Chicago Stories: West of Western Read Free Page A

decades of trash and bad remodeling.
    At noon the Saturday after closing, Seraphy and Aldovar raided a Pilsen taqueria to bring lunch for the men. Happy to have work, even this filthy work, several of the men amused themselves trading Seraphy useful Spanish words not found in textbooks for tacos and mango slices and cold bottled water. At one o'clock everyone went back to work. By dusk the building was empty and swept, the debris carted away in Aldovar's dump trucks.
    The next day Vittorio, Seraphy's older brother, brought a generator, and together they sandblasted all the interior brick walls.
    September slid by, the days shortened and cooled. In October, silver maples shed their leaves, the days grew darker and the nights became colder. Neighbors grew accustomed to seeing the red Jeep Cherokee and the woman who sat and stared at the empty building.
    Indian summer had come and gone and it was a damp and chilly mid-November before the permits finally came through. Seraphy arrived at dawn the next day, pausing to admire the façade for the hundredth time, until cold feet and hands drove her out of the wind into the recessed entry. There rough brick walls kissed her shoulder and worn limestone paving felt solid under her feet. She rejoiced in her new home, sliding her hands down the door, her fingers pricked by peeling paint, reveling in the strength of the old oak beneath.
    “You know I'm here, don't you?” she murmured, placing her palms flat against the cool brick, feeling her pulse, for surely the faint thrumming was her pulse, beat against the brick. The building fit her. Or maybe she fit it, its gritty toughness, no-nonsense utility, form dictated by function, strength, elegant proportions. She thought of herself like that, tough, strong, and competent, unconcerned with her appearance, although in fact she was quite beautiful, but that fact belonged to a life she'd long ago lost. “We're a lot alike, aren't we?” She pressed her palms hard against the brick and leaned her forehead on the wall above.
    Her communion with her building was cut short by the first of a fleet of ladder-bearing contractor vans.
    “What'cha got, Pelligrini?” Gus, J & E’s plumbing contractor, was half-way across the sidewalk before she could answer. “This the job you got for us? Scoot over,” he said as he squeezed his weight-lifter's body out of the drizzle into in the recessed entry “Cold today. This your project?”
    “Yeah, and I need lots of help, Gus, all I can get. I've got her cleaned out and ready for you. I'm putting a loft upstairs and garage and workshop down.”
    “You're moving in? Here?” the big man said, startled. He pulled his baseball cap off and rubbed his bald spot like he always did when he needed time to think.“You're gonna live here?”
    “Right,” she said, looking him in the eye and daring him to say more. “I've got a bunch of plans, a shell with no systems, it's getting cold, and I need to move in ASAP.”
    Gus glanced up and down Rockwell, pausing in his survey to check out the gangbangers around the car on the corner. His mouth twitched. “Um-hmph. Your funeral.” The cap came down over his eyes and she could see the moment he decided to shrug off his doubts. “So, what do you need?”
    She looked up as more vans pulled up and parked behind Gus's. “Maybe we should wait until all the guys are here and I can take you all in at once.” Gus nodded, silent and frowning as they waited for the electricians, heating and air conditioning contractor, the roofer and two carpenters, then started the tour.
    By early that afternoon, the drizzle had moved on, leaving clear blue skies and colder temperatures. As the last of the white vans rumbled north on Rockwell, Seraphy settled down in the Jeep to go over the next day's schedule. She chuckled as she read. The guys hadn't expected her to be in such a hurry or to have working drawings ready. Good thing it was late in the contractor year, better that she