Chapter 1
Wednesday – 4:30 p.m. – February 14, 2018
Evanston Township High School
I used to be famous.
Not traffic-stopping, movie-star famous. Newspaper-famous. That’s a lower bar. My column in the Chicago Tribune – “Jake’s Corner” – used to be syndicated in 200 papers. Back in ’98 I was nominated for a Pulitzer for my reports on corruption in the city council. But then the wheels came off.
When the Trib was sold last year, the new owners cut me back to two columns a week at a fraction of what I had been making. I’m driving for Uber just to pay the rent on the tired ranch house I moved into last year when Tawni and I split.
I had a deadline in eight hours and I didn’t know what to write about. I had hoped one of my customer’s would inspire me, but I had to pick up my daughter. Her car was in the shop because she rear-ended an Evanston cop and picked up her third DUI in two years. Girl’s never had much luck. She teaches journalism at Evanston Township to kids who have never read a newspaper.
Inspiration is unlikely.
When I pulled up to the corner of Dodge and Church, Charlotte was waiting for me next to a mountain of snow the plows had deposited after last week’s blizzard. She was so not like her mother.
By design.
They were both blonde, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Tawni was statuesque and fashion-savvy, and she had a disarmingly beautiful smile. Charlotte was built like me – not statuesque – and she also had my fashion sense – our prime objective being comfort. She didn’t smile much, her natural countenance resembled a scowl, which she called, “resting bitch face.”
And, of course, Tawni would have never been waiting for me – that would be a waste of her precious time. The queen waits for no one.
“So, how’s the world of high school journalism today?” I asked, as Charlotte slipped into the front seat.
Resting bitch face transitioned into a full-blown scowl. “For kids who grew up with Twitter and Snapchat, you’d think they’d be able to write a decent story in less than 300 words.” She buckled her seat belt and threw her bag in the back seat. “Can you drop me off at the garage? My car’s ready.”
“Sure. Dexter Auto, right?” I knew that. I was just stalling as I summoned the courage to ask the question I had to ask. “How’s rehab?” I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, anticipating an outburst. The court had sentenced Charlotte to a counseling program.
She surprised me with her mild response. “It’s not rehab. It’s more like an AA meeting with a driver safety theme. I’ve got four more weeks.” She sighed. “I wasn’t driving drunk, Dad. I’d had a couple of drinks and I glanced down to turn on the radio when that cop stopped for no reason.”
“I thought you’d given up the booze.” I wasn’t judging her. I love drinking. Giving up alcohol would be hard for me. Probably impossible.
“That was the first drink I had in almost two years.” She laughed bitterly. “I was celebrating.”
“Celebrating?”
She looked at me with an I’ve-got-a-secret look. “I was accepted at Stanford Law. I was so happy when I got the news, I bought a bottle of champagne. I had a couple glasses, then I dumped out the bottle. I knew I was being stupid.”
“Stanford Law? That’s fantastic! I didn’t know you wanted to be a lawyer.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Greg. It was a longshot. There aren’t many 31-year-old first-year law students.”
“What about Greg?”
She shrugged. “After the DUI, he dumped me. I don’t blame him.”
Greg, her erstwhile boyfriend, was a science teacher at the high school. They had been going out for two years, but seemed to break up every other month.
“He’ll be back,” I said.
She shook her head. “Not this time. He quote unquote ‘met a more compatible partner.’ On Tinder.” She laughed.
“Tinder?”
“It’s a dating app. You should try it. Better than trolling the bars. Especially at your age.”
I ignored the age jibe. “I’m not ready to date. Are you okay?”
She gave me her Tawni are-you-crazy? look. Okay, she got some things from her mother. “You mean about Greg? Yeah. I’m cool. We weren’t right for each other. And he would never move to Palo Alto.”
I agreed with that assessment, but I knew better than to say so, because chances are, next week they’d be back together.
As I headed up Green Bay Road, we passed the storefront my son Devante had moved his rib business into last year. A hand-painted sign – Just Ribs was tacked up above the smudged windows.
My fall from grace had been all on me. I fell in love with someone I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with. She was 21, I was 35 and married. She was my intern. She had a baby. We named him Devante.
I’m supposed to say I was wrong. That I made a mistake and I’m sorry. But I loved Monique and I love my son. My heart wanted something it couldn’t have. I don’t think that makes it wrong, just impossible. I have no regrets.
Devante’s 20 now and he’s a good man. Better than me. He has big plans, just like his mother did. He’s going to be one of those celebrity chefs someday. Even though I didn’t raise him, I’ve been a part of his life and I’m grateful for that.
“Devante needs a better sign,” I said.
“He’s going for that ‘hood’ vibe,” Charlotte said. “He’s developing a real following. Everyone loves Antoinette’s special Jamaican rub.”
Antoinette, Monique’s Jamaican mother, was Devante’s legal guardian. Two summers ago, after his high school graduation, he started cooking Jamaican ribs in her kitchen and selling them from a food cart. A year ago, he rented that rundown storefront on Green Bay. The kid had ambition to burn.
We were stopped at the corner of Green Bay and Central. The 4:35 from the loop had just left the Central St. station and passengers were streaming across the street, even though the light had changed. Everyone anxious to get home. It didn’t make me nostalgic for my commuter days.
“Hey, your mom is getting an award this weekend. One of those right-wing think tanks she works with – they’re naming her ‘Person of the Year.’ A banquet at the Hyatt. She wants us to attend.”
Charlotte looked terror-stricken. “You want me to have dinner with a bunch of right-wing, right-to-life, Trumpsters? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“It’s for your mother. She wants you there.”
That’s sort of a lie. She didn’t actually ask for Charlotte, but I’m sure she would be pleased if her daughter showed up.
“No way she wants me there. I’m a heathen who supports baby-killing. Besides, she’s not talking to me. We had a huge fight on Sunday.”
I could see that my family unity tactic wasn’t working, so I adroitly shifted gears. “Come on. We liberal Democrats need to stick together. Don’t make me go in there solo.”
Now her terror face had been replaced by disgust. “You’re a DINO, Dad.”
“You mean like a dinosaur?”
“Democrat in Name Only. God, you probably voted for Trump.”
That was hurtful, and untrue. I don’t even know why I wanted her to go. All through her high school years all I did was referee fights between her and her mother – but I guess I clung to the illusion, or delusion, that we were a family. It was nostalgia for a past that didn’t even exist.
“Okay, forget I asked.” I pulled into the Dexter Auto parking lot. I stared straight ahead, pouting. It was my final card.
She sighed dramatically. “Okay. I’ll go, if you agree to talk with my journalism class.”
“Great. I’d be delighted to talk to your class. Maybe I can convince them to pursue another profession. It’s Sunday night at six. I’ll text you the details.”
