Love's Illusions: A Novel (8 page)

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.

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.