Requiem for Blue

Untitled Part 2

It’s been ten years since I drove through that neighborhood and ran across the old man, sitting in the window and staring out into the bleak winter street. Ten years, and I can still remember him as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday, as if I am right now driving up to the old yellow townhouse on Van Buren and seeing him there in the window, his black face ringed with a fringe of snow white hair cut close to his head, not moving at all. 

“This is Blue,” the man who answered the door said.

I pulled up to the curb, parked, got out of my car, and walked up to the door. The old man’s eyes followed me, eyes that watched but didn’t move.

“He’s only been here since yesterday,” the man explained; “Been in Menard State Pen for thirty years.”

Not a ripple of movement from the old man in the window, except for his jaw, which had a tremor.

“He ain’t even been here long enough to get new clothes,” the man said; “Still wearing what they give him when he got out.”

The old man got to his feet, turned, and moved across the floor toward me, holding out a gnarled black hand. “I seen you come up the walk,” he said.

It was February, and the sky had settled down over Chicago and held everything in its grip. It hung over the city like a shroud; its dampness seeped into my bones. Getting out of the car, I turned my coat collar up and hurried across the sidewalk to the house. “This is the right one,” I said, looking up at the address, “625 Van Buren, that’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“It’s an old yellow townhouse,” the priest had said, “at the end of a row, nearest the corner. We haven’t got around to painting it yet.” He came around his desk and shook my hand. “I’ll call ahead to Pete Graves and let him know you’re coming. He’s the house manager.”

I thanked him and left.

The door was painted a deep chocolate brown. I pushed the bell and waited.

“What you here for?” the old man asked, sitting down in the easy chair across from me and sipping the cup of coffee Pete had poured.

“To do research,” I said. “Talk to people like yourself find out what brings you here, and what you think about it.”

“Don’t know what I think. didn’t know I was coming till day before yesterday. They just up and tells me: ‘Blue you can go home now. You’re outta here tomorrow.’ Christ! Just like that! Ain’t had time to think.” He set his cup on the coffee table and looked up at me.

I pushed the bell again and hunched down into my coat, wishing I had brought a hat along. I didn’t hear the footsteps. Suddenly the door opened and a short black man with almond eyes was saying: “You must be the man Father Mac called about. I’m Pete Graves.”

I held out a hand. “And I’m George,” I said, “Dixon.”

“Ain’t no one here but me and Blue,” he said; “the others are all out. But you can talk to him.”