The Red Drink: A Tale of the Arts Department

“How about a Sorel Hibiscus Mule?”

“I’d prefer a Ten-to-One, you don’t mind,” I told the “bartender.” “Never was a vodka girl.”

Her nearly unlined face tightened slightly, drawing the ruby smile out and adding a new glint to the still-sharp espresso eyes. “Do I know you?”

That was Thea. Fifty years and some change later, despite the $100 sterling silver cut and sleek Sika dress, it was the same “girl” who’d flipped off a heavily armored Chicago cop, teeth pressed against bottom lip in an undeniable expression of defiance, and still managed to escape with her skull intact and a center-spread spot in the August 23 ‘68 Life..

“Dinah Whitlock,” Professor Thea Mason finally murmured. “Been a few minutes.”

Yeah, that tracked. “Wouldn’t know it,” I tried anyway. “You look fabulous, girl. You make a deal with the Devil or something?” Unfortunate turn of phrase, but she just shook her head and sized me up.

“Fuck is a Ten-to-One, anyway? And when weren’t you a vodka girl? Seem to remember you were a vodka girl and a gin girl and bourbon girl and, on the right occasion, an Old Grand-Dad girl. You want a mule or what?” Without waiting for my reply, she brought up a thick-bottomed rocks glass and an elegant bottle of cherry-red booze labeled Sorel. Had some folks from the islands told me about the “Red Drink,” but I’d never imbibed.

“Aren’t you supposed to use one of those copper mugs?”

“That was just a white marketing gimmick for Smirnoff in the ‘40s, and there’s not a drop of vodka in this.” Thea paused as she poured the crimson liqueur over ice, then sharply squeezed a lime wedge over the aromatic potion. “Plus the blast-chiller we got from Campus Requisitions worked about as well as anything we ever get from Campus Requisitions.

“I think maybe Leon had a bottle he’d smuggled in years back,” Thea continued, finishing with a generous portion of ginger beer and snappily adding a second lime wheel to the rim. “Wasn’t really on brand with the neighborhood clientele.”

Leon’s Velvet Rail Tavern had opened in ’61 just off Division -- Leon Jeffers had hoped to make The Rail a Black Belt jazz destination, but he never was able to draw – or pay – top talent. By the late ‘60s, The Rail was basically just a neighborhood watering hole with a small stage converted to liquor storage and a string of red bulbs over the long mahogany bar good only for spotting out cockroaches.

Thea locked eyes with me as she presented the cocktail. It was Bon Appetit summer cover perfect. “The recipe for sorel was passed down generation after generation in the Caribbean at a time when African and indigenous people were forbidden to read or write,” she recounted as if from a script she’d prepared for the Legacy Lounge: Diaspora and Dissent.

The student fundraiser/runway show was aimed at protesting Trump funding cuts targeting multicultural/diversity programs. I would be out $20 for my drink, nowadays on par with a boojie cocktail at any Loop club. “In 2012, Jackie Summers, the grandson of Barbados immigrants, became the first black American after Prohibition granted a distiller’s license, and he revived the popularity of hibiscus sorel. Moroccan sorel, to be precise, and Nigerian ginger.”

Thea glanced over my shoulder to the center of the Foster-Wallace Ballroom, where a towering, stunning young sister with braided coils and a dark cream-and-cobalt headwrap glided down a black-draped runway surrounded by half-filled folding chairs and illuminated by yellow, red, and green gels I guessed a crew of Drama Department nerds had installed.

“Dual Textile Arts/Marketing Major Nicole Mitchell is a campus queen in her unique creation,” purred a rumbling velvet bass who normally delivered WMIL-TV’s weekend headlines. “Topping off this ensemble is a structured sleeveless tunic made from handwoven cotton and linen scraps, each swatch dyed with indigo, turmeric, and sorrel —a nod to our diasporic roots and sustainable practices. Across the chest, narrow strips form a pattern incorporating the West African Adinkra symbols for resilience and community.

“Nicole’s wide-legged, high-waisted trousers are made from repurposed grain sacks sourced from Peoria’s Farm-to-Tables Foodbank—deliberately left with faded branding in places. On the right thigh, a a stitched quote from Toni Morrison reminds us, ‘The function of freedom is to free someone else.’”

“Not exactly J. Crew, or J. Peterman or even J.C. Pen-nay,” I remarked. Thea’s smile grew in dimension and wattage – I realized, the academic equivalent of discreetly stowing her expensive Afro-artisan earrings for the smackdown to come.

“What do you think?” she asked, nodding toward the drink in my hand.

“Mm, delicious. I forgot you were quite the mixologist yourself. I’m surprised you’re not backstage, barking orders and keeping things on track.”

“I believe in student autonomy,” Professor Mason stated. “It awakens their passion. And I’ve found dispensing liquor helps lubricate donors. Long as I don’t lop off a finger cutting up the garnishes. Remember that?”

I peeked momentarily at her left hand before recalling my manners and my mission. Again, Thea beat me to the punch.

“What’s up, Dinah?”

“I remember your grandma telling me how you were related to John Thomas.”

Thea’s right brow rose. “Lemme find somebody who can follow an index card, and I’ll make myself an off-menu Tom Collins. I never was a sorel girl.”

**

I found a couple of chairs in an empty third-floor niche, and Thea joined me a few minutes later, settling back and lightly swirling her gin and lemon. She’d poured me a fresh mule.

“We’ve come a long way,” I observed.

“John W.E. Thomas,” Thea reminded. “First African-American elected to the General Assembly, 1876. Helped pass the state’s first anti-discrimination law for public accommodations in 1885. Born a slave in Alabama, came to Chicago after the Civil War. Opened a grocery store, started a black school, and joined Olivet Baptist – Chicago’s black activist hub. Passed the Illinois Bar in 1880 and practiced law while growing his real estate holdings. One of the richest black men in Cook County when he died in 1899.

“Grandma Samuelson always liked to go on about his being a third or fourth or tenth cousin, said Great-Grandma actually met him once, I always assumed not at a family picnic. Thomas cleared the path for future black Chicago politicians, and I think she thought he’d be an example for her wild-ass granddaughter of somebody working for change from within. She used to say I should be a lawyer or, God forbid, run for office. I believe the dream died about the time the August Life came out. So what’s dear Cousin John got to do with our long-awaited reunion?”

Blunt. “Well, I’m hoping to do a book on Thomas, his impact on contemporary black Midwest lawmakers, aldermen and women, and other elected officials. I know we didn’t part company on the best of terms, but I was hoping you might have some insight, some detail about your cousin I might be able to pursue. Nothing salacious or scandalous, mind you, nothing that would disrespect the man or his legacy. Been pulling together notes for some years now, even interviewed a couple state reps and Cook County guys, but I need a few, you know, new things.”

Thea eyed me. “I like the concept, especially with institutional racism back on the rise.”

“See, that’s what I’m thinking. One thing I want to look into is kind of a rumor of a rumor I heard, that there was an assassination attempt while he was in the Assembly.”

Thea was silent for a moment, and I caught a ripple of applause from downstairs. She looked up like she’d reached a major decision.

“There was some talk my great-grandma passed on to Grandma,” Thea revealed quietly. “Got no idea whether there’s any truth to it: Grandma would pull it out after a glass or two of wine. Whole thing might have been created from alcohol fumes and senility.”

I leaned forward. “Yeah?”

Thea sighed and micro-dosed some Collins. “So you know about the 1885 Civil Rights bill Rep. Thomas sponsored? Giving all Illinoisans ‘full and equal enjoyment of public accommodations or places of amusement?’ Well, statutorily, anyway. Now, you can imagine how that probably went over. The bill carried fines from $25 to $500, plus the potential costs of lost trade among white patrons and/or segregating facilities and services to prevent white flight.

“The Illinois Hotel and Transit Consortium and other groups were vocal opponents, as was, particularly, some Southern Illinois rep who’d been a lawyer, Grandma thought for the railroads. Don’t remember any name or anything, except Meemaw thought it was suspicious the man suddenly withdrew his opposition. And here’s the kicker, at least for Meemaw. This guy – Darrell, Darnell Something, maybe? – he quit the General Assembly only a few months later.”

“Maybe he just had a change of heart, saw the light…”

“Came to Jesus?” Thea snorted. “More likely he and Cousin John reached an accommodation or tradeoff. But what kind of deal could be worth alienating Darrell’s white supporters?”

The mule was now kicking away at my gut. “Unless the ‘deal’ was a matter of survival for Darrell, an offer he couldn’t turn down.”

“Blackmail?” I squeaked. “That doesn’t sound like Mr. Thomas, does it?”

“Well, he was driven by a cause, by the needs of his community. Maybe, to his mind, it was less blackmail than leverage.”

“I dunno,” I shook my head. “Like I said, I don’t want to tarnish the man’s reputation, cause the family any pain. Maybe we oughtta let this thing go.”

“Don’t you remember your John 8:32? ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free? Amen and hallelujah. I’m gonna tell you the rest of Meemaw’s Christmas story.

**

“About the time Cousin John was fighting to pass the civil rights bill, a young aide from his office collapsed suddenly and almost died, and John himself fell deathly sick for a few days himself. There was worry the two had contracted some sort of disease, and in the black community of that era, there was quite a list of possibilities. Typhoid fever, lead poisoning from contaminated water or cookware, niacin deficiency – they called it Black Tongue, malaria, gasteroenteritis, even apoplexy. Or alcohol poisoning, or intemperance, as they called it. Meemaw even told me John had joked about receiving a bottle of ‘bad whiskey’ from an anonymous constituent. Now, what if that whiskey came from Representative Darrell or his people, and was laced with arsenic or strychnine?

“Here’s the thing – Cousin John was a churchgoing man and a teacher. If he received a bottle of booze from a supporter, it probably would have been a polite sip in acknowledgement and out of respect. And perhaps passed it on to an aide without the same discipline. Maybe Cousin John does the math, and tracks down the gifter, and lo and behold, it’s his esteemed colleague. Maybe he has proof -- a bill of sale, a chemist’s proof of the presence of arsenic in what was left of the gifted whiskey. Whatever that may have been, he had Darrell over a barrel, and the price of his silence was support for his legislation. Darrell quits the legislature out of fear Thomas may decide to hold onto his chit, but the pressure gets to be too much—”

Thea’s phone buzzed on the side table between us as my head throbbed. She held up an elegant finger as she answered the call, grunted and nodded and admonished and cooed, and disconnected.

“We have to get back to the show,” the professor informed me. “I’ve got a hyperventilating diva in a dashiki to attend to. We’ll pick this up later.” She rose, and stared down at me. “Coming?”

I stumbled after, leaving the dregs of my mule on the table. Downstairs, Newsdude was bringing out said Dashiki Diva, who appeared to have recovered from her stage fright. Thea breezed past the crowd to the bar, where a white girl with lavender hair was upending a bottle of Uncle Nearest 1856 into a highball glass. The girl beamed as Thea squeezed her arm.

“Lemme finish this Tennessee Buck,” the purple-haired girl told my old “friend.”

“Christina is such a goodhearted young woman,” Thea told me before turning her full unnerving attention on me. I felt the mule kicking once again. “Something a little reptilian about you, which isn’t necessarily out of character with the Dinah I knew,” she murmured. “But now, I’m thinking more amphibian. Your regenerative powers are impressive.”

**

“See,” Thea pressed on before I could decide on utter bafflement or indignation. Didn’t help I had no idea what to be baffled or indignant about. “I realized you were Dinah when you turned that ‘not a vodka girl line’ around on me, like you hoped I would. Never really did care for the stuff – and odorless booze just seems dishonest. But when you left your glass at the bar, I knew something was up.”

“Girl, I have absolutely no idea what you are babbling about.” Yeah, indignant was the wrong call. Thea smiled, a little cobra coming through herself.

“When I was cutting the limes, and dropped that story about being careful with a bar knife, I caught you looking at my left hand – the one holding the fruit. Natural reaction. But, honey, that was your story, or was supposed to be -- not mine, not one of the other girls’, not Leon’s. Was a Wednesday night, and we had an older crowd coming in from some party at the Lodge, partial to old-fashioneds and sours. You were talking up some young Panther from the neighborhood stopped in for a beer while slicing up the citrus. I came up wondering what happened to my sidecar, and it looked like you were slicing up blood oranges, which weren’t even a thing ‘least in our part of town. Instead, you’d managed to slice off part of your right pinkie, just above the top joint.

“You remember living hand-to-mouth back then. Wait, of course you don’t. I tried to get you to let me and Leon take you over to the Provident ER, but you didn’t want Leon to know, thought you might lose a night’s pay or maybe your job. I told you you’d be getting a 10 percent discount at the nail place rest of your life, but you thought it might look kind of badass some of the more radical brothers. So we just patched you up best we could in the back room.

“But sweet Baby Jesus be praised. I really do like your nails, but it’s rather curious you now have a full complement of them. Of course, I have no idea what kind of marvels modern cosmetic or orthopedic surgery have come up with – as you have witnessed, I am blessed with an age-defying beauty.”

Thea pulled a Ziploc from under the bar, and my gut sank. “Why I didn’t give you a mule mug – I didn’t think sweaty chilled copper would hold a print. But this ‘rocks’ glass, well, just look. Ten perfect prints from 10 perfect fingers, not a blemish or scar. So you’re either a salamander or a snake. I’m thinking the latter. Just who are you? I’m hoping I don’t have to further inconvenience Christina any further. She’s employed with the Millington Police Department forensics lab, by the way.”

I fumbled for a chair on the wall. “Just, just gimme a minute here, OK?” I asked. This pooch had an STD by now.

“When I realized you weren’t Dinah, I asked you upstairs to figure out your game, and called Christina for backup. Grandma was a good Baptist woman, never drank a drop in her life. And she was the keeper of the family secrets, and a very studious keeper at that. I knew our suspected poisoner was State Rep. Everett Darnell, Quincy, Illinois. Loyal friend to the rail and hotel folk. And great-granddad to the founder of Darnell Logistics and Property Development LLC, Windy City, Illinois. But I wanted to see your reaction as I played Marco Polo. You all right?”

“Shit, I think so.” I hadn’t really done anything illegal, but I felt the ballroom walls closing in. “This is all so fucked – I never should have agreed to this. It would just be so great for the…”

“South Side?” Thea coaxed softly. “The South Chicago Revitalization Hub’s been all over the news. High-speed passenger rail, high-tech intermodal container loading and distribution, AI-based light manufacturing suites, luxury hotels, retail expansion. Instant gentrification on a grand scale. No wonder folks up there are in such an uproar over state and city approvals.”

“They don’t get it,” I protested. “The jobs, the standard of living—”

“Living where, precisely? You think row houses and grade schools and variety stores and, hell, the friendly neighborhood tavern have a place in Futureworld? Know what? Let’s stick to the scam for now. The Darnell people somehow got onto what old Everett was up to, and realized that’s not the legacy they wanted or needed courting to the city council and black folks on the South Side. Optics are everything, and the idea of the founding family assassinating ex-slaves and activists is a truly bad look. So they send out folks like you to feel out folks like me, see if anything’s likely to bob to the surface before all the approvals come through. Make sure hidden history stays hidden. How do you feel about that, ah…?”

“Geneva.”

“How you feel about that, Geneva?”

I looked away, toward the diva in the dashiki. “You put it that way…”

“I do,” Thea stated. “Look, let’s have another round, and we’ll get you a room for the night. Those mules, they’ll sneak up on you.”