Chapter IX

IX

Later that evening we melted into the crowd lining Miami. An early even­ing parade was scheduled to kick off the Fest. The Portland Fire Depart­ment, sirens blaring and lights spinning, and a variety of firefighting equipment, led the way. Portland had just bought a new E-1 aerial, with a basket that stretches ninety feet in the air. They showed off pumpers, and ambulances and even an antique ladder truck that is now a part of Port­land’s History Association.

Mark drove a white Ford Crown Vic with the fire department seal on it. It always chokes me up when I see that vehicle in particular. My Dad drove a similar vehicle before Mark. Dad served many years as Portland’s Fire Chief. He was forced to retire in ‘06 when Carmen was first elected. He passed in his sleep a year later. I always held that against her. She could never understand what she did when she took that job away from him.

The Esmark fire squad followed Portland’s. Esmark is a refinery at the edge of town. They have their own trucks and train their employees in fire­fighting procedures. Their trucks are an ugly green and black, and are big­ger than the usual run of the mill municipal vehicles.

It was cold enough to see our breaths. We stamped our feet to generate warmth and I shoved both of my hands into one of Joe’s and all three into the pocket of his jacket.

People lining the walkway suddenly quieted as T.R’s drill team lead the Marching Horsemen down Miami. Each drill team member and each band member wore an orange and black bow above their left breast. The lone drum major directed his group to play ‘The Saints Go Marching In.’ Drill team members began by pumping their pennants up and down. They twirled about and crossed in front of each other and from one side of the street to the other. One spectator began to clap. It built from there. Someone whistled and someone else cheered. Sud­denly the spectators on the sidelines began to roar, to stamp their feet, to climb on mail­boxes and lighting fixtures, and to scream their hearts out. Damn, it meant everything to see them moving again.

Kids dressed in Halloween costumes were broken into groups, and slipped onto the pa­rade route between floats, horses ridden by members of a His­panic culture club, dancers from a South Side Irish group in neighboring Chicago, a kilty band or two, and even Shriners on motorcycles. VFW and American Legion Posts displayed the Colors, and State and County officials running for office waved from decorated cars. Bringing up the rear were the same satellite vans that had followed us for three weeks, including one van with dented fenders.

The observers drifted into the street behind the last of the parade, and fol­lowed along. We stopped at a street stand and bought hot chocolate and taffy apples, which we took with us as we continued on. Joe said something about stopping for a sandwich later. That was fine with me. We were headed Uptown, which is our business district. Along the way, we glanced into shop windows and commented about the antiques and gift items we saw. Portland is well known for its antique shops.

I was surprised to see a brand new plate glass window at Rasmonson Jewelers. Usually there is a large display of watches and engagement rings on display. That evening it was pretty empty.

We wanted to make it to Robbinson Park where a stage had been erected. The Electric Song and Dance Group from Roosevelt was to perform after the parade.

For this I’ll give Carmen credit. Once upon a time, Montgomery Wards had a catalog store here. Next store was a paint and wallpaper store. When Wards left, and the paint store closed down, the City condemned the build­ings and tore them down. Carmen backed building a park in their place. It’s nice having a place to rest after spending the day shopping.

A screen hung with photographs and surrounded by pots of fall flowers proved to be the temporary monument. Plastic sheets protected the photos from the elements. A crowd had gathered about it, saying a prayer and leaving behind cards and flowers. More people waited with teddy bears and other mementos in hand. 

When we were allowed close, I reached out to Regina’s picture. It’s hard to think of her by herself. We were always together growing up; Regina, Sheri, Darlene, Brenna and myself. It’s still hard to believe that she’s gone. I glanced up at Joe, thinking that he would know what I felt at that moment. I mean I hurt. A part of me had disappeared when Sheri passed from this earth. Another part died with Regina. 

He was lost in his own pain. After all he knew all the children, and he considered him­self responsible for their safety. He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope that he set in the midst of the flowers. He paused for a moment to say a prayer, and then crossed himself. He told me later that the envelope held a Mass card he had purchased at Our Lady of the Hill.

Joe bucked up, and we moved up towards a makeshift stage. We had made it in time for Third Ward Alderman John Orlando to introduce the Electric Song and Dance Group. Girls wearing white sequined dresses and orange feathers in their hair were paired with boys in black tails, white blouses and orange cummerbunds. And just like the Marching Horsemen they wore rib­bons pinned above their left breasts. But then everyone I saw had a ribbon pinned somewhere.

They specialize in show tunes. Hannah Schreoder, the very same girl from the day before, sang several solos. She has a strong, beautiful voice. One moment, her notes were husky, and the next they reached the sky. She held center stage, by herself, and sang ‘Don’t Cry for me, Argen­tina,’ as the others danced slowly and sensuously. They dipped and brushed up against each other as they crossed the stage.

Joe groaned a couple of times, and looked about him. I could see it in his eyes. He wondered if the dance was appropriate for high school students. But then it ended without fulfilling its promise of promiscuity and he ap­plauded along with everyone else. The group sang ‘A Coat of Many Col­ors’, ‘Night Music,’ and several other Andrew Lloyd Weber songs.

When the Electric Song and Dance Group finished, we waited for an en­core. Nothing happened. A voice from back stage demanded to know where they were going. After a moment, Joe called my attention to kids, wrapped in coats, carrying blankets and tearing down Trent. They turned south on Miami.

John Orlando introduced the Irish dancers. Girls in big, silky skirts tapped their hearts out. They reminded me of our first date. I had press passes to see ‘Riverdance’.

“Awe, Christ,” Joe groaned a few minutes into this. I turned to see what he was looking at.

Ed Sonchek, his gloved hand holding his cap in place, pushed through the crowd. “Chief wants you,” he said, closing in on us. “You got a camera?”

“No. I left it at home.”

“Go. He’s at the station. I’ll get you one.” He hurried in the opposite di­rection.

Joe took my elbow and directed me through the crowd. “I’m beginning to think you’re a cop,” he grumbled. “Can’t go anywhere anymore, or do any­thing, that Art isn’t sending his pet retriever out to find you.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is.”

We walked down Trent towards Miami. A teenage boy hurried towards us. He pushed between people and waived. “Mr. Spyres! Mr. Spyres!” Joe sped up when he saw the boy. “Lisa sent me,” he called. “She says that she needs you and Annie now.”

“Where?”

“Police station. We’ve got a sit-in going.” He ran back in the direction he came from.

We turned the corner on 135th and ran into a traffic jam. The TV vans, with satellite dishes raised, circled the police station and City Hall, shining their lights on the front lawn. Spectators surrounded them. We bulldozed our way forward. When we came upon Lisa, we also found the missing dance troop, as well as the Marching Horsemen. At least two hundred kids had spread blankets on the lawn, and sat down. When Lisa saw us, she stood and waved.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “Your father will be looking for you.”

“Good.” She nodded at a tall, sandy haired boy with a bad complexion, who sat on the ground next to her. “My stepbrother, Greg. He’s looking for both of us.”

“Lisa?”

“Greg’s eighteen. He doesn’t have to go back. Give me a couple of months, and I will be, too. I can avoid him until then. Let him take it to court.”

“What’s going on?” Joe asked.

“We’re protesting,” she explained with a smile. “All these kids. We want Uncle Tim released.”

“You think they’re going to listen to kids?” Joe asked, glancing about.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t they?”

“He’s been accused of a felony.”

“He hasn’t been charged with anything,” she retorted. “He’s innocent, and legally they can’t hold him. Let him go.”

As she said it, the others picked it up as a chant. “Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” I glanced about. Alan McElroy was there, Linc Weber and Hannah Schreoder, and a little further down, I recognized Mario LoBianco. All of them raised fists and cried out in uni­son. “Let him go! Let him go!”

Ed Sonchek hurried through the crowd from behind us. “Sorry,” he said, passing me a disposable camera. “Best I could do.”

“It’ll work.” I stripped the foil off and began taking flash pictures. Lisa smiled for me and waved. So did Linc.

Art charged out of the front of the building. I took his picture. “Got a complaint,” he said, hurrying up to me. “Carmen’s on her way, and she’s pissed.”

“Good for Carmen.” I took his picture again, and I took Ed’s. When I turned to find Joe, he wasn’t there. The kids began to applaud, yelling out to him. “Hey, Mr. Spyres! All right!” I found him seated in the middle of the lawn with a bunch of kids pushing in around him.

“Crazy son-of-a-bitch,” Art chuckled.

A couple of minutes passed before Carmen and three Aldermen charged down 135th. “What the hell is this? Get these kids out of here now,” she or­dered.

“Excuse me,” Art said, leaning forward. “Did you say something, Mayor Herrera?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? They’re ruining my Fest.”

“Oh?” Art smiled at that. I snapped his picture again. “Your Fest?” He leaned in and so did Carmen. My next shot got them nose to nose. Art smiled and Carmen growled. “These kids want Father Flaherity released.”

“He’s a child molester. And what the hell is he still doing here? He should have been charged and sent to Cook County.”

“No evidence.”

“No evidence, my ass. Get someone out there and find some.”

Art turned to me. “See, and you thought she read the paper.”

She pounced at me, fire shooting out of her nose like a dragon in full flame, reaching out, trying to grab at my camera. I side stepped her and snapped off another picture. “You, Moriarty, you’re a trouble maker. I’ll have your ass thrown in jail, right next to that fagot priest.”

The kids roared. They picked up the chant again. “Let him go! Let him go!” Yes, this was fun.

Carmen spun back on Art. “Listen, you fat, black, fart head. You get this mess cleared up, or you’re fired.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

Art’s smile grew. “I dare you.” He stepped into the crowd on the parkway. “Move over. I take up a lot of room.” To the kids enjoyment, he sat.

Carmen drew back in horror. She spun on Ed. “Arrest him.” Ed threw his hands up and he backed into the crowd. He sat, too. And missed a blanket entirely. When he realized that, he face twisted up in agony. The door to the station house flew open and several of­ficers charged out. Carmen pointed at Bill Ramos. “You’re in charge now. Do some­thing.” Bill followed the oth­ers into the thick of the kids and sat, too. I took one picture after another of officers sitting next to kids. I caught Carmen in the middle of her temper tantrum, and I took pictures of bystanders pointing at her and laughing.

Hannah began to sing. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me...”

One of the Marching Horsemen stopped her. “Hold on,” he insisted. He pulled his horn from the case at his side, and began to play. She started up again. Almost every kid on the lawn joined in. Even the crowd on the fringes sang along. Carmen charged off. I caught a picture of one of her Al­dermen. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to sit or to follow her. A moment passed and he wandered off in another direction.

After a few moments, Art spoke up. “You know, I don’t think anyone thought this through. These kids can’t sit here all night.”

Linc tapped his father on the shoulder, and showed Art his watch. “Got a ten o’clock curfew,” he said, tapping the dial. “We aren’t done by then, we’ll come back tomorrow.”

Art nodded. “Smart kid.” He waited only a while longer. Once he was sure that Carmen wouldn’t return, he struggled to his feet. “I’ve got a city to protect,” he said. “Bill, get E.S.D.A. out here.” Bill, Ed and others reluc­tantly followed Art back into the station. Before long, volunteers from the Emergency Services and Disaster Agency arrived. They blocked off the streets and held back the media.

I couldn’t hang around either, and everyone knew it. I need at least an hour before deadline to get back to the office. Someone had to take the film from the camera and develop it old school, and I had to write an article yet. I wanted to talk to the kids first. “I didn’t have much to do with organizing this,” Lisa told me. “If you remem­ber, I’ve been stuck at my Dad’s for the last two days. Hannah called me there.”

Hannah moved over to where we sat. She accepted a blanket from one of the kids, and wrapped it about her bottom. “I was shot in the hip,” she said, as she carefully sat. “I’m not supposed to be exposed to the cold, but try to stop me from being here.”

“You organized this?”

“Well, yes and no,” she shrugged. “I’m not supposed to be doing this much. I mean to­night, the dance. I was supposed to dance like the others did in ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argen­tina.’ I can’t. One of the guys was...” she frowned and cleared her throat. “It’ll be a while before he’s with us again. Anyway, his partner was paired up with mine. I just sang. That was fine. I mean my Mom didn’t want me here. Only she can’t stop me. If I really want some­thing. I mean she tries anyway.”

I glanced at Joe. He turned aside. He said later that this is exactly what he runs into with parents. They’ve either lost control of their kids, or they’ve never exerted any to begin with.

“So, who organized this?” I asked.

“I don’t know if it’s that organized,” Hannah said. “I mean it was kind of a dare. See how many kids show up. I mean Father Tim would do it for us. I mean I’ve been to his meetings. Especially when I needed to talk to some­one. I didn’t know Megan was his niece. Or Lisa.” She nodded at her friend.

“Bite me,” Lisa told her. Lisa turned to me. “Until two weeks ago, she didn’t know anyone existed except for Tony.” Hannah crumbled, her shoul­ders caving in and the shakes overtaking her. Lisa reached out to her. “Stop. I’m sorry.”

Hannah picked at her eyes, sniffed and straightened her back. “You know what?” Han­nah said with her eyes full of tears. “I didn’t like any of those kids. I mean they were creepy. It’s just that I never thought that this could happen.”

Linc pushed into our group. He tapped Hannah on the shoulder. “Hey, stop with the tears,” he ordered.

Hannah smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. “Linc is my buddy,” she said. “Him and Lisa. Lisa tells me what I need to know, and when she’s done, he picks up the pieces and puts me back together again.”

“Yeah,” Linc chastised, “I’ll call you Humpty Dumpty. No more tears.”

The night and the temperature began to fall and we squeezed closer. Then something really terrific happened. We started to bond. We had enough musicians in the group to develop one heck of a jam session. The horns and the woodwinds appeared, and Hannah sang. Those who didn’t play or sing, clapped their hands. Even the train whistles harmo­nized with us. When the kids finished another round of ‘Amazing Grace’, someone sug­gested an­other song. “Wait a minute. You know how Father Tim is about praying to the Blessed Mother.” He began to sing. “Immaculate Mary, your praises we sing. You reign now in heaven with Jesus, our King...” The kids who knew it picked that up. “Oh, when the saints, oh when the saints, go marching in. Oh when the saints go marching in...”

Inside, Art unlocked Father Tim’s cell. “Got something you’ll want to hear,” Art said. He indicated that Father Tim should lead the way. They stopped at the front door. Strains of ‘Immaculate Mary’ made their way in­side. “There’s about a hundred and fifty kids out there,” Art explained. “They’ve got a sit in going.”

“For what?”

“For your release.”

Art said that it had occurred to him that Father Tim might try to slip out. And indeed Father Tim tried to open the outer door. Art stopped him. “No,” Father Tim said, “You have to send them home. They’ll all be getting into trouble out there.”

“They’re fine, Father. Leave them be.”

Link to Chapter IX *