No man is an Ireland.
—RICHARD J. DALEY,
48TH MAYOR OF CHICAGO
His Honor’s dreams tended to be practical and concerned matters such as tax policy or the loosening of onerous zoning restrictions or who to slate for state’s attorney. This was different. He found himself pounding on the door of a house, an ordinary bungalow. For some reason, he wasn’t able to use his fists. He’d lost the ability to close his hands. And so with open palms he pounded. Of course, it was his own house at Thirty-sixth and Lowe. Except at first he didn’t seem to know this. He tried to pound harder, his hands hopelessly platting against the door. Sis isn’t home, nor are any of the the children. He has no keys, apparently no pockets, either, though he’s wearing a suit. He goes around the house. Same thing. Back door’s locked. He’s starting to worry that the neighbors will think he is a prowler. He has influence? He knows President Johnson? He knows the Queen of England? Bring the kids next time, Lizzie. Right now he is only a man, Dick Daley, and he’s locked out of his house. Try throwing your weight around in a dream and see where it gets you. He goes around to the front again and sits on the stoop. Night comes without any slowness. It’s day. It’s dark. He sits on the stoop. The lights pop on in the house across the street, and he watches the shadows beyond the curtains. He watches those shadows—the Cowleys’ shadows—for what feels like hours. Now he wants to know something. Why do shadows dance when if you look directly at the people themselves—not their shadows—they aren’t dancing?