Chicago Stories: West of Western Read Free Page B

worked for Jerrod & Etwin Architectural Investments. J. & E. kept most of them in business. And even better, the men liked her and while they might complain, they'd find time.
    She knew Jerrod & Etwin's contractors had been unsure about the ‘girl architect’ when she showed up on the work sites last year, punctilious political correctness tinged the air whenever she appeared with rolls of drawings under her arm. Some showed it more, some less, but she understood why the men were uneasy working with ‘Miss Pelligrini.’
    All that changed one weekend about a month after she started. She was on her own time that Sunday, checking drawings against work completed. She shouldn't have had company, no one except the watchman was scheduled to be on site. The day was miserably hot, over 95° with 80% humidity, the air as thick and sticky as warm Jello. Dressed for comfort in ragged cut-offs and an ancient t-shirt, she left the ragged red and white scars that ran the length of her left arm and leg exposed. Gus and his crew surprised her on the third floor.
    “Sorry,” he said. “Didn't mean to scare you.” He glanced at her legs and away. “We're finishing up the supply lines in on the left corner. Damned supplier shorted us on copper pipe, brought the rest in late yesterday. Drywallers come tomorrow.” Obviously uncomfortable and carefully not looking at her wounds, Gus turned back to his crew. “Let's go, guys, I want to get out of here ASAP.”
    “Me, too,” she said to his back. “No problem. I'll be out of here in an hour.”
    None of the men asked about the scars, but she noticed the furtive glances and the way they exchanged whispered asides while she talked to Gus. Unspoken curiosity and speculation thickened the air. Hell with this.
    “Listen up, guys.” Her voice echoed in the cavernous space. Gus and his crew turned to look and she motioned them back. When the men gathered around her, she continued, “I'm only going to say this once. I know I'm the first female architect J & E’s had, and I'm new here, and you all know this is my first architecture job. And you're curious about these,” she gestured at her arm and leg. No one spoke. “I didn't get these playing croquet at the country club.” Fast-smothered snickers. A man in back turned to whisper to his neighbor, saw Gus glance his way, and was silent.
    “Until last year, though I had an architecture degree and a license to practice architecture in Illinois, I was, well, I was otherwise employed.” She grinned. “I was a Marine for five years, mostly in Iraq, then an agent with Darkpool for five more, until an IED hit our convoy.” Shocked into silence, the men looked surprised and curious. She pulled her sleeve higher so they could all see her left arm from wrist to shoulder and heard the hiss of indrawn breath, ran her hand along her leg and pointed to the deepest of the scars, still an angry maroon color after more than a year. “This one's from a bad bit of shrapnel. I was lucky, only two of us survived, and the sergeant lost both legs. They airlifted me out to Germany, then on to Walter Reed, then finally here to the Rehab Center. You can see I'm fully functional, but I can't go back to Darkpool, so here I am. Any questions?”
    The men glanced at each other, at her, shook their heads and looked away, embarrassed and unsure what to think about this woman, so unlike any woman they'd known. Except Gus, who nodded.
    “One leatherneck to another, Pelligrini,” he said after a moment, stepping forward with a grin and his hand out to shake, “where the hell do you want those effing supply lines to come in? The drawing I got ain't exactly what's there.”
    It didn't take long for the word to spread to other contractors. By the end of that year, ‘Miss Pelligrini’ had become plain ‘Pelligrini,’ and found herself on after-work beer runs, and sometimes invited to join Friday poker nights. Occasionally one or another of the single men would ask