She knew this from her reading of the city’s history, mandated for her by a city editor who wanted his reporters from Ohio to judge Chicago from its past, not theirs. Once knew Wacker Drive, named after Charley Wacker, who made good German beer before giving himself over to civic improvement, had that sort of history, she could never again look at the double-deck street, river level and above, in the same way.

That sort of woolgathering did not hinder her at a time like this, with the deadline a half hour away. Whether it helped or not, she didn’t know. But the pause seemed necessary. It came after she had wrestled with all the material before her and about one-third of its writing. When she returned from the reverie, she plunged at the terminal’s keyboard — soundless compared to the rackety typewriters she had started on ten years earlier, in another city room overlooking another river.

The difference made no difference. Word processor, terminal screen, typewriter, “books” of copy paper that made carbon copies on four attached thin, green sheets — it made no difference. She pinged out the words which, when put together one after another, made sense and might make a tiny difference in how some readers saw the world.

A million readers, conservatively speaking. Now that, she thought as she shuffled notes about, was worth spending an hour at on a Thursday afternoon before meeting one’s favorite priest for dinner at the Corona.

She finished the last strikers’ comment, something wistful one of them had let slip about hoping strike benefits would allow him to buy his kid a birthday bicycle, and knew she was done.

Anyhow, she ran it over the green screen once more, dropping three adjectives in the process.

“Adjectives?” an old desk man had asked her once, as if astonished. “What are you doin’ with all those adjectives? Who do you think you are, Walt Whitman?”

She copied it and stored the copy with a few flicks of the finger, and sending it to the desk with a few more.

“I just sent ‘Strike,’ she told the desk man, who nodded in response from a few feet away. Then she hit the print button and sat back to smoke a carefully rationed cigarette. It was the nicest time of her day so far.

What lay ahead was distant for the moment. But as she sat back, again in reverie, eyes out the window, a one-sided phone conversation coming from two desks behind her, the prospect drifted back. Just briefly she regretted Father Devlin was bringing friends along. Just long enough to savor that prospect, lost at least for this evening.

Just long enough to wonder where she and Patrick Devlin were going with this blossoming friendship of theirs.

Her telephone rang.

“If I buy you a drink in about fifteen minutes, will you promise not to throw it in my lap?” It was the nasty banker.

She stayed cool, “If you did, I wouldn’t, but you won’t.” She had a flashing image of his grapplings and groanings the one time they had slept together.

“I’m the one that should be pissed off. What are you so mad about?” he said.

“I’m busy” She did not want to argue with him. Plus, she was a little afraid.

“Hot date?”

She wondered what foolishness had led her to bed with him. Expense of spirit, waste of shame . . .

“I mean if you have a hotter prospect in hand, don’t let go of it, you know. I mean, I can understand that. It’s only reasonable.”

She tried again. “Fred, no.”

“No? No what?”

“No drink, O.K.?”

”O.K,” he said. “Give me a hard time. I can take it. If I couldn’t stand heat, I’d be out of the kitchen. Join a monastery or something. If you change your mind, I’ll be at Ric’s. Maybe with some bimbo, who knows? Hah.” He hung up. He could try getting married, she thought. Hah, look at who’s talking.

She pulled her stuff together and headed home to clean some steel-mill dirt off her tired body and in general freshen up for a semi-domestic evening with Devlin and his friends.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

The Williamses and Devlin got to the Corona first. Ginny would ask for them at the door. They sat and drank wine.

“Ever here before?” Devlin asked.

“I was,” said Arthur. “Five, six years ago, by myself. I stayed downtown for a meeting, which I resented greatly. So I treated myself.” He smiled, remembering. “Nice wine, salad, pasta, spumoni, coffee. Your standard Dago, I mean Italian, fare.”

“Watch it,” said Devlin. “Some of you black people look down on recent immigrants, I know, but —”

Arthur waved him off, “I said it to keep you on your toes. See if your brotherhood disappears with . . . ” He moved a finger around his neck where a collar would go.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Devlin, “My idealism is ingrained by now. Deeply. Go on.”

“I was sitting near the kitchen, at a small table. The waiters walked by me, hustling, you know. It was a fairly busy week night, like this one. This guy was really agitated. Some customers were getting on his nerves. He wouldn’t show it to them, but by the time he passed my table, he felt free to let go. He shot by me once, talking to himself. ‘Peasants,’ he said. ‘Peasants.’ That was all. He couldn’t think of anything worse to say, It was wonderful.”

Devlin and Melissa laughed.

“Hello, everybody.” It was Ginny, her red hair brushed and fluffed, in a nice feminine dress, smelling subtly sweet, looking good.

Devlin stood to introduce her, Arthur to be introduced. Handshaking all around. Devlin hadn’t been a kisser for many years. As a practicing celibate, he’d gotten out of the habit. He’d never been able to understand how some priests could greet non-relative beautiful women with kisses right and left. It bothered Devlin, and he’d stopped doing it.

For Ginny and Melissa it was a reunion. “It’s been years,” said Ginny.

“Oh my yes,” said Melissa, who looked glad to see her old college friend. “When was it? Nineteen sixty-eight? That murderous year?”

“That was it,” said Ginny. “What a year to graduate from college.”

“You meet in a fitting place,” said Devlin. They looked at him, not understanding. “Chicago,” he said. “A few miles from Lincoln Park, Michigan Avenue, the Amphitheatre. Where the whole world was watching. Do I have to remind you, Ginny? You a newspaper woman?”

“Of course,” Ginny said, looking at her friend the priest. “I should have known.”

The waiter took her wine order. They all studied the oversized menu and ordered “your standard Italian fare,” as Arthur put it with a look towards Devlin, who nodded approvingly.

The soup came quickly. They all set to it. Small talk established their respective current duties and obligations. “Three kids?” said Ginny to Arthur and Melissa. “In a house in Oak Park? Sounds good.”

“How about you?” asked Melissa. “Are you irretrievably committed to your career?” She asked it without thinking. It was the sort of question she might ask any old college friend. She’d forgotten her earlier worries about Devlin.

There was a short pause, then Ginny, looking just a little uncomfortable, said, “Yes and no.” She paused again. “I don’t know,” she said, with a smile, looking at Melissa. “I don’t know.”

The talk went to the events of the day — the steel strike which Ginny had covered that very day, city politics under the female mayor, Ronald Reagan’s standing in the polls.

Arthur observed that issues faded away without being faced. “We just stop talking about some problems. That doesn’t mean they get solved.”

“There’s always a new one. That’s the problem,” said Devlin.

“That’s the problem?” said Ginny. “The one that never goes away?”

They laughed.

“Right,” said Devlin. “Problems, problems everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” He had spotted empty wine glasses. They agreed that a bottle of Chianti was in order, lest they suffer further from thirst. It arrived with the pasta, and the meal took an abrupt turn to the convivial.

“Did I tell you what Arthur did to me the other morning, as I jogged blithely along next to Columbus Park?” Devlin said, talking to Ginny and Melissa.

“Columbus Park?” said Ginny. “Lincoln Park is where you jog, not Columbus. It shows how you clergy are out of it if you think Columbus Park is for jogging.” She touched Devlin’s arm as she said it.

“In Oak Park at that,” said Melissa, “where the tree-lined streets are so inviting. And some of them don’t even have cars on them.”

“Do any?” asked Ginny. “Do they allow cars in Oak Park? Don’t cars disrupt the natural beauty of the place?”

“Yes, but the village gave in a few years ago and allowed them on selected streets,” said Arthur.

“Selected streets?” said Ginny. “The ones with curbs, I’ll bet.”

“Tell you about that,” interrupted Arthur. “People in our house before us once had to call the cops because some white kids ran up on the sidewalk in a car, chasing some black kids. On the sidewalk. Can you beat that?”

“They told you about that?” asked Ginny.

”No, our neighbors did, after we were there a few months and had gotten friendly,” Melissa said.

“So what’d they do to you, run through your living room?” Ginny asked.

“No,” said Arthur. “In fact, the driver’s mother considered the kid out of line doing that, when she heard about it.”

“Well that was nice of her,” said Ginny.

“We considered it mighty white of her,” said Arthur, to laughter.

“Am I going to get to tell about jogging in Columbus Park?” asked Devlin, emptying the chianti bottle and signaling for another.

“You had your purse snatched?” asked Ginny.

“No,” said Arthur. “A black fellow scared him. Big guy. Ran up behind him and told him one side or a leg off.”

“Typical Chicago greeting,” said Ginny. “What do you expect, Dev, running in Columbus Park?” She slipped into “Dev” without thinking and without blinking. Nobody paid any attention, or appeared to, at least.

Devlin looked at her appreciatively. “It was Arthurthe hell out of me. Called me a motherfucker.” He said the last part with lowered voice, bending towards Ginny.

She threw back her head and laughed, taking his arm again briefly, looking at the other two, laughing with her.

“Oh my,” she sighed. The four of them regrouped and ate and drank some more. The restaurant buzzed and hummed, maybe two-thirds full. It was going on eight o’clock. Devlin looked the place over.

At the next table were five people having as good a time as they were. It was a celebration of some sort. Two beefy bald men were pouring the wine all around. There were two women of mature years, stout and with set hair, one of them tinted slightly blue, and a younger woman, who smiled a lot. She was a friend, apparently, and had gotten a promotion or won a prize of some sort.

Farther away were a pair of lovers. At another table were two couples, at another three. Watching over the eating and drinking was the bald, smiling host, making rounds now and then in business suit and tie, making sure people were happy, selling cordials and fancy desserts where the opening presented itself.

Devlin had to go to the bathroom. He passed the front entrance and headed into the nearby bar area looking for the room, before being directed downstairs. In the men’s room, he got himself some urinary relief and was on his way out when a big guy, in his mid-30s, pushed the door open very hard and caught Devlin’s hand as he was about to open it.

Devlin took his hand back just in time to keep from getting hurt and sidestepped the big guy in a nice suit as he plowed in without a word. Instinctively he got out of the guy’s way. The big guy didn’t say anything. He was followed by another guy who looked at Devlin and ignored him on his way to the second urinal.

“So I told her to fuck herself,” the first guy said, continuing their conversation from outside the men’s room. “If she’s got the hots for this ass-hole, then screw her.”

“She the one threw the drink on you?” asked the other one as Devlin started out the door,

“Same bitch,” said the first, and that was all Devlin heard as he got himself out of the place.

“Phew,” he muttered, shaking his head as he made his way back upstairs, then forgot about it.

(end of chapter ten)