. 

Lastly is your WHY. Why should you be telling this story? Even if you don’t have a list of published stories or novels, what is it about your background that helped you write this story? Are you a musician writing about life on the road? Or are you a teacher writing about Middle School drama? Also, you can mention being active in your writer’s community and provide other ways to experience your writing, such as a link to a website to read more of your work.

Full disclosure – I have NEVER sent a query letter. Like I said, I have some sort of phobia about them. Big chicken over here. Maybe it’s the way they sum everything up so neatly. Maybe so much is riding on that first impression that it’s like meeting a rockstar you adore and kicking yourself for saying something stupid. But I will commit to you today, to write and submit a query letter and report back on how it goes. I’ll do it if you do it! Dare you! We all need to start racking up the rejections like they are badges of honor.Oh, and I forgot one super important thing. Do your homework. Observe what each publication typically prints. Determine what is in their wheelhouse. If there is a genre or an author you emulate, see where they were published. Read what’s in their catalog. Make sure what you are throwing down is something they might be picking up. 

Looks like she’d be adding more hideous taffeta to her closet. Tara’s good pal had just asked her to be a bridesmaid in her wedding next year. Oh, and of course asked her to pull a few strings for a sunny day since they wanted a beach wedding on Lake Michigan in September. Ha! Tara squealed and agreed enthusiastically like a good friend should, but as she signed off of their FaceTime she felt overwhelmed with gloom. She flopped on her couch and stared out her penthouse apartment windows. Brooding, gray clouds gathered rapidly matching her mood. Oops, she’d have to be careful with her emotions. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. A ray of golden sunshine stabbed through the clouds. For a wedding gift, maybe those trendy his and hers UV Protection Jumpers.

Not only was Tara everyone’s favorite bridesmaid, she was also being groomed to take over the family business. The result, her hormones and emotions were becoming more and more tangled up with the weather patterns. Why?  Her mom is Mother Nature and she’s next in line. The feeling was like taking your first driving lesson in a Lamborghini—the power took a little getting used to. She smoked a lot of weed to mellow the effect. She reached for her bong on the coffee table. The world had become such a volatile mix of mellow winters and violent, catastrophic storm fronts. Cautionary tales of  human greed and disregard for the natural world were her bedtime stories. But she believed some of it could be blamed on the rage of an aging matriarch goddess. As her mom got older, it was harder for her to be passive. The world was a mess, yes. Teetering on self-destruction, maybe. But Tara vowed not to be exactly like her mom; she’d make things better. She saw the redeeming qualities in her human friends. She coveted their normalness.

All she could think about was having a sweet guy to share hikes and picnics in the park. She and her friends hung out on occasion and did hipster things like brunch and day drinking. But she was lonely. She’d flirt with guys in bars but it was all superficial. She wanted a real romance like a Netflix movie or The Bachelor. But the demands of the natural world were only becoming more urgent. As Tara approached her 25^th birthday, she found herself with less time than ever for a social life. She played the part but felt like an imposter. Heck, she sometimes felt like an imposter taking over for her mom. C’mon, taking over as Mother Nature took the confidence of a CEO or a mega-narcissist billionaire. Tara didn’t feel worthy and was unsure she ever would. 

She would one day soon be Mother Nature. But first, a rip on her bong and a flip through the HoneyB dating app. A girl could dream.

***

It had been three excruciating weeks since Sarah and I broke up. I felt as hollow as the disappointing variety of chocolate Easter bunny. I was taking a long walk, seeking solace in nature, but saw dead things everywhere. Every leaf was a dead bird until I looked closer, every rock was a mouse in a deathly fetal position until I kicked it. The rational part of me knew this was my grief manifesting everywhere. I trudged further along the trail in a forest preserve nestled amid urban Chicago neighborhoods. I could still hear evening rush hour highway traffic but tried to pretend it was an ocean or something less of an affront to the natural world. I heard a rustle in the leaves a distance ahead. I slowed, conscious of making as little noise as possible. My heart leapt in the hopes of coming across a deer or some other gentle creature. Maybe a baby deer! Oh how life affirming that would be. As I drew closer I realized it was something lower to the ground. A family of bunnies perhaps? Oh good God no. A soft moan, pink flesh … it was two people fucking on a blanket in the middle of the woods. I froze and thought about how I might disappear myself. I recognized the bitter flavor of jealousy toward the love birds who were so lustful for one another they had to express their animal urges in that moment, in a public place and with no fear of ants crawling into crevices. 

            At that nanosecond of inaction on my part, the phone in my pocket blared the ringtone for my sister, the theme song to “Jaws.” I turned and ran but was not out of earshot as it reached its crescendo. I heard a woman shriek and a male voice bellow, “Pervert!”

            Once safely in my car I called my sister back. I was in an emotional bottomless pit now so I let her rail. 

“Brian, you need to get out of this funk. Sarah has moved on and so should you. Have you showered today? Did you try the HoneyB App? I sent you the link. And if you are going to start dating, you will need to get jeans that fit you and buy the premium toilet paper. No girl will put up with that recycled one-ply you buy.”

“Not yet,” I replied weakly, my head swimming with my sister Darla’s demands. I knew she cared about me and this was coming from genuine concern. I promised her I’d at least try the HoneyB dating app. What could be more humiliating than what just happened in the woods? I resolved to myself I’d sign up for the app that evening but also console myself with a pint of organic mint chocolate chip frozen oat milk.

***

They were fast approaching the transition phase, where Tara would take over as Earth Mama. This involved regular deep dive sessions with Mommy Dearest. Tara loved her mom but she could be intense.

This mother-daughter pattern had existed since the beginning of time. Legends in every culture had their own version of the story – Natura in the Anglo Middle Ages, Mother Gaia in ancient Greece, the Norse goddess Jord or Erth, Amular of the ancient Basque people. Over time, organized religion distanced people from natural deities. Tara had always known that this was her destiny, to be both nurturer and capricious arbiter of death and disaster. At one time, there was an order to it. Now human randomness and chaos were burgeoning. No pressure!

“Hey hot mama, what’s shaking,” Tara chimed brightly as her mom’s image appeared in their Zoom room.

“Eskimos on the Denali Fault, that’s what’s shaking.”

They both giggled at their customary greeting. They never tired of it.

They plunged into today’s session. They would make their way through the seasonal weather patterns, flora and fauna in every corner of the Earth. Moving their way through the Southern Hemisphere to the North, they were now in the Brazilian rainforest.

“The rainforest now releases more carbon dioxide than it stores, contributing to global warming,” her mother concluded the section.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Tara teased. She had to when her mom was all business. 

“You think that’s bad, wait until we get to where the American Southwest will be uninhabitable in less than a decade and the oceans spit out boiled fish.”

“Mom! Isn’t that a bit dramatic?” Tara said, but she knew her mom was dead serious and Tara took it seriously even though she didn’t always act like it.

“One word for you my dear. Science.”

Tara knew her mom was right but she liked to pretend she was carefree and willful like her friends with their mothers.

“Speaking of science, what do you think about the HoneyB app?” Tara clumsily changed the subject. Her mom was aghast.

“First, I’d hardly call a dating app science. Second, you really shouldn’t be fiddling with the HornyB app. Romance can have dangerous consequences for our kind.”

Tara couldn’t help laughing at her mom’s name for the app. She knew she wouldn’t approve but she persisted.

“Mom, it’s not like I’m going to meet a guy and elope on our second date. I’ll keep it casual.”

“Tara dear. I can teach you everything about the natural world. But when it comes to matters of the heart … that is much more complicated, inexplicable even. Human nature.”

  “I’m going to put a profile on the app. In fact I’ve got it ready, just have to hit submit.”

“Tara!” My sweet mother roared with the force of a hurricane. Our Zoom screens flickered and lightning split a seam in the sky. Okay, she had my attention.

She took a breath and continued more calmly. “I never told you this, but I once fell in love. At least I was in love. It didn’t end well. It almost never does. You see, the High Council will only approve the truest of intentions.” She paused there.

“You were in love? How could I not know this?”

“Like I said, it didn’t end well. Worse for him I’m afraid. The consequences are harsh. Very harsh.”

“Well that won’t be me,” Tara proclaimed as she held up her phone and pressed submit.

***

Her profile photo was beautiful, there was no denying it. “Easy Brian,” I said to myself. Her large eyes were as black as midnight and her hair was a bright blue bob that suited her olive complexion and rosebud mouth. I couldn’t get the image of her out of my head. Now this was a welcome distraction from pining for Sarah. My sister was right about putting myself out there. 

The way this hetero-centric dating app worked, the women had control. If I were to swipe right, she’d be notified. But I would only hear from her at all if she reciprocated and contacted me back. Otherwise, her profile would disappear into the metaverse, I’d never meet her, I’d go back to being depressed. What’s so bad about that? I’d be no worse off than I am now. So why am I sweating this? Why did one little swipe feel like I was moving a boulder in my path? I took a deep breath and swiped. “Oh shit, what have I done,” I said out loud. But I was smiling. The TV was blaring, a habit I had to make my apartment feel less empty. There was news all day about a hurricane hitting the East coast and a tsunami in Indonesia. The meteorologists kept talking about how unseasonable it was for this type of weather. Hurricane season seemed to be starting earlier and ending later thanks to climate change. It took me out of my dating daydream for a moment. “When will people learn,” I thought to myself. I recalled that this woman mentioned she’s into environmental causes in her HoneyB profile. Well there’s something we have in common. I couldn’t think of anything more important right now. Otherwise what’s the point to any of it if we are destroying the Earth for future generations? Why date? Why procreate? Talk about depressing. I flipped the TV off and tried to find something to do so I wasn’t obsessing over my HoneyB app. I’d clean out the refrigerator. There’d likely be some “science projects” in there now. I had just cleared the produce drawers when I heard the ping of a notification on my phone.

***

He was cute, really cute, Tara thought. No regrets on responding to him right away. 

Her friend Amy, the one who was getting married, was over to help her pick out an outfit. They both ogled Brian’s profile.

“ Hubba hubba. A real date. This is so not like you, Tara. The black cotton dress, not the red one. Red says you’re trying too hard.”

“Black cotton sundress it is. Well, maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Flats or wedges?” She held up two pairs of black shoes.

“Yeah, yeah, the Mother Nature thing. I get it. It’s different for you. Neither. Red sandals for a pop of color.”

“Really? My blue hair isn’t enough pop of color?” They both laughed and Tara went along with her friend’s recommendations. Amy had perfect taste.

“No seriously, I think this is good for you. I’m happy for you, Tara. And maybe you’ll have a date for my wedding!”

“See, you get it. I wish my mom was as enthusiastic as you. She says he might have to pass some crazy test. But geez, it’s not like we’re going to fall madly in love. It’s just a date.”

“Right,” Amy concurred. “Now let’s talk about your nails, girl. All that weed you smoke is turning your nails green!”

***

I still found it hard to believe that this beautiful girl responded back to me and now we were about to meet for the first time. I hadn’t felt butterflies like this since the first time I met Sarah. Don’t think about Sarah! What is my problem. We decided to meet at this cute vegetarian café in Lakeview. She said it was one of her favorites! I was already seated at a table on the patio. I looked down at my new jeans and noticed I’d left a tag on. What a dufus. I was tugging at the plastic string when I heard a lovely voice. “Are you Brian?” I yanked hard on the tab and bumped the table, jostling the water glasses. Smooth, Brian. Real smooth. The tag was still in my clenched fist. My face felt hot. But this angelic creature standing before me gave me a big smile. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Tara.” It felt like gray clouds parting. Our introductions were a little awkward, but by the time we each ordered herbal tea (a tea lover, too!) and the hummus platter, we had warmed up and were enjoying each other. It’s hard to explain without sounding cliché, but we just clicked. I had this overwhelming epiphany that this was how things are supposed to be. It was easy, not my usual trying too hard. Strange thing, while we were at the café, three birds fell out of the sky onto the sidewalk just feet away from us. Tara was clearly distressed and I think muttered something about her mother? Or maybe one of the birds was a mother? It was eerie. We discussed the reports around Chicago about toxins in the air that were dropping birds mid-flight. We gave it a moment of silence and then I steered us back to lighter conversation.

We made it a game of 20 questions. We took turns being asker and answerer. I had never had so much fun getting to know someone. We discovered that science was our mutual favorite subject in school, she loved rocky road and I loved mint chocolate chip ice cream, we both loved an early morning hike and when we were about three cups of tea into the date, we had already decided our second date would be a hike. We didn’t go too deep on the questions but it was fun to start filling in the details of each other’s paint-by-numbers canvases. After three hours flew by, I picked up the check and declined her offer to split it. We agreed we should free the table for people waiting at this popular spot. We walked slowly as we said goodbye. I gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek and felt a rush as a flock of birds in a tree nearby took to the sky. I floated home. We agreed to text each other when we made it to our apartments, and continued our Q&A game until nearly midnight.

***

Tara felt like she had just won the love lottery. She really liked this guy. As in like-liked. But instead of feeling elated, she felt panicked. She sat cross-legged on a mat in her meditation room, trying to center herself and ask the universe what she would do. Was she worthy of a healthy relationship? Was she selfish for wanting one despite the consequences? Sure, it was fun to go on dates. But she had no intention of falling this hard. So far, they had kept things light. She imagined herself as somebody else when she was with him, someone who could actually have a normal, healthy relationship. He was so sweet and so pure of heart. What had she done? What if the High Council called for the test? Her mother would be furious! She was supposed to Zoom again with her again tonight but her mom cancelled. She had been spending a lot of time in a mountain meadow getting centered. It was a process. Tara knew how this worked. Her mother would get to retire and live her best life, whether that be a cabin in the mountains or an Airbnb in Vegas. Tara would assume the responsibilities of the natural world, in all its magnificent disarray, in hopes that societies and countries would heed the warning of science and abide by their climate agreements. It was still possible, but just barely. It would require constant vigilance, no time for much else. What guy would want that kind of life? Mother Nature was never to marry; she would wholly embody the role of nurturing the Earth. One day in middle age, she would miraculously find herself pregnant with a daughter, immaculately conceived. As far as she knew, no one had ever defied this process, because if she did, it would result in natural catastrophes around the globe like the world has never known. Life as we know it would cease to exist. No pressure, Tara! Tara took a few cleansing breaths and received the clarity she sought. Her close friends knew who she was and accepted her anyway. So maybe this could work, she thought. But she would need to tell Brian. Maybe after a few more dates.

***

Tara was meeting me at our hiking spot. We had been dating for a few weeks now and mostly we enjoyed the outdoors together, exploring Chicago’s many parks. Today we decided on one of our favorites, the North Park Village Nature Center. We always seemed to get lucky with the weather and today was no exception. The universe conspired in our favor. It was glorious and I soaked it in. Why did the sky always seem bluer when one is in love? Today I decided I’d tell Tara I loved her. 

It wasn’t long before she appeared at the start of the trail. She was wearing a ring of daisies in her blue hair today that looked stunning. We both lit up when we saw each other. We plunged into the walk over the paved path that wound through Elms and Birch trees, a thickening of green the further we walked. We were both a little quieter than usual. I carried the weight of wanting to tell her I loved her and she seemed to be carrying something, too. 

My phone kept vibrating with incoming texts. I ignored it. There was no one else I cared about talking to right now. Can’t be family stuff, I talked to Darla on the way here. It couldn’t be work. The agency where I worked was being bought by a large holding company and we were all told to get our resumes together. I didn’t care; I hated my job. We reached a clearing where there was a picnic table and remnants of a campfire. This was it. The moment of truth.

“Brian” / “Tara,” we spoke each other’s names simultaneously. We giggled at our uncanny ability to be in sync. “You first,” I told her.

“Okay Brian, I have something to tell you. This isn’t easy. You’ll want to sit down.” 

Oh no. My heart sank. Was she going to break up with me? She must have known what I was thinking by the look on my face.

“Oh no. It’s not what you think. I guarantee it.”

My phone was still buzzing. What the heck? And suddenly I had a mad urge to pee as I often do when I’m anxious.

“So sorry, Tara, nature is calling. I’ll be right back.”

“Indeed, when nature calls …” She gestured with a sweep of her hand and a smile and I ran off into the woods to take care of business. I realized too late that I had left my ever-buzzing phone on the picnic table. When I got back, there stood Tara, my phone in her hands and a stricken look on her face.

“Isn’t Sarah your ex?” she asked but already knew. “Sorry, it kept buzzing so I picked it up.”

Sure enough, there was a big text on my preview screen from Sarah. Why on Earth would she be reaching out to me? My head was swirling. Old feelings for Sarah stirred, but I was experiencing a distinct shift. I was much more concerned with how it was affecting Tara. Ever since Sarah cheated on me with one of my “good” friends, every hint of her was a jab of pain. But now, I felt nothing for her. I read my phone screen knowing Tara had just seen it, too. 

Sarah’s text: “Bri! Sorry 2 blow you up but URGENT. Your new girlfriend is a FREAK OF NATURE. No not jelly, just care. (emoji heart and melting panic face)”

“Tara, no idea what this crazy talk is…she can’t stand that I’m happy …”

I felt a rush of wind as leaves rustled all around us. The air had the pungent smell of a storm brewing and clouds blocked the sun. Tara had a weird look on her face.

“Put down the phone, Brian,” Tara interjected sharply. “She’s not wrong.” Her dark eyes were wide.

This was all too weird. I looked at Tara for an answer. And boy, did I get one.

“Brian, I’m more than a freak of nature … I am Mother Nature,” Tara said matter-of-factly.

“You’re what?” I was stunned. We stared at each other for a beat. I started laughing. Strange reaction, but here was the woman I was about to profess my love to, and either she was bonkers or she was a full-on goddess, a personification of the natural word. “You got me, that’s a good one. Mother Nature. Like the old commercial, “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.” This had to be one of Tara’s quirky jokes.

Tara rolled her eyes, “Never heard that one before,” she muttered. Then without taking her eyes off me, she started waving her hands in circles, and the wind started whipping around us. This is where it got even nuttier. She made jazz hands and started blinking her fingers open and closed. Lightning flashed across the sky and I was keenly aware that we were standing amongst tall trees. Before I could say another word, rain started pelting us, soaking us to the skin. After a few moments, Tara waved her arms and the rain stopped abruptly. The wind calmed and the clouds drifted faster than I’d ever seen clouds move before, as if it were a time lapse video.

“I’m actually still in training to take my Mother’s place. I’m getting better. That volcanic activity in Alaska last week? My bad. We’ve got to get that glacier thing under control.”

I realized she was serious. I mean really serious. I sat down on the picnic bench and put my face in my hands. She quietly sat next to me.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re Mother Nature in Training. I’m in love with Mother Nature.”

“What did you say? Did you say you’re in love with me?”

Tara jumped to her feet and started pacing frantically, panting. This is so not how I’d planned to tell her I loved her.

“You don’t understand Brian. This changes everything, absolutely everything. Just give me a minute to process this.”

I needed a minute, maybe a lifetime of minutes to process this. So I just sat there and watched her freak out. This beautiful, wicked smart, delightful, warm and charming creature. I would be enchanted watching her do anything. Cutting her toenails! Anything.

She sat back down and explained.

“You see Brian, Mother Nature or Mama Gaia’s like me are traditionally single. Once we come of age, we take over as ruler of the natural world and the forces of nature.”

She was a force of nature, I thought to myself.

“But your mom had you, there was no dad?” I asked.

“No dad. Sort of like Mary did it with Jesus.”

“I’m familiar with the story. So that’s it? There’s no you and me in your future?”

“That’s the thing, Brian. Love, true love, can change everything. It’s the one wild card in nature. I had never heard about this loophole until my mom told me a few weeks ago. It’s extremely rare. It’s what I wanted to share with you today. But I was afraid. We’ve never used the l-word before.”

“Tara,” I said, “I was going to tell you I loved you today.”

“Oh Brian.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t feel the same way?”

“No, that’s the trouble. I do. But when I said that it’s extremely rare, I meant it. If someone falls in love with a Mother Nature in training, before she has fully taken over the role, and if she loves him back, then he must face the gauntlet, the High Council must approve. Then there is a chance, albeit a slim one.”

“ You love me back?”

“I do.”

“If I don’t pass the test, what happens?”

“You will be swept away by a tidal wave and we’ll never see each other again.”

“A tidal wave? In Chicago?”

“The test doesn’t take place here. It happens on the Galapagos Islands. And from what my mom told me, it can be brutal if your love is at all untrue.”

“And if I pass?”

“You will be by my side for the rest of our days. We will be united in a bond stronger than marriage and allies in protection of the natural world.”

Tara hung her head and started to sob. “I just wanted to meet a nice guy. Someone to go to the movies with, a date for weddings. I didn’t mean to suck you into my crazy world.”

I threw my arms around her. We were both still rain soaked but neither of us cared. 

“I’m here,” I told her, “And I’m not leaving.”

Two rabbits, a racoon pup and a doe wandered toward us from the woods. Tara made a weird noise and they all started scampering around us.

I looked at Tara, a little dumbfounded but also impressed. 

“I can speak racoon, squirrel, rabbit, robin, possum, deer, hawk, you name it.” 

I’d never loved her more.

***

“Daddy, tell me the story about how you and mommy got together again. The part with the giant turtles on the Galloping islands.”

“That’s the Galapagos Islands, sweetie,” I told our daughter. I had told her this story a million times and she never got tired of it. 

“I loved your mommy very much, so I had to pass the test of the High Council so we could be together. I cared for the Sea Turtles for six months, feeding them, watching their eggs, helping them out of the ocean. Then they each had to give me a rating. I thought I was doomed when I was sure one of the turtles couldn’t stand me. But they all gave me a five-star review, and the rest as they say, is happily ever after.”

“Happily ever after,” she repeated sleepily and I tuck the covers in around her. I hadn’t thought it possible to love anyone as much as I loved Tara until I met our daughter, even though I wasn’t her biological father. Tara peeked her head in the doorway and whispered, “She asleep?” I nodded. “You’ve got to see this,” she told me. The silver strands in her blue hair shimmered in the hallway light.

I followed her out onto our deck overlooking the mountains in a remote part of Alaska where we lived now. Tara grabbed my hand and pointed into the night sky. An aurora borealis painted a dozen pulsing colors across the sky. 

“I made it for your birthday,” Tara said proudly. She knew how much I loved the Northern Lights and their other-worldly beauty. We even named our daughter Aurora. 

“Thank you,” was all I could say. No one knew it would happen this fast. Glacier melt, massive floods, famine, uninhabitable regions in the South due to deadly UV rays and culling of about half the world’s population. Even up here in Alaska we had to wear protective suits during the day if we were to be out longer than an hour. Tara worked around the clock on ways to restore balance to nature. It was a weird time to be Mother Nature’s family. Not sure if I’d have survived otherwise. But like Tara told me decades ago, love is the one wild card that could save us all.

This is the story of 15 people who were shipwrecked on an island. Or maybe we were stuck in high school detention like Breakfast Club for adults. Actually, we were selected as a jury in a four-week civil trial. We were an artist, a schoolteacher, a marketing executive, a cub scout leader, a school nurse, a retiree, a physical therapist, a salesperson and other brightly assorted personalities. Together we sat in a tiny, beige, windowless room for four solid weeks. 

I reported for jury duty on February 10^th at 8:30 am at the Daley Center in Chicago. I was feeling good about doing my civic duty, patiently complying with the security screening and still arriving 10 minutes early. I smugly expected to be released by the end of the day. I had a good job at a marketing company and needed to get back to it. I had a life, a sweetheart of a husband, son just out of college. One dog. One cat. Just a busy, active, regular life. 

What happened next was a head-spinner. I had barely set up shop in the jury waiting room with my laptop tuned into Wi-Fi, letting my cup of scalding vending-machine coffee cool. “Group 5,” interrupted a no-nonsense voice. Wait, what? From there we were lined up and marched into a courtroom. It’s exactly like the courtrooms on TV, I marveled aloud to no one. 

The judge, a wry-witted woman with a stylish silver bob, told us the basics of the case. It  involved a baby who sustained a devastating brain injury while in a medical clinic. The defendants were doctors and a hospital. The trial, she disclosed, could last weeks. We stared at her politely, faces blank as sliced cheese, mentally plotting our escape routes. One by one, we were called into the interrogation room. Twelve lawyers sat at a conference table with one empty hot seat for a potential juror. I would come to know these faces very well and to despise a few of them. 

It was easy to tell from their questions that they wanted to know if I could be fair — or if I held a grudge against doctors. Several thoughts ran through my mind concurrently. What would I do about work? What about the importance of justice and a fair trial? A baby, huh. There are about a thousand things I could say to get out of this. A baby. A baby. A baby. I went with honesty. And that’s how I became juror #13. (There were 15 of us.)

We were hearing opening arguments faster than you can say, “I object.” That’s when I saw the mother for the first time. She wore all black and sat perfectly composed. I wondered if her counsel told her to wear black because she wore it every day. She had thick, dark, curly hair and a natural beauty that was unlikely to fade with age. We watched her as the details of her shattered life came out in excruciating, mind-numbing, repetitive detail. We were instructed not to show our emotions while hearing testimony. Despite that, there were times over the next few weeks, I wanted to send her messages with my eyes. With the steadiness of my gaze I wanted her to know my heart was with her. Without making an expression of any kind, I wanted to send her secret beams of hope. By the last of the four weeks, I saw something flash across her eyes in a millisecond. The corners of her mouth turned up a nearly imperceptible degree. Then gone.

When it was the defense team’s turn to give their opening statement, they made a big show of putting charts on easels and conveniently placing one gigantic timeline right in front of the mother to block our view. They said they wanted to make sure everyone could read it. Eye roll. Don’t they know we’ve seen Law & Order one million times?

Both sides tried to trick the other into saying the mother somehow wasn’t doing her job or wasn’t vigilant enough. Clearly this must have been Game Over for either side as the lawyers dodged that like a nugget of hot lava. “Oh no, I’d never say she wasn’t doing a good job.” Or asking an expert witness if he thought the mom was “hyper vigilant.” He responded, “I’d say she was a normal amount of vigilant, just the right amount.”

A bright light for Jury Club was the favorite-uncle-type who served as Deputy of the Court. They used to call this the Bailiff. His name was Bob and he took care of us. He had us sign in every morning so we could each collect our $17.20 checks. He brought us lunch and delighted in telling us when it was pizza day. If we needed anything, a bathroom break, some tissue, water, we’d turn to Bob. He always gave me a wink as we shuffled back into the jury room. We adored Bob.

Our judge was a bad ass and we all agreed she should have her own Judge TV show. She allowed the jury to submit questions after every witness, which was my favorite part, and I think hers, too. We happened to be in session on Mardi Gras, so I brought in a New Orleans king cake and beads. When we all came out to the jury box wearing beads, I feared we’d get a reprimand. Instead the judge thanked us for our good nature and said how much she too loved New Orleans. We had Bob take her some king cake and beads during a break. She came back after the break with one tasteful strand of Mardi Gras beads over her black robe. That’s one cool judge—she was tough but kind.

Everyone in this predicament was so thoughtful, even though we were all crammed in this tiny room where we could barely squeeze around each other. One Friday a jury mate brought in scratch-off lottery cards for everyone. Another hung a poster of a window with a seaside view. Others brought in community snacks. Someone baked cookies. It was a feel-good fest. The kindness and camaraderie were a necessary part of surviving this thing. It was emotionally exhausting and affected us all in different ways. 

For me, the case pressed on some tender spots and left me feeling run over. 

With every fiber of my being I can relate to feeling invisible and unheard. It’s like a recurring dream where you are screaming in desperation but no sound comes out. 

The mother in this case reached out 12 times over two months with a sick baby who wasn’t getting better. Time and again she was sent home with instructions to give the baby Tylenol. Mercy on us all who know how it feels to be dismissed with a passing glance. I remember how deeply lonely it could be to raise a baby alone. The subtle resentment and even hostility. How people assume things about you. How they decide that’s who you are, nothing more. How you say something, but they assume you really mean something else, or that you’re simply trying to get attention.

In addition to numerous clinic visits, Mom called a helpline referred to as the “mommy pager.” The slick defense attorney would mock the words “mommy pager” like he was the bully on the playground calling you a crybaby. That was the nickname the hospital staff used for the parent helpline. New parents could call any time, like the middle of the night with a feverish infant. The defense attorney sought to make light of the mommy pager, to trivialize it so that the lackluster response to this mom didn’t seem so off base. Oh, it’s just the mommy pager. How could anyone think that was important? I cringed every time he said, “mommy pager.”

Here’s the deal. This 7-month-old baby, we’ll call her Amelia, had a cold that wouldn’t go away, worsening symptoms and a fever off and on for a month. They checked for an ear infection and for pneumonia but found neither. Somehow, tragically, whatever infection was in this baby went into her blood, then traveled to her brain causing bacterial meningitis and severe brain damage. This happened over four years before we set foot into the courtroom. At this point in time, Amelia was 5-years old, partially deaf, blind, feeding through a tube, breathing through another tube, unable to walk. Her mother and a team of nurses care for her at home with her loving, close-knit family. They rent a small apartment, so they couldn’t modify the entrance for a wheelchair ramp. The plaintiff showed a video of Amelia rocking her head back and forth to the Frozensoundtrack at her birthday party when the Make-A-Wish Foundation sent her princesses to sing and dance. Her reaction was a major breakthrough, they told us. We got to meet Amelia in person one day when they wheeled her into the court room. Her mom dresses her to the nines every day. Our hearts disintegrated.

If that was the high point, the lawyer shenanigans were the low. We saw lots of lawyer shenanigans.

There were parades of charts, visual aids, timelines and awkward presentation fails. There was the daycare barrage of questioning. “If your daughter was sick, why was she at daycare on this day?” the attorney grilled the mother and grandmother who barely spoke English.  “Have you read the daycare policy of Little Angels Daycare? Let’s blow it up on a giant screen so we can all see the rules. Would you agree this was the policy? You knew this was the policy, right? Then are you saying you broke the rules? The daycare lied? Or Amelia wasn’t sick that day?” In this family, the mom worked first shift and the grandmother started later in the afternoon, working for an airline. And still they got Amelia to six doctor appointments in two weeks. 

When I looked up from taking notes in my court-provided blue binder, I stared laser beams of disgust at the lawyers and rays of light to a mother who I felt for deeply.

At one point, we met a woman who gave up her kidney to save Amelia’s life. This hero was a casual friend of the mother who heard their story and empathized. She was willing to have an organ removed from her body to save this precious baby from suffering through dialysis nine hours a day in her crib.   

Then one day, the defense dropped a few bombshells. Previously, the plaintiff’s expert witnesses had us convinced that the doctors missed an infection like a sinus infection. At any point in this tragedy, a course of antibiotics would have killed the infection that devastated Amelia’s brain. That part is true. But then we learned that babies don’t get sinus infections, because their sinuses aren’t fully formed. Bombshell number two: A blood infection like Amelia’s could have made its way to her brain within 12 hours. If true, the doctors may not have missed it at her visit. Oh god, what if no one was at fault and this family walks away with nothing?

It was our role as jurors to decide if these doctors exercised a reasonable standard of care. Not if they made a mistake. Just a reasonable standard of care. It crossed my mind, if I had a heart attack at that moment, I would trust the doctors in this courtroom to save me.

The anxiety in our jury room was building. What would become of our bond? All the fun spent mocking the lawyers? The judge reminded us daily we weren’t allowed to talk about the case to each other or to anyone. Aside from a few snide comments, it was hard to tell where everyone was leaning. We were all on the verge of cracking. Our jumbled personal lives were leaking in. The night before we were supposed to deliberate, I had crazy dreams. I walked into our jury room and all the white boards on the wall were too high for me to reach. All the markers were weighted down with lead. Everything else, including the furniture, was gone. We all came in that day frazzled, describing our nightmares.

They told us to be ready for a long day of closing arguments and deliberation and that they’d need to take away our phones. It was the only day in four weeks I didn’t bring my work laptop. Most days I tapped that keyboard madly, trying to keep up so I wasn’t burdening my wonderful colleagues. The guilt was a giant boulder. I worked before, during and after court and on the weekend to keep up. Now it was almost over. We needed a unanimous decision.

That’s when the biggest bombshell hit. For the very first time, the mom was nowhere in sight. The judge told us that the mediators had settled in the wee hours of the night before. The judge couldn’t tell us the amount they settled for, but she said it was enough for Amelia to be taken care of for the rest of her life. Another jury mate and I cried tears of relief. I never saw the mother again. 

We met the attorneys from both sides and they all genuinely thanked us. The earnest young lawyers and doctors, were suddenly human beings.  We were smiling and commiserating. The lawyer I despised most was gone to catch a plane to another trial.

The judge told us, this sort of thing never affects a doctor’s career or livelihood; it would take a criminal case to do that kind of damage. Not to say it doesn’t affect them in other emotional ways. And no matter what, the lawyers on both sides are enriched.

Then she shared the last bombshell. I would have been dismissed before deliberation started. Remember, there were 15 of us in the beginning? One dropped out early on, leaving two of us as mystery alternates. I would have been asked to leave directly after closing arguments.

Back in the jury room gathering my belongings for the last time, I watched Bob tear up all the note pages in our blue binders. I’d had a 2-inch stack of notes that I took like it was my job–like someone’s life depended on it. 

At that moment, I knew with certainty. Even though I never got a chance to deliberate, my vote would have been with the mom–a beautiful stranger I know so well and so little. So much for being impartial.

By Mia Ryder (pen name)

bookboxchicago33@gmail.com

“Henrietta!” screeched Aunt Lil. The minute Henny walked into the kitchen, Aunt Lil demanded, “Where did Henrietta go? I need my reading glasses.”

“It’s me, Henrietta,” Henny replied gently as she took the reading glasses from around her aunt’s neck and placed them on her nose. Aunt Lil unfolded the pages of the Chicago Tribune and soon became absorbed in a story.

Aunt Lil was once a vibrant and beloved columnist for this newspaper. To see her now, it was as if someone had shaken the gems out of her jewelry box. Dementia was a thief.

“Joseph is always hiding my glasses,” Lil muttered, irritated with her long-dead husband whom she still interacted with daily. At least she didn’t have to miss him, Henny thought. 

The Marvell family, which was composed of Henny, her mother Nancy, great-aunt Lil, and their dog Brontë, lived in a bungalow on the Northwest side of Chicago in a neighborhood called Portage Park. Henny and her mom took turns caring for Aunt Lil when Henny was in high school or her mom was working the night shift at the hospital. Thanks to the hybrid learning model necessitated by the pandemic, Henny was on call for Aunt Lil more often now. 

Henny showed Aunt Lil the book she had just found in the book box down the street. “It’s called Chantilly, and, look here, Aunt Lil, it’s signed by the author, Francis Thrash. She’s from Chicago.”

“From Chicago? Of course she is; her house is in Portage Park.”

Henny pulled out a chair and sat dumbfounded. How weird that Aunt Lil could extract that tidbit from her brain even when she didn’t recognize her family half the time. She shook her head and then began thumbing through her new book. Reading was her ultimate escape—mystery novels, mostly—especially since she didn’t get out much these days. She was so engrossed by her book that she almost didn’t notice the extra coffee cup on the table. Aunt Lil had her knotty fingers wrapped around one mug while a second one sat across the table. 

“Aunt Lil, whose coffee cup is this?”

“The man’s.”

“What man?”

“The MAN who comes to chat with me.” 

When her aunt spoke to her dead husband or a myriad of other imagined visitors, she and her mom would nod politely and sneak a smile to each other. They were getting fairly used to it. But this coffee cup …

“Aunt Lil, you know you’re not supposed to let anyone in the house when I walk Brontë.”

“Hey smart mouth, I’m the grownup and you’re the kid, remember? Anyway I didn’t let him in, he had the key your dad gave him.”

Henny tilted her head to stare at her aunt like a quizzical puppy. Henny’s father was an Alderman in their ward who died seven years ago of a heart attack, which absolutely did not explain why there was a second coffee cup on the kitchen table. Henny’s alarm grew, and she started to get that tunnel-visioned head rush that would happen whenever her anxiety set in. She took a deep breath and realized that she wasn’t going to get a meaningful answer from Aunt Lil. She humored her anyway.

“Your gentleman caller have a name?” Henny probed.

“Daniel Radcliff,” Aunt Lil replied.

“Harry Potter came to see you?”

“See for yourself. He’s coming back for a second cup.”

Henny almost fell out of her chair when she heard the toilet flush down the hall. The sound of footsteps neared, followed by a voice behind her, “Hey Henny, long time no chit chat. What up, girrrl.”

Alderman Jordanski, once her dad’s political rival and now a schmoozy family friend, sauntered in. Henny didn’t like the way his eyes drifted down to her chest or the way he flirted with her mom. But he did bring them produce and flowers from the Farmer’s Market all the time, so he must not be a complete slimeball, Henny thought. He just had the hots for her mom; gross. She really hated the way he tried to sound hip when he talked to her.

“Greetings, Mr. Jordanski. Your lingo is antiquated, but yeah, hi.”

“Oh Henny, you’re such an old soul.”

Translation: You’re a weirdo, Henny thought with a smile to herself. She was okay with that. She’d rather hang out with her dog and bury herself in a good book than congregate outside the Q-Mart with her boring classmates. And she completely shunned social media. TikTok was for clocks.

“Hey, who’s reading that piece of trash?” Jordanski had noticed Chantilly resting on the table. “I didn’t know that nut job finished her book,” he snorted.

Henny grabbed the book off the table before he could get near it. His eyes flashed menace, then squinted as he forced a smile.

“Don’t believe everything you read, Henny-kins.” 

“I found it in the book box this morning. It’s called Chantilly by Francis Thrash, like the lace. An intricate weave.” The metaphor will be lost on him, she thought.

“Right —Francis Thrash the whacko. Those book box free lending libraries went into the neighborhoods after I took over as Alderman,” said Jordanski, forever campaigning. Henny pantomimed puking behind his back, which Jordanski caught in a reflection on the toaster.

“After my dad proposed them in his last term,” Henny clarified.

“Anyway, nice chatting with you Lil,” Jordanski said, ignoring Henny’s remark.

“Alohomora!” Aunt Lil replied by casting a spell from Harry Potter.

“Yeah, aloha to you, too,” said Jordanski the Clueless.

#

It was on her walk with Brontë that Henny had spied Chantilly in the book box that morning. The book box free lending library sat between two blanket-sized front yards. It was just a wooden box on a post with a peaked roof, glass door and books crammed inside, occasionally packaged food. There was a faded cardboard “Welcome Spring” decoration stapled to the side even though it was autumn. The book box was a quaint thing that reminded Henny of the good intentions of human beings. Henny checked it whenever she passed. The last several times she had looked, there had only been the same old contents—a cocktail recipe book circa 1970, Frommer’s Guide to Spain 1999, a water-damaged Charlotte’s Web, a few well-worn women’s magazines, a self-help guide for letting go of guilt, paperback romance novels, a few packets of ramen noodles, and a can of oysters that looked older than the cocktail recipe book. Chantilly was unlike the other books; the spine wasn’t cracked and the pages weren’t stained or dog-eared. Henny ran her finger over the author’s name on the cover; Francis Thrash. The new book smell gave Henny the shivers. She snagged it and vowed to add another book and a can of soup on her next visit. That would maintain the balance of the book box—take and give, ebb and flow­—and add to Henny’s good karma.

#

After Jordanski left their house that morning, Henny set out to devour Chantilly, but it was more like the book devoured her. She was captivated by the tale of a multi-generational Chicago family and its dark web of secrets. The family was tangled up in local politics, much like her own family. That thought took her back to Jordanski. What was he doing in her house today, anyway? Why the heck did he have keys? And why did Henny feel a strong urge to change the locks? 

When Henny heard her mother come home, she realized that she had been reading for most of the day. She took a break to share some mac and cheese with her mom. 

“Did you know Mr. Jordanski has keys to our house, Mom?”

“Sure, he was going to help me get that air conditioner out of the window upstairs. He’ll come by when he can. Busy man.”

“He was here today.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“I’m not a fan.”

“Noted.”

Clearly her mom wasn’t concerned. Henny hurried to put the dishes away and get back to her book, but first, she’d pull out one of Aunt Lil’s old journals to see if one of them contained information about Francis Thrash. She and her mom saved Aunt Lil’s planners and journals for the day when they’d need to invite people to Aunt Lil’s memorial. It was practical and morbid at the same time. You never saw Aunt Lil without a journal clutched under her arm back in her heyday as a reporter. Many of her sources were listed here in her own coded system to conceal their identities. Henny thumbed through the pages looking for the name Francis Thrash. She admired her Aunt Lil and liked to think that she had inherited her once keen eye for investigation.

Sadly, there wasn’t a “Thrash” under the T’s. But Henny knew her Aunt Lil didn’t always color within the lines, even when she had her wits about her. Henny stared at her aunt’s curly-cue handwriting in the margins, trying to decipher the code she used to hide her sources. Some of the listings were accompanied by a word or phrase and a series of numbers. She combed through every page. Eventually, her eyes felt like two bags of sand so she called it quits. Tomorrow was an in-school day, so she’d have to survive a barrage of awkward social encounters and mind-numbing lectures before she could get back to her quest to find her new favorite author.

The minute Henny woke up in the morning, she remembered something she saw in one of Aunt Lil’s journals. It had taken some overnight marinating in her brain, but there it was. She remembered seeing the word “wallop” and numbers scrawled in the margin. Bingo! Henny thought, exuberated. Her Aunt Lil used to love crossword puzzles. What’s a six-letter word for “wallop?” Thrash, as in “Francis Thrash,” just like a crossword clue and solution. That had to be Aunt Lil’s code. While she got dressed, Henny’s head swam with crossword puzzle squares and other clues, like Toilet Offspring for Johnson, or Hitched Year for Mariano. Once she figured out “wallop,” she saw answers everywhere. With a breakfast bar in hand, Henny snatched the old journal off the shelf again and flipped through until she found the right page. The seven-digit number had to be a phone number. Should she call it? That would be weird. What would she say if someone picked up? “I found the book you stashed in the book box and now I’m obsessed with you”? 

Henny thought about what Aunt Lil would do back in her investigative reporter days. For Henny’s eighth birthday, Aunt Lil had gifted her niece a full set of Nancy Drew books and had gone on about the brilliance of this fictional sleuth. So, Henny would do this Nancy Drew style and follow the clues, but allow herself just one assist from technology. A modern Nancy Drew would, right? Using Google felt like cheating. But Henny remembered her dad doing reverse phone number searches back in the day when cranks would leave threatening messages. He even let her type in the numbers. 

Henny opened her laptop and tried searching for the numbers from Aunt Lil’s journal. She added different prefixes—773, 630, 312—and tried the numbers forward and backward. Backward was the trick. Something called “U.S. People Search” popped up in big, flashy letters scrolling “SUCCESS” across the screen. Her search let loose a waterfall of random information and solicitations for paid criminal background checks. They teased Henny with just the name, age, and address. There at the top of the list was Francis Thrash, age 63. Last known address was blocks away! Henny’s heart fluttered. There was no question Henny would find a way to meet her. But how to approach her? Maybe she’d just do some Nancy Drew-style observation first while she built up the nerve. 

“Henny, let’s go!” her mother called her to leave for school. As a senior now, Henny had mastered the drill—blend in, get the work done, and get out. That was the only way she could avoid the panic attacks that plagued her. Hiding behind the required face mask helped, too.

Author Francis Thrash was all Henny could think about at school. Henny was relieved when she finally made it home to resume her quest. Brontë greeted her by spinning in circles, signaling she wanted to go for a walk. Perfect,Henny thought. We’ll make sure to pass by Francis’s home. For the book box, Henny grabbed a can of tomato soup and an old copy of A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, one of her favorites.

On the walk, Brontë did her usual sniffing around, as if it was her job to inspect and mentally catalog every form of plant life on the block. She would lock onto each scent until it was thoroughly sniffed to her satisfaction. It took an eternity to walk even a few blocks. They eventually arrived at the book box to deposit their offerings and inspect its contents. A funny thing about the book box was that Henny never saw anyone in the act of taking or adding items; she just observed the change of inventory after the fact. 

Once they made their way to the author’s house, Henny realized she had passed this house hundreds of times. It was an unremarkable brick bungalow, just like most of the houses on the block, but somehow plainer; no fall wreath to adorn the door, no chalk art to brighten the sidewalk, no cat peeping out the window. A few wet newspapers were stuck under the overgrown bushes, and the old-fashioned roll-up window shades were drawn tightly. The bungalow’s facade had a lifeless expression, like someone in a coma. This house didn’t seem suited to her vibrant author crush, but maybe she was one of those literary artists who focused on her craft and not on her home. Brontë was locked onto a good sniff, so Henny took the opportunity to stand and stare from afar. She imagined Francis inside, tapping away at her computer, or maybe even a typewriter, absorbed in her next novel. 

One of the three window shades fluttered. Henny looked away quickly so as not to get caught staring. She felt a dull throbbing in her head and heard a whisper of the words “book box” pulsing in her mind. The shade fluttered harder. Brontë looked up and froze. The throbbing in Henny’s head worsened and Henny feared this was the onset of a panic attack. She tried to steal a glance from the corner of her eye to see if anyone was nearby and might notice that something was amiss. As if the windows caught her gaze, all three shades fluttered and banged more insistently. Brontë whined and pulled hard on her leash. Henny had to sprint to keep up as Brontë pulled her back home. Henny sat with her faithful pup, petting her until the dog stopped panting and she herself felt calm enough to breathe. What the blazes just happened at that house? It felt as if the house knew she was spying and was somehow trying to get her attention. 

Despite this weird experience, Henny felt compelled to return to the strange house later that night, alone. Her curiosity won over her fear. She filled the time until then by doing Algebra homework, making spaghetti for her mom and aunt, and watching Wheel of Fortune while they ate. Henny filled her thoughts with the word games her aunt used to love and the secret code she had used to conceal her sources. She studied her Aunt Lil’s face as Vanna revealed the vowels to see if there was any spark of remembrance; she saw none.

It was near midnight when Henny was sure her mom and Aunt Lil were sound asleep before slipping out of bed. Once outside, she pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head. The neighborhood was dead silent. She saw the beady eyes of a possum catch the streetlight as it peered from a neighbor’s bushes, watching her, afraid of her … or maybe forher? In just a few moments, she was staring once again at the shut-eyed house of Francis Thrash. It was hard to say for how long she stood there staring at the house but not seeing a darn thing. She felt a little crazy for doing this. Yet, if she was going to get any clues out of this escapade, she’d have to move in for a closer look. Henny tiptoed across the front lawn to peer into the front windows. A soft, static-y voice repeated “book box” in her ears. How annoying and creepy, she thought. She couldn’t block it out as the chanting grew louder and clearer, “book box book box book box…” The way it channeled through her felt as if her brain was picking up a radio frequency.

Then, there she was, peeking around the corner of the house like a child–—a silver-haired lady in a prim blouse and skirt. Henny was certain she’d come face-to-face with the author depicted on the back of Chantilly. The sight of her startled Henny and she felt ashamed to be caught peeping. But the woman didn’t look angry; in fact, she just stared right back at Henny. A slow, welcoming grin stretched the corner of the lady’s mouth. Henny’s heart was pounding faster now but she took one step toward the woman. That’s when the voice repeating “book box” turned into ear-splitting feedback that felt like it would rip open her skull. Henny grabbed her own hair in two chunks and pressed hard on her head to try to stop the screaming chorus of “BOOK BOX BOOK BOX BOOK BOX.” Everything went black.

#

Henny was snuggled up on the frontroom couch with her book and a throw blanket on her lap. “Front room” is a Chicago term for the living room in the front of a bungalow floorplan, while the rest of the rooms line up behind it all the way to the back porch. She could hear her mom in the kitchen in the middle of the house talking on the phone to the doctor. “She had a panic attack in the middle of the night. A family friend found her passed out on the sidewalk in front of the little lending library.” Her mom repeatedly responded “uh-huh” to whatever the doctor was saying.

Dang, Henny thought. Just when she had come so close to meeting her author crush, she had been foiled by her stupid panic attacks. What timing. She couldn’t even remember how she got there. The last thing she recalled was staring up at Alderman Jordanski’s face from where she lay on the sidewalk. How embarrassing, of all people to find her. But she had barely noticed him in her daze, her attention drawn by the sky behind his head, a pre-dawn haze between night and day. How long had she been lying there? 

Henny loved being able to see the moon when the sky was turning blue. The moon belonged to the night, but there it was, a day-moon glowing white against the blue-gray sky. It always made her wonder if only she could see it or if others saw it, too; a strange thought to have when waking up on a sidewalk, staring at the Alderman.

This was far from the first time a panic attack had spoiled something for Henny. The episodes had occurred ever since her father’s sudden death. Her mom had tried to get Henny help again and again, hoping they’d find anything that could work for her. Henny’s doctor would tweak her dosage, and she’d once again retreat into books to avoid all the triggers. 

“Buried in a book again, Henny girl?” Her mother teased as she came back into the frontroom. “Is that the one written by the local author?”

“Chantilly, yep.” Henny held the book tight to her chest.

“Must be a good one,” her mom replied. “Doctor Dhali is going to call in your prescription, sweetie.” 

Henny felt something was different about this attack. She didn’t feel like shying away; she wanted to go back and talk to that author. When her mom went to Walgreens to get her new meds, Henny snatched a few of Aunt Lil’s journals again and went to her bedroom to pore through them.

Aunt Lil’s journals had sections for contacts, appointments and notes. Henny went through pages and pages of random details related to the stories Aunt Lil had written for the Chicago Tribune. It ran the gamut of dirt on local politicians, new building projects and the human toll of gun violence. Henny skimmed them all for the words “thrash,” “wallop,” or anything related to Francis. Something snagged her attention—a mention of her father, Henry Marvell. Her dad was serving his third term as Alderman when he had his fatal heart attack. His name was mentioned in Aunt Lil’s notes regarding a story about plans for a condo building that included affordable housing units. In this neighborhood, affordable housing was a controversial topic. Supporters thought affordable housing should be spread equitably throughout all the city’s neighborhoods, to help keep a roof over the head of the vulnerable, such as veterans, the disabled and other people who could use a break. The detractors thought it would bring in the riff raff from the ghettos and wanted to maintain a perceived “whiteness” of the neighborhood. They wouldn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s what it amounted to. Truth is, most applicants for affordable housing came from their own neighborhood. Her dad was a staunch supporter of racial justice. He ruffled the feathers of people around him who didn’t want to acknowledge the darker parts of themselves. Their mindset was “I’m all for helping people, but not in my neighborhood.” 

Although Henny was much younger back then than she is now, she had a sense of how ugly politics could get when she’d hear her parents talking about having their car towed for no reason, or a pile of dead fish left in the alley behind her dad’s campaign headquarters. Dead fish reminded her of smarmy Alderman Jordanski, and they were most likely his calling card. Everyone knew how politics worked in Chicago. Henny wondered if Jordanski ever felt guilty about how hard he had campaigned against her dad. 

Henny noticed a note scrawled out in the margin and circled in red: “Lace = tell-all novel.” Lace? Could that mean Chantilly? It had to be. Chantilly was about a local political family. She had so many questions for Francis Thrash now. 

On one of the last few pages of the journal, Henny spotted a date, also circled in red: March 6, 2015, the date her father died. Next to it were her father’s initials, HM, for Henry Marvell. After that, the notes became sparse. Some pages only contained doodles. Henny knew it was during the fall of 2015 that they began to notice Aunt Lil’s decline. It started with little things, like Aunt Lil going places and forgetting how to get back. A year later it got worse. The doctors said it was caused by mini-strokes. Being a smoker didn’t help, and neither did her high-stress profession. A year later, Aunt Lil came to live with Henny and her mom. 

Henny tore herself from her investigation to check on Aunt Lil. She found her snoozing in her chair and tucked the blanket in around her. 

“That you, Henry?” She stirred and asked about her dead nephew. 

“No, it’s me Henny.” 

“Don’t let your mom know that your dad’s been talking to me, Henrietta.”

“You got it, Aunt Lil.”  That’ll be an easy promise to keep, Henny thought darkly. She pondered how they were all connected: Aunt Lil the journalist, Francis Thrash the author and her dad the former Alderman.

“Bible river slope runner and the goose got wonder and wallop!” Aunt Lil said emphatically. Henny and her mom were used to these nonsensical outbursts. They usually just changed the subject. But when Henny heard the word “wallop” she wrote the whole phrase down so she could remember it. Could “wonder” stand for her own last name Marvell?

It was early Sunday morning when Henny slipped out to visit the author’s house again. This time she’d keep it together; the new medicine would help. She strolled by the book box and over to the house of Francis Thrash. She braced herself as she stood in front, telling herself to breathe. She heard the weird radio waves tuning in, “book box book box book box,” but this time it was a hum and didn’t overwhelm her. She saw Francis in the same spot, peeking around the corner. Henny walked toward her slowly. 

“C’mon girl,” the author said kindly, “We have so much to talk about.”

Henny followed her down the slender gangway between the houses and into her backyard. The author took a seat on the patio and motioned for Henny to sit in the other chair.

“Thank you, Ms. Thrash.”

“Please call me Francis. We’re both writers after all.”

“Okay, Francis. How do you know I’m a writer?”

“It takes one to know one.”

Henny liked Francis immediately.

“Actually, I knew your Aunt Lil the reporter and your father the Alderman. Your mom, too.” Francis continued.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Your dad was really something. So articulate and so fierce in his convictions. He could really get a crowd worked up.”

“I remember that not everyone liked him. But I was just 11 when he died. Do you mind if I take notes?” Henny pulled out a spiral notebook.

“That’s fine with me. Your dad’s enemies were ruthless.”

“My dad would always tell me their bark was worse than their bite.”

“Until it wasn’t.” Francis rubbed her two hands together. 

“Are you cold?” Henny asked.

“Always.” Frances waved off the concern. “Let me tell you a story about your dad and your Aunt Lil.”

Henny was enthralled; it was like being halfway through a good book —the part that makes you hope it never ends. She felt a powerful connection with this woman, as if Francis was her best friend and mentor wrapped together. They chatted and joked like they’d known each other forever. It was as easy talking to Francis as it was talking to herself.

“There was a time when your dad pushed the buttons of the wrong guy,” Francis went on. “I was working with him and your Aunt Lil; they were consulting on my novel. I overheard their phone calls and whispered discussions. You can’t believe what people appeared willing to do for the pettiest of grievances.”

“Some people are such a pain,” Henny agreed.

“You have no idea,” Francis emphasized.

There was a rustling of birds nearby; Francis looked at the sky.

“I need to go now. Same time, same place tomorrow? Let’s keep this our little secret,” Francis smile conspiratorially, eyes gleaming.

Henny nodded. Nothing would stop her from returning with her notebook for a chat before school. If her mom asked, she’d tell her that she was training for track & field tryouts in order to respect Francis’ request to keep their conversations confidential. Plus, she liked the idea of a secret rendezvous. 

“I’ll be here,” Henny nodded, suddenly feeling as light as a balloon at a birthday party.

The next day, Henny showed up as promised … and the next day, and the next day after that. Henny learned how her dad, Aunt Lil, and Francis had been the Three Amigos. They were full of big ideas to make the world a better place, starting with their neighborhood. But her dad’s constituents rarely agreed on how to go about improving their neighborhood. Heated discussions turned into bitter battles on social media. Fundraising events turned into protest rallies. Francis’s stories were colorful and filled in many of the more grown-up details that Henny was too young to understand at the time. One of her dad’s biggest opponents, Jaquelyn Garfield, had been having an affair with the chief of police. She was Jordanski’s campaign manager during his first run as Alderman, and they were still bitter over their loss. As Francis weaved through the details, the story began to sound familiar. Something in Henny clicked.

“You mean the family in Chantilly is my family?” Henny asked. 

“Yes and no. It’s fiction based loosely on fact. Journalism was your Aunt Lil’s territory. She fought for the truth. Fiction is my bag. I reveal the truth in my own way. It was getting to a point where no one knew what or who to believe, so why not spin it all into a story without any pretense of reality? I changed the names to protect the guilty.”

Henny wanted to get back home and finish reading Chantilly as soon as possible. It made sense now why she was so absorbed in the story. It had triggered memories she thought she had long forgotten. She looked at Francis Thrash and thought admiringly, I could talk with this woman forever. 

“Henny, that’s all for today. Tomorrow I will share with you the biggest story of all, the story of Operation Rat. And then it will be time for the last chapter,” Francis said with misty eyes.

Henny’s heart dropped. She didn’t want their chats to end. Francis picked up on her emotions and assured her that she would understand once all was revealed tomorrow. 

Henny returned home and went about the rest of her day in a daze. She chatted with her mom and aunt on auto-pilot. She muddled through until her at-home school day was over and she could return to her book. 

“Your nose is going to get stuck in that book,” her mom teased.

“Oh Fancy Nancy, our Henny Penny is just a wordy nerdy. Who cares,” her Aunt Lil chimed in. They all giggled and Henny went back to reading.

The next day, Henny popped awake before dawn. She was both anxious and excited to hear what Francis was going to tell her next. She was ready for the day in a matter of moments and set out just as the sky was brightening.

Henny’s mom, Nancy, lay awake as she heard the door open again. She knew Henny lied about practicing for track & field. Her daughter never came back sweaty and was always carrying a notebook around. After the incident in which Alderman Jordanski found Henny on the sidewalk, her mom had been consulting regularly with Dr. Dhali. The doctor assured her that some fresh air and exercise were good for Henny and advised Nancy to let her daughter have her space. But after Nancy got a call from a neighbor about Henny sitting on their back patio in the early morning every day, her alarm bells went off. Today, she would follow her daughter and find out what was going on.

#

Henny felt tingly anticipation when she reached their meeting spot—that, and maybe a little dread. What did Francis mean by “all will be revealed?” Henny sat in her chair and tilted her head to the sky, soaking up the crispness of the fall morning. Then slowly, that insistent voice raced in her mind, “book box book box book box.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, Francis was sitting next to her. The voice in her head stopped. Something was different in Francis’s eyes today; they looked cloudy, like the sky before a storm. 

“I saw it, Henny. I saw him do it. It didn’t register until much later. I saw him put white powder into one of the cocktails at the bar. He saw me watching and said it was medicine for his ulcer. But then he must have somehow switched the glasses so that your father got the one with the strychnine.”

“Strychnine. Isn’t that poison?”

“Rat poison. If the right amount is ingested, it can stop your heart. Over time, it can cause organ failure or brain damage.” She began speaking more stridently, her voice high-pitched and desperate, pleading for Henny to understand.

“Who did this?” Henny urged.

“Ed Jordanski and Jaquelyn Garfield his hateful campaign manager—both still livid after they lost the race against your father.” She spat the words out.

Henny felt a wave of shock. She watched her hero crumble and tried to process what she had just heard. Jordanski killed her dad over stupid local politics? Over who gets to fill the potholes in the street and cut the ribbons when a new business opened up? The gibberish her aunt was spewing the other day suddenly came back to her. Jordanski and Garfield. “Bible river slope runner and the goose got wonder and wallop.” It dawned on Henny that “bible river referred to “Jordan,” as in the River Jordan and “slope runner” referred to skiing, hence Jordanski. “Goose” was a reference to Garfield Goose, a popular old children’s TV show. “Wonder” must be a synonym for Marvell, for her dad. Translation: Jordanski and Garfield got Marvell and Thrash. But Francis Thrash was sitting right here, in front of her. Had Jordanski tried to harm Henny’s new friend? 

While Henny processed all this, Francis Thrash had been quiet, letting everything she said sink in. But now she continued urgently, “Henny, that’s not all I have to tell you. We need you to finish the story. You see Henny, he got me too. Not right away, but he did. He knew I could be a threat. I hadn’t really put it all together until after the fact. Good people don’t always think of the evil things that others are capable of. Yet by then, it was too late; he’d already gotten me.”  Her words choked out between sobs.

“Oh no, Francis, are you okay? Are you sick?” Henny reached out for her hands. Francis pulled away. “You will know what to do,” Francis said as she stood and walked away. “Goodbye, Henny.”

Henny felt panic set in as she watched Francis leave. She felt the familiar thumping in her head and knew that she had to get out of there. 

#

There’s a feeling that every parent knows, that icy fear that something is terribly wrong with your child. Nancy felt that now. She would help her daughter no matter what it took, like she had through her every panic episode, the same way many parents do when their children struggle with mental illness. Her senses were dialed up to full lioness mode. She concealed herself in the bushes and peeked through a tiny crack between the fence slats into the neighbor’s backyard. She didn’t want to aggravate the situation with a confrontation, but she was ready to pounce. Henny’s trespassing had to stop, and Nancy needed to know why her daughter was doing this. At first, it hadn’t dawned on Nancy that this was Francis Thrash’s house, the author of the book Henny was reading. Her husband and Lil would meet there years ago to talk politics, but Nancy had always stayed out of it. 

Henny was talking to someone, but Nancy couldn’t see who it was. She detected her daughter’s agitation nearing toward panic. She moved toward the gate, but before she reached it, her daughter bolted past her in a blind rush. Nancy took a quick peek into the backyard, but the other person had already gone. She took off after her daughter, calling her name.

Henny beat her mother home and burst into their frontroom where Aunt Lil was sitting in her chair, talking to her dead husband as usual. Henny was pacing the room and babbling when her mom caught up. 

“Henny,” she coaxed, “Will you sit please? We need to talk.” 

As mother and daughter sank into the couch, Henny started trying to explain, but her words tumbled out; “I talked to the author of Chantilly, Mom, to Francis Thrash. She told me everything. I know how dad died, how he really died. Francis Thrash saw it, and now I think she’s sick.” 

Her mom tried to hide her horror. “Henny, that’s not possible,” she gasped.

“Sick?” Aunt Lil piped in, “Francis Thrash has been dead for years.”

The words rang in Henny’s ears. She grabbed her phone and googled Francis Thrash. Her obituary was the first thing to pop up. No. No. No. She should have kept searching the internet instead of playing Nancy Drew. She threw her phone across the room. 

“I thought you knew, Henny,” her mom said but her voice sounded far away. 

How was this even possible? Henny thought, stricken with panic. She fought the sensation of the room melting around her. She ran to her room and locked the door. She craved the sanctuary of her book. There, on her comforter, was Chantilly. She grabbed it. She needed to see how the story ended now. As she flipped through the pages, the words slid off. She dropped the book back on the bed. Her head was throbbing the words “book box” in time with her mother pounding on her bedroom door. Her mom stopped knocking, and Henny heard muffled voices further away. “Hello Ed, I didn’t hear you come in.” Jordanski, her father’s murderer, was back in the house —their house. Henny looked out her window at the tree within reach, an easy climb down.

#

 “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ed?” Nancy offered as he sat at her kitchen table.

“Please and thank you. Is Henny okay?” 

“I think that book she’s reading spooked her into an episode. She didn’t know that Francis died several months after her dad. She was too young, I guess.”

“Not too young anymore. I’d like to get a look at that book, out of curiosity. I didn’t think Francis ever finished it.” 

“I know, right? Let me see if I can slip it out of her room. She probably wore herself into a nap after that last episode. I just need to grab the key. Hang on a sec.” 

Ed Jordanski looked around the tidy kitchen and thought about the circumstances that had passed over the last several years. What was in that book? Would there be a bombshell revelation? He touched a small vial of white powder in his pocket. 

His thoughts strayed to Nancy. Nancy Marvell was a sweet lady and serious wife material now that she was a widow. His last relationship had ended badly, and the restraining order his ex filed against him was a stain on his reputation. Luckily, his followers didn’t care. Could he help being a man in love? He’s a passionate guy, Jordanski rationalized. But running the Ward was his passion above all else. Relationships were trouble. His true calling was defending the neighborhood, and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone sabotaging his ambitions. His thoughts halted the minute Nancy walked back into the kitchen. Her face looked stricken, and her eyes were wide. She gestured for him to look at the book Henny had found in the book box. Together they flipped through Chantilly —a book of entirely blank pages.

“She’s been reading a blank book for days?” Nancy queried, horrified. “And now she’s snuck out her window.” Nancy quickly grabbed her phone and car keys. She needed to find her daughter, but she’d need to hurry back for Aunt Lil. As a parting thought, she turned back to Jordanski. “You coming, Ed?” He shook his head and Nancy left without him.

#

Jordanski sat at the bar of The Council, a popular watering hole for city politicians, reporters, and political groupies. The bartender placed two draft beers from a local brewery in front of Jordanski with a nod, and then slid to the other end of the bar. This establishment had been around for decades, and the bartender nearly as long. He knew when people wanted to chat and when they wanted to be left alone, same as always. The interior hadn’t changed much either; dark wood, dim lighting, and no frills. Photographs of famous Chicagoans lined the perimeter—Mayors Harold Washington, Jane Byrne, and both Daley’s. Chicago’s history had seeped into the walls. Legendary reporter Mike Royko was next to a smaller photo of a young Lil Holiday, known affectionately to Henny as Aunt Lil. 

Jaqueline Garfield returned from the ladies’ room and sidled up next to Jordanski. She caught him gazing at Lil’s photo.

“So what’s the verdict on old Lil these days?” Garfield whispered, leaning in, her face mask dangling from one ear.

“In all the time I’ve been hanging around their house, she’s said some crazy shit. But she’s never brought up anything about the goings-on in this bar or the untimely deaths of the good Alderman Henry Marvell and the author Francis Thrash.”

“Thank God. I’d hate it if we had to bump off an old lady.” She gave him a sly half-grin.

“Bump off? You sound like you’re in an old gangster movie.”

They smiled conspiratorially. They enjoyed being thugs. Jordanski took a long sip of his beer and thought about what he wanted to say next.

“Jackie, we did what had to be done, no doubt about it. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it was for the greater good. We couldn’t let the bleeding hearts ruin our little slice of Mayberry by bringing in the riff raff with affordable housing.” Jordanski paused, shaking his head. “The idea of us being racist—you know I have a Black drinking buddy.”

“Ludicrous.”

“The rapper? No, I mean Harold,” Jordanski corrected her.

“I mean it’s ludicrous to think that we’re racist for wanting to protect the neighborhood.”

“Right, I knew that. I’m messing with you.”

“And I’ll always have something on you, my friend,” Garfield teased.

“Uh-huh,” Jordanski responded mildly.

“What about that kid, the girl with the book?” Garfield asked.

“She’s a nosey little bitch, but she’s crazier than her Aunt Lil. Non-issue.”

“How so? Wasn’t she reading that Thrashy-Trash tell-all novel?”

“That’s the thing. She was pretending to read a book, but there is no book. Thrash never finished it. All of her files and computer were destroyed after she died; our team made sure of it. So even if she started a book, it’s long gone. The girl was flipping through a book with blank pages, for Christ’s sake.”

“So with Aunt Lil’s health declining and this disturbed girl headed for the loony bin, do you think we’re finally in the clear?” Garfield moved a few inches closer. Jordanski could smell the beer on her breath. She hadn’t seen him slip the white powder in her drink when she visited the ladies’ room. 

“That’s why I invited you here today; to toast to it being over. Here’s to no more loose ends.” Jordanski raised his glass. 

#

A year had passed before Henny visited the book box again. In all that time, Henny was unable to convince her mom that Jordanski murdered her father and Francis Thrash. Her mom just kept reaching out to Dr. Dhali, who in turn, kept upping her meds. Not that she could blame them. Something about talking to dead authors and obsessive reading of a blank book that freaks people out. 

Jordanski never came over to their house anymore. It was another election year and he was looking for a new campaign manager. Plus, he thought Henny was nuts. Just as well. After sneaking out of her bedroom window that day, she returned the same evening when she was sure Jordanski was gone. She just couldn’t worry her mom that way. 

Today, exactly 12 months later, Henny opened the little door to the book box once again. This time, she placed a pristine paperback inside. Her mom had helped her learn about self-publishing and was delighted about her daughter’s new writing hobby. Henny thought about the story she had written coming out to the public. It could be dangerous, but she didn’t care. She felt changed and fearless. Henny would never again doubt Aunt Lil’s conversations with her dead husband. She would forever be humbled by the power of the book box. The book box gifted her with Chantilly. She was truly the person who it was meant for, the only person. This book was a conversation between the living and dead. Or maybe it was all a product of her imagination, a strange ability indeed. It’s long been theorized that people with mental illness hear things that sane people are incapable of hearing. The proverbial voices in their head may in fact be messages from those who’ve passed. Those voices helped Henny finish writing this novel. She saw them standing there in the yard—her dad wearing the blue tie he wore for press conferences, Francis Thrash and now her Aunt Lil, who had left them a few months ago. Her dad gave her a nod. Henny had a stack of books in her backpack, and she would drop one off at every book box she could find in Chicago. Book box, book box, book box indeed. She picked up the book one last time to inhale that new book smell. She gave herself a moment to admire the cover: Chantilly: An Unreal True Story, by Henny Marvell and Francis Thrash. Could there be anything else as satisfying as a good book? Henny didn’t think so. 

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