‘‘Tom Hayden?’’ Kevin said.
Greer gazed at Kevin. ‘‘That’s him.’’
‘‘He’s the leader of SDS,’’ Kevin whispered to Bernie.
‘‘Let’s get one thing straight.’’ Greer’s eyes locked on Kevin, as if he’d heard his telltale whisper. ‘‘No matter what they call themselves-Students for a Democratic Society, Yippies, MOBE-they are the enemy. They want to paralyze our city. Hizzoner made it clear that isn’t going to happen.’’
Kevin kept his mouth shut.
‘‘All days off and furloughs have been suspended,’’ Greer went on. ‘‘You’ll be working overtime too. Maybe a double shift.’’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘‘I’m gonna read your assignments. Some of you will be deployed to Grant Park, some to Lincoln Park. And some of you to the Amphitheater and the convention.’’
Bernie and Kevin pulled the evening shift at the Amphitheater, and were shown their gas masks, helmets, riot sticks, and tear gas canisters. Kevin hadn’t done riot control since the Academy, but Bernie had worked the riots after Martin Luther King’s death.
‘‘I’m gonna get some shut-eye,’’ Bernie said, shuffling out of the room after inspecting his gear. ‘‘I have a feeling this is gonna be a long night.’’
‘‘Mom wanted to talk to me. I guess I’ll head home.’’
Bernie harrumphed. ‘‘Just remember, kid, there’s more to life than the Sears catalogue.’’
Kevin smiled weakly. Bernie’d been saying that for years, and Kevin still didn’t know what it meant. But Bernie was the patrolman who broke in the rookies, and the rumor was he’d make sergeant soon. No need to tick him off.
‘‘Kev…’’ Bernie laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’re still a young kid, and I know you got-what- mixed feelings about this thing. But these… these agitators-they’re all liars. Wilkerson was there last night.’’ He yanked a thumb toward another officer. ‘‘He says they got this fake blood, you know? They holler over loudspeakers, rile up the crowd, then pour the stuff all over themselves and tell everyone they were hit on the head. Now they’re threatening to pour LSD into the water supply.’’ He faced Kevin straight on. ‘‘They’re bad news, Kev.’’
Kevin hoisted his gear over his shoulder. ‘‘I thought they were here just to demonstrate against the war.’’
‘‘These people want to destroy what we have. What do you think all that flag burning is about?’’ Bernie shook his head. ‘‘Our boys are over there saving a country, and all these brats do is whine and complain and get high. They don’t know what war is. Not like us.’’
Kevin drove down to Thirty-first and Halstead, part of a lace-curtain Irish neighborhood with a tavern on one corner and a church on the other. When he was little, Kevin thought the church’s bell tower was a castle, and he fought imaginary battles on the sidewalk in front with his friends. One day the priest came out and explained how it was God’s tower and should never be confused with a place of war. Kevin still felt a twinge when he passed by.
His parents’ home, a two-story frame house with a covered porch, was showing its age. He opened the door. Inside the air was heavy with a mouthwatering aroma.
‘‘That you, sweetheart?’’ a woman’s voice called.
‘‘Is that pot roast?’’
‘‘It’s not ready yet.’’ He went down the hall, wondering if his mother would ever get rid of the faded wallpaper with little blue flowers. He walked into the kitchen. Between the sultry air outside and the heat from the oven, he felt like he was entering the mouth of hell. ‘‘It’s frigging hot in here.’’
‘‘The AC’s on.’’ She turned from the stove and pointed to a window unit that was coughing and straining and failing to cool. Kevin loosened his collar. His mother was tall, almost six feet. Her thick auburn hair, still long and free of gray, was swept back into a ponytail. Her eyes-as blue as an Irish summer sky, his father used to say in one of his rare good moods- looked him over. ‘‘Are you all right?’’
‘‘Great.’’ He gave her a kiss. ‘‘Why wouldn’t I be?’’
‘‘I’ve been listening to the radio. It’s crazy what’s happening downtown.’’
‘‘Don’t you worry, Ma.’’ He flashed her a cheerful smile. ‘‘We got it under control.’’
Her face was grave. ‘‘I love you, son, but don’t try to con me. I was a cop’s wife.’’ She waved him into a chair. ‘‘I’m worried about Maggie,’’ she said softly.
Kevin straddled the chair backward. ‘‘What’s going on?’’
‘‘She hasn’t come out of her room for three days. Just keeps listening to all that whiny music. And the smell-haven’t you noticed that heavy sweet scent seeping under her door?’’
Kevin shook his head.
His mother exhaled noisily. ‘‘I think she’s using marijuana.’’
Kevin nodded. ‘‘Okay. Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to her.’’
As he climbed the stairs, strains of Surrealistic Pillow by the Airplane drifted into the hall. He knocked on his sister’s door, which was firmly shut.
‘‘It’s me, Mags. Kev.’’
‘‘Hey. Come on in.’’
He opened the door. The window air conditioner rumbled, providing a noisy underbeat to the music, but it was still August hot inside the room. Kevin wiped a hand across his brow. Her shades were drawn, and the only light streamed out from a tiny desk lamp. Long shadows played across posters taped on the walclass="underline" the Beatles in Sgt. Pepper uniforms, Jim Morrison and the Doors, and a yellow and black sunflower with WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.
Maggie sprawled on her bed reading the Chicago Seed. What was she doing with that underground garbage? The dicks read it down at the station. Said they got good intelligence from it. But his sister? He wanted to snatch it away.
‘‘What’s happening?’’ he asked, managing to control himself.
Maggie looked up. She had the same blue eyes and features as her mother, but her hair was brown, not auburn, and it reached halfway down her back. Today it was held back by a red paisley bandana. She was wearing jeans and a puffy white peasant blouse. She held up the newspaper. ‘‘You want to know, read this.’’
She slid off her bed and struck a match over a skinny black stick on the windowsill. A wisp of smoke twirled up from the stick. Within a few seconds, a sickly sweet odor floated through the air.
The music ended. The arm of the record player clicked, swung back, and a new LP dropped on the turntable. As Maggie flounced back on the bed, another smell, more potent than the incense, swam toward him. Kevin covered his nose. ‘‘What is that awful smell?’’
‘‘Patchouli oil.’’
‘‘Pa-who oil?’’
‘‘Pa-chu-lee. It’s a Hindu thing. Supposed to balance the emotions and calm you when you’re upset.’’
Kevin took the opening. ‘‘Mom’s worried about you.’’
‘‘She ought to be worried. The country is falling apart.’’
Bernie had said the same thing, he recalled. But for different reasons. ‘‘How do you mean?’’
‘‘Idiots are running things. And anytime someone makes sense, they get assassinated.’’
‘‘Does that mean you should just stay in your room and listen to music?’’
‘‘You’d rather see me in the streets?’’
‘‘Is that where you want to be?’’
‘‘Maybe.’’ Then, ‘‘You remember my friend Jimmy?’’
‘‘The guy you were dating…’’
She nodded. ‘‘He was going to work for Bobby.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Bobby Kennedy. They asked him to be the youth coordinator for Bobby’s campaign. He was going to drop out of college for a semester. I was too. It would have been amazing. But now…’’ She shrugged.