was never any good at figuring this stuff out.
“May I help you?” Hud said politely.
That was my cue. I told him I was doing a story about Sydney.
“Listen,” he said desperately, “you can’t quote me.My dad would kill me, and he’s already mad at me now.”
“I’m sure he’s not mad at you,” I said, trying to be soothing. “This is a difficult time.”
Hud stared at me, as if weighing his options. “Talk to Aunt Jane in Chicago,” he said, scribbling a phone number on a coffee-stained napkin. “She’ll give you good stories. I can’t talk anyway. I feel too bad.”
For a minute, he looked like he was going to cry. “I never thought it would turn out this way. I was royally pissed at my mom because she put me in rehab, and I wanted to show her she couldn’t run my life, so I moved in with Eric for a while. But I always thought we would make up and I would see her again.” Then Hud couldn’t stop the tears. “She really did care about me. My father never gave a damn, but she did. Now there’s no way I can make it up to her. I wish I were dead, too.”
He looked so miserable. I felt so helpless. He was right. Nothing could undo this. He could never tell that broken figure I saw in the alley that he loved her and didn’t mean it. But I didn’t say that. That would be stupid. Instead, I said something stupider: “The best thing you can do is go back to school and get your degree. That’s what your mother wanted more than anything.” Hud looked at me but didn’t say a word. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes. I felt like an interfering old lady. Two kids in black jeans and T-shirts came in and ordered double espressos.
“I have to go,” Hud said. I was glad for an excuse to get out of there. Back in my car, I realized that Hud had told me nothing, just like his father. But thekid could be a lot slicker than Dad. I felt sorry for him, and wanted to leave him alone in his grief.
Endora said Caroline was Sydney’s best friend in St. Louis. I called Caroline first. She was so terrified I might ask her to come into the big bad city that she invited me to her Ladue home. She lived in Fair Oaks, one of the second-best addresses in Ladue, although it looked pretty snazzy to me. The house was a brick-and-stone fake Tudor about fifty years old. It had a slate roof and leaded glass windows and a yard with fair-size oaks, of all things. Blue pots of bronze chrysanthemums brightened the front steps.
Caroline answered the door. She could have been Sydney’s sister. She was blonde and very slender. I could count the bones under her tennis bracelet. She was wearing an outfit that would have better suited her daughter: Pappagallo flats, a silk T-shirt, skimpy A-line skirt that showed off her knobby knees, and a matching zippered jacket. It was a soft grayish color, so I guess she was in mourning for her friend.
At first glance, her living room seemed more impressive than Elizabeth’s, but even I knew the furniture wasn’t as good. It was just better pulled together by the decorator. It had an Oriental rug about the size of a school auditorium and a couch longer than a city bus, except buses weren’t upholstered in soft, silky beige. My South Side soul longed to protect it with some nice slipcovers. Caroline sat me down on the couch and asked if she could get me something to drink.
“Anything but tea,” I said.
While she went for Evian water, I struggled to get out of an avalanche of pillows on the couch. There must have been twenty of the things, some as small as a toaster, others almost the size of the couch cushions. After I fought my way free, I started counting all the knickknacks on the little tables nearby: three family photos in flowered silver frames, a Limoges basket filled with potpourri, two pairs of gilded wooden candlesticks, a blue-and-cinnamon porcelain bowl, a millefleur paperweight . . . I was still counting when Caroline returned with my water.
“I am sorry about your
“May I help you?” Hud said politely.
That was my cue. I told him I was doing a story about Sydney.
“Listen,” he said desperately, “you can’t quote me.My dad would kill me, and he’s already mad at me now.”
“I’m sure he’s not mad at you,” I said, trying to be soothing. “This is a difficult time.”
Hud stared at me, as if weighing his options. “Talk to Aunt Jane in Chicago,” he said, scribbling a phone number on a coffee-stained napkin. “She’ll give you good stories. I can’t talk anyway. I feel too bad.”
For a minute, he looked like he was going to cry. “I never thought it would turn out this way. I was royally pissed at my mom because she put me in rehab, and I wanted to show her she couldn’t run my life, so I moved in with Eric for a while. But I always thought we would make up and I would see her again.” Then Hud couldn’t stop the tears. “She really did care about me. My father never gave a damn, but she did. Now there’s no way I can make it up to her. I wish I were dead, too.”
He looked so miserable. I felt so helpless. He was right. Nothing could undo this. He could never tell that broken figure I saw in the alley that he loved her and didn’t mean it. But I didn’t say that. That would be stupid. Instead, I said something stupider: “The best thing you can do is go back to school and get your degree. That’s what your mother wanted more than anything.” Hud looked at me but didn’t say a word. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes. I felt like an interfering old lady. Two kids in black jeans and T-shirts came in and ordered double espressos.
“I have to go,” Hud said. I was glad for an excuse to get out of there. Back in my car, I realized that Hud had told me nothing, just like his father. But thekid could be a lot slicker than Dad. I felt sorry for him, and wanted to leave him alone in his grief.
Endora said Caroline was Sydney’s best friend in St. Louis. I called Caroline first. She was so terrified I might ask her to come into the big bad city that she invited me to her Ladue home. She lived in Fair Oaks, one of the second-best addresses in Ladue, although it looked pretty snazzy to me. The house was a brick-and-stone fake Tudor about fifty years old. It had a slate roof and leaded glass windows and a yard with fair-size oaks, of all things. Blue pots of bronze chrysanthemums brightened the front steps.
Caroline answered the door. She could have been Sydney’s sister. She was blonde and very slender. I could count the bones under her tennis bracelet. She was wearing an outfit that would have better suited her daughter: Pappagallo flats, a silk T-shirt, skimpy A-line skirt that showed off her knobby knees, and a matching zippered jacket. It was a soft grayish color, so I guess she was in mourning for her friend.
At first glance, her living room seemed more impressive than Elizabeth’s, but even I knew the furniture wasn’t as good. It was just better pulled together by the decorator. It had an Oriental rug about the size of a school auditorium and a couch longer than a city bus, except buses weren’t upholstered in soft, silky beige. My South Side soul longed to protect it with some nice slipcovers. Caroline sat me down on the couch and asked if she could get me something to drink.
“Anything but tea,” I said.
While she went for Evian water, I struggled to get out of an avalanche of pillows on the couch. There must have been twenty of the things, some as small as a toaster, others almost the size of the couch cushions. After I fought my way free, I started counting all the knickknacks on the little tables nearby: three family photos in flowered silver frames, a Limoges basket filled with potpourri, two pairs of gilded wooden candlesticks, a blue-and-cinnamon porcelain bowl, a millefleur paperweight . . . I was still counting when Caroline returned with my water.
“I am sorry about your
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