THE GIRL CHILD
There were only two seasons in Chicago: winter, and construction. Construction season was in full swing along Route 41 where the pavement had been ground down to a tooth-rattling sub-layer in preparation for re-surfacing. By the time I passed the Botanic Gardens, my arms were numb from the vibrations. I waved as I passed, thinking about Evelyn: I hadn’t seen her since Mom’s big news and I wondered how she was taking it. Since I had to go through Evanston on my way home anyway, I figured I might as well stop in and say hi.
Evelyn’s house was a Chicago bungalow with a glassed-in porch. I recognized her Honda Accord parked in the driveway with a Northwestern sticker in the back window. I climbed the steps to her front door and beat on it until I heard footsteps approaching. A
