Christina Duncan faced the window, watching buildings speed by, keenly aware as people lived their quiet lives, some within view, almost in public like a series of one-act plays. She watched, never tiring of the scenes, the ride, or the solace of moving about Chicago without heeding the horns and the screams from city drivers desperate to get from one unknown place to another. The elevated train rolled along so near to third story windows, she could see the furniture arranged inside tiny apartments, occasionally families eating dinner, couples arguing. She made up stories about each of them as she caught a glimpse of their lives.
Passing the round shaped apartment building near the Belmont station she looked, as always, for her favorite window attraction. There’s a lady there who seems to forever look upon the city from her apartment. Christina waved as the train, picking up speed again, rolled past. They made eye contact and the stranger nodded; the nod being the most reaction Christina ever stirred from her.
The lady reminded Christina of herself, but she pictured their lives disparately different. The imagined kinship started with the dark heads of hair, and Christina believed, probably ended there. Her own coming from an Italian mother who shared her stark features, giving Christina a vividly beautiful look built around the deep-set brown eyes she got from her father. She carried the look of a person knowing exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Christina had always thought of her mother that way, thought the confidence was real, but felt the look worked more as a mask on her own face.
Her cell phone rang deep inside her purse. Digging to find it, she frantically reached around until she touched the warm metal, pulled it out, flipping it open in one motion and said, “Hello. You’re late.”
She smiled listening to the response. “I expected as much. I’m just on my way now.”
Turning from the window, Christina crossed her legs, twisted playfully in the seat, and smoothed out the edge of her skirt. “You’ll like it,” she said. “I promise. Yes, I’m on the train.”
Phillip Savage admonished her for riding the train like he had every chance he got. From his home in the Evanston suburb he stood in front of an enormous mirror, shaving. “I know you love the train,” he said.
“Then give me a break, ok? It’s faster than driving, and I really do love it. What are you doing now?”
“I’m shaving,” he said. He stood tall in dark slacks with only an undershirt on top. He wore his full head of brown hair parted on the left. His face, still half covered with shaving cream was well tanned. He spoke with a deep voice, having just a bit of a gravely tone to it. “It’s probably going to be an hour before I can get there.”
“That’s all right. I have a little shopping to do downtown.”
“Where should we meet?” he asked. “Damn!”
Christina sat up and leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Nothing. I cut myself. Wait a minute.”
“You ok?”
“Yeah, but Willie’s barking at something. Hang on.”
Phillip walked out of the bathroom, into the large master bedroom. The dog had settled down. “He stopped. It was probably the neighbor.”
“Where’s Linda?”
“She’s out with the sorority group tonight.” He walked back to the mirror and finished shaving. “I’m just wrapping up. I’ll be out of the house in ten minutes.”
“I know, and then it’ll take a half hour to get here, and a half hour to get parked. You should take the train, you know.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’ll meet you in front of the Water Tower,” she offered.
“I’ll be there, and I’ve got some news for you.”
“What, you leaving her?”
“Oh shit, he’s barking like crazy again.” Phillip walked out and went down the hall this time, carrying the cordless phone.
On her cell phone, Christina could hear Willie now. She had never seen the dog, never been to the Savage’s home. Suddenly, Willie squealed, then whimpered a bit and went silent.
“What did you just kick your dog?” she ask Phillip.
Another voice, maybe two yelled something. Then she heard Phillip, “What the hell are you guys doing?” A shot, the phone dropped to floor with a clang.
She jerked away from her cell, held it back, looking at it like what she’d heard wasn’t real. Slowly she put it back to her ear. She heard men talking, but couldn’t make out Phillip’s voice amongst the conversation. The connection rattled, she could tell somebody picked up the phone, and heard the slight hint of breathing. The train rocked and clanged loudly, she tried to quickly cover the mouth piece. A voice on the other end, at Phillip’s house, said, “Hang it up.” She heard a click and the line went dead.
The train shifted back and forth, rattling Christina to her senses. They were slowing, approaching the station near Michigan Avenue where she planned to get off. She fumbled with her cell phone, then dropped it into her purse. Finally getting to her feet, she held the rail as the train came to a stop, and walked toward the exit. She stepped to the platform without accounting for the two steps down, stumbled forward, and fell to her hands and knees onto the concrete surface.
A teenaged boy, wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey with the number twelve on the front, bent over her and said, “You all right lady?”
She looked up at him, and saw that he had his hand extended down to her. “I don’t know.” She pulled her short black skirt down to cover her exposed thigh.
She rolled over and sat on the floor. Her knees were bleeding; her hands were scraped from catching herself on the hard concrete. She gathered up the few items that fell from her purse.
“You want help up or what?” the boy asked.
She looked up again and saw the young man in the jersey. He wore black colored jeans, the baggy type that started about halfway down his ass and looked like they were about to fall off. She had the mixed concerns of a person needing help and at the same time wary of the person offering assistance.
She held out her hand.
“Come on, get your fanny off the ground, lady,” he chuckled as he pulled her up. “You in a hurry or something?”
“Something, I guess,” Christina answered. She brushed off the front of her skirt and looked at her knees.
“You gonna be ok?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so. Thanks for helping me.” She watched him walk away. He looked back a couple times, still chuckling; a broad smile covered his face.
She knew she would be ok. Something about the pain she felt in her knees and the palms of her hands pulled her mind away from the train, the phone, from Phillip. She walked toward the stairs, passing a restroom, not wanting to chance entering alone. She knew once outside there would be fast food places where she could tend to her wounds.
About a block from the station, she found a place where she could clean up. She went in and walked straight to the restroom past the curious or suspicious looking glances from strangers in the restaurant that focused on her knees, then her face, and finally nodded, saying something to the person next to them. Christina felt a sense of relief in the isolation of the deserted restroom.
She washed her hands, gathered paper towels and wet them to begin working on her legs. After cleaning as well as she could, she stood staring into the mirror and leaned with both marred hands on the sink. She realized for the first time how frightened she had been when she heard that shot. Everything since then had been a blur, and now she had to figure out what she was supposed to do. She knew where she had promised to be, but was that really necessary now?
She wandered around Michigan Avenue for short while, but kept finding herself in front of the old water tower. A bench that had been taken during previous passes now sat unoccupied; she took a seat, looked straight ahead, and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, she still sat on the bench with her head down in her hands.
“Job’s done, lady,” she heard and jerked upward, starting to stand.
“Sit down, lady,” the one she knew as Jack said. “Did you hear me? It’s done.”
“I know,” Christina said without looking at him. She stared at the other man, Frank, while he stood with his hands on his hips, pulling his jacket open to the sides. “You may want to hide that thing,” she told Frank, and pointed toward his gun.
Frank dropped his hands, letting his jacket close. “So how did you know it’s done?” he asked.
“I heard.”
“Already? Words out about him already?” Jack asked.
“No, I mean I heard you do it. I was on the phone with him. You killed his dog, didn’t you?”