Loves Illusions_ A Novel - Cazzola, Jolene

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Love’s Illusions is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgments I owe a large debt of gratitude to all the people who helped and encouraged me as this writing project began to take shape. Some I have known all my life, some a mere 5 - 30 years, some are new friends and some I have yet to meet personally. But no matter where they fall on the time line, all of them made a contribution, in some form that helped this book come to fruition. Thanks to Sharon Zurek for shuttling me around the City of Chicago as I rediscovered my connections with that vibrant, ever-changing city and for listening to all my struggles. To Christine

Hastedt and Helen Green for being fantastic beta readers and providing invaluable feedback. My thanks also to Kate MacKinnon for her reading, proofreading, and feedback prior to publication, as well as her marketing and social media expertise. To Clinton Eastman for his extraordinary talent as a photographer and to Paige Smith, my talented hair and makeup stylist. And to Joanna Penn of TheCreativePenn.com, who without ever knowing it, gave me the courage to be an Indie Author through her fabulous website and podcasts, as well as providing referrals or leads to many of the professionals listed below.

Editor: Paul Simpson with BubbleCow.com Cover Designer and banners: James with GoOnWrite.com Paperback Publisher: CompletelyNovel.com Book Blurb: Bryan Cohen, BryanCohen.com Website Design: CGP Systems.com POD and eBook formatting: PolgarusStudio.com

Copyright © 2015 by Jolene Cazzola All rights reserved.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), except for brief quotations in reviews, without the prior written permission of the author. Scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means, constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For my daughter - may you have a life filled with challenges, success and love.

Introduction I’ve always lived in a dream world. Ever since I can remember I fantasized about what life would be like if I were someone else. It didn’t really matter who – just someone else, anyone else. I could be that girl over there – she was pretty; or that one next to the window – she had beautiful hair; or maybe even that girl running around the playground over there – she can kick that ball, as good as any boy, hardly ever misses. I’d create whole lives, wonderful tales around tiny observations, and wonder what it would be like if…? Like most children, I couldn’t wait to

grow up. Things would be ever so much better when I was older. I could decide for myself what to do, or better yet, what not to do. I could eat when I wanted, sleep when I wanted, not have to get ready for school, and definitely not have to go to church. I could tell people what I was thinking, and they’d listen to me instead of thinking I was just some dumb kid. I’d dream of those days to come when I’d enjoy being me, and live happily ever after – just like in all those fairy tales my mother used to read me, Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and on and on… there was always a happy ending. I delighted in imagining my prince riding up on a white horse with a glass slipper that only fit

my foot. He’d be handsome and brave; he’d protect me, and he’d make life perfect… we’d live happily for all our days. Why did the world tell little girls that some man would ‘make them happy’? Why? Should I blame Disney? No, no… it started way before Disney. I’m sure the illusion started with the beginning of time, back in caveman days when protection was the name of the game, and has been evolving ever since. As time passed the perfect man changed from someone who could kill food with his bare hands to an exquisite prince whose kiss would be magical, and make the world a perfect place. It was just my dumb luck to grow up at the intersection

of Ozzie and Harriet and the Cultural Revolution… when the truth of those stories met the cold reality of life – the shared experience of a generation. I’ve thought about that more than I care to admit, but most of all, I’ve wondered why was it so easy, so comforting, to believe the fairy tale? I actually believed that shit! But my reality, a reality I’m sure I share with a lot of women – the life I’ve lived all these years has been anything but picture perfect. It’s been full of challenges and disappointments and struggles to get through the day. It’s been a search for contentment, for peace, for relief from the world, and from myself; a quest for lasting love - a search for my

prince charming, for my ‘happily ever after’, and a search for my own inner strength. I’m old now… as I write this. Nothing happened like I imagined it would, like the fairy tales promised. I’m only now able to relate the story – the price I paid was high, but now, from this vantage point, I finally think it’s safe to say I won. ~ Jackie Moretti ~

Chapter One On the Sidewalk I was unceremoniously draped around a telephone pole. On my feet, but draped nonetheless, with no firm memory of how I got there – just stoned and maybe drunk, yes I remember drinking more than usual – why the hell had I done that?… out of my mind, leaning, swaying, trying very hard to maintain an upright position, and wondering how on earth I was going to manage to walk the three blocks to my apartment. The street was deserted even for the wee hours of the morning, which I knew it had to be

since I worked until 4 am. Only an extraneous car here or there. But what am I doing out here? I wondered. I knew this corner well – Diversey and… what’s the name of this little street, it doesn’t matter… just one, no two, short blocks from the main intersection of N. Clark Street and Broadway where I could see cars going by. I’d been there a thousand times or more – everyday, as a matter of fact, since moving to this neighborhood in Chicago. Diversey was never deserted – was I just not seeing the traffic? I shook my head – trying to clear my brain, but the movement caused the street lights to blur and whiz around almost knocking me off my feet. Oh fuck no… I was going to puke!

I pushed back hard against the telephone pole trying to steady myself, trying to keep myself upright, and the contents of my stomach down. I hated the idea of throwing up, I always have, ever since I was a kid; the mere thought of being nauseous sending my mind into full-fledged revolt against it. I fought with all my might against the feeling of queasiness that was overcoming me. “No, no, no - you will not puke on the street corner!” Only drunks, druggies, and street scum puked on the corner and I was not one of those people! I was a 20 year old college student from a decent, conservative, middle-class family; at least that was the mental image I carried around of myself. This was

supposed to be one of the best periods of my life or at least that’s what everyone had told me before I moved to Chicago: go to college, get a great education, find a great job, marry the man of your dreams, have kids, and live happily ever after. I was supposed to be living the fairy tale - nowhere in that life plan did it say I should be stoned and drunk on the friggin’ street corner. But tonight, that’s exactly what I was… just like all the other scumbags. I managed to turn so my shoulder was against the pole. It was made of wood, old and weathered and splintered from people stapling flyers for upcoming events and lost dogs to it, and it had a vague smell of tar or asphalt or

something like that – that was currently making my stomach turn even more. One of the staples from an old flyer was there next to my right eyeball with the tattered remains of a show notice on a green – was that green? Yes a green piece of worn cardboard. What was that notice about? I wondered. It was blurry, but I could still make out the date. October 1970 – last year for Christ’s Sake! There should be a law making people take down this old shit instead of leaving it to decay. I remember moaning, and rolling my forehead on the wood, trying again to focus and stand up straight – trying not to smell the nasty tar, but it was no use. I needed to get away from this pole before I was overcome by

the odor. And I just needed a little more time, just a little, then I was sure I’d be able to stand up and walk home – and without puking! I REFUSE TO PUKE ON THE GODDAMN STREET CORNER! My hands took a solid hold on the rough wooden pole, and while muttering a wish to myself that I would be steady enough to hold on without getting tiny splinters in my palms, I managed to push my body into an upright position. Good, I thought, but I couldn’t let go, not yet, not if I wanted to remain standing that was. At least this way I was back enough that I didn’t have to smell that horrid tar stench – in fact, the clear, crisp air seemed to be doing me some

good. It was fall, so the nights in Chicago were cool, if not downright cold. Tonight wasn’t cold – cold in Chicago could pierce through your lungs and freeze your limbs clear to the bone. It wasn’t bone chilling cold, just cool, I was only wearing a long sleeved shirt and vest, not my winter jacket. No, no, I welcomed this cool air, and I drew in several deep breaths – relishing the relief and clarity it was bringing to my swirling head. And the coolness seemed to be having a soothing effect on my stomach too. Who would have ever thought that Chicago air, with all the cars jamming the streets, backfiring and dumping pollution and exhaust fumes 24 hours a day could actually feel fresh and

soothing – of course, “there weren’t any cars on the streets right now,” I reminded myself. “No, no no! Don’t think about pollution now – why the hell did that thought even cross my mind, anyhow? You have to focus on the task at hand – getting home and into bed… without throwing up on the friggin’ sidewalk!” I was used to being stoned most nights; there weren’t many street drugs I hadn’t tried at this point – my favorites being grass and Quaaludes, with the occasional dose of window pane acid. I stayed away from poppers and cocaine or any form of speed – it tied my stomach into knots, and made it churn as though it was being beaten like egg

whites into a stiff meringue topping. It gave me jitters that sent shivers and trembling throughout my body and made me totally – I mean totally – paranoid. No, just give me a nice mellow high, a soothing, mind-numbing buzz, something to help me let go of reality, allow a sense of oblivion to set in; but still maintain just enough control to keep my overall hold on life. Tenuous as it may be, I wasn’t ready to give up completely – to not care at all, to live like many of my so called ‘friends’. I still needed to be able to tell myself that I was in control and Goddamn it… I had lost that control tonight! I blamed the nauseous feeling on the booze. I could smell it now on my own

breath which meant I had strayed from my usual vodka to something else, but what? With painstaking effort, I lifted my left hand from the telephone pole, raised it to within a couple inches of my mouth, and noticed for the first time that I could see just the faintest hint of my breath fogging the air. Shit it must be colder than I thought – why wasn’t I wearing my jacket – and what the hell are you doing trying to smell your own breath? Ridiculous! I didn’t need to smell it; I knew what it was… only one possibility: Janis Joplin’s drink of choice – yep, no mistaking that sweet, not quite whiskey, not quite bourbon aroma. Southern Comfort. Janis Joplin had died a year or so ago of a heroin

overdose, and I had switched from Southern Comfort to vodka thinking it would be ever so much safer. “Well this fuckin’ proves it – drink Southern Comfort – end up alone on the Goddamn street corner, unable to let go of this shit-eatin’ telephone pole!” I thought I was berating myself under my breath, but in reality, I must have been vocalizing it out loud. The next thing I knew I heard a car door slam, and loud footsteps behind me. A pair of large, work-hardened hands grabbed my shoulders, pulled me away from the pole, and spun me around demanding to know where the fuck I’d gone to, and who the fuck I was talking to? Startled… street lights swirling

around my head, and my vision coming in and out of focus – before my brain could even register who or what was going on – my stomach protested being moved in such a jarring fashion and proceeded to wretch into a hard ball. My mind was whirling in circles – you know that voice – no you don’t – what the hell are you doing standing on the fuckin’ street corner ALONE in the City of Chicago at 4 am – of course some sleaze ball is going to come along – of course you’re going to get raped! As total panic set in; I pushed away flailing and kicking and screaming “GET AWAY FROM ME!” With an unexpected force, my body doubled over as I clutched my midsection with both arms. The big,

muscular hands had long since let go, and as I lunged for the other side of the sidewalk, I saw Michael’s face, stunned, looking at me as if I’d lost my mind – still talking to me, although I had no idea what he was saying. I reached out for the red brick wall of the building as I stumbled into it just in time to remain upright, but with no hope of holding back my stomach any longer. I vomited for what seemed like forever. My hair kept falling forward, my eyes were watering, my nose was running, and all I could do was puke. GODDAMN IT! By that time Michael had come to my side. He had grabbed a grease stained, old mechanic’s rag from his car which he shoved into my hands, and was trying

to help hold back my hair while steadying me so I wouldn’t fall. His voice had lost the pissed-off edge it had when he startled me out of my trance, and had transformed into slight irritation. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you stay with the others? What the fuck did you take? How much? …For Christ sake, Jackie, answer me!” The questions were coming one after another. I couldn’t focus on any of them, let alone answer. I was standing now – more or less on my own, with only one shoulder leaning on the red bricks – wiping my mouth on the soiled rag. I spit, coughed, and spit again – eyes watering and blurry, I wiped the salty tears running down my cheeks on my shirt sleeve, the only good

thing was that my stomach was settling back into its proper place. “What the fuck are you doing coming up behind me like that – you scared the shit out of me!” I yelled and stammered as I felt my mind starting to focus. “I didn’t go anywhere… I didn’t do… ahhh, take anything. I was just standing there – trying not to do that!” I blurted out as I pointed to the disgusting mess on the sidewalk, my throat still thick with spittle, feeling my anger beginning to rise. “Now, look – you made me puke!” I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve once more, spit again and used the rag to dislodge something very nasty from the ends of my hair. Michael, who had been talking at the same time saying something

about how I was supposed to be with Rick at the bar not out here on the street corner, took the rag from my trembling hands, threw it on the ground, and put his arm around me, attaching one hand to each of my elbows, leading me back to his car. We only made it a few steps when I burst into tears. I had no idea why I was crying, and neither did he. I looked up at Michael and tried to bring his face into focus. His long, straight, dark hair was falling into his eyes, and he kept flicking his head to get it back. I could see that the fire in his eyes was beginning to soften as he pushed the remains of his irritation with me away. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying? I’ll take you home

now… it’ll be okay,” were all said with a touch of understanding in his voice. But I knew he didn’t understand, not really. Neither did I for that matter, and I refused to get in the car. He turned me towards him, sat me down on the hood of his dark green 1965 Mustang fastback, and held me gently by the shoulders so I wouldn’t fall over. I braced my feet on the edge of the curb. He took a small step down, stood in the gutter and straddled my legs, bringing his face almost level with mine, then leaning back a little he said, “Tell me what’s wrong.” Taking as deep a breath as I could – the air seemed to be getting colder, but it did help me to concentrate and relax – I

tried to explain. Through my tears I said, “I puked on the sidewalk. Puking on the sidewalk is something the junkies and drunks do – not me.” Michael just smiled, his lips pressed together as if he was trying to conceal a laugh. “Don’t you dare laugh at me, I’m being serious, I mean it – don’t you dare laugh!” I demanded with as much determination as I could muster through my tears. “I’ve told you, I’ve always told you that I could do this and not get hooked and not end up on the street corner, and where the hell do you find me? On the fuckin’ street corner – that’s where, and what happens as soon as you show up? I PUKE!” I tried to free myself

from his grip while I was talking, but didn’t have the strength and wiggling around only made the lights spin, so I gave up. “If I hadn’t thrown up, if I only hadn’t thrown up, then I’d have been sure I could make it, but I’ve failed, and so I might as well give up,” I said, as I continued to sob and shake. Michael’s smile broadened – the corners of his lips turned up as he said, “Babe, I’m stoned too, but that makes no sense at all, and I’m sure it wouldn’t make sense if I was straight. Puking on the sidewalk doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that you’re a permanent stoner or drunk, it just means you puked. What were you drinking?” “Southern Comfort” I replied,

“Why?” His hands had moved from my shoulders, and were now cupped on each side of my face, his brown eyes narrowed, searching my own for answers. “I thought you gave that up?” he asked, wiping away tears from my cheeks with his work hardened thumbs. “I did,” I murmured, bringing my own emotions more under control again. “And tell me again why you gave up Southern Comfort?” he said, in a tone of voice that told me that he already knew the answer. “So I wouldn’t die of a heroin overdose like Janis Joplin,” I replied. We’d had this conversation before – he’d laughed at my logic then, and he

laughed at it again now. With a big smile on those perfect lips, wiping away my final tears, he pulled me up off the hood of the Mustang, gave me a simple hug and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll never do heroin, at least not if you stick with me. Let’s go back to the apartment now.”

Chapter Two The Morning After I tried to move, but couldn’t. Every fiber of my body hurt – my head felt like someone had swung an ax and split it wide open; my mouth was dry as cotton and tasted nasty. My eyes refused to focus, and the sunlight coming through the bedroom window was way too bright. I had put up rather heavy drapes made of rough cotton homespun fabric – in deep blood red, my favorite color – to make sure I never had to see the sun on mornings like this. But obviously, it doesn’t work if you don’t freaking close

them! I thought. I squinted at the large, rectangular clock radio on the night stand beside me – the digital readout showed 11:42 am. “Oh God – what the hell…” I moaned, as my arm reached over to find Michael’s naked body lying asleep beside me. Strange: he was naked, but I wasn’t – my boots and jeans and vest were off, but my panties, shirt and daisy patterned socks were still in place. My shirt – damn – what is that smell? Had some drunk from The Canteen slobbered on me while I was serving him a drink last night?… No, no, that isn’t it, and why the fuck does my head… Oh shit! It was me… Some of the events of last night were coming

back… I was the one who puked! “Michael, wake up,” I murmured. No response. “Michael, wake up,” I said again with a little more force, as I managed to gather enough saliva in my mouth to actually form words. He started to stir beside me. “Tell me I didn’t puke on the sidewalk last night… and what day is it?” I asked. He raised one arm and rubbed his hand over his face, making sure he kept his eyes closed. “You did… and it’s… ahhh, Saturday, I think,” he replied as he rolled towards me, and gathered me into his arms. He pulled me close, wiggling, squirming and adjusting until my head was snuggled on his left shoulder, our legs wrapped around each other pretzel

fashion, my thigh resting against his halfhard morning cock. He placed a soft kiss on my forehead and sighed, “Go back to sleep, it’s early.” “Oh God… my head hurts, and it’s not early, it’s past noon, well almost,” I said starting to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his shoulder under my pounding head – this was my favorite position. “Wait… Oh shit, if it’s Saturday then I have to get up… Oh shit, shit, shit – is it the 16th? I’m supposed to meet Bernie in two hours… Christ I have to get up!” I attempted to scramble out of bed, only to be knocked back by the piercing pain in my head. “Is that today, are you sure?” Michael

groaned, trying to pull me back towards him. “Yeah shit, it’s October 16th. I haven’t seen him in months – I don’t want to be late. We’re supposed to meet downtown at that little pastry and coffee joint off North Michigan at 2 pm – I have to get up now… Oh Christ, I wish that sun would go away, the light is killing my eyes.” I struggled to sit up again – this time moving in a slow, deliberate fashion, feeling my way to the window with my eyes shut, and drew the heavy drapes closed. That made that damn sun disappear, and filled the room with a muted, yet still brilliant, burning shade of red that both soothed my head, and created a sensual atmosphere.

Michael was arranging the pillows under his head, his dark hair spilling over the edge trying to entice me to come back to bed, lifting the yellow and white striped sheet just a bit, exposing more of his well-muscled physique. I knew what that inviting smile on his lips meant; especially when he combined it with those sexy squinted eyes – a look of longing I found almost impossible to resist. “You’re in no shape to talk to Bernie today… Why don’t you cancel and come back to bed?” he purred. As a scowl crossed my face, he said, “Okay, you don’t have to cancel – I’ll just help you ahhh… wake up.” His eyes glinting and seductive in the red tinged light, “I’ll

drive you down there so you don’t have to wait for the bus or look for parking for your car – that will save time and well… it’s still warm in here.” “Hmm,” I said, tempted. “Can you make my head stop hurting?” “Well I don’t know if I can make it stop hurting, but I can definitely take your mind off it for a while,” he replied, his smile broadening. He had me convinced, and he knew it. With that, he watched me remove my shirt, socks and panties and I filled with an instant calmness as he pulled me back beside him. “It is still warm in here,” I murmured as he rolled on top of me, propping himself up on his elbows, massaging and

kissing my forehead. “Does that help?” he asked. Closing my eyes, my body melted under him. “Yes, a little,” I said. “Just a little?” he questioned. “Ah-huh, I need more…” My voice faded – his soft lips stirring over my cheeks and onto my neck. Michael and I had a lot of differences. We came from different backgrounds, and had different visions of what life had to offer. He was almost three years older than me, but had no education past high school. He grew up on the south side of Chicago in a working class family with two brothers, one sister, a father that had disappeared several years ago, and a semi-alcoholic

mother who had constant problems paying her bills – the electric bill in particular. I grew up in a middle class family in Weymouth, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, was an only child, and my parents – even though they argued incessantly – were still together, and though money was far from abundant, the electricity had never been turned off. And they were determined, above all else, that I would get a college education so I could have a better life. I met Michael in late June about two weeks after I turned 20, at The Canteen, the sleazy bar I started working at when my life turned upside down. He was a friend of one of the bartenders. It was one of those irresistible, overwhelming

attractions based on lust – not that I needed much of an attraction to spend the night with some guy at that point – but I was drawn to Michael, like a moth to a flame. The first time he entered the bar I felt his presence. As surreptitiously as possible I watched him, studied his movements, and was aroused by his air of confidence and the way his lips curled at the corners when he smiled at me; they were very sensuous lips. I could feel him peering at me as I served drinks, following me with his eyes even when he was speaking to someone else. It was as if some external force was drawing us together. When we were introduced and I heard the deep, perfect fullness of his voice, I felt a pang of

shyness overtake me (something that hadn’t happened in a long time). I could feel my heart pound in my chest as I prayed that he’d be attracted to me too. He was. He looked Italian, but he wasn’t, he was pure Polish – Nowak was his last name, everyone called him Mike, except me – and he was exactly the physical type that made me melt. He wasn’t all that tall, but tall enough, about six feet with strong, broad shoulders, and a beautiful, well-formed body with firm, carved muscles defining his chest and his strong arms and legs. I loved playing with the sprinkling of dark hair that covered his upper chest. It wasn’t a body builder’s type of muscle – I knew

for a fact that he never went to a gym; it was the kind of muscle that comes from doing manual labor every day. And he had beautiful hands – large palms with exquisite fingers, the callouses only adding to their character. There was a scar, about five inches long, under his ribs on the left side (from some teenage ‘stupidity’ as he termed it). Those strong arms now pressed me against him. He was handsome, but not at all like the allAmerican, perfectly featured, male models that plastered the pages of every trashy magazine I read – no, Michael had a more classic face; long, straight nose with a wide forehead, high cheek bones, with the faintest hint of a clef in his chin and skin that always had a touch of tan.

His full, soft lips balanced his dark mustache, and he had the most beautiful whiskey brown eyes I could ever remember seeing – his eyes were the color of Southern Comfort, framed by long, dark lashes. Lashes so long I was envious. He wore his thick, dark brown hair long, cut midway down his neck. What was astonishing to me though was that we had developed a connection that somehow went beyond our mutual physical infatuation. The first time we left The Canteen together, about a week after meeting, for what I assumed would be yet another one night stand; we stayed with each other for almost 48 hours. Stoned on some very potent hashish, screwing on the mattress on the floor of

his studio apartment over his garage, eating pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, sleeping, taking showers, listening to music – he played the guitar – fucking some more, ordering take-out Chinese food, exploring each other’s bodies in minute detail, and staying wasted; we also started talking. I still can’t remember exactly what we talked about, but by the time he took me home, he knew more about me than I had told anyone in a very long time, and I knew some of his secrets as well. So when he showed up, smiling, at the bar again the next night I wasn’t surprised – I was delighted. Right away he made sure all the regulars knew we had been together the last few days – almost like staking

his claim. Although we didn’t have any defined commitment to each other, there was something going on from the very beginning. We were very different people who somehow needed each other. From the time we met, I had no problem brushing off other advances and being ‘his’, at least for the time being. The one place where Michael and I had no difference was in bed – he was tuned into every square inch of my body and could play me as well as… no, better – much better – than he could play his old Gibson guitar, and that was what he was doing now. He was an incredibly generous lover. He lifted himself onto one elbow, cupped my breast in his hand and circled my rising nipple with the

thumb that had last night dried my tears. He nibbled the base of my neck in a way he knew would send shivers through my capillaries, and drive me insane. My back arched in an instinctual response to his touch, and my hips pressed against him feeling that he was more than ready. My hands glided down his back enjoying the soft curve of his muscles and as I reached his firm round butt, he pushed naturally inside me. “Oh God,” he whispered gazing down at me. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” “Hmm, smart-ass” I laughed. “That’s good, as long as you take me with you.”

Chapter Three Bernie Bernie and I met at the Water Tower Café, a little, hole-in-the-wall, coffee, pastry and sandwich shop that had been operating on E. Superior Street since the 1920’s. Everyone who was anyone in the city knew the place. At this time of day on a Saturday, it was bustling with customers, but Bernie had managed to secure a small wooden table in the back corner, and gave me a big smile as I walked in to meet him. It was good to see him again. I had been a little apprehensive about meeting; I hadn’t

seen Bernie Epstein since I split from my husband, Stephen, last spring. Stephen and I had only been married about six months when everything fell apart. I had packed a few things to go stay with my girlfriend, Mary Beth, for a few days, telling Stephen that he needed to make up his mind, stop lying, stop hanging out with those people and make some time for our marriage. Bernie had lived in the apartment across the hall from Stephen and me – he was always more Stephen’s friend than mine, as he’d made clear at the time, but he had called wanting to meet, and now that I saw his familiar smile, I was glad I had agreed. Bernie was a tall, rather thin guy with a big nose, dull brown hair, cut short

compared to most of the men I knew, and a warm smile, and as usual, he was very easy to talk to, the kind of person my father always referred to as a ‘gladhander’. We spent the first half hour or so catching up on what was new in each of our lives. I heard about his recent graduation from Northwestern University Law School, studying for the Bar exam, who he was currently dating, and the latest gossip about the obnoxious neighbors who lived upstairs at the apartment building on W. Touhy Avenue – both of us avoiding any mention of Stephen. As much as I was enjoying the conversation, sipping my cup of coffee from the heavy white ceramic mug –and relishing the scents of freshly baked

pastry that whiffed through the shop, I was becoming anxious to find out the real reason he had wanted to meet. Whether he was also growing bored with the small talk or read the expression on my glass face, Bernie sighed, took a long sip of his coffee and looking up at me over the rim of his cup said, “Stephen… Well, I ahhh, I don’t know how to say this, but I thought you should know that he… ahhh…” and his eyes dropped back down into his mug. “What’s happened? I thought he was still in Boston, have you heard from him? Is he alright?” I demanded, with what must have been a tone of alarm in my voice. Glancing up and looking me in the

eye he replied, “Oh, no, he’s okay, he’s back in Chicago now. I mean there hasn’t been any kind of accident or anything; I mean he’s fine, I saw him. It’s just that …” Bernie’s voice faded off as he looked around, and swirled the coffee in his mug a few more times, staring at the signed photographs of the café owner with various prominent or famous or infamous people who had ever patronized his establishment, and were now hanging on the walls. I could see that his face and the rims of his ears were beginning to get a pinkish tinge to them – whatever he wanted to say was obviously causing him some embarrassment as he struggled to find the right words. My mind

raced… I could’ve guessed what was coming, but I was in no mood to be magnanimous. I was still somewhat hungover and besides, this was his show: he wanted to talk to me - not the other way around. I had tried talking to Bernie before I moved out, but he had blown me off, saying that whatever was happening was none of his business. He was Stephen’s friend, and didn’t know anything anyhow. So now, instead of relieving his discomfort, I let him squirm a little until finally, not being able to stand the tension myself anymore I said, “Just tell me.” After a prolonged silence that seemed to go on forever, he gathered his thoughts, and with determination looked

up at me again. “I owe you an apology,” he began. “When you wanted to talk before, I… Well, I thought you wanted me to give you some kind of dirt… something you could use to get back at him for seeing Leigh, I mean. I could hear the two of you arguing all the time and you screaming – you know, through that wall where our apartments connected. Your voice, it, well it carries a lot more than Stephen’s, and I didn’t want to get in the middle.” “Hmph… yeah, I know… it’s okay,” I replied again, my voice showing no trace of emotion. “But why are you here now?” I put down my coffee mug, narrowed my eyes just a little, and tried to maintain a blank look on my face.

“Just tell me.” “Stephen’s been lying to me too. Before you left, I knew, well I thought I knew that he was having an affair with Leigh, you know the woman he worked with?” He looked at me, his eyes questioning. “Yes, I know her,” I acknowledged. He continued as if he just needed to get it all out. “Well, it’s not that having an affair was okay – I didn’t approve when he told me, but I didn’t think it was any of my business. Then when you went to stay with Mary Beth, before Stephen left for Boston, I found out that he wasn’t seeing her after all… but since he left Chicago by the end of that month, I figured I still shouldn’t say anything.

After all, it wasn’t any of my business. But now that he’s back, well… I needed to tell you that he was seeing Joe and Donny and a bunch of other men…” Bernie hesitated waiting for me to react to this revelation, but I could only nod. If I spoke at all, if I gave rein to my emotions in any way, the tears were going to start flowing, so all I did was nod, and look down at the walnut colored wood table. Surprised, he continued, “You know? I mean I didn’t think – I thought you – I ahhh, well Leigh… I thought you thought she…” he continued stumbling, then found his courage again. “I wanted to see you because I thought you deserved to know that Stephen was really a

homosex… I mean that he’d gone gay.” I just sat there forcing myself to drink more coffee, hoping my throat would open enough so I could swallow and I’d be able to find my voice. I hadn’t realized that I was also holding my breath. After a long pause, I managed to say, “I know – at least I know now, I didn’t know then. I thought he was having an affair with her too – that’s what he wanted me to think, but yes, I know now about Joe, Donny and most of the others.” Both of us just sat there looking at each other – getting that last sentence out without a tear was all I could manage. Bernie’s face showed a sense of relief, and the pinkish tinge had faded back to

one of concern. He asked, “How did you find out?” I tried to speak again, but the lump in my throat was now so large it felt like it was blocking my airways. All I could do was shake my head, and try to swallow again. At that, Bernie motioned to the waiter, paid for the coffee, and as he stood up said, “Let’s walk around for a bit, okay?” All the clanking dishes, all the people chatting, all the waiters bustling about – even the smell of brewing coffee – all seemed to have stopped when Bernie started talking; the café had a deafening silence about it as my mind whirled in circles not stopping on any one thought long enough to let it take

hold. Bernie knows… How did he find out… Who has he told… Stephen is back in town… Why… Will he stay or go again… shit, shit, shit!… Why the hell did I come here today? Bernie touched my shoulder, and my daze began to lift, “Want to walk around a while?” he asked again. As I stood up and headed towards the front door, I began to hear the sounds of the café around me again. When he opened the door and the cool afternoon air hit my face, reality returned in the form of a busy Chicago street. ~~~~~~~~ I followed Bernie in silence as he led

the way through various pods of people who were window-shopping along Michigan Avenue’s magnificent mile. My mind was focusing more and more as we walked past Saks, Neiman Marcus and Tiffany’s and a myriad of other, waytoo-expensive-to-ever-buy-anything stores, but I was still unable to speak. The knot in my throat had taken up permanent residence there, and showed no signs of moving. After walking several blocks Bernie asked, “Did you know Stephen was back in Chicago?” I just shook my head. “I ran into him last Tuesday night at Vito’s, you know, that little spaghetti restaurant in Evanston,” he continued. “He wasn’t exactly happy to see me, but

tried to pretend he was. He was with a couple guys I hadn’t seen before, but he didn’t introduce them. He said he’d only been back in town a few days, and wasn’t sure how long he was going to stay, but that we should get together some time and catch up. What a line of bullshit! I could tell he wanted to end the conversation, and well… to be honest, I did too, so I excused myself and sat down with my friends.” We had been ambling along with me staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. Bernie slowed the pace even more as he said, “I’m sorry… I just thought you should know he was back and that… Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

As my eyes filled with water, the massive lump in my throat seemed to burst, and my voice came back. I pulled a Kleenex out of my jacket pocket, and tried to dab away the pools of water from the corners of my eyes being very careful not to smudge my makeup, and hoping no random, passing person would catch sight of what I was actually doing. They didn’t, no one noticed me at all. I wasn’t fooling Bernie, but for some unknown reason, it was very important to me that I fool all of the nameless strangers who walked by. I covertly kept glancing up to see if anyone was watching me, and murmured some bullshit to Bernie about the cold breeze blowing up from the lake trying to

cover-up what was happening while I blew my nose several times. Pulling some strength together to look him in the face, the only word I could muster was, “Thanks.” We continued to wander up one side of Michigan Avenue and down the other while Bernie answered my questions, and explained how he had found out that Stephen had gone gay. As soon as I went to stay with Mary Beth –hoping to shock Stephen into realizing that I was serious, we needed to work on our marriage if it was ever going to be okay again – he had decided to take advantage of my absence, and thus began a procession of men streaming in and out of the apartment at all hours. Bernie, who was

no prude, but who did, at that point, need some semblance of quiet across the hall so he could study for finals, had gone over to talk to Stephen. When he knocked on the door some older guy with graying hair, obviously drunk, answered, wearing only his boxer shorts. Bernie could see Stephen lying face down on the couch in the living room, semi-conscious, semi-naked. By the end of the month, Stephen had left the city. That was the last time Bernie had seen Stephen before this past Tuesday. Saying it was difficult listening to Bernie recount the incident is an absurd understatement – more like someone had reached inside my gut, turned my stomach inside out with one swift yank,

and left me alive to watch all of my internal organs spill out of my body and onto the sidewalk. Although I wasn’t shocked at the revelation, hearing it from someone I liked and trusted made it all too real. How could this happen? How could I not know? Did it matter whether he was with a man or a woman? Why was hearing about a man so very much worse in my mind? Had I done this to him? It had to be my fault – Stephen wasn’t gay before we married. Did anyone walking by see that I was dying here? Please don’t notice – please don’t notice! My mind was fragmented bouncing back and forth like a Goddamn ping pong ball. Oh my God, am I really hearing all this?

I’d spent the months right after Stephen disappeared stoned – trying every street drug I could get my hands on, and until meeting Michael, fucking every man that came within 10 feet of me just to prove I could – to stop all this from being real, and here it was, staring me in the face again. Goddamn it! Worse of all though, I knew Bernie was telling me the truth. “Hmph,” I said putting some pieces of the story together in my mind. “A few days before he left town, I met him at the apartment for dinner – that must be why he asked me if I had talked to you when I was arranging it. He wanted to make sure you hadn’t said anything to me. After I told him I hadn’t seen you since I

went to Mary Beth’s he agreed to meet. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Anyhow, that night at dinner, Stephen drank way too much and passed out. I played detective and went through his wallet and address book. I found the names and numbers of about 20 men – names I had never heard of before,” I said focusing on the cracks of the sidewalk again, and dabbing at the corners of my eyes with the Kleenex. With an astonished expression on his face, Bernie interrupted, “You did what? You went through his wallet and address book?” as if my actions were the crime of the century. My head popped up and I met his look head on. “Yeah, I did… Don’t look

at me like that… You’d’ve done the same thing if you’d’ve been in my place, and don’t pretend you wouldn’t!” I snapped. “Well maybe, but I’m not sure I’d ever admit to doing it,” he replied, backing down immediately. “That’s not all I did… Weeks later after Stephen was gone, I confronted Joe, his boss at Marshall Fields. He… Well he said Stephen was gay, not straight. I asked about Leigh, and he told me he had gotten her to ‘pretend’ so I wouldn’t find out the truth. It was not a pleasant conversation. I called him a fuckin’ asshole and threw a glass vase that was on his desk across the room – it sounded great smashing against the wall.

I should have done more damage before I left, but …” I said as my voice began to crack. Please God, oh please… keep the tears back. “I have to be the stupidest woman on the face of the earth – I honestly didn’t know, I still don’t know. I mean, I know, but well I… I just can’t accept it – not really. You haven’t told anyone, have you? I couldn’t bear it if everyone knew and… Stephen… I mean he wouldn’t want them all to know either…” “No, no I haven’t said anything,” he replied easing my concern some. “But what are you going to do now?” “Nothing, I’m not going to do anything. I guess I don’t know what to do. I keep thinking he’ll change his mind,

come back… Shit I don’t know what to think, so… until I figure it all out I’m just doing nothing.” I hesitated. “Except right now, I’m going home and back to bed. I have to work tonight, and I’m tired.” Without any further farewell, I started walking towards the nearest bus stop – I just couldn’t talk any longer. ~~~~~~~~ Sometimes I felt like I was losing my mind – if just one more random thought floated to the surface my brain would explode, plastering little pieces of itself to the walls, the ceiling and the floor. I could picture it happening: curlicues of

whitish pink brain matter – I could see them attached to fragments of my skull with bits of hair all covered in blood just hanging there on the wall. The image was actually quite fascinating to me; I pictured myself moving from brain bit to brain bit as I walked around the room examining, poking, each and every piece. Now that is truly sick. No matter how hard I tried, the world seemed determined to pull me apart. I felt like two people in one body – one façade by day and another by night – a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as it were, and right now it felt like Dr. Jekyll was losing the battle. Last night I had puked on the sidewalk, and today Bernie told me he’s seen my husband naked

with some old man. What the fuck is happening? I can’t think anymore right now, I just have to sleep. I was so very tired. I had to either sleep or get stoned, and right now all I wanted was the welcome blackness of sleep – hopefully, dreamless sleep – long enough to stop my brain from exploding. With any luck Michael had left some of those wonderful little yellow pills with the v-shaped hole in the middle around the apartment somewhere. Fucking a drug dealer had some benefits – besides great sex that is – and right now the only benefit I wanted was to sleep. No tossing, no turning, just closing my eyes and going to sleep as quickly as possible. The Rolling Stones

sure got this one right, I thought – “Mother’s Little Helper.” Valium, for me, meant dreamless sleep. I set the alarm so I would get up in time for work; made sure my blood red drapes were closed all the way, unplugged the phone and went to bed. I inhaled the faint scent of sex left from Michael and I a few hours earlier as I crawled down under the covers, and then – thank God for oblivion.

Chapter Four The Canteen I found out Stephen had left the city one day when I went back to the apartment to get more clothes. The son-of-a-bitch left a note on the dining room table saying he was quitting school, and moving back home. I remember slumping down onto our black leather living room couch – a pang of terror coursing through my veins as I tried to absorb the full impact of his action. Oh my God… he was gone, really gone! Would he be back? What was happening here? Would he have left Chicago if I hadn’t gone to stay with

Mary Beth? I questions swirled around in a virtual vortex until, not able to hold myself together any longer, I broke down and cried. Only six months, my marriage was gone after only six months – this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was supposed to be forever. I tried staying at our apartment by myself, but I couldn’t. It was a nice place, lots of character – in an older brick building with high ceilings and ornately carved crown moldings, a fantastic marble fireplace with an elaborate mantel. I wanted to stay, maybe find a roommate, someone to share the space with so I wouldn’t be alone – after all there was plenty of room: three bedrooms, two full

bathrooms, a huge living room and dining room and the kitchen had a great pantry. Mary Beth and I had talked about her giving up her studio apartment and moving in with me. We could be roommates – we’d been best friends in high school, and it was during one of her visits to us during our first year at SAIC that she decided to transfer to Northwestern – but no, I could not stay there. Words from all our arguments seemed to pour out of the walls whenever I was there sending me into a fit of despair. So I took the first small one bedroom apartment I found and moved. It was in a newer building; the place had zero style, but I didn’t care. It was a light colored,

four story brick building, with small square modern windows, and a flat roof – your basic box, built without character, and out of place with the older, architecturally interesting buildings in the area. A large wedge shaped protrusion jutted out over the front entrance proclaiming the address – and affirming the obvious – that this building may lack style, but it was modern. The only nice thing was no more walking up to the third floor – this place had an elevator and a laundry room in the basement so I wouldn’t have to cart my clothes down to the corner laundromat anymore either. This part of the city was up and coming. Old buildings were being torn

down or renovated and new ones being constructed all over the area, and it was full of night life. Touhy had been a quiet, residential section of Chicago with plenty of older, long term families in the neighborhood. North Pine Grove, just off Diversey, was full of stores and bars, most of which had been there for years. However, as the area changed, the stores were changing too – getting a little classier. New restaurants were popping up almost overnight, and all of them had bars decorated to the hilt with the latest fashions. Flashing neon signs in every color of the rainbow fought for the attention of anyone who walked by. I ‘discovered’ The Canteen my first week in the neighborhood as I was

walking from my new apartment to catch a bus south to school. I’m not sure what drew me to the place; there was nothing special about the sign or its lettering or design. It was just plain old yellow wood with THE CANTEEN painted in black block letters, and an arrow that followed the upper arch of the doorway then hooked around directing everyone to the large double door below. I remember smiling to myself as I passed by and thinking, Cool arrow, I wonder what kind of place it is? When I came back after classes in the late afternoon, one side of the metal door was propped open. I hesitated on the sidewalk for a few seconds, then found myself standing in the doorway staring

down a flight of stairs into a dimly lit room. The stairway was wider than a regular set of stairs – about double or triple the width, covered with badly stained indoor/outdoor carpeting and a single brass handrail running along each side. Somehow the stairs didn’t seem as steep as normal stairs either, maybe because there was a large landing area at the top that housed a tall bar stool and a small podium type shelf that was covered with miscellaneous papers, and had a telephone on the wall. As I descended, I could hear a couple of male voices talking about a broken beer tap. At that moment the room filled with fluorescent lights as one of the men flipped a bank of switches that was

concealed behind a panel in the bar area. As he turned around, he noticed me standing at the base of the stairs. He was a rather tall, lanky-looking guy with light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail at the base of his neck, flat cheeks, and a full Dave Crosby mustache that hid much of his mouth. He was wearing a red, yellow, and orange colored shirt in a large, abstract floral pattern with the buttons undone to his mid chest, a worn brown leather vest with fringe, and a large silver peace symbol around his neck suspended at the end of a leather cord. His jeans (which I assumed would be wide bell-bottoms, had I been able to see through the bottom of the wooden bar), were baggy, and

being held up by a belt with yet another, although much larger, peace symbol belt buckle. “We’re closed,” he snapped as he stared at me standing there, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for other intruders. “I’m sorry – the door is propped open so I thought…” I started to reply, but trailed off, watching as he place both hands on the bar and pole vaulted over. He reached my side almost immediately (yep the jeans are wide bell bottoms), and looking up the stairs he started yelling at a couple of other guys, who popped up from under the beer taps, about how they were supposed to close the door after they got their equipment

out of the truck, and ending with “Never mind, Goddamn it, I’ll close it myself. Come on honey… We open at eight, come back then, this place could use more pretty girls around.” He smiled as his narrow eyes scanned up and down my body sizing me up. In that split second, I made up my mind. Smiling back I said, “But I’ve come to see if you might be hiring, I mean if you needed a cocktail waitress… I’m looking for a part-time job.” He stopped, his leering smile turning into more of a grin, his lips pursing together until the big mustache swallowed his entire mouth; finding my statement either ridiculous or

considering the possibilities – I couldn’t tell which. After a few intense seconds of examination, he said, “Sure, let’s talk, my office is back there. Stay here while I close the door, then follow me.” I followed him through the large rectangular room, weaving my way around wooden tables, chairs and longer rectangular bar-like structures that had been built around metal floor to ceiling poles – structural supports, I assumed. These counter type bars had slate tops and a small raised ridge around the edge, presumably to keep drinks from sliding off. The men working on the beer tap stopped what they were doing and gawked, with questioning expressions on their faces as I passed by.

The main bar ran the length of the right side of the room, and appeared to have a slate top matching the smaller structures; behind it were rows and rows of alcohol set off by a mirrored wall. The rest of the walls were plain plaster, painted a medium gray with neon signs placed in a strategic manner all around, advertising various brands of beer and liquor. The wall on my left had three small ‘basement type’ windows level with the sidewalk outside so you could see people’s feet as they passed. Given that we were in the basement of a multistory building, the ceilings were high with exposed beams, pipes and wires jutting in every direction; but it felt somewhat oppressive, since everything

had been painted an even deeper shade of gray than the walls. I noticed a juke box out of the corner of my eye by the stairs and the bathrooms. As I walked, I could feel the soles of my shoes sticking to the painted cement floor in places where drinks had spilled, and not completely been cleaned up, giving the cement the same stained appearance as the carpeting on the stairs. Each time my foot lifted off one of these spills, a sound like Velcro ripping apart pierced the silence of the room – Guess those little ridges don’t work very well, I thought. Why hasn’t someone washed this floor? And the smell – God I didn’t realize alcohol smelled this much. As we reached the far end of the

room, a small, darkened stage area with a mirrored ball suspended above the middle came into view. The stage area itself was only elevated by one small step up, and was cluttered with ratty old over-stuffed furniture. Why is that there, I wondered. My escort opened a heavy looking wooden door with a brass ship’s porthole window at the side of the stage, and flicked a switch, turning on lights that were nothing more than a couple bare bulbs hanging at the end of wires, revealing a short hall and two small offices. The hall and one of the offices were lined with cases of liquor stacked five or six cartons high and shelves holding other necessities like, jars of cherries, mixed drink straws, and stacks

of napkins; this was the store room as well as the administrative heart of this operation. The office doors were wooden, but the top half had been cut out and large panes of smoked glass had been added so whoever was in the office could see shadows in the hall. Smiling, Mr. Peace, as I had named him in my mind on the walk through the bar, nodded at two cracked maroon Naugahyde chairs in front of the desk and said, “Have a seat.” He then rounded the paper strewn structure and slid into his own creaking swivel chair. I smiled back and sat down. By this time I was having major doubts about my decision a few minutes before… What the hell am I thinking; this place is a

dive, and it smells like stale booze and cigarettes … Am I out of my mind… Well, maybe I am, but I do need a job and this could be perfect… I can always quit when I find something better… and besides, I’m already here. The stark lighting revealed that Mr. Peace was older than I thought – somewhere in his early to mid-forties, although he dressed like a classic young hippie. “I’m Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding friendlier than it had by the doorway, “Charlie White. My partners and I own this place, but I’m the one that runs it. What’s your name? I haven’t seen you in here before. What makes you think you want to work for me?” “My name is Jackie Moretti,” I told

him, using my maiden name for some unknown reason. “I just moved into the neighborhood. I’m a college student – I go to school during the days, and need to find a job that allows me to work at night, so I thought a cocktail waitress job would be perfect.” He continued his pleasant smile and asked a few other basic questions. Where did I go to school, did I have any experience, could I work till 4 am, and did I have an ID, were as extensive as they went. I explained that I was finishing my second year at SAIC, The School of the Art Institute of Chicago; I had never served drinks before, but was sure I could do the job; and yes, I had identification – I lived only three blocks

away so the hours would be perfect since most of my classes didn’t start until later in the day. “You’re wearing a wedding ring – are you married?” “Ahhh… yeah,” I replied looking down and fingering my ring. I had forgotten I was still wearing it. “Is your husband alright with you working in a bar?” Charlie asked. “He’s not the jealous type is he? I don’t need anyone coming in here and causing trouble because some dude is flirting with you, ya know.” Lifting my head, but still playing with my platinum gold ring, I told him that we were separated, and my husband now lived in Boston. That same grin he had less than ten

minutes before in the doorway came back onto his face, and after pressing his lips tightly together… again… for a few seconds, said, “This is going to be interesting. Want to start tonight?” Rather shocked by the suddenness of his decision, I took a deep breath and exclaimed, “Yes!” “Good,” Charlie said, “Come back at eight o’clock – tell whoever’s at the door to bring you to see me, and I’ll introduce you. Rick and Levi, they’re the bar tenders, they’ll show ya the ropes and… Oh yeah… I do have two rules.” He paused as he stood up from the desk, and looked down at me squinting his eyes, his voice losing its light-hearted tone. “Break either of these and I’ll fire

you on the spot.” My inner excitement died some as I asked, “What are they?” Trying to imagine what kind of rules a place like this could have that would be a problem. “First, no shooting up,” he said. “We’re trying to change, but we get a lot of dealers in here. I don’t expect you to stay straight while you’re working; as long as you can do your job, and it doesn’t cause problems, I don’t care, but I will not have a junkie working here – if I find out you’re putting needles in your arms or toes or any other part of your body, you’re gone.” “That’s not going to be a problem, I don’t do that,” I said, meeting his eyes straight on. “What’s the second rule?”

Charlie continued his stern look but a smile also flickered across his face as he said, “Don’t fuck the bartenders.” “That’s not going to be a problem either,” I said smiling back at him. “Good,” he replied, “see you tonight.” I stood up, thanked him and was starting out the door when he said, “A couple more things Jackie.” I turned to face him again. “You may want to take off that ring – the tips will be better if you’re not wearing it, and…” lifting his eyebrows revealing a slight glint, and with a hint of mischief in his voice he continued, “I’m not a bartender.” Rather taken aback by this, I smiled again as best I could and answered, “I’ll

keep that in mind.” I couldn’t get through the door fast enough – closing it carefully, but quickly, behind myself. Once out on the sidewalk, I exhaled, and leaned against the building. This was going to be interesting - thoughts started whirling around in my head – What just happened? Did I just get a new job? The Canteen looked like the armpit of the whole area – shit it was in the basement of a flop house – do I want to even go in there as a customer (if they’d let me in the door that is), let alone work there? What did Charlie mean by “I’m not a bartender?” Does he expect me to sleep with him? What do I do if he does? Shit, shit, shit – okay, go home, call Mary Beth, talk to

her. I didn’t even ask what I would be paid. Well I don’t have to go back tonight after all, I mean I told him my maiden name, but he didn’t actually ask to see my identification – thank God – he’s going to throw me out anyhow when he figures out I’m 19 not 21. ~~~~~~~~ That was over six months ago. I hadn’t broken either of Charlie’s rules – was never even tempted to put a needle anywhere near my body, although he was right, it was offered multiple times by customers, and both Levi and Rick had immediately come on to me, but both were easily deterred. And Charlie never

did anything inappropriate. I later learned that the whole “I’m not a bartender” line was just part of a persona he liked to project as he turned out to be a happily married man with a couple kids at home. The story around the bar was that Charlie never cheated on his wife even when the situation guaranteed he wouldn’t be caught. I now thought of all three of them as friends, more like protective big brothers who watched out for me. I was the only female that worked at The Canteen – the other women Charlie had tried hiring had all succumb to Levi’s charms and were, as promised, fired immediately. As time passed, I was told that Charlie hired me to help ‘class up the

place’. The Canteen had previously been a biker bar. Charlie was trying to change it into a place frequented more by pseudo hippies, real hippies, and the young hip crowd that wanted nothing to do with hippies. Unfortunately, he and his partners didn’t have the financial backing to close, completely renovate and re-open under a new name like the other bars on the street, so they were making changes as they could, and I was one of them. I soon realized that Charlie was open to suggestions that would help towards his goal, so I talked him into hiring a decent cleaning service to scrub the place from floor to ceiling. It helped cut down on the smell, and although the stairs and floor were always nasty from

freshly spilled drinks, at least it kept people’s feet from sticking too much as they walked. Charlie never did ask to see my ID – I was paid in cash each week which suited me just fine. Much to everyone’s surprise, including my own, I got along well with most of the regulars, proving I could handle myself around stoned, mostly male patrons, despite my lack of experience. Or maybe it was my lack of experience that allowed me to find a home there, growing to like a good number of the regular druggies and pseudo-bikers. No one judged me; other than getting drinks, I had zero expectations to live up to with any of these people– and best of all, they didn’t

ask personal questions. The people who patronized The Canteen came and went. They became friends for the night, the week or the month. They came from unknown places, and disappeared back into those places at closing time. As long as they respected my privacy, I could respect theirs. It became my own dysfunctional family of sorts – one that asked no more from me than I was willing to give to them. At the end of the night, we all disappeared back into nowhere. The ordinary, sloppy ass drunks that stumbled in between the hours of 2 am and 4 am after the ‘respectable’ bars had closed tended to be a different story. As far as I was concerned, drunks were

much more difficult to deal with than stoners – one in particular. With Jimi Hendrix’s, “Purple Haze” and Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” blaring from the juke box in the background I approached one of these ‘late customers’. “Hey man, last call,” I said to this guy who had been nursing a bottle of Budweiser, leaning up against one of the small slate topped bars in the middle of the room. He didn’t answer; he just lifted the bottle and took another slow swig, leering at me as I wiped down tables while collecting empty glasses from around the room. He was out-of-place at The Canteen, even considering the eclectic bunch of misfits that frequented the place; he had a

military look with a 50’s style, sort of flat top haircut and a scraggly beard. His clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks and he smelled nasty, as if he’d been on the streets, without a shower for a while. The guy was loaded, but wasn’t shit-faced; he still seemed very much in control, standing motionless. The bar was empty except for a few regulars lounging on the ratty couches in the stage area, this stranger, and a couple of Rick’s buddies at the bar. On my next round of the room I said, “We’re closing, so if you want another quick beer, it’s now or never.” Again, he didn’t answer, this time turning his back on me. Asshole, I thought. But something in his

eyes was making me nervous; I did not like this guy – so when I approached him for the third time to let him know that the bar was now closed, and it was time to leave, I stood back further than I normally would have, well out of his reach. Without a word, his face blank, he lifted his now fire-filled eyes to meet mine, looking through me as if I was some kind of enemy to be destroyed… Then without warning, he smashed the bottle on the slate. Luckily for me he hesitated for a split-moment, glaring through me before lunging in my direction, holding the bottle by the neck – jagged edge pointing in my direction. All hell broke loose in that second. Everything that happened in the wake of

the smashing bottle happened in seconds, but to me, the world took on a sense of slow motion. I heard stools crashing over and caught a glimpse of Rick leaping over the bar from the corner of my eye. Someone yelled “Duck Jackie!” as Rick, his friends, and the regulars from the end of the room lunged at the stranger. I ducked and stumbled backwards over a stool falling onto my ass a few feet away, adrenaline coursing through my veins, heart hammering in my chest. One of the men who rushed to my rescue caught the stranger from behind, and yanked the arm holding the broken bottle back while at the same time wrapping his other arm around the

stranger’s neck. The stranger tried to reach back to free himself, but as he did, one of the guys from the stage landed a punch, hard, in his gut. Although he started to double over, emitting almost non-human grunts with the fire in his eyes getting brighter, he somehow managed to stay on his feet, almost breaking free, punching back, and catching one of Rick’s friends in the jaw. By this point, two more of the regulars were on the guy, wrenching the remaining piece of bottle from his hand, which went smashing to the floor. A series of blows to his body and face brought him down, blood dripping from his broken nose and the corners of his mouth.

Everyone was shouting – the words all a blur… I know the whole thing was over in a matter of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to me. I heard Rick yelling to his friends, “get that motherfucker out of here, and make sure he never comes back,” as he knelt down beside me on the grimy floor. I watched four or five guys drag the still struggling stranger up the stairs and out the door. Then the world began to move at a normal speed again. “Jackie, Jackie, are you okay!?! You’re not hurt are you!?!” “No, I’m fine, I’m just…” My voice sounded strange to my own ears, and my heart was still pounding out of my chest. I looked up at him, tried taking a breath

and spoke again “I’m okay… What the fuck just happened? Why would that guy do that? It was like he just freaked out all of a sudden. I don’t know him, I’ve never even seen him before - why the fuck would he do that? He gave me the creeps but…” “I don’t know, did he say anything before he flipped out… Shit you’re shaking!” “Of course, I’m shaking, I’ve never… I mean I’ve only been here a month, and there’s a fight that somehow I seem to have caused. Charlie’s gonna fire me!” “You didn’t cause anything! Charlie’s not gonna fire you… Did that asshole say anything to you before he flipped out

and…” I cut him off, “No, I told him it was last call, and then I told him we were closing – he just glared at me but never said a word. I don’t understand. Where are they taking him?” Rick helped me stand up, and led me over to the bar. “Have you seen him in here before? Where did they take him?” I asked again. “No, I’ve never seen him before – I noticed him when he came in – I thought he was weird, but let it go when he just hung out drinking. I should have kept a better eye on him.” “But where the fuck did they take him – answer me! They’re not going to hurt him are they?” I demanded.

Rick just looked at me, slid a shot glass full of something across the bar to me, and rather matter-of-factly, stated, “He was going to hurt you – they’re making sure he doesn’t come back.” I swallowed – hard. That simple statement sent chills up my spine. One of the other guys who had been walking around picking up stools, listening to us, but keeping generally quiet decided to jump into the conversation at this point. “They’re gonna kick the shit out of him and…” “Shut the fuck up Jim! You don’t need to tell her that!” Rick snapped cutting him off. “Here, have a drink.” “Don’t pour that, he can have this – whatever it is,” I said pushing the shot

glass towards Jim as I tried to breathe and steady myself. “I don’t want it. I want to keep my wits about me walking home – I’ve had enough excitement for one night.” Rick snorted, then raised his brow and informed me that I wouldn’t be walking home alone again for quite some time. The adrenaline filtering out of my system, I felt drained. I’d never witnessed violence like this before or even a fist fight among the boys in high school – I was battling with my hands to keep them still, and my mind was telling me I should not be working here, but I pushed that thought out of my head. I was unaccustomed to letting some guy make decisions for me or tell me what to do,

but was in no condition to protest so I just said, “Good, can we go now then?” ~~~~~~~~ So began my double life – serious art school student by day, waitress at a sleazy bar by night, getting stoned and sleeping with an endless string of men who wanted me, even if it was just for a one night stand. It all held a certain amount of fucked up romanticism when thought about in light of my disheveled marriage. Stephen and I met when I was a sophomore in high school, only 15 years old; I had led a sheltered life before that. He was my first real boyfriend, and the only man I had ever

made love to; I thought we would be together forever. Well that world had crashed and burned in spectacular fashion as if it was an image on TV from Vietnam with napalm fires blazing, indiscriminately destroying everything and everyone in sight. I couldn’t think of Stephen without seeing myself on fire or my brain exploding into tiny pieces, and yet I couldn’t think of anything else. Everyone at school knew me as part of a couple, as Stephen’s wife; some of them asked where he was or what he was doing; others just looked at me. Whatever the case, being at the Art Institute reminded me of him. I hated the reality of my life, so I built a whole world of mental

fantasies around the theme of a liberated woman, working in a bar, determined to survive – one way or another – the ideal heroine of my own soap opera. The Canteen was the perfect escape. I would never quit this place. Who the fuck did I think I was kidding?

Chapter Five Waking Up The alarm was going off… Shit it was loud! I rolled over forcing myself to consciousness through my Valium induced haze, cracked my eyes open enough to see the clock and hit the snooze button, lacking even enough strength to pull my arm back under the covers – my eyes closed again. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP! “Shut up!” I yelled hitting snooze a second time. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! “Okay, okay, Jesus Christ, just SHUT UP,” I bellowed at the alarm, sitting bolt upright in bed this time

turning the miserable thing off. I pulled my knees up around my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and let my head fall down on top as I attempted to open my eyes… Thank God the sun was gone, and all I had to contend with outside the window were street lights. Even though I wasn’t hungry, I dug some leftovers out of the refrigerator, and forced myself to eat a couple pieces of ham and some rice, melting sharp cheddar cheese over the top of the rice by popping it under the broiler for a few minutes while I changed clothes, and put on some makeup. After swallowing what food I could, I grabbed my jacket, and made my way to work, it was a lot colder today than it was yesterday.

Saturdays at The Canteen were usually pretty busy, and I was hoping that tonight would be no exception – I didn’t want any time to think about the events of the day. ~~~~~~~~ There were only about five or six people in the bar when I arrived; I glanced around the room, and saw that they were all regulars – well it was early after all. Rick greeted me as I came down the stairs yelling, “Hey Jackie, why did you disappear last night? I turned around, and you were gone… Mike told me he found you across the street hanging on the phone pole… Good one girl … you

were fucked up!” The faces turned to see what was going on for a moment, but since they were all guys that knew me, they had little interest in me being ‘fucked up’ again: they had seen it many times before. “Yeah I was. Don’t give me any booze tonight – I don’t care how many times I ask, don’t give it to me,” I replied motioning him to join me at the deserted end of the bar. Lowering my voice I continued, “But I could use some of that wonderful, mellow grass you had the other day – got any left? When did you talk to Michael?” “I saw him at the garage this afternoon – he’s helping me install some new chrome on my bike. He was pretty

pissed when he went out to look for ya, like worried, ya know, but I guess you guys…” He hesitated as the smirk on his face grew into a full-fledged grin. “I guess you guys made up… huh? I’ll never understand what he has that I don’t – he can’t even tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue. I’m telling ya Jackie, ya don’t know what you’re missin’.” This was an ongoing conversation I had with Rick now almost every night, by this time it was almost scripted. I smiled as I recited my lines, “You know it’s against Charlie’s rules – you don’t want me to get fired do ya? Who would you torment if I wasn’t here? Charlie said he wasn’t going to hire any more

women, and…” Right on cue, Rick cut off my response, his eyes dancing with delight “What Charlie doesn’t know won’t hurt him – I won’t tell – I promise, I won’t tell him or Mike.” “Right, you’re so full of shit – Charlie knows everything that happens in this place and Michael’s your friend, you introduced us. Besides, you know I need something in reserve to fanaticize about,” I countered, in my best put-on flirtatious tone, grinning back, tilting my head and blowing him a kiss across the bar. Rick dramatically caught the kiss with both hands, pressed it to his heart and sighed. Ritual conversation over, we both laughed.

“But seriously, why did you leave the bar last night?” Rick asked with just the slightest hint of concern in his voice, “I’ve never seen you go off like that before.” One of the regulars had walked up to the bar with his empty beer glass, and was now staring at Rick. Rick just waved his hand in a dismissive, be right there, kind of gesture and the guy looked away. “I don’t know – I honestly don’t remember going outside. I just remember sort of waking up by the telephone pole – alone. Guess I had things on my mind,” I replied acknowledging his unspoken tone. “I mean it – no booze tonight – none!” “Yeah, Mike said you could have

some vodka, but to keep you away from the Southern Comfort, at least until he got here later,” Rick said. My body stiffened; I turned on my heels, started to open my mouth to object to Michael dictating what I should and shouldn’t do, but then changed my mind and replied, “Don’t worry – I don’t want any, I felt like shit when I woke up, but I would like a joint… if it’s the same stuff you guys had last week.” Rick just grinned, winked and pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his T-shirt pocket. Tucked between the package and the cellophane wrapper was about a quarter of a joint. Handing it to me he said, “This will have to do for now – that asshole at the end of the bar is

getting impatient.” ~~~~~~~~ Rick was a biker – left over from the ‘biker bar’ days. He was about the same height as Charlie, but a good deal heavier – not fat, but well-muscled with a tattoo of a naked woman on his right bicep placed so that when he flexed his arm muscles, her boobs appeared to grow. On his left arm, higher up, closer to his shoulder was a tattoo of an eagle over the large orange letters HD with the words Harley Davidson Cycle in a semi-circle underneath, and eagle wings supporting the whole design. (He had other tattoos that he volunteered to show

me ‘in private’ but I declined.) His wavy, coffee brown hair was just below his ears, a full beard and mustache set off his lips and his bright blue eyes didn’t miss a thing – always darting from one person to the next, sizing them up. He could usually spot trouble brewing in the bar and have it stopped before anything ever happened. And Rick was a lady’s man – he showed any female entering the premises how he could tie a knot in the stem of a cherry using only his tongue, letting them know that he, and his tongue, were available to perform other ‘services’ if they cared to come back around closing time. Most nights there was someone waiting to take him up on his offer. The whole act was very

entertaining to watch, almost as choreographed as our daily conversation. Although he tried not to let it show, he was your all around good person under that tough guy façade. Levi was a different story entirely. Most of the time he dressed like a higher-class version of Charlie, hippie all the way, but giving off the impression that he was somehow slumming by working at The Canteen. There’s no way to express what Levi looked like other than to say he was, hands down, one of the most gorgeous men I had ever seen, with eyes even brighter blue than Rick’s - they looked like blue sapphires, and honey blond hair that always smelled like he had just washed it with a ginger

spice-scented shampoo. It was easy to see how the other females Charlie had hired fell prey to his smooth, selfassured, educated voice that belied his true manner. His soft facial features, those high set cheek bones, inviting smile, and lips the color of Merlot wine were straight off the fashion pages of Vogue. His act was so smooth, so polished – glittering like a multi-faceted, high quality, De Beer’s princess cut diamond – he could be irresistible. He reminded me of Stephen. No, he didn’t look like him at all, but something in the way he moved… so confident, so sure of himself. Or maybe it was just the way other people were drawn to him, as if he was the North Pole and they were mere

magnets unable to turn away. But for me, there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on, couldn’t quite discern, other than Charlie’s rule, that kept me away. Keeping my distance from Levi was no problem at all. ~~~~~~~~ It was Saturday night so the bar was busy, but not hectic like it could sometimes get. The room filled up with the usual assortment of people: groups of two, three, four guys out together looking to pick up someone to spend the night with; groups of two, three, four women looking for the same thing; couples wandering in meeting up with other

couples; single guys leering in the corners as they got drunk hoping they would score, but in reality, knowing it wasn’t going to happen. There were always one or two dealers wandering around the bar peddling their dime bags, and any number of other mind-altering substances – whatever you wanted, it could be found here. The leftover joint Rick gave me had done its job, and I floated through the night serving drinks without a care in the world until Kevin, one of the Saturday night regulars, came up behind me, and without warning snapped a popper in my nose. “You motherfucker! Why the hell did you do that?” I bellowed whirling around and stumbling – the beers I was

carrying went crashing to the floor as I was overcome by an instantaneous head rush. “You motherfuckin’ son of a bitch – Goddamn it!” Kevin was looking pretty pleased with himself until he saw Rick motion to the bouncer, Dave, who, at the sound of breaking glass, had already started making his way to where I was standing. Rick was yelling, “He’s wasted, get him out of here.” Then turning to face Kevin he said, “See ya tomorrow man.” Kevin was trying to apologize, “Jackie… Jackie I’m sorry, I thought you’d like it” he said backing up and spreading his hands so Dave could see he wasn’t going to put up a struggle. With Dave pulling Kevin up the

stairs, and my head still swooning I yelled, “You ever do that to me again, and I’ll kick you in the balls – I hate those fuckin’ things!” “Here Jackie, sit down for a minute then take these beers to those guys” Rick said coming around the bar with a broom in his hand. “You’ll be fine in a minute, Kevin didn’t mean to piss you off, he’s just a fucked up asshole.” “Hmph – yeah, well he ruined my perfect buzz,” I said picking up the new tray of beers and starting through the crowd, “I hate that shit!”

Chapter Six Sundays Sundays had become my favorite day of the week since Michael and I started hanging out. We had a sort of routine established: he would come to the bar an hour or two before closing on Saturday night, we’d get breakfast at the Sunrise Diner on Broadway with Rick, Levi, Charlie and whoever else was around, and then make our way back to my apartment. The diner made great French toast which I always smothered in maple syrup and powdered sugar; along with my side order of link sausages and

coffee it was the perfect ending to the night. Somehow French toast just tasted better at 4 am on Sunday morning before going to bed than it ever had when my mother made it for me while I was growing up. Michael’s usual breakfast consisted of two eggs, over easy, crispy bacon and white buttered toast with strawberry jam and black coffee. I doctored my coffee with as much cream and sugar as I could squeeze into the cup. As usual, both Levi and Rick had women with them that they’d picked up earlier in the evening at the bar. Everyone was winding down; the conversation was light and meandering, revolving almost entirely around the

events of the evening. “Are you going to make Kevin pay for the broken glasses Charlie,” I asked sipping my coffee. “Nah,” he replied, “he’s an idiot – he never thinks, but he’s harmless. I’ll make sure he knows not to stick any more poppers up your nose though.” “Yeah, that was pretty amusing, Jackie,” Levi piped in, “… for a minute I thought you were going to fall over head first into the bar.” “It wasn’t funny, I almost did fall over,” I shot back. “God I hate those things!” “That’s because you’re doing them at the wrong time… Mike – here catch,” Rick called tossing a foil packet across the table to him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Give this to her when you guys are fuckin’, and she’ll change her mind.” Michael caught it with one hand and smiled at me with a questioning look on his face. My face and voice left no doubt about my opinion on the subject as I snarled, “Don’t you dare!” One corner of Michael’s mouth curled up; he chuckled under his breath, and slid the packet back across the table to Rick. “We don’t need it,” he said leaning over to kiss my cheek. The table exploded with laughter followed by a string of wise-ass comments causing me to turn a full spectrum of red. Michael, on the other hand, never seemed embarrassed by that kind of teasing – he never turned ten shades of red the way I

did. He said the way I blushed was ‘cute’, and I could tell he was enjoying it now as much as everyone else. When things calmed down some, the woman hanging on Levi’s arm whispered something in his ear and he roared again, eyebrows raising… “Give that to me – I’ve got a taker – we’re gonna parrrttty!” Rick handed it over winking at his partner for the night, “Don’t worry sweetie – I’ve got some for you too.” With that, shaking his head, Charlie announced he had to leave, saying in his own mischievous tone, eyes glinting, “I think I’ll go wake up my wife.” ~~~~~~~~

By the time we all made our way out of the diner the sun was starting to rise, and Michael suggested we go over to Lincoln Park and watch the lake for a while before heading back to the apartment. The air was brisk and cool, but not yet too cold to be by the water, so I agreed without hesitation. Lincoln Park had always been one of my favorite destinations in the city. A wonderful zoo and conservatory were only part of the lure as it stretched out along the north side of the city providing a much needed place to escape the busy streets; a place where you could sit under a tree and listen to Lake Michigan. We found a secluded bench along one of the walkways; Michael put his arm around

me as I pulled my legs up close to my body, and leaned back against him snuggling in to stay warm. The morning was beautiful with multiple shades of pinks and yellows beginning to peek up over the horizon, gleaming as it pushed the darkness away. He kissed the top of my head while I rested on his shoulder, neither of us speaking, just enjoying the sound of the waves hitting the cement wall at the end of the sidewalk, and the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees in the park behind us. It was a rare morning for Chicago in the fall – cool, but not too cold; light, but not too light – that elusive time when it’s not night and not day, when the air carried a faint mist and

smelled of winter weather to come, but somehow was still suspended in the relative warmth of fall. Michael broke the silence asking, “How did things go with Bernie?” I felt my body tense a little – he felt it too - before I answered, “Okay, we talked for a while – it was good to see him again – then I went home and went back to bed. I was still hung over and needed more sleep.” “Yeah, I tried calling, but the phone just rang – so I figured…” His voice faded off. “Sorry, I unplugged it – I guess I forgot to plug it back in when I got up,” I murmured as he shifted his shoulder under my head and pulled me closer.

After another, shorter silence he continued, “Want to tell me what he said?” “Not right now, let’s just watch the sun come up, okay?” “Okay,” he whispered to the top of my head and once again the only sounds were those of the water lapping against the sea wall and the wind rustling the trees, blocking out the city noise as well as all the thoughts in my head. As we walking back to the car, I looked at Michael, and said with as little emotion as I could manage, “Bernie says Stephen’s back in town.” Drawing his brows together almost reflexively, Michael nodded and unlocked the door of the Mustang for me.

As he got in and started the engine, he gave me an understanding smile, “I think we both need some more sleep,” he said. ~~~~~~~~ It was well past noon when we both started to stir. I had finally fallen asleep in my favorite position – my head cradled in the small of his shoulder with his arms holding me, and our legs knotted together around each other, me playing with the hair on his chest. Normally on Sunday mornings after having a filling breakfast at the diner, we’d spend the time before falling asleep continuing to wind down, toying with each other, but that had not

happened this time. Michael seemed a little distant – like he was deep in thought when we arrived at the apartment, and even though I did my best to distract him, stroking the inside of his thighs and fingering his cock, he was only interested in whatever thoughts were occupying his head. As I dozed off I wished I hadn’t said anything about Stephen being back in Chicago. Michael knew more about my marriage than anyone else I had met in the last six months, and he had not seemed bothered by it. Maybe it was that Stephen was gone, that I had no way of contacting him other than to call his mother’s house (and he knew how I felt about talking to that woman); maybe

somehow none of it had been real to him – God only knows I was trying my hardest to make it all unreal for myself; maybe we were just too busy being stoned and fucking for him to pay attention, but whatever it was, this was the first time he had refused my attentions. Neither of us had ever talked about our relationship being any more than an extended one-night-stand. I mean sure, I had sensed it changing from just screwing to something else, more like making love, but he knew I was married… So what the hell was the problem? Goddamn it… why did I tell him? ~~~~~~~~

Sleep seemed to have done the trick for Michael. Whatever had been bothering him the night before had evaporated, at least for the time being. “Want to come to the garage with me today?” he asked as he cozied up behind me in perfect spoon-like fashion. “Maybe; are you working on the Mustang or bike or are you meeting someone there?” I replied yawning. “I was going to change the sparkplugs on my bike.” “Hmph… that sounds terribly exciting.” He snickered in my ear saying, “Liar… I just thought it would give us a chance to talk… You could hand me the wrenches.”

“Right, you know I don’t know one wrench from another.” “I’ll teach you,” he replied, and I could feel his smile against the back of my head. Hesitating a moment as I opened my eyes and started to stretch I said, “I have to do the laundry – I’m out of clean underwear.” “Now that’s what I call an exciting Sunday afternoon,” he chuckled. I rolled over facing him now, ran my hand over his strong shoulder and down the length of his arm feeling the gentle curve of his muscles, continuing my exploration over his hard, lean thighs. Michael lay still, hardly breathing. He kissed me deeply, for a very long time,

holding me as close as possible to him, our hips pushing together. I lowered my head, kissing his shoulders, chest and perfectly flat stomach as my fingers found the soft inside of his thighs, making their way through his thick, dark pubic hair to cup his balls. I moved, pushing his back flat on the bed and rolled on top of him. His hands embraced my face, smoothing my long hair back so he was looking me in the eyes. “You’re beautiful babe,” he murmured. I gave him a half-curled smirk in return. “No, really, I mean it – you’re beautiful.” His hand held my hair at the back of my neck as he pulled me down on top of him.

I was right. We weren’t just fucking anymore – we were making love. God help him.

Chapter Seven Lying to the World The weeks seemed to fly by. I stayed stoned as much as possible, one of the best things I could do to keep from thinking about Stephen being back. Before I knew it, Thanksgiving was looming, and my parents were asking if I was going to make the trip back home for the holiday. I hadn’t been home since September 1970, when Stephen and I got married, well over a year ago, far longer than I had ever been away from them before. My grip on reality was tenuous at best, slipping more and more with

each passing day, and even though I knew I needed to face them, to talk to them, tell them the truth about what was happening with Stephen and me, I just couldn’t. In case I was wrong, I couldn’t take the chance of turning them against him – they loved him too. I hated lying to them, but I couldn’t talk to them – not yet. Luckily, Mary Beth had decided to stay in Chicago for Thanksgiving, so I was able to successfully sell a story about not wanting to drive all that way by myself for such a short time, and air fare was too expensive, but I would come home for Christmas. When Stephen and I were in high school and applying to colleges, we only applied to places that were at least a

thousand miles away from Boston, no East Coast schools. I couldn’t go anywhere that was within easy driving distance of Weymouth – Stephen and I planned to live together, and I couldn’t risk any surprise visits from my very prudish parents. We both applied to the same places – one of us would not go without the other – so when The School of the Art Institute of Chicago accepted both of us, the decision was already made. I was getting good at lying, or at the very least, keeping things from them at this point. Growing up in their house hadn’t been easy, but certainly wasn’t as bad as a lot of the homes I knew of – Stephen’s being at the forefront of that

list. My parents argued constantly – I swear it was every minute of every fuckin’ day! They would argue about everything, they would argue about nothing – I honestly don’t remember what the arguments were about, but by the time I met Stephen at 15, I was dying to get out. Stephen provided that escape, that relief from the constant turmoil at home. Yet, as I began to spend time at his house, his parents furnished me with a first-hand view of what a truly fucked up family looked like. I now remembered all the warning signs; all the things I ignored at 15, 16 and 17, flashed back in my mind – I knew there was no way I was going to repeat that shit in my life. One minute his

parents would be together, then his mother, Virginia, would get pregnant and have another kid, and then the next minute his father would get drunk, upset the kids and take off again. I wanted some stability, consistency – some happiness. Because of his mostly absent status, I never got to know Stephen’s father very well, but from what I heard, I was not missing anything. His mother bounced from one self-made problem to another; as far as I could see, she used people, even her children, mostly to connive money out of one person or another since she was always broke. ‘Boyfriends’ would come and go; Virginia dumped anyone who didn’t put enough cash in her hand. There was no

way I wanted anything to do with a life like that. No, no, my parents are like saints compared to his, I thought. Why the hell can’t I just talk to them, they’d understand. No, not now… After all, I truly didn’t know what was happening. Stephen had certainly never admitted anything; maybe what Bernie had seen, and what Joe had told me, was all some kind of bullshit. If I could just talk to Stephen, without arguing, maybe there was some way we could work it all out. When I got married it was forever, at least in my mind, and I wanted that life back. Why tell them something I wasn’t absolutely positive about. Besides, what if my parents blamed me? They knew me

– they’d see it was somehow my fault. No, I couldn’t go home now – I needed more time, staying in Chicago for Thanksgiving was the right thing to do. ~~~~~~~~ Stephen had been back in Chicago since the beginning of October, almost two full months now, but he still had not tried to contact me. Where the hell was he? What is he doing? Who is he staying with? No one has seen him except for Bernie… What is going on? Ever since Bernie told me he was here, I had been like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. When the phone rang, I was petrified it would be him; then when it wasn’t, I

was upset that he hadn’t called. I tried to force all thoughts of him out of my mind, but the only time I was successful was when I was stoned or in bed with Michael. And Michael: Christ, what would I do without him, and what am I going to do with him. He knew I was an emotional train wreck, just one short track from plowing over the edge and bursting into flames… a head rush; that’s what I was… I was a popper waiting to be snapped into some unsuspecting soul’s nose. My nerves were shot. Actually plunging over the edge may have been a relief… at least it would be over. As it was now, my life was like one long, continuous, slow motion train wreck with a new car running off an

unseen cliff every day, forming a multicar pile of rubble in the valley below. I couldn’t control my thoughts; my thoughts were controlling me. The Jackie I thought I knew was unrecognizable, even to myself. I was just waiting – waiting for what, I had no idea, but whatever it was, it terrified me. I hated every waking second of my life. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and if I was being perfectly honest, no one wanted to talk to me either – at least not when I was straight. Why would they? I was miserable, grouchy, sarcastic, critical of everything and everyone and totally self-deprecating. My memories all seemed to be conspiring against me, pulling me down into a hole filled with

nothing but emptiness. I could push that blankness, the hollowness of the chasm in the depths of my gut, away with grass or Quaaludes. When I was stoned I could accept that I was somehow to blame without feeling the pain of it being all my fault. When I was stoned I could push away all the random thoughts of being alone for the rest of my life. No one would love me – I was just a bitch who drove her husband into the arms of… men. When I was stoned, I didn’t question myself as much about why I hadn’t known what was happening. When I was straight, I couldn’t come to terms with my thoughts. If he had been having an affair with a woman, then maybe, just maybe, I could compete. But

how the hell was I supposed to compete with a man? I would lose myself screwing Michael – there were no pretenses with him, no holding back. Sometimes it felt like he was as desperate as I was, trying to escape demons of his own or maybe just help me slay mine. He had always been a bit of a chauvinist, making decisions for me, suggesting what I should and should not do… the more morose I became, the more possessive he became. I would wake in the morning feeling him pushed, hard, against me and slowly make love to him without ever fully waking. Then a few hours later, as we settled in for the night, he would take me with a fury that lit both our souls on

fire, like he had to somehow own me. It was as if he was determined to pull me out of the darkness I was digging deeper and deeper into every day. Michael was being wonderful. I knew he wanted me to talk more, to let him know what was going on inside my head, but the problem was… I didn’t know myself, and none of the feelings I could express made any sense – everything was contradictory, every thought hurt. So since he couldn’t get inside my head, he settled for being inside me physically. Right now all I wanted oblivion – I kept pleading with my mind to please, please go blank… begging it for some peace. Michael couldn’t provide true peace, but he could provide oblivion,

and he made sure I got exactly that, but not too much. He was my lover, my friend, my dealer and my self-appointed protector – all roles I allowed him to play. I appreciated being ‘protected’, but Goddamn it, I could handle myself. Not only was I trying to sort out having a gay husband, it felt like I was being pulled apart by time too… independent ’70s feminist by day; ‘50s woman pretending to be helpless by night… except that I really did feel helpless in this battle with myself. I felt a certain degree of safety when I was with Michael or was at The Canteen. Part of me knew it was an illusion, that it could, and would, all fall apart as soon as I straightened up the next morning, but, for those few hours, I

could pretend – I could hide in plain sight, standing in front of the world, and no one would be the wiser, not even me. School didn’t help. I forced myself to stay straight long enough during the day to make it through classes. I tried to immerse myself in my art work, to express whatever was going on in my head, but fashion design and textiles didn’t lend themselves well to exploding brains hanging from the ceiling, and fantasies of overdosing on the street corner. Nothing inspired me, nothing distracted me. I spent my days lifelessly going through the motions just waiting for the next car on the train to topple over. My marriage to Stephen had ended in the spring of my sophomore year. I

have no idea how I managed to complete that second year of school successfully, but the way I was going now, I wouldn’t make it through the third.

Chapter Eight Thanksgiving Michael and Rick had grown up on the same street just off Cermak in an old Polish south side neighborhood. It was a typical working class area of the city, full of identical looking, two-story frame homes. Rick was actually a friend of Michael’s older brother, Keith. All three of them were into motorcycles –no, not just motorcycles, Harleys, as they so often informed me – and all three of them were small time drug dealers. ‘A family business,’ I sometimes teased Michael. He certainly made more money

dealing than he did as a mechanic repairing cars and bikes. It was some kind of motorcycle-drug related fight Keith had gotten them all into that caused Michael to be knifed when he was 18; he didn’t seem anxious to share the details of what actually happened, and I did not push. In 1969 when the Vietnam War draft lottery was held for men with birthdates between 1944 and 1950, Keith’s May 3rd birthday drew #40, so in early 1970, he was promptly inducted into the Army and shipped overseas. Michael, Rick and some other guys from the neighborhood were keeping the business going until he got back. Clearly Keith had been the ringleader of the group, the

one who wanted to get them deeper into the game. Keith now had access to some extremely potent marijuana over in Nam, and the three of them were trying to figure a way of smuggling the seeds back into the States without getting busted. Thankfully, Michael kept me away from most of that business so I didn’t know much more, except, wherever the current supply was coming from, it was always the best stuff around. I never had to worry about running out: grass, Quaaludes, Valium, speed, acid – whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. Thanksgiving came and went. I spent it with Michael’s family. His mother, Shirley, actually seemed to like me,

always calling me ‘sweetheart’ without the slightest tinge of sarcasm to the term. She was nice enough to invite Mary Beth for the Thanksgiving festivities this year when she heard that she too had no relatives in the area. In fact, at various points during the day, it felt like everyone in their neighborhood had been invited (I even got to meet Rick’s parents – he was shacking up with some girl for the weekend somewhere else) as the house ebbed and flowed with a stream of people, all bearing covered dishes of traditional or ethnic holiday food, or bottles of booze or wine. Michael, Mary Beth and I, along with Michael’s younger brother, Tom, were pleasantly stoned; his mother had an

alcohol buzz going, and his sister, Candice or Candy for short… well I’m not sure what his sister was doing, but she was feeling no pain. We had a great day eating all the traditional American Thanksgiving foods. I had my first Perogies – stuffed dumplings, absolutely delicious served with butter, onions, sour cream and bacon; my first Piernik – a type of Polish honey cake stuffed with layers of raspberry jam and covered in chocolate; and my first Rum Baba – another fantastic dessert of yellow cake and pudding topped with pecans and a rum glaze. Mary Beth became the focus of attention as several of Michael’s friends took turns trying to pick her up; she

played the game perfectly drawing them in and then shooting them down one by one. We spent the day eating, smoking, drinking, watching TV, and listening to Michael, Tom and some other guys from the neighborhood play their guitars, keyboard and drums. They all joked about their one and only gig when they briefly had dreams of becoming a famous rock n’ roll band – evidently their drummer was so wasted he tripped over something coming on stage, and went head first through the bass drum knocking the rest of them over, and effectively ending the gig before it started. The stories went on and on, and generally began with “Mike, do you

remember when …?” Good-naturedly taunting each other about all the stupid things they had done over the years – most of the truly dumb or dangerous stuff were stunts led by Keith. Sometimes I wanted to know more about Keith, meet him myself, but most of the time, I was apprehensive about what things would be like if he were here. So for the moment, I was content with hearing the old stories. Mary Beth and I listened to all this in amazement – our high school experience had been a whole lot more subdued than theirs that was for sure. We didn’t have gangs or fist fights at school. And our extra-curricular activities only extended to occasionally smoking pot on Boston

Common, or going into the city to watch a band playing at The Tea Party, a hippie club in Boston, even telling about Janis Joplin falling off the stage drunk or how the room was spinning when Hendrix played, or the mellow sounds of Joni Mitchell at some little hole-in-the-wall joint in Cambridge, didn’t put us in the same league. These guys had something totally different going on. “Hey Jackie, has Mike ever told you about when we ‘borrowed’ the Boreckis’ car and wrapped it around that telephone pole? It was a gas!” his best friend Jeff asked grinning from ear to ear. “No! I didn’t know you guys were into ‘borrowing’ cars,” I replied, eyeing

Michael, and returning Jeff’s playful grin. “I thought you just fixed them.” Michael was shaking his head, “Yeah, well we were only 16 at the time and Jeff here was trying to nail at least one of these twins he’d met out in Schaumburg…” “Me?” Jeff interrupted. “You’re the one who told me they were stone cold foxes man, and wanted to take one of them off my hands!” “Just trying to help ya’ out man; if you’re going to tell her the story, at least tell it all – admit you really wanted to keep them both for yourself.” Turning to me winking he added, “He’s greedy.” Then turning back to Jeff, “And tell her it was you who drove off the road when

they both rejected you… What were those girl’s names Jeff? Don’t you have them tattooed on your ass, one name on each cheek?” Michael taunted. “Hell no,” Jeff slammed back, “I thought you tattooed the taller one’s name on yours!” “Well then, since I’m very familiar with Michael’s ass, and I know there aren’t any tattoos,” I said beaming at my momentary ability to say something salacious without turning ten shades of red, “I’m gonna have to believe his side of this story – sorry Jeff.” They all jeered and laughed as Michael pulled me over to him planting a passionate kiss on my lips to another round of hoots, cat calls and applause.

“Whooo! I like your old lady Mike – you need to keep this one around,” Jeff whooped slapping Michael on the back as he made his way out of the room to get another beer. “Want another one Mike?” “Absolutely, and bring the bottle of Southern Comfort for ‘my old lady’ and Mary Beth while you’re at it,” he laughed, winking at the two of us while he strummed his guitar. “‘Old lady,’ I’m not sure I like being called that. Does it have a meaning I don’t know about?” I asked, catching something different in his tone at the use of this term. “Hmph, you have no idea, babe, no idea at all.” he said kissing me again,

still laughing. ~~~~~~~~ I was intrigued by the fact that these people seemed content to live out their lives just as they currently were. They had grown up in this neighborhood, and it sounded like they intended to die in this neighborhood; these families had a sense of comradery. Although that was a foreign concept to me, I found it strangely comforting. They liked each other. Hell, I had been best friends with Mary Beth for years but our parents never even spoke, let alone celebrated a holiday together, and here these people were all interacting as if they belonged

together. I soon relaxed… really chilled out – not just the kind of relaxation that comes from a mild high –and I smiled freely for the first time in weeks, no, months. Stephen barely entered my mind. It was a good day followed by a great weekend lazily doing nothing of significance except making love and bumming around the city shopping, going to see ‘The French Connection’, eating out and talking… as if magically, all my worries, self-doubts and anger had disappeared.

Chapter Nine Room 312 The Monday after Thanksgiving, the phone rang. Michael had returned to his place to meet some guy who needed help finding an oil leak on his Shovelhead. I laughed when he said ‘shovelhead’ telling him that was a silly name for a motorcycle, and him informing me that Harley also made Panheads, Knuckleheads and Flatheads. I only had one class that day, and enjoyed working on an assignment to design a pantsuit using a double-knit polyester fabric. The uncomfortable haze I had been living

under had lifted; I felt good. When the phone rang in the late afternoon, I answered without dread, thinking it might be Mary Beth or Michael. It wasn’t – this time it was Stephen. All the feelings, all the sensations, the questions that were buried by the weekend broke back through to the surface in a flash as I felt yet another railroad car speed down the tracks and go crashing over the cliff. I froze; my mind congealed, my breath stopped. “Are you there, Jack?” he asked, “Can you hear me?” “Yes,” I managed to reply. His voice sounded friendly, but it was his turn to hesitate… “I… I came back to Chicago… ahhh… a few weeks

ago. I ran into Bernie, did he tell you?” Again silence on my end of the line. “Are you sure you can hear me… Do we have a bad connection?” he asked. More silence. “Jackie? Could you answer me please?” Clearing my throat, I answered, “Yes, Bernie told me.” I could feel the absolute terror rising in my gut; my hands were shaking and my mind, now in full gear, was racing out of control. “I’m sorry I didn’t call before this… I just thought… well, since we haven’t talked for a while, I thought you might still be mad, and I didn’t want to upset you.” His voice sounded sincere, but my anger flared – I was having none of it. “You thought I might be upset?” I

broke in. “That’s why you haven’t called since you got back or… or since last spring when you left for that matter. What kind of horse shit reason is that?” I bellowed, my voice becoming louder and stronger with every word. “You did say ‘might’ – right? I mean what the fuck do I have to be upset about? No, wait, don’t tell me – maybe the fact that you left the city without telling me, or no, no how about the fact that you’ve been lying to me for God only knows how long, and you threw our marriage away! But why the fuck would I be upset about any of that? Asshole! And now you call as if nothing’s wrong at all. Of course I’m UPSET!” “I know… I know. I shouldn’t have

done those things, and I’m sorry – I was an asshole, but… Jack, just listen to me, please – I was fucked up… I didn’t mean to hurt you, I really didn’t. I… could we talk? Something’s happened, and I need to talk to you… Will you come see me?” he asked, his voice also rising in volume, but with the same tone of sincerity it had a few minutes before. “What happened? You just said something’s happened – what is it?” I replied no longer sarcastic, but now concerned. “I’ll explain when you get here. I don’t want to talk on the phone, will you come?” “Tell me now, Stephen.” “No, I can’t… Would you please just

come? I’d just like to see you and talk, not argue.” “Okay – when and where do you want to meet?” I could hear him let out a deep sigh as he said, “Thank you – I… Well I’m at Cook County Hospital in Room 312…” I cut him off, panic taking over every thought in my head, picturing him having been hit by a car or bus or mugged and beaten up. “Have you been in an accident, are you alright? Tell me now Stephen, just tell me!” “No, I haven’t been hit by a bus or anything,” he said as if he were reading my mind. “I’ll be fine – I’ll tell you everything when you get here. Let’s just not do this on the phone. Can you come

today; the visiting hours are until 8 pm?” “Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “Thanks… I’ll see you soon then. And Jack?” “What?” I asked. “You know I’ve always loved you,” he said. His words hit me like a baseball bat. My mind racing in circles, stuck on those words, all I could say was, “I’m leaving now,” and I hung up. ~~~~~~~~ I thought about calling Michael, telling him about the phone call and where I was going, but then reconsidered, not

wanting him to insist on going with me, and reasoning that I didn’t know much of the story at this point anyhow. After all I didn’t want him to worry. Instead I threw on my dark blue, down jacket, gloves, scarf and woolen hat, grabbed my purse and headed out the door. As I got into the elevator, I decided to take the bus to the hospital instead of driving. My parents had ‘loaned’ Stephen and me an ugly blue, 1968, 4-door, Ford Fairlane, when we married so we would have reliable transportation. But no, it would be better if I took the bus – it would take a little longer to get there, but the bus would give me more time to think. My mind sprinted… going over and over the phone conversation, picking

apart every word that was said. “He had always loved me,” that was the main thing, the only thing that was important at this moment. He called me. He wanted to see me. He loved me – the words echoed over again and again in my brain. I knew, without a doubt that I still loved him. This has been some kind of huge misunderstanding, I thought. Whatever happened for him to wind up in the hospital, maybe it had to happen for a reason – so we could get back together. If I’d only given him a chance – I knew there had to be some reasonable explanation about all the names of guys in his address book… and Bernie, well maybe Bernie was stoned, was confused about what he actually saw that night.

Maybe this was all just some kind of bad dream – at last I was waking up, and the nightmare would be over! Yep, that was it… why would Stephen call me from the hospital if everything wasn’t going to work out? This nightmare I had been living in was going to be over! It was a good thing I hadn’t said anything to Michael – I would deal with him later, but if he’d come with me - how the hell would I have been able to explain to Stephen that I’d been fucking this guy for months – shit how the hell was I ever going to explain any of my life since he had left? Well, I thought, he’ll just have to be understanding, that’s all. I mean, if I could be understanding about whatever he was going to say, about

what he may or may not have done, then he’d have to be understanding about me too – it was the only way we could put things back together. By the time I walked into Stephen’s room, I was accepting 95% of the blame myself, even telling myself I had been right not to tell my parents any of the details about why we split up yet. I was sure it would all work out. ~~~~~~~~ Cook County was one of the older hospitals in the city. Located on the near west side of downtown, it was huge – a maze of stark corridors that twisted and turned in every possible direction.

Nurses, orderlies, doctors and other medical staff generally bustled about. I got lost – even asking directions three or four times, it took forever to find Stephen’s room. Room 312 had three beds in it. There was a middle aged man who attempted a smile as I entered the room in the bed by the door; he looked as if he was in a drunken stupor, but as I paused, I realized he was drugged up. The center bed had a much older man with a wrinkled face and full head of grey hair. His eyes were closed, his breathing seemed labored as if each breath hurt – he looked very sick, and I couldn’t tell if he was even awake. Stephen’s bed was on the side of the room by the window.

When he saw me hesitating in the doorway a giant smile swept over his face as he raised both arms beckoning me to him to give me a hug. Overcome by emotion, my throat closed, and salty tears dropped down my face to the corners of my mouth. Reaching his bed, he kissed my cheek and then gave me a quick, soft peck on my lips as he released his embrace. Smiling like the day we first met, his voice pitch perfect, and his dark brown eyes soft and filling with tears of his own at the corners, he said, “You look good Jack– I’m glad you’ve been taking care of yourself. I always knew you would.” “Huh,” I coughed in reply, reaching

for a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand next to his bed to dry the tears that were rolling down my cheeks and clearing my throat. “You don’t, you look like shit – what happened? Why are you here? Why have you got that IV in your arm?” At that moment a thought struck me like a thunderbolt… Oh shit, Stephen and Michael have the same look! No they don’t look alike, they’re not twins, but they’re the same type! Stephen is shorter than Michael –and not so broadly built, not so muscular, but Christ, they both have straight, almost black hair, the same mustaches and the same general coloring, and they’re both Polish; but no, they’re not anything

alike, especially not in bed. Shit, shit, shit – no, you can’t think about that now.– Sex wasn’t everything, in fact it was pretty meaningless as I’d managed to prove since this living hell began. My thoughts snapped back as Stephen replied, “Thanks for the compliment, I don’t feel very well at the moment either, but nothing happened, I mean… it was just a stupid, clumsy accident, that’s all. Pull the curtain will you? That guy over there is half dead. I’ve been trying to talk to him all afternoon, but he rarely responds. I think he’s got cancer or something – he seems like he’s in a lot of pain. I doubt if he’s listening, but I’d like some privacy so I can talk to my wife, okay?”

As I drew the curtain through the ceiling track between the beds to meet the opposite wall, the word wife resounded in my ears, and joined the phrase I’ve always loved you, causing me to smile back, letting my own love and concern for him show on my face. Stephen had plucked a Kleenex from the box himself and dried his own eyes. He was not a crier; he rarely showed this much emotion. This had to be real. Oh please God, let this be real! “Give me another hug and sit down,” he said patting the edge of the bed as he pushed himself towards the other side making room for me. He had a pillow propped by his lower back so he wasn’t lying flat, but not on his side either.

When he was settled, I sat down picking up his hand and giving it a light squeeze. The emotion in the air between us was so thick it was palpable – a mix of excitement and sorrow blending in an almost incomprehensible way. It felt good. But as the seconds passed, I could sense we needed a diversion, something to break the growing awkwardness of the moment, to give both of us a chance to breathe, so I said, “This is a dreary place… needs some color, and maybe a few pictures on the walls – and that zigzag design on the curtain…” My voice trailed off, I frowned and turned up my nose. He laughed, “God, you’re right – how do they expect anyone to feel better

when they’re surrounded by nothing but white walls, dime store pictures, and all this stainless steel equipment.” It worked. Discussing various decorating ideas and what could be done with the linoleum tile floors, gave us a chance to be in the same room with each other for the first time since spring – like getting to know each other all over again. Unfortunately, after a few minutes, the subject died and the reality of the present situation came back. My eyes darted to the IV in his arm again, and I asked once more, “What happened, Stephen… Why are you in here?” He let go of my hand, placing it down on the bed, and crossed his arms across

his stomach as if he was protecting himself from me, then said, “I fell off a ladder at work.” “What!” I exclaimed, “You fell? What work? You’ve got a job here again?” “Yeah, I went to work for Joe when I got back to Chicago. I needed to make some money, and the guy Joe had hired to replace me wasn’t working out, so he gave me my old job back.” I could feel my muscles tightening as Joe’s name came up, but Stephen didn’t seem to notice. He continued, “So anyhow, I was on a ladder in the store room trying to get boxes of Christmas decorations ready to put up around the store when I leaned, lost my balance and

fell. I landed on my tail bone.” He hesitated, his eyes darting up to meet mine. He had diverted his gaze during this recount, fingering the tape that was holding the IV in place. Satisfied with whatever he saw on my face, he went on. “It hurts like hell and well, to be honest, I’m having a hard time going to the bathroom. Joe took me to a doctor, and he said I’d have to have surgery to fix things. So here I am in this Godawful place.” He saw my eyes fix on the IV and added, “Oh yeah, this just has some antibiotic in it so I don’t pick up any infections from the surgery while I’m here.” I nodded, “When are they doing it?” “Tomorrow, early morning,” he

replied. We both fell silent again. The sense of privacy formed by that ugly zigzag pattern curtain around the bed seemed to disappear as I listened to the old man in the other bed straining to breathe, and emitting an occasional pitiful moan. Nurses and visitors passed by the open door chatting nonchalantly, but I couldn’t make out any of their words. The only thing I can remember thinking at that moment was how white-white the walls were. Stephen reached out and touched my hand again before things became too awkward. As I lifted my head, his eyes met mine and he said, “It’ll be alright – the doctor said the surgery could fix the

problem.” I pressed my lips together, but before I could speak he asked, “Maybe you know, am I still on that insurance policy your parents got for us? I figured I might be at least until the end of the year, but I wasn’t sure if they had removed me when…” He hesitated looking for the right words, “…when we split up. I didn’t know what you may have said to them.” “I haven’t said much. I mean, I had to tell them we’d split up – they were always asking to talk to you; but I haven’t told them why or anything that happened. I stayed here all summer, and didn’t go home for Thanksgiving either, so I’ve, well I’ve just been putting off any real explanations. I’m going home

for Christmas though and I’ll have to tell them then.” “What are you going to say?” he asked, the tone of his voice sounding a tad unsteady. I shrugged and shook my head. “I think you are on the policy, like you said, until the end of the year. I believe my father said he paid the policy in advance, so I doubt if he’s changed it at this point.” Stephen sighed, relieved at this and asked, “Do you still carry the card with you? If so, could you leave it with me so I can give it to the billing department here?” Without answering, as if my actions were on autopilot, I picked my purse up

from the floor where I’d dropped it when I came in, and started shuffling through various cards in my wallet. Finding the insurance card, I handed it to him. “Thanks,” he said putting it down on the night stand next to the Kleenex box. “I’m actually surprised they admitted you without giving them this information,” I stated. “Yeah, well,” he answered, “as you can tell by the décor – this is one of the hospitals that has to take indigent patients. That’s why I’m here, and not in one of the private places. But this will help,” he added lifting his chin in the direction of the night stand, indicating the insurance card. “Thanks again.”

Our conversation dying, I looked at the floor not knowing what to say. Stephen was gazing out the window, then turned back to me, and asked what I had done here all summer. I gave him a quick update about moving to a smaller apartment off Diversey, assuring him that I kept his things; he could have them anytime he wanted, and I told him about working at The Canteen, managing to leave out any reference to Michael or any of the men that preceded him. I figured there would be plenty of time to explain that later. Stephen just nodded and smiled saying again that he was glad things were working out for me. I wanted to scream, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT

WORKING OUT – NOTHING IS WORKING OUT – I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD JUMP IN FRONT OF AN “L” TRAIN HALF THE TIME, but instead just smiled back, letting the feeling dissipate, trying to keep myself from saying something I would regret – now was not the time to open my big mouth. The air in the room was becoming thick again, almost stifling this time, but with a very different feel, different consciousness than when I first arrived. This time neither of us was able to meet the other’s eyes, each of us lost in our own thoughts. That sense of connection, that elusive thread of maybe being brought back together that I felt, was

fading. Was it only wishful thinking on my part? Stephen seemed anxious, uneasy about something too. I gave in to the feeling and said, “Stephen, falling off a ladder and landing on your butt doesn’t make sense. I mean… Why do you need surgery for that, unless you broke your tailbone or something – did you? I don’t understand – to me ‘surgery’ usually means something internal.” The words spilled out of me before I had a chance to censor them or think about the tone of my voice. His head jerked up, his eyes narrowed some and his voice raised, “Well that’s what happened – I can’t help it if you’ve never heard of it before… I landed on my tail bone – it’s

not broken, but I need surgery. That’s it, pure and simple. Don’t you believe me?” His voice was solid, almost challenging as he added, “You can ask Joe if you don’t believe me – he was there, and saw the whole thing.” I shook my head indicating that I didn’t want to speak with Joe. “I talked to him, well actually I confronted him – I broke a vase he had on his desk – after you left Chicago. I suppose he told you about that, huh? I doubt if he’s any more anxious to see me again than I am to see him.” “I know, he told me. He lied to you Jackie… what he told you was a lie.” “What… what do you mean? Why would he lie to me at that point?”

“Joe and I got into an argument just before I left. You know I was pretty fucked up, and I told you I did some things I’m not proud of. I made some mistakes, well… just suffice it to say, when you went to his office, he lied. I think he was trying to get back at me.” My head started to fragment. I was trying to remember details of the conversation I had had with Joe all those months ago, but at the moment, all I heard was Stephen’s voice saying Joe had lied. I wanted to accept everything he was saying, wanted to think that Joe and Bernie were full of shit… It would be so easy – all I had to do was believe, but it didn’t make any sense, it just didn’t! I needed time to think, so I

changed the subject, sort of. “When you left, I know you went back to Weymouth, but where? I tried calling the house, more than once, but the first time, your mother answered, she said you were staying in Boston with some old friend.” “My mother,” he snorted shaking his head, looking away. I knew what that look on his face meant when he was talking about her. The woman was a total bitch. God only knew how much she hated me. Oh she was nice enough to my face, but did everything in her power to break us up during high school, and before we were married. Virginia was a passive aggressive, selfish shrew who used people to get whatever she wanted

at that moment. I could only imagine how pleased she was to hear that our marriage was on the rocks. “Yeah, well that’s why I called back. I got Diana the second time – she said school was good and, after chatting for a bit, she told me you were there sometimes, but most of the time you were out.” “Well my mother had told all the girls to lie, and tell you I wasn’t there, even if I was. Diana always liked you, I’m sure that’s the only reason you got that much information,” he said still shaking his head. Stephen had five sisters – one older, then four younger, whose ages all coincided with the re-emergence of his father back into the household, the

youngest was now a toddler. Stephen had always described his father as a ‘door-mat’ until he got mad, and then he turned into a belligerent, monster who lashed out at everyone in the family. “The third time I tried I got your mother again,” I continued. “This time she didn’t even try to conceal her feelings – she told me not to call there again, that if you wanted to talk to me, you would call, but she hoped you never would.” Stephen’s jaw was tightening as I said, “Then she told me she wanted that old mantel clock back, you know, the one that belonged to your grandmother – I had no right to anything you may have left behind, so I shouldn’t get too attached, because the stuff was hers.”

“’She said what? Goddamn her!” he interrupted. “It’s all that kind of bullshit that made me stay away from the house as much as possible.” His eyes flicked back and forth, then fixing on me, “I decided to go home so I could think. When you went to stay with Mary Beth… well, I didn’t think you’d do that, and then when… when we just kept arguing, I had to get away, to think, to try to figure things out. I knew I loved you, but we just couldn’t stop fighting – so I left.” There it was… those words again… We loved each other; we were going to make our way through this. “Anyhow, I did spend a lot of time in Boston. My father kept coming around

the house, upsetting the girls, and my mother started talking about taking him back again. I just couldn’t deal with all their shit on top of us, so I stayed in town as much as I could. Ronnie, from high school, remember him?” I nodded. “Well I had run into him in Harvard Square one day when I was walking around; he has a place in Cambridge now, and he let me crash there,” Stephen said. “But even being able to crash with Ronnie, my mother was driving me crazy – she never stopped, not for a minute, and I knew I couldn’t stay there either, so I called Joe. He said if I came back to Chicago he’d give me my old job back, so here I am.” “I thought you didn’t like Ronnie –

you always said he acted… ‘Faggy’. You never wanted to be around him in high school and now you’re staying with him,” I protested. “Well that was high school, and I was wrong – Ronnie turned out to be a nice guy and besides, it gave me a place to stay to get away from my mother. Don’t look so shocked Jack.” “Why didn’t you call me? You were gone for a long time, and you didn’t call even once.” “My mother never told me about your calls. I didn’t know you wanted to talk,” he said. I sighed. “You know I don’t like your mother any better than she likes me, but she was right about one thing – if you

wanted to talk to me, you would call. You never did – why not?” “Just what I said on the phone earlier – I thought you were mad at me, and I didn’t want to argue anymore,” Stephen said starting to fidget and yawn. Lifting his chin towards the IV hanging by the side of the bed he said “Jackie, I’m pretty tired – I think that nurse snuck a sedative in that IV. Can we talk later?” I was not ready to leave, but I could see that he was done with the conversation for now. “Sure – what time is your surgery tomorrow,” I asked. “Early, 6:00 or 7:00 am. You don’t need to come back, I’ll just see you when I get out of this place, okay?” he said.

What… What was this strange vibe I was picking up? “What do you mean you’ll see me when you get out – that’s bullshit!” I exclaimed, “I’ll be back in…” He raised his voice over mine. “But don’t you have classes tomorrow?” “Yes, but it doesn’t matter, I’m coming back Stephen. If you don’t want to argue, then you’ll stop objecting.” His eyes fixed on me. He adjusted his position in bed and told me, “Joe will be here in the morning, maybe Donny too. From what you said earlier, I didn’t think you’d want to see either of them.” I could feel my muscles tighten, a sense of anger creeping up inside me, as I snapped, “I don’t want to see them!

You don’t want me here, do you? Why the hell did you call me if you have them coming to be with you? Why?” He shot back, “No, it’s not that I don’t want you here, but when I called, I didn’t know if you’d come… if you’d even speak to me. I couldn’t just show up back in your life, tell you I was having surgery, and expect you to stay with me now could I? So I asked Joe to be here. I didn’t want to go through this alone, Jackie. But now, well I just think it’ll be easier on you if you don’t come back.” The world was crashing in on me, I needed time to think, to breathe without worrying about saying the wrong thing, I just looked at him for a very long

moment and finally replied, “Fine, I won’t bother you before the surgery, but I’ll be here in the early afternoon – that way Joe and Donny and whoever else they bring will have time to see you without running into me.” Stephen nodded in resignation. I had been sitting on the edge of his bed while we talked, and now leaned over to kiss him before leaving. His eyes had softened some from the previous moment. He reached out, hugged me, but turned his head just enough so my kiss ended up on his cheek instead of his lips. I pressed my own lips together in a frown as I reached for my purse and stood up. The brief connection we made had disappeared. Stephen yawned a

couple more times, covering his mouth, and shaking his head as he did. I lingered, just looking at him for a second, then said good night, turned and made my way through the halls and back to the bus stop.

Chapter Ten Take a Deep Breath When I arrived back at my apartment I got a call from Rick. Michael had asked him to let me know that he, his brother, Tom, and the guy with the Shovelhead were all going to grab dinner and then go back to the garage – they were still trying to fix the elusive oil leak, and then they were going to do something to the carburetor in the Mustang, so he was staying at his place tonight. After he hung up I murmured to myself, “Thank God.” On the bus ride home, I had started feeling guilty about not telling him where

I was going, so this was good, I needed to think. Doubts were flooding my mind – maybe I was wrong, maybe Stephen’s calling doesn’t mean we are going to get back together. My instincts were sensing something, but what was it? I didn’t want to say anything to Michael until I was sure. “Mary Beth… he called, Stephen called,” I blurted out as she answered the phone. “What? When, what did he say?” she exclaimed - flabbergasted at the news. “A few hours ago – he’s in Cook County Hospital… I went to see him.” “What?” she screamed into the receiver, “Tell me everything!” Mary Beth Brennan had gone to high

school in Weymouth, Massachusetts with both of us, so she knew him well. She had started college at Wellesley, but transferred to Northwestern starting her sophomore year – she was smart, ambitious, and yet down to earth with an uncanny knack for cutting through the crap. She had been the Maid of Honor at our wedding. I had always been jealous of her thick, straight, almost waist-length auburn hair; she looked like I wanted to look – about 5’5” tall, she had a sweet, soft featured face with just the right splattering of freckles, and an ever so slightly turned up nose, thin but not skinny, with big boobs. I, on the other hand, was 5’9 ½”; it felt like I was always towering over or eye-to-eye with

most of the men I met. My hair was plain brown, with waves that refused to obey or grow more than a few inches past my shoulders. I had my mother’s German coloring that never tanned, always burning bright lobster red in the sun. I was thinner than Mary Beth, with small breasts and a slight bump in my nose curtesy of my Italian father. I was used to boys ignoring me and thinking of me as a bitch, until Stephen came along that is. Mary Beth was popular, and had guys falling all over her in high school. Maybe as a result of this, she also had an uncanny knack for detecting male bullshit, whereas I could be snowed. I needed her insight now. We had been best friends forever, and

l was closer to her than I was to any other female in the city. Sure there were a couple girls from SAIC that I was buddies with –Lisa and Ashley in particular – who knew both Stephen and me, but they had met us as a couple, so it was more difficult to talk to them about things. Mary Beth had been my friend before I started dating him. We had a history. When Stephen and I got together, he joined my group of friends; not seeming to have any of his own friends around, so she knew all the stories, from day one. She listened to me relay this tale, only asking the occasional question for clarification as I rushed through my recount, and after a rather long pause she

said, “Jackie, he only called to get the insurance card… you know that don’t you?” “Oh that’s not true.” I replied, although my voice was taking on a defensive tone, my mind filled with doubt. “His name is on the policy, so I’m sure he could have used the coverage without the card. Of course, he never paid any attention to it, so maybe he didn’t know what company it was with, but anyhow, like I said he’s on the policy – why not use it? He wouldn’t’ve called me just for that?” “Well maybe… but you said you sensed a change after you gave it to him, right?” “Yes, but…”

“Jackie there’s more to this than you know so far. You know Stephen never tells you the whole truth – even when there’s no reason to lie, he just leaves things out… he did it in high school, and he sure did it before he went back to Boston!” “I know, but, but… I just want this to all work out.” My voice was breaking, water filling my eyes. “I just want things to go back to the way they were and…” “Yeah, I know you do, but you can’t let him hurt you again. You have to get the whole story,” she replied. Through my tears I asked, “Do you still keep in touch with Ronnie?” “I was just thinking the same thing,” Mary Beth said. “I think I have his phone

number around here somewhere and if not, I do have Paula’s number – I know she still sees him, so she’ll know how to get in touch. Go to bed, and cry yourself to sleep, it’s getting late.” “Hmph, I know I need sleep… I’m exhausted.” “Yeah, you sound tired, I’ll call you tomorrow… and by the way, make sure you find out the name of his doctor when you go back there, okay? Maybe you can get some information from him,” she ended as she hung up.

Chapter Eleven At the Hospital… Again I had taken a Valium with Southern Comfort and rolled into bed shortly after speaking to Mary Beth. As usual, mother’s little helpers did the trick, and I fell asleep almost immediately. The SoCo kept me asleep well into the midmorning. I got up, made coffee and scrambled eggs for myself along with toast smothered in butter and raspberry preserves – Michael always teased me that I only ate bread so I could have the butter, as I thought about that statement, he was right.

I took a long shower, much longer than necessary to get clean; I loved standing there letting the hot water beat against my back and topple over my head – it relaxed me in a way nothing else did. I shaved my legs and armpits, washed my hair using a special spicy apple scented shampoo and conditioner I’d been given as a gift ages ago, but never used. After drying off, I slathered raspberry pear scented lotion all over my body. God, I’m gonna smell like a fruit salad, I thought, giggling to myself. I took my time putting on my makeup, blow drying my hair and using the curling iron, trying to get my waves to go the direction I wanted instead of the way they wanted. I needed to look as good as

possible. I had run out of the apartment yesterday without stopping to think about what I looked like. That wasn’t going to happen again today. I climbed into my best pair of jeans, then changed my top four times before settling on a close fitting, long sleeved, deep lavender pullover sweater, a natural toned, beaded vest, and a long paisley print scarf with bright flecks of purple and orange that picked up the purple in my pullover. What the hell am I doing? You’re not getting ready for a first date – you’re going to see your husband who is in the hospital, who fell on his tail-bone, who didn’t want you there this morning, who may be lying through his teeth! I may

want the relationship back, but shit… I have to know the truth first. Mary Beth was right; I couldn’t live with lies and half-truths. Could everything that’s happened between us since I was 15 be a lie? I needed to be at work this evening, so I decided to drive instead of hopping onto a bus again. There was plenty of parking at the hospital – and I’d be able to stay longer this way. As I entered Stephen’s room, I noticed a fantastic arrangement of yellow and orange flowers – three large Birds of Paradise with beautiful deep purple centers, orange stripped Tiger Lilies, tiny yellow Kalanchoe and Crotons surrounded by various bits of

greenery – sitting next to his bed. Stephen liked plants; during our first year living together in Old Town, before we married, he filled the place with plants, then gave them all away when we went back to Weymouth for that summer after the first year at SAIC. Whoever brought them, knew him well. Now, he was lying on his stomach with his eyes closed, and a nurse was fiddling around with the IV hanging by his side. He opened his eyes when he heard me approaching, and I caught an everso-brief twinge on his face… Was that disappointment – had he been hoping it was someone else? The nurse, an older woman with a stout build, a sprinkling of gray hair, and rather thick glasses,

looked up also. “I’m sorry Miss, he’s had several visitors already this morning, and he needs to get rest – you’ll have to come back later,” she stated in a rather drill sergeant type manner. “I won’t disturb him – he can rest. Can’t I just sit in the chair over there for a while until he’s able to talk?” I replied. “No, only family at this point, I’m afraid. He’s overdone it already – the anesthesia from the surgery is still in his system and…” I broke in saying, “I’m his wife; does that count as family?” It was the nurse’s turn to be surprised, her jaw dropped, she

hesitated, her eyes darting from me to Stephen. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were married,” she said, directing her comments to Stephen, then turning to me again, “Of course you can stay Mrs. Janowski, I just thought… Well no matter, have a seat won’t you; I’ll be done here in a moment. Your husband came through with flying colors – fissures can be tricky, but he’s going to be just fine in no time at all,” she continued, smiling at me as I leaned over the bed and gave Stephen a quick kiss. Until now, he hadn’t said a word, but now he looked horrified, coughed, cleared his throat and said, “Hey Jackie, how are you today?” “What’s wrong… Are you in pain?”

“A little, but for the most part, I don’t feel much of anything at the moment,” he said, setting his jaw, eyes glaring up at the nurse. She stiffened, announced she would be back later and left the room. I took off my down jacket, tossing it on the chair, as I grabbed the horrible zigzag curtain to draw it around the bed. I caught a glimpse of the nurse standing a few feet away in the corridor with a colleague, their heads bent together talking, and looking back in my direction. For some reason the conversation made me uncomfortable – Is something wrong and she doesn’t want to tell me? What are they saying? What the hell is a fissure? I shrugged off the sensation, and

pulled the drape closed. Putting a smile on my face, I turned to Stephen and asked, “So, how are you? Was it horrible… talk to me.” “No, it wasn’t horrible – I’ll be sleeping on my stomach for a few days, and sitting down won’t be any fun for a while, but I’ll be fine. You shouldn’t’ve come Jack, I’m so tired – I just need to sleep a bit.” “Yeah, it sounds like you’ve had a party in here this morning, but you can sleep now, I don’t mind. We’ll talk when you wake up. Who are the flowers from? They’re beautiful… sorry I didn’t bring anything…” “Oh those, they’re from Joe and the other guys at Fields – he brought them to

cheer me up,” he yawned and looked like he was having some difficulty keeping his eyelids open. “That was nice – take a nap, I’ll just hang out here and read… I thought you’d need rest, so I brought a book,” I said. With a look of resignation, and his eyes half closed, he said, “I’m too tired to argue with you about staying – what are you reading?” “The Female Eunuch,” His eyes shot open, he shook his head and said, “That figures,” then closed his eyes again as I sat down in the chair on the other side of the bed wondering if he even knew what The Female Eunuch was about or if he was just reacting to the title. Pulling the paperback out of my

purse, I opened the book and settled in to read for a while. I enjoyed reading. I read every word, but it had been some time since I had curled up with a book of any kind. Somehow being stoned didn’t mesh well with reading – I always fell asleep, so I thought I would enjoy this time. However, I couldn’t keep my mind on my book. My thoughts kept drifting back to the nurse, wondering just how many people had been here earlier, and why she seemed so surprised that Stephen was married. When I was sure he had dozed off, I got up, left my book on the chair next to my purse, and wandered out into the corridor. I didn’t see the older stout nurse, but I did see the one she had

been whispering with at the desk just down the hall. I turned the opposite way having figured out yesterday, that if I turned the right way, I could make a circle of sorts through the halls ending up roughly where she was standing – I didn’t want to seem too obvious by just heading straight to her, and with any luck, the stout nurse would be there by the time I made it around. Sure enough, there she was, bustling around the desk, checking charts, placing papers in files and issuing orders to the other nurses. When she saw me approach she smiled saying, “Hello Mrs. Janowski – is your husband resting?” Returning the smile I replied, “Yes, he dozed off a little while ago, so I

thought I’d take a walk. I want to thank you for letting me stay and for taking such good care of him.” “Oh that’s no problem at all. Had I known he was married I wouldn’t have tried to chase you out – hospital policy you know. After surgery like that he needs rest, what with all his friends here as soon as he was out of recovery, well… he needed some quiet time. I usually try to meet the family of my patients before the procedure, so there won’t be any confusion, but I haven’t seen you here before.” It was said as a statement, but there was a questioning tone in her voice. “Oh, yes, I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you sooner also - I was… I was out

of town when the accident happened and he was admitted, but I’ll be here from now on.” A strange expression crossed her face again; similar to the one she showed when I first announced I was Stephen’s wife. She looked at me with narrowed eyes, cocked her head and said, “Accident? He had surgery for a rectal fistula.” The tone of her voice was clear – there was no accident. Feeling trapped in my own verbiage, I couldn’t think of a way to back up from the word ‘accident’, so I stammered, “Yes, the accident that caused the fissure.” She had stopped shuffling papers, and was studying my face, assessing the

situation. I tried again, “I’m sorry, I’m probably not saying that the right way I’m not very good at medical things, but he did have surgery to fix a fissure, correct?” She nodded still watching me. “So, unless I’m mistaken, didn’t the fissure happen when he fell off the ladder – that’s the accident I was referring to.” She started to shake her head, but caught something out of the corner of her eye and stopped. “Oh, here comes your husband’s doctor now. Dr. Reynolds would be better at answering that question than I am. “Doctor,” she called motioning to a rather pudgy, dark haired man wearing wire rimmed glasses, around 50 years of

age, “Doctor, this is Mrs. Janowski; she was just asking me about her husband’s surgery – it looks like you were heading towards his room, so I thought you might talk to her.” The doctor hesitated, looked at the nurse, his eyes growing wider, and his brow furrowing as he stepped up, extended his hand and said, “Nice to meet you Mrs. Janowski, let’s go see your husband.” “Nice to meet you too, doctor,” I said as I turned to follow him down the corridor into Room 312. “The nurse was saying Stephen came through the surgery very well and should have a full recovery,” I stated in my sweetest voice. “Yes, well it appears so; that’s what I

was coming to check,” he replied nodding to me as he touched Stephen’s shoulder waking him up. “Mr. Janowski… Mr. Janowski, how are you doing?” he inquired. Stephen immediately opened his eyes, so he wasn’t sleeping. “I’ve just met your wife, Mr. Janowski; she’s inquiring about your condition. I don’t believe you mentioned a wife during our discussions at my office or on your paperwork. You’ll have to give me authorization before I can discuss your condition with her: is that going to be an issue?” His voice was firm showing only a slight hint of aggravation. Stephen was silent, but I was outraged at what I just heard. “Of course

he gives his ‘authorization’; I’m his wife for Christ’s sake… I just want to know how he is!” Dr. Reynolds had been looking back and forth between the two of us, but now turned to me and stated, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but privacy laws will not allow me to speak to you unless I have consent. We normally have these things straightened out beforehand, but until a few minutes ago, I had no idea you existed – I’m sorry, you do understand, I’m sure.” I looked at Dr. Reynolds and then shot a look at Stephen - “Tell him, tell him it’s okay.” Stephen closed his eyes, then opened them and lifted himself up onto his

elbows to look at me. “I need to talk to my doctor alone, Jackie.” The words blinded me. I could feel the room start to go dark, so I bit my lower lip trying to force myself to stay focused. In his best bedside manner, the doctor told me I’d have to leave while he did an examination. I shot daggers through my eyes at Stephen, turned on my heels, and walked towards the door. Mouthing off at the doctor wasn’t going to do any good. The nurse, who had followed us, and had been standing in the doorway the whole time, smiled, put her arm around me, and said, “Come sit down out here by the nurse’s station until the doctor is finished – I’ll get you some coffee.”

Tears were filling my eyes. I was angry, humiliated. I felt stupid, I felt like a total fool. My throat tightened around a huge lump that seemed to be throbbing. The nurse handed me a cup of coffee smiling again with a look of… what was it… understanding? No it was pity. The other nurses all went about their duties, some giving me sidelong glances, one offering Kleenex, but no one speaking, with half smiles, and that same look that kept saying this girl has no idea what’s going on – poor thing! I dried my eyes, staring into the coffee instead of drinking it, my mind sprinting in all directions at once. The one thing I couldn’t do was to look any of the nurses in the eye. I sat there for what seemed

like an eternity, until finally spotting Dr. Reynolds walking towards me. He nodded his head and said, “It was nice to meet you Mrs. Janowski – your husband would like to talk to you for a minute, but you can’t stay long, he needs to rest.” My teeth were clinched together; I was inhaling through my nose, trying to stay calm. I looked him in the eye, and as politely as humanly possible asked, “Are you sure you can’t tell me anything, I…” He held up his pudgy hand like a stop sign and shook his head from side to side, “No, no ma’am, all I can tell you is that he’ll be fine. Nurse, why don’t you walk back to the room with Mrs.

Janowski?” Then turning to me again he repeated, “Remember, don’t stay long, he’ll be much better tomorrow; we’re keeping him at least until Thursday, so you can always come back then.” He gave me a pleasant smile, and disappeared down the hall. As the nurse and I entered the room, I checked out the man in the first bed, trying to discern if he was awake. He looked like he was still asleep, a slight bit of drool rolling down his chin. I hadn’t noticed before, but the middle bed where the old man had been was now empty – I hope he’s okay, I thought. “Call if you need anything,” the nurse said as she pulled the curtain shut leaving Stephen and me staring at each

other. “You’re lying again Stephen – I know you are, I can feel it.” He didn’t answer. “Why did you call me if you don’t want to tell me the truth about what happened? I’d never have known anything if you hadn’t called, why… why? Was it just the insurance card you needed?” He just peered at the floor for the longest time, refusing to meet my eyes, “I didn’t mean to lie Jackie, I just… that’s why I didn’t want you to come back, I was afraid something like this would happen.” Anger surged through me, “Are you saying it’s my fault because I came back here today, you motherfucker!?” “No, that’s not it! Lower your voice

for Christ’s sake.” “I’ll speak in any voice I want. What is it then? Be straight with me for once in your life – just tell me the truth!” “There’s nothing to be straight about. I told you – I fell off a ladder, plain and simple.” “If it’s plain and simple and you fell off a ladder, then why wouldn’t you let the doctor talk to me? What the fuck are you hiding? And what the hell did the nurse mean when she said fissure?” His head snapped up, and his eyes were filled with a look of contempt – “That old biddy has no idea what she’s talking about! I wanted to see my doctor in private because, shit… we’ve been separated for most of the year, you can’t

expect me to just pretend nothing happened between us!” “You son-of-a-bitch!” “Stop yelling, I told you to lower your voice – I can’t deal with this now. Just go home Jackie, please just go home!” I was starting to shake, grabbed my jacket, purse and book from the chair, whirled around and swung the curtain open. Pausing for a second I peered over my shoulder and said, “I will be back.” As I left the room, I passed the stout nurse who was heading in the direction of Stephen’s room. She looked at me with that same sense of pity that I saw in her eyes before. Reaching out to touch my arm she said, “You take care on the

way home now, Mrs. Janowski.” I exhaled, nodded in acknowledgment and left. I stopped at a payphone in the hall on my way to the parking lot and called Mary Beth. With tears flowing down my cheeks, I told her I thought she was right. She had been dating a medical student, so I asked her to find out what she could about fissures and rectal fistulas. With any luck Kent would be able to save me time in the library reading things I didn’t want to read. My next call was to Michael asking if I could come over to the garage before heading to work. He was confused by my cryptic explanation of being in the general area, but told me to head on over, saying “See you soon

beautiful,” as he hung up.

Chapter Twelve Knight on My Side Seeing Michael, I was overtaken with emotion. I had dried my tears, and touched up my makeup in the ladies room at the hospital, but with one look he recognized that something was wrong, dropped the wrench he was holding, and moved to my side embracing me, and kissing my forehead while asking what had happened – was I alright? “No, I’m not alright – I have to talk to you, I have to tell you what I’ve been doing the last two days and …” My eyes filled with tears for the umpteenth time.

His brows furrowed, and a perplexed look came across his face. I watched as he picked up the wrench, unscrewed the top from some kind of metal jar, cleaned the grease off his hands with meticulous care and then pointed with his chin indicating that we should head upstairs to his small, but comfortable, apartment to talk. I walked across the room, and sat down on the disheveled brown and green tweed couch in front of the TV. Michael just stood in the doorway looking at me. “Jackie, are you… Are you breaking up with me?” he asked. “What?” I exclaimed, looking up at him, “No, oh my God, NO! What made you think that?”

The tenseness in his features relaxing some, he came to sit by me. “The last month or so, you’ve been so distant, preoccupied, I’ve never seen you quite like this before, and with Stephen back – I thought, when I saw you downstairs, when you said you needed to talk, well maybe that’s why you wanted to come here instead of me coming to the bar tonight…” Shit! I thought as he trailed off, realizing the depth of anxiety my horrible mood of the last couple months must have been causing him. Shit, I had withdrawn not wanting to hurt him with my thoughts about Stephen, and in the process managed to make him think that I was unhappy about being with him…

Holy shit I’m an idiot! “Oh, Michael, no… That’s not it at all,” I said reaching for his hand as he put his arms around me and gathered me close. We stayed that way for several minutes, our breathing synchronizing as it slowed. Then he put his hands on my shoulders, leaned me back from him, and looked me in the eyes, “Then whatever it is, just tell me, as long as you’re not here to dump me… just tell me what happened… give me a chance to be your knight in shining armor,” he said with a tone of humor, and a cunning smile. “Hmph,” I snorted with an impish smile of my own, but looking down. “There’s nothing you can do – as much as I’d like to have a knight on my side

right now, there’s nothing anyone can do, except… Well, I just need to tell you… I’ve seen him.” I lifted my eyes up to see his reaction. His face was neutral, expressionless, however, I knew something was going on behind the façade; he was silent, but I felt a wave of apprehension go through him. I’d been honest with him from the beginning, telling him I was married, and that Stephen had gone gay, ending our relationship when he moved. He had asked me once if I was going to get a divorce, and all I did was shrug my shoulders dismissing the idea. He’d never asked anything else; we hadn’t talked about Stephen again until my

meeting with Bernie, and finding out that he had returned to Chicago; but what I hadn’t told him was my fantasy about putting our relationship back together. I couldn’t tell him about that. I could barely admit it to myself, but now… now I wanted, needed to tell him what had just happened. “Is it okay if I tell you about it?” I asked. Closing his eyes for a second, he nodded and said, “Yes, it’s okay – I’m glad you want to.” With that, the saga of the last two days came pouring out. He sat more or less emotionless, not even asking questions to clarify. My story was rather disjointed, and jumped around as my

mind bounced back and forth. When I was done I felt drained. Michael looked drained too – his face was drawn, self-reflective. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped all this on you, I just felt… Oh fuck, I don’t know what I feel anymore. I need to get stoned, do you have anything?” Michael kept looking at me, as if he was able to see all the way through me, I hated my transparent face, I thought, but he said nothing – he didn’t move. The atmosphere in the room was feeling claustrophobic; I started to stand, but he stopped me, putting one of his large, calloused, beautiful hands on one shoulder, his other hand under my chin lifting my face to meet his. “Don’t

apologize,” he replied, “I’m glad you told me – thank you. But I also know what you’re not saying. I wish I could just listen and not feel like I do, but I’m just not that big a person.” “What, what do you mean? I don’t understand.” “Are you sure you don’t?” “I’m sure,” I snapped jerking my head back from his hand. “Okay… I’ll tell you then,” he stated as he released me, standing up and walking to the other side of the room. “What you’re not saying is that if Stephen had welcomed you with open arms, you would have been here to tell me to get lost – you would go back to him, wouldn’t you?”

“I… no, I mean…” Shit, it was useless to try to deny – that’s exactly what I’d’ve done. How the hell did he manage to do that… always knowing what was going on in my mind, to know the parts of the story I didn’t say. “Yes,” I admitted, turning to look out the window – I just couldn’t stand to look him in the eyes at that moment. Neither of us moved, neither of us spoke. When finally I couldn’t take it any longer I jumped up, grabbing my jacket and purse, heading for the door I said, “I have to go, I have to be at work in a couple hours – I need to get changed.” Reaching the door a split second before me, Michael put his arm out, blocking my way through. “Move. Move

please, I have to go to work.” His arm stayed where it was gripping the door frame. “I have to go to work Goddamn it – let me go!” I demanded. “No you don’t, it’s Tuesday - they’ll be fine without you – call Charlie, tell him you’re not coming in.” My temper erupting, my voice brittle, I yelled, “No, I’m going!” His temper flared back as he grabbed my shoulders with an almost imperceptible shake, “No, stay here – don’t run away from me, Jackie. Goddamn it, stay and face something for once in your life!” “‘Once in my life’? What the fuck are you talking about, you’ve only known me for a few months – you don’t know

anything about my life, and you can’t make me stay!” “No, I can’t make you stay, but you need to. You came here to talk, you came to me, and then when I confront you with a piece of the story you left out, well… maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but I’m only human, I had to know. I care about you…” He took a deep breath. “So now you want to leave, walk out and not deal with it anymore or you want to get stoned. Those things won’t work and you know it. Just stay. Stay straight, and talk to me please!” I was trembling with anger at this point. Michael continued to look through me, but his temper had been a momentary flare and was settling. I

wanted to bolt through the door –but I was frozen. Sensing my hesitation, Michael dropped his arm from the door frame and said, “Stay here with me Jackie.” My knees felt weak. I could feel my muscles lose all their strength as I stood there trying to force myself through the door, and willing myself to stay at the same time. I finally nodded. Michael flashed a quick smile, put his hand on the small of my back and led me back over to the loveseat where I collapsed. “Call Charlie,” he said, “and then I’ll order a pizza or Chinese or subs for dinner; whatever you want?” “Hmm, Chinese please, and don’t forget the chopsticks,” I said trying to

sound as normal as possible, reaching for the telephone on the end table. After calling Charlie and ordering the food, both of us sat, not talking, glancing at each other, looking out the window, listening to the refrigerator hum, and the clock on the wall tick. This had been the closest we had come to a serious argument so far. Sure we’d disagreed about stupid stuff before, but we always laughed, and went on never thinking twice about any of it. I didn’t want to argue with Michael and I didn’t want to lose him either, not now. I needed him. Was I that selfish that I had stayed to make it easier, stayed only for myself – not him? I thought. The phone rang; I could tell from the

conversation that it was one of Michael’s repair clients. Hanging up he said, “Put your jacket on, and come down with me while I give this dude his car – I replaced the muffler. The air will do us both good, and maybe the delivery guy will be here by the time I’m done.” I left my purse in the apartment so I wouldn’t be tempted to bolt while he wasn’t looking, and followed him down the stairs. He was right; the cool air did help clear my head, allowing my mind the chance to enjoy the brightness of the multi-shaded blue sky and clouds as they danced overhead. Joni Mitchell’s song, “Both Sides Now” floated into my consciousness… clouds do create a magical illusion, they float, they morph

from shape to shape creating image after image. I wished I could float away with the clouds, with the song in my head… just let the wind take me wherever it wanted, carefree, trouble free. God I loved that song. My life right now seemed like nothing more than an illusion - the man I had loved, had married; was an illusion. Love was an illusion. I stared at the sky, taking in deep breaths, letting it carry off all thoughts, filling my brain with nothing. Nothing but illusions. His business concluded, Michael was walking back towards me with a large brown bag in his arms – he had found the delivery guy while I was staring up at the clouds in the sky.

“What happened to your car, babe?” “Huh, what do you mean?” “There’s a good size dent in the back bumper – when did that happen?” “Oh yeah, I guess I forgot that part of the story,” I replied. “It just happened when I left the hospital… I backed into a pole as I was trying to get out of the parking space – some asshole pinned me in. My parents are going to kill me when I file an insurance claim to get it fixed.” He shook his head – “Did you forget what I do for a living? You don’t have to file an insurance claim, I can fix that for you, and your parents’ll never know the difference.” “But you’re a mechanic; my car needs body work – you can’t do that.”

“Ahhh, yeah, but I’m multi-talented. And remember, Jeff works at a body shop, believe me, we can fix that in no time at all,” he said. “C’mon, let’s eat.” We ate, joking and talking about nothing – the small talk flowed between us as it always did. I could pick up a single grain of rice with chopsticks; Michael had a hard time even holding them, and I teased him unmercifully about his lack of coordination. He loved to try to make me drop whatever morsel I was balancing between the sticks by poking me in the ribs or saying something sexy to get me to laugh. Tonight he was reaching his arm across the small round, glass top table in the dining area of the studio apartment,

brushing hair back from my face and hooking it behind my ear. His touch was gentle and caring – it felt good, relaxed me and made it easier to talk. When he was done eating, he got up, walked behind my chair, leaned on the back of it, and brushing the hair to one side, kissed the back of my neck. I felt a twinge of excitement shoot down the length of my spine – he knew how sensitive the back of my neck was. He repeated the kiss, then his arms crossed over my shoulders, and slid down to my breasts squeezing as the warmth of his breath on my neck started a flame burning inside me. I squirmed, but before I could ask him to stop, he did, whispering in my

ear, “Can we talk now?” I nodded. He motioned towards the bed with his chin and I smiled. “Okay, that’s always a good place to talk,” I said. I sat down on the edge of the double bed – actually it was just a mattress and box spring on the floor, no frame. He bent down pulling off my boots, then sat, removed his own, and scooted back plumping and arranging the pillows to prop us up. I wiggled into my favorite position, his arm around me, with my head on his chest; I always felt safe like this, and I needed that sensation to have the conversation I knew we must have. “All right, can we start over?” Michael asked. His voice was as soft

and calm as I can ever remember hearing it. “Tell me again what happened with Stephen. I’m listening now.” This time I went through the events in a more coherent fashion, my voice steady instead of semi-hysterical, trying to describe my feelings along the way, but still avoiding any reference to my fantasy of putting my marriage back together – he had sensed that, and I sure didn’t want to put any more emphasis on it then necessary. Of course somewhere between yesterday and now, it was becoming all too obvious that ‘fantasy’ was exactly what it was – even to me. “You do know that he’s lying to you, don’t you,” Michael stated. “Maybe… probably, yes.”

“It’s not ‘maybe’ Jackie, he’s lying. “I know you don’t want to believe it, but he is,” he said rolling and propping himself on one elbow so I was forced to raise my head and face him. “You don’t need Kent to tell you that whatever a rectal fistula is; it didn’t happen from falling off a ladder.” “You don’t know that – you’re not a doctor and…” “I don’t have to be a doctor to know – stop being so naive.” “I’m not…” “Right! You’re the most naïve person I’ve ever met – when you want to believe something you do, no matter what’s staring you in the face! Of course, that’s one of the things I like most about

you,” he snickered. “Bullshit! He knows I’ll check… or at least he should know. I may love him, but I’m not going to be stupid anymore…” Michael’s face went blank. Realizing what I said I bolted up straight on the bed and shook my head – “Oh shit, that’s not what I meant. Goddamn it, please don’t do this, I can’t deal with… with any more right now! I just can’t!” The blank expression was looking labored – he was having his own internal struggle, looking for words, wanting to say… something… then finally he said, “But you are still in love with him, aren’t you?” “Michael, damn it… he’s my husband, I married him – I made a

commitment to him! It’s not that simple. I can’t just snap my fingers and poof – all the feelings are gone just like that!” “Then why did you come here? Is that a simple enough question for you?” He was looking at me, his eyes questioning… no, his eyes were hurting – he was in pain. As I looked back into those whiskey colored eyes I felt things I couldn’t express – why DID I come here? All I could manage was, “I came here because you’re my friend, and my lover, and I needed to see you.” “Is that all?” “For now – I’m in pieces, it’s all I have to give. Is it enough?” It took what seemed like forever – I

was almost afraid to meet his eyes, but I had to see and I did. I saw it the instant he decided. Wrapping himself around me, and pulling me back down onto the bed he murmured, “For now.” We laid there still – not moving, neither of us wanting to let go of the other, and then, as if overcome by some all-consuming urge he kissed me hard – harder than he ever had before. It hurt. I pulled back trying to breathe, trying to get away, but his grip on my arms only tightened, his fingers digging into my flesh as he rolled on top of me letting his full weight press me deep into the mattress. He lifted himself, his eyes boring through me – then just as swiftly as before he kissed me again hard on the

lips. This time I tasted a slight hint of blood. He yanked my sweater up, lowered his head and sucked on my breasts just as hard. I gasped as he bit my nipples. “What are you doing? Michael, what the hell… you’re being too rough!” I tried protesting, but was caught somewhere in an unfamiliar emotion, between pain and ecstasy as his hand shoved down under my jeans finding the already wet, slippery place between my legs. I bit his shoulder through his shirt in response, pulling at the buttons to get it off. Kissing and nipping at each other in a whirl of emotion, as if all the talking, and feelings that couldn’t be expressed in words had to be let lose somehow

before they consumed us, we were naked and panting in mere seconds. Sliding lower, his body falling off the edge of the bed, he grabbed my thighs forcing my legs apart, and raising my hips until his mouth engulfed me. I threw my head back then forward, and opened my eyes only to see that his eyes were open also watching my every expression. Our eyes locked – neither of us able to break the spell. I wiggled around trying to get loose, trying to regain some sense of control over my body, but he held me so tight, I tried fighting back again, I knew my thighs would be bruised in the morning. I also knew I didn’t care. My mind shot from one thought to the next then scattered into pieces until I

realized what he was doing, and I struggled even harder to get away. He was overpowering me, consuming me, trying to own me. The more I struggled, the more determined he became; I knew that giving in was the only true option, but my mind refused to let go. Unable to stop my body from responding to his domination, I finally closed my eyes again, signaling that the struggle was over. He read my surrender… Seeing me give in mentally as well as physically, he pulled himself up and thrust inside me, hard, pounding, pushing so deep I could feel him in my womb, over and over… even wrapping my legs around his and squeezing as tight as possible couldn’t stop the force. He needed to

consume me. My nails dug into his back in a long, deep raking motion causing him to gasp and flinch. I knew I had broken the skin, but he didn’t stop. I bit his arm hard, again drawing blood, and was rewarded with another pounding thrust. I could feel him still looking through me, and knew if I opened my eyes, I would see him staring back. I couldn’t look – I didn’t need to. As I gave in, that edge of pain disappeared, and a sense of calm ecstasy shot through my entire body. I reached up and pulled Michael’s face to mine kissing him, in a wave of fanaticism, until he collapsed on top of me. We just laid there still joined with the sweat of our bodies acting like glue – neither of us said a

word. Rising in silence, I headed for the shower. As the water tumbled over me I let my mind go blank. Michael pulled back the curtain and stepped in a few minutes later, still not saying a word. We kissed. The scratches on his back where I had broken the skin were deep, the bite on his arm wasn’t. I whispered an apology. Looking at the marks that were already starting to show on my arms and thighs he said, “me too.” “It’s okay, I wanted you too,” I replied, ending the conversation. ~~~~~~~~ I was tired, overtaken by fatigue. My

mind was uncertain of anything, so confused by the events of the last couple days, and the act Michael and I had just performed. All I wanted to do was sleep, however; I could neither sleep nor stay awake. I rolled around in a fitful state of unrest for what seemed like an eternity. Somewhere in the wee hours before dawn I felt Michael kiss me and run his hands down my body. I know it happened, even though my mind refused to leave its half-conscious state. I remember wincing when he entered me this time; I have a foggy recollection of him saying something like, “I know, I’m sore too,” and stroking the hair out of my face. Then I slipped back into semisleep again.

Chapter Thirteen Black Lights I woke early, getting dressed as Michael continued to sleep. I was still drained, still an emotional wreck from all the pieces of my life that seemed to be in turmoil, not to mention the mental upheaval racing around my brain from our rough sex. He woke to the smell of coffee brewing. I found some bread in the sparsely stocked kitchen and popped it in the toaster. After some initial chit chat while we ate, neither of us mentioning anything about the night before, he asked, “Are you going back to

the hospital today?” “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so,” I replied. “I want a chance to talk to Mary Beth and Kent, if possible, before I go.” He just nodded in agreement saying, “That sounds like a good plan.” We made arrangements to meet later for dinner at Vito’s. Michael would bring a couple bottles of wine – Evanston was a dry town, so if you wanted alcohol with dinner, you had to BYOB – and I headed home. Mary Beth said she had been trying to get in touch with me when I answered the phone that afternoon. “Where were you last night?” she asked. I told her the complete saga from the hospital, and explained that I had spent the night at

Michael’s place (not mentioning anything about my bruises), but adding, “I’m not sure what I’m going to do about him. I think he wants more than I can deal with… at least at this point.” “Yeah, I coulda’ told ya that was happening – the bad boy is falling for you. Just don’t worry about it right now… it’s great sex, right?” she added. “Hmph, yeah, my mind flashed to last night, ahhh, yes, but I don’t want to hurt him…” “He’s a big boy, Jackie, he can take care of himself. Enjoy it while you can. I’m not sayin’ to treat him like that jerk with the names on the wall, but you’re not responsible for him. He’s known about Stephen from the start.”

“Gee, thanks for reminding me, I’d almost managed to forget that jackass existed,” I hissed back. She just laughed, saying she had to go to her study group, and suggested she and Kent meet us at Vito’s later – Kent had information for me. My mind floated back to “the jackass” as I got ready to meet everyone for dinner, making sure I wore a long sleeved shirt. It happened shortly after I started at The Canteen, before meeting Michael – Levi and Rick were still flirting with me, competing to see which one was going to be the cause of my getting fired. Levi was not used to females rejecting him, even if it wasn’t personal as I had explained over and

over. He was just too gorgeous and had too big an ego; it had to be satisfied somehow. A friend of his showed up one night who was just as great looking as Levi – long, dirty blonde hair, green eyes, a fantastic smile and exuding confidence. Levi introduced us assuring me that he was a good guy. Next thing I knew, he was feeding me ludes and I was hanging on him in between serving drinks. We left the bar that night together; he was the first man I had touched sexually since Stephen, and only the second lover I’d ever had. Of course he didn’t know that – in the age of ‘sex, drugs and rock’ n roll’ that was unusual. It was exciting, and I was wasted. We ended up back at

his apartment, a very nice place on one of the upper floors of a high rise just off Lake Shore Drive – it fit well with the person standing before me, telling me how much he wanted me. When we were done, he handed me a kind of magic marker, and turning on a black light that was perched over his bed told me to sign my name on the wall. My jaw dropped to the floor as what seemed like multitudes of female signatures came to life under the light. He had to keep prodding me to sign – I wrote Jack, underlining it as I asked him if this was like notches on his belt. He laughed; I left. He never came back to the bar. The next night when I showed up for work, Levi was smirking and said, “I knew you

could be had.” “Hmph,” I quipped back, “never said I couldn’t – just not by you.” A parade of men followed in the wake of that night. My anger with Levi waned when I decided that women could have notches on their belts too, but I never completely forgave him – of the three, Charlie, Rick and Levi, he was the one I trusted the least. I often found myself wondering if he had names scrawled on his bedroom wall too. I decided he did. I remember it being exciting, not caring who I was with or where I was. Exciting and terrifying. I had never behaved anything like that before. All I knew for sure then was that I didn’t want

to think about Stephen, our time together, marriage… anything. I just needed it all to go away, and being with a series of men – that I was using – seemed like the simplest way to keep those thoughts at bay. Nobody asked any questions, we were each notching our belts, signing a wall that could only be seen under a black light. Just another part of working at a scummy bar, another part of my double life – an escape I wanted to go on forever. I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself, trying to figure out who I was. It had been so simple – ‘sex, drugs and rock n’ roll’; no problem except picking someone to go home with for the night, and there never seemed to be a shortage

of guys to choose from. They taught me to enjoy sex, or at least I thought they did. I thought my sex life with Stephen was good, but of course I had nothing to compare it with. He didn’t seem to have any problems having sex with me; at least at first he seemed to want it. I remembered always feeling a tad shy with him, or maybe it was Stephen that was shy with me – the lights were always off, and although he’d touch me in sensual ways, maybe we were just awkward with each other, an awkwardness that we never managed to overcome. Sex with some of these assholes from the bar had been horrible, and I couldn’t wait to get the hell back to my own apartment – I always went to

their place, never brought any of them to mine. For some reason I didn’t want them to know where I lived, didn’t want any of them to be part of my space. Sex with others was good – and those nights I stayed longer, but never all night, until I met Michael that is. I kept trying to remember – had Stephen ever kissed the back of my neck the way Michael did now? Sex with Michael was wonderful; I didn’t feel used with him like I did with the random men – no belt notching. It felt like I’d had more sex with Michael in the six months we had known each other than Stephen and I had had in the five years of our relationship. Sex just wasn’t something Stephen seemed to want as

much as Michael did. Shit, this was all just too complicated, I thought. Just go to dinner and think later.

Chapter Fourteen Circumstantial Evidence? Vito’s was one of my favorite places. The food was wonderful and it was cheap. I almost always ordered the baked spaghetti with meatballs and tonight was no exception. The four of us met at 7:30 pm. Michael got along well with Mary Beth and Kent; we’d all hung out before. We’d gotten stoned and gone to concerts or dinner together many times. At first I was surprised that Michael and Kent got along as well as they did – they had almost zero in common except Kent

liked Michael’s Mustang and in turn, Michael thought the Corvette Kent drove was a cool ride. It was a good dinner, all of us laughing, enjoying each other’s company, telling jokes and swapping stories. As it wound down, but while we still had plenty of wine to finish, Kent took some papers from the inside breast pocket of his jacket. Sliding them across the table to me he said, “I photocopied some information on rectal fistulas for you at the library.” The table hushed as I picked them up. He looked at me and continued, “Put them in your pocketbook – you can read it later, and I can explain anything you don’t understand if you give me a call.” He paused giving Michael a

sidelong glance. “It’s okay, you can say… I mean, you can talk in front of him, he knows everything,” I replied. “Unless you’re practicing for when you’re a real doctor who won’t even talk to a wife,” I quipped meaning it to be a joke. It fell flat. Kent gave me a half-smile, as Mary Beth said, “You know that doctor couldn’t talk to you – Stephen could sue him. You’re lucky that nurse let it slip, or you wouldn’t know what you do.” “I know, you’re right; I’m not upset with the doctor. If I was reading his face right, he wasn’t very happy with Stephen for not telling him about me. I’m sorry Kent, I didn’t mean to… I guess I’m not

handling all this too well. I’m almost afraid to read this stuff,” I said smiling back, but letting my eyes fall to the papers on the table. “It’s okay, I’m not sure I’d like finding out this stuff this way either. But Jackie, no matter how you found out, the truth here is that most likely Stephen is making up the story about falling off a ladder.” Looking up, I asked Kent, “Can you tell me anymore?” “Sure. What those papers say is that a fissure or fistula is a tear or thinning of the skin. They can happen almost anywhere on your body, but when they are in the anal canal they can be painful, and cause a bunch of different problems.

It’s a significant medical issue because it allows feces to pass outside the bowel, poisoning the rest of your system. It’s a serious condition.” “And it doesn’t happen from falling off a ladder, right?” I asked. “Well I guess it may be possible, but odds are against it.” I hesitated for a second then pushed on asking in a steady, but rather hushed voice, “What does cause it then?” Kent raised his eyebrows, looked at Mary Beth as if to ask if he should say anymore. Getting a nodding blink from her in return, he went on, “I’m just going to say this straight out… your asshole’s meant for stuff to come out – not go in. Most of the time gay guys get this

because of rough anal sex, and putting things that are just too Goddamn big up their butts!” He wiggled around in his chair as he was speaking, his voice as animated as his eyes. Mary Beth and Michael, neither of whom were expecting him to put it in quite those terms, almost burst trying to stifle their laughter, as I said, “You’re going to have to work on your bedside manner, Kent.” At that, there was no choking it back… the table erupted. Before leaving Vito’s, Mary Beth also updated me on what she’d heard from Ronnie. He indeed had run into Stephen in Harvard Square, and had let him crash at his place. In fact, Stephen had wanted to move in so he wouldn’t

have to go back to his mother’s house at all, but Ronnie said no. According to Ronnie, Stephen spent his time cruising the gay bars in Boston, even bringing some guy back to Ronnie’s place one night. This guy had something to do with American Airlines and Ronnie thought he was the one that arranged a flight for Stephen back to Chicago. “Jackie, you know Ronnie came out of the closet after we graduated high school. He said to tell you that Stephen is definitely gay and always has been – you just never knew before.” My mind could barely hear the words, ‘you just never knew before’, let alone comprehend their meaning. I poured another glass of Riesling,

emptying the bottle, gulping it down, not objecting at all when Michael suggested that we all head off someplace where we could smoke instead. I had the information I asked for – now I needed to confront Stephen and get him to admit the truth. ~~~~~~~~ “I’m not going back to the hospital,” I told Michael the next morning. “I’m going to wait until he’s out, and talk to him at Joe’s place.” “Are you sure? It might be better to do it at the hospital where there’s a lot of people around,” he suggested. “True, but I doubt if I’m gonna be

able to stay calm… The nurses would throw me out if I yelled at him, and besides, I’m not sure I can face them. Tuesday was friggin’ humiliating.” “You have nothin’ to be humiliated about. He’s the one who should be humiliated,” he replied giving me a hug. “Will you promise me something?” “What?” “That you’ll let me know when you go.” “I’m going alone…” “I understand that,” he interrupted. “I’m not asking to go with you – I don’t want to, I just want to know when you’re going, and not find out that you’ve done it after it’s over.” “Why?”

“Because I don’t think you should be alone right after you see him again. If you don’t want to tell me, then at least promise you’ll tell Mary Beth, okay? Is that reasonable?” he asked. I nodded in agreement. “Good, I’ve got to go – a client is coming into the garage.” He leaned over to give me a kiss and a quick wink. “See ya later, beautiful.” When the door closed, I wandered around my own apartment as if I was lost. I was exhausted, not physically, but mentally, my brain hurt. I had classes this afternoon and knew I should get ready to go to school – I had blown off two days already – but all I wanted to do was sleep. I had read the information Kent gave me last night and decided to

read it again. Bits and pieces of articles or textbooks or wherever he’d taken it from kept floating through my mind. And what the fuck did Ronnie mean by I never knew! I popped a couple Valium and went to bed – another day of classes blown off.

Chapter Fifteen Sleep It All Away I slept for the better part of the next week. Each day I got up intending to do something, anything, but all I did was walk around my apartment in my pajamas and watch TV. I called Charlie and told him I wasn’t feeling well; I had picked up some kind of stomach virus, so I wouldn’t be in for a few days. I think he knew I was lying, but I didn’t care. I talked to Mary Beth on the phone a couple times, and Ashley and Lisa from SAIC called to find out if I was alright –

I hadn’t been in class so they were checking to see if I needed anything. I lied to them too, telling them the same story I gave Charlie. My parents called wanting to know when to expect me for Christmas. I told them that Mary Beth and I were planning on driving back together, and I’d call them with the exact dates soon. I even managed to keep Michael away for two days by professing that I was okay, nothing was wrong, I just wanted a little time to myself, and promising I would call him soon. I knew he knew I was full of shit, but he seemed willing to give me some space. All I wanted was to cut off the world, wrap myself up in a cocoon, roll over and die.

~~~~~~~~ On the third day, Michael showed up at my door. I hadn’t bothered to get dress, change my pajamas, shower, brush my hair or teeth, or put on any makeup since he last left. My eyes were red and puffy from tears, and I felt horrible. Instead of saying hello when I opened the door, all I said was, “Go away, I have a stomach virus, and I don’t want you to catch it… I look like a pile of shit!” Ignoring my protests as he pushed past me, his only response was, “Well you’re right about one thing: you do look like shit.” He turned off the television, eyed the heap of blankets and pillows on the

couch, and then headed for the kitchen. Following him I snapped, “What do you think you’re doing? I told you, my stomach is upset – you need to go!” He ignored my tone and the glare in my eyes. “When’s the last time you ate anything?” Straightening up to defend myself I replied, “This afternoon – I had some cheese and toast. I’m not hungry! Seriously Michael, you need to go – I’ll call you when I’m feeling better, I promise.” “No problem,” he said grabbing my keys from the hook by the door, “I’m going alright… I’m going to the cafeteria over on Clark. I’ll be back soon with some decent food.”

“Why are you taking my keys?” I demanded. Cocking his head to one side he gave me a half smile as he headed out the door. “So you can’t lock me out – go take a shower.” “No!” I yelled, but he was already gone. I sat back down on the couch mumbling to myself. How dare he? Who the fuck does he think he is? I wasn’t married to him, he wasn’t my father, and I sure didn’t have to do anything he said! He was just some guy I picked up in the bar, Goddamn it. He just wanted to get laid – well he was going to have to find someone else’s body to abuse this time. I sure wasn’t having sex with him. I’ll be

damned if I’m going to take a shower just because he wants me to, I thought as I marched about the room. I was pissed off, but it also occurred to me that… maybe I am hungry – maybe I’d eat instead of throwing the food in his face. Letting himself in with my keys, which he returned to the hook, making sure I saw him, Michael started opening containers and laying them out on the dining area table. I sat there stewing in my own thoughts, none of which were complimentary to him, watching as he got plates down from the cabinet, and silverware out of the drawer. Neither of us had spoken since he came back; his face had been blank, but as he glanced

around the table pulling my favorite kind of hard rolls and pads of real butter out of the bag, I saw a sense of selfsatisfaction come over him. He turned, put a small smile on his face and said, “C’mon, let’s eat.” Like a spoiled child being told to eat her peas, I made my way over to the table to sit down, still not talking to him. He just watched me, not sure what to expect from me next. I surveyed the contents of the table, my stomach speaking up with delight as the smell of fried chicken filled my senses. “Smells good, huh? I’m starving – do you want some broccoli?” he asked. Besides about a dozen pieces of chicken, and broccoli, there were mashed potatoes

with sour cream, butter and chives, carrots, some kind of pink Jell-O with fruit in it, those delicious hard rolls I loved so much, and a box still unopened in the corner. He saw my eyes fall on the box and said, “Cheesecake for dessert.” “There’s enough food here to feed the Russian Army,” I said as I lowered myself into a chair. “I know, I wanted to make sure there were plenty of leftovers,” he replied pushing the container of chicken in my direction. As I ate, I started to feel a little better. It must have showed on my face since Michael’s next words were, “Real food always helps, doesn’t it?” All I could manage was a nod in agreement. What I was thinking was, Yes,

but just because you were right about food, doesn’t mean I want you here… you’ve got to go as soon as we’re done eating – I don’t want anyone here. And I’m NOT having sex with you! When he was satisfied I’d eaten enough, he asked if I wanted the cheesecake now or later. “Later”, I said, “Thanks for getting the food… I guess I haven’t eaten much the last couple days. It was good.” I stood up and headed back to the couch leaving the table a mess; Michael packed up the leftovers for later, putting everything in the refrigerator. As I sat, the anger started to grow in me again. He approached me quietly, his eyes soft but unwavering, and tried to give me

a hug. I squirmed away, telling him I thought he needed to leave now – I was tired. “Leave? I’m not leaving,” he retorted, “I’m staying the night.” “Like hell you are! I need time alone!” I was stoked! “Bullshit – that’s the last thing you need! You’ve been alone for two days and look at you… you’re a mess!” His voice also raised an octave or two. “I don’t want you here – I’m fine!” “Right, you’re fine! Look at yourself – look at this place! In all the time I’ve known you, I haven’t seen you or your apartment in such a shitty state!” My eyes darted around. If I was being reasonable, I’d have to admit the

apartment was a disaster. Everything was out of place, used Kleenex strewn about – but I was in no mood to be reasonable, so instead I furrowed my brow, stared at him and burst out, “So I haven’t picked things up for a couple days, so what! What are you complaining about, your place is always a mess!” He snorted and laughed. “That’s true, but that’s not what I mean and you know it.” I was up off the couch pacing around as usual. My insides felt like a pressure cooker about to explode. I whirled on him and screamed, “Leave me alone, just get the fuck out of here – now!” He didn’t move. I stood there shaking,

pointing to the door. “Motherfucker – leave! I’m not having sex with you, so just leave!” “What… What did you say? Do you honestly think I’m only here to have sex with you? Is that what you think?” he yelled back grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. “If sex was all I wanted, I could damn well get it without all this bullshit. Look at me, Jackie!” I lifted my head; his face was no more than a few inches away, so close I could feel his breath on my cheeks. I struggled trying to break away, but his grip just tightened. He was repeating over and over, “Is that what you think?” “Let go, you’re hurting me,” I hissed.

His grasp loosened. I pulled away and backed up two or three steps, breathing through my nose. Gaining control of his voice, he asked again, “Is that what you think? If it is – if you think that’s all I want from you, I’ll leave.” I just stood there, frozen in place, but on absolute fire with anger. “No!” I retorted, still shaking and breathing in short shallow breaths that seemed to make the room spin. “No.” “Good. I need you to know I’m here because I was worried about you. I could head over to The Canteen and leave with any girl there…” I started to interrupt him, but his voice rose again and stopped me. “I know, you could leave with any guy

there too – that’s not the point. It’s that I want to be here – with you. Do you understand me?” I nodded. He took a step towards me, held his hand out and said “Let’s sit down.” I sat, but refused to take his hand. I was still angry, but starting to calm although I was in no shape yet for rational thought. Michael sat watching me as if I was some kind of precious china figurine that would crack into pieces at the slightest false touch. Neither of us spoke. Finally my breathing normalized, and the room became a solid entity again. I chanced a quick glance up at him; his eyes were still fixed on me. “You’re not angry with me, you know

that don’t you,” he said. “You’re angry at him.” I just looked back down at my hands fidgeting in my lap. He got up and turned the TV back on, setting the volume very low. I didn’t answer. We sat not talking, not moving, except to go to the bathroom or getting up to change the channel, for what must have been hours – Mod Squad, Gunsmoke, reruns of Hawaii Five-O, all came and went, neither of us watching any of it. Somewhere during Hawaii Five-O I broke the silence asking if he wanted his cheesecake. Michael smiled, nodded, and I wandered off to the kitchen to get it. We ate in silence, both stealing glances at the other and exchanging small smiles.

“Thank you for getting this,” I said indicating the cheesecake. “You were right, I needed to eat more than just toast.” “You’re welcome – I’m glad you liked it.” “I did, thank you.” We fell silent again. Michael broke it this time suggesting, “Why don’t you go take a shower? I think that will make you feel a little better too.” “I know, I just don’t have the energy though,” I sighed. He leaned over and pulled me close. Inhaling, and with a mischievous grin on his face said, “You stink. You need a shower – I promise it’ll make you feel better… Go. I’ll find you something

clean to put on.” Clean for the first time in days, I sat back down on the couch with him – this time closer. He put his arm around me and we watched Marcus Welby, M.D. As the late news came on, Michael turned the television off and started talking again. “Jackie, you have to get a grip. If you miss many more classes, you’ll flunk this semester, and you don’t want that to happen.” “I know… but I just can’t right now. All I can think about is what those papers from Kent said and I… I can’t focus, my mind just won’t stop. I’m so angry. I’m so tired.” “When are you going to go talk to Stephen?”

“I don’t know. Part of me is afraid to go. I’m afraid he’s going to keep lying, and I’m not sure I can deal with that.” “You’re stronger than you think – you can deal with it. I used to think you should just stay away from him, but now… well now I think you just need to get it over with, so you can move on with your life.” “It’s not that easy Michael. I’m… well ‘confused’ is the only word I can think of right now. I’m just angry and confused.” He let out a deep sound of exasperation. “Lots of people get cheated on ya know… it’ll be okay.” Swallowing hard, blinking back tears, I replied, “But most women don’t

have their husbands cheat with another man. I keep seeing the pages of information Kent gave me, and what Bernie said and Ronnie… and yet Stephen said it was all a lie. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m just afraid… that’s all.” “Of course Stephen says it’s a lie and hasn’t admitted anything. How can he? He needed the insurance information – if he hadn’t he would never’ve called you. You’ve got to understand that. He made a choice to go gay, and he just doesn’t have the balls to admit it,” Michael said. I just looked at him feeling rather numb, then something in me gave way, like a dam overflowing – I could not keep rein on my tears or words. “No!

No, I did it to him… it’s my fault… I’m certain of it!” He sat up straight pulling back to see all of me, a look of absolute astonishment on his face. “What? What the fuck are you talking about? What do you think you did?” “I made him go gay!” I screamed, “It had to be me, and I… I’m afraid I’m going to do the same thing to you!” “Are you out of your mind? You didn’t do… What the hell babe… I’m not – shit that makes no sense at all!” he yelled back, jumping up and shaking his head. “That just blows my mind!” I looked up at him and told him that was why he had to leave me. I couldn’t take the chance of doing the same thing

to him that I had done to Stephen. He stood there, his eyes searching my face in minute detail, his head shaking back and forth, until he finally collapsed back down on the leather couch next to me in what seemed like exhaustion. “That makes about as much sense as your theory about Janis Joplin. I’m not leaving. I want to be here. I love making love to you. There’s no way in hell you made him go gay, and I’m sure as hell not interested in having sex with another guy… I don’t know what else to say except you’re wrong.” I couldn’t move – couldn’t speak. I just sat there trembling inside and out. He reached out and touched my arm. “C’mon, we both need sleep.” I nodded

in agreement. ~~~~~~~~ My main question was why bother to get out of bed at all? It took me a week to leave the apartment. Michael continued to come back each evening, and I managed to work my way back to being comfortable with him there. He never, not once, pushed me to do any more than eat and take showers – alone. We watched TV; we talked. He didn’t push on me for sex, at all, he let me initiate any physical contact – even casual touching – other than occasional comforting hugs. My mind was so unreliable at this point that I construed

this into meaning that I had already pushed him over the edge… He no longer wanted me… but then, if that was true, why hadn’t he left like Stephen did? Michael had no obligation to be here, so maybe I was wrong? I tried to think, but I knew my thoughts were playing tricks on me, that I couldn’t trust anything going on inside my head. The more I thought, the more confused I got – like a Goddamn Pandora’s Box. Each time I tried to examine one thought another would pop up to contradict it. And not just my thoughts about Stephen or Michael, but my thoughts about friends, school, my parents – Christ, I had to go face them in a couple weeks! Absolutely everything

was contradictory. Part of me thought I was losing touch with reality, and the other part was ecstatic about the loss. One night I more or less confronted Michael with my conclusion that I was right, I had changed his sexuality, that he didn’t want me any longer. For an instant, he just stood and stared at me with an incredulous look on his face, but then… well, I didn’t get any of the reactions I had been imagining during the day as I prepared myself for this conversation. Never did I think he would laugh! I stood there, my jaw hanging open, part of me engulfed by the laughter, the other part growing angrier, until he gained control of himself and said,

“Well that proves it, you are officially crazy! Being here, staying straight, and not touching you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done!” His head shaking, with just a slightest hint of mischief in his voice he said, “I’m going to bed. You’ve never been shy; if you want me… well then…” He trailed off and went into the bedroom. I sat on the couch for a few minutes, my mind spinning, unable to decipher what had just happened. I couldn’t go into that room. Somehow going to him at this moment, letting him know that I wanted him, seemed like an impossible task – how could I let him know that? It would give him too much power over me. How could I ever find any strength

around him again, if I did? I seemed paralyzed with fear, with total insecurity. Then somehow, without consciously realizing it, I stood up and entered the darkened bedroom where Michael, very passionately, gently, showed me that our physical connection was very much alive and well. The following day I went back to school, met with my instructors, made plans to makeup missed projects, and then, that evening, wiggled my way back into Charlie’s good graces at The Canteen. The one thing I could not push myself into doing was dealing with Stephen, telling myself I would do it after the holiday. I went over and over things in

my mind. I knew the people around me were telling me the truth, but I did not want to accept it. It’s strange how a person can understand something, but not truly know it deep in their inner being – the only place that makes any difference, at least when it came to matters of the heart. Love really is an illusion, I thought. Maybe Michael was right; maybe I was a runner. I had always thought of myself as someone who handled problems head on, took the bull by the horns, pushed my way through whatever it was, impervious to fear – but maybe not. Maybe I was a coward. He had accused me of trying to run from him, so if I was running from Michael, then shit,

of course I was running from Stephen. Running meant I never had to officially lose him. But Stephen was running even faster and further, and if I was lying about it, then he was lying about not only me, but everything in his life. Shit, he made me look like the friggin’ Rock of Gibraltar!

Chapter Sixteen Christmas Michael and I celebrated the holiday early. I would be in Massachusetts with my parents on December 25th, but back in Chicago before New Year’s Eve. The past couple months had been rough on both of us; so I was determined to make ‘our Christmas’ as nice as possible. I bought a small, potted Norfolk Pine, decorating it with strings of cranberries and popcorn, then rolled some joints and arranged them into a star for the top. I pulled one of the end tables in front of the living room window, placing the tree

on it to soak up the sunlight. I liked the idea of having a tiny living tree that would continue to grow after the cranberry and popcorn decorations were long gone – something for the future, something to take care of. Then I painted our names on Christmas stockings, and hung them from the edge of the end table. I stuffed Michael’s stocking full of little things: a Swiss Army pocket knife that had all kinds of useful gadgets like a tiny corkscrew, a magnifying glass, and tweezers that could be used as a roach clip, his favorite Charleston Chew and Butterfinger candy bars, spearmint flavored gum, a pair of heavy winter socks, and an onion – my mother always put an onion in the bottom my stocking

so I decided to carry on the tradition. I think the onion was supposed to represent all the crappy stuff I’d done during the last year that fell into the naughty, not nice, category for Santa – all I knew for sure was that I always got onions as a kid. I also got him a new set of saddlebags for his Harley that Rick helped me pick out so I’d get the right thing, and a blue denim cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl covered snaps instead of buttons that he’d been admiring whenever we walked by this little boutique on Broadway. ~~~~~~~~ “Christmas stockings? You made us

stockings… my mother hasn’t stuffed stockings for us for years!” Michael exclaimed when he spotted them hanging from the edge of the table. “Me? I didn’t stuff the stockings, Santa did – don’t you believe in Santa Claus? All I did was to write him a special delivery letter asking him to come here early since I had to go to Weymouth.” Giving me a sidelong glance he said, “Cool, a woman with connections, I love it.” “Here, sit down – let’s see what he gave you,” I said detaching his from its hanging place and handing it to him. I loved watching him turn into a little boy again as he pulled all the goodies out

one by one… until he got to the onion. “For all the times you were bad during the past year,” I piped up seeing the quizzical look on his face. “Ha! I’m surprised I didn’t get all onions then,” he chuckled. “Pass this on to Santa next time you see him for me,” he said giving me a big hug and kiss. “Mmm… well I hope I did as well picking things for you as Santa did,” I said handling him the boxes with the saddle bags and shirt. “These are from me.” I held my breath as he opened the packages savoring each moment. “Fantastic! Did Rick help you pick these out?” “Yeah, how did you know? I asked him not to tell you.”

“He didn’t, but he was with me the other day at the Harley place, and he talked me out of buying these. Now I know why.” Relaxing, I exhaled, “Oh good, I was hoping they were the right ones.” “They’re perfect, and I love the shirt – it’s all perfect, babe. Your turn,” he said. “Time to earn my onion.” Michael had showed up that night with some surprises of his own. He packed a Styrofoam cooler full of Coke, ginger ale, root beer, penny candy, chips, Cheetos, trail mix and nuts, as snacks for my drive home. And, he gave me a wonderful cobalt blue water pipe, with red and yellow glass flames at the bottom, a spiral of clear glass up the

stem that sparkled as it reflected the blue it encased, that was then topped with an intricately detailed green tree frog. It was hand blown – one of the most beautiful pipes I’d ever seen. Functional art. But the biggest surprise was a lacy, rather sheer, flowing black negligée. “Will you wear it?” he asked as I opened the box with a gleam in his eye, and one corner of his mouth curled in anticipation. “Ahhh… well, I… it is gorgeous and so soft…” I started to respond. “I know you like flannel, but you’ve been in those damn flannel things so much lately, they’re almost worn out… Go try it on – see if I got the size right?”

I just sat holding it for a moment – it was floor length with a full gathered skirt that was slightly longer in the back than front, the bodice was fitted, made of sheer lace in a rose bud pattern, and triple spaghetti straps crossed in the back. Even though part of me thought of myself as a traitor to the feminist cause (I could just picture Gloria Steinem jumping off the pages of her latest Cosmo article, yelling “no, you are not a sex object!”) I had to admit it was beautiful, so with a quirky smile of my own, I whispered, “Be right back.” As I entered the living room again I announced, “It fits – I love it!” He stood up and walked across the room, eyeing me up and down as he

advanced. As he got close, he reached out, took my hand, and spun me around causing the skirt to flare as I moved, then he took a step back and without any further elaboration said, “Oh my God,” pulling me close, giving me a long, deep kiss, his hands moving down my body and squeezing my butt. Letting go of my bottom, he reached up, pulled my arms down from around his neck and stood back again, looking at me in a way that was starting to make me very selfconscious. “What’s the problem?” I asked. “Absolutely nothing.” He continued to watch me standing there starting to show my nervousness. He stepped closer again, and ran his fingertips over

my breast where the edge of the black lace was touching my pale white skin. I closed my eyes; his touch was exhilarating sending tiny shivers up and down my spine – my breathing began to change, as my arms reached out to touch him in response. I could feel his eyes on me, even though mine were closed… His fingers wiggled under the spaghetti straps on one shoulder, then the other, lowering the bodice of the negligee until it fell by my waist. “You’re smiling, babe – what are you thinking?” he murmured in my ear, his breath feeling warm and cool at the same time. “Mmm… just how good that feels… how much I want you and…” I stopped,

opening my eyes enough to see his face next to mine. “And… and what?” “Nothing it’s silly, I don’t even know why I thought of it.” “Tell me – I want to know.” I focused my eyes on his, swallowed and blurted out, “I guess I just don’t understand men – you said you liked the way it looked on me. I mean I can tell you do, but as soon as you start to touch me, well… you take it off. How does that make any sense?” He was trying to repress a laugh – I could see it in his eyes. “When are you going to stop reading those trashy magazines?” he replied, precisely interpreting my transparent face once

again. “Never,” was the answer, my hand inching up to tickle him in the ribs. “Oh, you’ll pay for that,” he said picking me up, and tossing me onto the black leather couch. I squealed. A split second later his shirt was off and he was standing over me grinning like a Cheshire cat saying, “Where should I start? I know, how about here…” his hand hiking up the negligee, grabbing my ass, both of us laughing as we tussled around, finally rolling and landing on the floor. We ate dinner – late – and lounged around making love and talking; talking and loving again until the wee hours of the morning. “I like the effect black lace

has on you,” I quipped, as sleep started to overtake my mind and body. “I wonder if anyone has ever done any scientific studies on the subject… You know, I can see the title now ‘Black Lace and Penises’.” “Smart ass,” he replied, “I just want to make sure you don’t forget me while you’re gone.” “Hmph, I could never forget you,” I said, rolling over to give him another kiss, nestling my head into my favorite spot on his shoulder as we both dozed off. ~~~~~~~~ It was surprising to me how good it was

to actually see my parents again. It was now December 1971 – I hadn’t been here since my wedding, and memories flooded back about that much happier time almost a year and a half ago. And I had missed Satchamo, my German shepherd, that I’d had since junior high. I just sat down on the floor rubbing him all over while he danced around wagging his tail and licking my face. Although I was dreading the ‘talk’ I knew I must have with my parents, I knew I loved them and they loved me. Somehow I did know that. I never questioned their love even through all the arguments, even though I was a complete disappointment to them… I knew they loved me, and I hoped, they

would be there for me now. I was never particularly close to them, at least when it came to talking. I talked to my friends about things that were upsetting me, not them. I had had no good reason for staying away this long unless you counted my failed marriage. Fuck, it only lasted six months before it unraveled. I knew my mother hadn’t said anything to any of the relatives – no one in my family had ever gotten a divorce so this was going to be a scandal that would serve as food for fodder with all those phony, prim and proper aunts, uncles, and assorted cousins for years to come. But now the mere thought of talking, telling my parents the truth, scared the shit out of me. How could I do this to

them? I spent my time in high school deceiving them about my actions, especially after meeting Stephen. Big purses were all the fashion rage then, and I had the biggest purse I could find; it was actually more like small luggage. I would leave the house for a date with him looking like an All American girl next door carrying the purse. I’d get no more than a couple blocks down the street, and then open it up, yanking tattered jeans with an American flag patch sewn upside down on the ass, Tshirts with peace symbols, and a ragged army jacket out of it – and changing in the car, before heading off to whatever place I wasn’t supposed to be, and then

repeating the whole process in reverse before coming home. Now it was time to be honest, tell them as much as I could, and hope for the best. Mary Beth and I had gone over and over what I should, and should not say, as we navigated the snow and ice on the highways on our 18 hour drive east. But now that I was actually home, my brain was revolting, I could feel the pressure cooker inside starting to bubble up, and I filled with apprehension. Michael had slipped enough pot for a couple of ‘emergency joints’ into my Christmas stocking, and I had the ones from the tree top, but shit, shit, shit – it would never last if I started smoking it right away. One of the first things my father did

after I pulled into the driveway was to go out and inspect the car. Now, I was watching from the dining room window as he circled the rear of the car, and bent down to look at something in the trunk area – would he be able to tell that the bumper had been dented and fixed? I couldn’t. Michael and Jeff had done an excellent, professional job in my opinion, but when it came to cars, my father had an uncanny ability to find even the smallest scratch, so until it passed his inspection, I was on edge. “Jacqueline, come sit down, I made your favorite pot roast for dinner – your father will be in soon,” my mother called out to me from the kitchen. “Okay Mom, I think I’ll go call him

to come in – it’s cold out there, he’s going to freeze to death,” I replied wanting to get his attention away from the bumper as soon as possible. By the time I made my way to the door though, he was heading up the driveway, kicking the slush off his boots on the edge of the step, and brushing a few snowflakes from his shoulders as he came through the door, announcing that the car looked like it was holding up well. “Yeah, I found a good mechanic at this little holein-the-wall place. Mom says dinner’s ready.” “That’s good, you haven’t had any problems with it have you? What’s the name of this place? I don’t think you mentioned it on the phone.”

“Oh – no, the car hasn’t had any problems; I’ve just done the regular oil change stuff, whenever you told me. The place doesn’t actually have a name, it’s just a guy who works out of his garage.” “His garage? How did you find this guy?” “Oh… ahhh, one of the customers at the restaurant told me about it.” “Good, well your mother and I are going to a DAV convention in April in St. Louis. We were planning on driving through Chicago so we could see you – you’ll have to introduce me when we’re there so I can thank him for his good work.” “Sure, Dad – no problem, Mom wants us to come eat,” I said. Holy shit,

how am I going to find some old guy with a garage to introduce to my father, I thought. Goddamn it stop lying – just tell them the truth… But I couldn’t tell them about Michael, if I did then they’d think I left Stephen for him, and that wasn’t true! Shit, shit, shit… if they came to Chicago, then they’d also find out The Canteen was a sleazy bar, not a restaurant – I told them I worked in a restaurant, Oh God! My mother was right: “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!” Nine days left of this; I was never going to make it – at least not straight! “Sit down you two – the pot roast will get cold if you don’t get in here

now,” my mother said as we entered the kitchen. “Hold your horses, Betty, we’re right here. It smells good, doesn’t it, Jackie?” my father said pulling out his chair and settling in so my mother could serve dinner. “Yeah, it does – I haven’t had pot roast in ages,” I said. “Oh, haven’t I sent you this recipe? I’ll write it down for you before you go,” my mother chimed in, always happy at any chance to even get me close to a kitchen. While growing up she always told me the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I hoped that old saying wasn’t true as Betty Crocker and I weren’t exactly on the best of terms.

“You don’t have to do that, Mom, you gave it to me. It’s just, well – I don’t exactly spend much time cooking, you know. And I couldn’t eat a whole pot roast by myself, it would just go bad.” “Well you could always invite some of your friends over. I’m sure between you and Mary Beth you know enough people to eat a roast.” “I know, you’re right – it’s just time and everything, but I’ll suggest it to her and maybe we will.” “Good. So how have you been? You look a little thin. Are you eating?” “Of course I’m eating Mom. I haven’t lost any weight, I’m fine – I’ve been fine.” “Your mother and I just worry about

you Jacqueline, that’s all,” my father popped into the conversation eyeing me. “Tell us about school – how’s it going?” “School is great – I like my new textile instructor, and I’m starting a sculpture class when I get back. Actually, I’ve been thinking about changing my major,” I added in an offthe-cuff manner. “What? What would you change to?” my father asked. My mother, sounding concerned said, “Oh Jackie, you can’t give up the idea of teaching… you don’t even know how to type or take shorthand or anything. What kind of work will you do?” “No, no, that’s not what I meant, I’m going to stay in the teaching program, it’s

my studio major I want to change,” I replied, easing her mind. “I just don’t think fashion design is right for me – I enjoy textiles, glass and sculptural things much more.” “Hmph, well I suppose that won’t present a problem – an art teacher is an art teacher after all,” my father stated ending that subject, and switched to something more immediate. “Why don’t you tell her about the plans for Christmas, Betty?” “This year we’re all going to Aunt Martha and Uncle Hank’s instead of Aunt Edie’s house. Your Aunt Edie, hasn’t been feeling very well lately – we’re afraid she has breast cancer – so everyone thought it best if we had the

family gathering at Martha’s instead.” “I’m sorry to hear that, Mom,” I said. “Well say your prayers for her. They’ll all be happy to see you – of course I’m not sure what we’re going to say about Stephen not being there, but I guess we have a little time to come up with something,” my mother stated. “Is the truth out of the question?” I asked. My voice oozed sarcasm. “Well we don’t know ‘the truth’ now do we Jacqueline?” my father said. Snapping my head up in his direction I answered his unspoken question with, “Yeah, well… I’ve been driving all day and night, and I’d like to leave that subject until tomorrow, if you don’t mind?”

They shot each other a glance across the table, and my father nodded saying, “Okay, tomorrow.” Had they always looked at each other like that, I wondered. It was as if they were conspiring against me, or if not against me, at least conspiring with each other, and I didn’t remember seeing that before. My father and I fought ‘like cats and dogs’, or at least that was what my mother called it. She said it was because we were so much alike – a thought that did not sit well with me. I didn’t want to be like anyone in her family, but I sure didn’t want to be like him either. When he and I got into a major argument, my mother usually ended up being on my side and vice versa… like each of us

feeling we had to stand with the proverbial underdog. But now, if that glance meant what I thought it did, I was going to be on my own. Then it occurred to me that I came by my ‘lying’ naturally, at least when it came to family stories. What was important to my mother’s family was what things looked like; they never admitted what things actually were. They judged everything by how much it cost. When my mother bought a new dress, one of her sisters would ask how much it was, and then tell her how she should have gone to Filene’s basement because she would have found the same thing for less. On bigger items, the more that was spent, the better – like the Cadillac,

Bart, one of the brothers had purchased before I left for college. Of course then, they’d just go home, and talk about the other one behind their backs, so really it was a ‘no win’ situation. The trick seemed to be knowing ahead of time which way to adjust the story or which part to fabricate to get approval of the majority. It all seemed so hypocritical to me. For that matter, I probably came by my recent ‘insanity’ naturally too. My father, Antonio, Tony for short, was an orphan who ended up being raised by a distant cousin. By the time he was 12years-old, the cousin had been locked up in ‘the looney bin’ for sending President Coolidge threatening letters. Yep, I could

blame this all on genetics. ~~~~~~~~ In the morning my mother woke me before she and my father went off to work to say goodbye, let me know about the food she had made for the day, and ask me to do various errands. My mother was an executive secretary turned mail room supervisor for a local subsidiary of Johnson & Johnson, thus her concern that I steadfastly refused to learn how to type or take dictation. I didn’t want any part of that shit: if I couldn’t type, then I didn’t have to support myself by being subservient to some controlling male. My mother went to Katharine Gibbs at a

time when they had to wear white gloves, pumps, and nylon stockings with the seam perfectly straight each day to class. Learning to type would have been helpful in some ways, but practicality had nothing to do with my sense of it. I actually had no idea what kind of work I wanted to do, wasn’t sure I wanted to teach either; all I knew was I didn’t want to do that. My father was the manager of Sweeney’s Campus Shop, a small men’s clothing store in the neighboring town of Quincy. I had worked there part-time during my senior year of high school, and again during the summer after finishing my first year at SAIC… during the months leading up to my wedding.

He pretty much hated it there: the owners of the store were ‘slick’, and always pulling some kind of under handed bullshit in the name of business – currently it had something to do with the profit sharing program they had promised the employees, but then reneged on. He would’ve been a good attorney, but being an orphan, only had an 8th grade education, so he moved from job to job as I was growing up. Or even better than attorney, he should have stayed in the Air Force – he made a great Master Sergeant. He had enlisted before WWII, but left when my mother refused to join him in Japan after the end of the Korean War; in my opinion, she should have gone. He tried to get me to

enlist after high school, but being a confirmed anti-Vietnam War believer, there was, I told him in no uncertain terms, ‘a snowball’s chance in hell’ of that happening. Just one more disappointment for him. I was supposed to be born a boy; I can’t count the number of times I heard that growing up. My name was supposed to be Richard – if I had been, then maybe I would’ve had a low draft number, and he would have gotten his way. One of the items on my list was to stop by the store. My father allegedly wanted me to say ‘hello’ to everyone, but I knew he wanted me to do his Christmas shopping for him – my mother always seemed to like the things I picked

better than when he did it by himself, and I got the sizes right. I made it through the visit without incident, and deflected questions about how married life was treating me with relative ease (thank God I had remembered to bring my wedding ring with me and had put it on again before this visit). At least now I knew, for sure, that my separation had not been mentioned at work. With that in mind, I stopped to see Mary Beth on my way home; she was having her own family stress situations, so we got stoned. The pot Michael had given me was strong, and I was hoping the high would carry me through the conversation I had to have with my parents that evening.

After dinner that night my father stood up, and announced that we all needed to go sit in the living room. When I lived there, he ate on a folding tray watching TV, my mother and I waiting on him while we ate at the kitchen table. I already knew something different was up because he sat with us for the second night in a row, but I decided not to ask why. I still had my buzz on, so for a minute I thought I heard him wrong when he said we needed to go to the living room; this family never sat down and talked – we just sniped and yelled. But I hadn’t misheard. He headed for the brocade upholstered couch. My mother sat next to him, which left only one empty spot for me – in the

matching chair across from them both. This is uncomfortable, I thought. My father began. “Jacqueline, you need to tell us the truth about what’s happening with you and Stephen. We’re concerned about both of you, and just want to do whatever we can to help.” Thank God I was stoned – it held my panic at bay, letting me be in the situation, actually have this conversation, but still separate from myself, and watch the whole show as if my twin was perched on the windowsill observing, giving an unbiased opinion from some neutral vantage place. Well maybe not impartial. Holy shit! What was this? I was actually conjuring up a little female elf, or fairy, no maybe it

was a pixie with wings. I had imagined watching a situation from outside my body before, but my mind had never actually given that feeling a form before. If I’m going to see things I thought, it damn well better be on my side. I remember thinking about that for a moment while I was gathering my thoughts, and trying to remember the words I had practiced with Mary Beth on the drive here. Well if this is going to be a battle, then at least I’m not outnumbered… There are two of them – two of me: me and the pixie who was now perched on the edge of the TV. “I know… I should have explained before, but I just didn’t know what to say. I’m still not sure I can find the right

words.” My pixie friend gave me a little wink, as if to say not a bad start. “That’s right, you should have. You know you can always talk to us,” my father said, my mother nodding in agreement and saying “yes, of course, we love you.” What the fuck??? Who are these people sitting across from me? Was this pot laced with acid or some other hallucinogenic? Whose family is this – it sure as hell isn’t mine! The other me… my pixie, was looking confused too. Shaking my head, I just said, “I know you do, and I love you too, but… Well this, I mean, I don’t know what happened – it just dissolved, that’s all. I wish

we’d never gotten married. It would all be so much easier now.” “Then why did you?” my father asked. My pixie friend was jumping up and down protesting that question, and I could feel my own body tensing, getting ready to pounce too. No don’t… stay calm – I can’t! I just can’t, not with that question, are they out of their minds… does he have no memory of the battles we had? I thought. “Seriously? You’re seriously asking me why we got married.” The question came out of my mouth before I thought about the conversation it would lead me into, but I just couldn’t believe he was asking me that.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I asked. If it just dissolved, why did you get married?” His voice starting to raise just a little. “We got married because the two of you made us get married and …” My mother cut me off exclaiming, “You were living in sin, Jacqueline!” “Oh my God, Mom! Yes, we were living together – the only people that had a problem with it were you two! It’s the 1970s for Christ’s sake, not 1870!” I hissed back losing control as I noticed the little elf creature standing on the TV with her hands on her hips – spewing smoke from her nostrils, cheering me on. “We got married last year to please you! Or don’t you remember telling me that

you wouldn’t help pay for school any more if I didn’t get married… because what would the relatives think? Oh the scandal of having a daughter that wasn’t married, and wasn’t a fuckin’ virgin!” I bellowed as the pixie’s smoke and fire started coming from my eyes and nose too. “You ungrateful little bitch, don’t you use that language!” my father yelled back. “We were only doing what was best for you!” “I’ll use any language I want to use! We were planning on getting married – someday… later – but not then. If you hadn’t insisted that we get married, then maybe I’d have found things out in time, and I wouldn’t be sitting here now

telling you I was going to get a divorce! How the hell are you going to explain that to the family?” “Jacqueline, no you can’t!” my mother exclaimed. “No one in our family has ever gotten a divorce, and you’re not going to be the first.” “Oh yes, I am!” I snapped back, setting my jaw for the battle I knew was about to ensue. The façade of the perfect family talking about a problem was gone – I was used to the term ‘bitch’ – I knew these people very well, ‘bitch’ only meant they were paying attention, like a fucked up term of endearment. My thoughts whirled – I stared at the pixie who had now moved to the end table next to the couch my parents were

sitting on with her mouth hanging open. What the fuck’s your problem, I thought, and then realized that I had actually said the word ‘divorce’ out loud. It had been there, tucked in a back crevasse of my brain, long before I got to this conversation with my parents – most likely since this nightmare started – but it was no more than an elusive thought. It had never come out of my mouth as a statement before. “Why… You still haven’t said why?” my father asked again. I was silent. “Let me make this easy on you then,” he continued taking a deep breath, “Have you been having an affair?” “What… What the hell? Why do you assume it was me?”

“Well then did Stephen find another girl?” “No, he didn’t find another… girl,” I stated, standing up looking around the room for my pixie for support – where had that little creature gone now? Panic set in as I realized the damn thing had up and disappeared, and I’d have to finish this battle on my own with no moral support. I turned to face my parents, “I knew you’d blame me, think it was my fault, and maybe it was, but I am not going to stay married to him. He left me! He has a new life. It’s over – it’s been over since last February.” “Your mother and I have been married for 30 years, Jacqueline – it wasn’t always easy, but we worked our

way through it. You can’t just walk out!” “I didn’t walk out. He did! And I sure as hell wouldn’t hold your marriage up as some shining example to follow. You spend more time arguing than anything else. And how many times did you, mother, come to me when I was a kid asking who I wanted to live with when you left, so don’t…” I lashed out at them just wanting to inflict pain. Both of them reacted as I knew they would, yelling at me at the same time. My head felt like it would explode any second, I grabbed it, pulled my hair, pacing two steps in one direction, then two steps in the other then finally, painfully just screaming AAAAAAAHHH! The sound was agonizing, even to my

own ears – almost unearthly, like the noise of a person or large animal being slowly murdered. A trance-like state overtook my whole being. My mother was up trying to hold me saying “it’ll be alright Jackie, it’ll be alright,” but I wrestled away from her. It was my father whose eyes I was focused on. “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy screaming like that? Snap out of it – straighten up now!” He was using his military voice. “Now I told you!” He stood and took a step towards me. I wasn’t afraid of him; I knew he wouldn’t hit me. He hadn’t done that since I was in grade school when I’d turned, and spit at him after a spanking. He was just standing there, close to me,

looking at me with a profound sense of disappointment in his steel brown eyes. I was no match for that look, and had to fight with myself not to crumble on the spot; summoning every fiber of my body together, I managed to straighten my back, pulling myself up to my full height, our eyes never deviating from the other’s face. “Get a hold of yourself and stop this nonsense,” he commanded. “Are you crazy? Do you want to get locked up? No - now pull yourself together.” My mother was still trying to comfort me, but I was having none of it. I stepped back from both of them, trembling inside, breathing as deeply as possible, trying to push the panic away. I finally

sat back in the chair. They both sat again too. “We’re just trying to talk to you Jackie. Now tell us, why… What happened?” I could see I was going to have to give them some reason. I did not want to say anything that would turn them against Stephen. They loved him like the son they never had, but shit, I had to say something. Goddamn it I didn’t feel stoned anymore – the stupid-ass fairy creature took my high with her. After breathing through my mouth for several minutes, I regained some control. Looking at them I said, “Stephen has decided he wants a different kind of life – one he can’t have with me.”

“And what kind of life is that? Stop talking in riddles. Just say it.” My father’s voice had come down several octaves, but he was determined to get a straight answer. “He’s decided he prefers men,” I said still looking at them but with tears flowing down my cheeks. They looked at each other – my mother looked away from us both. My father continued, “If he’s not a real man, then no, you can’t stay married to him, but if it’s you – if you refused him the pleasures of a wife and forced him…” I had lowered my gaze, had leaned back in the chair, but my head bolted up at that remark. I jumped up out of the chair again and headed for the stairs.

“That’s right, it’s my fault – it’s always my fault – I’m going to bed!” I retorted half yelling, half crying. When I reached the top and turned toward my room I hesitated, calling for Satchamo to come with me. My mother yelled up the stairs to me, “Your father and I aren’t paying for a divorce. You’ll be disgraced for the rest of your life if you do that. You need to try to make it work – no matter what happened.” “I don’t expect you to pay for it, mother!” I screamed back slamming the bedroom door. ~~~~~~~~ I spent the remaining days leading up to

Christmas sleeping, wandering around stores, shopping for presents, sleeping some more, and generally feeling like shit. My parents and I had only spoken about inconsequential things since that night, my mother had a hard time even looking at me. Christmas Eve I went to church with her. While driving there she told me she did not want me announcing a divorce to the relatives; she would handle it if the time ever came. I didn’t have the strength to object, and just asked what she wanted me to say about his absence. I was to say that his mother had become ill so he was spending extra time with her. Every day, all day, I’d watch the clock as the hands stood still. Their

comments were ringing around in my head. My own disdainful thoughts fed on theirs as I tried to figure out how to live with it all. By Christmas, I had a charming little scene playing in my mind that involved getting ahold of Uncle Hank’s shot gun that hung on the wall in his study – Did the damn thing even work? Oh well, no matter, this was just a fantasy – taking it into the living room in front of the huge, perfect Christmas tree that I knew would be there and blowing my brains out – then standing back, watching all the women trying to pick the pieces of my skull off the tree cursing me under their breath for making a mess. What I couldn’t figure out was why I was always so intrigued with my skull

exploding? If I really wanted to kill myself, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it that way. By the time Christmas Day arrived, I had smoked almost all the pot, finishing it off while taking Satchamo for a walk before leaving for Aunt Martha’s house. Once there, I spewed off the bullshit story about Stephen’s whereabouts to my mother’s satisfaction though no one seemed to give a shit. They were treating me like they treated my father: I was there, but not worth being concerned with – this was the first time I had gotten that reception, Cool! I thought. Each of them seemed to have their own more important concerns, like why the banana bread had turned out dry, did we have

enough creamed onions or should they open another jar, or which of my younger cousins was going to grow up to be a lawyer, and earn all kinds of money. I amused myself by wondering which of the cousins would grow up to be a junkie or a waitress at the local diner (these kids were nowhere near the perfect angels their parents thought), and prayed for the day to be over as soon as possible. Once it was, I had only two more days to get through before leaving again for Chicago. ~~~~~~~~ Round two with my parents came the next day. Christmas had been on a

Saturday so of course, I was expected to go to church with my mother again the following morning. She was Lutheran. My father almost never went to church; as a child I was envious of his permission to stay home, and longed for the day I could do the same thing. The more my mother pushed religion on me, the more I balked. After suffering through confirmation classes, I announced I was an atheist or agnostic or Buddhist – she could take her pick – but I refused to be Lutheran. She was horrified, and I was promptly hauled off to every church event she could find. My mother was mistrustful of anyone other than Lutherans, or at least Protestants, especially anyone who was Catholic,

telling me all the time that I should make sure I never married one because they would insist that the children be brought up in the Catholic faith. Stephen fulfilled this requirement: his family was Episcopalian, although in reality, they were nothing. We had to drive past a large Catholic church on our way to the Lutheran church, and the resulting traffic jam never failed to piss her off because we were always ‘running late.’ One time I pointed out that the same traffic problem was happening in front of her church, and was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was wrong – it was different. This morning was no exception. I quietly looked out the window digging my

fingers into the arm rest on the front door as she became frustrated at the Catholics… You leave in the morning; just keep your big mouth shut I told myself over and over! That afternoon over a dinner of baked stuffed pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes – they brought up the subject of my marriage again. Since I didn’t want a reenactment of all the shit from our last ‘discussion’, I just sat and listened. This time I was straight – no pot or pixie to help me get through it, just me. They loved me; they did what they thought was best for me; I had to try again; I couldn’t just walk away; they were sure Stephen loved me too; maybe he had made some mistakes; maybe I had

made mistakes, but if we tried, they could be fixed; I had to talk to him; I had to pull myself up by the boot straps; but above all, I had to stop acting crazy – someone would lock me up. When it was over, I took Satchamo for a long walk in the cold and went to bed early.

Chapter Seventeen It’s Over Mary Beth and I drove straight through. Snow and ice be damned, both of us had had our fill of family and wanted nothing more than to be back in Chicago. I had contacted Michael from a truck stop letting him know about when we’d arrive. He would be waiting for me at The Canteen, and would come to the apartment as soon as I called letting him know I was home. Rick answered – I heard him call across the bar, “Hey, Mike, she’s back – time to go get laid!” causing a clamor of laughter in the

background. Shaking my head as I felt myself flush red, I yelled into the receiver, “Give the phone to Michael,” but Rick just kept laughing saying, “Mike just gave me the finger – he’ll be there soon. I’m glad you’re back Jackie.” Hanging up the phone, I raced into my bathroom, brushed my teeth and hair, ran a wet washcloth over my armpits, put on deodorant, a quick touch up of my makeup, and then ran to the bedroom pulling clothes off as I moved through the hall, to put on the black negligee, and then put Bob Dylan ‘s”Lay Lady Lay” album on the stereo. It wouldn’t take him long to walk three blocks; I had seen the Mustang parked on the street by the apartment when I was driving around

looking for a parking space – smiling to myself I thought, He planned ahead. I was right: he was there in what seemed like a heartbeat. I jumped into his arms when I opened the door, feeling safe again with him wrapped around me – his lips kissing me so lovingly that it touched me in my soul. He pulled back for a moment, stood me up, ripping off his navy blue down jacket and ski cap, throwing them on the floor, never moving his eyes from mine. The longing between us was palpable, and I felt that same surge of attraction that brought us together when we first met. We had not been apart for more than two or three days since beginning whatever this relationship was this past

summer. The air filled with desire as he moved forward pinning me against the hallway wall. “God I’ve missed you,” he murmured in my ear biting the lobe and kissing my neck; his breath was warm, and I squirmed under his touch pushing his hips back enough for my hands to release his belt buckle, starting to lower his jeans. “Ahhh” he moaned. In one swift move he helped me push down his pants, hiked up the skirt of the negligee, grabbed both of my arms forcing them over my head against the wall while he frantically kissed my entire face, and neck, and pushed forcefully inside me. I had been gasping and holding my breath, but feeling him enter me, and move inside me, I melted

almost immediately. He felt my body give way to his. With a few hard thrusts he joined me, my arms still pinned to the wall over my head, his full body weight leaning against me. We stayed coupled that way, both of us overcome, our breathing slowing, synchronizing as he allowed my arms to drop. Pushing his weight back, a huge mischievous grin crossed his face, reaching for his jeans, pulling them up, but leaving them unzipped. “Hi… did you have a good trip?” My eyes glistening with a combination of delight and tears, I pulled him in towards me again, hugging him. “No, but it’s okay now.” We spent the rest of the night talking,

but not until I made an adjustment to my attire. “I can’t concentrate with you looking like that,” he said. “I never thought you’d answer the door wearing it. What would Gloria Steinem say?” “Nothing I want to hear right now,” I responded wandering off into the bedroom, coming back with a baggy sweatshirt pulled over the negligee. “How’s this for a compromise?” I asked. ~~~~~~~~ I relayed the events of the trip in almost excruciating detail. “It was horrible. They don’t understand…We fought just like we used to when I lived there. But they backed down when I told them I

was never coming back to that house again.” Taking another piece of pizza from the box that had been delivered a few minutes earlier, he said, “They’re your parents Jackie; never speaking to them again isn’t the answer. You have to tell the ‘whole’ truth. You didn’t tell them about him being in the hospital or what caused it, did you?” “No, I didn’t.” “Why not?” Diverting my eyes, I said, “I don’t know. I just couldn’t tell them that – I didn’t want to hurt them that much, I guess.” “That’s bullshit… it’s Stephen you’re protecting, not your parents. So instead

you let them think he might have just made a mistake – that there was a chance you’d go back to him? Seriously? You’re seriously going to try to patch up your marriage?” I felt defensive all of a sudden, shit I don’t want this to turn into an argument, I thought. “But I do have to talk to Stephen sometime, you know that. And I’m not going to… to lose everything by refusing to try.” “What do you mean ‘lose everything’?” “Shit Michael, think about it! They pay my rent, my tuition, I have their car… I can’t fuckin’ support myself without their help! I had to agree to try!” I blurted out, my voice sounding like it

would snap in pieces as I jumped up from the table. “Money? You’re telling me you did it for money? No, I don’t believe that – you did it because you’re still trying to protect him! You’re ashamed. You’re embarrassed, and for some screwed up reason, you think it’s your fault… which it isn’t… but your head is so fucked up you’re not thinking straight. Do you think a woman that forced a man to go gay would have greeted me the way you just did? Well, do you? Goddamn it – you have to stop protecting him! This wasn’t your fault. He’s the faggot… not you!” I slumped back down into my chair, my head in my hands. “Please don’t… don’t call him that.” My eyes flashed up

to meet his. He was angry, I could see it written all over his face as he said, “You may not like the word ‘faggot’ but that’s exactly what he is, and nothing you can say or do is going to change it.” “I’m going to go talk to him as soon as possible. I know he’s not coming back and…” Michael started to break in, but I held my hand up to stop him, “…and I don’t want to go back to the life I had with him. I know it was a lie from the start – everyone is not lying to me. I just told you what Ronnie said when Mary Beth and I saw him in Cambridge. I’m not going back to Stephen. My parents are wrong, and I’ll not let them push me into staying married; they’ll just have to

tell the relatives I screwed it up. But I do need to settle things. All I want at this point is for him to tell me the truth.” Michael studied my face. I picked up a slice of pizza and swallowed hard, silence falling between us. “If you see him, he’s just gonna hurt you again… you know that don’t you?” he said. “He’s not going to say anything you think you need to hear.” “Maybe not, but I have to try. You’re right. There’s part of me that does think… no knows… that I played a role in this mess. He was my first real love and… I guess I need to know that at least some part of it was real.” Looking at Michael, I felt lost and exhausted – all I wanted at that moment

was sleep, preferably with his shoulder as my pillow – so before the conversation could turn sour again or go off in a direction I couldn’t handle, I pulled the oversized sweatshirt off, rounded the table and stood between his legs, pulling his head close to rest against my breast. “Just give me a little more time, and trust me, okay?” “Okay,” he answered not moving his head. But a little edge in his voice told me this conversation was not over. There was something more going on inside his head, something more he needed to say. ~~~~~~~~

Joe lived in Old Town in a fabulous old renovated brownstone. I had been there many times before with Stephen for parties or when we were invited to dinner – before our life together ended. Stephen and I had lived in Old Town our first year in Chicago before getting married. I had thought we were happy then, but now I wondered. Old Town, it seemed, was a section of the city that had a high concentration of gay guys – maybe us being good there was all in my imagination. What was going on then that I never noticed, and why didn’t I see it, I wondered? A couple weeks after New Year’s I found myself ringing the bell at Joe’s home. “Hello Joe, I need to talk to

Stephen,” I said without any pretext or nice chit chat, as I stepped inside. He was surprised, put off maybe, but said, “Come on in Jackie.” “I am in,” I replied matching his smugness. “Stephen,” he yelled out, “you have a visitor.” Stephen appeared from the other room, standing, dead still, in the doorway. Joe’s eyes darted back and forth between us saying, “Well this is awkward – I’ll leave you two to talk.” Then turning to me, wagging his finger, and shaking his head, he said, “Don’t break anything Jackie.” I nodded in agreement, not moving my eyes from Stephen.

Stephen made his way over to one of the couches, indicating I should sit across from him on another one. I did, still not speaking. We stared at each other for a few minutes before Stephen said, “Why are you here, Jack? You never came back to the hospital, so I figured you were mad at me.” “I was mad… How are you by the way?” I replied. “I’m fine, completely recovered. What do you want?” “Good, I’m glad to hear it. I want the truth, Stephen.” He was silent for a moment watching me and then asked, “The truth about what?” “Stop it. You know exactly what I’m

talking about. I want the truth about us – from the beginning.” “What do you mean ‘about us from the beginning’?” “Goddamn it Stephen, stop being so obtuse and answer me. I deserve that much, and I’m not going anywhere until you do talk, so you might as well get it over with.” My lips tightened, and I felt a tension run through my body that made me feel like my shoulders would shatter at the slightest touch. “I should be the one asking you those questions, but I’ve respected your privacy and let you go,” he replied in a sincere tone. I shook my head trying to understand what was happening, trying to figure out

what the fuck he was talking about, trying to stay calm, but it was no use. My eyes grew big, the tension in my shoulders spread throughout by body, and I hit my boiling point, “What!?!” I exclaimed, “What the fuck are you talking about?” “You’re the one who walked out, and moved in with that bitch Mary Beth. She’s always hated me you know that, don’t you? And when I needed you at the hospital, you never even came back!” he shouted at me as if I had somehow wronged him and he was the hurt, injured party. “Oh my God – I don’t believe I’m hearing this – you’re twisting everything!” I hissed. “You decided you

were gay; you’re the one who was cheating on me – with men! You left Chicago, and then continued to have affairs with men while you were in Boston. I know that because Ronnie told me, and he told me that you got the money for those fancy gifts in high school from some old guy you were screwing back then, that I was nothing more than a cover story for you so you wouldn’t have to admit what you were!” I was on my feet screaming at him, “I’m not going to let you twist everything around – I’m not, I’m not!” “Ronnie is a lying faggot, who’s just trying to get back at me because I wouldn’t have sex with him…” “Right, everyone is lying except you

Stephen… Is that it? The whole world is lying and I’m supposed to believe you, right? You fucking ended up in the hospital with anal fistulas because of getting butt fucked or am I wrong about that too? Wait a minute, no, the nurse was lying… Did she want to get back at you for something too, is that it?” Stephen had stood up, and was heading towards the door. I whirled around on my heels, advancing towards him, getting within a few inches of his face. I was livid, my face was red. All I could feel was anger and rage pouring out of me, my hands clinching into fists at my side, nails digging into my palms as I planted myself in front of him. He started to turn again - I reached out and

touched his arm. Before I knew what was happening, Stephen had slapped me, hard, across the face catching the corner of my right eye with a ring he was wearing. I felt the sting of it as it cut my skin. I stumbled back, in absolute shock; he had never done anything like that before. He was yelling that he wasn’t gay; he had fallen off a ladder; I had no right to accuse him of anything; all those people were just against him… that I sounded just like his friggin’ mother, and it was all my fault… The words blurred in my head. Holding the side of my face I raised my head and saw Joe coming towards me. I flinched, but then realized that he was taking my shoulders to help me sit

down. Glaring at Stephen, Joe yelled at him to go to the kitchen, get him a damp wash cloth, and a bag of peas from the freezer so my eye wouldn’t swell up like a balloon. Stephen didn’t move. “Fine, then sit down and I’ll go get it,” Joe exclaimed stomping off through the swinging kitchen door as Stephen lowered himself back onto the other couch. “I’m sorry Jackie, I didn’t mean…” “Shut up you motherfucker – just shut up and stay away from me!” I sat there more or less in shock, slowly reaching up, touching the corner of my eye, and saw blood on my fingertips. I felt my temper overtaking me; I was about to scream at him again

when Joe came back with a cool cloth telling me to lean back while he dabbed at the small cut. “Oh, that’s not bad at all,” he said his voice steady, “It’ll be gone soon, it’s not deep.” Handing me a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel he said, “Here, just hold this against your face for a while – you’ll feel better in no time at all.” He put the peas in my hand, raising my arm until the cold pack was covering the right side of my face. His hand lingered on mine, waiting until he felt my surge of anger dissipate some. “Thanks, Joe, I’ll be fine,” I mumbled. “Yeah, well, I know you will. Look… I heard what was goin’ on in

here. Sorry, I hated to eavesdrop, but I didn’t want to go far in case you decided to start throwing things,” Joe said looking at me. Then turning to Stephen, “This can’t keep going on. You knew this day would come… you need to end it.” Stephen’s daze seemed to snap at Joe’s words; we had been staring at each other, but he now focused on Joe. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. And right now the only thing I want is to get the fuck away from her.” His fist hit the arm of the couch as he stood up and stomped out of the room. Joe was yelling at him to sit back down, but it was no use – he was gone. Tears were forming in my eyes as I watched him go, a little voice inside me

saying I wouldn’t see him again for a very long time – if ever. All I wanted to do was cry. Joe tried to put his arm around me for comfort, but I wouldn’t let him – the role he played in this whole screwed up mess was just too great for me to forgive and forget. Handing him the bag of frozen peas, I said thanks and stood up. Nodding in understanding he asked, “Are you okay to drive?” “Yes,” I said, “I’m fine.” As we walked to the door Joe told me that all my information was correct, but “he can’t admit it yet, Jackie.” Hesitating as I stepped out onto the stairs, blinking tears from my eyes, I said, “He has to sometime. I have to hear

it from him.”

Chapter Eighteen Those Are Fingers! My mind was racing in a million different directions as I got back into my car. I hadn’t told anyone what I was doing today, not even Michael, even though I had promised I would. He was right. How the hell did he know Stephen wouldn’t talk? And what the fuck was I going to tell him about my eye? Glancing in the rear view mirror one more time, I could see the red outline of Stephen’s fingertips protruding upward from the cut just under a mole I had by my eye – shit he hit me hard, I must have struck

a nerve in him, telling me I’m like his mother. That son-of-a-bitch, I wanted to murder him for doing this, but that aside, how was I going to explain it? Well actually, why should I even be worrying about it? Michael had no claim on me, I owed him no explanation at all – but I did, if I wanted this relationship… and I intuitively knew it. As I drove home from Joe’s, my only real concern was what to tell Michael. I was sure I could get creative, invent some kind of story to cover the truth, but just because Stephen lied to me, didn’t mean I had to continue lying. One lie just led to another, and Michael didn’t deserve that. I was tired of making things up, tired of the façade, tired of arguing –

but most of all, I was tired of being tired. I wouldn’t try to protect Stephen any longer… I would tell Michael the truth. I knew him well enough by this point to be able to guess his reaction. Striking a woman, even in a moment of anger, wasn’t going to set well with his macho, biker, south side, self-appointed role as my protector. A role I knew I had not quite bothered to discourage, a role that, if I was being honest, held a bit of appeal for me in an old-fashioned screwed up sort of way, but one I was apprehensive about at this very moment. And it was a role he seemed to be taking more and more seriously ever since Thanksgiving, I reminded myself. At least I didn’t have to go to work

tonight, and Michael had gone with his brother, Tom, and a couple other guys from the neighborhood to pick up some kind of delivery in Milwaukee – so with any luck, it would look a lot better tomorrow and no one would even notice. “That motherfucker!” I said out loud to the bathroom mirror the next morning. Instead of disappearing, the hand print was turning a deeper red with various shades of purple and it had swollen up too – you should have kept ice on it you idiot, I thought. I felt like shit, didn’t want to go to school; I wanted to go back to bed, but knew I had to go if I was ever going to catch up. I got myself dressed and headed off.

~~~~~~~~ Michael showed up early at The Canteen that night, I knew he would. Instead of our usual ‘you don’t know what you’re missing’ conversation, Rick spent the early evening hours grilling me about what happened to my face – each time he asked, my answer changed. I was actually having fun tormenting him with one made-up, bazaar scenario after another, ranging from slipping in the shower, having been in a five car pile-up on the Kennedy Expressway and coming away with only a hand print, walking into a wall, falling asleep against the hand of a statue at school, a tattoo attempt gone bad, an abscessed tooth and

a performance art piece for school. But despite my good mood and joking around, I knew he was not amused, and had called Michael to tell him something had happened. Michael was not amused either. I was serving drinks when he bounded down the stairs and saw me. Grabbing the tray from my hands, he pulled me into Charlie’s office, flipping on as many lights as he could find, brushing the hair from my face to examine me more closely and demanding “What happened? Who did this? I can see the hand print as clear as day, so don’t give me any of the bullshit you’ve been feeding Rick.” With an inviting smile, I put my arms

around his neck, and kissed him three or four times until he hugged me back. “I will tell you the truth, but let’s not do it here, okay? I’ll explain everything when we get home.” He cupped my face with his beautiful hands, his eyes searching mine for something – what I wasn’t sure. He asked, “Are there any other bruises? You might as well tell me, you know I’ll just find them later, better to tell me now.” “Mmm, I’m counting on you doing a thorough examination, but right now I have to get back to work.” I teased, starting to move toward the door. However, he took my arm and said, “No, babe, tell me now.” There was something in his tone,

something different that I couldn’t read, that said ‘explain now’, but I still gave it one more attempt, just in case, “It would be more fun to tell you at the apartment,” I replied in my best sexy voice as I lowered my hands to grab his butt, pulling him in. But as I sensed it would be, the response I got was him digging into his demand even more. “Cute… Tell me now.” Giving in, I told him that I had gone to see Stephen yesterday, gotten into an argument and he slapped me – the cut was from his ring. Michael’s temper flared, and he turned towards the door saying “I’ll kill him!” Stunned by the look on his face, it

was my turn to stop him from leaving, grabbing his arm. “What? Don’t be ridiculous! You’re not going to kill anyone… I’m fine! It was my fault. I was in his face screaming at him – confronting him with everything… He reacted. I’m glad it happened – it’s over now, just let it go.” “You’re glad it happened!?! You like being hit!?!” “No! No, that’s not what I mean. I wanted to kill him at that moment too. What I mean is that it’s over. I’m gonna find a lawyer – file for a divorce. It’s over. I can’t pretend anymore.” We stood there staring at each other for the longest time, the air around us filled with some unidentifiable emotion.

Thoughts unable to take form or voice filled the room, exerting pressure on both of us, until we moved together, holding each other in a tight embrace that needed no words. Rick broke the spell, sticking his head in the door, eyes darting over us, jerking his head towards the bar, “It’s getting busy out here.” Michael nodded and Rick backed out. “You can tell me the rest at the apartment,” he murmured in my ear.

Chapter Nineteen A Hundred Women We didn’t go to the Sunrise Diner with the rest of the crew when the bar closed. We decided to go home, not talking about anything consequential while we walked, just stupid chitchat. He had a way of wrapping his arm around my neck, pulling me close, it exuded confidence and superiority, and gave me a sense of being so safe, so secure. As I hung up our jackets in the hall closet by the door, Michael came up behind me, putting his arms around my stomach, leaning his head against mine, squeezing

and kissing the tops of my shoulders and neck. Feeling a rush of sexual desire come over me, but also something else, not just lust… His touch felt different – this was a sensation I wasn’t used to feeling, like being overcome by an unexplainable force at my very core, unwavering, wonderful, and invigorating, like a splendor encased in my heart. I turned to face him, neither of us speaking, enjoyment filling the moment. He sensed it too. Then he bent down, threw me over his shoulder, and headed for the bedroom with me squealing, kicking and laughing all the way. Closing the heavy red drapes as he passed the window, he tossed me onto the bed and

announced that it was ‘inspection time’. Bending to unplug the phone and clock radio, he gave me a sidelong glance asking if there was any reason I needed to get up in the morning. When I told him ‘no’, he smiled, and said, “Good, because this inspection is going to take a very long time.” Sitting down next to me, he kissed the cut next to my eye, his hands unbuttoning my blouse, watching every little twitch of my face. I started to undo his shirt, but he stopped me, saying that I needed to be still, this was his ‘inspection’. When I tried to speak, he put his finger across my lips to hush me, and just shook his head, still looking at me as if he was looking into the depths of my

unprotected soul. Finally, I was stretched out nude before him; he stood and removed his own clothes before lying down beside me. I felt exposed – not just because I was naked, but truly exposed as if he was seeing inside my mind, inside my heart, to the nucleus of my being. As his hands and lips moved across my body my heart pounded in my chest; I tried to control my breathing but couldn’t – each breath was deeper than the one that preceded it. Whenever I reached out to touch him, his hand would gently remove mine and he’d whisper “no, just be still.” My mind spun around, fighting with itself, trying to stay whole, and in control, but it was being consumed, replaced by something I

could not name, could not see… I was dizzy, my fingers tingled with a rush of blood, my consciousness fragmented, and I was beginning to tremble when Michael whispered in my ear, “I’m falling in love with you Jackie… You know that, don’t you?” Tears welled up in my eyes, and rolled down my cheeks as I looked into his eyes and nodded. I rolled on top of him and sat up straight, twisting my own hair back to keep it out of my face. “I know Michael, and I… I’m …” I moaned sliding down to kiss him, whispering back, “Shit. God help both of us… you’re becoming part of me too and it scares me to death.” When he attempted to speak I put my finger on his lips, shook my head and

said, “Be still it’s my turn.” He murmured “I love you” again as we slipped into a state of silent communication, our bodies saying everything that was necessary, until we both fell asleep intertwined in each other’s arms. ~~~~~~~~ I woke to the words, “I just can’t seem to get enough of you,” reverberating in my ear, and a loving touch making its way down my side. The drapes were keeping the daylight at bay, bathing the room in a red, fire-like hue that lit up his shoulders so they almost sparkled with glints of light. Even without the clock, I

knew it had to be at least noon, but I had no desire to move. The air was still thick with emotion – both of us knew we had turned some kind of a corner. I knew I could no longer pretend he was just some guy I picked up in a bar. We had officially crossed over into something else – but what exactly, I wasn’t sure. He pressed his morning cock hard against me, and I opened my legs to let him in. What had started out last summer as a casual, drug clouded easy fuck, had evolved. My eyes filled with water again, and as if reading my mind Michael kissed them away, and told me it would all be okay, everything would be alright.

~~~~~~~~ I loved Sundays. I particularly loved this Sunday – a perfect day doing nothing of any consequence, just relishing each other’s company out of the reach of the outside world; we left the phone unplugged. I had just started a photography class, and had an assignment to do a portrait of someone I was close to, a portrait that revealed the true person. Michael agreed to become my subject so I spent the afternoon shooting pictures of him playing his guitar, and walking around the apartment in his jeans, shirtless, and barefoot. He looked perfect through the camera lens – the muscles of his arms and chest

forming flowing, intersecting lines that mimicked a landscape, and screamed sensuality and sincerity to me. I put together the best brunch I could considering there wasn’t much in the refrigerator – neither of us wanted to go out to get anything. It was too cold outside. I never planned ahead when it came to food so most of what I had around was either frozen or canned, thus we made do with scrambled eggs, toasted bagels, and a few slices of deli ham and cheese. Both of us were straight, neither of us feeling the need to be stoned. I felt very happy and content. “Your face looks a lot better today – the swelling is down,” Michael said, almost as an aside, looking at me across

the table. He was able to control his expression much better than I could making it difficult to read sometimes. I thought I caught a flicker of something as he spoke, but couldn’t be sure. “Yeah, it’ll be completely gone in a couple more days.” “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go see him?” “I don’t know. No reason. I know I promised to tell you, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you.” “Did he admit anything – say what you wanted him to say?” “No, you were right. As a matter of fact, he said it was my fault, because I stayed with Mary Beth, that everyone else was lying, that he wasn’t gay, that I

was just like his mother. He twisted everything. I flipped out when he said those things and got in his face… I was screaming, literally screaming. That’s why he hit me. I well, I guess I deserved it.” “No! No you didn’t deserve it –I don’t care what you said to him!” he blurted out, his voice raising, pounding the table with his fist, rattling the dishes and me as well. “Hitting a woman is wrong! And I know how hard he had to have swung to leave a mark like that. Rick was right; he deserves to get his ass kicked!” He was holding one fist inside the other, his jaw clenched closed so hard I could see his muscles twitch. “What’s wrong, why are you so upset

all of a sudden? Oh my God… you didn’t… you’re not going to… Michael, no!” I cried. “You’re not going to do anything to him?!? And why the fuck did you tell Rick?” My mind started racing; I remembered what Rick and his friends did to that guy with the bottle in the bar before they dragged him up the stairs, and could only imagine what they did when they got him outside. I wanted nothing to do with anything like that happening to Stephen. “Michael… no! I’m serious, Goddamn it – look at me!” Michael raised his eyes to meet mine. His mask had shattered and I could see the anger behind his eyes. “Tell me what’s going on, Michael – talk to me,” I pleaded. “I need you to promise me

you’re not planning on doing anything.” I cocked my head to one side, picking up on an unfamiliar undercurrent. “This isn’t about my eye, is it? You’re shaking, what the fuck is it?” “My father used to beat the shit out of my mother –and us kids. Keith caught the brunt of it, but he got the rest of us too,” he said swallowing hard. “My mother used to say she ‘deserved it’, just like you did. She didn’t… you didn’t.” His pain was palpable, and I was incapable of relieving it in any way. All I could say was, “I’m sorry you went through that. It must have been horrible.” We had been together since last June, but there was still so much I didn’t know about him, his family and his friends –

the differences in our lives to this point hadn’t meant all that much to me… I was so consumed with my own shit. He was always there for me – he’d never leaned on me before to wrestle any of his own demons. I reached out, took his hand, kissed his fingers, and we smiled at each other. “You do understand the difference, don’t you?” I asked. “Stephen didn’t beat the shit out of me; he slapped me once. It was the first time, and it will be the last time – I don’t ever have to see him again. He’s never going to tell me the truth anyhow. You were right – I’m wasting my breath trying. If I had any doubts about getting a divorce before, I don’t now. This happening closed that

door. You have to promise me Michael, you have to promise me that you won’t touch him – you or any of your friends. Promise?” “I promise,” he finally replied, nodding. Standing up I circled the table and kissed him, saying, “Thank you for telling me about your father.” “Yeah, well …” he snorted, “I figured you should know. I want us to be honest with each other. The way I figure it is that a relationship has to have honesty… if it doesn’t, then it’s already over. I want you to tell me what’s going on – not just the part you think is okay. I want the whole story. Can you promise me that Jackie? Nothing you could say

will change the way I feel about you.” I was trying to lighten the oppressive mood that was seeping into our Sunday afternoon as I said, “Sure, I’ll be straight with you if you’ll be straight with me.” Instead of the smart ass reply I was expecting, I got silence. “What,” I asked, “what’s going on in your head? Fair is fair you know,” attempting a joke-like tone again. “Hmph, I know, you’re right – it’s a deal. That… Well that’s why I have to tell you something else.” He made his way towards the couch, and slumped down into the cushions as if he was carrying an elephant on each of his shoulders. I watched, confused by the turn this conversation had taken. Not

knowing where he was heading, I just stood there looking at him through narrowed eyes. “I meant what I said last night… I’ve fallen in love with you. I don’t want to lose you Jackie. The guys said I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t, I have to tell you something.” “What? Tell me what? What are you talking about?” He inhaled through his nose, shaking the elephant weight off. Sitting up straighter, and looking me in the eyes, the words poured out. “I had sex with someone else while you were away over Christmas, but…” I just stood there, numb. I knew he was still talking; however, I couldn’t

hear him. Minutes turned into hours in my mind as sporadic words broke through the fog, “Sorry… meant nothing… stupid… so sorry… I love you…” His words trailed off. I could see the pain in his face, as plain as day, but somehow it didn’t matter; he might as well have hit me in the head with a brick – I never anticipated this. But why did I feel this way? He didn’t have any commitment to me. I wasn’t married to him. He was free to do whatever he wanted, so was I – I had no claims, no rights… We had never talked about it being just the two of us, I mean, at least not until last night… Sure, it was sort of implied, but then again… What the fuck was wrong

with me? Why was this happening again? Could I ever trust him again? Well at least it was a woman this time. At least he was telling me the truth and not lying to me – hiding it, like Stephen. Holy shit, how had I gotten myself in this deep? Then the strength in my legs gave out; the room clouded and went black. When I woke up I was lying on the couch with Michael kneeling next to me on the floor, saying something, and wiping my face with a wet paper towel. “Oh thank God,” I heard him say as he kissed my cheeks. “Are you hurt?” “No, I’m okay,” I said pushing myself up into a sitting position. “I’m okay – that hasn’t happened to me since I was 16, when I was a bridesmaid at my

cousin’s wedding, and fainted at the altar.” I smiled to myself at the memory. “I’m so sorry, babe. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but I just couldn’t lie to you the way he has. I had to tell you.” I could still hear the pain in his voice, and still saw it in his eyes as he knelt there holding my hands together in his. “Please forgive me. I want to be with you, just you, please?” I nodded, “Why? I just need to know why – what did I do…” “You didn’t do anything,” Michael said. “You’re not to blame – I am. I made a mistake. I’m not sure why. I guess I was trying to prove to myself that I… that I wasn’t in love with you, but instead, I proved just the opposite.”

He was looking me in the eyes; all I wanted at that second was to make this piece of the day go away, to get back to the perfection of the way it began. But I couldn’t speak and just stared back at him. “I’ve been with probably a hundred women in my life,” he said rising to sit next to me on the couch. I gave him a sidelong glance at that statement. He leaned towards me, and gave me a quick kiss on my cheek saying, “No, please, just listen. I’m trying to tell you something.” I nodded and he continued. “I’ve never felt much for any of them. I mean, sure, there were some I liked, but I’ve never, never, felt what I do for you. Everyone – all my friends, Jeff, Rick, my

mother and Candy and even Tom – everyone could see it except for me, or maybe I just didn’t want to admit I’d fallen for a married woman. Maybe I was afraid you’d go back to him. I hated him being back in Chicago. I don’t know, but whatever it was, well the guys set me up with this girl and… Jackie, I’m not making excuses, but you have to know – all I could see was your face. I was with her, but – she wasn’t you, it was you I wanted. I left and I knew for sure… I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” If I didn’t have or want any real claims on him, then why did I feel like shit? How much was I supposed to handle at one time? I was 20 years old, married to a gay guy, falling for a ‘bad

boy’, on the verge of flunking out of college, living off my parents with no way of earning a real living, and he… the guy that had been so wonderful to me these past months, the consummate lover, the man who kept me sane, had just told me he cheated. I just couldn’t deal with all this. I felt vulnerable and numb at the same time. All I wanted was numbness, but one thing I’d learned was that I couldn’t kill the pain without also killing the joy, the absolute joy, the happiness, I had last night with Michael would go away too. Shit, shit, shit! Michael and I talked and then talked some more. I knew my funky mood of the last few months was taking a toll on the two of us. No matter what he said, I

blamed myself for him turning to someone else – but he’d come back. I hadn’t lost Michael because of it – it made his feelings stronger. Wasn’t that exactly what I wanted from Stephen after all when he was in the hospital? I thought. I had an internal battle going on. I was hurt, but knew I’d hurt even more if he wasn’t in my life and, God help me, I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I verbalized all the thoughts in my head as best I could, and he reciprocated in kind. I had never had that kind of conversation with anyone at all before, and by the end, I felt defenseless, exposed again like I was last night. I was petrified, shaking inside all the way to my

backbone. I needed his strength right now. He had risked it all to be honest with me, risked my exploding and throwing him out, knowing I wouldn’t like what he had to say. He was exposed, vulnerable too… maybe that would be enough. Right or wrong, I made up my mind to get past this. Today would be the new start of our relationship – there was nothing to forgive, just to try to forget.

Chapter Twenty Lawyers I decided to try applying honesty to my relationship with my parents as well, telling them about my eye, and even giving them a small portion of the story about Stephen’s hospital stay. They weren’t happy with Stephen (or me for leaving the hospital information out of the ‘discussion’ at Christmas). They were still against my getting a divorce, although I sensed the beginning of understanding, they knew it was inevitable. One evening I got a phone call from them saying Stephen’s mother,

Virginia, had contacted them saying I had stolen an antique mantel clock that had been in her family ‘forever’, and was refusing to give it back. What a bunch of bullshit; I hauled the box of Stephen’s stuff down to Marshall Field’s the next day intending to drop it off at Joe’s office – I didn’t want that fuckin’ clock or any of the other crap he had left. I had intended to just leave it there with a note, but unfortunately ran into Joe on my way out the door. “Will you give that box to Stephen please?” I asked in as nice a voice as I could muster. “I can’t,” Joe replied. “Stephen left Chicago again. I don’t think he’s coming back this time.”

“Do you know where he went; maybe have an address so I can send it?” “No, he took off with that guy from American Airlines, the one that got him the ticket back here last October. I think he lives in New York now, but I don’t know where. The guy has a ton of money so I’m sure it’s a nice place, but I don’t have an address.” “Never mind, I’ll just send it to his mother – she’s the one who wants this crap,” I replied picking up the box again and starting towards the door. Putting his hand on my arm, he stopped me and remarked, “Well at least your eye looks like it healed without any problems.” I smiled, nodded and said, “Yes it

did – thanks for the frozen peas.” We both hesitated, the awkwardness of the moment growing; I moved my arm and turned to go, but stopped again in the doorway. Looking over my shoulder for an instant I said, “Thanks Joe.” “Sure, let me know if I can do anything to help. And Jackie – I’m sorry.” After that, thoughts of Stephen stayed pretty much at bay. When they did pop up, I resolutely pushed them away by getting stoned, working on some mundane chore or concentrating on the task at hand which was usually not screwing up anymore at school. But spring was coming, and all I was accomplishing was procrastinating one

more day. I had to get this divorce thing over with and soon. I had zero energy for the task, but somehow, pulling every ounce of whatever was left in me together, I managed to thumb through the yellow pages under Attorneys - Divorce, and found what seemed like thousands of them listed. I picked a couple names at random – ones that advertised a free consultation and set up appointments. Both had big, fancy offices on LaSalle Street; both had snooty looking secretaries; and both made me feel insignificant. I hated their grey, three piece suit image, and the way they seemed to look down their noses at me like I shouldn’t be there in my blue

jeans, dirtying up their fancy upholstery. Even though one was old, fat and balding, and the other was younger, thinner and blonder, they looked and sounded like twins to me. I couldn’t wait to leave. The first thing both did was to inform me about their fees, $600 and $650, since it was a simple divorce (I didn’t have any kids or property to deal with), payable half now, and the other half before the final hearing. I didn’t have that kind of money. As soon as I got home I called Bernie to see if he could help; we decided to meet again at the Water Tower Café the following Saturday. The place hadn’t changed since the last time we met, the aroma of great coffee still filled the air.

“Hi Bernie,” I greeted him with a broad smile, and a hug as he bounded through the door. We had spoken a few times since our last meeting here, and he had even come to The Canteen one evening with some of his law school friends. “Hi, Jackie, how are you? Still working at that crazy bar? It was wild – I would never have pictured you in a place like that when I knew you before,” he said. I laughed, “I’m not sure how to take that Bernie… but yeah, I’m still there. It fits my schedule well, and it’s always interesting… Kind of like my second home now.” We chatted over our coffee for a few minutes then Bernie announced that he

had taken the liberty of asking a friend named John Whittaker to join us. Although Bernie had recently passed the Bar, he didn’t feel he should handle the divorce himself, but John could. John was a few years older than him, had practiced law for three years, and recently decided to go back to school for a doctoral degree in psychology. Bernie had filled John in on my situation, and John was actually anxious to meet me. He was writing his thesis on the psychology of divorce, or something like that, and was hoping I’d be willing to talk to him, in depth, in exchange for the legal work. Dumbfounded, with no chance to think things through, I found myself shaking John’s hand a few

minutes later. John Whittaker was an attorney in good standing in the State of Illinois, a member of the Chicago Bar Association, and worked for a medium size firm here in the city. I guessed him to be about 3032 years old – he was about the same height as Bernie, a clean cut, nice looking man with dark brown hair and wire rimmed glasses, dressed today, in blue jeans and a casual blue striped shirt; he looked nothing like the two attorneys I had met on LaSalle. John told us how he developed an interest in the underlying reasons for divorce – going in some cases from love to hate; he was trying to find a commonality in how a relationship unraveled. He tactfully

mentioned he had not yet spoken with anyone where one of the spouses was homosexual. He would handle all the legalities for free if I would agree to a minimum of three, one hour, recorded interviews telling him about my relationship with Stephen from the point we met to now, thus cutting the financial cost of the divorce to any filing fees and court costs, which he estimated to be less than $50. Bernie had told him the basics, but he wanted to hear everything from my point of view. As we spoke my mind raced through all the pros and cons – or at least as many as I could think of at that point. John assured me that any information used in his thesis would have all

identifying details, like names, changed. We set up our first interview for three weeks from now at my apartment – I could change my mind at any point with a simple phone call. John excused himself shortly after – his wife was due to deliver their first child in about a week so he wanted to get home as soon as possible. Something about hearing that simple, loving statement filled me with a warmth and knowledge that I was making the right decision. John and I met as planned. He was now the proud father of a little girl named Amanda. I had never been one of those women who went ape-shit over babies; I didn’t coo or get all stupid when I saw one – in fact, I moved as far

away from babies as fast as possible before someone suggested that I hold it. I had never changed a diaper, and never wanted to, seeing little use in bringing new life onto a planet that was on the “Eve of Destruction” as the Barry McGuire song stated –but John’s joy at this event was unmistakable, and I was happy for him. In some ways it made it easier to tell him the details of my relationship with Stephen, but in other ways it made it a lot harder, unable as I was of picturing myself ever being married again, let alone in a marriage good enough to produce a child. At our first meeting we began the necessary paperwork. Illinois did not have ‘no fault’ divorce in the sense of

being able to go to court, and tell the judge that you just didn’t want to be married anymore. That’s what ‘no fault’ meant to me, but not to the law, unless I wanted to document that we had been living apart for at least two years and then file. I couldn’t deal with the turmoil in my head for that long, so I was going to have to have grounds. John told me I could allege homosexuality, but somehow, I just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t accuse him of that in official documents – Stephen was still ‘in the closet,’ as Joe had told me more than once now, and I just couldn’t put it out there for the world. Why the fuck am I insisting on protecting him – or maybe it’s me I’m

protecting, so we decided to use physical cruelty – I had witnesses to my eye injury. The other issue was not having an address for him, which meant we would have to serve Stephen by public notice. Much to my surprise this didn’t mean putting an ad in the New York Times or some other popular paper; all you did was place a notice in various legal publication that no one read unless they were looking for legal notices. It would slow down getting the final divorce some, but John assured me that everything should be final by the end of the year at the latest – the courts in Chicago were backed up. The questions John asked about our

relationship were always framed in a supportive way – most of the time just asking me to describe a circumstance, how I felt about what happened or what choices I saw for myself. I could see why John was pursuing a degree in psychology; he was very easy to talk to, behaving more like a doctor than an attorney. The real issue with digging up all the old emotions between us was that it brought Stephen back into the forefront of my mind as one question led to another, and I had a difficult time turning it all off again after the interview session was over. Michael said I was ‘different’ after talking to John, that it took me days to get back to being the person he knew and

loved after digging up the past; he wasn’t very happy when I told him I had agreed to a fourth session, but also seemed to understand, flippantly commenting that at least he would “get to console me” – a statement I took as meaning that sex after these sessions was ‘different’ than usual too. I sort of understood - sometimes I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror – who the hell was I anyhow? Often while talking to John my little pixie friend would pop up sitting on his shoulder, arms and legs crossed with her chin resting on her hand analyzing every word – dissociated from the emotions of it, just picking apart my ability to put those emotions into words. One day John asked me, “So how

long do you think you’ve been battling with depression?” “Depression? I don’t think of myself as depressed,” I replied in astonishment. “Well I’m no psychologist, at least not yet, and I’m not qualified to make a diagnosis, but a good deal of what you’ve been saying points in that direction,” he stated. “You’re going through one of the biggest disruptions that can happen in a person’s life. You use drugs and alcohol frequently, you have trouble getting out of bed, feel like everything takes too much effort, you’re withdrawn, and you’re in a new relationship. It’s bound to have an impact, and there’s no shame in seeking professional help. Let me know if you

want a referral.” I could feel my eyes darting around the room as he said ‘professional help’, looking for my pixie. She was sitting on the front window sill, her eyes as big as saucers covering a gasp with her tiny hand. In my family ‘professional help’ would be a major crime, not to mention it being socially unacceptable – Oh my God, does John think I’m crazy? Thank God our time’s almost up for the day. I had to think about this.

Chapter Twenty-One Westward Bound My parents were on their way west to attend the Disabled American Veterans (DAV) convention in St. Louis, coming via Chicago. The older my father got the more active he became with the local DAV group – he was now part of their Board. The 305th Bombardment Group, 413th Air Service Group that he was part of during WWII was also holding their annual reunion in conjunction with the DAV convention this year, so this was a very big deal for him. My parents had enrolled me as a lifetime member of the

DAVA, the women’s auxiliary. As far as I could tell, the main function of the auxiliary was to provide refreshments at the men’s meetings. Not for me, I thought. They planned to spend a couple days with me before heading off to meet with his old war buddies. I was hoping he would be in a good mood looking forward to the festivities, telling old war stories and slapping each other on the back. There was a part of me that wanted to see them again. I would love to know they had decided to be supportive of my decision to file for a divorce, despite the disgrace it would bring ‘to the family’. And I knew all my remaining lies would

come crashing in; so just before they left Weymouth, I called and told them that The Canteen was not a restaurant, it was a bar. I couldn’t think of a lie to cover the original lie that would withstand their personal inspection, so I decided it was best to tell them the truth about the place ahead of time, giving them a chance to adjust on the drive west. As for the mechanic that was taking care of the car, I hadn’t made a final decision at this point, and still had another day before my back was against the wall. Michael was not just some old guy with a garage – he was one of the most important people in my life. My mind circled the issue of introducing them to him, mentally listed out the pros

and cons, and then went back through the whole thing again and again and again. Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, kept rattling around my head in my mother’s voice. From Michael’s point of view, I could tell he was torn about meeting them also, but underneath all his understanding verbiage about staying away, I was pretty sure he would be hurt if I didn’t introduce him, and not just as my mechanic. The last thing I needed was him thinking he was somehow not good enough for me to introduce or whatever other crazy shit might be floating around his mind. He was my one anchor on reality. He seemed to love me

for me – something I desperately needed. I was 99% sure I was just going to be straight with them about who Michael was, and damn the consequences. I deserved whatever shit they handed out I resolved never to lie to them again, at least not about things that could be proven. All this was my own fault. ~~~~~~~~ “Damn it, I’ve been cleaning for a week, and I still don’t feel like I have this place in shape. I need more time! They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon… shit, I’m just not ready,” I was ranting half to myself, half to Michael as I moved around the apartment

straightening, dusting, vacuuming – finding hiding places for things like the water pipe. “Will you stop? Please babe, the place looks great. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this clean before,” he said from his seat on the couch. “What? Are you trying to tell me that it usually looks like shit – that I don’t do a good job with housework?” I protested. “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all and you know it!” he retorted. “Everything is sparkling, there’s not a crumb in the kitchen… I could eat dinner off the floor.” “And I washed the windows … can you tell?”

“Yes, I can tell,” he sighed shaking his head. “Come over here a minute, will you?” I put down the dust rag, and made my way over to the couch. Michael reached up, took my hand, and pulled me down next to him. “It’s all gonna be okay, you know that don’t you?” he murmured in my ear. “They’re your parents. They love you, and they’re only gonna be here for two nights, so relax and stop cleaning.” “Yeah, well you don’t know them,” I said snuggling down onto his shoulder putting my arm around his chest. He rested his chin on top of my head, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. “Do you want to meet them?” I asked,

my voice muffled. He hesitated, and then asked, “Who are you going to tell them I am?” Lifting my head, I said, “I’m going to tell them you’re Michael Nowak, my mechanic and my boyfriend.” I could see the corners of his mouth curl up as he said, “Make that your boyfriend first and then your mechanic, and the answer is yes.” I kissed him and said, “Okay, it’s a deal. We’ll go out to dinner Wednesday night – they’re leaving for St. Louis Thursday morning.” My parents arrived the next day around 3:00 pm. I got them settled into my bedroom – I would be sleeping on the couch for the next two nights. I spent

the remainder of the afternoon showing them the neighborhood; all the new construction, the great little shops, how close it was to Lincoln Park, and convenient to the bus route for school – all the things I could think of that were positive. We ate at one of the new restaurants in the park, RJ Grunts – a trendy burger type joint, but the food was good. All three of us were avoiding any mention of subjects that could trigger an argument, but at the end of our early dinner, I asked if they would like to see The Canteen. “I didn’t think you’d want us there,” my father stated watching me for a reaction. “No, it’s okay, I made arrangements

with one of the owners for us to stop by before they opened so you could see the place. It’s not fancy, but I… Well, they’ve been good to me there, so please, please don’t embarrass me.” They looked at each other; my mother started to protest, but thought better of it and agreed. “Good, it’s close to the apartment, so we don’t even have to go out of our way,” I said. I pounded on the metal doors. Charlie answered smiling – he was actually dressed quite conservatively for him. I introduced everyone, and we made our way down the stairs. I was so tense. My mother was not pleased; I could see her reacting to the smell of booze and cigarettes. The cleaning crew had been

there a few days before, but the stains on the carpet were permanent and looked horrible. She remained quiet, her eyes taking in the surroundings. However, my father was doing better than I expected. Charlie pulled a leather case from under the bar saying, “Jackie told us you were on your way to the DAV Convention. This was presented to my grandfather after WWI – I inherited it when my father died and usually keep it safe at home, but I thought you’d like to see it.” “What is it?” I asked, curious, leaning in closer to see. This was not the way I had envisioned this meeting taking place; it actually seemed to be going well – whatever Charlie was up to, so far I liked it.

“It’s the Medal of Honor. His grandfather had to have been a very brave man to get this,” my father replied reaching out to touch it with his fingertips. Over a beer, Charlie gave my father the details of the battle that earned his grandfather the medal. My mother and I both refused the drink Charlie offered, and sat quietly listening to the tale. After a few minutes, Charlie turned to me, but aiming his comments to my parents said, “You’ve got a great daughter here, Mr. Moretti, you should be proud of her. I hope my daughter, she’s just 8 now, turns out as well.” “Thank you Charlie, I appreciate it – her mother and I are very proud of her. I

trust you’ll make sure she’s safe when she’s here – in your establishment.” His eyebrows raised. “Yes, sir, we won’t let anything happen to her. This place may not look like much, but all the regulars think the world of her, so she has lots of ‘big brothers’,” he replied, starting to move towards the stairs. I had turned at least 14 shades of red, was protesting the conversation, and being completely ignored by both of them. On the walk back to the apartment my father declared that he didn’t like the place – wasn’t at all sure how safe it was – but he did like Charlie, so it would be alright if I continued to work there while I was in school. “But you

should have told us the truth, Jacqueline. Your mother and I aren’t monsters you know – we only want what’s best for you.” My mother was griping about the general condition of the place, saying it needed to be cleaned better – then pointed out how hurtful it was to be lied to all the time. I hadn’t answered much while walking, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk, but as we got into the elevator to go up to the third floor I bit my lower lip, took a deep breath, then quipped, “Fine, you want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Right? Then… I’ll tell you.” Turning the lock on the apartment

door I said, “I filed for a divorce last month, and it should be final by the end of the year.” “Oh no, Jackie! You promised you’d try, that you’d wait and not do anything rash,” my mother moaned. “I did try. I told you I went to see him. I told you he hit me. What the hell do you want me to do – stay married just so you won’t have to tell the almighty family?” I could feel my voice rising, knew I was going to explode, no matter what they said, so instead I went into the bathroom, semi-slamming the door behind myself to take a calming breath. I wet a couple of Kleenex, and dabbed the cool water into the corners of my eyes,

then closed the toilet lid, sat down, leaned forward and held my head in my hands, trying to think. Remember what Michael said – just talk to them, they love me, care about me, they are NOT the enemy… Just tell them as much of the truth as you can… His words echoed around and around in my head – I wanted to believe him, that it would be okay, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed – no matter how proud they told Charlie they were of me, I had screwed things up in their eyes, and they’d hate me even more once they figured it out. Shit, why had I hidden the Valium in the back of my closet with the water pipe? If it was still in the bathroom, I

swear I’d have taken the whole bag full. Or a gun, a gun would be quick and easy. I didn’t have one of course, but at the moment I wished there was one under the sink. A thought flashed through my mind. I dug around in the bottom of my purse, found and swallowed half a Valium left from a few weeks ago that I had stashed away for an ‘emergency’ just like this one. It wasn’t enough to do anything, but it might help. Well one thing is for sure – I’m not going to say anything about Valium to them, I thought to myself – this truth thing had to be on a ‘need to know’ basis. I must have been in the bathroom too long – my mother was knocking on the door. “Are you alright Jacqueline?

Please come out.” “I’m fine, I’ll be right out. I guess something about dinner didn’t agree with me… just give me another minute,” I called back. I wet the Kleenex again, and then flushed the empty toilet. Great way to start being honest, I told myself in the mirror smiling – start with a little lie about dinner. Hmph! When I came out, my father was sitting on the couch in the living room – he had turned on the TV, but wasn’t watching it. My mother was in the kitchen making tea; I accepted a cup, and joined my father at the other end of the couch. I left the chair on the opposite side of the room for my mother –I wasn’t going to let them stage this ‘talk’ the way

they had at Christmas. My father stood up, walked over to the television and turned it off. Standing there looking at me he said, “So tell us what you’ve done with the divorce.” I told them about John Whittaker and the process. My mother started to give me some shit about making rash decisions that were irreversible, and what it would do to my ‘reputation’, but I just glared at her. I told them Stephen had left Chicago again, this time with some rich gay guy from American Airlines, and I told them more about his hospital stay before Christmas. I could no longer protect Stephen, and I wasn’t going to take all the blame anymore. My mother was crying. My father was quiet,

just watching me as I spoke. “When Virginia called after Christmas looking for her family heirlooms, she brought up the subject. She said her son was not a homosexual. She told us you had invented that evil story to cover an affair you were having – is there any truth to what she said Jackie?” “No, there isn’t,” I hissed at him. “Are you sure,” he asked still focused on me, my mother was blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure. I can prove he hit me after Christmas. Joe, his exboss, was there… he heard the whole argument, and saw my eye, and would be willing to tell you what he knows. And I can prove he was in the hospital. I’ve

got papers from the insurance company, and medical bills that were sent here in the other room.” I stood up, went into the bedroom, and came back with a folder full of insurance notices saying what they had covered and what they hadn’t, and tossed it down on the couch next to him. “I’m not lying about it, see for yourself,” I said. “My attorney said I should keep all of these. I may get stuck paying part of his medical bills. I don’t give a shit what Virginia says; she’s wrong. I sent her that ugly clock she was so concerned about, and a bunch of other stuff he left here too. Did she call to tell you that?” My father had picked up the folder, and was thumbing through the papers,

pausing now and then to take a closer look at certain ones. My mother was the one who answered saying that they had only heard from her the one time. She was also trying to explain that it was only my happiness she was concerned with, not what the family thought. I sat drinking my tea, trying to keep myself under control until my father put down the folder. As soon as he did I asked, “Do you want me to try calling Joe so you can ask him about my eye?” “No,” he replied, “I believe you. That won’t be necessary.” Turning to look at my mother he said in an emotionless voice, “Betty, if he isn’t a ‘real man’, you can’t expect her to stay married to him.” He handed the folder to

my mother. Then looking back at me said, “You need to make sure your lawyer takes care of this.” “I know.” “Is there anything else you need to tell us about,” he asked. I was on a roll, a winning streak, so I plowed ahead, “Yes, the mechanic you wanted to meet because he was taking such good care of the car… Well I invited him to have dinner with us tomorrow night – we’ve been dating since last summer.” “What the hell is wrong with you Jackie? Getting involved with someone else. For Christ’s sake!” my father bellowed his eyes growing larger as he straightened his back. “And you just said

you weren’t having an affair…” “I’m NOT! Stephen had been gone for over four months when I met him!” “Your father’s right, you shouldn’t be dating anyone right now. You’re a married woman,” my mother piped up, “and I hope you’re not…” she hesitated, “not playing house with this one too. What if you got pregnant? You’d just end up having to get married again.” “Mom, what fuckin’ century are you living in? I’m not going to get pregnant, and I’m never marrying anyone again. The only people that thought I had to get married before, because we were living together, are the two of you, and look how that turned out!” I was on my feet pacing back and forth. It was useless to

try to control myself – I could feel my head splitting open and the anger pouring out. “You’re the ones who wanted the truth. So I’m telling you – and what do you do? You condemn me. I know I’m a huge disappointment to you, and I’m sorry about that, but I’m not a fuckin’ virgin anymore, Mother, so get used to it!” “Don’t talk to your mother that way and use that kind of language,” my father snapped. “I’ll use any kind of language I want,” I yelled turning on my father. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t care if I am still legally married. Stephen’s been gone for over a year, and you think I should be sitting here alone watching

TV or whatever. Michael is the only reason I haven’t slit my wrists!” I exhaled growing more and more agitated each second. “Sometimes I feel like I… like I just can’t deal with anything and he keeps me sane. He’s a good person… I like him… and nothing you can say is going to stop that so you might as well not even try! And oh, I almost forgot, Mom, he’s a Catholic!” She slammed her empty tea cup down, and went into the kitchen. I stared at my father, ready for round two or three, or whatever we were in in this prize fight. I could hear the tea kettle being filled, and placed on the stove. My mother stuck her head around the corner, and asked my father if he wanted a cup

of coffee. “Your mother and I are just worried about you. You’re so far away from home,” he said. “Yeah, well I’m far away from home on purpose. You think it was fun living with the two of you, always arguing? I can’t live like that, so don’t even think about telling me to move back because I won’t go.” “That’s not what I said. We just wish you were closer so you could come home more often, and we could help you more.” “Bullshit, you don’t want to help me, you want to control me! And she wants to drag me to church!” My mother came around the corner of

the kitchen shouting that I needed to calm down; she was not trying to get me to church, although it wouldn’t hurt; that I was only 20 years old, and didn’t know everything; that she and my father weren’t arguing as much anymore; and I could do a lot worse than being close to them. “Well that’s not going to happen!” I snapped. “I’m staying in Chicago. I’m finishing school right here.” “You won’t be able to finish school here if we stop paying your tuition. You could always transfer to a school on the east coast you know,” my father said. I glanced back and forth between them – livid. “You’re right,” I hollered. “You two are such hypocrites. I’ve been

busting my ass to keep up with school through all this. You tell me you want the truth, then when I tell you, and when you don’t like what I said, you threaten me with money thinking I’ll cave in… Well it won’t work.” I yelled stomping around the room. “Fine, don’t pay the tuition, don’t help with the rent! I’ll figure it out on my own, but I’m not moving back to Weymouth with you!” The next thing I knew I was hurling my tea cup across the room, listening to it shatter against the wall, listening to my parents both screaming at me at the same time… I made a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled on their hooks. I sank down onto the closed toilet

seat crying uncontrollably, holding my head in my hands trying to quell the shaking, and absolute rage I felt inside. I have no idea how long I sat there. I could hear my parents talking in the other room, but did not know what they were saying. I heard the sound of a broom as my mother cleaned up the broken tea cup. I heard the emotions racing around in my own head, felt helpless… felt like none of this shit was worth it. Without warning my tears dried up – there was nothing left, just a hollow, useless, futile feeling. I flung the bathroom door open, and announced I was going out – they shouldn’t wait up, as I scrambled in the hall closet for my coat.

My father stood up, putting himself between me and the door. “Go sit down, Jacqueline.” I stood there glaring at both of them, then, dragging my jacket along the floor behind me, made my way to the couch, and sat down without saying a word. “We don’t want you to move home. We want you to finish school, here, in Chicago,” my mother said; her face was as tear-stained as mine. “If you want us to meet this young man, then we will,” my father stated, “but you have to understand why springing him on us causes us so much concern.” I didn’t respond, I just sat there, numb, my head spinning, pounding.

Everything seemed unreal to me – I was watching this whole scene from somewhere outside my own body… somehow detached, impersonal, but without benefit of my pixie friend. These weren’t my parents, they were people who had something they could use against me to gain control, force me to do what they wanted. I hated them at that moment and I hated myself. I felt betrayed… I felt something in my soul shift to a dispassionate place – a place where I wouldn’t hurt anymore. I still hadn’t spoken. I was lost in thought staring off into the blankness of the room beyond both of them when I heard my father saying, “Jackie, can you hear me? I asked you what this young

man’s name was.” “It’s Michael… Michael Nowak,” I answered. “And he’s a mechanic, right? “Right.” “Does he do anything else? Where did he go to school?” “Nowhere, just high school,” my voice was cold, detached almost mechanical in nature. I still wasn’t looking at either of them. “You said at Christmas you were taking the car to a mechanic with a garage, I assume you meant whatever garage he operates, right?” “Yes, he does have a garage – it’s in back of his mother’s house. I never said it was like a commercial garage, but it is

a business – it’s how he supports himself, and helps his mother,” I replied, my voice sounded empty even to my own ears. Looking up at them I said, “I’ll cancel dinner.” I was defeated and I knew it. They shot each other another look of some kind. They were communicating as a team again, like they did at Christmas. They had never done that when I lived with them. I remembered them being at odds with each other, arguing, but now, well maybe they were doing better. The only thing I knew of that had changed was me leaving: maybe I had been the cause of their problems? My mind started to dart in different directions again when I heard my mother say,

“Please don’t cancel, we’d like to meet him.” After taking a moment to make up my mind, I acknowledged her, “Fine, but he’s a good person, and I swear to God I’ll …” I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but decided against it. “He’s the only thing that’s kept me half way sane this year, so you damn well better be nice to him!” They nodded in agreement. I stood up, and announced I was going out for a while, but would be back soon. Before they could finish their objections, I was out the door. ~~~~~~~~

I made a beeline for the nearest pay phone. I called Mary Beth and I called Michael – neither of them answered. I hadn’t wanted to go to The Canteen, but figured I’d check and see if, by chance, Michael was there already. I wiped my eyes with my hands trying to ensure my earlier tears weren’t too visible, even though I knew Michael would be able to tell something was wrong. It was still early, he might not be there yet, I thought as I walked down the block, head bent down against the wind. “Jackie! Jackie!” I looked up to see Michael calling me, dashing across the street dodging cars as he did. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be home with your parents,” he said leaning

down to give me a quick kiss. His jacket was unzipped, and I slid my arms under it, hugging him, refusing to let go. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you alright?” he asked managing to loosen my grip on him, and turning my face toward the street light. “I’m fine, I’ll be fine,” I replied, “Let’s go to the diner for a minute, okay?” “Sure, were you crying?” he asked as we started to walk over to Broadway. Over a cup of coffee I explained the events of the day as best I could. “Do you want to cancel tomorrow?” he asked, “I’ll be cool with it whichever way you want.” “No, but if I can get a hold of Mary

Beth, I’m going to invite her too – that should help keep them in line.” Michael chuckled. “You don’t have to protect me; I’m a big boy.” “Hmph, well you may have to protect me,” I smiled in reply hoping to ease the mood. “I’ve got to get back – I told them I wouldn’t be too long. Walk with me?” “But of course,” he said. ~~~~~~~~ Wednesday passed without incident; the three of us were on our best behavior. I showed them the fancy private school, Francis W. Parker, where I would be doing my student teaching next year, we took a short lunch cruise down the

Chicago River, and finished with an extended tour of the School of the Art Institute giving them a chance to meet Lana Christakos, one of my instructors from the education department. When we arrived that evening at Green Things, one of the trendy new restaurants on Division Street, Mary Beth and Michael were already waiting inside. I almost didn’t recognize Michael – instead of his usual jeans, tee shirt, leather vest and boots; he was wearing khaki pants, a light blue long sleeved shirt and penny loafers. He looked absolutely preppy with his hair slicked back behind his ears – its length barely noticeable. Catching my eye, he smiled with an ever so faint mischievous

tinge. He stepped forward giving me a hug, a quick kiss on the lips and whispered, “Like the new me?” I flinched a little – displays of affection were not prevalent in my family, so I thought his kiss might bother them –but before I could react or reply, he turned, putting his hand out towards my father, “Mr. Moretti, I’m Michael Nowak, it’s very nice to meet you sir, your daughter has told me a lot about you.” Nodding to my mother he said, “Mrs. Moretti, it’s especially nice to meet you ma’am. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of bringing these for you.” Then out of nowhere he produced a small bouquet of yellow and white carnations mixed with daisies, sprigs of

baby’s breath and ferns. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing – this was a side of Michael I had never seen before. I could feel myself grinning inside; the tension in my gut gave way, and my mother, who I figured had made up her mind to dislike him because he was Catholic, was melting. Mary Beth had turned so her back was to my parents and was choking back a laugh. Green Things was set in an old brownstone store front. I had reserved a table by the front window so we could watch all the beautiful people walk by on the street. They had a varied menu, and a new thing called a salad bar where you could help yourself to an endless

variety of vegetables, lettuce and salad toppings – my mother said her prime rib was so tender she could cut it with a butter knife, and my father’s porterhouse steak was cooked to perfection. Much to my surprise, the conversation with Michael flowed in a natural way. My father thanked him for taking care of the car then sprinkled the evening with statements like, “with your knowledge you’d make a good engineer – have you ever thought about going back to school for a degree?” To which Michael replied, “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve been saving up some money so when my brother gets back from Vietnam this summer, he can take over the garage, and I could go back

to school after that.” “Your brother is in the service is he? What branch?” “Army. He was drafted in 1970 – had a low number.” “Where do you stand with the draft board?” my father asked, giving him a quick, sidelong glance. “I was born on October 9th. I’m #342, so I won’t be called up.” Michael replied. Mary Beth jumped into the conversation at that point steering it away from the war. She knew Michael was as anti-war as the rest of our friends, and didn’t want to risk spoiling the evening by getting into the subject. Michael scored another win with my

father when he refused a second beer with dinner saying he was driving, and had to get up early in the morning to start rebuilding a transmission. Who is this person sitting next to me anyhow? On the drive back to the apartment after dinner, both of them told me what a nice young man Michael was. “Very different than I had expected,” per my father, “I’m glad to hear he wants to continue his education.” Hmph, yeah I thought, I was going to have to ask him where that crock of shit came from – he had never said anything to me about going back to school. Of course it wasn’t an entirely bad idea… nice if it were true. Whatever the case, it was the perfect answer for my father

who was forced to quit in the 8th grade when his crazy relative got locked away. But most of all, it was a relief not to have to lie or avoid mentioning Michael or The Canteen or the divorce whenever I spoke to them on the phone from now on. My parents left for St. Louis in the morning. ~~~~~~~~ “How come you’ve never brought me flowers, and where the hell did you get those clothes?” I asked when Michael showed up at the bar that evening instead of saying ‘hello’. “Jealous?” he asked, then burst out laughing.

“Absolutely! Who was that person? How much of what you were saying was true?” The questions flew out of me in rapid fire succession while he smiled from ear to ear. “That was me, all me, just the part I don’t show much anymore. Like it?” he shot back, “but more importantly, what did they say about me after I left?” “Ha, well you did it,” I told him. “Between you and Charlie and his grandfather’s Medal of Honor, they left here more or less happy. At least I doubt they’ll try to force me back to Boston. I owe you guys!” “I like the sound of that… you can pay off your debt to me when you get off work,” he purred in my ear as he leaned

down to give me a kiss. “I’ve missed you, beautiful.”

Chapter Twenty-Two Take the Cosmo Test It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything I read, be it in self-help or text books, or trashy magazines (my favorite source), all said that time was supposed to heal all wounds. To my way of thinking that meant I should be feeling better each day, but I wasn’t – most days I felt like a pile of shit. I passed all my courses – how I’m not exactly sure, but I did, through sheer will power, forcing myself to somehow function through the fog. Three years down, one to go. I was going to spend the summer in

Chicago again instead of going home. My parents had suggested it when Mary Beth told them she would be coming home for the summer while we were at dinner, but I shut down that idea saying I had to be here for the divorce. In truth I knew I couldn’t live in their house anymore, the constant criticism I felt – my inability to live up to their expectations, whether that assessment was self-imposed or was the way they felt didn’t matter – it was still there in my mind. Besides, I didn’t want to take the chance that I’d somehow get sucked into staying after the argument we’d had, and if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t want to leave Michael for three months. Even though I had given him a

pass on his ‘fling’ over Christmas, and I had no suspicions at this point, there was no need tempting fate. My mind never stopped – not while I was awake, or from what Michael told me, not while I was asleep either. I tossed and turned, waking up frequently, not able to get back to sleep for hours, causing him to lose sleep too. It was getting so I couldn’t fall asleep without Valium; however, getting them was now also an issue as Michael’s normal supplier had been busted. He was making new connections, but just in case it took a while, I was splitting pills, and swallowing them with gulps of SoCo, a lot more than usual. All I wanted to do was sleep, to stop my brain. Nothing

else I did let me find that joyous place where all the ghosts, demons and fears fell away, I wanted to stay in Never Never Land as long as humanly possible. Time did not pass, it crawled along. Time was not on my side; it worked against me with every fiber of its being. Each monotonous, mundane day terrified me – I had no idea what I was afraid of, I just felt like something was going to happen. Sleeping was the only thing that made the hands of the clock actually move. When I was awake minutes ticking by were imperceptible – I hated it. What I couldn’t figure out with any certainty was why the hell I wanted time to pass. Did I think that once the divorce was final, the world would be fine again

– who the hell knew – but I wanted to be done with it and done now. I felt worthless – nothing, no accomplishment felt worth the effort. Was I just ungrateful for all the good things in my life? I was healthy; I had friends – not a lot, but friends nonetheless; I had a bright future; I had a nice apartment, food, clothes. All the things a person was supposed to want I already had, and most of all, I had Michael’s love. What more could I ask for? What the fuck was the problem? Mornings were the toughest, especially when Michael wasn’t around. On those days, I’d be lucky to get up before noon. First of all, I hated sleeping alone. If he had stayed the night, it

seemed easier somehow. My thoughts were less likely to devour me while falling asleep – I was safe nestled against his chest, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me, keeping the world at bay. When daylight illuminated the red drapes, I didn’t mind opening my eyes as much. Michael loved making love in the morning – “the perfect start to a perfect day,” he’d say with a grin on his face – but even when we didn’t have sex, the days when he was there in the morning turned out better for me. When he got up, I got up. I rattled around the kitchen, pretended to be domestic, making him breakfast – usually nothing more than scrambled eggs and toast or bagels with cream cheese and coffee, but it was

enough to get me out of bed – and most days I even stayed up. Unfortunately, the crappy days were coming closer and closer together, and try as I may, I couldn’t figure out why they happened. There didn’t seem to be a pattern. My divorce was going smoothly: John had sent copies of all the paperwork to Virginia’s address as well as publishing it, so I was sure Stephen knew I had filed. There was no response to any of it, and that was good news; he wasn’t going to contest it – nothing to be upset or depressed about. Ever since John mentioned the word ‘depression’ a couple months before, the idea haunted me – was it possible? I tossed the idea around, over and over, in

my mind. Depression equaled crazy to me. It was not culturally acceptable. My mother thought being divorced would ‘mark’ me for the rest of my life, what the hell would she think if I went to a shrink – now that would be a real stigma. But my mind seemed boundless in its ability to make me miserable. I read everything I could find on depression. I became an avid reader of self-help books and trashy magazines like Cosmopolitan and Seventeen, (or in a pinch, even respectable ones like Time, Newsweek, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, McCall’s), whose writers professed to be able to solve any problem in 10 easy steps. I even read serious books on psychology,

philosophy, mental health and the causes of suicide. A 16th Century philosopher and mathematician named René Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.” To me he hit the nail on the head with those five little words; the only problem was, he didn’t give a solution, a way to stop thinking, and still live at least. But serious literature like that made my head hurt – I didn’t feel smart or educated enough to understand the in-depth theories – so my favorite sources of information remained the trashy magazines that all had articles on the subject in one issue or another. The word depression started to loom up everywhere I turned. I took one trashy magazine test after the other trying to

diagnose myself – always hoping for a different result, but never getting it. The questions were almost always some variation on the same thing, just restated depending on the angle the author of the article wanted to take. Did I have: 1. Difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions? SOMETIMES – depended on what I was thinking about. 2. Constant fatigue and decreased energy? YES 3. Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, hopelessness and/or helplessness? YES – well it was my fault, so what the fuck was wrong with

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

admitting it? Insomnia (early-morning wakefulness, difficulty sleeping) or hypersomnia (sleeping too much)? YES, YES, YES! Irritability and restlessness? MAYBE – sometimes the people I got irritated at deserved it, sometimes they were idiots. That wasn’t all my fault and certainly didn’t mean I was depressed. Persistent sadness, anxiety, or “empty” feelings? YES Overeating or appetite loss? NO, I wish, I could stand to lose a couple pounds. Persistent aches or pains, such as headaches, cramps, and digestive

problems that do not ease with treatment? NO 9. Thoughts of suicide or actual suicidal attempts? YES, if exploding brains counted. 10. Decreased libido, lack of interest in sex? NO, in fact I couldn’t get enough - I had Michael and he oozed sex appeal, at least to me. The one thing none of these articles didn’t do was to give me a way to resolve the problem on my own. What was I supposed to do with all my newfound self-knowledge anyhow? The instructions said if you answered ‘yes’ to four or more of the questions, then you should seek professional help. Well that

was not going to happen. I was stronger than that. I just needed to find a way to ‘pull myself up by my bootstraps’ like my father said. Besides, I was positive everyone in the entire world would answer ‘yes’ to at least four questions. I expected a lot more of myself than that – for me to think of myself this way I would have to answer ‘yes’ at least eight times. Besides, if the world was depressed, then it was just part of life, some kind of innocuous bullshit, something whoever was writing these articles was making money from and not serious. ~~~~~~~~

“So how long have you known,” I asked Charlie? “Hmph, did you really think you fooled me?” he answered with a satisfied grin on his face. “Well, yeah, yeah I did. So how long… Who told you?” I chirped back. I was very stoned by that time – it had been a wonderful night, one I was not at all expecting when I showed up at work. It was the night before my 21st birthday. I had this little scenario all planned out in my head of how I was going to tell Charlie that I was only 19 when he hired me – hoping he wouldn’t be pissed off at my deception. I was so proud of myself for managing to keep it from him, but was also happy I could

now tell him the truth and not get fired – at least I didn’t think he’d fire me now. I never got the opportunity to play out that conversation in real life because just before midnight, some of Michael’s friends from his neighborhood showed up at the bar. I had met all of them for the first time at Thanksgiving, and again many times since. Then Ashley, Lisa and a couple other friends of mine from SAIC showed up. I wandered over to Michael who was sitting at his usual place near the corner at the far end of the bar with Jeff. “What a coincidence that all these people would show up here on the same night,” I said eyeing both of them. Jeff’s face flinched – he was not as good at hiding expressions as

Michael. But then, at that moment, Bernie showed up with his latest girlfriend, and I knew something was up – this was not a coincidence. Whirling around, from the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of the regulars unfolding a string of multi-colored letters saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY along the side wall, tacking it up between the Budweiser and Smirnoff neon wall signs; Charlie was pulling a huge sheet cake from somewhere in back of the bar – it had gobs of white and yellow frosting in the shapes of roses, the words ‘Happy 21st Birthday Jackie’ scrawled on top, and 21 candles. The next second, everyone there, including the people I didn’t know, were singing as Michael

made a show of kissing me, whispering “Happy Birthday beautiful,” in my ear. “Surprised?” he asked. My eyes were wide open; I was speechless. “Yes! How the hell did you pull it off? I had no idea!” “Good, that’s the point of a surprise,” he replied, very pleased with himself. The answers Charlie gave me to my questions were even more surprising than my party. “From the beginning. No one told me,” he said, then paused and continued, “Well I suspected you were young when you came in the bar that first day asking for a job, but I didn’t know for sure until a few weeks later, after I ran a background check.” “You ran a background check? If

you’ve known all this time, why did you let me keep working here?” “That’s easy, you’re the best cocktail waitress I’ve ever hired. I made up my mind to keep you when I saw how much the customers liked you, and besides, you’ve never broken my rules,” he retorted as he gave me a quick pat on the back. “But couldn’t you’ve gotten into trouble for having an underage waitress?” “Why do you think I always paid you in cash? No proof you work here,” he laughed, and shook his head in what seemed like amazement. “Damn Jackie… Fifteen months working in this joint, and you’re still as naïve as you

were on day one. Haven’t you ever noticed that we don’t get any cops around here?” He started to walk away then hesitated and said, “Oh, and by the way, you’re done working for the night – go hang out with your friends, get them to buy lots of drinks.” He winked, grabbed another piece of cake, and made his way across the room to greet a group of people who had just come in. Michael and Jeff were busy moving tables around to accommodate everyone, making introductions, and buying the first round of drinks. “It’s perfect, thank you,” I said putting my arm around Michael as I pulled up a bar stool to join them, “Charlie gave me the rest of the night off provided you guys buy a bunch

of drinks,” I announced looking around the table. “I’ll get the next round,” Bernie called out. It was a wonderful evening. ~~~~~~~~ I was fucked up when we left The Canteen, but not a falling down, throwing up, sloppy kind of fucked up; it was the euphoric, happy, body-tingling kind, the kind that allowed me to let go of any inhibitions, but not cross over into making a fool of myself. As we walked by the Mustang parked on the street, Michael stopped, and pulled a blanket out of the trunk. “What’s that for,” I asked, “don’t I keep you warm enough at

night?” “Hmph, yeah you do. I just thought we might head on over to the park and find a secluded place…” he replied with the sexiest look on his face, his eyes melting me on the spot. In my world people didn’t show affection, let alone make love in public! Being with Michael for a year now, some of my shyness had dissolved – I wouldn’t have thought twice about sitting in the park making out with him or grabbing his butt in front of his mother, but the blanket suggested a whole new level of exposure, so to speak. “What if a cop finds us?” I asked. I was tempted, excited by the thought even, but still scared of the possible

consequences. He shrugged, “Then we get arrested for indecent exposure – but that won’t happen, come on.” He grabbed my hand, our laughs echoing through the night air as we half ran towards a secluded section of Lincoln Park, not far from the zoo. Finding exactly the right place under the trees, well blocked from the path by a number of bushes, Michael spread out the blanket, and pulled me down on top of him as he lifted my sweater up over my breasts, kissing, and playfully biting my nipples. “I love the fact that you don’t wear a bra,” he sighed smiling up at me, “God bless feminists!” “Ha,” I snorted back, “feminists and

me being so small that I don’t need one.” “Small – no, you’re perfect, at least to me,” he murmured, rolling us over, propping himself up on his arms and flicking his hair out of his eyes. We were both overcome with excitement, our breathing fast and deep. He was wearing the cowboy shirt I had given him for Christmas, and I pulled the snaps apart with one quick move. I heard the snapping of twigs under our weight and felt a cool breeze come off the lake… He lowered himself down on me. Leaves crinkled as we moved, his lips felt softer than usual, more powerful as he kissed my neck and ears… The park, and the mere chance of being discovered heightened all of my senses.

One of my hands was entwined in his hair, the other was making its way down his ribs, finally resting below his belt buckle, enjoying the swell of his cock through his jeans. His moans sounded deeper than usual, his touch more extraordinary. Both of us were on a razor’s edge, overcome with wanting, wiggling our jeans down – when a gust of wind brought the sound of voices heading in our direction. He pushed inside me, then fell still, putting his finger across my lips and whispering “Shhh, be still.” We laid there, my heart pounding in my chest as the voices – one male, one female – came closer. I could feel his cock throbbing inside me with almost the

same beat as my own heart; my head swirled with the anticipation of being discovered at any moment. My eyes were clamped closed, the excitement causing my toes and fingertips to prickle. As the voices passed by on the path, Michael pulled himself back, thrusting several times deeply inside me. I gasped, my eyes opening to see his face, smiling. The couple on the path had stopped. I could hear the woman ask, “What was that?” After a momentary pause, the man answered, “nothing, it’s just the wind – let’s go home.” When the strangers were out of ear shot, both of us laughed, exhaling, “Oh

my God!” I exclaimed, “That was more of a head rush than a popper – adrenalin and sex - Holy Shit!” He just laughed, “I don’t think it was our heads that rushed on that one!”

Chapter Twenty-Three Homeward Bound The next couple weeks flowed without any issues – I found myself enjoying the monotony of life instead of dreading it, each day giving way to the next without incident or me thinking about brain fragments stuck to the ceiling. Then one day at the beginning of July, the phone rang – it was Michael. “My mother wants me to invite you to dinner tonight, babe,” he said. “She’s all excited about something – whatever it is, it must be good news. Can you come over?”

“Sure, tell her I’d love to come,” I said. Michael’s mother, Shirley, was an absolute joy – she actually liked me, and seemed quite pleased that I was seeing her son. I liked her too. And since finding out what she lived through with his father, I had a newfound respect for her strength as a woman – we got along very well. She depended a lot on Michael to help her take care of the house and bills. Although she was a full time hairdresser at one of the local beauty shops, and then worked as a waitress three nights a week, she didn’t make much money so, she looked the other way about a lot of things, including Michael’s drug business. I wasn’t sure

how I felt about that, but I knew she was doing the best she could. She had dropped out of high school when she got pregnant with Keith, then the other three kids followed in rapid succession. When the beatings started she did her best to shield the kids, until Michael’s father split from the family for good when he was 11 years old. In my opinion, she drank too much, but then, who the hell was I to judge her behavior? Look at all the drugs and booze I did, and I hadn’t been through anything compared to her, let alone have four kids to worry about. I could only imagine the bullshit I’d be feeling if Stephen and I had had a kid. Shirley didn’t take any crap from anyone nowadays; she pretty much told you

whatever she was thinking, a trait I found rather irritating, and oddly comforting at the same time. It was also a trait, as Michael pointed out whenever we had a disagreement, which I shared with her. My fondest memory of her so far happened after a family dinner back in February. She and Michael got into an argument about the water heater, and whether it could be repaired again or had to be replaced. Shirley had been drinking, Michael was stoned. Both of them were frustrated that the “fuckin’ water heater wasn’t heating.” She got fed up with his ‘back talk, know-it-all attitude’, so turned to me, and without a hint of humor blurted out, “Jackie, would

you please take my dear son back to your place and fuck some sense into him? I don’t want him back here until he’s totally pussy whipped and listening to reason.” I was in shock and I’m sure my mouth was hanging open, but Michael told me in reality, I was grinning and nodding in agreement. Since then, whenever I played that scene over in my mind I tried to imagine my own mother saying something like that, and could not, not even under the wildest of circumstances. And here I was worried about both my parents recovering from seeing Michael kiss me at dinner when they visited, let alone telling me to take him home, and fuck some sense into him. Every time I

thought about it, I smiled to myself – I hoped I’d have the chance to use that line myself with my own son someday, if I ever had one. Shirley was so excited when she opened the door. “Oh sweetie, I’m so glad you could come – everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, come on, I’m not sure I can wait much longer!” Her voice was bursting with joy. “Well then just tell us for Christ’s sake,” Candy hissed at her mother while coming over to give me a quick hug. Tom piped up, “We’re having lasagna, Jackie. Mom hasn’t made that for us since Keith was drafted.” At the mention of Keith’s name, Shirley stopped, looked at her kids, and

the three of them said almost in unison, “Keith?” “Yes, yes, yes… you’re right… it’s Keith! I mean we all knew he was getting out of that miserable Army this summer, but now I’ve got a date!” She was jumping up and down in excitement. “He’ll be home on July 19th!” I watched as they all hugged, Candy and Shirley had tears rolling down their cheeks – wow, this is a real family, sharing their joy, I thought, my own heart filling with happiness for them as I felt Michael pull me into the fray. My mind raced round and round. Shirley and the others squeezed me, and I responded in kind, feeling warm and fuzzy that she wanted me to hear the news too. Then

out of the corner of my eye I spotted my pixie staring at me – she was perched on the window ledge in the kitchen with a puzzled look on her face, happy but detached. What the hell is she doing here? I thought as I observed the scene through her eyes. Shit! It hit me like a brick, July 19th is Stephen’s birthday – why the hell couldn’t Keith be coming home on the 18th or 20th… Goddamn it I hate coincidences! ~~~~~~~~ The homecoming preparations were fantastic! The whole neighborhood got in on it. I spent much of the preceding week helping Shirley and Candy clean,

decorate and put up signs – WELCOME HOME KEITH… WE LOVE YOU KEITH… WELCOME BACK – in the windows of all the homes on the block. We hung multicolored streamers around all the doorways in the house, and I made a huge collage type poster to go over the fireplace using snapshots of the whole Nowak family over the years that everyone signed. Shirley cooked and then cooked some more – all of Keith’s favorite foods, especially lasagna; between her and the other women on the block, I didn’t think I’d seen this much lasagna at one time in my life, and these people weren’t even Italian. The country as a whole may have been spitting on returning Vietnam vets or at best, giving

them a mediocre homecoming reception, but at least on this block of this neighborhood, July 19th might as well have been July 4th. In the late morning of the 19th, the family headed to O’Hare to greet the flight Keith would arrive on. Michael wanted me to come along, but I refused. I was not part of this family, no matter how much his mother insisted that I was. I was an outsider, at least in my own mind, still married to someone else who was celebrating his birthday somewhere in New York with some guy. I needed time to slay my own demons today before being introduced to Keith. I stayed home, slept late, sang Happy Birthday to Stephen silently in my head

while I took a shower, then worked hard to push all thoughts of him away, clearing the daily shit out of my mind. I would join the party later with the rest of the neighbors. Besides, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Keith. I had heard all kinds of stories about him over the last year from Michael, and the rest of his family, and Rick, Jeff and various other neighborhood friends. Some tales painted him as a warm, friendly, caring, happy-go-lucky guy who took care of his family, and went out of his way to help people. Others, like the one I heard about how Michael got his scar, gave me a completely opposite impression, while still others led me to believe he was a

street hustler always ready for a fight, and always looking for ways to make a quick buck. Keith had definitely been the leader of their crew before he was drafted. He and Rick were the hardercore Harley guys, and Keith was the one who started them dealing, just to help make ends meet. It was one of his drug deals gone bad that got Michael stabbed, almost killed, when he was 18, leaving the scar on his left side. One night, sometime before Christmas as we laid in bed talking, me tracing my fingertip over and over the shape of the scar, Michael told me how it happened. They had been pushing for about a year at that point – nothing big, just nickel or dime bags here and there,

maybe a few Quaaludes, to safe Northside hippies. Keith wanted to expand, make some bigger bucks, add to the product line with a wider variety of pills, and a little coke. Michael said he wasn’t against the expansion, but the coke they got from their regular source for pills and grass, had been stepped on so much that it was pure shit and not worth the breath it took to snort. So Keith connected with a black gang he had crossed paths with sometime before. Four guys from the neighborhood that I had never met – a couple of which were in jail at the moment – plus Keith and Michael met the other crew in an alley not far from the Cabrini Green housing projects to make the buy. Everyone was

nervous. One of the guys, Clay, who had spent time in juvy, brought a gun along, just in case. As they feared, the whole thing went sour when the black gang jumped them, trying to steal the cash. Everything went down in a mere heartbeat: one second, Michael said, he was throwing a punch at the thug in front of him, the next second, another one jumped him from behind grabbing him around the neck. He was struggling to get free when the first asshole lunged forward with a knife. Michael twisted to the side, enough to keep the wound from being worse than it was – it could have been fatal – then he managed to get one of his legs back tripping the scumbag that was holding him. Michael escaped

when they both fell to the ground, but collapsed a few feet away, blood everywhere. The thugs had pulled a gun by this point, but so had Clay. Michael said the black guys shot first, and Clay shot back, giving Keith time to pull Michael out of the way behind a dumpster. Luckily for the two of them, the thugs split when they heard the police sirens. Cabrini Green was a crime riddled ghetto so the cops were never far off. Clay and the others split too. Michael was transported to the hospital where they operated, and stitched him up while Keith gave the cops a line of bullshit about being mugged. Michael said Keith saved his life. Although I didn’t express my

opinion to him at the time, to me it sounded more like Keith had almost gotten him killed. We had talked about it many times since I first heard that story: he assured me he wanted nothing to do with ever being in that kind of situation again, that his drug sources now were people he had known forever, that I would never have to worry about anything like that touching me. He said it scared the shit out of Keith too. What Michael didn’t seem to understand was that my real fear, what caused my gut to quiver, was that this kind of violence would someday touch him again? I knew Michael – I believed him, but I didn’t know Keith. Somewhere in a corner of my brain I

worried that Keith would drag Michael deeper into dealing – after all there was that whole scheme I had heard about for smuggling stuff in from Vietnam. I hoped it wouldn’t go anywhere. I didn’t know if Michael and I had a future together, but I sure didn’t want to lose him – not to dealing, not to Keith. ~~~~~~~~ The party was well under way when I arrived. “Jackie – there you are. Where have you been?” Michael called out as he saw me walking down the street. Someone had put saw horses at both ends of the block to make sure there was no through traffic today. “Wow! That’s

cool; I didn’t know the city would let you block the street like this?” I responded as he picked me up off my feet, twirled me around and gave me a kiss. “Ha! Well they didn’t, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them. It’s just a good old fashioned block party, beautiful, and no one on this block is gonna complain.” He was stoned, his face filled with happiness – I could see I had some catching up to do. The next thing I knew, I was being lifted off my feet and hugged again, this time by someone who looked a lot like Michael, but wasn’t. “This must be the wonderful Jackie I’ve been hearin’ ’bout for the last year. You’re right bro, she is

beautiful – you lucky dog you!” Keith said slapping Michael on the back. With that he was off to join some people who were calling him from across the street – glancing over his shoulder as he walked, he yelled out, cocking his head the same way Michael did, “Come on Mike, bring your old lady, I want ya by my side.” We trailed after him, but I was uneasy, there was something in his voice, and my instincts were flaring, I’m not sure about this guy – shit! Michael had his arm draped around me as usual; I must have tensed some because Michael cocked his head and asked, “Are you okay?” “Yeah, sure I am, I…” started to reply, but he cut me off.

“Oh, I know, I’ll ask him not to call you an ‘old lady’,” he said. “Thanks,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. I had never been part of anything like this before – I was in awe at the sense of comradery I felt as one person after another stopped to greet Keith, and let him know how happy they were he was back home in one piece. As the evening wore on and I got stoned, I found myself watching him, almost staring. I wasn’t surprised at the physical resemblance – I had seen pictures of him before – but it was stronger than I had imagined. He had the same color dark brown hair as Michael, except of course, in a military type cut. He was an inch or so taller and

broader in the shoulders than his brother, and he had the same gorgeous whiskey brown eyes that could pick up glints of light in a way that made them glow. In spite of the physical similarities, it was the mannerisms that fascinated me, almost freaking me out – they moved the same way, cocked their heads the same way, smiled with the same oh-so-sexy curl at the edges of their lips, and their voices had some of the same deep tonality… It was eerie. But there was also something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that bothered me. Keith was only about a year and a half older than Michael, but he was slick, had a hardness, a cold streak about him that Michael didn’t

have. Maybe it was just the story about the drug buy gone wrong or knowing from other stories that Keith tended to solve his problems with his fists; maybe it was his time in Vietnam; or the battles he had had with his father; I had no idea where it came from, but it was definitely there. I decided it was the war I was seeing. He had just spent two years in the Army, a year of that in-country. How could anyone be in that horrendous environment, killing people – living through all the suffering that I only saw each night on the news – and not have it harden them? I wondered if he ever had the vulnerability I saw in Michael; if he was capable of loving as gently as his

brother – and if that person ever existed, would he ever be back?

Chapter Twenty-Four Sibling Rivalry I stayed with Michael the night of Keith’s homecoming. The next morning, I swear it had to be 6:00 am, Keith barged into the apartment without warning, and laid down across me to grab his brother who was on the other side of the bed. I screamed, Michael jumped up, and Keith started laughing saying, “Whoa there bro – back down! Sorry sweetheart, I didn’t see ya there under all those covers. I thought he was alone. No harm meant.” “Right,” I said glaring at him, pulling the sheet up around myself – I was not

amused. Michael was cursing a blue streak telling him to get the fuck out, pushing him back towards the door. “Hey Mikey, well at least you don’t wear PJs to bed when you’re with your ‘old lady’ bro!” he blurted out, still laughing, throwing me a kiss as the door slammed, and this time, it was locked behind him. I looked at Michael standing there naked, shaking his head, running his hand through his hair. “Is he always like this?” I asked. “Yeah, he can be a real jerk – I guess the Army didn’t change that any,” he replied crawling back into bed. I just sat there with my knees pulled up under my chin clutching the sheet.

“You know he saw me don’t you – there’s no way I was hidden by one sheet and one thin blanket. He laid on top of me on purpose, Goddamn it!” “I know, I’m sorry, I’ll talk to him, babe,” he said rubbing his hands across his face again. “Lay down again… please?” I didn’t recognize the expression on his face when he pulled me close murmuring, “Go back to sleep if you can.” Was it a combination of concern or anger – or worry maybe? ~~~~~~~~ The first few weeks after Keith’s return, I saw very little of Michael. The two of them showed up at The Canteen a couple

times, but other than that, and some phone calls, Michael was MIA. When I did see him, he seemed torn, like he wanted to stay with me, but was being pulled in another direction by his brother. Rick had filled me in some – Keith was spending most of his time fucked up, trying to ‘get somethin’ goin’, talking about dealing on a larger scale again, and was pushing on Michael to team up with him. “Give him some space, Jackie. They have a complicated relationship, and just need some time to work things out.” Rick told me, seeing my concern. “Ya know Mike’s pretty much been in charge for two years – he’s been content to deal small, and now Keith wants to change

things around. They need to work it out or they’re gonna have trouble. Keith knows he needs him, Mike’s the smart one.” “What do you mean ‘trouble’? What kind of trouble?” I asked. “Nothin’, I’m just mouthing off. Just give him some space, okay? Hang in there – don’t split on him.” I nodded trying my best to understand. What the fuck was going on? Could I really add any shit having to do with Keith to my plate right now? It was overflowing with my own personal crap at the moment. Rick, Levi and the other guys in the bar had always teased Michael, sometimes mercilessly, about our relationship, and his seeming devotion to

it. In the beginning they tried to find both of us other people to screw around with ‘on the side’, but those efforts failed – unless you counted Christmas for Michael, which I didn’t. The teasing never seemed to bother Michael, in fact, he’d light up more when it happened saying, “They’re just jealous that you’re with me, babe, and not them. They’d die to have someone as beautiful and smart as you are.” But now, when Keith made a wiseass comment, it had a sting to it – I could see it hitting home, like a punch to the gut that does more than knock the wind out of you, Keith’s comments were targeted and pierced through Michael. The jokes all had undercurrents, a hidden message, a double entendre, and

affected him like my parents remarks affected me. So when Keith called across the bar, “Hey Mikey, c’mon over here and let your ‘old lady’ do her job – you don’t want everyone to think you’re pussy whipped do ya?” it hit home. What was it about that term anyhow? I hated it! Even though he gave his brother the finger, Michael soon wandered on over by his side. I did hear him say, “I told you she doesn’t like to be called that.” As I stood there watching, listening, Keith flashed me a look that I interpreted as ‘fuck you’, then he slapped his brother on the back and said “Yeah, well an old lady’s an old lady – it doesn’t matter whether she likes it or not.” Tilting his head back, he emptied another

Budweiser down his throat, and continued with whatever war story he was telling this time. I had no idea what I had done to make him hate me or if he treated all women like pieces of shit. What I did know was that I was not happy about it; I needed to talk to Michael – alone. ~~~~~~~~ Thank God Mary Beth would be back soon. Having to make a long distance phone call to talk to her was getting expensive, and with Keith back, I needed someone to talk to. I tried to substitute Ashley and Lisa, but history kept getting in the way, or rather our lack

of history – neither of them knew enough about me or Michael or Stephen or any other aspect of my life to be able to give viable feedback. Of course I knew that was my own fault since I refused to open up or put out the necessary effort to fill them in. I listened to the details of their lives, they seemed able to talk, but I still didn’t want to let people know what happened with Stephen. I hadn’t been able to get it straight in my own head yet so I knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with answering any questions or worrying about what other people thought. Was I ashamed somehow? Did I still think his being gay was my fault? Probably, but why? Some of the articles I was reading

said he was born gay, others – most of them, especially where the author had a religious bent – said he chose the lifestyle. He was the only person that was going to be able to answer that question, and he had disappeared. I just kept replaying the scene at Joe’s, with him telling me “It’s all your fault,” looped over and over again in my head – so yes, I was ashamed. I was counting down the days till Mary Beth’s return when she and I could get stoned, drink a bottle of wine, and just sit and talk all night if we wanted to. ~~~~~~~~ Mulling things over – that’s what I spent

most of my time doing nowadays. Thinking and reading, giving Michael some space, mulling things over. I read two books, Love Story and Rabbit Redux – both of them made me cry, but for different reasons. Michael and I had seen the movie Love Story – I found myself thinking that line “love means never having to say you’re sorry” was bullshit then, and I still thought so now. If anything, love meant saying you’re sorry and meaning it more than anyone was capable of doing in a single lifetime. I stayed as stoned as possible; at least Michael had left me a dime bag, and some more Valium the last time he was at The Canteen. I tried to stay busy, but activity was difficult. Sometimes just

picking up the receiver on the telephone took more effort than it was worth. I did get up the strength to call John Whittaker to see if there were any new developments with the divorce, but nothing had changed. I forced myself to go to dinner with Bernie, caught up on all his gossip – damn, being sociable was so very difficult – and by the end of the evening I was exhausted. So I spent time sitting alone on a bench in Lincoln Park close to the place where Michael and I had had sex, remembering the excitement of that moment. I watched the people walk by wondering if any of them were the couple on the pathway that evening. I listened to the wind and waves, and I let my brain float away

with the clouds. My thoughts were starting to betray me again, my days beginning to unravel. The struggle to pull myself together grew more difficult as each morning rolled around. I was alone with myself and I was petrified. I’d feel myself calling out for help, but there was no answer – then I’d realize I hadn’t said the words out loud. There was no sound to my plea, my lips were sealed. It didn’t matter, I knew full well that any cry for help would be futile. I sat for hours without moving, not getting up to go to the bathroom, not getting up to get food – I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t have to pee. As the sun set, I’d manage to move, and like a robot programmed to begin specific tasks at

specific times, I’d make my way back to the apartment or to work. I read trashy magazine article after trashy magazine article. Phrase after phrase from one article or another rattled around in my brain – damn it, why was I reading all this shit anyway? “I think, therefore I am,” friggin’ Descarte! “No one is depressed when they’re asleep, which is why being in bed is such a safe place if you’re down.” “Depression can paralyze a person’s life.” “Depressives are particularly insightful people.”

“Many intelligent and creative people suffer from depression.” “There are always two sides to people who suffer from depression.” “Your thoughts are rooted in your personal beliefs, morals, and principles. They are your opinions of your inner self.” Well what the fuck was I supposed to do with all this information anyhow? I didn’t need to waste my time reading about bed being a safe place – I could have told them that! Being safe is why I got stoned, why I loved being with Michael, why I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning, sometimes all day. I

was in art school – hopefully I was a creative person. I couldn’t… no, I didn’t want to change that, but did creativity mean I was doomed to be like Van Gogh, cutting off my left ear and committing suicide? Did I have to be a stupid, brainless shithead to feel good about myself? Maybe I did – most of the idiots I’d met so far in my life thought they were super cool, that they were way smarter than they actually were, that they had all the answers. If I had to be like that, then I’d rather be dead. What good did insight do if I was too weak to figure things out? How was I supposed to overcome the darkness? What I needed was a solution for all these thoughts – a viable way to cope, a way to make life

not so painful that I was always thinking about a way out. I needed to find some peace. ~~~~~~~~ “Hey Jackie,” Michael said as I picked up the phone. “Are you working tonight?” “No,” I replied. I’m going to be sitting here watching TV by myself, I thought. “Good. How ’bout I pick up some Chinese food and come by later, okay?” “Sure, is Keith coming too?” I asked, crossing my fingers until I heard the response. “No, just me – see you in a little bit,

beautiful.” Well that much is good, I thought as I hung up the phone. I wasn’t up for Keith’s wisecracks, not in the mood for some crazy-ass power struggle type challenge or for being looked at like I was nothing more than a speck of dirt on his shoe that needed to be scraped off on the nearest curb. I felt shitty enough without him driving the point home. Besides, I like my left ear, and didn’t want to be tempted to slice it off at the end of the evening, I thought. Although we had talked on the phone, I had seen Michael only a handful of times over the last month or so – only having sex a couple of those times when his asshole brother managed to pick up some girl, and left him alone. When I’d

ask what was going on, he’d just say “I’ll tell you later.” I had concocted all kinds of nightmare scenarios where Michael decided he was tired of me, he was going back to the girl at Christmas – my imagination was limitless. I didn’t believe he was coming over to end things – I didn’t pick up any vibes to that effect on the phone – but the thought had crossed my mind, many times in fact, during the preceding month. I was trying to ‘give him space’ as Rick said, but each day that passed without him around just added to my own self-doubts. Since the beginning of the year I had seen him, made love to him, at least a couple times a week, but since July 19th he had disappeared.

Did the fact that Keith came back on Stephen’s birthday, have some kind of fucked up, cosmic meaning? Karma. A lot of the trashy magazines talked about Karma, what goes around comes around… Shit I was going to make myself crazy imagining things – just take a deep breath, slow down and take control. But what good was it having a so-called relationship if he was going to close me out? Why was he doing this? I felt like screaming! In his usual manner, Michael showed up with way too much food – General Tsu Chicken, Moo Shu Pork, Sweet & Sour Shrimp, Pot Stickers, fried rice, white rice and egg rolls, and he even remembered the chopsticks for me. The

smile on his face was huge as he came through the door, curling up the corners of his lips, his eyes saying it all. Seeing it I thought, okay, this isn’t the end – I could relax, pushing most of my fears out of my head. “God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered in my ear after a very long, ardent kiss. “I’ve been right here,” I said in a voice that sounded rather hollow. Holding my face in his hands he examined my expression before replying, “I know, let’s eat. I want to tell you what’s been goin’ on.” As we ate he said, “That war fucked him up. I mean fucked him up! He was always crazy… had big dreams, thought

he could do anything, but now – now he actually believes he can.” “What do you mean ‘believes’ he can do anything?” “Like be a big time dealer, and there won’t be any consequences. Ya know, I’m not even sure he cares if there are? It’s like he lives one day at a time with no thought to tomorrow - like he doesn’t care if he lives or dies… it’s all the same to him. And his temper is out of control, he’s acting like our father used to. He took one of his old girlfriends from the neighborhood out again, and tried to force himself on her. They used to screw around all the time before, but now – well I guess she said ‘no’ and he got crazy– she told me he pushed her

around, told her she was nothing but the neighborhood slut before, then called her a fuckin’ whore and stormed out.” “What? Oh my God, he didn’t hurt her did he?” I asked. “No, but she’s scared – afraid he might come back – she wanted someone to know what had happened. I talked to him, he won’t go near her again.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah, I’m sure. He said she was always a lousy lay anyhow, and not worth the effort.” “What?” I exclaimed. “Hmph… well that’s why I know he won’t bother her again – according to Keith, there is no such thing as a ‘lousy lay’,” he said winking at me. “That was

just his way of saying she’s not worth it. He’s my brother, Jackie – I owe him a lot, I mean I’d never takes sides against him, but…” “What does your Mom say about all this?” “She can’t deal with it at all. She’s been drinking a lot more since he’s been home. She thinks it’s her fault for not leaving my father sooner, when we were all a lot younger, and nothin’s gonna convince her otherwise.” “Shit, that’s crazy.” “Yeah, I know. I just don’t know what to do. I want to help him, I’d work with him if I thought his plan had a chance, but as it stands now… I just want my hard-assed, sarcastic, brother back,” he

said, his thoughts drifting off. “And I’m sorry, I know he’s been treating you like shit, but that’s just because he thinks you’re the reason I’m balking at his scheme. If you were gone, he thinks I’d change my mind.” “Well would you?” “Why, are you gonna split?” “No, I mean I do have to find a real job after I graduate, and if your brother hates me, then…” I shrugged, standing up to clear away the leftover food and dishes so I could turn my back and he wouldn’t see my face. “It’s not that he hates you. He just doesn’t know how to handle anyone being as close to me as you are. I think you scare him somehow. He doesn’t

understand that you’re not a threat to him. When he came in that first morning, and laid across you, I knew what he was up to – he was testing me to see if you were more than just another piece of ass. He wanted to see what I’d do,” he said shaking his head. “Shit! That’s fucked up. I’m not trying to separate the two of you.” “I know, it’s hard to explain. I’m not sure I can explain. He wants things to be like they were before he got drafted, when he could tell me what to do, and I’d pretty much do it. If he told me to dump some girl then, well… I usually did, without much of an objection. But things are different now, I love you Jackie, you know that don’t you,” he

said. “I know, I love you too, that’s why this is so hard,” I said my smile flickering. “Yeah, I know,” he said helping me clean up. “I mean, I like dealing a little pot here and there, the money’s good, but I don’t see it as a way of making a living – not over the long run at least – way too risky. I’ve known that much ever since that night at Cabrini Green. He sees dealing as his only future.” He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out – we always do.” I sighed, “So what am I supposed to do while the two you are ‘working it out’? I’ve barely seen you since he’s been home.”

“I know, and that ends now – I’ve missed you, babe. I want to be here… like I was before. Assuming that’s what you still want?” his voice dropped off, half questioning, half stating a fact. How the hell did he always manage to do that… know when I’ve given in before I even did? He knew the answer to that question; of course I wanted him around. Well I didn’t have to admit it… he could damn well work for it! I thought. “Hmm, let me think about that,” I replied biting my lower lip for some control. Michael grabbed me around the waist and lifted me into his arms; he grinned, and started walking toward the bedroom.

“You can think about it in here.”

Chapter Twenty-Five My Mother Was Right! It was the end of September. Mary Beth had been back since the beginning of the month. The new semester had started and I was pregnant. How the hell had this happened? It had to be Karma – my mother said I’d end up getting pregnant, and have to get married again! I was on the pill – had been on it for years, ever since moving to Chicago, faithfully taking it each and every morning, like clockwork , except that time while I was sitting on the bench in Lincoln Park mulling things over. I

had run out, and hadn’t had a chance, or maybe I didn’t have the energy, to get to the Planned Parenthood clinic to have my prescription refilled, so I missed a week – but I had started them again right away, taking the first weeks’ worth of my cycle all at once. Now I was sitting in that same clinic being told I was pregnant. As soon as I missed my period I had been suspicious, then when it didn’t come and didn’t come, I made an appointment; I was never late, my body ran like a precisely tuned Swiss timepiece. So when my breasts felt different somehow, more sensitive, I was suspicious, but I never thought the test results would be positive. The doctor said it was early – I was only

about six weeks along. The clinic gave me some pamphlets on my options, none of which sounded good to me. Holy Christ – what the fuck am I going to do now? ~~~~~~~~ I called Mary Beth telling her I needed to see her now; we made plans for me to come to her place that evening. I called The Canteen and told Charlie I wouldn’t be able to come in that night; no, I wasn’t sick, but Mary Beth was and I needed to help her. Then I called Michael, and fed him the same line of bullshit. Mary Beth was living in a studio

apartment in Evanston, just off campus in one of the older houses that had been converted for students. Her apartment actually reminded me of Michael’s place over the garage except his was larger, and she had old concert posters all over the place to hide the ugly green walls. “So what’s the big emergency that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” I stared at her in silence for a few seconds then blurted out, “I’m pregnant.” As I stepped into the room, the tears started to flow. “Oh my God! Are you sure? You’re on the pill; maybe it’s something else.” “Yes, I’m sure – I went to the clinic today and had a pregnancy test… The doctor says I’m about six weeks along.”

I replied reaching out to take the Kleenex Mary Beth was handing me to dry my eyes. I plopped down in an overstuffed chair by her desk – the tears wouldn’t stop. My mind was racing with things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth – I felt like I did when I was calling for help on the park bench, but no one answered. Mary Beth grabbed the box of Kleenex then sat on the arm of the chair, signaled me to scoot over, and slid in beside me telling me to just sit there and cry. “I’ve got a whole new box of tissue in the cabinet if you need it.” Finally calming down some, I was able to answer her questions. I told her about running out of pills, and never

thinking it would be a problem. I figured I got pregnant right after Michael reappeared from his MIA time with Keith. “I never, never expected this,” I moaned. “I’ve always been so careful before, how could I have done this?” “Have you told him yet? Are you going to tell him?” she asked. “No, but I will. Keeping secrets is too corrosive. I haven’t got the energy for it. I’ll explode if I try to keep it from him, but I just need to figure out what I’m going to do first.” I showed her the literature from the clinic. Most of it had to do with prenatal care, but there was one that talked about available options: 1) keep the baby and live happily ever after, 2) give the baby

up for adoption, 3) abortion – currently illegal, and potentially dangerous in all but a couple states, and Illinois was not one of them. I had zero moral objections to abortion, in fact, I had joined several protests over the last few years hoping to force this country into changing the law – too many women were dying or could never have kids later from botched procedures because of our screwed up laws, and all the religious zealots trying to force their opinions onto everyone. A woman’s right to choose a safe, legal, affordable abortion was one of my ‘soap box’ issues. I knew there was a case pending at the Supreme Court, just waiting on a decision, but it had already been delayed, so by the time those nine

old farts made up their minds, I figured this kid would not only be born, it would be graduating from high school! That didn’t do me any good – I needed abortion to be legal this minute. Mary Beth pulled a calendar out of her desk drawer; we figured out the whole trimester thing. I had time to deal with this, time to think. I knew I did not want a kid. At this point I didn’t see myself ever wanting kids, and I sure as hell didn’t want one now, like this: in the middle of a divorce; fucking a drug dealer; fighting with depression or whatever the hell it was that caused this to happen in the first place; getting stoned all the time (God only knew what kind of damage I’d already done to this

thing with pot, Ludes, and Valium); in school with a full year to go before graduating; no means of support; not to mention having to tell my parents who would go berserk and disown me! I could hear my mother’s voice now saying, “I told you so,” and the scandal it would cause – oh my God! We opened a bottle of wine, sat, talked, and ate Cheetos for hours both of us finally falling asleep stretched across her pull-down bed. Mary Beth was going to talk to Kent, and try to find a real doctor who would do an abortion here in Chicago – such a person had to exist, the only issue was finding him or her, and of course, figuring out how to pay for it, but I’d worry about money

later. I was going to go back to Planned Parenthood, and see if they could help with a referral. I was pretty sure abortion was legal in Hawaii and New York and maybe a couple other states without having to prove rape or incest – maybe they could help me make arrangements at a place in New York. I could get there if I had to. At least I had time to plan. But first, I had to tell Michael. I had no idea how he’d react – this was not a subject we’d ever even gotten close to discussing. ~~~~~~~~ It was Saturday. The bar would be busy tonight. Michael and Keith would be

there – with any luck, Keith would find some girl to go home with, and would disappear early. That had been his pattern since Michael started staying with me again. When he didn’t find someone, he’d crash on my couch, something I didn’t want to happen tonight. He had no problem finding women now that his hair was growing out, plus he had grown a beard and mustache that added to his rugged, virile, tough guy look - some nights he had two or three vying for his attention. The two of them arrived wasted and in great moods. I had an idea what they were celebrating, but wasn’t positive. Since Michael and Rick had refused to be part of Keith’s smuggling scheme, he

recruited a couple buddies from his old Army unit who now lived in California, to be his partners. The current plan was for them to acquire the seeds from other Army dudes who were still over there, put together some kind of growing operation out west, and then Michael and Rick would distribute it in the Midwest. My guess was that some piece of this plan had now come together. Before I could ask, Keith was standing about two inches away from my face telling me it was my lucky day – he was leaving on Monday for California. “Really?” I said looking around his shoulder at Michael who nodded in agreement with a shit-eatin’ grin on his face. “Well then, I guess it is my lucky

day,” I said thinking Well shit, it’s going to be impossible to talk to Michael tonight; maybe I should wait until Keith is actually gone – maybe not. I was right. Talking to Michael was impossible. The rest of the night he kept asking why I didn’t want to smoke, why I wasn’t celebrating with them, but was too wasted to push the issue. I wasn’t sure myself, except I had had a twinge of guilt floating around in my head about the wine with Mary Beth, and didn’t want to add to it. As soon as we got back to the apartment after breakfast at the Sunrise Diner, Michael passed out – both of us sleeping Sunday morning well past noon.

~~~~~~~~ I woke up before he did, but just laid there watching him sleep, wondering how to tell him. None of the words I could think of seemed right; there was just no good way to say it. I could feel a tear roll down my cheek, and drop onto the pillow case. Random thoughts rolled around in my head, but I couldn’t hold onto any of them – the only thing I knew for sure was that today, whatever his reaction was to the news, would affect both of us for a very long time to come. “Hmm, good morning, babe,” Michael said rolling towards me. I reached up wiping my eyes and cheeks with my hand before he could see

the tears and said, “good morning.” He reached over, pulled me closer and asked, “What are you doing?” “Nothing… just watching you sleep,” I replied giving him a soft kiss. “How long have you been awake? Shit my head hurts – Christ, I was fucked up last night!” I brushed the hair from his face with my fingers, kissed him again and murmured, “Hmph, yes you were. I’ll go get you some Tylenol and make some coffee.” “Oh no you don’t – you’re not going anywhere. I know a much better cure for a hangover,” he said pushing me flat on the bed, and running his hands over my torso as he nuzzled my neck. Kissing his

way down my body, he casually commented on how ‘rosy’ my nipples looked this morning, “I love you Jackie.” “I love you too Michael,” I whispered feeling my eyes fill with water again. Goddamn it, this is going to be so difficult. ~~~~~~~~ “Is your head doing any better now that you’ve had some food and coffee?” I asked a little later. I had fumbled around the kitchen and managed to produce a decent ham and cheese omelet, toast and coffee – Michael was on his third cup. “Yeah, much better. So what was up with you last night – you stayed straight.

Don’t you think Keith heading to California is worth celebrating?” he asked. “Yeah, I think it’s wonderful. I just wasn’t in the mood for it last night. So, ahhh… what kind of plans do you have for the day? Anything in particular you have to do?” “No, why? What did you have in mind – you want to go somewhere?” he replied drinking more coffee. Piling dishes into the dishwasher I shook my head and responded, “No, no, I… well, well I was just wondering if you had time…” my voice trailed off. Michael looked at me quizzically, “Is something wrong?” “No, nothing’s wrong, I mean …” my

voice faded again. He was watching me, his eyebrows pulled together – he sensed something. I continued, “It’s just… well, I have to talk to you.” “Sure, of course – is it Mary Beth? You said she was sick – is she okay?” he replied. I poured more coffee for both of us, and headed towards the couch. I took a very deep breath hoping for strength, looked up at him as he followed me into the living room saying, “No she’s fine – it’s me.” “You? I don’t understand – are you saying you’re sick?” “No, no one’s sick,” I snapped. Why the hell was I snapping at him, he didn’t do anything wrong. “Will you please stop trying to guess? Shit, there’s no

good way to say this.” It felt like I stopped breathing as I turned to face him. “I’m pregnant.” Michael lowered himself down onto the couch beside me, but said nothing. His expression had frozen when the word ‘pregnant’ came out of my mouth. He was silent – I was pretty sure he had stopped breathing too. He was just looking at me as if I’d shot him – no it was shock. Finally, unable to stand it another second I said, “Please say something.” “Are you sure? How long have you known?” “Yes, I’m sure. I had a pregnancy test on Friday – so I’ve known for two days.”

“But you’re on the pill. How did this happen if you’re on the pill?” “I am on birth control pills. But when you were gone, when you were hanging out with Keith, I ran out and missed about a week. I took all of them when I got the prescription refilled, but I guess it…” I had been looking him in the eyes, trying to see what he was thinking, but I couldn’t look at him any longer. I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and felt tears welling up inside me. “I figure I got pregnant right after that – the night you brought all the Chinese food or the next morning.” My throat tightened, and I choked on my next words, “I’m six weeks along.” “So that’s why you didn’t smoke or

drink last night?” “Yes.” I replied looking up at him again. His face was blank, his voice emotionless. “I mean I didn’t want to add to whatever damage I may have already done, before I knew.” “Does that mean you want to have it?” “No, it doesn’t. It just means… Shit, I don’t know what it means. I just didn’t want to do any more damage, that’s all – don’t read anything more into it than that,” I said clipping my words and sounding irritated. My throat was so tight that it was difficult to swallow – I could feel a panic rising inside me that I was having a hard time keeping down. He was silent again for a moment,

then flashed me a serious look, “Do you want this? Did you get pregnant…?” “No! No!” I yelled barging in on his statement. “What the fuck are you saying? You think I’m trying to trap you somehow? Are you crazy? No I didn’t get pregnant on purpose you motherfucker and no – I don’t want it!” I erupted. “What if I do?” “Do you?” “It was just a question – not a statement, Jackie. What if I did tell you I wanted this baby, what then? Do I have a say in this decision?” he said staring at me. I tried taking a drink of my coffee, but barely managed to swallow. I felt my whole body tremble with anger, my

hands shook as I watched myself lower the mug back onto the coffee table. He put his cup down too. “I’m sorry Michael, but the truth is – it’s not your decision…” “Then why the fuck did you even tell me?!?” he yelled, cutting me off, and storming over to the front window. “When you found out you went to Mary Beth – the two of you have already made the decision, haven’t you? You should have come to me, not her! So what are you going to do – find some back alley abortionist with a coat hanger? I won’t let you do that Jackie – I won’t!” “Won’t let me! You won’t LET me? What the fuck are you, a friggin’ caveman? How the hell are you going to

stop me – are you gonna club me over the head, and lock me up until I have this thing? It’s my body and my decision!” I screamed back, the tension inside me exploding into tiny fragments. He spun around, came across the room and had grabbed me by the shoulders before I saw him actually move. “Then why the fuck did you bother to tell me if it’s all your decision? Why? Tell me why?” he demanded shaking me back and forth. “I told you because I didn’t want to keep it a secret… I didn’t want this to end our relationship; I thought you had a right to know, and because… I need your support,” I yelled in his face struggling to get free.

“Money? You need my money? I can’t believe you’re actually saying this to me!” “Shit no! I’m not talking about money – I don’t want any money from you Goddamn it! I meant I needed you to be there… hoped you’d be supportive – I don’t want to go through this alone!” He released his hold on me and walked back over to the window. I watched him stand there just staring out – neither of us spoke. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned, walked by me into the bedroom, returning a couple minutes later, completely dressed. “I’m going out for a while. I’ll be back later,” he announced opening the door. I just nodded – bursting into tears crying as

soon as the door closed. ~~~~~~~~ I wanted to go out too, to run – go anyplace, be anywhere, except here. The inner trembling forced itself outward until my whole body was shaking. Tears rolled down my cheeks. My legs would no longer support me, I crumbled to the floor in the front hall, curled up and cried. I cried until there weren’t any tears left; I cried until my mind couldn’t race anymore; I cried until I was shrouded with darkness. I must have fallen asleep on the floor, but I have no recollection of dozing off. Waking, I stood up, made my way to the

bathroom and then to bed. All I wanted was to fall back asleep, but all I did was toss and turn. I couldn’t think about anything other than the look on Michael’s face as he walked out the door – the shock, the pain, the sadness in his eyes. I knew how much I hurt him. I told him it was my decision - yelled it in his face. I believed that, but I knew it was his decision too. And he was right… I should have gone to him first, not Mary Beth. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to leave, but he said he’d be back – I couldn’t leave and take the chance of missing him when he rang the buzzer. I walked around the apartment aimlessly – I tried picking

things up, collected the laundry, but was afraid to go to the basement to the washing machines for fear of missing him. I cleaned the kitchen. I sat staring at nothing. I wished for oblivion – I wanted, no I needed to get stoned. I pulled the water pipe from the shelf telling myself there was no reason not to get fucked up – I’d lost Michael already, and since I didn’t want this pregnancy, what difference would it make – then his face flashed through my mind again and I put it back. My body started to quiver again, my stomach churned. I felt a rage that began at the pit of my being, welled up like a fireball inside me, and exploded in a painful, chilling scream. I couldn’t stop myself – it was finally

happening – my head was exploding, and nothing I could do would stop it. I snatched the coffee mugs from the table, threw them across the room – one pulverized against the wall with a popping sound like a baseball bat striking a ball; the other hit the front window shattering it with a sharp piercing noise, mimicking my screams, sending shards of glass flying across the room. It was beautiful – it was fuckin’ beautiful! As the glass and ceramic pieces settled to the floor, my tremors subsided, and the pieces of my brain found their way into their proper place… My skull was almost whole – all I had to do was collect the fallen

pieces, and glue them back into place. But not now – now I needed to sleep. I lay down on the leather couch and could feel the tension drain out of me. My breathing slowed; I closed my eyes. The whirlwind that had engulfed me dissipated into a gentle fall breeze. I felt my feet relax, then my legs, my pelvis and my torso. My heartbeat felt steadier, like it had reached some kind of plateau and was now looking out over a vast open space. Moments later a woefulness appeared in the distance and I slept. ~~~~~~~~ When I woke up I was surrounded by darkness. For the briefest of moments I

thought I was dead – I had no feelings in my body, and my mind was blank. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the lightless room, I heard a car blow its horn from the street below, and I realized I was in my own living room. I shivered as a breeze blew across my body and glanced toward the front window. Oh shit, I broke the fuckin’ window. What a Goddamn mess – I have to call the maintenance guy, I thought sitting up. I turned on the lamp next to me. Damn it! I broke my two favorite coffee mugs – you’re an asshole Jackie – a fucking asshole! Get a grip and clean things up. There was glass everywhere. I picked up the big pieces, then swept and

vacuumed, all the time looking at the front window wondering what the hell I was going to do about it for the evening. I would call the maintenance guy in the morning, but it was chilly, and I needed a way to stop the wind from coming in tonight. I finally decided to duct tape a piece of cardboard over the opening. I cursed at myself while I emptied a box full of leftover fabrics from my time in fashion design from the closet; if I hadn’t thrown a temper tantrum like a spoiled child, if I had controlled my emotions, I wouldn’t have to be doing this now. I felt like an idiot. I dragged the empty box over by the window, fished a roll of duct tape and a box cutter from my tool drawer in the kitchen, and proceeded to

calculate how best to fit the cardboard over the hole. Some of the glass that hadn’t fallen to the floor was loose, so I pried it out of the rim making sure I didn’t cut myself on any of the sharp edges. Then suddenly, a piece I was tugging on gave way, my hand slipped downward, my wrist jabbed on a shard that was still attached to the bottom frame, and blood cascaded down my arm. Within a split second a multitude of thoughts bolted through my brain. Oh my God… I’ve sliced my wrist… maybe I should let it bleed… a quick movement could slice the other one… it would be so easy… no more problems… just do it – NO, NO, NO! Not this way. I dashed to

the kitchen, wrapped a towel around my wrist and pulled it tight. I felt faint, sat down on the nearest chair, clinched my arm up to my chest, and rocked back and forth – do not pass out, do not pass out, do not pass out. As the light-headedness faded away – I took a deep breath, and lowered my arm into my lap; the kitchen towel was soaked through with blood, I had no idea what to do. Should I unwrap it and look? Has it stopped bleeding? The sight of blood made me queasy – shit, I had ruined a perfectly good towel - the blood stains would never come out! I tried to think. Should I get myself to an emergency room? I wasn’t even dressed – I had stayed in my pajamas all day. What if I went there and they

thought I did this on purpose? How the hell was I going to explain it? Should I call someone? I wanted Michael, but I didn’t know where he was – didn’t know where to call. I decided I needed to see just how bad it was; maybe it was nothing to worry about. The blood on the towel hadn’t spread much more, so maybe it stopped. I stood up and went into the bathroom, got out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, took the top off, got some cotton balls, sat down on the toilet, and unwrapped the towel holding my arm over the sink next to me. Shit, it was still bleeding, but not as much; it didn’t look too bad, but it was hard to tell, the whole lower part of my arm was red. I

splashed the hydrogen peroxide over myself to wash away the blood. My hands had started to shake – I was right handed, the cut was on my right wrist, and my left hand did not want to hold the bottle, so I put it down before I spilled it all over. The wound was bubbling, a tiny white foam formed; it sounded like a steak sizzling on a grill. I tried to dab at it with the cotton balls so I could see it better. There were two cuts; the one towards the center of my wrist was small, like a puncture wound; the second, under the base of my thumb was only about an inch or two long, looked deeper like it needed stitches, but at least I hadn’t sliced across the whole thing.

It was still bleeding, and by this time it had started to hurt, throb – I had to get help.

Chapter Twenty-Six It Was an Accident I dumped more hydrogen peroxide over my arm, piled cotton balls on it then wrapped it with another dish towel, went into the bedroom, and tried to put on my jeans. The towel kept coming loose, so I fastened it with duct tape. I was about to call The Canteen to see if Michael might be there when the front door of the apartment opened. It was him. I put the phone receiver down, “I was just trying to find you – I need help.” I said. As he moved further inside the door,

his eyes darted from my duct taped arm, around the room to the broken window, the trail of blood on the floor and the blood soaked towel hanging from the side of the bathroom sink. “What happened…? You didn’t… Are you alright!?!” he demanded. “I’ll be fine, but I think I might need a couple stitches, could you take me to the emergency room?” I replied. I hadn’t moved since the door opened. I was searching his face trying to see if he hated me – I couldn’t tell, he looked even more shocked and pained then when he had left. “Oh, babe, what did you do? Let me see,” he said sounding panicked as he crossed the room to my side, and lifted

my towel-wrapped arm. Okay, he called me babe, maybe he’ll help me get to the hospital before he splits, I thought. “It was an accident,” I said looking him in the eyes. “I broke the window, and I was going to tape that cardboard over it for the night, but my hand slipped and it cut me.” I hesitated, then repeated, “Michael, it was an accident, I swear it was! I’ll tell you everything, but it hurts, and it was still bleeding when I wrapped it, so could we go please? St. Joseph’s is the closest ER – only a few blocks away.” ~~~~~~~~ By the time we got back from the

emergency room it was well past midnight. The ER doc was suspicious about my story, saying he should hold me for a 72 hour psychiatric observation, but Michael backed me up saying he was there and had seen the whole thing. “It was an accident Dr. Lintel, nothing more. There’s nothing to observe – accidents happen,” he stated in a voice that left no room for doubt. They stitched me up, gave me a prescription for antibiotics, one that wouldn’t harm the baby – Michael made sure the doctor knew I was pregnant – and let me go home. Neither one of us had mentioned the pregnancy since Michael walked in the door, except for him telling the doctor.

He helped me tape the cardboard over the broken window, and pick up the remaining evidence of my bloody fiasco. When I first told him what happened, I think he had doubts about my story himself, but as he had me repeat it over and over with more and more detail, I was 99% sure he believed it was an accident. I told him everything, except about the split second when the thought crossed my mind to cut the other wrist – there was no need to voice that I decided. I had made the right decision; I was here, I didn’t do it, so expressing those random thoughts could serve no purpose. But now, alone again, with the emergency over, the pregnancy loomed

like a storm cloud between us. We were standing in the middle of the living room, trying not to look at each other – shy, almost embarrassed, each of us averting our gaze, immediately glancing away whenever we caught the other looking. Neither of us knew what to say; neither of us wanted to argue. We both started to speak at the same time, then smiling at each other, he deferred to me. I took a few steps towards him, pressed my lips together and replied, “I want to thank you. Thank you for coming back, and thank you for believing me.” He reached out, took my hand, pulled me closer. Closing his arms around me in a tight hug, he kissed my forehead and cheek, murmuring, “I’m just glad you’re

okay.” We stood there, embracing, our bodies saying that we both wanted to find a way back to each other. “Jackie, I know you’re tired, but could we talk some before you go to sleep? Keith is leaving in the morning – I have to go home tonight, but I need to talk to you… please?” “Of course,” I nodded, “but can we do it lying down?” “Hmph, you’re right,” he was chuckling as he spoke, “we do do our best talking that way.” Michael’s voice was serious; I could hear the pain and confusion even though he tried hard to disguise it. He had spent the day wandering around the city, finally getting on his bike, and heading

north trying to find some open road to ride letting the wind help him think. He’d been shocked when I told him. He told me he was hurt by my going to Mary Beth first. He was confused because he wanted kids, but knew how difficult it would be to have one now… He understood that it would change both our lives forever. He said he loved me, and asked that I not do anything until we both had a chance to think things through – to talk more. Not argue – talk. I agreed. As he got up to leave something I had been wondering about popped back into my mind. “Michael, where did you get the key? You let yourself in when you came back… I’ve never given you a key…”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t be mad – I had it made back before Christmas when we were arguing, and I took your keys to go get food. Tonight… well, tonight was the first time it felt right to use it. Do you want me to give it back to you?” “No,” I said choking back tears, “I should’ve given you one a long time ago.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven Endings Planned Parenthood gave me a referral to a clinic in Rochester, New York that could do the procedure any time before the 12 week point. I was now eight weeks along. Kent was still trying to help find someone in Chicago, but didn’t have a name yet. My stitches had been removed and my wrist was healing well. I was still finding the occasional odd piece of glass in some far off corner of the floor, but the front window had been replaced, the bloody towels were washed, and other than being pregnant,

generally life was back to normal. Keith was gone so I didn’t have to deal with his bullshit – at least for the moment. In a strange way, Michael and I were growing closer. Maybe it was me relaxing some as I realized I wouldn’t have to go through this alone – Michael made it clear that he wasn’t going to bolt; he was staying with me. In fact, he was being very attentive, very loving, always asking me how I felt or if I needed anything. It was sweet, but also annoying as hell. We had talked, then talked some more, but were currently at an impasse; he thought he wanted this baby – I didn’t. I went over and over all the logical reasons why having this kid was a shitty

idea. He said we could make it work; I told him I didn’t want to ‘make anything work’. I wanted it to be right from the beginning – not an accident. Every day we went around in circles, over the same territory again and again. Ultimately though, he understood: I held the deciding vote. It turned out that his initial adamancy about not getting an abortion was directed towards doing it illegally – he was afraid for my safety. He calmed down once he understood that I intended to go to New York if a safe alternative couldn’t be found here. Somewhere deep inside himself he knew I was right, knew we weren’t ready, knew having this child would be a mistake – but he was

also infatuated with the ‘idea’ of it. He was hoping time would alter my thinking; likewise, I was hoping it would alter his. Until it was settled, I made him promise me he would not tell anyone, especially not his mother or anyone at The Canteen – I didn’t think I could withstand pressure from the whole world. In return, I promised not to smoke or drink, take Valium or get fucked up on any kind of substance whatsoever, no matter how much I wanted to, just in case I changed my mind. I was always exhausted, so I was 99% sure I could fall asleep easily on my own – I even took naps. ~~~~~~~~

“Hey Jackie, it’s John. Well we’ve finally got a court date; it’s Wednesday, October 18th.” “That’s great! That’s less than two weeks away. I assume you still haven’t had any kind of response from Stephen?” I asked. “No, nothing, the deadline passed a long time ago anyhow. But we’ve complied with all the legal requirements, so that won’t be an issue,” he replied. “I’ll be getting in touch with Bernie and Mary Beth. We need them there as witnesses, in case the judge wants to ask any questions, but I’m almost positive I won’t need to call them – just you.” “Okay, both of them said they would

do it before, so I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I’ll call them later too. So how is your dissertation coming John?” “Pretty good – I’m on schedule at least. I want to thank you for talking to me. I learn so much from people like you,” he replied. “No, actually, I think it was you that helped me. Talking about it all… well it helped me to sort through the whole thing myself. I was wondering, would it be possible to get copies of the tapes? They give a pretty good account of how I was feeling at the time, and who knows, maybe later… Well, maybe they could help… if I ever decided to listen to them.” “Of course, I’ll make copies for you,

and bring them when we meet. What’s your schedule like for the rest of the week? You will have to testify so I want to go over everything with you ahead of time. Do you have time this Thursday?” John asked. ~~~~~~~~ Twenty-one years old, divorced and now pregnant – I seemed to be doing everything backwards, at least according to the rules I had been taught as a little girl. I was now 10 weeks along, and my divorce was final as of today. For the past two weeks I had been stressing about going to court; even during Michael’s 24th birthday celebration the

week before. Michael was happy though – pretty much considered the divorce his birthday present. I wanted it to be over, but was very, very nervous, even though John had assured me that court was only a formality at this point. We had gone over my testimony. There was nothing complicated – name, address, date we were married, date we separated, verify we had no children, verify we had no property, state grounds for divorce, settle the outstanding medical bills, and ask for use of my maiden name back. Since there was no response from Stephen, no opposing attorney, no nothing on the other side, John would be able to lead me through it. He was right – it took all of ten

minutes from start to finish. He did not have to call either Mary Beth or Bernie to testify, the judge just said “granted,” and that was that. When it was over, both Mary Beth and Bernie left with the same question in their minds as I had, ‘Was that judge even listening?’ John laughed at all three of us then headed off with Bernie to some Bar Association luncheon, saying he’d mail me the paperwork when it came, but in the meantime I should call if I needed anything. Mary Beth and I decided to duck into one of the restaurants close to the courthouse for lunch too before heading home. I ordered a cheeseburger, French fries, and a diet Coke – I was starving,

of course I was always starving lately. I had only experienced three signs of early pregnancy so far: 1) I was always tired, 2) I was always hungry and, 3) my nipples were pink and my boobs were sensitive. I had not experienced any morning sickness – the thought of being nauseous every day was very unsettling. As we sat down and took off our coats, Mary Beth asked me, “Where the hell did you get that dress Jackie? It looks like one of my mother’s table cloths.” I grinned, “Yep, that’s why I bought it. John told me I should wear a conservative dress to court, so I went to the second hand store on the corner and found this – it was cheap, and I thought it

made me look respectable, right?” The dress was a simple, empire waist style in a blue and white hound’s-tooth pattern, with long sleeves, buttons up the front and a white lacy collar and cuffs. “You know how people save wedding dresses, and pass them on generation after generation… well I was thinking about saving my divorce dress and passing it on,” I said. Smiling back and laughing she replied, “That’s fucked up.” “Well then think of it this way – the long sleeves and these damn white cuffs hide my wrist. It’s healing, but I’m going to have a scar, and it’s still red and ugly – I didn’t want John to see it.” I pulled back the edge of the cuff so she could

look. “Oh yeah, you were lucky with that – it could have been a lot worse,” she said nodding. “So do you still have the appointment on Monday? You haven’t changed your mind have you?” she asked looking up over her BLT sandwich. “Hmph, don’t worry, I haven’t changed my mind. I still have the appointment – Michael and I are driving to Rochester on Sunday,” I told her. “He still says we could make it work and that’s sweet – I mean, I love him for giving me the option, but I… well I just can’t go through with it. Having this baby would be the biggest mistake of my life, and I’ve made some pretty big ones so far. I mean shit – I just got divorced

15 minutes ago!” I said, taking a huge bite of my burger. “Yeah, I can’t picture you living over the garage with him and a kid. I wish Kent had been able to find someone here, then you wouldn’t have to travel. Are you sure you don’t need me to go along?” “No, I’ll be fine. Michael will take care of me – I’m sure of it. Even though part of him wants this, he knows I’m right. We’ve talked about it for a month now so… it’ll be okay. He, ahhh… Well he said he wanted me to be at peace with the decision. There was just something about the way he said it. I don’t know, it just struck me. I mean how does a person ever know if they’re making the right

decision – something they can be at ‘peace’ with, especially when it’s a permanent decision like this?” “I don’t know – what does Cosmo say?” Mary Beth replied smiling across the table at me. “Hell, the way the world is going, it could all blow up tomorrow. You just make the best decision you can, that’s all.” We finished lunch and planned a divorce party of sorts for Friday night at The Canteen. Walking down the block towards the bus stop I gasp, feeling a quick, sharp pain in my stomach. “What’s wrong, are you alright?” Mary Beth asked stopping and turning towards me. “Ahhh yeah, it’s gone now. I’ve been

getting these cramps for about a week now – mostly right after I pig out and eat too much like I just did. I’ll be fine,” I told her starting to walk again, and changing the subject back to the divorce celebration. Divorce parties were all the rage right now according to the trashy magazines – so why was I feeling sad? ~~~~~~~~ “So?” Michael said as he came into the apartment, hung up his jacket and gave me a kiss, “how’d it go?” I nodded, “Yes… you’re kissing a single woman for the very first time. It’s done.” “Good,” he said. He had wanted to

come along to court with me, but something about him being there, listening to me testify, seemed wrong – I refused to let him come. I sighed. “Yeah, I suppose it is good. Ya know it’s strange,” I said looking at him, “I thought I’d feel something… I don’t know what, just something, but instead I… Well I feel a little sad, but other than that, I just feel nothing.” “Sad? You mean you wish you hadn’t done it?” “Oh God no! Sad is the wrong word, Maybe it’s just that it’s taken so long, it’s like – anticlimactic or something.” “Maybe,” he agreed. “Are you still going to plan a ‘divorce party’? “Already have – it’s Friday night, be

there or be square,” I said with a snarky grin on my face. ~~~~~~~~ It was 4:52 am according to the digital clock on the night stand when I woke up with cramps. Michael and I had come back to the apartment at 2:00 am after a crazy evening celebrating my divorce, and fending off questions about why I wasn’t drinking – I had fallen asleep almost immediately, exhausted as usual. I laid there for a few minutes wishing the pangs of pain away so I could go back to sleep, but this time they didn’t pass. I got up and went into the bathroom, thinking maybe that was the problem, but

soon found out it wasn’t – I was bleeding. Oh shit, what the fuck is going on? I got myself cleaned up and woke Michael… “I think I’m having a miscarriage or something - I have a pain in my stomach, and I’m bleeding… We need to get help.” He was up like a shot. “What happened? Are you alright?” he demanded. “I don’t know – I woke up with cramping pains and I’m bleeding, sort of a lot,” I replied. He was rubbing his hands over his face, and through his hair then turned, and started to get dressed, all before I had time to finish my sentence. “Okay, shit –I’m taking you to the ER,” he

blurted out tossing my jeans and a sweater in my direction. For the second time in about a month, I found myself talking to the same friggin’ doctor at St. Joseph’s… just my luck that I’d get this guy again. He remembered me just as well as I remembered him. “Hello again Mrs. Janowski,” he said rather matter-offactly, finding my name on some paperwork in his hand, as he entered the curtained off area the nurses had brought Michael and I into to wait. He nodded at Michael then asked, “So what happened?” Michael answered before I could; telling him the scenario of events for what was now the last hour or so.

“Okay, I need to do an examination and see what’s going on. You’ll have to wait outside Mr. Janowski – it won’t be too long.” Michael flashed me a look – he didn’t like being called that name, it had only happened once before, but he did not like it. I attempted to explain to the doctor that my name was now Moretti again, that I had gotten a divorce three days ago, and that Michael’s name was Nowak. The doctor looked back and forth between us, and then at the nurse, finally just saying, “You need to wait outside sir.” Leaning down to kiss me, Michael reluctantly left, the nurse assuring him that he could come back as soon as the

doctor was done. Dr. Lintel was quiet throughout most of the exam, mumbling to the nurse, asking me a few basic questions about the pregnancy so far: the pain, when it first started, my activities, if I’d taken any drugs, and if I had had any bleeding before this. When he was done, he moved up to my side as he removed his latex gloves and took my wrist. “Well it looks like this ‘accident’ healed well,” he said. “Do you want Mr. …” He hesitated and I filled in the blank, “Nowak.” “Do you want Mr. Nowak to hear what I have to say?” he asked. “Yes, please,” I answered as I took a deep breath.

“Nurse, will you ask him to come back in please?” After Michael was back he stated, “I’m sorry, Miss Moretti, but as you suspected, you’ve had a miscarriage. We need to do a D & C to remove any remaining fetal tissue, but after that, you’ll be fine – there should be no reason at all why you shouldn’t be able to have children in the future.” As he stopped talking. Michael and I looked at each other. Both of us suspected a miscarriage, but hearing it confirmed, seemed to give us enough of a jolt that neither of us spoke. There was no need for words, our eyes said it all. “Do you have any questions? If not, I’ll start making arrangements for the

procedure.” Dr. Lintel asked. “Yes, I have questions,” I said, and started to rattle off the list that was forming in my mind. “First why… do you know why this happened?” “No, that’s something I can’t tell you. Most likely it’s nothing you did. Sometimes nature knows when something is abnormal and…” “Abnormal?” I broke in. “What do you mean abnormal?” “I’m not saying there was any kind of abnormality, I’m just saying that if there was, then nature sometimes knows, and takes care of it through an early miscarriage. Miscarriages in the first trimester aren’t that unusual. Like I said, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be

able to get pregnant again in the future, but I do suggest you wait at least six months before trying again. You can talk to your obstetrician about all that when you go back for a follow up – we’ll send your records over,” he said looking down at the paperwork in his hand, then back at me. “You didn’t fill in a name here, we need his name.” “I don’t have one.” He eyed both of us. “Oh. Well you’ll need to find a doctor to do the follow up, you can’t come to the ER for that.” “That’s not a problem, I’ll go to Planned Parenthood,” I stated. I’d rather go to them, at least they’re nice, not like you with your fuckin’ judgmental tone, I thought glaring at him. I’d ask

them the rest of my questions too. After he and the nurse left, I looked at Michael, and with tightened lips said, “Well, I guess we don’t need to go to New York tomorrow.” The feeling that came over me was much like what I felt three days earlier – I was glad it was over, but still filled with sadness. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed and held me; tears welled up inside me, and I cried, all the time wondering to myself if I’d be crying had I gone through with the abortion. I cried on and off for another couple weeks. Michael thought I was crying because of the miscarriage, and somehow took it to mean that I would never have been able to go through with

the abortion. I knew it wasn’t that – had I actually found myself at that final second before making an irreversible decision… I knew I would have done it – not a doubt in my mind. But somehow, having nature make the decision, losing control of what would and would not happen, threw me for a loop – one I was not prepared for. No, I thought, I needed to be in control of something – I was crying about my body betraying me even though the end result was exactly what I wanted. I was also sure my newly divorced status was somehow part of it too but, the miscarriage provided a perfect cover – I could cry with impunity.

Chapter Twenty-Eight Life is Good Stressed. I decided I was stressed, not depressed. I figured I had a right to be stressed. Shit it was the fall of 1972 – over the last two years I had been married, discovered my husband was gay, divorced, was in a relationship with a wonderfully sexy man who just happened to deal drugs, gotten pregnant, had a miscarriage, and was leading a double life; not to mention being at constant odds with my parents, stoned as much as possible, and trying to get myself through school. Somehow just the

word ‘depressed’ seemed melodramatic to me, like something from a soap opera on TV with someone always looking for sympathy or an excuse about why they had screwed up whatever situation they found themselves in during that episode. Yep, I could give myself permission to be stressed, I thought; everyone experienced stress – it was socially acceptable. Stress didn’t mean I was weak or crazy, it meant I sometimes freaked out trying to get through the day. That was okay because it was coming from the outside – something imposed on me, not from somewhere inside me. Stress was external; depression was internal. Somehow stress ‘felt’ better to me – the real me was doing just fine; it

was the world around me, causing stress, that fucked things up. Michael spent the weeks between the miscarriage and roughly Thanksgiving, in mourning. I even caught a couple times when ‘the bad boy’ had tears in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t sleep well, he was irritable, withdrawn, and his libido had waned – some. Of course we were being very careful since I was just getting back on birth control pills, and he hated condoms, but I could tell, he was working his way through his own feelings. All the things Dr. Lintel had told us - that miscarriages in the first trimester were common; it didn’t mean that I had done anything wrong, that there was no way of knowing why it happened

– maybe something was wrong with the fetus, maybe not; it was just nature’s way of sorting things out; that just because I miscarried this time it did not mean I would miscarry next time… needed time to settle for both of us. The doctor had no idea I was planning on aborting when he said all those things, but somehow, Michael, well he was just plain sad. Even though I cried about the betrayal of my body, it was good it happened this way. I knew now that the abortion would have torn the two of us apart in a way that might have been irreparable. When I could get him talking, he admitted he wanted the baby even though he knew that I was right; he was still hoping I’d change my

mind – right up to the end. A piece of me loved him more for that, but I also knew I would not have been able to make the kind of commitment a child needed. I wasn’t even sure I was capable of making that much of a commitment to him – not yet. I felt scattered, how could someone who found it hard or impossible to get out of bed some days be a mother? We went over and over it, after about a month he came out of his funk, and started acting like his old self again. The holidays came and went, pretty much duplicating the year before – we spent Thanksgiving with his family, Keith stayed in California. Tom, who had graduated from high school last

spring, had taken off on a road trip with some of his friends, but the rest of the neighborhood still got together; I enjoyed it, but not as much as the year before. I kept looking at it as if this was now ‘my future’. Not that I thought I was destined for greatness or anything –I knew that wasn’t the case – but would I ever be as satisfied as these people seemed living out a mediocre life? Imagine me as south side girl – like Mary Beth said, I couldn’t get the image to fit in my mind. I went back to Weymouth for Christmas. My mother had broken the news of my divorce to the family; no one said a word about it to me so I guess it wasn’t that big a deal after all, and of

course, none of them knew anything about the whole pregnancy thing. I had somehow taken on the same persona non grata status as my father again this year – fine with me. I fielded my parents’ questions about The Canteen and Michael with ease, my father asking if he had managed to go back to school, and both of them telling me to say ‘hello’ to him for them when I got back. Most of our conversations revolved around my plans for after graduation in the spring – something I hadn’t even let cross my mind yet. My student teaching was going well and would be complete soon. Somehow, I thought having to focus, having to be up early each morning even if I had worked until 4 am the night

before, had helped to get me through the last couple months. I couldn’t just blow it off, not if I wanted to pass at least, and I did want to be done with school. If I’d had nothing special to focus on, I wondered if my crying fits would have lasted longer. While I was gone, a piece of my brain kept flashing to Michael’s confession about being with someone else last Christmas, but I pushed thoughts of a repeat performance out of my mind – and as Mary Beth and I discussed on the drive east this year, that was before the two of us had any kind of ‘real relationship’. We did have a ‘real relationship’ now. Besides we had been through a lot together since that point.

Mary Beth still referred to him as ‘my bad boy’, and often used the word ‘phase’ when referring to him instead of ‘relationship’ … something I chose to ignore. ~~~~~~~~ Day to day life dragged on throughout the spring. Life like this was unrecognizable to me; had I grown so used to being on edge, stressed about one thing or another that I didn’t know how to live without it? Nothing to worry about, nothing to stress about… mundane, routine, and almost sedate… Getting through the drudgery of everyday life was going to be the death of me.

Why didn’t I feel happy? My stressors were in the past. Not only was I going to graduate, in fact, I had managed to impress the hell out of my instructors in the education department – my favorite one, Lana Christakos, even saying I should apply for a graduate assistantship and stay to get my MFA. That was a suggestion I wanted nothing to do with, at least not now, but one that made me think for a split second that I should have attended Goodman School of Drama, the performing arts school that was housed next to SAIC. I must be a fantastic actress if they wanted me to stay. Double life – Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde; didn’t they see how much I had struggled to keep my head in one piece, how many

days I wanted no more than to roll over and die, and how completely and utterly bored I was now? As one humdrum day stacked on top of the next; I revolted against it all. Why was Michael able to come back from his sadness; why am I just sinking deeper and deeper? During my short pregnancy I had stopped all drug use and kept it at a lower level when I had to be at Francis Parker early each morning only letting myself get stoned on weekends. Now I was back to taking Valium to sleep, having to increase the amount just to doze off and needing multiple gulps of SoCo if I wanted to stay that way. Shit I was back to all of it, plus some! Michael kept me well

supplied. He was getting pulled in more and more with Keith’s growing California network, something I wanted nothing to do with – not even wanting to hear about it. Every time I allowed myself to think about the whole Keithdealing scheme I freaked out; all I could see was the downside. What if things went bad again and Michael was hurt or got busted? It would be federal charges. It was way too risky – something I could not live with and I knew would only end up pulling Michael away from me. The only way I could deal with those thoughts at all was to get stoned, now how ironic was that? Why had I let him into my life? Why had I allowed myself to get attached?

Why hadn’t I been strong enough to keep our relationship on a casual fuck basis? Why had I let myself go from loving Stephen to loving Michael? When we first met I needed him to get away from ‘the different guy every night’ life I had started to lead. Even though I didn’t see it at that moment, I knew now that I hated being with someone new all the time – hated the idea of chocking up names on my wall or notches in my belt. That was a sleazy male thing, and no matter how much I told myself I was just being a modern, liberated woman, I knew I didn’t want to live like that. Then Michael came along, and saved me from myself – he gave me everything I needed… Why wasn’t that enough? Sex

with him was wonderful, I could talk to him, and he provided whatever drug I wanted whenever I wanted it. Why hadn’t I ended it at that – why had I allowed him to love me and me to love him? Why had I allowed him to bring me into his family – to make me feel safe? I wasn’t safe now – this was a trap. We now had an almost predictable routine – life was good, except that it wasn’t. Michael stayed at my place almost every night. He was still tender, still loving, still kissed me as if he meant it… His touch still sent shivers down my spine, it still felt like he was trying to consume me with every touch, every thrust – but something was wrong. As I spiraled downward, fighting with myself

more and more each day just to get out of bed, I could feel it, whatever it was. I could feel myself slipping away from him; sometimes the sensation was so strong it was palpable. At those times a fear consumed me, one I had no control over. Shortly before my graduation, Michael announced that he, Rick and Tom were going to make a trip out to California to visit Keith – check out what he was setting up. He said he still didn’t see dealing as a long term future, but maybe, just for a while to help to get some money together. It was then that I began applying to any, and all, school systems with an opening for an art teacher from Massachusetts to Florida to

Alaska – not just schools in Chicago. I was petrified that he’d stay in California with Keith. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come with me if I had a job? What the hell was happening to us? Had I somehow destroyed this relationship too? ~~~~~~~~ Graduation in May was a festive event. My parents flew into Chicago this time instead of driving; however, they still stayed at my apartment with me – which meant that Michael couldn’t. By this point, he was almost a full time resident, so we were forced to cart most of his things to the basement to a storage area

for a few days. I figured my parents knew we were having sex, but I didn’t want to rub it in their faces – in this case deciding that a little deception was better than honesty even though I had been trying my best to tell them the truth. I didn’t want to give my mother any excuse whatsoever to start a discussion about morality or look at me like I was a total tramp – I just wanted to get through this whole thing as unscathed as possible. The three of us could find any number of things to argue about without handing them ammunition in the form of Michael – they were going to be here for four days, God give me strength and lots of drugs. I sometimes thought graduation was a

bigger deal for them than it was for me. Not that I wasn’t grateful for having an education –at least it gave me some options and opportunity for employment – but to me school equaled pressure, something I had to complete. Yes, I was completing it for my own future, but it had become something I was determined to do – like a way of proving that all the shit in my life meant nothing, I could power my way through whatever life threw at me. My parents, on the other hand, saw it as an accomplishment, something to be proud of. None of my Aunt Edith’s kids had gone to college, and none of the kids’ kids did either so I understood this would give my mother something she

could point to with pride. I wished I could think of it that way, but I couldn’t. I had made it, academically at least, but I wondered if I had made it with my mind intact – I felt broken most of the time. I should have done so much more. I wasn’t any great creative soul; I shouldn’t have gone to art school. I hated my own work, knew it would never amount to anything… Shit, I didn’t even enjoy doing it anymore. If my mother hadn’t insisted that I take education classes, this degree would be worth no more than a roll of toilet paper. I decided right then and there to frame my diploma, and hang it in the bathroom. Ashley and Lisa were excited about graduating – both of them also went the

education route, but both also had studio areas they still loved. I was envious of their joy and sense of completion – triumph at a job well done – but somehow I couldn’t find the same feeling of gratification. It just wasn’t there, no matter where or how hard I looked. All I felt was emptiness. SAIC held a reception after the actual graduation ceremony in one of the museum’s interior gardens. It was a spectacular setting; a full-fledged formal English garden style atmosphere with well-manicured greenery and paths crisscrossing at perfect intervals surrounded by glass walls, and museum corridors leading to some of the world’s best art work. The whole thing was done

the same way the high class gallery openings were: waiters roaming around dressed in penguin suits serving either red or white wine, bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres: stuffed mushrooms, tiny sausages wrapped with bacon, crab cakes, and cheese of every variety, color and smell. The tables themselves were works of art, heaped with fruit and desserts – petit fours, lemon bits, and strawberries dipped in chocolate – and a huge sheet cake congratulating all of us on a job well done. Michael came dressed in an updated version of his previous preppy costume – the same khaki pants and penny loafers, but this time he had a muted paisley print shirt with a solid deep

purple tie that I had picked out to match the shirt. I even discarded my jeans for a boldly graphic, mid-length, orange and purple print dress and high heeled shoes. My parents were delighted. They spent the time chatting with the other parents and faculty, getting to meet Ashley, Lisa and their families; and very proudly listened to Lana Christakos, whom they had met during their last trip, tell them how all the instructors in the education department wanted me to think about graduate school. Life was indeed good and I was miserable.

Chapter Twenty-Nine Bang Bang Right after my 22nd birthday, Michael, Rick and Tom headed for California. I didn’t want him to go. I was afraid, but couldn’t find words to explain exactly why. I understood him wanting to see his brother, but I knew Keith was still trying to lure them all in with promises of fast, big money. I was more than afraid – this trip terrified me, even though I knew I was imagining crazy ass scenarios that would never happen in real life, something about it was scaring me to the depths of

my soul – my fear was insidious, eating away at me more each day. They had planned on riding their bikes out, but my ‘nagging’ as Rick put it, changed the mode of transportation to the Mustang. I had never been that fond of motorcycles; although I rode around the city with Michael, the sight of bare pavement speeding by without anything between me and it sent gory, bloody images racing through my mind. The idea of the three of them traveling over two thousand miles each way seemed ludicrous, and unnecessarily dangerous. Besides, I had seen the movie Easy Rider. No matter how adventurous, romantic, and exciting riding cross country on a bike seemed, the reality

was that their asses would be killing them, they’d be exposed to whatever weather happened to happen, and it would take longer since they’d have to stop to sleep instead of swapping off drivers like they could do in the car. Plus they’d attract less attention from whatever crazy, conservative redneck types they ran into along the way in an old Mustang – at least I hoped they would, thus lessening my stress level. I was having a hard enough time trying to shake the feeling that Michael was going to get sucked in, and when I added thoughts of him being attacked by illiterate hicks with missing teeth, I could freak myself out in no time at all. I wanted him back – in one piece. If our

relationship was going to end, at least it should be because of a conscious decision that was within our control, not something imposed by the outside world. Shirley didn’t want them to go either. It never failed to amaze me how well she knew her sons – what each one was capable of doing or not doing. She knew Keith was headed in the wrong direction, yet was powerless to do anything to change his course. Every so often she’d make a comment that let me see how torn she was about Keith. “I should have left their father sooner; Keith is too much like him; I don’t want to lose any of them; it’s my fault.” Every phrase trailed off as she took another drink. Michael was right – we were a lot

alike. ~~~~~~~~ They were gone for two and a half weeks. Charlie brought in a rough, burly looking asshole named Guy to work with Levi while Rick was gone. Guy was big – not muscular big, but not fat big either; he looked like he used to lift weights, but had quit so the muscles were in the process of atrophying. He had lots of tattoos. I tried to talk to him when we were introduced, but he wasn’t much in the conversation department – zero personality. “I can’t get him to talk to me, Levi, what’s wrong?” I asked when the two of

us went into the back to get supplies. “Nothing’s wrong,” Levi replied, “He’s never been the talkative type.” “Do you know him, then?” “Yeah, I’ve met him before, he’s tended bar all over town – that’s how Charlie knows him. There was some kind of trouble, I don’t know what… He disappeared for a while, but he used to be a good bar tender. I think you make him nervous Jackie, he’s not very comfortable around females,” he said with a smirk on his face. “Hmph, well he makes me nervous too, so I guess we’re even,” I quipped back as I grabbed a stack of bar napkins and some straws from the shelf. “I heard Charlie ask him if he could stay on when

Rick got back, so you could have more time off. What are you gonna do?” “I don’t know exactly – I just need a change. Working in this dump every night is gettin’ to me, you know?” he answered. “Just like you’re gonna be moving on – one way or another… soon.” His statement caught me by surprise, I hadn’t thought about it in those terms. “What do you mean ‘one way or another’?” I asked. Levi met my eyes head on with a shit eatin’ grin on his face, “Don’t play coy with me… That may work with Mike, but I’m not him.” “I’m not being ‘coy’. What are you talking about?”

He seemed almost exasperated, “I mean, you’re going to split as soon as you get a teaching job. You have no intention of staying here. You don’t fit in, you never have, and you’re done slumming.” “Well, of course I want to get a real job. I wouldn’t have spent all this time in school if I didn’t – that’s no big revelation. And I haven’t been slumming.” “That’s not what I meant, and yes you have,” he said as he turned to go back into the bar with a case of liquor. “And you’re about done with Mike too.” I stood there puzzled for a second. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Fuck you Levi!” I called after him. I was

in no mood for his riddles, and I wasn’t going to let him upset me. Asshole! I thought, closing the door behind myself. Time crawled by. Michael called every couple days – so did Shirley. She seemed concerned about something in particular, but never said exactly what, spending most of the conversation asking for whatever news I had heard or talking about nothing at all. Candy had moved to Indiana a few months back with her current boyfriend, so Shirley was alone in the house while Michael and Tom were gone – maybe she was just lonely. I understood that; with Michael gone, I had far too much time on my hands too. I felt like I did almost a year ago when Keith first came home from Vietnam.

~~~~~~~~ Most of the days I slept till midafternoon. I was too stressed, stoned or hung over from the night before to get out of bed – then spent time in the afternoons before going to The Canteen at night, sending out resumes to all the school systems on a list of openings I had gotten from the education department. I worked my way through all the openings, even applying to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and Fairbanks, Alaska – both of which were tied in my mind as moves of desperation, but worth the price of a postage stamp. I had grown up hearing that teachers were always in demand – that it was the best profession a woman could have, other

than secretary or nurse – but somewhere around 1971, the teacher shortage had turned into a teacher glut, schools were cutting back, so jobs were harder to come by. I applied for any grade level, even though high school was where I thought I wanted to be; I was not fond of little kids so elementary age was at the bottom of the pile. Over the last month or so, several of the old biker types that used to frequent The Canteen had started showing up again. Something was going on with Charlie and his partners. I was pretty sure they were having financial problems although nothing was ever said. Whenever the biker crew showed up, there was a tension in the air. Levi

didn’t like most of them much, however, Guy seemed to relax more when they came around. The Canteen always had a very eclectic mix of patrons; misfits was actually a better way to describe most of them. They were just a little ‘off’, the kind of people that didn’t fit with any group – they came together, all managing to blend and coexist in the same space and time while there. But these guys from the past were different – tougher, non-sociable, they didn’t blend… They stayed to themselves, and watched everything that happened with an air of suspicion, especially behind the bar, as if they had a proprietary interest. Before they left on their road trip, both Michael and Rick told me to stick close to Levi,

advice they didn’t have to repeat – I wanted nothing to do with Guy or any of the others. ~~~~~~~~ “God, I’ve missed you so much,” I told Michael when he walked into the apartment. He was smiling – looking so very sexy. “I’ve missed you too babe,” he whispered holding me against him, both of us lingering there in our usual long hug – a sense of safety flowing over me. At that moment nothing else mattered – I just wanted to stand there, wrap myself in the cocoon of his arms, and never have to face the rest of the world again.

He was kissing my cheek and forehead with such love, I knew he was engulfed by the same desire. Pulling back just a tad he murmured, “I want you – now,” his lips curling up in the corners, “but I’m ravenous, I haven’t eaten all day. We just wanted to get back so we didn’t stop to eat – have you got any food around here or should we order something?” “I have food here – real food,” I announced. He looked surprised knowing full well that cooking was not my forte, “Really, you cooked? What is it?” he asked. I was smirking by this point. “It’s your mother’s meatloaf. She gave me the recipe while you were with Keith – I

think it’s edible. It smelled pretty good while it was in the oven.” “Ha! I knew she’d be callin’ you while we were gone. She promised she wouldn’t, but I knew she would. Did she drive you crazy?” “No, of course not. I like your Mom – you know that. She only called about 5 or 6 times, it was fine. I think she was a little lonely with all four of you out of the house… and calling me was local, not long distance.” “Hmph, well she may have to get used to that …” His voice faded off. I turned as I removed the meatloaf from the oven where I’d left it to keep warm, “What do ya mean ‘get used to it’?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you while we eat. Did you bake some potatoes too?” he inquired. “No, of course not – who do you think I am, friggin’ Betty Crocker? I’m not even sure this meatloaf will be decent. I figured I’d open a can of green beans or something, but I did get some hard rolls and butter.” “Of course you did,” he smiled taking the plates from me to put on the table. The meatloaf was okay, but not as moist as Shirley said it would be by adding milk and maple syrup – I guess I shouldn’t have left it in the oven to stay warm, that dried it out – but Michael was sweet saying it was “good”. Both of us ate it by smothering it in ketchup. Michael gave me the details of the

trip while we ate. He hadn’t said much about things on the phone, but now I heard everything in minute detail. On the drive out, they followed Route 66 through Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona before veering north for the San Francisco area. It was uneventful except when Tom managed to get himself locked in the men’s room at some rundown gas station in Arizona –the door lock was broken, but Tom ignored the handwritten note the owner had posted about not using the lock, so they were stuck for close to an hour while the old guy removed the hinges. He then charged them $50.00 for his labor, and repairs to the door. At first they refused

to pay, but a local cop ‘just happened’ to pull into the station informing them that they would be under arrest for destruction of property if they didn’t pay up. “It was a scam, I’m sure of it,” he said, but they decided to hand over the funds so the cop wouldn’t have any excuse to search the car. “What? That son-of-a-bitch!” I exclaimed. “You’re right, that old geezer and the cop probably split the money when you left. I bet they make more ripping off people who look like you guys when they’re driving through than they do selling gas.” “Yeah, believe me it was good to get back into civilization.” They spent four days total on the road heading west since

they made a lot of stops; but coming home took a more northerly route, avoiding Arizona, saving a couple hundred miles, driving straight through, and making it in two days. Keith was living with some of his old army buddies – Mark, Larry and Tom – while they were there, they started calling his brother Lil’ Tom, something he hated. There were other people in and out, so Michael wasn’t sure who actually ‘lived’ there. It was a four bedroom house, part sprawling like a ranch, part two-story from the additions over the years, in a rundown residential sectional far east of the city – a place where no one paid any attention to their activities. “It was a flop house, a dump

Jackie, a real dump. You’d‘ve hated it. After a couple days, I hated it. It’s like there was no down time, no way to get away from the craziness.” “You’re right. I would’ve hated it – I need my own space,” I answered. After 10 days with Keith, the three of them were convinced he was actually going to pull off some kind of growing operation. Larry had a good deal of knowledge about plants, soil, nutrients, and all that stuff. He had grown up on a corn farm in Iowa and had been part of Future Farmers of America in high school before getting drafted. They’d already converted the garage into a grow room to experiment with different techniques, lights, ventilation, and plant

strains. Larry had persuaded them that indoors was the way to go; he took care of the plants like they were his babies. The guys had found a deserted warehouse, and were working on a deal with the property owner to use the space when they were ready to expand – one involving a cut of the business. The biggest hurdle was still smuggling the ‘super marijuana seeds’ into the country. Michael said he and Rick kept telling them they should just grow the strains they had so far. “Wait till you try this stuff Jackie… there’s one I had to stop smoking without you there – it made me way too horny.” He winked across the table. “We can have it for dessert.” “Hmm, that sounds good.”

So since Keith and his buddies already had some potent strains going that could produce different kinds of highs the focus had definitely shifted to growing. Lil’ Tom was blown away with Keith’s plans and had wanted to stay, but Michael talked him into coming back to Chicago for at least a couple weeks – besides he didn’t want to be the one to tell his Mom. “What about you?” I asked. “Are you going to move too?” Michael looked up into my eyes, inhaled and exhaled sharply before answering, “I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking.” He then lit a joint. “Try this babe – let’s see if it has the same effect on you as it does me.”

I took the joint and started clearing away the dishes in relative silence. My conscious mind seemed to fragment as I inhaled and realized that I was losing him. ~~~~~~~~ More weeks passed. It was late July – the city was hot and sticky, tempers flared. My momentary happiness at having Michael at least physically back gave way to a sense of desperation. My job search was not yielding any results except for a couple rejection letters. I had found a list of teacher openings in Keith’s part of California, and sent out resumes. Michael had developed a ‘wait

and see’ approach to the whole subject of his joining his brothers. Tom had headed west again two weeks after getting back to Chicago, and was now living in the flop house with the rest of Keith’s crew. Both Michael and I were stressed beyond belief, being torn in different directions. I lost control of my emotions, and started feeling like train cars were heading off the cliff again. One by one, car by car – as the beginning of a new school year approached; as I remained jobless; as he remained ‘officially’ undecided; as we each proclaimed our mutual love – I felt a spiraling panic, and slipped into that gray area of hopelessness. It didn’t seem to make any

difference that I knew what was happening, recognized the process by this point. Knowing still didn’t give me a way to stop it, and I hated myself more each day for being so weak, so useless, and so helpless. I did nothing all day – I had no energy, no ambition. The apartment was a disaster, I was unable to accomplish even the most mundane task. It took every fiber of my being to go to work each night, meaning there was nothing left for Michael. ~~~~~~~~ Saturday nights had always been busy at The Canteen. I liked working when it

was busy, but lately, serving drinks, and bantering back and forth with half drunk or stoned jerks had lost its appeal. As soon as I arrived around 8:00 pm I wanted it to be 4:00 am so I could go home, maybe make love to Michael and sleep. The crowd in the bar had been dwindling over the last few weeks, so Saturdays were now dragging as much as Mondays. I found myself just waiting for someone to wander down the stairs more and more often, like I was doing tonight. All three bartenders were working – Levi and Rick were currently behind the bar, and Guy had come around, and was sitting one stool away from me with a beer; Charlie was in the back room. It was a particularly dead,

boring night – even the biker crew was absent. Around 1:00 am I heard a commotion at the top of the stairs, and the deafening roar of motorcycles filled the bar. Guy lunged towards me, pulled me off the stool, pushed me to the floor, and sprawled his body over mine. I was kicking and screaming for him to “get the fuck off of me” but he ignored my struggling and protests, yelling at Rick and Levi to get down now! By that time, three bikes had skidded to a halt at the bottom of the stairs knocking over tables, stools, and the few glasses I had neglected to collect from earlier customers. The sound of chaos filled the room.

Charlie came running out into the bar – stopping in his tracks when he saw the bikes… I could see his face; he was horrified, and dove to the floor as one of the bikers pulled out some kind of shot gun, aimed at the mirrored ball over the stage area and fired. It exploded sending shattered glass flying everywhere, and Guy threw his massive upper arm over my face. Then just as quickly as they came down the stairs, the bikes sped back up and out. For a split second there was silence everywhere, then as if the terror was starting all over again, everyone was up and yelling. I was shaking, my mind filled with fear; Rick and Levi were leaping over the bar running to help the

few customers that had been sitting at a far table. I heard glass crunching under their feet as they moved. Guy stood, pulling me up along with him – his arm, the one that was over my face was bleeding. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Ya, ya I’m fine – but you’re not, you’re bleeding,” I said staring at his arm. He glanced down, wiped his hand across the wound, and replied smiling at me sincerely for the first time since we’d met. “Humph, better my arm than your pretty face.” The next second he was gone, marching over to Charlie. Charlie glared at him. Guy drew one of his huge arms back, hit Charlie in the jaw, knocking him down again, then

turned, and made his way through the scattered furniture and up the stairs. I never saw him again. Charlie stood up shaking his head, blood running from his nose. Someone had turned on all the overhead lights. I froze – the place looked stark, almost surreal. I just stood there mesmerized by the scene before me. I blinked hard. When I opened my eyes I was watching myself, surveying the whole room from somewhere above my head. Looking up I saw my pixie friend. She was telling me I needed to get the fuck out of here, and never come back. This life was changing me, killing me, one night at a time. I leaned over, picked up my stool, and sat down. There was activity all around me.

I watched dispassionately through the eyes of my fairy, random thoughts popping in and out of my head. Police sirens were right outside the door by this time – how strange, police don’t come in here, I thought, as my vantage point jumped in and out of my own body. Everyone was okay, no one hurt. Levi and Rick had both come over to check on me, then gone back to dealing with the other people and the police. Some uniformed cop was trying to talk to me when my fairy swooped down, tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. Over the cop’s shoulder I saw Charlie hand some plain clothes cop an envelope. I had seen that second cop before a few times, usually at the Sunrise Diner; he would

sit at the counter, Charlie would always go over to talk to him while the rest of us ate breakfast, and usually they’d walk outside for a while… I never thought anything about it, never even realized he was a cop, but now, oh my God, Charlie was paying him off. The next thing I saw all the police were leaving. Michael appeared out of nowhere – he wasn’t there when the bikers came, but he was there now hugging me, and asking if I was hurt. “No, I’m fine – I’m not hurt, I promise… I think I’m just in shock or something,” I told him. “I don’t want to be here anymore Michael. I can’t work here… I just can’t do it. Take me home please?” “I know, you’re right. Let me talk to

Rick and then we’ll go,” he replied. As he turned heading for the other side of the room where Levi and Rick were starting to argue with Charlie, my pixie looked down at him, and shook her head – then she disappeared.

Chapter Thirty Moving On Finally I had three interviews scheduled. The first was as an art teacher for high school students in Elk Grove Village. The whole process was a disaster. “He hated me from the moment I walked in the door Michael. I swear I hadn’t said more than ‘hello’ while shaking his hand and the man hated me!” I exclaimed while we ate dinner that night. “You’re imagining it Jackie, he didn’t hate you,” he replied. “Yes, he did – I swear he did. The whole thing started out just fine. One of

the other teachers showed me the school – they have a big art department, and I got along just fine with her – but then when she brought me back to the office and Mr. Jamison came out… Well I swear he took one look at me and that was that. He looked exactly like every high school principal I’ve ever seen. When I went into the office I felt like I was there to be punished because my dress was too short or something instead of being interviewed for a job.” Michael laughed, “So how many times did you get hauled into the office for your dress being too short when you were in high school?” “A lot… but I wore my divorce dress. You know what that looks like –

Christ, I look like a friggin’ nun in that dress,” I bantered back. “Hmph, yeah, ya do,” he replied. “So my point is, it was something else, and whatever it was, it was instantaneous. I mean the whole interview with him only last ten minutes.” I exhaled emphatically. “So I called Lana when I got home, and she said she’d give him a call tomorrow to get some feedback. I have to know what I did wrong before the other two interviews next week.” “Where are the other schools again,” Michael asked. “The next one is out in Rockford. I have to figure out how long it’s going to take me to drive out there – it’s about 90

miles, isn’t’ it?” I asked him. “Yeah about. You better leave at least two, maybe two and a half hours, in case you get lost,” he said. “You’re gonna hate Rockford. It’s in the middle of nowhere.” “Yeah, I know, but it’s a job, and it keeps me semi-close. At least I could see you on weekends,” I glanced up from my plate at him, “unless you go to California of course.” He didn’t answer. He hesitated over his food for a moment, then stabbed a piece of his pork chop with a fork, shoved it in his mouth and changed the subject. “Where’s the third interview?” he asked. “It’s in Worcester, Massachusetts. I

told you – the director there is going to be in Chicago next week. We’re doing the interview at school. You didn’t answer me about California Michael.” I felt like the world hinged on his answer. Do I really want to know? Ever since he got back from his visit, the idea of him moving out there with Keith had hung like a dark cloud between us. Tom was doing well with the move so far, and was pushing for Michael to join them. Shirley wanted him to stay in Chicago. I didn’t know what I wanted. Well actually, I wanted him; he was my best friend, my lover. On one hand he made me feel safe and secure; no matter how dark my mood got, no matter how hard it was for me to get out of bed, he

seemed to understand. He could read the fine line differences so when I’d say I wanted to kill myself, he knew I didn’t mean I wanted to commit suicide, but only that I wanted to die because dying was an easier thought to express than solving whatever the problem was at that moment. He didn’t think I was crazy – never looked at me with a sense of pity. I thought about just picking up, and heading west with him if he went, saying ‘fuck it’ to the world as I knew it. At least with him I’d never have to worry about where the next high was coming from. Could I pitch it all? Sometimes I thought ‘yes’, but whenever I started to think like that I remembered my parents,

and my pixie shaking her head ‘no’ the night The Canteen was shot up. At first I thought she meant ‘no’ to the bar, but later I thought it meant ‘no’ to Michael. I loved him, I was sure of it, but I didn’t love what he did for a living. I had always known I couldn’t live with a dealer on a long term basis, it was one of the driving reasons in my decision when I got pregnant – that was not a life for a child. But now, after The Canteen, and every time I saw the scar on his side, it terrified me. I wanted to keep on pretending that he was a mechanic, and only a dealer ‘on the side’ but, well… I could be naïve, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew most of his income came from drugs.

“I’m going,” he said. The food caught in my throat; I almost couldn’t swallow. Tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t – it felt like one railroad car after another was crashing to the valley below, crushing me in the rubble. Michael had his arms around me now, leading me from the table to the couch. He held me whispering, “I love you, Jackie. I love you – come with me, nothing has to change between us. It could be just like it is now, only in California,” He just kept repeating, “come with me,” over and over as one tear after another formed, rolled down my cheek, and dropped onto his shirt. My mind bounced around from one

thing to another – thoughts coming and going at the speed of light. I didn’t speak, I couldn’t. I felt hurt, heartbroken and yet it was a relief to have an answer. I had sensed this was coming ever since he announced he was going to visit Keith, so now I knew for sure. No more guessing – I didn’t do well not knowing. This wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it was an answer. He was being honest with me… God I loved this man – how was I going to make it through the day without him? We had been together two years – two tumultuous years – maybe we could make it through this too? “Can we talk?” he asked. I nodded feeling the tears slowing down, not stopping, but slowing as the knot in my

throat subsided some. I knew as soon as I started to talk my emotions would grab hold of me, I’d break again, but I was ready. “When are you leaving?” I asked. “I don’t know. Not until you’re settled – have found a job you want or …” he hesitated, “or have decided to come with me.” “I love you, but I can’t live like Keith does – you know that.” “I know, but we wouldn’t be living with him, we’d have our own place. If you were there, it would be easier to find a teaching job – I know you could find one.” “You know that’s not what I mean Michael. I’m not worried about an

apartment or house, I’m afraid of you becoming like your brother, of getting further and further into a life that you’ll never be able to get out of. You’ve already been stabbed once – don’t you remember telling me that you knew there was no future in dealing?” “Yes, I remember… but this is different…” “No, it’s not,” I said cutting him off in mid-phrase. “It doesn’t matter if it’s some black street gang or a professional grow house like you’re talking about now – you can still get hurt or killed! I mean shit, look what just happened at The Canteen. I know you said those guys weren’t trying to hurt anyone, just send Charlie a message, but my God Michael

– they shot up the fuckin’ place. They could’ve killed all of us if they’d wanted to! I don’t want that to happen to you!” “Charlie owned them a lot of money. He wasn’t who you thought he was – he was ripping off his partners, and he got caught. I’m not gonna do that. You never saw it because you liked him – you were blind, but everyone else knew it was happening – they knew he was skimming, and that it would blow up someday!” “My point exactly! It will all blow up someday – you don’t have to be skimming to have things blow up! You’re talking about dealing. It’s illegal! These people aren’t gonna play by any rules but their own. You’re not talking about

dime bags anymore, you’re talking fuckin’ kilos! You call me blind, but for Christ’s sake, open your eyes – this scheme of Keith’s is going to explode just like that mirrored ball exploded!” I took a deep breath, exhaling through my nose and lowering my tone. “I can’t Michael, I can’t watch you get hurt.” His mind was made up – I could see it in his eyes. It was the same expression he had when we were talking about the abortion – it didn’t matter that I was right, he knew I was. The difference was that this time the bottom line decision was his, not mine. “I don’t want to argue, Jackie,” he sighed. “I don’t have any skills; this is the only way I can get out of the south

side, out of that damn garage. I want more than that, for me and for you.” “Of course you have skills. You could go back to school, like my father suggested – you’re smart, you could be an engineer if you wanted to be.” “Hmph, right – that was an act, just an act so your father wouldn’t freak out,” he replied shaking his head. “I was never going to go back to school, I was always in trouble when I was there and my grades sucked. Besides, I don’t have the money and my Mom sure can’t help – shit I give her money. You’ve never understood how lucky you are to have your parents there to help, even if they do drive you crazy, and tell you what to do. Besides, I’m not like you – I hated

school, Jackie.” “I’d help you,” I said. He looked me in the eyes and tears began to roll down my cheeks again. He cupped my face in his hands wiping them away with his large thumbs, then leaned over and kissed me. I felt the tingle, my heart started to pound, as if it was the first time we had ever touched. “If I get one of these jobs, you could come with me,” I said between kisses. “Yeah, and what would I do all day?” he murmured as he pushed me back on the couch running his hands under my shirt and pulling it off over my head. “Well… you could just… stop kissing my neck… I can’t think when you do that…” My fingers were tangled in

his hair, trying half-heartedly to pull his head back. “I know – that’s why I’m doing it,” he said smiling back at me. “I mean… you wouldn’t have to do anything… Oh my God Michael,” I sighed, “that feels wonderful… but, listen, please. I’d be working so we could live… We’d have time to figure things out I mean.” He was slowly, deliberately working his way down my body, his lips engulfing my nipples, his hands circling, and caressing my thighs. “No… no Jackie, I won’t live off you,” he said rising up enough to pull his own shirt off. “Now hush – we’ll finish talking later. I don’t think straight either when I

have a beautiful, naked woman under me.” ~~~~~~~~ Would I ever stop crying? I was trying to stop, but I just kept hearing those words in my head ‘I’m going’. I couldn’t lose him, but I couldn’t be with him either. For the last week, we each tried to convince the other hoping, praying that the other would change their mind, but we were at another impasse. Time was passing very quickly. The interviews for both Rockford and Worcester came and went – my mind half on them, and half on maintaining enough rational thought not to start

seeing my skull hanging in bits from the ceiling. Since The Canteen was ‘temporarily closed for renovation’ as the sign on the door proclaimed, I had nothing to do except think. Both interviews went well compared to the one with Elk Grove Village. Lana had found out that Mr. Jamison didn’t want someone as young as I was; he told her I looked like a student, not a teacher. Guess he wasn’t fooled by the dress, I thought. The school year would be starting again right after Labor Day so time was running out. An unfamiliar sense of panic was setting in: I was anxious, nervous, my mind bouncing around like a ping pong ball from the paddle to the floor

then off the wall escaping across the room with me chasing after it – always two steps behind. I actually preferred the feeling of darkness – I was used to that, all I had to do was go to sleep – but this feeling of apprehension, of being scared. I hated it. On August 16th I received a telephone call from Mrs. Blackburn, the woman from Worcester, Massachusetts, I had interviewed with. She offered me a position as an art teacher, traveling between three of the junior high schools in town. The school year began with two half days on September 6th and 7th. If I accepted the position I would have to be there by September 4th for teacher meetings. She would send me all

paperwork beforehand by mail, but I needed to give her an answer… now. I accepted, hung up the telephone, and burst into tears. Tears and anger were the only things I seemed to be good at lately. The tears somehow slowed my mind, dulled it in a way, let me feel sorry for myself without letting go of the anger, the rage that whelmed up inside me when I thought about my life. How could things be turning out so differently than I thought they should? Why did it have to be so damn difficult? What did I do to deserve this turmoil? Where was my happily ever after? I knew I wasn’t anybody special – just a regular person. I wasn’t asking life to make me rich or

famous; all I wanted was to live a decent normal life with a man I loved. I had loved Stephen with all my heart and soul – look how that turned out. In some ways I loved Michael even more, but was going to lose him too. It wasn’t fair – it just plain wasn’t fuckin’ fair! All I had to do was go with him… why the hell was I choosing a job over him? It wasn’t supposed to be like this – in all my fantasies I had never imagined it ever being like this. I hated my reality. In tears, I called Mary Beth. She had been accepted into the MBA program at Northwestern so she was definitely staying in Chicago. Besides, Kent had proposed; they were going to wait until they were both out of school to get

married. They were so happy, it was wonderful to watch… the fairy tale was coming true for her – I was delighted for both of them. And a bit envious of the life I saw spreading out at her feet. “Hi, what’s up,” she chirped as she answered the phone, then hesitated and asked, “Is something wrong?” “Nothing. Everything. I got a job.” “That’s great! Which one? Are you crying? You should be happy about this Jackie, not crying.” “Yeah, I know. It’s the one in Worcester. I’m going to have to move – now. It starts September 4th. I mean, I am happy – it’s a job, and I’ll be able to pay my own bills – but shit, the problem is Michael. I’m not sure I can leave

him.” “Jackie, you can’t stay with him – he doesn’t have a future unless he gets away from that asshole brother, and you know it!” she exclaimed. “I mean I like Michael, Kent likes Michael, he’s a great guy – but do you want to spend the rest of your life with a guy who could be busted at any minute? Do you?” “No,” I replied, tears streaming down my face. “You have to pull yourself together. You fell for great sex – I can’t blame you for that – but what good is that if he’s dead or in jail, huh?” “No, it wasn’t just that!” I protested. “I fell for him because he’s gentle, and understanding, and he makes me feel so

fuckin’ safe and…” She cut me off, “…and it’s great sex and the drugs were an added bonus and he was there for you when all the shit was going down with Stephen. I know all the reasons, but if you go with him to California it’ll all explode – then you won’t have him or a job! Take the job, Jackie.” “He’s… Shit! He’s just so perfect – he stayed with me when I got pregnant, he didn’t split.” “You’re right, he didn’t split. He was willing to take responsibility, but you don’t owe him your life for that. Besides he wanted you to have that kid. You would’ve been trapped, and then what would’ve happened now? He was never

going to give up dealing. You made the right decision then or would’ve if you hadn’t miscarried – make the right decision now.” “I did. I told Mrs. Blackburn to send the paperwork. I just don’t know if I can make it without him. I’m not sure I want to.” “You can and you will,” Mary Beth stated. “I have some time tomorrow, I’ll stop and get some boxes from the grocery store, then come help you start to pack.” ~~~~~~~~ “Hey, babe, how’d things go today?” Michael asked as he came through the

apartment door. I just stood there looking at him not knowing how to tell him. All it took was one glance; he could tell I’d been crying, and was by my side – this, what he was doing this exact moment, was what I needed, wanted, wasn’t sure I could live without. “What happened? Tell me,” he said as those whiskey brown eyes searched my face for answers. “Mrs. Blackburn, the woman I interviewed with for the job in Worcester called. I got it,” I said. He paused, then said, “That’s wonderful – I knew you’d get one of those positions.” He let go of my arms, turned and headed towards the bedroom. “It’s good you got the one in

Massachusetts, Rockford is a nowhere place, you’d’ve hated it there,” he called out trying to keep his voice steady. “I know, let’s go out for dinner to celebrate… I’ll just jump in the shower and then we’ll go, okay?” he asked. I hadn’t moved. “Okay, if we’re going to celebrate, I’ll put on some makeup,” I replied not knowing how the hell to take his reaction. Is he happy I’m going or is he pretending? We went to RJ Grunts. It didn’t feel like a celebration to me; it felt like a wake. Our conversation was stilted and awkward, neither of us knowing exactly what to say. “Your parents must be ecstatic,” he said after I relayed the details of the job offer and the move.

“You’re going to be close to home again.” “Hmph, well I haven’t told them yet, but yeah, I suppose they will be happy. I will be a lot closer – I think it’s about 50 miles. It’s a rundown dumpy city now. I think it had a bunch of textile mills or something like that years ago… and I have an aunt in Worcester, did I tell you that?” “No you didn’t. Is it one you like?” he asked. “Yeah, she’s cool for her age… the Donna Reed type, always in a flowered dress with a string of pearls – she’s really old though, lives with her sister and her husband. My uncle, the one I was related to, he died a long time ago.

His leg had been amputated just above the knee… When I was a kid he let me stick my fingers in the holes in it – I was always jealous that he had holes in his knee and I didn’t,” I replied smiling at the memory. We were both done eating – I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to keep up this small talk or keep my emotions in check, so I asked, “Can we go home now?” “Sure,” he said with a forced smile, “let me get the check.” “Come with me,” I whispered as we lay in bed – neither of us able to sleep. He kissed my forehead, “I can’t.” I propped myself up on one elbow, “Yes you can! Goddamn it you can!

There’s no good reason why you can’t come. You could get a job there and…” “No. We’ve been through all this – I’m going to California. I don’t want to be a mechanic in Worcester any more than I want to be one here – it’s a dead end. Keith’s grow operation is my chance to get out of this rat race.” “Is it me… are you just tired of me? Just tell me if you are – be honest with me!” I yelled pulling away from him and scrambling out of bed. He followed me into the living room, grabbed my arms forcing me to turn to face him. “Are you fuckin’ crazy? This is tearing me apart! I love you, but I can’t go to Massachusetts any more than you can come with me to California,” he said

smiling, but it was a fake smile, I could tell. I could hear the struggle in his voice, the flicker of the street lights through the living room window revealing tiny pools of water forming in the corners of his eyes… telling me everything I needed to know, but didn’t want to face. Without another word we hugged – the tears poured from my eyes, but neither of us let go. We had promised each other that the relationship would continue, that we’d talk ‘all the time’, that we’d make trips to see each other, but both of us knew how difficult it would be. Two short weeks later I found myself on the sidewalk again, in a familiar position, only this time, instead of being

draped around a telephone pole, I was draped around Michael, afraid to let go for fear of losing everything I loved in life. He leaned me against the hood of my Ford Fairlane, and as tears rolled down my cheeks, he cupped my face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his calloused thumbs. He stepped off the curb into the gutter bringing his face level with mine – whispering into my ear, “It’ll be okay Jackie, it’ll all work out, you’ll see.” My mind flashed back to the last time he had done this almost two years ago. How… how would it ever work out? I thought. Would love ever be more than a fleeting illusion for us? Both of us were lost in our own

separate, but mutually shared pain, as if trying to etch an impression of the other into our minds when a middle aged couple came around the corner at the end of the block, arguing, yelling at each other as they made their way down the sidewalk. The noise jolted both of us. As if reading my mind for the last time, Michael said, “That’s not us – that will never be us, I promise.” He reached to open the car door, and I crawled into the driver’s seat, unable to speak. He kissed me on the forehead, one last time. “I love you – I always will. Go now, it’s okay.” “I love you too,” I said my voice choking on emotion. He closed the door, nodded and smiled. I only managed to

get a couple blocks away when I found myself unexplainably turning around in the middle of the street and racing back. If he’s still there, I’ll stay, I’ll go with him. If he’s still standing there it means I need to go to California, please be there, please be there! But my heart sank as I came around the corner and saw he was gone.

Epilogue The questions life forces on us often go unanswered. We live our lives making the best decisions we can, given the information we have, and the demands of our surrounding world. Not knowing what the next day may bring is part of what makes it worthwhile waking up each morning. Some of us have the inner ability to extricate ourselves from life’s pitfalls; we learn and choose to live safely. Others of us, perhaps with fewer coping skills, or maybe just a different set of skills, struggle with each day, in a world of challenges and fantasies, refusing to let go until there is no other

way to survive, except by doing so. But until that time comes, we love to the depths of our souls. Life is unpredictable – the only constant is change. Each and every decision we make leads us one step further towards the next change. If we choose to survive, that’s the price we must pay. What Jackie, Michael and Stephen do not know now, is that life is not done with them. Their paths will cross again. Join them on their journey as they love, win, lose and love again. Want to know when the next book is available? It’s as simple as clicking the link below to join the Reader’s Group. www.jolenecazzola.com

Meet the Author

Thank you for reading Love’s Illusions. Although Love’s Illusions is a work of fiction, some of it draws upon personal experiences from my past. Like the book’s protagonist, Jackie Moretti, I am a ‘baby boomer’ who came of age during the societal shift that happened in the

1960s – 1970s. I know what it’s like to face the daily struggle of living on many levels. Part of my reason for writing it was to help you, my reader, know that it is not only possible to survive the loss of love and depression, but to learn to thrive on your own. I am currently working on the second book in the Love’s Illusions series. It follows Jackie Moretti as she comes to understand that stress and depression are two very different things, and as she searches for love and balance in her life. I am also working on a non-fiction book based on the real-life stories of people who have lived with struggle and come out better for it on the other end, although not always with a ‘happy

ending’. If you are one of these people, I would love to hear from you. Please contact me by going to www.jolenecazzola.com and filling out the contact form or emailing me. While you’re there, sign up for the Reader’s Group to get the latest news and hear about various promotions/giveaways. Also, if you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon. I’d really appreciate it! Just click this link and you’ll be taken to the Love’s Illusions page. ~ Jolene Cazzola ~

Table of Contents Stay in the Know Acknowledgments Introduction Chapter One On the Sidewalk Chapter Two The Morning After Chapter Three Bernie Chapter Four The Canteen Chapter Five Waking Up Chapter Six Sundays Chapter Seven Lying to the World Chapter Eight Thanksgiving Chapter Nine Room 312 Chapter Ten Take a Deep Breath Chapter Eleven At the Hospital… Again Chapter Twelve Knight on My Side

Chapter Thirteen Black Lights Chapter Fourteen Circumstantial Evidence? Chapter Fifteen Sleep It All Away Chapter Sixteen Christmas Chapter Seventeen It’s Over Chapter Eighteen Those Are Fingers! Chapter Nineteen A Hundred Women Chapter Twenty Lawyers Chapter Twenty-One Westward Bound Chapter Twenty-Two Take the Cosmo Test Chapter Twenty-Three Homeward Bound Chapter Twenty-Four Sibling Rivalry Chapter Twenty-Five My Mother Was Right! Chapter Twenty-Six It Was an Accident

Chapter Twenty-Seven Endings Chapter Twenty-Eight Life is Good Chapter Twenty-Nine Bang Bang Chapter Thirty Moving On Epilogue Meet the Author