Issue 6

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Fiction

Politics Is a Craft: Part Two

Harold Washington was reelected to a second term on April 7, 1987, defeating Jane Byrne in the Democratic primary and Edward Vrdolyak in the general election. He died unexpectedly on November 25, 1987, at City Hall. You can read more about Harold Washington’s place in Chicago’s political history in Barack Obama’s Dreams from My Father.

HAROLD WASHINGTON WALKS AT MIDNIGHT (1998) OUT AT MIDWAY AIRPORT

No one in this city, no matter where they live or how they live is free from the fairness of my administration. We’ll find you and be fair to you wherever you are.
—Harold Washington

Politics is a craft that has many practitioners and few craftsmen. —Ralph Berkowitz

Of Harold Washington, they used to say that as long as he had politics he’d never be lonely. And that was all well and good while he was alive, but caused some problems for the mayor in heaven. First he didn’t appreciate that the gates were pearly. Is this some sort of subliminal message? Then he challenged Gabriel for Arch Angel on a reform ticket and nearly pulled it off with forty-seven percent of the vote. Disgruntled and sub-angels supported him in droves. Over the years he caused so much trouble that finally, God, just to get rid of him for a while, let him come home for a small, unannounced visit.

It was Martha who spotted him by the baggage claim, long after the last flight had come and gone. She was sweeping up, the last hour of her shift. She said he wasn’t sad-seeming, but his face had the haggard look of someone who has been crying for years in one way or another.

“Do you know what I mean?” she asked her friend Lucy, the only person she told this to, the only person who might believe her. They were having lunch in the employee cafeteria.

Lucy said she knew what she meant. She understood that a man’s dry face could have the look of weeping for years. She thought of her Uncle Jomo. He had that look too. Takes a strong face to endure it. Jomo’s wife died while he was still in his thirties. He’d put his tears on with his clothes every morning.

“When did this happen?” Lucy asked.

“Last Thursday night.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not at first. I went up and told him that the Orlando flight came in an hour ago. There are no more bags, Sir. You can contact the baggage office in the morning. They’re closed now. Then he turned to me with a finger on his lips and I knew.”

“How’d he look?”

“Thinner.”

“No! When Harold was done eating he’d start in on the table legs.”

“Most of it gone. And his shoulders were stooped—bony really,” Martha said. “His trench coat looked like it was hanging off two doorknobs.”

Lucy watched her friend. She had that way of listening—with her elbows on the table and her hands propping up her face like two bookends. Neither of them was eating anymore.

“Our burdens,” Lucy said.

“Yes,” Martha said.

“My God, remember. They wouldn’t let the man do a thing. The Mayor would go to take a leak and Vrdolyak would vote against it.”

“I remember, I remember.”

“What about his eyes?”

“Still beautiful.”

“So what’d he say?” Lucy asked.

“He said Midway looks like a real airport now.”

“Ha!”

“And I said, Richie, and he looked at me with those eyes. I said I hate to break it you, and he shouted, Richie? Richie? That unworthy dauphine is mayor?”

“And he laughed?”

“Half laughed, half didn’t.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Then he cleared his throat, mayoral, and asked if the pay was any better now. And I said, What do you think, Mr. Mayor? And then he did laugh, Luce. He laughed until what was left of his poor body wasn’t there anymore.”

Read more in Issue 6

Fiction Debt by Sana Krasikov
Politics Is a Craft
Politics Is a Craft: Part Two
The Cold, Cold Water
Bridge Passed
Coyote
From the Hills of Fauquier County