Sicily snapped back to attention. “What? No?”
“Yeah, you do,” I said. “Great. You know who she went home with, then you can track her down and you and your dad can sort out whether you’ll let her back into the bosom of the family.”
Sicily shifted her eyes away from me.
“So if you’ll excuse me,” I said more forcefully, “what I need is a shower, a job, and a different outlook on life. Pretty confident I can manage the shower.”
I made sure the footage was downloaded to the hard drive, just in case, and then backed out of the system and closed it down.
“But—” Sicily said.
“What now?”
“That car had a sticker on the back window. Like my aunt Edie’s car.”
The kid’s family folded out like a map to the universe, forever and ever, so many folds, so many panels. So many people to keep track of, to care about.
What a drag.
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said. “Right? Give my regards to Aunt Edie and tell her to drive a little slower along this stretch of Milwaukee Avenue next time. There are a lot of drunk people along this block, no idea how that happens. Someone really should talk to the alderperson.”
“No, you don’t get it,” Sicily said. “If Aunt Edie picked up my mom last night, why haven’t I heard from one of them? I already called Aunt Edie, first thing. She’s Mom’s boss, her best friend in the world.”
“And?”
“Her phone just goes to voicemail.”
At the note of distress in her voice, Bear lifted his head from Sicily’s leg. The tough chick who’d told me to piss off was gone, and in her place was this little figurine. Ceramic. A breakable girl.
Had I ever been this sort of helpless? Had I ever been given the chance?
“I don’t—I don’t know what to do,” Sicily said, barely audible.
Bear stretched his neck to give her wrist a lick. Whose side was heon?
The chance of me getting that shower anytime soon had already rushed right down the drain.
13
Sicily’s slick silver SUV smelled like apple pie.
We were taking city streets to catch the Eisenhower west toward Naperville—that beautiful horizon, that storied suburban Brigadoon—when we stopped for a light.
Sicily said, “That’s her. That’s my aunt Edie.”
I looked past the swinging air freshener on the rearview mirror. “Where?”
“There.” She pointed at the bus bench on the corner.
The ad on the bench was for the real estate developer whose arrogant smirk and pop-collared white shirt had been pasted all over the toniest parts of the city. “Live WELL with Edith Maxwell,” the ads promised, over that smug grin. MAXimize your investment with—
You get it.
I hadn’t paid any attention—until her urban sophisticate glasses had turned in the direction of the Jefferson Park neighborhood, my little slice of deep-dish pizza.
“Your aunt is freaking Edith Maxwell?” I said. “Are you kidding me?”
“What? Why?”
