way down Hamilton Avenue to the end of the street, but didn’t see a phone.
7.
FRIENDS I’D RATHER NOT HAVE
I DECIDED TO SWING BY THE D UDEKS ON MY WAY HOME. Mr. Contreras waited in the car with the dogs, listening to the Sox on the radio, while I spent a fraught half hour with Lucy and Kira’s mother. Since I don’t speak Polish, I had to rely on the girls’ translating skills to discuss what had happened last night. The only reason I had any confidence that the truth was transmitted was the quarreling that went on between Lucy and Kira: Kira was trying to put a spin on the story that Lucy wouldn’t accept.
I also had to tell Kira I hadn’t found her cell phone. This caused some fierce words between mother and daughter that ended with Kira stomping out of the room. I left soon after, without learning how serious an issue Ms. Dudek’s immigration status was. As a matter of form, I gave Ms. Dudek my card, although the language barrier meant I didn’t really expect her to use it.
“How could she be here eight years and not speak a lick of English?” Mr. Contreras demanded when I reported on the meeting.
“I don’t know. The kids translate for her, she’s mostly around other Polish speakers. I suppose she keeps hoping she’ll save enough money to go home. My mother never was truly fluent in English; she always spoke Italian to me. I think in some corner of her mind she kept a dream that she’d return to Italy and sing.”
Maybe dreaming of a triumphal return to Pitigliano was the only way Gabriella could get through those days in South Chicago, with the dust from the mills covering everything, and no one around who cared as passionately as she did about art or music.
“My folks spoke English at home.” Mr. Contreras sounded as though he was ready to start a full-scale rant, but he paused, then added in a surprised voice, “Come to think of it, they had to. My ma came from Messina and my dad was from Naples, and they neither of ’em could understand the other’s dialect. It was like the fighting at Anzio to hear them going at it, which one of them spoke real Italian.”
When we reached home, my answering machine was blinking. So few people call my landline anymore that it was strange to see it lit up so excitedly.
The first message was from a Julia Salanter. “It’s important that we talk today, so please call as soon as you get this message.”
My answering service had texted me that she’d called my office with the same message—I just hadn’t taken time to scroll through my texts this afternoon.
I didn’t know Julia, but I sure knew the name: the Salanter family were power players in Chicago. They had one of those fortunes where you don’t have enough fingers and toes to count all the zeroes in their holdings. I knew a little bit about Chaim Salanter from Lotty, because he’d started the Malina Foundation. I hadn’t paid close attention, but I think she said Salanter came from one of the Baltic states in his teens, made a fortune in scrap metal or commodities or something, and set up the foundation to ease the path for other immigrants.
I did a quick look at the family online. Julia was Chaim’s daughter; she chaired the Malina Foundation. A son, Michael, helped run the trading company. So Julia probably wanted to talk about the foundation’s exposure to liability or publicity from last night’s episode.
The next five messages, in rising levels of intensity, all came from one voice, high, bright, imperious. “Victoria! Are you there? Pick up the phone! We need to talk!”
“Victoria, this is hot, you’re all I’ve got, I need you a lot! My situation’s fraught. If you called me I’d be off like a shot.”
“Victoria, you’re making me crazy. You know who this is, I can’t say my name, but it’s not a game. Answer me, come on, I wouldn’t be begging if they weren’t coming after me.”
I felt a sinking beneath my diaphragm. I did indeed know who that was. There had
7.
FRIENDS I’D RATHER NOT HAVE
I DECIDED TO SWING BY THE D UDEKS ON MY WAY HOME. Mr. Contreras waited in the car with the dogs, listening to the Sox on the radio, while I spent a fraught half hour with Lucy and Kira’s mother. Since I don’t speak Polish, I had to rely on the girls’ translating skills to discuss what had happened last night. The only reason I had any confidence that the truth was transmitted was the quarreling that went on between Lucy and Kira: Kira was trying to put a spin on the story that Lucy wouldn’t accept.
I also had to tell Kira I hadn’t found her cell phone. This caused some fierce words between mother and daughter that ended with Kira stomping out of the room. I left soon after, without learning how serious an issue Ms. Dudek’s immigration status was. As a matter of form, I gave Ms. Dudek my card, although the language barrier meant I didn’t really expect her to use it.
“How could she be here eight years and not speak a lick of English?” Mr. Contreras demanded when I reported on the meeting.
“I don’t know. The kids translate for her, she’s mostly around other Polish speakers. I suppose she keeps hoping she’ll save enough money to go home. My mother never was truly fluent in English; she always spoke Italian to me. I think in some corner of her mind she kept a dream that she’d return to Italy and sing.”
Maybe dreaming of a triumphal return to Pitigliano was the only way Gabriella could get through those days in South Chicago, with the dust from the mills covering everything, and no one around who cared as passionately as she did about art or music.
“My folks spoke English at home.” Mr. Contreras sounded as though he was ready to start a full-scale rant, but he paused, then added in a surprised voice, “Come to think of it, they had to. My ma came from Messina and my dad was from Naples, and they neither of ’em could understand the other’s dialect. It was like the fighting at Anzio to hear them going at it, which one of them spoke real Italian.”
When we reached home, my answering machine was blinking. So few people call my landline anymore that it was strange to see it lit up so excitedly.
The first message was from a Julia Salanter. “It’s important that we talk today, so please call as soon as you get this message.”
My answering service had texted me that she’d called my office with the same message—I just hadn’t taken time to scroll through my texts this afternoon.
I didn’t know Julia, but I sure knew the name: the Salanter family were power players in Chicago. They had one of those fortunes where you don’t have enough fingers and toes to count all the zeroes in their holdings. I knew a little bit about Chaim Salanter from Lotty, because he’d started the Malina Foundation. I hadn’t paid close attention, but I think she said Salanter came from one of the Baltic states in his teens, made a fortune in scrap metal or commodities or something, and set up the foundation to ease the path for other immigrants.
I did a quick look at the family online. Julia was Chaim’s daughter; she chaired the Malina Foundation. A son, Michael, helped run the trading company. So Julia probably wanted to talk about the foundation’s exposure to liability or publicity from last night’s episode.
The next five messages, in rising levels of intensity, all came from one voice, high, bright, imperious. “Victoria! Are you there? Pick up the phone! We need to talk!”
“Victoria, this is hot, you’re all I’ve got, I need you a lot! My situation’s fraught. If you called me I’d be off like a shot.”
“Victoria, you’re making me crazy. You know who this is, I can’t say my name, but it’s not a game. Answer me, come on, I wouldn’t be begging if they weren’t coming after me.”
I felt a sinking beneath my diaphragm. I did indeed know who that was. There had
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