False Impressions

“What’s a header?”

“When you realize you’re wasted and have to put yourself to bed, and you just leave because you don’t want people talking you out of it, and you’re in no shape to say goodbyes. It’s usually a guy thing.”

“She wasn’t wasted.”

“When are you supposed to see her next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Call me if she’s doesn’t show.”

Eventually Vaughn turned up North Avenue, heading east, then turned left on Sedgwick and another left at my street, Eugenie. He pulled over to the curb and put the car in park.

“Well,” I said, “you certainly seem to know exactly where my house is.” I noticed immediately that a fair amount of sarcasm had come out with my words. What was it about Damon Vaughn that got under my skin?

He turned around, his face a snarl of irritability. “Listen, McNeil, I was at your house recently for a couple of break-ins. Remember? And, wait, oh yeah, a murder.”

He had a good point. My neighbor had been killed last year in my apartment, and Vaughn had soon been on the scene, taking care of it.

“So yeah, I remember where your place is,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.” He sounded not so much irritable now as he did hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re an idiot. I’m sorry if it sounded like that.”

Nothing from Vaughn.

I opened the door. “Hey, I’m grateful for the ride. Thanks.”

He picked up his hand as if to wave goodbye, but he didn’t turn around.

“Really,” I said. “Thanks.”

A pause, then, “No problem, McNeil.”

And that, I supposed, was the best relationship Detective Damon Vaughn and I were going to have.

10

I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cellphone. I hadn’t turned it off in the hope that Madeline would call.

The display read, Charlie. Cell. My brother.

In days of yore, the sight of a call from my brother first thing in the morning would have induced fear. For years and years, he lived off a worker’s comp settlement and nursed a back injury. He regularly slept until two in the afternoon, giving himself a solid three hours before he would open a bottle of red wine.

But in the last year, he’d landed a job in radio and then branched into other sound-production projects.

“How are you?” I answered.

“I’m fine.” That wasn’t a surprise. Charlie was always fine. He was one of those people—admittedly the only one I knew—who was always, generally, content.

“But it’s Dad,” Charlie said then. Another little shock.

Our father had returned to our lives, and to Chicago, only six months ago. So the word dad was a bit jarring. That word had been used when Charlie and I were kids, but once our dad disappeared, with no one else. We had grown up believing he had died, but in truth he had gone undercover to protect us. We’d always called our eventual stepfather, Spence, by his first name.

Another little recognition settled in. This was the first time, strangely, that my brother and I had talked, just the two of us, about my father directly. It was as if we were both feeling our way in the world of having a father again, neither wanting to disturb the other’s development, both of us knowing, somewhere deep within, that we both had our own journeys.

“He’s thinking about leaving,” Charlie said.

“Leaving?”

“Moving. Out of Chicago.”

“When did you hear this?”

“Last night. Met him for dinner.”

Both Charlie and I had been trying to have regular visits with our father, trying to help incorporate his new life in Chicago into ours. Even our mom and Spence had done the same. But the fact was, Christopher McNeil was not a social animal. If anything, he was a loner. He’d left Chicago long ago to save his family and spent most of his life abroad.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Not much. You know how he is.”

“Yeah.”

“I asked him a few more questions, but I didn’t get too far.”

I tried to let Charlie’s news travel from my ears to my mind and from there to my heart and gut to see what I felt. But there were all sorts of blockages, too many feelings and wrong-way turns. For so long, I had kept my father compartmentalized. I didn’t know what to feel about this news.

In the meantime, I needed to get to the gallery. I needed to find out where Madeline had disappeared to.

“I don’t know what to think, Charlie. I’ll have to call ya later.”

When I walked in the gallery I was relieved to see that Madeline was there.

She stood at the back, talking to a man about a series of photographic prints hanging on the wall. Each showcased a mocked-up magazine cover, the model in each representing different ways women are viewed—from mother to whore and so many other things in between. I didn’t think I understood the photographs, but I had been intrigued when Madeline showed them to me the day before.

I went into the back room and was slipping my arms out of my coat when I heard the ding of the door opening—probably the client leaving—and then the sound of high heels clicking gently toward me. Madeline.

When I turned to greet her, I expected an apology for her disappearing act.

“Last night…” she said. I nodded, interested in her explanation. “Didn’t you say you wanted to meet someone?”

“Someone…?”

“A man. Someone to date.”

I thought about it. “Yeah. I guess at some point in our discussion I did. I also said I thought I was fine being on my own, though.”

“Well, anyway, I’ve got someone coming in for you,” Madeline said, sounding pleased.