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  “Sounds good,” said Bill. “Are you hungry?” he asked me.

  Dennis was cuddling Susan, giving her long kisses in the back seat.

  “I’m fine either way,” I said.

  It was already late, and I didn’t dare get home after midnight, so we were on the lookout for the first fast food we could find. In teen oblivion, I wasn’t thinking about where we were. Between our West Garfield Park neighborhood and downtown lay East Garfield Park, which was even more crime-ridden than it had been when my parents were scared to send me to Marshall High School. Driving east on Madison, we saw a neon sign blinking “Hamburgers–Hot Dogs” just a block south on Western. It would be fast, and we were a mere two miles from my house as we pulled into the parking lot at 11:20. That gave us plenty of time to down a burger and 7-Up, and still be home on time.

  As Bill and Dennis strode into the burger joint to order, I twisted around, facing the rear window, so I could talk to Susan. I wasn’t alarmed by the all-black clientele—it looked just like my block. But I thought it was odd the way Bill and Dennis were walking back to the car, their heads down, not talking, taking long, purposeful strides, their hands holding trays of food. I was midsentence, when a hulk of a black man—at least six foot four—emerged out of the darkness. He stepped in front of Bill and Dennis, towering over them and blocking their path. Within seconds, he swung back his huge arm and punched Dennis square in the face. Dennis crumpled to the ground.

  “Oh my God!” I shouted. “He hit Dennis!”

  Susan whipped around. “My poor baby,” was all she could muster, kneeling on the seat and peering out the rear window.

  Later Bill told me it had all happened so fast, he hadn’t even seen the punch coming and wondered why some guy on the ground, with a twisted nose and gushing blood, wore the same shirt as Dennis. He knew soon enough.

  Now the man was going after Bill. Still grasping the tray full of burgers and drinks, Bill backed away, brows knitted, talking to the guy, keeping eye contact. Heart hammering, I felt as if I’d suddenly been thrust into a movie, imagining the next scene—Bill beaten to the ground. The commotion had drawn a crowd, but no one intervened until the African American manager came running outside, his ketchup-and mustard-splattered white apron hanging low over his shirt. At only about five foot eight, he ran right up to the aggressor, gesturing and talking agitatedly. The big man lifted his fist again, moving toward Bill. The manager stepped between them, raising both palms up high against the man’s chest, holding him back. Unsteady on his feet, the assailant weaved away and disappeared into the darkness.

  Bill dashed to the car, signaled for me to roll down the window, and shoved in the food. “Stay in the car,” he barked. “Lock the doors.”

  “What are you going to do?” I yelled, but he was running back to Dennis before I finished my sentence.

  Susan and I locked our doors. I rolled down the window partway to hear. The manager had helped Dennis to his feet, placing wads of paper napkins over his bleeding nose. Bill said something to the two of them, then strode to the pay phone in the parking lot. He dialed “O” for operator. “I need police at Western and Monroe. Hamburger place on the corner. We have an assault.”

  Susan’s bouffant hair had lost none of its lift, but her skin had gone from blush pink to gray. Her eyes, round with terror, darted around the scene while she chewed on her fingernails. My eyes stayed glued on Bill at the pay phone. He was talking into the mouthpiece, when I saw the attacker return and stumble toward Bill. “Bill! Look out!” I screamed.

  Bill turned just as the man grabbed the phone from his hand and smashed it onto the cradle. His face contorted with anger, Bill shouted, “Get the hell out of here! I’m calling the police.” He picked up the phone again.

  “No, you ain’t.” The guy grabbed the receiver from Bill and banged it, missing the cradle multiple times, until it finally stayed put.

  I shouted through the cracked-open window, “Stop talking, Bill! Please! Just get in the car.”

  Bill was six feet but no more than 150 pounds. The assailant was hefty and muscular. I was sure he’d smash Bill’s face—or worse. Then what would I do? Would I get out of the car? Call the police myself? I didn’t know. I’d never been in a violent encounter, but Bill’s aggressive stance, a revelation to me about his character, reassured me. At least he had not lost control.

  Bill picked up the receiver. The black man hung it up again. Bill kept shouting, dodging nimbly out of the guy’s woozy reach as they each repeated the gestures, like some bizarre vaudeville routine. Out came the manager again, trying to persuade the man to leave. The big guy lumbered off, as if he had time on his side.

  Susan’s eyes brimmed with tears. She lived in a safe, upper-middle-class suburb and hadn’t bargained for a Saturday night date that would end with her boyfriend’s nose broken. We heard a siren’s wail, like a nearing train whistle. Please let that be for us! Mars lights spinning, a cop car pulled into the parking lot and two policemen stepped out, pulling on their hats. They took statements from Bill, Dennis, and the manager. The attacker was long gone.

  After Bill and Dennis got back into the car, the cop leaned into the driver’s window. “What the hell are you kids doing in this neighborhood?” he asked.

  “My girlfriend lives over near Pulaski and Washington,” Bill said, gesturing at me.

  The officer stared at oh-so-innocent-looking me, and shook his head. “Roll up the windows and keep those doors locked,” he said, “and drive right home. Don’t stop for anything.” He slapped his palm against the side of Bill’s car. “Nice ride.”

  Bill drove fast. We were at my house in less than fifteen minutes, but it was already past one in the morning. He and I got out and hurried up the front steps of my house. Before I could get my key in the lock, Mom opened the door, her face a black scowl. “You’re an hour late!” she shouted. “Your curfew is midnight!”

  “Mom, listen to what happened.”

  “I don’t care about excuses,” she yelled.

  “Mom, we were attacked!”

  She turned on Bill, her voice rising in fury. “How old are you?” she asked, but interrupted him before he could answer. “Listen,” she growled, “she’s sixteen and has to be home by midnight. Period!”

  “I appreciate your position, Mrs. Gartz,” said Bill, “but—”

  “Mom,” I tried to interject, my voice raised, “Dennis’s nose is broken. Don’t you understand? We were attacked!”

  “If she wants to go out, she’d better be back when I say.” She was spitting out the words, bits of saliva spewing into the air between us, her voice cracking with anger.

  Mom’s tirade and our futile attempts to explain went on for ten minutes, until she finally calmed down enough to let reality sink in. She told Bill she was sorry. She glanced out the front window. “I hope Dennis will be okay,” she said sheepishly.

  “I have to get him to the hospital,” he said. “Goodnight. I’m sorry we were late, but it couldn’t be helped.” He looked at me. “I’ll call you.” He shut the door behind him.

  “Thanks a lot!” I yelled at my mother. “You don’t even care that Dennis’s nose was broken!”

  “I thought you were purposely staying out late,” Mom said, her voice softened now, chagrin creeping into her tone, “just to prove you could do what you wanted—and that made me mad. I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re all okay.”

  “Forget it! I can’t even talk to you!” I turned away from her, marched into my bedroom, and slammed the door behind me. What a jerk! I thought as I unclipped my stockings and rolled them off. Her RULES! RULES! She can’t even shut up for a few seconds to listen. Pulling my dress over my head, my mind leaped back to the huge man in front of Dennis, his arm pulled back; Dennis on the ground; the guy going after Bill; my sense of helplessness—not knowing what to do. Guilt began to seep into my gut. I should have known better than to stop there.

  I opened a dresser drawer and grabbed a nightgown. I had argued th
e previous week with Mom for a later curfew. She wouldn’t budge. I was exasperated with her, but I wasn’t a defiant teen; I never gave my parents any trouble. Why wasn’t that obvious to her?

  And both my parents must have known that West Garfield Park was becoming more dicey—and the surrounding communities already had crime and gangs. Why wasn’t she worried, instead of angry?

  As I lay in bed, my thoughts looped mostly around my “unfair mother,” but into the loop, images of the attack crept in, evidence that the neighborhood safety we once took for granted was slipping away.

  The next day, she and Dad asked me for details. “That’s a bad area,” Dad said. “Don’t ever go that way again.”

  “Kids can’t even stop for a hamburger after a date anymore,” Mom said, shaking her head. But neither of them said, “It’s time to leave.” The following week, they learned of a departure that would tether them more firmly than ever to West Garfield Park.

  CHAPTER 27: The Tether and the Dream

  Our new home at 4323 N. Keeler Avenue.

  1965

  The doorbell rang on Wednesday evening, June 16, 1965. Mom strode with her usual quick pace to answer it. From my bedroom, I heard my grandparents and Uncle Will. How strange. They virtually never visited during the week. I walked into the living room and heard Mom’s tentative greeting, “Hello … Come in. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no. We just have something to tell you,” said Grandma, moving quickly past Mom with her side-to-side gait. Dad walked down the hallway from the kitchen into the living room. Mom looked to Dad, who shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows in an “I don’t know” expression.

  Gesturing to our green couch, Mom said, “Won’t you sit down?” Mom took a seat next to them. Dad sat on the ottoman, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs; his fingers spread wide, the tips pressed together; his face all expectancy. I lowered myself onto the rug into a cross-legged position.

  “We’ve bought a house in Villa Park,” blurted out Uncle Will. “We’ll be moving before July. We just wanted you to know.” I’d never heard of this town.

  “Villa Park!” Dad said. “That’s far. When did you decide to do this?” I saw the concern in Dad’s face. I knew Dad viewed West Garfield Park as his family community—where Dad had spent his entire life, working with his parents, through Depression hardships and Ebner’s heart-numbing death. Even when his parents had offered so little support to us during Dad’s travels, he had stayed loyal to the neighborhood—partly because his parents were still here. Now they were deserting us without a word beforehand, even though whether—or when—to leave the neighborhood was on everyone’s mind.

  “Well, we wanted to surprise you. We’re giving you our six-flat,” said Grandma.

  “What?” Mom practically shouted, her hands flying to her face. “What do you mean?”

  Grandpa leaned forward, grimaced, and flicked his hand to the side. “It means we’re giving you our building—a gift.”

  I pulled back from his annoyed gesture and looked at my silent parents, at their stunned, dumbfounded expressions. I was perplexed, too. Grandma and Grandpa were not known for their generosity. Shifting on the couch, Mom found her voice. “This is … so … unexpected. I mean, I’m not sure how to thank you, but … well, thank you!”

  “Yes … thank you,” said Dad, his fingertips tapping lightly together.

  Grandma waved away their gratitude with hardly a smile. “You’ll see what it’s like.” My grandparents talked a little more about their new home. Villa Park lay sixteen miles and about forty minutes west of our house.

  Uncle Will drew an envelope of photos from his pocket. “It’s a ranch. It’ll be easier for Mom and Pop to get around,” he said.

  “The neighborhood is so quiet,” Grandpa gestured, sweeping his palms forward, tracing the air in a half arc, as if it were the community itself. He scrunched up his still-alert blue eyes in his usual way to emphasize a point. “No more tenants, and an arbor to grow roses.” No matter how many hours Grandma and Grandpa labored, they always had planted a beautiful garden.

  Will passed around snapshots of a nondescript yellow-brick house, a tiny patch of grass bordering the front. Inside were two small bedrooms; a compact, eat-in kitchen; a living room with a large picture window looking out on the front; and a basement for storage. “It looks nice,” said Dad, but his tone said it all—he was hurt by this bombshell, marginalizing him again.

  After a little more talk about their moving date and the logistics of transferring the six-flat deed to us, my grandparents and uncle stood. “Well, we have to get going. A lot of packing to do,” said Uncle Bill.

  After living in West Garfield Park for half a century, Grandma and Grandpa had been befuddled by the changing neighborhood. Suffering from high blood pressure and tachycardia (a racing heartbeat), Grandma had already had more than one heart attack during the previous two decades. She and Grandpa were both in their late seventies, and they couldn’t take the stress of the doorbell ringing with would-be African American renters and harassing calls from realtors.

  It wasn’t until decades later, after everyone was dead, that I discovered Grandma’s scribbles, on random sheets of paper, about the six-flat gift. I learned that the appraised value of the six-flat in June of 1965 was $40,000. She noted that their tax lawyer had advised her and Grandpa to gift some of their savings, “or you’ll give it to the government,” as he put it. Grandma’s notes show that she and Grandpa thought the building would help pay for her grandchildren’s college educations, but based on conversations over the years, I know they never told that to my parents.

  I recall my mom and dad briefly discussing whether or not to sell the six-flat, but they repeatedly came to the same conclusion: it would be a slap in the face to my grandparents’ generosity. I believe now that Dad may have unconsciously feared his mother’s acrimony if they sold. So this is what you do with a gift of a building? You should take care of it as we did! Grandma’s condemning wave of the hand, her sour face and head-shaking disappointment—Dad had seen it all, over and over, since early childhood.

  I learned more from my grandmother’s notes—facts that I had never known about the six-flat gift. Since my grandparents had given Dad a $40,000 building, my grandparents felt it was only fair that they give Will $40,000, too—in stocks and cash, part of which Will used to buy the house in Villa Park. His gift was a home in a safe neighborhood and thousands in growth investments. Dad’s gift was a tether to a community on the skids, with the implication that my parents shouldn’t sell it.

  By early July, my grandparents and Will had moved, so Dad and Mom tackled the six-flat in earnest. “After all the bragging Grandma did about her great housekeeping, they sure left that place a mess!” Mom told me once she and Dad returned home after spending the day determining what work my grandparents’ former apartment required before it could be rented.

  Sweating through the July heat, Mom and Dad steamed and scraped off the old, dirty wallpaper only to discover the walls beneath were riddled with cracks. They hired Italian plasterers and, at a cost of several thousand dollars, replaced the failing furnace. Mom scrubbed the floors with trisodium phosphate, then sanded and varnished them. But Dad forgot to lay a drop cloth before prepping the walls for paint, and the newly varnished floor was spotted with primer. Mom wanted to cry.

  “You ruined the varnish!” she yelled at Dad. He spent several hours with a turpentine-soaked rag and scraper, removing the errant spots. In most Chicago apartments, especially in African American communities, if landlords even bothered to paint, they certainly wasted neither time nor money cleaning up splatters or smudges. Windows often stayed broken for months or were permanently painted shut. Heat might be unpredictable or inadequate. But my parents’ old-world values required that their work was perfect.

  Just as they were investing more effort and funds into the West Side, fate stepped in, giving them a clear vision of how to fulfill a dream they didn’t even
know they had.

  It was another building.

  About a month after my parents took possession of the six-flat, Peggy and I were walking to her apartment after school. A “For Sale by Owner” sign hung in front of the house one door north of her building. Whenever I visited Peggy, I had walked past and admired this gracious, white clapboard Victorian with its wide front porch, brilliant stained-glass windows, and wraparound second-floor balcony. Even my parents had remarked on its beauty whenever they picked me up after an overnight. “Look at that gorgeous house!” one or the other would say, as if it were far out of reach.

  When I got home, I said to my parents, “Guess what? You know that really pretty house next door to Peggy? It’s for sale!” I was grinning, talking fast. “Here—I took down the phone number from the sign.” As far as I knew, they weren’t actively looking to move, although it had come up in desultory conversations—with no real plan attached. With my grandparents’ departure, and the extra dangers we had recently encountered in and near West Garfield Park, I figured they were open to finding a safer place to live.

  I handed Mom the slip of paper as she sat making notes at the handsome oak Victorian desk she had refinished.

  “Hmmm. I’ve always loved that house,” she said, staring at the number. She got up and handed the information to Dad, who extended his arm backward from the couch, pausing from the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. “What do you think, Fred? We should at least take look.”

  Dad sat up, turning his back to the TV. “That is a beautiful home,” he agreed. “Sure, let’s go. Can’t hurt to look.” Mom made the appointment, and early the next evening, our whole family piled into our Ford station wagon and drove from Washington Boulevard, five miles straight north up Pulaski, then two blocks west at Montrose to Keeler, for a visit.

  The owners were an elderly woman, Mrs. Trandell, and her son. Stooped with age, Mrs. Trandell greeted us at the front door, her white hair wisping about her heavily lined face, her tentative smile appraising us as a mother might evaluate potential adoptive parents for her baby. She ushered our family through the crescent-shaped entryway, bordered on two sides with leaded-glass windows, then through another oak door, opening to an expansive entry, in front of a wide, light-oak staircase winding out of sight to the second floor.