Prologue

Sunday, 3:15 a.m.
My wife, Dorinda, hates the sound of a ringing phone, especially when we’re asleep, so the ringer is turned off on
our bedroom telephone. I hear it in the next room, and instinctively I sit up and pivot my body so that my feet land
on the cool hardwood floor. My hands feel my way through the thick darkness, and I hope that I don’t step on one of the
four sleeping dogs on my way to it. The answering machine is set to engage after the fourth ring, and I have invented this
obsessive game of answering the phone before then.

I win again. Before I put the receiver to my ear, however, I realize the time. Good news doesn’t come at 3:15 a.m.
The best I can hope for is that some drunk left a bar on Western Avenue in our southside Chicago neighborhood and
drank enough courage to call an ex-girlfriend; maybe ours is one of the many wrong numbers he will call tonight.

No such luck. It’s my brother-in-law, Wayne. I can hear my sister, Beth, crying in the background.

“The hospital called. Your mom’s had a bad night. She’s on life support. There’s no hurry now, but we need to get there and make a decision.” It was the phone call we had dreaded but knew was coming.

After a brief conversation with Wayne, I lumber to the doorway of our bedroom and peer through the darkness.
Dorinda is sitting up.

“What is it?” she asks in a way that tells me that she really already knew.

“The Cardinal’s in trouble,” I answer. How stupid, I think! Even at a sober moment like death, I find it necessary to joke. We gave Mom that nickname because of her fascination and love of that red bird.

The hospital is less than a mile away. It’ll take some time for my sisters, Terri and Beth who live in distant suburbs
of Chicago to get there, so I tell Dorinda that there’s no need to rush.

Before getting dressed I wander down to my sanctuary, the basement bar. For some reason the darkness comforts
me. My bare feet carefully find my way to the finished basement. The bright streetlights stream through the unshaded windows and softly illuminate the bar area.

I think, what would Big Lou do now? The answer comes immediately. I follow my father’s lead and pour myself a shot of some darkish booze, even though I’m not partial to hard liquor. I carry my drink to the front of the bar and seat myself comfortably on the cushioned oak stool.

Now settled and alone with my thoughts, I stare blankly into the semi-darkness. A sadness overwhelms me as my eyes begin to well. Almost as a reflex, I stop the process. I close my eyes tightly and try to control my thoughts. Something funny! Yes! Think of something humorous and I’ll be fine!

Why do I do this? Why do I find it necessary to suppress uncomfortable thoughts? Do I always have to make jokes or clown around just to get through situations? Where did this come from?

A ridiculous image emerges which makes me snicker. It’s a black-and-white vision of Orson Welles but with my head. The head turns and tries to mutter, “Rosebud,” but instead the words come out, “Clown Town.”