Chapter Seven
Dax
I told my driver to head to the West Side. He knew what I meant and nodded as he turned the car toward Gram’s. On the ride, I silently cursed myself for letting Payton slip away so quickly and easily, and then chuckled as I searched my list of contacts to find the one person I knew would be able to secure Payton’s phone number. I shot him a text asking for what I wanted, and then looked out the window and watched the skyscrapers fade into the background of the city as we moved toward the neighborhood where I’d grown up.
Canaryville was a tough place to grow up. It was the part of Chicago better known as Back of the Yards. It was a reference to the neighborhoods behind the stockyards during the early 20th century. It was a rough-and-tumble neighborhood that had retained its reputation for brutal community cohesiveness not only through threats, intimidation, and violence, but also through a deep sense of loyalty and tradition.
My Gram and Pop had raised me to value and respect the community, but not to be ruled by the whims of the crowd. They’d told me over and over again that the only ones I had to be truly accountable to were myself and my God, but since I’d let go of my faith pretty early on, I found that being accountable to myself suited me just fine.
My grandmother, Eleanor “Sally” Fraser, was a lifelong resident of the yards and had met my grandfather, Colin “Bull” Connor, at a dance sponsored by one of the Irish Citizen’s Society groups in the area when they were both fourteen. She often said that she’d found him handsome, but much too shy, and he’d always laughingly protested that he wasn’t shy, just overwhelmed by her beauty and brains. They’d married not long after they both turned 18.
Gram and Pop had tried for years to start a family, but when, month after month, nothing happened, Pop encouraged Gram to go to school and get an education. Around this time the University of Chicago was suffering from a drop in enrollment and had just begun to implement the urban renewal plan in Hyde Park. The university wanted to attract a wide range of students, so Gram applied and was accepted into their education program. The university offered them a prefab home in the married student housing area off the Midway, but Pop had put his foot down and said there was no way he was going to live in anything less than his own home. That summer, just before Gram started school, Pop put a down payment on a cozy, tan-stone house on Wolcott Street where they would spend the rest of their lives.
Gram later said that the reason Pop refused to move into student housing was because he didn’t want to come home from the stockyards to groups of hoity-toity students who had no idea about what it was really like for the working-class. Gram would always gently remind him that many of the students at UC were young people like themselves, but Pop would have none of it. To him, the university world was out of his reach, but he never begrudged Gram her education. She earned her degree in 1955 and went on to become a librarian in the Chicago Public Library system.
I shifted restlessly in my seat as I scanned the new businesses being built on 47th Street. Back when I was a kid, these stores were owned by neighborhood residents, and, like it or not, we kids were always being watched by someone’s parents. Gram, who was a tough woman, would often stand in front of the library on 47th and call out to the kids passing by trying to order them to come in and check out a book. She knew how rough the neighborhood could be on kids who gravitated toward books, and she tried to encourage them despite the obstacles.
Now the street was lined with chain stores and moneylenders who preyed on the working poor who had lost jobs as corporations moved their business to locations where the work could be done more cheaply. It pissed me off that the neighborhood kids were missing out on the community environment I grew up in, but I understood that business was business and that only the strong survived.
I’d vowed to sink money into helping rebuild businesses in the community once Finn and I had made some money, but by the time I’d made it, the neighborhood had become a victim of poor schools and a lack of steady jobs. When I’d been awarded the NFL franchise, I’d made it part of the contract that the new stadium would be built in Canaryville so the jobs and tax revenue would benefit the community. So far, I’d kept my promise, but in order to see any real progress, the Storm was going to have to hit the ground running and make the playoffs if it was going to be the base of the community. Now that I’d fired Tony, I was worried about how I was going to make up for his stupidity. Finn was right: we needed a media buzz around the team and dating Payton would be the first step in creating that buzz.
The driver took a left onto Wolcott and I smiled as I saw that Gram was still sitting out on the front porch with the light on, talking with a group of young people who’d regularly gravitate toward the house. Sometimes she’d feed them, but more often than not, she’d just listen. The kids on the porch looked out at the street as the car pulled up to the curb, and several came sauntering down the stairs to greet me.
“Dax, my man!” one of the boys called as he raised a hand and offered a high-five. I slapped his hand, and then shook it as another boy offered a hand.
“How you doing?” I asked as I shook it and then gave him a half-hug and a slap on the back.
“Good, good,” the first boy answered. “Your gram is telling us all about what it was like back in the day in this neighborhood.”
“Yeah, she’s got a lot of good stories, doesn’t she?” I said with a smile as I looked up and saw Gram grinning from ear to ear as she stood up and moved to the top of the stairs.
“David Michael Connor, get up here and give your Gram a hug!” she called as she held her arms out. I bounded up the stairs in three steps and wrapped my arms around the tiny woman and hugged her tightly. Quietly, she scolded, “You’ve been gone too long!”
“Sorry, Gram,” I whispered. “Business called.”
“Pshaw! Business!” she spat as she backed away and held me at arm’s length to get a good look. “You look thin.”
“You always say that,” I laughed.
“I’ve got some supper on the stove,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the front door. She walked a few steps and then turned around and said, “I need to feed my grandson, now, but you kids come back tomorrow and we’ll pick up where we left off!”
The kids groaned in disappointment before calling out, “Okay, Mrs. Connor,” “We’ll be back,” “‘Night Mrs. Connor!” and then disappearing into the darkness.
“I really should feed those children,” she muttered as she pulled open the front door and shooed me inside. “Tomorrow I’ll get a list together and get to the grocer.”
“Gram, tell me what you need and I’ll have it all delivered,” I said urging her to let me take care of things. She’d not yet gotten used to the fact that I had more money than I knew what to do with. I’d offered to buy her a new house, but she’d refused to leave the home she’d shared with Pop, telling me that it was where she lived her entire life and it was full of memories that couldn’t be transferred to another house, no matter how expensive it was.
“Don’t be silly; I can get to the store tomorrow and buy my own damn groceries, David,” she scolded as she waved at the table before grabbing a plate out of the cupboard and filling it with food she’d kept warm in the oven.
“How did you know I’d be coming by?” I asked, watching as she scooped chicken, potatoes, and a side of broccoli onto the plate before popping it into the microwave for a few seconds to warm it up. The microwave and a merlot-colored front-loading washer and dryer had been her only requests when I’d asked her what she wanted and told her I could give her anything in the world.
“I didn’t. It’s a habit that I developed when I first married your grandfather and didn’t know when he’d be home from the yards,” she said. She looked at me with a confused expression, “But you know that already. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, why?” I asked as she set the plate in front of me.
“Son, do not bullshit me,” she warned with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not bullshitting you,” I laughed as I picked up my fork and shoveled the food in.