April 7, 2016
Blue Island, Illinois
“So what did we learn?” Grange asked Ramsey in the patrol car after the church meeting ended. It was early evening and the sun hung over the western edge of Blue Island like a searchlight laying bare the city’s ruined landscape.
The meeting at the church had not gone well. The middle-aged and elderly people who came were filled with confusion and anger. They had watched their community dissolve into chaos over the past thirty years until the last shreds of hope and purpose had been wrung out of it.
While the rest of Ramsey’s group piled into their escort patrol cars in front of the Baptist Church, he pulled the Thornton Foundation representative Janet Furlong aside. The concern on her face for the lackluster meeting was clear enough to see. He smiled at her and said, “A set of recommendations from us will be coming to you next week.”
“Now I’ll tell you a joke,” Janet said.
“Seriously, together we can turn this around.”
“That building on the corner where that kid was shot,” she said, pointing at the burned-out structure with no intact windows. “Thirty years ago it was a warehouse. A hundred and fifty people worked there. Now it’s a crackhouse where people from all over the city come to get high. On any day of the week it has more attendees than Reverend Small’s church.”
“That abandoned warehouse would be the perfect place to start,” Ramsey said quietly.
She snorted. “Face it, Jonathan. There’s nothing to build on here.”
He shook his head. “Give me six months, Janet, and I’ll prove to you this is the place for your foundation’s money.”
“Six months or six years, no amount of money is going to make a difference here.”
“Six months,” Jonathan insisted. “Six months and Blue Island will be a spotlight city for every rundown community in America. “
She eyed him skeptically. “I don’t know, Jonathan. You’re asking the Thornton Foundation to shell out a lot of money on a leap of faith.”
“Put two-hundred thousand to start in a nonprofit Blue Island community fund that my company will set up.”
Furlong tapped her front teeth with a long turquoise fingernail. “Three months,” she countered. “If nothing happens that’s it.”
“Deal.”
They shook hands.
Ramsey settled into the state patrol car for the long ride back to the hotel. As the car rolled along the deserted streets, he pondered Grange’s question—“What did we learn today?” He reran in his mind what had transpired over the last twelve hours.
From a geographical perspective the town was devoid of cultural features and resources. The gathering at the church echoed the gang’s worldview. Most were angry men and women with little understanding of why they were economically left behind in a country filled with opportunities. But what really had bothered every one of them was why nobody cared. At one point a chant—“We are people too!”—reverberated through the run-down building for over three minutes. Ramsey’s body still shivered from the power of their unified voices.
The patrol car pulled up in front of their hotel. Surprisingly the officer, who had said nothing up to that point, turned to Ramsey and asked sharply, “What’s your answer to your buddy’s question?”
Before Ramsey could answer, the officer’s cell phone lit up. He listened for a couple of minutes. Turning back toward Ramsey, he said in a sarcastic voice, “You’re gonna like this. The kid who was shot died twice on his way to the hospital but the paramedic was able to bring him back. He’s going to be all right. And here’s another strange thing. The paramedic wasn’t the usual guy for that shift. No one knows who he is and now he’s disappeared.” He laughed harshly. “Dumb luck.”
“Sometimes that’s what’s needed,” Ramsey said. He paused, then said to Grange, “I know what we’re going to do. The people of Blue Island are going to build a sacred place where this kid was shot.”