The Postman is Late Page 4

  “Danny, now, before dinner,” Meg said in her stern mom voice. She constantly impressed me. I watched her grow from a scared young twenty-year-old single mother to a confident, successful mortgage broker and wonderful mother.

  “Go get your guitar,” I said to Danny. “I’ll sit with you on the front porch. I want to catch up with your mom first.” Danny left the room. I heard the screen door slam behind him a few minutes later. “How was work today?” I asked Meg as she put the groceries away.

  “Good, Gran. Busy, I processed several loans, the market is picking up.” Meg reached up in the pantry to store the reusable grocery bags. “I wanted to talk to you. I have to fly to Ohio for a couple days next month for a mortgage broker’s seminar. Can you help watch Danny?”

  “Is that the same weekend as the police night out?” I asked. I was always ready to help Meg, and I enjoyed spending time with Danny.

  “Yes, will that be OK?”

  “Of course, Danny could sleep at my place after the night out. He can even invite his hockey buddies.”

  “Gran, he’s been talking about doing an overnight in the tree house,” Meg said. Bill and Danny did a project together every year, a way for just the guys to hang out. Usually it was related to hockey or Cub Scouts. Last year it was building a tree house in the hundred foot tall oak bordering our back fence. From the tree house, you can look out into the woods. It’s the perfect venue for ghost stories. I’ve climbed up the tree house with Danny several times but we’ve never spent an entire night.

  “Meg, that sounds like fun.” I looked around the kitchen; everything was now in its proper place. I trained her well. “I’m going to go back outside,” I said, exiting the house through the screen door. I sat on the porch, next to Danny who was plucking at the strings on the acoustic guitar, struggling with a song. “What song are you playing?” I asked.

  “It’s called Raindrops keep falling on my head. It’s really lame,” Danny said.

  I didn’t agree with him. I remembered the first time I heard the song. I was at the movie theater with Gino for the premiere of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “Danny, you have to arch your wrist a little more. That’s why you’re getting the buzzing sound on the strings,” I said.

  “Gran, Gran, I can’t do it. My hands don’t bend like that,” he said.

  “Danny, it takes time and practice.”

  He put the guitar down, frustrated. I picked it up and played Innamorata.

  Danny’s eyes opened wide. “Gran, Gran, I didn’t know you played guitar.”

  I stopped. “Years of practice, Danny.” I played the rest of the song, singing along. “If our lips should meet, innamorata. Kiss me, kiss me sweet, innamorata.”

  Danny stopped me. “What does that word mean?”

  “Honey, it’s Italian for my love. It was your great-grandfather and mine’s wedding song. We were working at the Sabre Room, a restaurant in Chicago, and the man who sings that song, Dean Martin, was playing there. He was very famous. He sat me down at a table before the show and sang it to me.”

  “Why, Gran Gran?”

  I thought for a moment about how to put it into words appropriate for an eight-year-old. “He wanted to be my friend. When your great-grandfather Gino saw Dean Martin singing to me, he came over, grabbed my hand, pulled me in his arms and we danced while Dean Martin sang that song. That’s the night I knew I was going to marry him.”

  “That’s nice. Dean Martin sounds cool.”

  “Yes, he was very cool.” I said, handing Danny the guitar back. “Practice, I’m going for a walk.” I ruffled his hair. I could hear the strained notes of Raindrops falling off the porch as I stepped onto the sidewalk. I could have turned right and walked down to the end of block. The street ended at the forest preserve, and it was pretty at this time of the evening. Instinctively I turned left, heading north up Linden Avenue. I found myself standing in front of Mr. Hiro’s house.

  I tiptoed around his half-finished driveway. If he was a contractor, he sure was taking a long time finishing it. There was one finished slab, just big enough to park his van. This was a work in progress since he moved in. Yes, it was two years ago, I remembered now. It was the summer the streets were all torn up. That’s when he started building his driveway. Nobody could park on the street that summer.

  I crept around the back of his little pillbox ranch. In all my years on this block, I have never been past the front yard. The back was hidden by tall evergreens. I slipped past them and entered the side yard, which he shared with the abandoned house. I followed the stone walkway around to the back and stopped. It was the last house on the block, which gave it a massive yard on both sides separating it from its neighbors.

  The split rail fence that separated the yard from the forest was torn down. I stared at the yard, the stone path wound around a sand Zen garden. I felt like I was in the garden of Kyoto. My husband, Gino, was stationed by Mount Fuji after the Vietnam War. When we lived there, we visited the Zen gardens. I found them very peaceful and calming. Mr. Hiro’s crushed gravel and sand Zen garden was just as beautiful and peaceful. It bordered the huge koi pond.

  I walked over the sandalwood bridge that expanded over the length of that 30-foot wide koi pond. The koi must have felt my footsteps. They all splashed around the bridge like it was feeding time. His white cherry blossom trees were in bloom, the scent was intoxicating. On the small landing that jetted out into the pond, a cement Buddha sat, keeping watch. I felt like I had left the country. It was a secret world.

  In the back corner was a large 10 X 10 foot cedar shed. Like the driveway, it must be on Mr. Hiro’s to do list. The roof was sagging, the panels were cracked and popping off but the expensive steel padlock that sealed the door was new. It didn’t make sense to me. It made me even more curious to see inside. I stood on my tiptoes to peek through one of the cracks.

  “May I help you?” I heard a thickly accented voice from behind me.

  I turned around. The voice belonged to Mr. Hiro. He stood in front of me, holding a rake. Mrs. Hiro was standing behind him. Despite his five-foot stature, his presence was intimidating as he towered over Mrs. Hiro. I did a quick recovery. “Mr. Hiro, I was searching for Anne Hillstrom’s cat. She snuck out again. You know the white cat, have you seen her?”

  He stood silent. I was reminded of Grant Wood’s famous painting, American Gothic. I had seen it at the Chicago Art Institute, another one of James’ book club trips. A monarch butterfly landed on top of his rake. It did not break his silence. Then he spoke in Japanese to Mrs. Hiro.

  She answered him and bowed politely.

  He returned his gaze to me and said, “We have not seen a cat.”

  “Thank you,” I said. And then I did the most stupid thing I could do. I bowed like I was in a bad Karate Kid movie. Then I backed away and headed home.

  Chapter Eight

  I made it to city hall right before the rain started. Living in Woodland View, we constantly check the skies in spring. My street bears the brunt of the rain water run off from the surrounding forest. Linden Avenue is a peninsula surrounded by the DuPage County Forest Preserve. To make matters worse two summers ago the city tore up South Linden to replace the sixty-year-old sewage pipes. We hoped it would solve the problem but it only added to it. Now the sewers backed up into our basements during the heaviest rains.

  Over the past few years, the city contracted engineering consultants to find the source of the flooding problem and come up with a solution. Flood control is the topic of tonight’s meeting.

  Throughout the day, I knocked on my neighbors’ doors encouraging them to attend tonight’s meeting. I have found many Woodland View residents don’t attend city council meetings. I don’t understand that. I want to know what’s going on. I make it a point to appear at every single one, whether or not I have something to say. And, especially this one that has such a direct impact on my street.

  I sat a safe distance from North Linden Jan. I could see her chomping at the bit
. She always has something to say.

  The eight aldermen sat at the raised crescent shaped table in the meeting room. One member short of the Supreme Court but they felt themselves just as important. Mayor Alonzo Puccinni spoke first, “I’d like to call the meeting to order. Can I have a motion to approve the minutes from the last meeting?”

  Two aldermen spoke up, followed by a vote to approve the minutes and enter them into the formal record. This was standard procedure. I had read the minutes and found nothing wrong with them. The mayor continued, “We’ll hear from Alderman Sabatini of the first ward.”

  Our ward, which is his ward, Ward 1, is most impacted by the flooding problem. The DuPage County Forest Preserve District along with the city of Woodland View and FEMA allocated $10 million of government money for flood control. Deciding how to spend it is the subject of tonight’s meeting. Alderman Sabatini is the chairman of the Flood Control Committee.

  Alderman Sabatini, Angelo, had lived in Woodland View almost as long as I had. Gino and I bought a house here right after Angelo. After Gino died, I sold the house and moved in with Valerie. Angelo, too, came over with the Italian American migration of the late 1960s. Not from Italy, you have to understand. It started in Chicago, mostly Taylor Street more commonly known as Little Italy, with stops in Elmwood Park and Melrose Park. Then eventually continuing the Cadillac wagon train west to Woodland View and nearby Henderson, the furthest West that most of the Italian American pioneers settled in the new territory.

  I knew his family. We went way back. Past Little Italy to big Italy. Our grandparents came from a small village on the island of Sicily. There was bad blood across the sea and that bad blood continued in Little Italy. My maiden name was Vinnucci. That’s a story for another day.

  Alderman Sabatini spoke, “As Chairman of the Flood Control Committee, I’ve been working with the county and the state reviewing job bids for the flood control project. This involves building a retention pond in the forest behind Linden Avenue. I hope everyone has reviewed the recent report from Chicago Premium Construction. They were responsible for installing the new sewer system. I would like to recommend we accept their bid to build the retention pond. Not only did they submit the lowest bid but they also have prior experience completing projects for Woodland View. We’ve obtained permission from the Forest Preserve District to build the retention pond which will contain the floodwater. You will find the environmental impact study in your board reports along with all the proper permits from the county.”

  The second Alderman Sabatini stopped talking, North Linden Jan stood up. She raised her hand but didn’t wait to be acknowledged. She said in a brittle voice, “Linden Avenue was torn up for an entire year. There was no parking. My car was constantly dusty. Now we have a brand new street, and we still have flooding. What makes you think Chicago Premium Construction can solve this problem when they couldn’t the first time?”

  The Mayor pounded his gavel. “Mrs. Culver, the floor is not open for public comments currently. There will be time for public. . . ”

  “Mr. Mayor, if I may address Mrs. Culver’s questions?” Alderman Sabatini asked. He didn’t wait for the mayor to answer but turned to North Linden Jan and said, “The Linden Avenue project two years ago was to replace the deteriorated sewer system. It had nothing to do with rainwater control, only the sewer system.”

  “Why couldn’t we fix both at the same time?” North Linden Jan asked.

  “It wouldn’t have solved the problem. The floodwater system is separate from the sewer system. In reviewing the bids, we believe it is important that the contractor understands both systems,” Alderman Sabatini said. “The sewer system and rainwater system have to run on completely different pipes. If you look along Linden Avenue, there are curb drains. Rain water runs into a twelve-inch pipe which then goes back out into the forest preserve and comes up a thirty-inch opening which allows the water to be dispersed over the three hundred acres of forest. That’s why we’re recommending we hire Chicago Premium Construction because they know the drainage system for Woodland View and they have experience with flood control,” Alderman Sabatini said.

  “Can you explain in English: why are we still flooding?” North Linden Jan asked.

  Good question, I acknowledged.

  “We’ve learned from the engineering surveys that the water currently cannot be dispersed fast enough through the drain. That’s why they’re recommending we build a retention pond to make it possible to expel the floodwater drains through a larger opening. The $10 million federal grant will fund the project,” Alderman Sabatini said.

  North Linden Jan didn’t get the answers that she wanted. None of us ever do. There are never any answers only lingering questions after city council meetings. After some additional discussion, the council voted unanimously in favor of Alderman Sabatini and Chicago Premium Construction.

  The council moved on to other business items. “Next on our agenda is the proposal to increase the budget for animal control. With the upcoming construction in the woods, we expect to see more raccoons in public areas. Streets and Sanitation will be distributing a flyer with recommendations on how to secure residential garbage cans to keep the raccoons out,” the mayor said. “We plan to hire an outside contractor, Blue Chip Varmint Control.”

  “I hear you,” a rough looking man in his late fifties with a scraggly gray beard and thick glasses wearing overalls stepped up to the podium and spoke into the microphone. “My name is Jim Reeney. I own Blue Chip Varmint Control. I’ve done an assessment of the raccoon problem. Well, there seems to be a problem.”

  My Lord, this guy is going to be trouble, I thought. I could have told him there was a problem, and I didn’t need to run any assessment.

  “We’ve already set some baited traps farther back in the woods to capture and release the raccoons at a designated release location. You might see more raccoons on the street and around your house. They tend to learn to avoid the traps.” Jim Reeney put this thumbs through his overall suspenders, snapping them as he spoke. He leaned back and forth on his heels.

  My Lord, the raccoons are already smarter than this guy, I thought.

  “We also will be hunting down the raccoons with tranquilizer guns on designated days. The police will supervise. .”

  I couldn’t listen anymore. I stood up. “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, Aldermen, you’re going to let this guy walk around our street with a tranquilizer gun? I’d rather take my chances with the raccoons.”

  “Please, Mrs. Kustodia, sit down,” the mayor said. I sat down as North Linden Jan stood up.

  “So, what I’m understanding here is that this man will be shooting raccoons in our backyards with tranquilizer guns,” North Linden Jan said. “I’ve got two dogs. Does he know the difference between a terrier and a raccoon? Late at night, can he tell the difference between my Sherlock and Holmes and a raccoon?”

  “I hear you,” Jim Reeney said. “We won’t be entering any backyards, just the woods. If we find any raccoons on public property like the street or the easement, then we will take care of them. We won’t be on any private property.” He took his baseball cap off and scratched his greasy balding head. It didn’t breath confidence in me or the rest of the room. “I assure you we know how these raccoons think. I think like a raccoon.”

  I thought to myself, that sounds about right. That’s the first thing he said that made any sense. The council voted unanimously to hire Blue Chip Varmint Control.

  After the meeting adjourned, I stopped Alderman Sabatini in the hallway. “Angelo, can I have a minute?” I asked.

  He looked almost relieved to speak with me as North Linden Jan was still talking. She never knows when to keep quiet. Between the raccoons and the retention pond, there was a lot for her to talk about. I almost felt sorry for the alderman. “Mrs. Kustodia, of course. Let’s step outside. It’s noisy here,” he said, darting his eyes back at North Linden Jan.

  We stood in the parking lot of city hall. “I spoke with one of th
e engineers from Chicago Premium Construction when they were out doing the flood survey,” I told him. “A very nice young man, Chris Benetti. I recognized the name. It turns out his aunt knew my aunt back from Taylor Street days. Isn’t that something?”

  “I run into people from the old neighborhood all the time,” he said, glancing at his Rolex watch like his time was more precious than mine. He rubbed his chin and then continued, “He’s a nice kid. I’ve spoken with him.” He scratched his upper lip. All the tells indicating he was hiding the lies coming out of his mouth. “If there’s nothing else, I have to go. Dinner’s waiting for me.”

  I watched him walk away and then hurried to my car to avoid North Linden Jan. I’m sure she was waiting to talk my ear off about something.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, I went to the Woodland View Public Library. The library is a single one-story building tucked off the road and into the woods. It’s dark wood exterior and low windows are reminiscent of prairie design. Prairie design, I learned about that at the book club outing to the Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio. Maybe I should start reading some of the book club books. I came to the library not to read, but to talk to my friend, Marian. She usually fills me in on the books for book club so I don’t have to read them.

  I walked in, stopping by the circulation desk. Marian was sitting behind the wood counter. As head librarian, she doesn’t usually work upfront but she was filling in for someone on vacation. Her husband, Nick, and my Gino became best friends in grade school. They introduced us, and we’ve been friends ever since. Our friendship continued even after Nick and Gino died ten years ago within a few months of each other. Marian kept her job for the benefits.

  “Jan, I really enjoyed book club. James has a flair, doesn't he?” Marian said.

  I thought to myself. Marian has a thing for James but my suspicion was she was barking up the wrong tree. James was out of her league. “James does know his way around the kitchen,” I said. “Are you going to be at Bingo on Friday?”